So what is Export?" The teenage lads look at me as if I must be joking. Jake bursts out laughing, then Elias, then the others. "Xbox," Jake says. "Not Export. Xbox – it's a computer game."
We are outside Nasif's house, waiting for him to get back from school. Elias says that 15 is a funny age – you're too old to stay at home, too young to go clubbing. "That's why we go to our friends' houses," Ali says, perching precariously on his bike. "It's warm, comfortable, relaxed." A second later, they're on to talking about girlfriends. Most can't be bothered with them – they went through all that nonsense years ago. "Girls just never stop wanting," Ali says. "They're greedy." For what? "Anything." Going out with girls is something you might do when you're younger, more naive, they say, the voices of world-weary experience.
Nas arrives and we go inside. Ten boys in a small living room, making a racket, eating biscuits, drinking juice, controllers in hand, battering each other to bits in a video wrestling game.
What is a typical teenage boy like? In a way, it's a daft question – there is no typical. But speak to enough lads, immerse yourself in their world, and patterns start to emerge.
It's 30 years since I was their age. In my era, the 1970s, many teens went to football to start scraps rather than watch the match, and yet somehow they were not demonised as they are today. There were "hoolies", but we knew they were the minority. Back then the only time we heard the word feral was on wildlife programmes; the idea of "hoodies" hadn't been invented. I've read all the stereotypes about today's teenage boys, but my experience of them is virtually nonexistent – I have two teenage daughters, who don't play Xbox, let alone roam the streets in a manner likely to unnerve Middle Britain. So I decide to immerse myself in Planet Teen Boy.
Teen boys Nas
Nasif Mugisha. Photograph: Frederike Helwig
Nasif Mugisha lives down the road from me. I see him most days in passing. He's full of life, seems kind, likes to run, and looks a little scary in his super-spruced cadet's uniform. But what do I really know about Nasif's life? Nothing.
So I knock on his door. He's babysitting for his eight-year-old brother, Nooh, and three-year-old-sister, Aliyah. "Nas," I stutter, "I want to become part of your life." I blush – he's going to call the police on me at this rate – and start again. "Nas, we're doing a piece on teenage boys, and we want to know what it's like to be a teenager. I was wondering if I could stalk you for a few days." He grins nervously. Only joking, I say. He looks relieved. But I do want to follow him, do what he does, eavesdrop on his conversations.
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A few days later we're playing Xbox. Nas and his friends go to the local comprehensive in north London, five minutes' walk from where we live. Four of the boys are virtual wrestling, while the others make a rowdy audience.
"Batter this guy, batter him," shouts Ali.
"Just let me get up! Ah oh! Ah oh! Oh my God!" yelps Liam, the Living Legend who's just been floored.
Their favourite game is Call Of Duty 4: Modern Warfare in which they kill loads of people. It baffles me.
"But none of you seems particularly violent," I say.
"We're not," Elias says. "It's a fantasy game. You can't do that in real life, that's the appeal."
Would any of them join the military? "No, no, no," they scream in unison.
"Only if you had as many lives as in Call Of Duty," adds Liam.
Actually, Nas does want to join the forces. He's wanted to be a pilot since he was four and first flew in a plane. At 15, he's already thinking ahead to A-levels, then, if things work out, a degree and career. All the boys talk of the pressure of exams – at 14 there is coursework, at 15 GCSEs, then, for many, it's straight into AS-levels. It's unrelenting: much more so than when I was their age.
In the early evening, after Nas's mum, Sophia, has made some delicious noodles, we wander to the park. Me and 10 boys. Adults move out of the way, often giving us hostile looks. It feels weirdly empowering, but also annoying. What's wrong with them? Why stare at us when we're not bothering them?
7.30am Sunday, sunny but cold, and Nas is stacking his newspaper trolley. Copies of the local paper with five leaflets to go with each one. "It can be pretty depressing when it's pouring down, delivering all those papers through the wind and rain. But at times it's really good. Especially Tuesday." Why Tuesday? "Payday."
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Nas has been credit-crunched. Two years ago when he started he was paid £20 for delivering the papers, and with the leaflets it could rise to £30. Now it's just £10 for the papers, or £15 on a good day. I pull the trolley with both hands behind my back. It's heavy, cumbersome work. "They don't call us newspaper boys any more, we're walkers. I call myself a newspaper distribution expert." He rubs his hands together, and blows on them.
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