Every respect and sympathy for the late Deborah James and family but she has proved that grinning like a ninny does not save you from cancer.
There is nothing sexy about cancer. Also alliteration eg Shite Sister, Poo Pussy, Crap Cutie, Arse Angel etc does not achieve remission. Ringing a fucking bell to celebrate a remission from cancer only makes the other punters in the cancer ward feel worse.
Doctors turning up in clown costume is a dead giveaway that some poor punter on the ward will soon be be brown bread.
Terminal Cancer Ward sponsored by bakers LLP? The Hovis Ward. Laugh off the suffering? Never say die attitude? Bugger that. In my humble opinion misery and morphine is the way to go washed down by a decent Single Malt or three (on the NHS).
Back in the 70s checked in to hospital for an operation on me rampant piles. My quack had trained at the old Westminster Hospital (a then prestigious hospital that did both NHS and private work) and judged it appropriate to my status and dignity so he referred me there.
The hospital was also a specialist cancer treatment centre and while there I met various cancer patients who were paying for treatment to jump waiting lists and have the wonder surgeon of their choice. Not cheap but they got a private room but had to slum it with the rest of us to watch telly in the lounge, use the library, have a shower or use a flush khazi.
Anyway to cut a long story this chap, very well spoken executive type and quite out of his depth was admitted overnight for mouth cancer treatment. Quite embarrassed to be thought queue jumping – his Company Insurance was paying for it – so naturally took him under my wing a bit. But bugger me what a carry on – he got wheeled off for radiation treatment twice a day with some kind of Hannibal Lector device stuck in his mouth to wedge it open and was fed through tubes. On top of that had chemo pumped into his veins through a catheter.
Did my best to keep his spirits up but it was clear he was a goner. Told him straight, no point in beating about the bush. The crude radiation treatment (remember this was the ‘70s and it is not much better now) turned his mouth and chin boiled lobster red while the chemo turned the rest of his body zombie grey. In addition he could not hold any food down and existed on liquids.
Recommended him to jack it in and spend the insurance money on a nice booze cruise and some oral with a fat skank. Live longer with some pleasure. He had come in not looking too bad but three days of nuclear physics and toxic chemicals did for him.
By the time he left the poor cunt’s teeth were getting ready to drop out and I heard later that he had more sessions of treatment at the Westminster and died there in his private room hopped up on morphine after about three months.
We hear that Bowel Babe’s story has panicked the Great British Public into seeking bowel checks (a camera up the arse) on the already overburdened NHS. Have seen many acquaintances and relations mown down by the Grim Reaper as one of the penalties of a long life and my advice to cunters is to Cunt It Out.
Only the good die young. Go kicking and screaming and plant your boot in the gonads of the Grim Reaper when fetched for your journey into that dark night.
Welcome to God Doctor and the superiority of Cancer Surgeons. Know them well. My Nazi side of the family have been in that line of work for generations, some doing general surgery, some doing more lucrative face and boob jobs. Even they are scared of the Cancer Surgeon.
Takes a certain type of demonic Nazi narcissist to do it. Nazis and “Their life in your hands surgery.” What a combo. Only bitterness makes you better. Find your own Dr Harold Shipman. Think about that line. You know it makes sense.
To quote that pansy piss artist Dylan Thomas:
“Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light”.
And remember – give Dr Reaper a sharp kick in the bollocks on your way out.
Nominated by: Sir Limply Stoke
