My brother, who went to the nearby grammar school, was occasionally beaten up by the lads from the secondary modern: they recognised his different uniform and he was fair game to them. In contrast, they had no idea what kind of school I had ended up in.
Many years later, when, in my thirties, I was organising a Sunday afternoon kick-about in the local park, two 10-year-olds were always keen to be involved. They turned up in their football kit and though one supported Aston Villa and the other West Brom, they were best friends. Throughout that summer of 1987, I put one on each side: any of the older lads who made physical contact with either of them was sin binned for 10 minutes.
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