did start to feel safe enough in the Freemen’s company to unwind a bit and begin to enjoy myself.
The sun was shining. People, by which I meant The Brethren and their cohorts, were, in the noticeable absence of the Cambridge crew who it seemed had taken themselves and their grudge off to a beer tent on the other side of the field, relaxed and friendly.
I supposed there must have been some underlying issue with Thommo’s charter that the Freemen had thought might lead to trouble, but now that seemed to be off the agenda they just seemed determined to bask in the crowd’s attention and have a good time.
There’d been no mention of The Brethren in connection with the local punch-up between Capricorn MC and Dead Men Riding MC or any suggestion of a link that anyone had made to me so far, so I didn’t think it had anything to do with that, although I supposed perhaps Thommo and his boys were under a bit of pressure from the rest of the club over it. It was clear that part of the reputation of a senior club like The Brethren rested on the expectation that they would keep the more junior clubs on their turf under control. After all, no one wanted any unnecessary trouble since trouble was bad for business, and a war, even between two junior clubs was trouble since it could lead to all clubs, senior and junior, coming under the spotlight. So I guessed The Brethren would be looking to Thommo and his boys to get this thing under control which might explain the obvious needle between Wibble, as president of the Freemen, and Wibble as the local charter P.
‘Spliff?’ Bung asked.
‘You want to roll up here?’
‘Nah,’ he said, before adding in best Blue Peter fashion, ‘here’s some I made earlier,’ surprising me when he flipped open a pack of cigarettes from his cut’s pocket to reveal half a dozen or so tailor-mades and a handful of twisted doobie tips, and tugged one out.
He cupped his hands around his lighter as he flicked the wheel with his thumb and sucked in a deep breath to draw it into life. They were huge hands I noticed as I watched the performance, darkly tanned with the blurred and faded blue-green of old tattoos dark against the skin under the hair on the back, the fingers encrusted with a selection of heavy and ornate silver skull and patch themed rings that probably did well as an impromptu set of knuckledusters when needed.
Then he all but disappeared in a huge puff of acrid white smoke as he exhaled and took a second toke. He looked around the field approvingly as he held it in for a moment, giving an air of complete contentment.
‘Lovely,’ he said as he exhaled slowly and proffered it to me. I had to take it. There was nothing for it but to do what I had to do.
I’d smoked a lot at uni, In my day it was resin, eighths of hash, gritty but soft and crumbly Leb black, or rock hard nodules of Moroccan red that needed to be melted with a match before you could sprinkle it onto the baccy; or so our little league dealers told us. Grass was a rarity and anything else was an occasional experiment as and when it presented itself. That was how I had first actually spoken to any of The Brethren, when a trio of them were selling ten quid wraps of speed outside the doors of a Motörhead gig at uni. Not that I remembered much after that other than borrowing a fiver from a mate to roll up and heading straight to the bogs to do the lot. It was evil fucking stuff I have to say.
But I’d been a reasonably regular stoner as and when I could catch it, right up until I’d had a bad trip while under the influence; panic attack, hallucinations, shit it shook me up. And then I left uni and suddenly I wasn’t around the people I knew who could get it and so I just sort of stopped. It wasn’t that I gave up as such; it was just that I wasn’t bothered. And then I’d given up smoking period.
And much to my surprise I’d beaten the habit, at least other than the odd guilty fag or café-crème once in a blue moon
The sun was shining. People, by which I meant The Brethren and their cohorts, were, in the noticeable absence of the Cambridge crew who it seemed had taken themselves and their grudge off to a beer tent on the other side of the field, relaxed and friendly.
I supposed there must have been some underlying issue with Thommo’s charter that the Freemen had thought might lead to trouble, but now that seemed to be off the agenda they just seemed determined to bask in the crowd’s attention and have a good time.
There’d been no mention of The Brethren in connection with the local punch-up between Capricorn MC and Dead Men Riding MC or any suggestion of a link that anyone had made to me so far, so I didn’t think it had anything to do with that, although I supposed perhaps Thommo and his boys were under a bit of pressure from the rest of the club over it. It was clear that part of the reputation of a senior club like The Brethren rested on the expectation that they would keep the more junior clubs on their turf under control. After all, no one wanted any unnecessary trouble since trouble was bad for business, and a war, even between two junior clubs was trouble since it could lead to all clubs, senior and junior, coming under the spotlight. So I guessed The Brethren would be looking to Thommo and his boys to get this thing under control which might explain the obvious needle between Wibble, as president of the Freemen, and Wibble as the local charter P.
‘Spliff?’ Bung asked.
‘You want to roll up here?’
‘Nah,’ he said, before adding in best Blue Peter fashion, ‘here’s some I made earlier,’ surprising me when he flipped open a pack of cigarettes from his cut’s pocket to reveal half a dozen or so tailor-mades and a handful of twisted doobie tips, and tugged one out.
He cupped his hands around his lighter as he flicked the wheel with his thumb and sucked in a deep breath to draw it into life. They were huge hands I noticed as I watched the performance, darkly tanned with the blurred and faded blue-green of old tattoos dark against the skin under the hair on the back, the fingers encrusted with a selection of heavy and ornate silver skull and patch themed rings that probably did well as an impromptu set of knuckledusters when needed.
Then he all but disappeared in a huge puff of acrid white smoke as he exhaled and took a second toke. He looked around the field approvingly as he held it in for a moment, giving an air of complete contentment.
‘Lovely,’ he said as he exhaled slowly and proffered it to me. I had to take it. There was nothing for it but to do what I had to do.
I’d smoked a lot at uni, In my day it was resin, eighths of hash, gritty but soft and crumbly Leb black, or rock hard nodules of Moroccan red that needed to be melted with a match before you could sprinkle it onto the baccy; or so our little league dealers told us. Grass was a rarity and anything else was an occasional experiment as and when it presented itself. That was how I had first actually spoken to any of The Brethren, when a trio of them were selling ten quid wraps of speed outside the doors of a Motörhead gig at uni. Not that I remembered much after that other than borrowing a fiver from a mate to roll up and heading straight to the bogs to do the lot. It was evil fucking stuff I have to say.
But I’d been a reasonably regular stoner as and when I could catch it, right up until I’d had a bad trip while under the influence; panic attack, hallucinations, shit it shook me up. And then I left uni and suddenly I wasn’t around the people I knew who could get it and so I just sort of stopped. It wasn’t that I gave up as such; it was just that I wasn’t bothered. And then I’d given up smoking period.
And much to my surprise I’d beaten the habit, at least other than the odd guilty fag or café-crème once in a blue moon
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