This was all fields once.

This was all fields once.
This was where we went to war. Our lot here and their lot over there, right where that skanky mum is tipping out the rubbish.
School-gang kids with our ties round our heads, shouting like we meant it, looking mean with our blazer collars turned right up. Come and have a go if you're hard enough. Hold me back. I'm gonna lose it in a minute.
They spit, we spit and we'll fight when the spit dries up.
And as long as we kept spitting, we could keep that up until teatime.
There'd been some long-range warfare, with stones and fireworks, and right where that fat old mum is leaning on the gate, screaming for Timmy to get in for his dinner, that's where our Billy got a rocket up his arse. But that was a fluke, an accident, only later retold as a deliberate act, woven into the Battle Hymns of our inter-school wars, along with rumours of vanloads of away-team thugs, bussed in to pillage our side of the tracks - "Look, there's a van! And why is it there? Innocuous but now suspicious looking, a target for our faux bravery, we rocked it and kicked it and bashed it with sticks, and came away victorious in our minds, our enemies surely too scared to come out of hiding.
It should be marked on the maps, this place, this drab new estate that sits on the ghosts of our schoolboy aggro. Should be marked with two plastic swords. In remembrance of our brave lads.
It was all fields once, round here.