THE CHILLINGTON HOE

Oily handle. Linseed. Long smooth shaft. Calf muscle shape. It feels the part. It looks right. All eyes are on the crease. The opposition have cowered. But this is not cricket.

The blunt edge is poised to tear away at flesh, to till the bowels of the invader, to hoe the hardest of hearts and to plough a furrow of pain; a gardening implement of destruction held aloft by one half of The Amazing Bergs; a wrestling tag team from the sticks and horticulture’s answer to the Mongolian hordes.

The Mongols From Hell, a motorcycle gang from the dark side, has descended on Bungay.

The small Suffolk market town hasn’t seen the like since the USAF attempted to take out a local traffic cop after he had absent-mindedly wafted his speed gun towards the heavens. But this attack is no single strike; it's multilateral damage.

Award-winning lawns have been terrorised by Norton, noise pollution laws breached by Triumph, pristine flowerbeds turfed onto the road by Pirelli, and the local population intimidated by design. The bad boy bikers, however, haven’t counted on a Berg being in town. Cy has gone up to London on a bit of business, but Tony Berg is a force to be reckoned with, or for that matter, without his machete-wielding twin.

Tony mutters something about there being too much linseed on the handle. He delves his palms into the gravel. Better. The dirt gives him a firmer grip. In fact, he has the firmest grip of us all. Jocky Paltrow, the promoter, his minder and I hang back. This is a job for the Chillington Hoe. Tony's World War II weapon: a land girl relic that was used to till the soil round these parts long before the Mongols were born.

The greasy Herberts facing us have blades drawn, bike chains poised and knuckle dusters at the ready. Shiny brass, shiny metal, shiny studs. No match for the dull, matt, round-edged, workman-like tool Tony Berg has been brandishing like a banshee, a whirling-dervish and an all-in wrestler all in one. In suspended animation. Everyone stands still. The threat hangs over the bikers like cancer. Nobody dares move.

It has, however, already happened. Two Mongols were floored. Tony put them down without even breaking sweat or eye contact with the dozen or so amassed greasers outside the George & Dragon’s car park. Their necks cracked like brittle toffee. The two Mongols were body-slammed to the tarmac like a couple of trunks of sodden oak.

- I won’t tell thee again.

He doesn't need to.

Back at Paltrow’s bungalow, we hear engines revving up as they turn tail petulantly towards the A road; the two near-corpses slumped on the back of their bikes, off to torment Diss no doubt.

Stored away till next time, the Chillington hoe is placed alongside the machete, the only two tools of the trade Cy and Tony Berg ever need.