bobby47

Very good pal. Now clear off to Cuba and finish that book.

And what do we do when the economic climate brightens, the fiscal vice is slackened and we've suddenly completed the circle and we go back to recruiting and retaining another full time crew. And it will happen. We've flattened the Old Boys home, shifted the firehouse further into a bottleneck with no clear escapes during peak time vehicular traffic and the box we created was only ever put there because the retained firefighters lived only five minutes away. This is mad thinking. It's madness. I ain't having a pop at you Jimmy. None of this is your fault but to think that we are going to flatten a much loved building because it meets the needs for retained firefighters is madness. It's crazy and deluded thinking. What happens when the retained firefighters all move home and suddenly live beyond the five minutes. If we follow the logic, we'll either ban retained firefighters from moving outside the five minutes or, we won't ban them and we'll knock down the next box and build another box somewhere else. It's bloody crazy! And why? Because someone thought it a good idea to build a new firehouse and perpetuate the myth that the current firehouse ain't fit for purpose. That bloody firehouse is younger than my bloody house. My house is fit for purpose and so is the Firestation. It's been branded unfit because some fool in a suit says it is and after paying a consultancy fee they've got another suit to offer their expert opinion which concludes, 'this Firestation ain't fit for purpose'. It's all bloody rubbish!

Jimmy, Im not so certain this Firestation ain't fit for purpose. Really Im not. There are hundreds and hundreds of the same design fire houses all across our Country and many, particularly within Greater London, are considered worthy pieces of architecture. With great respect to you Jim, all these things start off when one person in authority feels 'cuts' are a threat and the idea of 'let's build a new one' germinates and then takes root. That's what public services do over and over again. They build! They're driven to build to avoid the axe and maintain their position. Where the current firehouse is, given the traffic problems we have in the City, at least its positioned beyond the lights, opposite you and the tender has an escape route. Shove that firehouse further up that road, plant it upon the Old Boys Home, and the 'escape' for the tender is worse because the traffic is more congested and the road narrower. If we must have a new one, and Im pretty certain we will be getting one, then lets plant this box in a place where the tender can freely escape all ways and battle their way through the traffic a little later than they would have if they escaped out onto Bath Street. If an 'escape' argument can be used by you Jimmy and if its come from me its probably bollo.cks, then The Bus Station, with its wide Commercial Road seems to me to be a better option. At the least, once this pointless link road is built, the lads sat inside the tender will have a set of different routes to escape into and extinguish the fire and not be committed to battling their way up Blue School Street. Yep! If the safe and quick escape of the fire tender is an arguable point, I'd say let them build their box down by the Firestation rather than inside a bottleneck of vehicular chaos.

She said, 'Oh lets have that one. The little one. We'll call it Daisy Belle. It'll be something I can love instead of having to look at your fat face'. I said, 'I ain't so sure. It's got a mean menacing look about it. I mean look at its claws and its teeth. We could be picking a killing machine here'. 'No', she said, ' I want Daisy bloody Belle.' And we did. Of the litter of nine, we picked Daisy bloody Belle who, in the fullness of time turned out to be the most spiteful and mean spirited cat I could have ever encountered. To the wife and every single person that crosses our bloody threshold, its, 'ain't she sweet' and 'oh she's so beautiful and gentle'. To me however, I've other conclusions about this beast from hell that's now camped up in my humble dwelling. The bloody cat, who I refuse to call Daisy bloody Belle, hates me. She, you see, sees me as her prey. She's entirely instinctive and when she decides to hunt and she hunts moreoften than I'd like her to hunt, its bloody me that gets it. And when this horror of a feline menace pounces, drags her claws down my fat legs and I howl, 'bloody hell!', she the wife says, 'don't scream in pain. You'll scare Daisy Belle'. And this is now the way of things in this once peaceful home. Im sat there minding me own bloody business whilst the cat decides on how to attack me, what weapons to use from her considerable armery and from which position she'll pounce and inflict her wounds. And when, as I often do, I stagger home, pop the bloody key in the door, the game begins for this cat that now has become the centre of my wife's world. No matter that when I get in through the door and I've got a scratching, clawing and biting member of the animal kingdom dug into my neck, its always the same, 'Dont you scare Daisy Belle'. Well I'll tell you now, not that anyone has asked, the clock is ticking on little Daisy Belle and I'll be damned if I sit back and put up with this unprovoked onslaught any longer. Course, its how to do the job isn't it. How to commit the crime and escape any blame. I've thought about staging a Road Traffic Accident. I get into the car, Daisy Belle is nibbling on some salmon that I've covertly placed at the back of the car, I then reverse over her and rush in shouting, 'Honey. It's a tragedy, I've flattened Daisy Belle. Our lives will never be complete again'. Course, me problem is I've got the Neighbourhood Watch Coordinator living opposite and she's a curtain twitcher. Nosey bloody woman! And worse, she's got her own Camera Security system which makes the whole accident scenario near on impossible to carry out. Mind, I could creep out late at night and smash the lens of the camera. That'd sort it. But, what of the film footage that's captured of me creeping across the road carrying a hammer to do the smashing. That'd have to be destroyed, which means, if I want to get away with the crime Im going to have to break in to the Cordinators house and steal the film footage. Mind, then its, what happens if the Cordinator wakes up and challenges me as Im about to make off with the stolen property. I'd have no choice would I. I'd have to strangle her and then dispose of the body. But where to get rid of the evidence. Say someone sees me racing across the Lugg flats carrying the body of the local Neighbourhood Watch Coordinator. There's no end to is there! In the space of just a few minutes, I've flattened the cat, burgled a house, murdered a woman and been caught dumping a body on the Lugg flats. And for what? A bloody cat!

It ain't going to come George lad. It's good to see Mr Willimont and his team addressing this issue. Im very pleased that they've had a go at the problem. Well done to them.

Wonderful! I couldn't be more proud of those on here who shoved that wheel up the hill. Remarkable work. Stunningly good! To, Cambo, Dippy, Gridknocker, Megilleland, TwoWheels, Denise and Aylestone Voice, this City owes you all. Mind, given that I didn't put a full shift in and I cannot join the roll of honour, I'll sit back and quietly convince myself that it was me and my objection to Harry's head that won the day. Well done to everyone. This is up there with Jarvis stepping down. In fact, its better. Much, much better.

And so it begins! The lads turned up delivering the black wheeled contraption didn't they. Course, I shot out there and told them exactly where I stood, namely I was not accepting the delivery. That got the lads thinking! I said, 'have you ever met a complete tw.at? Well that's me. I'm it. It's me, and I'll be damned if you wheel that thing up my drive'. Course, we went through the usual didn't we. I told them, 'I don't care how high my mountain of rubbish reaches'. I explained, even if there's a black swarm of bluebottle flies and its clear to any reasonable person that its me and my rubbish that's the source of this public health issue, still, even then, I refuse to accept delivery. Then it was,'will you speak to our line manager on the phone'. I told them, 'I'm never going to speak to your line manager. Ever! Even if he wins the bloody lottery and he wants to share the winnings with me, I'll never speak to him. Whatsmore, I told them, under no circumstances should they creep back here, step upon my drive, deliver the horrid thing and then make off because I will consider this to be an act of hostility and I'll take the necessary time to consider what my response will be and where I'll deposit this German contraption. In short, my rubbish is going into a black plastic bin bag and once full, it's getting secured with a knot and left outside for collection. If, as a result, the bag remains in its place and its not collected then so bloody be it. I can continue this stance for as long as is necessary. I ain't for turning. Why? Because I've got principles. That's why and I'll never change course!

Grid Knocker. Oh I've got a list alright. A long list and many of the names on my list are still alive thank you very much. But I ain't publishing my list. Why? Well, if they all board the P&O Ferry from Dover to Calaise at the exact same time intent on purchasing duty free tobacco and for some odd reason they all collectively decide to jump from the Orlop deck and into the brine never to be seen again, I'm going to suddenly become the prime suspect because of me blasted list. So I ain't falling into that trap. Mind, I've got a list of woman I wouldn't want to kiss and Kerry bloody Katona of Atomic Kitten is on there. If on New Years Eve she came staggering up to me and said, 'Hello chuck. Fancy a slice of this lovely Arctic Roll that I acquired from IceLand', I'd tell her to clear off, explaining, ' I've no desire to kiss you missy and even less to help you resurrect your career advertising Iceland food'.

Well, I've said it before and seeing as I've buggar all else to do, I'll say it again. I will never use that German contraption. Never. Ever! I'll be damned if I do. Not withstanding the fact that they bombed my local chippy in forty four and they always beat us at just about everything, I refuse on principle to help the mighty Deutch economy prop up all these impoverished European nations who's economies are sucking the life out if what's left of the European Union. Never! In fact, they can send Angela Merkel round to my house and she can demand that I use her black plastic bin and I'll tell her, 'clear off Chancellor. You've no jurisdiction round these parts. Go sell your bin to you continental friends. I'm a black plastic bin bag man'. Clearly exasperated by my belligerent attitude, she can say, 'Vee vill svitch off your utilities if you don't use vee bin', and I'll tell her, 'do your bloody worst Merkel. The January temperatures can hit minus bloody forty and bring me close to death and I'll never waver. I am not using your bin', and I'll slam the door shut howling, 'get stuffed Angela'.

http://www.herefordtimes.com/news/11536999.Wye_Valley_NHS_is_not_a_failing_organisation_says_chief_executive/ Whether they serve the Council or the NHS, all these public service suits are cut from the same cloth. They desperately try to manage the corporate message that all is well under their guidance. Don't get me wrong, I've no problem with the odd embellishment or even a downright cleverly constructed lie just as long as its reasonably convincing and I can see a great deal of effort has gone into it. This lot, the ones we've allowed to germinate, take root and flourish within the public sector ain't any good at it!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7x2b1xymflU. If I've managed to buggar this up, go onto Youtube and type in woman kicks mans head on the beach.

Dippy, Just brilliant. I can see you now humming in front of an audience of millions and destined to hum your way to fame and glory. Brilliant!

I've absolutely no problem with the ageing process. I'm more than happy to be the age that I am and frankly, I wouldn't want it any other way. The fact that I'll never see my testicles again is of no concern to me. As my waist size gradually catches up with my years upon Earth I know that unless I take the trouble to stand above a mirror my testicles will never be seen by my eyes ever again. I'm comfortable with that. I'm also content knowing that I talk to myself and have done for years. Truthfully, I enjoy talking to me. I find myself to be a very interesting character and given the choice I'd rather It be me than some other fool who you've no wish to talk to down the battle cruiser. Whether its my thinning hair, an ability to repeat myself over and over again until someone says, 'we've heard that before' or that when I gaze into the mirror to shave I no longer recognize the man I once was, I couldn't care less. I'm happy getting old. What does bloody bother me is humming. Yes! Humming. I wake up humming, i spend my day humming and I've absolutely no control over it. Worse still, its Delilah! This song, originally gifted to us by Tom bloody Jones is a melody strongly associated with men who get drunk and for no apparent reason, climb upon a table in the pub and start singing it. This is the tune I hum over and over again. It's bloody relentless. I'm humming the blasted tune now! Couple of weeks ago I was sat in the fourth row at The London Palladium listening to bloody Nadine Coyle, her of Girls Aloud, who was appearing on the Michael Flattley production, Lord of the Dance. Dangerous Games. While she was slaughtering some melodic ballad I was humming Delilah. Course, not only did everyone around me here my senile humming, bloody Coyle did as well. As she gradually raised her tones to follow the progression of chords in the song, she glanced down at me, threw me a glare which moreorless said, 'I'm going to jump off this stage and crack your skull if you give me one more note from Delilah'. Course, whilst no words were exchanged, I gave her a look didn't I. I moreorless said, ' just you bloody try it Coyle. Leave that stage and attack me with your hand held microphone and I will defend myself'. And, on the subject of Girls a bloody Loud, if bloody Cheryl Cole or whatever her name is nowadays, delivers me more tears on the Xfactor I'm for turning the tele over. She's got that Scarey bloody Spice doing it as well. They're trying to outcry oneanother. It's a bloody disgrace to light entertainment. Bloody Scarey Spice my right nut! There's nothing Scarey about her. If she wants to meet Scarey she should pop down the Commercial for an half and hear the list of girls we'd like to kiss. That'd scare her. That'd make her think that perhaps she ain't as Scarey as she claims to be. Anyway, I'm content getting old!

And in 2004, when they delivered me to the Hospital, they said, 'on the scale of one to ten what's the pain like'. I said, 'I'll tell you what its bloody like. I've been shot, stabbed, blown up and been the recipient of several good hidings and all of that combined doesnt get half way near the pain my back is in now. Give me the Morphine!' And they did. This sweet angel of mercy shoved the thingy and its needle into my hand, they turned the tap on and for the first time in my life I experienced the joys of diamorphine. It was bloody heaven. It did nothing to stop the pain. It's just that I could no longer be bothered by it. Once on the ward all the staff were more than happy to get out of their chairs, pop their magazine down, rush over and turn my tap on whenever I shouted, 'More morphine'. And shout I did. Regularly, and not once did these angels of mercy ever say, 'fatso you've become an addict overnight'. In short, it was a joy to be in there. Every moment of the day I was out of my mind on Morphine. When Jonny Wilkinson kicked that rugby ball over the bar to win us the World Cup I cried like a wench howling, ' I love everyone in the whole world. More Morphine'. Even tha ale that the lads had smuggled in to sustain me throughout this drug fueled feast did nothing to dampen my love for everyone who chose to listen to my mad gibberings as I laid there howling 'thank you Jesus. Thank you Lord'. Not once did those saintly wenches ever refuse to turn my tap on. God bless them I say and a merry Christmas to one and all. And it didn't end there, when they finally decided to throw me out because folk were tired of watching my eyes spin like lemons in a one armed bandit, they handed me a big bag containing Morphine Linctus, Diconal, Diazepam and some other stuff that I can't even spell and that was it. When I filled in the questionnaire that described my feelings toward the staff and the treatment I received, I reported that I had fallen in love with everyone of them, particularly those who turned the tap on for me. If you are in pain and in desperate need of drugs I can highly recommend you stay at this hospital.

Well I'm voting UKIP. I'll be damned if I don't! Whatsmore, I don't care that many of my dear friends who visit these pages will become disappointed in me. I don't care if the Hereford candidate has a diagreeable nature, they've got a hare lip, a clubbed foot, they're riddled with headlice and its clear to anyone who gazes into their eyes that I'm voting for the Anti Christ. It's of no concern to me. In fact, I couldn't care less what their policies are just as long as they release me and my kin from the bondage of this vast foolhardy social engineering experiment that is the bloody European Union. Our fruit can rot for all I care. Our chickens can remain unplucked and the lovely bloke from Latvia who drives around my estate to the tune of Steptoe & Son collecting my scrap metal can go bust. It's of no concern to me. I want out and I'll vote for the ugliest human being ever born into the world if it means that my much cherished public services are given a chance to survive this onslaught of madness.

Greenknight, Come on pal. Please don't clear off. Get back on here and give me a piece of your mind. It will not offend me and it'll not be a problem. Please don't clear off. We need new blood and its no bad thing to poke me in the eye. I'm being serious. I really don't want you to clear off. Good for you for saying what you think and tomorrow, after you've slept and you feel more like it, get stuck in and give it to me. It really is ok. Truly it's ok and I do understand.

Well said my friend. You may be onto something. I've thought this for some considerable time but I've never plucked up the courage to say it. Take care my friend. My very warmest regards to you.

If only I could become the Chief Executive of Wirral Council! Mind, having two formal qualifications in Religous Education and Woodwork and an ability to sneak up behind you, strangle you and blow your house up is unlikely to see me get past the paper sift of applications. Course, I'd love to do it. First thing I'd do if ever they made me Chief Executive would be to call the Carpenter and have the bloody door removed from me office. In fact, thinking about it, I'd probably not have an office and I'd sit downstairs with all those who toil and deliver our much cherished public services. Yes! That's what I'd do. Then, I'd summon the hierarchy to me and tell them, 'clear off. Be gone. Tell them what you like you'll get no gagging money from me.' And that's before tea break! Then I'd formally dissolve all these pointless Partnerships that only serve to create meetings, empires and pointless tripe that none of us even understand. I would! I'd phone the local Constable and I'd tell him, 'bloody road safety is your problem. You sort it out. Clear off and don't come back bothering me.' Same with the Health Service and any other agent who rides this Partnership gravey train. And still, it ain't dinner time. Then I'd gather around me every single member of staff who'd been bullied, humiliated, placed in the basket that says,'this is a tw.at' and I'd tell them, 'do your work. Do it as well as you can and nobody will ever hurt you again'. Then I'd drag the Whistleblowers out from hiding and I'd say, 'I'm a fully grown man and I'm heterosexual. This kiss that I place upon your rosey pursed lips is an expression of gratitude. It's dinner time. After that, every bloody single member of staff would be told, 'unless its absolutely necessary nobody uses email. If you want to pass on an instruction you lean across the desk and tell them what's on your mind'. Then I'd break me own rule and I'd email every single member of the management team and I'd tell them, under no circumstances will you ever communicate in your old and former strange language. Shi.t like Horizontally Integrated is now banned and if anyone ever breaks this rule they'll get thrown through the window, have their lanyard confiscated and they'll have to convince me by howling up at the window that they should be allowed back in. Afternoon tea break. I've gone to the pub to think up another shed load of radical ideas all intended to stop the haemorraging of public funds. There!

Cambo, Yes my good friend. It's true. I've begun my surge to the top of The Wirral tapping food chain. Course, it ain't going to be easy. Some tough lads up there. Uncompromising lads who are just as likely to make me buy the beer all night and refuse me a seat at the top table. Mind, I'll not be sat on the floor for long. Never! Oh, Cardin, Brace and Growl Tiger may think they've got the measure of me and they may even think I can be controlled but in time, and its all a matter of time, I'll be sat up on high and it'll be me who'll be choosing what they want to talk about. Mind, I'm no fool. They'll have their 'lets talk about girls we'd like to kiss' time. You'd be a fool to say, 'No'. But gradually and ever so slowly I'll begin to dominate them. Yes dominate them. And once I've completely dominated them I'll tell some lad, 'your in my seat. I've dominated you and there's nothing you can do to stop it'. That's what you do to become King of The Wirral. I've done it here, I'll do it there and if I'm really forced to, and I don't particularly want to, who would, I'd become King of some east of England area that's surrounded by a flat and boring landscape like Norfolk who ain't particularly interested in blogging.

With or without an 'e'. It's true and I've a huge back catalogue of sh.it ready and prepared for a completely new audience. In fact, I'll be trawling the archives of these pages to remind myself of some of the drivel, tripe and nonsensical codswallop I've shoveled out before.

Course the problem we all have nowadays is the news isn't it. The media give us the news. They are the ones who control the way in which we discover what went on up our High Street and how we should react to it. For example, some poor soul staggers around minding his own business and through no fault of his own, he gets completely flattened by a Concrete Mixer. It's a terrible thing isn't it. Getting flattened by a Concrete Mixer. I wonder how you'd feel if you were able to know in advance that today you were going to get flattened by something large. Would you choose it to be a Concrete Mixer that did the flattening? Call me an odd sort, but out of all the heavy commercial vehicles available upon our roads, all very capable of flattening the life out of you, I don't think I'd pick out a Concrete Mixer to flatten me. Then again, it's all a matter of opinion isn't it. Me? I simply don't know which type of vehicle I'd wish to run over me and to be frank I'd rather not think about it if that's alright with you. Course, it doesn't really matter does it because its highly unlikely you'd ever be told, 'today you will die and you'll be flattened by a Concrete Mixer'. If, for some odd reason I found this out about myself, I'd stay indoors. I would. I'd think, 'I'm not going out today thank you very much.' Mind you, if you stayed in doors hidden beneath the staircase and the Concrete Mixer suddenly came crashing through the wall and still managed to flatten you, I suppose you'd say, 'it was inevitable. I was going to get flattened today whether I liked it or not'. But anyway, back to the death of this poor man who, minding his own business has managed to get flattened by a Concrete Mixer. The headline would of course be, 'Man minding his own business gets flattened by a Concrete Mixer'. That's pretty much what the media would report. It's all doom and gloom isn't it? Course, they could have reported this tragic event very differently and given everyone a bit of a boost. Instead of 'Man, minding his own business gets flattened by a Concrete Mixer', if they wanted to and chose to cheer us all bloody up, they could have said, 'man minding his own business got flattened by a Concrete Mixer but luckily twenty six thousand good souls who were also minding their own business in the same street didn't get flattened by a Concrete Mixer. I know which one I'd prefer to read! All I'm saying is lets have some balanced reporting on the facts. If the Council have wasted near on a million pound on a poorly procured IT system, let the headline read, 'The Council have not wasted two million pounds. They've only wasted a million pounds' which, when read, gives us all a boost muttering, 'that's good news. They could have wasted a lot more than they did'.

BloodyHell! Me whole day ruined. I've just seen it. Lord above, 'Horizontally integrated'! The barstard! No! The barstards! There must be two of them. The rotten author and the rotten typist. In my eyes, both are equally responsible. If I were the typist and I had that little slice of pleasure shoved in front of me I would never, under and circumstances, have typed up this bucket of tripe. Never! And whoever did type it is just as responsible as the idiot who dreamt up this codswallop. I'd like to take the pair of them from their Vertically Integrated position, place them in their Horizontally Integrated position, tether them both to some permanent fixture, pull down their pants and thrash them as my accomplice read the whole piece out over and over again. That'd make them think twice! That'd stop this madness. If these fools knew that there were consequences to their actions, they'd think twice before transmitting this rubbish. And it is rubbish. I'm the purveyor of more rubbish than anyone and if I say it's rubbish, it's rubbish and anyone who says it ain't is a stinker and no ally of mine. I'm being serious. At the very heart of all this rubbish is an arrogance that's infested our public services and I'd like it to stop. Sooner rather than later if that's alright with everyone else. 'Horizontally integrated'!!! To think that it's come to this. My God! The poor souls who serve these people and are compelled through duty to have to read this pigswill. I couldn't do it. I'd bloody resign. I would. I'd write me bloody notice out and shovel human shi.t down the sewage works rather than read their communications every single day of my working week. Whatsmore, having left to shovel the mountains of human shi.t that were there waiting for me every single morning of the week, I'd pick up my shovel and howl with joy knowing that instead of reading their codswallop I had chosen to shovel an endless pile of human shi.t. Yep! I'm certain of it! Definitely! I'd gladly embrace my new employer, tell him, 'thanks for giving me the chance to shovel this huge mountain of sh.it. I won't let you down'. And I wouldn't. I'd be a loyal and grateful employee cognizant that I'd been plucked from a fate worse than death itself, which was, having to play a part in the transmission of their bloody pigswill.

Cambo, Twowheels is right. There's nobody here that's better qualified to do it. You should do it kiddo. Your'e certainly capable of delivering the task. Do it lad!

Our Denise is right. Good writers are not necessarily good speakers. The point raised by our Aylestone Voice needs to be quickly addressed, namely who should speak for all. This is important and its now the only one single thing we've got control over. I'd respectfully suggest that 'we' should quickly resolve this. I'm guessing Dippy and Twowheels would decline and so my personal choices would be either Cambo, The Gridknocker, Aykestone Voice or Megilleland. Of those names, I know that any one of them could stand up and deliver our collective thoughts on this issue and calmly get our points across. Me? I ain't suitable and I know it. Stick me behind the 'mike' and I'd either have it snatched off me or I'd drift into areas that weren't of any relevance to the subject. Lets sort this one out as soon as possible. JLP is a great speaker as is Amanda Martin but these two good people ain't shown their hand on this topic and I've no idea whether or not they'd be interested. Whoever does decide to step forward needs to do it sooner rather than later.

Every single health care professional that I encounter, and believe me, there are lots of them, they all conclude the same thing. It's yet another costly mistake by the NHS created by the ethos of 'let's build an empire', pretend to ourselves that it'll save us all millions and then, after the passage of time and the realisation that it wasn't such a good idea, it'll go belly up and every single staff member who's managed to negotiate an hourly rate considerably higher than they ever imagined Taurus would pay, well, they'll all go scurrying back to the Hospital or Doctors Surgery in the hope that their old job hasn't been taken by another. It's bloody crazy! I was chatting with a recruit T'other day and the money was far to good to turn down. 'Im going to earn in six months what would normally take me a year to earn'. That's what they say! Where's the bloody funding coming from that fuels this place that doesn't have many patients. Show me the money! Good bloody Lord! There's no end to the mistakes and miscalculations that the public health body make. And worse, once they realise its all a mistake, and its only been a few months before everyone within the profession pretty much has said, 'this was a mistake', still, even then, they continue to compound the problem, pay exorbitant wages to fuel the madness. Oh! There'll be a graph in response to my pigswill. The red bloody spike will be there hurtling upwards past the line on the left side that says, 'hoorah! This was a great idea and its all been worthwhile'. They always have a graph! Mind, when it all become to expensive, the NHS stop funding this company and the realisation that it was all a 'dog of an idea', some clever fool will pull the plug to this madness and say, 'if only we'd known that it was going to cost us this much to serve so few patients'. How can staff leave the Hospital, Doctors Surgery of wherever they came from and join Taurus on a great deal of more money than they were on before they signed up with Taurus. It makes no sense, unless the NHS are encouraging privatisation and to speed it along huge sums of public money have been thrown at this venture in order to get it going. Mind, I do know that Taurus haven't got all the kit they need. They're borrowing kit from other surgeries. They've got the staff. They've got the building. They've got the management structure which, predictably is already becoming top bloody heavy. What they haven't got yet is the patients and the kit. Once they've got the patients and the kit and a few local surgeries have folded because we've become short of Doctors and Nurses, then I guess Taurus Healthcare will be ok just as long as the NHS fund it and they continue to pay high wages. It's madness!