Fwing! Zoop! Oompah! Oompah!

"I'm not going anywhere!" said Roger.
"Now now," said the nurse, "you're well enough to go home, and more importantly we need the bed."
"I don't care," said Roger, folding his arms, "I'm not going anywhere."
"Maybe you should talk to him," the nurse said, looking at me.
I hate it when people do that, but I decided to have a go at persuading him anyway, "Um-"
"Shut it you fuck-trumpet. I'm not going anywhere until I get a PROPER FUCKING WHEELCHAIR!"
"That is a proper wheelchair," the nurse insisted.
"NO IT FUCKING ISN'T! I want a proper one like what Professor Stephen Hawking's got. One with a motor and a headrest and a mechanical voice for when I can't be arsed to speak. Just because this is the fucking NHS, don't think you can get away with short-changing me, I pay my taxes and I am NOT going to have the indignity of being pushed around by that dribble of fetid monkey piss." Roger said, pointing at me.
After several hours of this, the hospital relented and gave him his wheelchair as they were in danger of missing their waiting-list targets.
"You see," Roger said, with his new mechanical voice, "it just goes to show what you can do with a little bit of persistence."
Of course he insisted on wheeling himself home via the bypass.
There were several accidents.