Bouncers and Bodyguards

by Robin Barratt

  Christmas is supposed to be the season of kindness and goodwill. Humbug! Sometimes we do have a good laugh, but the ‘once a year drinkers’ cause mayhem for a solid fortnight, and, boy, have I had them all: work colleagues who have discovered that they are shagging the same bird – except one of them is married to her; brothers who have fallen out over the same woman; a reveller who grabbed a woman’s arse only to receive a right hook from her boyfriend who regularly sparred with Mike Tyson in his spare time. Ding dong merrily on high! I’ve lost count of how many girls I have seen spewing through their fingers, only to be necking on their latest victim ten minutes later. So remember lads: the next time some lass is dangling mistletoe over your Santa hat, check for carrots.

  On a more serious note, the quayside sadly attracted a lot of jumpers, and that’s not because it was cold. I mean suicide jumpers. It wasn’t uncommon to have more than one a shift. The Tyne Bridge was a favourite, as it was the most well known. For many of these people, it was a desperate cry for help; for others, it was how they wanted to end it all. The worst I witnessed was outside Chase when a man jumped and hit the pavement – not a pretty sight. Another man attempted to jump on three separate occasions on the same day. After the third attempt, the police had him sectioned.

  Drunken exploits could also lead to disaster down by the water. Students would often dare their mates to hang from the fence above the water. Most of them completed the stunt without harm, but the odd one wouldn’t be as lucky and fall in. One night, Alan Scott and I were on the front door when we were alerted by a passer-by that someone was in the water. Alan ran to the fence and looked over. It was dark, and he had to guess where the person was. He threw the ring over, and the young lad managed to grab it and hold on. I called an ambulance and the police, who arrived a few minutes later. Alan had saved the lad’s life, yet there was nothing in the papers, no recommendation from the police, not even a thank you from the lad. Don’t get me wrong: I don’t do the job for a pat on the back, but if Alan had been arrested for something, it would have made front-page news because he was a doorman!

  With Sea being a relatively new club, we were visited by a lot of big names. The stars and celebrities arrived thick and fast. Graham Hancock knew that I had looked after a few people whilst I was living in London, so he designated me, along with a couple of other lads, to look after any VIPs who visited the club. Looking after the stars is the easy bit – keeping the public at bay is what really tests your patience.

  With Robbie Williams, we weren’t really sure whether he would be turning up at all, so the whole club was opened just in case. Then he arrived out of the blue with about 30 people in tow. We were told to go and ask ordinary punters who had settled in the VIP lounge to leave their seats and make room for Robbie and his entourage. Needless to say, there were a lot of people with their noses put out of joint that night. ‘Why should we move for him?’ ‘Has he paid to get in?’ ‘Will he be here next week?’ I agreed with them, but I was just doing what I was told.

  Once the area was cleared, Robbie appeared, and the drinks started to flow. Bottle after bottle of the finest champagne was downed, and more and more people flocked upstairs to get a look at their idol. He was a lot smaller than I imagined and was madly jumping about all over the place – if he had been anyone else, he would have definitely been chucked out onto the streets. A lot of girls were trying to get past me to get to Robbie, some even offering their ‘services’ if I would just let them through. Not a chance. Even people who should have known better said that they would report me to the owner if I didn’t let them pass. I couldn’t understand why someone would want to embarrass themselves like that.

  Just as we had things under control, Robbie jumped up and started to sing his number-one hit ‘Angels’. Well, the place went mental as his fans sang back to him. I wasn’t impressed and was just glad that I wasn’t in his personal security team, because they really had their work cut out. The next day’s paper reported that Robbie had bought everyone in the club a drink – although I didn’t get one – and there was talk of an alleged £3,000 bar bill left outstanding. That’s rock and roll for you.

  Pop band Steps caused the same kind of mayhem. They didn’t have as many followers as Mr Williams, but their security asked us to make sure that no one took any photos of them. Talk about mission impossible. The usual faces tried to gatecrash the VIP section, without any success. The owner of the club had taken to switching his phone off when a VIP arrived, so it was no use those wankers phoning him either. As the flashes went off, the band’s security started to argue with the punters – some arguments became quite heated. One couple wanted a photo for their kids – the band had said yes but their security no. The couple started to hurl abuse at the minders, who then expected me to throw them out. In my opinion, the minders had caused the problem, so they could deal with it, and we ignored their requests to throw people out. Just to round off my terrible night, I was half expecting the band to burst into song, but thankfully that never happened.

  One star I wouldn’t have minded singing was Marti Pellow, former lead singer with Wet Wet Wet, as I always enjoyed their music. When he visited us, he was very low key – no minders, no entourage, just him. He was a really nice fella and not at all stage struck. I wish more stars were like him.

  The Newcastle United team also became regular visitors to the club, and over time I reacquainted myself with the likes of Shay Given, Alan Shearer, Rob Lee, Warren Barton, Stephen Glass and Kevin Gallagher. I used to enjoy the craic about results and games – past and present – with the lads and would always share a drink or two with them when they came into the venue.

  Things were going well. I was still with my girl Dawn, and life was good, but something had to give. Although I got my work on the quayside through Alan and Graham, I was actually still contracted to a security company. I had been warned about the bloke I was working for and did listen but decided to try and stick it out. I lasted just over two years until I fell out with him over holiday arrangements. I left with my reputation intact and my head held high and had Dawn to thank for keeping me going when at one point I was going to throw in the towel. He had tried to blacken my name with other door firms, but he hadn’t banked on me having so much support in the town. I have since heard that he has upset a lot of other people and lost a lot of good doormen.

  I eventually decided to take a bit of time off and spend some quality time with my girlfriend as well as seeing some of the lads, and it was like a new lease of life for me. It was strange not having to put on my stab-vest every weekend. I wasn’t looking for work when Alan Scott called me up out of the blue to ask if I fancied a job back on my old stomping ground. He was leaving The Groat House to take over the door at a new club that was opening called Sugar. I appreciated the call and went to see him that night. After meeting the lads – Billy, Jason, George and Freddie – and the manageress Alyson, I dotted the i’s and crossed the t’s and was back where it all had started: the Bigg Market. It was a different cup of tea to the quay – full of locals and youngsters trying to look older, and the music was a mixture of cheesy chart tunes and the latest banging dance tracks, which was right up my street.

  It was a doddle. We had a scrap there every other night – usually girls fighting each other or causing a fight between their ex-boyfriends – but it was an easy number. Alan offered me a couple of shifts, but I didn’t want to go back to all work and no play, so I just took on a Thursday night for the time being.

  Sugar had opened as a gay club but had flopped, so they recruited promoter Alex Lowes to pack the place out. His reputation for promoting events such as the Southport Weekender and To the Manor Born in Sedgefield meant that he duly obliged. In the first couple of weeks, I was on ‘star watch’ again, as Brian and Narinder, stars from the Channel Four show Big Brother, visited, and Olympic boxing gold medal winner Audley Harrison arrived with his family after winning his second pro-fight in Newcastle. Sugar was going to be a winner, and I was hap
py to be a part of it.

  However, I only stayed at Sugar for a few months, as I soon got bored. I got an offer to move back to Chase on the quayside, but this time as head doorman, and I jumped at the chance. I had a great set of lads working with me there – Peter Lucy, Shaun Charlton, Mick Bradwell, Les Jackson, Freddie Suadwa, Stu the Charva – and a great gaffer in Ronnie Pagan. Life had never been so good. We had some ups and downs, but I loved them all. I was there for five years in total, but all good things eventually come to an end, and I moved on with my security boss Geoff Oughton to help out at Sam Jacks and Bar 55. I stayed there for eight months before ending up at Tiger Tiger with my old mates Buzz and Wrighty, who I started with at Masters all those years before.

  I still love what I do. I wouldn’t do it otherwise. I met my wife Dawn doing the job I love. As for working the doors now – as opposed to the way it was back when I started in the ’90s – well, I think the SIA have a lot to answer for. We lost a lot of good doormen because of their licensing scheme, and many good lads have been replaced by mere kids who just can’t do the job.

  If I could give anybody any advice going into this line of work, it would be: don’t take liberties and what goes around comes around. You have to earn respect. Respect does not lie in your fists. The job is so different now, but violence is still there every night you put on your Crombie and straighten your tie. You never know what’s in store. For me, that was part of the enjoyment!

  BIOGRAPHY OF STEVE WRAITH

  Steve Wraith is now 35, lives on Tyneside and is an actor and writer. Steve’s television credits include 55 Degrees North, Wire in the Blood and Byker Grove, and his film credits include Goal.

  His website, The Geordie Connection, was launched in 1998 to promote a manuscript entitled The Krays – The Geordie Connection written by Steve Wraith and Stuart Wheatman. The intention was for this site to help attract a publisher and then close down. However, after obtaining a publishing deal with Zymurgy Publishing, the book was a huge success, and the site became an important advertising tool. The decision was taken to keep the site up and running, and this led to a video and DVD deal with www.gangstervideos.co.uk. The Krays – The Geordie Connection documentary was released a year after the book and has proved to be just as successful. The site has also proved to be a useful starting point for those with an interest in the Kray family, and Steve has endeavoured to update the various sections over the years as well as answer any questions that visitors have.

  The site has changed direction over time and is now dedicated to helping chart Steve Wraith’s progress as an actor and writer. Steve is represented by Janet Plater Management, and any offers of work in the entertainment industry must be directed to Janet Plater on 0191 221 2490.

  As well as being a published author, Steve has been the editor of two football-related magazines. The Number Nine fanzine ran from 1991 to 1998 and was a huge favourite on the terraces at St James’s Park in the 1990s. Steve is now the editor of North East football magazine Players Inc.

  Steve has also teamed up with former Newcastle and Hartlepool striker Joe Allon to launch a successful agency hiring out former football players as after-dinner speakers. For a comprehensive list of players and prices, please email Steve or Joe at playersinc@hotmail.com

  Steve is also a keen fundraiser and has dedicated a lot of his time to helping the Bubble Foundation. The annual celebrity cricket tournament The Felling Ashes has gone from strength to strength since its inaugural game in 2002, and various sportsmen’s dinners and music gigs have helped raise thousands for worthy causes. For further information on charities that Steve is involved with, please visit www.bubblefoundation.org.uk, www.cancerresearch.org and www.gracehouse.co.uk

  Steve has written for numerous books, including: Survival of the Fattest volumes one to four (football related); Born to Fight by Richy Horsley; The Guv’nor: Through the Eyes of Others by Anthony Thomas; and Wor Al: A Fans’ Tribute to Alan Shearer by Paul Brown and Stuart Wheatman.

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  BODYGUARD TRAINING IN THE RUSSIAN FEDERATION

  BY ROBIN BARRATT

  Without doubt, iraq and Afghanistan have permanently altered the attention private security and bodyguarding has had in the media, changing forever the perception the general public has of the industry. Before the Iraq and Afghanistan wars, the public generally knew very little about bodyguarding and private security; to most people it was a twilight world, populated by thugs, gangsters and mercenaries, which they knew nothing about. However, since the US declared the end of major combat operations in Iraq in May 2003 and restructuring of the country commenced, and fuelled by recent kidnappings and assassinations – of both bodyguards and their clients – the bodyguarding industry now receives almost daily media attention and is the subject of frequent articles and editorial, as well as a fair number of top-quality television programmes. Also, with the introduction of SIA licensing in the UK, compulsory standardised training and strict vetting, bodyguarding as a career is now open to almost anyone with the aptitude and ability, the drive and the determination, and the right background. As an industry, bodyguarding has gone from strength to strength; it is no longer the sole domain of a select number of ex-Special Forces earning £500 plus per day, bonded by secrecy, mystery and silence. Bodyguarding is now big business, with corporate takeovers and multimillion-pound contracts.

  But this has only been the case in some Western countries over the past few years. Prior to 2003, there were only a handful of other nations, at peace, that had such a high-profile private security industry. One such country was the Russian Federation – although many would argue that with the ongoing conflict in Chechnya, Dagestan and Ingushetia, and the occasional terrorist activity in Russia’s capital, the country has never really been at peace.

  Since the fall of communism, private security in Russia has grown significantly and is now a multibillion-pound industry. During the years of communism, there were no private security companies, only special military units set up and funded by the government for specific and specialised purposes. Because there was little or no crime and everything was owned by the state, there was no real need to protect anything, as there was no obvious threat. And those very few petty criminals who did exist were generally quickly caught and sent off to the Gulags of Siberia, where they usually ended their days building roads on a diet of dried bread.

  During communist rule, it was the government who were the criminals, and they controlled everything anyway. But once communism fell, it was a free-for-all, and by fuck did you have to protect what you had. Without protection, a business – any business – would have had no chance whatsoever of surviving. Even a small corner shop had to have armed guards standing at the entrance, nervously eyeing up all and sundry.

  I fondly remember the very first Russian nightclub I visited on one of my very first trips to Moscow. I was in the country meeting the directors of a company called Centurion VI, at that time a major player in the private security industry. I was planning a forthcoming security operation with a banker who I had been tasked to protect. After a hearty meal at a restaurant that they said they owned on the outskirts of the city, I was invited on to a nightclub with a couple of the bodyguards whom I was going to be working with. Having already sampled the delights of Russian women, I eagerly agreed, hoping that I could at least see some wondrous female forms – even if I was in Russia on business and therefore couldn’t touch . . . well, shag.

  The nightclub was behind the now demolished Intourist hotel at the bottom of Tverskaya Street, a few minutes’ walk from Red Square. As we approached the club, two menacing-looking doormen stood guard outside, each brandishing AK-47s. I am not easily intimidated, but even I drew a deep breath at nightclub doormen with AK-47s and asked myself why were we not allowed to work the doors with these kind of tools back in the UK – now can you imagine what that would be like!

  The doormen obviously knew the people I was with, and we were quickly recognised and received a warm, enthusia
stic welcome. I just smiled and nodded eagerly, not understanding a word and hoping to God that they were really being kind and welcoming and not planning to decapitate me and sell my remains for a few roubles to feed the poor beggars found on every street corner. This was one sad thing that I immediately noticed in the newly capitalist regime – there were beggars everywhere.

  I spent the rest of that evening huddled in a smoky corner with four slightly insane-looking, chain-smoking, vodka-swilling, pissed Russian bodyguards, who thought it was terribly funny to unholster their weapons, swirl them around their fingers, gunslinger style, while shouting ‘cowboy’ at the top of their voices and pointing them at the other extremely scared customers. Needless to say, by the end of the evening we were the only ones left in the club, apart from a bevy of the most gorgeous girls, who were either dancing in front of us or cuddled up around with their tits hanging out and tight shorts up their arses. They were all so beautiful and were obviously paid to stay late and entertain us – but I never saw one rouble pass hands that evening, so I have no idea who paid for what, or if in fact anything was paid for. That was Moscow in the early 1990s.

  Moscow is undoubtedly addictive; anyone who has been there will almost certainly agree. At first, you enter the country with trepidation and apprehension – after all, Moscow is Moscow: corrupt and criminal, crazy and callous – but you then have to be dragged screaming back to the airport a few days, or weeks, or months, or years, later. To this day, I still believe that there is nowhere like it in the world, but back then when everything was new and exciting, when you could do anything and there was little or no accountability, Moscow was simply fantastic.

  Shortly after joining the Worldwide Federation of Bodyguards (WFB) as an international trainer, we decided to set up and run a training course in Moscow. After a few years of coming and going, I had developed quite an extensive network of unique contacts within the security industry. If you wanted armed bodyguards with machine guns, I could do it. If you wanted to blue-light it down the middle of major highways, I could do that for you too. If you wanted someone to disappear, no doubt that could also be arranged. Killed someone and got caught with the still-smoking gun in your hands? No worries. In fact, in societies like those, almost anything could be arranged and sorted for a fee – nothing was impossible.