Bouncers and Bodyguards

by Robin Barratt

  With this in mind, it came as no surprise that whenever a TV documentary, talk show or reality programme was being made about bouncers and Scorpion was asked to provide the people, I would be involved somewhere along the line. So, when Scorpion got the call to supply three of their staff for a stint on the Kilroy show – the programme was doing a piece on the changing face of dangerous professions – yours truly was called along with my brother Vaughan, who had my back at The Mean Fiddler the previous year, and the talented Mr Ben Perry, a very good friend of mine.

  Ben is as big in personality as he is in stature. He stood at six feet eight inches and weighed in at three hundred and ten pounds. When he was once asked by an irate punter, ‘Just who the hell do you think you are?’ big Ben simply replied, ‘God . . . because I have the power to separate your head from your shoulders with one smiting blow.’ Yes, Ben Perry’s haymaker was an equaliser.

  I’ll never forget the first time I worked with Ben. We were positioned in a fast-food outlet in Leicester Square, stopping non-customers from using the upstairs toilets. I know that must seem both petty and a waste of our time, but despite the jokes and insults it was one of the roughest gigs going. When Scorpion Security first got involved, the toilets were being abused by drug dealers, prostitutes, transients and kiddie fiddlers. At that time, it was a family restaurant that was not a safe place for families to be. And the ‘rent-a-cops’ who were in there before us didn’t tackle the problem properly. Why would they? They were getting £4.85 an hour. We, on the other hand, were getting three times that and were up for a rumble, so after months of fighting, death threats, stabbings and major displays of dominance, Scorpion made an example of the transgressors and marked their territory with the scent of blood.

  Of course, once you have it how you want it, it needs to be maintained, hence the heavy artillery being deployed to keep those who were not paying customers out of the comfy, upstairs bathroom area. Anyone who has ever walked through Leicester Square on an evening can testify that there is a huge amount of trouble with drunk and drugged revellers, and Triads and thugs (who can’t enjoy a night out without either mugging someone or getting into a tear-up). They too needed to be stopped at the door, and that is why we were there.

  I remember that I had to stand on the first step just to come to eye level with Ben. At that time, I was the new guy with Scorpion, whilst Ben was an established and respected body, but we clicked straight off the bat. Although an intimidating sight, with his skinhead and devil beard, he was more ‘Gentle Ben’ than anything else, and as any punters who used to visit the goth and punk nightclub Slimelights during the late 1990s would be able to tell you, he was also a good laugh.

  It was hard for me to take my old partner in crime seriously after witnessing him curl his huge, bulky frame under a small oval floor rug to show the world that he was really a turtle whilst E-ing out of his face. He would stretch his neck from his shell (the small oval floor rug), while making a turtle face, and try to eat imaginary lettuce. It was all very surreal, but not as bad as when he and a small group of friends tried to re-enact The Wizard of Oz whilst tripping on LSD. Watching a grown man tuck a chequered tea towel down his pants while sporting a twine mop on his head, acting like he is stuck in a tornado and screaming ‘Where’s Toto?’ is an image not easily forgotten!

  When he wasn’t living life to the fullest in his time off, Ben was a non-stop working machine. Because of his size, he was a very popular advertisement for nightclubs and would find himself working five days and seven nights a week. (With that work schedule you might be able to understand the extreme methods my friend went to blow off some steam on those rare occasions he wasn’t earning a living.) Because he worked so much, he would always have a host of stories to tell you whenever you bumped into him. My favourite was the time he was working on his own at a pub in Carnaby Street, London. I think the pub’s name was The Blue Trumpet, but don’t hold me to that – like I said before, old age is setting in! It was a Saturday afternoon and a big game was taking place on the home ground of a London team against some other big team not from London – I don’t want to start getting into the whole football rivalry thing, so that will have to do. The landlord of the pub told Ben that in no circumstances were any football hooligans or groups of people sporting team colours allowed in. There is nothing more satisfying than having a job that sets you such compromising challenges: keep out football hooligans and people wearing team colours on a Saturday afternoon in the West End of London when a cup game is on hosted by a local team. I can only assume Ben must have felt special knowing that the landlord was aware of what was coming but still insisted on having just one doorman on duty – nice to know that you’re appreciated.

  Between the hours of 3 p.m. and 5 p.m., there was obviously just the usual traffic in and out of the pub. The landlord was all smiles and kept teasing Ben because he had been worried about the day’s events. Ben, however, was on the verge of decking the muppet landlord – it wasn’t game time that worried him; it was what was coming.

  Just after 5 p.m., a group of nine pissed off supporters whose team had lost were making their way towards the big double-door entrance of The Blue Trumpet with only Ben there to stop them. ‘Sorry, gents. The doors are closed to sports clothing – dress code, I’m afraid.’

  They answered with the typical response that every doorman hears at least a hundred times per shift: ‘You’re having a laugh, ain’t ya?’

  ‘No, geezer, I’m not. Those are the house rules. You can’t come in.’

  Using a dress-code policy as a reason to keep undesirables out of a place is common practice; using a dress-code policy when you are at a pub in Carnaby Street is not so easy to pull off due to the area’s varied clientele – goths, punks, trendsetters and students all hang around this famous street in the heart of the West End. The group of supporters would have had a valid point of discussion on their side had they wanted to debate on the matter, but instead another member of the group opened up the talks with a truly well-established line: ‘Fuck off, we’re coming in . . . Who’s gonna stop us? You?’ And with bravado on their side, the group edged forward towards the doors.

  Ben held out his arm, more to judge his punching distance than to act as a halt sign. ‘There’s no need for trouble, fella,’ he said. ‘It’s not my policy. I’m on your side in all of this, but the rules are the rules.’

  As the group responded, none of them seemed to notice that whilst talking to them Ben had closed one of the doors, bolting it shut, and had proceeded to pull his weighted gloves out of his jacket pockets and put them on. He had already got them at arm’s length, surmised who was most up for it in the group and positioned himself in the remaining open doorway with a good, solid stance. They had allowed him this leeway without even realising it. Ben had set himself up in a position that he felt more comfortable in handling, no matter which way it now went.

  He then changed his tune: ‘Right then, you fucking muppets. There’s only one way you can get in this place, and that’s through this doorway. I’m six feet eight and weigh twenty-two stone, and I’m standing in between you and the bolted door. Your best bet is to rush me in single file and get through one by one. But I tell ya now: that’s exactly how I’m gonna fucking knock you out – one by one. Who’s first?’

  By the look in their eyes, it was a chance some of them were willing to take, but common sense slowly kicked in, and those in the group not really wanting to put Ben’s theory to the test started to take steps backwards. This left three out of the nine standing strong, although all were unaware that the rest of their group were not behind them as they thought. Like the scene from Shrek in which Shrek asks the commanding officer, ‘Really, you and what army?’ only for the commanding officer to turn and realise his loyal army has run off, these three turned to see that they were alone and ran off towards Oxford Street station. Crisis averted.

  When Ben told me this story, he was not afraid to point out that he had been scared. Had all nin
e stuck together, he would not have stood a chance and would have wound up on the wrong end of a nasty kicking. However, when you put someone in a fight-or-flight situation, eight times out of ten they will take the flight option. Taking part in an actual physical confrontation is not something people want to do, despite how it initially seems. Fighting is still mainly left to the experienced, the drunk and the crazy – which is a very small percentage of people in the grand scheme of things.

  That was Ben: a chancer, a rogue and one of the funniest people I have had the pleasure of knowing. A true gent and a diamond geezer.

  Now back to the story . . .

  The Kilroy show was live, starting at 10 a.m. and running for about 25 minutes. There was no room for second takes or do-overs – you had to be on your game, quick on your feet and ready to roll as soon as the camera crew gave the signal that filming had begun. This meant that all the guests had to be in the studio by 8.30 a.m., which for us meant being picked up from our homes at around 6 a.m. This was after we had all worked the night before. I had got in after my shift at 5 a.m., showered, changed clothes, grabbed a cuppa and was about to tuck in to some delicious warm buttered toast when the chauffeur rang my doorbell. The studio had sent executive cars to those involved to ensure that key guests would turn up, although I could not understand why they sent us a car each, as we had to drive past where Vaughan and Ben lived on the way to the studio.

  I arrived at the studio at about 7.50 a.m. – Vaughan was not that far behind me, judging by his text message, so I waited outside for him. When he turned up, we chatted for a few minutes about the adventures of the night before and what was about to take place that morning. We had been told that we were there to talk about the changing face of nightclub security because of the introduction of the new door supervisors’ licence. It all seemed innocent stuff, and we ventured into the meet-and-greet area, where we were signed in and shown the breakfast room. We were told to help ourselves to the tea, coffee, juice and breakfast buffet. Now, that is the last thing you should say to a sleep-deprived and starving person my size who knows how to put away a meal or two. Vaughan was no slouch when putting away a meal either. It must have been in our genes, and it was definitely a task for the caterer to be on his toes and keep our plates stocked.

  The moment we entered the room we could feel that something was out of place: the people present were of mixed ages and ranged from students to grannies – all went a deathly quiet as we walked in. Whispers flew across the tables, and it was obvious that people were staring. We were the biggest people in the room and most definitely the very centre of attention. However, I was too tired and hungry to care, so I headed for the tea, pastries, and bacon and eggs from the buffet.

  It took a while for the caterers to cotton on to the size of portions we were expecting, but they got there in the end! With our plates eventually piled to a size that constituted a proper breakfast, we shuffled along to the beverage section, where the next argument started. The cups were those pathetic little things that come with matching saucers and a handle that you can’t even fit your little pinkie into. I politely explained to the young girl pouring that we were going to need three cups each just to equal the size of a decent mug of tea – I drink tea by the pint. For whatever reason, she was slow to oblige. I do not know why, as it was not her tea or crockery, but she felt the need to refuse, which meant I in turn got a little louder. The rest of the room had already been giving us dirty looks and talking about us, but now I was giving them a real reason to do so.

  The head catering guy walked over to defend his young worker and looked as though he might have given us a verbal run for our money when Big Ben entered the room – his chauffeur had been a little late in picking him up. If we thought the room went quiet before, then this was the purest form of silence imaginable. Ben strolled over and peered over my shoulder, saw the tasty morsels on offer and my plate piled high, and simply said to the head guy, ‘I’ll have what he’s having.’ He got Ben a plate and proceeded to fill it up with all and sundry, whilst rushing the young girl on to pour out nine cups of tea.

  We sat down at the nearest table and began slurping and munching our breakfast, all the while talking and, if I’m really honest, swearing a little bit too much in audible voices. We were three big bouncers, acting in a very stereotypical way, and we were doing ourselves no favours in the eyes of those present – but then why should we act any differently, I thought? We were going to be the real stars of today’s show, weren’t we? Our 15 minutes of fame brought with it a celebrity attitude, which we quite rightly made the most of.

  Time flies when you’re having fun, and before we knew it the participants were being called to take their places on the set – a semicircle of seats with four levels set out like a section of a Roman coliseum. Everyone was told where to sit apart from six people – us and three others. We looked around confused, wondering if we were not going to be on the show any more because we had made so much noise earlier. But if that was the case, why stop the other three as well? One of the studio hands then called the other three over, spoke softly to them and ushered them into the seating area. We were the last three left.

  A few minutes later, the same studio hand came back and beckoned us over. ‘Hi, guys,’ he said. ‘I’m going to take you through in a few seconds, and I’ll tell you where you have to sit. Because you are such big-built gentlemen, we cannot have you all seated together. OK, now you all know what today’s topic is, don’t you? So remember: listen to Robert [Kilroy-Silk] and follow his lead. Let’s go, come along.’

  We followed him to the semicircle where everyone else was sitting and were shown our seats as the rest of the audience stared at us. Ben was seated in the front row next to Kilroy-Silk. This particular tier only seated three people, and accompanying Ben and Kilroy-Silk was a pretty little thing. She was only nineteen years old if she was a day, and she was wearing full make-up, her hair was done and she had on a push-up bra – the whole nine yards. Vaughan was directed to the right-hand side of the tier, third level up, and he was sandwiched between one elderly lady and a slim-built bloke in his early twenties. Finally, I was positioned on the top row. On my left-hand side were two hoodie-wearing tykes; although they were in their late twenties, they were still dealing with acne and, judging by the look of them, a severe lack of women in their life as well.

  It was less than five minutes to go before we were on the air when Kilroy-Silk jumped up from his hiding place and told us not to stare straight at the cameras and that if we had something to say, we should raise our hands. He also said that we could only speak if we were chosen and to remember that we would be live so there was to be no swearing. We all had to be on our best behaviour and all that jazz.

  The crew started the countdown, signalled by sign language: five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one . . . and we were on the air and live. ‘Good morning. I’m Robert Kilroy-Silk, and on today’s programme we will be discussing the heavy-handed tactics of those who abuse their power in the workplace. We have traffic wardens, wheel clampers and our “hit first, ask questions later” nightclub bouncers.’

  Fuck it – we’ve been set up. The wankers! What now? The three of us looked at each other. We all knew that if we made a fuss, we’d only prove his point, live on TV. We realised we would have to wait it out; after all, how bad could it be?

  Hands started going up in the air. For every offender, there were eight victims. The traffic warden and wheel clampers were all glossed over fairly quickly, and then it was time to focus on nightclub bouncers and on us. Tale after tale of ‘over-the-top brutality’ and people being hit for no reason started to do the rounds. I kept raising my hand so that I could have my say and defend my colleagues and profession, but Kilroy-Silk kept going to the victims. Vaughan joined in, putting his arm in the air, but still Kilroy-Silk refused to come to us. He seemed to be baiting us, hoping that we would snap and do something so that his ratings would soar.

  Suddenly, out of nowher
e, a bird flew in from an open window and started circling overhead. At first I thought it was a vulture, because we were well and truly dead, but thankfully it was too small, and I breathed a huge sigh of relief. However, it was big enough to stop the proceedings for a few minutes while the crew debated if it was going to be a problem; after all, this was live TV. They decided to take a chance and continue.

  Kilroy-Silk laughed it off on camera, and the conversation then turned to the pretty little thing sitting on the front seat. ‘Now, Sharon,’ he said, ‘tell us what happened to you?’ Kilroy-Silk sat down beside her so that he could share his microphone with her.

  ‘Well, I was in a club one night with a bunch of my girlfriends.’ Her voice sounded like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, and I knew what was coming. ‘Halfway through the night, these two big bouncers came over and just started to beat this boy up who was talking to me for no reason [they beat the boy up for no reason, not that the boy was talking to her for no reason!], and when I asked them to stop . . .’ The tears started to appear and trickle down her angelic face at that point. Kilroy-Silk comforted her and asked if she was strong enough to carry on. She wiped the tears from her cheek, nodded her head a little and continued. ‘One of them punched me in the face and threw me down the stairs.’ Kilroy-Silk jumped out of his seat as though he had just heard Mother Teresa say motherfucker and turned to Ben. ‘Is that common practice amongst you bouncers?’ he asked. ‘Do you beat people up with your colleagues for no reason?’ Kilroy-Silk then did a sweeping gesture with his arm, and the cameras panned and zoomed in on Vaughan and me, with our poor victims either side of us. ‘And punch girls in the face before throwing them down the stairs?’