The NHSs

By Frankie Lassut

Next!
I thought guidelines were for bringing a boat safely into harbour, not casting one out into a quietly stormy sea. It’s a place of low emotion, blood pressure checks all through the night; you’re shaken awake if you’ve dropped off. They say they’re looking after you, but it’s sleep deprivation. Sleep is the one thing that can help in such a place. Humour is a great healer – if it is there!
Rude uncaring trained staff?
Ask me? Modern day misery camps.
However, this script attempts to be humorous. Ho, ho, ho! See!
Hang on, that’s Christmas.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Frankie Lassut
• Release date: Jan 18, 2012
• ISBN: 9781908796301

Frankie Lassut

I am the one being shaved; the other one Nim, is is a looney bin now!I went to see a psychic years ago who ended up as my girlfriend; she didn’t see that one coming! But she was extremely honoured. However it ended badly i.e. it rained heavily as I buried her body and I got soaked. No! You don’t really want to hear about it, it’s depressing; I was joking about the burial. She told me that I was to uncover a talent I had ... Well, another psychic told me that as the first one was dead; I was lying when I said I was lying. Nothing happened for quite a while. Suddenly I realised I needed a ‘job’ quite badly as I was beginning to drink halves. No, not a boob ‘job’! I went for the cheap option i.e. the surgeon gave some socks to shove up my jumper when I go out. I got a ‘job’ (have you got boobs on your mind?) because someone told me that bus-driving was easy because you just sit on your butt and turn the wheel. She was about six, a wise woman ... that’s called an oxymoron. Fantastic! I thought get the job and in a couple of days I’d be driving all the nice passengers around and about seeing all the sights for a fraction of the cost of a tour bus; and we’d have a roof in case it rained. Easy! First of all though there was the training; and I entered hell.I was born in Cumbria in a little ex-iron ore mining town called Millom. It was only small, a one- horse town; the horse was called Peg. It had a pedigree name too, but I can’t remember it at the moment: Peggy Suss? However, I got fed up and left as I was the only man in a town full of women and they were all lesbys; I’ve always been lucky. I went to Blackpool and attended the photographic college. I then moved to Coventry and met the psychic who would tell me what was going to happen. I could say now that the rest is history. Well it is, but obviously not history as that’s all made up anyway. Then I got the job bus-driving, which as I said is easy ‘you just sit on your butt and turn the wheel’. The bus station management weren’t pleased that she had said that though, so she was tried and sent to Guantanamo Bay; they have a section for young kids who are bad to the bone.The job was so mad that I thought it would be a good idea to write out some posters and stick them all on the wall of the bus station. The other drivers enjoyed them, but the management tore them down, the badstars (that’s an anagram of astards +B). I carried on and ended up with a manuscript for a book, which, by the way is ‘brilliant’. The management didn’t like it, but bollocks to them.I couldn’t stop writing after that episode and I’ve been writing ever since, mostly cheques to people, such as the mortgage people and the gas board etc. I am so brilliant that I’ve lost all my friends because I wrote about them in my style which I believe is called Bizzaro. My inner being is a bit of a crazy horse, because whatever I write it has to be in that style, even the horror. It just goes that way. ‘Ordinary’ writing to me is like lemonade minus the bubbles ... I can’t bring myself to do it; but thank God I can still bring myself off. I need a selfie stick as I do that because the close focus on the phone won’t do it; how else am I going to post them on the Dark Web?Writing is like a drug. When I was writing my Millom book, the pictures that flashed into my head were so funny to me that I laughed myself into hernia-ville; my stomach tore. I got injured writing.You see, hernia-ville, a retirement home for people with stomach hernias; no comedians are booked to appear at that place.So, my writing is brilliant, so read the bloody stuff!I have actually suffered for my art. I won’t go to hospital to get it fixed because, well, I’ve written about that friggin place too.All that and now I’m an international bestselling author. I’m the only author in this world who has sold books on Mars (eat your heart out Tony Robbins), so I can say with certainty that Martians have fabulous senses of humour.What a profile!

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The NHSs

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One more thing: Don’t forget to laugh.

Have you ever driven/bus etc past a hospital at night? Most of the lights are on and the patients must be warm and cosy and most importantly, getting better. Well, I’m talking of a working-class hospital not a private one.

Doctors/Specialists have no sense of humour!

Do they have a humour tumour?

But! I don’t want to start a vicious rumour

So, I’ll say no more.

Humour isn’t recognised in hospitals because humour aids healing, and you don’t want anything to hinder the drugs market. If I had shares in the medical drugs industry, I’d be the same. As it is, I haven’t any so I’ll be seen as a troublemaker. Assassins will be out to get me. Every-time I bend down to fasten my laces, a bullet will thump into the wall where my head was previously. All I will have to do then is collect all the bullets and sell them to the people who re-lead church roofs after the previous lot gets nicked by someone who has shares in the re-leading of church roofs industry.

It might work, but there again, I might get shot by someone who couldn’t hit a barn door with a banjo if they were sitting on the padlock.

I saw a lady doctor the other day in a hospital. Apparently, I’m a bit of a complicated case so they had a quick meeting and this lady doc who said I would need to go under the surgeon’s knife to sort something out. She seemed very sincere and ‘professional’ until I said, ‘no thanks’. She put her elbows on the table, stared me in the eye and started to explain what might happen to me; she reminded me of the late, great Vincent Price. Blah blah, you might have another stroke blah, blah …

No thanks I said.

She couldn’t believe it and got on the phone, rang the surgeon and I am invited to go meet him soon. I’m rehearsing no thanks in the mirror at home; I can do it in several different accents now. Why no thanks? You think I’m irresponsible?

Well apart from knowing some nurses and a couple of doc’s, I’m no stranger to the hosi. From the nurses I know how the staff are treated by the NHS and it ain’t pretty; and that’s just the tip of the iceberg. It’s a big, extra cold iceberg that would certainly sink ten Titanic’s. So, how does a nurse that is under great stress treat a patient with tender love and care; oh and with the great healer … humour?

Answer: she doesn’t.

I could go on and on about the NHS(S), but that’s why I said no to the doctor; I don’t want to be a part of that system again. I want to not be a part of it, I want to be ‘apart’ from it. I wouldn’t mind some shares in it though. I’d learn hypnotism and encourage people to walk in front of cars etc. Yes, moving cars, hardly any point getting them to throw themselves in front of parked cars … duhhhh!

This was in the news a few years ago, but nothing much has changed.

The day after thousands of doctors have marched in protest at training reforms, Tory leader Cavid Dameron is set to accuse the Government of