A little over thirty years ago Margaret Thatcher sacrificed me on the altar of political ideology, slashing the Medical Research Funding that kept me in a job and giving me the first of the six P45's I've had in my roller coaster career.
Thirty six hours ago I was in A&E expecting to have to make use of one of my own bright spark moments from that time. Thankfully not, but the unexpected possibility that I might be on the receiving end of my own ingenuity, which others had the sense and foresight to put their own blood sweat and tears behind after my enforced departure, taking a barking mad idea and turning it into medical reality, made me reflect on what has become of this country in the intervening period.
The city of Bristol is a city of taverns, maritime history and folklore whose fame and fortune is known worldwide, and quoted by professional black men at every opportunity so as to attempt to embarrass us over the ethics of a bunch of african islamics towards their like-skinned, but differently-worshipping bretheren.
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