Aug 092008

Jesus, I forgot to finish the story for you.  Sorry about that.

Where were we?  Oh yeah, we were talking about stress tests and electro-cardiographs and shit like that, and all about how it worked out fine.

Remember that?  I told you all about it HERE.

All about going to the cardiologist’s place and meeting the nice guy with the very expensive frown.  What is it about those doctors?  The highly-paid ones?  Oh, you know what I mean: the ones that are paid even more than the ridiculously-highly-paid donkeys who give you a pill for the flu.

What is it about those guys?  When they go to medical school, and they make it to the final year, and it’s plain they’re going to be a seriously impressive consultant in genito-urinary-ornithological-bone-broken-fuckterological codology, are they fast-tracked into a quick one-week course in concerned frowning?  A course in looking serious and interested. A course in not laughing at all the money you’re making.

I couldn’t be a doctor.  No fucking way.  When I was a young man, I toyed briefly with the notion of attending medical school, but then I decided no. Fuck that. Much blood.  Much horrible slimy squidgy things that I don’t want to touch or even think about.

No.  Certainly not.

My decision was a bad one and now, when I contemplate the earnings of my contemporaries who decided to follow the vocation, I want to attack a shopping mall with a chain-saw.  Bastards.

I console myself with the thought that I couldn’t have been a doctor anyway, or a pilot for that matter, because of my colour-blindness.  No point in your walking into my surgery and telling me about a terrible redness in your nether regions.

Jesus, Mrs McGonagle, your arse is looking awful fuckin turquoise today.  I recommend alcohol rubs and a poultice of greyhound shit.  Or maybe ’tis lilac.

But I digress.

As I was telling you, the concerned and frowning fellow with the nice jacket delivered a lecture based mainly on  my dissolute private life and on how I should get a grip and pull myself together. 

Now, let me disclose that my general doctor wasn’t too surprised at my habits at all, but that’s because my general doctor is also in the habit of going out every night and having a good number of intoxicating drinks.  Therefore, he was far from horrified at the report he got from the consultant:

Dear Doctor Drunk,

Mister Bock will probably die tomorrow.  I have never heard of a human being drinking this much and surviving.  Mr Bock admits to having four pints of Guinness whenever he goes out.  This is very dangerous.

Yours Sincerely

A Frowning Expert

When my general doctor stops laughing, he says, Ah, you’re fine.  Now fuck off.  I have a flu epidemic to deal with.

Great, I’m thinking, and so I continue to think until I get a call from a secretary.

Secretary?  Doctor?  Put those two words together and you have the most frightening combination of words in any known language.

Can you come and see Doctor Clever?

This is not Doctor Frown I’m talking about  This is his owner.

Look, Bock, says Doctor Clever.  That’s how they talk to you when you’re paying them serious money.  They don’t condescend, not that they’d get away with it anyway.

What? I snarl.

Well, he says, I know you did all the tests and the ECG and the stress thing and the ultrasound thing and all that …

Don’t do that fucking ellipsis thing with me, I warn him.  What the fuck is wrong with me?

He’s horrified. Nothing, he says.  Not a damn thing.

And?  I press.

Well, he looks agonised.

I nod encouragingly.

Well, it’s just that some of the readings are a bit, you know, and you were a smoker one time, you know and like well, I was just thinking, maybe, you know, what if we …

I stand up and produce a sawn-off snooker cue.

If you don’t stop with the ellipsis, I’ll fuckin …

All right, he says.  Sorry.


Well, he says, will we …

Will we what?

He groans and scratches the back of his head.  Look.  It’s probably nothing, but will we go for the old angiogram anyway? What do you think?

I fix him with a glittering eye.  You want to shove a pipe through my fucking arteries, you bastard.

I do.

There’s a pause.  What am I going to say to this guy?

Am I going to say, What  the fuck would you know?

What do you think?


PS, By the way, I’ve received a couple of concerned emails since posting this, so in case anyone is thinking I’m about to drop dead, I’m sorry but I have bad news.  This was all months ago and it’s finished.  Unfortunately for some, there isn’t a damn thing wrong with me.  Sorry.

  4 Responses to “More Cardiology: Having An Angiogram, Part 1”

Comments (4)

    Hey,Bock I had one of them a year or two ago. Did you enjoy the little bit of a high at the end. I did and even better the doc told me to fuck off out of the place and don’t be wasting everybody’s time.


    highly paid donkeys is an apt description of doctors in ireland, good for nothin shower, can’t even diagnose, even if their own lives depended on it. actually, most of them travel overseas when they require serious medical assist.


    I had one in 2005. All the coronary arteries were clear after forty eight years. One of them was completely blocked eight years later. By the skin of my teeth. By the skin of my fucking teeth.
    Dont get complacent.


    They all remind me of groucho in A day at the Races, perhaps they want
    Margret Dumont to introduce them into society.

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