These kids nowadays: they're fuckin animals. I've got a 14-year-old, and he's a waste of fuckin space. His name's Steve, and I keep him in a pen in the living-room. He's been there for about a month now, ever since I found out about him knocking that old lass off her mobility scooter and taking it for a joyride through Orberry Park. It sounds funny, joyriding on a fuckin mobility scooter, but I bet that old lass didn't find it funny when she broke her hip falling off the fuckin thing. He'd been going off the rails for a while before this happened, but it was never anything major — smoking weed, drinking cider on streetcorners — the usual shite teenagers get up to. I didn't mind that so much — after all, the only person he's harming there is himself, and if that's what he wants to do then that's his fuckin choice, innit? But knocking that old lass off her scooter was the last fuckin straw. I was that close to calling the cops on the arrogant little shite. But what would that've achieved? Fuck all. So I bought a pen instead, and put him in that.
He wasn't too happy about it at first, let me tell you. I had to knock him out sparko to get him in there in the first place, and when he finally came back round and realised where he was — well, he went snookerfuckinloopy, to put it mildly. I don't think he could believe it at first, until I explained it to him. "You're staying in there, you dirty little shit," I told him, "until you learn to act responsibly." He pissed and moaned, of course, like he always does — telling me I'm crazy, that I can't keep him in there, that I won't get away with it — but I soon put him straight on that score. "I can do whatever the fuck I like, Steve," I told him. "While you're living under my roof you'll follow my rules. And you're staying in there until I say."
He started swearing at me, and shaking the bars of his pen like a fuckin monkey or something, but I didn't take a blind bit of notice. I just sat there, in the chair next to him, finishing my smoke and watching Deal or No Deal. It was only when he started spitting at me that I took some action, cos no way am I going to sit there getting fuckin gobbed on. I'd seen it coming, see — the little shit's always been a spitter, ever since he was a nipper. Disgusting habit, if you ask me. So I went in the kitchen and filled up the water pistol I'd bought, then took it back in the front room and fired a couple of quick rounds right in his fuckin eyes. You can get some pretty fuckin powerful water pistols if you know what you're lookin for — the one I got looked like a plastic, brightly-coloured fuckin machine-gun. Anyway, that soon put a stop to his messing around.
"Keep spitting, you little shite," I warned him, "and I'll keep fuckin squirtin. I'm sick of telling you, Steve — I've had it up to here with you. You need to learn some fuckin morals."
I got the pen from a pet shop in town. Twenty-four quid it cost — twenty-four fuckin quid for a bit of metal and wood. The spotty fella behind the counter said it was designed for guinea pigs or something, but they must have been big fuckin guinea pigs, cos it's not a small pen by any means — I even had to move the telly to the other side of the room before I could fit it in. So he's got enough room in there. He says he hasn't, but he has. It's long enough so the lazy shit can lay down whenever he wants to — I've even put a blanket in there for him, for fucksake — and when he feels like sitting up he just has to crouch forward a bit so he doesn't smack his stupid fuckin head on the top. He can't stand up, of course, but why would he want to stand up anyway? He's in a pen, for fucksake. It's not as though there's anywhere he can take a fuckin walk to.
I brought Geoff from the flat above round a few days ago so he could see how it was all working out. Geoff's been having a bit of trouble with his own kid recently — vandalism mostly, I think, and a bit of petty thieving. He's been moaning on about it like fuck for the past couple of weeks and I'd gotten so fuckin sick of hearing it that when he finally asked how our Steve was getting on I thought I'd just invite him round and let him see for himself. But Geoff was pretty horrified by the whole set-up, and said in a shaky kind of voice that he'd have to let Social Services know. Like fuck he would. I told him that if he did that then I'd have to knock his fat fuckin head off, and I think he got the message. He just sputtered something about it being inhumane to keep a kid in a cage. But Geoff's always been a bit of a nobhead. I told him it wasn't a cage, it was a fuckin pen, and then kicked him out. Me and our Steve have never really liked Geoff all that much, so we both had a good laugh over that once he'd gone. Then our Steve said he needed a piss, so I put his handcuffs on and took him upstairs.
We can laugh about things now, you see, but the first week or so it wasn't like that at all. It was pretty tough fuckin going, to tell you the truth; the little shite used to do my fuckin head in. I think he thought that if he moaned enough and rattled his bars enough and spat enough I might have a change of heart and let him out — but once he realised that all this kind of behaviour was going to get him was a fresh couple of rounds from the water pistol, that kind of fuckin shite soon petered out. I used to have to sit there with that water pistol by my side at all fuckin times, though, cos you never knew when he might start acting up. It could get pretty tedious, I won't deny that, but I knew if I didn't persevere he'd never get the fuckin message. It was tough, like I say, but since that first week there's been a steady improvement in his behaviour, and now he doesn't rattle his bars or spit at me at all anymore. I've got to give him his due for that, I suppose — the kid's learning his lesson. He still likes a good moan now and then — telling me he's learnt the error of his ways and all that shite — but nowhere near as much as he used to. There's this little door I've got to open to pass him his dinner, and at first he used to grab at me and scratch at my arms, and I used to have to subdue him with rounds from the water pistol until I could get the little fuckin door shut again; but there's none of that fuckin nonsense now. Now he just takes the plate I hold out without any fuss, looking as grateful as a pussy — so that's a sign of how far he's coming. He sits in that pen like a little fuckin angel. It's good to see. Most nights — apart from Tuesday, when I go out with the lads, now that I can trust him to behave when he's on his own — most nights I'll turn his pen round so he can see the telly and we'll just spend the night like that, just the two of us, watching Top Gear or Traffic Cops or some fuckin shite like that. It's nice — quality father-and-son time, or whatever the fuck they call it. When the summer holidays are over and he goes back to school I've got a feeling he's going to be a different kind of kid altogether. He's done me proud, the little shite. They won't know what's fuckin hit em, the fuckin teachers.
Jared Booth is 25-years-old and lives in England with his girlfriend and a lazy dog called Sambo. Soon, they may all be moving onto a narrowboat.