Wot you doin’ for a livin’, mate? To keep the wolf from the door? Cabbie? Plumber’s mate? Driving an HGV? Prospective tram driver? Don’t be a mug. Get yourself into this doctoring lark.
Get yourself a crash course with the medics, it’s paying big bucks.
For a 10pm to 8am shift in A&E at the Edinburgh Royal, a GP can trouser £560. Reasonable bucks in any doc’s money. Only footballers, some of them, are pocketing as much, and more, per stint. And that’s without trying a leg.
I’m risking a kick in the unmentionables saying so or, at least, a sabotaging of my next prescription. I find a bottom line here irresistible. Can the NHS afford me and my aches and pains? Is that pill or potion bleeding the heaven-sent institution dry? A senior citizen’s twinge of guilt, maybe?
Hell no! I’ve paid into the NHS all my working days. Gets my dander up, possibly yours too, when I keep seeing total strangers who’ve not paid a scintilla into the system continually milking it. Mollycoddled by soft-touch politicians in soft-touch Britain.
Aye, walk right in and make yourself at home, folks!
Grab a granny
What’s it to be when she hits 65 later this year? A 21-gun salute from the Castle; a public holiday? “I like men of my own age (pensioners?) and I also like young guys,” prattles Lulu.
“I don’t see the point of marriage,” adds the gracious gran. “I have learned to like my own company.” If you’re a young buck, you could be in there with a shout.