YOU can go mental at the dental. My dentist, John Moore, with assistant Janis as an accomplice, always manages to give me the needle. Always rejects my offer to send my gnashers through the post.
Ribs me because I’m a Hibby (lapsed!) and he has troubles enough of his own shouting for Dunfermline.
I should have known better than have Mr Moore book me as his last patient of the afternoon. How was I to know the previous two gents in his chair were of an Easter Road persuasion in colleague David Hardie and businessman John Green?
But I was on a promise. My dentist would perform a cosmetic job on a squint tooth (I’ve more than one) and turn me into a George Clooney lookalike. Pull the other one, Mr Moore. That’s not George Clooney I’m seeing in the mirror today. If you see me walking down the street, don’t say hi, George. Walk on by.
Never mind those tacky tears from Osborne, the gloating from Glenda, even. Or dithering Dimbleby or the bumbling Bishop of London (does the Bish, I wonder, speak like that when he takes his togs to the launderette?).
I’m concerned more about a letter I’ve read in one of the papers. Why do sailors wear bell-bottom trousers?, the writer asks. I’ve often wondered myself.
Here’s a turn-up for the books – to be easily got rid of if they fall into the sea. And here’s another sea-going query you can take with a pinch of salt: who was the songsmith who composed What Shall We Do With the Drunken Sailor?