When did dentists start calling themselves Doctor? They’re not fucking doctors. They’re dentists. Just like vets aren’t doctors.
Just like, in fact, most doctors aren’t doctors, because most of them
don’t have doctorates, or don’t teach, or both. And yet, oddly enough, we don’t call our teachers Doctor, even though they actually do teach.
I don’t remember dentists calling themselves doctors ten years ago, so what changed? What’s their problem? Is it an American import? Can they charge more if they’re called Doctor?
It makes no sense. What’s going to happen if you have a heart attack at the opera?
Let me through. I’m a doctor.
No you’re not. You’re a fucking dentist.
Speaking of which, can it be an accident that the three most pampered and self-regarding professions are the ones most likely to insist on titles?
My accountant doesn’t expect me to address him Counter McNutty, or Grand Compteur, or Beans or anything else. He’s just Tommy the Book.
My barber doesn’t insist on being called Friseur or Tonsor. People don’t grovel and mutter and tell you they’re under the care of Tonsor Smallbore-Fiddleknob. Of course they don’t.
My barber is Pat. Pat the barber.
My plumber is Martin. Martin the plumber.
My mechanic is George. George the mechanic.
if I hire someone to redesign the crumbling west tower of the Bockschloss, will he insist on being addressed as Arkitekto Plasmabastard?
Of course he fucking won’t, if he wants to get paid.
So let me ask you. What’s so special about these other fuckers that they won’t let you use their fucking names?
Doctor Scrofula will see you now.
Will he indeed, the fucker? Doctor Scrofula me bollocks! I remember when he was plain Jimmy Scrofula and we used to kick fuck out of him on the football field. When he was sober enough to play football, that is.
You know it drives me fucking mad, all these titles. Yes Judge. No Judge. Three bags full of soiled horsehair, Judge.
And as for the fucking clergy, don’t get me started on those bastards. Here comes a young priest and he wants me to call him Father. He can fuck off.
You’re eight, for fucksake!
You’re not my father, you spotty little prick. In fact, by your appearance, you’re not capable of being anyone’s father. Fuck the fuck off. Get back to your kiddie-fiddling and let me alone.
Bah. I’m not in a good mood tonight, though you’d never guess it to look at me.