(This takes place several years into the future in the town I live)

Nine minutes to five. Bruvs all sitting kattycornered and blazing, waiting to choice on strikes. ‘Course me younger’s cotching for the night and chirps ‘bout dem buff chavs from the Kings end. We do dis nightly, blazing and cotching the yard. When we not in the yard, we go rounds about to Lubbers Lane scrapping hoodies who disrespect our bruvs and name. When we not scrapping, we blagging yards in the bottom or taxing passers at de Pemberton. We make a living one way or another. So’s long as me youngers and me bruvs eat, life’s a’ight, innit?

Six minutes after five. Me younger, Gary, sits up prosting all me young blods about. “To life, liberty, and the American way!” he yells wit’ his Guiness in hand. We prost and drink, hops washing down our windypipes.

Thirty to six now and me bruvs itch to go blagging. So we rounds our clubs and gats to hit de strasses and move down to de bottom. Hoodies know de bottom full’a wasps and Judies. Used to be full’a bruvs and hoodies like us, but dat was fore de War and yards got on de cheap. First bruvs out Westies came, den de Krauts, den de Judies and got yards left and right dey did.

Most me bruvs don’ speak dis way, but all about de drums. Mum came from Westies and pop was Kraut. Me younger born n raised in Oak end and most me bruvs raised on Speed strasse. Dey speak more proper den me. Me younger speaks more Judie den anything, so sometimes we don’ understand de udder. But dey understand blagging and scrapping and taxing and dat’s all dat madders.