The British public has always had an unerring taste for ungifted amateurs.
Writers don't need love; all they require is money.
There will be a quick rash of hairy American filth, but it shouldn't threaten the existence of decent, serious British filth.
They spend their time looking forward to the past.
The schoolteacher is certainly underpaid as a childminder, but ludicrously overpaid as an educator.
Here we are, we're alone in the universe, there's no God, it just seems that it all began by something as simple as sunlight striking on a piece of rock. And here we are. We've only got ourselves. Somehow, we've just got to make a go of it. We've only ourselves.