In a late doors pub in the center of Chester, one which stays open until six in the morning, I met this man. For the price of a few beers he and his family were fine with me taking a few shots of him and publishing online. Which I’m glad about because although he is sixty nine years old at the moment I really wouldn’t want to piss this guy off.
For the sake of this article we’ll call him John, not his real name, he was known in the past as the Tattooed Terror. The name is kind of appropriate as he was covered with tattoos, everywhere but his face, even the sides of his fingers. Most of these were home made tatts, many even prison tatts.
John was a Hell’s Angel back in the sixties in Manchester, a part of the notorious biker gang who started in California but fairly quickly spread all over the world. The British Angels involved of course in the trouble at the Isle of Wight Festival while they ran the security for the Rolling Stones concert there.
Being a member of this kind of group or club demands a great deal, it demands being the 1 per cent as they say, being an outlaw if you like, outside of society.
John, like old men everywhere, has been seeing people he knows, die around him, he tells me he only has one friend left from his old chapter who was his contemporary. Occasionally they get together and talk about the old days.
This tattoo reads;
Though I walk through the valley
of the shadow of death
I will fear no evil,
for I am the meanest son of a bitch
ever to walk the
I’m sure he is, I wouldn’t doubt him for a second.