I was sick of Gordon Barraclough. Sick of his bullying. And I was sick of him being a good footballer.

''Listen, Barraclough. My uncle is Bobby Charlton.''

''You're a liar.''

I was.
''I'm not. Cross my heart and hope to die.'' I spat on my hand. If I’d dropped down dead on the spot I wouldn’t have been surprised.

''Funny and moving.... a rare gift.'' Guardian