Because it was such a great read and he wanted it back before he returned home, it was probably the quickest I have ever read a book – much to my girlfriend’s annoyance. She kept moaning that I was concentrating too much on the book and not enough on her! I was enthralled with Bronson’s story and his mad, crazy life. It was a great book and an unputdownable read, and as soon as I got back to England I decided to write to Charlie and tell him how much I had enjoyed it.

A couple of days after returning home and settling back into my mundane life, I put pen to paper and wrote Charlie a long letter telling him what I thought about the book and how much I had enjoyed reading it. I never really expected the letter to reach him and thought that it would not get delivered or else be added to the large pile that Charlie must receive each and every day. To be honest, I thought he must have hundreds of people writing to him, and I didn’t expect a reply. Surprisingly, he wrote back to me within just a week of me posting the letter – I was really pleased when a strange-looking envelope appeared through my letter box!

I replied back to Charlie almost straight away. After reading his book, I felt we actually had quite a bit in common – we both loved boxing, keeping fit and unarmed combat – and over the following 12 to 18 months we became friends, writing backwards and forwards about the stuff that we both liked.

In one of my letters, I told him that I was working the doors. He was very supportive and wrote back to me with quite a bit of advice – and advice from Bronson is definitely something to take seriously! Although he had spent much of his time behind bars, he did know a lot about life, dealing with violent situations and handling violent people. A life behind bars must also be an extremely violent life.

I was in the middle of buying a house with my girlfriend, and for a long time we had both saved really hard in order to get just about enough money together for a deposit. Times were tough, and the laws had just changed with regards to SIA licences. Like a great many other people in the same position as me, I had to get a licence in order to carry on working. It was bollocks, as I already had a licence from the local council in which I was operating, but now I had to go on another stupid course for another piece of paper to allow me to do the job I had been doing for years. However, because I was in debt up to my eyeballs with my new house, I just didn’t have the money to attend the training course, let alone pay the money needed for the licence – every single penny I had was in the property. I needed the work desperately, but couldn’t get it because I didn’t have a licence, and without the work I couldn’t afford the licence. The uncaring SIA had made it unfairly difficult for me and many people like me. I was trapped.

I moaned about all of this to Charlie in one of my letters, telling him how unfair the whole system was. Completely out of the blue, Charlie, via a friend of his on the outside, sent me one of his works of art to auction off. He said that I could use the money to pay for the door supervisors training course and the SIA licence, and anything left over should be sent to a children’s charity in Liverpool he had been supporting for a number of years called Zöe’s Place Baby Hospice. I was completely gobsmacked that someone who I hadn’t even met should decide to help me in this way. I thought it was wonderful that someone had that much trust in a friendship that had only been developed via pen and paper in an occasional letter and card. It was great.

Altogether I raised just over £900, and I was able to send a nice fat cheque to Zöe’s Place as well as getting my SIA licence. Charlie told me in a later letter that a few of the people he had helped had not been so honest – either pocketing all of the money themselves or not being so truthful about the total amount they had raised. He had never heard from those people again. But we were friends and had been writing to each other off and on for quite a while – I wasn’t going to spoil the relationship by being dishonest with him, and to this day I am still his friend. I still write to him and even get up to Wakefield to see him now and then.

Because of his status in prison, it is very hard to get a permit to visit Charlie Bronson. First, you have to apply and Charlie also has to submit a formal application. CID visit you and ask you lots of awkward questions about why you want to visit him, and they thoroughly check your background. Even after all of that, there is still no guarantee that when you turn up you will be allowed in. I have heard that quite a number of people are turned away and refused access with no reason being given.

Charlie Bronson is Charlie Bronson, and personally I think he is now inside only because of his name, not because he deserves to be in prison any more – most prisoners have been set free after serving less time for committing crimes a lot worse. Even murderers get less time than Charlie has had, and 30 years’ solitary is completely contrary to any human-rights policy almost anywhere in the world – even third-world countries don’t treat prisoners so badly. Anyone who is now in contact with Charlie says that he is a decent guy who once led a violent life – but that was 33 years and another lifetime ago. I have always found him helpful and kind, and if it wasn’t for Charlie I would not have worked as a bouncer for as long as I have. I am proud to work the doors – it is a great job.

As the years go by, I am constantly amazed by the scumbags you meet while working on the doors. I am sure there is not a doorman (or doorwoman) in the land (or in the world) that hasn’t got a good story to tell from their time in the job. Funny or frightening, violent or sad, comical or miserable, we’ve had them all. It’s an occupational hazard: nutters wanting to cut your throat, stab you and shoot you all because you have refused them entry into your venue on the grounds that they’re a scumbag! And evidently your judgement has served you well – that is the reason why they are going mad outside, making threats and not just walking away. They are pond life and scumbags.

Don’t get me wrong – it’s not all bad. There was one night my fellow doormen and I turned a group of foul-mouthed girls away who had clearly drunk far too much. One of the group came back to the door. She was about five feet five inches and probably well over sixteen stone. She was a fucking monster and a right ‘space hopper’ – God was she ugly. She had a face like she had battled parked cars and very little personality to match. She was staggering all over the place telling all the door staff exactly what she thought of us. Suddenly, she fell over and landed flat on her back right in front of us. All 16 stone of her was on display, her fat legs splayed in the air and her skirt horribly hitched around her middle – not a pretty sight, I can tell you. And it was made fucking worse by the fact that she wasn’t wearing any knickers. Why is it that the fat, ugly girls are generally the ones who cause most trouble and are the worst to deal with? Seeing her fat legs in the air and a grotesque tuft of back fluff between that mound of ugly white flesh, I couldn’t stop laughing. It is comedy moments like this that make the job worth doing.

There was another incident when a guy was asked to leave the venue by the manager and he refused – as they all seem to do. I was asked to deal with this, and the bloke went for me. I restrained him, and he was quickly removed. Outside, he was still playing up, coming back for more – as they all also seem to do! I was trying to be reasonable and polite, which he obviously thought was a weakness. Big mistake! To be fair, he brought out the worst in me at that particular point, and the guy ended up actually shitting himself. The smell was fucking awful. It wasn’t a proud moment, but sometimes things like this just need to be done.

The worst incident that I have ever been involved in was out the back of the club. The venue was rough: fights almost every night; a guaranteed glassing at least once a week. A group of lads were thrown out of the fire exit at the back of the club, and a big fight started to unfold. Unluckily for us, the club toilets were being refurbished at that time, and the builders had left the scrap piled up in a skip around the back, which quickly became weapons in the hands of the group of not too happy scumbags. Bars and pipes were flying everywhere, and blood started to flow. I ended up in hospital with severe internal bleeding after being bashed hard in the side with a piece of pipe. But times like that are all part of the job, part of being a bouncer. We won the fight that night – perhaps we might have been accused of being a little ‘heavy handed’ – perhaps – and looking at the blood-stained white bonnet of a parked car nearby it certainly looked that way. But for me it is just personal safety – we were fighting for our lives. People who criticise and condemn bouncers very easily forget that it is our job to keep a venue safe, to keep the scum out and to create a civilised place for decent people to enjoy a good night out. And if that means battling hard . . . well, so be it.

In this occasionally tough job, those were the sorts of places I first cut my teeth in. Tough, hard, demanding places, where I had no choice but to learn quickly and react fast. These are places I think all beginners should start at; if they can’t face the worst, then they should not be given the best. ‘Jacket fillers’ who have been on the doors for a while but have never experienced the worst should not be doing this job, as the worst will happen at some point to everyone. If you have not had the experience or don’t know how to react and deal with it, then you are putting yourself, your team and your customers in great danger. But nowadays most doormen don’t want to battle – they want an easy life, posing, chatting up the girls and looking cool. There are many doormen working the doors now that have never been involved in a violent incident. I find that amazing.

I am not sure if I would still be on the doors had it not been for Charlie Bronson sort of sponsoring me. At that time, I was definitely unable to afford the course fees and the licence, and maybe, as time passed, I would have never been able to get them.

They say that you miss the doors for the first few months away. You really miss the people, the music, the fun, the other doormen, but after a while away from that life, away from the doors, it becomes harder and harder to go back again. At one time, a weekend at home with the missus was a luxury and a rarity, but after a few weekends at home it becomes the norm and leaving is virtually impossible.

These days I work an altogether different venue: The Boars Head taphouse in Kidderminster – a large, friendly pub that puts on live bands and prides itself in attracting decent customers. Pop in sometime and say hello.