Outlaws: Inside the Violent World of Biker Gangs (14 page)

Rocky was one of the club’s best fighters with an infamous and utterly devastating right hand. Like Lee, the
prospect who had kicked the crap out of a Hell’s Angel at the Rock and Blues show, Rocky could scrap for England but preferred to choose his battles carefully. He would rather fight five men than just one and had on many occasions. He wasn’t scared of the Welshman at all: he just didn’t want to hurt the guy.

Members of the Pagans were also under strict orders never to fight on ferries. With regular runs to mainland Europe they were only too well aware that a travel ban as a result of anti-social behaviour would seriously cramp their future travel plans. Bikers from both clubs desperately tried to calm the situation but the Valley Infidel just wouldn’t hear of it. Eventually he forced the situation and took a swing at Rocky. The Pagan absorbed the blow with ease and then returned a single one of his own. The rival biker fell to the floor and didn’t get up again. When he had failed to regain consciousness after two minutes the ferry captain called for an emergency helicopter, which flew in and airlifted the man to hospital.

As always, the bikers closed ranks and refused to tell any of the ferry staff what had occurred, leading them to conclude that it had simply been some kind of accident. Once they arrived in Dublin, Caz and the others made the decision to make themselves scarce as quickly as possible in order to avoid any more awkward questions.

If adrenaline levels among the Pagans were high when they left the ferry, they went through the roof when they arrived at the show. Unbeknown to them, Maz Harris, the Hell’s Angels spokesman, had turned up the year before on the pretext of writing a piece about it for
Back Street Heroes
. In
fact, he had been scoping it out as a possible location for an international run (a mandatory annual get-together attended by at least two representatives from every chapter on the planet in order to discuss business and party). To bolster their position in the country, in the year leading up to the next Kilmeaden event, the Angels had also opened up two chapters on the island, one in Armagh to the north and a second just outside Dublin.

As the Pagans pulled into the compound to set up their tent, they quickly saw that they were near-surrounded by Hell’s Angels from all four corners of the globe. Tensions were already high following the incident with Lee the previous year and Tank didn’t help matters when he stormed up to Harris the minute he spotted him.

‘You owe me an apology,’ he said.

‘You what? I don’t think so. Why would you say that?’ came the reply.

‘You arrogant fucker, you nearly got me killed,’ continued Tank. ‘You said not to worry about the Ratae, that it was all a storm in a teacup. It’s a good thing I didn’t listen to you or I would have been killed.’

Harris looked at the ground and shuffled his feet for a few moments.

‘Yeah, I suppose I do owe you an apology then.’

‘Too right.’

The exchange didn’t go down well with the rest of the Angels and the situation rapidly went from bad to worse when the Valley Infidels suddenly arrived on the scene. The antagonism that had erupted on the ferry a couple of hours earlier was still very much in evidence. While no longer spoiling for a fight – Rocky’s fighting prowess had seen to
that – the remaining members were still furious about what had taken place and took every possible opportunity to make their feelings known, badmouthing the club to anyone who would listen.

It didn’t take long before the Pagans were completely and utterly fed up with the disparaging sideways glances, whispered insults and pointed fingers. It was all a bit galling considering the Valley Infidels had started all the trouble in the first place. Their attitude was terrible and they were failing to live up to the standards expected of a typical MC member. If they had been members of the Pagans, they would all have been kicked out a long time ago.

Eventually Caz approached the president of the Freewheelers to explain the situation. ‘Sorry about this, but that lot are pissing us off big time. We’re going to have to deal with it. I know you’d rather we didn’t do this at your show, but it’s happening. We’ll do out best to be as discreet as possible.’

The Pagans massed and herded the Valley Infidels into a quiet corner of the field. The few who attempted to resist received a sound battering for their trouble and within the space of twenty minutes it was all over. Every member of the Valley Infidels had lost his patch and they left the show as former members of a club that had suddenly become extinct.

More trouble was on its way. Ever since the Hell’s Angels had opened up their first clubhouse in the Republic, they had been behaving as if they owned the place. Local bikers found themselves being increasingly harassed by the newcomers who in effect seemed to be questioning whether any of the long-standing indigenous clubs had a right to exist at all.

So far as the Angels were concerned, Ireland was now their territory and all its members wore an ‘Ireland’ bottom rocker, a provocative move which proclaimed the Angels as the dominant one percenter MC in the country, something which simply wasn’t true. What was particularly galling for the natives was that many of the newcomers were not even Irish but had been picked from clubs around the UK in order to form the two new chapters.

While the Angels clashed with some gangs they courted others – including the Freewheelers who happily invited them along to their events never dreaming they had anything other than the most noble of intentions. In fact, the Pagans suspected that the true reason the Angels were being so friendly to the Waterford gang was because they had their eyes on the Kilmeaden show, which in a few short years had already generated enough profits for the Freewheelers to buy themselves a smart new clubhouse.

Some of the smaller clubs and groups of independent bikers who found themselves on the receiving end of the Angels’ wrath didn’t take it lying down. A series of ugly confrontations soon spread. ‘Who the fuck do you think you are, coming to our country and giving us all this harassment? It’s not on.’

While the international contingent who had turned up for the show were well behaved, the British and Irish chapters brought with them a really bad attitude that was soon noticed by a good many of the clubs at the event. At one point, Tank was walking through the site when he passed by an Angel who began abusing a local man and his wife. ‘Leave it out,’ said Tank, ‘there’s no need for that sort of
behaviour.’ The Angel – a grizzly bear of a man – took great exception to Tank’s words, pulled out a large hunting knife and began to advance on the Pagan.

Tank was shorter and skinnier than most of the Pagans but still as tough as old boots. Utterly fearless in any situation, he didn’t bat an eyelid when the Angel came towards him. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out the two plastic lemons he carried on him at all times, both of them filled with ammonia. He squeezed both and two jets of the caustic liquid splattered into the face of his opponent, sending him crashing to the ground, tearing at his face in agony, before following up with kicks and punches.

As the other British and Irish Angels realised what was going on, they rallied round to assist their fallen brother, pulling their man away. The Pagans did the same with Tank and soon the two sides were lined up opposite one another divided by a small patch of open ground. What had started out as a one-on-one dispute was about to become club-on-club.

The last time the Pagans had fought the Angels the numbers had been even and they had come out on top, but this time they were hugely outnumbered. Despite this the idea of backing down never once occurred to them. ‘You lot can fuck off,’ Caz told them. ‘You’re not treating us like this. We’ve had it in England, and we’re fed up with it there. We’re not going to take it over here too.’ Bravado was one thing but it seemed clear that this time around that the Pagans were in for a severe battering.

But the Angels’ antics during the show and throughout the rest of the country had earned them few friends. As word of the impending confrontation spread around the show site, members of the Devil’s Disciples rushed over and
took up positions alongside the Pagans. So did the members of another Irish club, the Limerick-based Road Tramps (unrelated to the UK club of the same name). Dozens of ordinary punters, pissed off with being mistreated by the Angels, also lined up against them.

Now the odds were almost even. Many of the Angels had knives, the others armed themselves as best they could with whatever they could find. Then, like a scene out of
Braveheart
, the air filled with screams and battle cries as the two massive armies suddenly rushed towards one another and smashed together in a mass of blood and guts and broken bones.

Savage kicks and punches flew out in all directions. Bikers fell on both sides, some unconscious, others in terrible agony. Some donned crash helmets, lowered their heads and rushed at their opponents like deranged bulls. Faces were ripped and torn apart and opponents came together in terrible fury. The centre of the fight was pure chaos. Everyone was hitting everyone else, whoever was nearest. It was hard to tell friend from foe. Many of those with knives found they were unable to use them in such close quarters or ended up having them turned back on themselves.

The noise of bone against bone, wood against bone and the screams of agony were almost unbearable. Link was whacked across the back with a lump of wood, Boone was virtually knocked out from a blow to the head. Dozens fell. Fountains of blood were spilled.

The whole thing had lasted only a few seconds but in that time there had been dozens of appalling injuries. One of the Devil’s Disciples suffered a major stab wound as did at least two of the Angels. Dozens of bikers had major head
wounds. There was a short pause – an eerie silence filled only by the groans of the wounded – as bodies were dragged from the battlefield and both sides regrouped. The hosts of the event, the Freewheelers, could only sit and watch the chaos taking place in front of them. A couple of smaller scuffles followed before it was clear that the situation had reached a stalemate and it was time to talk.

But it was already too late. Although the biker gangs might like to have thought that they owned the place, the real power in Ireland at the time was still in the hands of the paramilitaries. Summoned by friends and relatives who had witnessed the goings on at the festival, they soon turned up in force, armed to the teeth, and demanded an explanation from the Freewheelers about what was going on.

After that first meeting was concluded, the paramilitaries did their own research, walking around the site, keeping a low profile while speaking to locals and some of the other biker clubs, building up a full picture of what had taken place during the preceding hours. When they were satisfied, they arranged to have a second meeting with the Freewheelers. This had only been going on for a few minutes when a member of the Irish club emerged and asked the Pagans to attend the meeting as well.

‘All of what’s happened here, this entire problem, it’s all down to you lot,’ said the spokesman for the paramilitaries, pointing an accusing finger. ‘We know you didn’t cause it, but ultimately it’s down to you because you’ve brought something here that started out in England.

‘Now we don’t have a problem with you. We know you were trying to stand up for some of the locals and we’re grateful for that, but this thing needs to be sorted right
now.’ After a few more discussions, the paramilitaries arranged for a meeting with the Hell’s Angels. ‘Basically you’ve got two choices,’ the leader of the paramilitaries told them in his thick brogue. ‘There’s a ferry leaving at eight am tomorrow. Either you and all your little friends get on it and you leave, or you stay here forever – six feet underground.

‘As of this moment, the Hell’s Angels no longer have a presence in Ireland. You’re finished as far as this place is concerned. Any of you lot that are still in the country tomorrow morning will be considered a legitimate target and I can guarantee you that you will never, ever leave. This is your one and only warning.’

The Angels may have been a well-organised gang with strong international connections but, when it came to sheer efficiency, the paramilitaries had them beat hands down. At the same time that the meeting at Kilmeaden was taking place, two teams of heavily armed men wearing balaclavas simultaneously attacked the Angels clubhouses in Armagh and Dublin, ousting all the occupants and setting both buildings on fire.

It was bad enough that the British Angels were being expelled, the fact that it happened during the World Run just made it all the more humiliating. The UK contingent were forced to go round to all of their esteemed guests from across the globe and tell them that the weekend had come to a premature end and that they would all be reconvening in England as a matter of urgency.

Both Irish chapters were closed down immediately, their members either leaving the club or moving to England. It was the first time in the history of the Hell’s
Angels that they had ever been forced to abandon one of their territories.

The brawl that had led to the expulsion quickly achieved legendary status among the bikers throughout the Republic and the event was soon commemorated by one of the Freewheelers who had always had powerful literary aspirations. Within the space of a month he had composed an epic poem, ‘The Battle of Kilmeaden’ that read like a cross between Tennyson’s ‘The Charge of the Light Brigade’ and
Beowulf
. A framed version of the poem can still be found inside the Freewheelers clubhouse.

The huge fight started a powerful chain reaction no one could have foreseen. The Angels had always been feared and revered, achieving a near mythic status, but the fight had proved that, if they combined forces, the indigenous clubs were more than strong enough to take them on.