Groan, another book review

But what a book! The Original Wild Ones, Tales of the Boozefighters Motorcycle Club (MBI Publishing Co, 2005).

Frankly, it’s not a great book but by dint of being the only one available on the subject it warrants bookshelf real estate for anyone even vaguely interested in the history and antics of the ‘originals’ – the granddaddies of ye olde patche ganges…er, gangs. The guys and gals who were rebels when it still meant something and when motorcycles allied with road trips, drunken rowdiness and a certain amount of being beastly to townsfolk and back-chatting the authorities was as bad as it got. Before being fat, bald, tattooed and pointlessly aggressive on a stock Evo with a few factory accessories became the badge of those who offer themselves as bad to the bone.

And anyway, blame the bloody weather for the endless procession of postings not featuring rides-out. At my age, warmth and comfort have replaced a dedication to Riding That Knows No Limits.

But back to the book.

Accepted wisdom suggests the story runs something along the lines of: returning WWII vets bored with small town USA look for kicks aboard bobbed motorsickles with their best gals riding up behind. Cheating death at 90 miles an hour and giving the finger and possibly a black eye to all who stand between them and…blah.

Well, the truth is in there somewhere but can’t we simply imagine ‘them guys’ is ‘us guys’, blokes interested in biking because they like bikes not especially because they need something to replace the adrenalin high of a B-17 Flying Fortress at 25,000 ft. Of course I don’t know, but I imagine that having done the B-17 stuff, the very best you can hope for is not to be doing it anymore and that small town USA, with a bottle of beer and a Bettie Page-alike riding pillion in a ring-T and high-waisted skinnies is all the kicks you need baby.

All aboard for boozy biking fun

But back to the book (again).

‘Wino’ Willie Forkner it was who decided to bring together a few buddies hep to the joys of bikes, booze and bints and bestow upon them the name Boozefighters. And yea, having done this, the club, alongside many other such clubs grew and prospered, enjoyed ride-outs, engaged in all manner of fun shenanigans and generally got back some of what had been taken from them by the European and Japanese conflicts until the advent of urban decay, ‘police actions’ abroad against the Red Menace, and brainless wannabees going forever too far in a bid to make up for a lack of inches and a suppressed interest in the same sex (which would be far healthier and better for everyone unsuppressed) fucking ruined it for everyone.

Kind of like the Sex Pistols before Sid joined but without the Uranian aspect.

But back (once again) to the book.

The text meanders like a 1950s Land Rover with knackered track rod ends but… but it is the story of the Boozefighters Motorcycle Club and a mighty interesting story it is too.

And, it’s fair to say, everyone on two wheels in the Western World is shot through with a faint but detectable afterglow of the greatest bang since…well, the Big Bang.

Ladies and gentlemen, the joy that is the Boozefighters…

Boozemobile complete with converted trailer used as 'sleep it off' HQ