QuestKK

I suppose I was a bit of a bastard, a 15-year-old skinhead into football, aggro, Oi! music etc, and even the birds. I really fancied my mate Danny's bird, and with him madly into fishing I would always pop up to the pond when he did an all-nighter, for a drink and a smoke and maybe a glimpse of something. It was always muddy as fuck up there. Danny was OK with his big black waders, and I often wondered what it would be like to wear them, and even better to get into a fight with them on.

I was a real bootboy, still fucking am, but it pissed me right off having to clean the mud off and polish the big DM's every time, so I took to wearing my wellies on those trips. A nice pair of black Argyll steel-caps that my cousin had got for me off the building site where he worked. Dark green soles and that protective ribbing down the front. Maybe they looked odd with the rest of my skin gear, jeans, braces, green MA1 bomber jacket, but it wasn't as if I was going anywhere else.

Well there was one really damp night and it was time to wander off and leave them to it in the tent, so back through the woods and down the road then a quick shortcut across the playing field of a boarding school. There was no love lost between us local kids and the 'snobby twats', as we called them, but by the time I went past they were usually banged up for the night. Not tonight! As soon as I had nipped through the hedge on to the churned-up path inside the grounds, the cry rang out in upper-crust tones.

"Hey, you! Where exactly do you think you're going?"

There were 2 of them, older than me, 18 probably, and both dressed as if for a yuppie convention, wax Barbour jackets, cords and lime-green Hunters with those dinky little buckles. Now I always thought that wellies were wellies, and they should be black, and it seemed like these 2 clowns were being careful about where they were treading. I muttered something like "Fuck off you stuck-up cunts" and charged forward through the thickest mud. I reckoned on getting past them but no. A long arm made a grab for me and I slipped and fell into the hedge. I wrenched myself free but Fuck it! I'd ripped the sleeve of my bomber and came face to face with no. 2, a tall beanpole who didn't seem to have much idea of what to do. Suddenly the skinhead aggro kicked in, and so did my steel-cap gumboot, straight into matey's bollocks!

"Aaaaiiieee!" I can still hear his squeals and I remember thinking who needs DM's as he slumped into the mud and wriggled like a worm My gloating got cut short though when the first one jumped me from
behind and forced me to the ground.

"You little skinhead thug!" he barked and he was trying to pin me down, but maybe my size was wrong for him and I knew enough to hang on to his arms, and also to bring my knees up, working them into his balls. I could tell he wasn't enjoying this, still careful about the gooey mud I was rolling in. I was wearing my old black leather gloves, and somehow I got a free hand and clamped it over his nose and mouth, squeezing like fuck. He wasn't hurting me now, and my knees were doing their job, but we seemed to be in that mud for ages before Oi! Oi! it happened. He went limp and I just flipped him right over on to his back. He was panicking and gasping for breath and I banged a good punch down into his face.

I was on cloud 9 for about 5 seconds then Fuck - who's this?

I'd heard the roar of the motor-bike coming up the road, but I figured it would pass right by. No such luck, the rider must have seen us through the gap in the hedge, or heard no. 2 whimpering. The bike came back and he appeared, a tall well-built youth about 19/20. He wore a black full-face helmet, but I could see some blond hair down his neck, so Shit!, because bikers and skinheads didn't exactly see eye to eye.

I quickly pushed myself off the snob's body, stepped back as the rider strode up. No flash all-in-one suits in those days, he had the usual Rocker black leather jacket and gloves, blue jeans and black turndown wellies.
"Fuckin' 'ell! What's all this, mate?" I was still wary despite the working-class accent and I watched him stand over the beanpole - still holding his injured nuts but starting to sit up.
"Get that skinhead bastard" spluttered the other one but the biker just laughed, drew back his foot and smashed his wellington boot full into the tall snob's face. There was a loud crack and I knew that it was steel crunching into bone.

"Fuckin' green-wellie wanker!" the youth grunted and repeated the kick. Blood poured from the busted nose and the yuppie lay still.

"Fuckin' 'ell, mate! Nice one!" I couldn't believe what I had seen, had to blink again as my new mate stamped down heavily on the beaten figure's head, screwed his heel into the mess of the face. The other one was shitting himself, trying to scramble away but slithering in that mud we'd been ploughing up. He was up on his knees, one hand raised in supplication.