Three things about Brummies:
1. They’re not Brummies. They’re distinct people of their own locality, who’ll blink at you for suggesting they live in Birmingham.
2. Never insult Birmingham. (It’s better than London.)
3. Never insult their families.

Sapphy drew back slightly, her mouth set in a line, one eyebrow slightly quirked. He had his head over her shoulder so he couldn’t see her face, but he may have detected a slight hardening of her shoulders if he was looking out for it. She reached up with one hand, pressed her two forefingers into his collarbone and pushed him back, her muddy green eyes meeting his soft grey ones unwaveringly.

“Where do you get off talkin’ shit about my family?” She demanded, narrowing her eyes. She exhaled a sharp burst of air, sucking her teeth so that it made a tss noise. “Let me tell you somethin’. You’re a posh twat judgin’ my family from your fuckin’ castle and you ain’t got no fuckin’ clue about us or our lives. You spend like half a day in Aston and you think you know it all, but you don’t know shit.”

She sucked her teeth at him again, shaking her head. What did he know? He’d had everything in life handed to him. Probably grew up in some fuckin’ palace in like, the London equivalent of his home world or whatever, and now? Now he was sat in his nice, clean, dry, decorated, cheerful home, breathing in unpolluted air, sitting on a bed with sheets by a window with a view, and he had the audacity to criticise her family. Sapphy’s family might not be perfect, but they were everything in her short life on Earth. And at least they weren’t toffs.

In a slow, deliberate action, she moved her hands so the heels were pressing against his shoulders, her mouth twisting.

“You want some beef, mate, go pick it with another toff.” She glared at him, hard. “Don’t start somethin’ you can’t finish.”