No Broken Hearts, No Broken Necks.

I Mean Some Doctor Told Me I Had Six Months To Live And I Went To Their Funeral.

The Idea Of Retiring Is Like Killing Yourself. It's Almost Like Hari Kari. I Intend To Live To A 100 And Go Down In History.

A Painter's Got A Canvas. The Writer's Got Reams Of Empty Paper. A Musician Has Silence.

You Know, The Bbc Had Not Been Particularly Generous In Its Deliverance Of Blues And Esoteric Kinds Of Music.

In Fact, I Take The View That God, In His Infinite Wisdom, Didn't Bother To Spring For Two Joints - Heaven And Hell. They're The Same Place, But Heaven Is When You Get Everything You Want And You Meet Mummy And Daddy And Your Best Friends And You All Have A Hug And A Kiss And Play Your Harps. Hell Is The Same Place - No Fire And Brimstone - But They Just All Pass By And Don't See You. There's Nothing, No Recognition. You're Waving, “it's Me, Your Father,” But You're Invisible. You're On A Cloud, You've Got Your Harp, But You Can't Play With Nobody Because They Don't See You. That's Hell.