Wannabe in My Gang? (11 page)

A month after being imprisoned and more than a year after being found not guilty of assaulting Stuart Darley, my £500 costs arrived. I was tempted to pursue the court for the interest, but I’d had enough of their mind-numbing rules, regulations and procedures for the time being. I also had other, more pressing matters on my mind. My new occupation as nightclub bouncer was taking up more and more of my time. I was involving myself in situations I should have avoided. I was doing what I always do, taking things personally, rising to a challenge and refusing to accept the way things are.

Little did I know, I was walking blindly and unintentionally, deeper and deeper into a fucking nightmare.

5

CONSPIRACY TO MURDER

There was no unity amongst the door staff at Raquels. Most were like me, turning up to earn a bit of extra money. They were certainly not a gang or firm as many nightclub security teams are. In the days before door staff were registered, it was all about being able to counter the efforts of the most violent and disruptive elements in your particular venue. The only way to do this was to bring in an even more violent team of men who were feared (or ‘respected’, as villains prefer to say) by the locals. Inevitably, this ‘team’ would all know each other and mix socially when not at work, so they were a ‘gang’ or ‘firm’, whichever way you tried to dress up their status.

These days, the council and the police issue door staff with licences, which cannot be obtained without meeting certain criteria. Most men capable of doing the job fall at the first hurdle because they cannot have a licence if they have a conviction for violence or any other crime remotely related to violence. If they have spent their formative years fighting and have been fortunate enough never to have been convicted of an offence, they still have to attend a ‘door registration training course’. On this course they learn about fire drills, licensing laws, how to suck up to people who are threatening them, self defence, and of course, first aid. The latter, presumably, for keeping themselves alive whilst awaiting an ambulance after having learned they cannot be taught how to deal with drugged-up psychos in six hours over three evenings in a classroom. My fellow doormen were decent enough people but none of the morons that drank themselves into a stupor in Raquels had an ounce of ‘respect’ for them. A customer who had glassed somebody or caused mayhem in the club would walk back through the doors the following night without a word being said.

I didn’t think it was the right way to run a door, but being the ‘new kid in town’ I thought it best to keep my opinions to myself. One Saturday night, I was working on the door at Raquels with a man named Larry Johnston – 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 a stamp 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.

One 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 that 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 door 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, but they seemed to get more and more hyped up. 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, 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 had 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 of 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 – 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 fell to the floor where he lay bleeding but motionless. Larry ran over and kicked the man in the head and body several times.

Larry’s spiteful act incited the crowd and they ran at us. Within minutes, the street had turned into a battleground and was strewn with debris and bodies. Unbeknown to me at the time, there were actually three separate groups fighting. The men that had wanted to re-enter the club had wanted to do so in order to fight another group of men who had earlier assaulted one of their friends. When the alleged assailants had walked out of the club at closing time and into the disturbance that was going on in the street, the group we had originally refused entry to had attacked them. We didn’t know who was who and so resorted to hitting everybody who 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 regrouped and started throwing missiles again. The baying mob was now about 100-strong, their number having been swelled by passers-by, revellers turning out of a nearby club and people queuing for taxis. Nobody could see much point in standing in the street and being used as target practice, so the police and ourselves 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 and were 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 police officers from the crowd. It wasn’t long before police reinforcements arrived, their blue flashing lights and wailing sirens creating panic amongst the crowd, who began to run in all directions. I still had the blood-stained hurling stick in my hand. ‘You’d better lose that,’ one of the officers said.

I wasn’t surprised he had chosen to advise me rather than arrest me, as it had been an extremely dangerous situation we had faced together; the officers who had fallen could easily have died. On Monday the local newspaper published a story about the incident.

POLICEMAN INJURED AS YOUTHS FIGHT

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 bumping into him and then having the audacity to deny that he had a problem. The would-be groom needed 160 stitches – a lesson in ‘respect’ he will undoubtedly never forget.

Dave Venables had been working Wednesday nights at an Essex venue called Epping Forest Country Club, frequented by footballers, soap stars, page-three girls, the rich and famous and the rich and infamous. Dave asked me if I would cover his shift at the Country Club as he had other commitments and I agreed.

It was whilst working at Epping that I first met David Done, a fanatical bodybuilder from Romford. We got on really well and it was not long before he agreed to come and work with me at Raquels.

He did his job well at first but after a few weeks 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 Johnston took exception to the favours being showered on David 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 David prepared to leave early, Larry asked if he would give him a lift home. David said he couldn’t as he was going the opposite way, so Larry kicked the door panel of his car. David jumped out and started shouting. Larry responded by pulling out a knife. I couldn’t believe how quickly it was escalating. I told 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 a deranged man wielding a knife so I took out my bottle of industrial ammonia and squirted him in the face. Larry was temporarily blinded and then 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 one of my friends 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. David Done and I were asked to work there on Sundays and we both accepted the offer. Doormen, drug dealers and all ‘club people’ who had worked Friday and Saturday used to go there, as it was the only night they had off.

It was not long before I got to know many people on the London club circuit. I became friendly with two men in particular: Darren Pearman and Tony Tucker. Darren was a member of a firm from the Canning Town area of east London – a fearless and powerful team, despite the fact the majority of the members were in their 20s.

Darren radiated innocence, was always dressed smartly, always generous and polite, but when there was trouble he would be in the thick of it. He feared nobody, but had respect for everybody.

Tony Tucker was in his mid-30s and a mountain of a man. He ran a very big and well-respected door firm which supplied security at clubs in Essex, Suffolk and London. Tucker was strange in many ways; he spoke to few people and could be quite abrupt. He had a very dry sense of humour and could be quite aggressive towards those who tried to mix in his circle of friends without having been invited.

David Done’s obsession with bodybuilding resulted in him having a serious problem with steroids. David’s addiction to these performance-enhancing drugs in turn led to problems with 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 judgment. One Monday morning, David rang me up and told me that he had been sacked from Epping Country Club for allegedly selling drugs. I knew this was false. David had nothing to do with drug dealing. I told him that if he was being sacked, then all of the door staff should walk out in support of him. I told him I would pick him up and we would go and see Joe, the head doorman, together to see if we could get to the bottom of it. When we arrived I asked Joe who had said that David was dealing. He said that the club had received an anonymous telephone call.

I got quite irritated and reasoned that if the person who alleged David was a dealer didn’t do it openly and with some form of corroboration, then he or she shouldn’t be believed. Eventually Joe relented and said that David could have his job back and we both went home. That evening, I received a phone call from Dave Venables who told me that the management at Epping had said I was to be sacked instead of David Done. No reason was given.

What particularly annoyed me was that now I had been sacked, David Done refused to stand by me. He said that he needed the money and the fact that I’d lost my job was unfortunate, but there was nothing he could do. I was fucking livid and my friendship with David became, at best, strained.

David Done worked at the Ministry of Sound occasionally, and in an effort to patch up our friendship he got me a job there to replace the nights I had lost at Epping. The Ministry door team were a powerful firm – nearly every man on the team could have ‘a row’. One man I got on particularly well with was Ronnie Fuller. I had first met Ronnie through his girlfriend Larissa, who lived in Grays, Essex. Larissa and I got to know each other when I worked at Epping. Ronnie had been a professional wrestler, but he had given it up as he said the sport was corrupt. ‘It’s full of villains,’ he told me, ‘they want you to throw nearly every match so they can gamble on the fight and win.’ Larissa constantly nagged Ronnie to give up working the door because she feared for his safety, but he wouldn’t have any of it. ‘I’m OK,’ he would say, ‘I’ve got to know most of the villains who come in here and they get on all right with me.’ The trouble with door work is, the longer you do it, the more involved you become in the shit it creates and incidents you consider trivial fester in people’s minds.