No, I’m not one to talk.

No, of course not. Perish the very thought!

I mean, it’s been six years since I saw a dentist other than, you know, casually in the street or maybe in the lineup at Starbucks and even then, it’s hard to tell that they’re dentists you know: they don’t exactly run around wearing white coats and rubber gloves, dragging a drill, the smell of formaldehyde, and an anxious receptionist with a clipboard behind them all the time.

Sometimes, sure.

But still, what with my gravity-free wisdom teeth and multiple crossaddictions to the tooth-staining substances in coffee, red wine, and the blood of innocents, my dentation cannot be said to be up to Osmond standard. Not to put too fine a point on it, if you made a wedding dress the colour of my molars everyone would assume you were not only experienced, you were in half-mourning.

But there are those, even those whose job it is to be photographed expensively, whose teeth put mine to shame. Although there is debate about the subject, the chainsmoking, red-wine-swilling Helena Bonham Carter cannot be counted among them. While stained, her choppers still resemble human teeth, unlike those of this man:

The Diddymaw will. not. close. Has he done so much coke that he can’t breathe through his nose anymore? I thought that shit was supposed to eat a hole through your septum…surely it should open up the passageways, rather than close them down, presuming, of course, that he doesn’t use his sinuses to store, warehouse-like, condom-wrapped packages of marching powder.

Like this woman:

Don’t get me wrong: her teeth are nice and clean. No, I think the problem with Amy Winehouse‘s teeth is that her substance-laced post-nasal drip has simply started to dissolve them.

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