So goodbye yellow brick road, Where the dogs of society howl. You can't plant me in your penthouse, I'm going back to my plough. - Elton John

You're the son of your father,
Try a little bit harder.
Do for me as he would do for you.
With blood and water bricks and mortar,
He built for you a home.
You're the son of your father,
So treat me as your own.

You can send yourself crazy wondering. But it all happened, and here I am. There’s really no point in asking what if? The only question worth asking is: what’s next?

You get up in the morning after you’ve slept with someone, and the first person you and your latest conquest bump into is your mum, angrily waving a receipt under your nose and demanding: ‘Why have you spent this much on a dress for Kiki Dee?’ It’s just weird. It really takes the shine off the atmosphere of post-coital bliss.