I want my teammates to know I have their backs.
My Zombie apocalypse plan is simple but effective; I fully intend to die in the very first wave.
My dad isn't sure how I make a living because I'm not in the newspapers or on music shows any more. The world is bigger than England, however, but for the large part, yes, people don't know who I am. What are you gonna do? Unless you're a superstar act that attracts young people because it might be their last chance to see you before you die, then it's fairly typical. I'm astonished that I have any audience at all, to be honest.
When the mighty chains of darkness had me on the ropes, everyone said quit now, that's when I found hope.
Sadly, my socks are like snowflakes, no two are exactly alike.
When I was a kid in the mid-'60s, I was what's known as a moddie boy, a prototype skinhead. You all had your hair like a crew cut, cropped, with suits or Levis with red suspenders, sometimes Doc Martens. It was a thriving soul music, Motown and ska scene; we used to dance to Prince Buster and the Skatalites.
Mostly I've never let record companies become involved with my music, which was a very smart thing that my first manager Dave Robinson did, to keep them out of it.
Elections are about the future. And the GOP will not win a campaign focused on the past.
All the cunning of the devil is exercised in trying to tear us away from the word.
My aunt in Knoxville would bring newspapers up, which we used for toilet paper. Before we used it, we'd look at the pictures.
Are you ready for some real revelation knowledge. . . . you are god