No Wayne, no book, so thanks to Big Wayne and Jeanette Rooney for bringing him into the world. No Wayne, no great stories; no Coleen, no romance, so thanks to them too.
In London, thanks to half of Fleet Street for stimulating, entertaining and, only occasionally, revolting copy on the Crocky Cyclone. Thanks, in particular, to his ghost, Hunter Davies, and to tabloid sleuth Graham Johnson.
In Liverpool and Birkenhead, thanks to a string of people and a grand selection of pubs, including the Wezzy.
In Manchester, thanks to those who wear green and gold.
In Russia, thanks to the staff of Novaya Gazeta and the friends of the late Yuri Shchekochikhin, whose poisoners, one day, will be brought to justice.
Having a glass of wine with my then agent, Caroline Michel, was one of the best things I have done in my career. Thanks to Iain Dale at Biteback, who is steady under fire.
Thanks to a slew of characters at my day job, who know who they are, in particular the Chelsea fan, the Spurs fan, the Swindon Town fan, the West Ham fan, the Wycombe fan; also, fans of Tranmere everywhere and the Leeds scum.
Special thanks to Sam, Molly, my mother, Barbara, and to the memory of my father, Leonard, who didn’t drink in the Western Approaches but fought there.