Now this might disturb you, but I find I'm OK by myself; and I don't need you or your benevolence to make sense.

I have an unswayable obsession with death. If there was a magical pill that one could take that would retire you from the world, I would take it.

The only thing that could possibly save British politics would be Margaret Thatcher's assassin.

I called to wish you an unhappy birthday because you're evil and you lie and if you should die I may feel slightly sad, but I won't cry.

The heart has a heart of its own.

Denmark is sadly a hellish place if you happen to be a pig, but the brioche and fruits that tower on the table before me have me hastily attaching a feedbag.

I don't even know if I exist offstage.