The Story of a Teenage Motorcycle Gang in the 1960's
Eddie the 'Leader of the Pack' trying to keep control and relive the gangs former glory.
Find out how the girls earned their 'Sevens'
and who murdered teenager Sandra Wilkinson.
Town End Cafe, aka Club 77 was not a club as such, in fact it wasn’t a club at all; but a back street cafe in a Yorkshire mining town.
The 77 came from the address of the cafe ‘No77’, the club was actually a gang of young teenagers who rode motorcycles and dressed the same, leather jackets, ice blue denim jeans, motorcycle boots with white fisherman’s socks turned down over the tops and white crash helmets with the number 77 on each side, this was how we identified ourselves as members.
We met at the cafe most afternoons, evenings and weekends, not to do anything special, just to hang around and brag about girls and bikes.
The cafe was a rundown back street place that far out of the town centre that shoppers didn’t venture near it. The table and chairs had all seen better days, they had all been damaged at some time, even patched up and repaired they still bared the scars of many an inconsiderate customer, especially us.
In one corner stood an old jukebox, the glass dome on the top was cracked and if you leaned too heavily on it the record would skip and jump. Next to the jukebox stood a pinball machine that couldn’t count, no matter how much you flipped the ball the score never went over more than 10,000 before it started counting backwards back down to zero, the skill with that thing was just being able to keep the ball in play, the flippers only worked by giving them one hell of a bang which usually ended up with the machine going ‘Tilt’ and the player losing their game and money.
“Three bob” said Fred, who had brought the drinks to the table after getting fed up of waiting for someone to collect them from the counter. I took the money out of my pocket and paid him.
“Hey up, there’s a Copper outside” said Vince.
“Hell fire Fred! You didn’t really send for them did you?” I asked.
Handbag jumped up, ran towards the counter vaulted it in one go and disappeared out of the back door.
“What the fucks up with him?” asked Vince.
“He’s been shoplifting in Boots the Chemist again” replied Pete.
“That probably accounts for the smell then” commented Vince.
“No love that’s me” said Pete, sniffing at his own wrist and then leaning across to our table he stuck his hand under Vince’s nose for him to have a smell.
“Get away smelly twat” said Vince, knocking Pete’s hand out of the way.
“Yes and you can get some spray for that too, can’t we girls” replied Pete, nodding at the girls.
“You speak for yourself” said Marlene.
“Spray for what?” asked Vince.
“Smelly twat” replied Pete.
“Aye fuckin fly spray in your case” said Vince.
“Oh shit. He’s looking at the bikes now” I said.
“I hope he don’t look too close at mine, the tax disc is out of date” said Vince.
“Is that all, mines a beer bottle label” said Pete.
The Cop took out his note book and wrote in it.
“Look out he’s coming in here” I said.
“Evening lads” he said.
“Hello officer” replied Pete.
“Who owns the Dominator?” he asked.
Vince moved and stood behind the copper shaking his head and mouthing ‘NO’.
“Norton...err...No officer it’s none of us” I said, looking around at the others for support.
“What about the Bantam then?” he asked.
“No, don’t know who’s that is either” I said.
“The owner of that just parked it there and walked off across the car park over there” explained Pete, pointing out of the window.
“You don’t know much you, do you lads” he said, looking directly at Pete.
I could see the Cop was getting pissed off with this so I decide the best thing for me to do was shut up and move to another table, but the Cop had other ideas.
“Which is your bike then?” he asked me.
“I haven’t got a bike” I replied.
“So there are six bikes outside that no one owns, eh! Right I’d better get onto the station then and have them taken into lost property” he said.
“The Fannybrator’ is mine” admitted Mandy, scared she was about to lose her bike.
“The what?” he asked.
“Sorry the Francis Barnett I mean” she replied.
“That’s better. Thank you young lady” he said.
Mandy picked up her helmet and motioned to Marlene to follow her out of the back door. It was only when Mandy kicked up the Fannybrator and sped off that the cop noticed they had gone.
“Now who owns the other bikes?” he asked again.
“The Bantams mine” said Pete.
“Right, that’s better, we are getting somewhere now, the sell by date on your beer bottle label has expired” said the cop, writing out a ticket and handing it to Pete.
“Mines the Arrow” I admitted.
“Well done lad, your tax is in date” he said.
“Mines the racing bike” said Dave.
“What a little lad like you riding a big bike like that, mind you don’t fall off it” he said.
“Mines the Enfield” said Eddie.
“Nice bike, new eh! Now that just leaves the Dominator” he said, looking at Vince and Baz.
“It must be one of you two, you’re the only two left” said the Cop.
“It’s not mine” said Baz.
“Thanks Baz” moaned Vince.
“And then there was one” said the Cop.
“Aye it’s mine” admitted Vince.
“Now that didn’t hurt did it” said the Cop, handing Vince a ticket. “Your tax is also out of date.”
“Gee thanks a lot” whined Vince.
“You’re welcome and good day gentlemen” said the Cop, leaving the cafe.
“Bastard” moaned Vince, after he had gone.
“Could have been worse, he didn’t even ask us for our licences and insurance” I said.