As is well known, Sir Roderick Glossop calls himself an eminent nerve specialist, when what he really is is the fellow who rallies 'round to sit on your looney relative's head while he gets a fitting for a strait-waistcoat preparatory to taking him off for an extended engagement at Colney Hatch. To protect the families, we shall refer to his latest batch of patients as Rupert B., Jno. W., Gregory P., Watkyn B., Thos. T., and Geo. W. Their symptoms were as follows: one thought he was a canary, another had taken to popping out of the bushes and scaring the tradesmen, one shouted, "Cheese Bum!" whenever addressed in conversation, one had the fixed idea that he was Lana Turner, one frequently bicycled nude into the village at night, and one was simply a dipsomaniac who reeled from one excess to another.
As entertaining as all these gentlemen were, their relatives desired treatment for them, and Sir Roderick doled it out according to the psychology of the individual. For one he prescribed complete bed rest, for another he recommended shock treatments in the form of icy cold showers. One was shipped off for a stay at a health resort, and another was advised to go out once a day and shake hands with at least 3 new people. One was advised to take dance lessons, and one was prescribed a course of vigorous Swedish exercises.
Strangely, when Sir Roderick lost his case-notes, he could not recall which patient had exhibited which symptoms and given which regimen of treatment. From the eleven clues given, can you help him straighten it all out in the interest of medical science?