LeftLion PRINT ed. #2 - the NHS
2007-05-09

This entry will be printed in the next edition of LeftLion

In the print edition, the editors at LeftLion added an "eh?" to "Who knew?" in the penultimate line of this article. Cheeky bastards! I'll post a link here to the pdf once they post it.

Enjoy!

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One of the things that drives me crazy in this town is its obsession with hospital beds. Whenever something cool is built by the council there is always moaning about how it's taking money away from the NHS.

The Contemporary Arts Centre, the proposed Broadmarsh refurb, even the city logo get comments about wasted money. Ok, the logo is shockingly shit, but how can you dog the Contemporary Arts Centre? If there is anything this city needs, it's more chav-free zones.

Nothing has been the target of more crotchety poo-pooing than the new Market square. Let me first say that I love the new square. The stones, the fountain (when it's working), the benches, the whole minimalist beauty of it is wonderful. I'm not the only one either, as it is virtually impossible to find a spare spot to sit when it's sunny.

A couple weeks ago, I overheard some bald twat in an England top say, "How many millions of our tax dollars were spent on that bloody square when you can’t get a bed up at Queen’s?" I’m not sure what the two have to do with each other, but the fact that this guy looks about 3 smokes away from a pine box makes me think he may be a touch biased. Talking about tax dollars at all is a bit suspect considering that at two in the afternoon on a weekday, he doesn't have anywhere else to be. I bet you could count the number of tax dollars he's put into the system on your fingers and toes. You wouldn't even have to remove both socks.

That being said, it still got me thinking. Maybe he’s right, maybe Market Square is less important than the ailing health system. I'm from Canada, we have the best medicare system in the world (so the government keeps telling us), surely I would be the ideal candidate to test it out. So in the interest of science, I decided to conduct my own research into the state of the NHS.

After considering a few options, I figured the best way to get sick would be to pound my guts with inordinate amounts of beer and curry for an entire weekend (I'll do anything for science). Two days of that and I wake up with a weird burning pain in my upper abdomen. Result!

My first move was to consult the internet. I am a massive cyberchondriac and the ‘net is my first port-of-call for any ache or pain. I punch my symptoms into WebMD and am convinced that I have an ulcer, stomach cancer and appendicitis.

Off to the walk-in clinic where I am diagnosed with indigestion at the counter. Gosh, maybe that yob was right, maybe the NHS is in trouble; only old fat guys get indigestion. I am far too young and svelte to be bothered by something so common.

"Have a seat, sir, we'll check you out just to make sure". After waiting about half the time I usually had to wait back home, I am seen to. The nurse takes my blood pressure, pushes down on my stomach and confirms the first nurses' diagnosis of indigestion. Drink some Gaviscon and if it doesn't get better go talk to a GP.

A week later, it's much worse. It's got to be stomach cancer now, no indigestion lasts a whole week, surely. Dismantle Market square and hire some proper doctors immediately. These quacks don’t have a flipping clue what they’re doing.

I go to my local GP (and wait even less time than at the walk-in clinic) and again he takes my blood pressure. I'm not sure what blood pressure has to do with indigestion, but every country has their own ways of doing things. Back home, the doctors always want to get their hands on your balls. "But it's only a sore throat, Doc.", "Yes, I understand that, but how are your balls, fella? Have you got lumpy balls?" It's even worse when you get older. After you turn forty, they want to jam cameras up your ass on a yearly basis. I will take a blood pressure check over that any day of the week. Hell, I'd take prostate cancer over that.

A few more stomach pushes, and he declares that I have an inflamed esophagus due to (you guessed it) severe indigestion. He gives me a prescription that costs next to nothing, and tells me to lay off the booze for a couple weeks. I’m taking the pills now and feel loads better.

So I'm not dying. It’s just that, at 32, I am not the young Adonis I thought I was. I’m not sure that is any less depressing, but dying or no, the NHS seems to be working just fine. Turns out bald guys in England tops talk a lot of shit, who knew?

More frivolous Arts/Architecture/logo spending, please!