What is life but playing with time?

I've got nothing against daylight. I don't live totally nocturnally. Only when I feel like it. Which is most of the time.

My father. I snorted my father. He was cremated and I couldn't resist grinding him up with a little bit of blow.

A painter's got a canvas. The writer's got reams of empty paper. A musician has silence.

What is life but playing with time?

I read the Bible sometimes, but it bores me to death. I just want to know what other people find so bloody fascinating.

In fact, I take the view that God, in his infinite wisdom, didn't bother to spring for two joints - heaven and hell. They're the same place, but heaven is when you get everything you want and you meet Mummy and Daddy and your best friends and you all have a hug and a kiss and play your harps. Hell is the same place - no fire and brimstone - but they just all pass by and don't see you. There's nothing, no recognition. You're waving, “It's me, your father,” but you're invisible. You're on a cloud, you've got your harp, but you can't play with nobody because they don't see you. That's hell.