The NHS wants a piece of me; actually several pieces.
Before continuing, I just want to say that the National Health Service is a wonderful institution, with thousands of professionals all working away, dedicating their working lives to the people of this country.
Unfortunately, then have a distressing habit of asking me to provide them with things I don't want to give.
They used to leave me alone, but upon turning 50, a while back, they must have moved me from list A ('Young-ish and probably fine') to list B ('High risk of contracting everything known to man').
Because ever since then I have been inundated with letters from my local health authority telling me that awful changes will likely be happening to my body and that they would like to take this opportunity to offer a medic's services in exploring my rectum, amongst other things. Other letters tell me that I probably could do with getting my blood pressure checked, my eyesight scrutinised, my hearing checked out, and while they are about it my heart and other organs palpated. I have been invited to send samples of my stools, submit to a no-smoking campaign, find new ways I can stop enjoying alcohol and devious methods of detecting if my mental health is deteriorating. I got round the latter by always ensuring my tin-foil hat was fitted correctly so to avoid the alien rays streaming from those satellite-things.
And it wasn't easy asking them to stop: not the aliens, obviously (only tin-foil hats can do that) I mean the letters.
I sent an email advising them that there is no way someone, even someone medically trained and with a touch like gossamer, is going to be inserting their digit ANYWHERE and that I found the idea of collecting my faeces, putting it into a little tube and popping it in the post a rather unpleasant way of spending my Sunday. Then there was the possibility of mis-labelling the resultant excrement-filled envelope and accidentally sending it to my bank, for example, with all kinds of potential misunderstandings and effects on my overdraft facility. They replied in due course saying that if I really, really wanted to take the risk of dying from some as yet to be identified disease affecting my nether regions, I had to complete a disclaimer stating that if anything nasty occurs in that particular area of my body now, or at any time in the future, don't say we didn't tell you.
I dutifully completed the form, receiving a final stern warning that the fate of my bottom was now, literally, in the lap of the gods.
Next, I turned my attention to the medical facility that told me that when I finally shuffled off this mortal coil, they were going to use me as a kind of human larder by 'harvesting' anything they could from my lifeless body.
I had visions of crazed, gowned and masked people opening me up like Christmas, pulling out bits they liked or didn't like:
'What do you reckon to this thing, then, Bob?'
A quick glance at the purple, knobbly object in his colleague's gore-spattered hands...
'Nah, mate, it looks rancid – bin it'.
Call me selfish, but I don't fancy it, sorry. You are not going to take out my bits, give them a quick wash and shove them into someone else's cavity. Who knows who my donated organs will keep alive? It could be some complete bastard that kicks cats or wants to lovingly spoon more cocaine into their nostrils. And what is more, my donation will be mandatory unless I 'opt out' of giving my innards to others, which really makes a mockery of the term 'donation'. Of course, 'opting out' really isn't an option once you are a lifeless corpse on a slab, so had to be done in advance. This was, at least, a bit easier and could be done online, but I'm afraid that the Health Authority website is run a bit like an online business, you know the sort of pages that when you click the X another window will pop up offering you even more things you don't want?
Well, the NHS website is like that. After you send off the form politely requesting they don't get their mitts on your intestines there are links to all sorts of other things you could give away instead, namely your blood, your bone marrow, your skin, your platelets and even your baby's cord blood after birth – is there nothing these people don't want?
Well as a matter of fact there is.
They don't want your brain and for that we can at least be thankful.
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Surviving planet Earth
HumorLife's a beach. And just like a beach, we occasionally get stuck in the sand. When that time comes you may want to refer to this book. Alternatively, please feel free to use it as a shovel.
