I've had my biennial medical check-up at work today. I hate having them. I think it's because I'm always frightened that they're going to tell me I've got something horribly wrong with me. Working with powders we have to have this lung function test. Have you had one of those? You blow into this pipe. And I mean BLOW. The guy doing it's stood there going "Keep going...keep going...keep going" by which time I'm collapsing after expelling my lungs into the mouthpiece of this instrument. Mind you, at least I did better than one employee who had his medical yesterday. Instead of putting his lips around the mouthpiece he pushed his lips inside it. Something went horribly wrong and he now looks
like this. What an idiot, and he's a supervisor. Mind you, it's given me something to laugh about for the last two days. Other than that this medicals all box-ticking, you know: "Blow into that, stand on that, stand under that, can you read that?, what numbers do you see?, do you smoke? take your glasses off, can I check your blood pressure?, have you ever had a discharge coming from your ears? Yada yada yada..." I've never known anyone not pass this medical. That's because it's there purely for the company's benefit, they just do it for their insurance. What I hate though is "Can you go and do something in there for me?" Groo. Going to the miserable toilets with a miserable sample bottle. And the bastard shouted after me "From mid flow please!" Err, how degrading. Every time I go to the loo I have a srtruggle fighting with this monster I'm packing in my undercrackers, factor into that having to stop mid flow to direct it into a small opening and then stop again when it gets half full. Errrggghhhh! Horrid. Mind you, it did give me chance to use my stock gag when he asked me to "Put something in there", my witty repost was "Have you got, you know, any
magazines?" Eh? Eh? Are you having that? Eh? Oh, please yourselves...
Anyway, you'll be pleased to know that everything's fine and dandy. Hurrah!
What I should have asked him to check was if I had the word 'TWAT' emblazoned across my forehead. I took my sister out last night because nobody else wanted to go and see Mike Harding with her. I bought her the tickets, drove her 15 miles to see it, paid for the car park ticket AND bought her a drink. At the interval I said to her "Do you want a drink?" to which she replied "Nah, I'll just go to the loo" Charming! I don't want people to think I'm cheap but she's my sister I certainly
wasn't expecting, or wanting, a quick snog and other shenanigans as a reward for all my financial efforts. I wouldn't mind but I know she's not exactly hard up. I'm going with her to see John Shuttleworth next week, I'd best take my credit card.
7 comments:
I used to have to do that lung function test too. And oddly enough the nurse would also go "Go go go! keep going ... keep going ...keep going" There must be an instruction leaflet with the machine.
I did that recently and was told I had the lungs of a 25 year old. Not bad for a smoker. But it is hard work. I thought I was going to have a brain hemmorhage. I hate that blood pressure cuff though. It makes me nervous.
Yeah, I hate that blood pressure thing, it feels as though it wants your arm off.
Mind you, the whole thing makes me nervous. Apart from the reading bit; I know that off by heart "The trees, the trees, the beautiful trees" is how it goes.
There's a nice photo of Edwina Currie doing a peak flow lung function test, should you care to find it. It would have been taken around the time she was bonking John Major. And, bizarrely, I was there when the photo was taken.
Can't say more, said too much already.
I've Googled for it and can't find it. I need details.
I went for a series of tests at the hospital recently, and the result was my arse was about to fall out, or something. I wasn't really listening because I was wondering what on earth's got into our wimminfolk recently. It used to be the case that they fancied manly, hairy brutes such as Burt Reynolds, Tom Jones, Englebert Humperdinck and Barry off of the Three Gees. Now they like manboys like Justin Bieber and that Westlife shower.
How the hell are us beer-swilling, shag-pile shouldered ape-men supposed to find mates these days? It'd be like painting the Forth Bridge if I tried shaving my chest to look like that lot do. AND I'd give the game away the minute she saw my hairy arse - it's like dropping a sweet on a barber shop floor down there, Mr. Gutnish.
Come on, girls! Get back to fancying proper men like wot you used to do in the olden days!
(Not that this actually applies to me anyway. My missus says I'm out of that game, and I ain't arguing, not with her German / Scotch heritage.)
German/Scotch? Bloody hell, I believe they're worse than those French Canadian johnnies.
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