Our young forester 'joins' New Zealand's Hell's Angels

TO put it mildly, my great New Zealand shearing adventure hardly got off to a flier. In the shearing sheds throughout the world, injuries are very common and through good practice and a little luck I’ve managed to avoid any major mishaps – until now!

On the second day of the first job I rather embarrassingly wounded myself while making a cup of tea. As I reached across for the cup, I failed to notice the steaming kettle nearby and 10 minutes later I had a blister the size of a duck egg on my arm. The next sheep seemed to take great pleasure bursting it, leaving a large weeping welt of rawness on my forearm. The initial pain didn’t stop the day’s shearing, but two days later the threat of blood poisoning did as I sat in Whanganui Hospital on a saline drip. After some antibiotics and bandaging I was soon back in the game.

READ MORE: Our young forester goes sheep shearing in New Zealand

In the world of shearing, numbers are everything. The more sheep you can shear in a day, the higher up the pecking order you go and the more appealing you are to the bevy of female roustabouts (wool handlers) inhabiting the sheds. There is a whisker of psychology here on the side of the roustabouts as the more you can shear, the more money you make and the richer you are – therefore the more attractive you are. At this point I must confess that on this visit I took my wife with me, which is just as well as my miserly daily tallies (compared to some) would have limited my choice. 

Every morning around 5.30 am throughout the months of December and January, a mass of Ford Transits and Toyota vans would meet at the infamous ‘Z’, a garage in the centre of Whanganui and an ideal meeting point for all shearers and shed staff. My accommodation for most of my visit was a basic outhouse located next to the Hyland Shearing Transport Fleet and, being the holder of a valid driving licence (many shearers are banned for various reasons), I usually had the job of driving the crew to work. The night before starting a job you’re given some very basic details of who’ll be there and even vaguer details of where you’re going; half an hour into the bush, past the dead tree on the left, past the landslip and keep going and if you reach the burnt-out car you’ve gone too far. Incredibly, despite all the vagaries, we were never late to a job.

Arriving at the Z in the early hours was always exciting as it was a hive of nervous activity and anticipation. Kiwi shearers come in all shapes, sizes, ages and colours and it’s always interesting to see who gravitates towards the van as you pull up and apply the handbrake. Some start the day with a large can of V, which is the New Zealand equivalent of Red Bull, and they tend to be very chatty on the way to work. Others enjoy a bong and a nap, while the few remaining have a coffee and generally talk sense.

One day I noticed an individual who stood head and shoulders above the rest. He was a colossus and the group literally parted as he stepped forward. No one objected as he went straight to the front of the queue for coffee and I watched his movements with some trepidation. He was festooned with tattoos and probably weighed in at about 25–30 stone. As I watched, he looked up, stared me straight in the eyes and made a bee-line for my van. To say I felt a little uneasy is an understatement. As he hauled himself into the cab the whole of the vehicle slewed to one side and the shock absorbers banged on the chassis. He stuck out a massive hand and said: “Okay bro, I’m Danny.”

“Me too,” I cautiously replied. “Pleased to meet you.” 

I sheared next to Danny for the next four days and we became good friends. He was big and strong and knew it, and was probably one of the most untouchable individuals in New Zealand. Like many males in Whanganui, Danny was part of a gang, but not any run-of-the-mill local gang like the Mongrel Mob or Black Power. He was in the upper hierarchy of the Hell’s Angels. He said in his earlier days he’d earned his stripes as a hitman and confessed to doing many things he now regretted. He was now highly respected within the organisation and if you had an issue with him you would have an issue with thousands of members worldwide.

The first demonstration of Danny’s brute strength was with high-tensile fencing wire. Like most shearers he shears with a back support which has to be hung from the shed roof.

With no rope with which to hang the support, he disappeared and returned some minutes later with the steel wire. This stuff is a nightmare to work with and, unlike the older, thicker mild steel – which is easily pliable – it requires a set of long-handled pliers and immense force. It’s probably also wise to make an appointment at the eye clinic, as it usually springs back up and hits you in the face.

Danny manipulated the wire with his bare hands as though it were bailer twine, made a quick knot and, with a slight grunt, kinked and broke off the ends. Remarkable! There was no ‘cow pie’ for lunch, but it was just after Christmas and Santa Claus appeared to have left him a fairly substantial food hamper, which he quickly consumed – block of cheddar and all!

I think the reason the two of us got along so well was because apart from my work ethic I wasn’t scared to ask him probing questions about his life with the Hell’s Angels. I was genuinely quite fascinated and whereas many individuals would shy away from anything ‘gang related’, this skinny white English boy clearly posed no threat to his global organisation. Furthermore, by befriending him and gaining his trust I was able to go where no other tourist had ever ventured; the Hell’s Angels Clubhouse.

From the outside the building looked like some old motel from the ’50s with an eight-foot steel fence around the perimeter. There was a camera located on each corner and although a little rough from the outside, once you entered the coded locked gates there was no expense spared. 

At this point I was advised to keep my camera in my pocket. Harley Davidsons from every era were polished and proudly on display and there was a large, welcoming bar with every drink imaginable. The lounge was spotlessly clean, with oiled wooden table tops and hand-stitched leather furniture, all colour coded in a menacing red and black Hell’s Angel theme.

As I was shown around the side bar, we passed two bedrooms of which Danny said: “That’s where the prossies live, right beside the bar – exactly where they should be.”

I assumed he meant prostitutes, but he then clarified that ‘prossies’ were people wishing to become members but who had to serve a one-year probation period. During this time they would work long hours at the bar as well as doing other menial tasks. They are usually potential members who fall foul of the law and, after being released from jail have nowhere to go, so come here. Yes, they also get prostitutes but only on special occasions and I didn’t dare ask what those special occasions were!

As I sat on my hand-sewn leather bar stool enjoying my question-and-answer session with Danny, he was keen to emphasise that this generation of Angels are more family orientated and that the association with violence for which they’re renowned is a thing of the past. Furthermore, if I wanted to become a prossie he could help me get started.

For my own wellbeing I tried to look interested, but although the bar stool was very comfortable I’m much more at home on a freshly cut Sitka stump in deepest Northumberland.