Drinking with the Chosen Few

Or: How I prevented a major punch-up, armed only with my nail polish.

We had been regulars at the “Angel” across the street, but I got spooked out once when a blonde girl in a leather jacket pinched my arse.  I was seventeen – I shouldn’t have cared, but I was too young to feel flattered.

Anyway, the “Horse” was cosy somehow, and more friendly.  Always a bit of a squash in there, and noisy, with the juke box playing Steppenwolf and Jethro Tull.  There was a pervasive scent of patchouli and exotic cigarettes.  This night we had got in early and had seats in the corner, on the ripped red vinyl banquettes.  It was summer, I had kicked off my strappiest sandals, and was sitting with my bare feet pulled up in front of me on the seat, hugging my knees, to show off my toe rings, leather thong ankle bracelet, and the bright purple polish on my toenails.

Blakey was telling some tall tale as usual, about some cousin of his who grew pot on his allotment.  We never believed a word he said. Micky had his arm round me, of course, and I snuggled up to the sleeve of his leather jacket.  He had a pint of cider, I was on rum and black.  The tables were sticky with stale beer – we used to say that the landlord was too mean to buy new beer mats so he’d stuck the old ones down.

We sensed, rather than saw, the bunch of bikers come into the bar, because everyone’s heads turned and the conversation died down.  Smev knew who they were.  A chapter of Hell’s Angels, come up from Wolverhampton on their choppers.  They called themselves the Chosen Few.  They didn’t come here too often, but they were well known to be tougher than the local lot.  They all wore leather jackets, some with fringed sleeves, others with denim cut-offs over the top with “motorhead” embroidered across the substantial shoulders.  Most had long hair and scruffy beards, and they all carried bike helmets.

The barman started pulling pints.  The Few stood around in the bar, looking huge, like humans in a munchkin house, and saying pretty much nothing.  Us under-age drinkers, we felt intimidated.  I did consider whether we should give up our seats to them, but after a long ride up from the Black Country, the Few just wanted to stand around, legs apart, bike helmets under their arms, looking menacing, and swigging back their beer.

I’m not really sure what happened next.  Maybe his meaty, sweaty hand slipped, maybe somebody jogged his elbow, but the biggest and ugliest of the Chosen Few let out an oath as a full pint of Marston’s Pedigree crashed to the floor, right next to our table, showering all of us with splashes of beer.  Reflexively, I pulled my naked feet tighter in to my body.

In the ensuing quiet, a lanky youth standing next to the door to the bogs, spoke up.

“Somebody sack the juggler!” he said, breezily.

The silence was palpable.  Even the juke box had come to the end of “I love rock and roll”.  The Hell’s Angel turned around slowly, ponderous like an elephant regarding a mouse.  Blakey had his eyes squeezed tight shut.  Smev was looking like he might duck and hide under the table.  The patrons of the “Horse” held their collective breath.

The biker looked the lanky lad by the door up and down, dismissively.  Panicking, I wondered if he might have a knife.  But he turned to the frothing puddle of beer and glass on the floor, then he clocked my feet, and slowly raised his gaze up over my body until he was looking me straight in the eyes.  I felt myself flushing from the top of my cheesecloth blouse up to my hennaed hairline.

Still holding my gaze, the Hell’s Angel reached out a brawny arm towards the bar and addressed the barman.

“Give us a cloth, mate, and a dustpan or summat.  We wouldn’t want this sexy lady to cut her pretty feet, would we?”