Battered & Bruised

I don't want to harp on too much about the vicious underclass, but the synchronicity of events on Monday night is too startling to ignore.

After writing my previous post, I decided to put the rubbish bins out, ready for collection on Tuesday morning. It was after 2 am, raining and I was dressed in just my shorts and t-shirt. Never mind. I needed a breath of fresh air, or at least what passes for fresh air in the city. It was then that the vicious underclass presented its work for my critical inspection.

As I stood breathing in the damp air I heard a voice coming towards me. "Excuse me!" Uh-oh. There are only two groups of people who initiate a conversation with a stranger at 2 am with the words excuse me. Firstly there are the pissheads begging for busfare (which in the early hours of the morning is a non-starter, and therefore means they belong to the second group). The second group are the muggers. I didn't want to engage in a conversation with either group.

I ignored the shout and turned towards my front door. "Excuse me," he called again. "Can I use your phone please?" This was at least a novel way of attempting to gain entry to my house without resorting to threats. "No!" I called back cheerfully, about to shut the door.

"Please, I need help. Can I use your phone?" There was a note of genuine desperation in the way he said it. "Shit", I thought under my breath, knowing I was probably getting into something I'd rather not. A young guy was hurrying across the road. He was stripped to the waist, a blue cotton shirt in his hand. The left side of his face was hideously bruised and swollen so that his eye was just a bleeding slit. His lips were badly split and bleeding. It looked like he'd recently been administered a double dose of botox. The shirt was soaked in blood where he had tried to clean himself up.

"What's happened?" I asked, even though I could plainly see that he'd just been on the receiving end of a bloody good kicking. "I've been jumped on. Can I use your phone?" he winced. It happens to young guys quite a lot. That much I know from personal experience. Still, despite his condition I wasn't going to chance asking him into the house.

I asked him if he wanted the police or an ambulance. No, he just needed to make a phone call. Ordering him to stay where he was, I ducked back inside to grab my mobile. When I came out he was standing there shivering. "You haven't called the police have you?" he asked ernestly. I assured him that I had not. "Cos these blokes would kill me if you got the police involved. They'd stab me." He gave a nervous laugh as he indicated a knife being plunged into his ribs.

I asked him where the beating had occured. "Round there", he jerked his head in the direction of the council estate, dabbing at his traumatised eye with the soiled shirt. "Tell me if you see anybody coming. They're bad people. They'd definately do something to your house or your car if they saw you talking to me." He was still breathing heavily and glanced about nervously to see if anyone had followed him. Instinctively I did the same, expecting a group of lumbering thugs to march round the corner at any moment.

He was fumbling with his own mobile phone now. I fleetingly wondered why he needed to use my phone when he had his own. I decided he must be out of credit. After a couple of minutes fumbling he handed the phone to me, asking me to look up the number of his girlfriend, Melissa. He could no longer see out of his left eye and was feeling dizzy. I keyed the number into my phone and handed it over. "You hold onto mine until I'm finished, just so you don't think I'm gonna be a dick and nick your phone. I'm just going over here", he said moving a few yards away for privacy.

When he was done, he came over and explained that he had wanted to warn his girlfriend, in case his assailants paid her a visit, as she would be alone with her small child. She would presumably now be alone and dreading her front door bursting open under the kicks from large Dr Martens, but I didn't mention it.

He apologised for inconveniencing me and I assured him that it was nothing. Then he asked if I could call a taxi so he could get home. As I dialled the number, I wondered whether any sane taxi driver would allow this bloody mess into his sickly-sweet air-freshened car. And if they did, would he have any money for the fare? We would have to cross that bridge if and when it arose.

As we stood waiting for the taxi I picked up a few more details about what had happened. He was just a kid, eighteen years old. He knew his attacker, who was a few years older. "He said something bad about my mother," he shrugged, then added sheepishly "you know how it is when you're young and stupid, you just react." Clearly reacting hadn't been the wisest move.

"Have you just bought your house?" he asked. "A couple of years ago," I replied. He looked perplexed. "Have you got a family?" Again I answered in the affirmative. Kirsty and the cats are my family. The kids' response surprised me. "Get away from here," he said firmly. "Just sell up and get away as soon as you can. This is no place to have a family. It's terrible around here." He sounded so jaded and old beyond his years. I quietly agreed. "I can tell from your accent you're not from around here," he went on. Again I was surprised, because I'd been putting on my best Geordie to reassure him that I could be trusted. "You need to get away from here," he added again quietly. "So do you," I thought to myself.

We talked for a few minutes more, during which he frequently apologised and hoped I didn't think he was just a dick. I learned that his father had recently come out of prison after six years. He thought his dad would probably want to take revenge. I silently nodded my agreement. It's what you expect from the criminal classes, isn't it?

He went on to tell me with a note of certainty in his voice, that his father would probably want to reward me, and that I should look out for an envelope through the letterbox, with "a couple of grand in it." I thought this was probably a bit unlikely, but nevertheless smiled and reassured him that no reward was necessary. However, he was insistant.

"I'm sick of this happening!" he burst out suddenly. Had it happened before I enquired? Four or five times. Each time they went for his eye. It was his weak spot since it had been damaged the first time. I told him that I hoped he was okay, and that he should get it checked out by a doctor.

Eventually he must have caught sight of me sneeking a look at my watch. He apologised once more for disturbing me. "I can see you're in your shorts," he said. "I'll just go up there and wait for the taxi. I don't want anyone seeing me hanging around outside your house." As he moved off, he reminded me to look out for that envelope containing my reward.

I went back into the house and switched off the lights. A few minutes later I heard a car outside pulling away.

I fretted for a while. I know I should have brought the kid in and patched up his injuries, but however sincere he might have seemed, I'm cynical enough not to risk bringing a total stranger into my house at 2:20 am. I hope he made it home.

The whole episode seemed so tragic. The kid clearly wasn't stupid. I would even go so far as to say he seemed fairly astute. But growing up whilst your violent father does time is never going to give you the best start in life. Then you hang around with "friends" and aquaintances who will regularly beat the crap out of you, perhaps even kill you. You're only eighteen but your girlfriend is mother to another mans child.

The real irony is that he knows the situation he is in. He knows he lives in a terrible area and that his life is at risk. He expects his father to go back to prison. In all probability he'll soon be in nick himself or else dead in the street somewhere. If he's really lucky he'll end up in a soul-destroying menial job, perhaps stuck in a miserable marriage to Melissa, struggling to raise a clutch of kids of his own.

He should get out now, leave his friends, his girlfriend, family. Leave the whole sickening mess behind and make a life for himself. But he won't. Although he is totally wise to his situation he can't break free. No more than an animal could break free from its herd and strike out on its own. That's the nature of the tragic, vicious underclass. No hope. No future.

Fat Kid Abuse

This is not the best of starts, as the incident I'm about to recount didn't really get me riled up. Shocked yes. Appalled certainly. Mildly annoyed? Maybe. Disgusted? Absolutely. Yes, let's settle for disgusted.

I've always thought of myself as a pretty well read sort of person, although I must admit that over the past couple of years I've become a little out of touch with the publishing scene. So this weekend I thought I would get back on track and buy the Sunday papers for the book reviews.

A trip to our local newsagent means running the gauntlet of the tracksuit and Burberry brigade, who spend their days gainfully employed in hanging around the shop doorway, chain-smoking, shouting abuse and generally doing their best to maintain the tone of the neighbourhood. Yesterday was no different, but for once I barely registered the presence of the local trogs due to the abhorrent scene I had witnessed just moments before.

As I turned the corner at the derelict medical centre, I noticed a couple of "canny Geordie lads" standing at the gate of a house with a tatty St. George's flag hanging from an upper window. "It's ahl aboot the footbahl. We're not racist, we jus divvn't want them asylum seekers comin' and tekkin wor jobs and shaggin' wor birds. Ya kna?"

You know the sort of bloke I mean. Tracksuits, crewcuts, sovereign rings and a can of lager permanently attached to the right hand. Standard issue scum. Probably had Luv and Hat tattooed on their knuckles. Gathered about them were three or four sprogs, clearly the spawn of these two fine specimens of English manhood. The whole crew gazed vacantly up the street with lopsided, gormless grins on their orange faces.

Reluctant to pass too close in case I picked up a dose of chav, I crossed the street and saw what they were all staring at. Up the street, a massively overweight kid of perhaps 10 years old, was lying flat on his face in the street playing dead. His bicycle casually thrown in the gutter for added realism. "Wanker", I thought charitably.

Just then a white minibus roared around the corner and pulled up alongside the "victim". Even from 25 yards away you could tell that the enormously rotund and shaven headed driver was the kid's father. They stamp them out of moulds in these parts you know.

"Get up now!" roared the concerned begetter, "and get your f**king bike oot of the road." And with that he pulled up alongside his mates and their offspring. I shook my head and carried on my way, trying not to stare too hard at the kid. Other people weren't so kindly and openly gaped over their garden gates with mouths open. The corpulent little pussbag was looking around like a cornered animal now, faced by gawpers on all sides. He was blubbing like a low rent Dudley Dursley, all red-faced and tearful but still managing to screw his face up in fury. I contented myself with throwing the little grunter a disgusted look and looked the other way. You don't look too long at these people, because they start getting mouthy and the next thing you know you've got their entire tribe down on you and your brains end up smeared on the pavement. They look after their own round here.

Daddy, by now realising that perhaps he'd been a bit harsh on his boy, started calling out encouragingly "Howay son, you cannit hev hort yersel. Your fat will have protected you". His mates roared with laughter. I cringed.

"Come on fatty, come on" they called jovially, as if they were trying to get a wayward puppy to come home. I was flabbergasted that three grown men could behave in such a way.

Clearly the kid was a bit reluctant to return to the loving bosom of his family because he started dithering about with his bicycle. "Come here now, you fat c*nt!" boomed the father. I put my head down and turned the corner. I felt sick and sullied.

I wondered if I should report the incident to the police. It's abuse isn't it? Maybe, but if you cause trouble for these kind of people you'll end up with your brains smeared on the pavement for certain. It's the way of the world in deprived areas like this. Fatty in his turn will grow up to treat his own tribe with the same cheerful contempt. They in time will do the same. People in the North East don't change.

It reminded me of the outrage in the media a few weeks ago when some women were convicted for encouraging their toddlers to fight, whilst they filmed the incident on their mobile phones, calling the children wimps when they wouldn't get stuck in.

"How could they?" screamed the headlines, going on to comfort us that these bitches were somehow the exception to the norm.

"The majority of people round here are decent", is the usual cry from the neighbours. Sadly it's not true. Britain has a vicious underclass for whom abuse and casual violence are a way of life. Witness exhibit A: Fatty.

That's just how vermin are. Doesn't it make you proud?

Anger Management?

Okay, let's be clear about this from the start. I'm an angry guy! Always have been. In fact I'm probably the most consistently vexed person I know.

My friends would probably say I am perpetually irate, annoyed, cross, vexed, irritated, exasperated, indignant, aggrieved, irked, piqued, displeased, provoked, galled, resentful, furious or enraged. But that would really just be trying to present a rosy picture.

Some days I'm infuriated, in a temper, incensed, raging, incandescent, wrathful, fuming, ranting, raving, seething, frenzied, beside myself, outraged. But of course no one has the energy to be at their maximum limit every minute of every single day. If you did you would simply boil over and leave a nasty mess on the lino.

Take today as an example. It's been a typical quiet Sunday and at very worst you could say I've been in high dudgeon, irascible, bad-tempered, hot-headed, or choleric. All right, I grant you that this morning I might have been a bit splenetic, perhaps even dyspeptic but not really, really apoplectic.

Tomorrow is Monday and the beginning of a new week so I'll probably start the day a bit tetchy, testy, crabby and waspish. By mid morning I might become hostile, antagonistic, hopping mad, wild, livid or even boiling. This is the time of day when the junk mail starts to drop through the door and I get a bit bent out of shape.

Around lunchtime I like to take a break and watch BBC News 24. That's usually enough to get me riled, hot under the collar, or up in arms. Of course some days Tony Blair isn't in the news.

Then I'll probably just make a sandwich and spend the afternoon getting steamed up and in a bit of a lather about the amount of housework that needs doing, or the mess that the refuse collectors have made in the street.

I might be feeling particularly aggravated, which could result in a narky telephone call to the Council to make a complaint. If I'm really on the warpath and foaming at the mouth then I might dash of a stroppy letter to the bank or scribble a few lines to pour scorn on AA Insurance, NPower or some other useless, contemptible and faceless corporation.

By mid afternoon I generally try to get settled down to some work on a magazine article or my novel. Depending on how successful the writing has been, I might be in a bit of a paddy by the time my wife gets home from work. This could result in me being snappy and shirty until dinner. Ratty if it's my turn to cook. Over our Sainsbury's organic wotnot (bloody supermarkets) I'll tell the wife all the narky things that have happened and generally justify why I'm a bit ticked off.

For the rest of the evening I'll flick irefully through the channels on the Sky remote, getting increasingly peeved at the lack of good telly on these days. Eventually my eyelids start to get too heavy and I slope off to bed in a bit of a bate because I'm too sleepy to read a chapter of whatever is by my bedside.


Let's not beat about the bush any longer. You get the idea. I'm usually a bit pissed off.