A Canadian in New Basford on the NHS

Words: Rob Cutforth
Friday 01 June 2007
reading time: min, words

One of the things that drives me crazy in this town is the obsession with hospital beds

One of the things that drives me crazy in this town is the obsession with hospital beds. Whenever something cool is built by the council there’s always someone moaning about how it’s taking money away from the NHS. The Contemporary Arts Centre, the proposed Broadmarsh refurb, even the city logo. Okay, so the logo’s shit, but how can you dog the Contemporary Arts Centre? If there’s anything this city needs, it’s more chav-free zones.

Nothing has been the target of more crotchety pooh-poohing than the new Market Square. I love it! The stones, the fountain (when it’s working), the benches - the whole minimalist beauty of it is wonderful. I’m not the only one either; it’s virtually impossible to find a spare spot to sit when it’s sunny.

A few weeks ago, I overheard some bald twat in an England top say, ‘How many millions of tax was spent on that bloody Square when you can’t get a bed up at Queen’s?’ I’m not sure what the two have to do with each other, but the fact that this guy looks about three smokes away from a pine box makes me think he may be a touch biased. Talking about taxation at all is a bit suspect considering that at two in the afternoon on a weekday, he doesn’t have anywhere else to be.

That being said, it still got me thinking; maybe he’s right. Maybe the Market Square is less important than the ailing health system. I’m from Canada, where we have the best medicare system in the world (so the government keeps telling us). Surely I would be the ideal candidate to test it out? So, in the interest of science, I decide to conduct my own research into the state of the NHS…

I figure the best way to get sick would be to pound my guts with inordinate amounts of beer and curry for an entire weekend (I’ll do anything for science). Two days of that and I wake up with a weird burning pain in my upper abdomen. Result! My first move is to consult the internet. Being a massive cyberchondriac, the web is my first port of call for any ache or pain. I punch my symptoms into www.webmd. com, convinced that I have an ulcer, stomach cancer and appendicitis. Off to the walk-in clinic, where I am diagnosed with indigestion at the counter. Gosh, maybe that yob was right, maybe the NHS is in trouble? Only old fat guys get indigestion. I am far too young and svelte to be bothered by something so common. After waiting about half the time I usually have to wait back home, I am seen to. The nurse takes my blood pressure, pushes down on my stomach and confirms the first nurses’ diagnosis of indigestion; drink some Gaviscon and if it doesn’t get better go talk to a GP.

A week later, it’s much worse. It’s got to be stomach cancer now -no indigestion lasts a whole week, surely? Dismantle the Market Square and hire some proper doctors immediately! These quacks don’t have a flipping clue what they’re doing! I go to my local GP (and wait even less time than at the walk-in clinic) and again he takes my blood pressure. I’m not sure what blood pressure has to do with indigestion, but every country has their own ways of doing things Back home, the doctors always want to get their hands on your balls: ‘But it’s only a sore throat, Doc.’ ‘Yes, I understand that, but how are your balls, fella? Have you got lumpy balls?’

It’s even worse when you get older. After you turn forty, they want to jam cameras up your ass on a yearly basis. I will take a blood pressure check over that any day of the week. Hell, I’d take prostate cancer over that. A few more stomach pushes and he declares that I have an inflamed esophagus due to (you guessed it) severe indigestion. He gives me a prescription that costs next to nothing and tells me to lay off the booze for a couple of weeks. I’m taking the pills now and feel loads better.

So, I’m not dying. It’s just that, at 32, I am not the young Adonis I thought I was. I’m not sure that’s any less depressing, but dying or no, the NHS seems to be working just fine. Turns out bald twats in England tops talk a lot of shit. Who knew, eh? More frivolous Arts/ Architecture/logo spending, please!

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