I Worked as a Bouncer - 2

In the 90s one of our friends came back into our lives. He’s one of those friends that drop in and out of the social circle we’re travelling in – we’re the same, we drop in and out of friends’ social circles too – it’s cool.

‘Dingo’ (the friend) had been over in Ibiza working. The last time we’d seen him, he was just starting body-building and when he called round at ours, it looked like he’d certainly been pretty good at it. He claims to be 6’4” and who am I to argue? He was bulked up and looked really strong.

So, he called round at our house to show off his new piercing and his tattoo.
I showed him my piercing and my own tattoo. Then we made arrangements to go out for drinks etc, meet his new girlfriend and everything else. We started going to the gym too, which benefitted us both, health-wise.

The club and pub Dingo worked at was undergoing a transition. The management wanted more reliable and trustworthy staff and the owner of the security company Dingo worked for offered to help out.

I asked if there was a job for me. At first, Dingo said no, there wasn’t a job for me. Eventually he agreed to ask if there was a job. Dingo’s only proviso for me working there was that whatever happened at the club, stayed at the club. I agreed.

Eventually, the pub and club fired almost all their staff and wanted to start fresh. I was asked if I could get a trustworthy team together?
Of course I could, but I didn’t think it would go down well with Dingo.
My bar team consisted of four of us; me, my sister, one of Dingo’s (many) ex-girlfriends and his current girlfriend.

I was right, of course, it didn’t go down well with Dingo but the ex and the current girlfriend got on well and the team worked brilliantly together – we were all honest and hard-working and lo and behold! The till receipts took a massive leap when the old staff no longer had their hands in it.

We were asked to wear ‘provocative’ clothing – short skirts, low-cut tops, shorts, boots etc. and none of us had a problem with that. It gave us a chance to show off. We weren’t going around the front of the bar, so we were in no danger of eager hands.

I not only worked behind the bar, I also worked on the other side of the venue, in the nightclub reception. At 10pm when the club opened, I would be there, in the ‘little box’ which was all the reception and cloakroom was at that time. The box was a black-painted wooden room, 2 sides, slotted into a corner, no ceiling, around 6ft x 8ft with a couple of coat racks and a till, situated just inside the main doors. The only door had a shelf and a hatch so I could collect money and coats and hand over cloakroom tickets and change.
The door was always locked but that wouldn’t have been much use in an emergency. The walls didn’t go right to the ceiling and anyone determined enough could clamber over the top.

At that time, a nice little extra-earner was to tell people it was a no coat upstairs policy, meaning they had to spend an extra quid to leave their coat with me.
Not everyone liked the policy, but the alternative was to go home, when their friends had already gone upstairs. Most took their coats off and handed the quid over.

Once I started working in reception, it was discussed and suggested that I would double up as door security as and when necessary – for example, if a woman needed to be searched for drugs or weapons. I had no problem with that, especially when one of the Security firm’s managers offered to teach me a bit of Wing Chun for self-defence. He was a qualified martial arts teacher and I got free one-on-one tuition.

The team of doormen policed the front door until the club got busy. Then there would be one outside, one inside and a few upstairs.
At first I got ribbed by the lads because they thought I was ‘just another girl’ who would be in awe of their manliness and masculinity. Oh boy, did they get a reality check when they started the banter.

One doorman, Paul, thought he was a real catch and had a ‘way with the ladies’. He was quite a tough-guy, did martial arts etc, but he had ‘little dog syndrome’. He tended to exacerbate a situation rather than calming it down. He thought he had to fight everyone, he couldn’t (or wouldn’t) back down and get rid of the trouble makers, he’d much rather wade in, fists flying.

He went to the same gym as we did and though he loathed ‘leg day’, Dingo always shamed him into doing it.
Paul would pull up his trouser leg, half-turn his back and show off his calf muscles to the female customers. Sometimes he’d even perform the show when it was a mixed group. Again, he entered into pissing contests just for the hell of it.

It got old very quick.

One evening, he was directing some ‘banter’ at me – poorly-disguised insults he could pass off as ‘only a joke’ if he got called out on it.

A group of women came in and he instantly went into his body-building pose routine. I rolled my eyes and one of the women asked if he always put on a performance.

“Yeah,” I said. “But it’s not like his calves are anything to brag about.”

“No?” she said.

“No, mine are better defined and have the split he’s trying to get.”

“Let’s see then!” she said. So I showed her.

He poked his head over the punters and saw that I did indeed have better definition in my calves than he did. Oh boy was he pissed off!

He stalked off up the stairs and we didn’t see him in reception for the rest of the night.

I don’t remember exactly, but I would make an educated guess that there were more fights break out upstairs in the club that night, just because he had a mood on.

...to be continued.

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