Social Club
I had visited the social club a few times.  During the day times it was open for tea, coffee and snacks.  Occasionally in the afternoons and evenings they put on bingo, tea dances, whist drive, and events like that.  It was probably the best place in the hospital, if only because there were no staff there, other than for functions like the bingo and 'disco's'.  The club was open from about 10am until 8pm and was a great refuge from the lunacy of the hospital.

I started work and used to help with the cleaning and setting up of tables and chairs for whatever event was occurring and the women helpers used to prepare and serve the refreshments and cold food snacks.  I was soon 'promoted' and was allowed to call numbers at Bingo, play the music for the disco and take on some of the more responsible tasks.  The rest of the time I used to circulate amongst the members of the club, the patients, trying to work out who was mad and who was one of society's rebels.  Who was worth knowing and who should I avoid.

I used the social club job as an excuse for keeping out of the ward as much as possible.  The less time spent there the better as far as I was concerned.  I discovered I could also use the long hours to be out and about around town and nobody would be any the wiser.  This led to me drinking in the local pubs with the money social services game me for pocket money, plus the money the hospital gave me for working in the social club plus the 'commission' I stole from the club takings!

It was on one of my forays into the village of Knaphill near Woking that I came across a local motorcycle gang.  This group of 'hells angels' were hanging out at a local cafe that called itself a 'tea rooms', near the hospital.  The Copper Kettle, as it was called, was a nice clean place that served good tea and cooked food and had a quaintest look about it, but it just couldn’t shake off that cafe feel. 

I made it my business to get to know the bikers and to let them know how much I hated society and just how much of a nutter I could be.  I obviously appealed to them because after I met up with them a few times, the leader, complete with dirty leather and bug bushy beard invited me to join them.  Yes!!  This fitted my plan beautifully.  Now the world would discover just how bitter and twisted and angry I was. 

Hells Angels
I rode pillion with the leader of the gang and so started a new era in my career of mayhem and violence.

I started my 'biker career' at Bisley village hall.  It was the local weekly disco.  We, the bikers, turned up in force.  I guess there was about 20 of us on about 14 motorbikes of varying makes and descriptions.  We forced our way into the hall, refusing to pay the door money.  We were eyeing up the girls but apart from one or two brave, or was it foolish, blokes everyone was keeping well clear of us as we moved around the hall.  The foolishly brave blokes got a push and shove.  If they didn’t heed the warning they got a good kicking.

As a gang we got involved in some local pub brawls.  Some we started, most we finished.  The only consistent thing was that it was always over in five minutes so that we would be well away from the scene by the time the police would arrive.

Whilst all this had been going on I was still doing my job at the social club and being the person they wanted me to be.  I was questioned once about being seen in town with the gang, but I lied my way out of it.

After I had been out on a few 'forays' with the bikers, I met with them at the Copper Kettle on a Saturday afternoon.  In front of the whole gang I was confronted about why I hadn’t got involved in any of the fights yet.  It was true and I had no answer for them.  In the past I had never really been cold bloodedly violent.  My violence in all its various forms had been the result of temper, of being hurt.  My violence had always been an emotional response to circumstances.  I was now being called upon to prove myself.  This would be my initiation. 

That very evening, a Saturday, we were riding around Woking town.  As we sped down Goldsworth Road towards Knaphill we passed a couple.  Someone shouted some sexual encouragement to the guy as we went past and the man shouted back and raised a fist.  That was enough.  The whole group turned around in the road and rode back.  The leader told me, this was it.  Prove myself.  I got off the bike and asked the bloke if he had a problem.  He replied, "Only you lot".  The girl had run off by now and this poor guy was facing us up on his own.  I hit him hard in the face.  As his hands went up I kicked him where you shouldn’t kick a bloke.  He went down, retching and writhing on the ground.  I casually climbed back on the pillion with the cheers of the group ringing in my ears and off we rode.

This was my first, and thank God only cold blooded attack in my life time.

My last act of rebellion against society in this phase of my life occurred at Knaphill police station.  I call it a police station but really it was a police house.  I expect the village bobby lived upstairs and downstairs was his police station.  The bike gang (including me) had called at a local pub for a drink and the landlord had refused to serve us.  There had been a little argy bargy but no violence, but already being a little pissed up we were most indignant.  We had gone to the police house to complain.  You can imagine the chaos as twenty of us tried to fit into the little reception which was just about big enough for one old lady and her dog.  It was a nightmare and somehow we managed to spill into the office area behind the counter.  As we made our complaint the lone copper ushered us out of his office with placations, and one of our group nicked his helmet.

We ran off back up towards the village playing with his helmet.  It was a great laugh.  Before we got back to village centre we heard sirens in the distance.  I threw the helmet over the hedge into the grounds of the hospital, my plan was to retrieve it later.  The police found us and stopped us.  They questioned us and searched us but had to let us go.  We knew nothing about a lost helmet.  As we walked away we could see them tracking our steps and looking in gardens and hedges and eventually they retrieved the helmet.  It was a harmless laugh.

It was about this stage that I got moved on from Brookwood.  I had spent about 9-12 months in this mental hospital.  They had been looking for somewhere to put me that could handle me and cater for my age.  By this time I had almost completely stopped communicating with people on any but a superficial level.  I was completely wrapped up in myself and my problems and creating new ones.  Revenge and hate were my foremost thoughts and though I didn't realise it at the time I was building up quite an effective hatred against myself.  I was also being very successful in making other people hate me.