da un romanzo di nick hornby, un grande - sottovalutato - colin firth fa amare il calcio anche a chi non se ne è mai interessato.
[Paul's doorbell is buzzing during the last minute of Liverpool v. Arsenal] Paul Ashworth: [out a window, not really seeing who it is] Will you please, please, please, please, please just fucking FUCK OFF? You have arrived during the worst sixty seconds of my life, and I really don’t want to see you.
[the window slams shut. The visitor is revealed to be Sarah] Paul Ashworth: [to Steve] Why ask? And what sort of berk would do that? You’d just about forgive an alien visitor from the planet Tharg, but even then, you’d have…
[Paul realizes what he's done and runs to the door] Steve: Where’re you going? You’re mad. You might miss something.
soltanto per questa struggente poesia di W.H. Auden
“Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone. Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone. Silence the pianos and with muffled drum, Bring out the coffin… let the mourners come. Let aeroplanes circle, moaning overhead, Scribbling on the sky the message: He is Dead. Put crepe bows ’round the necks of public doves, Let traffic policemen wear black, cotton gloves. He was my North, my South, my East, my West. My working week and my Sunday rest. My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song, I thought love would last forever: I was wrong. The stars are not wanted now, put out every one. Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun. Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood, For nothing now can ever come to any good.”
