According to a report published today, even the Tooth Fairy has been adversely affected by the Credit Crunch - the average rate per tooth is now £1.15, down from £1.22 last year.

What a molar-key! But why the drop in-(the)-cisor payments? I blame denture capitalists…

Big news from north of the border: Robin Barr, chairman of AG Barr, is to stand down at the age of 71, and will finally pass on the secret recipe of top-selling Scottish beverage Irn Bru to his daughter. To this day, Barr personally mixes the Irn Bru essence once a month, and the formula is currently known only by him and one other person. For security reasons, the two recipe-holders are never allowed to travel on the same plane together. Wooo!

On the one hand, this is obviously clever publicity from a company who have always marketed themselves intelligently - their product, amazingly, outsells both Coke and Pepsi in Scotland; the only country in Europe where the two American soft drink behemoths aren’t totally dominant.

On the other - have you ever tasted Irn Bru? It’s facking HORRIBLE. Even my girlfriend, who swears by a cocktail of WKD Blue and port, won’t touch it. And what’s more, I suspect that the only reason for its cachet is that the Scots, possibly more than any other nation in the world, will always go off-Kilt-er in their adoration for a product for no other reason than its local provenance.

Come to think of it, does anyone of a non-Caledonian persuasion actually LIKE Robert Burns, Billy Connolly, whisky, shortbread, … er… deep-fried Mars Bars and … ahem… (10 VP points to anyone who can think of anything else famous from Scotland)??

Barr Humbug.

Cast your mind back to January 20th, 1985; Ronald Reagan was about to be sworn in for his second term, Live Aid was still a mad-haired Irishman’s dream, five months and several hundred repetitions of “give us the fookin’ money” away from becoming reality, and Madonna’s “Like a Virgin” was number one in the UK album charts. A coltish, wide-eyed 15-year-old defender takes the field for AC Milan’s second half against Udinese. Paolo Maldini (for it is he) puts in an assured performance in a fairly dull draw; his strength and grace beguiling his tender years.

Fast-forward four years or so; a doltish, wide-headed 15-year-old takes a break from his slavish Rick Astley impersonations to watch AC Milan humiliate Real Madrid 5-0 in the semi-finals of the European Cup - Maldini and now-equally-legendary team-mates Gullit, Van Basten and Rijkard (and Carlo Ancelotti, who, despite being the size of a palladian villa these days, actually used to be a professional footballer)  put on an imperious performance against Europe’s most decorated team. The guard in football has changed; the age of catenaccio is dead, a glorious new era of the beautiful game has begun and I (for it is me) am hooked for life.

Finally, fast-forward to today; TWENTY FIVE YEARS, 900 games and countless honours, all for the same club, down the line, the great Maldini takes his final bow at the San Siro, Milan’s home turf. His achievements, his gracefulness in victory or defeat, his professionalism and - goddamit - his sheer good looks will never be equalled, or even vaguely approached, in football. To put his longevity in context, Man U and Real’s resident old gits Ryan Giggs and Raul (the only two other “one-club men” who come even close) would have to play at the top level for another SEVEN and TEN YEARS respectively to match him.

He was the last of the great team which I fell in love with, and from now on, I’ll find it very difficult to justify supporting a team owned by the increasingly appalling Silvio Burlesquoni. But it’s more than that - events like this make it impossible to ignore the wheel of life moving on, screeching “MIDDLE AGE” as it grinds pitilessly through its bearings… the first of many personal mini-Götterdämmerungs has reached its inexorable conclusion. Believe it or not, I’m even beginning to suspect that I might have left it a bit late for my own career as a professional footballer.

Grazie mille, Paolo…

The Guardian reports today on DEFRA-commissioned research, undertaken by the University of Oxford at a cost of £300,000, into the behaviour of ducks. The study concluded that the birds observed by the team of highly-paid scientists - wait for it - liked water. Encouraged by their success, the scientific team is now apparently seeking commissions for future studies into the defecatory-location habits of the genus “Ursus”, and preponderant religious orientations amongst former Hitler Youth members currently residing in the Vatican.

More duck news: American duckhead Joel Armstrong saved 12 ducklings from falling to their deaths after their motherduck(er) nested (rather stupidly) on a ledge 20 feet up from the ducking pavement. Well, soppy-hearted ducker Mr Armstrong might think he’s all nice and cuddly and new-age-man and stuff and junk, and he’s probably now up to his armpits in offers of a quick duck from legions of muddle-headed women in Spokane, WA, who go for all that namby-pamby tree-hugging bollocks, but by preventing the ducklings’ rightful horrible deaths, he is interfering with BOTH God’s purpose AND natural Darwinian law - so is in for a shockingly bad afterlife, whichever bushy-white-bearded old guy he believes in. Duck on that, Mr Armstrong.

21/5 - Yet more breaking duck news! In the latest MPs-revelation-expenses-style-thing, Tory grandee Sir Peter Viggers is revealed to have claimed £1600 for a duck island floating in the pond of his country mansion. I canardly believe it… all I can say is that it’s symptomatic of a mallardy at the heart of our political system…

Quite a while since I’ve done a TTOTDOWOHOHCBATCI, so here’s an unusual one for you. The song’s called “Dancer”, and it’s the second track from “Hot Space”, a 1982 album by Queen. Now Queen’s fans are famously ultra-loyal, but as a quick visit to any fansite or Amazon will tell you, “Hot Space” is by a country mile the least favoured in the band’s canon (discounting all the legacy-destroying ordure they’ve released since Freddie Mercury’s death).

Why is it reviled? Essentially, because it’s predominantly a disco album. Gone are the Zep-rivalling-riffs and seven-minute swords, sorcery, dwarves and debauchery epics, and in comes the sort of New York Studio 54 funk which Freddie Mercury was enjoying (along with copious numbers of young men) at the time. You can almost see him turning up to a band meeting, angling his teeth at 45 degrees, striking a “huffy teapot” pose and exclaiming “Oh, COME ON, boys, ALL I want is to release ONE totally groovy album - is that SO much to ask?”

For the fans, it was WAY too big an ask; “Hot Space” tanked, and horribly. But listening to it again 25-odd years later, it’s not without merit. “Dancer” is one of the better tracks - OK, admittedly the production sounds dated, even when filtered through my big weakness for disco, but on the plus side, it’s Freddie at his most joyous, and I don’t think Brian May can have done many better guitar solos in his entire career.

Next week, more genre-splicing; “Ooh Baby, I Love You (but I’m Going to Rip Your Head Off, Defecate Down Your Neck and Worship the Devil)”, a rare unreleased death-metal-soul experimental demo by Cannibal Corpse featuring Mariah Carey…

Nice to see that the animators from little-known Beavis and Butthead spin-off cartoon “Daria” (which, in all probability, none of you have heard of) are pulling their weight in the ongoing hunt for Madeleine McCann.

Here’s an artist’s impression of a “very ugly” man who was hallegedly seen watching the family’s apartment:

… and here’s Charles “Upchuck” Ruttheimer III,  a minor character from little-known Beavis and Butthead spin-off cartoon “Daria” (which, in all probability, none of you have heard of)…

According to a survey yesterday, there’s been a sharp rise in the number of men having cosmetic surgery over the last year. OK, full disclosurama - the survey was conducted by male cosmetic surgery specialists The Harley Medical Group, who, it would appear, not only don’t have an office in famously medical Harley Street, but don’t even have an office in London. Classy stuff; objective findings guaranteed.

However, judging by the amount of media pressure on today’s Regular Tafkass to a) smell of guano-and-papaya-infused body spray or risk not pulling women, b) use a razor with five or more vibrating blades (costing £10 each) whilst shaving or risk not pulling women, and c) get a six-pack within three days or risk not pulling women (the strapline on the cover of “Men’s Health” magazine for the last 74 consecutive issues), they may just have a point. What the heck? Surely part of the grand celestial bargain is that men, in return for being strong and silent (or at least silent), letting women drive and doing all the bloody work*, are allowed to be oblivious to their love-handles, back-hair and “moobs”, whatever they are?

In related news, Marks and Spencer have apparently failed to respond positively to a Facebook petition from “Busts 4 Justice”, which objects to the company’s policy of levying a £2 surcharge for bra sizes over DD. In amongst the lazy “storm in a D-cup” headlines and gratuitous use of pictures of larger-breasted ladies, there’s a serious point here; however, in my (purely journalistic) eagerness to further research the credentials of the 7000+ members of “Busts 4 Justice”, I’ve sort-of forgotten what it was.

(* - apart from all the invaluable domestic work done by women, obviously.)