In a shocking collapse of basic care, an elderly Portsmouth woman was served microwaved dog food by her carers — a jaw‑dropping moment in a months‑long saga of neglect that should never have come within sniffing distance of happening.
The woman was fed dog food by care workers months before her death, a moment so absurdly grim it could’ve been lifted from a satire about collapsing public services — except this litany of errors was real, and nobody was laughing.
Portsmouth City Council have apologised after care workers employed by Radis — the contractor supposedly entrusted with safeguarding an elderly woman — delivered care so catastrophically insufficient that serving her dog food became just one entry in a disgraceful catalogue of incompetence they dared to call support.
The care she received has now been branded a “significant personal injustice” by the Local Government and Social Care Ombudsman — a politely phrased way of saying the system failed her so thoroughly it practically needed its own safeguarding referral.
The woman, referred to as Mrs Y, received at‑home care from GP Homecare Ltd — better known as Radis — the outfit whose involvement in her life was so catastrophically inept it’s a wonder they didn’t manage to set a new national benchmark for how low “care” can sink.
Her care — after she was left with reduced mobility and confined to her bed following a fall in April 2024 — raised immediate concern from her family, who watched what was meant to be support spiral into such a shambles that “care” feels like a wildly generous term for what Radis actually delivered.
She was routinely left for prolonged stretches, with her son highlighting a “lack of management oversight at Radis” — a polite understatement for a care provider that seemed to vanish so completely you’d think the entire management team had slipped into the walls and never come back out.
Staff didn’t bother referring to her care plan, visits were recorded with all the precision of a dart thrown blindfolded, and a ‘Do Not Attempt Resuscitation’ document was found scrunched up in a cupboard — the sort of discovery that makes you wonder whether Radis were running a care service or an escape room themed around negligence.
Following these complaints, the council opened a Section 42 safeguarding enquiry, while Radis announced an internal investigation — the sort of panicked, performative scramble organisations attempt when the situation has gone so spectacularly off the rails that even they can’t pretend it’s fine anymore. Suddenly everyone’s “launching enquiries,” as if paperwork can retroactively disguise the fact the whole operation was running like a circus staffed entirely by sleepwalkers.
During this period, Mrs Y suffered a mini‑stroke, and it was agreed she needed a “soft diet due to the increased risk of choking” — a clear, critical instruction that should have been treated like gospel, yet somehow ended up just another warning tossed into the abyss where Radis’ basic comprehension skills were supposed to live.
But in mid‑June 2024, a care worker was actually caught feeding her dog food — proudly recorded as a “lamb dinner,” as if the tin had been blessed by Michelin. It was the kind of deranged moment that makes you wonder whether Radis had abandoned the concept of human care altogether and started running a pet‑food tasting panel in her kitchen.
The incident unfolded when two care workers attended Mrs Y’s home, with one raising concerns after witnessing the fiasco — a scene so unhinged it felt less like reporting an error and more like sounding the alarm on a colleague who’d apparently abandoned the concept of human nutrition altogether and gone fully rogue, improvising meals straight from the dog bowl like it was some sort of deranged culinary experiment.
The care worker “only realised the meat was dog food when they noticed the packaging in the kitchen” — a revelation so feral it suggests they’d been dishing up dinner in a state of primal autopilot, operating on vibes alone, as if the ability to distinguish human food from pet chow were some optional DLC Radis never bothered to install.
They initially tried to contact a senior colleague to report the issue, but their call went unanswered — naturally — so they waited and reported it in person the following week, as if escalating a care worker feeding dog food to a vulnerable woman were something that could be pencilled in whenever management finally decided to re‑enter the mortal realm.
When they finally reported it, a senior manager demanded to know “why they did not remove the dog food” during the visit and “why they did not report the incident on the day it happened” — a reaction so unhinged it felt like management had completely detached from reality, fixating on the staff’s failure to tidy up the evidence rather than the small, feral detail that a vulnerable woman had been served pet chow. It was less a safeguarding response and more the energy of someone furious that the crime scene wasn’t staged properly for them.
The care worker was also told to remove the dog food from Mrs Y’s freezer “to prevent any other care workers doing the same” — a directive so unhinged it basically admitted the organisation feared a full‑blown outbreak of kennel‑cuisine, as though half the staff were just lurking in the wings, ready to mistake Pedigree for Sunday roast the moment a tin so much as winked at them. It wasn’t safeguarding; it was damage control for a workforce apparently one sniff away from going feral in the frozen aisle.
It was later revealed that the care worker “fed three mouthfuls of microwaved dog food to Mrs Y” — a detail so feral it felt like the moment the entire saga tore loose from sanity altogether. Three mouthfuls. Microwaved. As if nuking the tin somehow transformed it from kennel slop into a respectable entrée. It was the kind of revelation that made it clear Radis wasn’t just failing — it was operating in a parallel universe where pet food was apparently one reheating cycle away from being fit for human consumption.
“This was vacuum‑packed dog food stored by Mrs Z in Mrs Y’s freezer. The food was labelled as ‘fresh take on dog food’ and ‘for adult dogs and puppies’.” A detail so unhinged it felt like the universe itself was staging a pantomime of incompetence — the packaging practically screaming DOG FOOD in fonts large enough to be read from orbit, while Radis staff apparently drifted through the kitchen in a trance, blind to labels, blind to reality, blind to the fact they were one microwave cycle away from serving a vulnerable woman a gourmet selection explicitly marketed to adult dogs and puppies. It wasn’t just a mistake; it was a full‑blown descent into feral absurdity, the kind of chaos where the freezer had become a cursed shrine to pet cuisine, and everyone involved behaved like the warning labels were written in hieroglyphics.
After this, a meeting between Radis and the family concluded a new care provider would be hired — a decision so unhinged it felt less like a formal agreement and more like the moment everyone collectively realised the situation had gone fully off the rails, the kind of deranged, kennel‑cuisine catastrophe that meant Radis had to be yeeted out of the care arrangement before they started microwaving a second course. It wasn’t a meeting; it was the organisational equivalent of slamming the emergency stop button while the train was already on fire.
However, in July 2024, Mrs Y’s health declined, and her family decided to delay the new provider’s start date, meaning Radis continued to provide end‑of‑life care — a twist so feral it felt like the universe had dragged everyone back into the chaos by the scruff of the neck. Radis, freshly yeeted for serving microwaved kennel cuisine, was suddenly reinstated like some cursed understudy summoned back onstage because the show must go on, even if the stage is already on fire. It wasn’t continuity of care; it was cosmic irony forcing the same organisation that had turned the freezer into a pet‑food crime scene to shepherd Mrs Y through her final days.
Mrs Y’s daughter alleged that “footage from Mrs Y’s home camera showed evidence of a care worker force feeding Mrs Y” — a twist so unhinged it felt like the saga had finally snapped the last thread tying it to reality. Force feeding. On camera. As if Radis had abandoned the concept of care altogether and wandered into some deranged Victorian feeding ritual, shoving food into a vulnerable woman like they were trying to win a prize for Most Chaotic Abuse Caught on Film. It wasn’t just misconduct; it was a feral, stomach‑turning display of power caught in HD, the kind of footage that makes you question whether anyone involved had even a passing acquaintance with humanity.
In late July 2024, Mrs Y died, and it was concluded she “died from frailty of old age” — a finale so unhinged it felt like the universe had slammed the curtain down with a thud, pretending the preceding months of microwaved kennel cuisine, force‑feeding allegations, freezer‑gate, and Radis stumbling around like a cursed troupe of chaos‑gremlins had absolutely nothing to do with anything. After all that carnage, the official line landed with the eerie calm of someone sweeping rubble under a rug and announcing the building simply “got a bit tired”. It wasn’t closure; it was bureaucratic taxidermy, stuffing a feral saga into a neat label that didn’t even blink at the madness that came before.
In response to complaints from the elderly woman’s family, Radis accepted fault in the care provided and ensured action was taken against the care workers involved — a declaration so feral it read like the organisation suddenly woke up, looked around at the smouldering wreckage of microwaved kennel cuisine, force‑feeding allegations, freezer‑gate, and general chaos‑gremlin behaviour, and realised it had no choice but to start flinging blame like someone trying to put out a fire with a teaspoon. It wasn’t accountability; it was a frantic attempt to wrestle back control of a situation that had already sprinted off into the woods, snarling.
The council’s investigation also found that Mrs Y was “left unattended for prolonged periods and on occasions left wet or in darkness overnight” — a finding so unhinged it felt like the saga had finally ripped through the floorboards and descended into full‑blown gothic horror. Left wet. Left in darkness. Overnight. As if Radis had collectively decided that basic human dignity was some mythical luxury item, and the care plan was just “abandon her and hope the universe sorts it out”. It wasn’t neglect; it was feral, shadow‑realm care, the kind of behaviour that makes you wonder whether the staff were operating on a cursed logic where turning off the lights counted as compassion and leaving her soaked was apparently just part of the ambience.
The report stated that staffing was “inconsistent”, with concerns raised about workers’ “attitude, compassion and respectful communication” — a finding so feral it read like the council had politely tiptoed around the reality that Radis wasn’t running a care team at all, but a rotating pack of chaos creatures who treated professionalism like a rumour. “Inconsistent” barely covered it; it was staffing by cosmic dice roll, where one shift you’d get someone vaguely human and the next you’d get a gremlin who thought compassion was a personality flaw. Attitude? Feral. Respectful communication? Extinct. It wasn’t a workforce — it was a snarling carousel of whoever happened to wander in wearing a badge.
There were also “allegations that staff falsified records and that some visits had not taken place despite being recorded” — a twist so unhinged it felt like Radis had fully abandoned the mortal realm and started operating in a parallel dimension where care visits could be conjured like Pokémon. Falsified records? Phantom shifts? Entire visits that existed only in the fever dream of whatever gremlin was holding the pen? At this point the paperwork wasn’t documentation — it was feral fan‑fiction, scribbled by someone who thought reality was optional. The logs read like a cursed novella where staff teleported in, cared for Mrs Y, and teleported out again, all without ever entering the house. It wasn’t dishonesty; it was administrative witchcraft gone rancid.
The ombudsman proposed the council apologise, refund the care fees, and offer a symbolic payment of £1,000 to the family to “recognise significant distress” and the “delays” in the safeguarding investigation — a conclusion so theatrical it landed like the final act of a tragedy where the chorus steps forward, hands raised to the heavens, and announces that justice will now be served… with a modest cheque and a carefully scripted apology. After months of chaos, darkness‑overnight neglect, phantom visits, falsified records, and a care team behaving like a troupe of gremlins who’d escaped wardrobe, the grand gesture was a tidy refund and a £1,000 token of sorrow, presented with all the solemnity of a prop handed across the stage. It wasn’t closure; it was the curtain call, complete with a polite bow, a symbolic coin purse, and the hope the audience wouldn’t demand an encore.
Councillor Matthew Winnington, cabinet member for community wellbeing, health and care, said: “We accept the Ombudsman’s findings in full and recognise the seriousness of what happened in this case. We ended our contract with Radis early, and we no longer work with, or commission services from them.” And the way he delivered it had the feral energy of someone slamming a portcullis shut on a beast that had already torn through half the castle. It wasn’t just a statement — it was an excommunication, a dramatic boot to the ribs of an organisation that had spent months behaving like a troupe of chaos goblins let loose in a care setting. The line landed like a final decree from the throne: Radis banished, ties severed, the council trying to claw back dignity after the carnage, sweeping the gremlins offstage with one decisive, claws‑out gesture.
The care described in this report is not the standard anyone should expect, particularly at such a vulnerable time in someone’s life. They have apologised to the family and are very sorry for the distress they have experienced; we know this has been deeply upsetting for the family.
And the way it landed had the full unhinged energy of a royal court trying to issue a solemn apology while a pack of chaos gremlins rampage behind the throne.
It wasn’t just regret — it was a desperate attempt to sound dignified while sweeping up the wreckage of microwaved kennel cuisine, phantom visits, falsified records, darkness‑overnight neglect, and a care team that behaved like a rotating ensemble of feral understudies who’d escaped wardrobe.
The council spoke with trembling gravitas, but you could practically hear the stage ropes snapping, the scenery collapsing, and someone in the wings whispering, “Just keep talking, maybe they won’t notice the carnage.” It was an apology delivered with brittle calm over the sound of a kingdom still on fire.
These events happened two years ago, and since then they have taken action to strengthen how they oversee care providers…Their adult social care services recently received a ‘good’ rating from the Care Quality Commission, reflecting the wider positive experiences of residents, the strength of partnership working across the city, and the support available to help people remain independent.
And the way it was delivered had the feral energy of someone trying to stage a triumphant victory speech while the battlefield behind him was still smouldering.
It wasn’t just reassurance — it was a full‑body attempt to wrestle the narrative away from the chaos goblins of Radis, waving that “good” rating like a talisman meant to banish the memory of phantom visits, falsified records, darkness‑overnight neglect, and care logs written like cursed fan‑fiction.
They spoke with the breathless bravado of a monarch insisting the kingdom is thriving while ash still drifts from the rafters. It was feral optimism — the kind where you can practically hear someone in the wings muttering, “Just keep talking, maybe they won’t notice the scorch marks.”
THE MONTHLY MOSQUITO 