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*Sometimes, changing the names of people and clubs is recommended-unless you don't mind upsetting some of them.
. Bonfire Night Blues
One Thursday night...in deepest Wales
Shorty was screaming 'You fucking twat! You better fuck off now.... You berra......' Then, Shorty slowly started to study the face of the man who was holding him by the lapels of his leather vest. He slowly started to realise that his opponent was very very angry. And, that he was dangling, by the vest, out of a third story window. ‘Come on now, boys’, drawled Bolt, through a cloud of sweet smelling smoke, ‘stop ah, um, messing around’. Joker’s big arms tightened and he quickly pulled Shorty back in through the window, back to the safety of the meeting room. ‘Ok’, Joker said begrudgingly, ‘we’ll go to the midlands then’. This was a typical decision made by the officers of the Dead Crew MC Wales.
The Dead Crew MC had been in existence for about two years. They had met once a week and partied most weekends. This meeting was a typical one. It had started around the usual time of 7pm. Initially started by six men who had been members of other Welsh MC clubs, the Dead Crew now had 10 members and two prospects. By 8.15pm 9 of them were drunk. One had gone, cos he was working nights, and the prospects were sitting by the bar waiting to take the next drinks order into the meeting room.
It was a simple question. Where are we going this weekend? ‘Narbeth’, said Joker the President. Joker was about 28, a 6 footish 15 stone thug, and proud of it. He had been an outlaw biker since the age of fifteen and had just come out of the big house after a stretch for possession of firearms. 'Nah, I’ve had an invite from the midlands, we’re going there', said Shorty the secretary. Shorty was about the same age as Joker but four inches shorter and four stone lighter. Now, most MC clubs/bikers/people would have talked it through, someone would have compromised and a decision made. But, no. Within 30 seconds they were screaming at each other. Face to face, eyeball to eyeball. Two minutes later, Shorty was dangling in the fresh air and Joker was thinking about the mess outside the pub if he dropped him.
Bolt was always the calming influence. Some said it was because he was always stoned, and some said it was because he was 6 foot two and seventeen stone. It probably was because of the .410 that leaned quietly against his chair. When Joker heard Bolt’s voice he generally and usually calmed down. They had been through a lot together and respect had been earned. That’s not to say Shorty lacked respect. In fact, Shorty was a hard little bastard, but his dreams of making money and getting rich always wound Joker up. The midlands meet was a Shorty deal – meaning Shorty earns money. Joker had no real interest in making money and simply wanted to get pissed down Tenby way.
After the decision had been made, everything mellowed. The run was on. As the Dead Crew rode off early on Saturday morning they were happy. The bikes looked good, well most of them anyway. A lovely Honda CB750 chop, a Suzuki GS750 chop, a Z1000 streetfighter, a trick Z900 low-rider, a Triumph T140, a Honda CB650 with three foot ape hangers, a clean Yamaha US Custom , four big standard Jap fours and an old, back firing, oil leaking BSA A65 rat.
Giving it the big un, patches flying, up the motorway, all worries about internal squabbling drifted away as 2 hours later they met the club they were going to party with. A great party, a great pissed midnight bike race and the night was done. Right, down to the quarry to camp for the night.
A quarry! Well fuck it! It was pitch black, freezing and fucking raining! Now, soaked and cold, they had to find some wood. An hour later they, all of them, had collected precisely seven twigs from a nearby hedge. Shit! Hang on, a voice in the distance shouts; 'Hey! boys, I found some logs!!'. All of them troop towards the voice and just about spot, in the pitch dark, a pile of logs – well about a ton of logs, actually. They also luckily find an old wheelbarrow and have even more luck when they find a huge pile of 10ft planks. They spend an hour or two moving the load, piled high in the wheel barrow, to the camp.
Well, what a bonfire it was. 12 foot high and roaring hot all night. A few vodkas, a few smokes, a few newspapers stufffed up Bolt's leggings and set on fire, and they settle down warm and cosy until about 8am. All up at the crack of Dawn, although she didn’t mind, and they‘re all off home. One great party, and a great night.
The next week passed off without any hassle. They thought they’d go to visit the midlands again because they’d had such a great time. Trouble was that by then they'd had a phone call. The phone call had warned them that there was a warrant out for their arrest. Why? Well some bloke had complained to the old bill that some bastards had burnt his winter’s supply of wood and the fucking garage he was about to build!!
'Narbeth!', shouted Joker, during the next meeting, 'lets go to fucking Narbeth, never liked the fucking English anyway!!'.
This is one story of many that ex-members of the Dead Crew MC could tell you.
Within a year or so, even though the membership had increased (another chapter had been chartered), the internal arguments destroyed the club. In the end the members were all carrying weapons to their own meetings! The club had lasted just four years. A couple of weeks later a rival club, who the Dead Crew had not seen for the previous four years, were seen visiting the pubs where the Dead Crew had drunk.......but that’s another story.
-by F, September, 2010 (from the eighties)
One Thursday night...in deepest Wales
Shorty was screaming 'You fucking twat! You better fuck off now.... You berra......' Then, Shorty slowly started to study the face of the man who was holding him by the lapels of his leather vest. He slowly started to realise that his opponent was very very angry. And, that he was dangling, by the vest, out of a third story window. ‘Come on now, boys’, drawled Bolt, through a cloud of sweet smelling smoke, ‘stop ah, um, messing around’. Joker’s big arms tightened and he quickly pulled Shorty back in through the window, back to the safety of the meeting room. ‘Ok’, Joker said begrudgingly, ‘we’ll go to the midlands then’. This was a typical decision made by the officers of the Dead Crew MC Wales.
The Dead Crew MC had been in existence for about two years. They had met once a week and partied most weekends. This meeting was a typical one. It had started around the usual time of 7pm. Initially started by six men who had been members of other Welsh MC clubs, the Dead Crew now had 10 members and two prospects. By 8.15pm 9 of them were drunk. One had gone, cos he was working nights, and the prospects were sitting by the bar waiting to take the next drinks order into the meeting room.
It was a simple question. Where are we going this weekend? ‘Narbeth’, said Joker the President. Joker was about 28, a 6 footish 15 stone thug, and proud of it. He had been an outlaw biker since the age of fifteen and had just come out of the big house after a stretch for possession of firearms. 'Nah, I’ve had an invite from the midlands, we’re going there', said Shorty the secretary. Shorty was about the same age as Joker but four inches shorter and four stone lighter. Now, most MC clubs/bikers/people would have talked it through, someone would have compromised and a decision made. But, no. Within 30 seconds they were screaming at each other. Face to face, eyeball to eyeball. Two minutes later, Shorty was dangling in the fresh air and Joker was thinking about the mess outside the pub if he dropped him.
Bolt was always the calming influence. Some said it was because he was always stoned, and some said it was because he was 6 foot two and seventeen stone. It probably was because of the .410 that leaned quietly against his chair. When Joker heard Bolt’s voice he generally and usually calmed down. They had been through a lot together and respect had been earned. That’s not to say Shorty lacked respect. In fact, Shorty was a hard little bastard, but his dreams of making money and getting rich always wound Joker up. The midlands meet was a Shorty deal – meaning Shorty earns money. Joker had no real interest in making money and simply wanted to get pissed down Tenby way.
After the decision had been made, everything mellowed. The run was on. As the Dead Crew rode off early on Saturday morning they were happy. The bikes looked good, well most of them anyway. A lovely Honda CB750 chop, a Suzuki GS750 chop, a Z1000 streetfighter, a trick Z900 low-rider, a Triumph T140, a Honda CB650 with three foot ape hangers, a clean Yamaha US Custom , four big standard Jap fours and an old, back firing, oil leaking BSA A65 rat.
Giving it the big un, patches flying, up the motorway, all worries about internal squabbling drifted away as 2 hours later they met the club they were going to party with. A great party, a great pissed midnight bike race and the night was done. Right, down to the quarry to camp for the night.
A quarry! Well fuck it! It was pitch black, freezing and fucking raining! Now, soaked and cold, they had to find some wood. An hour later they, all of them, had collected precisely seven twigs from a nearby hedge. Shit! Hang on, a voice in the distance shouts; 'Hey! boys, I found some logs!!'. All of them troop towards the voice and just about spot, in the pitch dark, a pile of logs – well about a ton of logs, actually. They also luckily find an old wheelbarrow and have even more luck when they find a huge pile of 10ft planks. They spend an hour or two moving the load, piled high in the wheel barrow, to the camp.
Well, what a bonfire it was. 12 foot high and roaring hot all night. A few vodkas, a few smokes, a few newspapers stufffed up Bolt's leggings and set on fire, and they settle down warm and cosy until about 8am. All up at the crack of Dawn, although she didn’t mind, and they‘re all off home. One great party, and a great night.
The next week passed off without any hassle. They thought they’d go to visit the midlands again because they’d had such a great time. Trouble was that by then they'd had a phone call. The phone call had warned them that there was a warrant out for their arrest. Why? Well some bloke had complained to the old bill that some bastards had burnt his winter’s supply of wood and the fucking garage he was about to build!!
'Narbeth!', shouted Joker, during the next meeting, 'lets go to fucking Narbeth, never liked the fucking English anyway!!'.
This is one story of many that ex-members of the Dead Crew MC could tell you.
Within a year or so, even though the membership had increased (another chapter had been chartered), the internal arguments destroyed the club. In the end the members were all carrying weapons to their own meetings! The club had lasted just four years. A couple of weeks later a rival club, who the Dead Crew had not seen for the previous four years, were seen visiting the pubs where the Dead Crew had drunk.......but that’s another story.
-by F, September, 2010 (from the eighties)
Vodka blank
In the late eighties/early nineties 4 members of our club were at a winter party. A great one. It was the first time we had drunk blue label vodka. 45% proof vodka. We started drinking about 4 pm on Friday.
Bally had always drunk beer- a real ale drinker and had always been the old, fat ex-hippy type. Unless you upset him. Dive always had been the couple of spliffs 5 pints of fosters, interested in engines type. And Stak had always been (at parties) tee total. Stak was always in charge of security (if you know what I mean) and thought it was best to stay sober to deal with any risky situations that may arise.
Well, Bally, Dive and Stak were usually like that, but that was before blue label vodka. The phone call came at about 2am Saturday- a brother had been partying at a pub about 30miles away and had got into a bit of trouble. He had whacked some chap round the back of the neck with a bit of two by four. No big deal normally but this guy was a local face with many tasty geezer type friends.
Eventually, Bally, Stak and Dive and me understood what was needed. We had to quickly get tooled up, get in the car, take ourselves, and Stak's two friends (Mr Smith and Mr Wesson) 30 miles away, get the brother and bring him back to the clubhouse safely. It was down to us to save our brother in probably a life or death situation. But, we had been through two litres of the blue label stuff.
So, me, Bally, Dive and Stak got in the 3 litre Capri but forgot the headlights would not work normally. They would only work on full beam. Worse than that they would only work when the four rally lamps were also on full blast. So, going thirty miles on A and B roads either included total darkness, or brilliant white light for hundreds of yards-blinding the on coming traffic. And, we had been through two litres of the blue label stuff.
We never got to where we were going. In fact, I can' t remember what happened next. I woke up next day in nick. Bally was in the same police station. We didn't see Dive for two days and Stak for six months, and that was when we visited him in Long Lartin jail.
Between us we think that the woman in the petrol station had been upset when a capri pulled up, blinding her with lights, and some drunk got out asking for fags with a hatchet in his belt, then they pissed on the storeroom door. The old bill probably caught up with us about 6am Sunday, lying upside down in the capri in some hedge laughing or sleeping-still pissed. Stak had done a runner when he saw the patrol car, buried the evidence and disappeared. We think someone must have saw him on the golf course because when they found him he was soon doing 18months!!
None of us drunk blue label vodka again. But, when we meet up now, sadly Dive is dead now, the three of us always laugh like fuck about probably the drunkest night we ever had.
By S, December, 2010 (from the early nineties)
Bally had always drunk beer- a real ale drinker and had always been the old, fat ex-hippy type. Unless you upset him. Dive always had been the couple of spliffs 5 pints of fosters, interested in engines type. And Stak had always been (at parties) tee total. Stak was always in charge of security (if you know what I mean) and thought it was best to stay sober to deal with any risky situations that may arise.
Well, Bally, Dive and Stak were usually like that, but that was before blue label vodka. The phone call came at about 2am Saturday- a brother had been partying at a pub about 30miles away and had got into a bit of trouble. He had whacked some chap round the back of the neck with a bit of two by four. No big deal normally but this guy was a local face with many tasty geezer type friends.
Eventually, Bally, Stak and Dive and me understood what was needed. We had to quickly get tooled up, get in the car, take ourselves, and Stak's two friends (Mr Smith and Mr Wesson) 30 miles away, get the brother and bring him back to the clubhouse safely. It was down to us to save our brother in probably a life or death situation. But, we had been through two litres of the blue label stuff.
So, me, Bally, Dive and Stak got in the 3 litre Capri but forgot the headlights would not work normally. They would only work on full beam. Worse than that they would only work when the four rally lamps were also on full blast. So, going thirty miles on A and B roads either included total darkness, or brilliant white light for hundreds of yards-blinding the on coming traffic. And, we had been through two litres of the blue label stuff.
We never got to where we were going. In fact, I can' t remember what happened next. I woke up next day in nick. Bally was in the same police station. We didn't see Dive for two days and Stak for six months, and that was when we visited him in Long Lartin jail.
Between us we think that the woman in the petrol station had been upset when a capri pulled up, blinding her with lights, and some drunk got out asking for fags with a hatchet in his belt, then they pissed on the storeroom door. The old bill probably caught up with us about 6am Sunday, lying upside down in the capri in some hedge laughing or sleeping-still pissed. Stak had done a runner when he saw the patrol car, buried the evidence and disappeared. We think someone must have saw him on the golf course because when they found him he was soon doing 18months!!
None of us drunk blue label vodka again. But, when we meet up now, sadly Dive is dead now, the three of us always laugh like fuck about probably the drunkest night we ever had.
By S, December, 2010 (from the early nineties)
Not getting laid
The last evening of a Bank Holiday run up in North Wales, at around 2am, we pulled out of the car park of some pub come disco place and headed for the campsite that was set up a few miles down the road. There were around 12 bikes traveling in a line and we came across a Mini containing 2 good looking females who had been to the same pub.
At a fork in the road the bikes went left and the Mini went right. So
being the romantic fucker that I am, I followed the Mini, pulled alongside it and proceeded to tell the girls that we had a party, and they were most welcome to join us. Bang! That was when I went into the ditch and our romance was over. Within 10 to 15 minutes some club members came looking for me and helped to pull the bike out of the ditch, I rode to the campsite with a twisted frontend and an egg shaped front wheel. I was the last man standing drinking all night, at around 7 in the morning.
The others got out their tents packed up and we headed off back to South Wales.
It was a long hard ride with no helmet just a red bandana on my head, I lost my helmet in the ditch. Twisted front end I was fighting and pushing the bars to the left all the way and the egg shaped front wheel gave me the feeling I was on a ship.
Got back to Neath and noticed that the Eagle's Bush was open and went in to have a few Vodka and oranges before I went home to bed. The pub was packed with well dressed people as someone had just got married. Now I had just ridden hundreds of miles over the weekend, had not seen a bath, crashed the bike, been rained on not to mention the copious amounts of beer and other substances that had been consumed. The bride came up to me with a look of fear in her eyes and
whispered "Don't say a word!"
So I behaved myself, but I think it was around about the fourth double vodka and orange I was sat next to the common as muck groom's mother. She then said to me in that accent that they only have in the Saltings . "Oh! She's a lovely girl!"
"Lovely?" I said. "She's fucking GREAT! Me and my mate shagged her in the bath at the same time only last week". That's when the shit hit the fan. After dealing with the first guy who attacked me, I had to pull my buck knife out and slash my way to the door!!
February 2012 (from the eighties)
At a fork in the road the bikes went left and the Mini went right. So
being the romantic fucker that I am, I followed the Mini, pulled alongside it and proceeded to tell the girls that we had a party, and they were most welcome to join us. Bang! That was when I went into the ditch and our romance was over. Within 10 to 15 minutes some club members came looking for me and helped to pull the bike out of the ditch, I rode to the campsite with a twisted frontend and an egg shaped front wheel. I was the last man standing drinking all night, at around 7 in the morning.
The others got out their tents packed up and we headed off back to South Wales.
It was a long hard ride with no helmet just a red bandana on my head, I lost my helmet in the ditch. Twisted front end I was fighting and pushing the bars to the left all the way and the egg shaped front wheel gave me the feeling I was on a ship.
Got back to Neath and noticed that the Eagle's Bush was open and went in to have a few Vodka and oranges before I went home to bed. The pub was packed with well dressed people as someone had just got married. Now I had just ridden hundreds of miles over the weekend, had not seen a bath, crashed the bike, been rained on not to mention the copious amounts of beer and other substances that had been consumed. The bride came up to me with a look of fear in her eyes and
whispered "Don't say a word!"
So I behaved myself, but I think it was around about the fourth double vodka and orange I was sat next to the common as muck groom's mother. She then said to me in that accent that they only have in the Saltings . "Oh! She's a lovely girl!"
"Lovely?" I said. "She's fucking GREAT! Me and my mate shagged her in the bath at the same time only last week". That's when the shit hit the fan. After dealing with the first guy who attacked me, I had to pull my buck knife out and slash my way to the door!!
February 2012 (from the eighties)
Ha!!
Down Fishguard way for a run sometime in the 80s at a pub set in a great location with campsite to the right of it and a few houses up on the hill overlooking the pub and ocean view. We parked up went into the pub and had a few beers while making arrangements with the land lord regarding camping and fires etc. After about 4 beers five of us went over to the campsite and started to set up our tents and stuff sending the prospects off to get fire wood for the evening. As I was putting in the last few pegs to hold the tent down, four boy racers with one piece leathers, boots and full face helmets with two women turn up on their rice burning boy racer type bikes, park right next to us and start unloading their stuff and give it some of that ‘How’s it going?” One of our members started to talk to talk to them and said “If you want to camp here by our fire, go and help the prospects get some firewood for later on!” (Not too much to ask of the uninvited guests who wanted to share our fire and entertainment later on!) “No!” was the reply. Asked again and again, and he said. “No!” Smack! Smack! Smack! 1,2,3! and he was on his back on the floor. Now his Mrs, who was standing to the right of him at the side of his bike shouts “If you are such a fucking man! fucking hit me!” So he did, and punched her under the chin knocking her right over the bike!! Laugh, I nearly shat myself!! (I am not a woman hater or woman beater nor is my brother but I do have a sense of humour. To this day that is one of the funniest things I have seen)
The other three guys tried to help out but had a few slaps for their troubles, they grabbed their stuff and shot off to enjoy their weekend somewhere else.
(Clubs are about giving and the more you give the more you are appreciated - which goes hand in hand with respect. When someone comes along and expects something for nothing from a club and its members, sometimes they get a little more than they expected)
April 2013 - from the eighties