 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------- THE ROSSENDALE VALLEY IN LANCASHIRE HOLDS A MAJOR PLACE IN THE CLUBS HISTORY. NOT ONLY FOR THE PARTY SPOTS IT PROVIDED, BUT ALSO FOR SOME OF THE CLUBS MORE 'COLOURFUL' MEMBERS. IT'S A DIFFERENT PLACE NOW, MOST OF THE 'CHARACTERS' HAVE GONE, TAKING THE HEART OF THE VALLEY WITH THEM AND LEAVING MOSTLY JUNKIES AND KEBAB SHOPS IN IT'S PLACE. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- During the clubs Red on White years there was no independent Sons of Hell club in Rossendale. It was the mid 90s before an actual chapter was formed there, but that's a Black on White story and none of the following people had any involvement in it.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------- SADLY, GIMLY DIED RECENTLY. HE WAS MUCH LOVED AND WILL BE MUCH MISSED. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The incident was actually a perfect example of something that's always impressed me about the Sons of Hell. Just prior to Crabs carnal instincts getting the better of him, the Sons were spread around in various states of intoxication, all over the club. But the moment it 'kicked off' absolutely everybody was there in a matter of seconds. It's something I noticed about the Sons when we were just out with them as A/Vs, and it still happens today. Crab left the club after a run in with the Satans Slaves. It was at the time when the Sons and the Manchester Slaves had come to blows in a dispute over the Slaves new Manchester bottom rocker. The Sons came across one of the Manchester Slaves one night in the Spread Eagle in Ashton, and cut the offending bottom rocker from his patches. He didn't let it go lightly, but he was heavily outnumbered. The Sons having made their point then handed him back the rocker and left, to the sound of an angry Satans Slave threatening to bring down the vengance of the devil himself on all our heads. As it turned out it was Crabs head that copped it, they caught him out on his own and he got the promised kicking. Fair play though, they never touched his patches. Not long after that the two clubs came to blows outside Jilly's on Oxford Rd in the city center. Then the more sensible heads from both clubs got together and sorted things out to stop it escalating into a full scale war. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- DOWN ON THE FARM.
A couple of other people worth a mention were Tony the Turd and his woman Panther Sue. We first met tony in that nightclub in Accrington I mentioned earlier, (different night though) when he was being hit in the face with an iron bar by one of the Lone Wolves (Hagar the Horrible). He and sue lived in a house on the main road into Whitworth in Rossendale. it was a good place to call for a brew any time of the day or night, and they came to a few party's up at the farm. Sue used to ride a 650 Panther, a big old single cylinder bike that most men had trouble starting, They were famous for kicking back and breaking legs. She was a real character in that full length fur coat she always wore, I liked her. She and Tony split up after he threw her out of the bedroom window. Many years later, long after Gimly had moved out and the farm had been sold, I was again talking to a policeman. He told me that they really missed the farm and the club. Chasing Sons of Hell around the Rossendale Valley was the best fun they'd ever had. The farms a family home now, and even the dreaded lane has been covered in tarmac. Crab still lives in the top farm but nobody's seen him for years.
|
Escort, so named after showing us the way to a pub in Blackburn one night. Escort was a friend of mine and used to ride down to Manchester with me for a drink most Friday nights. One night he witnessed the difference a back patch can make. The two of us had stopped for a red light in the city centre, when a group of about ten lads out on the piss came around the corner on our right. As soon as they saw us they began chanting "smelly elly's" (????). Anyway, as they passed behind us it went quiet, I had stood up and turned to watch them, as had Escort, when the one at the front held both hands in the air and said "Oh, sorry mate I didn't know". They wandered off quietly, the lights changed and that was that. We carried on to Jilly's and it was later that night that he asked to prospect. Escort had a habit of dropping behind on the motorway, only to come whistling past again, standing bolt upright on the seat with one leg stretched out behind him, and grinning like something demented.
While we're on the subject of demented! say hello to Gimly. He lived in what used to be a farm on the outskirts of Bacup, and rode what used to be a BSA A10. I say used to be because he had stripped it of everything he deemed unnecessary, stuff like the seat the lights and the brakes. He'd replaced the seat with a horse saddle and taped a miners torch to his helmet for riding in the dark, he didn't need a back light because nobody ever got that close, and he didn't slow down often enough to need brakes. The A10 being a British bike, has a right hand side gear change. I mention this because Gimly had lost his right leg in a bike smash some years earlier, so he would change gear by hand. A tricky business as the gear lever was completely unmodified from standard.
It didn't matter though what state his bike was in because nobody could ever catch him, and most of Rossendale's finest boy's in blue used to try. Not many people had the balls to ride pillion with him ether. Arab did once!! Flying down the M66 one day, signs began to appear saying that the inside lane they were travelling on was closed for resurfacing. Inside the coned area they had removed a 100 yard stretch of tarmac, and put sand down ready for the new surface. Normal protocol in that situation would be to slow down and change lanes. Gimly protocol was to crash through the cones, drop down onto the sand, bounce out the other side, and carry on as though nothing had happened. They say that on a moonlit night you can still hear the echoes of Arab screaming.
Telling Gimly stories would take a book all of it's own. He was without doubt one of the most destructive men ever to grace a set of patches. He just couldn't resist taking things to bits, regardless of how big they were or who they belonged to (Including houses). Nor could he resist lighting fires in inappropriate places. He was a fucking nuisance, and had to be constantly watched. But you just had to love him and his wicked sense of humour. Emptying his pockets one day for the desk sergeant at Bacup nick, a knife went down on the counter. "what's that for" Asked the sergeant. "It's for carving leather" said Gimly, "It's a hobby of mine". The next pocket produced a live twelve bore shotgun shell, which he also put down on the counter. "And what's that for" Asked the sergeant. "It's to kill the cow" came the reply.
CRAB. Named after the infestation that lived in his pubes. Crab lived in the next farm up from Gimly and rode an A10 in similar condition, and shared the ritual Friday night police chase through the Rossendale valley with Gimly but they couldn't catch him ether. And that's where the similarities end. For the most part he was pretty normal. Well, having said that, he did insist on showing everybody his dick everytime we got into a pub, which you kind of got used to. It was his habit of sticking it in peoples beer that was the problem! Also his chat up lines weren't very subtle. Spotting a girl he liked the look of in a club in Accrington one night, he walked over, picked her up and threw her over his shoulder. He was heading for the door with her when her boyfriend and his mates finally woke up to what was happening. Needless to say the ensuing fight was thoroughly enjoyed by one and all. 
Gimly's farm sat on the side of a hill above Bacup. And much like the man himself, was rough and ready on the outside, and even worse on the inside. Also, like the man himself, you just had to love it. It was difficult to get to and most police chases ended at the bottom of the lane on the main road. On the rare occasions they did come up, they came in force with most of them walking, as they only had one Land Rover, and the senior officers used that. The state of the lane made it difficult for cars to get up there. It was rough going even on a bike.
During one infrequent visit from the police, I got into conversation with a young officer who had recently been posted to bacup. He was saying that since his transfer he'd heard stories about the farm and the Sons of Hell, and he was "shitting it" at the thought of having to come up there, and the sign at the gate in dripping red paint that read 'Abandon hope all ye who enter here' hadn't made him feel any better. I assured him that he wouldn't be hurt as long as they didn't try to arrest anybody. I'm not sure it helped!!. It's funny, I'd only painted that sign a few days before.
Every farm needs animals, so say hello to Gimlys pet chicken! Well it's 1983, Before the valley was full of kebab shops. So unless you were like me and hid a few pies about your person, you had to improvise. I lived in Rossendale even before joining the A/Vs. Even Arab at one point in his illustrious career as a Sons of Hell lifer spent some time in the valley. He managed a couple of years before moving back to Manchester. There were other hillbillies who tried and failed to join the ranks of the sons, most of whom I can't remember. One or two were okay though, and dropped out for reasons of their own. Jimmy Tramp a.k.a. Jimmy the tooth for example, He was another A10 man. He was living with his then girlfriend and newly born daughter, in one of the pig pens on the farm. He decided the club wasn't for him, but he's still on friendly terms with some members.
I'll leave this page with Escort, which is where we started. If you want any more tales of mayhem and madness from the Rossendale Valley you'll find a 'shitload' in the book. See you there. POWK X
