Graham Norton Quotes

The rooms weren't empty, they were filled with the absence of someone.

she needed to anchor herself to something or she might fly around the room screaming out her pain like a hysterical balloon.

Funerals see the end of a life but at the party afterwards, it is like a form of resurrection: the person we have just said goodbye to is back in the room as people share their tales. The

Life had taught them well. Feelings were to be feared, pain was to be avoided at all cost, and if that meant not experiencing joy, then so be it.

Always remember, if you decide to come to the showbiz party the dress code is ‘Thick Skin’. Our

Small, shiny and exquisite, she was like a Fabergéegg with tits. Although

I've always found there are far fewer answers than there are questions.

At the house, Margaret was lying on the sofa. She was exhausted. Helen did not know why. Nobody got jet lag flying in from London.

Sometimes knowing where or when things went wrong didn’t mean you could fix them. It just meant you could beat yourself up over them more effectively.

This is what homecoming meant. Arriving in a place to discover you’re fluent in a language you’d forgotten you ever knew.

Duneen had somehow managed to slip through the World Wide Web. No 4G, no 3G, no signal.

He remembered that it had been a warm evening in early September. He had made his way up past the school but was beginning to regret his route. The road was much steeper than he had imagined and he was getting quite short of breath and was coated in a slick of sweat that was making his clothes stick to him.

sugar-free daddy. A job seemed like quite a smart move.

Slán abhaile,

the veins

he decided that if there was a God, he was an awful bollocks.

to.

he could see that he had hidden behind his size and used it as an excuse so he didn’t have to compete in all the trials of adolescence. No need to summon up the courage to ask a girl out on a date, because which of the Margarets or Fionas with their long pale necks and shiny hair would want his warm clammy hands holding them on the dance floor? The other boys tried to outdo each other

The dead don't vanish, they leave a negative of themselves stamped on the world.

Some marriages combust, others die, and some just lie down like a wounded animal, defeated.

She had been a primary school teacher for thirty-nine years. So much talking. Parents and pupils always wanting something. Now it was her time to sit and read.

questions outside

hard to think of things to talk about. She’d know me, but that’s about it. I find if I talk about things

Crottie

fetid

I don’t want to be a prick about it but I’m Irish. I’m not a paddy. OK?

where Aunt Gillian kept her Waterford crystal, so special that it wasn’t used even for special occasions.

had

Well, I always did like Graham Norton.

We live in our stories, and the best stories go on. Funerals see the end of a life but at the party afterwards, it is like a form of resurrection: the person we have just said goodbye to is back in the room as people share their tales.

The investigation had begun. ‘It might be nothing. Some of the lads said work on, but myself and the foreman thought somebody better have a look.’ ‘Right so, I’ll head on up. Will you sit in with me?’ ‘Oh thanks. I will

limp spring onion draped itself over the edge of the wicker basket that displayed the fresh produce in the O’Driscolls’ shop, café and post office. It shared the space with a shrivelled red pepper, while the basket above it held a few sweaty-looking bags of carrots. On the ground was a large sack of potatoes. Brown paper bags dangled from string to allow eager shoppers to make their own selection from the enticing display.

Living in London, it’s easy to forget that people can talk to each other. I walk my dogs around Wapping past hundreds of people on pavements and in parks and it is very rare a smile is exchanged or the silence broken. I occasionally get ‘Are you Graham Norton?’ ‘Love the show’ or a simple ‘Faggot!’ but for most people making their way through the capital, you soon learn that people generally only speak to you when they are (a) crazy, (b) want money, or (c) both. We quickly learn the rules and for the most part they work. In Ireland it is impossible to imagine not saying hello or commenting on the weather. When I first started going back home again, it would always take me a day or two to stop thinking everyone I met was trying to sell me something or explaining why they needed £2 to get the train. I know this is true of rural communities the world over, but talking seems to be something we in Ireland are especially gifted at. There are nights in the pub when my friends look on in slack-jawed incomprehension as someone opens their mouth and a torrent of words tumble free. Usually they don’t have anything to say. Their gate fell down. Who put it there. The man who fixed it. The general state of gates in the area. I will then remember an ‘interesting’ fact about my own gate. They will know the man who owned the forge where they made it. Are they a relation of the man who delivers the stuff? And so it goes. A seamless gush of phrases and banter as traditional as a sing-song or drink-driving. It is talking for the pure pleasure of it and not to communicate a single thing. It is the human equivalent of barking or birdsong.

Happiness is not spending a single second reading endless—and I mean, endless—shitposts in 'The Guardian' masquerading as reportage about the kind of very, very boring morons you actively go out of your way to never meet. Happiness is The Wellcome Collection, but never the Hayward. Happiness is Kylie Minogue and Graham Norton because they're both dope, but not Dua Lipa or Calvin Harris because even though they both seem to be everywhere, all the time, I swear I cannot for the life of me name a single song of theirs.

A lonely heart will always find a way to fill itself

sharp wings could have done a great deal