Twas The Nightshift Before Christmas Quotes

Full marks to the anaesthetist wearing a badge that says; 'He sees you when you're sleeping, he knows when you're awake'.

Would you believe there’s a medical term specifically and exclusively for a mass of undigested sharon fruit in an intestine? No wonder medical school takes so long, learning all this shit.

Have you recently been using a candy cane as a dildo?

Who's that you can see in his suit of magenta? It's me - I've been soaked head to toe in placenta.

I ask why. then remember why most people do most things, and thus find myself introduced - at the tender age of twenty-four - to the sexual kink of mummification.

ENT is commonly known as Early Nights and Tennis - a good choice of specialty if you like a quiet Christmas. See also, dermaholiday.

I head off to review the nine patients who have accumulated in triage while we’ve been playing ‘What The Fuck Is Happening To This Patient And If She Dies Is It My Fault?

And what the fuck is bread sauce? And why does it look like watered-down loft insulation?

Twas the Christmas I had a urology job Where bloke after bloke did weird shit to his knob

Full marks to the anaesthetist wearing a badge that says: ‘He sees you when you’re sleeping, he knows when you’re awake’.

A lot of the reward for this job comes in the form of a warm glow. It doesn’t make you look any less tired, you can’t pay the rent with it, and it’s worth a lot less than the social life you’ve traded it for, but this comforting aura of goodness and purpose definitely throws light into some dark corners and helps you withstand a lot of the shit.

brandishing another pint of lager. I point it out to

I'm about to break the news to them when my eyes drift a little further down the screen. Context! 'Scant sample, mixed with dirt, fluff, detritus. Please repeat.' Did he... wank into a hoover bag?

Registrars like to do this kind of thing now and again to show you they've 'still got it', like your uncle squeezing himself into his Speedos despite the gasps of terrified onlookers around the hotel pool.

Coming but once a year – and thank fuck for that – the Yuletide brings more than its rightful share of hospital drama. Festive flus and pneumonia keep the respiratory teams busy, while norovirus and food poisoning are the season’s special guest stars for the gastro doctors. Endocrinologists drag patients out of their mince-pie-induced diabetic comas, and the orthopaedic wards heave with elderly patients who’ve gone full Jenga on the ice, shattering their hips like bags of biscuits.

I blame January. Everyone’s wandering round like poorly reanimated corpses and the weather would make Ernie Shackleton think twice about popping down the shops for a pint of milk; yet we choose this month for a bizarre act of self-flagellation.

I put the Sonicaid probe onto a mum’s abdomen in antenatal clinic and turn it on, waiting for the familiar SWOOSH SWOOSH SWOOSH of baby’s heartbeat. Nothing. Bloody batteries. I flick the on/off switch a couple more times, then apologize to the patient. ‘Sorry, I think this one’s dead.’ As the mum’s face collapses like a bouncy castle at closing time, I urgently clarify: ‘The Sonicaid! The Sonicaid!

Every ward is full of doctors and nurses repeatedly honking a word into phone handsets in progressively posher voices. 'Theatre... thurta... thartaaaaah.' It's like an am-dam production of 'Gosford Park'. When you eventually manage to get switchboard's satanic robot to understand a word you've said, it's inevitably the wrong one. Today it would have been more efficient to get through to a radiologist with a couple of yoghurt pots and a length of string. 'Radiology.' 'Transferring you to Audiology. Or say: Cancel.' 'CANCEL!' 'Putting you through to the Cancer Ward.