When I was younger, I had a habit that was a pointer to my future career: I couldn’t mind my own business when it came to a fight or an argument. I had to be in amongst it. I liked to stop any bother if I could, one way or another. But don’t get me wrong: I have never been a fighter. I can handle myself, but I’m no Mike Tyson. I didn’t go out to pick fights, although if someone took a liberty with me I certainly hit first and asked questions later on occasion.

My face became quite well known around town thanks to my television appearances as a fanzine editor covering local football for Players Inc. magazine, and I found it easier to jump the large queues outside the bars in Newcastle due to my new-found fame. I struck up quite a few friendships with the lads on the doors and would often miss a round because I found myself putting the world to rights outside with the ‘men in black’.

By the time I had reached twenty, I was over six feet tall and a handy fifteen stone. As well as football, I had started to attend local boxer Glenn McCrory’s gym, where I started to learn the noble art of boxing. I had also invested in a set of weights and a weights bench. When I was at college, I had bounced at a few roof-top parties in exchange for a few quid and as much beer as I could drink, and, to be honest, even though I had generally sorted out any bother, I still hadn’t imagined that this would be my future career.

It all started one Christmas at a bar called Masters opposite St Nicholas Church in Newcastle city centre. Gary, or ‘Lurch’ as he was known to a lot of the punters, asked if I fancied earning a few quid over the festive period. One of the lads had broken his wrist, and Gary wanted me to fill in. I was game enough and couldn’t think of a better way of earning a bit of cash than standing in a bar listening to all of the up-to-date tunes and looking at all of those beautiful ladies. My first shift was a Thursday night, which, as anyone in Newcastle will tell you, is as busy as a weekend in most other cities. I was dressed in a white shirt, black pants, Doc Martens and a black bomber jacket. I felt and looked the business. I wasn’t at all nervous as Gary introduced me to the lads who would be watching my back – and vice versa. First and foremost there was Gary, then Irish Buzz, Wrighty Dave and John Lillico, who remains one of my closest friends to this day. What a night! There were two key positions – front door and back door – with buzzers and flashing lights to let you know when and where a fight had broken out. There were six fights in just over four hours – and that was a quiet night according to the lads. I’ve got to admit, though, that I loved every minute of it.

The festive season is crazy. Once a year, drinkers swoop on city centres up and down the country and drink too much, eat too much, score with the opposite sex, empty the contents of their bowels and stomachs on any available footpath or shop doorway, and generally do things that they wouldn’t normally do. Up until that Christmas, I had been doing exactly the same thing, and it was only then that I realised that there was more to life than spending my hard-earned cash on booze and puking it up.

Christmas never changes: it seems to take ages to come around, then it’s all over in a flash and you wonder what all the panic was about. January on the door is one of the quietest months of the year, as people are often in debt and have to stop in to sort out their finances. When the door staffs’ hours had to be cut, I was first out because I’d been the last in, and I lost my Thursday to Sunday shifts. I was gutted. I missed the adrenalin rush that I’d got when those lights and buzzers came to life, and I missed the lads with whom I had become part of a team. I left the doors for a while, and it was not until I was asked by an old friend by the name of George Poulter, who ran The Filament and Firkin and Scruffy Murphy’s, if I would be interested in sharing the head doorman’s job with a lad called Paul Tinnion that I decided to give it another go.

By then, Newcastle City Council had decided that all door supervisors should be licensed. This meant four days’ training, covering all aspects of the job, including fire regulations, health and safety, drug awareness, licensing laws and, of course, first aid. The final day saw each potential doorman sit a multiple-choice test on what he had learned. I passed with flying colours and was given a weekend shift as joint head doorman in George’s bars at the Haymarket end of Newcastle.

So, Paul Tinnion and I started to work together. Paul’s the kind of doorman you would want in the trenches with you – always on the ball and not someone to mess with – and over the weeks and months we handled every situation that came our way. The bars weren’t as hectic as Masters had been at Christmas, but nevertheless we had our fair share of bother. The football matches always brought trouble, and more often than not rival fans would clash with Newcastle fans before and after each game. As a fanzine editor, I came in for a lot of stick, but I had broad shoulders and was never unduly bothered by the verbal threats from some of the narrow-minded yobs that called themselves supporters.

Doormen in general have a bad reputation. They are looked at by the public as paid thugs who chat up women and give any man who looks at him the wrong way a good hiding – hence the name bouncer. The council, in association with the police, wanted to change that image and rid the bars and clubs of the criminally minded doormen – hence the licensing. What publicans wanted was a customer-friendly doorman, someone who talked to the customers and only ejected them with reasonable force if they misbehaved.

I learned very quickly that doing the door was as much about ‘front’ as it was physical size: never back down when you have made a decision, because it shows weakness; always maintain eye contact with a customer whom you have a problem with; be aware of who that person is with; and, most importantly, make sure someone is watching your back!

I was making frequent trips to London to see the chaps, and when I was down there had been doing regular shifts at Diamonds, Dave Courtney’s club in Hackney, and at the Ministry of Sound. Working those venues gave me a taste for club life, and for a while I considered moving to London full time, but I was told in no uncertain terms by Courtney that I should ‘stay up north, mate, and make your mark’. I decided to take his advice.

I had been to see the various faces who ran the doors in the North East and made it known that I was looking for club work. I was told that they would be in touch as soon as a vacancy turned up. A couple of months had passed when I was called by Mike, the manager of Legends nightclub in Newcastle. He said that he had been given my number and that he wanted to offer me a job. I jumped at the chance, and four hours later I was signing on the dotted line with Geoff Capes’s security firm. (Yes, Geoff Capes the famous athlete and former copper.) However, what Mike had neglected to tell me was that the previous doormen had just been sacked, that the police were keeping a close eye on the club and that they had compiled a list of criminals and doormen whom they wanted barred from the venue.

It was well known that the sacked doormen had been running the club like the Wild West – customers were getting beaten to a pulp, the CCTV tapes kept going missing and the club had quickly gained a reputation as a bit of a drugs den. So, one night the police decided to raid the club with over 150 officers. To their embarrassment, they caught no dealers and only a handful of people for possession. I had taken on a job and a half!

Doormen in every town or city are a funny breed. There is a lot of competition in the industry and a lot of pride at stake, and the one thing that doormen hate is outsiders, people from another part of the country in charge of the doors in their area. Capes UK was based in London and relied on ‘outsiders’ to work problem bars and nightclubs for them. The first couple of days at my new unit passed by without incident, but this was the calm before the storm. Despite receiving a substantial settlement, the ex-doormen weren’t happy, and they were going to make us work hard for our money. Paul came on board, which give me a lift because up until that point I was the only Geordie. Paul and I were now looked on by the local door fraternity as being ‘scabs’ and were subsequently barred from most bars in the city centre – with the threat of a good kicking if we ever tried to visit any of these places.

I’ll admit that each night was a nerve-racking experience; I changed my route to and from work, and I was careful not to let anyone know my address or telephone number. I even gave a false name to people whom I talked to in the club. Paranoid maybe, but you cannot be too careful in this game. Although some of the threats lacked any real substance, I had to take each one seriously, because one day someone might just call my bluff.

As time went by, the threats died down, and we had more or less weathered the storm. I had had a few run-ins with a few faces during that period, but as the months passed the lads from other bars started to respect the fact that Paul, the other lads and I had stood our ground and not bottled it.

I suggested to our gaffer that he lift the ban on doormen now that the trouble had cooled and that we let them in as long as they surrendered their licences to us for the duration of their evening. He agreed, which made our job that little bit easier, and one by one our own bans started to lift in the town. I was soon able to go for a pint in Newcastle again without looking over my shoulder. Special mention must go to those who stood their ground and watched my back at Legends: Paul Tinnion, Johnny Miller, Vaughn Basset, Maria Gillon, Mark Higgins, Simon McGhee, Biff, Adam, Naz, Andy, Gareth and Amanda Scott.

People often ask me what I get out of doing the doors. Well, it’s simple: it is a means to an end. If you do six nights a week in a bar or club – say thirty-five hours a week at £12 an hour – you are pulling in more than some bar managers. It pays my bills, keeps a roof over my head and gives me money to spend on the finer things in life. Also, I have had some laughs and met some characters whom I wouldn’t have otherwise met.

Some doormen use the job as a dating agency, and I would say I have worked with probably two of the worst offenders in living history. One of the lads has over three hundred telephone numbers of women he has bagged on the door filed in two cash bags and even has Polaroid photos of himself and his conquests to prove to the other lads that he is no liar. The other, whom I shall call ‘The Hawk’, specialises in collecting souvenirs at the end of the night from the cubicles in the women’s toilets! It takes all sorts.

From a customer’s point of view, I would say I’m quite tolerant of the pissed general public, and I always have time for the punter who is ejected early on from a club on a freezing cold night in the North East and proceeds to protest with the door staff for the next few hours, inevitably resorting to, ‘My Dad/Mum will have this place closed down!’ What people do not realise is that we hear this sort of thing every single night. If anything, it keeps us amused and passes the time, but, like referees in football, we never change our mind! (So, if you find yourself in that situation, do yourself a favour and go home; otherwise, you’ll either end up in a cell or with a lousy cold – or both.)

Humour plays a large part on the door, and nine times out of ten you end up taking the rise out of each other. I love a good joke and am lucky that I can laugh at myself.

Legends – as I have already said – was once renowned for its customers using drugs, and I spent most of my time working on the front door, where I would have to carry out spot searches. I must admit, I hated it, as having experimented with drugs myself when I was younger I felt a bit hypocritical stopping people doing the same. It wouldn’t have been too bad if all we had to do was knock these folk back, but, no, the police wanted us to detain people. So, reluctantly, I had to be seen to be doing the job.

One night, I decided to wear my brand-new suit. As I bent down to check the customer’s legs for anything he might have concealed, I heard a loud rip; my new pants had given way and a cool draft was evident at the rear end. That was the only time in my life that I can honestly say that I had my back well and truly to the wall. Still, it certainly gave everyone a good laugh that night.

Working the door can be a bit messy at times, and it’s not uncommon to see at least one broken bone or some blood spilled at least once a week. And you also witness some very strange human behaviour: exhibitionists who like a good shag in a dark corner of the club or druggies having a bizarre conversation with the wall. However, one of the most distressing sights I have ever witnessed was the lad we suspected of snorting coke in the toilets one night. I kicked the door in and could not believe what I was looking at. A male in his early 20s was kneeling in front of the toilet with his pants around his ankles, masturbating over his own shit, which he had placed around the toilet seat. Sick or what? When he realised he had been rumbled, he stood up, turned to me and put his hand out towards me to apologise. He had shit all over his hand! Needless to say, we all backed off until he’d cleaned himself up and then kicked him out into the street.

The job also has its glamorous side when celebrities visit the club. I’ve looked after hundreds of stars, from footballers to actors and pop groups, but I have to say the most enjoyable night I had was at Legends with snooker’s Dennis Taylor when it was his 50th birthday celebration. All the top stars from the sport were present: Stephen Hendry, Ronnie O’Sullivan, Darren Morgan, Mark Stevens and, of course, Dennis. We had a great night and one that I will remember for a very long time.

When I look back at the years I have spent on the doors of the pubs and clubs of Newcastle, I think of Legends with immense pride and satisfaction. I stood my ground with the lads, and we sailed through a political storm with flying colours. Working a club is different to working a pub. For starters, there is the fact that you start and finish later. The clientele you are dealing with in a boozer are just there to get pissed, whereas those in a club are smashed and looking for a bit of a boogie or a warm bed for the night. Legends was definitely the place to be, but it had come in for a bit of a hammering from the press and the local council after the big drugs raid failed to net the police much more than a couple of people for possession. The sight of 150-odd police officers raiding a club only to arrest a few ‘chavs’ with a wrap each was highly embarrassing for our boys in blue.

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.

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!

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 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.

I let those who wanted to leave go and pulled a woman off the ground who had been knocked over in the crowds – she was a little shaken but nothing was broken. Out of breath but all in one piece, I managed to bolt the doors. The sound of smashing glass was deafening. The aftermath? Well, it was like a bomb had hit the place. The manager was just pleased that no one was hurt. Mick chose the right day to be off!

The people on the quayside were pretentious and most were pretending to be something they weren’t. A lot of them worked in clothes shops and as a result had all the latest gear, which made them look as if they were in the money. They would buy a bottle of champagne between six or so of them and make it last all night, whilst looking down their noses at those lesser mortals who could only afford a bottled lager! Wankers. However, I made some good mates at Sea – Wayne Keepin, Wayne Pinkerton, Ian Young – and we had a lot of laughs.

Some people have no consideration when it comes to parking their cars, and that was the case when we arrived at Sea one evening to find that some plonker had parked his vehicle in front of the doors of the club. We tried every possible way to contact the owner, but to no avail, so there was only one thing for it. Four of us surrounded the Vauxhall Vectra and, in our own Geoff Capes style, lifted it out of the way of the doors. You could tell we weren’t used to that sort of thing, and the car was left with a few bumps and scratches that it hadn’t had an hour or so before. We denied all knowledge when the owner returned and drove away with the car’s bumper trailing along the ground.

One night during our first Christmas at Sea saw a heavy fall of good snowball snow. It was a quiet evening, so we started throwing the odd snowball at a few of the friendlier customers leaving the venue. A couple of brave ones threw some back at us. As the night progressed, customers started to get braver and began to team up. By closing time, we had a full-scale war on our hands, with about eight doormen against twenty punters. With the odds heavily against us, I nipped inside and got the glass collectors to fill up the big bin that they collected the bottles in with ice and water. The punters were just under the swing bridge, so I got the glass collectors to sneak around the back of the club and up onto the bridge with the bin. We then stood back and laughed as the enemy got a bloody good soaking!

Christmas is supposed to be the season of kindness and goodwill. Humbug! Sometimes we do have a good laugh, but the ‘once a year drinkers’ cause mayhem for a solid fortnight, and, boy, have I had them all: work colleagues who have discovered that they are shagging the same bird – except one of them is married to her; brothers who have fallen out over the same woman; a reveller who grabbed a woman’s arse only to receive a right hook from her boyfriend who regularly sparred with Mike Tyson in his spare time. Ding dong merrily on high! I’ve lost count of how many girls I have seen spewing through their fingers, only to be necking on their latest victim ten minutes later. So remember lads: the next time some lass is dangling mistletoe over your Santa hat, check for carrots.

On a more serious note, the quayside sadly attracted a lot of jumpers, and that’s not because it was cold. I mean suicide jumpers. It wasn’t uncommon to have more than one a shift. The Tyne Bridge was a favourite, as it was the most well known. For many of these people, it was a desperate cry for help; for others, it was how they wanted to end it all. The worst I witnessed was outside Chase when a man jumped and hit the pavement – not a pretty sight. Another man attempted to jump on three separate occasions on the same day. After the third attempt, the police had him sectioned.

Drunken exploits could also lead to disaster down by the water. Students would often dare their mates to hang from the fence above the water. Most of them completed the stunt without harm, but the odd one wouldn’t be as lucky and fall in. One night, Alan Scott and I were on the front door when we were alerted by a passer-by that someone was in the water. Alan ran to the fence and looked over. It was dark, and he had to guess where the person was. He threw the ring over, and the young lad managed to grab it and hold on. I called an ambulance and the police, who arrived a few minutes later. Alan had saved the lad’s life, yet there was nothing in the papers, no recommendation from the police, not even a thank you from the lad. Don’t get me wrong: I don’t do the job for a pat on the back, but if Alan had been arrested for something, it would have made front-page news because he was a doorman!

With Sea being a relatively new club, we were visited by a lot of big names. The stars and celebrities arrived thick and fast. Graham Hancock knew that I had looked after a few people whilst I was living in London, so he designated me, along with a couple of other lads, to look after any VIPs who visited the club. Looking after the stars is the easy bit – keeping the public at bay is what really tests your patience.

With Robbie Williams, we weren’t really sure whether he would be turning up at all, so the whole club was opened just in case. Then he arrived out of the blue with about 30 people in tow. We were told to go and ask ordinary punters who had settled in the VIP lounge to leave their seats and make room for Robbie and his entourage. Needless to say, there were a lot of people with their noses put out of joint that night. ‘Why should we move for him?’ ‘Has he paid to get in?’ ‘Will he be here next week?’ I agreed with them, but I was just doing what I was told.

Once the area was cleared, Robbie appeared, and the drinks started to flow. Bottle after bottle of the finest champagne was downed, and more and more people flocked upstairs to get a look at their idol. He was a lot smaller than I imagined and was madly jumping about all over the place – if he had been anyone else, he would have definitely been chucked out onto the streets. A lot of girls were trying to get past me to get to Robbie, some even offering their ‘services’ if I would just let them through. Not a chance. Even people who should have known better said that they would report me to the owner if I didn’t let them pass. I couldn’t understand why someone would want to embarrass themselves like that.

Just as we had things under control, Robbie jumped up and started to sing his number-one hit ‘Angels’. Well, the place went mental as his fans sang back to him. I wasn’t impressed and was just glad that I wasn’t in his personal security team, because they really had their work cut out. The next day’s paper reported that Robbie had bought everyone in the club a drink – although I didn’t get one – and there was talk of an alleged £3,000 bar bill left outstanding. That’s rock and roll for you.

Pop band Steps caused the same kind of mayhem. They didn’t have as many followers as Mr Williams, but their security asked us to make sure that no one took any photos of them. Talk about mission impossible. The usual faces tried to gatecrash the VIP section, without any success. The owner of the club had taken to switching his phone off when a VIP arrived, so it was no use those wankers phoning him either. As the flashes went off, the band’s security started to argue with the punters – some arguments became quite heated. One couple wanted a photo for their kids – the band had said yes but their security no. The couple started to hurl abuse at the minders, who then expected me to throw them out. In my opinion, the minders had caused the problem, so they could deal with it, and we ignored their requests to throw people out. Just to round off my terrible night, I was half expecting the band to burst into song, but thankfully that never happened.

One star I wouldn’t have minded singing was Marti Pellow, former lead singer with Wet Wet Wet, as I always enjoyed their music. When he visited us, he was very low key – no minders, no entourage, just him. He was a really nice fella and not at all stage struck. I wish more stars were like him.

The Newcastle United team also became regular visitors to the club, and over time I reacquainted myself with the likes of Shay Given, Alan Shearer, Rob Lee, Warren Barton, Stephen Glass and Kevin Gallagher. I used to enjoy the craic about results and games – past and present – with the lads and would always share a drink or two with them when they came into the venue.

I eventually decided to take a bit of time off and spend some quality time with my girlfriend as well as seeing some of the lads, and it was like a new lease of life for me. It was strange not having to put on my stab-vest every weekend. I wasn’t looking for work when Alan Scott called me up out of the blue to ask if I fancied a job back on my old stomping ground. He was leaving The Groat House to take over the door at a new club that was opening called Sugar. I appreciated the call and went to see him that night. After meeting the lads – Billy, Jason, George and Freddie – and the manageress Alyson, I dotted the i’s and crossed the t’s and was back where it all had started: the Bigg Market. It was a different cup of tea to the quay – full of locals and youngsters trying to look older, and the music was a mixture of cheesy chart tunes and the latest banging dance tracks, which was right up my street.

It was a doddle. We had a scrap there every other night – usually girls fighting each other or causing a fight between their ex-boyfriends – but it was an easy number. Alan offered me a couple of shifts, but I didn’t want to go back to all work and no play, so I just took on a Thursday night for the time being.

Sugar had opened as a gay club but had flopped, so they recruited promoter Alex Lowes to pack the place out. His reputation for promoting events such as the Southport Weekender and To the Manor Born in Sedgefield meant that he duly obliged. In the first couple of weeks, I was on ‘star watch’ again, as Brian and Narinder, stars from the Channel Four show Big Brother, visited, and Olympic boxing gold medal winner Audley Harrison arrived with his family after winning his second pro-fight in Newcastle. Sugar was going to be a winner, and I was happy to be a part of it.

However, I only stayed at Sugar for a few months, as I soon got bored. I got an offer to move back to Chase on the quayside, but this time as head doorman, and I jumped at the chance. I had a great set of lads working with me there – Peter Lucy, Shaun Charlton, Mick Bradwell, Les Jackson, Freddie Suadwa, Stu the Charva – and a great gaffer in Ronnie Pagan. Life had never been so good. We had some ups and downs, but I loved them all. I was there for five years in total, but all good things eventually come to an end, and I moved on with my security boss Geoff Oughton to help out at Sam Jacks and Bar 55. I stayed there for eight months before ending up at Tiger Tiger with my old mates Buzz and Wrighty, who I started with at Masters all those years before.

I still love what I do. I wouldn’t do it otherwise. I met my wife Dawn doing the job I love. As for working the doors now – as opposed to the way it was back when I started in the ’90s – well, I think the SIA have a lot to answer for. We lost a lot of good doormen because of their licensing scheme, and many good lads have been replaced by mere kids who just can’t do the job.

If I could give anybody any advice going into this line of work, it would be: don’t take liberties and what goes around comes around. You have to earn respect. Respect does not lie in your fists. The job is so different now, but violence is still there every night you put on your Crombie and straighten your tie. You never know what’s in store. For me, that was part of the enjoyment!

His website, The Geordie Connection, was launched in 1998 to promote a manuscript entitled The Krays – The Geordie Connection written by Steve Wraith and Stuart Wheatman. The intention was for this site to help attract a publisher and then close down. However, after obtaining a publishing deal with Zymurgy Publishing, the book was a huge success, and the site became an important advertising tool. The decision was taken to keep the site up and running, and this led to a video and DVD deal with www.gangstervideos.co.uk. The Krays – The Geordie Connection documentary was released a year after the book and has proved to be just as successful. The site has also proved to be a useful starting point for those with an interest in the Kray family, and Steve has endeavoured to update the various sections over the years as well as answer any questions that visitors have.

The site has changed direction over time and is now dedicated to helping chart Steve Wraith’s progress as an actor and writer. Steve is represented by Janet Plater Management, and any offers of work in the entertainment industry must be directed to Janet Plater on 0191 221 2490.

As well as being a published author, Steve has been the editor of two football-related magazines. The Number Nine fanzine ran from 1991 to 1998 and was a huge favourite on the terraces at St James’s Park in the 1990s. Steve is now the editor of North East football magazine Players Inc.

Steve has also teamed up with former Newcastle and Hartlepool striker Joe Allon to launch a successful agency hiring out former football players as after-dinner speakers. For a comprehensive list of players and prices, please email Steve or Joe at [email protected]

Steve is also a keen fundraiser and has dedicated a lot of his time to helping the Bubble Foundation. The annual celebrity cricket tournament The Felling Ashes has gone from strength to strength since its inaugural game in 2002, and various sportsmen’s dinners and music gigs have helped raise thousands for worthy causes. For further information on charities that Steve is involved with, please visit www.bubblefoundation.org.uk, www.cancerresearch.org and www.gracehouse.co.uk

Steve has written for numerous books, including: Survival of the Fattest volumes one to four (football related); Born to Fight by Richy Horsley; The Guv’nor: Through the Eyes of Others by Anthony Thomas; and Wor Al: A Fans’ Tribute to Alan Shearer by Paul Brown and Stuart Wheatman.