Warhol's Prophecy

Acknowledgements

In view of the fact that I nearly got lynched by several readers because there were no acknowledgements in the last novel (are you lot only buying them for that bit? I suspect you are . . .) you will hereby find that omission rectified. It won’t happen again, I promise.

I would, as usual, like to thank a very large and disparate (in some cases, desperate) group of people and places for help, inspiration and sanity-saving connected with the writing of this novel.

Many thanks to my new publishers for their support and belief. Extra special thanks to Peter Lavery for his expertise and his scribblings (OK, so I rubbed most of them out, it’s the thought that counts . . .). Thanks also to Matt Smith (for the ideas and for making me extra work . . . Cheers, Matt, I’ll do the same for you some day). Just joking fellas, thanks. Many thanks to the sales team of Macmillan. In fact, to all of you.

Special thanks to Dee, Zena, Jo Bolsom, Sanctuary Music, Iron Maiden, Wally (if it’s Thursday it must be Madrid) Grove. Thanks to Martin ‘Gooner’ Phillips, who suffered, as I did, last September. To Terri, Rachel and Rebecca. To Ian Austin (congratulations again . . .). Thanks to Nicki Stinson (dinner’s ready!).

Very special thanks to James Whale, Linda Bartley and Ash.

To Jack Taylor, Tom Sharp, Amin Saleh, Lewis Bloch, Damian and Christina Pulle. To Stephen Luckman, too.

Thanks also to Maurice for the hot dogs and the insults . . .

Special thanks also to Hailey Owen. To Caroline at Platinum Services. To Factotum.

A special thank you to Rob Jones at Central TV. Always a pleasure to work with you, Rob, even if that bloody bulldog did smell . . .

To a mate of mine who didn’t want to be named, so I’ll just say, thanks R.H.

Indirect thanks to Martin Scorsese, Sam Peckinpah and Walt Disney (just making sure you’re still paying attention – the last one was a joke . . .). Also to Metallica, Queensrÿche and Ozzy Osbourne. Thanks also to whoever makes those elasticated bandages for when your calf muscles disintegrate . . .

Thanks to the Rhiga Royal Hotel in New York and still to Margaret in Lindy’s in Times Square.

As ever, thank you to Liverpool Football Club. The mighty Reds. The only Reds. To all those in the Paisley Lounge and beyond. Many thanks to Steve ‘The Residents for ever’ Lucas and Paul ‘mastermind’ Garner. Thanks to Aaron ‘cultured’ Reynolds for sharing the driving and the anger and the jokes and the tea at Keele. By the way, up yours Sky Sports. I hope you’re happy to see your efforts to ruin our game are continuing as planned. Football belongs on a Saturday afternoon. Leave it there. Swivel, you bastards.

I try to say thanks to my mum and dad in every book but, as usual, it never seems enough. Probably because it isn’t.

Extra special thanks to my wife, Belinda, for absolutely everything. The only woman I know who is prepared to accept me for the man I can only apologize for being. And, of course, to the other girl in my life, who doesn’t really care that Dad shouts at the TV when the football’s on, laughs when he drives too fast on the way back from nursery, or sings along to the CD. And who forgives him when he can’t quite manage to do all the South Park voices at seven in the morning. I speak, of course, of my precious, beautiful daughter. OK, I own up, it was my idea to buy that black outfit for Barbie . . .

And to you, my readers. You’re always there and I thank you. I hope you always will be. It’s a long road sometimes, but we’ve still got a hell of a journey left. There’s a lot of fighting to be done yet.

Let’s go.

Shaun Hutson