The thing about a six-bed ward bay is this…

You don’t just witness other people’s behaviour, you live inside it. Sadly there’s no privacy, no escape, no “sorry, I just need a moment.”, You hear everything. You see everything. The curtain of invisibility doesn’t help with the audio either…

And sometimes, you wish you didn’t.

This week’s star performer was a man I’ll call Rupert (not his real name).

Rupert was brought onto the ward late one evening, clearly in pain, though from the moment he arrived, one thing became abundantly clear:

His entire world revolved around sport.

Sports on his phone.
Sports on speaker.
Sports analysis, sports chats, sports nostalgia… all delivered at a volume that could probably be picked up by the International Space Station.

At 2am, while the rest of us were trying to sleep, he was happily watching match highlights, commentating to himself like he was auditioning for Sky Sports.

Apparently he was a retired sportsman himself… complete with the classic post-career beer belly and the unwavering confidence of someone used to being the personality in the room.

The problem? The rest of us weren’t in the market for a late-night sports documentary. We just wanted sleep.

Morning 1: The Surgery Prep That Wasn’t

At 7am, during their rounds, nurses asked Rupert to get ready for surgery, gown on, belongings sorted, you know the drill…

He didn’t.

A pharmacist came over to talk to him. Rupert held up a single finger, the “wait there” gesture, and proceeded to take a 20-minute phone call about sport with a mate.

Right in front of them.
The pharmacist stood there like a suspended NPC waiting for their dialogue option to unlock.

Then a nurse tried.
Same gesture.
Another “important” call… also about sport.

Physio?
Same again.

By this point, was he intentionally rude… or was he just orbiting his own universe.

The Toilet None-Mystery

aka, we don’t need Poirot to solve this one 🙄…

Above the ward toilet a huge sign can be seen from 30ft away:

“Do NOT flush paper hand towels.”

Big. Bold. Impossible to miss.

Every time Rupert used that toilet, it was blocked with… paper hand towels.

I even tested it scientifically:

• I used the loo → fine
• He used the loo
• I try to use it afterwards → blocked

Unless we were dealing with paranormal plumbing activity, the culprit was obvious.

By the Evening: Still Nil by Mouth, Still No Surgery

By 7pm, he was told that surgery wasn’t happening that day.

These things happen, I know only too well how frustrating and annoying this can be, though not unusual given the trust juggling emergencies and caseloads.

He was reassured he’d be first on the list the next morning.

Two hours later, a mate appeared delivering fast food.

Let me tell you: after two days without eating myself, the smell of that burger nearly made me levitate like a hungry cartoon character.

Meanwhile, the hospital menu offered its usual lifetime supply of cheese or egg sandwiches — each slice of egg so thin it must be cut by lasers in the pathology lab.

Morning 2: Déjà Vu… and an Unexpected Twist

Another night of sports videos at full volume.

At 7am, the nurse once again asked him to get ready.

Nothing.

Then came a question I’d forgotten until the moment it unfolded:

“Rupert, have you been washing with the antibacterial scrub we gave you?”
They’d given it to him two days earlier.

His answer?

“Oh, I haven’t been showering. Just washing my face.”

I swear the temperature in the room dropped.
My internal monologue was a mix of horror and silent prayer:

You’ve been nil by mouth, sweating, snoring, farting, blocking loos, and blasting sports documentaries for two days… and the one and only place you’ve washed is your face?

And then… blame sleep deprivation… a tune popped into my head:

🎵 “Smegma Man, Smegma Man…” 🎵

(to the tune of Spider-Man)
Not my proudest moment.

But please spare a thought for Mrs Smegma.

The Porters Arrive… and Chaos Ensues

Finally, the porters turned up to take him to surgery.

Except Rupert was… brace yourself… not remotely ready.

He asked, “Can I call my wife to let her know I’m going down?”

Reasonable request… in theory.

But this turned into:

• A lengthy catch-up conversation about everything except surgery
• Two calls to mates
• A toilet trip (and yes, the inevitable blockage)
• Then the revelation that he still needed to get changed
• Followed by rummaging, moaning, and general faffing about

The porters… saints among humans… waited a further 30 minutes.

An entire surgical list knocked off schedule because Rupert needed to tell half the country about his operation.

What Stuck With Me

Look, I genuinely did feel sorry for him in between the chaos.

Being hungry, uncomfortable, and in pain is miserable.

But watching the nurses gently… and repeatedly… try to get him ready was like watching a parent trying to get a stubborn child dressed for school:

“Rupert… please get dressed.”

“Rupert… have you put your gown on yet?”

“Rupert… can you stop taking calls for a moment?”

“Rupert… the porters are waiting.”

“Rupert… why is the toilet blocked again?”

“Rupert… the antibacterial wash wasn’t meant for your face.”

In a six-bed bay, you absorb all of this whether you want to or not.

By the time he was finally wheeled away, the rest of us were exhausted… and none of us were on the surgical list.

Somewhere out there, probably right now, Rupert is still on the phone reliving the 1987 match…

and a porter is quietly questioning every life decision that led them to that moment.