The point is, a good BG should be by the principal's side and not be by their side, if you see what I mean. Not invisible, because that takes away the whole point of your being there. You're there to be seen by others, but rather like a baby, you should be seen but not heard, ready to react to any threat or situation with the least amount of hassle between you and the third party. I always make sure that I have a few pound coins with me to give away, because once you've given them a quid, they're off you and on to the next punter, and that's where you want them — away and out of your face. When I give them the 'tip' my eyes are usually telling them, 'If you start to hassle me and my client when I come out of this shop, then I'm gonna hassle you and I don't give a fuck about my job.' It's a mutual respect between two professional people working together in unison. It works.
On another Arab job I had two occasions which could have turned nasty. The first was when I took the principal shopping at Selfridges. Because my Sheika dressed in her native gown (so did her three sisters), I naturally stood out like a sore thumb, which can attract attention. Some bloke suited and booted, walking around with four Arab women in the ladies shoe department could could only be their BG. (It is not unheard of for clients to want female BGs but it's still rare — it may have something to do with the attitude towards women in some societies.) We were going up the escalator, the Sheika first, then me, then her sisters. I always give a one- or two-second pause at the base of escalators, just to put a bit of space between me and the Sheika before the next person gets on. Sometimes this can cause a bit of whingeing from the person behind me, especially if they're in a rush. On this occasion, a woman, late 20s and very smartly dressed, came pushing her way up and passed us. I had pinged her previously, hanging around at the base of the escalators, partly because she had no handbag, which I registered, and partly because I'm a man and she was a good-looking chick. I managed to protect the Sheika without touching her by shouldering this woman away from both of us as she passed. But, because the escalator was quite narrow, and because of the gravitational effect of 200 pounds hitting about 100, the woman bounced off me and was almost flipped over the edge. Luckily she managed to keep her balance and shot passed us. The Sheika was not overtly disturbed by this incident because she didn't know what had gone on, or the reason for it. As the woman reached the top of the escalators, she gave me the finger and shouted down to me, 'You fucking baldy twat!' and ran off. Very ladylike, I thought, and from behind the Sheika's back — and very unprofessionally — I gave her the wanker's sign in return.
I knew exactly what her game was. She was a bagsnatcher. They work all over the West End in the big stores, Harrods, Harvey Nichols, Selfridges, and the like, in teams, sometimes as big as 12. Usually they go for women's handbags. Their MO is to identify a rich-looking victim, suss out when to hit them (usually away from the security camera or guards) and, once the bag has been snatched, in all the confusion it might go through two, three or even ten hands, depending on the situation, before it's out of the store. Hitting someone on the escalator gives them a softer target than on the ground. It just wasn't this girl's lucky day. Tomorrow she would be back, with a different hair style and colour, and dressed in a totally different outfit. (All credit to Selfridges' in-house security, incidentally — they were right on the case.)
The other episode when my heart hit the floor was when the Sheika decided to do a left-wheel off the pavement and crossed the road just outside Harrods. Normally, most principals like to drive round London but this particular Sheika was a bit of a fitness fanatic. She walked everywhere, but didn't use the Green Cross Code. I was close beside her, looking right, left, right for the both of us, when a motorcyclist came screaming down one side of the traffic the wrong way, obviously in some kind of rush. It was all I could do to grab the Sheika's arm and, in a semi-violent sort of way, yank her back out of the path of the crazy shit. She said nothing and we carried on crossing the road. When we got to the other side I apologised for being a bit rough and said something like, 'That was close!' She would have had it for sure if I hadn't pulled her back. She might have met her Maker riding on the back of a Kawasaki 750, and I probably wouldn't have got paid. Because she had said nothing, I thought that I might have offended her, but she thanked me shortly after, which put me at ease. No man touches a wife of the Amir back in Qatar; that was the Amir's job. If they did , Allah have mercy!
Incidentally, a much less serious — indeed, almost comic — incident happened some days later. We were in John Lewis on Oxford Street, buying up half the store's bedding and cloth. We were there for well over two hours, so all I had to do was stand close by while the sales team ran round collecting her orders. Ten grand here, two grand there, fifteen grand on some special cloth or something. It was pretty boring, but I still had to stay totally alert. It was mentally and physically mind-blowing, and my feet were killing me. Every now and then the Sheika would turn about to see if I was still with her and give me a smile as an acknowledgment. If she wanted my opinion on something she would ask me, which was nice since it wasn't the norm. Going shopping has never bothered me, unlike most of my mates who just can't stand it. If you hate it, don't work with the Arabs, because this is half the BG's task.
Anyway, all the time I was hanging around trying to blend into the background when customers started coming up to me, thinking that I was a salesman. This was probably because I was dressed in a dark suit and just standing there. The first time a woman came up to me and asked if I knew where the deli was. I said that I was sorry, I didn't know. The second time someone questioned me, I said the same thing. The third time, by which time I was getting a bit pissed off with it all, I just stood upright and forced a little bit of saliva to dribble out of the side of my mouth without saying anything — this got rid of that one! I guess she thought I was mad. Next, a lady in a well-cut designer outfit with a Sloane accent demanded to know where the lifts were, in a really pompous and patronising way. I was taken aback by her complete rudeness, so I put on my best Spanish waiter's accent:
'I speaka na Engleesh, no comprende, no comprende.'
She went off in a bit of a state, talking to herself. What I didn't know was that the Sheika had heard me and turned around. She grinned and said that she was not going to be much longer (Christ, I hoped not! We'd been in the store for well over four hours), rather as a wife might speak to her husband — a trait in her which I found quite endearing.
During this trip I went everywhere with her. Twice a week, for example, down to Panache in Knightsbridge to buy £1,000 worth of sweets on two trays, which she gave to us when they had had their fill. We did every designer shop possible more than once, bought a £600 pair of kid's shoes from a shop in New Bond Street, did 12 grand on an antique vase estimated at four at Sothebys, which I bid for by waving my paddle in the air. This Sheika, along with her sisters, was young and very pretty — no more than 30, she still had 50 years of shopping in her, and she could certainly shop! She shopped till I dropped, and as the job was coming to an end, I was really looking forward to some rest.
My daily routine was up and at it and out of the hotel by ten, walking around one of the four parks in the West End, then straight to the shops for a few hours, back in for two hours during the afternoon, then back out again to visit friends — or more shopping!
On the last day of the job, there was a quick change of plans. The family had arranged to fly to France on their own personal 747, so we organised all the vehicles — six stretch Mercs and two trucks for the shopping — for a run-up to Heathrow, but an hour before we left the hotel the Sheika decided she wanted to travel on the Eurostar train so we had to 'all change'. The car I'd previously sent ahead to liaise with the VIP lounge up at Heathrow now had to go to Waterloo Station. I didn't know if Waterloo had a VIP lounge or any procedure for VIPs. A quick call to a friend who worked for British Rail confirmed they did, so he then jacked up the introductions for me and secured the VIP lounge for a party of ten. When we arrived at the stati
on we were met by the station's management and everything went like clockwork. Very soon the Sheika and her party were safely on the train and the Qatar security people were satisfied with the handling arrangements at the other end.
My job was finished when the train had disappeared out of sight. Now as I've said before, tips on these jobs are not the norm. If you get one then you get one, and if you don't, well that's the way it goes. You should never expect it. The custom is, the day before their departure, both principal and their two ic will sit down together and go through who should get what and how much, starting with the hotel staff departments through to the drivers and then the BGs. The money is put into individual envelopes, initialled and sealed. This is the way the Arabs do it. You might be forgiven for thinking that because they are VIPs they wouldn't be too bothered with the whole process of 'bungs', but they are and they take it very seriously. They are very well aware of the wealth they possess and know how we mere mortals tick. Why not give the people who serve you a wad of the nifties, especially if you've got more money than you can shake a stick at?
After this process, one of two things happens. Either the client will give the envelope to you personally or (and this happens in most cases) their aide hands them out and, nine times out of ten, the contents aren't in their original envelopes when we get them. A 50 here and 100 there stacks up to a little nest egg after 20 or so envelopes in half a dozen countries have been tampered with. I've seen the old envelopes left in the bins before, because one of the jobs of the BG team, after the principal and entourage have left the hotel, is to keep secure all the rooms the party may have used: one, check to see if anything has been left behind in the rooms (and unofficially, rob the fridges of all their goodies) and two, we're on duty until we get the nod that the principal's flight is actually airborne and they haven't changed their mind. That has happened on a couple of occasions — I've had to re-book the rooms or find another hotel. They usually go back to the same hotel which is only too pleased to have them back, even though they might have trashed the rooms and floors every time they stay. Even if you won ten million on the lottery tomorrow there's no way you'd be able to have the lifestyle of these people. Well, that's not strictly true, I suppose your money might last a couple of months.
Over the years I've worked for many Arab families, some good and some' not so good. I don't consider it an honour or a chance to suck up to someone whose least worry in the world is the size of their bank balance. I do it because I actually like the Arab culture, their way of life and especially their food; and what other job allows you to stay in the world's top hotels and sample the culinary delights of the best restaurants for nothing?
A small but, in my opinion, misguided group in the BG circuit believes that the Arabs haven't done a good day's work in their lives and have only got their wealth because they were lucky enough to have oil. Well, these guys should check themselves. They should look at an aerial photograph of Dubai. Back in the 1960s there was nothing but sand and desert, yet look at it now, a real humdinger of a place. It's home to some of the most modern hotels in the world, grand modernistic shopping centres that put ours to shame and, on top of it all, has brilliant weather and fantastic beaches. A great place for a holiday, yet all this rapid expansion, built up in less than 40 years, has left their millennia-old culture intact. I don't think other nations could have kept up with this explosive change of pace in the way the Arab culture has.
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LIAM AND PATSY
S ometimes jobs come from the most unusual of people. One in particular was from an old friend of mine, also in the security business, who'd let his ego get the better of him over the years. I broke off the friendship because he was cutting around London telling anyone who would listen to him that he was once in the SAS in order to drum up business. I have no problem people bluffing normally; if they kid themselves that that is what's needed to get on in life, then all well and good. Sad bastards — still, a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do, and it's the perfect line to say to the uninformed client because it's an area in which people are often too apprehensive to ask questions. If they do, a bluffer can reply, 'Can't say too much, you understand, because what I used to do was Top Secret.' If the bluffer's good at it (and this guy tells a good story) he can have you believe it. So, if you ever come across someone who says this, just ask them, 'What Squadron were you in, and when?' I've met quite a few bluff-merchants and many are convinced that they were once in the SAS, even though I know they weren't.
Anyway, this particular guy asked if I would do a BG job for him. It was looking after Liam Gallagher, of Oasis fame, and the actress Patsy Kensit, whilst they were staying at Blakes Hotel on their honeymoon. I like Oasis as a band and quite fancy Patsy, too, and since it was only a short job I decided to bury the hatchet.
I hadn't done too many stars. It's not because I hadn't had the opportunities, but rather, I was kept busy either with the Arabs or doing surveillance jobs of one sort or another. I'd read in the press that Liam could be a bit punchy, but then again, who wouldn't be if you were 20-something and had been shot up the ladder of fame with a few million quid thrust into your sky rocket? I know I probably would have been, and anyway, I looked forward to meeting them.
For a few days before the wedding the press was speculating about the location of the honeymoon. It was all the tabloids were full of during early April that year. It wasn't until Liam did a bit of his own PR (not that he needed it, I guess it was more fun for him than anything else) that the press finally got the location of his hideaway. He'd contacted a showbiz journalist and revealed their location, so that was that. The cat was out of the bag and by way of a thank-you the journalist sent the happy couple flowers and champagne for the tip-off.
Set-ups between a star and their favourite journalist have always been a way of manipulating the media, and getting the press on your side if you want them. I wasn't above this type of game-playing either. I'd recently had my first book, Terminal Velocity , published and reckoned it would make an ideal wedding present. There's nothing like a good book to read before you get your head down, so I took one with me on the job. Totally unprofessional, but you've got to take windows of opportunity when they present themselves. As long as it doesn't compromise the tactics of the job or piss off the principals, there's no harm in it.
The job was fairly routine as far as BGing went. I was pleasantly surprised by how level-headed Liam was, and how gorgeous Patsy really is. They were no problem at all and, as you can imagine, they didn't venture further than their bedroom for a couple of days. When they did they were pretty casual, polite and laid back. It wasn't until the world's press turned up outside the hotel that the circus really kicked off. I was shocked to see so many reporters and pressmen waiting outside. I didn't think two people could attract so much media attention. I was wrong.
There was much speculation about what Liam and Patsy were up to (I thought that was pretty obvious, considering the event). What room were they in and when were they coming out were just a few of the questions thrown at me as I came in and out of the hotel. The media stagged on all night in the hope of getting that 'one' picture or hearing a bit of verbal from Liam that might earn them some attention. The newlyweds, however, were having none of it; they kept their heads low.
There was also a bit of rivalry between some of the newspapers, and Liam's reporter had a plan that he wanted to put into action. He asked if he could set up one of his rivals and the other papers by pretending that he was Liam. I had no problems with that since he apparently had Liam's ear. In order to carry out his prank he hung out of one of the hotel rooms and only exposed his arms in full view of those below, making out that he was Liam. It seemed a bit childish but he obviously knew what he was doing, because several front pages the following morning showed a photograph of 'Liam's arms' not knowing that they weren't really his. The prank also had the effect of drawing them away from where Liam and Patsy were actually staying, which was on the ground floor ou
t the back, in a sort of private Spanish villa affair. It helped us with security, since any budding paparazzo or desperate fan would be put off the scent.
On their last day, word got around that they were leaving so the mass of people doubled. Pressmen on chase vehicles like motor-bikes and little mopeds were starting their engines, ready to cut through the traffic and back alleys to follow the star's vehicle at speed. Flashlights popped every time there was a bit of movement inside the hotel. They were all fired up for the happy couple's exit.
Liam and Patsy wanted to leave by the front but those outside didn't know what exit they were to leave from, or when; only Liam's reporter contact and his people knew that. I think they both quite relished the photo opportunity and wanted to give the photographers and fans something for their efforts. I've often wondered what it must feel like to command so much attention, having thousands, millions of people hanging on to see what you're going to do next. What power! In my job it's quite the opposite. Most of my life has been spent trying to look inconspicuous, playing the 'grey man'.
Once they were ready, one of the team sent a decoy vehicle around the back with a couple of lookalikes in it. This was just to fire up the press and get rid of some of the more gullible ones. Those who knew their business had all the options covered, so as not to miss anything.
No Fear: The True Story of My Deadly Life After the SAS Page 24