Outlaws: Inside the Violent World of Biker Gangs (13 page)

If the death of its co-founder was hard for the Cycle Tramps to handle, what came next was even worse. First there was the threat of further attacks from the Road Rats. Although they were the ones who had been responsible, there was always a chance that they would attack again in an attempt to damage the Tramps further still.

But the biggest threat was much closer to home. The Hell’s Angels, for so long tolerant of the Birmingham gang, saw Brewer’s death as a sign of weakness and used the murder as an excuse to begin, over the course of the following year, intimidating the club into shutting down.

During the start of the summer, the Wolverhampton chapter of the Hell’s Angels took on a new group of prospects, many of them a little on the young side who brought with them a significant amount of attitude. As the MCs began to hit the big biker festivals of the year, the Angel prospects developed a reputation for throwing their weight around.

When it came to the Rock and Blues Custom Show (a festival in Derby organised by the Road Tramps MC), one of the new Angels, Scooter, got into an increasingly heated argument with the Pagans’ prospect Lee and began racially abusing him. Lee was eager to get busy with the Angel but under normal MC rules the minute the pair started to fight, all the other club members would have to join in. As a
prospect, Lee knew he was the one who had to face the consequences so he held back.

To avoid the prospect of an all-out brawl, Scooter, who fancied himself as a bit of an expert bare-knuckle fighter, loudly announced that he and the Pagan would fight one-on-one and that no one else from either club should join in.

Lee happily agreed and the Angels and Pagans formed a circle around the two men as they began to square off against one another. Scooter threw a hard right which Lee easily ducked. His return blow put the Angel flat on his back and he then knelt over his opponent, pinning his arms to the ground, landing punch after furious punch on his unprotected head. The Pagans admired their man’s fighting skills and the Angels could only watch as Scooter’s face was reduced to a bloody, bruised pulp.

Dragging their fallen members away, the Angels regrouped and returned to make a show of force. This soon turned into a mini-brawl with Lee and a few other members of the Pagans, from which the Hell’s Angels again came off worse. The losers left the festival, furious with the Pagans for having embarrassed them and furious with the Road Tramps who, they felt, had let them down by not having sufficient security on hand.

The long friendship between the two gangs had come to a sudden and violent end. What had started out as a personal dispute had escalated to the point where it had become a matter of club pride. And neither side was willing to back down.

The Angels were keen to re-establish their authority over the MC world. In the years leading up to the death of Brewer they had suffered several bouts of bad publicity that
had damaged their image both among the one percenters and among bikers in general.

It had all begun with a softly spoken housewife, Pat McSorley, who in 1985 had moved into a modest semi-detached property in Maidenhead Road, Windsor. It was the home of her dreams, in the heart of a quiet residential area and with a pretty garden for her to tend.

A few months later, just after her merchant seaman husband Ronnie had set off on a five-month voyage to India and the eldest of her two sons had just begun studying for his exams, new neighbours moved in.

The house next door had been purchased with a mortgage of £58,000 by the Windsor chapter of the Hell’s Angels and was soon kitted out as their new clubhouse, complete with a snooker table, a jukebox, several gaming machines and a makeshift dormitory full of sleeping bags.

Most weeknights Mrs McSorley would return home to find up to one hundred fully-patched up Angels swarming through the garden next door and occasionally spilling over into her own property. They were drunk, urinating, vomiting and even throwing axes at one another. Her youngest son, aged just nine, was terrified. The two elder boys were having trouble concentrating on their studies. When she complained, the Angels initially offered to buy the family out and then changed their minds. ‘They had a meeting and we could hear them deciding it would be easier to kill us. They were shouting “kill them, kill them!”’ she said later.

McSorley called the police. They took three hours to respond and sent a single squad car that waited in a nearby lay-by. McSorley was then told that there was nothing they could do right away, but if she needed urgent assistance, she
would have to rush over to the car and inform the officers directly.

Unable to sell her house – local estate agents said its value was zero – McSorley took her local council to court in a bid to be re-housed on the basis that her life was in danger. The case raged on but during the proceedings it emerged that the three Angels who had applied for the mortgage on the clubhouse had done so fraudulently. The trio were convicted of dishonesty and it seemed as though the Angels were about to be evicted, but at the eleventh hour the remaining club members trooped into court with carrier bags stuffed with cash and paid off the mortgage in full, giving them the right to remain in the house. McSorley was devastated.

Eventually bowing to public pressure the Angels sold up at a loss and moved on, paying almost half the money they had made to McSorley in the form of damages. The damage to their reputation however had been far more costly.

All those who suspected this might a sign that the Angels were getting a little soft in their old age had their theories confirmed when members of the Lea Valley chapter, who were chaperoning the visiting president of a German chapter, got into a scrap with a group of Luton Town’s designer football hooligans – the Men In Gear.

The battle took place in the Blockers Arms pub on Hightown Road in May 1990. It was a popular venue for the Angels who controlled both the snooker tables and the drug dealing. A large charity bottle on one side of the bar read: ‘Support your local Hell’s Angels.’

The bikers were widely feared and when they began fighting with the MIGs everyone expected things to go their way. Drinkers ran for cover as both sides made vicious use
of chairs and broken glasses, but it was the MIGs who quickly gained the upper hand. The Angels, many of them badly beaten and their German guest having suffered a fractured skull, were forced to retreat.

Retribution seemed inevitable and Luton’s police prepared themselves. Undercover officers were assigned to stalk the key players on both sides and the next eight weekends were spent on red alert with riot teams and firearms units on twenty-four-hour standby. The Angels duly put on an impressive show of strength, wearing their colours and riding their bikes in ominous formation up and down the streets where the MIGs lived. But the expected bloodbath never came.

‘We were certain the Angels would try to get back at the MIGs’ said local Superintendent Ralph Miller. ‘But the whole thing just seemed to fizzle out. It wasn’t what we expected at all.’

What had actually happened was that members of the MIGs had clubbed together and paid the Angels £2,000 compensation for having beaten them, rather than face the continued threat of ultra-violent reprisals. Whereas an old fashioned stomping would usually have been called for, business had been allowed to take the place of ‘pleasure’.

Once the rumours started flying around, the Angels knew they had to get out there and throw their weight around again, show everyone that they were still the number one MC in the country. The stage was set for a major show of force to take place at a small biker festival just across the Irish Sea. But things didn’t quite go the way the Angels had hoped and it all backfired on them in a way more spectacular than anyone could ever have imagined.

With its extensive network of well-maintained roads that wind cheerfully through stunning countryside and meander gently along breathtaking coastlines, Ireland has long been a favourite destination for touring bikers from across Europe and beyond.

Although casual riding clubs have been common there since the fifties, the actual MC scene arrived relatively late – at least a decade or so after the first such clubs began to crop up in the United Kingdom. Despite this, Irish bikers have always maintained a certain pride in their refusal to be influenced by outside forces. Rather than copy an existing club or apply for a charter from an established brand, they decided to go their own way.

The Freewheelers MC, for example, started life in Waterford City in 1979. Of the twelve founding fathers, five are still active in the club to this day. The members were initially drawn together by their love of Harley Davidsons – at the time an expensive rarity in the Republic – and much of their time was spent building highly intricate, customised machines. A desire to share their creations with others led the club to set up the South East Custom and Classic show in 1987 in the town of Kilmeaden.

The Pagans had missed the first couple of Freewheelers shows, but the event was receiving great reviews and seemed
to be getting better every year so, in 1990, the club decided to check it out for themselves. None of the members had ever been to Ireland before and they knew little about the biker scene there. But with the show’s organisers making it clear that one percenter clubs were allowed by invitation only, the Pagans sent a scout ahead to ensure they would receive a warm welcome.

Link volunteered for the job and agreed to travel alone so as not to represent any kind of threat. He was still putting his head into the lion’s mouth but the fact that the rest of the club would be arriving a few days later meant that anyone who attacked him would know retribution was on its way. Besides, in the honour-led world of the one percenters, an attack on a lone club member under such circumstances would reflect badly on the aggressors.

Having ridden up to Holyhead in north Wales to catch a ferry to Ireland, Link made his way to the outskirts of Dublin in order to meet up with members of a club called the Devil’s Disciples, known to be a gregarious sort. Several of the club’s members were involved in the pub trade, providing a focal point and regular employment for a significant proportion of the membership. And they were planning to attend the Kilmeaden event hoping to pick up a few tips for their own show (their annual Blackhills Bike Show was launched two years later).

Like the Freewheelers, the Disciples were formed in the late seventies. At first their members rode British-made Triumphs (most MCs have a rule that bans Japanese bikes which are derogatively known as ‘rice burners’) but slowly they switched to Harleys as they became more affordable and a lack of parts for classic British bikes rendered them too
unreliable. In 1986, eager to form strong bonds with other Irish clubs, they changed their colours from red on white to black on white, lest anyone mistake them for associates of the Hell’s Angels who were yet to appear in the province.

Link arrived at the Disciples’ pub and formally introduced himself as an ambassador of the Pagans – a gesture that was very much appreciated by the members. After a few drinks, and then a few more, he headed down south towards Waterford to meet the Freewheelers. The Irish lads couldn’t have been friendlier – in fact, Link was initially highly suspicious, convinced they were trying to get him drunk so they could steal his bike. But it didn’t take him long to realise the warmth was genuine. And once he was introduced to the club’s officers, he got on with them like a house on fire. ‘The Pagans are more than welcome to come to the show,’ the president told him. ‘Especially if they’re all like you.’

In common with most MCs, the Freewheelers were made up of a mix of workers, supervisor types, mechanics and the odd low-level criminal. Through the latter, the club was linked to two men who were deeply involved in the marijuana trade and, to add an extra thrill, had turned the whole thing into an elaborate game of cat and mouse.

The pair had purchased a Porsche 911 and tuned it up to the max. It was kept in Waterford inside a garage in the midst of a quiet area fitted with a fast-opening electric door. The car would be loaded up with money and, once the coast was clear the two men would open the garage door and floor it all the way to Cork, covering the sixty-odd miles along the N25 coast road at speeds well in excess of one hundred miles an hour.

A similar hidden garage would be waiting at the other end of the journey and the car would vanish, like the Batmobile entering the Batcave, leaving dozens of frustrated police officers in its wake. A few days later, this time loaded with high-quality marijuana, the car would make the return journey at an equally break-neck pace. It got to the point that the police even put a substantial reward out for information leading to the capture of the car. But though it was spotted on several occasions, the authorities never even came close to catching the pair.

After enjoying the craic with the Freewheelers for a couple more days, Link headed off to the ferry port to meet the rest of the Pagans. He arrived just in time to see them disembark and could immediately tell that something was terribly wrong. ‘Get us out of here, get us the fuck out of here right now,’ gasped Caz.

Once all the bikers had reached a safe distance from the docks, Caz filled Link in on what had happened. The Pagans had not been the only MC on the ferry that day. Another club, the south Wales-based Valley Infidels, was there too, also planning to head to the Kilmeaden show. Halfway through the journey one of the Welsh mob started picking on a Pagan called Rocky, trying to get a rise out of him. Rocky totally ignored the insults, a response which only made the other biker angrier. He continued to taunt Rocky, accusing him of being a coward. After all, what other reason could there be for Rocky walking away every time he was challenged. But the rest of the Pagans knew better.