Archive for the 'Health' Category

Passing my NCT

Grandad February 16th, 2010

I just received a phone call from Doc.

You may remember, if you had bothered to read in the first place, that I had been to see him last week, and he siphoned off a few pints of blood for tests.

Anyhow, he phoned me to tell me that the results are in.  This is exciting stuff.  It’s like waiting for election or exam results.

He sounded rather despondent on the phone.  Normally, whenever he is giving me bad news he is very cheerful so I gathered by his mournful tone that the news was good.

Blood sugars: Normal

Blood: Yes.

Prostate: Still have one.

Cholesterol: Within limits.

Alcohol level: 386 milligrams per 100 millilitres.

There were loads of other tests, and for each one is voice became more dismal as everything was within limits.

“So” says I, “it sounds like I am going to live for another day?”

“I’m afraid so” he muttered.  There was a pause.  “Do you still have that cough?” he asked hopefully.

“Nope.  All clear, and back to full smoking.”

“Damn!  You don’t feel like you are coming down with the Swine Flu?”

“No.  Fit as a fiddle.”

“Bugger.  Nothing wrong at all?”

“Well, actually, I do have an irritating noise in my ears.”

He cheered up immensely.  “What kind of noise?”

“It sounds like a doctor touting for business” says I.

End of phone call.

The cost of living

Grandad January 5th, 2010

We have a very unusual public health system here in Ireland.

I would go so far as to say it is probably unique in the world.

The way it works is this – we pay nearly fifteen billion into an organisation and get nothing in return.  That fifteen billion presumably doesn’t even cover salaries, as they come out of a different budget, but who cares?  No one seems to know where this fifteen billion goes to, though a fair proportion seems to go into building hospitals which then remain closed because they can’t afford to run them?

Incidentally, please remember that Ireland has a population roughly equal to that of Los Angeles, Melbourne or about half the size of London.  We ain’t very big.

I would wager a fair proportion of the money goes into the pockets of ‘expert consultants’ who are hired to find out why the system costs so much.

If you fall ill in Ireland, or have an accident, you are fucked.

First of all, they have to find a hospital that is open.  If they manage to find one, you are brought there and placed on a trolley in the corridor where you are left to fester for a few days.  At the end of that time, you are brought to a ward where there is more than a high chance you will catch MRSA, or some other deadly ailment known only to Irish hospitals.  After giving you a lung transplant [when you only went in with a broken leg, which by now has fallen off anyway] you are packed off home to die.  Most people just wish they had died first – it’s quicker and less painful.

The upshot of all this is that those of us who value our health [and sanity] try to take out private health insurance.

Health insurance in Ireland is not cheap.  It requires a fair percentage of income, but it is the only way of ensuring that you have a good chance of survival.

Unfortunately, this all means we are now at the mercy of the health insurance companies.

I am with the largest one – the V.H.I.  I am with them for the simple reason that I get a discount by being insured through my old employer [whom I no longer work for, but one has to fiddle the system somehow?].

They are now bitching because people are starting to cancel their premiums.  Presumably, if you are unemployed, life becomes a luxury you can’t afford?  I would have thought this was a good thing for the V.H.I., as fewer customers means fewer claims and less overheads.  They could afford to reduce premiums to attract people back?  That would be the logical thing to do, as any accountant will tell you.

But this is Ireland.

The V.H.I. are putting their premiums up.

Fuck!

In Ireland, when we talk about the cost of living, we mean precisely that.

It’s the cost of not dying.    

Hangover cures

Grandad January 4th, 2010

I don’t know why they ask me in particular, but I have often been asked for the best cure for a hangover.

I’m not really an expert on the subject, as I can honestly say that in nearly sixty years of partaking of the nectar of the grain, I have never had one.  True enough, I have often woken in the morning with a slamming headache, or a sick stomach, and on the odd occasion have even found strange mulicoloured menageries crawling around the bedroom walls, but as any seasoned drinker will tell you – that is the result of drinking out of damp glasses, and isn’t really a hangover at all.

One of the soundest pieces of advice I have ever been given was passed on to me by my father.  I remember the day well.  I am fairly sure it was my fifth birthday, and as my Dad poured me a grand full glass of malt, he told me never to mix my drinks.  People will tell you about how mixing the grain and the grape will lead to disaster, but it goes further than that.  As my Dad said – whatever you take as a first drink – stick with that for the night.

I cannot understand modern youth.  They head out of a Saturday night and pile into the nearest bar and order themselves a lethal mixture of Tequilas, shots, shorts and whatever other lethal piss the barman is canny enough to pawn off on them, and then they complain when they wake up in hospital, a cell or in the gutter somewhere.  They fucking deserve it.

I have fallen foul of my father’s rule in the past.  I remember one office party where I made the mistake of having a Crème de Menthe as my first drink, and realised I would have to stick with that for the night.  Take it from an expert – five pints of Crème de Menthe is fairly sickly on the stomach, and if I remember correctly, that was one of those nights where I was served out of damp glasses, just to add to my woes.

Of course another mistake people make is to adulterate their drinks with all sorts of rubbish. It’s bad enough adding lemonade to ruin a good whiskey but some even go so far as to add things to Guinness!  Can you believe that?  Shit like blackcurrant juice, beer or even champagne?  There really ought to be a law against that.  In fact, it should be a capital crime.

The other piece of advice my Dad gave me was to always have a good feed the following morning.

I have heard all sorts of rubbish about Bloody Marys, Hair of the Dog, raw egg and other filth that doesn’t deserve a name.  No.  A great smoking fry-up is your only man.  Sausages, rashers, a couple of fried eggs, a mountain of black and white pudding and a couple of slices of fried bread is the only thing.  There is no harm in throwing in a few mushrooms and a tin of baked beans as well. And don’t fall into the trap of grilling anything.  It must be fried up in plenty of good old-fashioned fat.

So there you have it.

The rules for a successful life of drinking.

Cheers, Dad.

Pandemic

Grandad December 23rd, 2009

Whatever happened to the Swine Flu Pandemic?

A few short months ago, all we heard on the news was the latest pronouncements on the Pandemic.  God, how they loved that word.  If they couldn’t fit Pandemic into a sentence, then they weren’t interested.  People were even naming their babies Pandemic.

Night after night, we were gravely told the latest alert status, and experts would be brought on with the latest estimates of the number of billions that were to die.  Countries vied with each other for the highest fatalities, and if there were a fatality, we weren’t told where it was, in case there was mass panic and an exodus from the affected area.

No one talks about it now.

Other topics have taken over the headlines, and the Swine Flu Pandemic is but a forgotten memory.  If you develop sniffles now, people don’t want to know.  That’s yesterday’s news, they say.  Swine Flu is soooo not now.

Swine Flu must empathise with that kid from the X-Factor.  All that build-up, and then nothing.  A massive anti-climax.  No companies closing down because they have no staff left.  No bodies lining the streets waiting to be collected.

I think Swine Flu may have a legal case for breach of contract.  It should be able to sue for false advertising.

I feel sorry for it.

All that build up and then…..

Nothing. 

Whistle while you work

Grandad November 28th, 2009

I thought I had better explain something.

Some of you may comment on this site, and then get annoyed when I don’t respond.  There is a reason for this.  I have gone deaf, so I may not hear your comment.

After our little temporary move to France, I came home to a nice friendly dose of Mary Harney pig swine flu, which was fine.  Being a Person of The Mountains, I don’t hold much truck with medication, preferring to rely on the old fashioned remedy of a bottle of whiskey a day.  The flu went [eventually] but it left behind a chest infection and a drop of a hangover which I have had for the last six weeks.  That was fine too, but last week my ears went.

I have had tinnitus for years.  A specialist reckoned that it may have been caused by using a sniper rifle without ear protectors, but being a Person of The Mountains, it was beneath my dignity to ever wear them.  I suppose it does leave me open to suing myself, but I’ll leave that for another day.  The tinnitus is a simple enough thing to live with.  It is just a whistle.  If you want to experience the delights of tinnitus, just turn up your speakers and play this:

Audio clip: Adobe Flash Player (version 9 or above) is required to play this audio clip. Download the latest version here. You also need to have JavaScript enabled in your browser.

Now play it in a loop, going twenty four hours a day, every day of the year.  Nice?

Anyhows, when I said my ears went, what I mean is that the tinnitus suddenly stepped up its volume three fold, and my left ear went deaf.  So as well as the whistle, I am now bombarded with the sounds of my own breathing and my heartbeat.  The latter does have the benefit of being vaguely reassuring.  At least I shall know if I drop dead from a heart attack.

I have noticed that the deafness is not constant.  It has a strange habit of varying according to circumstances.  It seems to be particularly bad whenever Herself wants some job to be done, or whenever it’s my round in the pub.  It’s fine however, when Sharon is whispering sweet nothings in my ear.  Maybe I should write up a paper on that phenomenon and submit it to The Lancet?

So if you are leaving a comment on my site I would ask that you do things.

Could you make it loud?

Could you please confine yourselves to the right hand side of the keyboard as it’s my left ear that gone?

Thanks.

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