Scum of the Earth.

Everybody has a heart sink phrase. For firemen, it might be “We’ve run out of water”. If one worked in a department store, it might be, “The manchester sale starts tomorrow” and if you were an actor it might be, “The committee of the Augathella Township and District Ladies Auxiliary would like to see you after the matinee. They’ve brought you some lamingtons and knitted coat hanger covers.”

For me, the heart sink phrase used to be, “Dr Zimble, there’s a drug rep waiting to see you.” It doesn’t bother me anymore though and I’ll tell you why in a moment. But first, let’s be clear: the marketing of pharmaceuticals is an odious business. The only people who benefit are the profit makers and the drug reps they employ.

For the last few years, the college of physicians (RACP) has advised us not to accept gifts from drug companies. The gifts range from a very average biro to an overseas holiday. Over the years, I might have collected enough items to furnish an entire house: the Astra Zenica towel set, the Merck Sharp and Dohme bread knife, the Eli Lilley wall clock, the Evista ice cream scoop, the Norvasc solar powered calculator and the Viagra red silk mens’ boxer shorts to name but a few.

A while (several years) ago, I did something I now regret. I accepted a pharmaceutical company invitation to attend a “scientific meeting” on diabetes management. It was an all expenses paid three day trip. I was given a local flight to Brisbane airport, a transfer to a domestic flight to Sydney, overnight accommodation in Sydney, a transfer to an international flight to Christchurch and a transfer to another local flight to Queenstown. At Queenstown, a coach took me to a luxury golf resort. The accommodation in New Zealand was amazing: a country hotel, with heated floors, nestling by a picturesque brook, ringed by snow capped mountains. Bill Clinton’s cottage was over there on the edge of the course.

About one hundred delegates from across Australia attended the conference. We did listen to some speakers, for a few hours. The rest of the time we were wined and dined at the finest Queenstown restaurants and even had time to take a tourist flight over the glaciers to beautiful Milford Sound.

Two things made the meeting quite odd (over and above the fact it was free). The first was a 4 kg bar of Toblerone for each delegate. If we didn’t have diabetes when we arrived, we would by the time we left. The second was the launch of the “novel anti-diabetic medication” pioglitazone. As chance would have it, the day before the launch, pioglitazone was busted in the world media for inducing fatal liver disease. I guess even multinational drug corporations have bad days.

As nice as it was to have a break from the everyday and a chance to catch up with interstate colleagues, the trip was a pointless exercise. I didn’t hear anything I didn’t already know and the new drug was a dud. The money, let’s say $2000 per person (and that’s conservative), could so easily have been spent on worthwhile causes: mosquito nets for malaria prevention, wells for clean water in the Sudan, seedlings for Indonesian subsistence farmers and so on.

I flew home feeling a little guilty but then I thought, maybe this is all normal in the corporate world. Maybe this is what I deserve. That was stupid.

Far more subtle and, to my mind, more sinister than the gifts, are the drug rep visits. A mid-twenties woman, who could pass for an air hostess any day of the week, arrives at a suburban hospital medical clinic. She is dressed to the nines in Georgio Armani corporate attire with the latest and most expensive laptop computer in one hand and a polished Italian leather satchel in the other.

Here comes the heart sink.

“Doctor, Miss Armani is here from Super-Duper Pharmaceuticals and would like five minutes?”

Damn. It’s one fifteen, I have four more patients to see, three calls to return to GPs, an abdominal paracentesis to do and my own ophthalmology appointment to get to by three.

“Okay then, send her in.”

“Dr Zimble! Charlotte from Super-Duper Pharmaceuticals. Thanks for seeing me. It’s so lovely to see you again! We missed you at the Super-Duper Pharmaceuticals dinner last Friday. I know how busy you get though. I’ve been run off my feet myself!”

The idea is, if I prescribe super-duper drug, I too will have designer suits; I too will have my shiny hair coiffed and my makeup flawless and I too will have beautiful young friends like Miss Armani. Heck, I'll be Miss Armani!

Fortunately, these days, Zimbles come with a built in bullshitometer. Miss Armani has absolutely no idea when I ask her questions like: how many patients do I need to treat with super-duper drug to save one life? Is super-duper drug safe if my patient falls pregnant? Does super-duper drug work if it is crushed or chewed? What is the absolute benefit of super-duper drug versus its relative benefit? What is the cost benefit of super-duper drug over tried ‘n true drug in this condition?

About three years ago I decided enough was enough. I said ‘no’ and stopped seeing the Miss Armani’s of the world. They could leave me printed matter if they desired but no appointments would be made.

Nothing terrible happened. No one from Super-Duper Pharmaceuticals came with a shot gun to blow out my porch light; no one sent me orange overalls and a one way ticket to Cuba; and my colleagues didn’t end up knowing anymore about super-duper drug than I did. I'm certain I can live without the Super-Duper golf umbrella.