Ambition is a very dangerous thing because either you achieve it and your life ends prematurely, or you don’t, in which case your life is a constant source of disappointment. You must never have ambition.
Unlike furious thin-lipped feminists, I tend not to draw distinctions between men and women, apart from in bed where you really do need to spot the difference.
Telling people at a dinner party you drive a Nissan Almera is like telling them you’ve got the Ebola virus and you’re about to sneeze.
This is perfect for India because everyone who comes here gets the trots.
Looking good in Italy is even more important than looking where you’re going.
It was as relaxing as being tickled.
I think it’s a good idea to tie Peter Mandelson to a van. Such an act would be cruel and barbaric and inhuman. But it would at least cheer everyone up a bit.
Like many men, I can never find anything that I’m looking for, even when I’m actually looking at it. In a fridge, I think milk is actually invisible to the male eye. And so, it turns out, are dirty great holes in the fence.
Governments would rather spend their money on another bomber than education, and why do we fear black men when every bit of suffering in our lives has a Caucasian face attached to it?
Mix an anorexic body with a heart made of pure fire and you are going to go with a savagery that’s hard to explain.
If we build three million new houses by 2020, where will we grow all the stuff needed to feed the people who live in them?
All this health and safety talk is just killing me.
The only person to ever look good in the back of a 4-seater convertible was Adolf Hitler.
Nothing can prepare you for the yawning chasm of time that passes in Canada before the healthcare system actually does any healthcare.
You take out an injunction against somebody or some organisation and immediately news of that injunction and the people involved and the story behind the injunction is in a legal-free world on Twitter and the Internet. It’s pointless.
When I was 16, I wanted to look like Lord Byron. It’s not really a haircut so much as a hair-not-cut, but I’ve never changed it. It’s a bit Byron, a bit Don Juan DeMarco and other things that I aspire to be.
The problem is that television executives have got it into their heads that if one presenter on a show is a blonde-haired, blue-eyed heterosexual boy, the other must be a black Muslim lesbian.
I’m not capable of having an affair. You can ask my wife. I’m not physically capable.
I like to be loved by my children, and I quite like the Guardian hating me.
Some say his droppings have been found as far north as York, and that he has a full size tattoo of his face, on his face. All we know is he’s called the Stig.