31st October - How I knew I was 'Council Scum'

My background was pretty desolate as a kid, I've no shame in admitting. My Mother was unemployed, but Father was never around, and when he was, he was ducking and diving from the tax man, taking scraps of money on cash-in-hand manual labour jobs to avoid paying CSA for his smattering of offspring all across the nation. I never had much, and I remember Dinner sometimes being Marmite on Digestive Biscuits. I was basically those kids you read about online who Marcus Rashford now helps. Perhaps one of the most fascinating features of my life to the kids at school, and in the neighbourhood, was that I lived in a block of council flats. They just couldn't get their head round it. 

They used to love to approach my door and watch me walk inside, up through the stairs etc, or they'd incessantly press all the buzzers and piss all the neighbours off, fascinated by the 'trades' system to gain entry to the building. It was like they were observing a spaceship taking off for the first time or something, this giant building with all the windows on the front. They'd often ask if all the windows were all my bedrooms, mistaking the block for one gigantic house. I used to go along with that one, often. You see, what I had, which they didn't, was a superior level of intellect, and it was something I was oh-so-acutely aware of. The other thing I was good at, surprisingly now, given my ample abdominal girth in adulthood, was sport. 

I was captain of the football team, and adored the sport, living and breathing it every day. But with this, came added expense for my parent(s). The need for kit, for items like specialised football trainers for astroturf pitches, or for boots. I was the kid in the unbranded stuff, the Tesco shorts, but one day, I turned up to school in a pair of 'Hi-Tec' footwear for a match. The brand was low-level, the cheapest of the same world which included the likes of 'Nike' or 'Adidas'. I didn't care though, they were bright red, with a white logo on the side and I knew I could outperform most of the other lads on the pitch in their flashy boots, with my new trainers. "What the fuck are those?" they would laugh, sniggering and pointing at the Hi-Tec logo. "Council scum trainers", another would remark. I'd stay calm, and even smug, smirking at them, knowing my impending hat-trick would soon wipe the smile off their faces once the game started. 

This trend continued throughout my school years. I'd be the lad in the brands like Gola, Patrick, or Sondico, whilst other around me wore flashy Puma and Reebok items. One night, during a match in a training sesh, a little Tory prick by the name of Stuart Wacknell had been giving me jip all week about my items, bragging about how much his Father earned etc, all backed up by his goofy beanpole mate, Paul Young, who I secretly referred to as 'Bowling Ball Head' on account of his stupid grin and incredibly round face. It was a rain-soaked match, where the pitch had become a slippy mud bath and both sides were struggling to even string a successful pass together, let alone trouble the goal. Akin to a scene from a 'Bend It Like Beckham' type movie, our coach, Mr Stewart, blew his whistle to inform us that there were only 10 seconds left in the session, with the score tied at 0-0. Wacknell was in goal for the opposition, slapping his goalkeeper gloves together and being a mouthy prick, as per. Kayleigh, the only girl who played in our flurry of boys, swung a cross in, and there I was, to perfectly volley home an almost professional-level looking bicycle/scissor kick. I don't think I'd ever done it before, and I certainly never did it again after. As the ball rippled into the back of the net, I picked my mud-soaked body up off the floor and ran screaming and celebrating into Stuart's face. He was right. I was council scum...

... And I couldn't have been any prouder of it, than I was in that moment.