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Lancet and Chance it....
A Chairde,
A grotesquely swollen postbag at Withquiz this week after Dr
Ivor's learned tract on that hoary old chestnut of orchitis.
Many of your comments, though predictably lacking any
vestige of intellectual merit, were at least legible (unlike
Dr Ivor's sicknotes). Some of them even made
grammatical sense. Something that most assuredly did
not, however, came from a Mr George W, an unemployed
brazilionaire from Texas.
"Sure was a swell peas of riting - as
swell a peas of speechifying as what I have ever come
across....and I sure don't mean that in a missexual sense.
Nosiree."
As usual, the subject of bulls had
Dusty riding eloquently on the horns of a dilemma:
"Dear Dr Scrote,
I read your genital-tinglin' expose of
orchitis in the community with baited breath and a nice
bottle of Asti Spumante. Ever since then I have been a
martyr to the Swarfiga and latex gloves syndrome. It
just confirms what Sister Eustacia used to say when she was
learnin' us how to do 'A' levels at the convent of St
Dymphna Of The Divine Succours. 'All men and bulls are
lower than the beasts of the field', she would tag on to the
end of the rosary every night, 'and should be avoided like
the pox'.
Thankfully Mr Dusty is not the type of
man to chase bulls but I shall be hidin' his wellies in
future just to be on the safe side. Not to mention a
nice bucket of Jeyes Fluid by the bedside.
Of more pressin' concern is the
proposed visit of my cousin Concepta from the Reeks.
She's a good clean convent girl despite livin' over the
brush with a protestant merchant banker heathen in Chipping
Sodbury. She promised to come up at the weekend to see
me new parlour and to help me give Mr Dusty a hard time.
The trouble is she used to walk out with a chartered
surveyor called Kevin whose sister had an affair with a man
who knew somebody who used to be something big in the BAIS
(Bovine Artificial Insemination Service) . As you can
appreciate Doctor, I'm worried sick. Do you think I
should phone her up and tell her to fcek off and never
darken me doorstep again, ye unwittin' carrier of the male
spores of the Divil, or do ye think I should do the
charitable thing and pretend that she was normal and say
nuthin'? I could maybe get her to use the public
convenience in Stockport (there's a direct bus past the
house every 20 minutes) and I could bury her teacup and
spoon in the concrete bunker at the bottom of the garden.
As you can see Doctor , I'm on the horns of a dilemma..."
Incidentally, if you are troubled by
irritating nocturnal emissions or have any other medical
concerns, don't forget that Dr Ivor and Dr Tim are currently
available to give free advice. Their surgery is held
in The Red Lion (daily from 11:30am to midnight) but try to
get there as early as possible as, generally speaking, the
validity of their advice tends to wane as the afternoon
wears on.
"It is extremely magnanimous of us",
concedes Dr Tim, "but we feel it is the least we can do for
the indolent unwashed masses one tends to find infesting the
ghetto that is South Manchester these days - and in any case
we could not possibly afford to spend so much time in what
can be a rather expensive public house if we had to buy our
own beer. Yes, I am fully aware of the fact that it is
unusual for doctors in the hard-pressed NHS to have so much
free time on their hands but you must remember that we are
currently 'resting'. I much prefer the term 'resting' to
the somewhat vulgar 'struck off' - such an indelicate
phrase, don't you think?
In any case, the tribunal has not
found against us yet - some legal nonsense about having to
wait until the complainants recover consciousness. I
do wish they would get a move on so that myself and Ivor
could sign on like the rest of the clientele in here.
It's all a bit of a storm in a teacup, actually.
Anybody who has ever worked in the pressurised environment
of an operating theatre will know how easy it is to get the
technical terms 'testicle' and 'ventricle' confused after a
few bottles of decent claret washed down by a rather nifty
little Armagnac.
Now, if you'll excuse me, little
unwashed priest, they're playing my song on the juke box.
....sing up Ivor, you dozy Irish git.....altogether
now......
"The firsht cut is the deephest............"
Fr M.
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