Port Elizabeth Quotes & Sayings

Now calm down, missus," Mr. Hogan said with gentle firmness. "You know you shouldn't have read that paper. Just like yer husband said, it got ye all upset."
"My husband is on trial for murder," Elizabeth argued desperately.
"Yer husband is down at the port, seein' 'bout a ship to take ye off explorin' the world."
"No, that is my brother."
"He were yer husband this afternoon," Mr. Hogan reminded her.
"He was never my husband, he was always my brother," Elizabeth insisted. "My husband-my real husband is on trial for murdering me."
"Missus," he said gently, "you ain't dead."
"Oh, my God!" Elizabeth said in a low, explosive voice as she raked her hair off her forehead, trying to think what to do, how to convince them to have Mr. Hogan take her down the coast. — Judith McNaught

He had heard especially promising things about Philadelphia
the lively capital of that young nation. It was said to be a city with a good-enough shipping port, central to the eastern coast of the country, filled with pragmatic Quakers, pharmacists, and hardworking farmers. It was rumored to be a place without haughty aristocrats (unlike Boston), and without pleasure-fearing puritans (unlike Connecticut), and without troublesome self-minted feudal princes (unlike Virginia). The city had been founded on the sound principles of religious tolerance, a free press, and good landscaping, by William Penn
a man who grew tree saplings in bathtubs, and who had imagined his metropolis as a great nursery of both plants and ideas. Everyone was welcome in Philadelphia, absolutely everyone
except, of course, the Jews. Hearing all this, Henry suspected Philadelphia to be a vast landscape of unrealized profits, and he aimed to turn the place to his advantage. — Elizabeth Gilbert

The Port Elizabeth ground is more of a circle than an oval. It's long and square. — Trevor Bailey

Where's my life gone? Where's it going? Looking across the grassy marshland to Flint and up the coast to Point Of Air, I start to wonder what all those poor fuckers in Wales are doing with their lives. Screwing? Sleeping in? Debating whether to take breakfast in bed to their broken fathers? Unlikely. They're probably doing what the gilded folk of Hollywood are doing, or Kowloon or Port Elizabeth. Worrying. Worrying about getting old, or about work, or about money, or about their boyfriend, mistress, lover, house, health, future. Life is shit. There is no fucking point to any of it. Not now that we've evolved past the survival stage. Maybe we used to live to hunt to kill to eat to live another day. Now we just kill time in as many sophisticated ways as possible. Pointless jobs. Pointless lives. Work. Television. Football. — Kevin Sampson