One of the nice things about time, Crowley always said, was that it was steadily taking him further away from the fourteenth century.

Never f*!k with the ineffable.

A skeleton, even a walking one, is at least human; Death of a sort lurks inside every living creature.

His parents called him Youngster. They did this in the subconcious hope that he might take the hint. Wensleydale gave the impression of having been born with a mental age of 47.

You couldn't get a decent drink in either of them, for a start. And the boredom you got in Heaven was almost as bad as the excitement you got in Hell.