Nick Park Quotes

Kelly pulled out a pair of handcuffs and thrust them at Park. “Why the hell do you have those?” Ty asked. Kelly shrugged and grinned. “They’re Nick’s.” “Oh God, no,” Ty blurted covering his eyes. Nick laughed. He rolled over and pushed himself to his hands and knees, but he remained there, either unable or unwilling to stand. He glanced up at Ty and Zane. “He likes the uniform, too.” “No no no!” Ty cried.

Marcus couldn't believe it. Dead. A dead duck. OK, he'd been trying to hit it on the head with a piece of sandwich, but he tried to do all sorts of things, and none of them had ever happened before. He'd tried to get the highest score on the Stargazer machine in the kabab shop on Hornsey road - nothing. He'd tried to read Nicky's thoughts by staring at the back of his head every maths lesson for a week - nothing. It really annoyed him that the only thing he'd ever achieved through trying was something he hadn't really wanted to do that much in the first place. And anyway, since when did hitting a bird with a sandwich ever kill it? People spend half their lives throwing things at the ducks in Regent's Park. How come he managed to pick a duck that pathetic?

Trinity Park lies directly across from the library, Trinity Church rising like a midieval thought amidst the glass and steel towers.

There is no sense in trying to be good, hoping to find myself back in God's grace, when Nick's skin makes heaven seem like a flooded trailer park.

Her brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and her flawless skin had a slight sheen from her dash across the parking lot and up the stairs. Sexy, but he suspected the fantasy the sheen inspired was better than the reality. She was the job. Probably wore Kevlar to bed. End of story. Still, he did enjoy playing with her. He liked her big blue eyes, cute little nose, slim athletic body, and her earnest dedication to making the world a more law-abiding place. It made his dedication to crime much more interesting.

Bad thing upon bad thing upon bad thing until you can't take anymore, and then it's off to the nearest multistory car park in the family hatchback with a length of rubber tubing. Surely that's fair enough? Surely the coroner's report should read, "He took his own life after sober and careful contemplation of the fucking shambles it had become.

Kids must spend half their lives throwing things at the ducks in Regent's Park. How come he managed to pick a duck that pathetic?

If you don't cut it out, I'm pulling this car over and everyone in the parking lot at Sizzler's is going to know my name.

Marcus couldn’t believe it. Dead. A dead duck. OK, he'd been trying to hit it on the head with a piece of sandwich, but he tried to do all sorts of things, and none of them had ever happened before. He'd tried to get te highest score on the Stargazer machine in the kebab shop on Hornsey Road--nothing. He's tried to read Nicky’s thoughts by staring at the back of his head every maths lesson for a week--nothing. It really annoyed him that the only thing he'd ever achieved was something he hadn't really wanted to do that much in the first place. And anyway, since when did hitting a bird with a sandwich kill it? Kids must spend half their lives throwing things at the ducks in Regent's Park. How come he managed to pick a duck that pathetic? There must have been something wrong with it. It was probably about to die from a heart attack or something; it was just a coincidence. But if it was, nobody would believe him. If there were any witnesses, they'd only have seen the bread hit the duck right on the back of the head, and then seen it keel over. saw it die. They'd put two and two together and make five, and he'd be imprisoned for a crime he never committed. ... "What's that floating next to it?" Will asked. "Is that the bread you threw at it?" Marcus nodded unhappily. "That's not a sandwich, that's a bloody french loaf. No wonder it keeled over. That would've killed me.

However, at the end of the night I saw Nick stomping out to the car park, obviously in a terrible mood. They take their lives so seriously, these young people. “Just appreciate the fact that you can stomp so energetically,” I wanted to say to him. I’d pay a million dollars to be Alice and Elisabeth’s age again for just one day. I’d dance like Olivia’s butterfly and bite into crisp green apples and run across hot sand into the surf, and I’d walk, as far as I wanted, wherever I wanted, in big loping, leaping strides, with my head held high and my lungs filling with air.

It's like this, Bunny Boy, if you walk up to an oak tree or a bloody elm or something - you know, one of those big bastards - one with a thick, heavy trunk with giant roots that grow deep in the soil and great branches that are covered in leaves, right, and you walk up to it and give the tree a shake, well, what happens?' (...) 'I really don't know, Dad,' (...) 'Well, nothing bloody happens, of course!' (...) 'You can stand there shaking it till the cows come home and all that will happen is your arms will get tired. Right?' (...) 'Right, Dad,' he says. (...) 'But if you go up to a skinny, dry, fucked-up little tree, with a withered trunk and a few leaves clinging on for dear life, and you put your hands around it and shake the shit out of it - as we say in the trade - those bloody leaves will come flying off! Yeah?' 'OK, Dad,' says the boy (...) 'Now, the big oak tree is the rich bastard, right, and the skinny tree is the poor cunt who hasn't got any money. Are you with me?' Bunny Junior nods. 'Now, that sounds easier than it actually is, Bunny Boy. Do you want to know why?' 'OK, Dad.' 'Because every fucking bastard and his dog has got hold of the little tree and is shaking it for all that it's worth - the government, the bloody landlord, the lottery they don't have a chance in hell of winning, the council, their bloody exes, their hundred snotty-nosed brats running around because they are too bloody stupid to exercise a bit of self-control, all the useless shit they see on TV, fucking Tesco, parking fines, insurance on this and insurance on that, the boozer, the fruit machines, the bookies - every bastard and his three-legged, one-eyed, pox-riden dog are shaking this little tree,' says Bunny, clamping his hands together and making like he is throttling someone. 'So what do you go and do, Dad?' says Bunny Junior. 'Well, you've got to have something they think they need, you know, above all else.' 'And what's that, Dad?' 'Hope... you know... the dream. You've got to sell them the dream.

I don't think you truly realize what it means for the gates of Tyersall Park to be closed to you forever." Nick laughed. "Jacqueline, you sound like some character out of a Trollope novel!

The upside for him was that my worsening reputation meant no one would believe me about anything else. He acted as if behaviour like mine (boy nicks thing) was beyond his comprehension. He’d never do anything wrong, upright citizen that he was, respectable, civilised and legally parked, he was in the privileged position of having absolute power in a world where racism, misogyny and in-house child molestation lay within the parameters of acceptability. If you queued properly, had a current tax disc in your car and always watched the Queen’s Speech at Christmas then you were exemplary (provided you were English).

The Tower doesn’t reign. It looms. Looms above the Old Oaks. Looms above the park wall. Looms above Tirlin. Thick and tall and blunt, chipped and nicked by seven hundred years of determined attempts to pull it down, the Tower endures. “If a mountain had bones,” said Tervis, “that’s what they’d look like.

I had a lot of adventures as a child, but one that stands out is when I was cut under my eye while playing at Shivaji Park, the breeding ground of cricketers in Mumbai, and had to return home covered in blood. I was captaining my team in a match at Shivaji Park when I was twelve and after our wicketkeeper got injured I asked my team-mates if anyone could keep wicket. No one volunteered and somewhat reluctantly I stepped up to the challenge, even though I’d never tried it before. I was uncomfortable standing in the unfamiliar position behind the stumps and soon missed a nick. The ball came at me fast and, even before I could react, it hit me smack in the face, just missing my eye.

On the phone, Nick Epley had told me that he thinks that society, in which individuals are more isolated than ever before, would be happier if people talked to each other and made small connections when it’s easy to. When you’re both waiting in the same queue for twenty minutes; when the plane is delayed, you’re stuck at the gate, you’ve already listened to four podcasts and you’re admiring the shoes of the woman sitting next to you and want to tell her about something you just heard on Radio 4 but feel weird about it; when you want to ask the person eating lunch on a park bench where they got their delicious-smelling curry – maybe just do it. Most people will enjoy it. And if you’re game to really talk, head into Deep Self territory. But don’t, say, grab a book out of someone’s hands and ask, ‘So, when was the last time you cried in front of someone else?’ (Trust me on that one. Although this question has been tested by Nick and will get you into fertile Deep Talk territory real fast.)

He lowered his head, and she went to give him a friendly, perfunctory kiss (she hadn’t cleaned her teeth; she was impatient for her coffee) but the kiss turned unexpectedly lovely and she felt that ticklish, teary feeling behind her eyes as a lifetime of kisses filled her head: from the very first brand-new-boyfriend kiss, to “You may kiss the bride,” to the unshaven, shell-shocked, red-eyed kiss after Madison was born, to that aching, beautiful kiss after she broke up with Dominick and told Nick (standing in the car park of McDonald’s, the kids arguing in the backseat of the car), “Will you please come back home now?

She could hardly believe that this truculent stranger was her brother. "Nick," she said, testing his name on her tongue. "Why did you give me those presents? It nearly drove me mad, wondering who had sent them. And I was terrified that Sir Ross would think I was carrying on with a secret lover." "Sorry," he muttered, flashing her a contrite smile. "I wanted to be a- a benefactor. To give you the things you deserve. I never meant for us to meet. But the need to see you became so strong that I couldn't bear it any longer." "And that is why you approached me at Silverhill Park?" He gave her the smile of a naughty schoolboy.

One especially prominent time loop lashes together two of the city’s most celebrated high-rises -- the Park Hotel and the Jin Mao Tower -- binding the Puxi of Old Shanghai with the Pudong New Area. Each was the tallest Shanghai building of its age (judged by highest occupied floor), the Park Hotel for five decades, the Jin Mao Tower for just nine years. This discrepancy masks a deeper time-symmetry in the completion dates of the two buildings: the Park Hotel seven years prior to the closing of the city (with the Japanese occupation of the International Settlement in 1941), the Jin Mao Tower seven years after the city’s formal re-opening (as the culmination of Deng Xiaoping’s Southern Tour, in 1992).

You see Matt and Anthony every week. You see everyone every week.” “Not everyone, Nick,” his mother said pointedly. Then her voice changed and turned warmer. “Well, except for this upcoming weekend.” Nick paused at this. It could’ve been a trap. Perhaps his mother suspected something was up with her birthday and was fishing for information. Although it was surprising that she’d come to him—she usually went after Anthony, who had the secret-keeping skills of a four-year-old. “Why? What’s happening this weekend?” he asked nonchalantly. “Oh, nothing much. I just heard something about a sixtieth birthday party your father and you boys are planning for me.” Fucking Anthony. “And don’t go blaming Anthony,” his mother said, quick to protect her youngest. “I’d already heard about it from your aunt Donna before he slipped.” Nick knew what her next question would be before the words left her mouth. “So? Are you bringing a date?” she asked. “Sorry, Ma. It’ll just be me.” “There’s a surprise.” He pulled into the driveway that led to the parking garage of his condo building. “Just a warning, I’m about to pull into the garage—I might lose you.” “How convenient,” his mother said. “Because I had a really nice lecture planned for you.” “Let me guess the highlights: it involved me needing to focus on something other than work, and you dying heartbroken and miserable without grandchildren. Am I close?” “Not bad. But I’ll save the rest of the lecture for Sunday. There’s going to be a lot of gesturing on my part, and the phone doesn’t quite capture the spirit.” Nick smiled. “Shockingly, I’m looking forward to it. I’ll see you Sunday, Ma.” Her voice softened. “I know how busy you are, Nick. It means a lot to me that you’re coming home.” He knew it did. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.

She let the car idle for a minute before easing it out of its tight parking spot. Heading in the same direction as Nick, she took the one-way side street toward Lake Shore Drive and caught up with him at a stop sign. She saw him glance at his rearview mirror, spotting her behind him. A few seconds later, her cell phone rang. When she answered, his whisky-rich voice came through the car’s speakers. “So I’ve been thinking about your question. My character has decided he doesn’t want to see other people.” “What made you change your mind? Let me guess—the Maserati.” He chuckled. “Our cover story is that my character has been smitten from the moment he met you. He’s not about to let another man get anywhere near you.” “Your character sounds a little possessive. Is this something my character should be worried about?” They came to a stop at the light that would take them onto the Drive. Nick’s voice was low, even smoother than the car’s engine. “I think your character secretly likes it. You’ve been dating boring, uptight guys for too long. You’ve been looking for something different.” Jordan looked sharply at the SUV in front of her. “I think your character presumes too much.” His eyes caught hers in the rearview mirror. “Does he?” The light turned green, and they drove off in opposite directions.

Marcus couldn’t believe it. Dead. A dead duck. OK, he'd been trying to hit it on the head with a piece of sandwich, but he tried to do all sorts of things, and none of them had ever happened before. He'd tried to get te highest score on the Stargazer machine in the kebab shop on Hornsey Road--nothing. He's tried to read Nicky’s thoughts by staring at the back of his head every maths lesson for a week--nothing. It really annoyed him that the only thing he'd ever achieved was something he hadn't really wanted to do that much in the first place. And anyway, since when did hitting a bird with a sandwich kill it? Kids must spend half their lives throwing things at the ducks in Regent's Park. How come he managed to pick a duck that pathetic? There must have been something wrong with it. It was probably about to die from a heart attack or something; it was just a coincidence. But if it was, nobody would believe him. If there were any witnesses, they'd only have seen the bread hit the duck right on the back of the head, and then seen it keel over. saw it die. They'd put two and two together and make five, and he'd be imprisoned for a crime he never committed. ... "What's that floating next to it?" Will asked. "Is that the bread you threw at it?" Marcus nodded unhappily. "That's not a sandwich, that's a bloody french loaf. No wonder it keeled over. That would've killed me.

Once the vehicle started moving, she realized she had no idea where she was going. Wasn’t that always the case? Her phone chimed. Nick. Where did you go? Quinn deleted it. Then she started a new text. Playing sentry again tonight? The response text took less than three seconds. Why? Need rescuing, baby girl? Quinn smiled. Now that you mention it, yeah. I do. Her phone vibrated almost immediately. What’s up? I’m on a bus, bound for nowhere. Sweetheart, it’s a TRAIN bound for nowhere. Her heart gave a little squee at the endearment. It meant nothing and everything all at once. She smiled over her phone while she texted back. Well, I’m on a bus with no destination in mind. Want me to come get you? Quinn stopped and stared at the phone. Was this dangerous? It didn’t feel dangerous. Tyler had had ample opportunity to hurt her last night and he hadn’t. When Becca had first told her about finding Chris in the middle of a fight with Tyler and Seth in the parking lot, Quinn’s first question had been, “Why?” She’d never gotten a good answer. She slid her thumbs across the face of her phone. Are more taquitos in my future? Play your cards right and there might be a soda, too. His texts were teasing, so she wasn’t sure if his offer to come get her was genuine. She didn’t want to get off the bus until she knew for sure. Then her phone lit up with a new message. Don’t make me ride the bus all night. Where should I pick you up? “Excuse me,” she called to the driver. “What’s the next stop?” “Annapolis Mall. West side.” Next stop is Annapolis Mall. West side. Well look at that. You just got upgraded to a soft pretzel. See you in 10.

Lottie pressed her face into the crook of his neck and shoulder. She had to stop him now, before her will was completely demolished. “No. Please stop. I’m sorry.” His hand slid from her blouse, and he touched her damp lips with his fingers. “Have I frightened you?” he whispered. Lottie shook her head, somehow resisting the urge to curl into his embrace like a sun-warmed cat. “No… I’ve frightened myself.” For some reason her admission made him smile. His fingers moved to her throat, tracing the fragile line with a sensitivity that made her breath catch. Tugging the peasant blouse back up to her shoulder, he retied the frayed ribbon that secured the neckline. “Then I’ll stop,” he said. “Come— I’ll take you to the house.” He stayed close to her as they continued through the forest, occasionally moving to push a branch out of the way, or taking her hand to guide her over a rough place on the path. As familiar as she was with the woods of Stony Cross Park, Lottie had no need of his assistance. But she accepted the help with demur. And she did not protest when he paused again, his lips finding hers easily in the darkness. His mouth was hot and sweet as he kissed her compulsively… swift kisses, languid ones, kisses that ranged from intense need to wicked flirtation. Drugged with pleasure, Lottie let her hands wander to the thick dishevelment of his hair, the iron-hard nape of his neck. When the blistering heat rose to an untenable degree, Lord Sydney groaned softly. “Charlotte…” “Lottie,” she told him breathlessly. He pressed his lips to her temple and cuddled her against his powerful body as if she were infinitely fragile. “I never thought I would find someone like you,” he whispered. “I’ve looked for you so long… needed you…” Lottie shivered and dropped her head to his shoulder. “This isn’t real,” she said faintly. His lips touched her neck, finding a place that made her arch involuntarily. “What’s real, then?” She gestured to the yew hedge that bordered the estate garden. “Everything back there.” His arms tightened, and he spoke in a muffled voice. “Let me come to your room. Just for a little while.” Lottie responded with a trembling laugh, knowing exactly what would happen if she allowed that. “Absolutely not.” Soft, hot kisses drifted over her skin. “You’re safe with me. I would never ask for more than you were willing to give.” Lottie closed her eyes, her head spinning. “The problem is,” she said ruefully, “I am willing to give you entirely too much.” She felt the curve of his smile against her cheek. “Is that a problem?” “Oh, yes.” Pulling away from him, Lottie held her hands to her hot face and sighed unsteadily. “We must stop this. I don’t trust myself with you.” “You shouldn’t,” he agreed hoarsely. -Lottie & Nick

What happened to the perp?” “Perp?” “The piece of crap who tried to kill my wife. Where is he now?” There was a pause, then, “Well, uh, you see, the guy—he’s in the parking lot right now.” “What’s he doing there? Is he being arrested?” “Actually, he’s resting. As a matter of fact, he’s going to be resting for a really long time.” Nick understood the term. “Tommy, by any chance did he stumble upon an open window?

Certainly no corporation in the world is better than Nick-believe then the Walt Disney Company, which had built this town of celebration in large part as a way to sell off nearly 5000 acres deemed unsuitable for yet another addition to its nearby theme parks. The company is made attractions, Disneyland and what Disney World or marvels of escapism.

She had expected that sleep would be elusive, with all the thoughts buzzing through her mind. However, a deep slumber soon overtook her, and she sagged against the seat cushions. Shifting, twisting restlessly, she sought a more comfortable position. She felt herself being gathered up and held like a child, and the dream was so soothing that she couldn't help but surrender to the insidious pleasure. Something soft brushed her forehead, and the last few pins that anchored her coiffure were gently drawn from her hair. She inhaled the a wonderful scent, the crispness of wool and shaving soap overlaying the essence of clean male skin. Realizing that she was lying in Gentry's arms, snuggled in his lap, she stirred groggily. "What... what..." "Sleep," he whispered. "I won't harm you." His long fingers moved through the loose locks of her hair. The part of Lottie's mind that protested such a circumstance grappled with the rest of her brain, which pointed out that she was exhausted, and at this point it hardly mattered what liberties she allowed him. However, she stubbornly tugged free of him and pushed away from the invading warmth of his body. He released her easily, his eyes a dark glitter in the shadows. "I'm not your enemy, Lottie." "Are you my friend?" she parried. "You haven't behaved like one so far." "I haven't forced you to do anything you didn't want to do." "If you hadn't found me, I would still be residing happily at Stony Cross Park-" "You weren't happy there. I'll wager you haven't been happy a day in your life since you met Lord Radnor." Oh, how she longed to contradict him! But it was pointless to lie, when the truth was obvious. "You'll find life a hell of a lot more enjoyable as my wife," Gentry continued. "You won't be anyone's servant. You can do as you please, within reasonable limits. And you won't have to fear Lord Radnor any longer." "All for the price of sleeping with you," she muttered. He smiled, all velvety arrogance as he replied. "You may come to enjoy that part of it most of all.

Disconcerted by his swift change of mood, Lottie led him out of the forest to a sunken road. The morning sun rose higher, chasing the lavender from the sky and warming the meadows. The field they passed was filled with heather and emerald spaghnum moss, and dotted with tiny red sundew rosettes.

Rothstein worked with Park Avenue men as beards in the club-house, and with Broadway characters, such as Morris the Boob on The Lawn, and he probably bet away from the track, too.

There had always been a certain quality to Nick, a quality Rachel was unable to articulate even to herself, but it set him apart from anyone she had ever known... She had chalked it up to his looks and his formidable intellect. Someone as blessed as Nick had nothing to prove. But now she knew there was more to it. This was a boy who had grown up in a place like Tyersall Park. Everything else in the world paled by comparison.

I kept seeing that day when we all went to the park together for a picnic. I don’t know if you remember it but it was about two months before you told me to leave. I remember how you had packed so carefully, making sure there were peanut-butter sandwiches for Cooper and a chicken sandwich for Nick and vegetarian for Julia. I know that you packed three different kinds of sandwich for me so that I could choose and I knew, even as I watched you, that you were doing it so I wouldn’t have a reason to get pissed off, to lash out. But I found one anyway.

Ah, the French Quarter! Museum, theme park, bordello, midway, haunted house, shrine; tacky in its inimitably stylish way, Paris, Hong Kong, Tokyo, New York City, Port-au-Prince, Rio, Heaven, and Hell, all packed into a square mile, an international heroin of beauty and dementia.

We have received more than a few invitations to visit friends in the country.” Lottie came beside him and sank to the carpeted floor, the skirts of her printed muslin skirts billowing around her. Their faces were nearly level as Nick reclined on the arm of the low-backed settee. “Even one from Westcliff, asking if we would stay a fortnight or so at Stony Cross Park.” Nick’s face darkened. “No doubt the earl wants to assure himself that you’re not being maltreated by your husband from hell.” Lottie couldn’t help laughing. “You must admit that you were not at your most charming then.” Nick caught at her fingers as she reached over to loosen his necktie. “I wanted you too badly to bother with charm.” The pad of his thumb stroked over the smooth tips of her fingernails. “You implied that I was interchangeable with any other woman,” she chided. “In the past I learned that the best way to get something I wanted was to pretend that I didn’t want it.” Lottie shook her head, perplexed. “That makes no sense at all.” Smiling, Nick released her hand and toyed with the lace edge of her scooped neckline. “It worked,” he pointed out. With their faces close together and his vivid blue eyes staring into hers, Lottie felt a blush climbing her face. “You were very wicked that night.” His fingertip eased into the shallow valley between her breasts. “Not nearly as wicked as I wanted to be…” -Lottie & Nick

What, you think he deliberately parked there for some sinister reason?” “Not necessarily.” “Then what are you saying?” I spoke carefully. “I just wonder how well you know him. How much you know about him.” “How well I know Roger? What are you talking about? If you’re hinting at something, why don’t you just come out and say it?” I hesitated, blew out a lungful of air. “Did you know Roger was having an affair?” I asked gingerly. “Stop it.” “Did you know?” “Just cut it out.

Or Nick Park,” I say craftily. “You know? The Wallace and Gromit man?” “Ah!” says Tarkie, perking up. “The Wrong Trousers. Now, that was a jolly good film.

that the human brain expects permanence. The cup is where you put it. The car is where you parked it (if it hasn’t been towed away). The wine is still in the refrigerator where you left it. It’s only people, the most complex, important, influential, life-changing elements of our lives, who are there and then are shockingly not-there. And it’s surprisingly hard to get one’s brain around that. So

Femi turned around as he heard the door swing open. Chioma appeared in a white thick towel tied around her sexy body, from above her small and well-rounded breasts. Her artificial hair took refuge under a transparent shower cap. Even with a washed-up makeup-free face, her beauty radiated and penetrated every inch of the tastelessly furnished room. Tension traveled across the floor that separated the pair as they stared hard and awkwardly at each other’s sexy figure. After a momentary loss of consciousness, the two were brought back to their senses. ‘You need to turn around so I can get dressed,’ she purred. As a gentleman would, Femi, without any utterance, quickly turned away without nurturing a second thought. He stared through the window, again, at the police van parked outside. He tried to observe what was going on inside the van, but nothing. His attention was brought back to Chioma as he stared at her from the back of his eyes. He went into whirlwinds of impure thoughts. ‘Femi… Femi… Femi!’ He was brought back to his senses as Chioma repeatedly called out his name. He slowly trained his sight upon Chioma who was dressed in a sexy, semi-transparent, cream nightgown that revealed shades of her nakedness. The nipples of her erect boobies were stiff and swollen. The gown terminated far above her knees, exposing her succulent fresh thighs. Femi’s heart began to race fast. He cleared his throat and quickly caught his breath. ‘Where do I sleep?’ Chioma asked in a half-sexy voice. ‘You have the bed. I’ll have the rug,’ Femi proposed. ‘Are you going to be comfortable sleeping on the rug? We can sleep on the bed together as long as you promise to remain on your side of the bed.’ Femi considered the very tempting offer, but summoned the strength to turn it down. ‘Don’t worry about me. I will be comfortable on the rug. I sometimes sleep on the rug when I’m alone.’ Chioma slipped into the bed in her nightgown and camisole, while Femi strolled to the light switch fastened to the wall.

The second element to why the show has worked is undoubtedly my team. And guess what? I am not alone out there. I work with a truly brilliant, small tight-knit crew. Four or five guys. Heroes to a man. They work their nuts off. Unsung. Up to their necks in the dirt. Alongside me in more hellholes than you could ever imagine. They are mainly made up of ex-Special Forces buddies and top adventure cameramen--as tough as they come, and best friends. It’s no surprise that all the behind-the-scenes episodes we do are so popular--people like to hear the inside stories about what it is really like when things go a little “wild.” As they often do. My crew are incredible--truly--and they provide me with so much of my motivation to do this show. Without them I am nothing. Simon Reay brilliantly told me on episode one: “Don’t present this, Bear, just do it--and tell me along the way what the hell you are doing and why. It looks amazing. Just tell me.” That became the show. And there is the heroic Danny Cane, who reckoned I should just: “Suck an earthworm up between your teeth, and chomp it down raw. They’ll love it, Bear. Trust me!” Inspired. Producers, directors, the office team and the field crew. My buddies. Steve Rankin, Scott Tankard, Steve Shearman, Dave Pearce, Ian Dray, Nick Parks, Woody, Stani, Ross, Duncan Gaudin, Rob Llewellyn, Pete Lee, Paul Ritz, and Dan Etheridge--plus so many others, helping behind the scenes back in the UK. Multiple teams. One goal. Keeping one another alive. On, and do the field team share their food with me, help collect firewood, and join in tying knots on my rafts? All the time. We are a team.

Having parked up at the entrance to the football ground I’d like my coffin to be taken from the hearse and carried around the mile and a half perimeter of the pitch in a fitting lap of honour. Then, after the lap of honour, I would like the undertakers to lift me out of my coffin, dress me in the home strip and sit with me in the Evans Halshaw Home Stand for a match against any team in the Essex and Suffolk Border League Division One. (From Undertaker's Question Time, 2016)

The participatory economics (Parecon) project, for instance, envisions direct democracy at every level of society; but this vision for a postcapitalist world translates into endlessly ramifying staff meetings over every detail of life – hardly the inspiring stuff of utopian visions.35 Under Occupy, many general assemblies devolved into similar situations in which even the most mundane of issues had to be painstakingly addressed by a collective.36 The acrimonious debates over drummers making too much noise in the Zuccotti Park occupation are just one particularly farcical example of this. The more general point is that direct democracy requires a significant amount of participation and effort – in other words, it entails increasing amounts of work. During brief moments of revolutionary enthusiasm, this extra work can become inconsequential; yet after the return to normality it is simply added to the ordinary pressures of everyday life.37 The extra work of direct democracy is problematic especially because of the constitutive exclusions it entails – particularly for those who are unable to attend physically, those who do not feel comfortable in large groups and those who lack public speaking skills (with all the gendered and racialised biases inherent to these factors).38 As the Occupy movement went on, the general assemblies simply collapsed, often under the weight of exhaustion and boredom. The conclusion to be drawn from this is that the problem of democracy today is not that people want a say over every single aspect of their lives. The real issue of democratic deficit is that the most significant decisions of society are out of the hands of the average person.39 Direct democracy responds to this problem, but attempts to solve it by making democracy an immediate and bodily experience that rejects mediation.

There’s nothing wrong with focusing on your dreams instead—both Alli and I did that before we met Jamie and Nick. But the truth is, the main reason was because we’d been hurt and wanted to make sure it didn’t happen again.” She parked the teddy bear in Meg’s lap. “And fear is never the right motivation, Megs, so, yes, focus on your dreams. But you’re a beautiful girl on the threshold of womanhood, so don’t be surprised if God throws a monkey wrench in your plans.” “As long as the ‘wrench’ has nothing to do with a ‘monkey’ named Devin Caldwell,” Alli said with a scrunch of her nose. Meg grinned. “No, Al, monkeys are cute,” she said with a tilt of her head, employing a trace of French spunk along with the sass. She gave her sister a wink. “Our Mr. Caldwell is more of a baboon.

As she passed Nick’s Bar & Bistro, she felt a moment’s longing, wishing she could stop for a reassuring hug that she knew would be fast in coming. But even more than his comfort, a few hours sleep was in order. She parked outside the Inn, dragged her large suitcase out of the trunk and wheeled it into the lobby. When she stepped up to the check-in counter, a young woman smiled. “Ms. Braxton. Geoff let us know you were on your way. We’ve given you a room on the second floor. Room 204. Just need your signature and a credit card.” “Thanks so much. Everyone in this town is so welcoming.” She forced a smile. “Never seen anything like it.” “My name is Helen Watson,” the young girl replied. “I’m from Nebraska, and I’ve been here for two years. The friendliness is genuine, and it doesn’t get old.” As Jennie’s mother had said, the Inn was small, but charming—English Tudor in style both inside and out. The lobby had a tartan carpet, four plaid high back chairs next to a hearth and fireplace. The walls were decorated with hunting scenes and floral gardens. A small bar was tucked away in the far corner of the

THE BALLAD OF NEARLY HEADLESS NICK BY J.K. ROWLING It was a mistake any wizard could make Who was tired and caught on the hop One piffling error, and then, to my terror, I found myself facing the chop. Alas for the eve when I met Lady Grieve A-strolling the park in the dusk! She was of the belief I could straighten her teeth Next moment she’d sprouted a tusk. I cried through the night that I’d soon put her right But the process of justice was lax; They’d brought out the block, though they’d mislaid the rock Where they usually sharpened the axe. Next morning at dawn, with a face most forlorn, The priest said to try not to cry, ‘You can come just like that, no, you won’t need a hat,’ And I knew that my end must be nigh. The man in the mask who would have the sad task Of cleaving my head from my neck, Said ‘Nick, if you please, will you get to your knees,’ And I turned to a gibbering wreck. ‘This may sting a bit’ said the cack-handed twit As he swung the axe up in the air, But oh the blunt blade! No difference it made, My head was still definitely there. The axeman he hacked and he whacked and he thwacked, ‘Won’t be too long’, he assured me, But quick it was not, and the bone-headed clot Took forty-five goes ’til he floored me. And so I was dead, but my faithful old head It never saw fit to desert me, It still lingers on, that’s the end of my song, And now, please applaud, or you’ll hurt me.

Woody's life was leaking away but I was the one who stepped forward and pulled the plug. Was my timing right? Could he have had another day at home, another week? Could he have gone for one more turn around the park, had one last supper? We'll never know and to handle the reality of euthanasia I learned to be comfortable with the ambiguity and magnitude of when to take a life. All I know for sure is at that irredeemable moment when I drive the plunger home, I will be there for the person trading the overpowering presence of love and companionship with their pet for the cold, empty ache of loss.

In 1851 Ada Lovelace and Charles Babbage met up for the last time when they, along with six million other people, visited the Great Exhibition together. Housed in a fantastic purpose-built glass pavilion in Hyde Park called the Crystal Palace, it was designed to showcase the achievements of British industry and all the stuff we’d nicked from overseas. Babbage, who never let an occasion get in the way of a grievance, was less impressed because not one of his amazing engines was on display.

We have received more than a few invitations to visit friends in the country." Lottie came beside him and sank to the carpeted floor, the skirts of her printed muslin skirts billowing around her. Their faces were nearly level as Nick reclined on the arm of the low-backed settee. "Even one from Westcliff, asking if we would stay a fortnight or so at Stony Cross Park." Nick's face darkened. "No doubt the earl wants to assure himself that you're not being maltreated by your husband from hell." Lottie couldn't help laughing. "You must admit that you were not at your most charming then." Nick caught at her fingers as she reached over to loosen his necktie. "I wanted you too badly to bother with charm." The pad of his thumb stroked over the smooth tips of her fingernails. "You implied that I was interchangeable with any other woman," she chided. "In the past I learned that the best way to get something I wanted was to pretend that I didn't want it." Lottie shook her head, perplexed. "That makes no sense at all." Smiling, Nick released her hand and toyed the edge of her scooped neckline. "It worked," he pointed out. With their faces close together and his vivid blue eyes staring into hers, Lottie felt a blush climbing her face. "You were very wicked that night." His fingertip eased into the shallow valley between her breasts. "Not as nearly as wicked as I wanted to be...

I can describe myself as the kind of person who doesn't forget names, for example, because I have remembered names thousands of times and forgotten them only once or twice. But for the majority of people, marriage-ending conversations happen only once, if at all. If you choose to conduct yours on a mobile phone, in a Leeds car park, then you cannot really claim that it is unrepresentative, in the same way that Lee Harvey Oswald couldn't really claim that shooting presidents wasn't like him at all. Sometimes we have to be judged by our one-offs.

I made what must have been about a sixty-point turn and eventually managed to squeeze out of the small and crowded car park at the rear