Posted by: Gavin
The Glamorous World of Doorwork - 06/29/06 12:41 PM
Not strictly a MA story I know... but I hope you enjoy it neither the less - Gav
It’s 6:58pm and I stumble through the front door with a clear two minutes to spare before my shift kicks off…
“What’s up? Yer bed on fire on something?” grins Stu in amazement at my early arrival.
“Some of us have day jobs Chubster!” I retort as a metal clicker is thrown at my chest, followed by a radio and ear piece lobbed by my ever adoring East European colleague Serge. The boys are definitely getting off to an early start tonight!
First job of the evening is to count up how many punters we have in. We do this by way of a little metal device known in trade speak as a “Clicker”. The task upon first glance would seem a simple one, walk round and click once for every person in the venue. Easy peasy! There’s a little known phenomenon (one which I think science has forgotten to investigate!) whereby two Doormen walking round the same venue counting the same people can never ever come up with the same numbers. To me it defies explanation.
“How many did ya get?” Stu asks.
“Fifty Seven. You?”
“Eighty Four!!!”
“How the hell did you get Eighty four? Did you do two laps or something?” I say looking across the deserted bar.
“Let’s meet halfway and call it seventy!” smirks Stu.
My next task is to go through the undignified process of threading the ear piece for my radio down through my shirt to the huge radios Serge had “acquired” for us. The bloody things are the size of those old 80’s mobile phones that all the hip yuppies used to have. In addition to the mysterious origins of these radios we also have absolutely no clue where to get new earpieces for them. This forces us to leave the only three at the venue and put them on whilst in full uniform, a feat I have still yet to master without slipping a disk.
“Would you like Mummy to help you get dressed, honey?” Serge gruffed in such a heavy accent it hid his slight attempt at humour only succeeding in sounding downright creepy.
“Maybe if you’d actually won the war you commie git you could’ve nicked some decent kit!” I retort knowing that dissing Serge’s political leanings is always going to rile the old boy up.
“I was nine when that happened and my family fought against the communist party!” Serge tried correct.
“So why d’ya come over here then, no commies over here!” Stu jumped in sensing blood in the water.
“Coz my government wouldn’t give me a free house… unlike yours!” Serge says with an uncharacteristic lightening wit.
“Oh touché!” I laugh as Stu retreats to do a lap of the bar.
An hour past and a hundred extra punters later and things are still dead! With a capacity of five hundred and fifty our current numbers were spreading things pretty thinly.
“I.D please ladies!” I ask as two rather young looking females approach the door.
The first promptly pulls out a drivers licence whilst the other conveniently receives a perfectly timed phone call and attempts to walk through with her friend.
“I.D please!” Stu asks gently blocking her path with his large arm.
“You what?” the young lady responds.
“I.D… do you have any?” Stu repeats.
“Nah mate left it at home!”
“Then I’m afraid you won’t be coming in tonight then!” Stu sympathises.
“Ya ‘aving a laugh ain’t ya Bruv?” says our classy obviously underage friend.
“’Fraid not!”
“But I’ve got I.D!” says her friend trying to enter into the negotiations.
“Yeah that’s why you can come in and she can’t!” Serge jumps in along with his natural gift of diplomacy.
“But it’s my Mums birthday today!”
“Then wish her a happy birthday from us!” Serge concludes the conservation as two rather niffed young ladies storm off down the road.
10 O’clock rolls round with extra hundred and thirty customers in. Unfortunately our new arrivals are cancelled out by the two hundred who have left. An abysmally boring night.
“You know I was looking in the mirror the other day… I think I’m anorexic!” Stu said dejectedly.
“You weigh over twenty five stone!” I say whilst holding in the laughter.
“Well, I was watching this program on T.V the other day and it said that anorexic people look in the mirror and think they’re fat. Now every time I look in the mirror I see a fat b*stard… therefore I must be anorexic. But I’m not gonna let it beat me!” smiled Stu as we all start giggling.
Our laughter is interrupted with the arrival of our next prospective customer. The guy was unfortunately having a bit of an internal disagreement with himself. His left side seemed very intent on going forwards whist his right side seemed more inclined to go in a more backwardly direction. All this resulted in rather awkward wobbly walking style.
“Sorry mate, you won’t be coming in tonight!” I say as I step blocking access through the front door.
“Why?!?!?” he blurts as my shirt is peppered with a stale mixture of larger, whisky and salvia.
“I think you’ve had too much to drink I’m afraid!”
“Huh?” he sprays again.
“You’ve had too much to drink mate, you won’t be coming in tonight I’m afraid!” I say very slowly whilst causally mimicking his swaying. You’ve got to match body language haven’t you?
“No I haven’t” he says whilst spraying me yet again.
“I’m afraid I think you have mate. Come back another night, you’ll be more than welcome.”
“Why???” he swaggers backwards as his right side seems to be getting the idea.
“Why have you had too much to drink? I dunno mate. Perhaps it’s your birthday? Or your Dad’s birthday? Maybe you’ve just got a promotion a work?” I hypothesize.
“Could’ve lost his job?” interjects Stu.
“Oh yeah, could be something bad. Maybe a death in the family?” I bounce back.
“Could’ve been his gold fish!” adds Serge.
“But… erm… I’ve not got a gold fish!” our drunken friend confusingly responds.
“A pet cat perhaps?” I question.
“Uh, no I haven’t got a cat… “ he says as the conversation starts cruising over his head.
“What about a snake? I’ve always wanted a snake!” laughs Stu.
“Urrgh???”
“I used to have a snake… a South American Corn snake. We called it Checkers!” I add.
“F**k this!” slurs our new friend as he wobbles off into the distance.
“Oh look, it’s the girls from earlier!” Stu says as he spies the girls we knocked back earlier walking back towards the bar.
This time round they are accompanied with about half a dozen more “mature” ladies and sneakily tucked in the mist of the approaching group.
“Got any I.D yet love?” quizzes Stu as the young lady in questions realises her covert efforts have failed.
“It’s alright she’s my daughter!” responds a rather frazzled older lady.
“Still gonna have to see some I.D I’m afraid!” responds Stu.
“But I was there when she was born I know exactly how old she is!” Mrs Frazzled huffs.
“Your presence at your daughter’s birth isn’t in question madam… just the date!” I politely point out in my best ‘matter of fact’ voice.
“You’re just a bunch of jumped up security guards!” says Mrs Frazzled whilst flicking her hair round dramatically in a Miss Piggy diva style and stomping off. She may have got the attitude, but Piggy definitely got the looks!
“Have a spiffingly wonderful birthday madam!” I retort giving a little wave good bye.
By the time closing comes round the clickers are reading eight punters. It had been one of those nights where you can feel every nanosecond pass, truly torturous!
“What a crap night!” I moan.
“Yeah, the glamorous world of Doorwork huh?” Stu sighs.
“Ain’t it. And we never did find out why that guy had drunk too much did we?”
It’s 6:58pm and I stumble through the front door with a clear two minutes to spare before my shift kicks off…
“What’s up? Yer bed on fire on something?” grins Stu in amazement at my early arrival.
“Some of us have day jobs Chubster!” I retort as a metal clicker is thrown at my chest, followed by a radio and ear piece lobbed by my ever adoring East European colleague Serge. The boys are definitely getting off to an early start tonight!
First job of the evening is to count up how many punters we have in. We do this by way of a little metal device known in trade speak as a “Clicker”. The task upon first glance would seem a simple one, walk round and click once for every person in the venue. Easy peasy! There’s a little known phenomenon (one which I think science has forgotten to investigate!) whereby two Doormen walking round the same venue counting the same people can never ever come up with the same numbers. To me it defies explanation.
“How many did ya get?” Stu asks.
“Fifty Seven. You?”
“Eighty Four!!!”
“How the hell did you get Eighty four? Did you do two laps or something?” I say looking across the deserted bar.
“Let’s meet halfway and call it seventy!” smirks Stu.
My next task is to go through the undignified process of threading the ear piece for my radio down through my shirt to the huge radios Serge had “acquired” for us. The bloody things are the size of those old 80’s mobile phones that all the hip yuppies used to have. In addition to the mysterious origins of these radios we also have absolutely no clue where to get new earpieces for them. This forces us to leave the only three at the venue and put them on whilst in full uniform, a feat I have still yet to master without slipping a disk.
“Would you like Mummy to help you get dressed, honey?” Serge gruffed in such a heavy accent it hid his slight attempt at humour only succeeding in sounding downright creepy.
“Maybe if you’d actually won the war you commie git you could’ve nicked some decent kit!” I retort knowing that dissing Serge’s political leanings is always going to rile the old boy up.
“I was nine when that happened and my family fought against the communist party!” Serge tried correct.
“So why d’ya come over here then, no commies over here!” Stu jumped in sensing blood in the water.
“Coz my government wouldn’t give me a free house… unlike yours!” Serge says with an uncharacteristic lightening wit.
“Oh touché!” I laugh as Stu retreats to do a lap of the bar.
An hour past and a hundred extra punters later and things are still dead! With a capacity of five hundred and fifty our current numbers were spreading things pretty thinly.
“I.D please ladies!” I ask as two rather young looking females approach the door.
The first promptly pulls out a drivers licence whilst the other conveniently receives a perfectly timed phone call and attempts to walk through with her friend.
“I.D please!” Stu asks gently blocking her path with his large arm.
“You what?” the young lady responds.
“I.D… do you have any?” Stu repeats.
“Nah mate left it at home!”
“Then I’m afraid you won’t be coming in tonight then!” Stu sympathises.
“Ya ‘aving a laugh ain’t ya Bruv?” says our classy obviously underage friend.
“’Fraid not!”
“But I’ve got I.D!” says her friend trying to enter into the negotiations.
“Yeah that’s why you can come in and she can’t!” Serge jumps in along with his natural gift of diplomacy.
“But it’s my Mums birthday today!”
“Then wish her a happy birthday from us!” Serge concludes the conservation as two rather niffed young ladies storm off down the road.
10 O’clock rolls round with extra hundred and thirty customers in. Unfortunately our new arrivals are cancelled out by the two hundred who have left. An abysmally boring night.
“You know I was looking in the mirror the other day… I think I’m anorexic!” Stu said dejectedly.
“You weigh over twenty five stone!” I say whilst holding in the laughter.
“Well, I was watching this program on T.V the other day and it said that anorexic people look in the mirror and think they’re fat. Now every time I look in the mirror I see a fat b*stard… therefore I must be anorexic. But I’m not gonna let it beat me!” smiled Stu as we all start giggling.
Our laughter is interrupted with the arrival of our next prospective customer. The guy was unfortunately having a bit of an internal disagreement with himself. His left side seemed very intent on going forwards whist his right side seemed more inclined to go in a more backwardly direction. All this resulted in rather awkward wobbly walking style.
“Sorry mate, you won’t be coming in tonight!” I say as I step blocking access through the front door.
“Why?!?!?” he blurts as my shirt is peppered with a stale mixture of larger, whisky and salvia.
“I think you’ve had too much to drink I’m afraid!”
“Huh?” he sprays again.
“You’ve had too much to drink mate, you won’t be coming in tonight I’m afraid!” I say very slowly whilst causally mimicking his swaying. You’ve got to match body language haven’t you?
“No I haven’t” he says whilst spraying me yet again.
“I’m afraid I think you have mate. Come back another night, you’ll be more than welcome.”
“Why???” he swaggers backwards as his right side seems to be getting the idea.
“Why have you had too much to drink? I dunno mate. Perhaps it’s your birthday? Or your Dad’s birthday? Maybe you’ve just got a promotion a work?” I hypothesize.
“Could’ve lost his job?” interjects Stu.
“Oh yeah, could be something bad. Maybe a death in the family?” I bounce back.
“Could’ve been his gold fish!” adds Serge.
“But… erm… I’ve not got a gold fish!” our drunken friend confusingly responds.
“A pet cat perhaps?” I question.
“Uh, no I haven’t got a cat… “ he says as the conversation starts cruising over his head.
“What about a snake? I’ve always wanted a snake!” laughs Stu.
“Urrgh???”
“I used to have a snake… a South American Corn snake. We called it Checkers!” I add.
“F**k this!” slurs our new friend as he wobbles off into the distance.
“Oh look, it’s the girls from earlier!” Stu says as he spies the girls we knocked back earlier walking back towards the bar.
This time round they are accompanied with about half a dozen more “mature” ladies and sneakily tucked in the mist of the approaching group.
“Got any I.D yet love?” quizzes Stu as the young lady in questions realises her covert efforts have failed.
“It’s alright she’s my daughter!” responds a rather frazzled older lady.
“Still gonna have to see some I.D I’m afraid!” responds Stu.
“But I was there when she was born I know exactly how old she is!” Mrs Frazzled huffs.
“Your presence at your daughter’s birth isn’t in question madam… just the date!” I politely point out in my best ‘matter of fact’ voice.
“You’re just a bunch of jumped up security guards!” says Mrs Frazzled whilst flicking her hair round dramatically in a Miss Piggy diva style and stomping off. She may have got the attitude, but Piggy definitely got the looks!
“Have a spiffingly wonderful birthday madam!” I retort giving a little wave good bye.
By the time closing comes round the clickers are reading eight punters. It had been one of those nights where you can feel every nanosecond pass, truly torturous!
“What a crap night!” I moan.
“Yeah, the glamorous world of Doorwork huh?” Stu sighs.
“Ain’t it. And we never did find out why that guy had drunk too much did we?”
