Doctor On The Brain
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On a sunny morning in June, the dean of St Swithan’s Hospital Medical School is struggling to avoid hypocrisy as he writes the obituary for his fearsome sparring partner, Sir Lancelot Spratt. Yet far from being a funereal and moribund tale, Doctor on the Brain is a fast-moving, hilarious comedy where the jokes are liberally dispensed and the mishaps all too common. The dean’s pregnant daughter, his wife’s tantrums, the physician next door and the mysterious willowy blonde secretary all add to the hilarity – seemingly nothing can dampen the medical high jinks of Richard Gordon’s host of entertaining characters.
people should hide the fact they have seen a psychiatrist. If you break a leg, you go openly enough to an orthopaedic surgeon to have it set.’ He leant back, pudgy fingertips together. ‘Now, I want you to forget I am here. To forget me completely. Imagine you are quite alone, addressing these four bare walls. Good. Well, what’s the trouble?’ ‘The Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte–’ ‘Ah!’ Dr Bonaccord scribbled a note. ‘You’re really convinced of it, are you?’ Sir Lancelot screwed round his head. ‘I
slightly diddled, if it’s done with style. But education will go on forever. People will never think they can get enough of it – like leisure, the poor dear deluded fools.’ The dean was feeling confused with this brisk political analysis. ‘What do you want me to do? Present the prizes at some secondary modern?’ ‘Lionel, you have a charmingly modest view of your talents.’ The waiter set down his third drink. ‘I get the barman to make those with genuine Soviet vodka, of course – so much stronger.
accept?’ The dean hesistated. ‘I did.’ ‘Lionel! How could you, when you hated the very idea?’ ‘Well…you know how Frankie is when she wants her own way.’ ‘You’re an absolute fool. You always behave towards Frankie like a first-year student to the first junior nurse who bothers to smile at him.’ The dean looked offended. ‘On the contrary. I admire Frankie only for her intellect.’ ‘Nonsense. It’s all sex.’ The dean fell silent, scowling at the cyclamen. ‘Anyway, what the devil am I going to
Quiz, nor anything else on television. But it would be convenient to have Muriel’s top-floor flat free, as a spacious study and library for himself. Apart from anything else, it would move him further from the smell of Sir Lancelot’s onions. He took a closer look at his future son-in-law. The fellow was admittedly no Adonis. Indeed, the dean wondered if he might be somewhat abnormal, an overweight achondroplastic dwarf. ‘You should have extremely intellectual children,’ he said in a consoling
any tuppenny business seemed to assume toward the public the airs rightful to consultant surgeons. ‘I’m sorry. I imagined that would simply complicate matters. I want you to supply me with a woman as soon as possible.’ ‘What!’ Sir Lancelot stared at her. ‘I should imagine you have adequate numbers on your books?’ ‘Well…yes. But it isn’t usually fixed up instantly, you know.’ ‘I don’t want to take her away with me here and now, of course. Not if that would be inconvenient. But I should