Go and get a job. Go and find a flat. Find somebody else. Put them in the flat. Make them stay. Get a toaster. Go to work. Get on the bus. Look at your boss. Say, “fuck”. Sit down. Pick up the thing. Go blank. Scream internally. Go home. Listen to the radio. Look at the other person. Think, “WHY? Why did this happen?”. Go to bed. Lie awake! At night! Get up. Feel groggy. Put the things on - your clothes - whatever they’re called. Go out the door, into work - same thing! Same people, again. It’s real, it is happening to you. Go home again! Sit. Radio. Dinner - mmm. GARDENING, GARDENING, GARDENING. Death.

Hear the words I sing,
War’s a horrid thing,
But still I sing, sing, sing,
Ding a ling a ling.

We’re in the stickiest situation since Sticky the Stick Insect got stuck on a sticky bun.

Field Marshal Haig is about to make yet another gargantuan effort to move his drinks cabinet six inches closer to Berlin.

A man may fight for many things. His country, his friends, his principles, the glistening tear on the cheek of a golden child. But personally, I’d mud-wrestle my own mother for a ton of cash, an amusing clock and a sack of French porn.

I’m as poor as a church mouse, that’s just had an enormous tax bill on the very day his wife ran off with another mouse, taking all the cheese.

I hate you English. With your boring trousers and your shiny toilet paper and your ridiculous preconceptions that Frenchmen are great lovers. I’m French and I’m hung like a baby carrot and a couple of petits pois.

If you weren’t quite so big, it would be time for Mr and Mrs Spank to pay a short sharp trip to Bottieland.

The path of my life is strewn with cowpats from the devil’s own satanic herd.

‘Yes, it is’, not ‘That it be’. You don’t have to talk in that stupid voice to me. I’m not a tourist.