It was the era of Mods versus Rockers.

Scooters, Ben Sherman, and Parka coats,

Motorbikes, Levi’s, and slicked-back hair.

Pumped up teens, who thought they were hard,

Fighting in lumps on the promenade,

During sunny sixties bank holidays.

 

Rillington, my village, was solidly greaser,

Not a single scooter was ever seen.

We had a Motorbike Club of our very own,

Where lads picked tarmac out of their jeans.

 

Whilst, notionally, a Bike Club member,

A few obstructions stood in my way,

“There’s nothing there between you and the road,”

Said dad, with the air of a man who knew,

A chap with a definitive point of view.

“He fell off his Triumph every weekend,”

Was what my Uncle Harry had to say.

Motorbike ownership, then, was a forlorn task.

Was a leather jacket, though, too much to ask?

 

My friends at school all called themselves Mods.

Affiliation was more complex than I thought.

New idols challenged my local gods.

I was caught in the crossfire of no-man’s land,

When mods and rockers’ battles were fought.

 

And that is the story of my life.

My allegiances would come and go,

Playing both ends towards the middle

When I was faced with trouble or strife,

A man who likes to hedge his bets, undecided,

About people or places to loath or like.

One of Life’s Motorbike Club members,

Who never bought a leather jacket

Or, more crucially, a motorbike!

 

It wouldn’t take much of  a detective to see

A lack of authenticity,

Or a want of commitment to the cause,

When my friends say, “Let’s go!”

I will press ‘Pause.’