She's Electric | Sam Fender

10 - Sam

Cass has spent the last 10 minutes nicking chips from Dean and passing them to me under the table. We've got a pretty good system going, but every time I have to cough to disguise the fact that I'm eating. Dean's starting to grow suspicious though; he won't say anything because he's just not that sort of person. He'll keep quiet until he's got no food left and still not question it. Especially if there's a girl involved.

I'm surprised Dean hasn't tried to get his leg over yet, actually; Cass is exactly the sort of girl he goes for. But she's so far out of his league it's like Newcastle playing Sunderland. Maybe that's a little unfair to Cass, who's probably a City or United supporter. Either way, Dean's totally punching above his weight if he reckons he has a chance with her. He might, and I could just be being cynical.

I've completely left the conversation, there's too much going on around me to concentrate on Joe babbling about how good he is at pool. There are more and more people flooding is as it gets to six o clock. We get a few funny looks, probably because there's a bunch of drunk radgie Geordies sat with Liam fucking Gallagher. Not something you see every day.

"Who are those people?" One twatish, tory-looking, bloke whispers to his wife, just loud enough for me to hear, "I mean, what are they doing around here?"

Johnny, who's been paying even more attention to them than I have, stands up and walks over to him, looking like a completely mad bastard. "You talking 'bout us?"

I'm a nosy little cunt, so I follow him. Plus, I want to know why they've been staring at us for almost half an hour. Please excuse me; I have a scene to make.

"What if I was?" The other fella says. Just by looking at him, I hate him. He has one of those faces that you just wouldn't get tired of braying seven shades of shit out of. They probably view us lot as working-class scum who should probably be exterminated like rats. Or hunted for sport.

"Wey, everybody's got to be somewhere," Johnny  shrugs. "What's wrong with us being here?"

The bloke has a face like a bulldog licking piss off a nettle, "You're sitting in our booth."

I have to but in. I can't keep my mouth shut to save my life, which is probably why I've spent many a Friday night bleeding in Accident and Emergency. When I was younger, I was basically a regular and on first name terms with half of the staff, "Oh aye? Didn't see your name on it, like."

Johnny elbows me, hard, in the ribs, "Don't start. Not here," He whispers.

I shrug, but when the man sitting in front of us speaks next, I'm about 3 seconds from going ballistic.

"Why don't you piss off back to Newcastle or whatever dump you've crawled out of?" 

"Aye, that's a good point," I say, feeling a rant about to start, "Because we've been made to feel about as welcome as a fart in an astronaut suit. Where we come from, people are hospitable to strangers, but all we've had are sideways glances and scowls off your sort."

Johnny rolls his eyes and sighs, "And here we go."

I'll admit it, sometimes I go off it for no real reason, but I'm so pissed off at the world that it's hard not to. Sure, things are so much better for me than they were a few years back, but that doesn't mean that I don't remember what it was like growing up. I remember being terrified if we were going to be evicted, and feeling so useless because I couldn't do anything. My mam was unfit to work, so we had basically no money coming in. Most of my friends were dealers, and I was so, so tempted to join them. But we got through it in the end. 

From the other side of the pub, the barman shouts, "Is there a problem, Mister Oxford?"

I should've known. It's not going to be the lads that get us hoyed out, it's going to be me.

"Yes," Oxford says, pursing his lips, "This... young man is acting very aggressively."

Something snaps inside of me, "I'll show you fucking aggressive. Do you want a fucking go mate? Howay then."

"Out! The lot of you!" The barmen yells.

Drew sighs and drags me out the door. We're soon followed by the rest of the group, including Liam and Cass.

I press the heel of my hand into my forehead, "Sorry about that. Dunno what came over me," I  mumble, feeling like a proper tosser. 

"Don't worry about it," Liam says, clapping me on the shoulders, "There's plenty more bars 'round here for us to get kicked out of. It's barely 7 o'clock."

"The night is still young," Joe shrugs. "But we're already mortal."

Dean, who actually looks pleased about this, grins, "Can we please get some proper scran now?"