I Worked as a Bouncer - 6

The night it all kicked off and nearly – almost, did and then didn’t - went to shit. Part 1 – Thursday and Friday nights.

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Part of the trouble may have been caused by the deliberate, and satisfying, humiliating put-down/snappy come-back I dealt Paul. That doesn’t mean I take any responsibility for what happened. I don’t – that’s ALL down on him.

Saturday nights were always busiest of course. Not just in the town where I worked; all over the world I guess.

Pete’s security firm was under pressure. Another security firm wanted in on his lucrative business and punches were never pulled when it came to taking over another guy’s patch.

I heard rumours and mumblings that things could get a little hairy if it kicked off. No longer a matter of ‘if’ it came to blows, it was more like ‘when’. Everyone with an ounce of sense could feel something in the air. Confrontation was coming, the best we could do was be ready.

Pete took care of nightclub and pub security in two other towns as well as ours. One town, just a few miles from us had a large contingency of ‘Pikeys’. If you’ve ever seen the Guy Ritchie film ‘Snatch’ then you have a good idea of the type of problem they could cause – up to and including weapons.

The other area was in Nottingham, the closest city to us. Because there was a concentrated night-scene, doormen tended to back each other up and if one club had a fracas, the bouncers in the club next door would usually come across to give a ‘dig out’. No, of course it wasn’t ‘any excuse to lay the boot in’ – not at all…

Our usual team were on standby and when necessary, could and would hop into a car or two and take off to act as backup for the team having ‘problems’.

The problem started brewing on the Thursday night. Paul had not got over the fact that he’d tried and failed to humiliate me in front of the team and instead, been shown exactly what it’s like to be the butt of the joke. He’d come to the conclusion that he didn’t like it, not one bit.

Paul was in a foul mood. He’d not been to the gym that week and Dingo didn’t make things any better by calling him on that too. ‘Skinny arms’, or ‘weedy legs’ had Paul’s jaw clenching with the effort of biting his tongue. He was going to blow, and who knew when or at whom.

Paul didn’t get into any fights on Thursday night but I believe that was more down to the lack of customers than any other factor. He tried his best, threw people out with unnecessary force, for paltry, fabricated reasons, but they must have sensed his willingness to take it further because every one of those ejected from the club held up their hands and said ‘OK, I’m going.’ One guy did seem like he was about to have a go, but his mates pulled him back, spoke to him and he went with them, looking back at the club as he went.

Dingo arrived at work on the Friday, pumped and pleased with his gym progress. He had his jacket slung over his shoulder and his bulging muscles were accentuated by his shirt. He drew attention to how good he looked at every opportunity, especially at Paul’s expense.
“You missed leg day again this week,” he said. “You can’t afford to miss any more training, not if you’re going into competition with us. I can see it now, you standing on stage, oiled up, best poses going on and the judge saying, ‘I’ve seen better legs on my kitchen table!’ How will you feel then? It’s not worth it.”

Paul seethed through the evening’s shift but not a word would be said to Dingo about it. I assume it was because Dingo was his friend, combined with the fact that he could have wiped the floor with him if push came to shove.

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Toward the end of the night when the customers were getting ready for home and/or bed, a massive commotion at the top of the stairs had the door team running to help. Instead of rushing up the stairs, however, they had to leap out of the way as a customer rolled at them, almost having them over like a set of bowling pins.

Paul came down the stairs, both hands on the bannisters, threatening all kinds of bodily harm upon the hapless customer. It was fortunate for the guy, he was so drunk, his natural instinct to protect himself as he fell hadn’t kicked in and he’d not suffered much injury that we could see.

“What the fuck happened?” Mono asked.

“I told him to wake up and get out and he kicked off,” Paul said.

“You’re a fucking liar, you pulled him down the fucking stairs. It’s lucky for you that he hasn’t broken his neck!” A voice emanated from the stairs and I waited for the owner to arrive. A pretty woman, a semi-regular to the club followed Paul down. He turned and grabbed her by one arm and before any of the team could regain their balance or their wits, Paul had turfed her outside. The guy at the door held her back from returning inside but she shouted her threats from where she was.

I noticed she wasn’t the usual pissed-up/coked-up skank troublemaker. We’d never had problems with her before. I wondered what the hell had happened this time.

The stairs had a landing halfway up, a safety feature in case anyone took a tumble. Instead of falling down all the stairs, the most they would have to endure was half, therefore limiting the damage sustained (hopefully).
Right at the top of the stairs, the bar started. A flip-top bar door meant customers couldn’t sit there and they were always asked not to stand there if waiting to be served.
What had happened this particular Friday was one member of a group of regulars became a little weary and couldn’t keep his eyes open. He decided to take a little rest on a convenient barstool. Unfortunately, the barstool was at the top of the stairs. Even more unfortunately, Paul passed him on his way down the stairs and noticed the barstool legs teetering on the edge of the stairs.

Rather than making the customer move his barstool somewhere safer, Paul decided a ‘show, rather than tell’ example would be more amusing. Paul went down a few steps, reached up, grabbed one of the barstool’s legs and yanked it from under the sleepy customer. Rather than falling onto the floor in a heap, the customer overbalanced and fell down the stairs.

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According to the woman, a loud, but reasonably sober, and therefore, credible witness, Paul was knocked over as the man fell and took it as an assault. He leaped up when they hit the landing and booted the customer down the other flight of steps.

She tried to pull Paul off her fella and he pushed her hard against the back wall. Mono looked up and saw the panel at the top of the stairs had a dent in it. That panel had been replaced recently and the dent was noticeable as new. It’s not definite that it had been caused by Paul pushing the woman into it, but what are the chances?

The customer that had fallen/rolled down the stairs had been helped up and Paul was ready to fight him. The entire door team stood in the reception area preventing the customer’s murder and stopping other customers (from the sounds of which, were the fallen guy’s friends) from coming down the stairs to see what was happening.

Dingo took charge. “Get that guy out. Paul, go outside, round the back and up the fire escape. Go now!”

Paul pushed past the woman again, almost knocking her onto the road. His gait reminded me of a belligerent four-year-old being sent to his room.

The fallen customer was helped up and outside, into the arms of his girlfriend who threatened revenge of every kind, including torching the place with everyone in it and then calling the police.

The guy’s friends were angry and it took the negotiation powers of Dingo and Mono to get things under control and calmed down enough to persuade them to be on their way.

Paul had been let in through the back fire escape and had decided to make good on his own threats by coming back through the club and down the stairs to confront the back-markers of the group.

Dingo surprised me by rounding on Paul and man-handling him back up the stairs as the back-markers of the group were turning around and making ready to take on the door team.

Once the customers had been sent on their way, I could hear comments along the lines of: “Fucking hell, he’s a fucking nutter!” and “I knew he was a loose cannon, but he caused that and if it kicks off, we’ll all be expected to dig that cunt out.”

Now, I wasn’t experienced in the ways of bouncers, but that didn’t sound good. If a bouncer voiced concerns about a team mate to the extent that he would have second thoughts if it came down to backing one of their team up, something had gone seriously wrong.

I voiced my concerns about Paul to Dingo, later.

“Are you sure you’re not pissed off with him ‘cos your sister fancies him?” he said.

I knew then, that I should shut up and I did exactly that. I watched everything in silence. If I couldn’t talk to one of my oldest friends about my concerns, then something else had gone seriously wrong and the common denominator was Paul.