I'd hoped for someone who was remarkably intelligent, but disadvantaged by home circumstance, someone who only needed an hour's extra tuition a week to become some kind of working-class prodigy. I wanted my hour a week to make the difference between a future addicted to heroin and a future studying English at Oxford. That was the sort of kid I wanted, and instead they'd given me someone whose chief interest was in eating fruit. I mean, what did he need to read for? There's an international symbol for the gents' toilets, and he could always get his mother to tell him what was on television.

Reality was dawning on him and he hated reality. If you were him, so would you.

Whenever justice to ordinary men, widows, orphans, poor, disadvantaged and the general mass is delayed or denied, that leads to God’s frustration. At a time like that, God laments, WHERE IS A MAN

Some ancient oversight had nearly taken his sight, but this sad fuck was already blind inside.

The members of the functional and socially mobilized under class must, in some very real way, be seen as the architects of their own fate. If not, they could be, however marginally, on the conscience of the comfortable. There could be a disturbing feeling, however fleeting, of unease, even guilt.