Like most people with any modicum of common sense Hector McTwat has an innate fear and loathing of hospitals – especially so with the current scourge of MRSA and other flesh-eating necrotic infections patients seem to catch while in any of the National Ill-Health Services’ dodgy infirmaries for more than five minutes.
Three years ago the 94-year old Hector, a former clockwork mouse mechanic, broke his left ankle while bungee jumping from the top of Smegmadale Town Hall into a wheelbarrow full of guacamole and was invalided to the local NHS clinic to have the simple fracture set.
After an overnight stay he was discharged – on crutches – but infected with a severe case of Galloping Toe Rot, Wanker’s Elbow, septic haemorrhoids, a swollen prostate and a dose of Plumber’s Throat – the latter he claims to have caught from French kissing the nice Sudanese nurse who emptied his bedpan.
So when Hector was recently informed by his local GP that he needed major cardiac bypass surgery due his arteries being blocked up like a Mumbai sewer from smoking three packs of high tar Tumours a day he told the doctor to stuff it as he had no intention of going into hospital again.
However his GP mentioned the all-new NHS scheme designed to cut down on hospital beds being filled with slowly decomposing sickies for weeks on end.
They had introduced a system where the medical staff simply turned up at your front door and carried out the surgery in the comfort of your own home.
Hector told a reporter from the MASH Gazette “It were effin’ brilliant. Some split-arsed Polish health visitor – with a lovely pair of tits too – came round the day before an’ made sure I had a clean tablecloth and an empty wheelie bin ter chuck all the blood-soaked kitchen tissues and lumps of cholesterol in.”
“Some other blokes came round in the afternoon an’ dropped off a couple of gas cylinders – anaesthetic and oxygen – an’ a big plastic sheet ter cover up the carpet so they wouldn’t get blood an’ guts all over it. Very considerate indeed.”
“Anyway next mornin’ the doctor an’ his mate turn up with a couple of nurses – lay me out on the kitchen table – give me a coupla whiffs of gas an’ I’m out like a light.”
“I comes round about an hour later and they’re all sat round suppin’ tea an’ havin’ a smoko so they sits me up an’ tells me it was all okay an’ they’d Dyna-rodded me arteries out like a blocked sink waste pipe an’ me ticker was working just fine again.”
Asked if he had any reservations concerning the treatment he’d received from the NHS new mobile surgery service Mr. McTwat confided “I were a bit scared when the surgeon blokes turned up an’ they brought a body bag with them too – but they reassured me it was one of these ‘just in case’ thingies an’ nowt ter worry about.”
“It were all very good but I reckon one of them doctors or nurses was a bit light-fingered as me ’Blackhawk Down’ DVD’s gone missin’ since they were here. Personally I blame the one wearin’ the burkha that didn’t speak any English an’ stunk of garlic – she came across as a right shifty git”