It doesn’t stop. It really doesn’t stop. It’s the way I live every single day. I don’t do anything else. I have no other interest other than music. At all.
It’s the refuge for the mentally deficient. It’s made by dull people for dull people.
When they bury me in a church and chuck earth on my grave, I’d like the words ‘Well, at least he tried’ engraved on my tombstone.
I think I must be, absolutely, a total sex object. In every sense of the word.
You are a work of art.
I’ve gone through managers like people go through shredded wheat. Nobody looks after you.
I’d rather produce art than become art.
I just feel that when all is said and done, I am not insane.
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.
Sometimes I wish I was just a simple drunkard.
All human activity is fruitless when pitted against the girls and boys singing on pop television, for they have found the answer as the rest of us search for the question. I will sing, too. If not, I will have to die.
My parents were worried about me, certainly when I became so deeply interested in music and people like the New York Dolls who, at the time, were very peculiar indeed.
In England, pop music seems now to be exclusively for children. If an artist is no good, why is it necessary to have that artist repeatedly rammed in our face?
Nothing is important, so people, realising that, should get on with their lives, go mad, take their clothes off, jump in the canal, jump into one of those supermarket trolleys, race around the supermarket and steal Mars bars and kiss kittens.
Sing your life; any fool can think of words that rhyme.
If you respect or love animals you could never eat them. It’s that simple.
Now I know how Joan of Arc felt, As the flames rose to her Roman nose And her Walkman started to melt...
But sometimes I’d feel more fulfilled making Christmas cards with the mentally ill. I want to live and I want to love. I want to catch something that I might be ashamed of.
I decree today that life is simply taking and not giving, England is mine and it owes me a living.
I’ve been dreaming of a time when The English are sick to death of Labour and Tories And spit upon the name Oliver Cromwell and denounce this royal line that still salutes him And will salute him forever.