The year has started with a wonderful gift. We've got a dentist! We're absolutely delighted and pathetically grateful. We didn't think to query why he had any vacancies. We saw the advertisement, and were on him like a tramp on a kipper. The first meeting went very well. Clearly he knew he had the upper hand. He is a dentist. At least I think he's a dentist. You don't think to ask, do you? We're so trusting, us Brits. How do we know we're not just surrounded by frauds, folk who just like dressing up? Let's try it out, today I'd like all of us to question everyone in authority. Let's check every policeman's identification. You'll have to go find them of course. I'm personally going to scrutinise as many nurses as I can. If you keep the police occupied I'll be able to get through a fair few I would have thought. How do we know that accountants aren't just a bunch of crooks - that they're not all just well dressed tramps? It's a conundrum, and no mistake. How do you know the man who's asked you to undress and cough is a doctor? In fact, the only folk who I know are legitimate are fish and chip shop owners. They delight in putting up their Fish Fryer Certificates for all to admire. These seem to tell us that the person on the certificate has passed all of the tests involved in putting fish in hot fat. And then taking it out. And putting it in the fish thing at the top of the chip thing. I wonder if anyone has actually ever failed? And if so, how? Did they put the fish in the fat, and then forget what they had to do next? The Fish Fat Freeze, as it's known. The Tester, peering over his half-moon spectacles, with a clip board to hand, stood behind our inertia-ridden Trainee Fryer, who is mentally torturing himself. "Think! Think! What comes after putting the fish in the fat?" "You have 10 seconds," says The Tester, as, inexplicably, the Countdown music strikes up. It's making me nervous just thinking about it. Perhaps some people have failed by putting the fish in cold fat? Did they get the yips? Where they cannot let go of the fish? The Fish Fat Freeze Yips as it's known. It really makes you think, doesn't it? Anyway, back to my `dentist'. He had no need for customer service. He said to me: "Morning, Baldy, isn't your family a dreadful little crew?" I told him it was. Then he slapped me. He told me he did it: "Because I can, and what are you going to do about it?" I told him it was fine with me, and that I didn't mind the language, it was the beatings I didn't need (name that tune). He then drew up his terms and conditions. We agreed to see him "at a time and place suitable to him, and him alone". We were to wear whatever he asked for, and in the first instance this would mean the family dressing as characters from Mary Poppins. We agreed that he could have our car at any stage, and could share our bed twice a month. And then the final challenge. We were shown through to a large room. There was another family there. In the middle was a Twister mat. We Twisted to see who would win the dentist. Thankfully, my agile hips and surprisingly flexible thighs came up trumps, leaving the other family to pick up the consolation kit of a pair of pliers and a bottle of cheap whisky. Finally we agreed that we would all have, as an absolute minimum, at least three teeth extracted every year. I think we got away with it fairly lightly. Any dentist tales, or occupations that worry you? ********** No red letter day in queue at PO A lot has been written recently about poverty. I think it's absolutely essential that I keep in touch with the gritty side of society so that I can keep you fully informed, and in the know. To that end, I've been doing a great deal of personal research into the 24-hour drinking laws. I can do 18, but only 12 when you add gin. Red wine takes me down to only nine hours - obviously bitterly disappointing particularly when set against the 15 hours I managed with bitter. I have to say, looking back, it was one helluva bank holiday weekend. I'd like to thank the nurses for their support (I'm wearing it now) and the bed baths. Anyway, back to poverty. I wanted to experience poverty at first hand, and tell you what it's like. So I went into a Post Office, and joined the queue. I can report that Poverty wears either green coats or tracksuits. Surprisingly, cheap jewellery, and tattoos are much in evidence. I was the only one in the queue with matching shoes, or ears. Half of them were facing the wrong way. Some couldn't remember what they'd started to queue for. In desperation one bloke simply asked for a box of matches, and then rejoined the queue again. Post Office queues are made up of the old, the feeble, and the thick. The Thick were particularly in evidence. The Female Voice kept ringing out: "NEXT CUSTOMER TO WINDOW FIVE PLEASE ... NEXT CUSTOMER TO WINDOW FOUR PLEASE ..." Each time the next in line hesitated, as though the instruction was too complicated. Several times they simply froze. People at the back started to push. It was like watching a wildlife programme, the massed throng simply surged forward, leaving twitching bloodied bodies in their wake. After my intensive research I can tell you that poverty is a bad thing, and it smells of fags. Which is surprising at £5 a packet. Next up, I'd like to have a really good understanding of the sex industry. I'm just negotiating with my Editorial Gaffers what the situation is with receipts. | 
