Dylan Moran
Irish comedian, actor, and writer, best known for his work in Black Books.
The candlelight dances off her mahogany-coloured skin as she un-robes, and she is smiling from the very middle of herself, and you look at them and you think "This is the one, this is it" and then—and then the cage comes down!
I have tried... believe me, I have tried to like rap music. It makes me feel so very, very old. I have tried to get home with the downies.
What does anyone think or believe any more? Belief itself is treated with disgust. Belief is now regarded as a kind of fat marbling the brain. Who here believes in organized religion? (NO!) Who doesn't? (AUDIENCE CHEERING LOUDLY) You see? People in the West don't believe in anything! And we're proud of it! "What you believe in?" "Nothing! Nothing!" "What did you have for lunch? I don't fucking believe you!" We don't believe in anything. We treat religion with contempt. Faith. All that rubbish. What are you, a child? Believing in this, you do good and then you know, you die and then you get a biscuite! What are you, a fucking idiot? What's wrong with you? We don't believe in anything! Because we know about science! Believe in science! That's the only thing we know about! The atoms and quarks and things. We don't understand it! Any of it! But... But that's the case. So, that's totally different to having a faith! Isn't it?
You know, it's a sad day when your child looks at you and asks: "Daddy, is this organic?" "Organic? I grew up on Angel Delight! We didn't have anything in the house if it wasn't neon!"
You don't need to turn the light switch on and off, again! You have absolutely NAILED DOWN the principle finding of that experiment; when you turn the lights off, daddy can't see ANYTHING. He steps on your toys trying to find you and kill you... And breaks his foot!
Fruit... it's just God showing off. "Look at all the colours I know!"
When you say 'Bedtime, bedtime, bedtime!' that's not what the child hears. What the child hears is 'Lie down in the dark... for hours... and don't move... I'm locking the door now.'
I usually never leave the house, but we went to Australia recently—the whole family was there—it was a ridiculous place. Located three quarters of a mile from the surface of the sun, people audibly crackling as they walk past you on the street. That's why they all barbecue, you don't need to cook somewhere like that, you just bring the shit out, fling it on a grill and it bursts into flames. It's not supposed to be inhabited, and when they're not doing that, frying themselves outside, they all fling themselves into the sea, which is inhabited almost exclusively by things designed to kill you; sharks, jellyfish, swimming knives, they're all in there.
I fear we might be losing the basic human facility to be alone - and with that you throw out independent decision-making, what to trust, what not to trust, key stuff, a perilous loss.
I don't want to make any huge generalisations about women, I'm not here to do that, it's — it's vulgar. But all I'll say is that they have no feelings. Because it's actually men, you'll find, who are the far more romantic. Men are the people you will hear say, "I've found somebody. She's amazing. If I don't get to be with this person, I'm fucked. I can't carry on, no, I mean it, she's totally transformed my life. I have a job, I have a flat, it means nothing. I can't stand it, I have to be with her. Because if I don't, I'm going to end up in some bedsit, I'll be alcoholic, I'll have itchy trousers. I can't — I can't walk the streets any more." That is how women feel about shoes.
Adulthood feels like walking around in the desert with a bag over your head, being bumped into by people who rob you as they bore you.
You’re never going to go. Why would you go? It’s a disgusting place. It’s always wet even when it’s dry. There’s nothing there. Farmers aren’t really people, you know this. They’re just necessary, we need somebody to kill cows.
Most heterosexual people in this country, and around the world, meet each other, and get together with one another when they’re totally, totally drunk. Smashed out of their minds they could not spell their own face. And they go home with that person! And you might spend months with that person, or a year, or you might have a family! This is what happens, this is how you meet. But you wouldn’t buy a toaster when you’re drunk, ‘cause that’s too important. It's got to be crispy and just the right way, hasn't it?
You laugh at the North, you think they’re all funny little short people who live in a big pie. Trying to sort out their relationship with the definite article. Throwing darts at their dinner.
You know, people come in here with their fucking camera phones - everything’s a camera nowadays; you pick up a piece of fruit, it takes a picture of you. Or the computers which are everywhere which is proof that we like to be watched. That what we’ve replaced God with, technology! We’re fucking afraid to be alone, in a lift, in a taxi cab, we need cameras everywhere recording us unless we realise we’re alone, we might do something scary... like whimper, I don’t know!
Here your Prime Minister has an approval rating of 75%... which is- What's he doing? Nobody ever gets 75%, is he coming round at night, with a pot roast, touching you on the knee and telling you that you’ve lost weight? What’s going on?! This is madness, nobody gets 75% not even when you’re madly in love with somebody, and you’re fucking each other’s brains out do you give each other 75%! You’ve got to hold a bit back, keep the other person guessing you know? ...keep it at a steady 40...
But you see, you measure what a good time you had by how much it fucks you up; you go out tonight, get ripped, get shitfaced. You'll wake up tomorrow and somebody will talk to you and ask, "How was last night?". You'll say, "It was fantastic! ...I can't see. No sens- no feeling, nothing, no sensation down the left side of my body. Oh! I can't even form sentences! You should've come; you would've at least lost an ear!"
Some people don’t like Mr Cameron. Mr Cameron and his cube of air. He doesn’t seem to know where to put that thing down. He can’t find a place for it. I think the reason he can’t get rid of it is because it contains the essence of the Big Society, and nobody wants that shit.
The truth is that women are like chick peas under a psychopath's hat. They can be cherishable and zingy and suprising. But you ask too many questions and you get killed.
It's not even a drink. It's a way for having the cops around without using a phone.