I had an unfortunate altercation with my dentist last year. My decrepit cemetery of eroded enamel had been excellently treated by an Edinburgh qualified dentist who actually knew what he was doing, even if he wasn’t prepared to offer NHS (pig iron) fillings.
I turned up at my next appointment only to find myself foisted off with a mad Ukrainian bint who may have cut the mustard with Nikita Khrushchev but frankly scared me to death. I don’t know whether it was the length of her nose, her halitosis, or the insouciance with which she wielded her drill, but I wasn’t having it.
I complained to the receptionist who, with the delusions of grandeur common to all semi educated idiots who are allowed to wear white coats and twirl pens, informed me that the practice was under a lot of pressure and that Ms Bignoseoffski was highly qualified. I was slightly miffed and expressed my concerns in a very reasonable and moderate fashion.
I was struck off.
Not only is NHS dental treatment not available in most of Scotland; you can’t even get private treatment without queuing (I don’t queue). Ten years ago the geniuses who govern us decided that two dental hospitals was one too many. Now we’re all walking around grinning like the Artful Dodger circa 1860.
That’s why I’m off to Budapest in a couple of months. A two week holiday with some serious remedial dental work thrown in costs the same as travelling two hours each way by car twice a week to get the same work done here.
Bollocks to my carbon footprint.
I won’t be getting pummelled by any big boned Hungarian mommas in a Turkish bath though. Humongous pastries are more my style.
The first year I can really remember (well, bits of it anyway) is 1972. I remember April because it was my birthday and I went to the Odeon with my best mate Rajiv and watched ‘the Jungle book’. We had enough change left to visit Mr Penney’s sweet shop afterwards and stock up on essential supplies.
In other respects 1972 wasn’t so good. The windows used to rattle every time the IRA rabble exploded another bomb and the pavements were covered in dog turds that for some inexplicable reason turned white after a couple of days. Odd that.
I’d like to claim that I was a huge Faces fan at the time, but in truth I was more likely to be groovin’ on down to Pinky and Perky singing ‘White Christmas’.
I’ll never forgive Rod Stewart for breaking up the Faces. He was lead vocalist with this wonderful, wonderful band and he chose to trade them in for some frilly blouses, a pair of leopard skin trousers and a Lamborghini Miura. Rarely has a man with such an immaculate talent prostituted himself so completely..
At its best this music is about generosity of spirit. The Faces took what their audience gave them and threw it back to them with bells on. Other bands have done something similar but, with the possible exception of the Clash, nobody has done it better. .