Second Generation Mods 'n' Rockers
The New Book from Anthony Gregory

Sample Passages

....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....

.....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.

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.

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.....

....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...

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.
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.
Chapter 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.