Read Online Wild Thing by Bernard O'Mahoney, Lew Yates - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Bernard O'Mahoney, Lew Yates
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now called Heaven and Hell. If I had been asked to think of a name for the club when I worked there, I too would have called it Heaven and Hell, as it contained elements of both under the same roof. The Cavendish could be a joy to work in. It had a casino, a silver-service restaurant, a discotheque and a stage on which artists such as Dusty Springfield, Slade, Alan Price, Kiki Dee and The Troggs would play. The clientele were, in the main, the more affluent members of the local community. Being paid to be entertained by successful pop stars, control well-mannered non-violent people and hang around a casino looking at beautiful girls was heaven to me. It was the groups of wannabe gangsters who tried to get in every night that made it hell.
There were eight doormen employed at the Cavendish. The head doorman Ray Copeland and Big Jack Holt (who is now involved with the running of Bolton Amateur Wrestling Club) were top men, but the rest were, at best, useless. In order to get into the club, which was situated above the main shopping precinct in Blackburn, customers had to use a lift. As the doors opened and the occupants spilled out, we would soon gauge whether they were going to be trouble or not. It’s not something I can explain; it’s an instinct or skill that you develop while working on the doors, but unfortunately it’s not infallible.
One evening three coaches full of rugby players from Wigan arrived. We didn’t normally allow large groups of men into the club, but these appeared sober and courteous enough as they entered reception and so were welcomed. Just before closing time the door staff were called to a disturbance at the main bar. When I arrived, I saw that several of the rugby players were pushing one another and their friends were trying to intervene. I positioned myself between the two factions and told them to get out of the club. Four men dressed in smart blazers informed me that they were rugby-club officials and they were going to sort it out. ‘There’s no need for anybody to leave,’ they announced. ‘We will resolve this.’
‘I am not sure what language you speak in fucking Wigan, mate,’ I said, ‘but here in Blackburn and most other parts of the UK, get out means fucking leave.’
The officials looked at me, looked at the door and started walking towards it. The players followed meekly behind. The last three to leave were huge thickset men, and I sensed that they would want to have the last word. As they stepped outside the door, one of them said to me, ‘I will have it with you.’
By the time I reached him, he was standing on the steps that led to the multi-storey car park. ‘You’ll have it with me, will you?’ I said. I still can’t believe what happened next. The man raised his hand to his face, popped his false eye out and put it in his top pocket. Crack! I punched him in his gaping eye socket and knocked him straight out.
When his friends saw what had happened, they ran down the stairs and onto the car park screaming, ‘Kicker, Kicker, get up here quick!’
I have no idea who Kicker was because he ignored his friend’s appeals for help and remained elusive. I picked up my semi-conscious one-eyed opponent and threw him down the short flight of stairs onto the car park. I then looked to see if his friends were leaving or coming back for more, but they were doing neither. For some unknown reason they were involved in a pitched battle against one another. The police eventually arrived, herded them onto their coaches and escorted them out of town. I have no idea how the one-eyed guy got home. He was still staggering about long after his teammates had left. As I say, the instinct and skill you develop on the door concerning the likely behaviour of people unfortunately isn’t always an exact science.
I ejected an Asian guy one evening who had been involved in a minor scuffle. As he waited for the lift to take him to the street, he became abusive and threatened to assault me.
There were eight doormen employed at the Cavendish. The head doorman Ray Copeland and Big Jack Holt (who is now involved with the running of Bolton Amateur Wrestling Club) were top men, but the rest were, at best, useless. In order to get into the club, which was situated above the main shopping precinct in Blackburn, customers had to use a lift. As the doors opened and the occupants spilled out, we would soon gauge whether they were going to be trouble or not. It’s not something I can explain; it’s an instinct or skill that you develop while working on the doors, but unfortunately it’s not infallible.
One evening three coaches full of rugby players from Wigan arrived. We didn’t normally allow large groups of men into the club, but these appeared sober and courteous enough as they entered reception and so were welcomed. Just before closing time the door staff were called to a disturbance at the main bar. When I arrived, I saw that several of the rugby players were pushing one another and their friends were trying to intervene. I positioned myself between the two factions and told them to get out of the club. Four men dressed in smart blazers informed me that they were rugby-club officials and they were going to sort it out. ‘There’s no need for anybody to leave,’ they announced. ‘We will resolve this.’
‘I am not sure what language you speak in fucking Wigan, mate,’ I said, ‘but here in Blackburn and most other parts of the UK, get out means fucking leave.’
The officials looked at me, looked at the door and started walking towards it. The players followed meekly behind. The last three to leave were huge thickset men, and I sensed that they would want to have the last word. As they stepped outside the door, one of them said to me, ‘I will have it with you.’
By the time I reached him, he was standing on the steps that led to the multi-storey car park. ‘You’ll have it with me, will you?’ I said. I still can’t believe what happened next. The man raised his hand to his face, popped his false eye out and put it in his top pocket. Crack! I punched him in his gaping eye socket and knocked him straight out.
When his friends saw what had happened, they ran down the stairs and onto the car park screaming, ‘Kicker, Kicker, get up here quick!’
I have no idea who Kicker was because he ignored his friend’s appeals for help and remained elusive. I picked up my semi-conscious one-eyed opponent and threw him down the short flight of stairs onto the car park. I then looked to see if his friends were leaving or coming back for more, but they were doing neither. For some unknown reason they were involved in a pitched battle against one another. The police eventually arrived, herded them onto their coaches and escorted them out of town. I have no idea how the one-eyed guy got home. He was still staggering about long after his teammates had left. As I say, the instinct and skill you develop on the door concerning the likely behaviour of people unfortunately isn’t always an exact science.
I ejected an Asian guy one evening who had been involved in a minor scuffle. As he waited for the lift to take him to the street, he became abusive and threatened to assault me.
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