No-Pro, Page 260.

Whoa, whoa, whoa, feral boy.

. . .

No-Pro, Page 213.

I get the word out and it cuts me in half.

No-Pro, Page 204.

I firmly believe that a good character reference from a witless moron is far more damaging to one's standing than condemnation from the hippest ranks of the cognoscenti.

"I Know Writers Who Use Subtext, And They're All Cowards."

No-Pro, Page 170.

People learn crime because they grow up in a culture ay crime. Most cops start off as anti-crime, so it takes them longer tae catch up. But because they get extensive immersion in that culture ay crime, through their work, they soon get up tae speed. These days, the best place for a villain is on the force. Find out what works and what disnae.

No-Pro, Page 140.

Martin always says the logic in doing drugs is that if you're totally straight, some weeks you're still gaunnae feel fucked up and paranoid; at least if you do drink and drugs you have a reason to feel that way, rather than just sitting around convincing yourself that you might be mentally ill.

. . .

No-Pro, Page 134 + 135.

How cosy. How civilised, as the Islington middle classes mindlessly parrot. You give the cunts a glass of wine and switch the fire on, and they say, 'This is civilised.' They cut some fuckin' pieces of ciabatta with a knife, and they go: 'Isn't this civilised?'

And you want to go: no, you daft cunt, no it's fuckin' well not, because civilisation extends beyond pouring wine and cutting bread and what you're really talking about is simply leisure and relaxation.

No-Pro, Page 125.

It's easier to stick yir fingers in a strange woman's fanny than in a familiar one's purse.

Baaaa-aaad.

Millions of people are experiencing what it's like to go insane for the first time, staring into a bright light that changes all the time.

. . .

No-Pro, Page 82.

The last time I saw this man, I was convinced that he was heading for Fat Hell. It's like he saw the signs and found the slip road for the bypass in time, and is now back on the Svelte Heaven motorway.

No-Pro, Page 67 + 69.

Real knowledge is emotional and in feeling and real feelings are engendered by the airbrushed image, the slogan, and the soundbite.

But I'm ranting now, spouting stupid nonsense, yet of the type within which the real truth must always lie.

There Isn't Just One Good Team And One Bad Team And One Healthy Team And One Sick Team.

"Sex is a continuum. You go through different phases along life's way. And if you don't, you've been sort of cheated."
Truthdig

No-Pro, Page 41.

STOP LOOKING FOR REASONS NOT TO FUCK EACH OTHER.

. . .

No-Pro, Page 30 + 31.

Although we all love to entertain the notion that we're different, that we have our own unique take on all this tack, our own special redeeming irony.

I Get In The Second Car From The South, Trying To Sit Under The Square Of The Sun.

Nobody's letting their eyes contact, but I see a short-cut pudge of a man get on at the next stop, cheeks swollen from the cold. "The Big Book Of Mazes" against the chest.

"There's nothing like a fat black baby," he says, "staring at you from behind glass."

My face changes from the overcast fading off my spot.

Three-hundred feet down the track, a girl with ice-blue shadows around her eyes moves from the back of the car and adjusts her small-lined skirt, and says, "I want to find a man who'll scream the words 'Jag Rear Ut Min Sjal! Allt Skall Bort!!!' on top of a roof, attracting traffic."

I take my earphones out, little circles wired to nothing. And the things I think scrape against each other.

Miles on and the car packs itself out with a mass of clean suits and stolen shirts.

An old woman in all-wool scratches the side of the seat, her phone number in new graffiti.

But someone's lit one of the chairs on fire. So the automatics kick in and everything's soaked. With whiplash, the driver halts the line, grabs the radio through the sparks, and howls everyone off.

Rain, looks like.

Good night for a nuke.

I close my eyes, imagining warm geometry.