One For The Scots...
Up at the first bed, the patient sits bolt upright in bed, grabs Blair's arm and says:
"Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie, O, what a panic's in thy breastie! Thou need na start awa sae hasty, Wi' bickering brattle!"
Quickly onto the next bed where the patient stares Blair up and down and says:
"Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, Great chieftain o' the puddin-race! Aboon them a' ye tak your place, Painch, tripe, or thairm:"
Finally the last bed where the patient, with eyeballs whizzing round and round says:
"Ha! whare ye gaun' ye crowlin ferlie? Your impudence protects you sairly;
I canna say but ye strunt rarely Owre gauze and lace,"
Blair has finally had enough and turns on the consultant: "It's a stitch up, you've brought me onto a psychiatric ward deliberately!"
"No," replies the consultant, "this is the Serious Burns Unit."