We’re already scared driving to the wedding of the sergeant-at-arms for the Finks motorcycle club’s Queensland branch, a man-mountain by the name of 25. But the cop roadblock outside the meeting point makes us want to take shelter at the closest church, drinking away our fear with altar wine while winking at naughty nuns. Instead, we pull over and answer the friendly officers’ questions. “Just up the road, Sir. Wedding? Actually, yes Sir. Of course I have a business card – here you go. Yes, we’ll behave ourselves.”
We drive on wondering what the hell we’re getting ourselves into.
12.10pm: Pulling into a car park in an industrial estate outside of Surfers Paradise, we’re confronted by a pack of rampaging maniacs ripping virgin chickens apart with their teeth.
Actually, that’s bullshit. We see a bunch of blokes standing around some amazing Harley-Davidsons, enjoying a quick catch-up before going to see a good mate get hitched. We turn into a parking spot, being extra careful not I to knock over any of the bikes – having learnt from movies that if you hit one, they all fall over like dominoes.
12.15pm: Now we just kinda stand around looking conspicuous, which is bound to happen when you’re the only dickhead wearing a bright red T-shirt in a sea of large men wearing black and white with tatts creeping up from their arms to their necks.
The fact I’m hungover and rolling three for 24 in the sleep stakes doesn’t help.
12.25 pm: Driven by a savage thirst that overrides my survival instinct, I approach a massive gent named Ferret who I recognise from the telly.
With the authorities passing bullshit anti-association laws to stop blokes in motorcycle clubs congregating, Ferret – the sergeant-at-arms for the Blacktown Finks – has been doing the media rounds as spokesman for the 18-club-strong N.S.W United Motorcycle Council (umcnsw.org) pointing out that it’s unconstitutional for the authorities to crack down on every man wearing a patch just because a few blokes have caused trouble.
He looks frightening, with “Unforgiving” tattooed across his throat, but Ferret makes a lot of sense. Still, the more he reassures me with words like, “You’ll be right, champ. Everyone’s just here to have a good day,” the more I hope the embalmer does a good job after they find my corpse in a shallow grave.
- 12.35pm: One nervous beer in and I decide to take the bull by the horns. Not literally, of course, seeing as the bulls here are Brahmin. We pop out the camera and some of the fellas sidle up for a happy snap. A couple of them even smile. “Was that for a magazine?” a Fink with a face tattoo asks, “Wish I’d known – I would’ve got my cock out!”
- 12.45pm: We meet the man-mountain of the day – 25. He runs us through the schedule. The crew are going to ride to a swanky hotel in Surfers for the ceremony, then we’ll head into the mountains for drinks and the reception – then it’s time for the bucks party… Ferret jokes that they had to do it that way in case someone got arrested before the wedding. At least I think he’s joking.
- 1.40pm: The sound of two-wheeled thunder fills the air. Punters at the fancy hotel are running away from what they clearly suspect is a terrorist attack.
The front of the hotel resembles a Harley showroom and the foyer is crowded with two sorts of people – them and us. Them being the bikies and their mates and beautiful girlfriends. Us being, well, us – and hotel guests peering over a balcony wondering what the heck happened to their relaxing Edinburgh holiday.
