Show No Fear Redux: Bouncers Diary

by Bill Carson

  He must have felt the wind of the upper cut as it went past – it was literally millimetres away from hitting him. However, I’d put so much power into the upper cut, I lost my balance and I fell backwards over the dustbin and landed flat on my back. So at this stage I was doing a pretty good job of beating myself up. My opponent had by now regained some, or most, of his senses and he saw his opportunity for some payback. He dived on top of me and whacked me in the face with a big bunch of keys, two of which were protruding from between his fingers. The blow opened a cut over my right eye.

  No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get to my feet because the dustbin was wedged under the backs of my legs. And then bang! He caught me again in the same spot, but his blows lacked any real power. I think that the clump I’d given him had taken away his strength. I brought my knee up and managed to wedge my foot into his stomach and push him off. I then tried again to get to my feet but that fucking dustbin was still well and truly on his side.

  He came for me once again, trying to finish me off this time. He rushed in and leant over me, his fist raised. The blood from the gash under his eye was dripping all over my white t-shirt. He thought he was in control and took a swing at me with his keyed fist, but I managed to catch him with a blow under the eye which opened the gash a little more. It unzipped like a purse and disgorged a fair amount of blood. He jumped back and that gave me the chance to finally get to my feet. I rolled to the side, and as I got into my fighting stance, he did a runner and hurdled the front gate.

  I was willing to leave it at that, but he decided to pick up a brick and throw it in my direction. It missed me but hit the window frame, which cracked the glass. For the first time during the whole encounter, I completely lost my temper. My front door was open, and just inside the hallway, on the floor, I saw the claw hammer I’d been using to hang some pictures up the day before. I grabbed the hammer to go after him but my wife gripped my arm to stop me. I looked at her and then looked back toward the front gate and he was flying along the road in the van.

  There was some police involvement, but we managed to agree to disagree as to what had actually happened, and when the police arrived I told them nothing. They phoned me a little later that day and I asked what the score was. The detective on the other end of the phone said that the chap had received ten stitches in his eye and wanted to see if I was going to pursue the matter.

  “So are you going to press any charges, sir? If so, the gentleman said he will as well; he’s sitting here with me now.”

  “No, no charges, but tell him he fights like a girl, will you?” I said

  He put the phone down and that was that.

  I learned two important lessons from that incident:

  1. Always put your boots on: I had a really bad cut on the underside of my right foot.

  2. Move the dustbins out of the way.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAV TOWN

  February 1994

  I received a phone call from John asking if I wanted to work the door that weekend. The venue was a rough pub in a town called Sunbury. There would be two of us to look after the governor down there as he was being intimidated. The brief was that there was a little firm in the pub that was taking liberties, hassling customers, dealing and refusing to pay for drinks etc.

  Pete was having the weekend off, and so for the first time my back was going to be watched by a total stranger. One the most important things in this game is being able to trust the person you’re working with. Working with people you don’t know can be very costly. You have no idea how they are going to react when situations get ugly. Their bottle could go when you need them to watch your back, and then you’ll be left standing there like lemon on your Jack.

  I arrived at the venue with more than a little trepidation. I opened the door to the pub and I was immediately approached by a tall lean fella with a Kiwi accent.

  “Hello mate, I’m Chris,” he said as he offered his hand.

  My initial level of apprehension was now almost completely gone and I was somewhat relived by his presence, and he mine I think. Sometimes you meet someone and you almost immediately know whether or not they are kosher. I knew that this guy was not the type who would back down; his casual friendly manner with the punters was all a front, and a good one.

  The pub was big and was situated right in the middle of a large council estate. It was a traditional old fashioned looking place, complete with a smelly, threadbare, beer-stained patterned carpet and a light brown nicotine-coated ceiling.

  The DJ was in the corner setting up his ‘disco’ equipment, which consisted of a turntable that sat upon what looked like a modified ironing board flanked on either side by some DIY flashing light units. I was then introduced to the landlord, who was a short-arse mouthy little prick and absolutely fitted right in with the place. I didn’t know who was worse – him or the punters.

  You would have been hard pressed to find a place with a more concentrated amount of scumbag chavs: it was wall to wall with attitude. You have to use your loaf a bit in places like this, because if you give one of these sorts of punters a slap, you’ll probably end up fighting everyone in the pub. Basically the people that frequented the place just wanted to cause us as much grief as possible. They really thought they owned the place and we were the enemy.

  As the place started to fill I was getting some curious looks which made me feel about as welcome as pork chop at a Jewish wedding. Thankfully we had nothing too serious to deal with. Except that, toward the end of the night, I began to receive the usual mindless comments from the morons and the fantasy island armchair warriors. I’d heard all of this well-rehearsed alcohol-fuelled rhetoric before.

  “What are you fucking bouncers doing in ‘ere?” a short-arsed grubby crackhead said as he stood directly in front of me in a gunfighter-type pose.

  “You fink you’re so fucking ‘ard,” was the passing comment from a chubby, young blonde woman as she waddled past me on high heels.

  “I reckon I could ‘ave you, mate. A few years ago I’d have done you up a treat, old son,” claimed the old pisshead as he stumbled out of the door.

  “You’re a big bloke, but that don’t bother me because I know people,” the old pisshead’s mate said while pointing at me.

  And then my all-time favourite:

  “I’ll come back and do you, mate, and I’ve got guns as well,” a forty-something-year-old drunk said for no apparent reason as he swayed about in front of me.

  Fucking losers, I thought.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  MY MANOR

  John’s secretary rang me and asked if Pete and I would come down to the office for a chat.

  Why wasn’t John calling? I thought. I knew that they were a dodgy little firm and I was never a hundred percent sure about them. Why would they want to see us at the office? It could be that we’d somehow fallen foul of them. Or it could be that we were about to be further indoctrinated into their organisation.

  I had heard that a couple of weeks back one of their brethren had been caught with his hand in the till and he’d been given a terrible beating. So we decided to tool up in case it all went Pete Tong.

  I’m pleased to say that the meeting was a good one and was concerning an offer of a more permanent position within the company, which we were delighted to accept. Along with our wages, we had gone up in their estimation and we were now considered part of the firm.

  The venue that we were going to look after was in a very affluent part of West London where you could occasionally rub shoulders with the rich and famous. Ironically it was one of the places that we had contacted with a view to employment a while back. It was a beautiful area during the day with its large picturesque green where, centuries ago, tournaments and pageants were held. It had clusters of wonderful little antique shops and cosy pubs and restaurants that meandered along the broad curve of the wide high street. The end of the high street led you down towards the river. It was a tranquil, classy little town. However,
after six o’clock, and once the shops had battened down the hatches for the night, the place took on a different kind of atmosphere. Hordes of youngsters and all kinds of weirdos crawled out of the woodwork and descended upon it.

  It was quite a pleasant-looking bar. It was a big red-brick building, which back in the day was once an elegant hotel. I looked up at the elaborate stone sign above which said: ‘The Railway Hotel 1888’. The long façade of the bar was lit by a dozen sturdy brass lamps. The lamps were suspended above the large arched windows that overlooked the high street. Each powerful lamp deposited a shaft of bright white light onto the heads of the patrons queuing outside. A curved emerald green sunshade hung above the front doors. We were both unusually quiet and a little tense for some reason. I’m not sure why, but the feeling was almost palpable; maybe deep down we both secretly didn’t what to be there?

  We’d arrived a little too early and had gone for a coffee in the fast food restaurant next door to kill some time. After about fifteen minutes we decided to show our faces. We turned the corner, and standing at the door, bathed in a defused pool of yellow light, was a young fair-haired pretty little Scotswoman. She greeted us with a warm smile, introduced herself and gave us a friendly handshake. Her name was Joyce and she’d been the manager here for the past three years. She had no idea that a couple of months beforehand I’d been speaking to her on the phone about our possible takeover bid for the door here. I kept shtum.

  ***

  I liked the fact that there were four of us on that door, although that dwindled to two after a while. The two other boys, Dave and Mark, were both very experienced doormen. They were confident and gave the impression that they could definitely handle themselves. The club had an alarm system with strategically placed alarm buttons; one was just inside the front doors on the floor, so a discreet tap with your toe would summon the rest of the boys when things were going pear-shaped. The set up was two in-house and two front of house, and then we’d switch around after half an hour or so.

  There was also one up by the DJ who, incidentally, was a right prima donna. And definitely was more trouble than he was worth. The other thing that annoyed me about him was that he was on a good deal more money than us. Surely it should have been the other way around. Mind you, we used to give him a bit of stick, especially if he started to play that RnB music. One of the lads had a quiet word with him one night and he seemed to be as good as gold after that. I never found out what was actually said to him, but he was always very well behaved when this particular doorman was around. If I were to hazard a guess as to what was said, it probably had something to do with him, his equipment and a large plate glass window.

  The type of music that a venue played was important: it set the tone of the club, thereby attracting a certain type of punter and, more importantly, discouraging another. There was some really good dance and house music around at the time. Robin S, The Nightcrawlers and ‘Dreamer’ by Livinjoy and ‘The Bomb’ by the Bucketheads were my own personal favourites at the time. They all still sound just as good today.

  The other security position was by the toilets – not the most sought-after position, but an important one as most of the drug deals would go down in there.

  As I entered the club for the first time, the deep thudding dance track started. The lighting began flashing and spinning in sync with the beat of the dance track, and the dry ice machine was puffing out a thin white mist. Over to my left there was a large L-shaped bar with eight TV screens above it, which played endless music videos all night long. Dead ahead was a small dance floor, and beyond that a little staircase that led you up to a raised platform which was where the DJ was positioned.

  There was also a large conservatory area with a pool table, and a sizeable beer garden. At the time it was the most popular club in the area. Little did I know when I turned up that first night that I would be on that door for the next four years. I’d also become the head doorman in a short space of time. I would experience some happy and sad occasions, engage in lots of small fights and some that were pretty rough. I had my courage put through the mangle and wrung out to dry many times, but I’m pleased to say that I never did back down from the bullies, drunks and self-styled hard men. I had a few laughs along the way as well though.

  A nightclub is a place where anything can happen – good and bad. These are places where you can lose your mind, body, soul and teeth in one fell swoop. The sights, the sounds, the smells and the neon lights draw the exited young punters like moths to a flame.

  The first things you see are the tough-looking bouncers at the front door, confident and expressionless with their arms folded, all standing in their hint-of-danger poses. The queue begins to form as the moths start to gather. A group of seductive pretty girls with everything on show are at the head of the queue, the loud and boisterous group of young fellas behind them, a dodgy dealer is stalking them close by. A couple of the local hard men swagger past, their slits for eyes searching the queue for easy prey. They are all symbiotic: all one and part of it all.

  The DJ sets the thumping soundtrack in motion which dictates the feel-good vibe; the irresistible atmosphere has now been now created. Inhibitions will be lowered, skirts will be hoisted, knickers will be dropped and defences will be breached as the alcohol and drugs kick in. It’s futile to resist, you will be sucked in. The powerful narcotic will work its magic on you and you will succumb. We are watching. It’s the world in microcosm.

  ***

  Three months on

  We’d had nothing too serious to contend with, just a lot of verbal. Mark had moved on – he’d decided to get involved in some close protection work. Dave had left too, which was a shame because we got on really well with him. He was a pleasure to work with and was 100% reliable and trustworthy.

  We got a succession of different guys turning up as replacements. The first one was Garry, a stocky bald-headed cockney fella – a nice guy but far too aggressive with the punters. He lacked the diplomacy you need to have in this line of work. He was a kind of floater and would be used to plug the gaps when others failed to turn up for work or were on holiday.

  The next week we had Alex with us. He was a big, tall Scots lad. His hair was black as a raven, he was square-jawed and was a tough-looking guy. And with that Glaswegian drawl he came across as a real hard man, which he was, but sometimes he could be as nice as hell. But once again, he was far too aggressive when it wasn’t really necessary. I think he and Garry just didn’t give a toss, but the problem was that their actions could also drag you down with them. I think they thought that because they were with Peter and I (two big lumps), they could get away with taking a few liberties.

  One lovely warm summer Saturday evening, Pete, Alex and your humble narrator were all on the front doors in shirt-sleeve order. The queue was starting to form and the place was beginning to get busy. A young, white-faced nervous barman suddenly appeared and asked if we could have a word with some fella inside who was getting a bit abusive. He pointed him out and Pete asked him to behave. The right response was not forthcoming and so he was asked to leave.

  “Fuck off, I ain’t going anywhere,” he said.

  Now we had little choice as he’d refused to leave willingly but there were ways, techniques if you like, of how to get trouble makers out of the place with as little disruption as possible. I remained where I was at the front doors. Pete grabbed the fella by one arm and Alex grabbed him by the other and the drunk was thrown out of the door. I was dealing with the crowd queuing up but I caught a sight of the guy flying past me from a really hard shove off the step from Alex.

  The guy looked like a right nutter. He was in a wrinkled old tartan shirt, scruffy jeans and dirty training shoes. I was looking for his banjo; he looked like an extra from the film Deliverance.

  He stood there glaring at me from about five or six feet away. His teeth were clenched, his chin was jutting out at a peculiar angle and his neck was stretched to its limit. His bloodshot eyes were bulging out
and staring right at me.

  I didn’t mind – eyes cannot hurt you and he was outside my exclusion zone. I used to visualize a chalk circle of about four feet in circumference on the ground around me: anyone entering that was too close and was in perfect kicking range. He hadn’t entered it yet and so didn’t present a problem at the moment. He stood there staring for what seemed like an age so eventually I spoke up.

  “Hey, mate, we don’t want any trouble, now do we, so why don’t you go home?”

  There was no reply from him and no movement. I left him to it, thinking he’d get fed up with this after a while and disappear of his own accord. Just then, Alex arrived at the front doors and stuck his head out of the doorway.

  “Are you still here?” If you don’t fuck off, I’ll batter you all around the fucking street,” Alex said, while pointing at the fella.