A short trip last week to Glasgow with the faimly and memories come flooding back from a previous work trip to this gritty toon.
They’re not typos, they’re Weegie words. Look them up here: The Glaswegian Dictionary
Some years back one of my (favourite) roles was to shadow salespeople as they visited customers to help ensure they were performing at the peak of their powers. Hence with a medical rep’ we called upon a small independent plastic surgery clinic in central Glasgow…
…we met in a swanky reception which was all glass and shimmering white panels. After little preamble and with no discernible identity checks the brusque surgeon announced that we could go into theatre.
Apparently we weren’t there to talk about the product, we were going to try in out. On a person. A human. What to do? What to say? At no point was I asked for credentials so I merely shrugged, donned m’greens, scrubbed up and bimbled into the back’. And when I say back’ I mean the operating theatre.
“Theatre” appeared to be equipped with a discount B&Q kitchen, ex-movie-prop surgical gear and a team of actors. An unconvincing set. I wasn’t sure if it was a porn or slasher’ shoot.
It turned out to be nearer the latter.
Presently a semi conscious local was wheeled in on a trolley. With this being Glasgow, I briefly entertained the thought that she was just “havin’ a wee lie doon” on a conveniently situated mobile bed and this as all a terrible mix up. Er, no. This particular Scot had chosen, nay paid, to be professionally anesthetised and then cosmetically, er, enhanced.
Whilst I am sure it’s standard practice and those in the nursing lark will see such business on a daily basis, I was alarmed to note that the patient was not sparko. Rather she deliriously and determinedly made attempts to communicate with the team. All the while a serious looking chap pumped gasesous drugs into her lungs via a mask. Said mask also prevented her from speaking so she haphazardly waved her arms about disturbingly: to me she seemed wired tae th’ moon. Presently a nurse restrained her as one might attempt to capture an enthusiastic octopus. Checking around, only I seemed alarmed.
The whole thing started to resemble a dramatisation of 3AM on a hospital themed fancy dress Saturday night at the roughest end of Glasgae that had got out of hand. In a discount show kitchen.
“Ahhhh y’bas. Freggin’ gerrum’ off meh. Sea-youuuus Jimm-eh… ahhhhhhhh. Feck.” Etcetera.
And that was the surgeon.
[Kidding, he wasn’t Rab C Nesbit. ]
With her rubbered self firmly now affixed to her bed, the surgeon makes an incision. My knees gently buckle. He then unceremoniously stuffs a high-tech-laser-tipped-knitting-needle into the poor sap and starts violently rummaging. I was put in mind of Christmas morn’ in the kitchen where one diligently follows Nigella/Jamie et al in forcing seasoned, herby butter between Turkey breast and skin (whilst trying not to gag). Only this was much more brutal and the beast was still alive.
He rummaged violently. How did he lose his keys under her tits in the first place?
This process led me to find other things to look at. The scene away from the table in more detail and following the tube from the laser-prod to its terminus revealed a 5L clear beaker with a sealed lid. Sputtering into this receptacle was what appeared to be chunky golden vegetable soup with flakes of chili.
It took me a moment to realise that this was what body fat looks like when released from a human host.
The procedure as replicated and became really testing when the patient’s arms were bought into play. I was surprised to note she wasnae a big lassie to start with yet the brutality that the surgeon applied to hoovering out her (almost non existent) bingo wings was sadistic. You could see the bruising developing as the butcher violently hoovered inside her skin.
I think it was at this moment I realised that cosmetic surgery was not for me.
To make matters worse – worse! – my colleague – highly qualified, ex NHS – had agreed to nudge me every time the team did something unhygienic. (A little code between us as it would be inappropriate to comment aloud and – after all – we were wearing surgical masks. Although said face-wear was also handy because it prevented the assembled crew from witnessing my involuntary, auto-reflexic dry retching.) By now I was also starting to feel bruised in the lower rib area because she was nudging me a lot. The surgeon was a contaminating gallus.
And then the fire alarm went off.
So we evacuated.
Things happened quickly. Within moments we were scrubs off – fully clothed underneath – and stood on a rainy Glasgow street. My colleague has the presence of mind to grab her gear and so we decamped as the clinic staff were distracted. It seemed logical to proceed with our day so we went to a local Spud-U-Like – remember them? – to debrief.
Without thinking I had a potato with chicken curry. When we sat I regarded my lunch for a moment. The chunky curry filling looked oddly familiar.
A Fire Engine arrived as we tucked in to our repast. I recall one of the Spud’ staff remarking that the “auld Wimpy Bar is havin’ ah foo false alarums heh?” We had been witnessing the carnage in a former fast food kitchen which seemed poetically correct somehow.
The rest of the day was mercifully less eventful and my colleague was grateful to have her skills reaffirmed with a few areas she could work on.
What a filling lunch too.
What I learned?
- Seriously, if you want to lose weight/tone up, get a personal trainer.
- Better still, get new friends/lovers who don’t judge you on your shape.
- They used our company’s product to good effect.
What I didn’t learn?
Is the patient still in there all alone, delirious with a demented knitting needle hanging from her person?