Every Englishman is convinced of one thing, viz.: That to be an Englishman is to belong to the most exclusive club there is.

Here's a good rule of thumb; too clever is dumb.

Dogs display reluctance and wrath If you try to give them a bath. They bury bones in hideaways And half the time they trot sideaways.

The dog is man's best friend. He has a tail on one end. Up in front he has teeth. And four legs underneath.

And one of his partners asked Has he vertigo? and the other glanced out and down and said Oh no, only about ten feet more.

Among other things I think humor is a shield, a weapon, a survival kit. So here we are several billion of us, crowded into our global concentration camp for the duration. How are we to survive? Solemnity is not the answer, any more than witless and irresponsible frivolity is. I think our best chance lies in humor, which in this case means a wry acceptance of our predicament. We don't have to like it but we can at least recognize its ridiculous aspects, one of which is ourselves.

I was born a jackdaw; why should I try to be an owl?