Raising my eyebrows

WHERE do Ipswich-based wanna-be celebrities with a penchant for Tina Turner and a liking for all butter croissants go to get their teeth done? It's a question that's been playing on my mind.

WHERE do Ipswich-based wanna-be celebrities with a penchant for Tina Turner and a liking for all butter croissants go to get their teeth done?

It's a question that's been playing on my mind.

Not only have I recently endured root canal treatment on one of my lower molars but I have now secured the services of a lady called Karen who cleans my teeth.

I popped along to the surgery at the end of my road for an initial consultation. As soon as I opened my mouth young Karen had inserted some metal object rendering me completely unable to talk - a very strange and unpleasant experience.


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For the next half hour Karen, who was at pains to make sure I return for yet more treatment, keep telling me how well I was doing and how much of a brave soldier I really was.

“James. Well done. I don't want to put you off,” she said as she grabbed my chins and held me down.

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“Perish the thought,” I tried to reply.

Karen went on, rather interestingly, to tell me to relax my eyebrows - a specialist request I don't think I've ever heard made before.

Naturally, as a fearless man about town with a dedicated fan base to bolster my confidence, I was completely at ease in the dentist's chair.

The sweat pouring off me and the shakes that were affecting my limbs were just a minor allergic reaction to the chronically awful magazine selection in the waiting room.

As I staggered out of the chair - my body tends to seize now after anything longer than twenty minutes in the same position - Karen added: “You'll have to come back James though; we've got to have a go at the upper teeth.”

Can't wait, I'm already practicing relaxing my eyebrows.

AS a man of words, I have more than a passing interest in the English language.

While I'm no expert, I am delighted the word Celebutante - A celebrity who is well known in fashionable society - has made an entry into the latest Concise Oxford English Dictionary, it sums my vision of myself up perfectly.

Anyway here are some of my favourite newest entries.

Hoody (also hoodie) - n. informal. A person, especially a youth, wearing a hooded top.

Mash-up - n. A mixture or fusion of disparate elements, especially a musical track comprising the vocals of one recording placed over the instrumental backing of another.

Muller - v. Brit. informal. 1. Wreck or destroy (something). Beat or defeat (someone). 2. (As adj. mullered) extremely drunk.

Twonk - n. Brit. informal. A stupid or foolish person.

Next time you sense trouble on the dangerous dark streets of Ipswich on a Friday night I suggest you arms yourself with the phrase.

“Hello you twonk, are you preparing to muller a hoody?”

That should end any situation before it begins, allowing us all to enjoy some mash-up in peace.

VERA Lynn is 90 today.

I was lucky enough to see her once.

She sang to me, and a melee of several thousand others, in front of Buckingham Palace.

She did all the favourites “We'll meet again” and “Bluebirds over” and there wasn't a dry eye in the crowd.

Vera never booked into rehab or appeared on reality television. She's got class.

She's best of British and I wish her a great day.

Now for those worried about my smoking habit rest assured I am also worried. I'm on and off that wagon more times than I care to remember.

Today, as I sit here and write I haven't smoked, last night I smoked in my little Ipswich sitting room.

So if you do see me about town in one of my discreet drinking dens smoking a cigarette, don't panic but blame the drink, or the fact the sun has gone down, or my lack of will power.

Just don't, as one fan threatened, tell my mother who lives in the west of the county and hates smoking.

In the meantime I'll keep trying.

MOST of the Ipswich awfully Operatic and frightfully Dramatic Society (IODS) died the other night.

As regular readers know, the IODS - a society clearly unafraid to tackle tragedy in the name of entertainment - is preparing to perform the musical Titanic at the Regent Theatre next month.

And at rehearsal last week we did the scene when the unsinkable ship founders, the lifeboats are launched and half the cast end up in a watery grave.

Anyway it's my job to help a few people into the precious lifesaving lifeboat and then come to the front, slightly stage right, and belt out an emotional belter with the rest of the cast as I prepare to meet my maker covered in make up and wearing a sailor's cap.

This is easier said than done.

Lucy my plain speaking photographer friend is lucky enough to survive, Stephanie the diva, survives too. I bewailed the fact I die.

“But if you got in the lifeboat, James, darling,” said Stephanie “then we'd be swamped, we'd all die and the show would come to an end before the rescue scene.”

I hesitate to criticise but I suspect Stephanie is talking the notion of suspension of disbelief just a little too far.

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