And one thing kept cropping up, even when I was preparing for this tour, they were saying, "Oh, he's out of touch. He's so famous. He's rich. He's mega-rich."

I am.

I could have this place burned down for a laugh.

No, but they say things like, "Oh, he's an observational comedian. How can he say things that relate to ordinary scum?"

And I say, "Don't call 'em scum, alright?"

But even the papers, they try and get around to it.

I do interviews and they always wanna say, "Oh, do you always fly first class?"

I go, "No, often private."

The number of times I've answered this question, they say, "Do you know how much a pint of milk is?"

It's meant to make you look out of touch and I don't know, but that's irrelevant.

Next time a journalist asks me that, I'm gonna say, "I don't know, mate, but here's a grand. Run and get me one, will ya?"

"Is that enough?"

Another question that I always get, particularly with the posh papers, the Sundays, they're doing a profile piece, and they're still trying to alienate you and make you look different and they always say things like, "No, you don't have children."

I say, "No."

They say, "Why don't you have children?"

Which is a really odd question to ask someone, "Why don't you have children," as opposed to asking people, "Why do you have children?"

Let's ask the fat lady in the leggings why she's had eight.

Shall we?

Oh, nine.

That one just fell out.

That one didn't even touch the sides or disturb her cigarette.

"Go and claim for that."

People say, "Oh, it's selfish to not have children."

How can it be selfish to not bring a life into the world that doesn't exist on any level?

It's not like there's a long cabinet full of potential ghost fetuses going, "We wanna be born."

But I've thought about it and there's three reasons I don't have children.

Three main reasons I don't have children.

I'll share them with you, three reasons.

One, there's millions.

The world's overpopulated.

No one's sitting around going, "Oh, Rick's not having kids, we're gonna run out."

Two, kids are scroungers, aren't they?

From day one, it's all, "Me, me, me."

Isn't it?

"Feed me, clothe me, pay for my chemotherapy."

"Not my problem, son. Luck of the draw, boy, luck of the draw."

It costs the average household in the west 200,000 USD to bring up a child and you don't see that back.

They don't wanna pay you back.

They're not grateful.

They don't go, "Thanks for having me," everyday.

They're going, "I didn't wanna be born."

Even if they get a top job, which they won't, you'll never see that money back.

They'll just put you in a home and my kid, he'd born into ridiculous wealth, wouldn't he? So...

He'd be a little cunt.

A little Hampstead cunt, running around with all the other fucking little Hampstead cunts, being all Hampstead and cunty.

"I'm a little Hampstead cunt."

"Yes, I know."

"These are my little cunty friends."

"Yeah, I know, it's obvious."

"I can tell from your little fucking cunty hats that you're little Hampstead cunts, you little posh Hampstead cunts."

And on the one hand, he'd know he was a little fucking Hampstead cunt.

"I'm a little Hampstead cunt."

Yes, we know, everyone knows.

We know that, right?

On the other hand, he'd know that he could never live up to being as brilliant as his dad, right?

I'd say, "You know, I worked from nothing and I gave it to you and you're just a little useless Hampstead cunt."

That would probably prey on his little mind a bit, wouldn't it?

11, 12, he'd be a naughty boy, run with the wrong crowd, try and get out from under my shadow, right?

Then he'd turn to drugs and at about 30, he'd come home and he'd overdose on my Afghan rug.

Twenty grand, that was.

And as he was there, convulsing and throwing up his fucking lungs, and with his little posh high-pitched fucking death rattle, his little fucking dying words, he'd go, "Do you love me now, Daddy?"

"No!"

I never did, and that's why you're never going to be born, you useless fucking junkie Hampstead cunt."