Small Ads Blues

You can get an odd class of advert in the classifieds of MCN, “Active rider wanted to share in flat..." was the sole occupier of the accommodation section. Normally the only time they fire up the accommodation department is coming up to the TT and other events of its ilk, advertising B&Bs, hotels, campsites, water tanks, gas chambers, old attics, into which a human or biker can conceivably be compressed; like a refugee camp except you have to pay for it.

Looking for a flat in London can be one of life's more depressing experiences, after which you start developing a perverse envy for people in concentration camps; at least they had accommodation. But this ad seemed the most promising yet so I zapped off a reply without delay, stressing my keenness on bikes.

These were the days before the Forces Of Darkness took root in the land (November ’74 to be unusually exact) and I had just left home, a bog in Paddistan, Ireland, chugging down from Holyhead on a '54 Ariel 350 to get in on the bountiful harvest. Like many before me, I stayed at a friend's third floor bedsit which also harboured his rotund bint.

Those with a more oblique sense of humour than mine might find amusing the prospect of sharing a bathroom with a couple whose relationship had advanced to the point where drunken yells and obscenities constituted the norm, and a dog whose speciality was his ornate arrangement of worms which decorated his turds scattered around the floor between piss pools and vomit mounds. Living there was like running into day one of Operation Barbarossa from the Forces Of Grime. So, just like Joe Stalin, I had to retreat and I sure wasn’t too worried about where the hell I was running.

A few days later a reply was delivered by hand through the letterbox. It invited me to meet him at a bar on Maiden Lane. This, the letter informed me, was the evening meeting place for MSC members and added 'wear your leathers'. "Gadzooks," I thought "this guy is some sort of ultra heavy hard core biker: hope I can make the scene, man." (I used to think like that in those days.) I hadn’t a clue what the MSC was but it was obviously some sort of bike club and the reference to wearing leathers I took to mean, turn up on a bike - or else.

I was rather worried that my old 350 bought for £17.50 in a Dublin scrapyard just would not make the right impression with these MSC chaps. I thought that anything under 650 wouldn't even register with them and that they probably spoke to each other in part numbers and had pistons for tea - just like Velocette owners. On the appointed evening I tried to get as leathery as possible - at least to show willing. This meant donning a pair of flying boots and a leather jacket - apart from gloves, that was my entire leather ensemble; deprived background, you see. Off I bopped on the ol’ smokin’ Ariel (fine machine, incidentally) trying to look like I used a 350 only for journeys of less than ten miles.

I had been half expecting howls of derision on my arrival as I joined the long ranks of gleaming two wheeled inter-galactic mega-blasters, but as the smoke cleared, a battered 1971 Triumph 650 and a collapsed Honda 90 were revealed as my only competition. Talking to some chap who'd claimed to have come on the back of a Honda 305, he revealed that something had gone wrong with the front wheel - he didn’t know what, saying he liked riding bikes but didn’t want to get his hands dirty. An ultra flash Hillman Avenger with white vinyl roof pulled up and discharged two guys dressed from head to foot in black leather, sporting black leather caps - they disappeared inside. I was puzzled - I could only assume they had come straight from the office and didn’t have time to collect their bikes.

I was fiddling with the bike, when a voice behind me asked if I was having trouble. Turning, I beheld a bit of a wreck, dressed in the same black leather uniform. He was the chap with the ad. We disappeared to join the crowd behind the green door.

We were in the basement, expecting to find the place almost empty with so few bikes outside, I was surprised to find it already half full. Weird. Women were conspicuous by their total absence. I felt that something funny was going on, I could feel it in the air. Had I stumbled upon some fundamentalist motorcycling sect?

My contact told me he had also advertised in an acting paper: strange, I asked him what type of bike he owned and he said he didn’t have one, but he used to own a BSA 250 and was thinking about buying a Honda 175 which he had recently ridden. I asked him what type of Honda 175 he rode - he didn’t know, so I asked if it was a twin or single carb model, he didn’t know that either. This affected the level of technical conversation somewhat, as we continued by identifying machines from colour alone: very satisfying.

We were then joined by a flat hunter who was responding to the ad in the acting paper. He did not own a bike either. When I said I thought the MSC was supposed to be a bike club he informed me, condescendingly, that it stood for Motor Sport Club. Well, you live on and learn.

On enquiring of the club’s activities I was informed that they went to rallies, races and other outings related to bikes or cars. It all sounded a bit weedy to me. I mean what was I supposed to be wearing all this leather for? To add to the weed image, when I told the ad man that my beer looked like piss (because it did), he said, "Yes, it does look er... what you called it." Cor blimey almighty, the man couldn’t bring himself to say piss.

As the evening progressed the bar filled up with other leather clad drinkers and yet there were only about four or five helmets to be seen; and still not a woman in the place. Most peculiar, mama, strange days indeed. I continued to observe the scene. Yet more chaps of a leathery persuasion arrived and greeted their fellows with... er, some type of gentleman's tender loving kiss arrangement. The penny finally dropped, I was in the wrong opera. Finally, late in the day, Caesar learns through Labienus... that he got on the wrong train. Suddenly, remembering an urgent appointment with the dentist, I tip-toed out, trying to keep my back to the wall. Back out on the street I noticed that the number of parked bikes had gone from three to a massive four.

A few weeks afterwards, by one of those daft coincidences that dog my life, one of the chaps at work had a copy of Gay News. Its centre page feature was about none other than your friend and mine, the Motor Sport Club. A spokesperson claimed it was the largest leather club in the world, no less. He also proudly boasted that all of one quarter of its members had bikes - it must have been guest night when I was there.

Word of this spread to my home town after I wrote a letter to a friend recounting my experiences. They were always misinterpreting the bible in the bog - no wonder the Vatican has to do it for them. They found it particularly amusing that this leader of men and packs used to own a BSA 250 and was thinking about buying a 175.

I described all this and a lot more and instructed my friend to hand the letter to my mother after he'd finished, as I couldn’t be bothered to write it all out a second time and certainly couldn't afford carbon paper. Two days later I got a letter from the great woman: "Dear Stephen," it began, "thank god you have not fallen into bad company..."

Stephen Kearney