Beyond all the negative headlines, what do we really know about Britain's teen boys? Simon Hattenstone takes a trip deep into boy world and finds that it's very different from what you might expect…

"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.

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.

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."

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.

Nas's mother was born in Uganda, his father Rwanda. They divorced when he was three, and even here he considers himself fortunate – both parents remarried and now he's got two great sets of families. "These days my mum treats me like a sixth-former. She confides in me. Beforehand, certain things happened and mum would say, 'Ah, you're too young to know.' Now, she tells me."

Nas talks more formally than most of his friends – full sentences, little slang, no swearing. There are expectations of how a teenage boy will talk and act – especially a black teenage boy, he says. But he's not having any of that. "The bottom line is, it's not me. African parents want you to do well and they always push you to speak properly. Mum and Dad go mad if I say 'Innit'."

Nas is more confident than he was at primary school. Back then he was quiet, a little withdrawn. "It all changed when I joined the cadets." He learned practical skills such as map-reading and ironing, found his voice, even got himself a girlfriend.

At school, he says, the older you get, the more fixed groups become. Because he is so busy with extracurricular activities, he's left out at times. But he's turned this into a strength – he can float from group to group. "At school there is the cool group, and then lots of others." What is the cool group like? "They are really the kids who get up to no good." Do many drink and take drugs? "More than you'd think. I'd say a third smoke or drink – cigarettes and a bit of dope as well." Does he drink? "I don't drink or smoke at all. Apart from when I was four and I thought wine was apple juice and drank it and spat it straight out."

Why doesn't he drink? "First of all, I'm Muslim. But also I don't see the appeal. At our age people drink just to get drunk. I think it's easier to speak to a girl if you're drunk. Also, it's much easier to get off with a girl if she's drunk. For me, though, I think if you're an interesting enough person you can be interesting at a party without alcohol."

He's been going out with Hannah for seven months now. Is it a serious relationship? Nas says he's never sure what serious means. "Hannah goes to cadets. I like her, she likes me, and we're really good friends. There are times you'll go out with a girl cos she's really fit, simple as that. Then you slowly realise you have nothing in common and she's boring or really loud and in your face." He usually sees Hannah once a week. "We might go to the cinema, or I'll make her lunch and we'll just chill in the park. It's really nice."

I'm gradually becoming more expert at newspaper distribution as Nas chats away about the difference between girls and boys. On the whole, he reckons, boys have it easier – less emotional upset, no periods, not the same pressure to dress well. "There's so much more going on with girls. Boys, we're simple creatures. As long as we've got some food, some entertainment, we're pretty much fine."

Character-wise, he says there's also a big difference. "There's always bitching going on in girls' friendship groups. And often there's a debate about who's best friends, whereas with guys it's pretty easy – we're mates, and if you don't like somebody you just give them a punch in the face."

That's only happened once, though. "I was around my dad's, and this boy brought my mum into it. I warned him. Twice. I was 14, and I said, 'This ain't funny any more, I will hit you.' " Did he enjoy punching him? He looks embarrassed. "It felt so good, yeah. He got a really big bruise. The funny thing is, the same day he apologised."

Joe France is off school with a cold, and he's not happy about it. He loves school. Joe, 14, is a clever boy from a working-class background in Walsall, in the Midlands, who already has his future mapped out. Last year, he came top of the class in his grammar school, and he's happy to be seen as a swot. "If I get called a geek I'll say, 'Yes, I am, what's the problem? Just because I get more A*s than you doesn't mean there's anything wrong with me.' "

Joe is on the small side for his age; many adults don't realise he's a teenager. Does he feel intimidated by groups of teenage boys? "Normally I'd just walk past them and not pay them any attention. I'd drift to one side probably, but if they were all walking together, blocking the main path, I'd just carry on, and not stare at them." The way they walk might look aggressive, he says, but it's rarely meant to be. "Most of the time they stand together so they can all talk without having to turn round. They don't like to have to drift behind each other."

There are changes he's noticed in himself. His emotions fluctuate more than they used to, he thinks more about girls, he gets annoyed more easily, and he's more self-conscious. About what? "The most obvious thing is spots. I didn't pay much attention to them till the summer holidays. Then I realised I had spots on my forehead and one on my nose. When I run my hand over my forehead I can feel them there. They feel bumpy and strange."

And then there's his height. "I'm definitely self-conscious about people growing past me. I had one friend who was the same height as me at the end of year nine and he's suddenly grown and now he's four inches taller than me." Does he feel jealous? "Not jealous, it just feels a bit late. They say you have a growth spurt at 13 and your voice will break at 14, and then when it doesn't happen you think, 'Hang on, is it ever going to – or am I just going to stay short?' "

But there are things he loves about being a teenager: not least the freedoms. He's got his own laptop, so he no longer has to share with his mum and dad. He likes the fact that his friends talk about more serious things these days, such as politics, and he loves shopping for clothes, which he used to hate. "I was in London a couple of weeks ago with my little cousin and we both needed a new pair of jeans. He just got really tired, moaning, walking everywhere slowly, but I don't get bored so quickly now. I'm much more interested in buying stuff than I was."

Akeim Mundell. Photograph: Frederike Helwig

Recently he stood in a class election. "I wanted to be form captain, and then one of the kids from the popular group stood. He got 20 out of the 24 votes. My friend got three votes, I got one." Has it put him off standing again? "No, I'm going to keep trying till I beat him one day."

Joe's favourite hobby is reading; his class recently read Lord Of The Flies. If he was trapped on a desert island, does he think he'd become a savage like Jack or a civilising influence like Ralph? Typical Joe, he comes up with a third way. "I think I'd be more of the civilised influence. When we were reading Lord Of The Flies we had to do a role play and I was automatically chosen as Ralph in our group. But I think I'm a half Ralph and half Piggy figure. I've got the intellect of Piggy but I'm not quite confident at pushing ideas forward. Piggy knows more than he seems to."

Akeim Mundell and his friends Isaac, Connor, Callum and Jamico have just had their photos taken and found themselves a car park to play football. They are in London for the day from Manchester – all have been brought up in the tough district of Moss Side. Some were on the verge of getting into trouble when they joined an organisation called Reclaim that has helped turn their life around.

Akeim is the smiliest boy I've met. "I've calmed down a lot now," he says. "I used to get in trouble for silly stuff like chatting back to the teachers."

Callum, a broad lad with red hair, puts in a lovely cross which Isaac heads past Akeim.

"See, I told you I was sick at crosses," Callum says.

The boys talk about some of the football fans they saw on the way down to London.

"They was drinkin' beer at 10 in the morning. It was 'angin'," Connor says.

'Angin'? "Yeah, horrible. Why would anybody do that?"

Does Akeim ever drink? "Nah. Except every Christmas I have a Babycham. We drink Coke and Grape Soda."

Akeim goes to Manchester Academy in Moss Side, and wants to be a doctor. If that doesn't work out, he'll settle for nursing. He's not going to go to the local sixth-form college because he thinks he'll concentrate better if he's not surrounded by his old friends.

It's late September and the Sun has just splashed with the headline, "FERAL UK UNMASKED: Police allowed this teen and his gang to torment a mum and her disabled daughter to death." The headline is accompanied by a photograph of a teenager in a hoodie, riding a battered bike. It's a desperate story, but is it at all representative, as we're led to believe? The same day Gordon Brown plays to the gallery at Labour's party conference, promising more asbos and tougher action on "teenage tearaways turning town centres into no-go areas".

Nothing has been used to demonise teen boys more than the hoodie itself – a simple item of clothing that children and adults have worn for decades. Conor McPherson, a 15-year-old from Aberdour in Scotland, says that "it's the biggest stereotype in the country and has alienated almost the entire teenage population. Last night I went out in a hoodie and a woman crossed the street. When I passed her, she crossed back over. I felt confused, a wee bit upset. It means that the stereotype, which has been spread by the government, has crept into the whole population's mind."

A report commissioned by the organisation Women In Journalism last year showed that the word most commonly used to describe teen boys in the media is yobs. Other common words were thugs, feral, louts, hoodies, evil, frightening, monsters, scum and heartless. More than 60% of the stories about teen boys concerned crime – 90% of which showed them in a bad light. Eighty-five per cent of a sample of 1,000 boys thought the press portrayed them negatively.

To accompany this article, Guardian Weekend commissioned a survey of 1,000 boys by Echo Research, which also carried out the Women In Journalism report. Some of the findings are predictable – 57% of boys spend at least one hour a day social networking online. More alarmingly, 10% spend at least five hours a day social networking online, 55% have been exposed to inappropriate online content, and 21% have had experience of cyber bullying. But perhaps the most astonishing finding is just how positive teen boys are: 95% believe their career prospects are good, 96% are ambitious about their future careers, 94% are happy in their home and family lives, 93% are happy in their social lives and 91% are happy in their school or work lives.

But perhaps it's not so surprising, after all. The research chimes with my experience. Of the boys I have met, some have issues, yes, and there are definitely pressures, but none is unhappy with his lot.

Back in Manchester, Akeim is tired of reading that all teenagers are trouble. The image presented in the tabloids bears little relation to his friends. Yes, he has known a couple of lads who carry knives, but he always kept his distance. He says there have been times when he's got into trouble running his mouth off, but he's also used his mouth to talk his way out of trouble. "I've never been in a fight all my life."

What does he spend his time doing when he's not at school? "I'm not going to lie. All I do is go home and stay at my computer. Facebook, MSN and that's it."

Does that mean he's antisocial away from the computer? No way, he says. "Over the weekend I'm never in." Like Joe, he's recently discovered the joy of shopping. "I go to the Trafford Centre. You look in my room now, I've got four wardrobes full of clothes. I love buying stuff."

Richard Deane (left) and his friend Oscar. Photograph: Frederike Helwig

His weekends are hectic. On Saturday he gets the bus into town where he meets his friends. How many? "There are 25 of us. We go to the cinemas and then to Nando's every Saturday."

Life is fun, he says, but of course there are things for him and his friends to worry about. If he is to become a doctor, and Callum is going to be a police officer and Connor a soldier, as they hope to, they're going to have to focus.

Has his life been touched by violence? "No." He stops. "Well, only when Jessie got shot." In September 2006, 15-year-old Jessie James was killed while riding his bike through a park with friends. He was the 24th person shot dead in Moss Side since 1999. "We'd known Jessie since he was a baby and through primary school and secondary school. That was sad… We lived on the same estate." Did it make him scared? "No, it just made me more set that I'm not going in no gang."

What makes him happiest? That's hard to answer, he says. "I'm always happy." Does he like the way he looks? "Yeah. I used to be short, but now I'm taller. Is there anything I'd change? No. Not really. I think I'm all right." He bursts out laughing.

Richard Deane, 16, goes to grammar school in Tonbridge, Kent and is just starting his A-levels. He plays guitar in a band, and when he suggested to his mother that he could skip university if the band takes off, she gave him a look he's not forgotten.

He thinks there are different expectations for boys than girls – boys, for example, always want to be the best. If you're good at sport, you're made, he says. If you're not, you can struggle. "There is a sporty group at school, and you have to be really good to be part of it. I've never been good at sport, and don't even talk football. One of my friends joined the sporty group and we've become less close." He's more interested in music.

Yes, there are stresses, he says – he's sick of hearing about boys who left school with amazing A-level results and still couldn't get into university. And yes, his parents are a little overprotective, and don't seem to trust him quite as much as they could. But he's become more understanding of that, and they're not nearly as bad as many people he comes across. Richard is offended by adult attitudes towards teenage boys. "The other day I was standing outside the house and a woman came out and said, 'Would you mind not swearing cos I'll be reading a bedtime story to my children?' She just assumed that we'd be swearing because we were teenage and we were boys. There are people who aren't so nice. But most teenagers are good people."

It's Monday evening and Nas and I are on the way to Air Cadets – two buses and a short walk. He's pleased because his group finished third out of 15 in last week's drill competition. They put in so much time and effort (Nas spent eight hours polishing his boots) that tonight, as a reward, they don't have to wear their uniform. Nas will give a map-reading lesson to the junior cadets, some of whom are older than him, and he warns me that it's all extremely disciplined. The juniors must address him as Corporal and he has to address his next in line as Sergeant. There's a lot of shouting and bossing, but they are having a good time. The group is racially mixed, and the kids appear to be colour blind, yet as they line up to salute the picture of the Queen, we could be back in the 1950s. Many arrive in their hoodies and, if photographed on the streets, could doubtless be portrayed as yobs. Like all the teenage boys I've met they exude an inspiring mix of innocence, joie de vivre and experience. Perhaps I've just struck lucky, but I don't think so. Nas, Joe, Richard and Akeim all seem so much more mature and prepared for adult life than my generation was. In a strange way, maybe Britain's demonisation of teen boys has made them grow up more quickly.

• Echo Research conducted a survey of 1,000 boys aged 13-19 resident in the UK; echoresearch.com