by Bill Carson
He had been slashed with a very sharp knife probably a Stanley knife. We called an ambulance and the wounded soldier was carted off and stitched up and he would live to fight another day, but not in our club. He was lucky, because an inch or two lower and it would have severed an artery. What a nasty violent world we live in.
I was thinking, I wonder how Sean’s getting on. The two lads he was working with had had some kind of altercation with a pikey (Irish traveller) earlier on and had given him a bit of a slap. They got the usual threat of him coming back to sort them out later on, bla bla bla. Most of the time nothing happens – it’s just someone trying to salvage a bit of pride – but you’ve always got to be ready for the possibility that they will carry out the threat. You’ve got to stay switched on and it’s always a really good idea to have a plan B just in case it all goes tits up.
Every doorman’s nightmare suddenly became a brutal reality: the guy came back and he bought a few friends along who decided to bring a claw hammer each. The ten of them proceeded to take the place apart. They smashed everything in the pub, including Garry and Alex. They were beaten to the floor and given the full treatment with hammer and boot. The two lads had a variety of injuries, as you can imagine, and were hospitalised for a while. But they were tough lads and recovered with no lasting problems. Sean survived the affair with little or no injuries. He was lucky. There was something of the inevitable about that: it was just waiting to go off in that place. Sean was back with us the next week but he didn’t seem to be his old self. I think he was still suffering from what had happened the week before at Chav Town.
It was getting near to closing time. Last orders had been called and the two lads adopted their usual positions either side of the main doors, which was now a one-way door: out only. I went in to get the punters moving when I noticed that Jo, the manager, seemed to be having a few problems with a couple of guys. I made my way over behind them and overheard Jo tell them that she wanted them to leave.
One of the lads said, “I’m not being thrown out by a barmaid.”
“Barmaid? I'm the bloody manager! I don’t have to throw you out anyway; I have security to do that for me,” Jo replied.
“No poxy doorman’s going to throw me out either,” he said.
I stepped forward and took over the conversation; I could see where this one was going.
“Put your drink down mate, the manager wants you to leave.”
“Fuck off,” he said.
He had now also adopted a more aggressive attitude. My kind and courteous manner was being perceived as a weakness and I was rewarded with abuse. Violence being imminent, I took the initiative. Before he started swinging I grabbed his throat with one hand and took hold of his other hand, which contained a pint glass. Sean had made his way over and Pete stayed in position on the front door.
I pushed the lad over to the front doors where Pete put him into a strangle hold. Panic had set in and he’d started to try and slip out of the hold, but once that hold is locked on, you’re finished. Pete took over and the guy was sent flying out of the door. As I turned around I was confronted by a mate of his. What we hadn’t realized was that there were seven of them, and they were all aggrieved at the fact their friend had been ejected. And so they all decided to converge on yours truly.
The first attacker came forward in a boxing-type pose and started to swing wildly with lefts and rights, aiming them at my head. I threw a hard fast right cross; it was a natural reaction, a strike from the void perhaps. It connected smack on the guy’s chin. He did a 360 and spiralled down to the floor and out. I kept moving around with my hands in the ready position; everywhere I looked someone was coming at me.
The next combatant threw a punch at Sean, which missed. Sean was more accurate with his and a hard left hand crunched into the guy’s jaw, which sent him stumbling into my direction. A right-hander from me sent him over to Pete who dumped him outside on the pavement.
The next one, a little bigger than the others, adopted some form of fighting stance. He came forward with his fists clenched and decided to also try his luck. Before he had time to think about what he was going to do, I moved slightly to my right and delivered a quick, accurate, powerful open hand strike; it was a technique that I’d practised for years. It went through his guard and the palm of my right hand struck him in the centre of the chest. The impact sent him flying backwards and he went upside down over a table full of drinks sending glasses, bottles and punters in all directions.
Now we had two outside and two on the deck: three to go. When they saw their mate go flying over the table it must have sent the right message. They decided to fight another day. They tiptoed over their fallen comrades and walked out under their own steam.
I would imagine the whole thing was over in less than thirty seconds, but when it’s actually happening it seems a hell of a lot longer than that. I took no chances; you can’t, especially nowadays. Anyone that presented themselves as a target was treated as one. Remember, the Queensberry rules go out the window. We’re going home in one piece and that’s all that really matters.
The rest of the evening’s revellers were very accommodating, and at closing up time it only took about ten minutes to clear the place. Jo asked if we would like to stay for a few beers, and so, after a great deal of arm-twisting, we were treated to a few well-deserved pints. Sean would almost always have a girl waiting for him and tonight was no exception: his chat up lines seemed to have paid off. We finished our drinks, said goodnight to Jo and jumped into Sean’s little motor, which was a bit of struggle at the best of times as it was only a Mini Metro. I let Pete get in first and Sean’s date jumped in the back with him. She was a pretty girl but talk about thick; if her brains had been made of dynamite she wouldn’t have had enough to blow her hat off. Mind you, I don’t think he was too interested in what she had between her ears.
Sean dropped Pete and I back at my place. Wife and kids were in bed hours ago and I’d stocked the fridge with a few beers before I left that evening, so we chilled out with an ice-cold beer, listened to a little of Pink Floyd and mulled over the night’s shenanigans.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
REALITY
So, what’s it like to have a real fight? Generally there are three stages, and all of them are unpleasant. This is the way I see it.
First stage: Verbal sparring
A short conversation/argument is generally the precursor to a fight, although sometimes your adversary can just start swinging after very little or sometimes no verbal sparring. There’s some real nutters out there, don’t forget. But that’s an exception to the rule, and usually there’s always a good amount of a vicious, venomous, verbal exchange. At this stage I would now already be taking up a defensive mind-set and subtly moving my body into my fighting or ready position, and making a note of the guy’s hands and getting the distance right. This is the stage where you have an opportunity to try talk them down and calm the situation.
This is also the moment when the fear begins to build inside you. As your attempt at reasoning begins to crumble quicker than the Atlantic ice shelf, the horrible frosty hand of fear starts to run up and down the backs of your shaky legs. This rather unpleasant sensation can sometimes overwhelm you, if you allow it to. Remind yourself that this is the effect of adrenaline: it is all perfectly natural and it is there to help you.
Second stage: Combatives
If attempts at calming the situation by passive methods have failed and all attempts at a spoken reconciliation have now pretty much ended, then this is the beginning of the second stage: the point of no return, the fight itself.
When attacked, I always did roughly the same things:
• I used my surroundings to my advantage
• I always tried to keep my attacker going backwards and off balance
• I kept my fighting stance strong but, at the same time, I was light on my feet.
I aimed to make sure that my first blow was the most telling one. I wanted to
take the fight out of the man right from the off. I would wait for the right opening, look straight at the target area and then send out the strike like a guided missile to explode on his chin.
After the first exchange of blows, all feelings of fear completely disappear. I felt nothing, emotionally or physically. A numbness of the mind seemed to take control, a shutting down of all rational thought was in process and a strong sense of survival kicked in.
So here you are, one on one, you and him out in the unforgiving street, going toe to toe. There are no soft mats to land on here, no referees to stop the fight when you go down, and no established rules of fair play.
The senses then suddenly become heightened by a secondary shot of adrenaline. Sometimes you will experience tunnel vision and a slow motion effect begins as your adrenaline courses through your veins. You’re now completely alone out there and this really is it: all you’ve got to rely on is your courage and the skills you have practiced, plus a ‘never say die’ mind-set. It is essential to prevail at all costs or you’ll be going down to the cold hard pavement, and that’s one place you definitely don’t want to be.
Third stage: Aftermath
Generally these altercations are, thankfully, over quite quickly. I found that one or two solid, accurate shots on the chin were generally sufficient to end the sad spectacle.
I was always quietly confident and believed that I had an advantage over these bar room brawler types. But I also felt that my victories were somewhat hollow. I was never in a celebratory mood afterward. In fact, I must admit that I felt a little ashamed by it all. Even though they were all horrible, nasty, violent creatures who would, if given the opportunity, think nothing of stamping my head into the ground, I still can’t say that I ever felt good about defeating them. Even if my actions were considered to be justifiable at the time, it still didn’t sit right with me and it always left a bitter taste in my mouth.
So that’s my analysis of a violent altercation. Other people may and certainly will feel differently about such things. I know for a fact that some people enjoy the experience and actually seek out violent confrontation.
A lot of people will take an instant dislike to you when you work as a bouncer. There may be many deep rooted reasons for that. Many people don’t like the police, whereas I think they do a splendid job… Authoritarian figures are disliked, plain and simple.
If you’re a drug dealing scumbag, for example, and you’re being prevented from plying your despicable trade by the bouncer, the dealer’s not exactly going to put you at the top of his Christmas card list, is he? Bouncers are a necessary evil: we need them. They are our nocturnal guardians, tirelessly weeding out the trouble makers so the decent punters can enjoy a night out without being hassled, bullied, assaulted, robbed or abused.
This is why you sometimes see bouncers engaged in fighting. This weeding out process is where at least seventy-five percent of the trouble starts. So the next time you see a doorman exchanging blows with a punter, think about the reasons why this may be happening, and don’t be too quick to jump to conclusions. Believe me, sometimes you really are left with no other choice but to defend yourself.
You’ve got to be careful, though. You can’t go over the top as no one wants to be spending the night in a stinking police cell or suffer the real possibility of a longer stretch. In court you would not be able to put forward the case for ‘reasonable force’ being applied if you’ve been trying to score drop goals with the guy’s head.
CHAPTER TWELVE
STAND YOUR GROUND
17 March ‘95: St Patrick’s Day
All was going well until I spotted a big fella in the bar in bare feet. He had decided for some reason to take his work boots and socks off and place them on the bar. He was about six feet tall with long frizzy red hair, and was a dead ringer for Mick Hucknell from the pop group Simply Red, but about five stone heavier. He was with about seven or eight of his pals and they were all knocking back copious amounts of the black stuff and getting really loud and overexcited. I asked him very politely to put his boots back on but he refused. Here we go again, I thought.
I told him to stop acting like a gobshite. I figured he might get the picture if I spoke to him using some of his own language. He did, although a little reluctantly, and the socks and boots went back on.
I went back to the entrance and left them to it. You’ve got to be realistic. I knew that you couldn’t push your luck too far with Paddies: they can be a most unpredictable sort and liable to start swinging at any moment. It’s in their blood, and I should know being half Irish meself.
About ten minutes later, eight or nine other Irish fellas tried to enter the club. They were all pissed as farts and so we had no choice but to knock them back. It was a difficult one as what do you expect any decent, self-respecting Irishman to be doing on a night like this. But this was not the kind of place to be doing it in: this was a night club and not a spit and sawdust piss hole.
As you can imagine, they were not too pleased at being refused entry and decided to give us a lot of nasty verbal and started to crowd the door. Meanwhile, the fella who had his boots off earlier was trying tell us that the guys outside were his mates and they’d behave themselves.
Here we go. You get this lot together and there will be murders. Nine outside, eight inside and we are in the middle, outnumbered as usual. We may have to get the tools out to even up the odds, I thought.
I had a fair idea of what was going to happen here, so Simply Red got a hard shove in the chest and stumbled backward into the bar. I quickly pulled the door shut; luckily it opened outward so I was able to put my foot against the bottom of it to prevent it opening.
Just as I was doing that, one of them jumped up out of the crowd outside and threw a punch over his mate’s shoulder and smacked Sean right in the eye. As soon as the blow landed, the three of us burst forwards out of the doorway to engage them all in a mass brawl. Verbal is one thing, but they were now trying to take the door. Well, if we must have it then let’s have it good and proper then, I thought, as I reached inside my jacket for the bruising irons.
We were up for that one, and I guarantee you that a few of them would have never forgotten that particular St Patrick’s day.
At that moment, a passing police van screeched to a halt right outside the club. One of the police officers took a look at Sean’s eye which was rapidly swelling and turning into a nice little shiner.
“Do you want to press charges?” the police officer said.
“No, but I want to take him around the corner for a straightener,” Sean said.
“I didn’t hear that,” the policeman said as he walked away.
The guy who had thrown the punch overheard the remark and a scuffle ensued between Sean, this bloke and two coppers. Two other Paddies started to give the old bill some verbal as well and refused to move, and so, with a bit of a struggle, they were all arrested. We managed to get rid of rest of them and the ones who were inside decided to leave as well.
About an hour later, three of them came back to apologise for their friend’s behaviour because, apparently, it had nothing to do with them. The older guy, who was a real coffin dodger, said to me that he was a gentleman and didn’t want any trouble. He promised to behave if I let him back in the club.
“Bollocks, you’ve got no chance,” I said.
The guy went crazy, and started shouting and screaming.
“I’m going to rip your fecking head off,” he yelled, whilst pointing at me.
Stupid old git, you couldn’t punch a dent in a pound of butter, I thought. His two companions tried to restrain him but he was having none of it. My patience now exhausted, I decided to give him an opportunity to carry out his threat.
I stepped outside the door and onto the pavement and challenged all three to have a go. I’d had enough of their drunken bravado and bullshit and their tirade of insults. Suddenly their courage had seemed to fail them. They declined my offer of a straightener and beat a hast
y retreat back to the Emerald Isle.
We stayed for a while after closing up and we had our usual couple of drinks with Jo, but on this particular occasion we were joined by one of the barmaids. She was a big old sort, about five feet two and weighing in at around the sixteen-stone mark. She had a large backside which, every time she went past, reminded me of a rhino’s hindquarters. She’d therefore acquired the unflattering title of ‘the big un’, and after a couple of drinks she used to always get a bit fruity.
She was wearing an unflattering tight-fitting short skirt and a blouse that must have been a couple of sizes too small; the buttons on it were under an enormous amount of strain trying desperately to contain her huge knockers and rolls of fat. They’d have someone’s eye out if they popped off, I thought. Pete said that she had touched him up earlier that night. Fuck me, she must be desperate. She sat down and joined in the conversation and announced that she had been taking classes in the art of massage. I happened to mention to her that Sean had been complaining of a bad back earlier in the evening, even though he hadn’t. She then decided to give a practical demonstration.