Everyone bar the bobbies and the Crown Prosecution Service must be appalled at the treatment dished out to an 83-year-old man who tried to comfort his wife when visiting her in a nursing home.
She was in pain so he gave her a painkilling patch on her arm prescribed by her doctor on an earlier home visit.
One would think he was force-feeding her arsenic by the spoonful. The attitude of the nursing home was just as poisonous as if he had been.
The police were called and he was arrested and banged up in the cells and generally treated worse than a teenage yob nicked after a drunken brawl. At 83. Un-bloody-believable.
Of course he shouldn’t have done it because it just might have affected her current treatment. But a touch of common sense should have been applied. They were clearly a devoted couple and he was distressed at seeing his wife in pain.
It’s a good job that me and my old mate Bill Goad weren’t nicked some years earlier for conspiracy to frustrate something or other.
We were developing our famous hospital emergency kit to comfort any members of the Ne’er-do-Well Club which gathered almost daily in Bill’s studio/workshop and whose lifestyles led to various degrees of medical intervention ranging from liver transplants to correcting brain damage.
After much thought, we made up a flat-pack consisting of a quarter-bottle of scotch, a half-ounce of Golden Virginia, a packet of Rizla fag papers, paper-book of matches and a handful of strong alcohol-breath defeating mints.
Kindly note that everything was compact and designed to avoid detection by the hospital authorities.
On reflection, I’d better give you no further details. The bobbies, spurred on by the public prosecuters, are now nicking people on a historic basis. I sometimes wonder why they haven’t started on posthumous prosecutions.
Anyway, I won’t comment on the comfort we handed out to our casualties all those years ago. Most of them were being mended after motorbike crashes, incidentally.
They were much more cheerful than being faced with, say, a matron’s enema. Certainly they all survived, while Bill Goad, alas, didn’t. I made up a personal memorial kit when he was whisked off to the RLI but alas he wasn’t given the chance to sample it.
We had both stopped smoking by then, but I made a brief comeback, smoking a roll-up and knocking back the scotch in memory of the good old days.