Hear that? A distant rumbling? No, it's not another thundery British summer's day, nor the sound of Olympics-inspired flab-busting joggers pounding the streets. It's the combined cacophony of some of the country's most compromised nasal passages. Because Helps Stop Snoring, a company producing “snoring relief aids”, has just set up the first snoring boot camp.

The idea is that the worst afflicted will be sent to a military-style camp in Birmingham for three days. There, they'll get a lifestyle makeover, an ear, nose and throat assessment, and a few nights without their partners elbowing them in the ribs.

Clearly, the aim is to help cure what can be a serious problem. But I sniff a sub-plot along the lines of finding “Britain's worst snorer”. Doubtless there's a reality-TV camera crew on the way, though, given that the winner may well be a sofa-bound, lager-sedated, narcoleptic warthog, it isn't exactly going to be Pop Idol - Bone Idle, maybe.

Such a scheme may do more than mask the noise from Birmingham international airport. It might actually help. After all, when I'm confronted by a walrus-shaped snorer and his exasperated and knackered partner in the surgery - as I often am - I really have only two options. One is to lecture the “patient” along the lines that: “The cure may well lie in your own hands; all you have to do is to stop smoking, slim down and cut out the booze.” The only problem being that he's so unimpressed with my strategy that he's demonstrating his snoring prowess before I've finished the sentence. And the other option is earplugs. But then I can't hear the rest of the consultation.

The idea that I could refer him to a Brummie sergeant- major for ritual berating is appealing, and it would, at least, make a change for him to be shouted at by someone other than his wife. It's not a completely novel concept, of course. The idea has already been applied to misbehaving teenagers, drug addicts and the overweight, with some success, if I remember the viewing figures correctly. But there's no reason why it should stop at snorers.

For example, there are those punters we GPs record in the notes as “TATT”. This stands for “Tired all the time”, which sounds derogatory, because it is. The problem with these patients is that we've subjected them to every clinical question, physical examination and medical test known to man, yet they still refuse to yield a clear diagnosis. They end up exasperated by our apparent incompetence, and we retaliate by deciding they're suffering from terminal indolence. Which, as any doctor will tell you, requires a kick up the pants rather than a prescription. And if that kick comes from a boot in the context of a camp, so much the better, not least because they'll be out of my practice area for a while.

Then there's the hypochondriacal. Never has it been easier to be morbidly introspective about health, given the current obsession with information, choice and patient empowerment. What these patients really need is a life. Or, failing that, a stint in a boot camp, where there's no access to neurosis-fuelling internet pages, DIY tests or media scare stories. It would be a salutary lesson to these individuals to realise that they can survive a few days without input from their GP. And if they don't, well, whatever.

Not that tough love is appropriate for everyone, of course. A few days in Birmingham might tip borderline depressives over the edge. And a boot camp isn't going to work if your main problem is bunions. Nor will it resolve every case of snoring. After all, some simply need their partner to be more tolerant. In fact, I'm a prime example because, apparently, I snore - but I know I'm not one of the 200 nominees for the six places on “Britain's Got Snorers”. How can I be so sure? Because my very understanding wife is taking me away for a long weekend at the time. Somewhere in the Midlands, I believe.

Dr Copperfield is an Essex GP. He also writes fro Pulse magazine and pulsetoday.co.uk

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