Street Sadness

   A burly man with a blonde crewcut strode into the pub. Behind him trotted his son, a thin, sheepish looking boy around seven years of age. Then came the man's father, a wiry, hard-faced old geezer, also sporting a crewcut. They sat at a table.     "Oi!", called the younger man to the barmaid, "Wot can we 'ave for lunch?"     "I can bring you the menu if you like?"     "We want chips."     "I'm sorry, chips aren't on the menu."     "Never you mind abaht not bein' on the menu, you go an' tell 'im to make us some chips." The barmaid, clearly rather rattled, disappeared up the stairs to speak to the chef. The man sat down with his son and his father. The boy had a glass of lemonade and was drinking it through a straw. The old man sat staring with melancholy at his pint of bitter. Then he looked up at his son and said, "That fahkin' cunt wiv the van come rahnd to pick...

    I was reading in bed this evening and half-aware of the sound of the kids around the estate that drifted in on the gentle breeze through the open window. Gradually the noise became louder and more urgent as a fight began to develop down below. I got up and leaned out of the window to see what was happening. Eleven black boys in their mid-and-late teens were milling around down by the front steps of my block. Two more were rolling in the dirt beneath a tree, locked in a grapple and swinging punches at each other's heads. A bicycle lay on its side in the road surrounded by plastic shopping bags full of groceries. It was impossible to ascertain what the fight was about. Their shouting voices were more warnings than words. Occasionally, a phrase could be discerned: "My bruvver's bike"; "Leave him, Antony!" The two grapplers got up and brushed off the dirt. Then the group split into various twos and threes and made a show of holding each other back by graspin...

    Two Polish electricians came today to do their rewiring stuff in the hallway. I had met the first one, cuddly Jack, before, but this morning he brought along his fresh-faced colleague, George.    George is about twenty-five and 6ft 4 with a big barrel chest and meaty hands. He had short black hair and a short black beard. He looked like a younger, attractive version of Captain Haddock in Tin Tin. I was pleased to see that he was wearing tracksuit bottoms, which always leave nothing to the imagination, front and back: the twin globes of his perfect buttocks softly strain the fabric enclosing them. He bent slightly forward at one point to examine some wires that Jack was showing him and as I side-stepped behind him to leave the room I had the overwhelming desire to tightly grip those orbs. This urge I resisted, however.    I offered them a cup of coffee on their arrival, which they gratefully accepted. I gave Jack the red mug. I gave George the blac...