American Countdown!

(Thu 18th Dec 2008, 16:59, More)

» Call Centres

Sometimes, it pays to listen.
First of all, everything written below is true and is virtually word-for-word a transcript of the conversation. I have changed names for obvious reasons. Apologies in advance for the lack of funneh.

Picture the scene: It's a snowy December's night somewhere north of the Watford Gap. Thanks to a small fuckup involving a patient the size of a whale and my back, I am now on light duties in the ambulance control room. It's coming up to 1am, there's a force 8 gale and blizzard battering the control room.

*BEEP*

UCC: "Ambulance Service"

Operator: "Blackburn connecting phone number 01234567890"

UCC: "Thank you operator. Go ahead caller. What's the address please?"

Caller: "Um..I'm at the junction of Any Street and Thingy Road in Arsetown (insert name of quite scroaty town here.)"

UCC: "OK, I've got that address. What's the problem tonight?"

Caller (sounds like a young lad) "I'm really sorry to bother you, but I didn't know who else to call."

U: That's OK, just tell us what the problem is and we'll get something sorted.

Caller: I'm really really cold. I've been out on the street all day and I'm freezing. I've tried the police and they gave me a number for a hostel but I've got no cash on me and I can't feel my feet now.

U: (clicking through questions) OK, what's your name?

C: It's Luke

U: OK Luke, my name's Carrot. I'm just going to ask a few questions. They're not going to delay us getting any help to you.

C: (starts crying) I'm really sorry. I'm so sorry.

U: Hey, that's OK. Don't worry.

C: I'm just wasting your time, I'm just wasting everyone's time...

U: (I stop typing). Listen Luke, you're not wasting anyone's time. I'm here until 7 in the morning, so you can take as long as you want.

C: Well, I dunno who to talk to or anything.

U: Well you can talk to me.

C: Well....I told my mum at lunch that I'm gay. I've got this boyfriend and he's great and everything so I thought I should tell her because I love him, and I love her.

U: Right...

C: So I told her, and she told me to get out of the house, that she didn't want to know me if I was a fucking fag, and she wasn't having me in her house. So she shoved me out the front door. I got my coat but my wallet and my mobile is still at home.

U: OK...

C: I had a few coins in my pocket so I phoned my boyfriend to hope he'd take me in.

U: Does he live with his parents too?

C: No, he's 32.

U: Right, and how old are you?

C: I'm 17. I'll be 18 next month.

U: OK, so what happened?

C: He just laughed and said I was a stupid cunt, and hung up on me.

U: He hung up on you?

C: Yeah.

U: I see.

C: So then I just wandered town. A nice lady bought me a cup of tea in the cafe, but now everything's closed and I've got nowhere to go. It's my fault. It's my fault for being gay. I shouldn't be gay...(breaks down in tears.)

U: Right Luke, stop right there. There is NOTHING wrong with being gay. Don't let two silly people make you feel otherwise. I'm gay too, and I know exactly how it feels to be on the receiving end of stupid idiots like that. But it worked out for me and it'll work out for you. Now we need to get you sorted out first of all. Do you have any relatives or friends nearby?

C: No, we just moved here from (another town about 20 miles away) so I know nobody apart from my boyfriend.

U: Right, this is what I am going to do. I am going to send an ambulance to you, not on blue lights but they will be with you shortly, OK? They will look after you and get you warmed up.

C: Oh God, what about college? I'm doing my A-levels....

U: Let's not worry about that at the moment. Let's get you sorted first. Can you give me the number of the hostel?

C: Yeah, it's 019876543321

U: OK, I'll get onto them and get that sorted. I'm going to give you my direct number when you get sorted at hospital, so ring me as soon as possible from the hospital, or if that fails, call 999 and ask to speak to Carrot.

C: Thank you. Thank you so much.

U: The ambulance crew should be with you now.

C: Yeah I can see them.

U: OK, I'm going to terminate the call now. Let me know how you get on.

C: Thanks so much. Bye.

U: Bye.


So I went and got the hostel sorted (despite an argument with a stroppy warden about him being under 18). At 6am, I get a phonecall on my direct phone.

U: Ambulance control, Carrot speaking.

C: Hi Carrot, it's Luke.

U: Hi Luke. How are you doing?

C: I'm much better thanks. I've got the nurse with me who wants to have a word.

Nurse: Hello, is that the calltaker?

U: Yes it is.

N: I thought you might like to know - Luke was so cold when we got him here that he was clinically hypothermic. 20 minutes more outside and he would be dead. He's fine now he's dried out and warmed up.

U: Well, that's great news. I've managed to get a hostel sorted.

N: Well, what's the address? We will pay the taxi fare for him.

So Luke got into the hostel, where he stayed over Christmas. He then moved back to where he used to live where he moved in with his Dad.

Luke is now 21 years old. He finished college with 2 A's and a C at A level and went to university. He has just finished his final year and looks set to get a 1st in his degree. He is one of the nicest, most well rounded young men I have ever had the fortune to meet...and I was lucky enough to meet him. He's had a few relationships, some good, some shite, but now he seems to be with a lovely, and quite frankly barking, bloke who clearly loves him to bits.

So I should feel proud and warm inside? Well I should, but I was very close to telling him to fuck off and stop wasting our time within the first 30 seconds of the call because I was tired and busy.

Sometimes it really does pay to listen.
(Fri 4th Sep 2009, 19:07, More)

» Nightclubs

Quim! There!
I was once in one of Newcastle's classier* late night drinking establishments, of which there are many. It was a Wednesady night, which was student night. The particular special of the night was double vodka and cokes for £1.50. Now, myself and my esteemed colleagues (more about them in other posts if I can muster the courage) were not that fussy about the nature of the beverage, as long as it was cheap, so vast quantities of vodka and coke were purchased and drunk. Repeat....

Anyway, we were by no means the only people acceeding to the "let's get absolutely wankered on cheap russian falling over water". There were many ladies present, mostly being perved over by my mates. I took the opportunity to leave and have a slash. The toilets were off a short corridor from the main dancefloor. As I entered said corridor, a refreshed young lady came towards me, slipped and fell over. However...

1: Her legs went in opposite directions.
2: One heel got stuck in a crack between a floortile and the wall.
3: The other shoe went flying off.
4: She split her gusset.

So, there she was, lying in the birthing position, clunge on view to the general public, crying copiously.

So one of my mates (who had earlier been chatting her up) runs over.

...slips....

and manages to kick her clean in the flange.

We left.





*not really
(Wed 8th Apr 2009, 15:11, More)

» First World Problems

Complaints about the NHS
I have (until recently) gained useful employment as a manager within this island's great Health Service. I have recently left to return to being a clinician on lower pay for reasons that I trust will become clear as my rant develops and matures like a filled colostomy bag left out in the afternoon sun.

There are a few problems with the NHS. One of these is media driven perception. Hospitals are portrayed as disease-ridden hellholes scarcely better than the black hole of Calcutta (meh, to be fair, I have been to Chase Farm before) filled with nurses so busy they cannot stop to fart, let alone do any patient care, incompetent doctors and avaricious managers. All of which would be solved by putting matron back on the ward, and generally warping back to the 1950's.

One of the ones that always boils my piss is the "oh lets stop wasting money on all these managers and mint some lovely fresh nurses." Hospital management is what allows the lovely nurses to be paid on time, get uniform, not have to spend 10 hours of a 12 hour shift doing paperwork, work in a safe environment and generally do their job. There seems to be a (media-led) public perception that if someone doesn't actually lay hands on a patient to make them better, then they are about as much use as David Rathband's etch-a-sketch.

This, unfortunately, brings me to the main throbbing artery of my rant-beast.

Complaints.

One of my main managerial roles was investigating complaints and incidents received from the general public. On my original job description, this was supposed to take "around 3-5 hours per week". Most weeks I did about 20. Complaints fall into the following three areas:

Genuine complaints about clinical issues: 1-2%
Complaints made in good faith but generally due to a lack of understanding: 3-5%
Money-grabbing vexatious wankers: 90%

The first two categories were the easiest to deal with. Generally for the first category, an investigation would occur and the staff involved may have to go for some retraining. In rare cases (about 5-10% of that figure) disciplinary action or a report to the staff member's regulatory body had to be made. The complainants were normally very polite and sorry to bring problems to my attention.
The second category was usually dealt with by a letter saying something along the lines of "thank you for your concern. Having spoken to the ambulance crew, the reason you were taken to Big City General Hospital rather than Lovelytown District is that it last had an accident and emergency department around the time of Glasnost."

The final category was the epitome of soul-destroying. Any letter entitled "For the attention of the claims department" generally fell into this category. In addition any use of the phrase "I think this is disgusting" or "and I want to know what you're going to do about it" also makes sure that it falls into my bollocks-drawer (a figurative drawer - not an actual drawer filled with testicles).

BUT

Every. Single. One. of these complaints had to be investigated. Fully. Sometimes, staff had to be suspended whilst these were being carried out. I had to put their actions under intense scrutiny, trying to balance what is the gold standard of patient care together with the actual facts of the case. Usually when I sent my standard "Dear Sir, fuck off and die" letter to close the case, a week later I would get a reply saying "but I think I've been badly treated and deserve money."

People of the UK: Man the FUCK UP. You have a healthcare system that is free at the point of access, is at the forefront of clinical care in many areas, and 99.9% of the time fixes you up and gets you back to where you should be. Live with it.
(Fri 2nd Mar 2012, 13:23, More)

» Guilty Laughs

My sisters' 40th
My sister recently celebrated her 40th birthday. All and sundry were invited, and the main living room of her house (no bigger than the Great Hall at Hampton Court, or maybe Wembley stadium) was converted into a function room. Lots of tables with white linen and flowers, hired in caterers and waitresses (did I mention my sister is loaded, the bitch?) and (and here my downfall starts) rather a large amount of wine.

This was the first problem, as I do like a drop or two of tasty, tasty fermented grape juice. The second problem is that I was seated next to my brother in law. We have a rather unfortunate relationship, i.e. we are far too similar. We both have an inappropriate sense of humour (might tell the "guffawing at uncle's funeral" story later) and have a disconcerting habit of trying to make the other laugh at bad times.

Now, the meal had been consumed and we were all sitting around repleat. My sister made a speech, my dad proposed a toast, and all that was to happen was for the cake to be brought in before the tables were cleared away for the evening's partaaying.

Here's where things went downhill.

My sister's daughter was 11 at the time and had just taken up the viola. Now, she had decided that as the cake came in she was going to play "Happy Birthday" on the viola from the minstrels' gallery type thing which overlooked the living room (in point of fact, it used to be a hayloft but now converted for this porpoise.) Anyhoo, as the cake came in, everyone gave rapt silence to my niece as she started playing.

Unfortunately, my niece did not know the difference between a major and a minor key, so this version of Happy Birthday was particularly bleak, as if to suggest that this would be the last birthday my sister, or indeed any of us present, would enjoy. By the third bar I made the fatal error of looking over at my brother in law to see an expression on his face that I imagine mirrored my own: a grim set jaw with a spastic twitch at the corners of his mouth as he was desperately trying to prevent spontaneous lolz-combustion. I was biting hard on the inside of my cheek imagining dead kittens and suchlike to prevent the laughter, suddenly becoming focused on the flower arrangement in the centre of the table.

So far, so good. I could lose my laughter in the applause that was soon to come.

Unfortunately...

Three things happened. First of all, my niece fluffs about the 5th to last note. Now, anyone who has experience with stringed instruments knows that they do not suffer errors gladly, and a high pitched *SCREECH* was the reward. Secondly, my brother in law turns to me, and the unmitigated cunt raises his left eyebrow in a Roger Moore-esque expression of humour. Thirdly, the music ends, and there is a split-second delay before the applause, during which time I am heard to all and sundry to make a noise like a freshly enema'd goose as the laughter explodes. This causes:

1: everyone around me to look at me like I had just raped a small kitten.

2: My niece to run off crying.

3: Me to dissolve into uncontrollable fits of laughter to the point that I feel my jaw is about to drop off.

I'm such a cunt.
(Fri 23rd Jul 2010, 11:35, More)

» Impulse buys

Whoops. Seemed to have summoned a demon from the netherworlds.
As you do.

I was perusing a bookshop t'other day (one that might sell wet pebbles) and found an interesting book on demonology. Not something that I ever found any previous interest in, but the book captivated me. Twas weird, it was. But I bought it, and went home.

So looking through it, I found a chapter on Summonings. This was a really bad fucking idea. My good Catholic mother didn't raise me to summon evil forces from the nethermost pits of hell - that's what my brother was for. But again. I felt an odd compulsion to carry out a summoning.

Now, a Summoning is easier than you think. You need chalk (ELC), candles (IKEA tealights) and obviously a bell (front doorbell) and a book - well I do have my confirmation bible, so we're all set.

So anyway, I am set up. Have gone into the kitchen, marked out the squiggly lines as per the instruction manual, and put my tongue through the kind of workout that the Swedish Lesbian Olympic Cunnilingus team usually perform as a warmup.

The air went cold. A deathly breeze came through the kitchen.














And fuck all happened. I closed the patio door and went to bed, disgusted.

That night, I lay dreaming, wondering why I hadn't summoned a demon.

OH BUT YOU DID

My testicles retracted into my body. Fuck knows how I managed not to void myself all over the bed. The voice came straight into my skull, not through my ears. As if it was in my mind already.

"Who...who are you?" I timidly asked.

MY NAME, HUMAN, IS IMPRONOUNCABLE IN YOUR TONGUE. I AM CALLED OLXZZZGNUGAGAGVNYRRR, BUT YOU CAN CALL ME...OLIVER. I SHALL BE HERE SOME TIME

So I had really fucked up this time. I now have my own private demon. I would walk down the road and cars would crash into each other. My holiday to New York in September 2001 was slightly spoilt. Grannies would drop dead of heart attacks as I passed.

I

Was

Fucked.



By now, I looked like Gollum with scurvy. My hair was lank and my skin was the colour of dead fish. I never left my house. I gave up work. Everywhere I went, everything I did, Oliver was there.

One day I could take it no longer. I'd already tried the exorcism page in the book. I felt my own actions were becoming less and less under my control, so I banged on the door of my local church. The priest came out and gave me one look and nearly recoiled in horror. He grabbed his rosary for protection.

"Dear God, child. What's happened."

"Demon...inside...please exorcise me."

The priest dragged me in. Luckily, Fr Michael O'Meara (any name that Irish should come with its own sack of potatoes) was an expert in demonology. He set up a bell, book and candle and performed an emergency exorcism (is there another kind). The lights flashed and eventually exploded, shards of glass flying across the room. Our faces were cut and blooded, but we didn't notice.

Suddenly a feeling like a firework went off in my skull and again I heard the eldritch voice.

YOU MAY DEFEAT ME HUMAN, BUT MY WATCHERS WILL BE KEEPING AN EYE ON YOU EVER MORE. JUST ONE SLIP, AND YOU'RE MINE. (Oh by the way, your mum sucks cocks in Hell. Sorry, it's a contractual thing.)

Both me and the priest collapsed to the floor.

"Thank God for that" said the priest. "It was only a minor demon. Much more and we'd have been goners."

I thanked him profusely from the bottom of my heart (and later from the heart of my bottom).

I know I'm free, but I also know that Oliver is out there still, waiting for me. And I can feel his watchers constantly looking at me, watching for any slipup.

You see, I have to be careful of Imp Ol's spies.
(Thu 21st May 2009, 21:58, More)