PETER MURCHIE GOES FESTIVE

By Peter Murchie
Contact the author via Chris Johnstone by e-mail at christopher.johnstone@ntlworld.com

I must say I do like a good festival. I suppose my upbringing in northeast Scotland, home to some of the world's finest festivals, must have something to do with this. If we're not swinging our fiery balls up and down the streets of one of our many market towns or whooping with atavistic delight as we set a barrel of pitch aflame then we'll be sheltering in a sweaty beer tent between dashes out into the rain to admire a prize heifer or some shiny green agricultural machinery. I quiver now, at the thought. Rio may have its carnival, Pamplona it's bull run, but for sheer glitz and glamour, thrills and spills you're not going to beat the marquee dance of the Keith Show or the Logie Coldstone Funday.

Three weeks ago however, my mind was far from festive fun and frolics. Indeed a contemplative Scandinavian gloom has descended upon my soul. Fate loomed over me like a grizzly bear whose salmon supper I had nicked. I was you see, preparing for my annual appraisal. With growing unease I was completing my “Review of other Learning Activities from Last Year.” Before me was spread a GP Scot 2.2 as brimful as an hermit's address book. I bore, then, little resemblance to a red waist-coated Victorian contemplating a groaning Christmas board and ejaculating in Pickwickian glee. Recall some arrow-suited cove possessed of a final meal and a midnight appointment with Ol' Sparky and you will get closer to my then demeanour.

When it came therefore, the tinkle of the telephone was as a whisper of tradewind in the doldrums, a faintly perceived promise of rescue. When I lifted the instrument from its cradle and applied it to my left auditory apparatus I was mildly cheered to hear the brougeish tones of my good friend, a denizen of our nation's capital. His polished vowels and consonants set to work and he lifted my spirits still further with an invite to the “world's greatest festival of alternative comedy, music and drama.” Joy! Suddenly though, my spirits were applied of an equal and opposite force and plummeted accordingly. I upbraided him harshly for his precipitousness in the light of my clear and present danger, the Peterhead Whitefish Festival being some five months hence. Amid indulgent chuckles he outlined the basic principles of the “The Edinburgh Fringe.” Even better, he was able to tell me in the slang of the better Edinburgh public schools, it was very much “Game on” with the event currently in full swing.

And so it was some two weeks later, I was to be found strolling on the Royal Mile in the morning sun. Around me mimes pranced, actors proclaimed, fire was eaten and acrobats tumbled. Every twenty feet or so, some over confident spotty youth thrust a flyer into my hand and urged me to attend yet another “5 stars” reviewed performance, playing that very afternoon in a phone box/lavatory/broom cupboard nearby. In short, the atmosphere was tremendous. I was even smiling indulgently at those ubiquitous individuals who for reasons that I have yet to fathom were clad entirely in silver foil and jerking robotically atop every pillbox in sight.

With the sun acceptably close to the yardarm (about 9.25) it was time to repair to an alehouse with the “Official Guide to the Fringe” to plan our afternoon's phone box going. As my friend journeyed to the bar I began to peruse the guide. It proved to be a bewildering tome. The Canterbury Tales, Terence's Comedies, a drag version of Brideshead Revisited, an Australian female comic with an endless supply of tampon jokes, all starting within the next three minutes. How were we going to choose?

When I look back I suppose it was the joke that started it. As my friend retuned with two beers I remarked that we were going to enjoy QoFing these. When the ensuing uproar in the pub had died down and the offer of several gigs been declined it suddenly struck me. “I've got it!” says I to manifold cries of “Oh no, he's off again, this guy is great” from my fellow drinkers. They were therefore somewhat disappointed when I produced from out of my pocket a sheaf of GP Scot 2.2s - I rarely leave home without them.

It was the simple cunning of my plan that thrilled me the most. By picking actual show titles that corresponded vaguely to my educational needs, attending them and writing a “creative report” I would be able to justify both cost and attendance in terms of my personal development plan. Academic GPs had been doing it for conferences for years. By the end of this weekend I was going to have an appraisal folder fatter (but not stupider or uglier - that would be impossible) than an Ibrox executive box goer. But first I needed some educational needs. “Pass me that beer mat” I demanded urgently of my companion, scouring my pockets for a bookies pencil.

I supposed I should really start with something on the new contract. “Ae Fond Kiss” and “Don't Look Back” would probably be about weekend working. “Piracy: Stealing Booty” had to be about the QoF. I could also claim that I had attended this to become as curiously adept as some of my local colleagues in securing lucrative out of hours shifts.

Government policy and health politics. There were numerous exciting opportunities for satisfying this need. “The Albert Einstein Experience” was instantly rejected for in favour of “Poppycock” and “You can't beat a bit of Bully.” To learn more about the various ministers and their opposition shadows I went for “The Wrong Man”, “Billy Holiday” “Somebody Shut Her Up!” and “Dinner with a Diva.”

I definitely needed to bone up on the GMC and other disciplinary matters. I rejected “Exonerated” as somewhat unlikely and plumped instead for “You've Been Shafted.” That seemed much more likely.

My appraisal folder was beginning to bulge like a guideline. I just needed something clinical now. I racked my mind, an area surprisingly uncluttered by clinical knowledge. It was picking, rather than finding an area that was the poser. Finally, in a move that demonstrates the sophistication of my humour, I plumped for gastroenterology. It seemed that “Paddington's Crack”, “Bottom's Dream”, “The Dark” and “The Browning Version” were more than adequate to familiarise myself with lower GI problems.

Satisfied and with cheerful aspect we went abroad in the town, the icy stare of the appraiser and the ominous tap of his pen holding few fears for me know. By the way “Ladyboys of Bangkok” was my friends choice.

Other hoolet online articles by Peter Murchie can be found at:
hoolet edition 49 - Sandyjim Saves the Day
hoolet edition 48 - And The Winner Is...
hoolet edition 47 - A Christmas Caper
hoolet edition 46 - The Edinburgh Festival
hoolet edition 45 - Struck By Enlightenment
hoolet edition 44 - The Pendleton Code
hoolet edition 43 - Christmas Eve at The Pole
hoolet edition 42 - An Unexpected Reunion
hoolet edition 41 - The Complementary Garage
hoolet edition 40- Up General Practice!!
hoolet edition 39- Ten Years From Now
hoolet edition 38 - Finlay and the Contract Summit
hoolet edition 37 - Johnny the Bow and the New Contract
hoolet edition 36 - Science For Football's Sake
hoolet edition 35 - Evidence-Based Golfing
hoolet edition 34 - Dr. Marlowe

hoolet is the magazine of RCGP Scotland. It is supported intellectually, financially and emotionally by RCGP Scotland.

This issue maintained by Robert Hallam.