I was sat at the bottom of the garden a week ago, smoking a reflective cheroot, thinking about this and that - mostly that, and I just happened to glance at the night sky and I marvelled at the millions of stars glistening like pieces of quicksilver thrown carelessly onto black velvet. In awe I watched the waxen moon ride across the zenith of the heavens like an amber chariot towards the void of infinite space wherein the tethered bolts of Jupiter and Mars hang forever in their orbital majesty; and as I looked at all this, I thought, 'I must put a roof on this lavatory.

Slumps don't bother me.

I know my name will always be linked with women.

My wife is a sex object - every time I ask for sex, she objects.

I discovered the wife's got asthma. Thank God - I thought she was hissing at me.

I need to give affection and love, because without that, I wither. I need to give that love to someone. Without that, I'm rudderless.

There is a remote tribe that worships the number zero. Is nothing sacred?