Categories
Health Scandal

Reports On Irish Health Scandals Published

Not one, but two reports were published on the disgraceful state of our cancer care, and guess what? Neither report blamed a single individual for the disastrous mistakes that caused the Portlaoise breast-cancer debacle.

Not one!

Nobody!

It’s all systemic this and organisational that and communication the other fucking thing.

Well, would you like to know something? It isn’t.

It’s all about the hundreds upon hundreds of unqualified fools who’ve slithered their way up the Health Service Executive promotional ladder and now call themselves managers despite knowing nothing whatever about health or medicine, but who nevertheless make all the important decisions — or should I say, prevent all the important decisions.

I already said this in November and, having changed none of my opinions I see no reason to rewrite it.

Here’s what I said back then and it’s still true.

Our health service is not run by health professionals.

The Health Service Executive is run by inflated office-boys who have one skill and one skill only: crawling their way upwards through a bureaucracy, grade upon grade, until they arrive at a point where some other office-boy names them Manager. These are the people who, in their unbelievable, ignorant, uneducated hubris have been known to refer to the nurses, physicians and surgeons as the technical staff.

They are not managers. They are only administrators, and bad ones at that.

These people are from the vast ranks of mediocre know-nothings who arrived into the old Health Boards as junior clerks at the age of seventeen with a fair-to-bad school Leaving Certificate. If not for this stroke of luck, they might have struggled to find a job selling shoes.

These “managers” spent their formative years stamping pieces of paper and looking down their noses at poor people huddled outside a wooden hatch in some freezing Victorian health centre.

These are the geniuses who stuff our public service, and strangle the initiative of people with real talent and real vision. These are the dead weight that guarantee our health service is, and will remain, a complete disaster.

Our health service is not run by health professionals. Never forget this. It is run by arrogant office-boys without vision, talent, understanding, skill or sympathy. They have nothing. They are puffed-up windbags without training, without qualifications, without experience, without knowledge. These are the small, empty, self-important, grey, clueless, frightened, boring, semi-literate, arrogant men and women we call “managers” within the health service. The kind of people who have never done a single practical thing in their entire useless lives.

That, my friends, is why you will wait for days on a trolley. That is why ninety-seven terrified women can be herded together for administrative convenience.

The people who make the important decisions about your life know nothing of medicine, or health, or patient welfare or compassion.

They know only two things: statistics and promotion.

This is how small the people are whom we call managers in our health service. Be very fucking angry.

______________________

Previously:


Categories
Health Politics Scandal

Irish Breast Cancer Scandal

Why did ninety-seven terrified Irish women have to gather together in one place yesterday, under the glare of the media, and wait all day to find out if they had breast cancer?

How did it happen that these ninety-seven women heard on the news that they might have breast cancer?

When the HSE discovered that 568 ultrasound tests needed to be reviewed, who decided to wait until all the tests were checked before telling the women?

Who decided that, even though days and hours might be vital, they wouldn’t contact each woman individually if the ultrasound result was in question?

Who decided it would be more convenient for the system if the women were made to wait months until all 568 tests were reviewed?

Who decided to phone the women who were in the clear first and make the other 97 wait until the end?

Who decided it would be enough to allocate two (2) specialist nurses to make all these phone calls?

Listen carefully.

There are no managers in the Irish health service. No doctors or nurses run our hospitals. There are only administrators.

Remember this: our health service is not run by health professionals.

The Health Service Executive is run by inflated office-boys who have one skill and one skill only: crawling their way upwards through a bureaucracy, grade upon grade, until they arrive at a point where some other office-boy names them Manager. These are the people who, in their unbelievable, ignorant, uneducated hubris have been known to refer to the nurses, physicians and surgeons as the technical staff.

They are not managers. They are only administrators, and bad ones at that.

These people are from the vast ranks of mediocre know-nothings who arrived into the old Health Boards as junior clerks at the age of seventeen with a fair-to-bad school Leaving Certificate. If not for this stroke of luck, they might have struggled to find a job selling shoes.

These “managers” spent their formative years stamping pieces of paper and looking down their noses at poor people huddled outside a wooden hatch in some freezing Victorian health centre.

These are the geniuses who stuff our public service, and strangle the initiative of people with real talent and real vision. These are the dead weight that guarantee our health service is, and will remain, a complete disaster.

Our health service is not run by health professionals. Never forget this. It is run by arrogant office-boys without vision, talent, understanding, skill or sympathy. They have nothing. They are puffed-up windbags without training, without qualifications, without experience, without knowledge. These are the small, empty, self-important, grey, clueless, frightened, boring, semi-literate, arrogant men and women we call “managers” within the health service. The kind of people who have never done a single practical thing in their entire useless lives.

And that is why ninety-seven terrified women crowded into a small clinic where they waited all day to learn their fate while the media mob prowled the car-park waiting to interview the first confirmed cancer-victim and put it on the nine-o’clock news.

A proud day for Ireland.

Somebody in the HSE gave a statement explaining why they didn’t inform each woman immediately it became clear her particular scan was in question. He said something to the effect that they wanted to get a big enough group of people together before recalling them.

Now, one thing is certain: you have to move fast when cancer is detected. But somebody, it seems, decided it would be all right to let these women wait for weeks, or even months, until enough of them had been herded together to simplify things for the HSE.

Go back to the radiologist. It isn’t immediately clear if anybody made a mistake or if the problem arises due to defective equipment. However, if somebody did overlook all these cases, there would seem to be negligence or incompetence involved.

On the other hand, what if somebody dies because of the delay imposed by a HSE official for administrative convenience? Will that be negligence too?

I don’t think so. That, I think, is called manslaughter.

 


 

Categories
Crime

Jailbirds

I see Paris Hilton is going to the slammer. Jesus, isn’t that terrible? Paris, apparently, has taken up a petition to keep the poor lamb out of jail, and if you should feel inclined, you can sign it. Have a look at the site and enjoy the sweetness of it: you can’t sign the petition unless you pay money as well. Isn’t that incredible? The silly little rich girl wants you to plead for mercy on her behalf and at the same time hand over some of your money – which you worked for – unlike this idiot girl.

Here’s one of the points the petition makes in Paris’s favour (and by the way, I didn’t make this up):

She provides beauty and excitement to (most of) our otherwise mundane lives.

Oh right! This silly bitch expects the underclasses to rise up as one lumpenprole and demand that she swagger free.

Why? Because Paris gets what Paris wants.

This fool, Paris Hilton, this dimwit in fact, is the embodiment of the pouting stupidity that has seen us poor PC idiots hand over power to a bunch of sulking adolescents, for fear we might upset them.

What do I think? Fuck ’em! That’s what I think. In my opinion, what’s fucked up our world lately is the absence of the word No.

No, you can’t have the car.

No, you can’t have a TV in your bedroom.

No, you can’t stay out till four in the morning.

No.

Get used to it.

Here’s a further extract from Paris’s petition:

If the late Former President Gerald Ford could find it in his heart to pardon the late Former President Richard Nixon after his mistake(s), we undeniably support Paris Hilton being pardoned for her honest mistake as well

And by the way, Paris, I’ll let you in on a secret.

Are you listening?

Good.

My secret is Fuck off.

You can stay in the Hanoi Hilton for all I care.

Meanwhile, on this side of the Pond, the authorities are exercised about a different sort of jailbird. You might have seen my post on scumbags in our high-security prisons having access to cell-phones. Well, after one particular scumbag phoned a radio talk-show, there have been raids on the highest-security prison in the country. The one where all the drug dealers and other filth are located. The one where the scumbags have flat-screen TVs in their cells to keep them quiet.

And what do you think these searches have revealed?

Well, they found a lot of phones, as you’d expect. After all, how’s a drug-dealer supposed to run his business if he can’t talk to his people? And they found chargers. And batteries. Syringes. Home-made whiskey. What??? How the fuck do you make whiskey in a high-security prison? Keep the fire down a bit there, Johnny. Here come the screws.

They also found heroin, cocaine and hash, which is no great surprise.

The thing I couldn’t figure out was the two budgies.

Budgies?

How the hell do you get a budgie up your arse? Better call Richard Gere