It's a mystery of human chemistry and I don't understand it, some people, as far as their senses are concerned, just feel like home.

It's just that none of us had the wit or talent to make them into songs. We made them into life, which much messier, and more time consuming, and leaves nothing for anybody to whistle.

Sequels are very rarely a good idea, and in any case, the success of the book changed my relationship with the club in some ways.

Life isn't, and has never been, a 2-0 home victory after a fish and chip lunch.

We spent all those years talking about stuff we had in common, and the last few months noticing all the ways we were different and it broke both of our hearts.

All I know is that you can get very little from a book that is making you weep with the effort of reading it. You won’t remember it, and you’ll learn nothing from it, and you’ll be less likely to choose a book over Big Brother next time you have a choice.

I hate time. It never does what you want it to.