I may be a doctor but that doesn’t mean I neglect my body in the way that mechanics drive shoddy cars, or hairdressers look like cunts. No, I look after myself and that means regular check ups to prevent me looking like those crystal meth “after” photos. Or any more like them anyway.
So today I took myself up Taaarn to my favourite Harley Street clinic for a day of rigourous testing and strenuous exercise to make sure my body is still a temple to ruin. Unfortunately when I got there I was told that my regular physician, Doctor Pinochet, had been taken ill and a locum called in to cover for him. Now, and I promise I am not kidding you, his name was Dr Harmer. No fucking way, it’s straight from a Carry On film! I wish I could have taken a photo to prove it’s true.
Anyway, towards the end of the examination he turned to me and told me I’m fit. I told him that I’m not like that, but thanks anyway and I can’t deny that I’m flattered. No he replied, you’ve passed your medical. However, slightly worryingly, his eye contact was unwavering as he then told me that I am in my prime mentally, physically, emotionally and sexually. I don’t remember a test for the latter, and I didn’t particularly care for the pause and slow intake of breath before the final word. Although of course, he wasn’t telling me anything that I don’t already know. Fifi will vouch for that, although as much of a slut as she is, she is still a lady and never kisses and tells.
Came home, and to celebrate my health cracked open a bottle. Mrs Muck asked me if I put my fitness (and toned body) down to my positive outlook on life. Yeah, I’m an optimist I suppose. It doesn’t matter to me if the bottle is half full or half empty. Either way, it means I’ve drunk half of it, which seeing as it’s meths, makes me pretty fucking optimistic that I’m going to be very pissed indeed.