Brand new hospital...same old administration cock-ups.
It seems that my much-anticipated operation is now re-booked for a week on Sunday instead of the previously supposed day after tomorrow. Well worth all the effort of a three hour trek over the Lancashire fells to discover the fabled 'Lost Clinic of Broughton', only to be greeted by the surgeon, a quick hand shake, a poke in the belly and his private secretary explaining how they'd overbooked and would next Sunday be alright by any chance?
But what a fantastic building! This is the NHS moonlighting with BUPA. And, bugger me, the other half certainly know how to live, the parasitical bastards! A sixteenth century rambling cottage with individual rooms, en suite bathrooms, cable and satellite, mints on the pillows, cocktail cabinets, private massage girls, the full blooming Monty! Art decor windows. Private swimming pool for every patient. Squirrels running carefree through the surrounding woods and ornamental fountains set to music.
I'm used to strip lighting, fat nurses and crocheted blankets. Bleeding aristos! This must be costing the NHS a bomb! Fortunately it's costing me bugger all. I'm don't mind waiting another week...in fact I'm thinking of developing a few more diseases so that I can book in for a month next time.
In the meantime, however, getting back to world events, I see that Blair has appointed supreme arse licker John Reid (previously Labour Party Leader and bald, Scottish clone of Uncle Tony himself) as Foreign Secretary. If I were Robin Cook I'd be thinking of resigning the whole fucking party at this point.
Enough...it's been a long day. Just time for a couple of sackings...or one at least...before I crack open a bottle of scotch and drown my hypertension in a stew of banal television. You're stuck with me for the next seven days yet folks, so get used to it!