Doctor confirmed the paramedic's diagnosis and asked what his locum had prescribed me over the phone, I showed him.
"Oh they're useless, here have a prescription for some proper painkillers and have a sick note for two weeks. Now be careful with these, they might make you feel a little light headed.
Try "Away with the fucking faries"!
Which brings me to the subject of this blog post. Now what I'm taking is a reasonably high dose of this stuff which, as Professor Wikipedia informs me, is synthesized by my liver into Morphene and as the strongest illegal drug I've even taken before was a few puffs on a herbal jazz cigarette in my student years going onto what is in effect a low dose of Horse it's having a rather interesting effect - it still hurts but I really don't mind too much.
Apart from that my concentration is a little bit affected and I have to think very hard when making cups of tea (did I put the sugar in?) but generally I just feel, well, "nice" I suppose, a sort of feeling that everything is OK when plainly it isn't and my inner dragon is bouncing around going "It Hurts! Set fire to some random motherfuckers NOW!"
And I was wondering if that is why people of a certain council estate and chavoid nature seem so partial to opiate narcotics. I mean if I had no future and lived somewhere that looked like this...
...then I might start looking for escape in a haze of couldn't give a shitness.
Like all chemical escapes though it's a short term fix. In a few weeks my ribs will be better and I can stop taking the pills. In a few weeks you will still be in the Shiteholme Estate looking at a slightly more rusted pile of crap. There is an escape but you have to be smart enough and brave enough at an early age to properly avail yourself of the education that is on offer and get yourself out.
2 comments:
An education? Fuck that, I’m gonna be famous, innit.
My partner’s child brought his school report home yesterday. It appears that the little shite can neither read, write or do arithmatics. He cannot even spell “ball” and is 11 years old. He cannot manage 17 minus 9.
What is the point? The fucknugget is destined to stack shelves at Asdas. I know it, his teachers know it and as soon as he leaves school clutching a thousand merit marks and certificates for “working really hard and trying to behave” and can’t find a job playing football for Manchester United or winning Le Mans, he’ll know it. The fact he will have 8 GSCE’s in Wayne Rooney Studies and Beckhams tattoos is of no interest to Bastard PLC who would rather hire fit Polish birds to push paper around desks all day long.
I am also trying to make him gay, the little shite. I have accidentally left a red sock in the washing machine so all his underwear is now pink and cut his sandwiches into heart shapes so his mates will know he is a poof and kick seven shades of shit ourt of him. Evil stepdad, that’s me.
Oh you are simply awesome. Consider yourself an honorary dragon forthwith! Change his mobile ring tone to some show tunes as well and really fuck him over!
To be honest most of the fuckwits I interview would struggle with 17 - 9 if they were not able to pull up the calculator on their mobile phones, and these are people who have a so-called "degree", usually from some polyversity and as such not worth wiping your arse on.
The last 2 programmers I interviewed and reccomended for a post: one Russian and one Indian.
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