The spitting Pig 2002.

I felt a moment's blind panic as I drove my Astra Merit into the
festival ground at six am on Saturday morning. Even at such an early
hour motor bikes of all denominations were waiting in line to gain
access, many of their owners had ridden through the night to get here.
I joined the queue and waited I was 'the press' would I be welcomed? I
felt small cheer when scanning the horizon I saw one or two other cars
further up ahead, though all be it they only had three wheels. It's
funny how the good old Reliant is ridiculed nation wide, and yet
element-worn former bikers see it as a thing of beauty. A breed apart
these two wheeled warriors.

The sun had beaten me by three solid hours and was already beginning to
warm the morning. It was but a weak baby sun, I had scanned the weather
forecast avidly for days and a scorcher was promised for the day ahead.
I wanted these big bikers and their women in good spirit, I'd heard a
rumour that if they ran out of roast pig, the press were second in line
on the spit &;#8230;beaten only by the local constabulary.

As little as four short years ago I'd have been an integral part of
this festival, riding in proudly on my trike. Yes I'm about to display
my former credentials, I rode a Reliant based Trike with a two-litre
Datsun engine, like sh*t off a shovel and turned on a two-penny piece.
Today though although I had dropped my roving reporter two-piece for
black leather waistcoat, tight jeans and stiletto boots I was in the
guise of Sooz Simpson, Regional Reporter for the North-West
Gazette.

The day was destined to be a long one six-a.m. until midnight and I
didn't want to miss a second of it. I mingled with the gathering crowd
as bike after bike rode up and parked in the first of the five fields
donated for the day by the ever-trusting Farmer Davies. There was no
class or national distinction here. 1000cc plus Goldwing's and
Kawasaki's parked along side 50cc 'fizzer's' which in turn were flanked
by Harley Davidson's built like tanks with side panniers and faring the
size of a pilot's cockpit. The big flash American and Japanese had
their place but were dwarfed in number by the good old biker 'hog'
Triumph and Enfield, Beezer and in some cases British had made room for
it's Russian cousin the Cossack and Checeslovakian CZ's

In this age of fibreglass and ever-faster speed the traditional British
biker is a dying breed, but he lives on, as proud and erect as his past
middle aged back will allow. Another peculiarity of the fastidious
old-biker is that he goes to great pains to make a paragon of
mechanical engineering look like a hunk of cr*p. The uglier the bike
looks, and the louder the noise that emits from its baffle-less
exhaust, the greater prestige it's owner commands. Soft tails and
suspension are out, hard tails and bum segs are the order of the day
here. However you don't have to go to the Tate Modern to see a display
of the finest artwork the country has to offer, just walking along the
line of bikes was an exhibition of quality.

The first man I interviewed refused to say a word until he had bummed a
fag off me, oh and one behind his ear for Ron &;#8230; Later on. I'd
like to recount the interview but it would be highly inaccurate after
I'd deleted the fourteen expletives per sentence that formulated his
preferred speech pattern. Like most of the old-bikers Rolf builds his
own bikes from the ground up. Only a biker would ever call these
machines beautiful, but they are certainly an art form like no other.
He has designed and built bikes with genuine coffin chairs (sidecars)
Trikes with tanks made from kegs stolen from various pubs around the
town and choppers (low-rider's) with forks extended as far as the law
would allow.

He said he'd have appreciated a few extra hours in bed but that he had
to come early to avoid the scufters (police) He had just that morning
put his 'party tank' on for the occasion. This may sound like an item
of formal attire but is in fact a bulbous teardrop fuel tank sprayed
purple and adorned with a devil holding his penis the size of
ben-nevis. Above the letters FTW I heard two variations of what the
abbreviation means and neither of them were Fine Thermal Weather. Rolf
explained that after being pulled by the police some months before he
was fined two hundred pounds for a public decency disorder and ordered
to remove the tank from his bike. Quite rightly (in his opinion) he was
piously indignant about this as he says his artwork is an extension of
his personality and to oppress the art is to oppress the artist. Can't
argue when you put it like that Rolfie Mate.

By the time I'd finally prised myself away from the irrepressible Rolf
the rally was well under way. The grounds were filled to capacity with
upwards of two thousand people. And this was one of the smallest
Rally's in the event's calendar. The day was a real family affair with
children as young as three running wild and racing in between the lines
of parked bikes. These kids had been conditioned from the youngest age
that the holy bike was not to be touched, knocked against or bumped
into. These feral but happy kids had in-built bat-radar that allowed
them to run full pelt not only between the parked bikes and cars but
also between the moving ones without causing damage to themselves or
God forbid the precious machines.

Women with tattooed breasts fed their children openly nature's way. And
any adult was any child's parent for the day. People had travelled the
length of the country to be here, yet everybody knew that that was so
and so's kid, or the child of a friend of a friend. The men thought
nothing of cuffing the kid's ears if they got out of line, but the
children never recoiled in fear.

Bands were setting up on the four stages and the first aromas of
cooking food were beginning to waft across the fields. Side stalls
selling local crafts and produce were rising from the fields. A fair
ground was being erected for the children and later the adults fuelled
with the cheapest bitter for miles.

Three fields away a cheer went up from the crowd and the ground beneath
my feet trembled. This could only mean one thing ... The beer tent was
now in session.

I met Joe Lee the mobile tattooist, even before he had set out his van
a crowd gathered to peruse his design books and raise their courage.
Mr. Lee is a monument of a man. He stands seven foot tall and weighs in
at well in excess of twenty-five stone. He is over fifty years old. The
top of his head is completely bald and shiny yet he flicks-the-bone at
Mother Nature by having a grey plait trailing to below his waist.
Similarly at the front he has a beard lacking of it's original colour
that meanders to his crotch. "Something to P*ss against when it's cold"
he informs me. Joe has no teeth, but he has a smile that could warm the
coldest heart on the bitterest of winter mornings. His voice is
timbrous and gravely the kind of voice that could terrify children, but
not these kids a small posse of them has gathered round him.

"Joe, Joe Giz a tat Uncle Joe."

"F*** Off you little B*****ds or I'll add yer heads `t me totem
pole."

The kids run off screeching in delight, but they'll be back and Joe'll
be delighted to see them when they do. There's not many giants who are
'uncle' to hundreds of kids.

He begins the days work. His first customer of the day is a young lad
with a big bravado, but a sheet white face. Joe checks his ID and
begins to talk to him, he goes through his health and safety procedures
with the lad as he opens fresh packets of needles and makes a display
of loading his tattoo gun. His bass baritone voice becomes gentle and
soothing. He calls the lad sweetheart which alarms him, but Joe calls
everybody sweetheart he loves to wind them up. As he begins to tattoo
one of the boy's mates throws him a joint to help ease the pain.

"No you don't sweetheart," he says "that's your reward for later, it
thins the blood and sensitises the nerve endings, if you smoke that now
it'll hurt twice as bad. And my reward for later is that you get to
make me one for putting up with yer."

It doesn't matter how long his queue is, Joe will not be hurried and he
has one spliff and one pint between each customer. It doesn't matter
how many joints he smokes or how many pints he drinks the quality of
his work will be as excellent by midnight as it is at nine-o-clock. Joe
has a degree in medicine. His intelligence and his soothing words have
a hypnotic pull that puts you instantly at your ease.

The morning is a time for everyone to catch up with their old friends
and make new ones to meet up with next time. The stalls are browsed and
the traders make good profits. The beer flows and the spirits soar.
Foods from the corners of the world are sold from vans and stalls.
Chile and curry, hot dogs and burgers, pizza and fahitas. Home-made
soups and salads. But by far the most popular dish of the day is the
pork and apple sandwiches that give the rally its name. Sizzling lumps
of pork are expertly carved from full and still headed pigs as they
turn lazily on their spits. They are thrust into warm garlic baguettes
and slathered with fresh and tangy applesauce. At one fifty a shot they
can't be beaten.

The bands begin at two-o-clock. Folk band and rock bands, Alternative
and indie punk and reggae. Most tastes are catered for There's even a
country band and I'm amazed to see thirty of the hardest a*sed bikers
their ladies and children get up to line-dance, it's quite a spectacle.
Not a Stetson in sight but plenty of leather and tassels.

There's nothing sexist about this rally the traditional
Miss-Wet-T-shirt competition is closely followed by the Mr. see-through
shorts comp. Though by the end of the show not a man standing still had
his shorts on. Some had even painted their willies for the
occasion.

The guest artist of the day was an old folk-rocker who has never gone
out of fashion. I can't name him because as he walked on the stage his
first words were "Has anyone got a spliff for an old man? I can't sing
without one." Steadily throughout the show as spliffs were rolled there
was an extra one done for Roy. From the beginning of his performance to
the end he was never without a joint in his mouth. The stage was
littered with joints, hundreds of them. It's said that he hit upon this
trick in 1956 and has never scored his weed any other way since. The
crowd roared their appreciation through his performance, but as the
last refrain of 'As an old cricketer leaves the crease' died away to
Roy walking off the stage a silence fell over the people in reverence
of an old rocker who is still going strong.

For me the best part of the day was at ten-o-clock when the literary
talent of the fest' got to read their work. Poems and stories of biker
days and biker ways and no other sound was heard as clear voice after
voice got up to perform their work. Comedy pieces were in the main but
serious ecological issues were addressed and tales of travel and
wonder. The recitals were over and the lights went down, but it was a
sham. Everyone knew there was one more piece to perform. There was
silence, complete and utter silence and the air became charged with an
air of pure adrenaline and anticipation. A single clap rang out into
the stillness of the summer night. Sheila Burns the wife of
Tommy-Bomber-Burns was clapping slowly like a metronome. A second clap
joined hers her little girls, for five beats theirs were the only
sounds to be heard. Already Sheila had tears streaming down her face.
Slowly, gradually everyone knowing their place others began to clap and
after thirty-two beats the crowd joined in. Everyone knew the drill.
Newcomers already knew about the Little Tommy Burns memorial poem. The
crowd parted as the Red Sea parted for Jesus and one man stood at its
entrance. Hazza used his crutch to walk up to the stage. It is the
one-day of the year that he doesn't wear his leg.

He clears his throat and begins to recite the poem he wrote for his
best mate Thomas Burns who was killed on the 16th January 1985. The
world stops turning for those three minutes and not a sound breaks the
mood. Grown men and feral children alike cry openly, not just for Tommy
Burns he is simply a symbol of all the good men killed on Britain's
roads every year. Yet although the emotion spreads through the throng
and affects every single person there, nobody sobs aloud, tears stream
but there is an eerie quiet the likes of which I've never heard before,
silent tears track firelit cheeks. Even babes in arms fractious and
tired have stopped their bawling.

At the end of the poem Hazza takes his purple candle and lights it
Every person on that field has their own purple candle. Not one person
has brought one with them they all buy them on site at a cost of one
pound each. The candles are lit and silent prayers or thoughts are
offered for the lost bikers of England. One by one anyone who has lost
a loved one through any cause goes up to the stage and burns their
person's name in the candle flame and when the ash falls to the earth a
handful of rose petals is sprinkled over the top of it. This takes some
time and after the first few have been witnessed people begin to
quietly disperse. I haven't witnessed this ceremony for five years but
it hits me as strongly now as it ever did the first time.

The evening ends in a gathering round the fire. The fireworks are lit
and songs are sung. The first song of the night is always 'Too Old to
Rock n Roll' by Jethro Tull and the final song of the night is the
Irish war poem. The Fields of Atherny. What is lacked in talent is more
than made up for in enthusiasm. But even old British bikers and their
folk can sing some sweet, sweet music. Never can I hear The Fields of
Atherny without thinking of the Spitting Pig Bike Rally, remembering
the smells and sounds, without thinking of friendship, and love and
being part of something good and something big.