As I write this sort of review of the year, the medical journals and newspapers have been full of stories of psychiatrists who are bored to death and so they have changed over to neurology. Or it might be that no one wanted them when they applied for a neurology post when they were young and now they are taking revenge.
On us, the patients.
They are sitting on a sofa, a fag in one hand, a beer on their desk and an enormous pile of apple reviewed papers, as the peers were on holiday, on their heads.
Their desks as we know are stacked with pound notes so where else would you leave two million and seventy five and a half article on a disease you wouldn’t recognise if it was sitting right in front of you as that is how good Albus Potter and his mates are at diagnosing ME. And in the next room, GET, also called Good Eerie Torture treatment is being delivered by physios who know even less about ME as their bosses the psychos.
So I would certainly be proud to be a psychiatric poodle as our London Correspondent calls them. No dear ME, that's the wrong word. I wouldn’t be proud. I would realise how stupid I was and how much of the countries resources I was wasting.
But you see, when I qualified the Hippocratic Oath was still a Hippocratic Oath whereas for the poodles it is the Hippocritic oath.
A small but not insignificant difference I fooly agree. And yes, they have ELEVEN MILLION in the bank and I don’t.
And Albus is not alone in his thinking and enjoying his egoistic joys. In fact, I am becoming increasingly concerned with the sheer number of psychiatric gnomes who have nothing better to do than to fool the world.
Earlier this week, 001/7, you know our master blaster of ME espionage went to the CBT MAGIC KINGDOM as he was getting bored out of his brain with not being a proper 007 anymore and with no improvements in therapy or diagnosis in the last fifty years for ME thanks to Albus Potter and his money eating and wasting therapies that are so popular with the powers that be that they were shelving their turkeys and were eating the same as they are treating us with, backed steam fried hot air.
Now I must say, maybe I need their help.
No not that utterly useless CBT thingy, no to GET my garden back to a NICE presentable one so that when I look out of my bed and see the garden I see a NICE one instead of one which is in a similar state as my body.
They are the magicians after all,so time for their trick and treat, or otherwise the ELEVEN MILLION might come in handy to ask a professional garden man or woman who knows their business which is very rare, not medium rare, in our ME world where the less you know the harder you shout and the more people tend to listen to you.
A very interesting phenomenon also called the psychiatric model of delusional Collusionism that you can admire on the catwalk of CBT wonderland and our beloved Albus Potter aka Professor C.B.T. will then talk you through all the creatures, or whatever the boys and girls on the catwalk wear, but don’t be surprised if he calls a pair of trousers a garment of loose threads just like his brain, or that he calls a girl in a see through blouse a psychiatric misfortune, or that the girl in the wide open blouse is called a model wearing a blouse that has missed its first three sessions of CBT otherwise it would have known that wearing a bra is a safety feature against drooling old psycho babblers.
Also known as Albus Hippotamus when he is repeating his CBT phrases that he uses at home when his kids spoil the jam on the floor, or when his wife accidentally calls him a lion in the midst of a romantic evening when she actually means a liar but that might ruin his once monthly Viagra moment.
Or when his neighbour is run over by his Potterness himself, when he forgets to use his glasses and runs over half his neighbourhood who are then admitted to hospital with false ideas that they have broken bones yet all they have are broken wrists and broken hips.
And they didn’t show up on the photo made by his camera that was designed before the industrial revolution hit the English shores yet is still fashionable in psycho land as it means that people have to sit still for a decade before you can take their picture so in the mean time they have no other option then to listen to utter CBT-ism and its nonsense that only psychiatric poodles can come up with.
It is that difficult and that silly.
Even portable lavatories are known to have more common sense.
You know the sort of lavatories I mean. Blocked before anyone can use them, a NICE flower and toilet paper in abundance on the wet floor and a psychiatrist from CBT wonderland who tells you that no, these places are immaculate and a joy of modern day life and we should enjoy them and celebrate the fact that we don’t have to dig a hole in the ground first as that is what Albus likes to do at home.
Digging holes and so that is.
You see, in that hole, no one will challenge his ideas and so he is king of his own hole. But don’t tell him that as that is called harassing an old and rare psychiatrist who is so happy to talk utter nonsense that even his plants are running a mile when they hear his car turn the corner.
One of his sons was so desperate that he started up youcbt and made a fortune and his daughter started to wlan the catwalks of the world in nothing more than a psychiatric suit her father uses when he is delivering his CBT service.
The trouble with the CBT church is that all its followers stay away, so even though they are happy to donate as much money as Albus demands so he can drive big fat cars and drink champagne, not only for breakfast but also to brush his teeth with, none of his devotees turns up at his CBT service for the simple fact that they know he is telling porkies………..
But how hard is it to be a psychiatrist and treat mental heath problems?
And how thick do you have to be to get it wrong and start seeing neurological ones yet you call them nuts or twix? Or whatever the flavour of the month is in Albus Potter CBT wonderland.
Now I recently read an article in a magazine that if you suffer from exercise phobia, with a tinge of falsifying illness beliefs and at the same time you adore your psychiatrist you will develop CFS as that is the only way in busy NHS land to be guaranteed access to magical mystery blokes who are so in demand that the next guest on Top Gear will not be Lewis Hamilton, The Stud, Naked people from Big Brother or the Eye brow man himself.
Even that block of Ice that became world champion as the boys from Steve McLaren hated each other so much that they forgot that up north in Lapland they can fly with their sleighs so driving an F1 car is a piece of cake and the result was that the iceman not only drove circles around anybody in F1 but he still had time to enjoy pole dancing while the rest was still trying to finish the Grand Prix.
He was that fast. No, the next guest on Top Gear will be the ELEVEN million pounds man, so about two or three times as much as whoever was the man of six million dollars in the past and he will talk so much rubbish that the Stig will finally have to take his helmet off, as it has not only become hotter than the sun inside his visor but also because he became so nauseous, that well, you understand what happened to the Stig who can spin and spin and spin cars and never ever gets dizzy yet five minutes next to Albus Potter in a car with three horsepower and listening to the first concerto in CBT minor and he was as sick as a fish.
Even in a swimming pool he never takes his helmet off yet this time he had no choice and he will never be the same again. Some even say that the Stig has emigrated to lap dancing land as he wanted to GET away from this Sick Soldier syndrome causing bloke ASAP.
Some even say that he has now taken up fishing in the Sahara; others think he might be dancing on grapes to produce the first Top Gear bottle of wine, yet the truth of the matter is that the Stig did something else.
You see, he is used to that May bloke who last went to a barber when he was three, he is used to that Hammond fellow that crashes anything that moves so he is only allowed to drive this:
And he is even used to the Clarkman who wets himself every time he hears a car that costs less than a Lambo will be tested on Top Gear and he is told that he has to drive it. But all that doesn’t compare to the experience of sitting next to Albus Potter and GET-ting five minutes of gruelling CBT.
Telling his Stigness that when the tyres were squeaking his ears had the signals wrong and their tyres crossed, that when he felt the back end of the car step out of line that was the same as people with ME harassing his Potterness by asking him questions about his so called knowledge about a disease he has never seen in his live and when the Stig mentioned that the idea of doing a lap was to drive as fast as you could, not to sit in May’s lap and whisper sweetness about his hair and so.
Now I know that being a Potter means business, just ask her Rowlingness who knows by now that her name is spelled H A R R Y instead of simply J K.
But the man from Potter wonderland would disagree and say that he is the one and only witch and that Harry is a pygmies of our imagination created by delusional minds thinking themselves ill with mental health problems that require emergency CBT as only used for people with malinger-itis also called CFS and ME by Albus Potter when he is sleepwalking in his desert also called dame blanche or was it dane edna??
You see this kind of behaviour as performed by Albus Potter on a daily base if you have the pleasure of falling ill with ME. It is utterly amazing how doctors and others who are supposed to have any form of intellect and common sense can utter so much nonsense as that will open the flood gates of pounds or whatever currency they use in that country.
In British CBT wonderland you are a lazy sod who suffers from exercise phobia which is cured by killing your brain cells by talking them into oblivion.
Yet their blood brothers in Holland who have discovered that people with ME have lost brain cells due to their disease claim that they can actually cure 70% so they are the real magicians as they can bring dead brain cells back to this world.
Any medical student knows that 3-4 minutes is critical for brain cells, any longer without oxygen and they are dead forever, yet these magicians from that cheese producing country can talk dead bran flakes back to live and the only reason why they came up with this utter nonsense is because they must have been smoking pot at the same time, otherwise they are in dire need of emergency CBT if they really believe their own nonsense…………
And that in a nuttershell is the beauty of psychiatry.
If you challenge their beliefs you are delusional and there is nothing you can do against a psychiatrist, there are no blood tests or scans that will show delusionism so you have no chance arguing with them just as we have no chance arguing with them about ME as that is plain and simple harassment of the worst kind.
And the only penalty for that is sixteen sessions of CBT by Albus Potter himself.
Anybody who is sentenced to that, God bless you ……….
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