Thousands join hospital march

The call to arms to fight for Worthing Hospital was answered emphatically on Wednesday evening when fancy-dressed, banner waving hordes of every age, colour, size and shape marched along Worthing seafront.

From George V Avenue to the west and the Aquarena to the east, two groups totalling an estimated 6,000 people converged on Worthing Pavilion for a public meeting on the threat to Worthing and Southlands hospitals.

Protesters chanted "save our hospital" and waved at the steady stream of cars driving along Marine Parade tooting horns in support.

Barbara Metcalfe, from Patching Village, was wheeled from George V Avenue in a wheelchair by friends Helen Mason and Heidi Stevens, having benefited from a knee operation at the hospital the week before.

She wore a skeleton outfit, as did three of the four children who walked with her, the other being dressed as a nurse.

All carried placards, some reading "Save A and E or this could be me".

Mrs Metcalfe said: "We shouldn't be even thinking about closing accident and emergency and, subsequently, the hospital itself.

"The A27 isn't good enough to go to Brighton. You will die before you get there."

Goring pensioners Charlie and Lilian Lovejoy both owe their lives to the hospital.

Mr Lovejoy said: "I had heart failure and they got me down there from Goring quickly. My wife was diagnosed with a pulmonary embolism at Worthing and then referred to a specialist hospital.

"It's only when these things happen that you realise."

Lesley and Frank James of Sackville Road, Worthing, came down armed with large hand-made protest banners held aloft by their daughters Vikie, 13, and Ellie, 11.

Lesley, who works for Worthing Portage '“ a home-visiting educational service for pre-school children with additional support needs '“ said: "Many of the children I work with rely on the hospital. There is no way most of them could travel further afield, it just wouldn't be practical, they need the hospital here."

George Thornton, 55, of Ardsheal Close, Broadwater, has used the hospital many times due a serious heart condition.

He said: "If the hospital hadn't been there I would be in of those things on the posters, a grave. I really don't think any of these plans are right, I don't see there is an alternative, we need to keep the hospital as it is."

Dorothy and George Beer, both 77, of Western Road, Sompting, came because both have had life-saving treatment at Worthing Hospital.

George, who 15 years ago suffered a heart attack and represents the southern region of the British Cardiac Patients Association, said: "The treatment my wife and I received was exceptional.

"It seems to me to be silly to take away a perfectly good hospital. We know they have to save money but they can't afford to shut down."

Dorothy added: "I had a cancerous tumour on my lung, but thanks to their care I'm as fit as a fiddle now. I don't know what we would have done without it."

HERALD EDITOR JON BUSS'S SKETCH ON A SHOW FIT FOR ANY THEATRE:

WHEN did you last see the Pavilion full to the brim like this?

"Last week, actually, for Ken Dodd" said Worthing theatres manager Peter Bailey. "Every seat taken. Didn't finish until nearly 1am but that's Doddy for you. People expect that from him."

The 900-or-so packed into the Pavilion for the NHS pantomime (Will they close the hospital? Oh yes, they will! Oh no they won't! "Over our dead bodies," cry the audience) got out earlier than that, but they were exhausted by the heat inside the theatre and the hot air from some of the speakers.

The characters were cast early on.

There was the Wicked Witch of the West Candy Morris, the most senior NHS official on show, hugely rewarded in a new top job (approaching 200,000pa) and planning the future (no less) of health services in Sussex, Surrey and Kent. And wearing interesting dangly ear-rings, sparkling in the spotlights.

She mentioned several times that as well as being an NHS manager she was a user, too. Her husband was a chronic asthmatic.

Then there was Buttons, Steve Phoenix. The steel-eyed fixer, the Worthing-based management man effectively doing all the work behind the scenes. Arguably the man who will make the decisions. Lots of calm, committee-speak ("waffle" shouted someone in the audience, "just tell us the truth") with just the faintest hint of the cheeky chappy trying, and failing, to break through.

The part of the Jolly Town Mayor with the Impressive Moustache was played by the jolly town mayor, and impressively-moustached, Major Tom Wye, who came out with some of the best one-liners of the evening and dropped several heavy hints about his military background.

There was just the slightest suggestion that, should he choose to, he could still remember his commando training and could kill anyone on the podium, if not with his bare hands, then with a single thrust of a stiletto knife cunningly concealed in his M & S sock.

"We will resist by any legal means," he cried, to thunderous applause. You half expected him to disappear in a theatrical puff of smoke, returning seconds later not in his mayoral regalia but in full combat gear, face smeared with camouflage cream, lobbing home-made Molotov Cocktails from a roadside ditch as an NHS company car cavalcade sweeps by.

Cast in the roles of the Two Angry Uncles (cleverly used to link the plot together as the scenery is changed behind the curtains) were the MPs Peter Bottomley and Tim Loughton, who both spoke passionately in defence of the hospital.

Although the overspill crowd in Steyne Gardens missed the first five minutes of Mr Bottomley's offering because the relay link went down.

"Well we all know why that happened" said one of the technical team, looking accusingly down at someone else's size 12 boots.

Filling the supporting roles were some of the county's top medical people and, as with all good pantomimes, the fun was in the body language as well as the verbals.

"We are dealing with heart disease better than we have ever done before!" trumpeted Buttons, the management fixer, the numbers man. But look to the right of the stage. There's Dr Mark Signy, the county's most eminent heart specialist, leaning back in his chair, rolling his eyes. Now he's sighing. Now he's shaking his head in disbelief at what he's just heard. For a man with a steady hand, calm under life-or-death pressure, that's approaching apoplexy.

Who should we believe? The man with the statistics and the spreadsheets or the man in the surgical gear who carries out the triple heart by-pass operations? It's a difficult one. Perhaps they should talk.

Before the show got under way, the Mayor himself dipped into the stack of protest banners left in the foyer and displayed a selection in front of the stage. One directly in front of Buttons said "Hands off our Hospital."

Out on the floor, the men with the roving microphones were the council leader, Tory Keith Mercer, and Lib Dem former mayor James Doyle, who were, in the best traditions of these things, accused by at least one audience member of bias.

There were strong words from the floor. "They're doing their best," said Major Tom.

And they were.

As he strode into the hall, Councillor Doyle was embroiled in a bizarre slapstick incident with a long-haired little girl, being ushered in the opposite direction by her father.

As the two passed, the little girl's flowing locks became entangled in a button on Cllr Doyle's coat. It can happen.

Concerned because the girl was in pain at having her hair suddenly tugged in the wrong direction by a complete stranger, Cllr Doyle turned immediately and tried to alert the dad, who was still striding purposefully for the door with daughter in tow, unaware of the drama behind.

But Cllr Doyle is a fairly fit young man and a couple of careful bounds, with child still firmly entangled in jacket, brought him level with the father. An explanation of the unexplainable then followed as to why the girl was attached so strangely to his clothing, followed in turn by a delicate and quite lengthy unwinding operation.

While all this was going on, the audience in the immediate vicintity of this vignette obviously missed what was happening on the stage.

Something about turning the hospital site into a multi-storey car park and transferring all the ingrowing toe-nail operations to Barrow-in-Furness.

Or perhaps we mis-heard.

At the end of the evening, in a planned operation, Mr Bottomley gallantly escorted Candy Morris through the auditorium and then accompanied her through the town to her car.

Mr Loughton, who the unkind would say drew the short straw, did the same for Mr Phoenix.

As someone pointed out, health secretary Patricia Hewitt didn't care to be there ("she's out of the country, we shan't be sending a representative" was the charmless message from Whitehall), and actually the two under-fire health service moguls didn't have to be there, either.

But as everyone faded into the night, the overwhelming feeling was that whatever they want to happen has already been decided, and all this is just a gruesome fandango to show "due process". A terrible ticking of boxes for people who think they know what's best for you.

But judging by the reaction of the audience on Wednesday night, and the crowd listening in Steyne Gardens, they might just have mis-judged people here rather badly.They are angry and they will not give up without a fight.

As TV presenter Des Lynam, sitting at the back, said afterwards: "I've never seen Worthing people so cross. I was amazed by the strength of feeling and the number of people there. My uncle spent his last days in Worthing Hospital so I know the place and I know the background. Downgrade the hospital? It's a ridiculous notion.

"They say they want to transfer care back into the home. When you are on the floor suffering with a cardiac arrest you don't need care in your home. You need a fully-functioning accident and emergency department."

If the NHS suits think it's all over, they've got another think coming.