The nightly national news: “The policeman who saved two little boys from drowning today …”
“WHAT HAPPENED?” …
Ryan eventually went on to college and university and became a lawyer. It was probably to stop “no-hoper” kids like me stealing his pocket money, when we were fourteen, for half a bottle of port for the dance at the YMCA and to get a Domestic Violence Restraining Order out on me to stay right away from him. I bear no ill will.
The four men sat in the back of the Liverpool hackney cab, psyching each other up. They were high on amphetamines and anything else they could get their hands on. They sat smiling at each other in the ambient light with glazed eyes and plastic grins. One fingered the knife, kept inside the back of his watch band with the handle resting comfortingly in his palm. Another had his hand over a cosh in his pocket. The knife merchant had only been released from prison a week before for stabbing a police officer, for which he’d been king of the “poop pile”! Tonight he was looking forward to showing he was back. Eight years of hitting the prison weights and punch-bag and all the tricks he’d learnt inside, combined with the anger he felt at society, plus booze and drugs, and this guy was “Mr Indestructible” on the night. He was really looking forward to carving up a young little fella on the nightclub door where they were heading.
“There’s only a little pip-squeak on the door lads, he’s a joke. My Uncle Pete checked it out last night. The little sod tripped him at the top of the stairs. Bruised him right up he did. So tonight we’ll really do the business on him. The owner’ll be a walk-over, got no connections; the club’ll be ours in a month by the time we finish with him and his family.”
The taxi pulled up outside the club. “Just wait till we’re inside, pal.”
They stood before the black door and banged for attention.
I began learning judo when I was twelve, after seeing Alan R., the smallest guy in our class, give Hendo, one of the big, fat, school bully boys, a lesson in the finer points of the art. Poor ole Hendo, he had more bounce in him than a Dunlop tyre! This was years before the public became awakened to the martial arts. The only thing known in those days was James Bond’s karate chop. These were the days when Bruce Lee was probably starting to kick the crap out of his school bully boys and pocketing their rice money.
With what I saw that day with little Alan R., I was hooked.
“Sign me up for some of that, mate.”
I instantly became Alan’s new best mate. Previous to this I had been the most unprepared kid for defending himself. I was the original Tonto, getting the poop kicked out of me every time I went into town without the Lone Ranger.
Something had to change before I really wound up on someone’s menu.
At seventeen I began a serious study of karate: five nights a week, three hours a night.
At twenty-one, I was probably the smallest, youngest, most inconsequential-looking guy to ever work a nightclub door anywhere. I was a “doorman”, a “hinge”, or a “caretaker” (taking care of the business). The word “bouncer” was defined by us as: “A woman jogger not wearing a bra”. The first altercation came one week after starting on my first door. I found out later my boss had arranged this to see if I was worth the extra money he was paying me than the last guy. He apparently offered free drinks if they got past me.
A father and his two big sons had put their “wobbly boots” on after drinking hard in the pub round the corner. They wobbled their way around to the club and banged on the door. I opened the door in my nice black suit, white shirt and black bow-tie. “Good evening gentlemen – are you members?”
One of them became the spokesman and answered like he had a mouthful of pebbles.
“Sorry, fellas, not tonight.”
I went to shut the door and it was “on”.
The three of them launched themselves against the door. I was two steps up on the staircase, the door opened to the left and you went straight upstairs to the right. As the first one came on, I slammed his head into the door-frame and pushed him back into the wide alleyway outside the club. The other two followed … there was a bit of jostling, then I was outside the club. The owner shut the door behind me.
The first one came running at me, both hands ready to grab. I did a double-hand inside hook-block, grabbing the insides of his forearms and spun, launching him into the boss’s Mercedes parked just outside. He went straight into the motif and knocked himself out. He’s probably still got the emblem tattooed on his forehead.
The second one came in swinging: same hooking block, and in a millisecond I got a “counter” in – I did this a million times: block and counter, block and counter. He careened off me, spun his face into the wall and put himself out cold, too.
The third one, the old fella, ran in and pulled all the buttons off my shirt, backed off, danced around like Ali, then realized he’d got his wobbly boots on and fell over.
I walked back to the door, knocked, went in and quietly shut it.
A little while later there was a banging on the door.
“We don’t want you, John [the owner] or you Mike [the manager] … Just send out that little Chinese bastard!” (I have no Asian origins.)
There were a lot more experiences like that, none quite so easy, including some bloody “Demonstrations” that had to be done to show why I was where I was. I hate violent and/or rude people – the ones who just love to hurt people and dress up: shirt, trousers, shoes, razor – compared to the innocents who are just out for a nice night. So yes, I’ll stand on the door on your behalf. I’ll do everything I can to protect you. None of these scumbags will get in while I’m on post. And if they are in, they’ll deeply regret hurting you if they do.
I earned the respect of all who frequented this nightclub except for a bunch of “hard cases” from a new housing estate nearby. I knew it was only a matter of time until we would have a serious disagreement. The boss tolerated them because they were big drinkers and always there. Unfortunately, the solid members no longer sat out where the disco and live music were, feeling safer in the cocktail lounge and restaurant areas. These young thugs were gradually dominating the dance-floor area. I didn’t like it one bit. There were a couple of fights, but nothing major. That changed one night.
One particular guy used to give me “the once over” and smirk every time he came in. This particular night he showed what a hard lad he was by shoving a beer glass into some young innocent guy’s face. When I heard the glass smash (you tune in to certain sounds of trouble above the music), I went racing up the stairs. It was closing time so the lights came on. The first thing I saw was this poor young lad’s face, covered in blood. The next thing I saw was the guy who caused it – “Hardcase” himself. He took one look at me and charged. I dropped one leg back into a strong stance and took him front on, did a double hook-block, grabbed and pulled him straight on to the top of my forehead.
Whack. It was a perfect “Liverpool kiss” … night, night. He dropped like a stone.
This had been coming for a while, so I was “lit up” now, but there were no “number two” takers tonight. As I went to attend the young lad, I told scumbag’s mates to get him out and that he was barred from the club. That was the Friday night.
Next night they were all cheerfully back, minus one. They were here for some fun tonight – and I was to be the fun.
It got to around midnight. All quiet. I secured the door and went upstairs to check around. As I walked in, thirty pairs of eyes all turned to stare.
“Uh oh!”
I wandered back out. They’d never congregated like this, so something was definitely up. I told the boss to go and take a look – he’d been the one letting them all in. He came back pale.
“What are we going to do? They look like they’re going to smash the place up.”
“Can I use your phone?”
Gary, my instructor, was working the biggest nightclub in the city. It housed three discos of various kinds of music, plus a live-band ballroo
m that could take up to 2,000 people. The security team was fifteen.
“Sensei, sorry to bother you …” I explained my situation.
“Stay out of the light, digga. We’ll be right up.”
“I’ll be right here.”
Well, if I was going to get “done” tonight, it was going to take thirty of ’em to feel comfortable enough to do it.
Twenty minutes later, a light knock on the door. I opened it and a shiver went through me. Gary had brought up four friends and an aura with them.
Gary was 250 pounds, with a twenty-inch neck, bench-pressed 350 pounds and was fourth dan Goju karate. He had fifteen years’ martial arts experience, the last two spent in the world headquarters of karate in Japan. He was absolutely lethal, having been involved in the security field for over ten years.
Terry was six foot two with sixteen years working nightclub doors. He had been British karate team captain (of the only team to beat Japan), with lightning-fast kicks, deadly with everything; fifth dan black belt, Shotokan karate.
R.C. was five foot six of steel wire; ex-British Special Air Service; seventh dan ju-jitsu; third dan karate; and the All-Asia weapons champion. A living legend whose glare alone would stop you breathing.
Richie was a six foot three ex-mercenary – Congo, exploits “classified”; second dan. He had a shaved head, goatee beard and a big earring…We called him “Shazam”. He had the original look of so many in the security field today.
Jimmy was a five foot ten natural street-fighter/survivalist with a solid build and piercing black eyes. If you put Jimmy and a cougar in a sack and dropped it in the river, my money would be on Jimmy coming up, wearing a new fur coat – my best mate.
And of course, lil’ ol’ me.
I explained the situation and they told me what to do.
I went inside to see Mike, the manager, and got him to turn the lights on early and shut the music off. This caused a groan from the crowd. Next, the waitresses were pulled back behind the bar. The metal roller shutters then came crashing down over the serving hatches. At this sound the double-doors into the dance-floor crashed back against the walls. The six of us walked in and spread out round the dance-floor where this big team had gathered. It quickly became evident that my friends weren’t here for a drink.
You could have heard a pin drop.
Thirty pairs of eyes took on the look of lambs … as the wolves gathered.
Standing with my back to the bar I removed my watch in front of them. I always liked the psychological effect that had on people.
Terry started a walk around the dance-floor. The others were either pacing back and forth or just glaring at them. Terry walked toward me, giving me a small smile and a nod of encouragement. As he walked past me, all I saw, for a split second, was the sole of his shoe going up past my nose and the wind of the fastest, strongest sidekick I’ve ever been in front of. It gave a blow-wave to the front of my hair. Terry didn’t even break stride, just kept walking. I nodded and smiled. I looked at the gathered gang, all standing there gobsmacked.
Terry sauntered back over to me and quietly said, “Just go and tell them nicely to leave now, John. We’re closed.”
“Enjoy your night, lads? Time to leave now,” I said, with a friendly smile.
“Yeah, yeah, we’re goin’. Listen, who are these guys who just came in?”
While I discreetly pointed each of them out, and their credentials, the mob went pale.
“I was told to tell you that if this EVER happens again [pause for effect], then there’ll be the greatest practical demonstration of martial arts you’ll ever see. Goodnight now.”
This episode we called, “The art of fighting without fighting.”
That’s the way we worked the doors back then – interlocking, all for one.
The four men stood before the black door in the wide alleyway. The hackney cab waited at the corner, its diesel motor running.
On the other side of the door, four of us waited.
I knew something serious was going to go down by the performance from the night before when two large, mature strangers had rocked up on a quiet Wednesday night. The boss had been down, talking to me, and he’d let them in. The look of them and the smell of hashish off them sounded big warning bells in my head as I saw them swagger up the stairs. “I shouldn’t have let them in, should I?” says the boss.”But it’s a quiet night so it should be OK.”
I just shrugged.
About thirty minutes later the sound of screams and smashing glass had us charging up the stairs into the club itself.
One of these thugs had just KO’d a young woman because she wouldn’t dance with him.
I grabbed, spun and leg-swept him. Grabbing the back of his jacket, I dragged him through the double-doors to the top of the stairs.
As he tried to get up I jumped on top of him and tobogganed him down the stairs, banging his head as often as I could on the way down. He was out cold when we stopped at the bottom. I dragged him into the alley for some Afghani soccer with my steel toe-capped shoes. I can’t stand men who hit women – lowest of the low in my book.
His mate came bowling down the stairs, looking worse for wear, thanks to several of the locals. He was screaming that we were all dead and that they were going to trash the place, mentioning the name of my playmate as though we should all know it. He came back with his car and loaded his pal in. They took off, screaming and cursing. “I think we’d better take this one seriously,” says the boss.
So here we were, the four of us; Gary, Jimmy, Rolo (another mate) and me. Stand by, stand by …
My earliest memories were of sexy Auntie Fran, Mum’s other sister, who also lived with us for a while until she got married. She was a big-busted, hip-swinging, red lipstick, suspender belt and nylons with black lines running up the back kind of woman. And I loved her for it … I was three at the time!
I used to sit under the table while she had her breakfast, sucking my thumb, with my hand up her skirt, playing with her suspender nylon fastener! At first, of course, she tried to stop me. But looking under the table into my big, brown, loving eyes, she couldn’t say “No”.
It became a ritual, sitting down for breakfast, not looking under the table.
“Morning, Johnny.”
“Morning, Auntie Fran.”
“Happy down there, Johnny?”
“Ummm.”
“That’s good.”
Things started to get out of control, though, when she wasn’t around. I was standing at a bus stop with Mum. Another young lady came and stood next to me. She looked down and smiled. I smiled back and put my thumb in my mouth. As she looked away my hand just went naturally up her skirt, looking for the “sussi” belt. The scream nearly turned my hair grey. It took a week to get my eyes back in my head.
I can still remember the look of shock/horror on Mum’s face. Profuse apologies followed from Mum, with sideways glares at me. The young woman had an amused look on her face. It seemed like I’d won another lady over with an innocent look and a soft touch.
My happy habit was brought to an abrupt end, however, when I got separated from Mum while shopping in a big department store in the city centre. I thought I’d just wait for her in the shop window, with one of the mannequins. They found me in the usual pose of thumb in mouth, hand up skirt, all in front of an amused crowd of onlookers. Poor Mum went home in shame again and tied a pair of gloves on me, and that was the end of that little avenue of pleasure.
The bangs on the door weren’t the usual polite knocks. I looked back at the others. “This might be it, all ready?” I opened the door enough to see out.
I’d made three phone calls after the visit by the two thugs. The first call was to Gary, at work. He was a New Zealand Maori, winner of literally hundreds of bloody episodes, who told me once that his introduction to white people was his grandfather giving him an ankle bone to chew on! He was cool, calm and deadly in violent events. He also had a wicked sense of humour. One night a hug
e black guy, who was a known troublemaker, came to the door that Gary was working. Gary refused him entry.
“You’re only not letting me in ’cause I’m black.”
“Look mate, I’m not racially prejudiced, I like Al Jolson!” Gary replied.
This huge man blinked, mouth opened, shut, turned and left, nowhere to go but home.
Second call was to Jimmy. My best mate. Gary had introduced us and got Jimmy a job on my door, back-stopping me on the weekends, though sometimes it seemed the other way round.
On the first night we worked together alone after the “gang of thirty” night, I was politely explaining to four inebriated young fellas why I wasn’t letting them in. Jimmy was on the next stair up from me, against the wall. As they were arguing/pleading/ threatening, Jimmy leaned over the top of me and, wild-eyed, screamed “FUCK OFF!” at them and slammed the door. Just before it slammed I witnessed four gobsmacked guys who’d died in the arse.
I was rolling around inside for ten minutes trying not to laugh out loud. He looked like Charles Manson, or the other way round, bigger and scarier to look at, with a wicked sense of humour. “You gorra have a laff in this game, lah, or you’ll go rats!” says Jimmy, with a grin.
Gary told me that legends abounded about him. He was a seaman when he was younger. Whilst in a bar in South America he’d stabbed seven locals who weren’t keen on seeing him leave the place alive. He was jailed for mutiny in Spain and when in New York he’d had a T-shirt made: “Mug me I dare you.”
Nobody touched him.
First time I saw him in action we’d finished for the night and gone to where Gary was working. As we entered, Gary asked if we’d stay loose in the foyer – trouble brewing inside – no problem. A few minutes later Gary and Terry go through the double-doors into the disco. The next thing – BANG – this guy comes flying through the doors, like Clark Kent who hadn’t had time to put his Superman costume on.
The Mammoth Book of Hard Bastards (Mammoth Books) Page 6