Where I used to live when I was a kid, everybody's dad was a shit. My friend Martin, his dad used to push him into fights with other kids. We'd be playing in the street, me, Martin and the rest of us, and when an argument broke out, and when we were too near to Martin's house, we'd hear his dad's stupid fucking Scots voice.

  "Martin! Martin! Over here, ya cunt!"

  He'd be in his back garden, lager in hand. He was only short. He'd hang over the fence, but you could still only just about hear him.

  "Go on son. You don't stand for no shit. Hit him. Go on, hit him! Punch him in the fucking face, son!"

  "It's all right, dad."

  "No it's not. You fucking hit him one, now!"

  "It's over now though, dad."

  Martin would move his feet, look down at his feet.

  "You've got about one fucking second to live, buddy. What's it to be, son? I swear to God, I'm gonna jump over this fence right now and beat the shit out of you."

  "But he's me friend, dad."

  It'd be Steve, the toughest out of the lot of us, who Martin would have to hit. He'd look at Steve, walk slowly over towards him, and then look back again at his dad. Once, he even said "please."

  "Please, dad." In front of us all and everything. I mean, that was funny.

  Anyway, he'd give Steve a limp punch in the face, and then Steve would put him out of his misery. We'd walk away, all of us, leaving Martin lying there. Even his dad would go in.

  "Ya cunt."

  Martin turned into a good-looking teenager, and he went through some girls. He joked to me once that he'd been having sex with some girl, and just before he came he said to her, "I don't want to see you again, you ugly fucking slut!"

  We went to a nightclub when we were about fifteen, and he must've done something similar there. I remember the girl that he'd met saying to him, "I don't like you anyway!" Martin said, loud, "Well why did you get so wet when I was fingering you, then? Look!" He pointed at her crotch.

  I didn't see Martin at all much longer after that. He got done for fiddling with kids, apparently.

*

Martin wasn't the only kid round there whose dad was like that. Just across from his house were Sam and Earl. Earl was part-black. His house was at the end of a block, and some of the older kids had painted "NF" and stuff on his wall. Sam lived next door to him, and his stepdad was racist as fuck.

  There'd be a bit of a scuffle between Sam and Earl, and before you knew it Sam's mum's boyfriend would be out there, telling his son to kick the nigger's head in. Her next boyfriend was just the same.

  Like I say, everybody's dad was a shit. Steve had cigarette scars. He used to say that it made you tougher. He said that was what his dad had told him.

  My best mate was Shane. He lived just across from me, in the block of three-storey houses. His dad was all right, considering. I liked him. He was called Shane as well.

  There was a type of Irishman in Birmingham around then, I swear. Laid-off some years previous from Leyland, when they merged with DAF or whatever. Unemployed ever since. A bit of an outgrown Teddy boy - quiff, wild sideburns, scruffy suits, cufflinks and aftershave.

  Big Shane wasn't that big I suppose. He spent a lot of time in the pub. Me and little Shane used to hang about outside the Jolly Jester until he saw us and brought out a bit of drink, or maybe a couple of bottles of Coke.

  The sign hanging outside the Jolly Jester showed some winking blonde behind the bar. In fact, she's still there. She's a bit tired now. One of her tits is hanging out, but the beer pump she's got her hand round hides the nipple.

  Apart from big Shane and his mates, the Jolly Jester was filled with sad fuckers - half of them looking for a fight. Me and little Shane used to watch the black blokes in the car park getting stoned and yelling about going to the moon.

  Once, me and little Shane saw some bloke come running for his life from round there. He was looking over his shoulder as he ran, screaming "Nigger!" There were about thirty blacks behind him, women and everything.

*

When big Shane wasn't in the pub, he was in his living room. It had the same picture of Jesus that was in all of the Catholic living rooms round there. Big Shane used to watch snooker on the black and white TV. He'd sit there on his dark brown sofa and get drunk. He'd sing paddy songs and tell jokes where you'd piss yourself before he'd even got to the punch line.

  "Have you heard this one before?" he'd ask.

  While he spent his time drunk in the pub or the living room, his wife was in the kitchen, trying to hide the milk money.

  He'd slapped her around that kitchen, as well. She kicked him out eventually. It was for the best.

  You know when you knock on a door and don't get an answer, but you can hear noises from inside? That happened to me with Shane. I just walked round. The back gate was always open, or broken or whatever, and I walked round and tried the other door. I looked through the window, because I could still hear stuff, even more stuff now.

  I saw little Shane standing there, in the middle of the kitchen. He'd probably been standing in the kitchen the whole time. Oh, he could see me. He unlocked the door. His mum and dad were in the hallway, I could hear them.

  But I don't remember what was said. I don't remember how big Shane ended up in the kitchen, with his wife against the wall. Big Shane stared at me. I stared at little Shane. I felt bad, but even that seemed wrong.

  I remember this time with my own mum and dad. They were in their back garden. My dad was cutting the grass, and my mum was on her knees, messing with some flowers that she'd planted.

  I was upstairs this time, looking through their wardrobe. There was a box of old letters, love letters I suppose. I read a nice bit and ran down to the garden. I started to read aloud. God, that got everything going. I mean, I can really see now, that's how something can start.

  Anyway, being Catholics, big Shane and his wife separated but didn't divorce. They'd all lived together until then, little Shane and his mum and dad and his two brothers and two sisters.

  Shane's mum did well for her family. The eldest sister was nearly sixteen by the time of the separation. She was pregnant, and she moved in with her boyfriend. The rest of them lived in a couple of dumps for a while, and then Shane's mum managed to get them somewhere nicer. She got a job as a dinner lady, and she went to night school to learn how to type and everything.

  When we were about thirteen, I went with Shane to visit his dad. We caught the bus to his flat. The place had the same picture of Jesus, only now the sofa was flowery. He'd got himself a new girlfriend. A mate of his was there as well. The first thing that big Shane did was give us a load of beer. Then he slapped his girlfriend on the arse and told her to go and get the men some food. Big Shane gave us fags and cigars and whiskey.

  We all woke up with hangovers, and we had to have the hair of the dog.

  Big Shane's mate said that he had to go back to his place before the pub, and that he'd drop me and little Shane off. We got down to the car park, but big Shane's mate couldn't find his keys. He checked in his carrier bag and then stumbled back in to the flat.

  It was a sunny day. A plane flew low overhead. It looked like it was just above the block of flats. Everything shook. There was a small row of shops over the road from the car park, and I watched a couple of men walk out of the bookies with big smiles. One of them looked over at us, and he shouted something, but the plane was loud as ever. I wondered about the people who must've been in the plane. When I looked up it'd gone.

  Big Shane's mate was too pissed to get the car started, anyway. I was the only one who could just about drive, so I ended up at the wheel.

  The car was a shitheap, and it spewed out clouds of petrol. I sped down the road, knowing that I wouldn't be this happy again.