As I digest things, the regular Sunday quiet falls over the Row. You hear some papers rustle. Then a con… — DBC Pierre

Fate always pays attention to what you think, then slams it up your fucken ass.

'And here's the winning ticket,' says Gibbons. 'Green forty-seven!' A sluggish frenzy breaks through the tent. The kid stops, and drags a mangled pink ticket from his pocket. He squints at it, like it might turn fucken green.

"We could turn your situation around three hundred and sixty degrees..."