MEDIC TRIBES: A guide to out placement

THE ALCOHOLIC

Monday comes around once more.

“Well, might as well buy a pack of stubbies then.”

Perpetually bored with the suburban lifestyle of the Tauntonian, Reece spends his evenings drinking cheap Lidl wine in his flat to terminate the endless cycle of clinical medicine. Unable to fathom any sort of fun not involving alcohol, Reece snubs his colleagues who enjoy exploring the local vicinity. Instead he mutters and gurgles obscenities into his glass of “genuine Lidl Whiskey”, while leaning back in his ergonomic chair, fat spilling over his once-chiselled frame.

THE PARASITE

Never organising his own clinics or clerkings, Dennis feeds on the academic enthusiasm of his peers. Known to rigorously stalk his colleagues in advance, he casually suggests partnering up with the highest rank student: a move he has been planning for months. Herein lies the parasite. Commonly clad in baggy sweatshirts and signet rings, Dennis spends any time alone searching for the best deals to Columbia so he can escape the hell that is out placement.

It is of great amusement to witness these creatures when their clinical partner has been taken ill: they wander the wards aimlessly, bumping into patients, mislaying every piece of medical equipment they own.

THE NATIVE

“I just don’t know why everyone complains about Weston-super-Mare”, she asserted with her fresh West Country accent.

Georgie’s gone native. Seldom seen in the car back to Bristol, Georgie immerses herself in the local culture. As soon as anyone complains about leaving Bristol, she ardently defends her newfound spiritual homeland to the death. Aggressively calling her nemesis “a reet spuddling”, she enumerates the various ways in which Weston is “Gert Lush”, and that anyone who disagrees should

“G’woam to where they’d come”. Conversant in the history of the Grand Pier and a frequent contributor to the Ship Inn skittles team, Georgie, the selfidentified Westoner, ends up requesting to stay in the decaying seaside town: much to the disgust to her colleagues, and for that matter, the wider universe.

THE CONNOISSEUR

“Oh you haven't been to Swindon before? You’ll have a great time the teaching is fantastic and I know all the best local spots to eat, I was there for a week on LITHE.”

God forbid ever discovering the 3 town attractions for yourself the connoisseur rams local knowledge down your throat before you can even say ‘outplacement’. Any hope you had of working out where the hospital canteen was is lost within 10 seconds of arriving. ‘The teaching fellows are sooooo lavely” you were promised before being grilled on the origins of the corticospinal tract for 2 hours. Lies, f*****g lies.

RETURN TICKET TO BRISTOL

Josh learnt how to drive at the age of 13 and constantly rubs it in people’s faces. Always the first to rush out of seminars or bedside teaching, this particular medical student maximises his time in Bristol. Never failing to miss a night out on the triangle, Josh purposefully failed to provide the £20 deposit for the Swindon accommodation, because he said “it was a waste of money” -- while simultaneously spending hundreds of pounds hurtling down the M4.

This specimen is often found publicly broadcasting their love for the Bristol grime scene, though more often than not, ends up spending their evenings cuddling a childhood teddy bear with their patagonia PJs on.

THE GHOST

No one has ever seen him in the flesh. A slammed door at 6:30am and a lukewarm cup of instant coffee are the only evidence of his existence. Supposedly he’s offsite on the psychiatric ward but no one can confirm his exact whereabouts. With his CAPs logbook signed off 3 weeks in advance and his clinical portfolio brimming with patients there is no questioning his competence, but who the f**k is the bloke?