Why the NHS Should Bring Back Leeches and a Saw.

Let me begin by saying that I am a huge supporter of modern medicine. I love antibiotics, MRI scanners, and any machine that goes ping, because machines that go ping are scientifically proven to make doctors feel important. But let’s be honest: the NHS is skint. It has the financial stability of a drunk man on a trampoline. And so, as a responsible citizen, I feel compelled to offer a bold, innovative, forward‑thinking solution.

We must return proudly, unapologetically to leeches and a saw.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: “Jim, have you been sniffing the hospital hand sanitiser again?” And the answer is yes, but only recreationally. The point is, leeches and a saw worked perfectly well for centuries. In fact, they were the only medical tools for centuries, unless you count shouting “WALK IT OFF” as a tool. And people survived! Well… some people. Enough people to keep the species going, which is really all you can ask of a healthcare system.

Let’s start with leeches. Leeches are the perfect NHS employee. They don’t need pensions. They don’t go on strike. They don’t require expensive training, unless you count “being a leech” as training. They show up, they latch on, they suck blood, and they leave. That’s more than you can say for some junior doctors, who insist on things like “sleep” and “food” and “not working 27‑hour shifts in a corridor.”

Leeches are also environmentally friendly. They are biodegradable, self‑cleaning, and come in convenient multipacks. You don’t need to plug them in. You don’t need to sterilise them. If one falls on the floor, you just pick it up and stick it back on the patient. Try doing that with a CT scanner!

And then there’s the saw. The saw is the Swiss Army knife of historical medicine. It’s simple. It’s reliable. It doesn’t require software updates or a Wi‑Fi connection. It never displays an error message saying “REBOOT IN SAFE MODE.” It just saws. That’s it. You can’t argue with that kind of elegant minimalism.

Imagine the savings. Instead of spending £2 million on a robotic surgical arm that occasionally has an existential crisis and refuses to operate, the NHS could buy a perfectly good saw from B&Q for £14.99. Maybe £19.99 if you want the deluxe model with a handle that doesn’t give you blisters.

And think of the waiting times. Right now, if you need surgery, you wait approximately the same length of time as the average glacial cycle. But with the saw‑and‑leech system, you could be in and out in minutes. You walk into A&E, a cheerful medieval‑style practitioner greets you with, “Right then, let’s get that sorted,” and before you can say “Is that rust?” the job is done. Efficiency!

Of course, some people will complain. There are always naysayers who insist on “sterility” and “anaesthetic” and “not being treated like a 14th‑century peasant.” But these people need to understand that we are in a cost‑of‑living crisis. We all have to make sacrifices. Some of us sacrifice avocado toast. Some of us sacrifice limbs. It’s called teamwork.

Besides, the NHS could rebrand the whole thing. Don’t call it “amputation with a saw.” Call it Heritage Surgery™. People love heritage. They pay extra for heritage. You could have rustic wooden signage, staff in charming plague‑doctor masks, and a gift shop selling artisanal jars of “ethically sourced leeches.”

In conclusion, if we truly want to save the NHS, we must embrace the wisdom of our ancestors, who lived in a simpler time, a purer time, a time when the phrase “medical malpractice lawsuit” had not yet been invented. Leeches and a saw: the budget‑friendly future of British healthcare.