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This is a question Doctors, Nurses, Dentists and Hospitals

Tingtwatter asks: Ever been on the receiving end of some quality health care? Tell us about it

(, Thu 11 Mar 2010, 11:49)
Pages: Latest, 14, 13, 12, 11, 10, 9, 8, ... 1

This question is now closed.

Waiting for the Surgeon.
When playing indoor 5-a-side as you do, I happened to be most violently slammed into the back wall face first into the brick work by an absolute cunt of a fat bastard.

Injuries included:

Broken nose, including a gash where the bone had cut through.
Front tooth smashed leaving a nice jagged tombstone.
Bottom lip completely sliced through by the jagged tooth.
Sprained wrist from holding out my hands to cushion myself.
Gashed knee including a lovely groove in my patella.

Off to hospital then I reckon. It's all rather mundane work for a Tuesday evening and everyone has had a busy day. I had to wait quite a while to be seen but hey, there's worse off folks and I'm a grown man. The triage nurse was lovely and gave me 3 types of painkiller whilst I awaited the consultant on duty, you see all my injuries except the lip were pretty straightforward to deal with, wrist just needed a brace, knee still worked so no probs there, nose needed an out patient appointment later on, but the lip....

Doc says 'Hmm.... it's severed right through and will need a few stitches. I could do it right here but the trouble is if I don't get it absolutely right then it might heal wrongly and your lip will be in two unmatched halves.'

I said 'Oh...'

Doc says 'I'll have to page the plastic surgeon, he might be a while, you'll have to wait.'

He forgot to mention I would have to wait 4 hours! The pain meds were really quite excellent so I get wheeled round to an ante room and wait for the surgeon.

When he finally arrived he was quite curt, bordering on rude but acted very quickly and decisively, looked at my notes to check my pain meds, then looked at my lip. He must have decided that extra anaesthetic was unnecessary and without warning just opened the cut again with his fingers and for good measure rubbed them in there to start it bleeding again. Then he quickly and VERY skillfully sutured me up. The whole thing took 3 or 4 minutes and whilst painful wasn't too bad.

3 or 4 minutes of his time and my face doesn't look any different, you can't see the join. Could have been quite different.

I found out the reason he was a bit curt once he had treated me, he had just finished sewing a kids face back on after he was savaged by a dog, after that my problem was a doddle and he was a bit knackered and wanted to get off home. It was 2am.

That put things in perspective for me that's for sure. He was awesome. Big up the NHS.
(, Tue 16 Mar 2010, 13:52, Reply)
A Cambridge Hospital....
Many many years ago when Bof was a young man and his libido was quite rampant, in the course of his meanderings, had a tryst with a young lady, whom he was to find out later had also entertained one of his friends.
Said friend duly reported that the week before, he had been required to attend that special place at the local hospital and suggested that Bof do the same.

Off Bof trots to the Urogentical clinic.
The name of the doctor was most appropriate... Dr.Oates.
"Let's have a look at it" he says.
Kacks dropped and the beggar has gone into hiding. (The consulting room was damn cold, I tell you!!!)
The look on his face was one of incredulity... Bof thought he was thinking...could something that small get you into any trouble?

"Just pull it out and let me have a look" - done
"And underneath", as he leant forward to examine the item which by now had resumed normal dimensions.
As Bof lifted his appendage, it slipped from his fingers and *slap* landed in Dr.Oates hand.
The doc shot back and then calmly and slowly went and washed his hands, telling a giggling Bof that he was going to have some swabs taken.

This is where it gets ugly.
The clinician in the white coat clearly didn't like his job or the fact that as he was a scrawny, butt-ugly weed of a man that his clients were getting more jollies that he was... but I digress..
The swab consisted of a piece of wood wrapped up in rough polystryrene foam which was forcibly inserted into my jap's eye.

Dear God..... the pain... The wood felt it was 2x4 and the foam concrete...

Anyway... swabs done, given a prescription, told to lay off booze for 2 weeks and no nooky... (Took the pills but not the advice)

The bastarding tests came back negative... all that discomfort for nowt... Well peace of mind, I guess.

NHS... the service was good.
They have some crappy work situations, but that is not their fault.
Too many administrators, managers and assholes who deprive the medical staff of proper funding and facilities.
(, Tue 16 Mar 2010, 13:34, 4 replies)
My Local GP Surgery, Episode 2
I got in from work one evening, and something just wasn't quite right. I felt as if I had just taken part in a marathon, my heart was racing and I felt decidedly shaky. I dismissed it, and carried on as normal.

After another day or so of this, I realised that it wasn't good, and that I should probably do something about it, so to the doctors I went.

The doctor who saw me was actually really good, one of the few at the surgery who had an idea of what was going on. "How much caffeine do you have?" was the first question. The answer was quite a bit, so the doc's response was an understandable: "stop it at once". He mentioned that it wasn't doing me any good, but it probably wasn't the only thing making me feel odd, and asked me about my stress levels. He then timed my pulse, listened to my heart and checked my blood pressure and got a bit concerned - I was very close to 100 bpm. I was rushed off to get blood tests done at the hospital.

All the results came back normal, thank heavens.

Careful monitoring at home produced a range of 80-100 at rest on a regular basis over the coming weeks, so my doctor requested that I came back in for an ECG at the surgery, so I did. At thsi point, my experience with my surgery went back to the usual level of service.

I had the test, which took her about 20 minutes to get it all set up, and then some time for me to sit there all hooked up whilst the test ran. Eventually, the nurse left the room to "process the data" or something. About an hour later, she returns: "Oh, sorry, I forgot you were in here! The results show you have a very fast heart rate at the moment. If this remains like this, I suggest you make an appointment with the doctor"

Well, yes, thank you for that very astute observation, I wondered what was wrong with me...

I decided to give up with them at that point. and go with the Doctor's original advice of cutting out caffeine (now THAT was difficult and made me feel like utter crap for a few weeks) and I addressed what was stressing me out - mainly family issues and work, as seems to be the norm' these days. My heart rate returned to normal, and as an added bonus migraine attacks that I would get on a regular basis were reduced.
(, Tue 16 Mar 2010, 11:56, Reply)
Lab rat
My sister has recently discovered the joys being paid to take part in clinical trials. She was paid to go on holiday to Mexico to test out anti-diarrhoea patches. I queried how this was carried out but she informed me that they don't actually induce the symptoms - you merely wear the patch or a placebo version and if you do get ill you save a sample for testing. She went, had a great time, didn't get ill, and arrived back musing on the idea of taking part in another medical experiment.

"They pay you a grand to test vaginal pessaries," she announced at the family dinner. "And if I can shit in a bag for a holiday then I can stick some cream up my vadge for a grand."

I'm the classy one in the family.
(, Tue 16 Mar 2010, 11:52, 3 replies)
Cookie cutter
Last uni holidays, being too lazy to actually get a real job I mostly just sat around, that is until I heard I could earn $3000 for being a medical guineapig! result! Me and five friends got in on this, and it paid for my holiday around Europe. It was a trial to test toxicity of a wound healing drug for use on diabetic ulcers, eye injuries, and other wounds that just won't heal. So to test a wound healing drug, they must of course wound us...

So, first day, they pull out a ridiculously large, thick needle and proceed to inject local anaesthetic in my upper thigh, maybe eight times per leg? (this oddly was the most painful part, because a real doctor had to do it as nurses weren't qualified enough to... inject things? and he only ever did injections on people that were already under general. He would often stick it in and wiggle it around a bit in between squirts deep inside my goddam leg, pumping me so full it created a skin volcano with lava flows of anaesthetic. Fucker!)
Then they came along with a 1mm hole punch thing and took six biopsies per leg in a line, maybe 50mm deep, before applying the drug to the holes.
THEN the big scary cookie cutter thing came out (1cm diameter, 50mm deep), and they biopsied out the first hole. Odd to feel the pressure of this guy pushing this thing into your leg, and then see it slide neatly into you like cookie dough, before they pull it out with tweezers and *snip* *snip* *snip* through your flesh with nail scissors to seperate it (sounded a bit like cutting through steak with kitchen shears). Then they took the little cylinders of my flesh (looking abit like chunks of frankfurter in tomato sauce) and baggied them; presumably for later study in a dimly lit lab already stocked with hundreds of little flesh tubes, by an man with a hunch and facial disfigurements.
He then stitched up the hole in the same cack-handed way, trying out different stitching techniques on us for kicks. Four hours later, the same for the next hole down, then the next two over the following week. They took photos and changed dressings over the next month, during which we couldn't get the wounds wet, so no showers; and we all walked like old men to avoid stretching out our painful stitched up holes.

One year later I have a nice line of circular scars on both upper thighs, its ended by career in swimsuit modelling, but lets be honest that wasn't really getting anywhere anyway by virtue of being skinny and hairy. I still haven't come up with a good story for the scars, a very precisely aligned alligator perhaps?

Apologies for length, would only be about 4 inches if you laid them out in a row.
(, Tue 16 Mar 2010, 11:00, 2 replies)
I don't have too many - well, any - medical stories of my own, but I do have a number of medical friends, none of whom is a b3tan, so I'll steal their stories.

When V was a medical student, she was working in A&E one night doing the basic stuff that students can do: clerking in, recording medical histories, and so on. A man entered and was hurried into a cubicle. V was asked to take his details.

There's no nice way of putting what he told her.

Clearly somewhat adventurous, he had decided to get his jollies by feeding a copper wire into his penis. Discovering that this was not stimulating (and I think that most of us could have told him that without having to do the experiment) he decided to see if his enjoyment could be elevated by warming the wire. So he took his lighter, and held the still-exposed end of the wire in its flame.

A lighter flame is hotter than he expected; copper wire is more conductive than he expected; his urethra was more severely burned than he expected.
(, Tue 16 Mar 2010, 10:40, 7 replies)
Keep on running
I started running about six years ago and despite being the person picked last in school sports - much like the rest of you on here - found I loved it even though I run, as expected, like a girl. I signed up for a half-marathon and stuck rigidly to the training plan, except in the final weeks where I had strained a muscle and was a little sore so cut back a bit on the preparation.

The race was wonderful, my first experience of being swept up in the crowds of runners, the cheering spectators and the excitement of a shiny medal and a goody bag containing instant pasta, a newspaper and an energy bar at the end. I set off at a good pace, determined to get my sub-2hr time. By the eighth mile my strained muscle was aching but I kept going, fuelled by adrenalin and free Lucozade Sport. By the tenth mile I was still running but trying not to put pressure on my now rather sore leg. The last mile stretched for ever but I pushed on at the same pace, gritting my teeth, and crossed the finish line in less than two hours, though once I'd actually stopped I had to spend a good five minutes contemplating whether I was going to shit or vomit or both.

I got my shiny medal and the goody bag and I walked a mile and a half home, limping slightly. I stuck an ice pack on leg and put my feet up. I went to bed happy and exhausted. And then I woke the next morning, swung a leg out of bed and nearly screamed as the pain shot through me like an electric shock.

I couldn't walk. I was also a skint PhD student so I couldn't afford transport of any sort other than my bike, so I whimpered my way round the house getting dressed then swung a leg over my bike, draped myself across the handlebars and set off to the doctors at a pace much slower than my eight minute miles.

My GP was awesome. He carried me from the waiting room to his surgery. When I explained what happened I was expecting a complete bollocking for running on an injury but instead he asked me my race time, informed me I had beaten his brother's time by five minutes, and sent me off to hospital for x-rays and an MRI scan. Turns out I had a stress fracture - I broke my leg during the race and kept running on it. I was on crutches for a month. Despite it being my own fault for not quitting, none of the medical staff I encountered made me feel bad about it - in fact, they were really encouraging about getting me running again, only now I know to stop when I'm pain.
(, Tue 16 Mar 2010, 10:10, 1 reply)
Red China's healthcare system has come in leaps and bounds...
Working as a fresh faced English teacher in China they subject you to an alien citizen health test - Roswell style. After having some wonderful electrodes attached over my body, AIDS test and "coughing exam" I had the joy of having a standing x-ray in a plywood bunker.

With my phone, keys and wallets in my pocket.

Maybe its a sperm destroying population control method, I'm not really sure...
(, Mon 15 Mar 2010, 23:59, 1 reply)
Private Health Care
Mostly health care related... Few years back, I tore my ACL playing football (may post about that story too). Eventually got it repaired, hamstring graft from my own leg, meant a few days in hospital. Joys of private health care, own room, choice of food, views over golf course. Nice.
What I didn't know was that my (male) housemate came to see me while I was still under the influence of the general. Dropped off some magazines for me to read. Cheers. As he was leaving, mentioned to the nurse that he was my boyfriend. Not so cheers. He only owned up once I was long since out of there. Bah.
(, Mon 15 Mar 2010, 23:18, Reply)
I had recent trip to
Hull royal.
I had managed to cut a freaking massive hole in my thumb, cutting a daffodil bulb in half checking the viability.
The triage nurse was lovely. She didn't call me a tool like I deserved and even asked a doctor about any risk of poisoning from the daffodil (more to shut me up I think). The x ray person lady put up with me moving when she was taking one of her magic pictures. The doctor I saw was brilliant, no complaints there.
Now the guy who glued my thumb back together, he was tucking fosser! He was podding and poking and squeezing the crap out of my poor lil thumb! It hurt like hell!
Even so he did a cracking job its healed up nicely barely a noticable mark.
So i say, the NHS is pretty bo! I wouldn't swap it for anything. Not even a big block of marzipan!
(, Mon 15 Mar 2010, 23:12, 7 replies)
*Slight* Pearost, but better
About 18 months ago, an underweight 21-year-old Peapod arrived in hospital with chest pains. I had no idea what was really wrong, I thought I might have been having a heart attack and was wondering if my liking for cheese had finally got the better of me and had blocked an artery. Either that or pregnant, I wasn't sure.
I was wheeled into the ward and a male nurse took some blood. A few hours later a face peered round the curtain.
"Have you been eating too many bananas? It could have been caused by too many bananas" This was the doctor's first diagnosis.
Well, I couldn't say that I had. One banana in three weeks, that's not too many is it?
She tried again "Well you might have a brain tumour"
Bananas to brain tumour in three seconds.
She then left, and I went to sleep thinking I had a sodding brain tumour.
Next day I get stared at like I'm in a zoo whilst I'm trying to wash my face (I'm sure outside they were saying "we've got one, shhh, it's in there!") and again they check that I haven't had too many bananas.
Finally I get seen by two endocrinology consultants and they don't mention bananas, it wasn't a tumour, it was my adrenals I have Addison's disease. TEXTBOOK case. They wanted to know how I'd kept going; Addison's is fatal if untreated.
"Your sodium levels are very low, have you been craving salty foods?"
By God yes, I'd been eating Doritos like there was no tomorrow. Apparently, eating so many crisps had saved my life, so the doctor said, keeping my blood pressure just high enough for me to function and get through my 3rd year of uni.
I got put on steroid replacement therapy and pinged back into life in no time. Just before being discharged I was again told to avoid eating too many bananas (dangerous thing, a banana) and wished well. Im doing just fine now. I love the NHS.
and so to recap, crisps = good, banana = bad
(, Mon 15 Mar 2010, 21:51, 7 replies)
I once went for an operation on my ear.
I went under the anasthetic with my pants on.

When I came round, someone had taken them off.

I never got them back.
(, Mon 15 Mar 2010, 21:29, 3 replies)
Happy gas!
My most recent trip to the hospital was back in 2004, when a man driving a van for Camden Council decided to make a sharp left hand turn, across my path; he wasn't going terribly fast, but sadly I was on my bike, got knocked down by his wing mirror and then had the back wheel of the van drive over my arm as I lay on the ground.

His attitude was less than great, to be honest. Bystanders had to bang on the side of the van to make him stop, and when he got up and came over to me it wasn't to see if I was ok, but to stand over me and shout "I hardly touched you, it wasn't my fault!"

Ambulance turned up in 5 minutes - admittedly it wasn't far from the Finchley Road to the Royal Free Hospital, but for a non life-threatening accident it was certainly fast. The paramedics were lovely - they chained my bike up for me, drew me a little map of where it was in case I couldn't remember, then whizzed me off to A+E. I remember going slightly into shock when they tried taking my fleece off and rolling up my sleeve to look at my arm - in the end they had to cut it off, but they did it along the seam so it would be easy to sew back together, bless them. Both of them were really friendly, asking me about my uni course, my plans for after graduation - when I said I was a music student and was preparing for exams to get into a postgrad at music college they looked at my buggered arm and then at each other, which was not reassuring. In fact, it was terrifying. So they gave me a liberal dose of laughing gas, which made everything lovely!

In the end, it turned out my arm wasn't broken (a bloody miracle, I managed to find the one bit of perfectly flat tarmac on the Finchley Road!) but the muscle had been crushed to an almost pulp - I was under strict orders to keep it immobile for a month, given a shitload of strong painkillers, then discharged. I was offered a lift home, but under the influence of the happy gas I giggled "Nooo! I've got lectures to go to! I need to know about Freud and Music! Hahhaaaa!! Which way to the bus stop pleeeeease? Hehehehehe!" and toddled off to enjoy two hours of The Second Viennese School of Composition.

So, the NHS. Paramedics were brilliant, I was seen quickly, had a load of drugs thrust on me, and after care was great. The NHS saved my life when I was a baby, saved my father's life when I was a teenager, and has patched me up numerous times. They're great.

Postscript: After a month, I was able to move my arm again, and decided to cycle down to Golders Green to do some shopping, to make sure I could get my nerve back. I was knocked tit over bonnet 500 yards from my (then) house, completely fucked my bike, and made the executive decision not to cycle in London for a while.
(, Mon 15 Mar 2010, 21:24, 3 replies)
More med student stories
Orthopaedic surgeon who believed that most of the patients he fixed the broken hips of should be instead euthanised as "let's face it, they'll be dead in a year anyway. I think the hip should be linked to the heart so that when one breaks, the other just stops."

And then there was the time that gynaecologist's glasses fell off into the open abdomen of a patient whose fibroids he was removing...
(, Mon 15 Mar 2010, 20:41, Reply)

The time I believe was 10.25pm. The mood? Mellow. The TV was tuned onto a recording of Embarrassing Illnesses and I enjoyed every last second of the popping zits and scabby wangers as I anticipated the results of the Online Big Brother Stars Game I had just wasted my whole week on. However, the atmosphere wasn't quite complete; something was missing. I went over and over in my head trying to figure out what it was I was craving, and I realised, what I needed was a Milkybar®!

The plan was to nip to the corner shop down the road, nab a Milkybar® and get home just in time for the results to be revealed. I whacked on my khakis and shiny purple bodywear, grabbed my glow in the dark Agumon keyring and iPod and set out.

I was a few minutes away from the shop when suddenly something caught my eye and simply flabbergasted me. What appeared to be a big, fat representation of the Milkybar® Kid! I rubbed my eyes, I thought the desire for a Milkybar® was making me hallucinate, but as I did a double take I realised it wasn’t the Milkybar® Kid, it wasn’t the Milkybar® kid at all. It was Jacub Bellby. The same Jacub Bellby I had stuck in a tub for entertainment purposes, the same Jacub Bellby I had made into an internet laughing stock, the same Jacub Bellby I cheated out of a gram of hash, the same Jacub Bellby whose mother I tickled with the very tip of my bellend, the same Jacub Bellby who hated me with a passion. My bum started to flap a bit, I’m not ashamed to admit that.
“Just don’t make eye contact,” I said to myself, “That’s what sets him off”.
But it was too late. Jacub had caught me cheekily glancing his tomato tinted face and he became more enraged than the time the Turks ruined his Habbo Hotel experience at an internet café. Time seemed to freeze for a moment, before Jacub started coming at me like a fucking freight train! Just as the track on my “Emotional Songs (no homo)” playlist turned to “Boys Don’t Cry” by The Cure, all I could see was Jacub Bellby zooming in like nobody’s business, not stopping for a second, and next thing I know a huge meaty fist makes contact with my face.

That’s the last thing I remember between journeying to the shop and lying in a hospital bed. Here I was, laid down with an ice pack over my eye. I just had a black eye and a bit of concussion, nothing a bad man like me can’t handle. I mean, you’re talking to the winner of Stars 53 roffle. The nurses sorted me out good ‘n’ proper and after cheekily unloading a few fluids, shall we say, in the toilet facilities, I set out of the hospital and towards the local Foot Locker.

Why was I going to Foot Locker? Well I just wanted a new pair of trainers really. I was rocking the Dunlops but as a wise WarriorInWoolworths once said,
“Porn stars don’t wear Dunlop trainers”,
Not that I wanted to be a porn star or anything but if I wanted my Plumper Penis for Summer program to start working I figured I should be wearing some porn star trainers. As soon as I got to the shop I remembered all I had was 50p, I mean all I set out for in the first place was a Milkybar®. So I had to turn away and figure out my next move.

My next move was arguably a risky one. A bit of a dangerous decision, a bit of an inexcusable idea, the plan was to get revenge on Jacub Bellby. I couldn’t let my pride lay in a pit like that, I had to get my own back. But I wasn’t going to do this alone, oh no. Who did I turn to?

I turned to an old pal. My partner from Stars 37, Rookies 9000 and the 2008 Wanking Olympics, Sir David “Dav” Stromming. I ventured into his love shack where he was taking care of a bit of business as usual. I sat down on the purple leather sofa which nicely matched my shiny purple bodywarmer as I waited for him to come down. Luckily a game of Bop-It! Was left on the table which gave me around 10 minutes of enjoyment before Dav hit the scene.
“Ah! Bengal Boy! What can I do for you?” he asked, with his cheeky grin framed by female ejaculation.
“I’ve got a mission for us.” I explained, “It’s Jacub Bellby. He’s in full force. It’s time we take him down.”
A frown spread across Dav’s face.
“You’ve been messing with the big boys again, Drubert.” He said, shaking his head.
“Jacub Bellby is fucking nothing mate, we could ‘ave him for brekkie.” I argued.
“Hmm. I’m not sure.” He replied.
“Just listen yeah,” I said, “It’s Monday. Jacub’s Dolmio Day. All we have to do is stop him in the sauces aisle in Tesco and make an attack. After all, we both know he can’t do shit on an empty stomach.”
“Hmm,” pondered Dav, before smirking, “I have a better plan.”

We started walking. Walking and walking for miles. I never really knew where we were walking, I just followed Dav’s lead as we shared stories of times past and gossiped about our fellow Tengaged users. After a few days I finally asked,
“Where are we going?” Dav just smiled and pointed towards a sign, a sign saying “Welcome to Hull”. Hull, the home of the University of Hull, the Hull York Medical School and of course Jacub Bellby.
“I’m not sure about this, Dav,” I murmured, “Should we really be attacking him on his home turf?”
“Trust me on this,” assured Dav, “It’s time to take him to the cleaners.”

We ventured through Hull till we found the house of Bellby.
“You ready?” asked Dav,
“I sure am!” I said, nervously. We kicked down the front door and rushed inside, not sensing any sign of Jacub’s presence.
“Hmm,” I said, “I’ll check the bathroom, you check the bedrooms.”
I ran up to the bathroom but nothing but a distinct smell of shit could be found. I heard a male scream coming from the bedroom,
“Dav?” I shouted, “Dav!?” I ran into the bedroom and what I saw was something traumatic, something that has been imprinted in my mind and will haunt me forever. Jacub Bellby’s mother was pressed against the wall, butt naked, while The Proclaimers and the Pet Shop Boys scuffled over who got to plug her hole next.
“What the FUCK?” I shouted.
“Who the fuck are you?” asked Neil Tennant, the slightly more significant Pet Shop Boy.
“We’re the Sweeney, son” replied Dav, “and we haven’t had any dinner”.
We knew what we had to do. Dav kicked Charlie Reid in the ass, forcing his long hard twangford so far into Mrs Bellby’s buttocks that her organs were harpooned and she died. I grabbed Neil Tennant’s head and pulled it down as I brought my knee full force into his face. Dav proceeded to grab Charlie Reid’s face and smash it into the wall, shattering his glasses and making the glass penetrate into his eye.

This left me, Dav, Craig Reid and Chris Lowe to battle it out. We faced eachother and let the tension build, like a Wild West face-off.
“This room aint big enough for the four of us,” said Craig. Just as we were about to have it out a familiar voice rung in my ears,
“I’ll be the one, to turn you on”, it was only Jacub fucking Bellby! We had completely forgotten about him! I looked to Dav,
“I’ll go after him, you take care of these 2 muppets” I said before running out of the room and pursuing Jacub.

I ran down the stairs and followed him into the kitchen. I looked round and he was nowhere to be seen!
“I’m a fucking ninja xD” he exclaimed before appearing from behind the door and running back through it. He ran outside the house, of course I didn’t give up chase. We were running down the road, and suddenly I saw my chance to distract Jacub,
“Jacub, look!” I shouted, “An ice cream van!”
Jacub looked around in awe, a great white ice cream van was passing by and of course Jacub couldn’t help but to lick his lips at the thought of the dairy goodness. And as he was lost in the moment I tackled him.
“Got you now you nobber!” I shouted.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“Well, I just wanted revenge for what you did to me before” I explained.
“Well, what can I say?”
“Um… You could say sorry”
“I’m sorry mert. Sorry for them rate nasty things I done. It was out of order.”
“Alright thanks”
And I set back off.

The time between then and now was just me making my way back from Hull to the midlands. Dunno what happened to Dav lol guess he’ll be back soon unless the shit Pet Shop Boy and the rubbish Proclaimer battered him.
(, Mon 15 Mar 2010, 20:16, 10 replies)
oh and. when I got into A&E one time
I had a burst blood vessel in my nose - lost over a litre of blood before I even got into the ambulance. When I got into A&E they stuck me in a shittly little back room to bleed to death. When my parents arrived they got a nurse into the room who "plugged" my nose. She didn't speak English and looked and smelt like she was living on the street. The gauze she used was not the correct type which meant when they pulled it out again it ripped all the skin out of the inside of my nose and opened up the blood vessel again.
At this point I threw up over a pint of my own blood.

When I finally got to an ENT doctor he was pretty good but shocked at my state. They put a drip in me and shoved me in a little room with old people who screamed all night as they didn't know where they were.

I Fucking hate the NHS.

(, Mon 15 Mar 2010, 19:38, 3 replies)
I get recognised in Hull Royal
1st trip was two weeks into my current job when I had a severe allergic reaction. 5 minute wait and 2 hours being monitored with a syringe of adrenaline in the room, just in case. Occasionally a trainee nurse popped in, looked me over and would blather wow that is interesting. Then I had to get cock out for the doc to see how far the reaction had spread.

2nd trip, house mate had a stress fracture to her ankle, the really stupid bone that makes up the heel. 3 hours total including waiting and treatment, but since it was a monday and was full of fodder from the weekend, that can be passed off as poor timing.

3rd trip, whiplash. Git of a nurse prodded and poked in all the sore spots out of spite. Got a neck brace and appologies 1.5 hours later. Was partially stripped and had the log roll to check for damage and since I'm a big fella it took about 6 staff to hold me in place. Quick xray, lots of powerful free meds, free cuppa and free sandwich (fucking bonus!) 5 hours total including recovery and a free extension to my parking, and was bumped for a serious bike accident.

4th trip, as a first aider to accompany someone who had an unknown chemical in their eye. Turned out to be cheese and onion crisps. 1.5 hours, mostly waiting for the cab.

5th trip, the now ex misses was ropey for a bit and had a late night episode meaning she needed a scan or someshite. Minichedders and a wordsearch is all I can remember. And some guy with an epic headwound. Staff all were nice.

In summary, good triage, some retarded or bitter staff but mostly polite and professional, free food. Better than Bradford Royal.
(, Mon 15 Mar 2010, 19:30, Reply)
NHS cockfags
Forgot to put a cap on the thing taking blood out of my arm when switching bottles. I was feeling like death warmed up due to sevear blood poisoning (in and out of conscienceness) and to see my blood hit a wall over 3m away and cover my parents and everyone else in the room made me vomit. Blood and vomit everywhere. Shortly after I passed out. Drip for a few days, antibiotics strait into blood. sorted.

NHS made up for it by gifting me a beautiful nurse that I will probably marry some day :D (I say NHS I didn't actually kidknap her or anything we met on match.com)
(, Mon 15 Mar 2010, 19:30, Reply)
I basically bloody love doctors. They're mostly drunken perverts, FYI (what i look for in a person). I've known many and been in a relationship with one so here's a summary of my findings.

Best thing found in an arse - a dead rodent. Couldn't tell what kind of rodent due to the level of decay, however it had a tail before it came off in Docs hand. Obviously the guy had 'no idea' how it got up there. Sure...

What happens while you're under anesthetic - basically there is rarely a time where only one person is in the operating room, so generally you prob won't get touched up. There are exceptions to this rule though...just don't expect to definitely NOT get violated. Personally last operation i had my knickers take themselves off while i was knocked out. Nice.

Med students - pissheads who definitely DO take body parts with them on nights out. I've met people who have, not a 'friend of friend' story. It happened. I'm not 100% if a whole dressed up body was taken out to a pub, that source is a bit shaky, but apparently those students got kicked out of uni...

Med graduates - some Aussie docs used to go out and get horrendously squiffy, get home at stupid-o-clock, insert IV drips into each other and go to sleep before being on duty at 8am. It re-hydrated them while they slept however they did have arms like a skag addicts due to several drunken, botched attempts at getting the line in.

My fave doctor related story - when an old, well respected surgeon was operating and his scrubs (trousers) fell down. Due to his hands being sterile and occupied trying not to blind someone, he was unable to pull them up. The nurses etc were trying desperately to hold it together, the surgeon is desperately trying to convince one of the nurses to pull his scrubs back up, however none of them really want to go near him. You see, that day, he wasn't wearing underpants. Yes, he had to stand there and finish what he was doing with his cock hanging out. Class.

Love doctors.
(, Mon 15 Mar 2010, 19:21, 4 replies)
My GP is wonderful. Living in a rural village, he is not a cold, distant medical professional
but someone who you are likely to see in the pub of an evening. He is unflappable, and utterly un-shockable. Even when things like this happen.

Even though the temptation to say 'Ooh Matron' must have been unbearable, he merely mentioned politely that I was possibly revealing slightly more than I intended to. He's also had the good grace never to mention it again.
(, Mon 15 Mar 2010, 19:18, Reply)
Ever had an ultrasound on your heart?
It's very undignified — you have to spoon with a nurse while she jabs you in the boobs with a jelly-coated rod.
They let me watch the video of my heart beating, and it was disconcerting to realise that far from looking neat and mechanical like in a biology textbook diagram, it's a squishy and blobby mess, and it's that squishy and blobby mess that's keeping you alive.

I told my mum about the ignominy of the procedure and she said "Just wait until you have a mammogram".
(, Mon 15 Mar 2010, 18:31, 2 replies)
Dentists: blue-masked purveyors of horror
I have never had much of a problem with my dentists, even going through the now-obligatory phase of having train track braces put in, the worst thing I have experienced was getting 4 teeth done under local anesthesia, and given that I had about 20 'pain-go-away-make-feel-nice' injections, it wasn't that bad, considering.

My brother, on the other hand, has been less fortunate. One year, when we were both about 12/13, he had a wobbly tooth. Not your average wobbly tooth, this bad-boy had been wobbly for nigh-on 6 months and my bro was getting mightily fed up with it, so at our annual check-up, he asks about this tooth.

"It's just a loose tooth." Says the dentist, confused.
"But... it's been loose for about 6 months, and isn't coming out."
"Nonsense, here, I'll just pull it out for you." Says the dentist, leaning forward clutching something metallic and shiny.

At this point, the dentist leans in with one of his 'instruments', and yanks on the tooth. My brother utters a strangled yell, but the tooth doesn't budge. The dentist, being a no-nonsense sort of chap, decides that the best course of action is to simply yank a bit harder on this actually-pretty-sturdy tooth. The tooth, not being a fan of this sort of treatment, decides to cause my brother quite a lot of pain, but not exit his mouth.

Finally, with what I am told was a sickening combination of sucking and crunching noises, the tooth shattered slightly, and was removed, leaving behind a few broken shards, and a lot of blood. My brother, understandably, screams rather hugely at this point. As hugely as you can imagine, for somebody who is having rather brutal medieval-standard dentistry, with no pain-relief.

The dentist then proceeds to remove the remaining 2 or 3 shards of tooth, with my brother still wailing whenever his mouth wasn't full of pliers, and spitting blood around the room with reckless abandon.

When they exited the procedure room a few minutes later, it was a magnificent sight. My brother still rather bloodstained, all down his face, chin, and school-shirt, looking teary-eyed and confused, and the dentist, his own shirt looking more Sweeney-Todd than he may have liked. This into a waiting room of people, all of whom had overheard the screams and yelps from the next room, and were nervously reading magazines, desperately trying not to think about their own upcoming appointments. I think one lady took one look at him and immediately left the building.

I have only good things to say about the NHS in general, but this incident does stick in my mind as rather a low point.

Length: a few millimeters per shard.
(, Mon 15 Mar 2010, 18:26, 1 reply)
I was going out with a girl who is the biggest nympho I have ever met. She's the only girl who's ever outstripped my sex drive. Seriously, if we had sex five times, it was a bad day. And I think it's probably pretty obvious that a girl who is this voracious is not a make-love-gently-and-kiss-me-tenderly-until-i-cry-of-happiness kind of girl. Oh no, it was hard, energetic, sweaty, dirty sex.

It was a good day for her. We had been at it for a while. It had been as vigorous as usual (I don't think I've ever had better abs), of numerous separate occurrences, and to be absolutely frank, my cock was practically red raw (she was on the pill, so no condoms). But she needed another hit of my love drug, so like a trooper, I put aside the slight pain in my happy parts and went to work.

As we did the good-time dance, the pain became more and more noticeable. With every thrust and parry of the pork sword, there was a sharp stinging sensation, which slowly turned from soreness to a slight discomfort, to an irritation, to a significant distraction. I went from a wry smile to a raised eyebrow to a grimace at every pressurisation of the pleasure piston. I was beginning to think that it might be a good idea to stop.

But I did not have time to finish this thought. Oh no, it was too late. After one almighty drop of the vaginal depth detector, the distraction became searing, burning agony. The grimace turned to a convoluted, tortured, shocked expression.

I pulled out. I looked down. There was blood. A surprising amount of blood.

For a moment, I was confused. She had been on Shark Week only a week earlier, and surely even the most enthusiastic intercourse couldn't actually rub the skin off my most treasured possession?

No. Another look told me what I needed to know - my precious, valuable, unique, irreplaceable one-string bass needed a new E.

Oh dear god, the horror of looking down at that torn, lacerated sliver of skin, which seems so unimportant until it's gone... my banjo will never play the same tune again.

Tenuous link to question subject: when I went to the doctor he said "Well, you've probably done yourself a favour. It was obviously too tight anyway. Keep it lubricated and you should be fine." Thanks doc... bit late for that.

Men of the world - if it hurts, don't carry on. I implore you.
(, Mon 15 Mar 2010, 17:59, 29 replies)
Who's the friendliest person in the hospital?
The Ultra Sound guy
(, Mon 15 Mar 2010, 17:25, 6 replies)
You all are a bunch of sick, sick people.
(, Mon 15 Mar 2010, 17:15, 1 reply)
This has LITERALLY happened today and I'm fucking fuming.

Bassetlaw Hospital, Worksop, is the most corrupt, incompetent and unsanitary NSH hospital in the country. They have repeatedly recieved good reports under examination, despite their known reputation as not knowing their arse from their fucking elbow.

Someone very close to me is a couple of months pregnant, and on a recent scan was told that the baby has no heartbeat and is effectively dead. She has had to carry the 'baby' over the weekend, and today was booked in to have it removed. She is young, frightened and upset. They made her wait for hours with no information. She was FORGOTTEN about several times. Then she was taken to surgery, only for them to suddenly realise that they had forgotten to give her the pre-op meds.

When the Polish doctor came, he barely spoke any English. He then suggested her an alternative. They could give her drugs, so that she can go home and await the horrors of delivering the under-developed still-born foetus of her first child....And they suggest she could do this at home, on her own - so that they can cover for their mistake when they fill in their reports for the week. What's she supposed to do? Name it then flush it down the fucking toilet?

Cunts. I hope every doctor and manager at that fucking hospital go to prison.
(, Mon 15 Mar 2010, 16:35, 10 replies)
There, now that your attention has been grabbed, I'm going to repeat a story that I barely remember but my parents still bring up at every family reunion possible.

My cousin J is two years younger than me. He also happens to be two years older than my younger brother, so the three of us go 22, 20, 18 (at the moment). Because we were all roughly of the same age, unlike the rest of my siblings/cousins, we all used to hang out together. J used to come over for a week or so in the summer break when we were little kids, and we used to go to his place in London for a week a few weeks after his visit. All very civilised and very Enid Blyton, you may agree.

One summers break, when we're all fairly young, I think I was about ten at the time, we're all out playing in a playground in London, and as we're kids, we tend to mess around. Especially on the swings. Now, as this was 12 years ago or so, my memory is a little fuzzy, but I am reliably informed by parents and elder relatives, that I egged J on to try and take off from the swings "like Superman and see if you can fly, bet you can't". J, being a man, and more importantly, looking to win my respect, tries to do so before anyone can intervene. He gets a massive swing whilst standing on it and being pushed by me, and at the apex, launches himself into the air, one fist heroically pointed skyward, imaginary cape flying in the wind.

Unfortunately, gravity is a harsh, harsh mistress. He faceplants perfectly in the Superman pose onto concrete, having flung himself a fairly impressive distance with his swing/uncontrolled fall/whatever you want to call it. He groans once, and then hauls himself to his feet amidst a crowd of parental units, both mine and his. I get a swift bollocking whilst we're bundling him into the car to take him to the hospital, but its not really effective as I, being a manly man of ten years old, have burst into tears at seeing J's face with blood trickling everywhere, and everyone is more concerned with making sure J is alright rather than bollock me.

Miraculously, nothing major is broken, only his nose. J has massive gashes across his face, and has knocked out two of his teeth. They take a look at him, and instead of giving him stitches, opt to glue his face back together. So, the head nurse dons rubber gloves, not the skin-tight ones, and sets about gluing his face back together, chatting to him and us all the while in a lovely soft cockney accent, calling us all love constantly. Except for the last gash, which she cocks up.

"Oops, sorry love, hang on a tick..."

She worriedly mutters, and collectively the family lean forward to look at the damage done.

Yes, the nurse had just glued a glove on to J's face.

I can only guess that the glue set too quickly after she applied it to the fingertip/face, and then went to pull her hand away and the glove slipped off her hand. After some hasty consultation with another nurse, she wanders off to find a doctor/someone with some experience of just what the funting cuck to do, leaving my cousin, now cleaned up and looking almost as good as new, with a glove stuck to his jaw. Eventually someone comes and sorts it out, but even now, the poor bastard has a scar on his face from this, and a slight mistrust of nurses.

Length? Not that great, it was only a fingertip.
(, Mon 15 Mar 2010, 16:22, Reply)
Bikes! Kerbs! Doctors! Gothic!
I have had excellent service and terrible service from the NHS. The birth of my son and the aftercare was appalling. When he had a kidney op at six months the lack of aftercare almost killed him.

However, on the whole, the NHS is an excellent institution and something we should be proud of (although there is, in my uninformed opinion, too much fiddling and too much management).

I came off my pushbike in July 2006. Lost my back wheel, over-corrected, hit a kerb at a very oblique angle (doing about 25mph) nose-dived into the floor and hurt myself.

Now, the first I knew of the accident was when I hit my knee. I thought, a la Kenneth Williams, "Ooh, this is a big one" and then felt my shoulder hit the ground, before my (helmet-less) head crunched into a wall. I had no idea idea at all I'd hurt my arms until I stood up. To this day I don't know exactly how I rose as my hands were both dangling, limp and useless, and seemingly disconnected from my forearms.

I requested help from a lady at the nearby bus-stop. SHe tried to oblige but unfortunately was unable to work my phone. I couldn't point out the right buttons owing to my hands being useless. I attracted the attention of a biker, called work, then my wife, then an ambulance before sitting on a wall, waiting, and feeling myself shake at the shock of it all. I was perfectly clear-headed, but could just feel my body reacting. One of my major concerns was that my wife was 6 months pregnant and we had a sofa arriving that day, which i would be expecting to install.

The paramedics arrived and told me I may have broken something. I thanked them for their perspicacity and demanded morphine. They asked me to wait. I discussed football with them. One had the misfortune to be a Derby fan so there was a bit of good natured banter.

When I got to hospital there were a few minor arguments (mainly because other patients were distressing me by being mad and I am, although very friendly and happy in general, a grouchy, aggressive bastard when things aren't going well for me). The specialist came and told me I'd shattered everything in both wrists and needed surgery.

I was fortunate enough to have surgery the same day, the nurses were kind and generous with morphine and I discharged myself the next day.

I didn't have a shit for 4 days, and when I did, wiping my arse was excrutiating.

I am now the proud owner of suicide-esque scars, but at least my hands work. Well done NHS. Also, and importantly, the paramedc even walked my bike 500 yards home as I had no lock.
(, Mon 15 Mar 2010, 15:52, 2 replies)

This question is now closed.

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