Born To Take The Piss
The Cream Of Manchester
Greetings, thanks for stopping by. If you've been here before then you'll notice there's less stuff on here than there was before, that's because the book is finally finished and available now. Cheers, Powk
THIS SITE IS FREE BUT IF YOU WOULD CARE TO MAKE A DONATION YOU CAN GIVE IT TO THE N.A.B.D.
The National Association for Bikers with a Disability
*** DISCLAIMER ***
I WOULD LIKE TO POINT OUT TO ANY OFFICER'S OF ANY LAW ENFORCEMENT AGENCY ANYWHERE, THAT THE WRITTEN CONTENT OF THIS PUBLICATION IS IN FACT ALL LIES MADE UP IN A QUEST FOR PERSONAL GLORY. AND THAT ALL THE PICTURES WERE STAGED USING SOME PEOPLE I MET IN A PUB IN SALFORD, WHO ASSURED ME THAT THEY WERE ALL PROFESSIONAL ACTORS, AND SO BEAR NO RESEMBLANCE WHATSOEVER TO ANY MEMBERS OF THE SONS OF HELL MC. PAST OR PRESENT. (Honest)
Welcome to the history of the Sons of Hell. Inside you'll find a cross section of pages from the story of the clubs first Twenty years. I'm still working on the book but it will be available to buy through this site when it's finished. There's no way I can ever contact everyone whose picture I've used, so if you're in here and it bothers you in any way, well, tough shit! But you can email me and complain if you must. I joined the Sons of Hell in 1982 so everything prior to that is from information I've been given by people who were there at the time. If you had any involvement with the back patch club scene in Manchester in the early days, and think you can contribute something to this work, then please feel free to email me. Or there's a feedback page where you can leave any comments.
My club name is Powk and I was educated in the state school system of the 60s. And I hated every minute of it, so leapt at every opportunity I could find not to go. My resulting academic achievements are therefore 'Fuck all'. So no doubt you will find the odd spelling mistake or wrong use of a comma or 'heaven forbid' even some bad grammar. If it's going to bother you in any way then please do me a favour and "fuck off" You're obviously a Wanker so there's nothing in here for you. This is a Work in Progress and as such it will change and grow as and when I'm able to work on it, so do keep looking in. There is only a selection of pages from the book in here, along with a few not so pretty pictures. so if you want to know how the pieces all join up, then you'll have to read the fucking book won't you!! (I'll let you know when it's finished). POWK.
Yorky 1956 - 2006
"What does it mean?" said the man in the pub looking at my jacket, and trying to prove to his girlfriend that he was in no way intimidated by me. "It means nothing to you" I replied, at which point he ran out of things to say and left, girlfriend in tow. The jacket in question bore the colours and insignia of the Sons of Hell Motorcycle Club. Without Yorky there would be no Sons of Hell, my life amongst so many others would have taken a very different course, and you wouldn't be there reading this now. Yorky was from Sheffield in Yorkshire, (Hence the name) and for the first two years of it's life the Sons of Hell were a Yorkshire club. 1972 brought Yorky over the hill to Manchester after things didn't work out in his home town. But Yorky had a vision, and that vision was the Sons of Hell Motorcycle Club, and the club was his heart.
Yorky's heart and vision are still alive and well today, over four decades later, and anyone who has ever worn Sons of Hell colours has shared in that vision, and those of us who have devoted our lives to that vision, have shared in that heart.
Sons Of Hell
To a man they would be king
In need of little save something
To eat and drink and smoke and ride
Young men hearts bursting with pride
These motorcycle superstars
Who flying colours travelled far
Would fight and fuck and fight some more
Held scant regard for peace and law
With boot and fist and blade and chain
Laid waste and left all foes in pain
A lifetime riding with the pack
And Sons Of Hell upon their back
In denim rancid aged and torn
All soaked in oil and blood and scorn
This hoard from hell with thunderous roar
Would swarm and strike in lust of war
With havoc cries and flash of steel
These war dogs fierce would spin and reel
In dance macabre the music, screams
Of broken bones and broken dreams
Till once again the battle won
And engines singing demons song
They roar away into the night
Then gathered safe review the fight
Amid the laughter smoke and beer
The Sons Of Hell deride and jeer
Those would be warriors acting tough
Who turned out nowhere good enough
To wear the hallowed one percent
Not understanding what it meant
Deservedly they crashed and burned
In violence painful lesson learned
Meanwhile the Sons Of Hell drink on
Till all semblance of sense is gone
Soon laughter drugs and alcohol
Will sooth the soul behind the wall
That each erects in self defence
From living lives of violence
Now those among us turning grey
We are the ones who paved the way
These forty years gone by and more
Still full of fight we fear no war
We look around and know with pride
These younger men with whom we ride
Will keep our legacy alive
The Sons Of Hell, born to survive
(c) TBone Jones 2014