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versus the police.
    The cause of my first criminal conviction was laughable. I had developed a passion for Manchester United and most Saturdays I would travel around the country to watch them play. One Saturday I was with my friend, Mickey, on a train going to Bristol. We stopped at one station where there was a small group of Manchester City supporters on the opposite platform. They started jeering and shouting insults and we responded in kind. Nobody took it seriously: it was all quite light-hearted, just kids having a laugh. There was certainly not going to be a fight, if only because our train was about to move off. Once the train got going two middle-aged men in suits who had been sitting opposite us stood up and said they were British Transport Police. They said we were under arrest for using obscene language in a public place. They made Mickey and me stand in the corridor: they stood on either side of us, guarding the dangerous felons. They took us to a Bristol police station where a fat-faced desk sergeant formally charged us with using the f-word and gave us a date to appear at Bristol Magistrates' Court. Then the sergeant - his fat face bloated further with glee - told us he was not going to release us until after the match had started. He said — presumably unaware of the irony: "Don't think you little fuckers can come to Bristol and cause fucking trouble."
    To top everything, my father, the man who had taught me from the cradle all the bad language I knew, had to accompany me to court. My mother had an appointment at the hospital, so he reluctantly took me. On the train journey he made three brief points: one, he had lost a day's work because of me; two, I was an ungrateful little bastard; and three, I would fucking pay for it. I stood in that court feeling bewildered, confused and angry. The magistrate gave me a lecture about bad language and fined me £5. This was my first experience of the state's justice - and it seemed no more justifiable than my father's. On the journey back my father slapped my face and punched me in the head. He told me that the money I earned from my two jobs - doing a paper round and helping the milkman - would pay for the fine and the expenses he had incurred that day.
    My second criminal conviction was for an even more serious crime. At Christmas I would earn a little extra money by working at a local turkey farm. At first I did various menial jobs, but the boss soon promoted me to chief executioner — no other boy had the stomach for such grisly work. I had to put the squawking creatures head-first into a cone-shaped metal bucket; then I had to pull their heads through the hole at the bottom, trapping their necks between two metal bars; I would then simultaneously squeeze and pull down the bars, breaking their necks and killing them instantly. I think it's what they call a humane method. The birds would kick and scratch at the bucket as they fought for their lives, struggling with such force that the bars and my hands would shake. I used to close my eyes and imagine I was squeezing the life out of whoever had upset me that day, usually my father.
    One evening, about a week before Christmas, I found a wrist-watch on the floor in the yard. It was useless - one hand was missing — and I assumed someone had thrown it away. When I got home that evening I gave it to my brother Paul to tinker with, then I changed and went to play football at the nearby sports hall. Later as I was playing football a policeman burst into the hall, marched up to me and said I was under arrest. I found out later that Paul had been outside a shop with his friends when the policeman had walked by and told them it was time they moved on. Paul had said something cheeky like: "No, it's about eight o'clock actually." All the boys laughed. The policeman asked him if he was trying to be funny. He said he was not: it was just that his watch only had one hand. He showed it to the policeman who asked him why he had such