by Bill Carson
A very large individual with a shaven square-shaped head opened the door. He opened it about six inches and presented his face in the gap. All that was missing was the bolt through his neck. He gave us a discerning look and then invited us in – not with words, he just beckoned us forward with his huge mitt. As we entered, we noticed a fella sitting behind a desk inside another smaller office over to our left. He looked up and stopped his phone conversation as we approached.
“Take a seat lads, I’ll be with you shortly,” he said.
I had a quick glance around the office. It was obviously a company in its infancy. It was quite a dingy place with no proper ceiling, just the exposed floor joists of the restaurant above. Nothing on the bare concrete floor either. At the other end of the office was a desk which was covered in papers. On the wall was a large notice board with the names of all the venues they were looking after cross-referenced with the people who were looking after them. The guy behind the desk introduced himself to us with a firm handshake.
“Hello boys, how are you doing? My name is John,” he said, and then asked us if we had our photos. “Aye now, that’s a very good likeness.” He grinned whilst holding up Pete's photo.
We stayed and chatted for a while, and after about twenty minutes he said that he would be in contact with us in a few days. He seemed decent enough. I’m a pretty good judge of character usually, and he seemed like a very genuine sort of bloke. He gave the impression that you wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of him, though. I also got the feeling that there was definitely more to these people than met the eye. The not-very-well-hidden pump action shotgun in the corner might have been the clue. We’ll see how it goes.
As we were leaving, I noticed that a door off to our right was slightly ajar. It was a large room that they had turned into a gym, complete with punch bags and various other pieces of training equipment. They even had a bloody boxing ring set up down there. We couldn’t resist the temptation; Pete held the punch bag and I threw a few boxing combinations at it.
John phoned back a week later and asked if Peter and I would like to work Saturday night.
“Ok mate, where do want us to go?” I asked.
He gave me the location and I asked my usual question.
“What’s the money like?”
“How does £90 a piece sound?”
“Sounds fine mate, we’ll be there.”
“You will have to be there from 10pm till about 8am”.
Kings Cross was our destination. We boarded the early evening train and left the leafy suburbs of Ealing behind. Forty-five minutes later we arrived. Dreary and depressing summed the place up, a run-down inner city dump where every vice imaginable was on offer.
As we exited the station, the police were everywhere. Six of them were trying to arrest some black guy who was brandishing a large carving knife and taunting them with it. It took them ages to deal with the situation; we were tempted to go over and show them how it should be done. Mind you, they would have probably nicked us for being too rough with the gentleman. Eventually they all jumped on him and then he was very gently placed in the back of the police van. I thought that they were far too hesitant with the guy. Anyone who carried a weapon of that nature and then decided to use it should get absolutely no mercy.
I don’t know what training the police received, but it all looked very amateurish and haphazard from where we were standing. A lot of luck was involved.
We were half an hour too early and so we set off in search of the nearest battle cruiser. We found a pub close to the venue. It had a few Hell’s Angels mooching about inside but they didn’t take much notice of us. The music was excellent. As we walked in the jukebox was playing one of my favourite pieces of heavy rock music, ‘Paranoid’ by Black Sabbath.
Two halves of lager later and it was time to shoot over the road.
The venue was, and still is, a very popular place: three massive warehouses linked together with enough room for thousands of revellers. As we entered, John was standing in the main entrance.
“You made it then, lads?” he said, checking his watch.
“Hello mate, what’s happening?” I replied.
“You two come with me.”
We followed him down a flight of stairs and along a corridor to where we were to spend the majority of the night. We were then introduced to the other member of the company who jointly ran it with John.
“All right lads,” said John. “If you’d like to listen in.”
He then proceeded to show us how to search someone for any drugs or weapons. Everyone was to be searched without exception. We were to ask them if they had any needles on them, then search their hats, boots, bags – everything. John explained that underneath the collar on a shirt or jacket was one of the favourite hiding places for small amounts of drugs. He demonstrated the search technique on one of the staff.
“Start at the top and work down. Tell them to raise their arms, feel down each of the sleeves.
Ask them to remove any head gear; if they refuse, turf them out of the line. Then do the collar, and over the shoulders and around the back. Next grab hold of the waistband of the trousers and give them a good shake – you never know, something might fall out – then down the inside of legs, then the outside and finally the footwear. Ask them to take them off if you feel it’s necessary.”
If we found any drugs – sorry, when we found any drugs – we were to put them into a steel drugs box which was taken to the local police station the next day. (Most of the contents, anyway.)
A few minutes later the first of the night’s revellers started to arrive. We were stopping and searching the punters for a good couple of hours. I must have done about three hundred squats as I searched people down to their boots: we had most definitely drawn the short straw.
Two huge queues formed which stretched right back to the high street: guys on the left and the girls on the right. There were hundreds of scantily-clad, noisy young females, scruffy-looking dudes and undesirables of every description descending on the place. A couple of old Trannies were parading themselves up and down the never-ending ranks of impatient young people. They were dressed in over-elaborate costumes, trying to amuse the punters who were having to wait forever to gain entry. The inescapable thump, thump, thump of the dance tracks blasted out as we frisk the crowd.
The guy who had organised the event, and who, incidentally, was dressed in a long flowing purple gown topped off with a witch’s hat, was making himself very busy. He was flitting about in an exited fashion with an over-the-top foppish manner, giving orders left, right and centre with animated gestures like some kind of demented orchestral conductor.
Pete suddenly turned towards me as he was searching the lower half of some shabby fella. His face had the expression of someone who had just taken a bite out of very bitter lemon.
“What’s up, mate?” I asked.
“I’ll tell you later,” he said.
And so about ten minutes later, we eventually got a break.
“What happened when you were searching that bloke?” I asked Pete.
Pete explained that while he was searching around the back of the guy’s trousers, he’d discovered that the fella had shit his pants. Two things sprang to my mind. The first was that this fella was now going to be wandering around all night with his pants full of shite. Secondly, Pete had had his hand around the back of this bloke’s trousers and he was now munching away on a cheese and pickle sandwich, using the same unwashed hand.
After our well-deserved break, we were asked to patrol for the rest of the night, which was a welcome relief from the search area. As we strolled through the crowds, the sickly bittersweet smell of puff was inescapable. This place was rough and, except for the strobe lights, it was really dark in there.
Whilst doing our patrol we observed some curious sights. Some individuals were very lively and jigging about furiously on the same spot, head down, looking at the floor. Some of them were just standing and staring wi
de-eyed into space, open-mouthed with blank expressions and soaked in sweat and out of their heads. If that was their idea of a good night out, they could keep it.
It was absolutely boiling; someone must have turned the heating on full blast. The best little earner must have been the water concession. Whoever had that must have made a fortune with a small bottle of water at £1 a pop.
The revelry thankfully began to draw to a close at around four o’clock. We were cream-crackered and wanted out. By six o’clock the end was in sight. A twenty-five strong team of bouncers formed ranks and drove the remnants of the crowd into one area and gradually steered them towards the main exit. The snatch squads had had a busy night intercepting drugs and the dealers. Above the dance floor, if you could call it that, was an elaborate system of walkways where spotters would be hiding. They would carry a radio and a laser pointer with them, and when a deal was in progress they would radio through the details to the snatch team whilst keeping the red laser dot on the dealer’s nut. When they were caught, the dealers and their customers were given very rough treatment and were literally kicked out.
We waited in line outside the office while John sorted out the cash and eventually we were called in. John paid us a bit extra and we collected a hundred and twenty quid each and then wearily set off towards the station and home. That was good money back then. You’d be hard pressed to better it nowadays.
I think we did that venue three or four times. The money was good but I never liked the place. However, John the guv’nor had now seen how we operated and wanted us there more often. After our stint at the little club in West London, he would often get on the dog and bone and ask us to come up to Kings Cross. Some of the guys loved it there but it wasn’t for me. I had bad vibes every time I set foot in the place. I had a feeling that something was going to go badly wrong here one night. Unfortunately my prediction proved to be right: one night, about six months after our debut there, a member of the snatch team was stabbed to death on the premises whilst trying to apprehend a drug dealer. A young man’s life was brutally and savagely taken away for the sake of a few lousy quid.
Many doormen have been killed in the line of duty. It’s a statistic that I feel will only sadly increase, especially with today’s growing gun and knife culture and the willingness of these thugs to commit murder with very little if any provocation. When they are caught, they are awarded a sentence that rarely befits the crime and they will probably only serve two thirds of it anyway.
We need stronger laws in place for people who carry knives. There was a report in the newspaper recently about a young boy who was out on an errand at the local shop for his mother and was stabbed to death for his mobile phone. Words fail me: I cannot express how I feel about such things. Imagine the devastation on the family – it’s just too terrible to comprehend
If I had my way, I would reintroduce the death penalty for such crimes. The person who takes a life in a premeditated, cold-blooded attack with a knife has to pay the ultimate price. Anything less than that and I feel that justice has not been served. There’s no margin for error with a knife: they are simply designed to kill. Unfortunately, the reality is that these cold, sick people do exist and they are out there with knives at the ready. So after that tragic incident, I decided that we had to be ready to defend ourselves against the knifer.
CHAPTER SIX
STREET FIGHTING MAN
January 1994
To combat our concerns over possible knife attacks, we firstly acquired bullet/stab-proof vests. I spoke to John about it and the very next week he had a stack of stab-proof vests sitting in the corner of his office, which he sold to the team at a hugely discounted price. I still have the thing in my wardrobe.
In addition to the vest, I set about reading every knife self-defence manual I could lay my hands on. We studied the techniques that seemed to be the most effective and adopted the most uncomplicated methods and incorporated them into our training routine. We practised them over and over until they became second nature. I remember we started off by using a real knife when practicing: it was a bloody great flick knife, a scary-looking thing, with a thin, shiny six-inch blade. This was the real deal and when confronted with a real knife, even in practice with your mate on the other end of it, it puts a completely different aspect on things. Your senses are automatically heightened and, dare I say, ‘sharpened’ when that silver flashing blade with death written all over it comes thrusting at you.
Even though I trusted my training partners implicitly, accidents happen and I was almost skewered by the damned thing one day. I only just managed to parry the blade away from an intimate date with my liver at the last moment. After that we decided to use a rubber knife.
One of the most important things I learnt about knife self-defence was the seizing of your attacker’s knife hand, and not letting go of it. You literally hang on for dear life. Parrying seemed to work also, but there were so many techniques that to attempt it for real would get you killed. Keeping it simple is the name of the game. And running away is always a good idea… if you think you can.
I have given a lot of thought to putting together a practical self-defence manual. Not like some that you see with the use of flamboyant kicks and complicated blocking routines – they would probably get you killed if you tried to use them against someone who had a knife. My manual deals with the reality of what is required to subdue your attacker so you can make your escape and survive the ordeal. (The book is called The Modern Warrior.)
I have worn a covert Kevlar vest ever since the incident at Kings Cross. Such vests are not cheap but they are an obviously essential piece of kit. I advise anyone involved in any type of security occupation to obtain one. Another piece of kit we used to wear was a groin guard, again for obvious reasons, and I always had a pair of good quality leather gloves. Mine were knife-proof: they were ordinary leather gloves but with Kevlar inserts. We wore boots as opposed to shoes, the reason being is that they don’t accidentally come off. Pete was going in to deal with a fight one night, closely followed by me. I inadvertently trod on the back of his shoe and it came flying off. He was hopping around in the dark for a good few minutes trying to find it. By the time he had retrieved it, the situation had been dealt with.
So now we were as ready as we could be to deal with any situation that came our way. However, confrontations can happen when you least expect them, and are not always confined to the entrance of the nightclub.
It was a normal Monday afternoon... I had finished a particularly tough two-hour training session, and so I went through the usual routine: a hot bath followed by something to eat, and then I planned to get my head down for a couple of hours. But this time my sleep was interrupted by some really loud knocking on my front door. I went downstairs and opened the front door to find a guy wanting to deliver some new kitchen equipment.
As I looked out and up the garden path, his mate was coming down with it on a trolley. I have four steps leading down to my front door and he banged it down every one of them. As he got to the front door, I said to him that if it didn’t work, I’d know why.
“Don’t worry about it, man, it’s tightly packed,” was his reply.
They eventually brought the stuff through and I asked them if they could unpack it and also take the packaging with them. The driver had no problems with my request, but the other guy, a tall lean black fella, was moaning about it.
“We’re not supposed to do this,” he moaned and started to walk out with a right strop on. As he walked past me, he looked at me with a stupid half sneer.
“Have you got a problem, mate?” I said.
“No, you got the problem, man.”
As he turned around, he looked at me and told me to fuck off. How rude.
SMACK!! A hard, fast right hand punch knocked him off the doorstep onto his back and he landed amongst the flowers in the front garden some five or six feet away. I have never seen anyone more surprised; the look of absolute disbelief on his face was amazing
. I think he was the type of guy who rarely had anyone stand up to him, let alone smack him straight in the eye. I’ll not have anyone talk to me like that, especially on my own doorstep. I’m not a great talker in these types of situations. Anyway, I’d made up my mind, as I knew that talking to this fella would have gotten me nowhere. Either take the shit that he’s chucking and do nothing, or do something about it. So the dialogue went out the window and he went out of the door and landed on his back!
As I stepped outside to finish him off, he was getting to his feet. He was in a crouched position, leaning forward with his arms waving about in front of him. His legs were doing a funny little dance. Clearly his noodle had been quite badly shaken by the punch and so I closed in on him. I threw a left hook and right upper cut combination; they both missed the target.