Bouncers and Bodyguards (11 page)

I arrived at the studio at about 7.50 a.m. – Vaughan was not that far behind me, judging by his text message, so I waited outside for him. When he turned up, we chatted for a few minutes about the adventures of the night before and what was about to take place that morning. We had been told that we were there to talk about the changing face of nightclub security because of the introduction of the new door supervisors’ licence. It all seemed innocent stuff, and we ventured into the meet-and-greet area, where we were signed in and shown the breakfast room. We were told to help ourselves to the tea, coffee, juice and breakfast buffet. Now, that is the last thing you should say to a sleep-deprived and starving person my size who knows how to put away a meal or two. Vaughan was no slouch when putting away a meal either. It must have been in our genes, and it was definitely a task for the caterer to be on his toes and keep our plates stocked.

The moment we entered the room we could feel that something was out of place: the people present were of mixed ages and ranged from students to grannies – all went a deathly quiet as we walked in. Whispers flew across the tables, and it was obvious that people were staring. We were the biggest people in the room and most definitely the very centre of attention. However, I was too tired and hungry to care, so I headed for the tea, pastries, and bacon and eggs from the buffet.

It took a while for the caterers to cotton on to the size of portions we were expecting, but they got there in the end! With our plates eventually piled to a size that constituted a
proper
breakfast, we shuffled along to the beverage section, where the next argument started. The cups were those pathetic little things that come with matching saucers and a handle that you can’t even fit your little pinkie into. I politely explained to the young girl pouring that we were going to need three cups each just to equal the size of a decent mug of tea – I drink tea by the pint. For whatever reason, she was slow to oblige. I do not know why, as it was not her tea or crockery, but she felt the need to refuse, which meant I in turn got a little louder. The rest of the room had already been giving us dirty looks and talking about us, but now I was giving them a real reason to do so.

The head catering guy walked over to defend his young worker and looked as though he might have given us a verbal run for our money when Big Ben entered the room – his chauffeur had been a little late in picking him up. If we thought the room went quiet before, then this was the purest form of silence imaginable. Ben strolled over and peered over my shoulder, saw the tasty morsels on offer and my plate piled high, and simply said to the head guy, ‘I’ll have what he’s having.’ He got Ben a plate and proceeded to fill it up with all and sundry, whilst rushing the young girl on to pour out nine cups of tea.

We sat down at the nearest table and began slurping and munching our breakfast, all the while talking and, if I’m really honest, swearing a little bit too much in audible voices. We were three big bouncers, acting in a very stereotypical way, and we were doing ourselves no favours in the eyes of those present – but then why should we act any differently, I thought? We were going to be the real stars of today’s show, weren’t we? Our 15 minutes of fame brought with it a celebrity attitude, which we quite rightly made the most of.

Time flies when you’re having fun, and before we knew it the participants were being called to take their places on the set – a semicircle of seats with four levels set out like a section of a Roman coliseum. Everyone was told where to sit apart from six people – us and three others. We looked around confused, wondering if we were not going to be on the show any more because we had made so much noise earlier. But if that was the case, why stop the other three as well? One of the studio hands then called the other three over, spoke softly to them and ushered them into the seating area. We were the last three left.

A few minutes later, the same studio hand came back and beckoned us over. ‘Hi, guys,’ he said. ‘I’m going to take you through in a few seconds, and I’ll tell you where you have to sit. Because you are such big-built gentlemen, we cannot have you all seated together. OK, now you all know what today’s topic is, don’t you? So remember: listen to Robert [Kilroy-Silk] and follow his lead. Let’s go, come along.’

We followed him to the semicircle where everyone else was sitting and were shown our seats as the rest of the audience stared at us. Ben was seated in the front row next to Kilroy-Silk. This particular tier only seated three people, and accompanying Ben and Kilroy-Silk was a pretty little thing. She was only nineteen years old if she was a day, and she was wearing full make-up, her hair was done and she had on a push-up bra – the whole nine yards. Vaughan was directed to the right-hand side of the tier, third level up, and he was sandwiched between one elderly lady and a slim-built bloke in his early twenties. Finally, I was positioned on the top row. On my left-hand side were two hoodie-wearing tykes; although they were in their late twenties, they were still dealing with acne and, judging by the look of them, a severe lack of women in their life as well.

It was less than five minutes to go before we were on the air when Kilroy-Silk jumped up from his hiding place and told us not to stare straight at the cameras and that if we had something to say, we should raise our hands. He also said that we could only speak if we were chosen and to remember that we would be live so there was to be no swearing. We all had to be on our best behaviour and all that jazz.

The crew started the countdown, signalled by sign language: five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one . . . and we were on the air and live. ‘Good morning. I’m Robert Kilroy-Silk, and on today’s programme we will be discussing the heavy-handed tactics of those who abuse their power in the workplace. We have traffic wardens, wheel clampers and our “hit first, ask questions later” nightclub bouncers.’

Fuck it – we’ve been set up. The wankers! What now? The three of us looked at each other. We all knew that if we made a fuss, we’d only prove his point, live on TV. We realised we would have to wait it out; after all, how bad could it be?

Hands started going up in the air. For every offender, there were eight victims. The traffic warden and wheel clampers were all glossed over fairly quickly, and then it was time to focus on nightclub bouncers and on us. Tale after tale of ‘over-the-top brutality’ and people being hit for no reason started to do the rounds. I kept raising my hand so that I could have my say and defend my colleagues and profession, but Kilroy-Silk kept going to the victims. Vaughan joined in, putting his arm in the air, but still Kilroy-Silk refused to come to us. He seemed to be baiting us, hoping that we would snap and do something so that his ratings would soar.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a bird flew in from an open window and started circling overhead. At first I thought it was a vulture, because we were well and truly dead, but thankfully it was too small, and I breathed a huge sigh of relief. However, it
was
big enough to stop the proceedings for a few minutes while the crew debated if it was going to be a problem; after all, this was live TV. They decided to take a chance and continue.

Kilroy-Silk laughed it off on camera, and the conversation then turned to the pretty little thing sitting on the front seat. ‘Now, Sharon,’ he said, ‘tell us what happened to you?’ Kilroy-Silk sat down beside her so that he could share his microphone with her.

‘Well, I was in a club one night with a bunch of my girlfriends.’ Her voice sounded like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, and I knew what was coming. ‘Halfway through the night, these two big bouncers came over and just started to beat this boy up who was talking to me for no reason [they beat the boy up for no reason, not that the boy was talking to her for no reason!], and when I asked them to stop . . .’ The tears started to appear and trickle down her angelic face at that point. Kilroy-Silk comforted her and asked if she was strong enough to carry on. She wiped the tears from her cheek, nodded her head a little and continued. ‘One of them punched me in the face and threw me down the stairs.’ Kilroy-Silk jumped out of his seat as though he had just heard Mother Teresa say motherfucker and turned to Ben. ‘Is that common practice amongst you bouncers?’ he asked. ‘Do you beat people up with your colleagues for no reason?’ Kilroy-Silk then did a sweeping gesture with his arm, and the cameras panned and zoomed in on Vaughan and me, with our poor victims either side of us. ‘And punch girls in the face before throwing them down the stairs?’

The microphone was thrust into Ben’s face. ‘There have been times when ejecting people that they have tumbled down a few stairs, but innocent people who get in the way . . .’

Kilroy-Silk had his opening, and he must have cum in his pants, judging by the smirk that lit up his face. ‘So you have pushed innocent people down stairs? So you think there is nothing wrong with punching girls and throwing them down the stairs? This is something you admit to doing?’

Ben’s face turned more angelic than the pretty girl’s. He had an answer that was going to turn things back on Kilroy-Silk. You could see it in his eyes – our boy Ben was ready to give the mother of all answers . . . when the bird appeared again and landed at Kilroy-Silk’s feet. He turned to the camera and said, ‘And that’s all we have time for today, but tune in tomorrow because we will be talking to pregnant women who have been sexually abused by their doctors. And we’re out. That’s a wrap. Great show everybody!’

Poor Ben was speechless. He sat there in complete disbelief. Because he hadn’t been given a chance to defend himself, the programme had ended with its viewing audience thinking that he hit women and pushed them down the stairs. It was an ambush, plain and simple. If that damn bird had not eaten up four minutes of the programme’s time, Ben would have been able to give his reply and leave Kilroy-Silk with no airtime left to retort. Kilroy-Silk had well and truly given us the bird on live TV.

We made our way down to stand with our fallen comrade when Kilroy-Silk came over, handed us signed photos of himself (I still have mine; a keepsake, I keep telling myself) and said, ‘Great show, lads. Thanks for coming down.’ He then walked off to get the layers of foundation and make-up removed from his wrinkled, ageing face – more ‘sandpaper’ than ‘silk’ if you ask me.

I couldn’t help but start to laugh, which in turn started off Vaughan. Ben frowned disdainfully as we flippantly re-enacted his last moments on the show: ‘So, Ben. You hit old ladies and young girls and throw innocent people down the stairs. Is that true? I’m sorry, we’re out of time. We’ll just take that as a yes.’ Whack, whack, oops!

As the day went on, Ben saw the funny side of it. He had to, because he was back on the doors that night after a nation had seen him on live TV failing to deny that he hit women for no reason and pushed innocent people down stairs. If his customers didn’t get him, other doormen surely would. Bouncers are definitely the type of guys who would kick a fella when he’s down.

I have some absolute cracking memories of Ben, and it was a crying shame we fell out of touch. The last I saw of him was when he worked for Autoglass in Black Horse Road, Walthamstow. If any readers know him, please get him to contact me through my website – thanks.

Born within the sound of the Bow bells in the East End of London, Paul’s real surname at birth is only known by a handful of people, and that’s the way he likes it. Paul’s grandfather was a known face out of Hoxton and was the reason why Paul had a notorious East End gangster as his godfather. In 1974, after his father left them, his mum settled down with Robert Knight, which is where Paul’s adopted name originates from.

Boxing ran in the family’s blood, and fighting became a way of life for Paul throughout his late teens and 20s. Door work was second nature and an easy entry into the world of debt collecting, hired muscle and criminal activities, a world that had him standing side by side with some of the most respected and written about people in the British criminal empire. In the following 12 years, he saw the passing of 23 of his closest friends and family.

Paul purposely stayed low profile and was therefore able to move out of that world and into the one that he now shares with his wife and young family without successful prosecution, stigma or reprisal. To air his skeletons and refocus the destructive energy that he used to carry around with him, Paul has turned his attention to literature. Paul’s first novel,
Coding of a Concrete Animal
, is set in the true-crime fiction genre and has been compared to
Judas Pig
by Horace Silver because of its realistic take on a gangland family growing up in the 1970s and ’80s. Paul’s next book is
Concrete Animal: Hear Me R.O.A.R
., the sequel to
Coding of a Concrete Animal
.

Email: [email protected]

L
ike most young lads on Tyneside in the 1980s, I was spending my money as quickly as I was earning it. A lot of my time was spent in my locals, The Ship and The Swan. In fact, at weekends the lads and I almost lived in The Ship. It was not uncommon for me to start drinking on Friday and have a lock-in till Saturday morning, go home to get some kip or go to the match if Newcastle were playing at St James’s and be back in the pub again for another session that evening. Great days – from what I can remember – and good
craic
, which is always important!

When I was younger, I had a habit that was a pointer to my future career: I couldn’t mind my own business when it came to a fight or an argument. I had to be in amongst it. I liked to stop any bother if I could, one way or another. But don’t get me wrong: I have never been a fighter. I can handle myself, but I’m no Mike Tyson. I didn’t go out to pick fights, although if someone took a liberty with me I certainly hit first and asked questions later on occasion.