rebellion

Those were the days roaring down the A40 towards London town, loud enough to make the locals cover their ears. Hair and beard whipping in the wind like I was some kind of mad Viking god, my open-face helmet barely hanging on as speed lifted my lid like a pissed off gull.

Then another bike, coming towards me brother nod, that silent salute of chaos. I smile wryly because I’m young, alive, and damn proud. We carve into the night, the city lights dimming behind us, the old bike chugging along like a beast reluctantly waking from a hangover.

My brothers riding beside me, shadows at my back, all of us swallowed by the roar, the stink, the madness. Food stalls on trollies, the sickly sweet stench of exhaust fumes, oil, sweat—like perfume for the damned and the wild.

I was proud in my Originals, leather and cut stitched tight like armor. A proud bastard, alright. Yeah, we got into a few punch-ups got jumped, got wrapped in chains, got battered enough to know pain well. But after every fight, I bought the bastard a drink. Because testosterone fueled rage somehow always ended in laughter and stupidity.

That music, that scene you had to be there to believe it. Pure madness. Brotherhood not just a word, but a life raft in the storm.

Now? Most of those wild bastards are gone, forgotten in the void, ghosts in the wind. And here I am, caught between worlds, still chasing the question: What the hell was it all about?

I’ve been down the rabbit hole and seen the shit no one wanted to believe. Weather engineering, conspiracies, the things I shouted into the void only to be called mad, eccentric, a tin-foil hat wearing nutcase.

Turns out surprise surprise I was right. And silence was the price I paid. Shut down, censored, my eight-year radio career ended cold because the “safe” didn’t want to hear the truth.

Hence this blog. My refuge. My last roar.

Still, I’d rather be riding into the wind with Albertine along those endless Westcountry roads—wild, free, and unapologetically alive—than stuck in any safe place pretending to be sane.

                         “The views in this post are based on my personal  
                           experience. I do not intend harm, only honesty.”   

                                “By ink and breath and sacred rage, I write.
                                            By storm and silence, I survive.”

                                 @goblinbloggeruk   sick@mylivinghell.co.uk