They are by far the worst drivers. They are spiteful, dithering, old and in the way. They should have their licences taken away.
Usually, a Range Rover would be beaten away from the lights by a diesel powered wheelbarrow.
Americans are good at herding Bison. The end.
There are many rules for the elderly in the Highway Code. I have one too, and here it is: get a bloody move on.
If the Scottish want to break away, I shall stand on Hadrian’s Wall with a teary handkerchief, and say: ‘Good riddance to the lot of you, and take your stupid bagpipes with you.’
If you go through the pearly gates backwards in a fireball, that’s a cool way to die!
I rang up Jay Kay, who’s got one, and said: ‘Can we borrow yours?’ and he said, ‘Yeah, if I can borrow your daughter, because it amounts to the same thing.’
Whenever I’m suffering from insomnia, I just look at a picture of a Toyota Camry and I’m straight off.
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.