Here I sit, beneath the large window of a first-floor Georgian flat, exploring the corridors of my sordid imagination for comedic words of beauty.

Rose doesn’t like the flat country, but I always did – flat country seems to give the sky such a chance.

If comedians were truly free of repression, there would not be an inherent need to perform for the love of a roomful of total strangers.

Milk which is just about to turn is akin to that moment spent on the cusp of failure in a dulled and fettered relationship.

Successful writers say you should never work from a desk with a view, and the view I have from this one is a huge distraction. There's a garden bursting with fresh vegetation, and just beyond the high wall at the end of it, I can see the sign of the local pub across the road. Distractions, eh? I'm so easily led.

Human imagination is so much more potent than anything we could put down in words.