I think all those rules are boring. About what people can and can't wear. Surely everyone should be able to wear whatever they like?

We sit in a room for months trying to think of funny things.

There's a sort of magic and music to comedy. Some words, some numbers even, are funnier than others. A Caramac bar, for instance, is funnier than a Milky Way.

I've noticed that once you leave London you do kind of become a bit more famous. People in London are a bit too cool for school. It's not so unusual to see someone from London in the street. But outside of London people are a bit more excited to see you and come out and support you.

I know somebody from university who's called Phil Collins, and I think there's something terribly unfortunate about sharing a name with somebody who either is famous or becomes famous.

flanked by two incredibly bulky nurses who dwarfed her. One nurse had a black eye, and ‘LOVE’ and ‘HATE’ tattooed on her knuckles. The other had a tattoo of a spider’s web on her neck and what looked like stubble on her chin. Both scowled at the boy. They were the ugliest nurses you could ever hope to meet. Jack’s eyes darted to their name badges – ‘Nurse Rose’ and ‘Nurse Blossom’. Miss Swine was twirling what at first glance looked like a baton. Holding it in one hand, she then rhythmically tapped the palm of her other. The effect was one of quiet menace. At one end of the baton were two little