Nice one Cyril

Some time ago, I was diagnosed with a liver cyst while being investigated for something else. No, not offensive Tweets but, given that Allison Pearson is a blonde, Lucy Connolly a brunette, and I (as of Friday) am a redhead, it’s plausible that someone will eventually try and present Two Tier Keir with my head (and hair) on a platter during one of his perverted fascist rituals. TTK, you see, has a fetish for threesomes. Indeed, TTK could easily stand for Three Times Kinky. His threesomes include: persecuted right-wing ladies, lost mayoral elections, U-turns, sovereignty sell-outs, and young Romanian males.

Back to my health issue. The NHS – as is its want – didn’t find what they were looking for but stumbled on the cyst instead.

“I shall name him Cyril,” I announced stoically.

The nurse played along: “How do you know it’s a male cyst?” she asked.

“Because it’s probably going to be a pain,” I presaged, accurately as it now turns out.

The nurse reassured me that a lot of people have liver cysts and don’t know they have them until they’re picked up by a scan for something else. They sit there as they always have, benign, undetected, and very commonly don’t cause a problem unless they grow. Mine was 11cm long and, providing it didn’t grow, I could forget about it.

“How do I know if it does grow?” I asked.

“You’ll know,” she said (un)helpfully, per the NHS patient-support manual, page 83.

And so it was, some months ago, that I thought I’d put on weight and my bras were too tight. Either that or I was taking after Dad and developing a stomach ulcer. Alternatively, my back was playing up again, my spine twisting to protect a weakness and causing discomfort elsewhere. Then there was that bad fall last year when I thought I’d cracked a rib; maybe it was something to do with that? Or perhaps Cyril had actually got too big for his bile duct. During one particularly bad day, when discomfort bordered on pain, I decided to see a doctor. After several failed attempts to get through on the phone to my NHS GP – rumour has it he’s making a fortune moonlighting on the Kent coast – I booked an appointment online with a private GP for the next day.

That next day, I easily found a parking space and was the only person in the waiting room, a calming space filled with spa-pertinent Zen music. I was ushered into the surgery bang on time (the NHS is so last season, darlings) where I explained my symptoms and listed what I thought might be possible causes, including Cyril.

“Cyril?” queried the GP.

“Cyril,” confirmed I.

He said my symptoms might be down to the cyst, or an ulcer, or even gall stones, or a number of other things, so he recommended an ultrasound (at a private clinic, of course) and he would do a full blood workup in the meantime. 

Because of the uncertain diagnosis, he recommended blood tests for X, Y and Z which would cost, “So much.”
“How much?”
“This much”.
“That much?”
“Too much?”
Hell, yeah! 

But I had a) no choice and b) Hubby’s credit card, so he helped himself to three vials: “That’s an armful”, I cracked, cornily channelling my inner Tony Hancock.

I got an ultrasound appointment for a couple of days’ time. No questions asked, no pronouns queried. Seriously – the NHS should stand aside and let the grownups release free-market butterflies from the blundering behemoth that it is. I drove to Milton Keynes and was seen perfunctorily (again). Five seconds into the procedure, the consultant asked me if I’d ever been diagnosed with cysts.

“Yes, I have a liver cyst, Cyril, 11cm.”

I was most put out when he obsessed about the 11cm, not the Cyril-naming. Well, he was foreign, i.e. not British, so British humour went over his head. Note to the woke: me labelling the lovely consultant as ‘foreign’ and immune to British humour is not racist. It’s a statement of fact within context. So park it, shut it and jog on.

“Eleven cm?” he exclaimed. “It’s much bigger than that. It’s huge – 20cm.”

“Huge?”

“Huge. You need an MRI.”

Oh no you don’t. I’m half Scottish, brought up in Yorkshire of Jewish descent. No one gets money out of me unless it’s a matter of life and death, or shoes, handbags, bracelets or books. A liver cyst, even a ‘huge’ one, is neither here nor there. But by the time the written report had reached the GP, Cyril had been promoted from ‘huge’ to ‘massive’. Nice one son!

I told my GP that I didn’t need an MRI. Blood tests came back A-OK, and the ultra-sound had confirmed the problem. Google said that the solution was aspiration–sclerotherapy. Bring on the consultant to oversee the procedure.

It will come as no surprise to learn that the last time Sis was in hospital, the nurse asked her with bated breath if I would be visiting, and she was relieved to hear that I was too busy PhuDding (those were the days). The nurse was still recovering from a previous hospital visit and my marching into the nurses’ station asking who was overseeing Sis’s diet because she’d just been served something totally inappropriate for lunch. It appears that at some stage, overseeing diets was deleted from page 284 of the NHS patient-support manual.

As I type, I’m waiting for a call to arrange an appointment with the private consultant. I had a choice of Milton Keynes, Great Missenden or Oxford. I went for Great Missenden as they did my shoulder brilliantly. Compare my experience with that of a friend of mine who was recently refused treatment at a convenient NHS venue, probably because of something on page 107 of the NHS patient-support manual. In the meantime, I’m loosening my bras, forgoing my morning coffees, upping the retail therapy, and thanking my lucky stars that no one has (yet) said anything about avoiding alcohol. Should they do so, then no more Mrs Nice Guy when it comes to blogging.

Even before I uploaded this blog, I heard the Socialist Shirkers Party and the Conn-u-nits squealing that the NHS should remain 110% in state control, free at the point of delivery for every man and his dog, literally, and be better funded. Yeah, like more of the same is going to solve a problem that’s getting worse because successive governments have done more of the same. We need a completely different approach.

1. My approach starts with the NHS treating medical conditions only, not lifestyle choices or prevention programmes. This means, for example, no IVF, plastic surgery, cosmetic procedures or gender reassignment. Prevention programmes – including weight-loss – should be funded and managed by charitable entities.

2. My approach also has zero tolerance for any form of virtue-signalling, DEI-debauchery, pronoun-policing, pavement painting, flag-flying or social-engineering box-ticking. Cease, desist, and sack the facilitators. Free speech and diversity of thought and belief are sacrosanct.

3. While we’re sacking people, we should examine how they are hired or, more accurately, trained and retained. If the NHS trains them, they must be required to work for the NHS for a minimum period of time or number of days afterwards. And nurses should be apprenticed, not 'over-academicked'. While I’m at it, the right to withdraw labour must be stopped. Medical staff striking is an affront to common decency, as is any aspect of the socialist mindset. Remove their right to strike then review all terms and conditions of employment, including pensions and benefits so that they're fairer when compared with private sector workers.

4. As well as limiting treatments offered by the NHS, restrictions should be placed on who is treated for free. Those who qualify should be limited to British citizens and legal residents. Everyone else should pay on arrival at a medical facility. Charities should pay for illegal immigrants and asylum seekers; I’m sure the likes of Gary Lineker will stump up the necessary funding. And it goes without saying: no free translation services. Can't speak English? Bring your own translator.

5. Charges should be levied for certain treatments, such as corrective procedures for botched plastic surgery, and harm caused while under the influence. Charges are also appropriate for missed appointments that are not cancelled within 24 hours. Prescription charges, including for birth control, should be extended to everyone except those on benefits.

6. Charges should also be levied for treatment needed as a result of ‘risky’ outdoor activities like hiking, climbing, water sports and skiing.

7. Where there’s a conflict, the NHS should prioritise cost-savings over net-zero targets.

8.      Overhaul communications so that the left hand knows what the right hand's doing. Good comms improves efficiency and therefore reduces costs. Probably saves lives as well.

 
9. ‘Bed blocking’ should be limited, and paid for by social services (how this is done is a whole other blog).

10. As hard as it is for some to hear this, I am duty bound to ‘come out’ and declare that compensation for medical malpractice and fines levied by regulators or whomever should stop. Every penny that’s paid out, or commensurate insurance premiums funded, means less money to invest in the NHS and to put things right. Ditto the water industry. Related to this topic, whistleblowers must be protected and all complaints followed through conscientiously.

11. Employers should be incentivised to offer private medical insurance as an employee benefit. The Government should incentivise everyone to go private by removing tax from premiums and making medical bills tax-deductible (for British tax payers only).

12. When it comes to NHS facilities, I’m a huge fan of the principle of Public Finance Initiatives, but historically the detail has been devilish. The solution is to change the detail, not turn backs on the initiative.

There we have it: my not-quite-Baker's-dozen-point plan for a leaner – some will say meaner – NHS. It protects the most vulnerable – health- and wealth-wise – while enabling those who can or should pay to do so. My philosophy is simple – your health paid for by your wealth and/or (lack of) entitlement. If you have to holiday in 3-star rather than 4-star hotels in order to pay your medical bills and insurance premiums, so be it.

As for Cyril, he’s not costing the NHS a penny or a second, thus allowing someone else to be seen and treated more quickly than they would have done had I got my snout in the NHS-trough because ‘I’ve paid my taxes’.

The ‘downside’ is that Cyril will be ‘no longer’ sooner than he might be had I not gone private. But one line I will not be singing from the eponymous anthem is, “Let’s have another one"!