Kill or Cure

KILL OR CURE

I could murder a drink. My day had been stressful; going from bad to worse to pass the Jack Daniels. Shrinking Violet’s haemorrhoids had proved more difficult than I’d anticipated and removing the stitches from Sid’s vasectomy operation had been equally as tricky. When I’d taken on the village practice I’d expected a bit more drama and excitement than this and certainly more appreciation. Bob’s bowel problems and probing around in Sally’s internals was about as interesting as it got and rarely did I receive a word of thanks from any of them.

         I pulled into a pub car park several miles away from the village. I’d worry about getting home later; for now all I wanted was to get totally rat-arsed. I donned my sunglasses as I entered the bar just in case there was anyone in there who’d recognise me.

         “Evening sir, what’s it to be?” the chirpy landlord greeted me.

         “A whisky please. No, make that a double.”

         “Bad day? Not seen you around these parts before. What do you do?”

         “I’m a …”

         Before I could swallow the first mouthful of my drink a scream came from the other side of the room.

         “It’s Fred, he’s collapsed,” a female voice announced. “Is there a doctor in the house?”

         Despite my reluctance, my conscience wouldn’t allow me to ignore the request. Removing the sunglasses, I downed my drink and made my way over to the crowd gathering around the prostrate figure on the floor.

         “Let me through please, I may be able to help.”

         I opened my briefcase, checked his heart with my stethoscope and reassured the worried patrons that Fred was alive, if not kicking. Holding his tongue down with a spatula I examined his throat. Nothing lodged there.

         “A simple case of too much alcohol on an empty stomach,” I concluded. “I suggest you take him home and let him sleep it off.” Loading my syringe, I injected his thigh. He soon came round and the crowd dispersed.

         “Thanks doctor, let me buy you a drink,” his grateful companion insisted. I was in no mood to decline. Settling back on my stool I slowly sipped the warm amber liquid, feeling the tensions of the day slip away.

         “So, you’re a doctor then?” The landlord topped up my glass. “Good job you were in here. I bet you can tell some stories.”

         “Well, actually…”

         “I heard a good one the other day. This man went to the doctors…”

         A hand tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around, relieved to be rescued from yet another doctor, doctor anecdote.

         “Hello, I’m Simon,” said a tired-faced old man “Sorry, to bother you doctor but I have a problem and I wondered if you could help. The thing is, I snore so loudly I keep myself awake every night. Is there anything I can do?”

         “Try sleeping in another room?” I suggested, the whisky warming my flippant tongue.

         “Sounds like a good idea. Thanks, I’ll try that. Let me buy you a drink.”

         Obviously, the other name on his birth certificate was Simple. Either I was drinking in Nerds Ville or there was a hell of a lot of inbreeding around here. Still at this rate I’d manage to get paralytic free of charge.

         “Anyway,” the landlord resumed. “This man says to the doctor ‘I have this really bad flatulence problem…’”

         “Excuse me.” I turned to face a pretty blonde, obviously well oiled. “Doctor, can you help me? My nerves are shot and I can’t stop my hands trembling.”

         “Do you drink a lot?”

         “No, I spill most of it.”

         She ordered a large gin and asked the landlord to refill my glass.

         “What you need is a tonic.” I was beginning to enjoy this. I reached into my case and handed her a bottle of pills. “Here, take two of these three times a day and you’ll soon be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.” Unethical I know. I’d probably get the sack if anyone found out but right at this moment I couldn’t care less.

         “Anyway, the doctor says to him,” the landlord continued. “Take this medicine twice a day and come back and see me in a fortnight…”

         A young man from the other side of the room approached me.

         “Sorry to bother you doctor but I’m a bit worried. Can you give me some advice?”

         “What’s the problem?”

         “When I get up in the morning I’m always dizzy for half an hour. Is there anything I can do?”

         “Try getting up half an hour later?”

         “Thanks doc, why didn’t I think of that? Let me buy you another drink.”

         Just how many idiots could one village have?

         “A week later the man comes back and says to the doctor…” The landlord seemed to be turning into two people and I’d forgotten the beginning of the joke three whiskies ago.

         Another figure appeared by my stool.

         “Sorry to interrupt you but I think my wife has measles. What should I do?”

         Did everyone in this place have a medical condition? I took a tube of cream from my case and handed it over unsteadily.

         “Tell her to put this ointment on every night for a week.”

         “Will that get rid of the measles altogether?”

         “I can’t say for sure, I don’t make rash promises.” God, I was sharp tonight.

         “Anyway,” the landlord topped up my glass. “The man was really mad and said to the doctor ‘since I took those tablets I’m still passing wind but now they smell awful…”

         The door to the bar swung open and a huge, burly figure advanced towards me. I recognised him straight away and the expression on his face. Something akin to a Rottweiler chewing a wasp and believe me I’d seen a few in my time. I rapidly replaced my sunglasses on what I think was my face but too late; he’d spotted me.

         “I remember you,” he shouted, pointing a threatening finger in my direction. “You’re the bugger who overdosed my hamster on morphine.” I’d suspected at the time, as I handed over the lifeless bundle of fur that he was capable of violence, but he was too mortified with grief to deal with it then.

         Time for a sharp exit, as they say. I slipped from my stool and made my way to the back exit on legs that seemed to have turned to rubber. Plunging out into blackness, the cold air hit me like a sheet of ice. Stumbling in the dark, I tripped, hitting my head on a rock as I fell heavily to the ground. I felt the blood trickling down the sides of my face and managed to stagger back to the bar.

         “Is there a doctor in the house?” I muttered before collapsing in a heap on the cold wooden floor. As I slipped into unconsciousness I made a mental note to order fresh supplies of distemper vials, worming tablets, flea powder and Bob Martins in the morning, should I still have a job.