“Cold pizza is a perfect breakfast, with lots of salt.”

I once fell through a hole in the stage.

I learned that if I had known how much of this Nazi memorabilia there was to collect, I never would have started in the first place. It’s crowding me out of my house.

I was never going to be a doctor or a lawyer, so being a musician seemed to be the best of what was on offer.

The thing about death is it’s so final, isn’t it, really? As far as we know… Nobody has ever come back and told us about it.

When you’ve lived the life that I have, you should always expect something like that to crop up. I was not a good boy.

You learn all the best stuff in life after you leave school.

I like touring; I live on the road, more or less.

I wasn’t very worried about the Cold War; I was busy being a musician.

I do quite like that Andrew Lloyd Webber song from ‘Cats.’ What’s it called? ‘Memory?’ Sends shivers up your spine.

I was in the Rockin’ Vicars, which was the first British band to tour behind the Iron Curtain.

Touring is too much fun to stop.

We was living in squats in Battersea when we started with Motorhead. And we lived with the Hell’s Angels in this flat. They were always around.

I never liked jazz or anything else. Early rock n’ roll – that was music to me. Everything else was boring.

The hippie era was a wonderful time because we still believed we could make the world a better place.

In your twenties, you think you are immortal. In your thirties, you hope you are immortal.

Nobody in the world could possibly be as mean as I look, could they?

What is it with you today?” says Christina on the way to breakfast. Her eyes are still swollen from sleep and her tangled hair forms a fuzzy halo around her face.

If you want to eat well in England, eat three breakfasts.

I myself prefer my New Zealand eggs for breakfast.

If I had my choice I would kill every reporter in the world, but I am sure we would be getting reports from Hell before breakfast.

You may as well say, ‘That’s a valiant flea that dare eat his breakfast on the lip of a lion.

Once a woman has forgiven her man, she must not reheat his sins for breakfast.

It is a horrible fact that we can read in the daily paper, without interrupting our breakfast, numerical reckonings of death and destruction that ought to break our hearts or scare us out of our wits.

Our father the novelist; my husband the poet. He belongs to the ages – just don’t catch him at breakfast.