Free Heavy Duty Attitude by Iain Parke Page A

to Billy Whizz, what, fifteen years ago now or so, appearing at the door of a hotel room in Glasgow like an angel of death. All eyes were on him again now as alone, he stepped decisively forward from the line and towards the Freemen group of Brethren.
    At his approach, Wibble stepped forward as well, until the two men were standing face to face a few yards apart in a small no man’s land separating the rival gangs.
It seemed as though everyone was holding their breath as I began to slowly sidle backwards to mingle in with The Brethren crowd. I didn’t want to get hurt, I knew riots could become very ugly situations very quickly but I did want to have my camera handy in case I could get a chance to use it so I snuck my phone out of my pocket and flicked open the lens praying that no one would notice.
I needn’t have bothered. All eyes were on the dramatic standoff unfolding in front of us.
    At last, as if they had both made some kind of final decision at the same time, Wibble spread his arms and advanced towards Stu who did the same. Was this some last parlay before the mêlée I wondered, some last posturing exchange of insults and threats before the first punch was thrown and the riot began?
They were now face to face, standing in silence, about a foot or so apart.
    I held my breath and broke my gaze away for a second or so as I swiftly looked around me, scoping the exits and calculating and recalculating at lightning speed my likely escape routes. The two sides would rush each other I decided, swinging with whatever weapons they had to hand. I would just let The Brethren sweep forward either side of me I decided, fade backwards until I was at the rear of the pack and then turn and bolt. So long as none of The Rebels reached me in their own rush and none of The Brethren went into such berserker rage that they began attacking anything in sight, I thought I might just have a chance of getting out of this alive. I knew I might have to negotiate more Brethren heading towards the fight from elsewhere on the field but they wouldn’t be interested in civilians fleeing the scene. They’d be too intent on piling in to help their brothers with whatever implements they had snatched up on the way.
    Christ, so long as I don’t run into Thommo’s crew, I thought.
Then came a sight I never thought I would see.
    The two of them, Wibble from The Brethren and Stu from The Rebels, came together for a slow and solemn back slap hug. They stayed clasped together for what seemed like an eternity but could really only have been a matter of a few seconds and then broke apart again, hands and forearms clasped together in a rock steady biker handshake.
It was Wibble who broke the silence.
    ‘Welcome to our event –’ he announced quietly so that everyone in those circles could hear, ‘brother.’
‘Thanks – brother,’ replied Stu, never breaking Wibble’s gaze, ‘we’re glad we could come.’
    Christ, I felt a whoosh of breath as if I’d only just remembered how to do it, and a surge of both relief and realisation at the same time. So this was what Wibble had been planning, I thought. And of course, now they were here, it all made perfect sense. In many ways it was the natural culmination of the trading links that Dazza had first set up and Damage had then consolidated between the clubs. From being bitter enemies in a long running war, the two rivals had gradually been mutating into being strong, if still mutually suspicious, trading partners across the patch divide and with engagement, as is the way of the world, eventually would come the start of diplomatic reconciliation.
    All around me I could feel the tension easing. It hadn’t gone altogether by any manner or means, but its nature had changed. Neither Stu nor Wibble would think this was easy, or any kind of a done deal. Long held enmities and grudges between the two clubs weren’t going to be made to disappear overnight. There were too many years of feuding and too much bad