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Authors: Caesar Campbell, Donna Campbell
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want?’
‘I’ll have a lemon squash,’ I said.
‘A lemon squash?’
‘Yeah,’ Shadow piped up. ‘Ceese don’t drink.’
So I bought Guitar a Jim Beam and he bought me a lemon squash, and from then on we formed a pretty tight friendship. He started coming to the tavern most nights and we’d go for rides of a weekend. You could see me and Guitar up the Cross together at least twice a week, a Gladiator and a Hells Angel sitting side by side on our bikes, yakking on. He knew just about every sheila in the Cross. They’d be coming past: ‘How ya goin’, Guitar? How ya goin’ Caesar?’
Other blokes would be up there sitting on their Harleys too. Mostly independents who weren’t in a club, like Rat and Shotgun Frank. They’d park alongside each other of a Friday and Saturday night and just sit there. Sooner or later a sheila would walk up and ask to go for a ride with one of them. The bloke would take her round the block, then off to a nearby flat they had for a screw. Afterwards he’d drop her back and continue sitting. That was their life. They didn’t have to go hunting the women, the women would come up to them.
We were up there one night when Guitar decided to go for a ride up the main drag. He’d been gone fifteen minutes and I was starting to think something might have happened to him. I was just about to kick over the bike and go looking for him but next minute here he was, tearing down the main street of the Cross, and he’d picked up the Dargie Sisters, a singing duo who’d just come off stage at the Manzil Room. They had on the tight leopard-skin catsuits, big boots, big hair, one of them sitting on Guitar’s tank and the other one behind him. Guitar was yahooing all the way along the main drag. Did a big U-ey down at Bayswater Road, then back again, four times before finally pulling in to where I was. ‘I’m having a good time tonight,’ he crowed.
The Hells Angels were the average size of a club at that time, about fifteen strong. They got much bigger later on, but most of the clubs in the seventies were only around twelve to twenty members. It wasn’t until the late eighties and early nineties that club chapters started to sprout up everywhere. I reckon twelve to fifteen blokes is a good size for a chapter. You get to be really tight. Me and Guitar used to talk about it a fair bit. He told me about a brawl in the United States between his American brothers and a club called the Breed. More than ninety members of the Breed took on the Angels at a Cleveland motorcycle show. There were only twenty-four Angels, but the Angels kicked the shit out of them. Four dead to one. Which went to show it wasn’t all about numbers. It went on the quality of the club.
I WAS out with the Gladiators one night when we picked up a sheila and took her back to Lurch’s flat. All the blokes except me went through her. Then Lurch went and fell in love with her.
I said to him, ‘She’s only a slut. You’re mad.’
Two days later we went round to Lurch’s and he was gone. He’d packed up with this sheila and taken off. And worse, he’d taken his colours with him. So me and Bull tracked him down to a flat in Enmore. Knocked on the door.
‘Yeah?’ It was Lurch. Bull kicked in the door. Lurch was standing there and Bull’s gone, bang , sent him flying across the bed. As he was getting up it was my turn. Bang , and he went down again. Lurch could really fight, too, but he was lying on the floor cowering behind his hands: ‘I don’t want no more.’
I turned round to Bull at the next meeting and said, ‘See what happened with Lurch? He’s a really good bluer, he was someone that youse accepted as a member in the club, but when he got a bit of a thumping, he chucked it in.’
With our numbers dwindling I could see the club just wasn’t going anywhere. Hanging around the Com-ancheros and the Angels I saw clubs that were growing and moving forward. As tight as we were, and as fearsome a
‘I’ll have a lemon squash,’ I said.
‘A lemon squash?’
‘Yeah,’ Shadow piped up. ‘Ceese don’t drink.’
So I bought Guitar a Jim Beam and he bought me a lemon squash, and from then on we formed a pretty tight friendship. He started coming to the tavern most nights and we’d go for rides of a weekend. You could see me and Guitar up the Cross together at least twice a week, a Gladiator and a Hells Angel sitting side by side on our bikes, yakking on. He knew just about every sheila in the Cross. They’d be coming past: ‘How ya goin’, Guitar? How ya goin’ Caesar?’
Other blokes would be up there sitting on their Harleys too. Mostly independents who weren’t in a club, like Rat and Shotgun Frank. They’d park alongside each other of a Friday and Saturday night and just sit there. Sooner or later a sheila would walk up and ask to go for a ride with one of them. The bloke would take her round the block, then off to a nearby flat they had for a screw. Afterwards he’d drop her back and continue sitting. That was their life. They didn’t have to go hunting the women, the women would come up to them.
We were up there one night when Guitar decided to go for a ride up the main drag. He’d been gone fifteen minutes and I was starting to think something might have happened to him. I was just about to kick over the bike and go looking for him but next minute here he was, tearing down the main street of the Cross, and he’d picked up the Dargie Sisters, a singing duo who’d just come off stage at the Manzil Room. They had on the tight leopard-skin catsuits, big boots, big hair, one of them sitting on Guitar’s tank and the other one behind him. Guitar was yahooing all the way along the main drag. Did a big U-ey down at Bayswater Road, then back again, four times before finally pulling in to where I was. ‘I’m having a good time tonight,’ he crowed.
The Hells Angels were the average size of a club at that time, about fifteen strong. They got much bigger later on, but most of the clubs in the seventies were only around twelve to twenty members. It wasn’t until the late eighties and early nineties that club chapters started to sprout up everywhere. I reckon twelve to fifteen blokes is a good size for a chapter. You get to be really tight. Me and Guitar used to talk about it a fair bit. He told me about a brawl in the United States between his American brothers and a club called the Breed. More than ninety members of the Breed took on the Angels at a Cleveland motorcycle show. There were only twenty-four Angels, but the Angels kicked the shit out of them. Four dead to one. Which went to show it wasn’t all about numbers. It went on the quality of the club.
I WAS out with the Gladiators one night when we picked up a sheila and took her back to Lurch’s flat. All the blokes except me went through her. Then Lurch went and fell in love with her.
I said to him, ‘She’s only a slut. You’re mad.’
Two days later we went round to Lurch’s and he was gone. He’d packed up with this sheila and taken off. And worse, he’d taken his colours with him. So me and Bull tracked him down to a flat in Enmore. Knocked on the door.
‘Yeah?’ It was Lurch. Bull kicked in the door. Lurch was standing there and Bull’s gone, bang , sent him flying across the bed. As he was getting up it was my turn. Bang , and he went down again. Lurch could really fight, too, but he was lying on the floor cowering behind his hands: ‘I don’t want no more.’
I turned round to Bull at the next meeting and said, ‘See what happened with Lurch? He’s a really good bluer, he was someone that youse accepted as a member in the club, but when he got a bit of a thumping, he chucked it in.’
With our numbers dwindling I could see the club just wasn’t going anywhere. Hanging around the Com-ancheros and the Angels I saw clubs that were growing and moving forward. As tight as we were, and as fearsome a
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