I had been seeing a young lady who I will call Miss A. One wet Friday evening I collected her from her home and we rode down to the Busy Bee on my Goldstar. Miss A’s father was in the local Police and when I first called for her he read me the “Riot Act”, home by 10.30 PM and no buts or else!

Sitting in the Bee with our friends and the rain pounding against the windows it was suggested that we leave our Bike and share a ride in a car down to a pub in Park Street where they had a Disco on Fridays.

Soon we were sitting in a warm and dry pub with a drink each. Then a drinking competition started between Miss A and a few of the lads. It seems Miss A’s party piece was to down a pint of Red Barrel quicker than anybody else, after seven or eight pints we decided to go back to the Bee. As soon as we got out into the fresh air Miss A passed out and had to be carried to the car. The other lads then told me that the last pint had been spiked with a double Vodka.

Back in the Busy Bee car park Miss A was still out cold and could not be taken home in that state on a bike. We tried black coffee, salt water, to sober her up but no use, somebody said try putting your fingers down her throat to make her sick, but nothing worked. Somebody else suggested putting keys down the back of her jumper but we all needed our keys. So we tried using cold wet pennies dipped in a puddle first then slipping them down her back where they were lost. It was no use she was still out cold, time was slipping away, so at 11.15 PM we put her in the car and took her home.

It was decided that I would explain to her father that her drinks had got mixed up. We stopped at her house and there were a lot of lights on, I knocked on the door and got no answer, I knocked a second time and a bedroom window opened.
It was her younger brother and he said, “Mum and Dad are out” I said “Quick open the front door, Miss A is not well”. Myself and four lads carried her upstairs to her bedroom and laid her on the bed. We removed her leather jacket and boots but she still had three jumpers and two pairs of trousers on. So that her parents would not guess what had happened we started to remove one layer at a time, somebody said what would her father think if he came home now, Five lads in her bedroom undressing his daughter. I put her nightdress around her neck to hide her last jumper and pulled the bedclothes up, we left very quick.

Next evening I called for her at the usual time not knowing what to expect. She rushed out and we went to the Bee, when we got there she asked, did anybody touch me last night, I said no, I was there all the time. Again she asked if something had happened. I asked why she was so worried, she said that when she woke up this morning there were Five Pennies in her knickers and how did they get there!

One sunny Sunday evening Ray Southgate, I and a few others were standing outside in the Bee car park talking bikes when two coaches pulled in for refreshments.

The passengers had been to the seaside on a works outing from the factories in the Midlands, and this was the last stop before the M1. Most of the passengers were middle aged women, except for four young ladies who walked over to us and started talking about the bikes.

One young lady begged for a ride on Ray’s Super Rocket pillion and Ray agreed, although she was not dressed for a bike wearing only a summer dress with many petticoats beneath it. However this would not stop her and soon she was aboard ready to go.

Up the by-pass (A41) ray sped to the roundabout by the Elstree reservoir, on exiting the roundabout in second gear the rear wheel locked up with her dress and petticoats jammed in the chain and sprocket, Ray managed to keep control as the bike skidded to a stop. With his passenger trapped on the pillion seat, Ray tried to push the bike backwards to free the dress, but after moving back and forth many times it would not free. There was only one choice left, the dress and petticoats would have to be taken off. After much debate the clothing was removed leaving the young lady standing in the briefest of underwear. Ray handed over his leather jacket, but it didn’t cover much. Quite a few minutes were spent removing the clothes from the chain, but it was not fit to wear, being torn and smothered in grease. Some time had passed since they left the Bee, so the rush was on to get back to catch the coach.

On entering the Bee car park both coaches were already loaded and ready to go, Ray rode over to the coach and the young lady jumped off, removed the leather jacket and ran up the steps of the coach with a blush on her cheeks, and a big cheer from all the Bee boys, but the look she got from all the older women was something else.

One dry and sunny Sunday morning at the Busy Bee back in the 60’s my friends and I were sitting on the wall at the top of the car park when a large grain lorry went round the roundabout and up the by-pass (A41), and we noticed that grain was spilling from the rear trapdoor. A few minutes later three bike riders came off on the roundabout, we rushed over to help the riders pick their bikes up and found the grain had been crushed by cars and was very slippery.

For the next half hour we posted lookouts on all the roads into the roundabout to warn any bikes approaching of the danger and prevented many potential accidents from happening. Then we saw a speed cop on a Triumph Speedtwin approaching, all the lookouts turned and walked back to the Bee car park. There was a crash and clatter as the speed cop bit the dust and a big cheer from the Busy Bee crowd.

As soon as he got up he grabbed the radio handset from the tank and called somebody, within a few minutes a council truck appeared with many men to sweep the road.

The bank holiday seaside runs were always a source of pleasure for us, before the run “proper” to meet at the Nightingale and be amongst a few hundred like minded leather clad, motor bikin’ rock n rollers was my idea of heaven. The Wild Angels would be on stage to complete the picture and to get us into the mood of what lay ahead. Just to hang back in the car park and gaze in awe as the enormous array of machines took to the road, thundering, heavy, and loud.
I must admit that I found the pace a little on the slow side due to the amount of us clogging up the roads and then as we neared the seaside, only to be broken down into smaller groups by the Police. I seldom stayed once the destination had been reached, usually to turn the bike around, point it for home and blast away, I was at my happiest riding my bike. I didn’t want to sleep under some rotten old pier on the seafront only to awake to find that I was on the breakfast menu of the mod fraternity.
Strange as it may seem but there always seemed to be other like minded ton-up boys either on the road, at coffee stalls or all night cafes as I sped home through the darkness from the seaside runs.
Things were changing rapidly through 1968, our haunts were becoming low on numbers, some places didn’t seem to welcome us anymore. From the heydays when there were hundreds of bikes at the Cellar on a Sunday afternoon, we were now down to a measley handful. In fact prior to the Cellar closing its doors for good, we were blessed by the local council doing their bit by laying double yellow lines right outside! Black paint was applied to the yellow, but to no avail, twas the end of an era. The Busy Bee was in the throes of going up market, the Ace was to become a tyre fitting depot. We still had The Manor, Jacks at Maidenhead, The Salt Box etc. but it was looking bleak for the ton up boy, the coffee bar cowboy. I don’t want to analyse it thats all been done before, suffice to say that it was the end of a golden era.
That’s all folks,

Chester.

It seems that on hindsight that there was an unwritten law amongst our fraternity regarding the positioning of clip-ons, i’m sure you remember folks. When sitting astride one of these bikes, to imagine the top yolk was a clock face the clip-ons would represent the hands of the clock and they would read twenty five minutes past seven and rest at the bottom of travel on the lower yolk. With this in mind it was difficult to control these bikes at lower speeds due to accute wheel wobble,,,but then again it was a rare occasion to be in such a position as a low speed, God forbid!
Our “gang” all resided in the Uxbridge area so all the major cafes were within reach of an evening. We loved the Iver to Slough dual carriageway with it’s sweeping bend by Blackpark (where they used to film those Hammer horror films) on our way to the Cellar at Windsor.
We would find our selves still chatting over the evenings fun long after the Cellar had closed for the night and with Mr. Sandman calling us home for bedtime. One particular night after we had said our goodbyes, it worked out that there was just two of us left, myself with my hot Beeza and a chap i’d never seen before who just happened to have a Rapide…..We started our bikes to leave for home, over the bridge through Eton to the big roundabout that led up to Slough high street. I’d never “had a go” at a Vincent so here surely was my claim to fame – to get to the Slough high street traffic lights before him. To beat it i’d have to have the drop on him, catch him unawares…We had about half a mile to go before the main roundabout before I let rip, i’m into the roundabout, rev counter needle in the red, into third, screwing it on out of the roundabout knowing that i’m gonna beat it, after all,,, I am the kiddie! Thud, thud, thud, i’m barely out of the roundabout when he’s alongside me, cheekily waving me goodbye, drawing away from me so quickly that I might have well have been on my little sisters three wheeler. Oh, the shame of it, I never told my mates about that night for obvious reasons.
That little episode made such an impression that come the following saturday I found myself in Conways at Goldhawk Road. I told the salesman of my joust with the Rapide, he sat me down, made me a cuppa and actually talked me out of buying one in the nicest possible way (not that the repayments would have been easy). He realised that he was in the company of a teenage idiot, making the point that I wouldn’t live to the ripe old age of nineteen should I purchase one. I felt glum as I left the showroom, got on my old Beeza, started it and thought, “right!, who fancies a burn-up?”