GP Appointments - By Combat

I have invented a new game show. It is called “Appointment or Annihilation”.

The premise is simple. Instead of sitting in a phone queue at 8.00 am listening to Greensleeves and questioning your life choices, patients gather in a municipal sports hall and fight for the right to see a GP. Nothing lethal, obviously. We are not barbarians. Just a brisk, morally improving gladiatorial contest with foam javelins and those oversized cotton bud things from It’s a Knockout.

The receptionist, elevated on a small dais, surveys the melee with a clipboard. “Two appointments left. One face to face, one telephone. Commence.”

There would be heats. Asthmatics in one corner, bad knees in another. The truly committed would have to prove the urgency of their condition. If you can sprint the length of the hall to tackle a retired scaffolder from Yate, perhaps your chest infection can wait until Thursday.

Points awarded for visible inflammation. Bonus round for anyone who can produce a rash without Googling it first.

I appreciate some will say this is dystopian. But is it really so different from what we have now? The current system already requires speed, agility, and a working knowledge of redial. I once rang 47 times in three minutes. That is not primary care. That is competitive sport.

At least my format has transparency. No more mysterious “all appointments gone” at 8.03 am. You would know precisely why you lost. It was the woman with the tennis elbow who took you out at the ankles while quoting NICE guidelines.

There could be sponsorship. Local physios on standby. A discreet booth where you can upgrade to private mid-bout, rather like fast track at an airport. “For just £85, sir, you may bypass the semi final and proceed directly to a mildly interested locum.”

The beauty of the concept is that it restores honesty to the system. Demand exceeds supply. We all know it. Politicians say access is improving, which usually means a spreadsheet somewhere looks tidier. Meanwhile, actual humans are Googling their symptoms at midnight and convincing themselves they have a rare Peruvian fungus.

My show merely accepts reality and adds a referee.

Of course, there are drawbacks. The over 80s might struggle in the grappling stages, though I would not entirely bet against some of them. And it may be awkward explaining to Ofcom why a man with suspected gout is wielding a foam trident.

Still, it would be quicker than pressing option 3 for prescriptions and being cut off.

In truth, what irritates me is not the lack of appointments so much as the theatre around it. We pretend that if only we all refreshed the NHS app with sufficient civic virtue, the system would miraculously expand. It will not. Resources are finite. GPs are finite. Illness, regrettably, is not.

So perhaps a little absurdity would at least match the mood.

Anyway, I have not fully thought it through. I suspect the indemnity insurance would be prohibitive, and the sports hall is already booked on Tuesdays for Speed Dating.