Drunk Hospital Guy

The panic was subsiding now, that bloody Michael Jackson film, damn thing had sent me under. The problem was; I’d mentioned tightness in the chest to medics on entry. They wanted to keep me in to run tests for a heart attack. I hadn’t had one, I knew that, but best to do as I was told. I wanted to see the consultant anyway, I’d had an attack alright; a panic attack, and I wanted to know why. They stuck me in the drunks ward for the night, it was a Sunday night. Perhaps it was the only free bed, or perhaps they suspected my condition had been drink induced. They’d have been right of course, post drink anx to be precise, that and watching Michael Jackson on the big screen rehearsing for the future concert dates he would no longer attend. I couldn’t sleep so I watched the box, there was no way I’d be in work tomorrow, I’d take the day off and catch up with some sleep then if required. The fella’s in the other beds were just everyday alcoholic types, functioning somehow, but in for related issues. They were on the whole pretty subdued, no doubt wanting a drink but fags would have to do. Amazing the call of the cig, up and down the stairs they went, no matter how badly they were, no matter how close to dying and in need of some clean living, they just seemed to be smoking themselves to death. The guy opposite me hadn’t stirred though, hadn’t even moved, I would have thought he was dead if he hadn’t been rigged up to various machines with wires and tubes. The nurses came in and checked on him from time to time, no doubt the same poor sods that had to bed pan and bathe the stinking fucker. I got the impression there was very little patience for most of us in the room, there was regular sniping at the nurses who rather than just grin and bear it, barked right back. No wonder, alcohol abuse has to be one of the biggest drains on the NHS, and it’s completely voluntary most of the time. Wham, the old boy opposite sat up suddenly and disorientated, his hair sticking up, that which wasn’t matted and stuck into deep red crusty clots about his head. He’d taken a shoeing or a few nasty falls, maybe the whole works, whatever, he didn’t feel the need to stay. Sliding his legs off the bed he dropped down, his feet slapping against the floor as he landed and his hospital gown flaying open at the back showing his bare arse. He shuffled about the place looking for his trousers, only to discover he was wired up. Pulling the various tubes and cables out of his body, blood splattered to the floor and an alarm started. The final tube was a urinary catheter, he looked ahead, gathering some courage and composure he took hold of the tube, pulling hard and carefully away, it began to stretch and then slowly eased out of his own tube, also stretching. It snapped out of his manhood and slapped him on the hand like a catapult as his knob jangled back into place. A nurse came rushing in then out again signalling for assistance, then back in again. Attempting to get the rambling chap back into bed the nurse let slip a few snippets of information as he grumbled at her to find his trousers. The nurse was telling him he’d been brought in a week ago, having been found unconscious from alcohol and beaten up on the street, he’d spent the whole week sleeping it off and hadn’t even stirred once, the trousers were gone, cut off him on admission, he had no trousers she explained. ‘Me fags, me fags were in those trousers.’ The chap next to me offered his fags out and said he’d go for a smoke with him, after losing quite a bitter argument about this, the nurses found the old gizzard a dressing gown and some slippers, they patched him up a bit and let him out for a smoke. My neighbour returned a few minutes later saying nowt, drunk hospital guy never did.