AND THE WINNER IS...

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

That time of year is upon us again. Time to don the tuxedo or £5000 Stella McCartney dress, climb gracefully from the limo and walk, totter, mince or stride down the red carpet. As spotlights rake the sky above and camera flashes pop all around, we might deign to pause briefly and answer a flattering question from the press corps, chattering like monkeys, beyond the gold rope. Then on into the gilded auditorium to take one's place amongst an audience of glittering peers. Before the night is done, we will have either collected a shining phallus amid gushing tears and universal thanks, or, huddled into one quarter of a television screen, forced our chiselled features into a loser's smile of gracious magnanimity. I am, of course, referring to those annual gala occasions when the film awards are handed out, and not prize day at the Foggy Flower Show.

And how richly deserved such recognition truly is. For a mere bagatelle of $10 million per picture, messrs Cruise, Damon and Affleck have been up and out of their trailers at crack of noon to coat themselves with slap, affect a ludicrous accent, rub onions in their eyes, spend a good ten minutes puffing, panting and emoting, before collapsing into the arms of the nearest available sensational blonde, brunette and/or (probably and) redhead. One can only assume that their dark nights of the soul are spent regretting that they'll never be a GP in a northeast coastal town.

To increase the irony (you may have spotted some in the paragraph just gone) many of their efforts are expended attempting to convince us, the great unwashed, that they are just like us. First they agonise for introverted hours over their "motivation". Then, through a series of groans, grunts, facial ticks, and exaggerated gaits they strive for "naturalism." Despite the enormous efforts expended, my fellow stinkers and I can often be less than impressed. Recently, after a particularly woeful two hours spent huddled in the popcorn strewn darkness, a two hours during which Will Smith had attempted to convince us that he was a futuristic tec via the medium of over confident posturing, I heard a pimply, insightful and unconvinced youth remark "I, Robot!?. Mair like, A, Wanker."

Perhaps it is time for these overpaid and prancing mimes to study at the feet of the true masters of the actor's craft. To learn and gain instruction from those that strain sinew, twist back and invest their performances with every syllable of true drama that they can muster. And where can such meister's be found? A summer school in Stratford? A workshop at the Donmar? Holding court in a Soho bar? None of these - the world's greatest practitioners of the dramatic arts can be found on any given Monday morning among the magazines, pot plants and plastic chairs of a Scottish GP surgery.

I first became aware of this early in my GP career. Entering the waiting room I summoned a certain gentleman, the second patient of the day. Wearing a masque of pain he rose slowly from his chair. "Oooooowwwwoooooohhhhooooooo!" he roared, like one condemned to the deepest bowels of Hell. I became immediately anxious, Roger Neighbour having ill-prepared me to meet the challenge of helping one whose family had been put to the sword by Macbeth's henchmen. Imagine my relief to discover that he had a touch of sciatica. I was still shaking my head in admiration fifteen minutes later as I watched him jog for the bus from the surgery window. And so it has continued. I have only recently realised that one cannot cure consumption by the simple act of writing a prescription for amoxicillin, so often had I appeared to banish the death rattle of Little Nell by doing so. Similarly, it was only weeks ago that a colleague disabused me of the notion that the waiting room at Aberdeen's out of hours centre was not in fact a moor in North Britain, so used was I to seeing Cordelia helping a bowed and weary Lear, clad in baseball cap and tracky bottoms and grasping a small basin, traverse that wind blasted and infernal region. I now realise that these were mostly healthy twenty-year old blokes with mild gastroenteritis and a dozy girlfriend. Just a handful of the bravura performances that I have witnessed over the years. As I've said, these descendants of Thespis have much to teach our pampered starlets and stage strutters. I move that it is high time they were given an awards ceremony of their very own.

Imagine the scene. The worlds press corps, clad in pristine tuxedos and ball gowns, excitedly animated as they "piece to camera". Behind them a steady stream of orange badged limos swish up to deposit their illustrious cargoes on the crimson carpet. On that crimson carpet the stars sweep haughtily by, clad in the best labels. Shell suits, elbow crutches, and blue tinted glasses have been left in the costume department tonight. In a packed auditorium, the orchestra strikes up that showbiz classic 'Hooray for Holyrood'. A leading comedian takes the stage. Side-splitting intros and then an abundance of self-congratulatory homilies. That done, the main business of the evening commences. A parade of well-known presenters read the nominations, the clips play on a giant screen, and finally they start handing out the "Golden Giros."

First, the DSS lifetime achievement award to a sizeable portion of the population of Glasgow. Next "Fibromyalgia: the movie" scoops several awards including those for technical merit in the use of wrist splints and copper bracelets. Next we're video-linking as the recipients for best performers in a supporting role receive their award for "Attendance Allowance: The Globe Trotting Years" beneath swaying palm trees. Now, we move onto the major awards of the evening. Best actress goes to a teenage newcomer in receipt of a taxi-card in "My Dyslexia." Then, the best actor award is gracefully received by an old pro for "The Doctor's Dilemma." That venerable knight, in his acceptance speech as he collects his GG, declaims that the original title of this work is "Knackered Knee or Lazy B……..?" to the general and approving amusement of the audience. Finally the big one, best picture. A predictable result as the sciatica film "Brokeback Mountain" hobbles dramatically home.

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.