‘Doctors? You’re better off not going near them. They’re only good for lancing boils,’ said Joe, a house painter who suffered from asthmatic bronchitis. You could follow him to the pub by his trail of green mucus.

Shea had a little toe which turned black. ‘Maybe it’ll fall off’, he said. It was gangrenous and the smell off him was sickening. His wife forced him down to the local G.P. who referred him to the hospital. He died soon after.

When asked how he was, John would always say, ‘grand’. However, he would follow this with a litany of complaints. ‘I passed a torrent of blood. He was taking my blood pressure. I thought my arm would break!’

Willie was up in the hospital being examined by a young doctor. ‘I can’t find anything wrong with you,’ the doctor said. Willie replied, ‘well, will you send somebody out who can find something wrong with me!’

bodies queuing
XRAY, MRI, CT and ultrasound scans –
but terror will not show

Gerry McDonell