Bouncers and Bodyguards

by Robin Barratt

  ‘It is a Monte Carlo grill, sir,’ the managing director proudly replied.

  Charles looked confused and then disgusted. ‘No, don’t want it,’ he said and walked off, leaving the rest of the party standing in amazement.

  Last of all, a real big thank you to all the other great contributors. Thank you for your hard work and time, and thank you for your kindness and hospitality – you are all fucking diamonds.

  AND THE CUNTS . . .

  Working the doors and bodyguarding is a business built on trust, loyalty, dependence and honesty. We trust that the people we work with will be there for us in good times and bad. We are loyal to our team. We depend upon them, as they depend upon us, and we are truthful. Without these things, there is no security industry.

  I don’t mind somebody telling me that they will do something for me but then realising that they perhaps just don’t have the ability or the time and changing their mind. I have been in that position before: circumstances change; unexpected things happen. To those people who had the decency to let me know well before the book’s submission deadline that they couldn’t contribute for whatever reason you are also diamonds for not letting me down. Thank you.

  But to those who repeatedly said yes to me and then let me down at the last fucking minute, you are, without doubt, utter cunts and should not even be on the planet, let alone in the security and protection industry. I was seriously considering naming and shaming you for all eternity, but then I would be a cunt, too, and I just hate calling myself a cunt. However, you all know who you are. You should not be in any position of trust, and you certainly should not be working on the doors or as part of a close protection team. You deserve everything that befalls you – and I hope it is a fucking huge piano from a seventh-storey window.

  Apart from a few hiccups, especially at the last minute, putting this book together has generally been great fun, and I have met some great people. But it has taught me one thing: if you promise to do something for someone, then do it or be honest and say you can’t – don’t just leave things, hoping that they will go away, because, believe me, they won’t!

  Stay safe.

  Robin Barratt

  robinbarratt@yahoo.com

  February 2009

  1

  BACK IN THE EARLY ’70s

  BY CHARLIE BRONSON

  Way back in the summer of 1974, I was a 22-year-old ‘pavement artist’ (i.e. armed blagger). When I got nicked and put away, the Three Degrees had a number-one hit with ‘When Will I See You Again’. I was never to see the streets again for 14 years. I deserved all I got. I was a nasty, vicious bastard – that is how it was with me. You never hear me crying about punishment.

  I only survived in the ‘free’ world for a couple of months. My whole adult life has been in maximum security – I am still in a hole, but I am alive and kicking. So, from 1974 to 2007 I have been caged up, apart from a couple of months of freedom. Thirty-three years of porridge! And out of those years, 30 have been spent in solitary. And I am still in solitary. Why? Because I am Charlie Bronson . . .

  Although I’m a 55-year-old man and now anti-crime, anti-violence and anti-drugs, my past has buried me deep inside the ‘Belly of the Beast’. So bear with me . . . I am a bit lost and confused as to how doormen and minders conduct themselves today. This is my story from years back.

  All you really needed in my day was a sharp eye and a good right hook to diffuse any situation. And my hook was second to none! Although my profession was blagger, I often done some collecting and security work, and on a Saturday night you would often find me on a door just passing the night away.

  One memory that often makes me smile in my hours of boredom is of a crazy lunatic who just wouldn’t stop causing problems. I was on a club door when he came in. I said to the other bouncers ,‘Watch him.’ I just have this inner sense about trouble. You either have it, or you don’t. It is a vibe you pick up – I can smell it, feel it . . . and I am 99 per cent always spot on. This lunatic was oozing madness. His eyes were spaced out, and he had that walk. His whole posture was saying, ‘Come and fuck with me if you dare.’ It didn’t take him long to kick off.

  We had no earpieces or CCTV in them days. All we had was speed. We were fast – get in hard, ask questions later. He had put his hand up some bird’s skirt, and a fight broke out with the bird’s fella! I got in fast – I stuck my two fingers up his nostrils (my speciality!) and led him out into the car park. Simple as that. Or so I thought. (You really can’t plan for a lunatic.)

  As I let him go and wiped my fingers on his jacket and told him to fuck off, he dived at me and tried to bite my face off. The rest you don’t want to know, but he was never the same again. He’s sure got through a million colostomy bags, and he’s never put his hands up another bird’s skirt since.

  Another time, I was on the door of my mate’s club when a giant of a man came in. I mean awesome. (Incidentally, the tallest man I ever chinned was at Broadmoor. He was six feet ten and a half inches.) This guy was about six feet nine inches. A fucking giant or freak. He became very abusive to the bar staff. I am five feet ten inches, and I strolled up to him and said, ‘OK, mate – LEAVE!’

  He looked down to me and said, ‘Fuck off.’ Well, I tell a lie. It was just, ‘Fuck . . .’ He never had time to say ‘off’ before I hit him. It was like a tree going over. I was told the following week that he had come back twice to see me. The third time, he found me and said, ‘Sorry, mate. I was out of order.’

  And that is how crazy it can sometimes be on the doors. Guns can be pulled, knives, all sorts. I once had a transvestite slice his wrist in the toilet. I wrapped a towel around his wrist and tied a tie around his bicep till the ambulance arrived. I’ve seen it all: birds getting shagged in the gents, poofs at it, threesomes in the cubicles, blow jobs under the table. You could write a library of books on what doormen experience. Every club, pub, nightclub is different. It’s exciting but not as good as a blag. Counting up the loot is the world’s best buzz, and spending it even better.

  I was with a doorman when he had his eye ripped out. It is a lot to lose an eye on a job. Others have been shot dead, stabbed, burnt, all sorts. It’s a fucking mental job with little thanks. But it’s a way of life. Doormen are a special breed. They’re all a bit strange to want to do that job, but they’re a good bunch. Wars are won with such men! They sure don’t get the respect they deserve, and everyone has a story to tell.

  Another job I had was looking after a serious ‘Bizz Man’ when he used to deliver a briefcase full of dosh. I mean big bucks. I had to make sure he got them from A to Z in one piece with no problems. On one run, I knew we were definitely being followed. I slammed on the brakes and ran out with an axe. I never got a chance to use it, and I have never seen a car go so fast in reverse. Apart from that one incident, the rest of the journeys we did were trouble free!

  A man has to do what needs to be done, no matter what the odds are or the consequences. You do it fast and furious; otherwise, you’re a total cunt. I despise people who talk the talk, walk the walk, then bottle out. You learn who’s who in your own journey of life. There are some doormen, minders, who have yet to be tested. Until a man’s tested, you don’t know him. It’s the same in war – some can’t do it. It is the ultimate test of life.

  My journey in life has forever tested me. It still does, even today. I’ve survived it all: multiple stab wounds (all in my back), guns to my head (Old Bill and villains), serious brutality. Read my books – it’s all in there. Although I am now a changed man and deserve any act of violence, it’s best you don’t test me. It’s so much nicer to be nice. But if you really want to test me, let’s go into the darkness alone and ‘discuss’ it!

  Doormen, I salute you!

  Charlie

  P.S. If I had my time over again, I’d be a porn star. What a fucking job!

  BIOGRAPHY OF CHARLIE BRONSON

  Charlie Bronson was born in Aberystwyth on 6 December 1952. His real name is Michael P
eterson. Bronson states on his website that contrary to reports frequently made in the media, his name was changed by his fight promoter in 1987 and was not a choice he made in relation to the screen actor Charles Bronson.

  Initially jailed in 1974 for robbery, Bronson has been in prison more or less his entire life since the age of nineteen, and he has spent only three months out of custody. Due to repeated attacks on prison staff and inmates, including a number of hostage situations and rooftop protests, Bronson has spent most of his prison life in solitary confinement. In 1999, a special prison unit was set up for Bronson and two other violent prisoners to reduce the risk they posed to staff and other prisoners. In 2000, he received a discretionary life sentence for a hostage-taking incident. In 2001, Bronson married Saira Rehman, but the marriage didn’t last.

  Bronson also supports a charity called Zöe’s Place Baby Hospice in Liverpool (www.zoes-place.org.uk). They do amazing work with severely disabled babies, so if you have some spare cash, send it to them – it will make Charlie very happy.

  For the past ten years, Charlie’s art has occupied him and is now the main part of his life. His artwork is unique and is sent to all corners of the world. Bronson has also published ten books and has received numerous prizes for his poetry. His books include Solitary Fitness; Heroes and Villains: The Good, the Mad, the Bad and the Ugly; Insanity: My Mad Life; The Krays and Me; Legends; Silent Scream; Bronson; The Charles Bronson Book of Poems: Birdman Opens His Mind Book 1; and The Charles Bronson Cartoon Autobiography: Hostage of My Past.

  You can contact Charlie at www.freebronson.co.uk

  2

  MICKEY FRANCIS – THE RISE AND FALL AND RISE AGAIN OF LOC19

  BY MICKEY FRANCIS

  I am 46 years old and was born in Moss Side, Manchester. I was brought up by mixed-race parents in a really rough area. My father was Jamaican and my mother was a Scouser. They met after the war but are now separated. My dad used to beat us badly – he had a saying: ‘Spare the rod to save the child.’ He was a big chap, a wrestler, and we used to be scared shitless of him. Basically, he used to beat the fuck out of us. As soon as he came into the room, we would walk out. He was a bastard to his children and a bastard to my mum – he used to beat her up, never treated her right and was always fucking around behind her back. But they say that what goes around comes around, and he has got his just deserts – he has Alzheimer’s now. He stays with me a few days a week – I am looking after him. His partner died a short while ago, and he is now on his own, spitting bubbles, having his arse wiped. But I have to put everything that he has done to me and the family behind me; the past is the past. I can change the future, but I can’t change the past. It is about today, and he is still my father after all.

  I was on the streets from the age of about 12 or 13. I grew up on Acomb Street, about five minutes from the Manchester City football ground, which was why I became a City football fan. My very first means of collecting money was minding people’s cars. People used to park up on the street for the match, and we would ask if they wanted their car minded for 50p. If they said no, we would puncture the fucking tyres. We had our territory. Kids called the Ryans had another street and the Daltons another. We all kept to our own streets – no one stepped on anyone else’s territory. It was the way that I first made money on the street, really. I would make £15 or £20 a match – going back 25 or 30 years, that was a lot of money. When most kids were delivering papers, I was minding cars – and damaging cars if their owners didn’t pay the fee! In the end, everybody paid the fee.

  Then I started to get involved in a bit of football violence. It was a great buzz, and I loved it. My first real fight was at Wigan football club. It was in the Doc Martens area, and I got knocked fucking out! This lad had banged me straight out. The police picked me up and asked me what I was doing in that area. Then they banged me in the stomach and told me to fuck off back to Manchester. That was my first-ever experience of football violence – getting knocked out and then battered by a copper! I was hoping to get my own back when City next played Wigan, but that never happened, as Wigan were always in a lower division than us.

  I started off as a little soldier and worked my way up. I showed that I had a lot of bottle. I would go in first and could fight hard, and I became a leader at a very early age – about 15. I did it until I was about 28 years old. I liked the buzz of it all.

  From about the age of 18, I arranged everything. Every Saturday for about 15 years, we would meet up at The Parkside pub. There used to be about a hundred of us all searching for violence. When I look back, I think, ‘What an idiot. What was the reason behind it all?’ But it was just one of those things: some people chose to be bikers or rockers; I chose to be a football hooligan. I know it wasn’t the right choice, but at that time I liked doing it.

  We came on top at Millwall and West Ham and Middlesbrough, and afterwards all of us would get on the coach, bleeding and buzzing and telling our stories – adding a little bit onto them, as you do. It was great. I liked the fear and the buzz of it all. I never thought that people could get killed – they did, of course – it was just a bit of excitement. I got into football violence in a big way, and eventually I was the head man at City. Whenever there was trouble, I would be at the front of it.

  The Manchester police eventually caught up with me. They set up an operation called Omega, infiltrated us and watched us for 12 months while they collected as much video evidence as they could. Looking back, I had an idea something was going on, but at the time I couldn’t tell who the coppers were. For almost 12 months, I got away with murder. I could do almost anything, and I didn’t get charged once, even though I was arrested 28 times that year for football-related violence. They were letting me get away with it because they were building a case on me.

  Eventually, when I was 29 years old, and after dawn raids at my house, I was arrested. I was put on remand for six weeks and then let out on bail for about a year until the trial took place. I was sentenced to prison and banned from attending any football match in the UK or Europe for ten years.

  I was a scaffolder by trade. However, before I got arrested, and because I had a reputation for football violence, I was asked to work the doors at a club called Fagan’s by a friend of mine called Mike Faux, who ran an event security company. I was training at a gym when Mike came over and asked if I fancied doing a bit of door work. At that time, I didn’t think it was really for me, but I had just bought a house in Prestwich with my girlfriend, and I needed the extra money. It paid £14 a night, and so a few days later I started working for him. I then went to work at Rotter’s nightclub on Oxford Street, Manchester. I think it was called Rotter’s because it was full of rotten people! It was where all the stag nights came for a night out, arriving in coaches from St Helens and Liverpool and from the outskirts of Manchester, and every single night there would be running battles outside the club between Manchester lads and those from outside town. It was mayhem, and we used to really fight for our money. The funny thing was that we all had to wear white blazers and dicky bows, which ended up covered in blood every night.

  At that time, I did a bit of boxing and fancied myself as a bit of a boxer – although I admit I was never very good at it. One night, I was on the door at Rotter’s when I banged a kid and knocked him out clean. However, he swallowed his tongue, and I really thought I had killed him. I almost shit myself and rushed downstairs into the club, got changed and suddenly became a waiter, walking around the tables, trying to keep out of the way. Because I was the only black guy on the door at that time, one of his mates who was still inside immediately recognised me and rushed outside and told the rest of his pals, who then all tried to storm the door. It started to get a bit out of hand, but the kid came to and was all right in the end – it was a scary experience thinking that I had killed him, though. After that, I started to get a name for myself as a bit of a knockout merchant. I was then made second in command of the door.

  One night at Rotter’s, I was w
orking with a doorman called Jed. There was a pissed-up hen night at the club, and the girl who was getting married that weekend fancied a bit of sex with Jed. She and Jed went off to the staff changing-rooms, downstairs at the back of the club, and most of the rest of the door crew and I followed and started watching through a crack in the door. There were so many of us all trying to have a peek that the door gave way, and we all tumbled on top of each other into the room.

  I worked on the door at Rotter’s for about two years – it was where I met my first wife Margaret. I have two children with Margaret, but I made a right fucking mess of that relationship, shagging around. I admit it was my fault; I just couldn’t keep my dick in my pants. I got arrested for the football violence while I was with her. That scared her, and, needless to say, the marriage didn’t last very long – it was over about two years after we got married.

  At that point, I started to get asked to supply doormen to various clubs. I had been asked before but hadn’t really known anyone suitable. However, my contact list grew as I spent more time in the business and got to know other doormen. I also asked around at the gyms if anyone fancied doing a bit of door work and hand-picked guys who I knew or had heard were quite capable, and I started to get my own firm together. That’s how things started. Over a period of time, I started to get a few doors in and around Manchester, and it was then that I met Steve Brian, who was into the same sort of thing as me. He also had a few doors, so we decided to link up together and set up a joint company called Loc19.