This week, we GPs have mostly been rubbish at . . . diagnosing and treating obsessive compulsive disorder. Well, pardon me for trying to justify my incompetence. But can I just point out that the nature of OCD often involves concealment of the problem? So if a patient presents after a decade of hand-washing, I can hardly be blamed for a ten-year delay in diagnosis.

As for treatment, the same bodies who are beating me over the head for my therapeutic inadequacies were, only a few weeks ago, berating me for “dishing out” SSRIs, the drugs that do for psychiatric pathology what Domestos did for all known germs.

Ah, but you wanted the talking treatment. Fine, except the delay for cognitive behavioural therapy is about six months, which gives you plenty of time to talk while you’re waiting. And I’m not responsible for that queue any more than I am for the one in Tesco.

In other words, it’s not entirely my fault. No matter, though. We GPs are virtually immune to doctor-knocking stories, not least because they’re so prevalent. After all, this week we have also been rubbish at ordering flu vaccine, and at having an incontinence policy (yes, really). Cast your mind back a little further and you’ll find that we also faced wagged fingers for the osteoporosis “epidemic”, the increasing rates of female lung cancer and for men failing to attend the doctor. Presumably, we’re also to blame for the current cold snap and the fact that England seem to have forgotten how to bat.

These stories follow a now familiar format. First, the headlines scream that GPs are useless. Then a spokesperson — usually from some worthy patient-support group — wails that it’s just not good enough and something must be done. Finally, a specialist observes that we GPs really need to raise our awareness and that the answer is more education.

All of which is met with a pained smirk by the nation’s GPs. If we were any more “aware”, our state of hyper-alertness would leave us as quivering wrecks, just one “boo” away from post- traumatic stress disorder, which we’re also rubbish at diagnosing, by the way.

And if we did attend all the educational sessions recommended by the great and the good, then my ratio of study leave to service would be 45:1 rather than the other way round, so I’d be highly trained but never available.

So why are we GPs the whipping boys of the media, patient groups and po-faced profs? Simple. We’re in the front line. Whether your problem’s a broken rib, a broken heart or a broken home, we’re your first port of call. That’s what puts the “general” into “practitioner”. We know a little about a lot, including when to refer you to specialists, the guys who know a lot about a little. It’s a safe, effective and efficient system.

By definition, we can’t be experts in everything. There simply aren’t the hours in the day or the neurones in the brain. But those who don’t understand how general practice works continue to bang the drum for “neglected” diseases X or Y. In so doing, they deafen themselves to our protests and they give us all a headache. And by constantly implying that GPs are uncaring buffoons, they paint an unpretty picture of the profession, which does little for our chronic recruitment problems. Nor does it instil confidence in the punters.

I have countless consultations that begin, “Doctor, I just want you to refer me a specialist”, the subtitle being, “You’re just a GP, I want to see a proper doctor.” Hell, how am I ever going to become any good if I never get a proper go? It gets so bad that I suffer obsessional thoughts about Caribbean islands and compulsions to jack it all in. So maybe I’ve got OCD, too. I’ve been like this for years; it’s just not good enough, something must be done . . .

Dr Copperfield is an Essex GP. He also writes for Doctor magazine

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