"Last week, Mr President, I seemed to hear a strange sound emanating from Blackpool. And I thought at first it was seagulls. Then I remembered that Labour was holding its annual Conference there. And I realised it wasn't seagulls, it was chickens— chickens being counted before they were hatched— except for Labour's call to enter the ERM and cut interest rates. That was a case of counting chickens after they'd flown the coop. Then, I heard voices getting all worked up about someone they kept calling the “Prime Minister in Waiting”. It occurs to me, Mr President, that he might have quite a wait. I can see him now, like the people queuing up for the Winter sales. All got up with his camp bed, hot thermos, woolly balaclava, CND badge ... Waiting, waiting, waiting ... And then when the doors open, in he rushes—only to find that, as always, there's “that woman” ahead of him again. I gather there may be an adjective between “that” and “woman” only no-one will tell me what it is."
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"Whenever I meet prostitutes, they never speak of sex. They inquire about the soul, and about God. I also meet many ascetics and monks, and whenever we are alone they ask about nothing but sex. I was s…"
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