As a child, in addition to the possible downgrading of Everton, I was afraid of only one thing: go to the dentist.
My dentist, Mr. Hertz, had yellow teeth, smelling of rotten and had a degree in Pure and Applied Sadism. She used the victims by offering to accept the left hand - the right being used to rev up the drill - and laughing like a maniac just escaped from a rated movie. I prayed daily for his death.
In fact, I do not know what happened to Mr. Hertz. Perhaps it has been recaptured by the director of Evil, Crazy Bastards and put back in his cage, or it may be that God has really answered my prayers and the type has ended in a huge blender laughing. Do not even rule out the hypothesis that it is simply returned to live in Glasgow. However, Mr. Hertz is no longer the protagonist of my nightmares (that role now belongs exclusively to the Everton defenders), and I long I can write the word "dentist" with no tr-tr-shake. Well, almost.
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