Gypsy Joker MC Kickstart Summer

WHEN I FIRST met the Gypsy Jokers back in the ’80s, I remember their President at the time, Stewy, giving me a beer and a grin and telling me ‘We’re a party club.’ Years later Stewy’s still an active member (surely one of the longest serving MC members in the country) and everybody in Adelaide knows that if you get an invitation to party at the Gypsy Joker clubhouse you really shouldn’t miss the opportunity.

Indoor entertainment came via the dancing girls from Risqué Entertainment, ably assisted by a couple of guys willing to get drenched in baby oil and shaving cream just for the opportunity to get a bit closer to the main attraction. It’s one of those things that a guy’s mates usually enjoy much more than the guy does himself, a perfect example of what the Germans call ‘Schadenfreude’, the guilty pleasure you get from your mate’s discomfort. Generally speaking, the girls will be pretty gentle with these guys, most of whom get volunteered by the simple expedient of a push in the back from their mates. It’s a matter of being teased and titillated more than anything else, but occasionally there’ll be one girl who likes to give the volunteer a bit of a belt around the ears from her silicon DDs. The crowd always loves it; not too sure about the volunteer, though!

Outside, but still on the property grounds, there was a different type of entertainment on offer, another guaranteed crowd pleaser. Burnouts have been something more or less shared between consenting adults in private here in SA. There’s something perversely pleasurable in the ear-splitting noise, the choking smoke, the risk of damage to both bike and rider, and the molten flecks of rubber stuck in your hair that are all but irresistible. In a logical way it doesn’t make much sense, but tell me I’m wrong… With the winner to be chosen by volume of applause, the Gypsy Joker MC membership was well represented in those prepared to give it a go. It’s heartening to see that the people organising the day’s activities are willing to get involved and take the same chances with their bikes and their bodies as those they’re encouraging. No mishaps occurred apart from the thousand or so tiny fragments of steel belt from the tyre that stuck into one guy’s vest and caused all those who brushed up against him at the bar to flinch in surprise. There was just the smoke and the noise, the laughter and the applause as engines roared and tyres burst.

Somebody wanting to remain anonymous competed heroically on a Bagger. “Don’t take my photo; I’ll look like an old man!”

It took about 24 hours for the smell and taste of singed rubber to fade away.

Somebody who’d left early phoned in to warn about the RBT units randomly saturating the area, so the club orchestrated an ironic cheer ‘for the constabulary’, then extended an offer for anybody present to leave their vehicle locked in the compound until they were sober enough to drive it away safely. Taking a taxi home while your bike or car sits in a near impregnable carpark overnight has to be a better option than taking a chance with all the consequences of DUI.

Years ago, Brains and a few other members wouldn’t let me leave one night, they said I wasn’t in a fit state to drive. It was impossible to argue, and I was 100 percent certain they were being over cautious until I fell over a bottle top or something, then I realised they had a point. I’ve been grateful ever since: you want to remember a party for the right reasons—the fun, the bikes, the good company—in short, all that was on display today.

Words & pics by Chris Randells