Conversation with my dentist

"Morning."
"Take a seat."
"Thanks."
I am, in an instant, horizontal. Then stuff is put in my mouth.
"What do you think of the Welsh team? he asks.
"Yurbish," I reply.
Some work is done.
"You need a crown and maybe a new plate," he says.
"My mouth is not in a very good state," I say.
He nods.
"Not my fault," I say.
Eyebrows raised.
"I blame my parents," I say.
He smiles.
"They never took me to the dentist unless it was absolutely necessary."
He nods and sucks his teeth, evidently not in full agreement.
"I blame them," I say.
"You must remember," he says, "that in those days (i.e. my days, not his) people had their milk teeth which dropped out, followed by their so-called permanent teeth which went bad and were pulled out, followed by false teeth. It was a way of life."
"Thanks," I say. "And the Welsh team is still rubbish."
That conversation took place a few years ago when the Welsh team was rubbish.