Black Leather Jacket The Book Free

BLACK LEATHER JACKET
GODS GRACE FOR A GANGSTER DAVE SCOTTIE SIMPSON aka STYLES
edited by Brenda Burgess
http://blackleatherjacketthebook.com/get-it/
2010 D. Simpson This edition October 2010. Printed by Docucor Printers Killarney Gardens, Cape Town ISBN: 978-0-620-47696-6 Printed in the Republic of South Africa ** DISTRIBUTORS: Gauteng and surrounding area: Chrisna van Rensburg (Kakkerlak Uitgewers) Tel. 011-766 4015 / 083 234 0245 / kakkerlak@mweb.co.za
Cape Town and rest of South Africa: Brenda Burgess (editor of Black Leather Jacket)
gblinc@telkomsa.net
For a copy of Daves testimony on DVD, please contact Chrisna van Rensburg (Kakkerlak Uitgewers) Tel. 011-766 4015 / 083 234 0245 / kakkerlak@mweb.co.za or black.leather.jacket.biker@gmail.com
DEDICATED TO ____________________________________ Jesus of Nazareth, He who creates galaxies, spits out suns, conquered Hell and Deathtook our sins on his battered and broken body, on a tree that he had created. The name that makes demons tremble and empires disappear. The Lamb thats now on the Mercy Seat but will judge the quick and the dead as the Lion of Judah! Jesus of NazarethHe who calms our storms creates our rainbows and abides in that still small voice. Its also dedicated to Gypsy the one they all could never be.
INTRODUCTION
This edition of Black Leather Jacket has been edited and toned down as far as is realistically reasonable! From the media response in Christian and Biker magazines, it appears that 99% of those who wish to buy it want the unedited version. The original very hardcore version will be released at the end of next year, alongside the movie. Some of the events like prison rape scenes, killings and death in battles to defend this country, biker shoot-outs, etc, etc, happened before I was saved: how do I express my feelings at the time? There is nothing blasphemous or vulgar in here - there is a sprinkling of the F word, thats about it. I mean, picture this real-life scenario: Im in the middle of an ambush, three of my brothers have just been killed one millisecond ago, Im diving for shelter, what I should say? Oh, Defecate! or Oh, SSShit!!! I dont own this book; it belongs to Jesus of Nazareth who is God in the flesh. It was not sent to save the saved. It was sent to show all the hardcore souls out there that God understands their language, and unconditionally loves them before they even turn to him! If you are easily offended or have a problem with the author, or are going to look for spelling mistakes then Please! Please! Dont buy this book! Put it down and hou verby. Im sure Ill survive, thank you kindly, nuff said (enough said). It is a message of grace, hope and redemption in the life of one of us others, those who never really fit into society. It shows that Heart of God the Father still reaches down to touch the hearts of his lost prodigal sons and daughters in these last
days! Most of the book describes the ugly side of life, but you cannot be saved unless you know what youre being saved from. I have not written with the thought of courting the approval of men and I seek not vain glory. I have ventured into the deepest realms of myself with The Holy Spirit and tasted the waters of Life, which bring joy and peace and I have lived with the thirst of death that never gets quenched. I have seen demons and the gates of Hell. I really dont care if you believe me or not, I never asked for these things to happen to me there were times I thought I was losing my mind, there were other times I got cabin-fever, the beast surfaced and I tried to run away from God. But He was always there, and that still small voice led me back time and time again, until I finally understood that God is so Great and out of the box, that if all the greatest minds that ever existed were combined, they would still be as a grain of sand in the Universe! Black Leather Jacket (without the sub-title Gods Grace for a Gangster) started out as my personal story, on scraps of school exercise books 40 years ago. Putting all the notes and scraps together was supposed to be a few months' work before I retired. But then ten years ago I got saved, and God took me further and further into His never ending ocean of knowing Him. And that crossroads in my life meant this book took another ten full years before it was finished. Jesus is real. How do I know? Because Ive been in His presence many, many times. If you can put this book down after reading it and walk away and say: I have gleaned at least one-percent of knowledge from reading it, then to me its all been worthwhile. By the same token if you are one of those that still claim Im not ready to have that face-to-face with this Jesus were talking about, its not time yet, I still have stuff to do, or Im a good
person Jesus knows my heart, then I will put it to you in Jesus own words: Before I came they had an excuse to deny me, but now that Ive been, they have no more excuses. Youve read the book, even if you havent yet read the Bible, and when He calls you to account you cannot plead ignorance. You can condemn the messenger but be careful what you do with the message. May you be Blessed. Dave Scottie Styles Simpson Johannesburg, October 2010
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION..........................................................................4 INTRODUCTION..........................................................................4 CONTENTS 7 BOOK ONE 15 BOOK ONE 15 Prologue 16 INDEPENDENCE DAY RALLY HOLLISTER, USA.....................25 THE MOVIE - THE WILD ONE.....................................................28 BLACK LEATHER JACKET ..........................................................29 AFTERMATH...................................................................................32 Chapter 1 35 Chapter 1 35 PAVEMENT & TAR HEROES....................................................35 PAVEMENT & TAR HEROES....................................................35 FLIP OF A COIN AND A JAIL CELL.............................................38 DUCKTAILS AND THE LOWER EAST SIDE..............................43 THE DEMON COP...........................................................................53 THE METAMORPHOSIS OF A GANGSTER................................55 JUVENILE DELINQUENTS...........................................................60 FROM NO HOUSE TO THE BIG HOUSE.....................................62 SUBUBIA , LSD AND WOODSTOCK...........................................65 Chapter 2 69 Chapter 2 69 ONCE WE WERE HEROES.......................................................69 ONCE WE WERE HEROES.......................................................69 VIR VOLK EN VADERLAND........................................................69 THE LAND OF THE TERMINATORS...........................................72 GIVE A GANGSTER A GUN..........................................................79
A CRAP PARADE...........................................................................87 THE STORY THAT BECAME AN URBAN LEDGEND...............88 KINGS POST..................................................................................91 GYPSIES AND GUITARS...............................................................93 DETENTION BARRACKS..............................................................96 Chapter 3 98 Chapter 3 98 THE FORGOTTEN WARS..........................................................98 THE FORGOTTEN WARS..........................................................98 HISTORICAL BACKGROUND......................................................98 FIRST BLOOD.................................................................................99 THE WATCHERS...........................................................................103 BORDER COOKING.....................................................................107 MIN DAE........................................................................................110 Chapter 4 112 Chapter 4 112 THE KILLING FIELDS OF ANGOLA.....................................112 THE KILLING FIELDS OF ANGOLA.....................................112 HISTORICAL SKETCH -..............................................................112 The Other Forgotten War (1975-89)................................................112 DOGS OF WAR..............................................................................114 1988 DIARY ENTRIES..................................................................116 REFLECTIONS..............................................................................118 Chapter 5 121 Chapter 5 121 THE ORIGINAL BREEDS........................................................121 THE ORIGINAL BREEDS........................................................121 INTRO ........................................................................................121 SOME COLOURFUL SLANG.......................................................121 ENTER JOHNNY WING LAW.....................................................125 THE INVISIBLE BROTHERHOODS IN SOUTH AFRICA........130 COLOURS, BLOOD OATHS AND DIAMONDS........................133 BREEDS ON STEEDS...................................................................135 THE RUSH.................................................................................137
THE CLUBHOUSE AT 365 MAIN STREET, JEPPE....................138 QUEENS, TEENS AND BLUE-JEANS........................................139 BANK ROBBERS, CHARITY COLLECTORS AND HOMEBOYS .........................................................................................................141 Chapter 6 149 Chapter 6 149 SHOW-DOWN...........................................................................149 SHOW-DOWN...........................................................................149 IMAGINATION..............................................................................149 SEVEN SISTERS...........................................................................150 THE SPLIT.....................................................................................156 THE RETURN AND MERCURY RISING....................................159 ENTER THE GERMAN.................................................................161 IF YOU LIVE BY THE SWORD...................................................163 THE NIGHT THE JOLLING STOPPED.......................................166 SOMEWHERE IN SWAZILAND..................................................171 AMBUSHED!.................................................................................171 NEWSPAPER CLIPPINGS............................................................179 Chapter 7 207 Chapter 7 207 THE GANG IN BLUE...............................................................207 THE GANG IN BLUE...............................................................207 THE PANADOS THAT STARTED A GANG WAR......................217 DO NOT HUNT THAT YOU CANNOT KILL..............................220 BOOK TWO 222 BOOK TWO 222 Chapter 8 222 Chapter 8 222 SUN CITY 222 SUN CITY 222 THE PLACE OF PAIN...................................................................222 DEMONS IN DUNGEONS............................................................229 THE LITTLE CELL OF HORRORS..............................................237 OVERCOMING THE WHITE BOY IN YOU...............................241
THE BELLY OF THE BEAST.......................................................244 THE DUNGEON MASTERS.........................................................246 ERASE SCARFACE ......................................................................247 Chapter 9 267 Chapter 9 267 THE MOTHER OF HELL FACTORIES...................................267 THE MOTHER OF HELL FACTORIES...................................267 THE BIG HOUSE...........................................................................267 OBSERVATION AND PSYCHOPATHS........................................273 THE HANGMAN COMETH.........................................................279 FROM MY PRISON JOURNAL................................................279 BEVERLY HILLS...........................................................................283 DEAD MAN WALKING................................................................286 THE BANDIET BREEDS..............................................................289 A STRANGE COP..........................................................................297 Chapter 10 302 Chapter 10 302 JURASSIC PARK......................................................................302 JURASSIC PARK......................................................................302 ZONDERWATER ..........................................................................302 HEADS IN TOILETS.....................................................................303 A TIGHT CORNER........................................................................305 DAY ONE.......................................................................................306 DAY TWO.......................................................................................308 DAY THREE...................................................................................309 DAY TWENTY-NINE....................................................................310 INTO THE YARDS.........................................................................313 PSYCOPATHS AND GYMS..........................................................315 SUZIE Q..........................................................................................316 WHEN IRISH EYES ARE CRYING.............................................317 A HOLE IN MY SOUL...................................................................318 THE OLD CONCENTRATION CAMP.........................................321 MR BOJANGLES...........................................................................323 THE BREW FROM HELL.............................................................327
TIME FOR PRISON LUNACY.....................................................332 THE END OF THE TUNNEL........................................................335 Chapter 11 337 Chapter 11 337 AFTER HELL FACTORY.........................................................337 AFTER HELL FACTORY.........................................................337 THE DAMAGE DONE..................................................................341 THE COP THAT HELPED A ROBBER.........................................342 A HOT MILLION...........................................................................343 THE GATHERING STORM..........................................................362 THE JOKER IN THE PACK.........................................................370 AN OUTLAW SHERIFF DOUBLE JEAPORDY ......................373 Chapter 12 378 Chapter 12 378 THE BREEDS AGAIN..............................................................378 THE BREEDS AGAIN..............................................................378 HISTORY........................................................................................378 THE BEAST STIRRETH...............................................................381 SOME CHARTER MEMBERS......................................................382 THE DOWNSTAIRS......................................................................394 ONE HOT SATURDAY AFTERNOON.........................................395 OF MICE AND MEN.....................................................................397 REALITY CHECK.........................................................................400 THE DEVIL WITHIN.....................................................................402 WHEN YOU WALK THROUGH THE GARDEN........................404 Chapter 13 413 Chapter 13 413 THE CAPE OF GOOD DOPE...................................................413 THE CAPE OF GOOD DOPE...................................................413 SOME COLOURFUL SLANG ......................................................413 HELL HATH NO FURY.................................................................419 THE COLUMBIAN .......................................................................420 SMUGGLING.................................................................................425 S.W.A.T...........................................................................................427
THE VISITOR................................................................................483 BOOK THREE ..........................................................................487 BOOK THREE ..........................................................................487 Chapter 14 487 Chapter 14 487 THE MEN OF THE NUMBERS...............................................487 THE MEN OF THE NUMBERS...............................................487 A BREED IN THE NUMBERS......................................................487 Satanically-inspired gangs founded on a book in the Bible............491 HISTORICAL SKETCH.................................................................494 ANATOMY OF A NUMBERS MURDER.....................................497 Chapter 15 500 Chapter 15 500 WITCHES AND WARLOCKS..................................................500 WITCHES AND WARLOCKS..................................................500 Crossroads, flyovers, side-roads, u-turns and dead-ends................500 BEYOND THE CURTAIN.............................................................501 A DIVINE APPOINTMENT..........................................................505 THE POTTERS HAND.................................................................513 CASTING DOWN THE ALTARS..................................................517 AS FOR ME AND MY GANG, WE WILL SERVE THE LORD..534 Chapter 16 536 Chapter 16 536 THE LOOONG FALL................................................................536 THE LOOONG FALL................................................................536 WALK THE WALK & TALK THE TALK.....................................536 A RELUCTANT CHRISTIAN.......................................................537 HELL IS REAL...............................................................................541 WITNESSING AT HELLS GATES...............................................543 THE HIGHWAYS AND THE BYWAYS.......................................549 Chapter 17 551 Chapter 17 551 THE FORBIDDEN CHAPTER.................................................551 THE FORBIDDEN CHAPTER.................................................551
THE LUCIFER STRATEGY..........................................................552 WITCHCRAFT...............................................................................559 JESUS MISSION...........................................................................559 THE GREAT WHITE THRONE JUDGEMENT...........................561 THE FEAR OF GOD - THE LOVE OF GOD................................561 REVELATION 20:11......................................................................563 SOUTH AFRICAN BIKER PROTOCOL.................................572 SOUTH AFRICAN BIKER PROTOCOL.................................572 Part 1 572 Part 1 572 OVERVIEW....................................................................................572 RECOGNIZING CLUB PATCHES................................................577 DEATH OR SERIOUS INJURY....................................................580 ACCIDENT GUIDELINES............................................................581 INTER CLUB RESPECT...............................................................582 WITH REGARDS TO OUR WOMEN...........................................584 ARE YOU MY BROTHER?...........................................................586 PARKING YOUR BIKE.................................................................587 RALLY RULES..............................................................................588 THE RULES FOR BIKING:..........................................................590 So you want to start your own motorcycle club?............................592 BIKERS PROTOCOL................................................................597 BIKERS PROTOCOL................................................................597 Part 2 597 Part 2 597 THE LONG AND WINDING ROAD TO BIKER BROTHERHOODS........................................................................597 CLUB STRUCTURE AND ORGANIZATION.............................599 Sergeant-at-Arms............................................602 Public Relations Officer.................................603 Road Captain..................................................603 Honorary Members.........................................605 Meetings (aka Church)...................................605 Constitution and Bylaws................................606
CHRISTIAN MOTORCYCLE CLUBS.........................................610 GANGS OR CLUBS?.....................................................................613 BIKER FAMILIES..........................................................................616 TRIBUTES AND OFFSPRINGS...................................................619 IN A NUTSHELL...........................................................................620 EPILOGUE 622 FURTHERMORE...................................................................623 FINAL WORD...........................................................................624 FINAL WORD...........................................................................624
BLACK LEATHER JACKET

GODS GRACE FOR A GANGSTER
BOOK ONE
There are only two causes Id die for: my Club and my familyin that order. - Styles
Prologue SNIPERS KILL THREE BIKER GANGSTERS OUTSIDE JOBURG NIGHT CLUB
(Newspaper Headlines all over South Africa, 1983 )
Scottie - shoot him! Shoot the bastard! Johnny's voice ripped across the street; behind him, through the crowd, I saw the Germans pale face. The beast stirred within me as I clenched my hands and moved towards Peter Grote. I hated his guts and now I could finally settle our score. As Johnny reached me, he grabbed my gun out of its side holster, spun around, and pulled off a shot, but by then I had seen that familiar silver shotgun in our former Warlords hands, and he was raising it up to shoot, a move Id seen him make dozens of times before during our target practices, he never missed. At the sight of the shotgun my training took over and instinctively I screamed at Johnny, Dive, bra, dive this moegoe looks like hes going to shoot! and dived under the nearest car myself. All around me I could hear the heavy roar of hunting rifle, shotgun and small arms fire; it felt like I was back in the Angolan bush. Those few seconds felt like a lifetime. It is one of the most nerve-racking experiences in life to be shot at from all sides, all the worse if you are unarmed. A real-life
nightmare, its like being tossed around by a wave, you're helpless and disorientated deep inside your spirit you know that death is in the air, its long black talons searching to rip you down into the gaping jaws of a fiery hell. I could hear the ricochet of bullets on the pavement and tar; I lay under the vehicle, my muscles tensed, any minute now I expected to feel the familiar warm sting of lead tearing into my flesh. Then silence. I smelled bitter cordite and felt the ringing in my deafened ears. Far off in the distance I heard women scream, one after another. Turning my head, I saw Johnny Laws outstretched gloved hand still clutching my gun just a metre from my face. In shock, I called to my brother: Johnnyhey boet are you okay? But he didn't move at all. No No No No No!!! I screamed in blunt denial. I staggered up, slipping in the thick, black blood that was still forming a puddle around his body and my boots. I was ice cold. Johnnys head had been virtually blown off, and I was covered in blood and other stuff. Alex lay on his back, a gaping wound in his chest, his unseeing eyes still open in shock. Rashid Khan sprawled lifelessly on the tarmac. I howled at the top of my lungs, pain and anger erupting from deep within my soul, as I felt the beast rise up in me. I saw a Panting Panty Rider walking out of the Club and flew into him like a demented demon. Too late, the cops arrived with sirens blaring, jumping out of their vans, beating up Breeds, Stepchildren and Chapter 13 gang members with batons, shotgun butts and handcuffs. There were dozens all over me and I tried to fight back, but with my hands cuffed I was virtually kicked into the van and lost a rib in the battle. **************
The cops finally let me out of their van where Id been raging and banging for the last couple of hours while they did their investigations. I went to one of our safe-houses to see a brother known as The Hermit. I sat down and took the joint he offered, took some deep hits and washed it down with Jack Daniels. As the red hot poker hit my throat, I closed my eyes, and tried to piece together the fragments of the picture, backtracking from my knock on the Hermit's door The entire incident was surreal; it felt like I was in a nightmare and coming down from a bad acid trip. But it was real - it had happened, I knew, because Johnny Laws brains were still spattered all over my leathers and denims. Even while holding the newspaper in my hand I noticed blood, pieces of bone, and chunks of grey matter splashed onto my gloves, clothes, and hair; it was everywhere, even in my mouth. I couldnt get myself to go wash it off; it was a part of my brother, and our outlaw code required blood for blood! The Hermit was staring intently at me, eyes full of questions and anger. He had gotten out his Uzi and sawn-off shotgun, donned his Special Forces beret and bullet-proof vest, ready for war. A war that had been brewing a long time against a splinter group of ours called The Flying Brothers (known to us as The Panty Riders). They were some ex-Breeds that had revolted and left the Club with our former Warlord, the crazy German with Nazi blood coursing through his veins. I started analysing the events from a tactical point of view; the conclusions I reached were so absurd and shocking they couldnt be true. I remembered my uneasiness during the entire evening; my soldiers instinct kept ringing alarm bells. Why was my brother Breed (known as the Irishman) doing his best to get me drunk and mad? Why were the lights outside the Club so much brighter than usual, and why were they shining onto the street, lighting us up like actors on a stage? All the coloured lights had been removed and replaced by
spotlights; it was a perfect ambush setting. I remember looking up at the roof a few times during the night, but it had been too dark to see anything. I was to find out much later that three rifles with telescopic sights had been trained on me all the time. The German had given the order to take me out first, because I was always the one to start the 'kill-clock' (precursor to a CSW Club Sanctioned War). But now Im wondering where the hell my Bulldog is (38 Special). The last time I saw it, it was disappearing into the crowd! We also found out later that crooked cops at the highest level had combined with various other gangs that night to set up the execution ambush. ******** *****
The Funeral Procession for the Breeds killed in the ambush. It was the biggest mass Biker cortge seen in Africa, with over 2,000 bikes taking part.
I made a number of calls to the brothers. It began to look as if we'd been set up from inside our own gang. I had a bad feeling about the Irishman; although we wore the same Patch, he'd always wanted control of the Club. If he was behind the shootout, I'd take him out; but I needed to know who else was involved because now other names were cropping up. Just where did the drug lord known as the Fatman fit in? Then the Fatmans brother (Louie) was mentioned as an undercover cop.1 He had joined us a few months previously as a prospect and was on the verge of becoming a fully-fledged member. Our brothers blood was screaming for revenge from the tarred Joburg streets. As outlaws we never dialled 911 for our problems; we took care of our own business. Now I was the highest ranking Breed left in the country. A full blown anti-social psychotic fuelled on drugs and hate, with a whole war-chest of loaded weapons, mad as hell and itching to level the score. I called a war council - it was time to really set the kill-clock in motion. That morning, law-abiding citizens and gangsters read the newspaper headlines of the previous night's shoot-out with morbid fascination. English and Afrikaans news bulletins on TV and radio had further information; but it was the talk show hosts who wallowed in the sordid details, earnestly interviewing scores of Bikers while fielding phone calls from
1
Later we found out he was a cop who'd had infiltrated us and was ferrying information to both gangs and the cops.
victims of the hardcore gang known as The Breeds. During the 1980's, Johannesburg had some of the toughest cop forces in the world: specially trained task forces, anti-riot teams and the crack murder and robbery units. The Nationalist Government had the South African Defence Force on permanent standby to fight wars in the townships and on the borders. Meanwhile the CCB (Civil Co-operation Bureau) systematically worked on Project Coast, the governments topsecret chemical warfare programme of genetic engineering and assassinations. It also included flooding the townships with large amounts of Ecstasy, Mandrax and Dagga as a form of crowd control.
The collaborator 4th from right, skulking in the shadows.
The cops (under the Special Branch) were infiltrating the Biker gangs to see who had Communist ties and were supporting
the illegal African National Congress (ANC). Nelson Mandela had been in prison since 1964. The Countrys laws gave South Africa the dubious distinction of having the third highest judicial execution rate in the world. Authorities were desperate to infiltrate The Breeds because it was the first multiracial Biker gang in the countrys history. It irked them that these gun-wielding Coloureds and whites rode around and jolled together, running prostitute and drug dens while having regular shoot-outs with gangsters in the Coloured ganglands, and audaciously creating havoc in the white suburbs! Wherever you went there were signs reading: Whites Only. This made it difficult for the brothers to party in the white suburbs, so we were forced to organize our jols in countries like Mozambique, Swaziland, South West Africa, and Botswana. This made us proficient in long-distance riding (it also helped with our smuggling operations). We hated the government, like all true outlaws should. New night-clubs welcomed us white Bikers but often turned away our Coloured brothers, so we simply trashed the joint, terrorized the patrons - and then brazenly offered protection to the owners. The Breeds were the original Bouncer gang: Johnny Wing Law was the leader, I was the Chairman, and Alex Rufus was the Warlord. We were affiliated to a few other Biker Gangs, like the infamous Chapter Thirteen run by outlaws Mike Mittens (Jubes) and King Rat, as well as some hardcore Coloured gangs countrywide, holding fragile, nonaggression pacts with some of the more dangerous township gangsters. At any time we could rally up to a hundred armed soldiers very quickly. Our sister gang was known as the Stepchildren, led by their Muslim President Rashid Khan. On that fateful night, all thirty Stepchildren riders had just been Patched over to become Breeds. The four of us were standing together, opposite our former night-club (Club Imagination)
discussing Club business, when all hell broke loose and death rained down on us. ************** Some time later, after the war council, me and a few grim faced brothers went in search of the Irishman and Louie, but first we detoured to the scene of the shooting. As we rode down Claim Street I saw out of the corner of my eye a tightly knit group of Bikers fall in behind us and grinned to myself. It was Chapter Thirteen and they were all packing hardware: Jubes showed me his sawn-off with an evil grin and blood-lust in his crazy-ass eyes, King Rat looked deadpan under his mirrored Ray-Bans, but I saw his Uzzie just as we cruised around the corner into Von Welliegh street.
Me and the ItalianStallion Renato the next day at the place of execution.
It looked like a war zone. Bullet holes were every-where in buildings and walls; chunks of tar and pavement had been blown out, blood still lay thick and wet in the middle of the road; it could so easily have been mine. Icy numbness gripped my insides. I had danced with death many times, but this was different; this
seemed so big in my mind that I sensed it would echo and cause blood to flow down through many years, it would affect many lives.and it did. But there were many details that remained a mystery, and it has taken nearly 30 years for the true story of The Breeds South Africa to be told. PRE-HISTORY The road that had led me to the Von Wielligh Street massacre had its origins in two life-changing events ten thousand miles away in the USA: A Motorcycle Rally was organised A movie was made. INDEPENDENCE DAY RALLY HOLLISTER, USA Friday the 4th of July 1947 marked the ignition point of a chain of events culminating in a social revolution that shaped America and the world in a most dramatic way. After 16 years of economic depression and global war, the people of the United States were drawing breath. Yet battle-weary veterans of World War II struggled to find work and all across the country soldiers, who had awakened to the nightmare of war, found it difficult to settle into the half-sleep of the American Dream. After living on the edge so long, they were trapped in the monotony of jobs, family, mortgages, college, suburbia, and houses with white-picket fences. Many young veterans discovered a low-cost and exciting way to tour the country: motorcycles. Soon, individuals gathered into groups, sharing weekends where they rode hard and partied harder. But when Monday came, not everyone went home. Some stayed, turning the weekend Motorcycle Club into a surrogate family of full-time brothers. Two such fraternities were the Pissed Off Bastards of Bloomington (P.O.B.O.B.), and the Booze Fighters, groups that soon established the notoriety of the outlaw Biker image.
Hollister, a quiet community of 4,900 residents back then, had a motorcycle racetrack at Vets Park. This popular racetrack led the American Motorcycle Association (AMA) choose the farm town as the destination for its 'Gypsy Tour' gathering of 1947. The motorcycles started rolling in on Thursday, July 3. News reports (of the era) estimate as many as 4,000 Bikers revved their engines through Hollister's city limits. Some residents who recall the 1947 rally say the vast majority of Bikers were well behaved and polite. The mavericks, however, drank heavily. One enterprising local hotelier set up shop and offered all the beer you can drink for 50 dollars. The beer flowed freely, and when it ran out the trouble started. Bikers demanded their money back but the hotel owner had disappeared. A few rowdy brawls erupted; motorcycles rolled into the hotels bar, and Bikers raced down the main drag of San Benito Street. Some crashed and were taken to Hazel Hawkins Hospital. Hollisters Police Chief Fred Earl was an elderly man who patrolled downtown on a bicycle. On the evening of July 3, his station phone rang non-stop as residents complained about the noise and ruckus. To the law-abiding citizens, the hordes of motorcyclists must have seemed like a Viking invasion. Earl panicked - the seven officers on his police department were no match against thousands of Bikers so he called in 40 Highway Patrol officers for backup. Arrests were made, but the local jail couldnt hold all the Bikers. Cops armed themselves with tear-gas guns and herded Bikers like cattle onto a block of San Benito Street between Fifth and Sixth Streets. When a band on a truck bed began to play, the Bikers danced. (Ironically, the cops that night never dreamed they were helping start a tradition for band performances at Biker rallies worldwide.) Quick to distance them selves and control the public relations damage,
the President of the AMA denounced the Bikers, saying that 99% of all of their members are law-abiding citizens and only 1% are outlaws, and it was unfortunate that this one percent of motorcyclists should ruin it for the law-abiding 99 percent. Now just who the hell was the AMA? It was founded in 1924 as an organizing arm of Motorcycle Manufacturers to promote motorcycle riding in America. They sanctioned groups of riders from the same area that rode together as motorcycle Clubs. Some wore matching dress outfits with the name of their motorcycle Club stitched on the back of their shirts and jackets. At events, the AMA gave awards for the best-dressed Club, so this was basically the start of motorcycle Clubs Patches. Clubs that were not sanctioned by the AMA (i.e. all non-members of the AMA) were banned from attending AMA events. In order to designate themselves as an outlaw Club, the One-Percenters (1% ers) cut their Club Patches into three pieces. The top rocker was the name of the Club, the centre was the emblem of the Club, and the bottom rocker was the area from which they came. These outlaw motorcycle Clubs staged their own events and parties, and did the opposite of what the AMA had been doing. There were no Best Dressed awards, they chopped down their bikes to go faster and look different, they rode with no mufflers; they drank and displayed other anti-social antics. This began what is today known as outlaw Motorcycle Clubs and One-Percenters.2 The Hollister incident contributed to some very important Biker traditions that survive to current times: namely the OnePercenter image . To this day, the One-Percent insignia remains a badge of honour, worn with pride by those of us who define ourselves as separate from the others Ek s, ja well no fine, my bra, and so is history
2
outlaws: Not to be confused with The Outlaws biker Club from overseas.
THE MOVIE - THE WILD ONE The film struck a chord with young people worldwide and made actor Marlon Brando an icon of rebellion. Overwhelming success at the box-office prompted a string of low-budget rebel Biker movies in the 1950s and 1960s, and gave birth to an image of the outlaw Biker as an anti-establishment hero. Brandos movie character, Johnny, had a powerful impact on our psyches. The story depicts a young Biker and his gang rambling into a conservative farm town and, misunderstood, facing vigilante citizens and closed-minded authorities. Many young people around the world - including us in South Africa identified with Johnny and other nonconformist heroes of Biker flicks. As teenagers we subconsciously moulded our selfimage on the films outlaw heroes. I was ten years old the first time I saw that movie. The Embassy tea-room bioscope (soppies), was just twelve blocks from Von Wielligh Street, the place of reckoning twenty years into the future. I walked out into the street charged up, picturing myself as Brando with a leather jacket and cigarette dangling from my bottom lip. I knew then I was going to be a
bike gang leader one day. When the Shangri-Las brought out a song called The Leader Of The Pack, the leaders misunderstood sadness was my own. I knew my destiny and set out to get my first leather jacket by hook or by crook. I stole one off a hanger in Woolworths after eyeing it for two weeks; I just walked in, put it on and, chased by a big, cursing Zulu brandishing a knobkerrie, ran out of the shop as fast as I could. I made my way straight down to Joburg Station and Platform 11, then hopped on a train to Jeppe station on the Lower East Side. Ill never forget the smell and feel of that first black leather jacket; I slept in it for months. A year later I appeared (as a minor) in an adult criminal court for the first of many charges that would eventually lead to murder, bank robberies and gangland assassinations. From then on my black leather jackets were synonymous with all my court cases. BLACK LEATHER JACKET Worldwide, a black leather jacket has always signified menace: think of Nazi Storm-Troopers, Mad Max, the Gestapo, and Rock-and-Roll outlaws. The garment invests you with a certain 'power' and brings out your inherent aggression; embellished with a swastika and silver skulls, it always looks good. You all remember that moment you slipped into your first black leather jacket... you felt special; there was a heightened awareness of all eyes being trained on you. Eyes which were admiring, or jealous, or just plain wary... From then on, the leather jacket becomes your second skin. But along with the invisible psychological protection, it's also a barrier against knives, bottles, razors, and those inevitable tar burns after a spill on your bike. Unfortunately it offers no protection against bullets (but of course that depends on how high you are at that momentalcohol makes a lot of fools think theyre bullet-proof, with or without leathers on).
When running with a Biker Club, no matter what identity we pitch, each member instinctively knows that our black leathers project a dangerous, tough, confident image, and we're always ready to prove it.
My first black leather jacket, stolen from Woolworths.
The jacket perfectly complements the leather seats and chrome of our bikes. Added to our Clubs Colours, it brings in another dimension that personifies our statement to the world. When we fly our Colours, we change the reality of our social world and the way we deal with it. We have a personal and public image; in our minds, we have male independence, raw power, adventure, and that living-on-the-edge 'thing'. No matter how mundane the task, when we wear our Colours while doing it, we feel special - superior and apart. Because we are from a universe that represents
Brotherhood, Respect, Staunchness, Love, and Blood Oaths. Bikers are always a force to be reckoned with - but that only comes with the turf of self-preservation. Those Citizens who are less informed see only the surface; they see the vigilance of mutual support and the potential dangers of drawing a response from a large well-organized unit always prepared for confrontation. Death plays a significant role in our culture; there is an unseen consensus among the invisible Brotherhoods that the act of dying must regain its position as an event by bringing it into the public eye. Maybe we have a subconscious need to recreate the practices of the past where death was part of life, instead of the modern hope of dying in a bed. Perhaps we have a deep-rooted longing for death to be like that of ancient warriors and gladiators in the arena. Ironically, fame for us often lies in death: everyone knows the name of a dead Biker. The self-sacrificial act of the dying Biker killed by the machine he rides or the weapons he carries enables him to become one with his choice of technology: flesh and machine are joined in death. Oil and blood mix, its the lifeblood of both Biker and bike, and Biker and body parts are grotesquely entangled until it is difficult to discern where one begins and the other ends. If the accident isn't fatal to either of the wrecks, they can be mended with technology. The Biker and the bike are fixed with body parts and as the years pass, they compete with each other for the greatest number of transplanted parts - many seasoned Bikers have steel plates, pins, and prostheses to enable them to function as normal human beings. We gamble with death to get to the next high of the jol or for the adrenaline rush resulting from living or dying on the edge. It is just the way we are. We always seem to be attending funerals; the dead Biker is a hero, irrespective of the circumstances of his death. In this
modern day and age, most of us strongly question immortality in its religious context. We take comfort in our death culture by attending these funerals, sporting our Colours and sitting through the service knowing sub-consciously it couldve been me. Yet some of us dont picture any other way of dying unless its a violent confrontation where we will be prepared to offer up the ultimate sacrifice for our names and Club pride. AFTERMATH The Rand Supreme Court, the charge: Murder. I try to summon mental pictures of all the people who may had loved me, the ones who have shown me kindness and even the faces of my enemies, but the idea of hanging at the end of a rope keeps getting in the way. Im looking at the big wooden carving of the South African Coat of Arms on the panel directly in front of me. The motto reads: EX UNITATE VIRES In Latin this means Unity is Strength, a slogan drilled into me in primary school, juvenile jail, and finally the Army. When the death penalty was handed down in the old South Africa, the Judge would place a black hood over his head and pronounce: You will hang by the neck until youre dead! My fathers chilling words kept running over and over in my head: Your end will be in the gallows, Scottie! It seems the old man was right once again. My mind explodes with a sequence of pictures of what will happen after I am sentenced. On death row, the clothes you are given were worn by people before you - and those people are dead now. Wearing these clothes, you cant be free because youre always aware of those that have gone before you. Thats why its called Dead Man Walking. You become the living dead. There are 52 steps from the pre-execution room to the gallows room. On getting there, they waste little time. Your
death warrant is read out, and you are given the opportunity to say any last words that might come to mind. With hands cuffed behind your back, the warder places a white hood over your head. The flap in front is closed only at the very last moment, so that you can see everything thats going on around you. You are led on stiff legs through the open door to a large, brightly lit room measuring 40 feet in length. The walls are white and a long beam with seven large metal eyes runs the length of the room. In the event that you are to die alone, a single British Style noose hangs from one of themseven can hang at the same time on special occasions. Youll notice a chain hoist that raises the trapdoor. You are shuffled into position, standing on the two footprints painted over the divide of the trapdoor, and restrained by two burly wardens. The hangman puts a noose around your neck. You struggle to breathe even before the rope is tightened by a knot next to your right ear. The hangman steps back and pulls the lever to release the trapdoor. The loud whack is heard to the furthest corners of the prison. Everyone freezes, even the birds keep quiet. The warders do it that way to scare the other convicts into towing the line ********** The court is packed, and a few of my Breeds brothers and sisters in the gallery are intermixed with family members. To my right stands an armed cop with a hard stare, ready to shoot me should I try to make a run for it. To my left are stairs leading down to the cells. The walls are nice and clean at the top, but they get dirtier the further you descend. Theres a big iron door at the bottom, and the cop with the gun has the key. Downstairs I can hear loud swearing, crying, laughing, wailing and screaming, with doors slamming and keys rattling.
I know that either way, once I go down through those portals of Hells gates, I will never be the same man again. All rise. The judge walks in, looking grave. I strain to read his face, looking to see if he is carrying the black hood, but from my vantage point, I cant see the hands that carry my life. I straighten up tall and stand to attention, as a President of The Breeds should. He sits down and stares a long time at the papers in front of him, and then he begins to speak. I hear no other sound but his soft voice. I start to sweat around my neck and my palms are wet, my right leg starts shaking. My abandonment is indescribable, this is the worst moment in any murder trial, its the time when even lawyers try to avoid being there I was born in Joburg, the City of Gold
Chapter 1 PAVEMENT & TAR HEROES

I was born here in the city, With my back against the wall, Nothing grows and life ain't very pretty, No-ones there to catch you when you fall3
My memory of that day is blended with those told by older family members. I'm the little blond-haired boy in a red shirt screaming at the top of his lungs; salty tears and strings of snot mingle on my cheeks. On that crisp Highveld morning, Im inside the eye of the storm of shouting, banging, and swearing; of dogs leaping and barking around me. Over the din, the familiar thud of my fathers fists smash into flesh; it sounds just like the punch bag he always hit in our back yard. Im a tug-of-war rope. Grown-up hands grab me, Im being wrenched apart, and my arms strain in their sockets. A large black man, anchoring himself to his large black car, has my legs firmly in his grip; he's pulling me closer... Then with relief my clothes give way and my mothers arms envelop me, her screams quieten to a soothing croon. Black doors slam as the car accelerates down the road, chased by exploding bullets. My dad drops to his haunches beside me and I take a shaky breath while my dog Lassie licks my face. In the 1950s Johannesburg suffered a spate of kidnappings of young white kids by witchdoctors. The victims were said to
3
The Eagles, 'In the City' (1978)
be ground down for medicine. The belief is that body parts make exceptionally powerful Muti: the sangomas make potions to remove evil spirits, increase income, bring good luck, and boost fertility. The murders are carried out to order and traditional healers describe the body parts they need: testicles for virility, breasts for luck, or a tongue to smooth the path to a girls heart. The parts are harvested while the victim is alive, to increase their potency. The highest prize was said to be a white male child with blue eyes and blond hair, preferably wearing red. I remember the explosion of fright, the smell of urine as I wet my pants. Just a few minutes before, I had been strolling back from the shop with my nanny and our collie. As we reached the front gate, a car had pulled up and another nanny and a big black man jumped out and grabbed me. My nanny screamed, and Lassie was leaping to protect me when my mom and dad came running out of the house. My dad attacked them and chased them off by shooting his German Lugar, a memento from his war days. So it looks like somebody was trying to take me out from day one! From then on, with the odds stacked against me, I got to know the face of hatred, pain, death and betrayal. More often than not it was through the eyes of those closest to me. Every human being asks: Is there a God? From the get-go I wasn't aware of His voice. I didn't feel Him comfort me through my loneliness, rejection and depression. Seems he was just another authoritarian figure school teachers used to keep us kids in line. I simply couldn't relate all the bad things I saw to a supposedly loving God. Some say its just your luck; if you're born under a lucky star you'll lead a charmed life. Others say they are born to be bad, to take what they want and then just go to their graves, having lived a full life. I grew up believing I had to make my own luck, no matter what the consequences. How could people expect me to
believe in a spiritual realm and an afterlife? If I couldnt touch or see or shoot it, it didnt exist. My daily horoscopes in the newspapers and visits to the fortune-tellers satisfied me enough to know which days were safe to commit a crime or not, they even defined my personality to the T. But who could know what rocky road my life would take? The fortune tellers never could predict the long run or the bigsleep, so I kinda figured if there was a Hell it was here on earth. Having settled that question in my mind, I felt justified to step into this dog-eats-dog world and make my own path. How could I, or any human, determine the exact point of no return, when I could kill a man in cold blood, carry on with my meal and have a dream-free sleep? Knowing I had joined the legion of the damned felt like an honor to me. When darkness enveloped my soul, would the evil be slowly permeating from within me, or would it be a sudden pouring in from the outside, or maybe a slow build-up accumulating with each of my unforgivable deeds? The friends, lovers and enemies that crossed my path would help form my character, just as their enemies would affect them. Are we all here by design or a preponderance of probabilities? Are you reading this book by chance or what? As far back as I remember I scoffed at the name of Jesus. Scientists can always prove what they say, through logical deduction and hard facts. Its always sounded more logical to me that we could only have evolved from the primordial soup. Lightening hit some dinosaur gas creating amino-acids, became concentrated, then linked together to form proteins which of course are the principal ingredients of living cells, and we started evolving from the ocean depths becoming fish, then walking onto land and so on and so forth. Now, thats common sense. I had read a book called The Origin of the Species by a guy called Charles Darwin. And if the Christians were dumb
enough to believe in an invisible Chessboard Player out in cosmic space that was their own bad luck! Other folks could probably handle some of the stuff I had to endure - if they had a team of shrinks to help them - but somewhere along the line I derailed and started running on a different set of tracks. I become that which psychiatrists and society self-righteously label as a 'sociopath with psychopathic tendencies'. FLIP OF A COIN AND A JAIL CELL The South African branch of the Simpson family tree has tattered leaves and gnarled roots reaching back to the Highlands of Scotland on my fathers side, while my mothers family is linked to the tough Voortrekkers of Dutch origin who came, saw and conquered our harsh land. I inherited a heady gene cocktail. Dad told exciting tales of his great-great-great-grandfather: the outlaw Shamus Fraser Simpson, a notorious philanderer and slave trader on the untamed coasts of West Africa. He was eventually hung on the high seas as a pirate, after eloping with a British Governors wife and all the gold in the Queens coffers. My father, David Bentley Scott Simpson, stood 6' 4 in his socks. He was a hard-drinking, womanising, brawling Scotsman, the son of a street-fighter from the backstreets of Glasgow, known as Glasgow Kielies. A boxer, a struck-off the roll lawyer, professional gambler and gangster, he had an arrest record as long as your arm: bookmaking, extortion rackets, murder, and any strong arm stuff. He also rode a large black motorcycle and was known as the legal-eagle amongst his friends the Ducktails. I can still see him dressed to the nines, Brylcream on his slicked-back hair, smelling of Old Spice, stuffing his pockets with wads of notes on his way out to play cards or bet on the ponies or dogs (illegal). Dad was sharp as a razor, fearless,
dashing, canny and tough as nails, but had a heart of gold when it came to his children. He always said he was part of that one percent of society, and would hoist the black flag with skull and cross-bones until the day he diedand so he did.
Eight months old. At what point would the soft eyes become steel?
Dad died in the middle of one of our father son feuds. I just wish I had told him how much I loved him 'in the living years'. A decorated soldier, he saw action in the North African desert with the Transvaal Scottish. He fought at El Alamein in October 1942 a battle that followed one of the biggest artillery barrages of the war. Dad was part of the column of Desert Rats who marched in the victory parade at the end of the war - into the very heart of the Third Reich, Berlin itself. He and his buddies were rough and tough soldiers, men of honour. Later, they were mercenaries in the Congo during the Mau-Mau uprisings. Some of them later became Ducktails (societys name for gangsters), unable to adapt to the drudgery
and numbing routine of peace-time life. As a kid whenever we played cops and robbers, I always wanted to be the robber, like my dads convict pals. A steady flow of crime-talk in our house, rolls of cash on tables, and flashy cars in the yard were my childhood norms. Dad loved Dodges but most of his Ducktail friends drove Zephyrs, Zodiacs, Vauxhalls, or Ford Thunderbird 500s. Others had roaring motorbikes. Their comings and goings were glamorous and thrilling to a wide-eyed youngster. I was fascinated by these individuals who lived beyond the rules and regulations of polite society. Killers, bank robbers, pimps, prostitutes and street-fighters were my heroes. Those were the people I wanted to copy, the people I wanted to hang out with, whose respect I craved. The convicts were always tough, fit, and dangerous; I wanted to be just like them and swore I would never be poor again. Fresh from being demobbed, Dad took a job as a travelling insurance salesman, destination the City of Gold. At the end of the second day, he arrived at a crossroads, obliged to choose between Bloemfontein and Graaff-Reinet. Sitting in the car, he flipped a coin and carelessly chose the small historical town of Graaff-Reinet. Once settled in the local hotel, he strolled into the bar for his favourite whiskey, only to encounter the evil eye of the local brekers. Always up for a good brawl, Dad eye-balled them back and audaciously offered to sell them medical insurance at a reduced rate if they didnt leave him alone. Instantly fists and bottles began to fly. Sergeant-major Dave Simpson had survived a world war and had no trouble knocking out two fat, out-of-shape farmers. Then he sat back and polished half a bottle of Johnny Walker (which he always called Johnny Stalker) with a cocky grin at everybody. The law arrived and promptly arrested him, but not until he had chatted up the stunning black-haired, green-eyed beauty who had entered on the arm of one of the snoring
bullies. Her name was Helen Rosser. She was Afrikaans and couldnt speak a word of English. He asked her to fetch his bag from the hotel and gave her money to settle the damages to the bar. She came to visit him every day with a plate of Boerekos until the magistrate released him with an admission of guilt fine. Helen was soon captivated by his worldly, dashing charm - and on the day of his release she was waiting around the corner with two suitcases. Against her familys wishes, she climbed into his big Dodge Kingsway and left town with the battle-hardened warrior who had learned the art of killing people with his bare hands as a soldier in service of his country. He was 20 years her senior. That was how Mom and Dad met: that first glance across a bar-room brawl ripened into a prison courtship, and somewhere on that long dusty trip to Johannesburg, I was conceived. I weighed in at 9 pounds in the old Queen Victoria Hospital on the 8th of September 1953.
My beautiful mother who put up with so much of my nonsense. She fought like a tigress for her children and flew into cop-shops many times to rescue me. Her mom, my granny, prayed for me every single day for nearly 50 years until the day she died.
Everything started out well. When I was small we lived in large houses in the suburbs of Parkview, Parkhurst, and Houghton,
with vast lawns, servants, massive pine trees and swimming pools. This was the time of the witchdoctor incident. Dad made and lost a few fortunes; at one time he owned a stable of racehorses. But gambling was his passion and his downfall; Joburg was his mistress and his playground. Sometimes Dad would let me handle the real guns from his collection; they felt heavy and powerful and he would let me walk around with one of them, then he taught me to shoot with it and I felt twenty feet tall. At the age of ten I could dismantle and clean a German Lugar, and I knew one day I would probably kill an enemy. My mother loved me and did the best she could but she had eleven other kids to worry about, seven of them girls. Mom was the beautiful Gypsy Queen who left a dull rich farmer to hit the highway with the One-Percenter outlaw. She never touched alcohol or cigarettes for her whole life. And I was always running the streets in any case. My father always said it was the pirate blood coursing through the Simpson veins from old Shamus Simpson; we all had a touch of it. I roamed at night until I knew every inch of every corner of every backyard, wherever we stayed. DUCKTAILS AND THE LOWER EAST SIDE Just as gold is ripped out of hard rock many miles underneath the city of gold, so every little bit of humanity and kindness was ripped from the soul of this kid growing up on the Lower East Side of Johannesburg in the 1950s. The City of Gold is a tempestuous, uncompromising, cosmopolitan city. Springing up from a few shanties on a farm when gold was discovered in 1886, she was soon filled to overflowing with iniquity, becoming a haven for vagabonds, thieves, murderers, pimps, and prostitutes. In those days life was cheap; men risked their lives deep in the earth only to emerge as targets for robbers and ladies of the night, swiftly
losing their sweat-earned pay packets. Swindlers and gangsters abounded. Within a short time people started pouring in from all four corners of the earth. More and more gold was discovered. Slowly the dice fell and the dimensions shifted and fell into place: the rich on one side, and the poor on the other. The white ghettos of Joburg were on the Lower East Side. On the gold-rich granite koppies, with wide tree-lined avenues and winding driveways, the hills of Kensington, Bez Valley and Yeoville were the domain of rich men and their sprawling mansions. A stones throw away, down in the dips and valleys, the working class lived in uniform rows of semidetached houses. These were tough people surviving in conditions of squalor and suffering. Their suburbs were Lower Bez Valley, Doornfontein, Jeppe, Troyeville, Fairview, Malvern and 'The South' of Joburg. But between Malvern and Jeppe a small patch of land was segmented to become the orphan of the bunch; it was given the stately name of Belgravia, like the posh suburb in the centre of London. However this devils stewing pot in the Golden City was a far cry from its namesake in the United Kingdom. In those days Bellies was a rough place with a reputation for gang violence, illegal alcohol trafficking (shebeens), poor whites, even poorer blacks, and run-down houses. This area and its cousin The South were known as the two toughest ghettos in Joburg, producing world champion boxers like the legendary brilliant Brian Mitchell, known as South Africas Road Warrior, and Pierre Fourie, who was robbed four times of a world title. There were many, many, others. 'The South' on its own also produced a whole crop of streetwarriors, and is known to have the most brekers per capita in the world. Coincidentally both suburbs also spawned many gangsters
and death-row inmates. We learned how to talk with our fists from an early age, whether we faced male or female - some women were tougher than the men. Street fighting, knife stabbing and chain swinging were common. Dad taught me how to fight. He said that a man's name was his most important possession - never swallow an insult to your family, knock on the other guy's door and hit him first with whatever weapon you can lay your hands on, but redeem your name at any cost. If I lost a fight with another kid or came home crying, hed give me a few whacks with the belt before taking me aside to teach me how to win. The moves he taught me were dirty and unfair. They included poking fingers in eyes, biting ears or noses, (which taste kinda salty) using elbows, head, feet or anything to get the better of your enemy and win. Never show tears or any sign of weakness, never forgive an enemy, and when you have revenge, be extra wicked so others will know. On our way to school we often saw free-for-alls spilling over from the previous nights jol, with cops enjoying the spectacle and even laying bets. I remember hearing songs flowing out of the houses, it always seemed to be Your Cheating Heart or I cant stop Loving You kinda stuff! Five gallon jars of a cheap wine known as White Malmsey and dagga were the Ducktails substances of choice. I remember husbands and wives having matching blue shiners. Reputations caused most of the fights. Boxing was a popular sport in the Lower East Side. The first time I laced on gloves was at Ellis Park boxing club; later I sparred at the OConnor Hall in Malvern and I remember Dad paying 20 cents a month to the Amateur Boxing Club. After two hidings in the ring, I made sure I never lost another fight again. In reality I was more scared of the hiding my Dad would give me if I came home a loser. I didnt take naturally to the discipline and training; it was much easier getting stoned and
going to jols with my friends. By that time I was already packing weapons; my favourite was an Okapi knife with its half-moon shape. I cut off the tip of the wooden handle so I could whip it out of my pocket lightning-fast and snap it open by letting it catch on the seam of my jeans. I remember the first guy I stabbed in a knife fight. The feel of the razor sharp steel going into firm flesh was like cutting a pumpkin; the alcohol coursing through my veins like a steamtrain and my mind overflowing with demons of hatred and angerI enjoyed the sensation of his warm blood squirting over me. After that it was only a matter of time before I would move on to other, more violent weapons - but for the next 40 odd years I always carried a backup knife in a pocket or sock and this pulled me out of many tight corners, collecting my own scars along the way. It was always useful, even after I fell in love with guns. So that was all probably part of the thought genesis of making my reputation as a gang-leader. But Dad soon found a name for the psychotic anger that regularly overflowed each time I got mad: he called it 'the beast'. Years later after I had stabbed a Portuguese neighbour's dog to death, he admitted that he hated the violent creature I had become, he told me he could see the demonic change in my eyes and he would go stone-cold. All his Ducktail buddies liked me and even took me on jols with them. Those original gangster outlaws were known as Ducktails or duckies. They were hated and feared by the government and society; they were notorious for gang wars, motorbikes, chains, studded belts, and flick-knives. I remember one Saturday afternoon at a matinee show of an Elvis movie when the duckies started a riot that spread from the Rialto Bioscope in Germiston to the Library Gardens three blocks away. Police broke it up with high-pressure hoses.
At home there was never enough room for me to sleep, so I gave up my space to my sisters. I used to help Mom wash buckets full of nappies and learned to heat a babys bottle to a perfect temperature. I was often in the streets stealing food to take home. I learned to snatch and grab quite efficiently I was a fast runner and never got caught. Black women used to carry their purses on top of their heads under their wrapped turbines. We would run up from behind and one of my two best friends (Dannie van Niekerk or Sakkie Landman) would smack it off. I would dart closer, scoop up the purse, and easily outrun the fat nannies. In those days the milkman delivered milk to peoples front verandas at 4am every day, mostly in upper Belgravia. Dad would get me up and out to steal for the family. The bakery van also delivered fresh bread to the local Indian shop and I would collect our share. The first vehicle I stole was a three-wheel delivery scooter full of bread and fruit, which the old madala (black man) had left idling when he hopped out to pee against a tree. I had never driven one before but managed to pick up my buddies Dannie, Sakkie and Hennie. The three of us rode around and delivered free food to the whole neighbourhood before finally crashing the scooter as we turned a corner. Then the family moved into a three-bedroom house at No. 22 Doran Street, the toilets were outside in the back yard. Trains, many of which were pulled by steam engines, would thunder past at regular intervals. The police patrolled the area in the darkness, raiding backyard rooms for black people without pass-books (ID books that allowed them to be in a certain area at a certain time). It was the era of the dreaded Pass Laws and the police were ruthless in their pursuit of offenders. The white cops had blue uniforms, the black ones had brown uniforms, and the railway police were called stasieblompotte (station flower-pots), because all they ever did was
stand around the pillars in the train stations posing in their green uniforms. We could always outrun them and one of my biggest dreams was to steal a gun from one of these cops to impress the duckies, a slightly difficult task because there was a leather cord running from the butt to his belt. All the bioscopes had balconies and a man would take your tickets at the door and add them to his string before an usherette showed you to your seat. We used public transport, either bus or train. In the early years we took the trolley buses that turned around at Malvern Bus Terminus, or the Double Decker with the platform on the back and a leather thong attached to the bell; one ring would tell the driver to stop at the next bus stop, and two rings meant he could resume driving. There was a real conductor on board to collect tickets. Measurements were in feet and inches, money was pounds, shillings pence and tickies. At Christmas the streets of Jo'burg were turned into a wonderland of festive lights. We went to see the decorations on the OK Bazaars building in Eloff Street at night, and it was safe to do so. Dave Simpson had strong ties with a powerful and notorious underworld figure known as Shariff Khan. Dad was one of the few white members in the gang and ran many illegal gambling operations. They often off-loaded stolen goods at our house late at night. Some of his other friends were well known brekers, including George the Duke, Johnny Obbie, Brian Mitchell (Senior), and the legendary Piet Bees. There was also Johnny Nell, a bouncer in the employ of one of Durban's biggest bookmakers. These were the same guys who shot the famous racehorse Sea Cottage in 1966; I remember Dad and a few of them planning it way into the night. Dad and Nell went to prison, and Sea Cottage went on to win twenty out of twenty-four races. One time in my teens I was arrested for stealing a car and
Dad was called to Malvern Police Station. He convinced the cop to lend him his belt so he could give me a hiding in a private room. Dad hit the bench and told me to scream out. I screamed my head off as if he was killing me. The cop had a satisfied grin on his face when we left there. I remember him saying: Ja, sien jy jou skelm. (Yes, thatll teach you, you thief.) But I didnt get away with it entirely; as soon as we got into the car Dad twisted my ears and sternly reprimanded me. I cant remember if it was for being caught or for stealing the car. The next moment we were laughing together. I dont recall ever seeing a Bible in our house or sitting at the dining table with all the family for a meal. It didnt make us any less of a family on the contrary, we were just like everyone else in our neighbourhood.
Dad at age 18before the war, he did more street-fighting than boxing.
PRIMARY SCHOOL AND OTHER FOOLS The first school I was put into was John Mitchell Primary in
Jules Street, and regularly sent to the Principal's office. Discipline at the school was strict; the cane ruled supreme and was wielded with enjoyment. Misdemeanours like talking in line, doing badly in class, speaking out of turn, long hair, wrong school bags, or not walking in line were all considered sufficient reason to reach for the cane. It was not unusual for teachers to grab you by your ear and twist it while marching you to the Principals office. I was constantly in trouble at school for fighting, or playing truant, and was continually on the run from cops; school Principals and the Transvaal Provincial Administration (TPA). I escaped by jumping over fences, weaving through back yards, hiding under cars and inside dustbins; crawling into ceilings and hiding in the veldt or at a sympathetic neighbours house. Our Principal was Mr. Desi, a tall, long-legged ex-athlete who could still run very fast. He always used to personally hunt me down when I bunked school. One day he had a heart attack while chasing after me. Whenever he caught sight of me after that his face turned various shades of purple, steam rising from his ears. I just smiled as I watched his hands clench in total frustration. My first Government institution at the age of nine was a Place of Safety called Norman House in Edenvale, with high walls and rows of barbed wire; it was impossible to escape. From there two large Government men took me for a long drive in a car. They kept telling me what a nice new home I was going to. It was situated 800 miles away in a place called Haenertsburg, an evergreen hamlet somewhere between Pietersburg and Hell. It seems there was always some door slamming shut behind me, leaving other people in charge of my life. As always when I arrived in a new school, I had to prove myself before the other kids would leave me alone. In Haenertsburg a clique of five kids with rich parents laughed at
me because my shoes were broken. I hated them and one day when I was off sick and told to rest in the dormitory, I broke into their lockers and made a big bonfire in the yard of their shoes. Somehow the school principal seemed to understand and I only got six jacks with the heavy cane. No-one laughed at my shoes again, but this started an ongoing feud, and I knew one day I would have to confront the bully, fat Harold. The opportunity came at one of the school holidays, while we all waited for the bus to take us to the railway station. I was alone in the corner of the dining room drinking coffee and dreaming of home when he sent his little hanger-on, a guy called Mickey, to badger me. My fathers words came flooding into my head and with them, anger. Harold was quite a scary guy, twice my size, and I was scared of him, but my pent-up emotion gave me strength. I got up from the table, went into the kitchen and came out holding in my two hands a large coffee-pot half full of boiling coffee. I walked up behind Harold. He didnt see me coming, but his friends did. Ill never forget the shock on their faces as they stared at me. As he turned around I threw the coffee over him and repeatedly smashed him in the face with the pot. I can still hear the sound of him screaming for his mommy. I was taken to the back and given six jacks, but I hardly felt it at all. For the rest of the trip back to Joburg I got respect, and fat Harold and his buddies never messed with me again: instead they gave me their tuck shop sweets and a compartment all to myself. When I got home my parents had already been told not to bother sending me back I had been expelled. But it was worth the lesson learned. It was a turning point in my life. From that day on I applied that dynamic every time I entered a new school or institution: find the bully and go for him, or at least let him know you will be watching him from the back, waiting for your chance. Bullies are all cowards in disguise. Ive never met one with the courage to stand alone.
Respect is earned, not forced. Probably, because of my childhood, I still cannot walk into a crowded room without instinctively weighing up everybody, identifying likely escape routes, possible weapons, and always keeping my back to the wall. I was always apart from the crowd, preferring to evaluate a situation. I never was very good at verbal banter in arguments, so my fists or any handy weapon did the arguing. But most of all I became a watcher from the shadows, I took out quite a few breker-bullies by flying out of nowhere with a pipe or brick, Dannie and Sakkie were always right behind me! THE DEMON COP At this point I need to bring forth another pivotal, life changing incident, probably was the biggest contributing factor in my hatred towards society and its one way laws - the black leather jacket thug against the uniforms of power. For nearly 50 years this black thing has been there silently in the depths of my soul, now I have finally expelled it and set myself free! And that takes guts my friend! When I was about eleven, a boozy-breathed ogre shattered what innocence or belief in the good of mankind I ever had. Late one night I was sitting at a bus stop in the centre of town. I had been to the movies and missed the last bus home. A big, potbellied Afrikaans man in a police uniform pulled up in a van. He questioned me as to where I stayed and about my parents. He chucked me in the van and took me to Marshal Square police station where he made me sit in an office. He was very rough and scared the hell out of me, telling me he was going to put me in a cell with big men that would do evil things to me. After about two hours he came back, took me to a single cell and left me alone. He returned with a cup of coffee and some sandwiches - then he raped me. He finally left me alone.
After a while the cell door opened again and I cringed back, but it was a black cop. He helped me clean up, gave me clean clothes that were too big for me, took me to the train station, and put some money into my hand. He was so quiet and gentle, almost as if he had done this before. I got home just as the sun was coming up and crawled into bed. I never told anyone about it, because I felt too ashamed. It was a pain I shut away for over four decades. I kept it bottled and locked away deep inside my dungeon, always thinking that it had made me less of a man. No man has ever touched me again, not even in juvenile jail or prison where homosexuality is rife. I dont even allow my family to hug me its called a dont touch me spirit. And I can categorically dispel the bullshit notion that this kind of encounter turns you instantly into a homosexual or gives you feministic traits. Ive thought about him often over the years; I would have given half my kingdom just to get him alone for five minutes.4 Those scars burned into my soul by a man I had trusted instilled an even deeper paranoid anger and psychopathic hatred in me for paedophiles, all uniforms and any form of authority. I mistrusted the world and developed a fear of losing face. I needed to win in every situation, shove my finger under everybodys nose and have my revenge. I went out of my way to buck the system and would kick the living crap out of sexual perverts whenever I encountered them. Every time I entered a prison cell, memories of the pain, the stinking smell of urine and stale-onion body sweat returned to crowd my mind. The old Marshall Square in the centre of Joburg was the first. As a young Ducktail I got acquainted with the Old Fort' and after that came an endless disjointed
Many years later I used some cop buddies to track down a name but I kept it on ice for a later date, somehow I never got to it and later found out he had died of heart failure.
4
sequence of police cells: Jeppe, Malvern, Booysens, John Vorster, Mayfair, Yeoville, and Newlands. THE METAMORPHOSIS OF A GANGSTER The first gang started out in the streets. We called ourselves the Bellies Boys and we stole and fought with others (and between ourselves). We would often go across the railway lines to George Goch township, and set up ambushes on the mine-dumps, and have full on battles with the black gangsters who were very good with katties and clay-latte (you find a long flexible branch, and make a ball of clay on one end and you swing to your target. Very, very sore). They always seemed to win the battles cause they would never stand and fight. Then one day I stole one of my Dads guns, and that took care of that Then along came Elvis Presley. He represented not only a new sound but a new look, a new way of dressing - two-tone Jarmens (shoes), a new rebel attitude (the sneer), new moves (a more sensual approach to love), new speech (all shook up), and new dances. He came at the time when we were rebelling against the older generation. He became a god that we worshipped for decades. Every girl wanted Elvis for a boyfriend and lover. We believed that because Elvis sang Gospel songs, he was a Christian and no matter what he did, it was all right by God, so it must be okay for us. And later on when we heard that he had spent hours reading the Bible aloud to visitors at the converted church building in Graceland, we actually called him our saviour. The Wayside Hotel in Joburg came to epitomise our era. Situated at the end of Jules Street, everybody and anybody thats ever jolled in Joburg has been there. Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays were a time to jol and rol. The Wayside still has the best dance floor Ive ever jived on. The drink at most of our hotel jols was brandy and Coke
(Lunatic Soup), and the barmen used to stack the glasses prefilled with tots of brandy so that they were always ready for the crowd. Denim had only just appeared on the scene, and blue jeans were not allowed in dance halls. Denim was considered dangerous and decadent until a guy called Dickie Loader and the Blue Jeans started rocking us. The fashion of the day for most band members revolved around tight stove-pipe trousers in a shade of powder blue. But most people went to the Wayside because they loved to dance. They came from rich and poor suburbs. Everyone was held together by the glue of fancy footwork, twirls and glides, the bob, the jive, the waltz, the slow-dance and the quickstep (vastrap). It was all good, clean fun, worship at the shrine of dance. I remember the mammoth jive competitions and the vigorous twist sessions. We used Brylcreem and Vitallis, and folded the cuffs of our Levis up on the inside rather than on the outside like a plaasboer (farmer). We wore steel quarter-tips and full horseshoes in our Jarmens. It made us feel tough, purposeful and in control, and everyone could hear us coming. On concrete, it made slipping and sliding more likely and it was easy to lose your footing in a fight. I remember buying my first pair of Jarmens at Bennies shoe store in Jules Street for R12.99. But a good Ducktail also had to have a pair of Grasshoppers, to bounce around during the rol. Our leather jackets gravitated to three-quarters length, meticulously polished with Dubbi for long hours in back yards, and put out to dry in the sun. Leather jackets automatically added bulk to your shoulders and arms. Most of the guys I knew who went for black leather always seemed to be spoiling for a fight, and more often than not, found one. Together with the long Elvis sideburns, a well combed Ducktail, quarter-tips on your Jarmens, a studded belt (to wrap around your fist), a white T shirt, a packet of 20 Texan Plain under your sleeve, white socks, waistcoat, aluminium knife-pointed comb in your
back-pocket, you were ready to swing your arms wide and do the Ducktail click-clack. I almost always wore black shoes and kept them well shined; these I alternated with white All Star takkies which were a favourite amongst the Tsotsies (black gangsters). And I always had nail clippers with me so I could keep my nails clean. My father had taught me early on that you could be as poor as a church mouse and wear hand-me-down clothes, but if you kept your shoes shined and your fingernails clean, you were a proper gentleman and had nothing to be ashamed of. Even the word teenager was newly minted; local radio stations were most conservative and refused to play rock 'n roll music. They said it was of the devil. We got our names into the Rand Daily Mail newspaper, which gave us our first taste of public recognition and made us think we had become brekers. They dubbed us the Anorak Gang because some bystanders saw us run and dive through the plate-glass windows of a Jules Street clothing shop late one night. We wore three or four Anoraks and crash helmets for protection; and while some were keeping lookout on the corners, Sakkie and I smashed the shop window. Everyone grabbed their 'chosen' clothing before sprinting away. We discovered that some of the alarms were so rusty they didnt even go off; after a while we were hitting anything from bottle stores to hairdressers. We carried a steel pick-head under our jackets to smash open public pay-phones and attack our enemies. One night we hit all the phone booths from Bez Valley to Mayfair. The next night we stole a car and drove to Yeoville, crashed it, and hit all the boxes from Hillbrow to Belgravia on our way home. We used our spare anoraks to cradle our coin treasure. By then we were nursing aspirations of becoming successful criminals, and spending regular time in prison (which we viewed as a gladiator school). I remember many
occasions where Duckies, visiting our house straight from prison release, talked of and planned the latest 'moves' (crimes). Dave Simpson was considered a genius for meticulous planning and advice, and usually bankrolled a move if he liked the odds. Saturday mornings were times to visit the backyards to find some action; there were corrugated iron walls running the length of the block behind each house, creating long, filthy alleyways. Negotiating pools of stagnant water, refuse and broken bottles, we peered into each yard hoping to find the Duckies 'jamming' (playing guitar) in a haze of dagga smoke. Their five-gallon jars of 'White Malmsey' had to be purchased before the bottle stores closed at one oclock and by late afternoon most Duckies were in the thick of a drunken brawl. There was an odd code of honour when it came to fighting: opponents removed their jackets and had a fair fight, man to man. They even helped to wash off the blood before getting drunk together afterwards. So what if the alcohol resulted in one more fight? Life for these men was fast and hard. I liked the fact that Ducktails were real men; they stood up for themselves and didn't take shit from anyone. They resolved their issues and disputes one on one: liberty-takers were treated with scorn. Me and my friends were the little 'run-arounds'. The Duckies had an arrangement with the bottle store for us to take back the empties (for which we got 25c) and they would all 'las' (contribute) towards some more jars, sometimes up to ten jars a jol. For a laugh they blew their dagga smoke in our faces, and it wasnt long before I couldnt get through the day without its sweet smell clouding my brain. Dave Simpson never did anything but whiskey, and hated drugs. I received the first of many sentences on my criminal rap sheet on the 14th of April 1964 (aged eleven) in the Johannesburg Regional Court. I was charged with theft and
assault (later on the assault charge was dropped), but to my mind it was self-defence; I mean, how many scrawny 11-yearolds survive an encounter with a behemoth? Fat Maggie, who lived across the road from my dad, was his opposition in the shebeen business. She hid her takings in the wall of her back yard and for days I watched and planned. One evening I snuck over the fence, moved the dustbin, pulled out the loose brick she had ingeniously fashioned, reached in and felt a wad of notes so big I could hardly get my fingers around it. The take felt good and I was pretty chuffed with my cleverness; I couldnt believe my luck. Next thing a train engine hit me on my back at full force and I found myself flying through the air. Fat Maggie. She'd seen me through her kitchen window. Suddenly all 300 pounds of her was swarming over me, screaming and swearing like a crazy elephant defending her calf. She could cuss worse than any of my Dads convict buddies, and I swear I saw smoke curling from her nostrils and ears - her curlers were melting and I was dead! Pissing my pants, I grabbed the dustbin lid and hit her on the head as hard and as fast as I could, drawing blood. I fled the crime scene, jumping six foot fences and skedaddling down the alley, kicking over dustbins and cats, without my feet touching the groundI had shoved the darling wad of notes inside one of the deep pockets of that same first black leather jacket. It probably saved my life because fat Maggie, the waddling mammoth, had ripped long scratches with her fingernails down the back and sides as she tried to yank it off! I nursed that black leather back to health with many hours of TLC and Dubbin. But she laid charges against me, claiming that I had ambushed and robbed her on the way to her outside toilet. I was shocked that a grown-up could lie like that. The magistrate bought her story and gave me a two-year suspended sentence. My buddies and I had nearly a hundred
pounds to splash out on clothing, music, jols, and cherries (girlfriends). Naturally she hated me after that and I was cocky whenever I saw her. One day she asked the monstrous local breker Piet Bees (Bees meaning bull in Afrikaans) what it would cost to give me a hiding. 'The Bees', never one to miss a gift horse, charged her 10 gallons of wine and some dagga, then promptly came over to my dads and threw a party which went on until the next day. Some time later she was arrested when her average-sized husband Peter was found naked and suffocated to death on their small bed. I always wondered what the police charged her with. That first court appearance is a mark that the Government has thrown in my face like a tattoo for the rest of my life. JUVENILE DELINQUENTS I finally started senior school at Malvern High. Halfway through that year, caught selling dagga to the other pupils, I was given six heavy canes in front of the mixed class. After the last shot the teacher put the cane down, at which point I promptly grabbed it and started beating the crap out of himhe should not have embarrassed me in front of those 'cherries'! They called the cops and I made a duck. Then I just dropped out and hung with my buddies on the streets, steadily getting into heavier drugs and progressing to more violent crimes. I was constantly in trouble, breaking into shops, houses, flats, and stealing cars. I began hanging out at the tearoom bioscopes (the soppies) from early morning till late at night. Standing outside, hustled money to go in; it cost 18c and you got a cup of coffee. We discovered another way of making easy money; we used to call it catching rabbits (gay-bashing). We would use the smallest gang member as bait for the homosexuals and perverts who frequented the place, follow them, and then rob these guys. We used to beat them up pretty badly.
By the age of 14, I was an accomplished burglar, car thief, and armed robber, running with the pack, living from jol to jol, totally rebellious and out of control. I had already turned my back on society and made the gang my family. My friend Sakkie and I become quite good at armed robbery. Friday and Saturday afternoons were our favourite times. Our mistake eventually was to get too cocky and go back to the same spots. We never used violence or hurt anybody - until one night things got out of hand. The gay boxer used to hang around the toilets at the Joburg station to pick up young boys for sex. We had seen him drop them off afterwards. He was short and stocky, had a broken nose, wore a gold chain, and apparently trained kids to box. One day we decided to rob him. Sakkie was the bait, while myself and two friends Whitey and Dannie Snyder waited outside the flat. Sakkie as usual would make an excuse and let us in the front door. We hung around on the stairwell getting edgy. It took a long time for our friend to open the door, and when he did he was crying and all beaten up. We stormed in with knives and chains, and all four swarmed over him. Sakkie went berserk, but the boxer was tough and came back swinging like a wild bull. It was quite a silent battle with grunts and objects smashing and flying all over the small flat. When he tried to choke Whitey, Sakkie and I were on him stabbing away. I know me and Sakkie got him in the throat a few times but he kept bucking us off. After what seemed a long time, his struggling ceased. We washed off and emptied the cupboards, dressing in his clothes. I took the gold chain, Sakkie got the watch and we split the contents of the wallet, hopped on a train and went home. I hardly gave him another thought, although I did scour the newspapers. No one ever spoke to us about it, and we kept quiet - real quiet.
It was almost as if it had never happened, but the bloodstained clothes we burned were for real. One day one of our other victims recognized us and followed us home. That Friday night on our way to the Wayside Sakkie and I, dressed to the 'nines' and pockets bulging with cash for our dates, were grabbed by the cops. Neither of us had been to school for a long time. They locked us up in Jeppe cop shop. Next stop was a Place of Safety and an appearance in the Juvenile Court, where I was declared a violent juvenile delinquent. Sakkie was too young and they said I'd influenced him. He went home with his Mamma and I went on to Juvenile Jail.
Me and my best friend Dannie Van Niekerk
FROM NO HOUSE TO THE BIG HOUSE I was 15. The crusty magistrate, glaring at us over his glasses, gave us a scathing lecture on good and evil, heaven and hell. I just looked at him, a deadpan expression on my face. All I could think about was a big fat stinking cop brutalising my body because he had the right, as the good guy. I felt the familiar cold steel handcuffs snapping around my wrists, but this time there was something else: leg-irons, because I was considered a dangerous, evil criminal and they were going to send me to a place to fix me up. The order for detention was made by the Court: I was going to a Reformatory. In theory, this was an Institution for the Industrial training of Juvenile Offenders. The philosophy was that the characters of youths had not yet been formed, and they were going to mould us into productive members of society. The maximum age limit for a Reformatory or Industrial School was nineteen. At fifteen I stood six foot one inch and weighed about 140 pounds. I had earned my reputation as a dirty street fighter, but I'd also been known to whip out a knife for no reason other than to just draw blood. Now I had no weapons at all to protect me. The Reformatory in Heidelberg was called Emmasdale, and we went straight there. My first glimpse of my new home was from the back seat of the Government car, where I sat sandwiched between two brawny Government men. I saw long rows of trees and fences and, across a rugby field, several double storey buildings. These were the hostels, and next to each was a smaller building, the smoking rooms: everyone was allowed to smoke at Emmasdale. I saw ranks of tough looking boys with shaven heads clad in khaki pants and shirts. While unsympathetic instructors barked orders, the inmates were either marching, working in gardens, or running around. No one was idle. The sun merciless, and sweat poured down
grim faces. No easy jol. There was no escaping the glares as I climbed out of the car. Most of these kids were bigger and tougher than me; all were more experienced criminals. I was unfit from all the dagga and booze, packing just skin and bone on my lanky frame. The odds weren't good for a knockdown and brawl fight. I could see they weren't impressed. Here I was just a small fish, swimming in a big pond. But nothing stays the same guys leave, new ones come in, and you get accepted and left alone; if you make enough waves, pretty soon youre one of the main manne watching the new fish nervously entering the gates. On my first weekend I got into a fight with the resident bully. Although I gave him all I had, he beat me up. A few months later when I'd acclimatised, I raked his face in a Rugby scrum and broke his nose; when he came back from the sick bay all bandaged up, he eyed me warily. I had a lock tied to a belt and just stared at him while I swung it against my leg. Realising that I now had supporters, Hans Potgieter left me alone. From then on, in fact, he became my buddy. And what a bonus: he worked in the Bakers shop, which helped with our food smuggling activities. The Reformatory provided training in various trades, and the Baker's shop was the best shop to be in, especially in winter when they made hot bread for all the hostels! The discipline was severe and abusive. It varied between solitary confinement, the cane, prolonged running between two posts and kneeling or standing at attention while facing a wall. We wore long-sleeved khaki shirts with closed fronts and double-breasted pockets in WW2 military style. This type of shirt used less fabric and the Government stores had tons of them. Our 'hobo funds' or pocket money of 50 cents a month paid for our cigarettes. This was a real crime school; older boys taught younger boys new vices and how to get away with
them. They taught them other things as well: older boys raped younger boys if there was no resistance. I would have at least two to three fistfights a week. It is understandable that strict discipline was necessary in a school where pupils were all considered 'hooligans,' but that was often a slim pretext for reducing boys of 16 and 17 to tears of pain after being caned for failing a test. With National Service on the horizon, we had to endure a weekly session of Cadets. Clad in brown uniforms, we were marched up and down, totally out of step; our only desire was to get the exercise over and go back to the hostels. And every week we had shooting practice with air guns; all our targets were black and had the names of black men written on them. We were actually the Hitler Youth of the country. My best friend there was Stanley Fegen, still part of my crew 40 years later. It was at Reformatory that I picked up a guitar and won my first singing competition on stage. I discovered a commendable musical talent and that it was possible to enchant people with a guitar in my hands. I can still rock the place when Im in the mood. At that time my psychological evaluation said I had behavioural problems. I didnt think so; I just stood up for my name and wanted to be left alone. SUBUBIA , LSD AND WOODSTOCK I ran away constantly and eventually got wise: I made my girlfriend pregnant so I had to get married and they could not send me back. She was 18 and I was 17. When I left the Reformatory I was halfway through standard seven for the second time, so I only had a standard six to my name. I settled down in suburbia with my first little wife, Delene, under the misapprehension that I had finally figured people and life out. I really believed I would succeed as a father and husband. I tried hard, getting up at four every morning and catching two buses and a train to work 30 kilometres away, the
same trip home late at night. But it was doomed from the start. We were not compatible, and much too young to have a family. I couldnt handle the responsibility. I had no education and worked as a machinist in various factories earning R1.90 an hour. I bought my first motorbike, a black and silver Honda CB 350 twin and hung around with a crew called The Satan Slaves, led by Charlie Wasserman. Other legends that were around at the time were Selwyn Silverman, Robbie Triggers, Criss Cross, Mad Marten to name a few. I had seen and tasted the outlaw lifestyle and a pattern soon emerged where I would hit the streets with my bike, leaving the car and family at home. One day I went out to work, and just never went home, Bruce Springsteen summed it up so well Everybodys got a hungry heart I listened to the Beatles and Rolling Stones, hard rock and underground. We believed these four Limeys in high-heeled boots, suits, and bowl-shaped haircuts were the new gods to worship. Songs like 'Love Me Do,' 'She Loves You,' and 'I want to Hold Your Hand' were innocent enough. Parents felt that they could trust us with their daughters because all we really wanted to do was to hold their hands. We applauded and agreed when John Lennon challenged Divine Supremacy in the summer of 1966: "Christianity will go; it will vanish and shrink. I need not argue about that; I am right and we will be proved right. We are more popular than Jesus right now." We thought it was cool when Lennon admitted that for three years he was constantly on LSD, and we believed him when he said it could us to our longed-for spiritual utopia. To us, he was a great philosopher, equal to Jesus, Mohammed, and the best prophets in the Bible. After Elvis, we had a new and even more dynamic role model on which to pattern our lives, connecting earth and heaven, filling our universe with music, drugs, and peace.
The Beatles often spent the entire night under the influence of drugs during their recording sessions producing 'inspired' albums like Sergeant Peppers Lonely Hearts Club. Then we got hooked on The Moody Blues - who followed the teachings of a Harvard professor, Timothy Leary. He was a close friend of the Beatles whom he called 'The Four Evangelists.' Leary interpreted the effects of LSD on himself as "his deepest religious experience" and founded the League of Spiritual Discovery, which campaigned for the legal use of LSD. Songs like 'Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds,' for LSD, could best be listened to if a person was tripping on acid. The music of Jimmy Hendrix, the Grateful Dead, and Cream all blew and disarranged our minds by hauling demons and monsters from the depths of our sub-consciousness. Drugs and rhythm became a staple of our lifestyle; I would wake up and go to sleep with it blaring in my ears. I was constantly on a high, much like the kids of today with their 'Bump' and Trance. We freaked out over the carnage of the Vietnam War, and started supporting the 'God-is-dead' movement. The movies Woodstock, Easy Rider, and Run Angel Run became our cult inspirations. Cape Town, Hillbrow, and the Durban beachfront were 'scenes' where the beautiful people hung out. Hippie flea markets became the hub of a new kind of economy with handmade paraphernalia on sale to support drug habits. Communes were mushrooming all over Hillbrow and Yeoville, with runaway teenagers pulling in from all over the country. The Stones sang to us about 'Sister Morphine', 'Cousin Cocaine', '19th Nervous Breakdown', 'Sympathy for the Devil and His Satanic Majestys Banquet'. It was the Age of Aquarius, with mystic crystals, hippie jols, free sex, love bead necklaces, peace symbols and flower power, rock concerts and the Battle of the Bands. There were new types of drugs hitting the sessions: black market amphetamines in the form of Dexedrine and Durophet http://blackleatherjacketthebook.com/get-it/
commonly known as Dexies, Black Bombs, and Purple Hearts. I remember thinking that this was what getting high was all about: staying up all night and watching the sun come up was too cool man (the word man was evolving into the current expression of dude). Dad totally disagreed with my lifestyle and dress code, but like arrogant youth worldwide, I believed he didnt have a clue. Then finally we had something in common. As soon as I walked in the door one evening, he excitedly handed me a brown envelope. I took my time and rolled a joint before opening it. You have been called up for National Service and are to report at the Military Barracks, Drill Hall, Twist Street, Johannesburg. It appeared that I had three choices: go to prison for two years, become a cop for four years, or do my National Service for eighteen months. I wondered what kind of cop I would make, laughed and crumpled up the paper, but my Dad sat me down and for the rest of the night we got pissed and spoke of wars and family traditions, Scottish pride, William Wallace and rebelling against a cruel and heartless English monarchy. He even put on his most cherished possession, his kilt. By the next morning I had agreed to give my soul to the mighty military machine of the South African Defence Force. They were even going to pay me a salary. The whole thing made my Dad as proud as hell; I just figured that if I didnt like it I could just run away again, certain that they would soon forget me. Hello! I was headed for the biggest wake-up call of my life.
Chapter 2 ONCE WE WERE HEROES
VIR VOLK EN VADERLAND My father, uncles and all their friends had fought in North Africa during World War 2. During peacetime they swapped tales of their wartime adventures. On the day I joined up, Sergeant Major Dave Simpson wearing his full uniform with his kilt and rows of medals delivered me personally to the drop-off point, just in case I had a change of heart. He neednt have worried I had survived
juvenile jail, and couldnt wait to play soldiers and shoot real guns, just what in the world could these old toppies with their little paunches and whisky noses teach meI knew it all. A mysterious little grin lurked behind Dads impeccable moustache, but he avoided my gaze. Instead, he greeted a jolly, friendly old chap sporting a smart uniform and a big RAFstyle moustache, and proudly introduced me as his son. After a minute or two the Regimental Sergeant Major smiled and took his leave, and I watched him move over to another nervous family group. His reassuring presence served to make everyone feel that perhaps the stories were exaggerated, and as people milled about, the mood was almost festive. I shrugged and lit a cigarette. If this was the army, what was all fuss about? The piercing whistle shattered my complacency, the atmosphere subtly altered and a lot of weird things began to happen; in the blink of an eye we moved from civilian life to army life and I'd never be the same again. I was apprehensive, yet excited, and for a short time I wasnt aware of my frustration at being part of the system again. Wordlessly my father shook my hand before turning on his heel and walking away. Around me, mothers and girlfriends wept as they snatched last minute hugs from teenage boys trying to look tough. Detached from its apron strings, the mass of testosterone was soon herded through the gates. I looked around for the amiable Regimental Sergeant Major and with a start realised that his entire demeanour had changed. Surrounded by a group of younger guys in berets, he barked orders left and right, his words abrasive. Hello, it seemed like the show for the mommies and daddies was over. This breker was on his own parade ground and no one was pissing on it! We were ordered to line up in groups of about 30 strong, unpack our suitcases and kitbags, and stand close beside them while the red-capped Corporals,
accompanied by eager Alsatians, walked up and down the rows. I quickly realized that this was a skud (a drug search). All around me guys were tossing articles as far away as they could: the dogs went mad and the Corporals yelled and swooped. The pile of contraband grew as the search went on. I had my own hoard and it needed a safer hiding place but where? I looked over at the fat guy from Sandton next to me, standing as casually as if he was waiting for a bus. The Corporal was closing in on me; his dog reared up, straining at its leash. I needed to piss, man I knew these canines were sharp enough to pick up the odour of dagga residue on your hands. With a strangled yelp the hound locked onto the bag next to me; indignant high-pitched shouting wound the dog up even more. The Corporal screamed the obvious not at me but at the bewildered fat guy who had earlier told me that his rich daddy would soon be taking him home. "Wheres yours drugs?!" What had been mine was now his - five 'kaatjies' (fingersized dagga packets) were tucked inside the accuseds kit bag. I looked on innocently as the fat guy was severely reprimanded, his kitbag pulled apart by the dogs and their handlers until it lay in pieces at his feet. His relaxed attitude had slipped, his face paper white as he stood on blubbery legs, glaring around to see who had planted the dope on him. But by now Id moved to another line, still keeping my eyes on the stash in case I could steal it back man! I was also wondering how the hell I was going to repack my belongings. I took a last lingering look at the contraband piled up in front of one of the trucks, then one of the red caps stuffed it into a plastic bag, and it was gone forever. Although Id packed everything into the kit bag at home, out on the parade ground my stuff didnt fit. There was no time to think now - the Corporals were shouting at us to form lines and
march to Johannesburg Station at the double. I grabbed my bag and forced down the essentials, breaking the zipper in the process. The last few loose things were tossed aside - there was no one to turn to, no one to ask for help everyone else had their own problems. Thats when I started realizing that I was in for some real heavy trouble, man. It was already getting dark as our huge marching columns arrived at the designated platforms. The Corporals and sergeants kept on yelling and swearing - I could never stand people shouting at me at the best of times, and by now I was into sensory overload. At the station the redcaps left and were replaced by guys with green berets, the PFs (Permanent Force). These ous seemed much more relaxed, despite the commands. They almost looked bored. They boarded the train with us, two per coach, and ordered us to draw down all the blinds. Why do this? I asked one of the Corporals, who looked about sixteen. Its so that the enemy's spies at the station cannot see how many new troops are being sent out. They could bomb the railway lines or machine gun us Thats when I very quickly stood up from my lekker window seat and plonked myself down between the two ous next to me. No one was allowed to smoke; casual talk was barely tolerated. At last, the train started moving. Everywhere guys were dozing off; the excitement of the day had finally caught up with us. It was normal bedtime for most of the ous. The 'click clack' of the train lulled us into a dreamy state we had food; we were safe and felt like school kids on a holiday camp. The army was giving us the opportunity to experience the great outdoors and travel the country, maybe even pick up a nice tan it was even rumoured that they had hunting safaris, all for free.
THE LAND OF THE TERMINATORS Between midnight and daybreak the train came to a halt at Ladysmith station and the gates of Hell opened up to swallow us. A full contingent of Corporals, sergeants, and officers awaited our arrival. There were young ones and older, toughlooking men with beards and moustaches. They had one common goal: to get us from the train, onto trucks, and away from the station as quickly as they could. It was total pandemonium! Corporals screamed in Afrikaans while punching, shoving and kicking us from the platforms into the street. I saw more than one rookie go down, just to be dragged to the nearest truck. Guys were losing their kitbags in the melee; I clung to mine, ready to thump anyone who came near. It was our worst nightmare and some guys were already cracking, just falling down and weeping uncontrollably. Once crammed into a truck, we sat shivering in the dark - after all, we were only wearing short-sleeved T-shirts - but the numbness came more from the shock of reality than from the icy black night. As the long line of trucks filed into the Army base, guys were jumping off in an attempt to disembark at slow speed. They hit the tar hard; not many stayed on their feet. Once off the trucks, we were ordered to assemble on the rugby field and form into ten companies of approximately 200 guys each. Eventually, everybody was lined up in threes, and for the first time in the Army, told to count off from the right. We had to pick up our civvy stuff, left face, and march. Although we did our best to carry out the instructions exactly, the instructors continued to pour abuse on us. It was still bitterly cold as we were marched to our new homes across the frost-covered grass. We were tired, cold, and hungry. Initially the bungalows were a welcome sight, but apart from blazing electricity in the form of ceiling light and warm water, the rooms were devoid of beds and mattresses. There were 30
of us in a building so clean it appeared sterile. The shrill sound of whistles summoned us outside to supper (mercifully we could leave our bags behind). We were issued a single slice of buttered bread and a polystyrene cup of thin soup but, unlike the rations given us on the train, no one threw away a crumb or spilled a drop. Immediately afterwards our group was sent to the QM (Quartermasters Store), and stumbled into one of the great big warehouse-sheds at 5 SAI, dropping to the ground behind 600 other raw recruits. Youse not at the beach! snarled a Corporal when some of the guys leant back on their arms in an effort to get more comfortable. Finally our turn came. We'd been sitting in one spot for close on two hours and by now everyones sense of humour had evaporated; no one said a word. Queuing up in alphabetical order, we were systematically measured, issued, and signed for. By the time we walked out the other side, each man possessed a steel trunk (trommel) containing a blanket, sheets, pillow, pillowcase, an eating tray (varkpan) and a kitbag (balsak). This bag was stuffed with three overalls, three pairs of browns, two pairs of boots, webbing, a rucksack, water bottle, vests, underpants, socks, scarf, balaclava, cammo-net, helmet, and a dozen other items. Still wearing our civvies, we were ordered to strip immediately and put on our newly issued overalls, army socks, and boots. How the Hell does one ou carry all that stuff from the QM to the bungalow on one trip, in the dark? You make a plan, boet. Dumping our kit on top of two of the beds, the fat guy and I took a deep breath, bent our knees, gripped the opposite ends of the metal frames and began to walk. Everyone else was doing the same, and each of us, for some reason, wanted to look strong. I can honestly say I dont know how we managed it; the trek uphill in unfamiliar territory seemed to last forever; it was so cold our hands stuck to the exposed metal.
This was our introduction to the buddy buddy system, something we'd use right through our military training: you learn to work together in everything you do. It paid off on the border when we were under attack - the end result of this harsh training saves lives, not only yours but your fellow soldiers. But at that moment no one felt like saving a life; on the contrary...I could easily have knifed one of those moegoes. We reached the bungalow at 5 a.m. and were told to sleep. The Corporal assigned to our platoon announced that when he blew his whistle again (no specific time), we'd go and draw our kit. About half an hour later I had set up my bed, put my stuff in the cupboard, and crawled under the scratchy blankets. My pillow smelled like canvas, but I was too tired to get upset and closed my eyes. Seconds later the entire bungalow blew up. Completely disorientated, we all leapt to our feet, wildly swinging eating utensils, pillows and boots. The Corporal had woken us up in the traditional army way: placing a metal dustbin in our bungalow, from a conservative distance he detonated the thunder-flash hed hidden inside it while we snored. This device safely simulates battlefield explosions such as hand grenades and anti-personnel mines, and creates general mayhem. It looks innocent enough, but used in the open air it has been known to launch steel helmets over 3-storied building. Detonated inside a room, it is akin to sucking all the air out, blinding you with light and creating instant deafness. A terrible experience and doubly so if you're asleep... Staggering outside, we endured barbed insults for being slow. At that point I dont think it was more than five degrees above zero. The Corporal was dressed in an Aapjas, a thickly padded, lined coat. It was 6:45 am and we had slept for half an hour or less. All of us had to tree-aan (assemble) and were promptly marched down to the QM again to draw more kit. The same scenario awaited us: row upon row of men, all sitting
quietly upright, like meerkats in the African bush. The Corporal gave us five minutes to sprint back to the bungalow, stow the gear, and tree-aan again outside the rooms. We tried our best but did not make it. The Corporal was actually timing us. We took seven minutes. We had stepped into a twilight zone; life as we knew it ceased to exist; we were total zeros, and the first of an endless list of punishments awaited us. From now on everything we did was combined with physical training. The punishment for being too slow was to run around a designated parking area, about 200-metres away from our aantree area. Once again there was a time limit. In total we ran around that parking area ten times. A short run up behind the bungalows was the mess, or kitchen. Its called the mess hall for a reason.... it's where you eat, sure, but it wasn't the civilized canteen we were expecting. I shuffled along in the queue, looking forward to filling my stomach. From a distance I saw the line of chefs serving up food, and then it was my turn: a helping of cereal, a helping of mash potatoes, a hamburger patty, and mixed vegetables, topped with a helping of jelly & custard - all on one tray. It was literally breakfast and lunch in one. As soon as we sat down, the Corporal in charge of the mess hall stood up and declared we had five minutes to finish our meal; we had to "swallow now, chew later." This was the meal format for the rest of our three-month Basic Training - fast food without the fun, but we filled our stomachs.
EPILOGUE
My princess Windy still doesnt know about me, shes a
straight A student and track queen in Varsity in Colorado, USA. Shes now studying medicine. I am told that when she comes to SA for her summer break; she and her Dad clean up Wildfire and go for long rides. Sometimes they visit Gypsys grave and shes always astonished to see how well kept it is and that fresh flowers are laid there. Her Dad, I would surmise, just smiles, but I will never break the promise I gave to her mother. The dichotomy in this little picture is that her doting grandfather is an upright former Parliamentarian (which means he helped pass some laws in this country) and a pillar of the community and can trace his lineage right back to a captain of a ship that landed the Voortrekkers. All the while the blood pumping in her veins is mine and can be traced all the way back to that old scoundrel, the blackleather-jacket wearing, pirate, outlaw and 1%er, old Shamus Fraser Simpson!
FURTHERMORE I am finally free; I have no one to impress and no one to perform for. I am not afraid of death anymore. If I die right now its ok with me china, God has already done so much more for me than Ive ever deservedand I know where Im going! The Word of God says to work out your salvation in fear and trembling. Although I backslide every other day, I repent daily, and strive to keep under his Grace. A big part of my healing is winning souls with this testimony. I am daily doing it to the best of my ability, what about you? Can you really know each time you climb on your bike you are going to reach your destination? Can you state with absolute certainty, beyond a shadow of a doubt that there is no God, no Jesus, no Hell, no Demons and Angels? Cause if youre so sure of yourself, I'd like to meet you, china. And lets sommer make it a public debate too! ISAIAH 14:9 says: Hell beneath is moved for thee to meet thee at thy coming, it stirreth up the dead for thee I rest my case. Styles, July 2010
To get the complete book please go to

http://blackleatherjacketthebook.com/get-it/ or Phone: +27 74 192 8791 or +27 83 234 0245

Black Leather Jacket The Book Free

Uploaded by

Document Information

Original Title

Copyright

Available Formats

Share this document

Share or Embed Document

Sharing Options

Did you find this document useful?

Is this content inappropriate?

Copyright:

Available Formats

Black Leather Jacket The Book Free

Uploaded by

Copyright:

Available Formats

BLACK LEATHER JACKET

GODS GRACE FOR A GANGSTER DAVE SCOTTIE SIMPSON aka STYLES

edited by Brenda Burgess

BLACK LEATHER JACKET

The collaborator 4th from right, skulking in the shadows.

My first black leather jacket, stolen from Woolworths.

Chapter 1 PAVEMENT & TAR HEROES

The Eagles, 'In the City' (1978)

Me and my best friend Dannie Van Niekerk

Chapter 2 ONCE WE WERE HEROES

To get the complete book please go to

You might also like