A Quote by Quentin Crisp

I became one of the stately homos of England. — © Quentin Crisp
I became one of the stately homos of England.
I am the last of Britain's stately homos.
And they that rule in England, in stately conclaves met, alas, alas for England they have no graves as yet.
Those comfortably padded lunatic asylums which are known, euphemistically, as the stately homes of England.
The stately Homes of England,How beautiful they stand!Amidst their tall ancestral trees,O'er all the pleasant land.
The Stately Homes of England, How beautiful they stand, To prove the Upper Classes, Have still the Upper Hand.
I grew up in Britain before it became a multicultural place, so in many ways I have a nostalgia for an England that's vanished - the England of my childhood has actually disappeared.
When I was younger, we'd stay at stately homes, and at the end of dinner, women would have to leave the table. I used to sit there. I wouldn't leave. I felt England should come out of the Victorian era.
We're all homos. Homo sapiens.
Tease hair, not homos!
Growing up in England, you're sort of spoiled, in a way. You sort of take it for granted that within a half-hour's drive, you could be walking around a stately home from the 1700s. It's not very hard to do - in California, you've got to take a flight!
I think over there in Montreal they're a bit hardcore with the old homos. They're not that keen on them.
When you're a fledgling youth-type adult, it appears that all people in their 40s look old enough to be in a painting hanging on the wall of a stately home in England. It's not until you limp into your 70s that people in their 40s look too young to vote, and college cheerleaders closely resemble Yorkshire terriers.
Escape through travel works. Almost from the moment I boarded my flight, life in England became meaningless. Seat-belt signs lit up, problems switched off. Broken armrests took precedence over broken hearts. By the time the plane was airborne I'd forgotten England even existed.
In the embrace's release I caught the scent again. Unmistakable. Marijuana. These homos were high as kites.
The stately heavens which glory doth array, are mirrors of God's admirable might; there, whence forth spreads the night, forth springs the day. He fix'd the fountains of this temporal light, where stately stars enstall'd, some stand, some stray, all sparks of his great power (though small) yet bright. By what none utter can, no, not conceive. All of his greatness, shadows may perceive.
This rose became a bandanna, which became a house, which became infused with all passion, which became a hideaway, which became yes I would like to have dinner, which became hands, which became lands, shores, beaches, natives on the stones, staring and wild beasts in the trees, chasing the hats of lost hunters, and all this deserves a tone.
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