I wanted to read this book because another book I'm reading at the moment, Up in the Old Hotel by Joseph Mitchell, mentions gypsies living in New York in the early 20th century. I was curious about gypsy culture in the UK and wanted to hear some stories about gypsy life and customs from their perspective. This book did give me that, but it was also a lot grimmer than I expected (featuring physical, emotional, and sexual abuse). It's an autobiography of Mikey Walsh's early years growing up in the 1980s and 90s, predominantly in West Sussex and Newark - but his family moved around a bit. His father, Frank, was a champion bare-knuckle fighter, and wanted a son who could emulate his reputation. Mikey was not that boy. Frank takes out his frustrations on him in the only way he knows how: with his fists. It was so bleak at times that I felt like giving up on it, but I'm glad I persisted until the end. The patience I needed to finish the book was nothing like the resilience Mikey needed just to survive into his teens. I won't spoil any other bits of the narrative (even the title of the sequel is a spoiler that impacted my reading of this book).