Just a few quick words to accompany these photos – the old gang out at play. First up is the Isle of Man – we went to the 1971 TT, back in the days when the bikes were lifted onto the deck of the ferry with a big crane, three at a time – that was it, just stacked side by side on the open deck with just a single rope over them… Plenty of salty water if it was rough. I was on me Dommie, it looked like this (but this isn’t it, I don’t have shot of it), but it was identical, same colour and everythin, only it had a nicer silencer and TT100 tyres. This was the last of the proper Dominator 99's - the Wideline frame always looked and handled better than the Slimline, and it had mag ignition but alternator lights.
I bought it off a guy who used to work for me old man, a proper role model he was, in the Sixties he rode a combo with a genuine coffin as the sidecar. He wore a white shirt and waistcoat and bowler hat, ridin round on it lookin like Acker Bilk. Anyway, before I bought it, we were goin to local youth club, he’s givin me a lift on the back, and we deck it big time at Hutton Anchor round about. We ended up in hedge an I tore me knees to shreds. I daren’t tell me mam, or she wouldn’t have let me have the bike, so I told her I’d tripped playin tig in the car park. I could hardly walk for days and she was putting fresh dressins on them twice a day before and after school, an as she’s pickin bits of gravel out of them she kept sayin, ‘Eeeeh, yer knees are a mess’ cos in places they were down to the bone, but she doesn’t know to this day what really happened. I still got the scars tho, an a few black bits of gravel still in there, although me tatts cover most of them.
So anyway, we’ve gone to Isle of Man – this is us in the pub there (an me in the Norton T-shirt in the middle next to Ian Linguard). It’s our first Big Epic trip, so to ride the 35 miles to Liverpool for ferry we’ve got bags of tools and all camping gear and well wrapped up in scarves and Belstaffs and leggings an thick gloves an stuff.
We get there in small hours and go to Quarter Bridge and stick tents up, an it’s about 4am but it’s light an me and Lingy are too excited to sleep, so we decide to go for a blast around course. So there’s me on me Dommie, and him on his Starfire, and we set off in T-shirts and cut-offs, cos we’re roughty toughty bikers… No helmets, no gloves, nowt. ‘Course, what we hadn’t realised was that it was bloody farther round the course than it was to ride to Liverpool, when we’d been all wrapped up. Idiots. It was fuckin freezing, an misty and icy up on the Mountain. But by that time it’s as far to go back as it is to carry on, an we were both doin the macho grin ‘n bear it thing. Don’t think I’ve ever been so bloody cold, I was nearly yellin. We never saw another livin soul, apart from one rabbit lookin at us like we were fuckin stupid, an two guys all in black on a Vincent Shadow who howled past us doin about the ton and disappeared into the mist, like they were ghost riders only they couldn’t have been cos we could still smell the Castrol R…
Oh yes, an we met these Yanks who come camping on same field, an one was ridin a Harley - first one we ever saw, an Iron-Head Sporty with 6 inch overs - an he could pull ace wheelies with it. I'd done wheelies on me field bikes, but never on a big road bike, so I was impressed enough to want to do one meself (see, always been a show-off). Luckily I was smart enough to practice first. But not quite smart enough... I come out of chippy at end of Douglas Prom, an I'm on me own so I figure I'll pop one to see how it goes before I do it in front of lads. Now maybe doin it coming down the hill didn't help, and doin it on a low slung Dommie certainly didn't (Sporty dude had six inch overs an no rake, his bike was already half-wheelied anyway). So I gives it a great big handful of revs, then just throws the clutch straight out. Hmmm, I guess God smiled on an idiot yet again, cos instead of dumpin me on me arse, or careerin over the cliff edge, it just snaps the chain tensioner and pulls the rear wheel to one side where it locks against the swingarm... Twit. By the time I'd mended me bike, me bloody chips had gone cold.
An here’s the Fourth Reich at play – Easter ’73. We always had a run to the Lakes at Easter, it was dead easy to find a campsite in those days, even if you were a bike club. I’ve always hated havin me photo taken, even now, far too self-conscious, so I usually act the fool for the camera, so that’s me in the swastika T-shirt laid down holdin me knackers.
That was a cool T-shirt, I used to get bollocked for turning up in coloured shirts for PE at school, an they sent me for cross country the following week. So I ran it in me swastika shirt, then comes runnin up to teacher at end of it. Boy did he freak, he lost it big time. But I says, ‘But sir, you said I had to only wear a white T-shirt, an this is the only white one I got.’ Fuck’em if they can’t take a joke.
Dude with Tiger 100 was only a hang around. His top-box kinda gives away his vibe, it was his first time away with us. Like, when we went to TT, me and Lingy didn’t have a wash or brush our hair for a week to get our Tramp front patch (how hardcore (and immature) is that eh?), but this guy turns up at Lakes with his toothbrush. Worse than that, when we beds down he gets his pyjamas out of his top-box and puts them on… I don’t think he ever made full patch…
Our girlies were groovy though. Check out the outfits - Lybro Sea-Dog hipster bell-bottoms (the coolest jeans ever), skimpy bikini tops, an hobnailed steel toe-cap boots. And yes, I am lookin down their cleavages…
Just found this final poignant shot, of our mate Steve Porter's funeral, he was the first of our bunch to wipe out in a crash, aged just 16. 
We were all at a party, he was pissed but his mate made him give him a lift home at 4am on a borrowed bike - he never even made the first bend. I know it was in March, but I'd have to guess the year at 1971.
I can name Spook, Barney, Ian Linguard, Geoff and Tony, an Big Fred - where are you all now guys...? |
