TV: Sweet Medicine
Authors: Trisha Greenhalgh
Journal: BMJ (2003)

Remember Peak Practice? In one memorable episode, an attractive female athlete is provisionally diagnosed as having arthritis and told to rest pending the test results. That same evening, we see her limbering up to train on the local track. Fortunately, the (young and dishy) general practitioner is driving by, and screeches to a halt in time to pursue her, shouting, “Don't do it, Donna.” He catches her before the first bend, thus averting permanent damage. Cut to a soft focus shot of the silly girl in the doctor's arms and a look of a professional job well done in his come-to-bed eyes.​eyes.




Figure 1



The Sweet family: gorgeous and idealistic

Credit: ITV 1




The latest medical television soap, Sweet Medicine, is more of the same. With a cast headed by the actress Patricia Hodge, the 10 part series follows the personal and professional lives of the Sweet family, who run a surgery in a fictional Derbyshire village. The GPs are young, gorgeous, and idealistic, and the plot repeatedly turns on the contrived moral dilemmas they face in relation to the unlikely illnesses and risk behaviours of patients of the opposite sex. As moral custodians of their village, they are forever popping up in homes, schools, and cafes to deliver advice or check if it is being followed.

The overarching storyline closely mirrors what we would all recognise as the standard medical day (consultations, sex, paperwork, sex, emergencies, sex, meetings, sex, etc). When an old flame pitches up in a skimpy top with an unconvincing sore throat, we see everything in Dr Nick Sweet's body language except his actual hard on. We know he will be unfaithful to his lovely young wife before long.

The main character—the much loved but clinically inept senior partner of a country practice—is cold in his grave by the end of the first episode. His legacy will pervade subsequent instalments as examples of his decisions come to light and vex the next generation of partners: his nephew, son, and daughter in law. How much should they cover up for the old duffer—and how can they save the patients he mismanaged before it's too late? The first iatrogenic emergency is the village slob, who has been picking up repeat prescriptions for weight losing diuretics. A blood test sent by the young heroes shows that the tablets were “killing him,” so he is pulled in pronto and cured by the rapid consumption of two jugloads of tap water.

The medicine itself is the worst I've seen on television—and, worryingly, panders to a host of contemporary misconceptions. A six month old infant, alert and bonny to even the untrained eye, is apparently failing to thrive on the grounds that he whinges a lot. The blood tests come back normal, and the GP concurs with his anxious but sensible parents (a cuddly gay couple—nice touch) that there's something going on. “I'd like to send Henry to hospital for some tests to see if he has any allergies,” he says. “How long will it take?” they ask. “A day—two at most.” The tests confirm cow's milk intolerance, and the GP immediately does a home visit to deliver a jumbo can of soya milk.

If Sweet Medicine goes to a second series, the producers would do well to hire an on-set medic to make sure that the x rays are the right way up and edit out the blatantly dangerous pearls of medical advice (“there's no bruising or rash, which rules out meningitis”). Until then, you can either (a) not watch it or (b) suspend your professional judgment entirely and enjoy the rumpy-pumpy.