Spending an evening in the loony bin
August 2010 |
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Some people however aren’t so lucky. Too many are products of drunken one-night stands or irresponsible slappers accidentally on purpose forgetting to take their pill in an attempt to trap the man they’re with into a life of misery. Too many parents turn out to be alcoholic adulterers who have about as much interest in the welfare of their offspring as I do in football.
Now, I don’t want to sound like I’m targeting any parent in particular because I’m not but there are some who will resort to physical violence to resolve a conflict with their children rather than making the effort to sort out a problem like a grown up. Some will then have the audacity to call the police when one of their children fights back.
Some parents are even jealous of their children because they possess the charm, wit and good looks that fate sadly didn’t bless them with. As a result they will attempt to fit their over-sized, haggard, middle-aged bottoms into clothes that should only be worn by 17 year olds who have the figure for it. They will then go out and embarrass their children by tagging along on nights out, trying in vain to fit in by pretending to be 30 years younger than they actually are, getting drunk, causing a scene and ruining what would otherwise have been a very good night out.
Inevitably, this will lead to their poor children developing psychological issues and so it was I found myself visiting a very good friend of mine in the loony bin at the Princess Alexandra hospital in Harlow recently.
Initially thinking that this might be the best thing for her, my optimism soon took a nose dive when I walked into the ward. Firstly, I couldn’t distinguish between the patients and the staff. No I am not joking. The “nurses” all looked like they had come straight out of a Stephen King novel. Not only that but they seemed distinctly uninterested in any of the people who were supposed to be in their care. Occasionally one of them would sit down at a table with a notepad, eye one or two of the patients and then jot something down in a note pad. This was fine except for the fact that every so often they looked directly at me and wrote something down. To say this made me nervous would be a huge understatement.
Not only did the obvious lack of care leave me questioning where my National Insurance contributions are going but it also left me feeling rather unsafe. There I was surrounded by people who were – and how do I put this gently? – mentally unstable and there was no one around to help me in the event of one of the nut jobs deciding to stab me in the face with one of the many sharp utensils that were lying around the ward.
One female patient there seemed to be suffering from a severe case of schizophrenia combined with tourettes and a mild case of homicidal intent. She was roaming around the ward, punching the wall, swearing at everybody and her crazy eyes staring daggers at me because apparently I looked too normal. She would then take time out to mutter quietly to herself before launching into another torrent of profanity that would put Gordon Ramsey to shame. Feeling understandably unsettled, I kept bracing myself for the physical violence I was sure was about to come my way.
Now, having been born and bred in Essex, I’m no stranger to drunk people, stupid people, slappers, blokes who offer to kill you if you look at them and middle-aged women fooling themselves into thinking they are still teenagers. A combination of all of those is common. However, a confrontation with a genuinely insane person is something I’m certainly not familiar with and, if I’m honest, something I don’t really want to be familiar with.
Being a generally placid and mild mannered person, I don’t like confrontation at the best of times. I’ve only ever been in 3 fights in my life. The first I lost, the second I won and the third I ended up in casualty with my face in two halves so I kind of count that as a win.
Nevertheless, the thought of having to defend myself against a mentally retarded person is something I would feel very uncomfortable about, especially when the person in question is female. I was brought up never to hit a girl so what would I do in that situation?
Fortunately it never came to that because she found a wall at the other side of the room to bang her head against repeatedly. Still, where were the nurses during all of this? Well most of them were locked, literally, in their office drinking tea!
So anyway, after a week of being pretty much ignored by her carers, my friend got bored of the place and escaped. Well when I say escaped, I mean she walked out the front door and went down the pub for a few hours. Did the staff tell her off? Did they offer to give her support for apparent alcohol abuse? Did they put her in a straight jacket and throw her in a rubber room? Did they even question how the hell she managed to escape from a mental institute so easily? No. What they did was kick her out of the hospital for breaking the rules. What an excellent example of the care they provide. Presumably by proving herself to be crazy enough to escape from a loony bin she proved she was sane and therefore didn’t need to be in there. Joseph Heller would be so proud!
So anyway, what is the point of this ward? It doesn’t seem to be a rehabilitation unit. I don’t see how anyone could possibly come out of a place like that feeling like they had in any way benefited from it. Hell, I came out of their feeling like I needed counselling!
Now, if this isn’t a good example of how bad the NHS is I don’t know what is. My advice to anyone thinking of seeking professional help would be not to bother. Just enter the X-Factor or Britain’s Got Talent like all the other crazy people and give the rest of us a good laugh.
