Nigel Blackwell

No frills, handy for the hills, that's the way you spell New Mills.

Car crime's low, the gun crime's lower,
The town hall band CD, it's a grower,
You never hear of folk getting knocked on the bonce,
Although there was a drive-by shouting once,
But there's a brass band everywhere,
And I don't drive so I don't care, And as a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square,
What's Chatteris if you're not there?

I know Bono and he knows Ono, she knows Eno whose phone goes thus:
"Brian's not home, he's at the North Pole, but if you'd like to leave a weird noise..."

Mention The Lord of the Rings just once more, and I'll more than likely kill you.

There was one in the gang who had Scalextric, and because of that he thought he was better than you.

I'm off to see The Bootleg Beatles as the bootleg Mark Chapman.

She died with her telly on, 87 and confused,
With not enough hospital beds 'cos all the money’s been used,
On the end of the century party preparations,
And they reckon that the last thing she saw in her life,
Was Sting, singing on the roof of the Barbican.

There's a man with a mullet going mad with a mallet in Millets.

There's no room for enigmas in built-up areas.

There's people who can't spell 'weird' right driving round with thousands in the bank; but I get by, got a lot on my mind; I get by, got allotments on my mind.

I could put a tennis racket up against my face and pretend that I am Kendo Nagasaki.

Brian Moore's head looks uncannily like London Planetarium.

When I'm pining for a cigarette, I think of all the free ones that I'd get, if I killed myself and came back as a beagle, WOOF!

The three men I admire most -- the father, son, and Mickie Most -- took the last train for the coast, and rendezvoused with Peter Glaze, to kill Don Maclean.

Help me Mrs Medlicott, I don't know what to do, I've only got three bullets and there's four of Mötley Crüe.