“First of all, I love singing. I mean, I get out of bed and I sing. I can’t help it.”

Once heard, Never forgotten!

You can’t lose the essence of a song. I try to enhance it more than anything else.

I’ve always felt myself as being a serious singer.

I like to drink to suit my location.

You are only a young talent, but we don’t know how old your soul is.

Love is in the air everywhere I look around. Love is in the air every sight and every sound.

We won best breakthrough video, it meant so much to me to win that award, it was a turning point in my career.

Pussy cat, pussy cat, I love you, yes I do. You and your pussy cat nose.

I come from a coal-mining, working-class background. My father was a coal miner.

I think when you’ve lived a bit, you read more into the songs. I do, anyway. And you’re sort of living the songs rather than performing them,

I’ve always liked to dance – I’ve got a natural rhythm.

I think it’s good that I had some experience of the real world before I became successful. You know, having to get up in the morning and going to work in construction.

It is widely held that too much wine will dull a man’s desire. Indeed it will…in a dull man.

I have a weakness for watches. I have to stop myself buying more.

You can’t be a sexy person unless you have something sexy to offer. With me, it’s my voice: the way that I sing, the way I express myself when I sing.

It’s not unusual to be loved by anyone, it’s not unusual to have fun with anyone. But when I see you hanging about with anyone, it’s not unusual to see me cry. I wanna’ die.

The other night I was lying in bed, looking up at the stars, and I wondered, ‘Where the hell is my roof?

Before you go to bed; thank god for you still have a bed.

When I was a child, I used to fear monsters under the bed. I have since learned that most monsters are found within. And they are always worth fighting.

I find I can get so much done between midnight and 4 a.m. Everything is quiet, no one is disturbing me, and if I go to bed then, I just lie awake thinking of ideas. They are very creative hours for me. One night a week I crash out, though.

The bed was the canvas, we were the art.

I have made my bed In charnels and on coffins, where black death Keeps record of the trophies won.

The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing, The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying, And the Year On the earth her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead, Is lying.

And when thou art weary I’ll find thee a bed, Of mosses and flowers to pillow thy head.