The Doctor's Surgery

© 2013 David Jasmin-Green

“Excuse me,” the tall, heavily built man in the home-made multicoloured flowery dress and pink trainers said to the receptionist in the doctor's surgery. “My name is Danielle Stonkable, and I have an appointment to see Doctor Neo at nine fifteen.”

“Yeah, I know,” the receptionist replied. “I'm the receptionist, it's my job to know. What's your problem, then?”

“Well, it started off as a pain in my side, but it's spread to my back as well, it's bloody killing me. Also I'm having terrible heavy periods just lately, I think I may need a course of hormone replacement therapy. And all of a sudden my psychotic episodes are getting AAARGH! BITCH! TWAT! worse.”

“I don't mean what are your 'ealth problems, you divvy, that's between you and your doctor - I mean what's your problem concernin' your appointment?”

“My problem is that it's now ten forty five, I've been waiting an hour and a half. I'm supposed to get back to work as soon as I'm through here, I told my fellow goose-stepping, swastika wearing, Nazi storm-trooper fascist pig bastards that I'd only be half an hour at the most. There are streets that need policing and crinimals getting away with bloody murder out there – I'm WPC Stonkable, by the way – but as time passes getting back to work and saving Britain from falling into total, utter and complete anarchy seems a less and less likely proposition.”

“I, erm, I'm not sure what you mean, Mr. Stonkable. 'Ow can you be a WPC? You're a bloke. And what do you mean by crinimals, what are they when they're at 'ome?”

“I'll have you know that I am a woman, Mrs. Receptionist, I'm a woman through and through. I was born a woman, I had a happy girlhood playing with tea-sets and teddies and dollies, I intend to remain a woman all my life and, no doubt, I'll die a woman. I'm sick of people thinking that I'm a female impersonator or a bloody transsexual – I have pert little tiddies and a great hairy growler, for fuck's sake. It's not my fault that I'm flat-chested, it's just an unfortunate gene combination, I suppose.....

And crinimals, for your information, are naughty people that flatly refuse to obey the law of the land. Crinimals are people that do very, very nasty illegal things, heinous, unspeakable, thoroughly revolting things in some cases – I could tell you a few stories that'd make your hair stand on end, I'm telling you - and it's my job to see that they receive the full fury of the BURN! SLAUGHTER! DISMEMBER AND BURY UNDER THE PATIO! law.”

“There's no need to shout and swear, Sir. I mean Madam. I mean, erm..... Look, according to the computer record you were christened Danny Stonkable, sex m-a-l-e spells male if I'm not very much mistaken, there's definitely no f-e at the beginning. Plus you're six foot six and built like a brick friggin' shit-house. And, of course, you look like a bloke, you 'ave a moustache and sideburns and a goaty beard, for Christ's sake.”

“I don't care what it says on my bleeding NHS records! Some incompetent tit has obviously made a serious administrative balls-up. I'll have you know, Mrs. Receptionist, that I have been married to a fine man for nearly twenty five years, and I've given birth to three lovely children. Oh, and it's not my fault that I have a facial hair problem.”

“It says on your records that you married Lesley-Anne Stonkable, formerly Pritchard, in nineteen eighty eight, and lookin' at 'er records it says that she gave birth to three children, the first one in nineteen ninety, the second in ninety two and the third in ninety six.”

“For your information Lesley's mother named him Lesley-Anne because she wanted a girl, but that's neither here nor there! The reason I'm standing at this here desk complaining is because I've been sitting here for bloody ages, and I've got better things to do – I have crinimals to catch and victims of assault to reassure and whatnot, but all you're interested in is accusing me of being a sodding bloke.”

“You are a soddin' bloke,” a man in the packed waiting room said. “You and I were in the same class at school, and we grew up in the same street. You were a nutter then, and you're still a nutter now – nothin' whatsoever 'as changed.

“I have no idea what you mean, Sir, it must be a case of mistaken identity. Aah! Carlton Amberly Philpot, I might have known - an arch crinimale if ever I saw one. I'll have you, Philpot, you mark my SLICE! MURDER! STAB! words. As soon as I've seen the doctor I'll get back in uniform, arrest you with an unnecessary degree of brutality and cart you down the local nick for a good I FUCKING LOVE FRED WEST! grilling.”

“Bloody nutter,” Cartlton said. “Stonkable's been threatenin' to arrest me since 'e was about nine, an' 'e ain't even a copper – 'e was refused entry to the police force when 'e was twenty one 'cos of 'is assorted mental 'ealth problems. 'E works in the florists over the road from the bike shop, an' 'e's a barmaid in the gay club in Reedswood on Friday and Saturday nights.”

“That's only when I'm working undercover, you silly man! No doubt you've seen me shopping in Asda with my lovely wife – I mean husband – but that doesn't mean that I'm a grocery colleague, does it? You might have seen me playing football in the park with my boys and refereeing voluntarily on Sunday afternoons, but that doesn't mean that I'm a footballer or a qualified referee. You might well have seen me in drag swinging my handbag late at night on the corner of Mount Street and the West Bromwich Road in the local red light district, but that's the undercover game for you, and it hardly makes me a bleeding prostitute.....”

“'E's a nutter through and through,” Carlton muttered.

“Is that Danny the trannie, mum?” a small boy said.

“Yes, shush!” his mother whispered.

“Look, Mr. Stonkable,” the receptionist said, “we've 'ad a very busy morning and there 'ave been a number of emergency cases that the doctors on duty 'ave 'ad to attend to. I'm sorry you've 'ad to wait longer than usual, but there's not a fat lot I can do about it.”

“Well it's not bleeding good enough!” Danielle said. “I shall write to my MP.”

“You do that, cock.”

“Oh, shut up and wait your turn,” a plump lady sitting at the back of the room said. “We've been waitin' longer than you, our kid can 'ardly breathe with 'is 'Oopin' cough, an' we ain't bloody moanin'. Where'd you get that frock from, any'ow, you old tart? It looks like you made it out of your ex-'ippy grandma's psychedelic curtains.”

“You shut up, Mrs. Woman, or I'll get back into uniform right now and arrest you for disturbing the sodding RIP! HACK! BLOOD! HOMICIDE! CSI CRIME SCENE INVESTIGATION! peace. I'll have you know that this dress is a genuine Calvin Klein. Mrs. Receptionist, I demand that you give me that fat, ugly woman's name and address right now, or I'll nick you as well.”

“I can't do that, you moron, it'd be a breach of doctor-patient confidentiality.”

“'Oo are you callin' fat an' ugly, you queer, overgrown pillock?” the plump woman's husband said.

“Your fucking missus, you bald, undernourished midget with gammy eyes and a face like a deformed halibut!”

“Oh, shut up, you twat,” a bent old woman grumbled. “I've got bowel cancer and I've only got a couple of months to live, I should have seen doctor Pastel at half nine, but I'm not losing my temper over it.”

“You wanna go outside and argue over it, stumpy?”

“Yeah, I bleedin' do!”