Bonded by Blood (5 page)

Being a good doorman isn’t about going to the gym and throwing around your steroid-bloated frame, it is about diplomacy and trying to understand the psyche of the psychos you encounter. The Basildon bouncers were now learning this valuable lesson. Those who escaped the lecture in the main hall were captured on the car park and given the most brutal of tutorials. They were beaten and their flesh ripped open with Stanley knives; one blood-soaked bouncer was thrown into a lake. It was a miracle nobody died. Many of those who avoided hospital ‘retired’ immediately from the security industry.

Things had changed. Lager louts with bad attitudes had been replaced by smartly dressed, drug-fuelled, knife-wielding villains. Commuting to Essex from the East End of London, these villains wanted to flood the county with the ‘love drug’ Ecstasy. Disco rather than rave, bouncer versus firm member, pints instead of pills – they were all on a collision course and, without realising it, I was stepping into the epicentre. I thanked Venables for helping me out and told him that I would be at the club the following weekend.

That Friday, I drove into town looking for what had resembled a trendy bar during daylight – at night it looked like some sort of night shelter for down-and-outs and the clinically insane. Dodgy-looking geezers and even more dodgy-looking girls hung around outside the bar entrance. Like moths, they seemed drawn to the blue neon light that announced, or warned, you were about to enter The Piano Bar, an annexe of Raquels. I later learned these former customers were barred from entering for a variety of unpleasant offences, but they still turned up every night and huddled beneath the light to spit abuse at customers entering the bar and attack those who objected to the insults.

It’s bad enough at the best of times being surrounded by drunks, but when you’re a doorman the experience is even more unpleasant, so on my first night I was pleased to learn that I was going to work in Raquels itself, the nightclub next door. Only later did I find that it was here that the real heavy drinkers washed up when the pubs closed and here that most of the trouble occurred.

Venables introduced me to my fellow doormen. Most of them were there, like me, just for a bit of extra cash. They didn’t seem like a proper firm to me. I wasn’t exactly confident in their ability to sort out any trouble if it came, but I kept my mouth shut, my head down and started work.

It didn’t take long for me to realise that things were not running the way they should be at Raquels. Local hooligans would cause trouble in the club and the next night the doormen would let them back in to cause more. The men on the door thought that if they barred one of these troublemakers, they could end up being assaulted on the street or, even worse, they’d come round to their house. I was of the opinion that if they wanted trouble, they could fucking have it. And if they came into the club and started anything, they would be barred regardless of who they were. Simple as that.

One Saturday night, I was working on the door at Raquels with a man named Larry Johnston. He was one of the few doormen I felt safe working with. If a fight broke out, I knew instinctively that Larry would be alongside me in the thick of it. The problem with Larry was he always had to go the extra mile. When the fight was over, he couldn’t resist one last spiteful kick, or stamping on one of the bruised and bloodied bodies that lay motionless on the floor. I was convinced that one day Larry’s over-enthusiasm for the job would result in somebody’s death.

On that particular evening, a group of men who had left the club minutes earlier approached the door and asked to be let back in. The club was due to close and so I told them that wouldn’t be possible. The men were very drunk and became abusive. I wasn’t particularly bothered because if you work on the door, you endure that kind of nonsense all the time. You have to accept it goes with the territory. I stood watching them in silence. People were standing around listening to the men giving us abuse and it wasn’t doing much for the team’s image, so I thought the best thing to do would be to go inside and close the door for a while. I was hoping they would grow tired of their game and walk away.

As soon as we went inside, the men, obviously getting braver because of our lack of response, started kicking and banging on the door. Larry smiled, pushed the door open and we both ran outside. The men began to run. Neither Larry nor myself were built for jogging around Basildon town centre, so we stopped and stood in the road. The fleeing men, who had been desperate for a fight moments earlier, also stopped running and stood facing us several yards away. They started shouting, calling us ‘wankers’, and chanting, ‘Kill the fucking bouncers! Kill the fucking bouncers!’

Rather surprisingly – or unsurprisingly in Basildon – they were joined by several other men from a nearby burger-bar queue. This group, who had no grievance with us whatsoever, began to hurl pallets and the iron bars that were used to make up the market stalls adjacent to the club. Bottles, stones and anything else the men could lay their hands on rained down on us. It was pretty pointless standing there waiting for their aim to improve, so Larry and I went back into the club and closed the doors.

Whenever a fight broke out in the club, either bar staff, the DJ or those in the reception area activated an alarm. A light on the DJ’s console would tell him which alarm button had been struck, so he could then announce over the PA system ‘Door to reception, please’ or ‘Door’ to wherever. Nine times out of ten, it was ‘Door to the dance floor’ because a jealous boyfriend was attacking somebody who dared to look at his girlfriend. When we walked into the foyer, the siren was blaring, the blue light on the ceiling was flashing and all the other doormen had arrived from upstairs.

There were eight of us in total. Everyone armed themselves, some with pickaxe handles and washing-up bottles filled with industrial ammonia – family size, of course. Others chose smaller weapons, such as knuckle-dusters or coshes, which were easier to conceal should the police turn up. I had a sheath knife I always carried and an Irish hurling stick, which is a bit like a hockey stick but with a broader striking area.

When everybody was ready, we opened the door and ran back into the street. One of the men ran towards us with an iron bar, screaming hysterically. I swung the hurling stick, bringing it crashing down across the top of his head. He lay on the floor where he fell, bleeding but motionless. Larry ran over and kicked the man in the head and body several times. This spiteful act incited the crowd and they ran at us. Within minutes, the street had turned into a battleground strewn with debris and bodies. The baying mob was now about 100 strong, its number having been swelled by passers-by, people turning out of a nearby club and those queuing for taxis.

Unbeknown to me at the time, there were actually three separate groups fighting. The men who asked to re-enter the club wanted to do so in order to fight another group of men who had assaulted one of their friends earlier. When the alleged assailants had walked out of the club at closing time and into the disturbance in the street, the group to whom we had originally refused entry had attacked them. The third group was made up of the homeward-bound revellers, who had joined in for the hell of it.

We didn’t know who was who, and so we resorted to hitting everybody that appeared to be involved in the fighting. Within a few minutes, the police arrived on the scene but rather than restore order their presence seemed to make matters worse. The crowd backed off at first but then re-grouped and started throwing missiles again.

Nobody could see much point in standing in the street being used for target practice, so, along with the police, we retreated into the club foyer to await reinforcements. As we did so, two officers stumbled on a wooden pallet that had been thrown into the middle of the road and the crowd charged. Soon they were surrounded, being kicked and struck with weapons. Their colleagues inside the foyer asked us to help them, so we all went outside and managed to retrieve the two officers from the crowd. It wasn’t long before police reinforcements arrived, their blue flashing lights and wailing sirens creating panic among the crowd, which dispersed in all directions.

‘You’d better lose that,’ one of the officers said. I still had the blood-stained hurling stick in my hand. I wasn’t surprised he had chosen to advise me rather than arrest me, because it had been an extremely dangerous situation we had faced together; the officers who had fallen could easily have died.

On the Monday, the local newspaper published a story about the incident headlined ‘Policeman Injured as Youths Fight’. It read:

A policeman was taken to hospital after a disturbance outside a nightclub in Basildon. Acting Inspector Ian Frazer was injured when youths turned on police as they tried to break up a string of fights in the town square near Raquels disco. Scuffles broke out among 100 people at 2.15 a.m. yesterday and back-up police crews were called from Basildon, Billericay, Wickford, Southend and Grays. Mr Frazer was treated in Basildon hospital for cuts and bruises but not held overnight. A man charged with assault is due before magistrates today.

It was not an exceptionally violent incident for Raquels. The lunatics who got drunk out of their tiny minds in there thought nothing of stabbing, cutting, glassing or even shooting those who displeased them. I can recall one unfortunate man who was out on his stag night being pushed into a fire exit where he was repeatedly slashed with a Stanley knife. His crime? He had unwittingly shown a local idiot ‘disrespect’ by accidentally bumping into him. The would-be groom needed 160 stitches – a lesson in ‘respect’ he will undoubtedly never forget.

I could never understand why Venables allowed these people to take liberties with him – he was certainly no fool. But he didn’t want any confrontation when the going got rough. Hardly the attitude of a doorman.

Venables offered me an additional night’s work at an Essex venue called Epping Forest Country Club. It was there that I first met David Done. He was an obsessive bodybuilder from Romford. We got on very well and soon after we met he came to work at Raquels. He did his job well at first, but after a few weeks he started arriving late or leaving early, relying on our friendship to ensure no questions were asked, or if they were that I would make excuses for him. Larry took exception to the favours being bestowed upon Done and began making comments about him being a ‘part-time doorman on a full-time doorman’s pay’. The atmosphere between the two became quite hostile. One evening as Done prepared to leave early, Larry asked if he would give him a lift home. Done said he couldn’t, as he was going the opposite way, so Larry kicked the door panel of his car. Done jumped out and started shouting. Larry responded by pulling out a knife. I couldn’t believe how quickly the situation was escalating. I asked Larry to put the knife away, but he told me to fuck off and keep out of it. I see very little or no point in holding talks with deranged men wielding knives, so I took out my bottle of industrial ammonia and squirted him in the face with it. Larry was temporarily blinded and then permanently sacked. David Done remained. I was annoyed we had fallen out because I liked Larry, but what choice did I have? I couldn’t stand by and watch a friend kill another friend.

Epping country club started playing rave and house music on Sunday nights and it was soon ‘the place’ to be seen in Essex. Crowds queued for hours to get in and extra staff were taken on to meet the demand, thus Done and I were asked to work there. Doormen, drug dealers and all the ‘club people’ who had worked Friday and Saturday used to go there because it was their only weekend night off. It was not long before I got to know many people on the London club circuit. I became friendly with one man in particular.

Tony Tucker was an absolutely huge man in his mid-30s. He was an up-and-coming face in the Essex underworld, running a very well-organised and well-respected door firm that supplied security at clubs in Essex, Suffolk and London. Tucker had worked as a carpenter before starting up his security business. He was a very abrupt and rude man to those whom he deemed to be below him – and that was most people. If people he didn’t know tried to strike up a conversation with him, Tucker would glare at them as if they were mad or stupid. One evening while working at a club in Wandsworth, south London, Tucker confronted a group of black doormen. They were meant to be working with him but had congregated on a stairwell that led to the fire exit. Never unsure of himself, Tucker began shouting abuse at them, calling them useless and lazy. One of the guys objected to this and pulled out a CS gas canister and sprayed him with it in the face. The group then pounced on Tucker and beat him senseless before leaving via the fire exit.

The following night, Tucker came to Epping seeking help from everybody he knew; he was ranting and raving that he wanted revenge. He asked me to accompany him and I suppose that was the nod that started our close friendship. Despite working with his assailants and knowing they were from Brixton, Tucker never did find the men who had beaten him up. At the time, some said he wasn’t too keen on looking for them just in case he
did
find them. Despite his reputation, many close to Tucker considered him to be no more than a bully and a coward.

David Done’s obsession with bodybuilding had resulted in him having a serious problem with steroids. His addiction to these performance-enhancing drugs meant he was always short of money. He even resorted to being a pizza delivery boy to help finance his drug craving. He refused to listen to reason and his addiction began to affect his judgement. One Monday morning, Done rang me up and told me that he had been sacked from Epping country club for allegedly selling drugs. I knew this was false: Done had nothing to do with drug dealing. I told him that if he was sacked, then all of the door staff should walk out in support of him. I said I would pick him up and we would go and see Joe, the head doorman, to see if we could get to the bottom of it. When we arrived, I asked Joe who had told him Done was dealing. He said the club had received an anonymous telephone call. I got quite annoyed and reasoned that if the person who alleged Done was a dealer didn’t do it openly and with some form of corroboration, then they shouldn’t be believed. Eventually, Joe relented and Done got his job back