Mr Moan calls his doctor to assess his toe…
“Gung Hay Fat Choy.”
The former Russian Olympic shot put champion, Eva Brick, sharpened her Qi Gong mindfulness using Cantonese wisdom: (“Wishing you great happiness.”). Her three years in Guangdong representing Russian sportspeople (and sending Vladi personal messages) had not only taught her yoga but had left her with a love of Hong Kong cuisine. As she straightened her Killer Whale Karate vest she contemplated preparing Steamed Garlic Shrimps with Vermicelli Noodles for Mr Moan’s dinner. Mr Moan!?
She tensed as she listened to another cry of anguish coming from the bedroom. A few minutes later, the door opened and in hobbled the founder of the British United National Kingdom Party (BUNK) displaying a bloodied bandage around his big toe. Eva promised herself that she’d never again use the Tai Otoshi body drop on her partner.
It’s your lucky day.
“Oh, oh, ah,” groaned Britain’s future Prime Minister after the May 2024 General Election. He was followed by his medical adviser.
“The pain killers will kick in shortly,” said the doctor. “It’s your lucky day. Badly bruised, I grant you, but not broken.” He noticed Eva pulling down her tunic and gulped. “Your toe will take around ten days to heal.” He paused. “Usual arrangment, Mr Moan?”
The patient hobbled to the sideboard and took out a wad of cash.
“Call it £170,” said the doctor turning to take from Eva Brick a cup of Matcha green tea. “Okay, thanks. Filling me with antioxidants,” he laughed. “Let’s sit down.” He put the fee into his jacket pocket. “I don’t do receipts,” he said. “Now, Mr Moan, since I last treated you I’ve read your political manifesto. We need to get one thing straight. The rise in National Insurance Contributions next month must go through.” He laughed. “All this rubbish about ordinary people not paying taxes. The increase raises £12 billion and it will all go into the National Health Service.” He gave his cup back to Eva while trying to avert his gaze from her thighs. “That means to me!”.
Don’t Believe Horace!
“No, Mr Doctor,” cried Eva. “It’s for social care as well.”
“You’re believing Horace, dear Lady!” he laughed. “We doctors are making a mint because the Government does not know what to do. It was Tony Blair who started the gravy train in 2006. He gave us a 23% pay rise: even our own representatives, the BMA, didn’t believe it! Then there were the pension changes. Nowadays my colleagues can retire early on mouth-watering payments, take out tax-free cash and then go back to work. I did that and I now earn more working three days for the NHS than when a fully salaried GP.” He paused and looked at his watch. “Increasingly more colleagues are moving into private health care earning fantastic salaries and with no hassle.”
“But you’re a GP,” said Mr. Moan.
“Of course. We are treated like Gods, Mr Moan. I work three days a week partly because I have a conscience. It takes around £600,000 of tax-payers money to train me and so I feel I should put something back. To be honest all that happens is that I’m given loads more money for whatever the latest Health Secretary wheeze is. The pandemic is fantastic. I’m paid £12.58p for every Covid inoculation I administer.”
“You said you work three days a week: what happens on the other two days?” asked Eva.
“I visit Mr Moan,” he smiled. “I work for a private all-hours doctor’s service and we come at short notice, as I did today. Your GP would have sent you to A&E to cover themselves assuming they would see you. I don’t need an x-ray to diagnose a bruised toe.” He looked at his mobile phone. “I have five more visits to complete today and some will want a receipt. The cash customer gives me tax-free money,” he laughed.
A Good Value Doctor at £170
“Are you typical of all doctors?” asked Eva.
“There are around 28,000 GPs but the numbers are falling all the time. Covid made the recruitment of locums from abroad more difficult. Many are happy in the NHS but money is seductive and more are leaving to take up private practice. It’s putting pressure on A&E departments. If you had gone to the local hospital, Mr Moan, you would have been seen but you might have faced at least a four hours wait.” He stood up. “I think my £170 represents good value.”
“But when I become Prime Minister I will be taxing you very heavily,” challenged Mr Moan.
“You don’t seriously believe that, do you Mr Moan? You might win the General Election: it’s a catchy slogan you’ve devised. But when you reach Westminster the system will protect its own. MPs, Peers and the Civil Service are all making so much money they’ll block you at every turn.” He started to leave to ensure he was on time for his next patient. He turned back. “Don’t forget that we’re self-employed. My accountant runs rings around the Inland Revenue.” He looked at Eva and sighed.
“The truth, Mr Moan, is that we GPs have the Government by its genitals and there’s nothing they can do about it.”
Eva followed the doctor out, shut the door and returned to face her mentor.
Mr Moan flared and stamped his foot. He cried out in pain.
“Mr Moanie,” cried Eva. “Are you angry?”
