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.

As real as,' said Eddie. 'As real as what?' said Jack. 'Wish I knew,' said Eddie. 'But I can't do corroborative nouns. None of us are perfect, are we? I can get started. As big as, as obscene as, as foul as. But I can't get any further. But that's life for you again. As unfair as...

Now, it's a fact well known to those who know it well that prophets of doom only attain popularity when they get the drinks in all around.

Because I'm a special gatekeeper. I'm the head gatekeeper. Because, although, as you can see, I'm only a head, I'm also the gatekeeper. Which makes me the head gatekeeper. Which makes me very special, don't you agree?

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

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.

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.