2nd draft
You think it's a running joke. I think you're bunch of chinless twats, with not enough to do. You don't give a flying **** at a rolling doughnut that 8000 people die of falls in the home, you neither know nor care that a simple change in the Building Regulations would glass injuries by half, you don't give a monkeys about hospital borne infections and you're too scared to think that all too many GPs are halfwits who couldn't diagnose their way out of a ****ing paper bag. Your readers lead a life of pampered luxury at the taxpayer's expense, dispensing solecisms that would look lightweight in a Christmas cracker and you have nothing better to do than take your 'I'm scared of cyclists' problem for a walk in your sad little excuse for a journal. Statins for cash? Not bothered. Contraceptive implants. You don't give a toss. MRSA? Can't even be troubled to wash your hands. But when it comes to telling people what to do, you're like a ****ing rash. Half a glass of Pinot a day, ladies, or you'll go mental. Shift the weight, porky, or sing for your hip op. Give up fags or get the **** out of my surgery.
Don't, please, send me e-mails from your home addresses telling me that you ride a bike to work, because I'm not ****ing interested. You publish this shoot, so you take the heat. **** off.