by Bill Carson
He agreed, but on leaving the gents he quickly darted over to his mates. I was right behind him. I thought he might seek the sanctuary of his friends. After all, how can you trust the word of a drug dealer?
He didn’t quite make it. I grabbed him around the neck from behind with one arm and with the other I took hold of his dreadlocks, yanked his feet off the floor and dragged him backwards through the crowd. I threw him out and down onto the pavement. His mates were following right behind, trying to rescue him, and Pete was pushing and shoving them out of the main exit.
All of them had been ejected and were now giving it big style outside. They were all making that sucking of the teeth noise and gesturing with their hands, mimicking the using of pistols. Threats of reprisals were coming thick and fast, mainly from the younger white lad. Apparently he was going to go home and come back to shoot us all later on. After about five minutes, I started to lose it. I’d had enough of the bullshit. With fists clenched I stepped outside and confronted them. Shit or bust, let’s have some, I thought. Now they had the opportunity to carry out their threats as I walked right up to them.
“Come on then, let’s fucking have some!” I roared.
I wanted one of them to make a forward move, but as in most of these types of incidents, when it came down to it none of them decided to accept my offer. They were all mouth and no bottle. They all backed down and walked away.
I shouldn’t have gone outside: they had brought me down to their level and I acted out of anger and frustration. I behaved like a fucking amateur and I could have got myself nicked as I was ready to lay into them – with the tools, if necessary. Our job was done and they were outside so there was no need to get involved any further. I think the job was definitely getting to me as my tolerance barriers were becoming far too easy to breach. I must admit, I really wanted to take them on. As I walked out of the door of the club, I wasn’t aware of anything. The other lads, as far as I was concerned, had disappeared. I just had one thought: steam straight in. Crazy.
We had a quick drink with Jo at the end of the night, and as usual stood outside and waited as she bolted and locked the doors. Just as we were about to get into the motor, which was parked right opposite the club, we heard someone shouting in our direction. I looked across the road and thought it was the drug dealer and his mates coming back for tear up, but no, it was someone else shouting some form of abuse at Pete. He thought it was someone he’d barred a while back. This guy was a young stocky black lad of no more than twenty. Basically he was showing off in front of a large group of his pals, shouting at the top of his voice.
“Hey, shut the fuck up,” I said.
He told me to come and shut him up and started waving his hands. Such arrogance can only be rewarded in one way and his challenge was duly accepted. Pete could see what was going to happen.
“Just ignore it. Let’s get in the motor,” Pete said
I ignored Pete’s sound advice. There was more abuse coupled with sarcastic laughter. I wasn’t on the door now; we were on our way home. I was tired and pissed off and I had a splitting headache. Normally I would have made a mental note of the twat and dealt with him another time, but not tonight, I wasn’t fucking having it. Who does he think he is? I thought.
Within seconds I was marching across the road, adrenaline pumping in my veins and eyes locked on, ready to do battle with our tormentor. As I approached, he started to move about giving a pathetic little Muhammad Ali impersonation. He was smiling and taunting me as he danced about. He seemed to think it was all a big joke and that nothing was going to happen. I didn’t say anything but quickened my stride, closed the gap, measured the distance and let fly. I clumped him really hard.
A powerful right hook smashed into the side of the guy’s thick skull. As I threw the punch, he’d leant forward a fraction in an effort to duck out of the way and so my blow didn’t find its correct target area. It was still a powerful blow, though, and it actually upended him. One second I saw his head, and the next thing I saw was his two feet in the air as he went upside-down and landed flat on his back on the pavement. Who’s laughing now? I thought, as the collective groan from the small crowd echoed along the high street. The blow had broken one of knuckles in my right hand which was starting to swell: it didn’t matter, I still had my left.
The guy was dazed and was still on his back as Simon came running over. He decided to give his own rendition of River Dance on the guy’s head, stamping repeatedly on his nose. I stopped him after two or three stamps as he was looking as if he was enjoying it a bit too much.
Then one of his pals decided to help his fallen comrade and stepped in. Simon dealt with him by literally kicking his arse up and down the high street. The busy traffic had come to a halt in the middle of the road to view the spectacle. A double decker bus pulled up and the driver stuck his head out of the window to have ago at us. I walked over and told him to mind his own fucking business. The way we were carrying on, he was lucky I didn’t drag him out of his cab. He got the message and fucked off sharpish. I think there must have been a full moon out that night or something. Mad stuff.
Pete decided to call it a day. He said that he’d had enough. I had noticed a few signs of disinterest for a while. He wasn’t training as much as he used to either, so it came as no surprise really. He suggested that we both turn it in.
We’d started on this road together and so it would have been appropriate to finish at the same time as well, but I decided to stay on.
What can I say about Pete? His friendship and loyalty were greatly appreciated. It takes a considerable amount of courage to do this job, especially the way that we did it. I always knew that without a doubt he would be there right behind me, watching my back. We always got on well; I don’t think we’ve ever had a disagreement in all the years I’ve known him. He could be very witty at times as well, which always helped during the more stressful moments.
The scars you acquire while exercising courage will never make you feel inferior. D.A. Battista.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
STRANGE DAYS
We now move on in time to March 1996
I had the weekend off from the door work as a good friend of mine was having a birthday party at a local pub. I needed a break because sometimes I felt that trouble seemed to be shadowing me and was a constant companion. So a night off from all the trials and tribulations of the nightclub would do me good. I was now the punter for a change.
I’d been in the pub before as it wasn’t that far from where I lived. It had always been a rough pub and had a bit of a reputation for attracting the wrong kind of crowd. As soon as we entered the bar, I automatically felt the essence of bad vibes forming. They had a small disco going in the back, which at first was quite good. The only problem was the DJ – he was a real mouthy twat. We’d had words earlier on that evening as he walked by us all at the bar. He’d said something stupid and I reacted. To me he seemed to have far too much to say for himself. He had got a little too familiar and I didn’t even really know the fat twat. We’ll see how much you’ve got to say later on when I come back, I thought. And a little later on, after we’d all gone home, I jumped into the motor and went back to the pub alone to see what his fucking problem was.
I was a bit pissed that night, but it didn’t matter because, in my mind, I desperately needed to have a word with this guy. When I got there the place was empty, apart from some bar staff who were tidying up behind the bar. I strode in like John Wayne and asked one of them where the DJ was. Out of the corner of my eye I suddenly see the big fat lump coming up behind me. I didn’t give him an opportunity to Jap me with a sneaky attack from behind. I knew he wasn’t coming over to shake my hand so I quickly spun around and clouted him with a right hook, which knocked him out. Now he was a big fella, probably about eighteen stone, and as he went down he clattered into the chairs and tables behind him and scattered them all over place. It was stupid really, looking back: I didn’t need to prove myself, I know what I’m
capable of and I could have taken that fella with one arm and blindfolded. Still, what’s done is done and can’t be undone.
A week later I heard that there were a few faces making inquiries as to who I was and there was the inevitable talk of reprisals. I’m not the kind of person to let the grass grow under my feet so I went back into the pub one day on my own. I stood at the bar, stone cold sober this time, and ordered a pint. I’d spotted a small group of dodgy characters in the corner playing cards who eyeballed me as I strolled in. I vaguely knew the governor of the place and when he saw me he came over and I apologised to him for the punch up. He was a friendly guy and an ex-copper I believe. He said that he wasn’t surprised that someone had given the bloke a slap as he’d had a few run-ins with him himself. I didn’t even get barred for that one. As I said, trouble did seem to follow me around a bit back then, but, on the other hand, maybe the trouble was with me?
***
I was back on the door the following week, back where I belonged. I had yet another new member of the team to indoctrinate. He was a nice guy but, like his mate Simon, was as green as grass and he didn’t have a bloody clue. He was quite small in stature but relatively confident. He was in his mid to late twenties and seemed to be able to act as a calming influence over Simon, which was not a bad thing.
Later that night, the two guys with whom I’d had a run in with at the club in Ealing turned up in the queue. They were a bit taken aback to see me and a little apprehensive, to say the least. They both apologised and promised to behave themselves. I let them in, as inside I knew that it would not be long before these two tossers caused some sort of trouble which would then give us a legitimate opportunity to give them a couple of well deserved, well overdue slaps.
We didn’t have to wait long: the two bully boys soon started on a couple of younger lads who were just having a quiet night out with their girlfriends. They were both small guys, and one of them was really skinny; I’d seen more fat on a jockeys whip. The two couples left the club, closely followed by our two brave hard men. The fight began outside the club. There was a brief verbal exchange and then the two smaller guys began taking a hammering.
One of them was being repeatedly punched and kicked all over the place. By now the fight had moved away from the club and was continuing outside a lovely little Mexican restaurant about thirty feet away. Tables, chairs and plants were all being knocked about as the mindless assault continued.
The two young women who were with them were hysterically shouting and screaming in our direction and gesturing for our assistance. One of the young lads went down on his back. The two attackers now took full advantage and took turns to stamp and kick the poor guy in the head. Now these two were quite big men and were giving the guy on the deck powerful boots to the head. The guy was now out cold and helpless. We could hear the sound of the boots going in from where we were standing. Two more sickening powerful kicks were slammed into the side of his lifeless head.
Simon and his mate were like a couple of pit bulls straining at the leash in anger at what they were watching. They turned to me and asked if we should get stuck into them. Usually we didn’t involve ourselves in what was going on outside as we were there to look after the club and the people inside it. But there are exceptions to the rule.
I unleashed the two lads and they set about mauling the bigger of the two the attackers with all sorts of dirty tricks. Simon initiated the rescue by smashing his forehead into the guy’s nose. I grabbed the other one and give him two powerful knee strikes into the stomach; he doubled over and got a right hook to the jaw. Which was enough to end the assault.
“I don’t want to fight you, mate,” he cried as he went down to the pavement. He curled himself up into a ball so I couldn’t get a clean shot at him. Not so brave now, I thought.
I called the two lads back in. Simon and his mate had done the other bloke up like a kipper – his eye and nose were pouring with claret from the expert use of Simon’s forehead. I didn’t know what would have happened if we hadn’t moved in to put an end the attack. How many kicks to the head does it take before a fatality occurs?
I got home late that night and sat in the living room alone and thought over the night’s antics while sipping an ice-cold beer before crawling up to bed. It was 3am and I was knackered. I took off my boots and carried them up the stairs with me. Half-way up my staircase is a large window that overlooks the front garden and the road. As I passed the window, I saw the headlights of a car as it pulled up right outside my gate. I poked my finger through one of the slats on the Venetian blind and, to my absolute horror, I saw a police patrol car with two coppers inside it. My heart sank into the depths of despair – that feeling of dread before you’re about to be nicked is one of the most sickening feelings you can experience.
I turned around and crept back downstairs. As I reached the bottom, I grabbed my jacket and reluctantly slipped my boots back on. All sorts of things were going through my mind. I bet it’s got something to do with those two twats we clumped earlier. Do I deny it? Yeah, best bet is to say nothing at first, I thought as I waited for the knock of doom.
I waited by the front door with my hands out ready for them to clap me in irons. Something’s not right here, it’s taking too long, I thought. I turned out the light and crept back up to the window and peeked outside. My heart jumped back into place as the police got out of the car and arrested the guy over the road. Yabba dabba fucking doo, I was free again!
The next night we had a little more trouble with a couple of guys who wouldn’t do as they were asked. Three times I asked them if they wouldn’t mind taking their feet off the seats. Every time my back was turned, they put them back up again. Fourth time now and I’d had enough. These boys were most definitely looking for trouble.
“You two are leaving,” I said.
One of them still had his feet up on one of the cast iron stools.
“We’re not going anywhere,” he said.
I quickly whipped the stool out from under his feet and he jumped up and immediately adopted a fighting pose. His friend did likewise. He then beckoned me forward.
“Come on, come on then,” he said
So I did and I delivered a hard front kick to his knackers. He stopped talking and fell on the floor, clutching his privates. Then, to my surprise, Simon burst through the door and took the other guy out and down to the floor with a very graceful dive, at the same time putting him into some form of mysterious head lock. He’s got to stop watching that American wrestling, I thought.
We managed to drag them outside and they decided to make a stand. The smaller of the two made a lunge at Simon and was put to the ground, where he received half a dozen blows from Simon’s sovereign-encrusted fist into his face.
His companion decided to whip off his belt, which had a very heavy-looking oval-shaped brass buckle attached to it. He proceeded to advance in my direction, swinging the belt around his head. I stayed just inside the doorway where his weapon of choice would have little effect.
All the time that this was happening, I was thinking about the police pulling up outside my house the previous night. I really didn’t fancy getting nicked, and that kind of put me in a different frame of mind. I held back this time. They were now really fired up and making all kinds of threats. What they actually said repeatedly was that this was their manor and they would be back tomorrow to settle the matter. These types of encounters will expose your every weakness if you allow them to. You have to fight against all the negative thoughts, stand your ground and show no fear.
The warnings and threats were all said in a very calm and deliberate fashion and my life was threatened in no uncertain circumstances. It’s a funny feeling someone telling you that they are going to kill you, but you sort of get used to it.
“I’ll be here. See you tomorrow, then,” I said.
Their parting shot was to throw one of the heavy signboards in our direction, which was ironically advertising the happy hour. It crashed into t
he door and cracked the side window. Jo was not too happy, and I couldn’t say that I was either. In actual fact, the more I thought about these two mugs, the more enraged I was becoming. That was the lowest I have ever felt whilst working on the doors. If I had a pound for every time someone had threatened to shoot me, I’d be a very rich man. Why should I think this time would be any different from all the others? I don’t know: perhaps I was becoming paranoid or maybe it was because Sean and Pete weren’t around anymore? I’ll not back down, I can’t, I won’t and I’ll be here tomorrow so we’d see what they are made of.
They were a couple of nasty characters. I was taking their threats seriously and decided that I might have to introduce them to a couple of friends of mine – ‘the bruising irons’, as they were affectionately known.
After you have worked in a certain place for a while, especially in this type of occupation, you seem to acquire an amount of territorial pride, as I call it. Perhaps it’s wrong to think in these terms, but nevertheless you do, and so that’s one reason why some people may stand their ground in these situations. But I think it could simply come down to what kind of person you are inside. Some people refuse to be intimidated and decide to fight back. My days of allowing someone to intimidate me were over years ago. However, that doesn’t mean to say that you don’t get a little scared every now and again. It doesn’t matter how tough you are, it’s natural.
