Nomads and the Mongrel Mob

London to Bristol Part IZ

Windsor. A grand old place to be. Within the course of a short ride, I had traversed the entire length of the British scale. From the grot of Heathrow to the castle of the King himself. Well, at least, I could see the castle over the hedges. I was in a lay-by on the M4 slip road. But as far as hitchhiking goes, this was a grand old place to be.

An enormous American pickup swung onto the slip road. Instantly outstanding, as American things tend to be. Right-hand drive. The driver was bald and stern, wearing a sky blue polo. I dropped my thumb as it surged past. It was probably a CIA agent, or some security detail, maybe for an Etonian—term would be starting any minute now. Not worth the thumb energy.

Not many cars went by after that. It was a grey and cold day. I watched the backs of the lorries skimming along the motorway. Westward bound.

Ten minutes later another huge GMC pickup cruised round again. Another driver in blue, same stern look, bald head too. Must be something really important, I thought again, dropping my thumb.

The pickup pulled right over.

“Hello mate,” the driver said cheerfully. His accent wasn’t American. It was Australian or Kiwi. “I just went past ya and thought paaaa I’ll go round and pick ‘im up!”

I scampered round to the other side to climb into the armchair of a passenger seat.

“I remember doing it as a kid,” he continued, “Couldn’t just leave ya there!” His syllables were short and sharp. Kiwi, it transpired.

Bill was not a CIA agent. Nor a bodyguard or an Etonian parent. He drove cars to film sets. It was a great gig, he explained. He just drove the car there and sat around all day, chatting with the folks on set. “Ahhh I’m too old to work hard, mate.”

He was coming that day from Slough, where he lived. Heathrow to Windsor may have been a metaphorically long journey; Slough to Windsor is even more so and far closer. It’s an unfortunate place, Slough. Rather like an average tennis player made to look terrible by a seasoned pro, it’s measured entirely in comparison to the sweeping lawns of Windsor. The M4 is the net.

I asked Bill what it was like, interested to hear what it was like from someone who lived there, not just peered down at it over the motorway.

“Ahhh fuck me mate!” He replied emphatically, “It’s an absolute shithole!”

Clearly more like a bad tennis player against a seasoned pro then.

Bill had lived there for two of his 22 years in Britain. He’d worked in the Mars factory there for a time, a historic place if you’re into confectionery. In 1932, the American Forrest Mars Senior set up the first British branch of his business there. On the August bank holiday, in the tiny second-hand kitchen with four employees, he invented the very first Mars bar. They make 3 million a day now. Nice to hear Slough was good for something.

Bill was at a junction in life, unsure if it was time to move. His partner was Mexican which added another layer but he wasn’t so into New Zealand. I was surprised, I’ve always heard good things about the country. Bill grimaced and shook his head.

“Economy’s gone to shit mate. And there are so many gangs. Gangs absolutely everywhere mate.”

I learned that there is one particularly big gang called the Mongrel Mob. They got their name from a judge who called them a bunch of mongrels. Their insignia is a bulldog wearing a Nazi helmet. Swastikas play a big part in their branding apparently.

“Nasty fuckers,” Bill surmised, “Just love violence. When they see each other they go Seig Heil Mongrel Mob and waggle their hand like this.” He shook his thumb and pinky.

Bill said the gangs across New Zealand are showy. Jackets, insignia, tattoos across faces, badges on leather. “I guess it’s brotherhood or some bullshit.” (Check out these portraits by the photographer Jono Rotman to get an idea.)

If you were too violent for the Mongrel Mob, chances are you’d join the Nomads. They were the nastiest of the lot. Total crack pots, crazed and depraved. You’d see them chopping around from time to time.

Bill had a good anecdote to illustrate:

“So me and my mate were just leaving a heavy metal festival in New Zealand right. And as we went out we saw like 200 bikers by their choppers, all the leathers on, long beards, the lot. Proper biker gang.

“Anyway we carried on walking and round the corner we saw about a dozen Nomads. Scary as hell. A few of the bikers had wandered up their way to get summin to eat. Me and my mate, we’re like ‘we better get on that hill out the way, shit’s about to go down!’ Coz you know, these bikers hadn’t seen the Nomads and they were wearing their biker badges and you don’t do that anywhere near the Nomads!

“Sure enough, the Nomads spot the bikers and go and beat the living shit out of them, being like ‘You wear your badge round here you’re gunna get fucked up!’ Me and my mate are watching this whole thing and let me tell ya, they were smashin them. One guy got his head put against the door of a van and SMASH bloke kicked his head in. Another geezer got a bottle of Jack Daniels, broke it, then just slashed the guy’s throat!

“The bikers then crawl back to their mates who are round the corner, battered and covered in blood. Their mates are like, Who did this man! Let’s go fuck em up! So they come round the corner, like 200 bikers, to fuck up these 12 or 13 Nomads. And the Nomads are pullin out fence posts and that, you know getting ready.

“And as the bikers are approaching, this one massive Mauri fella—big mohican, tattoos all over— high fives his mates and just steps out in front of them, holding this iron fence post and he’s like Come on then! Fuckin come on!

“And I kid you not, the bikers look at each other and the whole lot of them just turn around and leg it! Fuck this man these guys are crazy! They got back on their choppers and rode out. Craziest thing I ever saw…”

Bill liked a heavy metal festival and he’d seen some pretty gnarly things. At Download Festival in Leicestershire, the front man of a band came on stage and told everyone he was going to break a world record. As he said it, the screens behind showed clips of him having his back pierced with big hooks.

Then down came two wires from the roof of the stage. He clipped himself on, was pulled up and sang the whole gig swinging above the crowd, suspended by his back, his band mates pushing him out over the crowd. “He was sweating and everything. Must have been agony! Good show though. Can’t even remember their name now I think about it.”

Shortly after, Bill found himself dancing to an Abba covers band with a load of metal heads in their leathers, belting out Dancing Queen.

After a metal gig in Finland recently, with a night to spare, he and four mates went to see P!nk. “I like all kinds a music mate. I’ve seen Michael Jackson, BB King, Bob Marley—all the greats. Got bags of respect for Taylor Swift!”

I liked Bill a lot. He sure could tell a story and had no shortage of them. The M4 to Bristol was gone in no time.

“I’ll drop you in the middle if you like,” he said, “But I’ll have to be quick or my boss will get pissed!”

We came into the city and we said goodbye. It had been a successful journey, only taken a couple of hours more than the train and saved me £30. Not bad I reckoned.