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beetroot. It didn’t do for such matters as these to be out in the open. ‘All right, I got a spot of bother with the Muntons. But I can handle it. All right?’
    ‘Right you are.’
    Legs got up and went into the kitchen. He came back with two cans and two meat pies. He lobbed one of each at us. I tore the plastic wrapping off the pie and started munching on it. After the pie I chugged half the can and lit a fag, tossing one to Legs. I let out a smoky belch that lasted about five seconds.
    ‘Right you are,’ says Legs again, lighting up. ‘But you need help with summat, you come to me. Right?’
    I could feel me cheeks burning more than ever. I necked the rest of the can, hoping it’d cool my head down, and then rattled off another five-second belch. ‘Ta, mate.’
    Legsy winked at us. ‘What mates is for, ennit.’

3
     
    It were a bit like waking up next to a marquee the next morning. I ain’t bragging nor nothing, but my tadger were good and tall and pushing up into the covers like a tent-pole. That’s from sleeping on a full bladder, that is. A bit odd when you thinks about it, seeing as when you finally wakes up and hobbles along to the bog you can’t piss anyhow on account of your tent-pole.
    Still, nothing’s impossible. I kept trying, bending meself double so’s to ease the pressure. That got some of it out, but not where I wanted it. Feeling that this were getting silly, and with piss all over the tiles and everywhere but down the pan, I stood up, closed me eyes, and thought about the Muntons. Sure enough the tent-pole packed itself away and left me hanging limpish. I pissed for a long time, sighing with the joy of it all. There ain’t many feelings to rival that one. Two others that I can readily think of, in fact. And soon as I started thinking of one of em, up came the tent-pole again.
    I went back to me bedroom thinking that it’d been a couple of days since I’d last had my end away. If I didn’t empty me sack soon my bollocks’d pack up on us. That’s what happens with monks, I once heard. Their knackers ain’t called upon, so eventually they stops producing the goods. Well, I’d hadn’t fathered no nippers, far as I knew. And I had no plans of spawning none. But nor did I plan on becoming no monk neither. So I had a choice.
    Pull meself off.
    Or go round Sally’s.
    I climbed into the car and bombed across town. I loved that car. Far back as I could recall, all I’d ever really wanted were a Ford Capri. There’s summat about that long bonnet and low-slung chassis that makes angels sing in your ears. When I were a youngun I used to stop at every Capri I walked past and feel her all over, drawing grim looks off passing grannies and arsey shouts from Capri owners. I couldn’t help it.
    So as soon as I started earning—from robbing mostly—I started saving up. By the time I were eighteen or so I had enough to get meself one. Only problem were that the standard of Capris on the market had dropped a bit by then. And it’d been dropping ever since, same as the standard of everything else. You only gets what you’re offered, and if shite is all they offers, shite is what you gets. Still, my Capri were a good un. Best one in Mangel, I reckoned. And long as I could keep her going all right, I were happy.
    And happy I were, as I overtook a bus and stuck him two fingers in the mirror. All my worries seemed to have up and left us during the night. It were as if I’d worried meself round the clock and started at nought again. Or maybe I were just seeing things more clearer now. Things blow over. Folks move on and leave their shite behind. Just cos Finney and Legs and a few others knew about me and my problems with the Munton boys don’t mean everyone knew. Or maybe I’d got the Muntons all wrong. Maybe they was just pissing us about and not intent on harming us at all. Aye, that were it, like as not.
    And besides, I didn’t fancy worrying no more. Life were for living, not fretting.