As I look around the West End these days, it seems to me that outside every thin girl is a fat man, trying to get in.

It would be nice to think that a censor could allow a genuine work of artistic seriousness and ban a titillating piece of sadism, but it would take a miracle to make such a distinction stick.

Why do born-again people so often make you wish they'd never been born the first time?

Whereas a lot of men used to ask for conversation when they really wanted sex, nowadays they often feel obliged to ask for sex even when they really want conversation.

No nice men are good at getting taxis.

I just wish, when neither of us has written to my husband's mother, I didn't feel so much worse about it than he does.

The Life and Soul, the man who will never go home while there is one man, woman or glass of anything not yet drunk.