Have you ever head this theory about drinking yourself sober?' Eddie asked. 'It's a very popular theory. Amongst drunks, anyway.

Only if I am going to die, I should prefer to die as I have lived, drunkenly.

Jack, get a grip of yourself.' I have a grip of myself.' Jack took a grip of himself. It was a most intimate grip; not the kind of grip that you usually take of yourself in public.

I know that if I have been working on one paragraph and I have written it three times, it goes in the bin. Unless it comes straight out, it is wrong, it is awkward, it does not fit.

It was joy, joy, happy joy. Happy, happy joy. A big fat smiley sun rose above the rooftops and beamed down its blessings onto the borough known as Brentford.

Oh dear,' said Eddie. 'We'd better hurry. Tinto, call me a cab.' All right,' said Tinto. 'You're a cab.

What is believed to be a fact is only a fact until another fact supersedes it. Science is only a fashion. Nothing more.