His name is Charlie. He’s in 11th year, top stream. He’s White working class, whatever that means. He doesn’t know anymore. Things keep shifting. The received and condescending wisdom of all other classes seems to be that he belongs to the one which must shunned and avoided by any means possible.
Charlie grew up on an estate with his mates. It was tough and tribal. You know – desperate parenting, no fathers, no books, no bedtime stories, the wrong food and not enough literacy or love. Many of his mates larked about in primary school and were sunk by the sixth year.
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