I need a healthy injection of cynicism right now.

If you're a comic, you don't have a rehearsal room; you rehearse on stage. My main concern is remembering everything. I've written lots of material, but how do you memorise 90 minutes? That's one hell of a long speech. I've always had problems with that.

Men don't know anything! Men don't know when their lives became so entirely awful, when everyone else turned into such a tosser! A man does not know how he came by the half a pie he is holding in his hand. And scientists - those frauds - seize on this, and try to use it as proof of the mysteries of human consciousness and the unknowable nature of the brain, which is rubbish!

I can't relax here. These people have no pubic hair anywhere. We have pubic hair on the ceiling.

That's a rather flippant quote "drinking and writing bad poetry" from me. I mean, I said it, but I was doing other stuff too. I certainly didn't manage the full stretch of four years.

I don't want to do the same thing over and over again.

When I was young, all the politicians looked like ancient Latin teachers or greengrocers. They were mumbly, stumbly men with their hair blowing in their eyes, walking into trees, opening the wrong door. They had no idea how to present themselves.