Are you an unsuccessful brewery party organiser? Do you have no social skills or desirable qualities? Have you got all the compassion of a haemorrhoid? Then you’d probably make a great GP’s receptionist.
I’ve got the pleasure of having a pretty nasty bout of Crohn’s disease, which is a pain in the arse, literally. Not as much of a pain in the arse, though, as dealing with these fuckers.
Getting a doctor’s appointment round my manor is like getting an audience with the Pope. You ring up at 8:29 and some cunt, invariably called Pam or Marjorie, tells you to phone back at 8:30 because the surgery isn’t open. You ring back at 8:31 and said cunt can barely hide the relish in her voice when she says there’s nothing left and you have to ring tomorrow at 8:30 sharp. This is even fucking worse now that, with the magic excuse of Covid, GPs will only deign to speak to you when the Moon is in its seventh house and Jupiter aligns with Mars.
This morning I rang up after a bloody painful night up Chateau Khazi and the wag on the other end, who sounded like Gollum after 20 Rothman’s, told me to buy some peppermint oil. “How do you know you’re having an flare-up anyway?”. Well, love, I’ve had an arse like the Japanese flag since the John Major days, I probably know my own body better than a fucking carrion crow with a lanyard and hooped earrings.
The fuckers speak to you like you’ve just crawled out of Ann Widdecombe’s dried up old minge, yet they hide behind their fucking ‘zero tolerance’ policy where ‘abuse’ means breathing in a way they don’t like. Cunts.
Nominated by: Gloria Stitz
