Booted and Suited. Chris Brown
the mass fight and subsequent peace “charter” with the greasers in the city centre.
‘Also at that time I played rugby with Bishopston Colts with Gerry Hodgson [rugby seems to be a common theme with a lot of the Never boys]. Other members of the side were Seymour Baugh, Tennis Russell and Caron Downer, who were later to become famous for their DJ activities in town. The music at this time was soul, Blue Beat and reggae, with Tighten Up Volume 2 the top reggae album. I was a Rovers’ fan in those days and used to travel away to watch matches, invariably ending up in some sort of “rumble” with the away supporters – something that I am not proud of now that I think back, but it seemed the thing to do at the time.
‘As usually happens I became friendly with certain members of the Never crowd such as Brian Coombes, Daddy Stevens (you didn’t tangle with these guys), Austin Hardwick (Ossie) and Les English. I also met Steve McManus, who is a friend to this day, and Dave Mealing, who I still see from time to time. There were so many guys that I knew from that era that I could not possibly name them all. Having said that, how could I not mention Roy and Mike Thorne (Thorny), Martin and Paddy Walsh and Chris Summers?’
In later years, Bob and his mates spread their wings and started going further afield. Maybe the lure of the Never itself was on the wane. Bob added, ‘As time went on, Johnny Love and I became friendly with Les Gortat and the inimitable Willy Pascoe. We used to collect them from Willy’s flat in Clifton (Willy would not sit down in case he creased his Sta-Prest trousers) and drive to the Star at the top of the “Roddy” in Congresbury where they had a disco. The Broomhill guys and a fair few of the Never crowd used to meet up and chaperone the local “country” girls. Good days! Other places that we frequented with the boys were the Mexican Bar and the Hawthorns and, as mentioned earlier, “The Rank” where Jason was the DJ. The pre-club drinks were usually downed at the Way Inn on College Green, part of the old Royal Hotel.’
Some of the names that Bob mentioned I recognised, and one or two sent a chill down my spine. These guys were the stuff of myth and legend.
Someone else who was making a name for himself back then was Phil Peacock, who then lived in Sea Mills but who now resides in the USA. I worked with Phil in the early 1970s, and I had a lot of respect for him (as well as an irrational fear – he was built like the proverbial brick out-house) and I knew that he had some stories to tell.
Phil, if not remembering who or where he saw the first skinheads, recalled the momentous day when he decided to have all his hair shaved off, which wasn’t as common as you might think in the late Sixties. ‘As for the first [skinhead] in Bristol – I remember the mods with their stylish hair and the primping. I think the scooter riders were some of the first to start chopping the hair ever shorter as it wouldn’t get in their eyes while riding, since helmets were not required. They were carried more as a weapon than to protect your noggin. That would have to be in 1967, early ’68.
‘I got my head shaved for the first time in Lewis’s department store in 1968. I remember there was a young kid probably getting his first haircut and he was throwing a fit. The barber called me up to the chair, I sat down and he asked what I wanted. I said, “Shave it off.” He did a double-take and asked again. I replied, “Shave it off,” and he then took the clippers and went right down the middle saying, “You can’t change your mind now.” Meanwhile, the little kid’s eyes were as big as saucers and he stopped screaming. His dad took him by the hand and they left the shop. Mind you, when I got home my mum had a fit! I believe I was the first in Sea Mills to do that voluntarily, other than the kids who had their hair cut every Saturday morning by their fathers who only knew one way to cut hair!’
Once you’d taken that giant leap in getting your hair cut, there was no going back; the next stage was to get kitted out. Phil recalled how the ex-Army stores saw an opportunity for a quick profit in the burgeoning market. ‘The army surplus stores were quick to catch on and cash in on the trends. They would bring in American “Bomber” jackets in nylon and leather, and the boots – you could get a pair of hobnails [authentic British Army] for ten shillings [50p]. However, when the demand increased, the prices went up exponentially. I think a shop was selling them for £2 a pair for well-used ones and a fiver for the good ones at the height of the movement. The police also started cracking down on the shops that sold them, too, in an effort to thwart the violence on the streets.’
No matter what your choice of clothing – your strutting gear or your fighting gear – you had to be prepared for the aggro that, not surprisingly, was never too far away. ‘I remember a black Fred Perry with black braces, black brogues with double soles, black socks and black Tonics. Man, that was sharp dressing in those days. Everyone wanted to see and be seen in those days. Everyone wanted to look their very best when they went out for the night, not like the wankers these days with their hoodies and their underwear showing. These guys would be beaten to a pulp on a regular basis 40 years ago. Even when going to a fight, we dressed well. Nothing stopped you from looking good. I got the biggest beating of my life from someone who also ran with the Never boys. I was drunk on my ass and he sucker-punched me as I came through a door, breaking my nose. He then proceeded to beat the crap out of me, but, hey, I looked good!’
Phil then went on to elaborate on those trips to Weston-super-Mare that Bob Feltham had mentioned. ‘It was customary to ride down to Portishead on the scooters and meet up with the locals there, Skippy being one. And then, after several laps of the town, we’d head on down to Clevedon via the back roads. Once there, the same thing would happen – ride around for a while gathering up anyone else who wanted to ride. Then on towards Weston-super-Mare.
‘At this point, we normally would meet up with others from Bristol also heading towards Weston. Many of these would be just blokes and their girls out for a Sunday ride. However, on those occasions when the Never boys were out, there was chaos in the air. One of their clan drove a lorry from the fruit market. They would put all of these empty crates up around the edges and the boys would be inside, hidden from view. However, once they came upon some unsuspecting greaser on his bike – and there were a few as many from Fishponds and the other more popular motorcycle neighbourhoods would also ride down to Weston on a Sunday, usually for the same purpose – there was always a bit of fun and perhaps a fight or two. Anyway, once alongside the bloke and his bike, the lads on the lorry would begin to hurl crates at the unsuspecting biker. Needless to say, there was many a biker run off the road, knocked of his bike by flying crates or lost a passenger. There was quite a lot of carnage to be had between Bristol and Weston in those days.
‘As for myself… one Sunday I had a friend on the back of my Lambretta headed from Portishead to Clevedon and then on to Weston. There were quite possibly 20–25 scooters. About 15 miles out of Weston, I blew a spark plug. So I pulled over to the side of the road to effect repairs. Paul, my buddy, was crouched down watching me; he was to my right. The next thing I see is Paul rolling over on to the grass with his mouth all busted open and blood all over his face. Looking back, I see a procession of greasers riding by. I then looked up the road and there is one riding with his left foot trailing. Paul later recalled that he heard the noise of the bikes and turned towards the sound and the next thing he knew there was a boot kicking him in the face.
‘My scooter took a few kicks from passing greasers as did most of the others who had stopped to wait for me. That was one thing – you never left someone on the road by themselves for this very reason. Once back under way, our group caught up with some of the back markers and took revenge. I smacked one biker’s right hand with a big spanner, used for the rear suspension on my scooter. The police would stop you and want to see if you had any weapons, so anything that could be explained away as a tool for repairing the scooter was not seen as a weapon per se. Anyway, I’m sure I broke his hand and then a couple of kicks and he was in a ditch, bike and all. The others began to harass the greaser and they finally took off towards Weston.
‘The greasers would hang out in a café across from the pier. It was down a few steps and located in a basement of sorts. The name escapes me. I recall an ornamental garden across the street from it and I think it was the Winter Garden at the end of the road. Ken Dodd was playing there, or was coming.
‘Anyway, upon arriving in Weston, most if not all of the mods,