My chances of being PM are about as good as the chances of finding Elvis on Mars, or my being reincarnated as an olive.

There is absolutely no one, apart from yourself, who can prevent you, in the middle of the night, from sneaking down to tidy up the edges of that hunk of chees…

I didn't see it, but it sounds barbaric. It's become like cock-fighting: poor dumb brutes being set upon each other by conniving television producers.

It was a stellar performance. I may as well give up now and make way for an older man.