Bouncers and Bodyguards (13 page)

In Newcastle, Monday night is generally student night in most of the clubs around the city. When the locals are slogging away at work five days a week to pay for their highly priced drinks at the weekend, bars and clubs depend on student ‘tax dodgers’ to pay the wages and bring in an extra source of income. We had all sorts in on those nights: hippies with green hair and flares; skinheads with pierced lips and noses; fat, ugly girls with tight denim jeans and boob tubes; and, of course, university rugby players whose fathers, as we were told time and time again, owned the very streets that we walked on. I lost count of the number of times that I was told by these pricks that they would be earning more than me in a couple of years’ time, and that their dads could have me sacked and the club shut down if I didn’t let them stagger back down the stairs into the venue. What a bunch of complete wasters.

George was one such punter. Not a week would go by without him being dragged out of the club for one thing or another. He really was a pain in the arse. He would be thrown out at about 10 p.m. and would still be there at 2 a.m. arguing the toss and threatening my livelihood. Needless to say, I’m doing OK, and he is still studying – six years later!

Another student that springs to mind is ‘Posh Ron’. He was called Ronald and spoke like Harry Enfield’s character Tim Nice But Dim. Every Monday, Ron felt that he had to perform for his fellow students by stripping off in our club. And when I say strip, I mean strip – the fuller monty, if you get my meaning. The lads eventually decided to teach him a lesson. One night in January – and I hasten to add that it was a
very
cold night in January – Posh Ron set off on his usual routine. As his final Dunlop trainer was flung off and he let it all hang out, the lads and I set our plan into motion and began gathering up his clothes. Once we had all of his gear, we grabbed Ron just as he was about to do the cancan and escorted him off the premises. It had started to snow, and Ron quickly realised the error of his ways, but this time we weren’t going to hand him his clothes back. The sight of ‘Posh’ with his hands cupped over his nether-regions kept the queue entertained and had us all in hysterics until the police arrived to protect his dignity. We reluctantly handed his clothes over to the police who gave our friend a lift to the local nick to warm up – instead of cooling off!

Nigel was another character who graced our student nights. He was well respected and in general a nice geezer whose daddy had plenty of money, but you tend to find that a lot of these kids who were born with a silver spoon in their mouths and have a lot in their wallet haven’t got very much between their ears. We had a restaurant upstairs at Legends that would double as a VIP room once in a while. We only entertained celebrities on a weekend, so a Monday would be business as usual for the restaurant. I would always start off on the front door and then go downstairs for an hour or so to warm up, before going back on the front door to finish. When inside, I used to stand on the stairs leading to the restaurant. For some reason, Nigel would come looking for me to ask if he could hobnob it with the stars. I would say, ‘I shouldn’t really, but if you make it worth my while, I will turn a blind eye.’ Every Monday night, without fail, my palm was greased with a fiver from our Nigel, even though there were never any celebrities up there. He never did catch on. See what I mean? Not much between the ears.

However, life wasn’t always fun and games at Legends. Every year the Hoppings fair would visit Newcastle’s Town Moor for a week in June, and apart from bringing bad weather it would also bring a whole lot of trouble in the form of gypsies. Travellers, for me, are the worst type of gypsy you can come across. (Sunderland football fans come a close second.) Travellers are always looking for bother with anyone who so much as looks at them, and this particular night was no different.

It was a Thursday, and a couple of the lads were late arriving at the club, so there were only three of us on duty. Earlier on in the evening, we had let in a group of lads who were on a stag do from Edinburgh – now have you ever seen a sober Scotsman? No? Neither have I. Later on, the gypsies started to arrive in dribs and drabs – we were quiet so had no objection to letting them in. It took all of five minutes before the alarm was ringing. ‘Fight in bar one,’ was the call over the bar staff’s radio. Sure enough, the Scots and the gypsies had introduced themselves to each other, and Paul and I had a riot on our hands.

As standard practice, Johnny, the other lad working with us that night, had to stay on the door. Inside, there was a ruck of about twenty blokes punching and kicking seven bags of shit out of each other, so Paul and I got in amongst them as best we could. I pulled the gypos back – sovereign rings and all – while Paul weighed into the kilt-wearing warriors. Our back-up arrived in the shape of Simon and Vaughn, and we eventually managed to get them all outside. It was like the Wild West, and blood and snot was flying as we ‘rag dolled’ the lads up the stairs and out onto the street. I like to go to work, earn my money and go home without any bother if I can help it, but this was one of the very few occasions when I actually had to hit someone – a record I’m quite proud off. One of the gypsies was from the school of dirty fighting and decided he fancied a bite of my arm. I just managed to pull it free before he drew blood and caught him with a cracking uppercut followed with a straight left. Sweet! My old boxing coaches Bernard and Tommy at Felling Victoria would have been proud of me.

A lot of doormen weren’t at all happy when cameras were introduced into Newcastle city centre and then into the bars. Skiving and any misdemeanours were quickly seized upon by the management, who previously hadn’t known what their door staff were up to. However, I was certainly happy that the cameras were in place and working in Legends on one of my rare nights off.

I was standing at the side of the main dance floor with a few of my mates: Ritchie, who worked at the club; Graham, a taxi driver from Gateshead; and Curly Keith and an Iraqi called Alan, two punters whom I knew from the club. A fight broke out on the dance floor, but it was all over in a flash, leaving a lad nursing a broken nose. I went up to him amongst all the ravers and tried to wave over Irish Mark, one of the doormen working that night, but I couldn’t get his attention. By that time, the lad’s mates had crowded around me asking what I’d done to him. I told them what had happened, but because they were pissed they thought I had done it. They wanted to get involved, but by that time Irish Mark had come over and was listening to the lad’s mate’s side of the story. The lads were convinced I was guilty and wouldn’t let it lie, so I told them I was going to leave before the situation got out of control. I left through the fire exit and made my way home.

The following night, I arrived at work as normal and was called into the manager’s office. I was told in no uncertain terms that I was no longer required for work. I was suspended. In a nutshell, the lad’s mates were convinced that I was the guilty party and had called the police. As a result, the manager gave the police my name, and I was a wanted man! I told the manager that if he checked the CCTV for that night, the camera would clear my name. He said he would but that the police had it and would return with it the following week, so until then I was suspended. I could not believe it. In the end, the camera didn’t lie, and I was proved innocent, but it still cost me the best part of £200, as the manager refused to pay me while I was suspended.

It’s amazing how many ‘friends’ you have when you work on the doors. Most bars in Newcastle have a queue at some time during the evening, and this is when your so-called mates suddenly appear. If you are on the front door of a bar or club for a few weeks on the trot, people get to know you and say hello or shake your hand. Some even give you the time of day and comment on the weather or a football result. This is the punters’ way of getting in with you. They see you as a way of jumping the queue – it is as simple as that. Now, I don’t mind letting one or two people in for free who I have got to know over time, but I have had some people who really take the piss and attempt to get ten people in past the long queue. If you are one of those people, I’m telling you now: don’t do it again. And for all of you working in clothes shops whom I have let in over these past few years, rest assured, I will be coming into your shop for a few freebies very soon – I have happily scrubbed your back on a few occasions, so now you can scrub mine!

I worked at Planet Earth (Dolce Vita when the Kray twins visited Newcastle) every Wednesday for a while. The promoter had a hard job filling the place. Most of my Wednesdays were spent with Mickey Armstrong and another lad called Anth. Malcolm, the manager, was always up for a laugh, so the atmosphere at that venue was usually fairly relaxed. One day, Anth made the fatal mistake of wetting Malcolm with a bottle of water – the battle lines were drawn. Malcolm and Mickey enlisted me in their revenge attacks – yes, attacks were going to be made on Anth.

First up was the standard ‘wetting Anth with a bigger bottle of water when he least expects it’ – simple enough. Result: Anth in wet clothes. The following week saw a little more planning. Mickey enticed Anth into a game of pitch and toss against the club wall. I went first with a poor attempt; Mickey went second. He retrieved his coin, which was a bit closer than mine. Next up was Anth, who was really up for the challenge. He’d done it – his coin was closer to the wall than mine or Mickey’s. Splash – he hadn’t banked on Malcolm throwing a bucket of icy water out of the window. Result: Anth in wet clothes.

By the following week, Anth was paranoid and was doing a new version of the green cross code, looking left, right and straight up! Our next plan had to be good . . . and it was. We asked one of the lasses from reception to pose as a collapsed punter outside the fire exit at the back of the club. We arranged for Anth to be on the front door with a new starter so that when the call for assistance came to the front door Anth would have to go and deal with it. It worked like clockwork! Anth went around the back of the club to rescue our damsel in distress, and by the time he realised he’d been duped . . . splash – another bullseye for Mickey and Malcolm. Result: Anth in wet clothes (and most of us in wet pants).

I was crying with laughter. Proof (if you need it) that doormen aren’t the animals they are made out to be – we like a good laugh as much as anyone!

The Union Rooms was at one time a gentlemen’s club in the heart of Newcastle city centre, but when it finally closed it stood empty for the best part of 25 years. The pub chain J.D. Wetherspoon saw an opportunity and grasped it with both hands, and Eric Pilman, Mark Higgins, Gordon Gray and I were asked to work the door. It was a new type of bar: no music, no televisions or big screens, just cheap booze and good conversation. Just like the good old days!

The place was commonly used – and still is – as a starting-off point for a night on the town and was generally heaving on a Friday and Saturday night. Also, being next to the train station, it attracted a lot of football fans on a match day. A lot of the lads I used to go to the match with in my younger days were still running with the hooligan firms at that time – the latest batch being known as the Gremlins. I didn’t have a problem – and still don’t – with any of the lads, but the manager of the pub did. The bar had a restaurant upstairs, and on one occasion the manager received a few complaints from customers about football fans singing. As a result, he asked us to throw out those responsible. So we did. However, the problem was that some of the lads involved knew me and knew that I was also a fan, which made me the target for their abuse. It didn’t take long for the rest of them to join in. Soon, other fans were singing, and the situation was really starting to get out of control. Four doormen and four hundred fans equals? The police arrived soon after the manager had called them for assistance. The fans vowed revenge; they’d be back.

The following week, we were told to stop any fans wearing colours, which caused more animosity, and yours truly got the brunt of the stick again. However, any hooligan worth his salt doesn’t wear colours, so it wasn’t long before the singing started, and the manager was at a loss as to how his plan had failed. We went inside to tackle the situation, and it was obvious that the lads had come in for a bit of bother – and boy did they get it. We asked them to move outside. ‘Are you gonna make us, like?’ one of them said. Then the whole bar went up. One of the other lads threw a punch at Eric, just missing him, and the four of us waded in. It was like something out of
The A-Team
, without us having to build anything! Bodies were flying all over the place, glasses were smashing, bottles were flying here and there, and each football hooligan that got in our way found himself lying next to one of his pals in the gutter outside the bar. The video of the event should be used at door-training seminars, as we were all quite pleased with ourselves that day – and so was the manager. Needless to say, we didn’t have any more singing on a match day, but was it really worth upsetting all of those fans for the sake of a poxy couple of people in the restaurant? I don’t think so.

We had other rucks with visiting firms. The whole town would be on maximum alert for the North East derby between Newcastle and Sunderland or, to a lesser extent, Middlesbrough. The police would visit us to have a look around for any notorious faces, and once or twice they would update us on their whereabouts, but, as I have said before, I knew most of the lads, so didn’t have much bother with them, as there was a mutual respect all round.

One of the worst match days I ever had to work was again at The Union Rooms next to the central train station. Mick, the other lad who was supposed to be working that day, didn’t turn up, which left me in the lurch, and Newcastle had just lost at home to Sunderland, so the atmosphere was pure evil. In those days, the away fans were given a police escort to the station, but that didn’t bother those intent on causing trouble. The police had for some reason underestimated their numbers, and I had a major incident on my hands. The bar was full of Geordies urging the Makems to have a go, and I was one man against the masses. A bottle was thrown towards the bar, and the window went. It was like the starting gun to a marathon – the whole place erupted. The Makems charged the door and the Toon fans charged the oncoming red and whites. Game on. It made
Braveheart
look tame.