Bouncers and Bodyguards (2 page)

You either love him or hate him, but Dave Courtney is also a real diamond. Thanks for entertaining me for a couple of hours at your place with your stories, your thoughts and your comments on the industry. Dave’s ornaments and wall decorations have to be seen to be believed and woe betide any unwelcome visitor.

I have to admit, like Dave, I am very old school and believe that true door work is occasionally about teaching scumbag scrotes who misbehave and cause others distress and inconvenience a fucking hard lesson. In my opinion, we should go back to the good old days when coppers gave scumbags a fucking good kicking – we would then all live in a much better society. But as Dave says, there will never be the quality of fighters on the doors again as there were back in the 1970s and ’80s. There will never be the same characters, the hard cunts whose reputation preceded them.

Steve Wraith, thanks for your stories from your life on the doors up in Newcastle. Steve is another complete professional – hard as fuck but immensely polite, respectful and humble. Steve sat down for a good few hours – admittedly with a good few pints beside him – and wrote away. It is a pleasure to have you by my side, buddy, and it will be an honour to work alongside you one day.

Sadly, at the time of writing, Bob Etchells is still returning to his tiny prison cell every night and being tucked into bed by his freakishly large and somewhat intimidating cellmate. It was way back in my very early 20s, after dropping in and out of numerous dead-end jobs, grubby bedsits and quite a number of exceedingly tarty women’s knickers, that I started working the doors at The Ritzy in Norwich under Bob’s supervision. He was head doorman at the time, and I was a spotty and skinny wimp. I honestly thought being a door supervisor was a bit like being a hotel doorman – opening the door and welcoming people as they came and went – and truthfully didn’t know what a real one did. (I knew what bouncers did, of course, but I didn’t think that they were the same. It wasn’t until it kicked off big time that I realised it was the same job!)

If I hadn’t become a doorman, I wonder what would have become of me – and I wonder where I would be now if I hadn’t stuck it out during those first few months (perhaps even years) of naivety and inexperience? Probably an old, fucked-up, boring-arsed factory worker married to an overweight, nagging ogre. (Come to think of it, maybe things haven’t progressed much after all!) Bob had faith in me during those early months, and I fondly remember the very first time he sent me in to evict someone. I think Bob knew I was a bit of a wanker, and he told me to evict a man-mountain called ‘Pint’. He was called Pint because he apparently loved to attack doormen with a pint glass – but I didn’t know that then. Fulfilling Bob’s orders, I just marched up to Pint and asked him to leave. As he put his glass down and rose above me, I looked up at him and gulped. I was in for a severe bashing, but surprisingly he said, ‘OK mate,’ and left. I later went on to prove myself to Bob and his team in hundreds of battles over the years, but back then I almost puked with fear when I had to eject this man-mountain.

Back in the 1980s and ’90s, Mickey Francis ran Loc19, one of Manchester’s most feared door firms. I first met Mickey in about 1997 when I was asked to run a club called Equivino in Wilmslow, Cheshire. Equivino had a regular Saturday-night promotion called Peruvia, and I was asked to move from Reading to try and sort things out, as the venue and the event attracted almost every gang in the North West. Needless to say, the task was way beyond my capabilities, so I called in Loc19. When I first met Mickey and his partner Steve Brian, I thought that if they couldn’t sort things out, nobody could. They were fearsome. Of course, things were sorted, and I have kept in touch with Mickey ever since.

Thanks also go to Timm Smith at Ronin Security in South Africa. He didn’t have the time to write a full feature for this book but said he would do something for
Bouncers and Bodyguards 2
. However, he did tell me a few hilarious stories about his (very rare) fuck-ups while protecting the rich and famous. On one occasion, he almost puked over Queen Elizabeth when he opened the door for her after having run next to her vehicle for three and a half kilometres in a suit with a steel-insert bulletproof vest in the midday South African sun. He also almost knocked out a blind guy while working with Nelson Mandela’s bodyguard team. Mandela was opening a school and was giving a speech in a fruit grove. The blind man was due to meet Mandela and was being escorted by Timm towards the podium. Timm looked down and noticed a tree root sticking out from the ground, but he was too late to do anything, and the blind man fell arse over tit. Mandela commented to the red-faced bodyguard that even in his early boxing days he never managed to put someone down so quickly.

Ken Wharfe is an ex-Special Branch protection officer who wrote
Diana: Closely Guarded Secret
. Ken couldn’t contribute to the book either, as he had just too many other commitments, but he did tell me about the time he looked after Prince Charles. One day, the prince was wandering around the grounds and gardens of Highgrove House, as he frequently liked to do. Ken was keeping a discreet distance from Charles, giving him some solitude and peace. Suddenly, he heard the prince shout, ‘Ken, Ken, quick.’ Ken sprinted over to Charles, who was standing staring down at the ground. It looked as though he had either seen a ghost or there was someone hiding in the bushes, pointing a very large gun up at him.

‘Yes, sir, what is it?’ Ken panted, almost drawing his weapon.

‘What’s that?’ Charles said angrily, pointing down to the ground.

Ken looked down, and after a few confused seconds said, ‘It’s a banana skin, sir.’

‘And what is a bloody banana skin doing down there?’ Charles replied.

Ken didn’t really know what to say and eventually replied, ‘I will have it removed for you, sir.’

According to Ken, Prince Charles isn’t of this planet – he lives in a world of his own, totally oblivious to what is ‘normal’, and cannot relate in any way whatsoever with normal people.

Ken told me another funny story about when Charles was presented with a beautiful new Rolls-Royce. The luxury car manufacturer had spent hundreds of thousands of pounds making an exceptional bespoke vehicle for the prince and was presenting it to him at a special private ceremony. Top managers, key workers and other special guests were invited to attend. The managing director of Rolls-Royce proudly showed Charles the plush, luxurious interior, and the gloss and sheen of the paintwork, but as they walked to the front of the stunning vehicle Charles pointed to it and said, ‘What is that?’

‘It is a Monte Carlo grill, sir,’ the managing director proudly replied.

Charles looked confused and then disgusted. ‘No, don’t want it,’ he said and walked off, leaving the rest of the party standing in amazement.

Last of all, a real big thank you to all the other great contributors. Thank you for your hard work and time, and thank you for your kindness and hospitality – you are all fucking diamonds.

Working the doors and bodyguarding is a business built on trust, loyalty, dependence and honesty. We trust that the people we work with will be there for us in good times and bad. We are loyal to our team. We depend upon them, as they depend upon us, and we are truthful. Without these things, there is no security industry.

I don’t mind somebody telling me that they will do something for me but then realising that they perhaps just don’t have the ability or the time and changing their mind. I have been in that position before: circumstances change; unexpected things happen. To those people who had the decency to let me know well before the book’s submission deadline that they couldn’t contribute for whatever reason you are also diamonds for not letting me down. Thank you.

But to those who repeatedly said yes to me and then let me down at the last fucking minute, you are, without doubt, utter cunts and should not even be on the planet, let alone in the security and protection industry. I was seriously considering naming and shaming you for all eternity, but then I would be a cunt, too, and I just hate calling myself a cunt. However, you all know who you are. You should not be in any position of trust, and you certainly should not be working on the doors or as part of a close protection team. You deserve everything that befalls you – and I hope it is a fucking huge piano from a seventh-storey window.

Apart from a few hiccups, especially at the last minute, putting this book together has generally been great fun, and I have met some great people. But it has taught me one thing: if you promise to do something for someone, then do it or be honest and say you can’t – don’t just leave things, hoping that they will go away, because, believe me, they won’t!

Stay safe.

W
ay back in the summer of 1974, I was a 22-year-old ‘pavement artist’ (i.e. armed blagger). When I got nicked and put away, the Three Degrees had a number-one hit with ‘When Will I See You Again’. I was never to see the streets again for 14 years. I deserved all I got. I was a nasty, vicious bastard – that is how it was with me. You
never
hear me crying about punishment.

I only survived in the ‘free’ world for a couple of months. My whole adult life has been in maximum security – I am still in a hole, but I am alive and kicking. So, from 1974 to 2007 I have been caged up, apart from a couple of months of freedom. Thirty-three years of porridge! And out of those years, 30 have been spent in solitary. And I am still in solitary. Why? Because I am Charlie Bronson . . .

Although I’m a 55-year-old man and now anti-crime, anti-violence and anti-drugs, my past has buried me deep inside the ‘Belly of the Beast’. So bear with me . . . I am a bit lost and confused as to how doormen and minders conduct themselves today. This is my story from years back.

All you really needed in my day was a sharp eye and a good right hook to diffuse any situation. And my hook was second to none! Although my profession was blagger, I often done some collecting and security work, and on a Saturday night you would often find me on a door just passing the night away.

One memory that often makes me smile in my hours of boredom is of a crazy lunatic who just wouldn’t stop causing problems. I was on a club door when he came in. I said to the other bouncers ,‘Watch him.’ I just have this inner sense about trouble. You either have it, or you don’t. It is a vibe you pick up – I can smell it, feel it . . . and I am 99 per cent always spot on. This lunatic was oozing madness. His eyes were spaced out, and he had that walk. His whole posture was saying, ‘Come and fuck with me if you dare.’ It didn’t take him long to kick off.

We had no earpieces or CCTV in them days. All we had was speed. We were fast – get in hard, ask questions later. He had put his hand up some bird’s skirt, and a fight broke out with the bird’s fella! I got in fast – I stuck my two fingers up his nostrils (my speciality!) and led him out into the car park. Simple as that. Or so I thought. (You really can’t plan for a lunatic.)

As I let him go and wiped my fingers on his jacket and told him to fuck off, he dived at me and tried to bite my face off. The rest you don’t want to know, but he was never the same again. He’s sure got through a million colostomy bags, and he’s never put his hands up another bird’s skirt since.

Another time, I was on the door of my mate’s club when a giant of a man came in. I mean awesome. (Incidentally, the tallest man I ever chinned was at Broadmoor. He was six feet ten and a half inches.) This guy was about six feet nine inches. A fucking giant or freak. He became very abusive to the bar staff. I am five feet ten inches, and I strolled up to him and said, ‘OK, mate – LEAVE!’

He looked down to me and said, ‘Fuck off.’ Well, I tell a lie. It was just, ‘Fuck . . .’ He never had time to say ‘off’ before I hit him. It was like a tree going over. I was told the following week that he had come back twice to see me. The third time, he found me and said, ‘Sorry, mate. I was out of order.’

And that is how crazy it can sometimes be on the doors. Guns can be pulled, knives, all sorts. I once had a transvestite slice his wrist in the toilet. I wrapped a towel around his wrist and tied a tie around his bicep till the ambulance arrived. I’ve seen it all: birds getting shagged in the gents, poofs at it, threesomes in the cubicles, blow jobs under the table. You could write a library of books on what doormen experience. Every club, pub, nightclub is different. It’s exciting but not as good as a blag. Counting up the loot is the world’s best buzz, and spending it even better.

I was with a doorman when he had his eye ripped out. It is a lot to lose an eye on a job. Others have been shot dead, stabbed, burnt, all sorts. It’s a fucking mental job with little thanks. But it’s a way of life. Doormen are a special breed. They’re all a bit strange to want to do that job, but they’re a good bunch. Wars are won with such men! They sure don’t get the respect they deserve, and everyone has a story to tell.

Another job I had was looking after a serious ‘Bizz Man’ when he used to deliver a briefcase full of dosh. I mean
big
bucks. I had to make sure he got them from A to Z in one piece with no problems. On one run, I knew we were definitely being followed. I slammed on the brakes and ran out with an axe. I never got a chance to use it, and I have never seen a car go so fast in reverse. Apart from that one incident, the rest of the journeys we did were trouble free!

A man has to do what
needs
to be done, no matter what the odds are or the consequences. You do it fast and furious; otherwise, you’re a total cunt. I despise people who talk the talk, walk the walk, then bottle out. You learn who’s who in your own journey of life. There are some doormen, minders, who have yet to be tested. Until a man’s tested, you don’t know him. It’s the same in war – some
can’t
do it. It is the ultimate test of life.