The Nurse is tripping. She’s completely spanked. Shitfaced. Trollied. Trousered. Annihilated. 

It’s nice. She can’t remember the last time she dropped LSD. Must be at least two decades ago.

This afternoon she meandered into Brighton city centre. Nobody notices an ordinary-looking lady, even when she’s tripping her nuts off.

As far as the Zeitgeist goes, she’s human wallpaper. A smart beige twin set, wavy beige perm, stolen pearls, clown-like rouged cheeks, tan support tights and sensible black patent court shoes do the trick every time.

Thus rendered invisible, she explores the streets she used to prowl as a young woman. Before those bastards caught her and banged her up.

She re-visited her old flat on Western Road, accessible via Waitrose car park, whose pale blue door hasn’t been painted since she scarpered in 1985. The damp, insect infested flat down Orange Row, that back alley behind Gardener Street. The dilapidated mansion flat on Denmark Terrace where she first became fascinated by amateur brain surgery, before everything went horribly wrong.

After a long, chilled afternoon reminiscing in town while the drug swirled, stormed, coiled, roiled and boiled around her brain, The Nurse is at home enjoying well-deserved tea and cake, watching the news on telly.

Oh, what a den of cunts.

This week The Nurse is astonished that we can extradite a British teenager to the USA for building a website linking to pirate TV and film content, but we can’t get rid of that tit of a terror whore  Abu Hamza. He sticks to the UK like shit to a blanket, bless him.

She’s vexed about the student who’s been sentenced to 56 days in gaol because he got pissed and wrote racist comments on Twitter. Which means, presumably, that any arse who takes it into his or her head to exercise poor taste and even worse judgement faces a stint behind bars. A silly piece of news on the face of it. But it has a sinister side, as the people who run the country steadily encroach further  into our personal territory. The powers that be obviously don’t trust communities or individuals, whether online or offline, to self-police. So they’ve decided to become our moral guardians. Well, fuck ‘em. What’s happening to free speech? Or does the principle of free speech only apply when we say nice, positive things?

She livid about the police too. It’s all getting far too political, just like in the States. The Nurse doesn’t know about you, but she’s not interested in voting for a police chief. She doesn’t want a choice, thank you very much, no matter what the gonks in parliament think. She wants a bunch of people who know what they’re doing – the police – to choose the best person for the job.

The same goes for hospitals. She’s sick to her pointy back teeth of hearing about fucking ‘patient choice’. Jesus. She doesn’t want to choose which hospital suits her needs best. Sod that. She just wants her local hospital to be really good, no better or worse than any other hospital in Britain.

Not that she’s in need of hospital treatment or anything. But she’s wondering whether hospitals might prove fertile hunting grounds, what with all those helpless folk trapped in bed. She has hidden the intricate little Victorian trepanning kit she half-inched on the journey south. It’s rusty as fuck, so her first job is sharpening it. She hums nasally, leering in the gathering dusk as her tiny, delicate tools begin to gleam and sparkle under her expert hand…

She has settled into her stolen flat and built a flower bed on top of the ex-owner’s final resting place (under the patio). She’s made a load of new pals, none of whom have the faintest clue about her past transgressions.  And she has found lucrative work as a freelance writer.

Only one client has pissed her off so far. A law firm of  quite spectacular nastiness up in Finchley, run by the rudest man on earth, refused to pay her this week. The arseholes. She’d name and shame the fuckers but they’d only sue her. And she can’t afford to draw attention to herself. After all, she’s still a fugitive. Never mind. May their tiny, weeny cocks rot off. If she ever goes to Finchley, she’ll pop in and treat them to a free amateur brain surgery session. See how they like that.

On a lighter note, The Nurse is living it up ’til late most nights in the Poison Ivy at the bottom of St James St, a splendid fun-house of a bar packed solid with top class nutters of every imaginable sexual persuasion. And more. Marvellous place. She fits right in. But the old urges are still there.

Now and again, when she’s off her face on E or whatever, she finds it hard to resist jumping some poor sod down one of those quaint little Kemptown snickleways and trepanning the fuck out of ‘em.  Most of the time she’s fine. But spring’s in the air, her urges are growing more insistent by the day and some people – to be frank – would probably benefit from a nice, neat hole in the head. Not least those c**ts of lawyers.

In the wee small hours The Nurse wakes with a start. An unnerving grin creeps across her face as she climbs  out of bed, takes a dusty box from the wardrobe and unpacks her Nurse uniform. Sniffing richly, she savours the meaty old blood stains.

Nectar.

How long can she stay on the so-called right side of the law? The Nurse is doing her best. But despite everything, she’s only human…

]]> http://www.amateurbrainsurgery.com/bastard-lawyers-and-other-stuff/983/feed/ 0 http://www.amateurbrainsurgery.com/kemptown-cameron-and-evil-criminal-acts/961/ http://www.amateurbrainsurgery.com/kemptown-cameron-and-evil-criminal-acts/961/#comments Tue, 10 Jan 2012 20:06:53 +0000 The Nurse http://www.amateurbrainsurgery.com/?p=961 The Nurse had one hell of a Christmas and New Year.

It took the best part of four days to limp from London to her home town, Brighton, and she’s been as busy as a particularly vicious and scary bee ever since, getting her new identity in shape.

Her teeth were her first priority. It’s no good trying to be inconspicuous with filed pointy gnashers, but thankfully all The Nurse had to do was track down and blackmail a former Amateur Brain Surgery Club member – now (hilarously) a dentist – to get them sorted out. You should see her gorgeous new pearlies, which cover her real teeth perfectly.

Second came a new name. After digging up one of her secret cash stashes, buried for convenience in the graveyard off Bear Road thirty years ago, she could easily afford a false identity. Thank goodness for Dodgy Dave, another old ex-brain surgery cohort.

Third, somewhere to live. It was easy enough to knock off the old bat in the smart Kemptown house that The Nurse now ‘owns’ and bury the body under her small but very pretty city centre patio. Amazingly it doesn’t smell too bad out there, all things considered… but then again that’s the beauty of cold weather.

This evening The Nurse sits on her new leather settee, hunched over her new laptop, poised to write her first rant of 2012 and her first  as a free woman. If you didn’t know any better you’d think she was a respectable, smart widow about town. The thought makes her grin in a most unladylike fashion. Oh what fun this is going to be.

What’s pissing The Nurse off this evening? David Cameron’s Christian shenanigans, that’s what. OK, it was a couple of weeks ago. She’s been otherwise occupied. But it rankles like fuck.

The Nurse quite likes Cameron. Oddly, he appears considerably less Conservative than Tony Blair. But she objects strenuously to his call for Britain to declare herself a Christian nation. That’s just divisive. She thinks it’d be much more sensible to declare ourselves a secular nation that tolerates all religions, no matter how potty, whether it’s  Pastafarianism or the the spectacularly nutty Christian God botherers.

Crikey. Admittedly that wasn’t much of a rant. But it’s difficult to generate a decent head of steam and vent your spleen effectively when you’re warm, wealthy, nice-looking and popular amongst your very nice neighbours.

She actually babysat for one of the buggers last night. If only they knew she was a psycho killer with an unfortunate taste for soft, tender, well-cooked infant flesh!

In the United States there are now more people aged 65 and over than ever before. In 1900 there were 3.1 million Americans in that age group and by April 2010 this had increased to 40.3 million. And as more baby boomers reach their 65th birthdays it is anticipated that this number will increase more rapidly.

Life expectancy is increasing and many of us can expect to live into our eighties, nineties and even beyond 100. Not only are we living longer, we are staying fitter and healthier into our old age. But some see an ageing population as a potential burden on society. They are worried that the proportion of the population of working age will dwindle making it tough to maintain living standards for the dependent older population.

The answer must be revision of the way in which we retire. Instead of ceasing to work at 65 we’ll need to consider a more flexible, gradual retirement process, perhaps opting for part time work or consultancy roles in order to provide the benefit of a lifetime’s work experience.

I for one don’t want to completely stop working as I enjoy the stimulation that my work provides. It has been found that keeping the brain active can help prevent the onset of Alzheimer’s disease which is enough for me to keep working until I drop.

My plan is to get old disgracefully. As I’ve matured I’ve become increasingly less likely to become embarrassed and much more confident. For example, my singing skills are abysmal but I love to do it so I recently took to the stage at a local talent night. I picked one of my all time favourites (Great Balls of Fire) and tormented the assembled audience to my rendition of this timeless classic. The lovely people in the audience all clapped politely but it was suggested that I shouldn’t give up my day job any time soon.

So I am now compiling what is quickly becoming a very long ‘bucket list’ of other things that I would like to do before I finally shuffle off this mortal coil. Fortunately for other people there are very few singing performances in the list although I have always wanted to ride through Brighton naked while singing God Save the Queen through a megaphone, but I shall put that one at the bottom of the list.

If you want to blend in, come to London.

The Nurse, having tidied herself up somewhat in a Swiss Cottage public loo, cuts a reasonably inconspicuous figure in the big smelly.

There’s nutters galore here. A middle aged lady limping along with a Margaret Thatcher hair do, filed pointy teeth and a thunderous expression doesn’t stand out too much. Especially in a place like Oxford Street, where the loonies of the world congregate. Stand there long enough and you’ll eventually see every booby on the planet shuffle by.

Right now she’s hanging around outside the Lloyd’s of London building in The City, admiring the funky metal tubing, reminded momentarily and pleasurably of escaped intestines.

Last night she broke into a posh flat along a leafy London street and slept like a baby in the softest bed she’s experienced for decades. Then breakfasted well in a stranger’s spotless contemporary kitchen, hooking out a tin of grapefruit, a stray avocado and a chunk of fragrant pink and yellow Battenburg.

Tonight she’s walking through the wee small hours, hoping to hit Sussex by Christmas day. At this stage in the game, sleep isn’t an option.

The Nurse imagines she can taste the salty tang of the sea on the westerly breeze but it’s probably wishful thinking. The channel’s siren call always did bring out the best in her. Or the worst, depending on your perspective. If you object to having your skull trepanned when you’re least expecting it, you probably won’t like her much. If, on the other hand, you think carrying out amateur brain surgery on unwitting victims without their permission sounds like fun, she’ll see you in Brighton.

The Nurse doesn’t laugh very often. She’d laugh more if life was fucking funny, but it ain’t. Not for her, at least.

Five miles short of the ugly north London sprawl, struggling through dense, winter-dark woodland, she’s just fallen arse over tit into a filthy, stinking pond.

There isn’t a swear word in existence that can describe how she feels right now. So she’s made up a new one. Which, unaccountably given the circumstances, just made her giggle… easier said than done with a mouth full of mud.

Next time you need it, why not try ‘FUNT’? What does it mean? Fat cunt, of course.

Enjoy.

As The Nurse treks determinedly southwards, now somewhere between Bedford and Hertford, she’s mulling over the news. 

She likes Jeremy Clarkson. He’s funny. And he was obviously joking the other night when he mentioned shooting strikers.

That Union leader Karen Jennings is a po-faced cow. Has she had a sense of humour transplant or what? Down with Karen Jennings and her sour, overly-earnest, politically correct ilk. The Nurse would like to line ‘em up and shoot them too. Yah boo.

Would you prefer to live in a country where the Poor Taste Police monitored our every utterance, Ms Jennings? Presumably so.

The Nurse doesn’t like politicians much either. They’re far from funny. Dangerous too. She’s said it before and she’ll say it again: we’ve got nuclear weapons coming out of our ears, as have the Yanks and most of Europe. So why can’t Iran have a few bombs of their own to keep things fair?

If we want Iran to stop developing their nuclear capability, we need to show willing and give up our own bombs first. All these sanctions and overblown rhetoric are about as useful as poking your finger into a wasp’s nest. Our politicians are acting like arseholes. The Nurse supports Iran 100% on this one. Go Iranians.

The only problem with all this head-ranting is it makes The Nurse crosser and crosser, winding her up like a rusty spring ’til she eventually pings. Which is when people get hurt. Time to calm down a bit, sit under a dry patch of hedgerow and gnaw on that tasty piece of roadkill – sadly not identifiable but delicious – she saved from last night.

Not long ’til The Nurse reaches London. She can already see its orange glow to the south when it gets dark…

]]> http://www.amateurbrainsurgery.com/support-for-clarkson/929/feed/ 0 http://www.amateurbrainsurgery.com/the-nurses-top-20-old-fashioned-expletives/906/ http://www.amateurbrainsurgery.com/the-nurses-top-20-old-fashioned-expletives/906/#comments Wed, 30 Nov 2011 07:34:30 +0000 The Nurse http://www.amateurbrainsurgery.com/?p=906

Sadly the C word is common currency these days. It doesn’t have much shock value left.

The Nurse, sneaking along the edge of a muddy field twenty miles north of Cambridge, likes to shock. So she’s amusing herself by creating a top 20 list of old fashioned expletives to liven up the boring bad language landscape a little.

Here goes.

1. crikey
2. blimey
3. gosh
4. christ on a bike
5. christ in a barn
6. hell’s teeth
7. for heaven’s sake
8. good god
9. good grief
10. my word
11. good gracious
12. cripes
13. yikes
14. jeepers
15. cor
16. crumbs
17. holy shit
18. golly
19. gee whiz
20. buggeration

She’d love to hear your contributions…

How she despises the Unions. At a time when everyone is faced with poorer pensions, a longer working life and bigger pension contributions, they’re throwing their toys gleefully out of the pram. And their members are following suit like thousands of selfish sheep. Baaaaah.

If she worked in the public sector, The Nurse would like to think she’d see beyond her own self-involved nose and realise that everyone, wherever they work, will have to put retirement off a few years, pay more into their pensions and get a worse deal.

Striking public sector workers are acting like they’re being picked on. In reality they’re just being asked to shoulder their share of the burden gracefully, like everyone else.

That’s not what The Nurse calls cricket. She thinks the Unions have their own interests at heart. She hasn’t heard such joyful rhetoric since the Miners’ strike in the ’80s. They must be wetting themselves with excitement, so much so that they’ve forgotten to see the wood for the trees. Decisions made without context are prone to being loopy and in The Nurse’s opinion this is a stunner.

Humph. The Nurse’s foot hurts and to be honest, it doesn’t smell too good. If she was a qualified nurse, the real deal, she’d know what to do about it. But she isn’t, so she’s just forced a load of spider webs into the wound and bound it with a clean hanky she’s been saving for emergencies.

The thing is, every time she stops for a rest it gets harder to start again. So she’s keeping going, skirting the marshy, flat, chilly fens of Cambridgeshire, delighted during the day by the wide sweep of sky and serene patchwork of vast fields.

Now night has fallen, it’s more of a challenge. But she can’t afford to fanny around being ill. If the worst comes to the worst, she can always amputate. The Nurse isn’t scared of pain. Quite the reverse.

A pink sickle moon tonight, floating low-slung in the inky sky. Owls. Rustling leaves. A fox stops, observes her briefly then trots off across the ploughed field. Cold…

The Nurse adores scientists. They’re so creative.

This week’s science news includes an experiment to find out why so many dinosaur fossils display the same strange, curved death pose.

first the scientists ‘placed plucked chickens on a bed of sand for three months to see if dessication would lead to muscle contractions‘.

Apparently the chickens decayed without contorting. So the scientists tried placing seven dead chickens in cool, fresh water instead to see what happened. Almost immediately the birds’ necks and backs arched and they took on the odd position typical of so many dinosaur fossils.

Ergo, many dinosaurs died in cool, fresh water, which is what gives so many fossils their agonised-looking shape.

Crikey, The Nurse can imagine how foul (pun intended) the stench was. Really bad. Respect to gangsta scientists. Make pongs, not war.