The cafe was called Tattoos. The fella who owned it didn't have any tattoos... but we never saw his wife.

It's weird how me and that insect are miles apart in terms of lifestyle, yet we both like a biscuit.

The cafe was called Tattoos. The fella who owned it didn't have any tattoos... but we never saw his wife.

What's that plate that's above a saucer but below a plate?

What happens if someone else has my eyes, and they start looking at stuff I don't like? I don't like the idea of that.

Shitty nappy whizzing through the air, you don't see that in the brochures.

Sometimes you can know too much. A lot of brainy people like Stephen Fry are quite depressive.