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Posts Tagged ‘Teeth’

 

Ello Hoily,

Can you help? I am doing a crossword and I am stuck on 6 across.

The clue is “Things we chew our food with located in our mouths.” It has 5 letters and so far I have TE_TH – I am stumped. Any ideas?

Slow Dave, Hull

Dave,

The word I’m thinking of is tongue. It may not fit the crossword but I find it can fit just about anywhere else. Once you discover this fact for yourself your crossword will be totally redundant. Enjoy.

Oily

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suarez copy

Luis Suarez has signed a major sponsorship agreement with denture fixing giant Fixodont.

Suarez ,who recently took a bite out of big conked Italian defender, Giorgio Chiellini, was delighted with the tie up telling Gfb’s Dental Correpsondent, Geoff Gingivitis, “I is a very happi to announce theeeese sponshooreship agreeeeeeement with Fixshodont. Dey geeeevveeee meeee the greeeeep I neeeeed to ‘ave a da confidents to a byte da fuck outta any hoponent ooh geta in ma way. I love a neeeeble on flesh. Good for da soul no?”

Meanwhile, Suarez’s dentist in Montevideo, Mr Gustavo Cuspid told our reporter, “Luis is a lovely lad, with great teeth  – not a filling in his gob! He has found a use for his pronounced overbite, so leave our national hero alone.”

Chomp, chomp.

 

 

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Aunty Bill - A Tin Opener Short

Hello AB

My wife is thinking of having a spot of plastic surgery to make her teeth less obtrusive. At present she could eat an apple through a letterbox. My worry is that I have a fetish about buck toothed women and worry that her straightening the gnashers will take the sparkle out  of our relationship. Any tips?

Harry, Buckminster

Aunty Bill Replies;

Harry!
I too have a penchant for buck toothed railings which over the years has caused me to find myself in some pretty uncomfortable situations (the pantomime horse excuse no longer holds much sway I’m afraid).
Cilla, Goofy, Bernie Winters and the strange guy on Channel 4 who presents the weather, all had or have a cracking set of gnashers on the top row only enhancing their natural beauty.
Suggest to your wife that whilst you welcome her efforts to keep herself looking spick and span, leave the Hampsteads alone or go one better and install a new set of gleaming pearly whites that protrude further than the current ones do. The advantage being that she will be even better at eating big things fast and doing impersonations of famous race horses, a skill that will get people talking at your next dinner party.
If you paint every other one black you’ll also be able to teach yourself how to play rudimentary tunes on the piano – the tooth fairy will be raining cash on you!
Aunty

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fresco_rescue

“And that is why I always now tie my laces with a double knot!” He smiled.  I looked at my watch.

136 minutes since he had begun talking. Without break or interruption. A monologue so tedious, I was worried I would pass my liver. I had stopped listening 135 minutes ago.

I was doing the Sudoku in the paper. It is a little ritual I have between Paddington and Reading. It breaks the journey. Alas, my pen stopped working at Ealing Broadway.

I asked him, sitting next to me, if he had a spare pen.

“Certainly. Always carry a spare. That and a pocket sized torch. Never know when you might need one…….” He spoke in a flat monotone accent that conjured up the image of a rain soaked, deserted car park in a storm lashed Northern seaside town. In Winter.

On.

Twyford – “So that is why I never use toasted sandwich makers.”

And on.

Reading – “The Doctor thinks they will grow back. But I am not sure.”

And on.

 Didcot Parkway – “That’s why I shy away from manmade fibres.”

And on.

 Swindon – “You never see that on maps do you?”

You may ask what I did not change seats.  I still ask myself that question, months later.  It was as if he had cast a spell over me, in some traction engined fairytale where a man so dull, so utterly dull, can suck the very life essence out of others with his droning cant. I was mesmerised by tedium.

The Train Guard appeared in the Carriage to inspect tickets. He saw him and said, “No need to see yours,” and scuttled away.

On

 Kemble – “Always preferred long socks to short ones. Very protective of my calves since childhood.”

And on

 Stroud – “I don’t know about you but Knight Rider is still up there with the best.”

And on

Stonehouse – “And that is why I always now tie my laces with a double knot!”

The sun shone through the carriage window. Flecks of dust danced in the rays. It shook me free from this soporific, maudlin spell. I heard a voice, “Get off the train. Get away from him. Now!”

“My stop!” I cried, a touch too eagerly.

“Oh. Right.” He was speechless!

I made for the door, managing to step onto the platform just as the burly Train Dispatcher put the whistle to her lips. The train snaked away.

The Sun’s warmth felt good. Welcoming. After a few moments of endearing silence, I studied my surroundings. It was a short platform. There was a timetable near the exit gate and a sign pointing to the town centre. Nearby stood a coin operated toilet.

Three people were on the platform, huddled together engaged in conversation. I sensed a bond between them. Call it intuition.

The tallest of the group, a middle aged man sporting a gray flecked beard smiled and said, “You too?”

The other two,  a thin man in his twenties dressed in cycling gear and a thin woman in her thirties also smiled. All had their front teeth missing.

“Me?”

“You’ve travelled with him haven’t you.

I knew who they meant. Was I so traumatised by his conversation that my boyish good looks had become disfigured?

“Did he mention his love of long socks?”                                                                                   

“Yes. It was him,” I replied, “How did you know?” They laughed hysterically. The lack of front teeth was disconcerting.

“The train left five minutes ago and you are still on the platform. We have all done the same thing after meeting him.”

The woman hugged me. She smelled of cigarettes and sweat. “He told me of his love of shelves, fear of  lettuce and devotion to N’Sync.” She shuddered at the memory.

“It’s OK Sheila.”

“Thanks Harvey.”

Harvey and Sheila hugged. He looked over at me and mouthed the word “Drinker” whilst pointing at Sheila.

Harvey spoke, “He spoke to me about the quality of the modern day key ring.”

The Cyclist spoke, “He told me of His admiration for the banister.”

Harvey explained that he had listened to him two years ago and that he too had made a break for freedom at Stonehouse, some 60 miles shy of his destination. Traumatised by the tedium, he had returned to the Platform a few weeks later to relive the experience. It was here that he met both Sheila and The Cyclist reliving their experiences. There were others to, but they were loathe to revisit this nightmare.

“Things are on the mend for all of us now. Thankfully,” Harvey said.

The Cyclist spoke. “Left me bike on the train just to get away from him. Haven’t seen it since. First Great Western say it never reached Worcester. Lying bastards.”

He had made a deep impression upon them. The dark power of banality upon reasonable, if dentally challenged Britons. It was odd to be standing there. But there is something to be said for shared experience. I felt better than I had for several hours. Cleansed.

I needed a pee. I made for the toilet, fishing in my pocket for the correct loose change as I walked. I dropped the coins in the slot, the automatic door opened and I stepped forward. But something curtailed my stride. I tripped and fell head first.

I recall biting on the stainless steel rim of the toilet bowl and then regaining consciousness as the Paramedics wheeled me towards the ambulance. There was blood on my shirt and a space where front teeth once populated me gob.

Harvey, Sheila and The Cyclist looked on as I was lifted into the ambulance. I noticed double knots on their shoelaces.

My right shoe poked out from under the stretcher blanket. The lace was undone.

I double knot as a matter of course now.

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In the Pumpkin Restaurant.

Feeling good. A crisp new shirt on. Short sleeves. It was summer after all.

A White Witch stood at the counter ordering a Green Tea.

“£1.89 please,” The till operator mumbled. The Witch struggled to find her purse. I could sense the growing impatience from the snake of customers behind us. Eventually she found the purse, opened it and began counting out coins.

“I’m sorry, I am twenty pence short.”

“Can’t have it then.”

I reached into the right pocket of my jeans and found a twenty pence piece. “There you go.” I  handed the money to the Witch. She smiled and thanked me. She picked up her tea and walked away.

“Very nice of you,” the man behind me said. I turned around. It was Geoff Hurst, hat-trick hero from the 1966 World Cup final. Smiling. At me! His teeth were in fine fettle.

I ordered my coffee and scurried out of the restaurant door and down the platform, passing the Witch. “Thanks again!” she said. She muttered something else that sounded like “Malayalam”, whilst rubbing her nose.

I smiled back.

The train pulled in. I boarded a deserted carriage.

As I searched for my seat, I found myself lifting off the floor and floating on the Carriage ceiling, occasionally bumping my head on the overhead lights. The Witch appeared at the doorway, smiled and said to me, “One good turn deserves another.”

It was very dusty, almost grimy up there and my new shirt got dirty as a result.

I have written to First Great Western about their rolling stock’s standard of cleanliness.

I am still waiting for a reply.

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