In high dudgeon about this coffin dodging. NHS on its knees, my expectations are high with the nation’s sick laid out on trolleys in A&E corridors ignored by hospital staff for days but do they oblige? The fuck they do. The terminally ill do a Tyson Fury (the cunt) and pop open their eyes and stand up a second before the old ten count ends.
Old standbys like Aids no longer scythe down Celebs and Luvvies as in the glory days. A Dementia diagnosis just means years of food drooling from the mouth and shitting in pads but definitely not death.
A cancer diagnosis while no doubt a salutary shock to the cunt involved can and usually does mean years of ringing that fucking bell before the happy event finally occurs.
In the old school NHS the mere mention of cancer was enough to be terminal while the cunt involved was subject to ever more invasive hacking out of the spreading nightmare in combination with brain boiling radiation and toxic chemo. The very mention of the dread diagnosis would send Yours Truly (and other cunts trying to steal my thunder – and remember cunts I never forget) rushing to get in there first and nominate my cunt. Then just like sex in later years, it never happens.
Regularly flick through my lists of past expectations looking for a forgotten runner and yes there are a lot there (which I am not about to reveal here) on trials of wonder drugs, gene therapy and surgery. Extended death and misery. My tip to those on death row, don’t fuck about with the grim reaper, get it over quickly. Besides which there are many interested parties wishing you well but do get on with it loves. Welcome over Igor, that untrained formerly East European medical assistant and accept that injection to take away your fear. Die for England and ISAC. You know it makes sense.
Health.org.
And finally may I include that tender sentiment so often bounced off my humble personage. “Fuck off and die”.
Nominated by : Sir Limply Stoke
