The “public” seems to have bought into this belief that life can, and should, be run without risk, that all accidents are avoidable, and that death is something that only happens to people who eat meat and smoke.
I don’t understand bus lanes. Why do poor people have to get to places quicker than I do?
Like every big organisation these days, the BBC is obsessed with the wellbeing of those who set foot on its premises. Studios must display warning notices if there is real glass on the set, and the other day I was presented with a booklet explaining how to use a door. I am not kidding.
I wore a groove in the kitchen floor with endless trips to the fridge, hoping against hope that I had somehow missed a plateful of cold sausages on the previous 4,000 excursions. Then, for no obvious reason, I decided to buy a footstool.
I therefore have to use The Force. And weirdly, this doesn’t work very well. I don’t understand why, because on the last census, I put my religion down as Jedi Knight...
Hollywood movies are designed for 15-year-old youths from North Dakota who, intellectually speaking, are on equal terms with a British zoo animal.
Because drug dealers shoot each other in London, Norfolk farmers can’t have guns to defend their homes. I mean, no one wants a gun – except at 4am when they hear a strange sound in the kitchen.
I don’t think I am particularly funny. In fact, I know I’m not.
I dish the dirt out and I can take it. But why should my mother and children have to take it?
Column writing is like gas – it fills the available space.
We live in the worst country in the world. At least we do for lazy, inefficient, office-bound police, whose response to an extraordinary rise in violent crime is to order more speed cameras.
Racing cars which have been converted for road use never really work. It’s like making a hard core adult film, and then editing it so that it can be shown in British hotels. You’d just end up with a sort of half hour close up of some bloke’s sweaty face.
Tonight, the new Viper, which is the American equivalent of a sportscar in the same way, I guess, that George Bush is the equivalent of a President.
Some say he never blinks, and that he roams around the woods at night foraging for wolves. All we know is he’s called the Stig.
I’d like to consider Ferrari as a scaled down version of God.
In the olden days I always got the impression that TVR built a car, put it on sale, and then found out how it handled. Usually when one of their customers wrote to the factory complaining about how dead he was.
If you’re thinking of coming to America, this is what it’s like: you’ve got your Comfort Inn, you’ve got your Best Western, and you’ve got your Red Lobster where you eat. Everybody’s very fat, everybody’s very stupid and everybody’s very rude – it’s not a holiday programme, it’s the truth.
My epiglottis is full of bees!
God may have created the world in six days, but while he was resting on the seventh, Beelzebub popped up and did this place.
Owning a TVR in the past was like owning a bear. I mean it was great, until it pulled your head off, which it would.