Dear Mr Hunt,
Oh dear oh dear oh dear,
Things aren’t going too well are they Mr Hunt. My wife had to wait three weeks to see her GP, and when she did eventually get to see him he didn’t want to talk about her dicky thyroid or her dodgy ankle, he just moaned on and on about how over worked he is and how much paperwork he has to do and how unsafe and unfair it all is. She couldn’t wait to get out of there.
But unlike my wife I don’t run away from life’s problems, I try to fix them.
Let me explain. I am an inventor and I have invented at least five things in my entire life, including the beard holder, the eye funnel, the body umbrella, a little lion suit for cats and a mechanical snooker table which can even give the legendary Steve Davis a run for his money.
But I’ve saved the best ‘til last Jeremy. I have invented the fully automated ‘Beef GP’. Just arrange a time for him to come round to your house and when he turns up simply put your money in the slot and stand back. Within a few minutes he’ll give you a private script or make a private referral (I have yet to create the private ’Beef Specialist’ but he’s on his way).
You may be wondering why he’s made out of beef? Well it’s a difficult time and it’s all I had to hand OK!
Even though he’s made out of scrag-ends I’ve given him a very realistic looking face and he does everything a normal GP does; except he keeps lots and lots of money in his moist cavities and after a few weeks on the job he starts to smell of rotten meat.
If you think I’m just lewdly satirising your health policies then why not come round and take a look at him. He’s in my garage as we speak. Stuffed with money, covered in shit flies and slowly rotting to the core.
In case you don’t believe me I’ve drawn a picture of him for you below.
Yours sincerely,
Mr Strugatsky
