The idea was to vent anger through kneading dough, mixing ingredients, using controlled measurements and having a finished product that would then provide happiness and substance for others to enjoy rather than causing pain and suffering. It had its desired effect, and I became a dab hand in the kitchen, much to the delight of my colleagues who had to eat the sweet spoils of my anger.

This, however, created two new problems: the first was that I was becoming the cause of mild diabetes amongst the team; and the second was that I wasn’t feeling like a naughty bad boy any more, which was rather bizarre, considering the lifestyle I was living and the kind of working environment I was in. Therefore, instead of becoming the heavy-handed puncher, I became the scam artist of Scorpion Security Services, the company I was working for, pulling strokes on every door I worked and finding out every way there was to make a pound from a penny. In fact, I believe I am one of the main reasons why life on London doors has changed so much, with the introduction of venue rules and door policies. Sorry, guys and girls, for spoiling the big earnings, but I feel in a roundabout sort of way that I have created opportunities for you to find new ways to scam nightclubs and pub doors to help supplement your meagre hourly rate and make the job worthwhile.

Anyway, back to the point of this little story. I pulled the mother of all door scams at the Shepherds Bush Empire. It is, as they say, a story for another day, but it was so big and so bad that I became too hot a commodity to stay working in central London. My boss, John Smith, had to show his clients that he acted swiftly and severely when any of his employees broke the rules. In reality, if he did feel that way, I would have been fired on the spot and reported to the police rather than given a pat on the back and a sweet position as head doorman at a new brasserie-cum-nightclub in Hampton Court called Pals.

Pals was just one of many in a chain owned by Danny Rose and his business partner Geoff. Danny used to own The Limelight club in Shaftesbury Avenue back in the late 1980s, early ’90s. I used to work The Limelight in those days; it was just around the corner from The Hippodrome, where my friend and occasional work colleague Lenny McLean used to run the door. In those days, London’s West End was a great place to work the doors – before licences were introduced. So many angles; so many perks – it was good times for all!

Anyway, the timing, as usual, was perfect for me – one door closed and another opened, and I started my 18-month stint working at Pals in both Hampton Court and Croydon. I have to say that Pals in Hampton Court is one of my all-time top doors that I have ever had the privilege and pleasure of working, but as with any new establishment, it wasn’t always plain sailing, and in its opening week I was involved in a near-death confrontation. Had I still been thinking the way I had been at the beginning of the year, I would definitely not be around today to tell this tale.

Danny opened the doors to Pals on a Thursday night. Although he already had a string of them across the country, it was this one that was his pride and joy. He had finally acquired a prime location opposite Hampton Court Palace and had plans to develop a wealthy and occasionally pretentious clientele. The cream-and-blue decor was standard, but each venue had tailored fixtures and fittings to complement the local area – this particular two-storey building had a cosy restaurant on a raised section that was separated from the bar and a sunken chill-out area filled with comfy sofas and moody lighting. The upstairs function room was for private hire during the week, but on Friday and Saturday nights it acted as a separate area for punters to dance the night away.

The door rules were simple: between Sunday and Wednesday it was virtually anything goes, which meant over 18s and trainers were allowed; Thursdays were over 21s and smart dress; and the weekends were strictly over 25s and very smart dress. Danny was adamant that these rules were never broken, because he knew what the area lacked: a venue where the older, richer clientele could go and relax and spend their easily (I always presumed) earned wealth.

The venue had a capacity for 550 people, but Danny always made a point of never going over the 500 mark. He figured that there was no need to squash people in – the customers were given decent elbow room so that they would enjoy themselves more and therefore come back for more. For Danny, it wasn’t just about the money – it was about reputation. When he owned The Limelight, it was the place to be seen; paparazzi, celebrities and high-profile customers would often be spotted coming and going from its large glass doors. Of course, the place went downhill the minute he sold it, and if it had not been for the door team that stayed on, it would have easily gone the way of other clubs that underestimated the value of a good door team. The proof of that pudding is that when they did change the security company, the place eventually hit rock bottom, and it was sold on again to an Australian company that came in and shut the doors to The Limelight altogether. They eventually rebranded the place to match their franchises worldwide, and the doors reopened – only this time the venue marketed itself to a different sector of revellers, and business never reached the same levels it did when shrewd executive Danny Rose owned the place. Danny knew how to add the extra magic to make the punters come back time and time again – he was a born nightclub promoter.

Before Danny’s reign, Pals had been a pub with an ‘anything goes’ policy each and every day of the week: underage drinkers, no dress codes and all the fights that could be started. Its regulars were travellers and nasty characters from East Moseley – the noisy, violent, working-class district of the peaceful and wealthy Hampton Court area. The landlord who ran the pub back then was spending more money replacing windows and furniture than what was being rung through the tills, so it wasn’t too long before an alleged insurance job was organised – a fire that actually killed the landlord and the two idiots he hired to start the blaze. Needless to say, Danny did not want the same kind of crowds coming back to his new venue and gave his word to turn a blind eye to anything that went on at the front door that enforced that rule.

Thanks to the inexperienced doormen that the door supervisors’ licence scheme was allowing through its vetting system, I had not yet arranged a fully hand-picked team. Hampton Court was a far cry from the West End and did not have the additional financial rewards that working ‘in the smoke’ offered. Scorpion Security supplied me with a few people until I had the chance to build a team I was happy with, but they were mostly a complete bunch of utter wankers – the licensing scheme had eliminated a tasty workforce and left mainly rank amateurs who could not stand up against a gust of wind let alone a team of scumbags from hell. Thankfully, I had managed to get an old acquaintance to agree to work with me. His name was Kevin, and he was a seasoned professional who had moved to Surrey after making a few quid in the construction game.

I first met Kevin back in 1992 when I was freelancing. I had just enjoyed the atmospheric event of the World Wrestling Federation’s SummerSlam at Wembley Stadium, before heading down to Break for the Border, just off ?Tottenham Court Road, to work the night as a fill-in. It was a special night for me, not because I met Kevin, but because some of the wrestling stars came down to blow off some steam – they were staying in a nearby hotel. One of the stars who came in was the immortal Hulk Hogan – he was a boyhood hero of mine after I first saw him on late-night wrestling back in 1984. However, by the way he was acting in the club, I was glad I no longer thought of him as a role model, otherwise I would have been severely crushed – but, again, that is a story for another time.

Kevin worked with me on the front door at Pals, vetting the punters and keeping the trouble out. Inside the club, I was lucky enough to have been supplied with Paul ‘Professor Hightower’ Smith, a six feet six inch mass of a man from Streatham. His Frank Bruno looks and stature made him stand out in a crowd, and the Professor had a right cross to equal the boxing champ he resembled so much. Paul got the nickname Professor Hightower because when he was not on duty he wore spectacles that seemed to hide his aggressive nature – you could understand how Clark Kent got away with it. They also made him look like a schoolteacher, hence the moniker. This was the full extent of the back-up I could rely on. The other two guys in attendance were a waste of space, and the sixth member of the team had yet to show up – it was not a good start.

The doors were set to open at 7.30 p.m. for the club’s grand opening. The general manager was Michael Camp, and he was giving his staff a last-minute pep talk. At one time, Michael, or ‘Campy’ as he was called, had run The Limelight for Danny. Campy was a thinly built man with a little Friar Tuck patch starting to show through his thin blond locks. He was a good manager – he was realistic and understood the fact that the door staff occasionally had to do what they had to do in order to get the job done and would back them up 98 per cent of the time.

It was 7.25 p.m. when the last member of the door team finally graced the squad with her presence – her boyfriend, who was also in the security game, as well as being a part-time DJ, had insisted on dropping her off. In true West Indian style, he ran late for everything, but as far as I was concerned – especially in the muscle game – the only thing you should run late for is your own funeral. I told her that if her boyfriend couldn’t get her to the venue at least 15 minutes before the start of her shift, she should perhaps work at a different venue. From the following night onwards, Allison drove herself to and from work.

With all the door team together, I gave a brief talk on the history of the area and what the management wanted to happen with the club. I pointed out that trouble was expected for at least the first month or so, so everyone had to be on their toes and give full back-up. Although everyone nodded in agreement, I still had very little faith in some of the new faces and made a mental note to make phone calls the following day in order to get a few more reliable people to make up the crew.

The locals were alerted to the opening of Pals by a highly organised invite system. Danny had done his homework on the surrounding community, and he targeted people who lived in certain streets based on house prices, as well as business owners who had a specific turnover. He then sent personal invites to all those who matched the criteria and let their bragging at being selected act as word of mouth. By 9 p.m. the place had reached capacity, and the atmosphere was a happy one, helped by the fact that Danny had laid on free drinks for the first two hours. He had special gold cards printed and was issuing them out to a select few. The card allowed for priority entry to Pals if a queue had formed outside or if the door was running on a one-out, one-in system, and it also gave the holder entry to the upstairs VIP club. The gold card soon became a highly sought-after acquisition.

The night was running smoothly until some old faces turned up to reclaim their drinking haunt. There were eight of them in the group – all roughnecks who were up for a row at the drop of a hat. Kevin stopped them at the door and in his politest voice explained that tonight was invitation only and they would not be able to gain entry. In addition – as he pointed to the youngest-looking members of the group – it was strictly over 21s, so some ID would be required.

They did not like the polite knock-back and started to argue their case. I then stepped in, redirecting their attention towards me and giving Kevin some manoeuvring space. Three of them were definitely underage and two had trainers on, but the remaining three were OK, and I was willing to let them in. I put the ball in their court and asked them what they wanted to do. The group huddled together and thrashed out their views. They decided that the three youngsters could go off and spend their evening in Kingston town centre, leaving the older ones free to enter. As the three youths begrudgingly walked off towards the town, one of the remaining three asked if the two who had trainers on could go home, change and come back to join them. Kevin told them that would not be a problem, so off they went.

Divide and conquer was the name of the game. Neither Kevin nor I had any real trust in the door team to handle this fight-hungry crew, so dividing them into more manageable numbers seemed a much better plan.

The three guys walked into the club with smug looks on their faces, thinking that they were the dons of East Moseley or something. As soon as they entered, I radioed the Professor and got him to target them. He was to leave it for about five minutes and then ask them to leave. The bar was four deep with people cashing in on the free booze, and these guys didn’t stand a chance of even getting a free beer before they were going to be turfed out. The Professor cut his way through the crowd and told the roughnecks in no uncertain terms that it was time to leave. They kicked up a fuss. It was bad enough being shown the door, but the fact that it was by a black man made it even more insulting in their eyes. They chanced their arm by laying into the Professor, but Kevin and I came in swiftly behind them, and it was on – a few digs and choke holds as we quickly dragged our prey outside to continue the pasting.

The frontage of Pals was made up of French doors that gave the place a Continental feel. The commotion outside caught the attention of the wealthy customers inside, who watched through the glass as the same three doormen who had acted so politely earlier punched the crap out of three scumbags.

When the other two scumbags eventually returned after changing their footwear, they were disappointed to hear that their friends had already left – although they didn’t know how or why – and turned around and started their journey back into town to find the youngsters. The rest of the night was a peaceful affair, and the evening had not been too tarnished by the earlier display of violence.

Overall it was a good grand opening – guests had a great time, friendships had been made, regular customers established, the network system was in place and hopefully word would quickly spread that the old crowd that used to terrorise the place before were not going to be tolerated in the venue any longer. If all was done and dusted on the first night, what was the second night going to be like?

It was a staggered start for the security team at weekends: two started at 7 p.m., two at 8 p.m. and the final two at 9 p.m. The Professor was one of the 9 p.m. starters, due to his regular job finishing late. I made sure that Kevin and I were the 7 p.m. starters – so we both knew that someone trustworthy was there to watch the other’s back, which was just as well because payback from the night before was going to start early.

It was Friday night, and it had just gone 7 p.m. Kevin and I were standing on the door shooting the breeze, greeting the early arrivals and saying farewell to the afternoon crowd as they made their way home from work with probably one or two too many glasses of bubbly flowing around their systems.

The evening had a scent of danger in the air; we all somehow sensed that something was going to happen and that we should be alert and on our toes. It is a strange feeling and hard to explain, but we just felt that something was in the air. It is a feeling experienced door staff know and understand, a feeling that we develop after years in the business. It is a kind of sixth sense, and we are right almost every time. It may have been a wealthy area, but trouble still lurks in the dark corners of almost every aspect of society.

Pals was situated opposite a small roundabout that had fairly light traffic activity during the evening. The local police shop had closed for the night – the need for a 24/7 station was unheard of in Hampton Court, so any call-outs had to be dealt with by the understaffed force at the Kingston nick. All this stood the army of travellers who were blocking up the road outside Pals in good stead. Old beat-up vans and transits screeched to a halt, cutting off all access to the roundabout, and the passengers who emerged from the vehicles were the biggest collection of Desperate Dans I had ever seen. All of them looked like professional pie eaters and all of them were tooled up.

The leader of the pack stepped out of a white Rover. He was a huge figure of a man who bore the markings of a true scrapper – what the size of his hands and his gnarled cauliflower ears did not tell you, his collection of tattoos and sovereign rings did. He was the king of this clan, and he obviously had some business to take care of with me and my team. The thick Irish accent seemed to add to his threatening demeanour as he called out to us standing side by side outside the newly opened club.

‘Are you the two fuckers who be’t me lad?’ Images of the night before ran through my head. Sure we gave out some punishment, but it was to grown men, so why such a heavy response? The angry father pointed to the passengers who were seated timidly in his car. They were the three youngsters who had been knocked back by their own entourage and went off to town to find their evening’s entertainment. I stepped forward away from the door and closer to the menacing man-mountain who was looking for retribution.

‘No, no one here laid a hand on those three. They were turned away last night and took their business into town.’ It took all of my self-control not to show that I was just a little worried by the present situation. There was a look of disgust on the frustrated father’s face at the cheek of the cockney who stood in front of him ‘lying’ about what had happened.

‘Well, big man, me lad sez you and yer banana boy did this for na’ reason. Are ya saying he’s a liar?’ His voice rose an octave, indicating that he was not willing to listen to reason – adrenalin was fuelling his temper. To be honest, I sensed a beating was about to take place and therefore had nothing to lose but to use the most useful tool a professional doorman has – his voice. Over many years of facing violence, I had learned that size meant nothing and your voice could be your strongest weapon. It can control a situation, it can calm a person down or it can incite a revolution. You can throw an opponent off guard by speaking softly, especially when followed by a strong physical attack. Your voice can charm and persuade, it is the source of all solutions and it was all I had to put a stop to the confrontation that was now before me.

‘You are a huge man with a loyal following. It’s obvious you are a man of position. You have their respect, and judging by the turnout you ain’t scared of having it with anyone, but you ain’t no Bartley Gorman [a champion bare-knuckle boxer in the UK and Ireland between 1972 and 1992 and more commonly known as the ‘King of the Gypsies’], and I would fancy my chances in a straightener against ya. Now, no one from this club hurt your boy. We did mix it up with some of their pals, but that was all. Now, if you want to step up, then do so. If your back-up steam in, then know one thing: I will put you down before they even get close enough to stop me.’ I wasn’t a small man in those days, and the truth is I’m still a large-built fella – my seventeen stone, muscular build sat quite nicely on my six feet two inch frame back then, and I was a professionally trained fighter who had lost a fair chunk of my conscience and was brought up to endure pain. If it went off, I would not be going down without taking out that fat sack of shit in front of me. However I had changed my school of thought. If the same situation had gone down a year earlier, I would not have said anything and just steamed into all of them. Like I said: extreme situations that sometimes suggested suicidal tendencies. But I had changed, and for the first time in my life the thought of actually dying on the pavement I was standing on seemed a real and possible outcome.

Upon hearing my challenge, Kevin stepped forward. His left hand was in his pocket, and the knowledge that his dusters were resting against his knuckles added a little reassurance that he could be busting some faces of his own before the night was over. The look on the leader’s face turned from disgust to confusion. Was he hearing right? This cockney bouncer was facing down a 20-strong army that could pack up home and disappear from the face of the planet if the need arose. He must have wondered whether I was brave, stupid or just hoping to bluff my way out of all of this. The tension shifted up a gear as the protective father beckoned his son out of the car. The young lad, who was sporting a painful black eye and swollen jaw, stood sheepishly next to his angered dad. The behemoth looked down at his offspring and asked him one last time, ‘Is this ta man who done this to ya?’

The boy looked ashamed, embarrassed and a little scared. He shook his head. His ability to speak had left him, because he knew what his father’s reaction would be for causing this situation to happen. Without warning, the man slapped the boy across his good cheek and motioned for him to get back into the car. He then returned his attention to me. ‘Yer right. I ain’t no Bartley Gorman, but I would have given ya a decent stand-up. I’m a big a’nuff man to admit I was wrong. I will speak to the boy and get ta the bottom of it all.’ He then held out his hand in a gesture of respect. ‘No hard feelings?’

‘Not at all. You are a good father who wanted revenge for his son’s injuries. I respect that, and I respect you for taking the time to make sure you had the right bastards. It could have been a nasty mistake.’ The two of us stood and chatted for another minute or so – the rest of the clan were already driving off. I told my very large opponent that it went without saying that his boys were not welcome but that anytime he wanted to come down, perhaps taking the missus out for meal, he could come in as my guest. Thanks were given, and the big man got back into his white Rover and drove off.

As I said earlier, I am a big fella – I am also big enough to admit that I was shit scared when facing that gang down. It was evident that at any given moment my angry opponent could have figured that the time for talking was over and that it was time for retribution. As handy as Kevin and I were, the odds were severely against us, and we would have gone down hard – there was no two ways about it. But in the muscle game, perception is everything in moments like those and bravado carries you through. I had got lucky, and as a result both Kevin and I were still standing.

I turned to Kevin with a sigh of relief, and as we walked back to the door we saw that everyone in Pals had their faces stuck to the French doors like Garfield’s on a bird’s car window. They had witnessed the whole thing, and the police had been called, although they were obviously in no rush to face 20 or so gypsies. The fact that no blood was spilled meant they would not be breaking any speed limits to take statements, either.

We entered the bar to a thunderous round of applause and cheers; men came up to shake our hands, and some of the women rushed over and kissed our cheeks. A new sheriff and his number-one deputy were in town. Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday basked in the glory for a little while longer, grabbed a mug of tea and returned to the front door of the OK Corral.

Respect had been earned that night, and whispers of the tale of the two doormen who had been outnumbered ten to one but had stood their ground soon began to spread throughout the land. By the time Allison and the other 8 p.m. starter turned up, the story had already escalated to it being a fifteen-to-one ratio and the opposition all had guns. I actually dreaded to think what it would be by closing time. Everyone who ventured in that night was told the tale: some believed it; others didn’t care. Capabilities had been put to the test, and no further proof of what me and my team were about was needed.

Even Allison went up in my estimations that night. When some punter didn’t want to stand in line with the other waiting masses and tried to gain entry to the upstairs club – he wanted in and no girl was going to stop him – Allison head-butted him clean on the bridge of his nose before (wo)manhandling him down the stairs and out of the side fire exit. And in her brief absence, no one took advantage and jumped the queue to get into the club. She too got cheers on her return. Personally, I was just glad when the night was over and I could make my way back to Walthamstow.

The next night, neither Kevin nor I wanted a repeat of the night before, so we came a little more tooled up. Hampton Court and its surrounding residential area were easy pickings for ‘Chinese Whispers’. The escapades of the previous night’s entertainment had been doing the rounds all day among local shopkeepers and their customers, and every time the story was told the odds and details were increasingly exaggerated. This kind of response could actually push a volatile situation into overdrive.

By showing restraint and tact, the main man of the local band of travellers showed why he was the leader. He was an angry father who wanted blood for his son’s assault, but he still waited to confirm that the events told to him were true. In front of his clan, who turned out in full force to back him in taking retribution on those responsible, he walked away after being faced down by a cocksure bouncer. Now, to some people that might have seemed weak, but he knew that right was right and attacking an innocent man was not going to do him and his clan any favours. He showed real class that night by getting to the truth and leaving the situation with the best possible outcome. But when the gossipmongers got going, he might have felt that he should put the record straight and destroy me and my colleague, and even Pals, just to save face and restore fear in the locals. Thankfully, that was not to be.

Later, we found out that the night before the showdown the three youngsters had got a little mouthy with the doormen of Options, a club in Kingston upon Thames. Options’ door team had given them a slap for their troubles. The three bruised youngsters had then met up with their friends who had earlier got a slapping from me and my team and decided that we were the ones who should be blamed. Upon returning home, they said that my people, including a black guy, had set upon them. Understandably, the chief got angry and wanted his pound of flesh. After his son finally admitted who the real culprits were, the tooled-up team of travellers drove into Kingston and set the record straight by annihilating the door crew of Options. This show of force gave the fear back to the travellers, and the need to save face with me was resolved.

I often think back to that night and hold that fella in the highest regard because of his display of leadership on the doorstep of Pals. He showed a level of class that I have only witnessed a handful of times in my life, and it was partly because of that display that I started to change my ways and approach to working the doors.

I did eventually get the opportunity to meet the head traveller and his wife and to have them as my guests in the restaurant, with all the trimmings on the house, and I never had any trouble from that particular group again. A lesson learned from a man who could have easily taken my life rather than giving me a new lease on it. If by some chance you are reading this . . . I thank you.

In 1994, the regional door supervisors’ licence was introduced for all those working in the borough of Westminster. Everyone in the trade back then will remember that it was the kiss of death for the industry. All the big, respected and well-known names in the game were faced with being ousted because of the fact that anyone with a criminal record – especially for ABH, GBH, aggravated assault, affray and the like – was a no-no under the new guidelines. No licence; no working the doors – it was that simple. But it was these people that set the standard, kept the trouble controlled and added status to the clubs in question.

To get around the problem and still have their ‘deterrents’ on the door, venue managers would make up new titles for the high-profile guys who couldn’t get a licence – front of house liaison officer, security consultant, meet and greet specialist, and so on. In fact, any title that would give them a reason to be there without calling them doormen, bouncers, door supervisors or face punchers, which would be breaking the rules. Even my friend and co-worker Lenny McLean fell under this banner, even more so because at that time he had only recently been released from prison after being jailed for an incident that took place at The Hippodrome, Leicester Square, with a naked punter.

This was the government’s way of regulating the world of nightclub security and forcing out all those who were a real deterrent – those that could handle 20 drunken punters ready to take on the world. The government wanted to make way for the smaller, easy on the eye, ‘I’m only doing this part time because I’m a student’ type of security guard. Again, it was a kiss of death for the industry.

Now, I was a breed of doorman all on my own, and I had very strict East End values on life. I was a known face in my neighbourhood, and, to be honest, I was a villain. I was still living dangerously, taking far too many risks and ready to stare down Armageddon if the situation called for it. As I’ve already said, I was a big fella, and I can also humbly say that I was a fairly good-looking guy (old age is setting in now) with a personality and most importantly a functioning brain that allowed me to hold an intelligent conversation with patrons and clients alike. Yes, I was the doorman who could walk, talk and chew gum at the same time. What can I say? I had it all. Oh and did I mention I was also modest?

Hopefully by now you are getting the idea that I was a cheeky chap who was a tad arrogant and very confident. I had an old-school mentality and new-school looks, hence why I was classed as a poster boy. And just what is it you do with a poster boy when the world is saying that all doormen are thugs? You parade them to the public to dismiss such claims and present to the world a new and supposedly improved model to demonstrate that the industry is complying with the new guidelines. What a load of bollocks!

With this in mind, it came as no surprise that whenever a TV documentary, talk show or reality programme was being made about bouncers and Scorpion was asked to provide the people, I would be involved somewhere along the line. So, when Scorpion got the call to supply three of their staff for a stint on the Kilroy show – the programme was doing a piece on the changing face of dangerous professions – yours truly was called along with my brother Vaughan, who had my back at The Mean Fiddler the previous year, and the talented Mr Ben Perry, a very good friend of mine.

Ben is as big in personality as he is in stature. He stood at six feet eight inches and weighed in at three hundred and ten pounds. When he was once asked by an irate punter, ‘Just who the hell do you think you are?’ big Ben simply replied, ‘God . . . because I have the power to separate your head from your shoulders with one smiting blow.’ Yes, Ben Perry’s haymaker was an equaliser.

I’ll never forget the first time I worked with Ben. We were positioned in a fast-food outlet in Leicester Square, stopping non-customers from using the upstairs toilets. I know that must seem both petty and a waste of our time, but despite the jokes and insults it was one of the roughest gigs going. When Scorpion Security first got involved, the toilets were being abused by drug dealers, prostitutes, transients and kiddie fiddlers. At that time, it was a family restaurant that was not a safe place for families to be. And the ‘rent-a-cops’ who were in there before us didn’t tackle the problem properly. Why would they? They were getting £4.85 an hour. We, on the other hand, were getting three times that and were up for a rumble, so after months of fighting, death threats, stabbings and major displays of dominance, Scorpion made an example of the transgressors and marked their territory with the scent of blood.

Of course, once you have it how you want it, it needs to be maintained, hence the heavy artillery being deployed to keep those who were not paying customers out of the comfy, upstairs bathroom area. Anyone who has ever walked through Leicester Square on an evening can testify that there is a huge amount of trouble with drunk and drugged revellers, and Triads and thugs (who can’t enjoy a night out without either mugging someone or getting into a tear-up). They too needed to be stopped at the door, and that is why we were there.

I remember that I had to stand on the first step just to come to eye level with Ben. At that time, I was the new guy with Scorpion, whilst Ben was an established and respected body, but we clicked straight off the bat. Although an intimidating sight, with his skinhead and devil beard, he was more ‘Gentle Ben’ than anything else, and as any punters who used to visit the goth and punk nightclub Slimelights during the late 1990s would be able to tell you, he was also a good laugh.

It was hard for me to take my old partner in crime seriously after witnessing him curl his huge, bulky frame under a small oval floor rug to show the world that he was really a turtle whilst E-ing out of his face. He would stretch his neck from his shell (the small oval floor rug), while making a turtle face, and try to eat imaginary lettuce. It was all very surreal, but not as bad as when he and a small group of friends tried to re-enact The Wizard of Oz whilst tripping on LSD. Watching a grown man tuck a chequered tea towel down his pants while sporting a twine mop on his head, acting like he is stuck in a tornado and screaming ‘Where’s Toto?’ is an image not easily forgotten!

When he wasn’t living life to the fullest in his time off, Ben was a non-stop working machine. Because of his size, he was a very popular advertisement for nightclubs and would find himself working five days and seven nights a week. (With that work schedule you might be able to understand the extreme methods my friend went to blow off some steam on those rare occasions he wasn’t earning a living.) Because he worked so much, he would always have a host of stories to tell you whenever you bumped into him. My favourite was the time he was working on his own at a pub in Carnaby Street, London. I think the pub’s name was The Blue Trumpet, but don’t hold me to that – like I said before, old age is setting in! It was a Saturday afternoon and a big game was taking place on the home ground of a London team against some other big team not from London – I don’t want to start getting into the whole football rivalry thing, so that will have to do. The landlord of the pub told Ben that in no circumstances were any football hooligans or groups of people sporting team colours allowed in. There is nothing more satisfying than having a job that sets you such compromising challenges: keep out football hooligans and people wearing team colours on a Saturday afternoon in the West End of London when a cup game is on hosted by a local team. I can only assume Ben must have felt special knowing that the landlord was aware of what was coming but still insisted on having just one doorman on duty – nice to know that you’re appreciated.

Between the hours of 3 p.m. and 5 p.m., there was obviously just the usual traffic in and out of the pub. The landlord was all smiles and kept teasing Ben because he had been worried about the day’s events. Ben, however, was on the verge of decking the muppet landlord – it wasn’t game time that worried him; it was what was coming.

Just after 5 p.m., a group of nine pissed off supporters whose team had lost were making their way towards the big double-door entrance of The Blue Trumpet with only Ben there to stop them. ‘Sorry, gents. The doors are closed to sports clothing – dress code, I’m afraid.’

They answered with the typical response that every doorman hears at least a hundred times per shift: ‘You’re having a laugh, ain’t ya?’

‘No, geezer, I’m not. Those are the house rules. You can’t come in.’

Using a dress-code policy as a reason to keep undesirables out of a place is common practice; using a dress-code policy when you are at a pub in Carnaby Street is not so easy to pull off due to the area’s varied clientele – goths, punks, trendsetters and students all hang around this famous street in the heart of the West End. The group of supporters would have had a valid point of discussion on their side had they wanted to debate on the matter, but instead another member of the group opened up the talks with a truly well-established line: ‘Fuck off, we’re coming in . . . Who’s gonna stop us? You?’ And with bravado on their side, the group edged forward towards the doors.

Ben held out his arm, more to judge his punching distance than to act as a halt sign. ‘There’s no need for trouble, fella,’ he said. ‘It’s not my policy. I’m on your side in all of this, but the rules are the rules.’

As the group responded, none of them seemed to notice that whilst talking to them Ben had closed one of the doors, bolting it shut, and had proceeded to pull his weighted gloves out of his jacket pockets and put them on. He had already got them at arm’s length, surmised who was most up for it in the group and positioned himself in the remaining open doorway with a good, solid stance. They had allowed him this leeway without even realising it. Ben had set himself up in a position that he felt more comfortable in handling, no matter which way it now went.

He then changed his tune: ‘Right then, you fucking muppets. There’s only one way you can get in this place, and that’s through this doorway. I’m six feet eight and weigh twenty-two stone, and I’m standing in between you and the bolted door. Your best bet is to rush me in single file and get through one by one. But I tell ya now: that’s exactly how I’m gonna fucking knock you out – one by one. Who’s first?’

By the look in their eyes, it was a chance some of them were willing to take, but common sense slowly kicked in, and those in the group not really wanting to put Ben’s theory to the test started to take steps backwards. This left three out of the nine standing strong, although all were unaware that the rest of their group were not behind them as they thought. Like the scene from Shrek in which Shrek asks the commanding officer, ‘Really, you and what army?’ only for the commanding officer to turn and realise his loyal army has run off, these three turned to see that they were alone and ran off towards Oxford Street station. Crisis averted.

When Ben told me this story, he was not afraid to point out that he had been scared. Had all nine stuck together, he would not have stood a chance and would have wound up on the wrong end of a nasty kicking. However, when you put someone in a fight-or-flight situation, eight times out of ten they will take the flight option. Taking part in an actual physical confrontation is not something people want to do, despite how it initially seems. Fighting is still mainly left to the experienced, the drunk and the crazy – which is a very small percentage of people in the grand scheme of things.

That was Ben: a chancer, a rogue and one of the funniest people I have had the pleasure of knowing. A true gent and a diamond geezer.

Now back to the story . . .

The Kilroy show was live, starting at 10 a.m. and running for about 25 minutes. There was no room for second takes or do-overs – you had to be on your game, quick on your feet and ready to roll as soon as the camera crew gave the signal that filming had begun. This meant that all the guests had to be in the studio by 8.30 a.m., which for us meant being picked up from our homes at around 6 a.m. This was after we had all worked the night before. I had got in after my shift at 5 a.m., showered, changed clothes, grabbed a cuppa and was about to tuck in to some delicious warm buttered toast when the chauffeur rang my doorbell. The studio had sent executive cars to those involved to ensure that key guests would turn up, although I could not understand why they sent us a car each, as we had to drive past where Vaughan and Ben lived on the way to the studio.

I arrived at the studio at about 7.50 a.m. – Vaughan was not that far behind me, judging by his text message, so I waited outside for him. When he turned up, we chatted for a few minutes about the adventures of the night before and what was about to take place that morning. We had been told that we were there to talk about the changing face of nightclub security because of the introduction of the new door supervisors’ licence. It all seemed innocent stuff, and we ventured into the meet-and-greet area, where we were signed in and shown the breakfast room. We were told to help ourselves to the tea, coffee, juice and breakfast buffet. Now, that is the last thing you should say to a sleep-deprived and starving person my size who knows how to put away a meal or two. Vaughan was no slouch when putting away a meal either. It must have been in our genes, and it was definitely a task for the caterer to be on his toes and keep our plates stocked.

The moment we entered the room we could feel that something was out of place: the people present were of mixed ages and ranged from students to grannies – all went a deathly quiet as we walked in. Whispers flew across the tables, and it was obvious that people were staring. We were the biggest people in the room and most definitely the very centre of attention. However, I was too tired and hungry to care, so I headed for the tea, pastries, and bacon and eggs from the buffet.

It took a while for the caterers to cotton on to the size of portions we were expecting, but they got there in the end! With our plates eventually piled to a size that constituted a proper breakfast, we shuffled along to the beverage section, where the next argument started. The cups were those pathetic little things that come with matching saucers and a handle that you can’t even fit your little pinkie into. I politely explained to the young girl pouring that we were going to need three cups each just to equal the size of a decent mug of tea – I drink tea by the pint. For whatever reason, she was slow to oblige. I do not know why, as it was not her tea or crockery, but she felt the need to refuse, which meant I in turn got a little louder. The rest of the room had already been giving us dirty looks and talking about us, but now I was giving them a real reason to do so.

The head catering guy walked over to defend his young worker and looked as though he might have given us a verbal run for our money when Big Ben entered the room – his chauffeur had been a little late in picking him up. If we thought the room went quiet before, then this was the purest form of silence imaginable. Ben strolled over and peered over my shoulder, saw the tasty morsels on offer and my plate piled high, and simply said to the head guy, ‘I’ll have what he’s having.’ He got Ben a plate and proceeded to fill it up with all and sundry, whilst rushing the young girl on to pour out nine cups of tea.

We sat down at the nearest table and began slurping and munching our breakfast, all the while talking and, if I’m really honest, swearing a little bit too much in audible voices. We were three big bouncers, acting in a very stereotypical way, and we were doing ourselves no favours in the eyes of those present – but then why should we act any differently, I thought? We were going to be the real stars of today’s show, weren’t we? Our 15 minutes of fame brought with it a celebrity attitude, which we quite rightly made the most of.

Time flies when you’re having fun, and before we knew it the participants were being called to take their places on the set – a semicircle of seats with four levels set out like a section of a Roman coliseum. Everyone was told where to sit apart from six people – us and three others. We looked around confused, wondering if we were not going to be on the show any more because we had made so much noise earlier. But if that was the case, why stop the other three as well? One of the studio hands then called the other three over, spoke softly to them and ushered them into the seating area. We were the last three left.

A few minutes later, the same studio hand came back and beckoned us over. ‘Hi, guys,’ he said. ‘I’m going to take you through in a few seconds, and I’ll tell you where you have to sit. Because you are such big-built gentlemen, we cannot have you all seated together. OK, now you all know what today’s topic is, don’t you? So remember: listen to Robert [Kilroy-Silk] and follow his lead. Let’s go, come along.’

We followed him to the semicircle where everyone else was sitting and were shown our seats as the rest of the audience stared at us. Ben was seated in the front row next to Kilroy-Silk. This particular tier only seated three people, and accompanying Ben and Kilroy-Silk was a pretty little thing. She was only nineteen years old if she was a day, and she was wearing full make-up, her hair was done and she had on a push-up bra – the whole nine yards. Vaughan was directed to the right-hand side of the tier, third level up, and he was sandwiched between one elderly lady and a slim-built bloke in his early twenties. Finally, I was positioned on the top row. On my left-hand side were two hoodie-wearing tykes; although they were in their late twenties, they were still dealing with acne and, judging by the look of them, a severe lack of women in their life as well.

It was less than five minutes to go before we were on the air when Kilroy-Silk jumped up from his hiding place and told us not to stare straight at the cameras and that if we had something to say, we should raise our hands. He also said that we could only speak if we were chosen and to remember that we would be live so there was to be no swearing. We all had to be on our best behaviour and all that jazz.

The crew started the countdown, signalled by sign language: five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one . . . and we were on the air and live. ‘Good morning. I’m Robert Kilroy-Silk, and on today’s programme we will be discussing the heavy-handed tactics of those who abuse their power in the workplace. We have traffic wardens, wheel clampers and our “hit first, ask questions later” nightclub bouncers.’

Fuck it – we’ve been set up. The wankers! What now? The three of us looked at each other. We all knew that if we made a fuss, we’d only prove his point, live on TV. We realised we would have to wait it out; after all, how bad could it be?

Hands started going up in the air. For every offender, there were eight victims. The traffic warden and wheel clampers were all glossed over fairly quickly, and then it was time to focus on nightclub bouncers and on us. Tale after tale of ‘over-the-top brutality’ and people being hit for no reason started to do the rounds. I kept raising my hand so that I could have my say and defend my colleagues and profession, but Kilroy-Silk kept going to the victims. Vaughan joined in, putting his arm in the air, but still Kilroy-Silk refused to come to us. He seemed to be baiting us, hoping that we would snap and do something so that his ratings would soar.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a bird flew in from an open window and started circling overhead. At first I thought it was a vulture, because we were well and truly dead, but thankfully it was too small, and I breathed a huge sigh of relief. However, it was big enough to stop the proceedings for a few minutes while the crew debated if it was going to be a problem; after all, this was live TV. They decided to take a chance and continue.

Kilroy-Silk laughed it off on camera, and the conversation then turned to the pretty little thing sitting on the front seat. ‘Now, Sharon,’ he said, ‘tell us what happened to you?’ Kilroy-Silk sat down beside her so that he could share his microphone with her.

‘Well, I was in a club one night with a bunch of my girlfriends.’ Her voice sounded like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, and I knew what was coming. ‘Halfway through the night, these two big bouncers came over and just started to beat this boy up who was talking to me for no reason [they beat the boy up for no reason, not that the boy was talking to her for no reason!], and when I asked them to stop . . .’ The tears started to appear and trickle down her angelic face at that point. Kilroy-Silk comforted her and asked if she was strong enough to carry on. She wiped the tears from her cheek, nodded her head a little and continued. ‘One of them punched me in the face and threw me down the stairs.’ Kilroy-Silk jumped out of his seat as though he had just heard Mother Teresa say motherfucker and turned to Ben. ‘Is that common practice amongst you bouncers?’ he asked. ‘Do you beat people up with your colleagues for no reason?’ Kilroy-Silk then did a sweeping gesture with his arm, and the cameras panned and zoomed in on Vaughan and me, with our poor victims either side of us. ‘And punch girls in the face before throwing them down the stairs?’

The microphone was thrust into Ben’s face. ‘There have been times when ejecting people that they have tumbled down a few stairs, but innocent people who get in the way . . .’

Kilroy-Silk had his opening, and he must have cum in his pants, judging by the smirk that lit up his face. ‘So you have pushed innocent people down stairs? So you think there is nothing wrong with punching girls and throwing them down the stairs? This is something you admit to doing?’

Ben’s face turned more angelic than the pretty girl’s. He had an answer that was going to turn things back on Kilroy-Silk. You could see it in his eyes – our boy Ben was ready to give the mother of all answers . . . when the bird appeared again and landed at Kilroy-Silk’s feet. He turned to the camera and said, ‘And that’s all we have time for today, but tune in tomorrow because we will be talking to pregnant women who have been sexually abused by their doctors. And we’re out. That’s a wrap. Great show everybody!’

Poor Ben was speechless. He sat there in complete disbelief. Because he hadn’t been given a chance to defend himself, the programme had ended with its viewing audience thinking that he hit women and pushed them down the stairs. It was an ambush, plain and simple. If that damn bird had not eaten up four minutes of the programme’s time, Ben would have been able to give his reply and leave Kilroy-Silk with no airtime left to retort. Kilroy-Silk had well and truly given us the bird on live TV.

We made our way down to stand with our fallen comrade when Kilroy-Silk came over, handed us signed photos of himself (I still have mine; a keepsake, I keep telling myself) and said, ‘Great show, lads. Thanks for coming down.’ He then walked off to get the layers of foundation and make-up removed from his wrinkled, ageing face – more ‘sandpaper’ than ‘silk’ if you ask me.

I couldn’t help but start to laugh, which in turn started off Vaughan. Ben frowned disdainfully as we flippantly re-enacted his last moments on the show: ‘So, Ben. You hit old ladies and young girls and throw innocent people down the stairs. Is that true? I’m sorry, we’re out of time. We’ll just take that as a yes.’ Whack, whack, oops!

As the day went on, Ben saw the funny side of it. He had to, because he was back on the doors that night after a nation had seen him on live TV failing to deny that he hit women for no reason and pushed innocent people down stairs. If his customers didn’t get him, other doormen surely would. Bouncers are definitely the type of guys who would kick a fella when he’s down.

I have some absolute cracking memories of Ben, and it was a crying shame we fell out of touch. The last I saw of him was when he worked for Autoglass in Black Horse Road, Walthamstow. If any readers know him, please get him to contact me through my website – thanks.

Boxing ran in the family’s blood, and fighting became a way of life for Paul throughout his late teens and 20s. Door work was second nature and an easy entry into the world of debt collecting, hired muscle and criminal activities, a world that had him standing side by side with some of the most respected and written about people in the British criminal empire. In the following 12 years, he saw the passing of 23 of his closest friends and family.

Paul purposely stayed low profile and was therefore able to move out of that world and into the one that he now shares with his wife and young family without successful prosecution, stigma or reprisal. To air his skeletons and refocus the destructive energy that he used to carry around with him, Paul has turned his attention to literature. Paul’s first novel, Coding of a Concrete Animal, is set in the true-crime fiction genre and has been compared to Judas Pig by Horace Silver because of its realistic take on a gangland family growing up in the 1970s and ’80s. Paul’s next book is Concrete Animal: Hear Me R.O.A.R., the sequel to Coding of a Concrete Animal.

Email: [email protected]