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So the Dees would invariably invoke the Misuse of Drugs Act, and strip-search one or two of us by the road they usually got in a few punches as well. Vain hope, sunshine: we were mostly white and middle-class and about the only thing wrong with our bikes was that they were too clean. Eventually they’d pull us over to inspect our bikes for WOF violations. If the cops picked up the gang leaving Wellie, they’d radio on to their mates, so that fresh cars could tailgate us all the way up country. There was that time the cops worked him up at Paekak. But in his own way, Humphries was hard as Sonny Bill Williams his strategy in life was to hide in plain sight, and he was so totally out there that he barely ever got queerbashed.īarely ever. Of course, Humphries himself was a total poof, and his leathers always looked like he’d ironed them. And we knew there’d be a next time, and soon: Humphries pretty much had the mark of Cain on him.
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There were only the three of us left by then: him and Ringo and me, and we’d just decided that we weren’t gonna ride in a cortege next time because there just weren’t enough of us left. And I remember vaguely when we were cleaning out Moffie’s flat, seeing Humphries in tears, carrying out armfuls of jackets. Humphries worked at Kirkcaldies in the haberdashery. Eventually, I figured that it must have been Humphries who boxed them up. Well I couldn’t just chuck them in the skip, so I took them home. He must have inherited the rest from someone else. This sorta fussy curatorial shit was not Ringo’s style at all his place was a total rat-hole, and his own jacket was hanging on a meathook behind a door. Each one in an elegant Kirkcaldies box, wrapped in non-reactive tissue like museum exhibits.
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Maybe six months ago, I was clearing out Ringo’s place after his funeral, and I found all these bloody jackets in the garage. But I owned the world’s slowest Indian Scout, and every few months I’d join them for a blatt up the coast or over to Lake Ferry.Īnd what I want to know is: how the hell did I end up with all their leather jackets? About 20 of them, if you please, and – get this – they’re in the closet in the back bedroom. (Of course, the macho shit was as much as a pose as the Boy George stuff, and they knew it: if you did something dumb, someone would lisp “you go, girl”.) They weren’t obsessed with shopping or gyms or Kylie or “feshun” they were into bourbon and speed and hard rock and some fairly extreme sexual activities. It was like they hadn’t read the instruction manual. I’d been on the scene for a few years, but I’d never run across blokes like the Hole-in-the-Wall gang.
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They called me “Whipper”, short for “whippersnapper”. They all hung out at the Wakefield sauna they were war-babies and boomers, while I was Gen X and a fairly geeky computer operator with grey shoes, to boot. Shades of Groucho Marx: the gang wasn’t really a gang, and I wasn’t really a member. Then, when Butch’s offsider got himself a big Ducati, he became the Somedunce Kid, and the Hole-in-the-Wall Gang was born. In 85 or 86, Cassidy traded in his Yamaha bike for a Harley, and Mal at the Bamboo Bar re-christened him “Butch”. Cassidy wasn’t even his real name they called him that because he was a hairy old hippie and obsessed with the Beat poets. And in the usual convoluted way of things, the Wellington Hole-in-the-Wall Gang came about because of a bloke called Cassidy.
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The Hole-in-the-Wall Gang are all dead now.Īnd if you know where that line comes from, you probably should be too! Spoiler alert: it’s from a dumb old movie called Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. This is Danby’s winning story, titled ‘Fire all of your guns, fly off into space’. Steve Danby just won the overall prize in the short fiction contest that Peter Wells established when he founded the Samesame but Different festival, celebrating LGBTQI+ writers during Auckland Pride.