It comes across as either a theorem or the beginning of your 19th nervous breakdown. “Infinity is the bipolar form of finitude” is just that kind of sentence. It arrives wearing the tie of mathematics but the slightly frantic smile of metaphysics. Crazy-ass wackadoodle. Flip city. Oh-they-used-to-laugh-at-me-when-I-refused-to-ride-on-all-those-double-decker-buses-all-because-there-was-no-driver-on-the-top certifiable. You suspect a sentence like that knows something you don’t

Quinn McIlhone If I were to see you at dawn, your favourite time of day, we’d drink to Celtic glory and set out on our way. We’d abandon the flat for the park, for a spot where we could imbibe and watch the city awake with the rebel disdain of our tribe. You’d walk with a martial gait, mad eyes giving strangers a start, only your full lips hinting at the voracity of your heart. The Portuguese women would gape at a vision no shrine would mark – Steve McQueen and Ali MacGraw ha

Love to help, President Orangeatollah. But man, these bone spurs are a bitch!