Only Connect

Finlay laid hands on a child last week and that was that: sacked as a classroom assistant, with the threat of prosecution if any bruises come up. He was only restraining the little eedyat, but you can't touch the kids even in a Pupil Referral Unit, where the kids are lethal. So it's back to the irregular painting and tiling, the £1 accumulators at William Hill, the long nights on the Playstation.

The same week I was in court, again, for Finlay's cousin Morris. The magistrate is cruel—grants bail, but with a £3,000 surety which no one in Morris's world can raise except illegally.

Finlay's dad and Morris's dad are twins. One has 14 kids, the other 24. Back in the day the twins were famous robbers, knocking off banks from London to Bristol. They are both now diminished by crack, but you can still see the exuberance, the sheer human force. In the pub after a show at our venue, in their James Brown suits, the old men get down. Morris's dad does the splits to the cheers of a party of ladies on a weekend trip from Leeds.



The sons have it too, the charm of stardom, the most astonishing, heart-grabbing talent for performance. Their mothers are from the old school, Pentecostal prayer warriors who soften the boys' wild, unfaithful inheritance. Paternal charisma, maternal love: it's an awesome combination.

You see it in Morris, who can switch in a heartbeat from generous laughter to the most terrifying anger—on stage, that is; we fear to think where he dredges the performance from. And you see it in Finlay, the joker, but so emotional: he can never keep a job for long because it all comes bubbling up.

Morris has had a crack habit for 20 years, only getting clean when he goes inside. Finlay has never been to jail, except on visits, but he has had his moments too. Finlay is philosophical about losing his job in the Pupil Referral Unit. These kids, he says. They just don't like adults.