ABSTRACT
I’m now living in Sheffield in an ordinary working-class neighbourhood, witnessing first-hand the effects of deindustrialisation. This is Thatcher’s Britain, where there is no such thing as society, in her famous words. My neighbours are unemployed, they work on their houses and take their breaks for ‘snap’ out on the street, where people can see them, still grafting away. They avoid supermarkets and bumping into their old mates because of the shame of unemployment. I want to write about their situation and their lives. I go out with burglars and ten bob millionaires and men commuting to London from Hull to work on building sites. I take up boxing to get closer to the action, I get invited to a bare-knuckle grudge fight in a local park. I’m not sure how any of my writing fits in with psychology. I just feel that it’s important. I meet Goffman and his work allows me to frame some of what I’m witnessing. Much is about the presentation of self in desperate circumstances. I know that.
