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You're walking home. It's late. Your mates have gone off in different directions at the end of the night, so you're alone. It's been a good Friday night. No drink, just plenty of smoking and having a laugh with a few friends. It's cold. You pull out a packet of cigarettes and spark one up, inhaling the thick, deadly smoke. The chill of the wind pushes you to walk faster. You pass a bus shelter, and as you do you spot people inside it, sitting in the dark, cans of cheap beer lying on the floor.
"'Ere, gi's a tab!" one demands.
"It's me last one," is your reply, and you walk right on past without a second thought.
That just sets them off. You hear them moving about, as if they're getting up, so your brisk walk almost becomes a jog. Before you know it, you're a good 50 metres away from the bus shelter, but then they shout out.
"Oi!" they cry.
You keep walking, even faster now, so fast your legs ache. To a passer by it must look ridiculous, your legs moving so fast, but to you it's the best way out of there. They start to run towards you. Do you run away? What if they're faster than you? What if they catch you and decide to fill you in just for running? What if you run and they chase, how long will they follow you? Will you have to hide somewhere?
You decide to try and save face and don't run, instead you continue with your marathon winning walk. They're on you now, three of them, with a couple of figures further behind, they look like girls.
"Give us a tab!" the leader once again demands, but this time in a more relaxed tone.
"It's my last one," you repeat.
The banter goes back and forth. You know full well you have about two or three more left in the packet which is secure in your inside pocket, but since you didn't want to stop and give them one back at the bus stop, you have to stick to your guns. You're in a public place. It may be night, but surely nothing can happen to you walking along a road, next to a load of shops. They're still walking behind you, you ask them to leave you alone.
"I told you I don't have any left!" you plead.
"Well, ah knaw, but you didn't have to be a dick about it. Yuh could've said 'Na, sorry mate, ah don't have one' but you're a cocky little dick, aren't you?"
There's no answer you can give which will please them.
"Aw, howay, don't do this," you tell them.
You're only ten minutes away from home, how long are they going to be walking along side you? Will you have to keep on walking right past your house? You don't want them knowing where you live. It all runs through your head, but it's more the inconvenience than the threat of danger.
"I don't want to be fighting tonight." he tells you.
"I don't want to be fighting either, howay, just let me go."
You try to keep a mental image of where they all are. There's three lads, each bigger than you. You think you might recognise one or two of them, but you only get quick glimpses of them as you turn your head every so often. They're all around you. You see that there's still one or two people further behind, and you definitely recognise one of them as being in your year at school, a girl. You see somebody on the other side of the road, walking the opposite way with a dog. Do you ask him for help? No, chances are he'd just walk on by. Besides, what do you say? "Hi, these kids are following me... care to do something about it?" BANG! You stagger a bit, and stop walking. What happened? Then it registers in your mind that you've just been punched in the side of your face. Your right cheek goes numb, your head rattles. BANG! Another one, right next to it, you stagger again. BANG! a third punch, this time to the back of the head. You see him land in front of you. The kid had jumped at you to get extra force behind his fist. It couldn't have taken anymore than two seconds, but to you, it seemed like two minutes. Your entire head aches and your right eye seems to close a little. You can't even mutter any words. Fighting back is the last thing on your mind. They walk off, the way you were heading, laughing. The girl you recognised is laughing too. Actually pointing and laughing at you. You don't know what to do. You stand on the path for a few seconds, before realising you'd better get home.
You can't go the way they're going, that's for sure. You head back the way you came, still unsure about what just happened, replaying it through your mind again and again, asking yourself what you could've done to avoid it. You walk home a different way, down a dark muddy walkway, surrounded by bushes, somewhere you didn't want to walk down in the first place, but now it's your saviour. You reach your street, and you put your hand to your cheek. There's blood on your fingers, just a little, but enough to get you in a flap. You look at yourself in the reflection of a nearby car. You're a mess. Your entire right cheek is swollen and your eye is half closed. It hurts like hell. You go inside and go to bed.
Next day, you have two sovereign marks on your face and a whopping black eye. You tell your parents you tripped, but they see right through your lie. They accuse you of fighting, but in the end, you explain what happened.
At school the following Monday, you're in English, and the girl from Friday night is there.
"What happened to you?" your teacher asks when she sees your face.
"Nothing,"
The girl is right next to you, looking sort of embarrassed, and walks off.
This happened to me about three years ago, when I was 15, and the kids who did it were the notorious "Bells", two brothers and one friend who all shared the same surname. I was lucky, if they'd wanted to, they could've kicked me into a coma. They did it for fun.
A year or so later, they attacked somebody with a metal pole and put him in hospital. He's now in a wheelchair, with a keyboard for "Yes" and "No" since he can no longer speak properly. You know why they attacked him? They mistook him for somebody else. They wrecked some young man's life for absolutely no reason. And they didn't go to prison for it. Ironically, one of them ended up in prison for 9 months for something he didn't do. I was pleased when I found out. The day he got out, he was out drinking, and since their girlfriends were friends with my friends, I met him and his brother for the first time since they'd attacked me. When I first saw them, Darren, the one who'd done all the talking that night, started on me. He didn't recognise me, he just saw me and walked right up to have a go at me. One of the girls with us told him that I was okay. Wayne, the one who'd just got out, hadn't touched beer for 9 months, and got off his face on drink and lungs. He couldn't stand, he couldn't talk. He was on the ultimate bad trip, on his hands and knees on my mate's patio. I had the perfect opportunity to kick the living crap out of him for what he'd done to me, and everything he'd done to the dozens of other people over the years. It'd been a long time, I'd grown bigger, I'd been working out, hitting punch bags and getting fit. I could've broken his face on the floor. But I didn't. I couldn't bring myself to do it. Instead, I actually helped him out by giving him water and talking to him as he lay in my mate's garden, out of his skull.
I'm not a violent person. I had a reason to attack him, but still couldn't. They had no reason, yet did it for a laugh. I see it every day on the way home from work, and throughout the last few years when I used to walk the same way home almost every night after a drinking session. You can get your face smashed in for looking at them. LOOKING at them for Christ's sake! Think about how many people look at you each day, do you attack them for it? These radgies, charvers, townies, whatever you want to call them, they're subhuman in my opinion. I could go into all the sociological reasons as to why they're like that, why they think violence is okay, but I won't bother. I'll just say that they're scum. Society needs to change, as more and more kids are ending up like that. I see children as young as eight swearing their heads off, getting into fights for no reason and basically being criminals. Criminals nowadays aren't Robin Hood characters, they aren't rebels, they aren't defying the system. They're bored little kids with nothing better to do. What gives them the right to attack innocent people and not face any consequences?
Nothing gives them that right.
"'Ere, gi's a tab!" one demands.
"It's me last one," is your reply, and you walk right on past without a second thought.
That just sets them off. You hear them moving about, as if they're getting up, so your brisk walk almost becomes a jog. Before you know it, you're a good 50 metres away from the bus shelter, but then they shout out.
"Oi!" they cry.
You keep walking, even faster now, so fast your legs ache. To a passer by it must look ridiculous, your legs moving so fast, but to you it's the best way out of there. They start to run towards you. Do you run away? What if they're faster than you? What if they catch you and decide to fill you in just for running? What if you run and they chase, how long will they follow you? Will you have to hide somewhere?
You decide to try and save face and don't run, instead you continue with your marathon winning walk. They're on you now, three of them, with a couple of figures further behind, they look like girls.
"Give us a tab!" the leader once again demands, but this time in a more relaxed tone.
"It's my last one," you repeat.
The banter goes back and forth. You know full well you have about two or three more left in the packet which is secure in your inside pocket, but since you didn't want to stop and give them one back at the bus stop, you have to stick to your guns. You're in a public place. It may be night, but surely nothing can happen to you walking along a road, next to a load of shops. They're still walking behind you, you ask them to leave you alone.
"I told you I don't have any left!" you plead.
"Well, ah knaw, but you didn't have to be a dick about it. Yuh could've said 'Na, sorry mate, ah don't have one' but you're a cocky little dick, aren't you?"
There's no answer you can give which will please them.
"Aw, howay, don't do this," you tell them.
You're only ten minutes away from home, how long are they going to be walking along side you? Will you have to keep on walking right past your house? You don't want them knowing where you live. It all runs through your head, but it's more the inconvenience than the threat of danger.
"I don't want to be fighting tonight." he tells you.
"I don't want to be fighting either, howay, just let me go."
You try to keep a mental image of where they all are. There's three lads, each bigger than you. You think you might recognise one or two of them, but you only get quick glimpses of them as you turn your head every so often. They're all around you. You see that there's still one or two people further behind, and you definitely recognise one of them as being in your year at school, a girl. You see somebody on the other side of the road, walking the opposite way with a dog. Do you ask him for help? No, chances are he'd just walk on by. Besides, what do you say? "Hi, these kids are following me... care to do something about it?" BANG! You stagger a bit, and stop walking. What happened? Then it registers in your mind that you've just been punched in the side of your face. Your right cheek goes numb, your head rattles. BANG! Another one, right next to it, you stagger again. BANG! a third punch, this time to the back of the head. You see him land in front of you. The kid had jumped at you to get extra force behind his fist. It couldn't have taken anymore than two seconds, but to you, it seemed like two minutes. Your entire head aches and your right eye seems to close a little. You can't even mutter any words. Fighting back is the last thing on your mind. They walk off, the way you were heading, laughing. The girl you recognised is laughing too. Actually pointing and laughing at you. You don't know what to do. You stand on the path for a few seconds, before realising you'd better get home.
You can't go the way they're going, that's for sure. You head back the way you came, still unsure about what just happened, replaying it through your mind again and again, asking yourself what you could've done to avoid it. You walk home a different way, down a dark muddy walkway, surrounded by bushes, somewhere you didn't want to walk down in the first place, but now it's your saviour. You reach your street, and you put your hand to your cheek. There's blood on your fingers, just a little, but enough to get you in a flap. You look at yourself in the reflection of a nearby car. You're a mess. Your entire right cheek is swollen and your eye is half closed. It hurts like hell. You go inside and go to bed.
Next day, you have two sovereign marks on your face and a whopping black eye. You tell your parents you tripped, but they see right through your lie. They accuse you of fighting, but in the end, you explain what happened.
At school the following Monday, you're in English, and the girl from Friday night is there.
"What happened to you?" your teacher asks when she sees your face.
"Nothing,"
The girl is right next to you, looking sort of embarrassed, and walks off.
This happened to me about three years ago, when I was 15, and the kids who did it were the notorious "Bells", two brothers and one friend who all shared the same surname. I was lucky, if they'd wanted to, they could've kicked me into a coma. They did it for fun.
A year or so later, they attacked somebody with a metal pole and put him in hospital. He's now in a wheelchair, with a keyboard for "Yes" and "No" since he can no longer speak properly. You know why they attacked him? They mistook him for somebody else. They wrecked some young man's life for absolutely no reason. And they didn't go to prison for it. Ironically, one of them ended up in prison for 9 months for something he didn't do. I was pleased when I found out. The day he got out, he was out drinking, and since their girlfriends were friends with my friends, I met him and his brother for the first time since they'd attacked me. When I first saw them, Darren, the one who'd done all the talking that night, started on me. He didn't recognise me, he just saw me and walked right up to have a go at me. One of the girls with us told him that I was okay. Wayne, the one who'd just got out, hadn't touched beer for 9 months, and got off his face on drink and lungs. He couldn't stand, he couldn't talk. He was on the ultimate bad trip, on his hands and knees on my mate's patio. I had the perfect opportunity to kick the living crap out of him for what he'd done to me, and everything he'd done to the dozens of other people over the years. It'd been a long time, I'd grown bigger, I'd been working out, hitting punch bags and getting fit. I could've broken his face on the floor. But I didn't. I couldn't bring myself to do it. Instead, I actually helped him out by giving him water and talking to him as he lay in my mate's garden, out of his skull.
I'm not a violent person. I had a reason to attack him, but still couldn't. They had no reason, yet did it for a laugh. I see it every day on the way home from work, and throughout the last few years when I used to walk the same way home almost every night after a drinking session. You can get your face smashed in for looking at them. LOOKING at them for Christ's sake! Think about how many people look at you each day, do you attack them for it? These radgies, charvers, townies, whatever you want to call them, they're subhuman in my opinion. I could go into all the sociological reasons as to why they're like that, why they think violence is okay, but I won't bother. I'll just say that they're scum. Society needs to change, as more and more kids are ending up like that. I see children as young as eight swearing their heads off, getting into fights for no reason and basically being criminals. Criminals nowadays aren't Robin Hood characters, they aren't rebels, they aren't defying the system. They're bored little kids with nothing better to do. What gives them the right to attack innocent people and not face any consequences?
Nothing gives them that right.
Page:
Are you from Newcastle Mojo? Only a lot of what you've written has some very Geordie-sounding linguistic traits.
There are always folk like this.
People who have relatives or friends who have a reputation for being rough so these people cause havok and use their relatives as back up when somone feels its time to do something or say something about it.
Remember playing football in a park when I was 15, these lads wanted a game and asked near enough everyone around, one of my mates said something they didn't really like so they left only to come back later with a few bigger mates. One of them was a guy who played for my footy team. As a few of them set of to threaten my mate with what they were going to do to him I spoke to the guy who played for my team who was only there for visual back up and had no intention to fight anyone.
So a few of us stepped in and warned the others off.
We thought that was it. Except a few of them decided to follow me, the guy they were wanting to fight and a couple of others as we headed for home.
Suddenly they ran for him and started hitting into him, one pulled out a small metal pole but before he could use it a couple of us went for him and made sure that it wasn't used.
We were all kind of involved in a small fight, then my mate dave stood on this lads arm and it snapped, he was screaming with pain and his mates all ran to see if he was ok. My other mate ended up with a few cuts and bruises, they shouted at us saying we were for it and the usual crap. Couple of weeks later the guy appologised to me after football training as I talked with the guy on my team. His mates arm was broken but he said he deserved it for trying to use the metal pole.
This kind of thing (usually a lot worse) happens all the time in the rough areas of the town I live. The local paper is full of assults, drugs and murders. I put it down to lack of respect for others and they all seem to think that others owe them something.
People who have relatives or friends who have a reputation for being rough so these people cause havok and use their relatives as back up when somone feels its time to do something or say something about it.
Remember playing football in a park when I was 15, these lads wanted a game and asked near enough everyone around, one of my mates said something they didn't really like so they left only to come back later with a few bigger mates. One of them was a guy who played for my footy team. As a few of them set of to threaten my mate with what they were going to do to him I spoke to the guy who played for my team who was only there for visual back up and had no intention to fight anyone.
So a few of us stepped in and warned the others off.
We thought that was it. Except a few of them decided to follow me, the guy they were wanting to fight and a couple of others as we headed for home.
Suddenly they ran for him and started hitting into him, one pulled out a small metal pole but before he could use it a couple of us went for him and made sure that it wasn't used.
We were all kind of involved in a small fight, then my mate dave stood on this lads arm and it snapped, he was screaming with pain and his mates all ran to see if he was ok. My other mate ended up with a few cuts and bruises, they shouted at us saying we were for it and the usual crap. Couple of weeks later the guy appologised to me after football training as I talked with the guy on my team. His mates arm was broken but he said he deserved it for trying to use the metal pole.
This kind of thing (usually a lot worse) happens all the time in the rough areas of the town I live. The local paper is full of assults, drugs and murders. I put it down to lack of respect for others and they all seem to think that others owe them something.
Yes, I saw something involving one of these 40 year olds not to long ago. My sister was at the local pub having a drink with me and her bloke (he is a fair bit older), this guy was checking out my sister when she went to the bar, so, to mark his territory my sister’s man went over and put his arm round her. Later that evening we were playing some pool and the guy came over and started on my sister’s guy (who is a nice bloke now but used to be in a London gang and is one tough son of a…). He just told him to grow up and go away, so after some staring he left.
It just seems kindda pathetic to me, but you will never get rid of this sort of thing.
I also remember when I 16, at a local club, a few mates and me were just out having a laugh. But, right at the end of the evening some huge guy who must have been about 20 took a run up and punched the smallest of our group.
Why?!! Does it make these people big to hit people half their size, when they aren’t expecting it?
I will never understand people like that.
It just seems kindda pathetic to me, but you will never get rid of this sort of thing.
I also remember when I 16, at a local club, a few mates and me were just out having a laugh. But, right at the end of the evening some huge guy who must have been about 20 took a run up and punched the smallest of our group.
Why?!! Does it make these people big to hit people half their size, when they aren’t expecting it?
I will never understand people like that.
Sadly, that's all too familiar. I've had TEN year olds throwing bricks at me and my mates, and I couldn't do anything because of his older brothers.
They never travel alone. I honestly believe that, one on one, in a fair fight, your average radgie would get the living hell beaten out of him. But there's always at least three of them, and they aren't above using weapons such as planks of wood and glass bottles.
They're like that because of their upbringing. Chances are, their kids will end up the same, and their kids, and their kids. Sadly, there doesn't seem to be anything we can do about it. I feel sorry for them, in a way, as most will live their entire lives that way, and end up being "that hard bloke in the pub" Some radgies never grow up, I've seen guys in their 40s acting like teenagers.
They never travel alone. I honestly believe that, one on one, in a fair fight, your average radgie would get the living hell beaten out of him. But there's always at least three of them, and they aren't above using weapons such as planks of wood and glass bottles.
They're like that because of their upbringing. Chances are, their kids will end up the same, and their kids, and their kids. Sadly, there doesn't seem to be anything we can do about it. I feel sorry for them, in a way, as most will live their entire lives that way, and end up being "that hard bloke in the pub" Some radgies never grow up, I've seen guys in their 40s acting like teenagers.
Here here,
I don't think anyone can disagree with this,
but what can society do about it?
I remember when I was in school I was being made victim by a guy from the local estate.
Now, I'm not a violent person either. At least, not in normal circumstances. This kid was less that half my size, and about two or three years younger than me. I didn't understand why he did it at first, and finally I snapped and levelled the little b*****d. Just one punch was all it took to say enough is enough.
Then I understood. He was an Anderson. His big brother tagged me in the school yard and beat me up. He was the year above, but still smaller than me. I didn't retaliate, but I'm told if I did his big brother would have had a go. The oldest brother was in prison for something or other.
Anyways, good post, interesting reading.
I don't think anyone can disagree with this,
but what can society do about it?
I remember when I was in school I was being made victim by a guy from the local estate.
Now, I'm not a violent person either. At least, not in normal circumstances. This kid was less that half my size, and about two or three years younger than me. I didn't understand why he did it at first, and finally I snapped and levelled the little b*****d. Just one punch was all it took to say enough is enough.
Then I understood. He was an Anderson. His big brother tagged me in the school yard and beat me up. He was the year above, but still smaller than me. I didn't retaliate, but I'm told if I did his big brother would have had a go. The oldest brother was in prison for something or other.
Anyways, good post, interesting reading.
New post but still, a very much needed *bump*.
That was very well written and something I think a lot of people may have experienced. It is the longest thread I have read on this forum, but WELL worth reading. Excellent post mate.
That was very well written and something I think a lot of people may have experienced. It is the longest thread I have read on this forum, but WELL worth reading. Excellent post mate.
You're walking home. It's late. Your mates have gone off in different directions at the end of the night, so you're alone. It's been a good Friday night. No drink, just plenty of smoking and having a laugh with a few friends. It's cold. You pull out a packet of cigarettes and spark one up, inhaling the thick, deadly smoke. The chill of the wind pushes you to walk faster. You pass a bus shelter, and as you do you spot people inside it, sitting in the dark, cans of cheap beer lying on the floor.
"'Ere, gi's a tab!" one demands.
"It's me last one," is your reply, and you walk right on past without a second thought.
That just sets them off. You hear them moving about, as if they're getting up, so your brisk walk almost becomes a jog. Before you know it, you're a good 50 metres away from the bus shelter, but then they shout out.
"Oi!" they cry.
You keep walking, even faster now, so fast your legs ache. To a passer by it must look ridiculous, your legs moving so fast, but to you it's the best way out of there. They start to run towards you. Do you run away? What if they're faster than you? What if they catch you and decide to fill you in just for running? What if you run and they chase, how long will they follow you? Will you have to hide somewhere?
You decide to try and save face and don't run, instead you continue with your marathon winning walk. They're on you now, three of them, with a couple of figures further behind, they look like girls.
"Give us a tab!" the leader once again demands, but this time in a more relaxed tone.
"It's my last one," you repeat.
The banter goes back and forth. You know full well you have about two or three more left in the packet which is secure in your inside pocket, but since you didn't want to stop and give them one back at the bus stop, you have to stick to your guns. You're in a public place. It may be night, but surely nothing can happen to you walking along a road, next to a load of shops. They're still walking behind you, you ask them to leave you alone.
"I told you I don't have any left!" you plead.
"Well, ah knaw, but you didn't have to be a dick about it. Yuh could've said 'Na, sorry mate, ah don't have one' but you're a cocky little dick, aren't you?"
There's no answer you can give which will please them.
"Aw, howay, don't do this," you tell them.
You're only ten minutes away from home, how long are they going to be walking along side you? Will you have to keep on walking right past your house? You don't want them knowing where you live. It all runs through your head, but it's more the inconvenience than the threat of danger.
"I don't want to be fighting tonight." he tells you.
"I don't want to be fighting either, howay, just let me go."
You try to keep a mental image of where they all are. There's three lads, each bigger than you. You think you might recognise one or two of them, but you only get quick glimpses of them as you turn your head every so often. They're all around you. You see that there's still one or two people further behind, and you definitely recognise one of them as being in your year at school, a girl. You see somebody on the other side of the road, walking the opposite way with a dog. Do you ask him for help? No, chances are he'd just walk on by. Besides, what do you say? "Hi, these kids are following me... care to do something about it?" BANG! You stagger a bit, and stop walking. What happened? Then it registers in your mind that you've just been punched in the side of your face. Your right cheek goes numb, your head rattles. BANG! Another one, right next to it, you stagger again. BANG! a third punch, this time to the back of the head. You see him land in front of you. The kid had jumped at you to get extra force behind his fist. It couldn't have taken anymore than two seconds, but to you, it seemed like two minutes. Your entire head aches and your right eye seems to close a little. You can't even mutter any words. Fighting back is the last thing on your mind. They walk off, the way you were heading, laughing. The girl you recognised is laughing too. Actually pointing and laughing at you. You don't know what to do. You stand on the path for a few seconds, before realising you'd better get home.
You can't go the way they're going, that's for sure. You head back the way you came, still unsure about what just happened, replaying it through your mind again and again, asking yourself what you could've done to avoid it. You walk home a different way, down a dark muddy walkway, surrounded by bushes, somewhere you didn't want to walk down in the first place, but now it's your saviour. You reach your street, and you put your hand to your cheek. There's blood on your fingers, just a little, but enough to get you in a flap. You look at yourself in the reflection of a nearby car. You're a mess. Your entire right cheek is swollen and your eye is half closed. It hurts like hell. You go inside and go to bed.
Next day, you have two sovereign marks on your face and a whopping black eye. You tell your parents you tripped, but they see right through your lie. They accuse you of fighting, but in the end, you explain what happened.
At school the following Monday, you're in English, and the girl from Friday night is there.
"What happened to you?" your teacher asks when she sees your face.
"Nothing,"
The girl is right next to you, looking sort of embarrassed, and walks off.
This happened to me about three years ago, when I was 15, and the kids who did it were the notorious "Bells", two brothers and one friend who all shared the same surname. I was lucky, if they'd wanted to, they could've kicked me into a coma. They did it for fun.
A year or so later, they attacked somebody with a metal pole and put him in hospital. He's now in a wheelchair, with a keyboard for "Yes" and "No" since he can no longer speak properly. You know why they attacked him? They mistook him for somebody else. They wrecked some young man's life for absolutely no reason. And they didn't go to prison for it. Ironically, one of them ended up in prison for 9 months for something he didn't do. I was pleased when I found out. The day he got out, he was out drinking, and since their girlfriends were friends with my friends, I met him and his brother for the first time since they'd attacked me. When I first saw them, Darren, the one who'd done all the talking that night, started on me. He didn't recognise me, he just saw me and walked right up to have a go at me. One of the girls with us told him that I was okay. Wayne, the one who'd just got out, hadn't touched beer for 9 months, and got off his face on drink and lungs. He couldn't stand, he couldn't talk. He was on the ultimate bad trip, on his hands and knees on my mate's patio. I had the perfect opportunity to kick the living crap out of him for what he'd done to me, and everything he'd done to the dozens of other people over the years. It'd been a long time, I'd grown bigger, I'd been working out, hitting punch bags and getting fit. I could've broken his face on the floor. But I didn't. I couldn't bring myself to do it. Instead, I actually helped him out by giving him water and talking to him as he lay in my mate's garden, out of his skull.
I'm not a violent person. I had a reason to attack him, but still couldn't. They had no reason, yet did it for a laugh. I see it every day on the way home from work, and throughout the last few years when I used to walk the same way home almost every night after a drinking session. You can get your face smashed in for looking at them. LOOKING at them for Christ's sake! Think about how many people look at you each day, do you attack them for it? These radgies, charvers, townies, whatever you want to call them, they're subhuman in my opinion. I could go into all the sociological reasons as to why they're like that, why they think violence is okay, but I won't bother. I'll just say that they're scum. Society needs to change, as more and more kids are ending up like that. I see children as young as eight swearing their heads off, getting into fights for no reason and basically being criminals. Criminals nowadays aren't Robin Hood characters, they aren't rebels, they aren't defying the system. They're bored little kids with nothing better to do. What gives them the right to attack innocent people and not face any consequences?
Nothing gives them that right.
"'Ere, gi's a tab!" one demands.
"It's me last one," is your reply, and you walk right on past without a second thought.
That just sets them off. You hear them moving about, as if they're getting up, so your brisk walk almost becomes a jog. Before you know it, you're a good 50 metres away from the bus shelter, but then they shout out.
"Oi!" they cry.
You keep walking, even faster now, so fast your legs ache. To a passer by it must look ridiculous, your legs moving so fast, but to you it's the best way out of there. They start to run towards you. Do you run away? What if they're faster than you? What if they catch you and decide to fill you in just for running? What if you run and they chase, how long will they follow you? Will you have to hide somewhere?
You decide to try and save face and don't run, instead you continue with your marathon winning walk. They're on you now, three of them, with a couple of figures further behind, they look like girls.
"Give us a tab!" the leader once again demands, but this time in a more relaxed tone.
"It's my last one," you repeat.
The banter goes back and forth. You know full well you have about two or three more left in the packet which is secure in your inside pocket, but since you didn't want to stop and give them one back at the bus stop, you have to stick to your guns. You're in a public place. It may be night, but surely nothing can happen to you walking along a road, next to a load of shops. They're still walking behind you, you ask them to leave you alone.
"I told you I don't have any left!" you plead.
"Well, ah knaw, but you didn't have to be a dick about it. Yuh could've said 'Na, sorry mate, ah don't have one' but you're a cocky little dick, aren't you?"
There's no answer you can give which will please them.
"Aw, howay, don't do this," you tell them.
You're only ten minutes away from home, how long are they going to be walking along side you? Will you have to keep on walking right past your house? You don't want them knowing where you live. It all runs through your head, but it's more the inconvenience than the threat of danger.
"I don't want to be fighting tonight." he tells you.
"I don't want to be fighting either, howay, just let me go."
You try to keep a mental image of where they all are. There's three lads, each bigger than you. You think you might recognise one or two of them, but you only get quick glimpses of them as you turn your head every so often. They're all around you. You see that there's still one or two people further behind, and you definitely recognise one of them as being in your year at school, a girl. You see somebody on the other side of the road, walking the opposite way with a dog. Do you ask him for help? No, chances are he'd just walk on by. Besides, what do you say? "Hi, these kids are following me... care to do something about it?" BANG! You stagger a bit, and stop walking. What happened? Then it registers in your mind that you've just been punched in the side of your face. Your right cheek goes numb, your head rattles. BANG! Another one, right next to it, you stagger again. BANG! a third punch, this time to the back of the head. You see him land in front of you. The kid had jumped at you to get extra force behind his fist. It couldn't have taken anymore than two seconds, but to you, it seemed like two minutes. Your entire head aches and your right eye seems to close a little. You can't even mutter any words. Fighting back is the last thing on your mind. They walk off, the way you were heading, laughing. The girl you recognised is laughing too. Actually pointing and laughing at you. You don't know what to do. You stand on the path for a few seconds, before realising you'd better get home.
You can't go the way they're going, that's for sure. You head back the way you came, still unsure about what just happened, replaying it through your mind again and again, asking yourself what you could've done to avoid it. You walk home a different way, down a dark muddy walkway, surrounded by bushes, somewhere you didn't want to walk down in the first place, but now it's your saviour. You reach your street, and you put your hand to your cheek. There's blood on your fingers, just a little, but enough to get you in a flap. You look at yourself in the reflection of a nearby car. You're a mess. Your entire right cheek is swollen and your eye is half closed. It hurts like hell. You go inside and go to bed.
Next day, you have two sovereign marks on your face and a whopping black eye. You tell your parents you tripped, but they see right through your lie. They accuse you of fighting, but in the end, you explain what happened.
At school the following Monday, you're in English, and the girl from Friday night is there.
"What happened to you?" your teacher asks when she sees your face.
"Nothing,"
The girl is right next to you, looking sort of embarrassed, and walks off.
This happened to me about three years ago, when I was 15, and the kids who did it were the notorious "Bells", two brothers and one friend who all shared the same surname. I was lucky, if they'd wanted to, they could've kicked me into a coma. They did it for fun.
A year or so later, they attacked somebody with a metal pole and put him in hospital. He's now in a wheelchair, with a keyboard for "Yes" and "No" since he can no longer speak properly. You know why they attacked him? They mistook him for somebody else. They wrecked some young man's life for absolutely no reason. And they didn't go to prison for it. Ironically, one of them ended up in prison for 9 months for something he didn't do. I was pleased when I found out. The day he got out, he was out drinking, and since their girlfriends were friends with my friends, I met him and his brother for the first time since they'd attacked me. When I first saw them, Darren, the one who'd done all the talking that night, started on me. He didn't recognise me, he just saw me and walked right up to have a go at me. One of the girls with us told him that I was okay. Wayne, the one who'd just got out, hadn't touched beer for 9 months, and got off his face on drink and lungs. He couldn't stand, he couldn't talk. He was on the ultimate bad trip, on his hands and knees on my mate's patio. I had the perfect opportunity to kick the living crap out of him for what he'd done to me, and everything he'd done to the dozens of other people over the years. It'd been a long time, I'd grown bigger, I'd been working out, hitting punch bags and getting fit. I could've broken his face on the floor. But I didn't. I couldn't bring myself to do it. Instead, I actually helped him out by giving him water and talking to him as he lay in my mate's garden, out of his skull.
I'm not a violent person. I had a reason to attack him, but still couldn't. They had no reason, yet did it for a laugh. I see it every day on the way home from work, and throughout the last few years when I used to walk the same way home almost every night after a drinking session. You can get your face smashed in for looking at them. LOOKING at them for Christ's sake! Think about how many people look at you each day, do you attack them for it? These radgies, charvers, townies, whatever you want to call them, they're subhuman in my opinion. I could go into all the sociological reasons as to why they're like that, why they think violence is okay, but I won't bother. I'll just say that they're scum. Society needs to change, as more and more kids are ending up like that. I see children as young as eight swearing their heads off, getting into fights for no reason and basically being criminals. Criminals nowadays aren't Robin Hood characters, they aren't rebels, they aren't defying the system. They're bored little kids with nothing better to do. What gives them the right to attack innocent people and not face any consequences?
Nothing gives them that right.
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