My mate, the surly shopkeeper, told me that when he was growing up in the 1970s, he lived on a VERY rough estate in north Yorkshire. His dad was a kerb layer, former railway worker and part time bouncer. His shoulders were about 4 feet across and he was 6 feet 5 inches tall with size 12 feet.
Living down the street were a family of what could politely be described as "settled travellers" who were known to be rough as a badger's arse. There were about 7 or 8 kids who ran riot around the street thieving and breaking things. Their dad was tattooed, pot bellied, 6 feet 4 inches and an alcoholic.
When my mate was about 8 he sold a second hand bike to one of the pikey kids. Turns out it was busted and the kid demanded his money back. My mate told him to fuck off so the lad replied "I'll tell me dad!!"
"Go on then, see if I give a shit."
A short time later the tattooed, blubber gutted gyppo dad rocked up, kicked their front door in and bellowed "WHERE'S THAT FUCKING CUNT?!!!"
Cue a smackdown or almost biblical proportions as the kerb laying, bouncing patriarch hurtled down the hallway and laid into the other bloke with a flurry of kicks from his huge Doctor Martened feet, yelling "BUST MY DOOR YOU SCUMBAG PIKEY BASTARD!!!"
My mate said about 20 neighbours came out, not to intervene but to watch, and cheered them on as they wrecked the front garden and demolished the fence. All the time pummelling, gouging and kicking each other with a barrage of swearing.
No one called the Old Bill and eventually when they were both knackered they limped back indoors to tend their wounds.
No one said sorry and no one got their money back.