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441 pages, Paperback
First published June 8, 2009





"The fuck's all this, Homo and Juliet? Get in the car, Pipsqueak."














Stockholm Syndrome is an unconventional love story where opposites attract like bullets, Russian Roulette is foreplay, and a hand closed tight round your wrist is as good as an "I love you". Sometimes you find your missing jigsaw piece in the weirdest circumstances. And sometimes you've got to really force it into place through sheer stubborn will...
“Valentine clears his throat. "So. Why can't you just say it?"
"Say what?"
"You know what."
"It's hardly the time or place."
"It is if you're dying."
"I can't."
"You're a dick. Just fucking say it!"
"I can't! I'm... English."
I’m well crazy. I’ll be a liability, you’re right. We gonna die, Clyde, me and you, we’ll get gunned down like dogs, but it’s okay cos I was fucking dying anyway.”
"You are not deep and complex. You're the most 2-D person I've ever met in my life. Miyazaki drew you and threw you straight on the scrap pile because you look too anime."
OR
"He's singing the Marseillaise, but it's the Simpsons version because he doesn't know the real words; his French is limited to hello and goodbye and some filthy phrases he likes to whisper in Lindsay's ear at inappropriate times because he knows it gets him hard."
If people leave them little drug-offerings on Jim Morrison's grave like altar goodies..."
"...yes?"
"Then what are you gonna do to me at Oscar Wilde's to properly honour him?"

