"I had written a beautiful piece for today. It was a rant about how much I despise Halloween. It was witty, well-written and a shining example of a writer at the top of his form. Then I tried to save it, and my computer crashed. So I guess you won't get to read it. Out of all the people in the world, I am the only one who had the opportunity to read my brilliant Halloween article, and now the text is already fading from my cruel, cruel short-term memory, the paragraphs lost in a whirling sea of data, never to be seen again."

“Ah, those were the days. David Bowie, Status Quo, The Beatles ... no end of artists I could say I enjoyed in order to sound clever and pretentious.”

“The minute I saw this in a catalogue I just fell about. It's so brave of Disney to introduce stuffed toys that represent serious illnesses in order to educate the little kiddies. Me, I just want this so I can make my very own 'Victorian Sanitarium' playset. Downs Syndrome Pooh will be kept perpetually in a bleak little cardboard cell, bullied by Doctor Action Man and Nurse Princess Leia, occasionally brought out to be brutally hosed down with cold water every week. I'm thinking of sending it to Hasbro.”

“Yes, let me tell you about my favourite Disney character. And afterwards, let's all have a magical tea party under the enchanted tree, then we can have a delightful game of pooh sticks, you fucking pansy.”

“So I finally sold out and bought an Ipod the other day. I haven't sold out to the point that I'd spell it with a lower case I and a capital P like the makers insist upon, though.”

“At this time I was hesitant to venture into the greenery, because I wasn't keen on the possibility of having spiders the size of basketballs drop onto my face from overhead branches and refuse to let go. Hunger pains were moving to the 'excruciating' stage by mid-morning. After a last-ditch attempt to extract nutrients from filling my mouth with sand, I decided that, if a big spider the size of a basketball dropped onto my face and tried to eat it, I would eat it back and we could turn the whole thing into an exciting competition.”

“What's more, all these cars go at pretty much exactly the same speed, so you have twenty-odd machines going around and around a track patiently waiting for the one in front to make a cock up. Maybe it would be interesting if drivers made a cock up more often, slamming into walls with really impressive explosions and bits of twisted metal flying everywhere. But no, they train the gits too well. They should have every car being driven by a chimpanzee. I'd watch that. Fuck, I'd sponsor it.”