Physician, heal thyself. Then fuck off.
Monday, 17 December 2007
Last Friday I paid a visitor to my local surgery. I wasn't ill - I simply had to pick up a prescription for my son. This was about 5pm.
I walked in, and immediately got a strange vibe. Except for the staff, there were only three people in the room - a man and his missus, who were seated, and one other chap. This latter fella was leaning over the reception desk in a most aggressive manner. On a side note, he later turned out to be Iraqi. That wouldn't be worth mentioning generally, but it's relevant within the confines of this tale.
As I said, the chap's manner put me on guard immediately - I'm a professional, don't you know - and as I went over to the desk and picked up the prescription, my instincts were proven correct.
"I want to see my fucking doctor," he said, "Not that woman. She can do nothing for me. What can she do? What does she know?"
The chap had come in and asked to see his usual doctor. She was away, and the reception staff (there were three of them) had told him that. Instead, they're referred him to a locum. She also turned out to be a woman. Now, I don't know why he was happy with his normal female doctor and unhappy with this one, but he clearly, at this point in time, didn't think a woman could do much for him.
"What can she possibly know?" he repeated, "I'm dying here. I want to see my fucking doctor."
Each of the ladies in reception took turns to attempt to calm and appease him, but each time one of them spoke to him he said something like this:
"Was I fucking talking to you? No, I was talking to her."
And then he'd turn his attention to the woman he'd same the same thing to just a few moments before.
It was most strange.
Then: "I am dying here. What, you want me to die in the street? I need to see my fucking doctor. Fuck this country!"
"Well," said one of the women, the eldest, "If you don't like it here, you know what you can do..."
Is that racism? It is on paper, but the guy, to his credit, totally set it up.
"What? What did you say?" he said, suddenly aghast at the injustice of it all, "I would go back to my fucking country if you would fucking get out of it!" He was making a brilliant observation about the current unpleasantness in Basra et al, but I'm not entirely sure the 68-year old behind the desk was all that heavily involved.
At this point he caught my eye. "What are you fucking look at?" he said.
"You," I replied.
"It has fucking nothing to do with you."
"It does," I said, "You're just a little out of control, don't you think?"
He became more and more agitated, and when his behaviour descended into almost endless swearing and - one at a time, girls - spitting on the carpet in what can only be described as a 'dismissive' manner, one of the ladies informed him that unless he sat down, they would have to call the police.
"Call the fucking police! Why would I care? I will tell them you are all racists."
I could see where this was going - downhill, fast. I had my son with me, and my first instinct was to get him to a safe place. The guy was clearly a psycho, and psychos are capable of anything. I ushered my boy to the other side of the surgery. Secondly, I had to warm up my hands - as you know, it's been fucking freezing of late, and the last thing you want to do is punch somebody in the face with ice-cold hands. Hello, several broken fingers/knuckles. So, while he continued to rant, I casually walked over to the closest radiator. It was sweeter than heaven itself.
When I had had my fill, my eyes wandered over to the other people in the room - the couple. How were they reacting? My ears zoomed in on their discourse: "Don't get involved, " said the woman, "You're not at work now." I'd had those same words said to me many, many times.
Suddenly, a doctor appeared. It was Dr S, the senior bloke in the surgery. "What's going on here?" he asked the receptionists.
"Who are you?" said Mr Happy, "What does this have to do with you?"
"I'm a doctor," he said, and walked over, "Look, come with me, and we'll sort this out."
And then he made a fatal mistake - he very, very, very lightly tapped Mr Happy on the arm.
"DON'T FUCKING PUSH ME!" he said, loudly, angrily, stuffed full of venom and bile, "WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE, YOU FUCKING OLD MAN? YOU SEVENTY-FIVE YEAR OLD? FUCK YOU! DON'T FUCKING PUSH ME!"
Dr S looked shocked. He turned to the receptionists. "Right," he said, "Call the police. And delete his details from the system."
"FUCK YOU OLD MAN!" said Mr H, "You fucking seventy-five year old!"
Dr S went back into his office. Mr H continued to swear and spit, spit and swear, and it was only a matter of time. A minute or two passed. The police never showed up, and Dr S came back into the surgery.
"Are the police not here yet?" he asked reception.
"YOU FUCKING SEVENTY-FIVE YEAR OLD!" said laughing boy, "FUCK YOU! DON'T FUCKING PUSH ME. WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?"
"Oh, " said Dr S, "....................... fuck off."
"WHAT!? WHAT DID YOU SAY TO ME?"
Mr H was livid. He stormed over to Dr S and got into a stance that was 100 per cent indicative of a person about to take a swing. I looked over at the man and his missus.
"Ready?" he said.
I nodded.
We walked quickly over to Mr H and each grabbed an arm. He went limp immediately. "What are you doing?" he said, nervous. We then picked him up and carted him outside. Clearly he thought we were going to beat the crap out of him, and who knows, we may well have done. But at the very second we burst out into the cold air a police van pulled up. We handed him over, and I went back inside to get my son. The chap with his missus turned out to be a security guard at Priory Meadow.
As we went to leave again, one of the police guys pulled me over. They needed me as a witness. Fine. But Mr H, who was surrounded by four other cops, thought he'd have another go. "You're a dead man," he said, "I'll remember you. We're not done, you and me."
"Yeah, okay, tough guy," I said, and did that annoying quotations thing with my fingers.
He went mental.
I had to go inside to give my side of the story and when we got back out again Mr H was handcuffed in the back of a police car. Six cops were present. Apparently, when I was inside he'd started on the police, too.
Amusingly, I've seen Mr H twice since this incident - once on my way to the gym, and once back. Both times he's looked at me directly and I know there's recognition there. He remembers.
And he's going to get me, you know.
Soon.
posted by Sheamus @ 10:30 pm
