Last night I attended two drink related incidents which demonstrated that alcoholism is not a problem determined by any class distinctions and that class is not necessarily a case of wealth versus poverty.

90% of what I do as a paramedic involves dealing with non-emergency situations. I had no idea of this before I became a paramedic and God knows if I had been aware of it, and the shocking salaries (less than the national average), I wouldn’t have touched this career with a barge pole. Quite simply, the rare occasions when I feel that I have really made a difference to someone who deserved and needed paramedic help are way to few and far between to make up for the daily crap we have to deal with. I find the calls to fuck-witted people less and less funny with each shift. I do not suffer fools gladly, and between hopelessly dim-witted managers, people calling who don’t need us and have no common sense or idea of community responsibility (i.e. not wasting our time and very likely delaying us from reaching people who really do) I find myself surrounded by them. My patience for the job is running diaphanously thin.

The first call was to a pair of piss artists living on incapacity benefits in a run-down council owned flat in a local, sought-after market town. Having downed a few cans of lager which had been paid for by hard pressed council tax payers like me in return for absolutely nothing from these wasters, one had stood up, stumbled on the can strewn, filthy floor and landed cleanly on her chin, opening it up with a fairly deep laceration. The pair of them were quite friendly and sociable when we arrived. I guess this is because they enjoy a gifted life of living and drinking at the expense of others. I think perhaps it would make me happy too, for a while at least… Satellite TV, cigarettes, beer, lodgings, food and bills…not a care in the world.

I wondered at their incapacity. Both have no problem moving. Either could have done manual work if nothing else and also who gives them enough not only to live but to party!

We tried in vain to get her to go to hospital and were declined. Who would get them home? Not us we said. And if you have spent all your cash on booze and fags, that’s your problem, I thought. Why call an ambulance if you will then decline hospital? Here is the key point in this meeting though. At one point, the man of the house offered us a drink; an ice cold lager on a hot night. Remember this. We declined obviously. But we were offered it all the same. After a long time trying to convince the patient to go, I decided she’d had enough chances to agree and that it was time for us to leave and head off, making ourselves available to someone needier. We are often delayed in backing up single responders helping critically ill or injured patients by such…people… who mock the idea of humans as an intelligent species…

Later the same evening we were called as an emergency to a woman lying on the steps at the front door of a mansion house in the very same market town. On arrival, we asked her, was she hurt. The answer was no. She was drunk and surrounded by three adults all of whom were sober. It is beyond me what made them call an ambulance without first seeing whether or not there was anything wrong. I’m sure we have all come pretty close to this at some point or other. You come home drunk (maybe way back as a teenager), can’t find your keys in the dark garden and think, well, this hard path looks just about the most comfortable place in the world for a little nap. And when your friends find you, even if they are drunk themselves, they somehow remember it isn’t good to sleep like that on the step, and in some kind of drunken committee approach manage to check you’re okay, coax you to your feet (or maybe just your knees) and herd you at least as far as the hall way, where someone flings a coat or perhaps just a hapless cat over you before collapsing in their bed, or your bed or the kitchen sink or something.

Well these people had done no such thing. Without even checking to see whether an ambulance was really needed, they called. Because they are fuckwits. Or perhaps because manual handling is something they pay their taxes to have suckers like us do… I’m not sure which.

We pretty soon had this uninjured and well woman into her grand drawing room. And her son, a strapping lad who, with the help of the neighbour also present could easily have got this woman into the house without us, without wasting our time and risking the lives of others in the community, stood in the doorway impassive. He stood in the door next to the kitchen. And not once did this inbred toff fucker even hint that we might like a drink at this early hour, a tea or coffee for tired and helpful people while we filled in the paperwork for his lush lowlife mother, who treated us as a service that she had a god given right to call upon at any old bollocks whim. Afterall, she said, we're all entitled to a night out! Yes, but perhaps you should budget for the £250 of tax payers money it cost to get her over her doorstep.

Both cases involved drunk women, wasted resources and risked the lives of those 10% who might really need us, the ones that give me satisfaction and pride and make me genuinely care.

But though these cases were at either end of the social spectrum, one poor the other rich, one educated the other not, the people with real class turned out to be those who looked the least classy. Those who should have had manners and humility, education and sensitivity to others were the most selfish and had the least excuse for us being there.

And I’m caught in the middle. Unable to say what I think to either except through an anonymous blog and it’s getting me down…

Having just caught the tail end of Dancer in the Dark starring Bjork, I am reminded of my own experience of hangings.

For me, black humour surrounds my dealing with victims of hanging. The alternative is to become maudlin and eventually unable to do your job or even to live a normal life. Our job is to confirm the victim is dead (by touch) or to work on them as a possible survivor. I greatly prefer the latter option because it is far less ugly. I touch dead people a lot, though not through choice but because I have to to do my job. But hanging are ugly and I hate touching them, confirming no pulse and rigor mortis. I imagine hangings are also exceptionally painful if the victim fails to break their neck since pressure on the blood vessels, nerves and tendons of the neck is extremely painful. I know this from marshal arts. I get strangled and choked alot.

I went to one a little while ago. A lonely old man had had enough. I was confused in my feelings. Was he brave for doing something which might ultimately take a lot of courage to actually do or was he a coward for failing to face the trials of life a little longer? I don't really want to go into the ins and outs of why people kill themselves. I don't know enough about it. But this person had done their best to smooth the way for the relatives. Paperwork regarding financial matters, wills etc, were left in a clearly marked and carefully ordered folder. No mess had been left.

Despite these preparations, the man's family still had to find him hanging at the top of the stairs, with puffed and blotched face, tongue lolling and swollen, eyeballs bulging. After cutting him down we had to leave the building. He'd been hanging with the heating on for 48 hours and the smell was unbelievable...

When we first arrived on scene, we were closely followed by relatives. Before we had time to cut him down (once the police had inspected the scene) a relative entered the front door, directly below the gruesome sight. I did my best to shield the victim from view and direct the relative into another room, but it was hopeless. It was distressing obviously.

I am making this point not because I have some sick fascination with it but because I want to make it clear to everyone that this is often not a beautiful or pain free way to go and it is a horrific thing for a friend, relative or even hardened emergency services personnel to have to find. Good clerical arrangements are hardly a trade for giving such an unforgettable shock. There are people like the Samaritans who can help a person to see an alternative to suicide.

But some people are determined. I once went to a woman who habitually tried to kill herself but generally without success. This time she managed it. As my boss pointed out (a la Austin Powers) she got the hang of it in the end!

As you know, I'm a paramedic and sometimes that involves some pretty interesting experiences. But more often than not us medics come into contact with some pretty crazy people. We see life. And for a lot of us, that is what keeps us in a job with low pay and terrible hours that practically kill our social lives! But sometimes seeing life, we only see the dumb-arse end of the scale. In fact, it's our bread and butter.

Last night, I was called out to over half a dozen jobs, which was busier than usual for our little station. Of those, only one person actually needed to go to hospital. I could understand being called out to people if they were panicking, but here's a prime couple of examples of the sort of thing we do.

Late in the evening we got a call to a stabbing in the town centre. I was pretty excited. Makes a change from picking up old people covered in their own bodily produce. Finally, I might actually get a chance to save a life for a change! We waited for the police to arrive before going in. It is standard practice for us to do this since our employers are too cheap to buy us anything useful like a stab vest or belt clip for our radios.

I get in there, really looking forward to working on a genuine casualty and find a young bloke with a few abrasions across his abdomen. Fucking twat didn't have a single cut or penetrating wound on him but had called us anyway. My adrenaline cooled and solidified to a block of black depression and I stacked it in my soul with all the other false alarm based blocks I have made over the years. Recently, I'm finding the constant contact with idiots harder and harder to bear. What part of 'accident' or 'emergency' do these people not understand? The most infuriating thing is that somewhere else in town a baby could be choking, with just moments to live, and we're tied up with a bloke that seems to have self inflicted scratches he's blaming on a bloke with a 'blade', an extremely blunt one.

It turns out that a baby was choking, apparently. We were headed back to base when we got the call. Dinner was ditched and we hot footed to the disaster, aware that seconds count, feeling the crushing yet lifting weight of responsibility on our shoulders, rehearsing, checking drug protocols. Adrenaline really pumping this time. Trouble locating the address. We found it after a few minutes of controlled panick and major pressure. Legged it in to find baby sat, pink and smiling.

"She was choking, and coughing up sticky stuff!" hyperventilates big fat mum in her greasy dressing gown. She's vomited milk more likes. My eyes meet my colleague's. They roll in unison.

Baby smiles and gives a little wink. "I'm not as dumb as my mum and dad," she's thinking. "But I needed to puke out the shit they're trying to feed me!"

It's cooking hot in the room and baby is well dressed. We'll be back later for convulsions no doubt. I check her over and my first impression is confirmed, there is nothing wrong with her. She vomited as babies do. But someone forgot to find out if mum and dad were too stupid to breed or not. These people should have a licence. Pass an exam. I suppose they love the little miss, and can't help being a bit dim. But why call us?

I left, wiping my feet on the way out, muttering like Mutly.

After a 40 minute doze in the small hours we got a call to an elderly man with chest pain.
We rushed to it some miles away but not with the same gusto as our earlier false alarms. Stabbings and babies are rare and emotive you see.

The sun was coming up to light a well kept flower garden. Maybe not a fuckwit then. But we found our patient sitting patiently on the side of a bed, fit as you or I. Fuckwits come in all classes. Heart attacks have a certain outward character that most medics will recognise without the need for ECG. It allows us to change gear as soon as we glimpse the patient. Are we in a hurry or not? It depends on the vital signs, colour and demeanor, observed within seconds of seeing our patient. This man had none of those time critical characteristics. My gears grinded down in a sleepy haze. Turns out he had the pain for a month. It hadn't changed. It was under investigation already. He just decided that he couldn't wait another two hours for doctor's surgery to open before seeing another medic to tell him what all the others had already told him. To this moment, I still don't really get what he wanted, because he didn't even seem that panicked. It doesn't say 'hand holding and reassurance for old problems under investigation' or 'here for a second opinion' on our vehicle sides. It says 'Accident and Emergency'. 'I don't want to go to hospital,' he said. So why call an ambulance?? I knelt at the end of the bed, my head still swimming from the drunken feeling of being awake when most normal people are well asleep, in bed with their partners or perhaps someone else's partner, and wondered if someone I knew was waiting for an ambulance to really save their life while we were with this individual of a certain type (you know what type!).

I was angry. I joined to save life and when I get the chance I'm good at it and I care about the outcome. But the job puts you into contact with these people because the triage team can't say no and the company refuses to fine time wasters. I joined the ambulance service for a career making a difference to the life expectancy of people in dire need. But it's official; only 10% of our work involves genuine emergencies. If you were satisfied with only ten percent of what you did at work, how would you feel? Would you quit? Find a new job?

What should I do? You tell me. What should you do? Think before you call.

David Coverdale was heading Whitesnake when I was just three years old. Last night I saw him for the first time in concert, celebrating 30 years of crooning at the top of his game. I've always loved certain of Whitesnake's hits, though I must admit that as my tastes and emotional drives have changed I listened to them less and less in recent years. Nevertheless the band could still seduce a crowd of old and new fans. But do they, and particularly David Coverdale, still love it?

I ask this question because I have been both lucky and unlucky enough to see stardom and its effects on stars and their families from the inside. Most people only know and therefore love the icon on the stage. But these icons have family often burdened with the weight of propping up such flawed and often 'fallen angels'. Whilst the drink, drugs and womanising reputation of some stars earns them kudos with fans, the families and friends have to cope with the tortured and often egocentric souls behind the creativity and talent.

The family I knew, and eventually joined, is philosophical about the position they find themselves in. The resignation was that their sacrifice and support was for the greater good, a contribution to art and creativity and to the happiness of others. But for me this laissez-faire approach to the behaviour of 'the chosen one' tarnished the very greatness of their art. But then, I believe that greatness is to be great to the betterment of the lives of those around you, not at the cost of sacrifice of your nearest and dearest.

I make no insinuations of DC himself. I do not know his family life or back ground and there seemed to be a lot of love on the stage between the musicians and with the audience. There is no doubt that his charisma and talent are responsible for the longevity and success of his career. Ten years ago I would have been a little awed by such close proximity to so famous and talented a person. But standing there just a few feet from the stage, close enough to see the wrinkles on the old icon, I couldn't help wondering about his real thoughts as he waved and pointed to members of the crowd, who reacted as if they had had a one to one with a god, perhaps a slightly bored and tired one. DC worked the crowd like a pro but with a tinge of the hum drum, perhaps trying to be excited by yet another thrown thong, yet another city, yet another night at work after 30 years of performing to the expectations of strangers. I can only thank god and praise the whole band that they didn't seem to take themselves too seriously because, despite having a good time, I certainly couldn't!

Congratulations, DC, on 30 years of doing anything well. I bow to you as a self-made, great Brit and I hope your greatness is the greatest kind, one that leaves no trail of loving victims, for such a flawed greatness is no kind of greatness at all.

When I was 22 I worked for a small firm making good money as an account manager and salesman. I spent three years on an industrial estate in Oxfordshire in what I now realise was a bubble of blissful ignorance. At first the job was fun. Compared to retail management (which I had quit due to unbelievably long hours and low pay) this was a holiday.

I remember the first week very well for two reasons in particular. Firstly, despite it still being common place for people to smoke at their desks, I really enjoyed the happy money making environment. I was at last taking some control of my own destiny. And secondly because of an event I had in the shower of my new lodgings (raised eyebrows all round!). The shower cubicle was built into the wall and had a door which split down the middle to slide to one side. It was practically hermetically sealed. I stepped in, and whilst showering felt I should pinch myself for not only landing a plum job back in my beloved home county but also because I felt I must be missing a key point if this job seemed so easy. I finished my shower and went to step out but could I open the door? Most definitely not.

When I was young my brothers and I used to play a game called smurf war. We would all get into our blue sleeping bags and launch ourselves at each other in a kind of moshing action. But my brother, who was unbelievably cruel to me when I was a child and also much bigger than me, used to push my head down into my sleeping bag and seal of the top with an iron like grip. Being prone to a little claustrophobia I used to freak out until, fearing that my cries of sheer terror would bring one of my parents up the stairs with the dreaded 'spoon' he would let me out.

Stuck in the shower and suddenly feeling caught between the terror of what seemed to be a rapidly exhausting air supply and the alternate fear of embarrassment at seeking help when I was trapped bollock naked in my new lodgings, that feeling of claustrophobia came flooding back. I searched for the release of the door in a panic. Couldn't find it.

Being six feet tall and well built I decided it was better to wreck the door than to suffocate and began to shoulder barge it but with limited 'run up' all I managed to do was flex the door a little and feel a sudden rush of cold air which I gulped in gladly before being sprung back into my steamy soon to be sarcophagus. Having repeatedly barged the door in an effort to get out my hand slipped to the central divider between the two doors where I found a cunningly concealed finger hold. I pulled and the doors swung open. I stepped from my new and newly wrecked cubicle feeling totally stupid. I think maybe this was a sign of things to come. I have had a tendency to wreck things in an attempt to escape feeling trapped.

In time, my work in the office began to drag me down. Although I was making good money, I began to hate repeating the same kinds of conversation with the same kinds of people. To this day I find repetition torturous. At that time, and following a parachute jump which made me realise there was more to life, I hatched my escape plan and over the next year I brought it into reality (more on that some other time...).

Why am I talking about this? Well, last night my best friend came round for his weekly feed and natter. He looked pretty dejected when he walked through the door and the conversation eventually got round to why this was so. Many moons ago my friend chose to stay in a job which bored him because his agenda was not one of reaching out into the world for new experiences in the way that mine was.

Ten years with the same firm, doggedly avoiding redundancy offers and the temptations of telling his managers to kiss their derrieres and a short period with a couple of other companies eventually brought him to what might be termed consultant status within business. At this point he left, set up his own firm and now makes astronomical money as a self employed consultant.

The thing is, he chose a path which brought him everything he could dream of except the one thing he really wants, a good woman in his life.

Talking last night, we came to the conclusion that we had both chosen paths that ended us up envying the other. As a poorly paid and miserably treated paramedic harbouring seething ambitions for greatness and kudos, I would love to be in his position; well paid, respected and consulted.

He looks upon my married life and feels that time is running out. He feels that despite all his efforts he just can't seem to change his life in this respect. He feels that it is beyond his control.

And having cast about for an alternative to excrement covered patients and excrement talking managers, I too feel frustrated and desperate that my chance to get recognition and success is slipping away.

My point is this. Having both made decisions that were right for us at the time, our lives had unfolded roughly in the shadow of one another, his path leading to prosperity and kudos, mine to memories and crazy experience and stable marriage. Each dissatisfied in one key aspect, we both want a bit of what the other has but are losing hope of making it happen. It raises the question; what could we have done in the past or do now to make us satisfied?

If anyone has the answer, I would love to hear it.

It's hard to contemplate the death of young people in car accidents. Right now the country is in shock at the death of a group of six in a head on collision. While the death of these people is tragic and the tributes of family and friends is commendable, I find myself wondering why the press haven't aired the question yet, how many people was the car designed to carry safely? I have had cause to attend many fatal accidents and one thing that strikes me often is the difference that wearing a seatbelt can make to survivability of occupants. Sure there are occasions when unbelted occupants are thrown clear of wreckage that would otherwise have killed them, but I have been there and seen people die who would probably have survived had they not been rattled around inside the vehicle on impact i.e. had they been wearing a seatbelt. The country has itself to blame for the poor consideration shown by drivers, particularly the young and inexperienced, to the effects of high speed impacts on that bubble of machinery they are so blissfully and precariously racing along in. Why? Because driver education fails to make the reality of ugly mutilation in accidents known to drivers from day one. As a trainee paramedic I had fire in my belly and drove fast. After seeing how even the strongest vehicles can disintegrate in high speed impacts and seen first hand and in pictures the effects on the occupants, I slowed down. It was instant and permanent, like the effects of driving too fast. My heart goes out to those who have lost loved ones or whose lives have been affected by the poor driving of themselves or others. To survive a fatal accident is to be saddled with guilt and sadness for the rest of your life. The real tragedy of accidents is the harming of people who simply got in the way; the wrong place wrong time syndrome. Tragic because they had no part or blame in the events that led to their death or serious injury. The right place for speed is the race track or the air. You want to go fast? Try sky diving!