BOLLOCKS TO THE HIPPOCRATIC OATH - DO I MILK HIM?

A guy I’m seeing has asked me to milk his prostate. It isn’t surprising considering I’m a doctor, but for me it is the antithesis of hot. My main objection is the word "milking." That's for farm animals and breast pumps. I would never dream of whispering in a man’s ear, "I want to milk you dry." It’s like I’m about to masturbate a dairy cow. Or James Knight.

BOLLOCKS TO THE HIPPOCRATIC OATH - DON’T TOUCH ME

I have become an intimacy retard. I don’t like being touched. This is an unwanted side effect of becoming a doctor. Touching sick people every day has tainted all touching. Would you want to touch this leg? No, and neither do I. But I do. I finger diseases. I massage innards. I cut up flesh. I burrow inside old women’s fannies. I see a more intimate snapshot of other people’s bodies than any lover. So when I finish work, the last thing in the world I want is a hug.

BOLLOCKS TO THE HIPPOCRATIC OATH - CAN EVERYONE PLEASE STOP SHITTING THEMSELVES?

 

Many of you will spend your mature years in an oversized nappy, sat in warm fecal matter for hours until a brutal nurse finally flips you over with no ceremony or cooing and clinically wipes you clean. It’s an infantilist’s wet dream.

BOLLOCKS TO THE HIPPOCRATIC OATH - DON'T GET SICK IN LONDON THIS WEEK

A word of warning if you’re in Britain this week: Do NOT fall gravely ill or almost die from some sort of massive trauma on or immediately following this Wednesday. That’s the official NHS changeover day, aka “first day of hospital” for the UK’s new crop of fresh-faced doctors. While they may not in fact kill you, it is entirely likely that your simple concussion or sliced finger or plague sores (PS: good one, Chinese village) will lead you into a sequence of events that culminate in my dad forwarding me an email with the subject line “Bedpan’s Revenge?” Here’s Vice UK’s resident physician, Dr. Mona Moore, with more on this horrifying annual occurrence.

BOLLOCKS TO THE HIPPOCRATIC OATH - FESTIVAL BREEDING GROUNDS

Tens of thousands of people rolling around in each other’s masticated filth while high on every household substance that the part-time dealers can successfully powder or pill is a recipe for self-harm. The entire festival site is an adult playpen designed to facilitate the sort of debauchery that normally ends in a hospital visit. Which is why, I thought, being a festival paramedic must suck. Not only are you forced to stay sober while everyone around you descends into gurning, grinning morons, but you have to fix them when it goes wrong.

BOLLOCKS TO THE HIPPOCRATIC OATH - DOCTORS CAN'T HELP YOU

You think doctors know what they’re doing? Well, it’s a myth. A lot of the time I have no idea what is wrong with my patient. The higher I progress in the medical profession, the more I realize that half of being a doctor is saying things with authority and hoping my patient doesn’t die–which most of the time works. The ones that do die would probably have died no matter what I did.

DEATH'S BACK DOOR

A patient has had the better of me. On three separate occasions I have inserted my gloved hand up his anal passage in a way that I believed would cause him excruciating pain, but no, the kinky masochist loved every second. I was merely a pawn in realizing his sexual fantasies, which is certainly not in my job description. 

LONDON - I MADE A BABY COME OUT

I always regale you with stories of death, disease, sexual perversity, and self-destruction, which is pretty much what I deal with on a day-to-day basis in A&E. But sometimes there is a fleeting reprieve in the otherwise grim monotony of bodily failure. Last week I delivered my first baby, which, to be fair, was just as gruesome and proved humanity to be just as pitiless.

LONDON - HOW MUCH COKE IS BAD FOR ME?

A dentist friend treated a woman who had done so much cocaine it had rotted a hole between her nose and mouth, as well as perforating her septum. This woman had a three-centimeter-by-1.5-centimeter-wide black rancid pit on the roof of her mouth through which her rotting nose would drip. Her mouth was her brain’s own colostomy bag.

LONDON - WHO TO THROW OUT OF YOUR BED

Hopefully you got all this information in high school health class, where they tried to shock you into not secretly fucking in the laundry room during some heathen, parent-less house party (it didn't work, right?). But we thought that if the porn community, which is supposed to know everything there is to know about sex, doesn't actually understand, then maybe you can use a little refresher yourself.

One of the downsides of being a doctor is you can’t switch it off. I can be standing someone in the supermarket and smell their kidney infection. I can spot scabies on the arms of a man scratching next to me on the tube. And when it comes to sex, I would know exactly who to throw out of my bed the minute they take off their trousers. No, that rash is not caused by your new tight jeans, and no, that wart has not always been there.