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| MOD
REVIVAL 1979 |
| Second
Generation Mods 'n' Rockers |
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....A group
of young Stoke Mods
kicked up their scooters when ‘SMASH’, a wine bottle smashed
over one’s head, then another, they both went down.
Tez,
our no1, ran up and felled the culprit with his helmet; everyone
stood looking as the Grebo’s piled into him,
“Well fucking help us then!”
We quickly moved in, I had read some book not so long back
and in it were the words ‘dangerous bikers and gutsy Mods,’
the latter was in my mind as I leapt through the air onto
a big tasselled-leather clad biker with dirty blond hair as
he cannoned into a wall of parka’s; we were on a slope, I
hung on and with me on his back he kept running then BANG!
We both hit a stone church wall, my world went black, I couldn’t
have been out for long as the battle still raged around me
when I came round, trying to focus my eyes I saw the blurred
swirling of black leather and green parka twist and turn as
people fell around me, the Greb was waking too and said something
like, “Right you’re fucking for it now,” then thud! A stool
leg put him down again.
Rescued by a parka clad stranger. ‘Somebody’s pissed on me,’
I thought; warm, wet liquid poured down my face. I put my
hand up and saw it was my own blood seeping through a deep
gash above my left eye. I felt quite dizzy but managed to
stand then; quick as a flash someone threw my hood up and
pushed me out of the melee, “Quick! Let’s go; the coppers
are here.” We hastened away amid sirens and blue flashing
lights. The night was cold and blood dripped from my wound,
“Keep your hood up in case the coppers see you,” we passed
a small local hospital and went in, a female receptionist
watched as we sauntered past and filed into the gents; blood
trickled freely into the sink as I tried to wash it off. “You’ll
need stitches in that,” said one of the lads. “Rubbish, it’ll
stop bleeding shortly,” I answered. But I was wrong; it bled
all night, and as I began to nod off some nice soul said,
“I wouldn’t go to sleep like that; you might not wake up due
to loss of blood.”
We
couldn’t ride home as we had drank too much; the person who
was putting us up had disappeared during the melee, so we
spent a miserable night on some common in Stoke on Trent.
Our hosts the Stoke lot assured us that we would be safe from
marauding greasers, then it was a quick ‘good to see you’
and they scampered off home to their warm beds. It just goes
to show what can happen in the scooter scene; one day you’re
enjoying a buzz with your mates then the next you’re cold
and miserable, nursing a sore wound....
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| .....The
journey that night was Scarborough,
with 30+ scooters, a back-up van and a couple of cars.
‘Swords of a Thousand Men’ by Ten pole Tudor blares out,
yet no one takes any notice, its not Mod but I like it
as do, I suppose, other war-theme enthusiasts in the room,
but no one gives themselves away. A group to my left screech
with laughter as someone passes a bottle of neat rum around,
it approaches me, glug, glug “Aaah!” Goes the youth next
to me as he blows out the fumes. “Come on Greg, it’ll
keep the cold at bay.” I think about the feeling rough,
then, what the hell; it’s a rally we’re off on, not a
temperance convention. The minutes tick by, then its time
for off; every where you look bodies don their warm and
heavy clothes, bags are thrown on backs and the straps
of many helmets are strapped over scarves which cover
noses and mouths to protect the face from the cold night
air which we now step into. Dum, Dum, Dum, mixes with
ding, ding, ding, as all sizes of engines start up, heady
blue exhaust fumes float up into the starry night sky.
As
per usual there’s trouble starting a couple of scooters
so I take a can of spray paint from my side panel tool
box and walk across the road simply spraying four letters;
M O D S. The two stubborn barrows finally bump, I return
the spray and kick my scooter up, adrenalin and excitement
fills the pit of my stomach; the leaders look back awaiting
late starters. Don, don, don, the last rogue starts
up drrriiinnnggg ding, ding, ding, helmets nod, thumbs
go up, more nods and the leaders slowly pull out followed
by scooters three abreast, riders smile, act daft on
their scoots, girl passengers give dainty waves with
their fingers, that lot wont be like that in a few hours
on that long and tedious ride to Scarborough I thought.
The car park would then be empty with the last wisps
of smoke rising lazily into the air, dark and quiet
now, that’s how it was that night before the journey
typical of that era.
Back
in 2003 I start my solitary scooter and ride the short
distance to Burton Library in this very different life.
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| We
reached Scarborough in the dark early hours feeling cold,
wet and miserable. Morning mist had soaked our clothes
and dampened our enthusiasm for the whole concept; there
were no friendly waves now, just grey cold faces. We rode
up to the café at Marine Drive, and parked amongst the
many other scooters there; the café would not be open
for many hours, so like the rest, we decided to try and
catch a few hours kip. We climbed the grass bank and settled
down, covered only with our parkas. I listened to some
mumbled chatter until I fell into a welcome sleep. |
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Maybe
an hour later we were awakened by a clang, clang, clang,
“What the bloody hell’s that?” I asked a small group
who sat smoking and chatting quietly, “Go back to sleep,
its only the fleet leaving.” “Fleet?” “Scarborough’s
Navy.” “What are you on about?” The group giggled, “They’re
fishing boats, Greg, we’ve been watching them preparing
to go for a while,” I watched the lights go up and down
on the choppy, inky black sea, “Cocky bastards,” I thought,
eyeing the group and dropped off again. “Right, come
on lads, we left you alone all night but it’s morning,
and there’s holidaymakers about, we don’t want them
to think the place is full of dossers, do we?” He dug
me in the back with his shoes, but only gently, as he
did others, “It’s bloody police brutality,” said some
joker. He laughed “You should see us when we are brutal,”
he was only joking and we had a pleasant chat for a
few minutes.
Sometime
during the night I must have rolled down the bank as
I woke further down to where I started. Bodies were
stretching all over as we asked what time the public
toilets were open for a wash and clean up. Already the
loud Dum, Dum, Dum, of scooters had started, riders
were pulling out with towels strewn over their arms,
the sun was climbing into a clear blue sky, and the
day looked promising. “Right, lets go and wash then
get some grub,” someone said. The car park along Marine
Drive quickly filled with the constant stream of scooters.....
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....As you
come to the end of the book
you leave the memories of the 80's Scooter scene as seen through
the eyes of one or two people, but how many of you out there
will remember leaving a typical 1980's rally like Scarborough,
as many Scooter Clubs climb out of town leaving behind a blue
haze and plenty of noise. Hundreds upon hundreds of scooters
of every kind, Mod scoots, Skele's, powerful tuned up racing
type scoots, the garages fill with both scooters and their
people busily mixing oil and petrol, re-adjusting backpacks
and minor alterations to engines and other vital parts, polo
mints are passed round and petrol tanks are filled for that
long run home.
Many
miles out Scooter Club passes Scooter Club along the roadside,
in lay-bys, those who have broke down (and many did) those
that have just stopped for a fag break or to stretch their
aching limbs, everyone waves and acknowledges each other,
further out still Club sightings get less and less, then nearing
your own town many long hours later your own Club begins to
condense after many 'See Yers', you're on your own and almost
home, once there your so glad to climb off the Scooter, your
body aches everywhere from hours of riding, you wince as you
bend to turn the fuel tap off, as you walk away the cooling
engine ticks to its self, your clothes smell of petrol and
exhaust fumes, but you smile to yourself as you unsling your
backpack, its all over but the memories are still fresh in
your mind.
Cold,
knackered and hungry yet you think 'that's another Rally under
your belt...
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| Chapter
17 'Steady Decline 1983,' describes the slow slippery
slide to chucking the scene for good, 'That's it sell
the Lamby-I'm through (he thought), but persevered for
a while longer. 'Rose coloured Glasses,' is a chapter
by Brian Roberts who turned Scooter Boy, he tells how
it was to be one, life had no more restrictions you could
now dress how you liked and cut the scoot down, life at
rallies were now one big slice of fun with some outrageous
acts taking place. 'One last fling marked the end of life
as a Mod/ Scooterist after over five years in the scene,
the changes were too great for some including the author,
even though many stayed, like the excellent song goes-
'Picture me gone'. 'Sawdust Caesars and read all about
it,' give violent headlines of troubles from both the
60s and the 80s with clashes between Mods and Skinheads
and the violence in Southend with more marauding Skinheads.
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| Chapter
22 'Resurrection 97' the author joined the many re-borns
and played a big part in re-starting the Burton Brewers
Scooter Club who now hosts the well-known Droop rallies.
'Bobs Story,' is a look in the mind of a Rocker or Grebo
as we knew them, and how it was on the other side. In
1976 the author and Bobby Haywood had their first scrap,
never having liked one another the scruffy kids fought
it out under the roasting sun, being bigger the author
soon had the upper hand but Bob would not go down, they
shared out their change bought and shared a bottle of
milk and walked away. Three years later Bob was a Greb
and Greg was a Mod. The Stapenhill Saxons MCC was a constant
thorn in the side of the Brewers and there were many violent
and nasty stack ups resulting in hospitalisation to some
on both sides. Bob's Story is remarkable and gives a good
incite to the once enemy's of the Scooter scene. ''79
and Doing Fine' is from Steve Haynes and his entry into
the scene; Steve is still active within the club and plays
a big part in the Brewers Droops. |
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25 'Mod-'n'-Clothing is a guest chapter and describes
the beginning of the well-known and long established Warrior
Clothing. Graham gives an incite to his ever-growing clothing
business. As too Lambretta Clothing who turn out smart
designer clothing to the in-crowd, its all-good stuff
and is similar to the stuff once wore by Mods in the 80s.
Postscript;- The Club (AT THAT TIME) Lost its direction
slightly 'The Brewers Droop,' took so much of his time
there was barely time to do anything else, the club began
to fragment this resulted in small clubs within the club,
animosity began like in the mid 80s so the author left.
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