Steve Hanley - The Big Midweek: Life Inside the Fall

How can I get these lads to leave? Theres about a dozen of them, acting like they own the place. Somehow Ive got to make them go but, since Im not a teacher in a suit, theyre not listening. I draw myself up to my full height, all six foot-odd of it, and start to jab for a weak spot.

Come on, guys, I need you to leave. No response. I am invisible. What are you doing here anyway, smoking weed in the playing field of your old primary school? A couple of them register my presence with condescending stares. I carry on regardless. Your cars are parked over there. You could drive anywhere you like, but youre still here. Look at you, with your disposable barbeque, your cost-cut burgers and a white loaf. Have a bit of style! They eyeball each other, a little less sure of themselves. You could at least get ciabattas. We are in Didsbury, after all. Wheres your home-grown rocket salad and your organic hummus?

Chill out, man. Whatchu chatting at me for?

Didnt you use to be in some rock band? Its the bare-chested ringleader, playing keep-ups with his football. My dads got one of your records. Its pure shit, man.

Safe. No wonder hes stuck here, being a saddo caretaker.

You lost somethin, brother Its hard to distinguish one from the other. Im being taunted by the window display of JJB Sports: a bunch of shaven-headed, Adidas-muscled designer mannequins brought to life. Just about.

Ill lose sommat in a minute if you lot dont clear off!

You lost dat bit of hair at the front of your head! He sniggers and they all have a good laugh, but they soon stop when they see how upset Im looking.

What did you just say to me? Im trying to use my most threatening voice.

Piss off, baldie!

Do you think youre the first person to have ever said that to me? I shouldnt rise to it, but I quite enjoy this banter, it makes the job more interesting. People have even written songs about it. The League of Bald-Headed Men, Im the founder member. The fact is, grass doesnt grow on a busy street. But whos ever going to write a song about you?

Surely they must be reaching the end of their attention spans. If theyre not doing any damage, I usually leave them to it, but this Saturday the yoga teacher who hires the school hall wants to take her class outside. Hopefully the temperamental Manchester sky wont cloud over before Ive got them all to shift.

Hey, Steve. Have you heard of Tupac?

Course I have. That rapper who was shot dead in the car park after the Mike Tyson fight.

See, he turns to his mate. Even hes heard of him and you havent!

Shut up, fool! And they start arguing amongst themselves.

What are you talking like that for anyway? I ask. Youre a bunch of white lads from a middle-class ghetto. You wouldnt last five minutes in a real one. And as for you, I turn my attention back to the main man, I remember you in Year Six, bursting into tears when Mr Buckler shouted at you for tripping up the infant girls

Finally Ive hit a nerve. I detect a slight flushing of the cheeks as he decides they have in fact got better things to do than listen to this. They slope off, arguing about whats cool and what isnt.

Divide and rule. Kind of what used to happen in that band I was in. But the whole episodes got me thinking about blindly following self-appointed leaders. Is this something Ive been guilty of myself? Ive done more than I set out to do in life, but how much did I have to compromise myself? Would it have worked if I hadnt? And how much does it really matter anyway?

Heading inside to give the yoga teacher the all-clear, on the way I notice a suspicious-looking plume of smoke wafting up from underneath my car. I crouch down to investigate, only to discover their barbeque smouldering on a log under my petrol tank. Lucky for me, those lads are a by-product of the health and safety generation so they took the trouble to piss on it first. I dump the lot in the skip, vowing to give them more grief when they next turn up.

Back in my office, with an hour to kill before locking up, I flick through the paper and turn to the horoscopes for a spot of cosmic nonsense:

Come on, Gemini! Isnt it time you moved on? Living in the past isnt doing you any favours. Do whatever it takes to come to terms with whatever isnt any more and pour your boundless energies into the here and now. No one else can help you its got to come from deep within.