A Dirty Job

And the adventure continues...

2008-04-04T11:00:00.000+01:00

In a basic (and probably lame) attempt to sort my life out, I'm attempting to condense a lot of it, and one of the areas where this has to happen is in my various blogs.

Hence, my adventures in night security, as well as everything else in my life, can now be found at this URL:

iamsheamus.com

Hope to see you there, kids. It's been a blast.

Let's face it...

2008-01-30T09:30:00.000Z

... my job ain't so dirty anymore.

Churn.

2008-01-02T20:30:00.000Z

This story was passed on to me by one of the male keyworkers at my place.

He'd been working last night and was doing one of the general rounds of the building, I believe at around 6pm. He went to the top level and was outside the room of the youngest chap in the project, who's a total pisshead, when he overhead a conversation taking place between him and the near-fifty year old skank who is riddled with Hep C and all manner of STDs that I wrote about before. The door was closed and he couldn't see anything, but this is how it went down:

Hep C Skank: "So, are you going to give me that tenner, or what?"
Young Alcoholic: "No." (laughs)
Hep C Skank: "Then get the fuck off of me then!"

Prostitution, the world's oldest profession - after the humble midwife - is alive and well in the very building where I'm currently devouring season three of Prison Break. That's all well and good, but slipping the wick into that hag? I don't care how much of a drunk you are. That shit is fucking wrong.

Grim.

Physician, heal thyself. Then fuck off.

2007-12-17T22:30:00.000Z

Last Friday I paid a visitor to my local surgery. I wasn't ill - I simply had to pick up a prescription for my son. This was about 5pm.

I walked in, and immediately got a strange vibe. Except for the staff, there were only three people in the room - a man and his missus, who were seated, and one other chap. This latter fella was leaning over the reception desk in a most aggressive manner. On a side note, he later turned out to be Iraqi. That wouldn't be worth mentioning generally, but it's relevant within the confines of this tale.

As I said, the chap's manner put me on guard immediately - I'm a professional, don't you know - and as I went over to the desk and picked up the prescription, my instincts were proven correct.

"I want to see my fucking doctor," he said, "Not that woman. She can do nothing for me. What can she do? What does she know?"

The chap had come in and asked to see his usual doctor. She was away, and the reception staff (there were three of them) had told him that. Instead, they're referred him to a locum. She also turned out to be a woman. Now, I don't know why he was happy with his normal female doctor and unhappy with this one, but he clearly, at this point in time, didn't think a woman could do much for him.

"What can she possibly know?" he repeated, "I'm dying here. I want to see my fucking doctor."

Each of the ladies in reception took turns to attempt to calm and appease him, but each time one of them spoke to him he said something like this:

"Was I fucking talking to you? No, I was talking to her."

And then he'd turn his attention to the woman he'd same the same thing to just a few moments before.

It was most strange.

Then: "I am dying here. What, you want me to die in the street? I need to see my fucking doctor. Fuck this country!"

"Well," said one of the women, the eldest, "If you don't like it here, you know what you can do..."

Is that racism? It is on paper, but the guy, to his credit, totally set it up.

"What? What did you say?" he said, suddenly aghast at the injustice of it all, "I would go back to my fucking country if you would fucking get out of it!" He was making a brilliant observation about the current unpleasantness in Basra et al, but I'm not entirely sure the 68-year old behind the desk was all that heavily involved.

At this point he caught my eye. "What are you fucking look at?" he said.

"You," I replied.

"It has fucking nothing to do with you."

"It does," I said, "You're just a little out of control, don't you think?"

He became more and more agitated, and when his behaviour descended into almost endless swearing and - one at a time, girls - spitting on the carpet in what can only be described as a 'dismissive' manner, one of the ladies informed him that unless he sat down, they would have to call the police.

"Call the fucking police! Why would I care? I will tell them you are all racists."

I could see where this was going - downhill, fast. I had my son with me, and my first instinct was to get him to a safe place. The guy was clearly a psycho, and psychos are capable of anything. I ushered my boy to the other side of the surgery. Secondly, I had to warm up my hands - as you know, it's been fucking freezing of late, and the last thing you want to do is punch somebody in the face with ice-cold hands. Hello, several broken fingers/knuckles. So, while he continued to rant, I casually walked over to the closest radiator. It was sweeter than heaven itself.

When I had had my fill, my eyes wandered over to the other people in the room - the couple. How were they reacting? My ears zoomed in on their discourse: "Don't get involved, " said the woman, "You're not at work now." I'd had those same words said to me many, many times.

Suddenly, a doctor appeared. It was Dr S, the senior bloke in the surgery. "What's going on here?" he asked the receptionists.

"Who are you?" said Mr Happy, "What does this have to do with you?"

"I'm a doctor," he said, and walked over, "Look, come with me, and we'll sort this out."

And then he made a fatal mistake - he very, very, very lightly tapped Mr Happy on the arm.

"DON'T FUCKING PUSH ME!" he said, loudly, angrily, stuffed full of venom and bile, "WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE, YOU FUCKING OLD MAN? YOU SEVENTY-FIVE YEAR OLD? FUCK YOU! DON'T FUCKING PUSH ME!"

Dr S looked shocked. He turned to the receptionists. "Right," he said, "Call the police. And delete his details from the system."

"FUCK YOU OLD MAN!" said Mr H, "You fucking seventy-five year old!"

Dr S went back into his office. Mr H continued to swear and spit, spit and swear, and it was only a matter of time. A minute or two passed. The police never showed up, and Dr S came back into the surgery.

"Are the police not here yet?" he asked reception.

"YOU FUCKING SEVENTY-FIVE YEAR OLD!" said laughing boy, "FUCK YOU! DON'T FUCKING PUSH ME. WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?"

"Oh, " said Dr S, "....................... fuck off."

"WHAT!? WHAT DID YOU SAY TO ME?"

Mr H was livid. He stormed over to Dr S and got into a stance that was 100 per cent indicative of a person about to take a swing. I looked over at the man and his missus.

"Ready?" he said.

I nodded.

We walked quickly over to Mr H and each grabbed an arm. He went limp immediately. "What are you doing?" he said, nervous. We then picked him up and carted him outside. Clearly he thought we were going to beat the crap out of him, and who knows, we may well have done. But at the very second we burst out into the cold air a police van pulled up. We handed him over, and I went back inside to get my son. The chap with his missus turned out to be a security guard at Priory Meadow.

As we went to leave again, one of the police guys pulled me over. They needed me as a witness. Fine. But Mr H, who was surrounded by four other cops, thought he'd have another go. "You're a dead man," he said, "I'll remember you. We're not done, you and me."

"Yeah, okay, tough guy," I said, and did that annoying quotations thing with my fingers.

He went mental.

I had to go inside to give my side of the story and when we got back out again Mr H was handcuffed in the back of a police car. Six cops were present. Apparently, when I was inside he'd started on the police, too.

Amusingly, I've seen Mr H twice since this incident - once on my way to the gym, and once back. Both times he's looked at me directly and I know there's recognition there. He remembers.

And he's going to get me, you know.

Soon.

Rambo (2008)

2007-11-29T10:00:00.000Z

I've written about the new Rambo film on here before, but since then the movie has gone through several name changes and a couple of new teaser trailers have been released, and neither are encouraging.

Here's the original trailer, in high-res AVI format (25mb).

Let's not beat around the bush here - that's a great fucking trailer. I mean, it's an odd thing to say, but that level of mindless gore is almost unprecedented in the modern climate. It's almost refreshing.

And here's the second trailer.

I find it quite interested that Stallone, who's basically running this entire project, has made some significant changes to the feel of this second trailer. The music is very much Black Hawk Downish with a cheesy monologue, and it's nowhere near as brutal as the first one. What's also true is that if I'd only seen the second trailer, I'd pretty much think this was going to suck.

And here's the third trailer. Which is fucking awful. It looks like something MTV put together.

The film is now going to be called Rambo. I liked John Rambo, as it implied a bit more of an intellectual (for want of a much better word) take on the character, and tied in nicely with Rocky Balboa, but thank the good Lord they've dropped Rambo IV: To Hell and Back, which is just about the worst name for a sequel ever.

Here's a link to the official site, and here's a featurette about the film.

Stallone claims the picture is about "humanity", and it's safe to say it appears to be offering a familiar but vaguely interesting take on whether conflict can ever be resolved by goodwill or the establishment of a discourse, as opposed to more violence. The jury's always going to be out on that one, although given that it's a Rambo feature you can be pretty sure the closing message is going to be soundly right wing.

Burnett: Please. It will help change people's lives.
John J. Rambo: You bringing any weapons?
Burnett: Of course not.
John J. Rambo: Then you ain't changin' nothin'.

Quite.

In case you're not sporting a semi quite yet, here are some promotional pics:

The risk here is that Stallone couldn't decide whether to really go back to a First Blood-style introspective look at the character or to make a super-violent 80s-style post-pub flick, and ends up with something messy in-between. I think if I had to make a choice I'd go for a film that was closer to the latter, as per the original trailer, although the various bits and pieces that I've seen and the comments made by Stallone himself suggests to me that he was possibly trying to make this one a tad more worthy. Let's not kid ourselves - both the previous Rambo sequels are pretty poor. I don't want any more of that, and I'm pretty sure Stallone doesn't either. We'll have to wait and see exactly what he ends up with. I just hope it's not as lost as those new trailers seem to imply.

Released on January 25, 2008 in the States and February 22 in the UK.

Brighton.

2007-11-24T16:00:00.000Z

I went to Brighton last weekend for my birthday. Yeah, it was nice. You weren't invited.

For my sins, I like to have a drink or two in Wetherspoons. Now, I know many of the branches of this fine establishment, particularly on the outskirts of London, are complete and utter dives. However, the Hastings John Logie Baird is really quite a decent place. It's a great venue to start your evening - the drinks are cheap (and consistently good), the conversation can free-flow and you really don't get any trouble there. That's as much as a testament to the door staff in Hastings as it is anything else - they've improved dramatically in the last ten years or so. If you've lived in Hastings long enough (I've been here nearly 30 years, on and off) you'll have noted how much safer it feels in the town centre on a night out. You see so few fights, certainly compared to how it used to be. Part of that is due to a greater police presence, but I like to think your friendly neighbourhood doorman, and a slight uptick in the quality of venues and patrons in Hastings, has contributed.

So, I'm in Brighton. There are ten of us altogether. We've had a nice meal and are looking for places to drink, and decide on the local Wetherspoon. In case you don't know, it's called 'The Bright Helm', which really has to be a bit of an in-joke, doesn't it? It's accurate, too, as outside were a right couple of knobs.

When I got there a couple of my mates were standing outside talking to the two doormen, and I thought, "Here we go... too many blokes so we won't be allowed in." But it wasn't that. We were almost an even split of men to women anyway, our little group, and what the problem actually turned out to be was one of ID.

We didn't have any. Hence, they weren't going to let us in.

Now, this wouldn't be all that unusual a story except that last weekend I was celebrating my 36th birthday. Thirty-six. That's double-eighteen.

I can understand door staff being told to be careful about letting in people who look under 21, but for fuck's sake - if I look a day under bloody 35 it's a bloody good day, let me tell you.

Now, this would have been bad enough, but it was the attitude of these cocksuckers that really pissed me off. They wouldn't let me in, and wouldn't give me any decent reason why not. I told them my age, they could clearly see I was telling the truth, but it wasn't good enough.

I never carry ID when I go out. I mean, I've never needed to, but I don't bring my wallet with me because I feel it's too much of a risk. You life is in there, really, after all, isn't it? So it's just a bank card, cash, keys and my phone. But that's because I look my age. I'm 36, you know.

"Yeah, can I see the manager please?" I said. At this stage I'd had a few drinks but was sober enough to be both coherent and maintain the correct level of attitude, i.e., I had none.

"Yeah, wait over there and he'll come out when he's ready."

"How is he going to know to come out if one of you doesn't go and tell him that somebody wants to see him?"

They looked at me blankly.

"So...", I said, "Can I see the manager please?"

"Wait over there..."

And this went on for a bit. Ultimately, of course, I adopted a bit more attitude than was probably desirable and one of my friends pulled me off with the usual "it's not worth it... they're wankers..." etc. For a second I wondered if this was one of those times where it very much WAS worth it but, of course, with the magic of hindsight my friend was right.

However, it's dicks like those two that give all doormen a bad name. There was no need to be such pricks. We weren't rude. We weren't wankered or out of control, and we certainly weren't out to cause trouble. But because we had an average age of somewhere in the early 30s we were too damn youthful to pay two quid for a pint.

Suffice to say I did something I never, ever do, and wrote a letter of complaint to JD Wetherspoon HQ. I haven't heard anything yet, and don't really expect to, but I won't be moistening my lips at The Bright Helm anytime soon, let me tell you.

Work.

2007-11-19T13:30:00.000Z

Christ, I've been crap lately on here.

What's going on? Well, we have a full house at work, but they're all behaving themselves, and hence the lack of updates. It's come to something when you don't know whether you want it to kick off or not just so you'll have something to say.

I've been hitting the gym very hard, adding a lot more cardio to my routine and doing 90 minute workouts 5-6 times a week. I've lost half a stone in two weeks, but that's the same half a stone I put on vigorously watching DVDs whilst sitting on my arse 38.5 hours a week.

I've cracked the sleeping thing; the secret is to just have a mug of coffee every two hours - 10am, midnight, 2am, etc, up until about 6am, and then you've had more than enough. No Red Bull or Pro Plus - just coffee. It works. You only have to worry about little two-hour windows of pain.

And that's about it.

Progress.

2007-11-10T09:30:00.000Z

The last six shifts, I've pretty much fallen asleep in every one. This is pretty serious; indeed, it's a sackable offense.

Thing is, it is getting better.

After my recent post about the problem of sleep, I got quite a few emails from around the world. Some sympathised, some criticised, but most were actually pretty helpful. So, thanks. I'm touched.

Last week was a bit of a low - each night I totally crashed around 2-3am and basically slept, on and off, until 8am. Now, I have to make a check-in phone call every hour on the hour, so sleeping all night, or through some kind of incident, is not going to happen. My phone is set up to make a really loud, irritating alarm go off at each of these times and so I always wake up. And then go back to sleep. However, while I have figured out a nice private place where I can't be seen having a crafty one in the land of Nod, I did almost get busted once. This concerned me greatly.

The caffeine OD clearly was not helping. However, it's more than this - it's all about my diet.

We're fortunate enough to have a trained nutritionist amongst the staff and after speaking to her I believe I've nailed down a lot of the reasons why I'm dozing off so readily. One, obviously, I'm fucking tired at 4am in the morning, but two, if you've been eating large, carbohydrate and fat-heavy meals throughout the day, and especially so late at night, your body just wants to conk out. Every day is like Christmas after the Queen's speech. Minus the booze.

So, I've made some radical adjustments to my diet. No more white bread, and less bread overall. No pasta. Less sweets and refined sugar. And, as said, less caffeine. The Red Bulls are Pro Plus are gone. It's just coffee and Diet Coke. I've also been hitting the gym hard, switching from just heavy weights to a mix of circuit training and cardio. The result? I'm a lot sharper.

I'm still falling asleep.

But it's slightly more under control.

By this time next week, I'll have nailed it. You watch.

Being Grant Mitchell.

2007-11-01T14:00:00.000Z

I was just in M&S picking up a few groceries. All of a sudden, this lady, maybe in her fifties, comes slowly up to me. I see her out of the corner of my eye and I'm thinking it's all a bit strange.

"Sorry," she says, suddenly, "I thought you were that Grant Mitchell off the telly. I was going to ask you for your autograph."

It's becoming a fucking epidemic. As I've said before, I don't even look much like him. Shaved head, jeans, leather jacket. That's about it. My grandmother's name was Peggy, but she couldn't have possibly known that.

Still, it wasn't all bad. I got a tenner for my signature. Then I slapped the woman and ran out of the store without paying. Fuck 'em - I'm a celebrity.

There's a book in this, actually: Being Grant Mitchell. I'll walk the Earth, like Caine in Kung Fu, picking up stories and anecdotes from famous people like me who look like celebrities, and how it's made their lives absolutely magical. The epilogue, of course, will be Ross Kemp and I meeting for drinks in a very public place and then, hilariously, people will still be asking for my autograph and shunning him.

I'm going to be very, very rich indeed.

The problem of sleep.

2007-10-23T17:30:00.000+01:00

A pint of San Miguel and two large bourbons, please.

That's what it took to guarantee I fell asleep this morning. Before 11am.

And to make sure I stayed up all night? A litre of Red Bull, four coffees, three Diet Cokes and eight Pro Plus.

The Pro Plus, I've found, is essential. I tried the previous two nights without it, and accidentally 'dozed off' at least half a dozen times.

The thing is, all this shit can't be good for you. I mean: it isn't. At somewhere between three and five am the human body, littered with caffeine, taurine, and other essential vitamins and nutrients, starts to see shit. And stuff. Apparitions. Ghosts. Late at night withered, howling entities appear at my door, banging loudly upon it and screaming for me to help them in some disturbed, ghastly tongue. Others in the building refer to them as 'tenants'.

The thing is: Red Bull. It's all a myth. Lies. Media filth. A can of Red Bull contains less caffeine than a regular cup of instant coffee (80mg vs 100mg, on average). So a litre of that shit only gets you so far. Now, Pro Plus - that's a different animal. Albeit marginally. Two tablets equates to 100mg of coffee. A can of Diet Coke has 45mg. So let's do the math.

320 + 400 + 135 + 400 = 1255mg of caffeine.

Just to be, you know, alert and shit, whilst I'm watching the latest episode of Californication. Sans Pro Plus, that's 855mg of caffeine, which clearly puts me in 'queer' territory as it does fuck all.

What this means is that when I finally get home around nine-thirty I'm so fucking wide-awake, despite an eleven-hour overnight shift, that alternative methods beyond, you know, a pillow, are necessary to get me to the land of nod. Hence, our good friends San Miguel and Jackie D. It's all about the downers and the uppers. For eleven hours, I'm doing everything I can to stay awake, and then for 60 minutes or so, trying to stamp all over that shit.

Bottom line: I can't be doing myself any favours. Anybody know a good shrink?

The Mitchell Test

2007-10-17T15:00:00.000+01:00

With strangers, I can usually tell where I stand with them depending on where I fit on The Mitchell Test.

We have two new tenants at work - a right pair of hardcore drunks. One's 30 and one is only eighteen, but they hang out together a lot as the young'un is dating the elder's niece. Plus, of course, they both live in the project. I've yet to see them sober. Last night, they were absolutely wankered at 10pm and made, literally, four more trips to the local petrol station for a refill before 12.30am. At this point, they were borderline comatose.

However, before they rambled off to their rooms for the night (thankfully and finally), they put me through The Mitchell Test. This has happened to me many, many times. Without exaggeration, at least a dozen at my last place of work.

Drunk #1: "Can I tell you something without meaning to cause offense?"

Me: "Go on then."

Drunk #1: "Has anyone ever told you that you look like Ross Kemp?"

Me: "Yes, they have. Many times."

Drunk #2: "Who!?"

Drunk #1: "You know, Ross Kemp - Grant Mitchell in Eastenders."

Drunk #2: "No he doesn't. He looks more like Phil..."

Now, this is the hook. I have worked out that looking like Grant is meant to be a bit of a compliment, whilst looking like Phil is, of course, an insult. The reality is I don't look particularly like either of them - yes, I have a shaved head, but that's really about it. But many, many people, great or otherwise, seem to think we're blood relations. Particularly if they're wankered. And I've come to realise that I can get a fair grip on somebody's future behaviour depending on where they rank me on The Mitchell Test - if I'm a 'Grant', then we're going to have no problems. If I'm a 'Phil', then they're basically saying - "You are a bitch" - and the shit will, inevitably, and at some approaching point, hit the fan.

So don't call me Phil. Just don't.

Additions.

2007-10-15T14:00:00.000+01:00

We have three new tenants starting today. All blokes. If it's gonna get spicy, now's the time.

This week, I've had the pleasure of seeing the bare legs of somebody 'riddled' with hep C - not pleasant - and can bring you the good news that a can of Coke left in the fridge on your days off does not get drunk by anybody else. Miracle.

Meantime, back at my old place, several massive fights have broken out, the cops turned up and beat the shit out of one punter and maced several others (including security), one doorman was hospitalised, another broke a rib in conflict, and it all seems rather exciting.

Do I miss it? Fuck no. But this is dull, no two ways about it.

Update

2007-10-11T09:30:00.000+01:00

Don't worry: I'm not dead.

At least, not yet; I might, however, die of boredom.

I realise it's been ages since I last wrote anything but the reality is I have nothing to say. It's all very quiet and very dull - the biggest hardship is staying awake.

We have some new tenants coming in over the next week or so and we're bound to get at least one mental so it might all get interesting then.

Until then... hang in there, kiddo.

The dirt.

2007-10-01T07:30:00.001+01:00

I'm just plodding along at the moment, getting used to the sleep pattern. I think I'm there, then I'll just totally crash. It's a new experience for me. I've been here two weeks now - I think it might take a couple of months before I'm in control.

Got a bit more intel on the characters at work - one has done 16 years of hard time, eight of which was for armed robbery. The thing is, he's fifty but looks thirty-five, so he must be doing something right. Another is 'riddled with Hep C' and is, by all accounts, a 'spitter'. Luckily I've had my shots, but still. Two are professional conmen - well, one is a conwoman, and allegedly has tricked so many old people out of their pensions that three of them have 24/7 protective watch. Junkies, dealers and boozers basically makes up the rest.

All, it would appear, would slit your throat and/or sell their own grandmothers to make a deal.

And these, I'm told, are the good ones. The real scum got booted out. As said before, we're only really half-full at the moment, so Lord only knows what treasures are waiting for me around the corner.

Bring it on.

Zombie.

2007-09-24T08:30:00.000+01:00

My apologies for the lack of updates of late. The biggest and newest problem is pretty simple: once I get home from work at around 9.30am, I'm too fucking knackered to do anything but go straight to the land of Nod. Before, when I was working doors, cracking out 500+ words at 3am seemed like the right thing to do. At 9.30am, all I can think about is a pillow.

It's going to take some while for me to get used to the shift in general and the overall pattern of my week. I will get there. Eventually.

Here's roughly how my night goes:

10pm-midnight: Just kind of chilling, watching a bit of TV, doing various checks and patrols, etc.
Midnight-4am: Watch a bit more TV, maybe some DVDs, patrols, etc.
4am-7am: Sit around like a zombie, bar the odd patrol.
7am-9am: Try and 'hang on' to the end of my shift.

As I said before, the project is only at about half capacity at the moment and the folks there are there for a reason - they behave. Hence, not a lot really happens. Some new tenants should be arriving soon and things might spice up a bit then. As it is, my work-time at the moment is little more than a war of attrition - it's an endurance test. Staying not only awake, but semi-alert overnight for 11 hours is not all that easy. While I have the privilege of DVDs, TV, music, reading etc to pass the time, it can get incredibly dull. Also, closing your eyes, even "just for a second", is death. Even blinking can be a bit risky.

So, you fill the time with caffeine. Last shift I had four coffees, three Red Bulls, two Cokes and about eight Pro Plus. Sounds excessive - it is excessive. However, whilst one could probably scrape by with far less than this, not being loaded up means time goes by much, much slower. When you're that tired it's very easy to lose all enthusiasm to the point where even putting in a DVD seems exhausting. So, drink your coffee, put on that movie, and watch the time go by just a touch faster. This is, obviously, essential to your survival. A movie lasts 90-120 minutes - you know this, time knows this, your sanity knows this.

Films I've seen at work this week: Goodfellas, Pulp Fiction, The Simpsons Movie - which was crap - Prizzi's Honour, Mad Max, MST3K: I Was A Teenage Werewolf and probably some other things I'm forgetting. Also, several episodes of season five of The Shield on DVD, lots of Family Guy (the BBC has been kind enough to show 2-3 episodes every night this week), and various other shows.

This all sounds great, and believe me, I'm getting paid for this so I'm not complaining, but it's that fucking 4-7am phantom zone that's the real killer. You've just passed the halfway point of your shift and then it all slows down to a fucking crawl.

I go back Wednesday.

Hollington.

2007-09-19T08:30:00.000+01:00

Yesterday was meant to be my night off but I got a call from the new boss at about 4.30pm, asking me if I'd go down to another site and supervise an agency security person my firm had sub-contracted to. I'd get paid more than usual. Seemed fair enough, so I did.

Horrors: it was in Hollington.

The irony was, the project there was a piss of piss compared to my place. When I mentioned where I was working to the staff they were like, "Heavens, no, it's nothing like that." Which is a bit worrying, naturally.

This place had no lockdown at all. Tenants were free to come and go as they pleased and to bring back visitors with them 24/7.

I was there for about 2 1/2 hours and it was incredibly peaceful.

The 'agency guy' was actually the boss of a firm that's been established in the East Sussex area for five years. I felt a bit of a pseud telling him how to do his job - my boss told me to say I was the area supervisor - but he was exceedingly pleasant and it's actually turned out to be a useful contact.

One odd thing: there were these flyers everywhere that said in big, colourful letters, WOULD YOU LIKE TO WIN SOME HAIR STRAIGHTENERS? OR A NINTENDO WII?

Now, that alone is a bit of an oddity as even a good set of hair straighteners probably cost less than one third of a Wii system, but I read on, somewhat eager, thinking, yes, I wouldn't mind a Wii actually, now you've brought it up. Then, in slightly less colourful, significantly smaller lettering, it read:

JUST GET TESTED FOR CHLAMYDIA AND YOU WILL BE ENTERED INTO OUR PRIZE DRAW!

There's always a catch. Always.

A new beginning.

2007-09-18T09:30:00.000+01:00

Well, the first shift went pretty well.

The area manager got called away to a more serious site and couldn't make it - this left Edmonson and myself working together and alone, which of course was great.

The house is only just over half full at the moment - seven out of a possible twelve tenants. A few big troublemakers have been kicked out of late and while those we met tonight were perfectly polite and seemed fine, there's already a few characters there. One chap has to have daily visits from the police (they arrived this morning at 6am) because he's on bail; another is clearly a dealer and/or a speed freak, as he didn't settle down, let alone sleep, all night; a third is an early 40s peroxide blond, who's kind of a cross between Paris Hilton and Chloe from Fight Club, waif-thin and always accompanied by a chihuahua on a lead. She's also quite clearly a junkie, or a recovering one, spending a lot of time with the speedfreak, naturally exchanging blow-jobs for blow, or whatever (believe me, it was in her eyes.)

The shift started at 10pm and began with immediate bad news - the previous security team showed up to reclaim their TV. It definitely was theirs (we checked), but they must have timed it like that on purpose. Thankfully, we managed to blag one from the staff and tonight I got through Mad Max, Prizzi's Honour, the Washington Redskins vs the Philadelphia Eagles, about an hour of news (Northern Rock, Northern Rock, Northern fucking Rock) and even some GMTV. I bought a bunch of DVDs but neither of us was in the mood, really.

Endurance wise, it was fine and dandy until about 7am, when I really started to crash. We had to put the on-loan TV back at 7.30am and that last 90 minutes just went on forever. Good news: the manageress was on duty when we were leaving and ordered us a new TV (from Argos, don't you know) that should arrive tonight. I'm not back on duty until Thursday, of course, so as long as it's there by then, I don't really care.

Now, you'll have to excuse me: I'm fucking exhausted. Still, two days off, and all that.

Shifts.

2007-09-15T17:00:00.000+01:00

The new work beings Monday; I'm going in at 3pm, with Edmonson, for a briefing/tour of the new location, and then we'll both be working that night's shift, with the area manager (joy). He'll do Tuesday and Wednesday, and then I'm on for my three days from Thursday.

I have no expectations yet, as I don't really know what to expect. My only concern is adjusting to the new sleep patterns. My shift is 10pm-9am, and so as I typically have a problem winding down immediately after work, most work 'nights' I won't be going to bed until 10am. This could be kinda awkward.

In other news, I'm giving serious thought to using some of my spare day-time to do a home study degree. I quite fancy criminology, to be honest, and have done for a while. It'll certainly fit nicely in with my current career, and as I'm giving serious thought to joining the police force on the right side of my fortieth birthday it'll expedite the old application process there, as well. One assumes.

Training day.

2007-09-11T12:00:00.000+01:00

You'll have noted, of course, that I haven't had much to say lately. This is what happens when you find yourself in-between jobs.

Tomorrow, I go to Portsmouth for a day's training, and then my new position begins next week, either Monday or Thursday depending on the shift pattern Edmonson and myself work out. I'd prefer to do Monday, so I can have the weekend off.

I'm not really sure what to expect from this new job, to be honest. It'll either be the good life, as described by my new boss, or each night it'll be like a new episode of Hellraiser.

Watch this space.

End of an era.

2007-09-08T03:30:00.000+01:00

Fair bit of hassle tonight, and for a while it seemed as if the place was trying to prove some delayed kind of point, i.e., you are going to die tonight.

But, forty minutes or so before closing, the complex manager let Edmonson and myself finish early, and we hit the bar... hard. And didn't have to pay for a single drink. Owners, staff, punters... they picked 'em all up for us. Gaymers at my place is £3.75/bottle. I had more bought for me than I could possibly drink.

When people tell you that you've not only been valued, but liked as well, what more can you ask?

Some people were actually crying.

There was a lot of love in the Showbar at 2.45am this morning.

Handicapped Toilet Blues.

2007-09-06T02:30:00.000+01:00

In the past two days, I've had rather unfortunate run-ins with disabled people. Specifically, at or near their own toilets.

You see, back in the day when I started working at this poxy place, we were informed that it was wisest for us to always use a cubicle when we wanted to go to toilet, even if it was just for a number one. The reason why makes sense - if you've had problems with one or two geezers all night, the last thing you want is for them to follow you into the toilet and smash you over the back of a head with a pint glass when you're having a slash. I mean, even doormen have some level of dignity they'd like to maintain.

So, I mused over this for a while, and figured the disabled loo was an even better bet - one, disabled toilets are always nicer. Have you noticed that? They're cleaner and they smell better. Clearly our limp-legged friends are quite demanding. Two, they come with a greater level of privacy. And three, sometimes, if you're careful, you can nip into one and spend a good 15-30 minutes in there dozing off while everybody else around you works. That's good livin'.

We have two disabled toilets at my place of work - one is down by the main bars and therefore far too noisy. The other is up beyond the restaurant, shielded by walls, and always nice and quiet. It's nearly always vacant, too.

Yesterday I went in there - to have a crap, if you're asking - and was getting down to business, and all was well. Now, when I pay a visit to the carsey at work, I have to remove my radio. You see, it's quite a heavy item, and once I've undone my belt it tends to fall on to the floor. This, clearly, is not productive. So, I remove the radio, and put it to one side. I always turn the volume well down as it can be quite loud when left on the highest point, which is where it always is when I'm wearing my covert earpiece. Oh yeah, I'm all hardcore, me.

Last night, however, I forgot about the volume. So I'm sitting there, and time passes, and la de da. Suddenly, Edmonson comes over the radio: "ADJ, I saw you go into the disabled toilet mate, and you might want to know that there's a handicapped bloke on crutches who's been waiting outside for ages." This, of course, came over VERY LOUD INDEED.

This was bad for two reasons.

REASON #1 - The person outside the toilet heard it all.

REASON #2 - I finally finished up, washed my hands, and opened the door, and said, without looking up, "Sorry mate..." And it was a woman. Bloody Edmonson. Okay, okay, she was fucking ugly, and built like a brick shit-house, but how do you recover from that!? He was laughing for about half an hour when I told him.

Tonight, I decided to chance my bog of choice again. The coast was clear. The restaurant had long closed and there was nobody around at all. So, I go inside, settle down to business... and less than a minute later I hear the familiar (but always hilarious) BEEP BEEP BEEP of some chap's disabled car, reversing up the hallway. In fact, there was a shit load more of BEEP BEEP BEEPs after that as the hallway is quite awkwardly narrow and clearly he had to three-point turn or something. Finally, he's done, and then instead of using his voice to enquire if anybody is inside the toilet, he favours banging on the door instead.

So, I'm rushing to finish - and why is it when you need to do this it's always at those moments when two entire rolls of toilet paper isn't quite enough? - and this bloke is banging away on the door. "Alright, alright," I say, "I'm coming, I'm coming." Not literally, I'll add - that would be very wrong indeed.

"Okay mate," he says, "Let me just back up so you can get out."

BEEP BEEP BEEP.

Oh, the humility.

48 hours.

2007-09-05T02:30:00.000+01:00

Just two more days to go.

'Peak season' ended today, and already the place has died a grisly death. It's back to uber-chavs and power-drinkers, but it's blissfully quiet. Really, it's just a case of going through the motions. I'm very blase about the everyday domestics and late-teen posturing now. It only gets exciting when one of those lovely mass-brawls breaks out.

Right now I'm concerned only about two things:

A. That I get paid - in full - this Friday, which means my normal fortnight's wage, the 65 hours of unused holiday pay I'm due plus my first week's arreared cheque.

B. That I haven't heard anything from anybody at my new job since accepting it. It's probably nothing to worry about, but as it was implied it could start potentially as early as the 10th, I'd have liked to have heard something.

Ho hum.

7 days.

2007-09-01T03:30:00.000+01:00

I handed my notice in tonight. Nothing was said. Quite literally: nothing.

I have a feeling #1 knew what was coming; most of the staff seemed to have heard something about myself and Edmonson leaving.

Either way, tonight provided many reminders about why we're absolutely doing the right thing.

Jabba's not been too well of late, which meant that it was Edmonson and I doing pretty much everything. And we had all manner of cunts in. I was watching one bloke making the moves on his girlfriend, his hands all over her, etc, as she got increasingly agitated. The guy was seriously pissed and he was on thin ice as it was, but when the woman pulled me over and announced she didn't even know him, well he had to go, like, immediately. Especially when the woman's kids started crying over how nervous he was making them. Edmonson and I had to literally drag him out, one arm each, with him doing everything he could to take a swing at one or both of us. Once outside the gates, he did that strange but very typical psychological thing where he started verbally laying into one of us - in this case Edmonson - whilst saying the other one, me, was "a good bloke." I've seen this many times. Usually it's me who is the cunt, but it's almost like these dicks do a kind of reverse-projection of the 'good cop/bad cop' stereotype, maybe in some kind of loose attempt to gain favour or make one of us doubt the other. It never works, naturally, but it's all quite fascinating, simply because it's so consistent. It happens too regularly to just be a coincidence.

However, because of this and various other incidents that occured, Edmonson has decided he isn't coming in tomorrow which basically means I am not coming in, because I'm the only other DS on duty. Jabba has a 4-day holiday. I ain't doing this shit by myself. Even when/if I go back on Sunday, it's just me and Jones. And on Tuesday, just me and Edmonson, assuming he shows up. Now, one realises why 99.99 per cent of all ex-employees didn't give a fuck about their contract/one-week notice and just fucked off, instead. Much easier. Much less hassle. The irony is I figured I'd do 'the boys' a favour and work the week out, and what happens? They all fuck off on me. You really can't make this dogshit up.

The upside? When it's finally all over, I have 65 hours of holiday pay to come. How'd you like those apples?

Epilogue.

2007-08-30T02:00:00.000+01:00

Re yesterday's late-night events, I forgot to add that the woman - Ms Ketchup - wouldn't let the man back inside their chalet, but she had his credit cards in her wallet, which he wanted back. He also wanted the keys to her car so he could sleep in that, but she wouldn't give them up in case he drove away and/or turned up again in the middle of the night (the residence keys were on there as well - why she didn't think to separate them is any genius' guess).

So they had to come to a compromise, organised by my boss - the man got the cards and, temporarily, the keys, but the latter was returned to the lady after the chap bedded down, by my boss.

I tell you: the place is fucking mental. Where else does this kind of shit happen? Nowhere, that's where.

It's worth noting that neither of them came up for a drink tonight.

I also forgot to mention that Bilbo quit on Sunday. He was going to be fired anyway, but he figured he'd beat them all to the punch, just to make it even more of a farce.

So, when Edmonson and I hand our notices in this Friday, a week later there will only be three doorstaff left. Even if they work seven days a week a piece, there won't be enough of them.

"Hello, is that the SIA...?"

Red Sauce.

2007-08-29T04:30:00.000+01:00

Scene One: It's 2.33am, the bars are closed, and the only two DS in attendance - Welshie Jones and myself - sit back, relax, and work our way through the better part of a couple of pitchers of Export each.

Scene Two: It's 3.45am, the bars are still closed, and the only two DS in attendance - Welshie Jones and myself, both sucking furiously on Polos to remove any possible stench of moonshine from our breaths - are outside, deep in the park, attending a domestic where a man on crutches has covered his heavily-intoxicated girlfriend with ketchup, and she now wants him to leave.

It's a hard-knock life.

You're hired.

2007-08-26T14:00:00.000+01:00

After the incident on Wednesday, the angered black chap came back on Thursday (my day off) and ended up dragging one of the male cleaners into the female toilets and giving him a bit of a slapping. The male cleaner, you see, is the brother of one of the chaps who works in the arcade, the latter of whom was quite heavily involved in some of the name-calling the day before. The black guy had started on the brother and the cleaner had dragged him off, and then it all went tits-up. It's finally over now, as the entire black group left the park - on their own whim - at 5am Friday morning.

I got the job, incidentally. It's about 65 per cent more than I'm earning now, and involves watching over people trying to rebuild their lives in a kind of halfway house, proving themselves to qualify for proper accomodation (through the council, etc). Most of these people are recovering addicts, alcoholics, victims of abuse, etc, who through their own fault - or perhaps not - have found themselves homeless. They all know this is a one-shot chance, but due to their nature, history, etc, many of them are extremely volatile and problematic.

To be honest, it's not a cause that's enormously close to my heart although I can certainly see the reasoning behind it all. The money, however, is superb for this area, and it'll be a very rich experience. Both Edmonson and myself got a position with the firm, and we'll split the week between us, doing 3 1/2 days each, 10pm until 9am, in a three/four-days on, three/fours-days off shift, which is a pattern that's going to take some getting used to. Going to bed at, say, 10am, means getting up at 3-4pm, even with only 5-6 hours sleep, which puts you in a different world to most other people.

Edmonson aside, nobody at work knows yet. Not even Jabba, which is something I feel quite bad about. Almost like I've betrayed the big guy. I'm trying to find a way to time this relevation, which is proving to be a bit of a bitch.

It's due to start September 17, although there's a possibility it may begin a week earlier. I have some training in Portsmouth to attend before all this, and will give my notice in for my current job within the next week. I still plan to keep my toe in the nightclub business, getting door work when I can fit it in. One big plus of the new job is half the week I won't have to do anything at all.

Another MAJOR plus is that the control room in my new place has a DVD player, and we're encouraged to 'watch films all night' to help keep us awake. Can you say 'sur-weet'?

In other news, my brand-spanking new Nokia N95 arrives Wednesday.

Update.

2007-08-23T15:30:00.000+01:00

Another big brawl at work last night. And, yeah, it was a race war. Again.

One (very large) black guy swore blind he heard some white guy call him a 'black bastard'. Problem was, he didn't know exactly who said it, so thought it made more sense to take everybody on. Everybody who even looked at him. Everybody white who so much as passed by.

Between us Edmonson and myself calmed him down, but it just kept on flaring up again to the point where we had to get him and his mates - most of which were trying to contain him as well - out of the main gates. I sympathised with the guy and told him as much - I hate that kind of shit - but we never saw anything, he wasn't sure what he heard and everybody else just seemed to be either trying to stir it up or look the other way. There's not a lot you can do. In those kinds of situations, getting people out of the door without it really kicking of is a big result. We did that. Still, it definitely did not end last night.

In other news, I got offered a pretty decent job, which I'm going to take. I'll wait to read the formal offer but it looks very good thus far. More detail on this when I'm looking at the cold print. Don't worry - it's dirtier than what I'm doing now.

Job.

2007-08-22T16:45:00.000+01:00

I had a very good interview today, for a position that is highly promising.

I won't say any more, as I'll jinx it.

That is all.

Ps. My days off recently changed - it's now Mondays and Thursdays.

Blacker.

2007-08-20T02:30:00.000+01:00

Hmmm.

After what I wrote in my last post, I came into work yesterday to be faced with a complaint suggesting that the security team had been racist. What happened was Bilbo - against my best advice - had responded, despite not witnessing the incident, to a report from some parents that their white children had been bullied off the dance machine in the arcade by some black kids. Bilbo told the black girls to go home and get their parents so he could speak to them. I told him there was no positive outcome here - there is no fucking way kids are going to march back to their folks and say they've been rumbled.

No: instead, what they clearly did was paint some pretty story and now there's this shit in print suggesting we handled it all badly, and, without actually specifically stating it as such, that the security team at this holiday park is on a par with The Third Reich. Like I give a fuck. Nothing will come of it, but it's a lesson learned.

I have two job interviews and several other possibilities this coming week. Watch this space.

Black.

2007-08-18T03:00:00.000+01:00

Well, a little bit of everything tonight.

First, at about five minutes into the shift, a police car, an ambulance, and a fire engine come roaring into the park. It appears that an owner had decided that it really wasn't the holiday venue for him and, instead, put his wallet, mobile phone and a letter up on a tree outside his caravan, then went back inside, locked himself in, poured petrol all over his body and set fire to himself.

He died.

It isn't in any way funny you insensitive bastards, but I'd heard the barbecues that the management threw for the owner's were smokin', but this one takes the cake.

(I'd never met the guy, so it's okay, really. God turns a blind eye if you don't actually know the people you mock. Incidentally, the note he had prepared said something about 'this isn't suspicious', would would ring all kinds of alarm bells if I was a cop.)

About half-midnight we had to eject about thirty 16-24 year-olds for repeatedly 'accidentally' breaking glasses and bottles. I told them if they behaved (quote: "If you don't fuck around spitting, swearing, smashing things and generally being pricks...") they could come back in half an hour or so later.

However... a bit earlier, I had to twice throw out a group of five locals. All probably 16-17 years old. They were fine with me but each time they were down at the main gates they felt some kind of compulsion to have a go at punters who were leaving. Most people ignore stuff like this, preferring to keep on the safe path back to their homes. Whether the chav/ASBO 'threat' is exaggerated or not, enough people believe in it to take no action.

Others, however - usually big blokes, or ballsy women - don't ignore it, and as per usual each time somebody came back at them the locals backed off, or one of the others would drag his mate back and say something ludicrous like, "He's not worth it..." Around 1am I thought they'd long gone, but no... one of them had stayed behind and decided it would be just killer to not only mouth off at a mother, but to knock her baby pram, too.

Well, the mother went fucking ape shit, as you can imagine, chasing the boy near out of the park. But not quite out, however, as her husband then ran upon the kid and started beating him to a bloody pulp. I had to intervene - I didn't want to, but there are cameras everywhere, and me standing back eating popcorn while even a chav dies probably wouldn't go down too well in court - and after I'd told him to, "Fuck off and run the fuck out of here!", he did. I calmed the family down - the mother was especially heated - but to be honest I'd have done the exact same thing in their position. You fuck with my kids and you die, plain and simple.

Unfortunately, the collective already outside the gates thought it would be just swell to goad the mother into chasing after the chav so none of them came back into the complex, either.

This week we've also had a bit of a black and white issue.

There has been, for some reason, a large group of black families in the park this week. And lots and lots of black kids. There are also lots and lots of white kids, too (plus one Chinese, but he just sits in the corner crying, picking his nose.) They're all about the same age - 15-18 - and it's been a recipe for fun.

The problem is, we've had x amount of what I would call slightly stereotypical British families. You know, old-fashioned types that would rather spend a fortune (£100/night in August) at a holiday park 'down South' than spend the same money abroad on Johnny Foreigner. Those that think PG Tips and Heinz Beans are more important than decent weather and learning how to say "Thank you" in a native tongue. People of the land. You know: morons.

Well, we have a few of those in. Most, lovely, lovely people. Just racist as fuck. "Yeah," one said, "I saw a load of the blacks picking on a young girl earlier."

"Well," I'd reply, "I'm not really comfortable confronting people simply on the basis of their colour. Whom do you mean specifically?"

"The blacks."

"Right."

See, one of the major problems we face in this poxy business is that if you haven't witnessed it yourself, you can't really do fuck all about it. Now, that's common sense when you think about it, but if you then throw in the risk of being seen as a racist as well - rightly or wrongly in this crazy modern world - it complicates things a lot more.

When people start telling me that 'blacks' are doing anything, I'm inclined, by default, to think they are not. Now, don't get me wrong - some of the black kids this week have been right little cunts. But then, of course, so have some of the white kids too. And that Chinese kid never has a fucking tissue.

Bottom line? Unless I'm fortunate enough to see the deed myself, I'm not going to go all strike team on 'the blacks' just because some twenty-something McKenzie-wearing dufus says he saw shit happen. I didn't see it happen. And if I'm being honest, I'm not convinced you did, either. Now go and get a proper hair-cut. Tram-lines? What the fuck is this: 1984?

One of a kind. Thankfully.

2007-08-16T04:00:00.000+01:00

I forgot to mention last night that the evening's cabaret was none other than David Copperfield.

No, not that one - the third wheel in the 1980s comedy 'gem', Three Of A Kind.

That's him, on the far right, alongside Tracy Ulman and Lenny Henry, who both went on to great success, despite having no talent whatsoever.

So, yeah. He did a comedy set for an hour or so.

He was fucking shit.

I'm pretty sure I read once that he became an alcoholic; it must have took, as he was knocking back pints at the bar after his act. He left some time later in something bordering on a drunk disgrace.

Brawl.

2007-08-15T03:30:00.000+01:00

Well.

Pre-team meeting (Thursday at 5pm, fact-fans), it really couldn't have gone any better. Or worse, depending on your point of view.

Your typical night, really. Very busy, the arcades in particular, with groups of kids doing crazy things like tilting the two-penny waterfall machines to make a hedonistic 24p (or more!). Lots of underage drinkers, etc. An early highlight was a heavily pregnant woman passing out due to the intense heat in the main bar (the air conditioning is still broken), falling back off her chair and hitting her head on a table. I had to do the first aid - fortunately, she was a trained nurse, and diagnosed herself to a clean bill of health.

So, it's around 1.30am and last orders has been called. Jones and I had been very closely watching a pair of very-heated brothers for an hour or so, but they seemed to have calmed down. I left the main bar to have a look in the arcades when suddenly over the radio came the now-familiar, but eternally unfathomable, "SDSD SDHKS DKS DKSHDKSH DSK DHSKH!" What this means, of course, is that there's a problem in the main bar. Duh.

I go inside and The Lodge is just marginally visible between at least eight other women of various ages on the dance floor, and around this group is probably 15-20 other people, all looking a tad animated. I walk over to see what is going on, and before I can even make out what The Lodge is saying it all goes a bit, well, berserk.

And, as per usual of late, it was nearly all women.

Fists flying everywhere, pushing, shoving, bad language, and one cracking punch from one women to another that connected full-on and very quickly resulted in a Rocky-style downpour of blood from the punchee's unfortunate face. Then it really hit the fan, with husbands, boyfriends, brothers, ad infinitum, all getting stuck in, and one chap thought he was helping the situation by picking up a 16-year old girl and throwing her into the stage. He misjudged his surroundings, however, as that only made things worse.

Finally, we managed to calm it all down. By then, The Lodge had taken a punch in the face. Bilbo, who was useless again to a point where I had to SHOUT AT HIM IN FRONT OF EVERYONE, had also taken one on the chin, but that kind of seemed fair enough given that instead of getting one of the key women out when he could have done he walked the other fucking way. Poor Jones had lost his earpiece and had the misfortune to have had one large woman stand on his foot and literally tear his shoe in two. Look:

That's what you call a trophy. I took one of the key families out the back firedoors and walked them all the way back to their villa (which was, naturally, miles away). We went from "I'm calling the police!" to "I only did what every other mother would have done!" (this came from the cracking punch thrower) to "Thanks for your help, ADJ!". Good times.

From start to finish the entire brawl took about an hour to clean up.

What this all means, of course, is that all of these people - and there was some twenty-five involved in total - who are here until the weekend at least, are most likely going to kick off again, and again, and again.

What this means for me is free drinks at the bar, as I actually got one tonight for the first time in fucking weeks.

Who's who? And where? And why?

2007-08-14T14:00:00.000+01:00

Yesterday, as expected, Worthy handed in his notice.

This leaves six door staff to cover the full seven days of the working week. Well, really it's 4 1/2 - The Lodge never comes up to the main complex until quite literally last orders have been called (it's a unique talent that she possesses) and Bilbo is about five-feet tall in heels.

Let's have a quick refresher as to who has gone where since the beginning of the season!

(In order of their join date. Those still around are in bold.)

1. Captain Jack - was fired for gross misconduct.

2. The Lodge - still here, but spends about 5 per cent of her hours in the main complex. You know, the place where all the bad stuff happens.

3. A Dirty Job - moi.

4. Edmonson - still here, but has been on holiday for the past week.

5. Jabba - still here.

6. Other Blonde Female DS I'm Not Sure I Ever Mentioned - quit after a week.

7. Bilbo - still here.

8. Shrek - was given the boot for being a complete dick.

9. Worthy - quit this week.

10. Jones - came back to work last week. Now non-agency.

11. Potter - was given the boot when his agency contract ran out.

12. Popeye - quit last week.

So, as you can see, there are six of us left. Which gives us a bit of a maths problem, as the site needs a minimum of four DS Monday through Thursday and five for the weekend (inc. Friday). Everybody is contracted to have two days off per week. The end result is the beginning and the end of the week suddenly has a huge void, as the work rota hasn't changed since people have left, and many people now suddenly have the same days off.

To conclude, we have an 'emergency' meeting later this week. Is it finally all going to end?

---

Last night I spend half an hour trying to explain to a fortysomething man why it wasn't okay for his two under-fifteen year-old daughters to be openly drinking WKD in the main bar. The basis of his (flawed) argument was that because the day security had turned a blind eye to some locals drinking cans of Tenants Extra and "spitting and swearing everywhere" outside the main gates then we should turn a blind eye here. "Tell me," he said, "Is it one rule for one?" thus totally stamping on his own argument.

"These are licensed premises," I repeatedly said in various degrees of clarity, "That is outside. By buying a drink for your children in here, you are openly breaking the law."

He didn't want to get it, was the problem, and seemed to take great issue with me possibly assuming that he was a lousy parent. I don't think he actually was, but he was a misguided one, and drunk, naturally, which really didn't help his case. After twenty minutes I was very bored - hearing the same words over and over will do that to a man - and had to wrap it up, agreeing to disagree and suggesting to him that out of sight, out of mind might be the best policy for him. If we didn't see it, we didn't care, and we didn't have to worry about other parents thinking they could do the same for their kids, too.

He concurred.

Ten minutes later, one of his girls was dancing wildly on a chair, bottle of WKD quite clearly on the go.

"Fuck it," I thought. I won't be the one who loses my license.

Weekend.

2007-08-13T13:30:00.000+01:00

Right, let's see.

Saturday: busy night but generally uneventful. 2am, and we're closing the place down, getting the last few people out. All owners, of course, maybe fifteen of them. Several women. All of whom have a shit load of history.

One of them, a total pisshead I've written about before, had come up for some late drinks with a chap who works in park security. They're kind of a known couple, unofficially. Unofficial because she's married and it's his ass on the line. Both were pissed tonight, which didn't help, and they were standing at the bar amongst the other owners.

Jabba had noticed something wasn't right and after radioing to tip us off, had gone into the complex manager's office to have a closer, more private look on the cameras. It was less than a minute later when it all went tits-up.

First, I had to split up two of the female owners who were literally in each other's faces, and were on the verge of lady fisticuffs before I pulled them apart and Jabba carted the pisshead one off, smashing his thumb up on the firedoor in the process (somehow, when women are involved, he always ends up getting hurt.) While he was getting the drunkard outside, the other womam she was rowing with, who had clearly had all of her buttons pushed, turned on the other female owners at the bar.

With me right in the middle.

I had one literally on my back, reaching over to grab another one's hair. The other one was reaching over me from the front, threatening and trying to do XYZ. Two others were in front of me to my left, trying to get past (I had my arms stretched out from the bar to the railing, in an attempt at a one-man human wall) while two more just stood there, right next to all of this, looking on the verge of hysteria.

Man, the shit that came out of these women's mouths, I ain't ever heard.

And they all had glasses in their hands. I couldn't help thinking, fuck, I'm going to end up getting bottled by a middle-aged slapper. Oh, the dignity.

Finally I got them far enough apart and the mental one also outside (no thanks to Bilbo, who somehow managed to keep himself 3-5 metres distant from anything even remotely resembling hostility) and we calmed the situation down. End result, the original pisshead now has a permanent bar, and one of the others is on very thin ice. Good times.

Sunday: was very busy, and finally felt like what 'peak season' should. All pretty much run-of-the-mill stuff until, lo and behold, about 8pm, fucking Numbnuts came marching in.

"Just going to Burger King," he said.

No you're fucking not mate, I replied. You've got a full complex ban.

And then, of course, we had another ten minutes of how he had never done anything wrong, and how we must be used to people like him, and how he was going to tear my fucking head off, etc etc, blah blah blah. His missus was with him as well. Lovely woman, who was kind enough to tell us that the park was a 'shit-hole', and how everybody from Hastings was a right cunt.

Why do these people not understand that we don't give a fuck?

Saturday.

2007-08-12T04:30:00.000+01:00

Fucking hell, it all kicked off tonight.

Women. Fighting.

Owners, naturally. And I was right smack-bang in the middle of the shit.

More tomorrow. And I've got some stuff to say about racism, too. Oh yeah.

Wee.

2007-08-11T03:30:00.000+01:00

I worked tonight.

The usual crap; as mentioned before, Popeye had taken 10 days off and was on the verge of getting the boot when he called up and quit. Now, Worthy hasn't come in for a week. Edmonson has taken a week off, so we've gone from being generally short-staffed - now entering a record fourth week in a row without a single night of a full team being on, folks - to being fucking short-staffed. Honestly, it's getting quite ridiculous.

It's pretty clear, however, that the park is struggling. The 'peak season' we were consistently warned about has yet to happen, and to be honest the place was busier back in Easter than it is now, and by some way. And none of this compares to those poxy football weekends. Really, even with the low numbers of DS on duty it's a piece of piss.

Give it a week, and I'll be dead, you watch.

----

Incident this evening: a young couple were walking down to the gates with their three young children. One of the boys, who was maybe five or six, was holding his crotch.

"Jesus," said the mother, "How many times are you going to go to the toilet tonight? That's the last time I buy you one of these." She motioned towards the supersized plastic drink container in her hands.

"Yeah," said the dad, WITH NO IRONY OR INTENTIONAL COMEDY WHATSOEVER, "You're just taking the piss..."

Progress.

2007-08-08T14:30:00.000+01:00

I think the antibiotics have finally started to kick-in.

Man, that shit was painful yesterday. I know, I know - whining on about a little bit of pain. But it got so bad that eventually I had no option but to file down my own tooth. Which wasn't entirely pleasant, let me tell you. But it made a massive difference. And I think I'm finally coming out of the cave.

Meantime, I managed to get a picture of one of the midgets.

The funny bit is the barmaid there is only about 5ft3. Bless. Still, you'd have to ask for ID, wouldn't you, just for a laugh?

Regression.

2007-08-07T16:00:00.000+01:00

As mentioned previously, one of my molars has broken, and I've now got a thumbnail-sized ulcer/blister on my tongue. This has become infected, says the doctor. Believe me, it fucking hurts enough for me to agree. I can't speak much. For many, this is a good thing. When I do speak, I'm one half-step away from being identified as the missing link.

However, I'm still working. That's right, bitch - I'm hardcore.

(Although codeine is playing a minor role in my performance.)

Bilbo showed up last night - for five minutes, wearing a fucking eyepatch. This is to support one of his latest lies, that he got involved in a big scrap down the town on the weekend. Needless to say, he didn't bother working. Just showed up to let us all see his homegrown attempt at convincing us he'd been to the hospital and they'd told him he shouldn't work.

Popeye has quit - I'm not sure I mentioned it, but he hadn't turned up for ten days in a row. So, to be honest, it was kind of coming.

What this means is that we've all come full-circle, and are back to the exciting, heady days of April, where only really three of us can be relied upon to turn up for their shift, and everybody else is a bit of an x-factor.

What this means for me is more money, or I quit.

The tooth.

2007-08-06T02:45:00.000+01:00

Initially, I have to inform you that I am in a lot of pain.

At some point today, one of my molars decided to kind of fall apart. Basically, the side fell out, and as this particular tooth contained a filling ("Look ma, no cavities!" / "Shut the fuck up!"), that is now sticking out into my mouth, like a little dagger. And, subsequently, has formed an ulcer on my tongue, and then decided to cut it open. So the tooth hurts, and my tongue hurts. And the ulcer on my tongue hurts.

Now, this isn't your typical doorman bravado, but it might amuse you to know that because my tongue is swollen, I've been talking like Joey Deacon on valium for most of the night.

"Cann I thee your path pleathe?"

"What?"

Anyway... on to this evening's highlights. Remember that owner who was booted off park for headbutting Bilbo? ("Foursomes, firings and fights.") Well, as I mentioned back then, I was off that night and so never got to meet the guy. Well, this knowledge was clearly known to the chap and his cohorts, as, bold as brass, they came up to me tonight, alone at the gate, waving their passes around (which, for some fucking reason, they still had) and naturally I let them through. Five minutes later, Bilbo calls me on the radio, and asks to meet him outside the arcade. He looks a tad stressed. Let's call the banned ex-owner Moonie.

"Yeah... Moonie is in the complex."

"Oh right," I say, not thinking much about it, because of course I never actually saw him go inside, "Well, kick him out then."

"I'm not doing it," says Bilbo, "He headbutted me, remember."

I did. "Fine," I say, and go inside to find Moonie. It doesn't take long, and after I've intrigued him with a, "Sorry mate, you have a complex ban I believe? Yeah, I'll have to escort you back outside the gates." he exits. He's fine, a little embarrassed if anything. His missus, however, who by all accounts caused most of the problems that led to them being kicked off the park, gives me all kinds of p'urty mouth. I don't think much of it - I'm immune to most of that shit now.

Outside, however, once I've made sure Moonie and his biatch are long gone, one of the non-banned owners who was with them drops a bombshell on me - Moonie never headbutted Bilbo. He went to headbutt him, sure, she says, but pulled himself back in time when he realised it was not who he thought. She knows this because she witnessed it. Bilbo, in his infinite wisdom, pulled the classic 'fighter's' trick of saying x happened when really it was x-1.

Now, you might be thinking, hold on, what if she was telling you porky pies mate? And usually I'd go along with that perspective, or at least give it an even shot at the mic. But this is Bilbo we're talking about, who lies about fucking everything. The (female) owner seemed absolutely plausible. After all, what did she have to gain? We weren't going to reverse the ban, because Moonie had done numerous other things that night to more than justify it.

Does it matter? Not really, as that ship has long sailed. But as I've pointed out many times, every fucking story has a zillion sides.

The little things.

2007-08-05T03:30:00.000+01:00

We get all-sorts at my place and if there's one thing I've got out of it all, it's the experience of interacting with a lot of different people, many of whom I'd rarely cross paths with in 'the real world' (whatever that is.) Granted, most of them are 'salt of the Earth' types, but even that pigeonhole is a surprisingly rich one.

Saturday is now the big 'check-in' day and the park was fucking packed, pretty much from the start. As I've said before, you do your best to remember faces because, after a day or two, people like to think you've noticed them, and won't bother asking for a pass, happily waving them through instead. The truth, however, is that unless they've done something to be noticed, you probably won't remember. This pisses some people off, others just accept it.

Some folk, however, don't have to do anything. They just have to be unique enough to be instantly memorable. A fine example tonight was a family made up entirely of dwarves. And by 'dwarves', I mean really little, little people. They were perfectly nice but, well, they were tiny. And the bit that made them really stand-out - ironically - was their little disabled cars.

Now, disabled people need disabled cars. They're those big, fuck-off things that weigh about a ton and go 'BEEP BEEP BEEP' in a really irritating way when they reverse. Little people need little disabled cars, that look like they weigh about the same as ten bags of sugar and probably squeak or some shit when going backwards. These cars were tiny. And they all had them. And, so, when they zipped up to the gates, asked a question, and then went away again, it was like a scene out of Super Mario Kart. I mean, I'm half-tempted to turn up at work tomorrow with a radio control and see if I can maneuver some of them around the park.

Okay, this isn't very PC, but fuck that shit. Some things are just funny. It's nobody's fault, and I'm not enough of a fucking bastard to openly mock people to their faces, but I challenge anybody with a reasonable sense of humour to not get some enjoyment out of little guys whizzing around on little cars. That's good shit. Not as funny as this, but not much is.

Notebook found in a deserted holiday park.

2007-08-04T10:00:00.000+01:00

This is a written account of a conversation that took place, almost to the letter, last week. I'd been working the lower bar alone, and had some hassle from a couple of 18-19 year olds, who in all likelihood were locals. I'd refused them entry, and they'd given me some lip, and a bit more when they drove off past the bar. However, when a couple of older lady owners came up and said one of the lads had tried to assault them, I felt it best to call it into the security lodge, and so I got on the radio.

"Yeah, lodge... I've just had two 18-19 year old lads, probably locals, trying to get into here. I refused them entry, they gave me some abuse, and I've now had two female owners come forward saying that they tried to assault them. They've just driven off in a silver Volkswagen, new, either a Polo or a Golf. Can you swing the cameras down by the back exit and see where they go? Thanks."

A few seconds silence.

"Yeah, ADJ... what colour was the car?

"Silver Volkswagen."

"Yeah... was it red?"

"Silver Volkswagen."

"Yes, but what colour was it?"

"SILVER Volkswagen."

"Oh, sorry... I didn't hear you say silver."

Minutes pass.

"Yeah, ADJ... a silver car has just driven out of the complex."

"Was it a Volkswagen?"

Beat.

"No."

You're welcome.

2007-08-02T03:00:00.000+01:00

One thing I've grown to appreciate is when punters say 'thank you' when they leave the premises.

They don't have to do this, and not all of them do. But a surprisingly large percentage oblige, and it's a good thing. It's not as if, in most cases, you've done anything directly. You probably haven't even said one word to them. They're thanking you for being there. For being a presence. They're thanking you for keeping an eye on them, even if they are less than one-thousandth of everybody else - they know you're watching. And if you're not really watching them you're probably watching the people who might be.

And they're thanking you for not being a cunt because, of course, many, many people are.

"Cheers, mate."

As I said, it's the little things.

I'm the guy who does his job. You must be the other guy.

2007-08-01T03:30:00.000+01:00

The usual whinges tonight - after initially being stuck with the A-team of Bilbo and The Lodge, I switched with Edmonson and willingly spent half the night down the lower bar. Believe me, it was the lesser of two evils.

I came in earlier and was informed that there had been seven complaints about the door team made today. Seven. I couldn't fucking believe it, especially when I found out that a few of them had come from a pair of owners who have always gone out of their way to be friendly towards Jabba and myself. After digging a little, I discovered that all the complaints were about other members of the team (and even most of these were complete fabrications of the actual events, because I was fucking there for all of them.) Still, I'd have been none the wiser if I hadn't actually, you know, asked. Everybody else just blindly accepted it.

It comes to something when you work for a company that doesn't have a single person in management that you can actually trust. #1 is a sound guy, but he's fed me enough 'promises' over the past few months to make me realise that he's essentially (a) powerless and (b) incapable of looking you in the eye and admitting he fucked up, when he does. What do you do when nobody above you gives a flying fuck? You look for another job, that's what, which, yes, I'm still doing.

But what I've learned, perhaps slowly, is that everything feels a lot better when you employ the favour system. That is, somebody does something for me, I do something for them. Vice versa, and so on. Etc etc. Nothing major - I ain't talking about trading eight-balls for blow jobs. Just the little things.

Those fuckers add up.

Party Party Party.

2007-07-31T03:00:00.000+01:00

My apologies for the recent lack of prose.

I got totally fucked at the team party (not in that way, although others, of course, did), and basically came home, had a few more ciders, watched Leaving Las Vegas (you know, for the laughable irony) and then collapsed, spending most of my daylight hours under the darkness of cover.

The party was a blast - it always amuses to see who pairs up with whom, because relationships are always forming in large companies and while some of them are blatant there are several that you're like, "What the fuck!?" There's always, of course, several blokes after that one girl and several girls after that one bloke; add alcohol to the mix, and you have the recipe for a punch-up. Or, at least, as in this case, a bit of a camp Benny Hill-like chase around the park. Men can be such bitches.

Nothing to do with me, I might add. We spent all our time stashing an assortment of the free bottled beverages beneath our chairs so as to ensure that the hip, cool crowd on my table never ran out of hard liquor. Free is free; I think I put away about 15 bottles of Carlsberg, Smirnoff Ice, Red Square, some pissy orange/vodka shite and whatever else was available, mostly in variations on the turbo shandy theme. Yeah, classy.

Meantime, a covern of twenty-something ENTS girls felt it was their duty to collectively bitch at and roll their eyes towards the 31-year old dancing alone, but enthusiastically-slash-provocatively, in the middle of the room. "She has four children, you know," they'd say, then, "She should be ashamed. Where are her kids now? Where?" Women. Rarely take one for the team, I've found.

Otherwise, the usual shite at work - it's peak-season now, so we're packed, and naturally the depth and weight of guest numbers has immediately become inversely proportional to the amount of DS who decide to turn up for their shift. Just two of us tonight, and one of them was Bilbo, so more like one-and-a-half, really (and that's being generous.) Poor Jabba had to come in at 9pm, and might have to repeat this trick tomorrow. He has just come back from a week's holiday, but still, it's not his problem, and all that. Oh - and the new lady with the SIA badge has, it seems, already stated that she won't do doors here, or ever again, thanks to being beaten up quite severely a while back. Again, the complex isn't her problem either, but it all adds up to one gigantic pile o' shite.

Zzzzzz.

2007-07-29T03:30:00.000+01:00

One day off isn't nearly enough; to whit, my sleeping patterns have fucked up overnight.

I went to bed around 2am but woke up at 5, and just couldn't get back to sleep. Hence, I've been up nearly 24 hours and I'm fucking exhausted. So, I'll polish off this cider and summarise tonight in a few key words: three on, small wet dog, owners, eyes right, punched in the knackers. Prizes to any and all who can decipher the fiendish clues.

Tomorrow: the team ~~party~~ meeting.

Infighting.

2007-07-27T02:30:00.000+01:00

Oh, it's getting ugly.

The Lodge was off tonight, and I came in to cover Jabba, who's been on holiday all week. The thing is, nobody wants to do the lower bar, really, and Popeye, who veers from being somebody who you can get on with to a total fucking bell-end refused to do it. So Worthy did it for the second day in a row, and wasn't happy. Hence, we're now going to have an 'official' rota for the poxy thing to stop people bitching and whining about having to do it. Or, they're going to have to properly discipline The Lodge, put her back down there and keep an eye on her. Or do a swap between her and new woman, as suggested.

However, we're in the 'simmering' stage again, and it's going to get messy real soon. There's a team meeting coming up and I dare say the shit will fly.

I only have one day off this week.

Don't you feel bad for me?

Bottom.

2007-07-26T02:30:00.000+01:00

Well, the situation with The Lodge is getting a bit messy.

Either the timing is poor and she is quite ill, or she's doing some kind of silent protest. I can understand why she'd be miffed about losing control of the lower bar - I mean, now she has to work, and shit - but she went home tonight, again at 8pm, and again with a headache. Actually, that's not entirely true - she said she was going home. What she did was work in the lodge for an hour and a half. And then went home. And this was after I caught her working in the arcade change booth just so she could have a bit of a sit down.

It's nothing personal, but when we lose somebody reliable like Worthy to the lower bar and gain The Lodge, it's almost like losing two men. She's pleasant enough and I get on well with her, but as per usual, the team is only as strong as its weakest link. And so on.

I think the solution might lay in a subtle swap with The Lodge and our latest female SIA-approved member. But you watch - YOU WATCH!!! - she'll turn out to be a cannibal or something.

The lowlight this evening: each night, prior to the dancefloor being opened proper, a mini stage has to be pushed back in under the main one to make room for all those crazy kids (you know, doing the twist and stuff.) Whichever doorman is closest is always called over to push it in, as the fucker weighs a ton. It was me tonight, and so off I went. However, once I was bent down and in mid-push, the DJ grabbed the microphone and shouted to the packed bar, "Let's have a round of applause for ADJ's arse!" And the place fucking erupted. I supposed it could have been worse - silence, or even booing - but Christ that's not easy to recover from. Especially with several other DS present in the room.

It all worked out in the end, though - I got myself another pair of hot dogs.

Mark Wahlberg's audition for The Departed.

2007-07-25T14:30:00.000+01:00

The Departed is one of the best movies - like, ever, dude - but this shit is fucking hilarious. Won't make any sense at all unless you've seen the film. And if you haven't, why the fuck not, douchebag?

The switch.

2007-07-25T02:30:00.000+01:00

The breaking news upon arriving for my shift this evening was being told by #1 that The Lodge, due to a vast number of complaints, can now no longer work the lower bar, and must work exclusively in the main complex. This sucks for various reasons, but most notably because I will now have to do the lower bar a couple of times a week.

Complaints? Numerous things, including but not limited to being generally lazy and sitting around doing crossword puzzles and the like, blindly oblivious to all and sundry entering the venue. And - heavens, no - somebody saw her playing the over-eighteen fruit machines. Not my words - those are the words of Heat magazine. No, sorry: #1. The Lodge was furious, spent two hours in the lodge being angry, and then went home with 'a migraine', not actually working a single minute in the main complex. Ho hum. I give it a week before she threatens to quit over this and is reinstated down below. They'll die before they lose a female DS, although coincidentally a new one began working - on park - yesterday. Don't fret - she's rough as old boots. And bossy, I've heard. Not a winning combo.

So, as said, tonight I worked the lower bar, and Christ, it was about as exciting as a Pope-approved cut of The Exorcist. So, instead, I'll leave you with this joke, which is good enough that for a moment you might actually be able to persuade yourself that it could actually work in real life.

A bloke is racing down the motorway, 120mph. Naturally, it's not long before a police car is chasing behind him, siren raging. The guy pulls over, and the cop gets out of his car, walks across and taps on the window. The man winds it down.

"Do you know what speed you were doing?" asks the copper.

"Yeah," says the man, "About 120 miles per hour."

The cop looks annoyed. "Can I see your license please?" he asks.

"Sorry mate," says the bloke, "I don't have it with me."

By now the policeman is fuming. "Get out of the car, now," he says.

"Alright mate," says the bloke, "But first you need to know a couple of things. One, I've got a loaded handgun in the glove compartment. And two, in the boot is the body of a man I just killed in cold blood."

The cop is suddenly nervous. Panicking, he gets on his radio, demanding serious backup. It's not long before several police vehicles have pulled up, and even the Chief Superintendent has arrived. After speaking to the constable, he immediately takes charge of the case, and marches over to the bloke, who is still seated in his car.

"Sir, can you open your glove compartment for me please?"

The man does as he is asked. Inside is nothing but his driving license. The Chief's eyes narrow, but he says nothing more.

"Right, can you now open the boot of your car for me please?"

The man gets out of his car, opens the boot and, lo and behold, inside is nothing but his golf clubs.

The Chief looks confused. "I don't understand," he says, "My constable said you had a loaded gun in your glove compartment, and the body of a dead man in the boot."

The man looks at the Chief, and, shaking his head, says, "Oh really? I bet the cunt said I was speeding too, didn't he?"

"I'm Hotdogacus."

2007-07-24T03:00:00.000+01:00

Remember ages ago I was moaning on about how the complex manager had decreeded that instead of any leftover hot dogs going to the working security staff, the guy who was selling them must throw them away instead? In other words, security aren't even good enough to qualify for trash food.

Well, thankfully, the hot dog kid (for it is he) ignored this and helped us out when he could. However, a free dog has become an increasingly rare bird, quite simply because of late they're bloody popular. They sell out - 100s - all the time.

Well, tonight, finally, he had enough left for us each to have one. Great. We'd hit closing time and I double-checked with him again and, yes, he'd kept some back. So, I'm walking towards the main bar and just before I get there I see this little kid crying his eyes out. He's like five or six, and sitting on the floor, bawling, about ten feet from the hot dog stand. "What's the matter mate?" I ask.

"I wanted a hot dog," he said, holding out a little hand full of the right money, "But the man says they don't have any left."

Well, by now a few of the other security team had gathered around, and all had taken this in. And suddenly, it was like a scene out of Spartacus. First me:

"No, look," I said, to the hot dog kid, "Let him have my hot dog..."

"No," said Popeye (the newest guy), "Let him have mine..."

"No," said another, "He can have my hot dog..."

And on and on. The thing was, Popeye was insistent that he didn't want his so he gave it up. The kid was thrilled, and happily handed over his £2.50.

Meantime, the hot dog kid had miscounted and after we'd locked up I got to eat two. Result. Everybody wins. Capitalism at its finest.

Shooter (2007)

2007-07-23T14:30:00.000+01:00

Just watched this - predictable, and nothing you haven't really seen before, but good, old-fashioned, 1980s-style action entertainment nevertheless.

Recommended, possibly after a session at the pub.

Super Size You.

2007-07-23T02:00:00.000+01:00

The post-Super Size Me, decent, public-conscious, we're looking after your best interests approach to business practices and marketing that the majority of food and drink corporations took onboard after the impact of the movie seems to have been lost on the powers-that-be at my place.

Instead of framed photgraphs of athletes running over mountains with motivational slogans like IF YOU BELIEVE IN YOURSELF, OTHERS WILL BELIEVE IN YOU, we get shit like this in our staff room:

No, you will win. We - the common proles - get fuck all. I tell you, it's like The Bermuda Triangle here. Even the fucking weather is different.

Spice.

2007-07-22T03:00:00.000+01:00

Well, it's all gone a bit tits-up whilst I've been off.

Bilbo's hours have been cut, and he's now on staggered starts. There's numerous reasons why, but he hasn't helped his case of late by turning out to be something of a supergrass. Particularly when he tried to put one of the park guys in the crap who's actually probably the most well-liked bloke in security. Big mistake.

I got some terrible news tonight; the new guy has been offered work on the Spice Girls reunion tour and I'm pretty sure I could blag my way in if I wanted to. Six months around the world, all the top hotels, etc, at £200/day plus all expenses paid. You get to be a bodyguard for any one Spice Girl - now, I'd probably get that filthy lezza Mel C instead of the Goddess that is Emma Bunton but at that kind of money, who cares? However, if I take this job on, I might as well sign my divorce papers here and now. Still, I can see myself walking in on a tipsy Bunton whilst she's in the shower and HELLO ten minutes later I'm getting a cracking tit wank.

Or something. Or possibly it's Mel C and I'll open with some crass line like, "I'll cure you..." It's all good. Or rather, it's not - there's no way it can happen, and hence my heart has now taken on the characteristics and physical weight of a stone.

Team party at work next Sunday - free beer! Nobody has anything bad to say about that.

Earlier, a muslim lady came down to the gates and accused us of being racist. Well, not me and Jabba personally, but security, plural. Actually, it was one chap - the guy who checks passes in the day. Specifically, she said she'd watched him just wave some 'white women' through and then make a big deal about checking the passes of her mother and aunties, who were decked out in their hijabs, etc. "We're not carrying any fucking bombs!", she said, loudly.

I didn't see it so couldn't really comment, but we don't really like the guy who does the days so told her to make a full complaint. The thing was, she was pissed out of her head, and kept on saying that she couldn't go back to her chalet because her mother didn't know she drank - it was forbidden - and that she'd go mental. I thought, you're not really helping your case much, are you love? It then started to rain heavily, so she scurried off, leaving us with the passing words, "You won't remember me in the morning, that's the funny thing!"

Quite.

Maths.

2007-07-19T03:00:00.000+01:00

We stuck it to the man tonight. Hell, yeah.

Four of us on duty, but only two licensed doorstaff. Now, legally, the policy at my place is that at all times there must be two licensed doormen in the main complex, and one in the lower bar. The Lodge normally does the lower bar, but today is her day off. Nobody else likes or wants to do the lower bar. So, collectively, we thought: fuck it.

One thing I'm not sure I've ever mentioned is that The Lodge gets paid more than the rest of us. This is because (1) she was the first licensed member of the team to sign on the dotted line, and refused to work for less and (2) she's a woman. That sounds a bit sexist, and it is, but not on my part - companies bend over backwards for female DS (perhaps ironically.)

As I think I did mention, I had a meeting with the female head of security t'other day who informed me that there was absolutely no room for upside on our hourly rate, and that The Lodge was paid what she was because she had to work the lower bar alone. "It's more equitable that way," I was told, laughably.

There's nothing personal about all this - I've grown to really like The Lodge, and to be honest she's as embarrassed about all this shit as we are pissed-off.

More policy: no unlicensed doorman is allowed to work the lower bar alone. Now, this presents a little mathematical problem for the company (which is starting to resemble The Umbrella Corporation more and more each week.)

Lynch (#2) didn't begin his shift until midnight, but shortly afterwards he called over the radio to say he wanted to see all doorstaff together after the main complex was shut down (the lower bar was already closed, but he'd twigged that nobody had been down there all night.)

Fine. We closed the fucker down, and went to see him.

"Right," he says, "There was four of you on tonight. Why was nobody down the lower bar?"

"Well," I replied, "I had a meeting with nameofthefemalesecurityboss on Monday and she explictly told me that the reason that The Lodge is paid more than us is because she has to work the lower bar by herself. However, we won't be paid that same money if we have to do it."

"Moreover," I added, "We only had two licensed doormen on duty tonight. We've also been told that at all times we must have two licensed members of the door-team in the main complex. We felt that, given the numbers of locals on the site lately and the problems we've had, it made sense to keep one licensed DS on the main gates and one in the clubs."

Lynch suddenly realised that this was going to be a problem at least twice a week - i.e., on The Lodge's off-days - until more licenses arrive (they're all being 'processed' by the SIA) or by some miracle we have more than two licensed DS on duty. "Hmmm," he mused, "We're fucked, aren't we?"

The reality is that Lynch doesn't really give a shit. What matters here is this will filter through to herthatwillbeobeyed tomorrow and come Saturday I'll be dragged into some shitty meeting to ask why I've made statements about things that she'll claim she never said. When she so fucking did. I ain't backing down - go on, sack me, and everyone else. You're fucked, me old sons.

Worker bees can leave.
Even drones can fly away.
The queen is their slave.

Foundations.

2007-07-18T03:00:00.000+01:00

No, I haven't quit. Thanks for all the emails and messages that enquired about this. I couldn't have been very clear yesterday - I'm looking to quit. Or, more specifically, to find alternative employment. Hence, I applied for about 25 jobs today. I'll let you know how it all turns out (badly, I'm sure.) I'm hoping somebody sees sense and hires me as a bounty hunter with a £5,000 retainer at £100/hour, plus expenses.

Only me and the new guy showed up tonight - can you believe this job?

All that said, I only have the one highlight. A woman, later revealed to be schizophrenic, went mental on the dancefloor in the family bar and started smashing bottles all over the place. As there was only the two of us on duty, I got there late, but quick enough to see her throwing her own kids around like a pair of rag dolls. I followed her out and intended to follow her all the way back to her chalet - treating kids like crap pushes all of my buttons (and not in a good way) - but her son, who couldn't have been older than eight, decided he'd had enough and went back into the complex to find dad. Park security took over stalking the woman so I went back to see how dad rated, and he turned out to be a complete mongoloid. I realise life has tragedy on every corner, but what chance do these kids have? Maybe some, as the boy, at least, seemed fairly together. But it's like some shitty Dickens tale where the young'uns raise grandpa, who's a total prick.

On a more sour note, thanks to repeated plays by the DJ I've actually started liking Kate Nash's Foundations. This irritates me more than you can imagine.

Fin.

2007-07-17T02:00:00.000+01:00

Tonight, in all probability, was the final straw.

Nothing kicked off at work - we had a minor domestic and a few chavs have to be separated from 'swinging' - but the problem this evening, and the continuing issue, is how we're treated by the big cheeses.

Now, it may seem like I bitch a lot on here - I'm not really sure how all of this comes across - but I've never known a place that treats every employee so equally. And not in a good way - that's equally poorly. If you're really good at your job, you're regarded and rewarded in the same way as somebody who is entirely average. What other company operates in this way? I've never experienced anything like it before in my life.

And it's especially bad in security.

I had a chat with the overall boss of security tonight, and she told me (in her usual polite, dulcet tone) that there was no more money in the security budget, so no plans to pick up the hourly wage, and that this was never going to change over the course of my contract.

In short: goodbye holiday park.

I've certainly given them enough opportunities, but how can you stay somewhere that doesn't reward good members of staff and doesn't punish the bad ones? It's the principle of the thing; by rolling with it, you're basically bending over and taking it up the shitter.

So, I'm officially looking for a new job.

Ideas welcome and appreciated; email them to dirtyjobblog@gmail.com. I'm not leaving security, so basically I'm considering areas in this line of work. It's broader than you probably think, so knock yourselves out. Of course, it needs to be a bit dirty. And if you hear of anything in the East Sussex area (or really, as far as London), that is just great, drop me a line. Ideally, something will crop up in the next month or so. In the meantime, don't fret: I'll still be blogging my arse away (just imagine how that sentence would have been received a decade ago.)

On a side note, yesterday was my 100th blog post. Go me.

Rain.

2007-07-16T02:30:00.000+01:00

What a shitty night.

First, that fucking thunderstorm. One minute, it's about 30 fucking degrees in the shade, and I'm thinking, Jesus, I can't do this all night, and then suddenly the fucking heavens fucking well open and, I don't know, God must have been pissed or something because He's spilling his bath water all over the bloody place. Within ten minutes, we have a four-inch river running around the outside of the complex, and then the ceiling in the arcade started flooding with water.

And I mean flooding.

My bath analogy above is sound; literally, it was like somebody was emptying bath after bath of water into the main arcade, all over those lovely shiny machines and all of their electricity. The power was cut reasonably quickly (but only after Jabba barked at one of the attendants). There was water everywhere, for at least half an hour, and this picture just does not do it justice at all.

That actually looks pretty good. It was so bad that any rational person - or, you know, somebody from Health & Safety - would have closed the entire place down without a second thought. The arcade was hit really bad, but we also had serious flooding in the toilets, and several leaks in the main bar. So what did the complex manager do? Close the place down? Noooo, he waited quarter of an hour and then asked the arcade manager to turn the machines back on. Which, thank fucking God, he refused to do.

Money, money, money, a Swedish band once said. And they were right.

But, you know, as soon as the rain eased off, droves of people began to leave, and I thought to myself: result, quiet night. But what actually happened was the good-natured, decent, reasonable individuals who figured an early night made the most sense were actually replaced by some of the biggest cunts and trouble-makers I've seen in months.

First, the new owner I discussed a while back, who has been quietly simmering for a while, tonight decided to piss off everybody and their uncle, and figured it would great for his future if he repeatedly referred to bar staff and the security team as 'cunts', 'wankers' and 'tossers'. He was ejected about 11pm, but not before doing that hot-and-cold thing that power-drinkers do, where one minute they're your mate and apologising and shit, and the next telling you that if you lay one hand on them they're going to 'end you'. And stuff.

Ten minutes later, his mate-for-the-night was also escorted partially home, so pissed that he was that he couldn't go more than five steps before wildly reering to one side or the other and smashing into a fence, plant or brick wall.

Then we had all kinds of aggro with a group of lads who, as the night went on, seemed to increase in number, until at one stage some of their dads were getting involved in the group decision to 'come back later and sort us all out.' Although, as I've said before, when anybody tells you that soon they're going to 'start swinging', they never, ever do.

Then, another large group kicked off outside the main gates. So we had two to keep an eye on, and soak up the threats.

Several obvious underage drinkers with authentic-looking ID - where they get these 1988 driver's licenses from is anybody's guess - but, fucking hell, we should have been closed right after those floods, so who gives a fuck, eh?

Dozens of broken bottles and glasses - the smoking ban has plenty of upside, but forcing pissheads to congregate outside the main doors is not one of them - and for about half an hour a genuine feeling amongst all of us that this was the night where it was all going to go 'fucking mental' and somebody was probably going to end up getting seriously maimed.

I tell you this - if there was no security on tonight, or even a couple of guys less, the place would have gone down the toilet. But all I'm going to hear over the next few weeks is how there are 'too many of us' on the nights when the shit doesn't go down. When it's quiet. When nobody notices us doing our thing. Wake up, dipshits: that's the point of the fucking job.

He said, she said.

2007-07-15T03:00:00.000+01:00

I've written in the past how they are always at least two opposing sides to any story - two versions to the truth, which I suppose means the truth is always somebody's version - and an item tonight highlighted this yet again.

I got called up to Burger King because two blokes had been playing up. They were clearly drunk, and there was talk that they'd been abusive to one of the young girls who works there. Because I didn't see anything I gave them the benefit of the doubt, but when they decided to start throwing their drinks about enough was enough. The venue manager wanted them out, and I walked over to take care of business.

"Sorry lads," I said, "I think you've had enough tonight. Let's go outside and get some air."

Now, both of these blokes were bigger than me. The main one was over six feet tall and probably eighteen stone. He was the only one who spoke.

"Yeah, I'm just finishing my burger," he said.

"Take it with you mate," I replied, "Let's go."

And then he threw the burger down in front of him. Oh-oh, I thought, here we go - elbow to my face time.

But no; he got up, enquired as to whether only he had to leave ("No, both of you, mate.") and then both quietly left. No hassle, no moaning, no problems. Out they went.

I went back to the girl who'd been subjected to the verbal abuse and got her side of the story; basically, there'd been some delay with their order and as she was nearest to them, she got a fair bit of stick. "They called me 'bitch'," she said, adding, "I don't mind that as I hear it all the time..."

What?

But then it all went a bit pear-shaped and one of the guys - the main one, as above - asked her what time BK closed, and that when she revealed it was midnight, that he'd be back to sort her out later.

Right, fair enough then. You ain't coming back inside, like ever.

Except... then it all went weird. The guys came back half an hour or so later, and I was called down to the main gates to speak to them. Seemed that the main one's female friend and her young daughter were still inside, and would it be okay if, escorted, he went in to look for them? He was incredibly polite and apologetic and I thought: why not? We walked around the complex for a bit looking for his mate (who, later, turned up outside) and the entire time he was very polite, very confused about what he had been accused of, and seemed entirely sincere that not only had he not done anything of the sort, but as he was here with his friends and nephew, "in a holiday park with kids", he'd never do anything to cause trouble. He also seemed fairly sober. It was either an Academy Award-winning performance, or someone, somewhere, had fucked up.

Eventually he and his mate left - but not before apologising again - and I told them that if they behaved and their story checked out, they were welcome back tomorrow night. I went back to speak to the girl in BK and asked her to describe the guy who'd threatened her and she described the main bloke (as above) to a tee. Now, this girl in BK is young and incredibly sweet and demure and I cannot believe for a second she'd make any of this stuff up. But could she have misunderstood? Could the guy(s) have said one thing and she heard another? She was so matter-of-fact and passé about it all that it was difficult for me to get a grip on the reality. I mean, there's jaded ("Bitch!? Ha! Is that the best you can do?") and there's jaded.

Much like a frickin' tree falling over in a wood with nobody else around, who knows what the fuck happens? And this is the problem, and something that, as I believe I've mentioned before, we - as almighty DS - have to be very careful over.

Unless you've actually seen it yourself, you have to act as if it might not have happened.

At least, not like 'they' say it did. They lie all the time. The catch is, they could both be telling the truth. I guess we'll find out tomorrow.

It had to be done.

2007-07-14T14:00:00.000+01:00

Shocking. And screw the poor punctuation.

Foam.

2007-07-12T03:00:00.000+01:00

After I left last night, the guy who was knocked out sparko started on not only our own park security, but the police as well. Seemed he panicked a bit when somebody asked him where he was staying - possibly thinking he might have punched himself unconscious, and thought he'd be on the safe side, and all that - and went into serious 'resisting arrest' mode. He didn't show up to the complex tonight. He's probably dead, let's face it.

There's talk going around of an upcoming after-hours team party, probably on a Sunday night. My missus will be thrilled.

Speaking of last Monday, one thing I forgot to mention was what happened to poor Bilbo. He drunk so much he passed out, and one of the bar staff thought it would be an absolute riot to cover him - and by 'cover', I mean cover - with shaving foam. You know, a bit like this:

He didn't even stir. Problem was, shortly before I left he suddenly got up, walked into the bathroom, and took a shower. In his clothes. And then came out naked. That shit ain't right.

There's a video on YouTube floating around. Allegedly.

Oopsie.

2007-07-11T02:00:00.000+01:00

Well... apologies for the recent delay in blog posts. Yesterday (Monday) we had a bit of a mini lock-in after work, which led on to some drinks around a fellow DS's chalet, and before you know what the fuck was happening, shennanigans ensued and I didn't actually leave the park until well after 8am. My long-suffering wife was not impressed (at least, I gathered from her reaction.) I didn't go to bed until just before 10am, finally rising at 4.30pm for a bite to eat, and then back to work. Felt like I'd never left. Quite surreal.

As a result, I was a bit of a zombie all night.

It's very quiet at the moment; low weekly check-in, and all that, which isn't a bad thing per se. We're overstaffed but the two agency guys are definitely and absolutely having their last night this coming Friday, so next week - and onwards - it's going to be more like the good old days, i.e., 2-3 DS on duty (if you're lucky) and three to four thousand lunatics in the bars. Sweet.

Couple of incidents tonight. I ejected one very drunk guy for making obscene gestures to some young girls, calling me a 'wanker' and then telling me to fuck off. Once I got him outside, he asked why he had to leave, informing me that he'd only acted in such a way because I'd called him 'a cunt'. I hadn't. He got a bit aggressive, as per usual, but eventually left. Two minutes later he was back at the main gates, complete with a total personality change.

"Er... I'm really sorry about earlier. Um, do you think I could go back inside for a second, as I've walked out and left my kid in there..."

And he had. The kid was about five years old, and once we'd found him back in the family bar and his dad had passed on the news, starting balling his eyes out about having to leave. "Can't we just stay?" the five-minutes-earlier-drunk-mental asked me, but there was no chance. I felt like a bit of a rotter, but he made his own bed.

Post-closing, we were standing outside getting the last few people back home, when suddenly Random Bloke A runs over and smacks Random Bloke B hard in the mouth, knocking him out and sending him backwards down a slope, where he smacks his head and is completely unconscious for a good ten minutes. It looked a bit iffy for a while, but eventually he came to and got back on his feet. He was very drunk, which made any kind of diagnosis a bit of a blur. The puncher was picked up by park security, but the punchee decided he didn't want to press charges. Bet he changes his mind when he's sober, but alas, by then, it'll be too late.

Wisdom.

2007-07-09T01:30:00.000+01:00

Lately there have been some problems with a longstanding female owner. Not her specifically, although she is a renowned drunk who has been given a few warnings in the past over her behaviour. The problem is with her husband. See, the two of them have recently split - with some on-site animosity and heat - and as he's the one with all the dough, she is soon going to be without any accommodation on the park. That's right, he's selling up.

She's in the bars two or three times a week, more often than not with her son, who just tags along for the ride. She was in tonight, really pissed as usual, and stopped on her way out to talk to Jabba, as she often does. The kid spoke to me.

"Do you ever come in here on your night's off?" he asked, "You know, drinking and that?"

"No," I said.

"I wouldn't either," he replied, "I don't see the point in coming here, getting drunk, embarrassing yourself and getting involved in all the problems."

This kid is ten. I didn't know what to say. How do you respond to that?

Eight is enough.

2007-07-08T03:00:00.000+01:00

Tonight emphasised the problems of overstaffing; you know, for a change and all that. Eight of us were on, and everything went as sweet as the proverbial nut.

Rumour has it the agency boys time is up this Friday. Wait and see, blah blah (etc etc.) But if so, we'll be back to the normal short-staff/complex disaster combo soon enough.

Until then: ho-hum.

Deliverance.

2007-07-07T16:30:00.000+01:00

Sorry for the lack of updates the past few days. I had another bout of the dreaded man-flu. That sounds really pathetic, but when I get it it's really serious, and I was quite literally on the verge of death on several occasions. Count your blessings I'm still here.

We're having some problems with the 'new guy' at work. He didn't show up for the DS All-Star meeting on Tuesday, and has subsequently gone from being somebody who seemed alright to a complete and utter wanker. I had a bit of a run-in with him on Tuesday night and he's banged heads with a few others, including Lynch, whilst I've been off. I'm not sure what's going on in his head. It almost seems like he's started taking drugs, or something, as his personality has done a near-180. Quite strange. The problem is if you can't work with somebody, then they can't work here. It's that simple.

The carnies settled down last week after the incident on Monday. However, it didn't stop me making yet another gaff. As I mentioned previously, they're actually related to one of the boys in park security - a brother, cousins and all that. They are all, however, as I've implied, of the 'missing link' variety. Like Huckleberry Finn's less-evolved siblings.

All that was missing was the ominous music of a banjo. Anyway, six of them came in Wednesday night. No hassle or lip, but it's good form to radio ahead to other DS inside the complex to let them know when individuals who've previously been a problem (or are potentially so) are on their way. So I called Edmonson, although the security radio is open to everybody on the roster.

"Yeah, the carnies are in the building..." I said, "Three blokes, three women..." and then immediately remembered that the chap in park security was working the main radio in the lodge. Ho hum. We had a good laugh about it and he never actually said anything to me, but still, poor form and all that.

Three things.

2007-07-04T02:00:00.000+01:00

Three things happened tonight. Some were a surprise. Others, less so.

1. The carnys were not removed from the site. Moreover, their ban was lifted. They behaved themselves tonight, but still.

2. It didn't rain for the first time in as long as I can remember.

3. I saw a shooting star.

The latter was, of course, very exciting.

That is all.

Stuff.

2007-07-03T09:00:00.000+01:00

A lot of hassle with some local carny-type last night. He and his family/friends are actually staying on the park, and are in fact related to one of the guys in park security. However, while this guy is a decent sort, a lot of his family appear to be real scumbags, and this group was no exception. They've been here one day and already have (count 'em) four incident reports. They should be getting the boot about now. But more likely I'll come in tonight and not only will they still be there, they'll probably have been upgraded.

There's some new kid on the park who could be a serious contender for the currently vacant "King of the Chavs" title. Burberry cap, white knee-length canvass shorts, tracksuit top, Converse boots, etc. And he's German, I think, which means this epidemic is spreading across Europe. I'll try and get a photo tonight. Or maybe some video footage.

We have a DS-only meeting at 1pm today. Bunch of major issues to thrash out.

Woof.

2007-07-02T03:00:00.000+01:00

Had the immense pleasure of working with a guard dog for part of the evening. Well, that's a bit of a stretch - he actually belonged to a guest but she left him down by the main gates with security while she went inside (dogs aren't allowed in the complex.) His name was Manny, and as you can see he came straight out of Turner and Hooch.

(Not me in the photo.)

He was a real softy but totally looked the picture. So much so, in fact, that when I walked him around the place and took him up to the prick who promised to come back with "tools" last night (who was back inside before I arrived for work), the guys' eyes widened to the point where he may have actually shat himself. He left soon after. I'd love to work with a pair of Manny's, possibly attached via chain leads to a metal bar that I held. Man, that would rule.

I made a massive fucking gaff tonight. We'd closed up and were all sitting around having a drink after the shift. One of the new agency guys - Jones - fancies himself as a bit of player and his current 'bit' is the rent-a-tart who works down the lower bar five days a week. He was all over her tonight, and along with everyone else (90 per cent of the people where I work smoke), they kept nipping outside for a cigarette. Well, one time, they didn't come back in with the others, and we started making the usual jokes. Bilbo hadn't come back into the club either, and so I suggested that maybe he was operating as a "fluffer" between them, which got a few laughs. Or that one or both of them had "strapped him on" and was using him as a dildo (he's a small guy, you'll remember.) Or, I said, picture this... Jones is shagging the tart from behind and Bilbo is licking his arse out.

"I can't see how," a voice piped up, "Given that I'm in here."

He'd only been in the fucking room the whole fucking time.

I was sitting at an odd 45-degree angle and he was to my left, and I hadn't seen him come back in. Christ almighty, I felt like such a cunt. Nobody else had seen him too (he is small, as I said), but that didn't really matter. I quickly changed the subject - an event which he noticed - but the look on the poor bastard's face. It didn't help that Jabba, who was oblivious to my fuck-up, then started making a bunch of cracks about his bald spot. Five more minutes and Bilbo would have strung himself up from the ceiling.

I apologised to him afterwards and he seemed to accept that it wasn't anything nasty on my part, but it's not like me to cock-up like this. I blame the Blackthorn. That shit's gonna be the death of me.

The smoking ban...

2007-07-01T04:00:00.000+01:00

... doesn't start until 6am this morning so it wasn't an issue last night at all. In about 14 hours, it will be a big fucking hairy deal, however.

A few minor incidents this fine (and wet) Saturday evening. A young couple get ejected because they think it's okay to bring cans of Stella into the bars and drink them ("We've been doing it all night; nobody said anything earlier.") The bloke is a plonker to the extent that it all becomes very personal between him and Worthy and he promises to come back later "with tools" to sort us all out. "I've put down squaddies in the past," he says, adding, "If you were in London, you'd be dead by now." What, Hastings is some kind of fucking Kryptonite to him, is it? What a prick. Of course, like the rest of them, he never actually came back.

The second instance concerned this 21-year old who'd been drinking all night, but aside from giving a few punters a bit of lip, hadn't been much of a problem. Suddenly, however, it was brought to our attention that he'd passed out in the arcade, then woken up and had a swing at one of the attendants. The two agency guys arm-locked him outside, where he went from being your cliched pisshead, to apologetic, to curling up in the foetal position and balling his eyes out just around the corner. Literally. The shit you see in this job.

Later, another drunk passed out in the arcade, except this time it was a woman. Boy, was she. One of her F-sized tits popped out of her top to celebrate as she hit the dirt. So many veins it looked like a spaghetti junction. Quarter of an hour later, she had to be taken out in a fucking wheelchair. You can't buy that kind of dignity.

iPhone - fantastic video.

2007-06-29T10:30:00.000+01:00

This really does look the business; like something out of Minority Report.

The 'strike'.

2007-06-29T09:00:00.000+01:00

I didn't go into work on Wednesday because I wasn't feeling great. This, however, is the first shift - indeed, the first hour - I've missed since I started this job.

However, Edmonson had already been off this week. Jabba let me know he wasn't coming in because he was also sick. And, lo and fucking behold, Worthy didn't show up either. And it's several other DS' night off.

This left the two agency guys representing, and all that, all by themselves.

Granted, it's not an ideal situation. But it's a total accident. A freak occurance. Lynch, however, for some reason, went mental, and stormed off to the General Manager to grass us all up. Comments like 'strike' and 'they've all quit together' were bandied around. What absolute bollocks. Why not just try picking up the fucking telephone, mate, before jumping to conclusions?

I went in yesterday to sort out my time sheet and heard all this, and just thought: can this place get any fucking worse? You miss one night of work (and it's not like I didn't call ahead and say I'd be off) and it all goes down the shitter. I spoke to #1 about it and he was fine. I'll have to have words with Lynch when I next see him on Saturday. Madness.

This stuff basically writes itself.

2007-06-27T03:00:00.000+01:00

Incident that took place last night. Edmonson, myself and The Lodge are down by the main gates. Edmonson and The Lodge are talking about something, but I'm kind of just there, in my own world, spaced out. This woman, probably in her late 40s, has been standing kind of near us for a while, and it turns out she's waiting for her husband, who I realise is waiting for her up at the complex doors. Eventually he clocks on and comes down.

She's not too impressed with him and, kind of jokingly, he comes over to me and asks for an escort as she's going to "give him hell." We have a bit of banter, then he goes to leave, and says, "See you guys."

I say goodbye to him, and Edmonson, who hasn't spoken to the guy at all before now, looks back and says, "Ta da."

The bloke stops suddenly. "What did you say to me?", he says.

Edmonson turns around and looks at him blankly. "Sorry?"

"Did you just tell me to 'shut up'?" the bloke asks.

"No mate," I say, "He said 'ta da'. As in, 'goodbye'. He was saying 'goodnight', mate."

"No he fucking wasn't," says the chap, now in full rage, "He was telling me to fucking shut up..."

His missus is now telling him to shut up, and trying to drag him away.

"I've come here on fucking holiday," says the bloke, "And this cunt has fucking ruined it..."

"YOU'VE fucking ruined it," his wife says, adding, "You drunk wanker..."

"He said 'ta da', mate," I repeat, "He was saying goodbye to you..."

"No he fucking wasn't," says the man, "I know what he fucking well said..."

And then he steps forward a bit.

"Are you threatening him, mate?" I ask, and step forward myself.

"No," he replies, "He's threatening me..."

I mean, Jesus, it was pure fucking comedy. His missus eventually manages to drag him away, effing and blinding (the both of them), and the rest of us are like, "What!?"

The bottom line: it's another priceless example of where your common or garden drunk can 180 his personality literally in a split second on the back of one throwaway, totally misunderstood and utterly harmless comment.

The definition of wrong. Right?

2007-06-26T14:30:00.000+01:00

Bit of an odd situation at work yesterday.

Remember the new owner I told you about, who previously introduced us to Numbnuts? Well, as I've said before, the guy is a grade-A pisshead and there hasn't been even a single occasion when any of us have seen him sober. He's always off his face. As a result, he's unpredictable, random, prone to misunderstanding you, talks loads of crap and is generally somebody you want to avoid. He never takes it too far, but the potential for that is always there, twitching and buzzing, like a wasp on the floor that may or may not be dead. To wit, he's always on thin ice.

And he knows this.

Even in the week or two since he's been an owner, he's bought along some more problem mates that have received immediate bans from the complex and lower bar. The owner himself never goes too far - at least, not yet - but his mates are always total bell-ends.

He knows this, too.

Hence, what happened last night. The guy has a lot of money. This is obvious. Where it comes from, and how the fuck he maintains it, is anybody's guess. But he has it, currently, in spades. And whenever somebody does something for him, or treats him with the right 'respect', he's started handing out twenty-pound notes as a 'thank you'.

Great, you might be thinking. Nice work if you can get it. But it's anything but. Taking money or other incentives from owners at work is an absolute and total no-no. And the reason why is fairly obvious - these people are here all the time. If you accept gifts from them, you're basically in their pocket, whether you like it or not. One of two situations will ultimately arise. (1) They will be involved in trouble, and when it kicks off, look to you - and whomever else they've paid off - to stand by or help them, even if it's the wrong thing to do. Naturally, any good DS will ignore this, even if they have accepted the gift in the past, which leads to (2) The owner not being happy with the DS, and then marching up to the GM and complaining that they didn't get any assistance despite the DS accepting stuff from them in the past. End result: the DS will be fired, without exception.

Now, a lot of this is common sense. Basically, we all know it. The owner drove to the complex last night (pissed, of course), but told us he wasn't going to drive the car again tonight, so we left it. However, when he went inside, we noticed his lights were still on, so I went into the bar to tell him. He gave me his keys, we sorted the car out, and then Edmonson took them back inside. Later, as a thank-you, he offered Edmonson a score. Edmonson politely thanked him, but turned it down. As I would have done. While nobody wants to work with people who are whiter-than-white, taking these gifts from owners is never going to be something that any sensible member of our team would do. If it had been from a guest, maybe there's a bit of a grey area - they're not in a position to buy favours. But owners (and, to some extent, staff) absolutely are.

Edmonson tells me what happened and I don't think much more about it, until we later found out that the owner had been offering these handouts to other members of our team, and one of the new blokes had accepted it.

Oh dear.

Now, suddenly this is all a potential mess. Half the problem is because the new guys have been hired externally, nobody on the inside has really told them anything. All the workings of the job, the company, the 'rules' etc have come from the rest of the DS team. However, as I said, some things are common sense (or, at least, you'd assume) so there was never a need to discuss every possible scenario. As a result, the older DS - who, to be fair, hasn't been paid yet and is Welsh (we'll refer to him as Jones) - saw a chance to grab some easy money and went for it. Edmonson had a word with him about it all and explained why this was something that we just couldn't do - I mean, if the owner had been just a nice guy it would be one thing, but this chap has 'future massive problem' written all over him - so to his credit, Jones tried to return the score, but the owner was like, "I don't know what you're talking about."

So it's all a bit icky. I figured the best solution for all of us was for myself to have a quick chat with Jones about the pickle we now found ourself in, but him particularly, as if the owner leaked this back to the powers-that-be he was fucked. The best solution, I suggested, was for him to put that money behind the buy and buy some drinks for the team, and if the matter ever cropped up as an 'issue', I'd say I was with Jones all night and the incident in question never occured. Two DS against one owner has a reasonable chance of being a winner. One against one, less so. It was the simplest way out, and Jones, again, snapped it up.

Ever since, all that's been on the back of my mind is: do two wrongs make a right... sometimes? Or is this now the beginning of a short, sharp and slippery slide down to the dark side. Maybe that's what 'DS' stood for all along.

Well...

2007-06-26T04:00:00.000+01:00

... another mini lock-in tonight.

Will write more tomorrow. Things to say, etc etc.

Waiting, on a Sunday afternoon, for what I read between the lines...

2007-06-25T02:00:00.000+01:00

Just when I feel I've got the place running somewhat smoothly, Lynch (#2) comes back from his holiday today and informs us that they're cutting staff for the peak season (basically, the summer holidays) and that the maximum we'll have in the complex Monday to Friday is three, with four on the weekends.

Jesus Christ, why not just put an advert in the local paper inviting all the local scumbags to come up and have a go, "... if they think they're hard enough"!?

Wankers.

We've had this place running like a fucking baby the last couple of weeks. Virtually no trouble at all. And now I'm hearing shit like "we only want one on the door". Fucking fuckity fuck fuck.

Half the problem with the place right now is, because one works days and one works nights, #1 and #2 only see each for one hour about four days a week and each seems to be intent on either (a) showing who's really in charge and (b) outdoing each other. Specifically, they don't really talk. #1 is far easier to get on with and, somewhat importantly, actually listens to what you have to say. More importantly, he listens to what I have to say. #2 doesn't really give a fuck what anybody has to say. Moreover, he's clearly pissed off he isn't #1.

The short version? None of us are going to be there come July 25th. The only possible saver now is that the two new guys - the agency dudes - are actually here for the entire season. Talk about a fucking one-eighty.

Rumour is Bilbo is going to get offered a switch to park security this week; if he doesn't take it, he's out. Of course, how many times have I written something like this, only for nothing to fucking happen at all.

Die Hard 4.0 - 10-minute clip.

2007-06-24T15:00:00.000+01:00

Despite the awful news that this has been rated a PG-13 in the States (the three previous films have been rated R, which is basically an 18-certificate in the UK. A PG-13 means it'll probably be a 12 here) I have high hopes for this. The original Die Hard, alongside Predator, Aliens and Terminator, is one of the greatest pure action movies ever made.

Here's a 10-minute clip from the new film (which is titled Live Free and Die Hard in the USA), and it looks pretty decent.

Fingers crossed, and all that.

Internal.

2007-06-24T04:30:00.000+01:00

I got home so fucking late tonight, the sun was bloody well coming up as I walked up to my front door. But is Tony Blair on the phone, promising cigars? Is he fuck.

It's getting interesting now. I did wonder if a full house of security staff might lead to its own problems and I think it might. Tonight we reached the 'doorstaff bickering' stage, with most of the negativity being pointed at Bilbo who, to be fair, told enough outright lies tonight to make Jeffrey Archer feel like an amateur. I mean, he was telling me one thing, and then five minutes later two or three other DS would say the exact opposite happened. Quite, quite mad. I'm not sure what's going on in his head; the LAST thing you want when you're in our position is your own team (a) not trusting you and (b) thinking you're a lying cunt.

I told #1 that I want it to be officially announced that Jabba and myself are in charge of the doors (together, we cover all seven days of the week) and he agreed. This was my idea. Jabba didn't warm to the news; the problem with the guy is that he's got the biggest heart of anyone I've ever met in my life but despite being a fuck-off giant of a bloke has self-confidence issues in some areas. I told him to get over it; this is a good thing for him. People already look up to him, in more ways than just his height. I'm gonna try and sort us out some extra cash as well, although that's a bit like trying to get blood out of Dracula's cock, except not quite as exciting.

As we're unofficially in charge anyway, I can't see this being a problem with the other DS. Only Edmonson might have a bit of a private sulk over it, although mentally he's long ago lost interest. He's a good guy but I think he can't be long for this (DS) world.

Highlights tonight included an ambulance being called out for a 'very sick' 13-year old boy who turned out to be smashed out of his head on booze and also appeared to have smoked a joint. His family seemed very well-to-do as well. You've gotta love this place.

Trouble-wise, it was fairly quiet until the close. We have a fuck-off party of 83 - yes, eighty-three - boxers, kickboxers, and one twat who actually announced himself as 'in the protection business', and that his typical M.O. is to "nail people to the bar and set fire to them." Riggghhhhtttt. Second door on the left, Mr Archer.

Perhaps not to anyone's surprise, we then went on to have trouble with the hardcore pisshead owners, who again had to be separated. If some major incident doesn't happen before the end of the season - assuming, you know, I last the course - I'll eat my fucking CATs.

1408.

2007-06-22T20:00:00.001+01:00

This opens in the US today. Based on the Stephen King short-story, It's been getting fantastic press, with many suggesting it's the best horror movie in years.

Looks good.

Project Playlist.

2007-06-22T10:30:00.000+01:00

Project Playlist is a cracking website that lets you set-up a Flash-powered bit of kit for your MySpace/Facebook/Bebo/Blog (or whatever), with an 80-track playlist that is fully customisable (songs, colours, shuffle, etc.) Better, it's a fantastic MP3-resource that lets you download any songs you find, either on the site or somebody else's playlist. You can even track down MP3s elsewhere and add them to PP's database. You can't ask for more than that!

I've been using it on my MySpace page for a little while now; here it is, in fact, as a stand-alone player.

Just when you thought it was safe to go back in the water.

2007-06-21T03:00:00.000+01:00

It's been a quiet but fairly odd week. One of the odder experiences was this young handicapped boy. He couldn't have been older than ten, but he had some kind of fetish for smashing glass bottles, and really liked to lob them out of the main complex doors around 10pm each night. This happened two nights in a row. It was kind of tough for me to bollock him, but thankfully when I spoke to his 'carers' - which basically came down to one 18-year old lad - he stopped. Last night, however, upon leaving the complex, he did this thing where he repeatedly grabbed his right arse-cheek and let out a monster fart. While he was walking. And I mean monster. Even the seagulls fucked off. Britain's Got Talent, indeed.

One slightly less amusing item of note: remember Numbnuts? Well, his mate, the better-behaved alcoholic who splashed out on sixty shots at closing time, is now an owner. It's just him and his (equally intoxicated) family at the moment, but it'll be interesting to see if the Brixton Bomber returns anytime soon. He ain't fucking coming in, I tell you that.

Oh, get this: the outdoor pool has been closed down for a few days. Officially, it's because the heaters are broken. Unofficially, and actually, it's because fucking E. coli was found in the water. Just keep your hair dry, and you'll be fine. Too late, you've swallowed some.

This, incidentally, is what E. coli looks like.

Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't that a bit like the bacteria version of Ripley in the power-loader at the end of Aliens? I mean, he's got guns and everything. Don't fuck with him, let me tell you.

The best of ENTS.

2007-06-20T02:00:00.000+01:00

Thunder and lightning, very very frightening.

Actually, this kind of weather doesn't bother me at all - I find it quite soothing, to be honest - but Jesus Christ I didn't half get soaked tonight. As a result, the main complex was borderline deserted for most of the night, with sensible folk deciding they were far better off with a good night in, albeit one in a caravan.

So, I'll entertain you with a couple of amusing stories from the world of ENTS instead. ENTS, in case you've forgotten, is shorthand for the complex in-house 'entertainment'.

This first one came directly from the current ENTS manager, and he told it to me a while back after he'd had a couple of beers. It happened a few seasons ago. It was a Saturday and he'd put on a show in the family bar to well over a thousand people. It had gone down tremendously well and afterwards, as he was leaving the main complex, lots of people came up to him to congratulate him, shake his hand, get a photo, an autograph, etc. He told me he was lapping it up as it rarely happens. However, all week he said this little six-year old girl had been following him around - "bugging me", as he put it - and she had this habit of going up behind him and repeatedly pulling on his shirt and saying his name, over and over until she got his full attention.

Now, however, his attention was fully elsewhere. He was standing outside near some steps, and she was behind him, again repeatedly tugging on his shirt and saying his name. He was surrounded by a throng and they were all shaking his hand, etc etc, as above. More with the tugging and the name-calling. Over and over. "In a minute, in a minute," he kept saying to her, but she wasn't having it.

Eventually, somewhat out of frustration but also absent-mindedly, he reached his hand back and kind of pushed her away... and she fell backwards down the stairs and cracked her head open.

Well, naturally the shit hit the old fan. The parents turned up and went furious. The child was rushed away for some emergency stitching and when they came back, the ENTS manager was taken into a full disciplinary with the park GM. The parents were called in, and when they saw him, they immediately started with a, "You fucking really hurt my..."

To which the ENTS boss replied, "I'm sorry, what was that? Did you just swear at me? I'm sorry, but I'm not having that..." and he went on and said it in such a way that the disciplinary concluded with them apologising to him and dropping the matter. Fuck me! He told me he was almost shatting himself with fear but had enough of the gift of the gab to turn it all around. But it doesn't make that story any less of a shocker, really, does it?

Part two. Again with the family bar. Each night there's a special kids show where the park mascots turn up, a bit like Disney characters in full costumes, and entertain. Now, while these furry fuckers are big, the space inside the costume is quite small and so only the female ENTS members can put them on. There's a huge deal at my place about how the kids must NEVER know that their favourite characters are anything but real (we're actually told to say, when asked, that they "came from the jungle". Can you believe this job?) and so nobody apart from ENTS staff and very little children are allowed anywhere near them.

However, this wasn't always the case; a few seasons back, while the characters were on stage a band was always with them, and they played incidental music and interludes, sound effects, and that kind of stuff. They'd been doing it for years, and were well-known on the circuit, with lots of work. This one night, however, they'd had a few sherberts before going on, and one of them had the 'hilarious' idea of sneaking up behind one of the main characters and pulling their mask off mid-skit. Now, this might seem kind of amusing at first, but here's the thing. These masks are heavy, and because they're so big are supported by all this interior metal wiring. They don't come off easy, and have to be kind of wriggled off. However, when yanked off, they tend to catch on the skin a bit. And that's exactly what happened. Big furry character's mask is ripped off, and with it half of the ENTS girl's nose and some of her lip and cheek matter. Cue, blood pouring down her face, and her and several hundred kids screaming in terror. Her shrieks were caused by agony; the kids, that their favouritist mascot has actually just been beheaded and, worse, there's the bloodied corpse of one of the ENTS girls inside.

Surprise to say, the band never worked, or probably had to pay for drinks, again.

Deja-vu.

2007-06-19T03:00:00.000+01:00

Bit of an odd night. I spent most of it (5+ hours) chatting to the latest member of the DS team at the main gates and even though he's quite a few years my junior, we had a lot in common.

The evening was quite peaceful until about 2am when, naturally, a few pissed-up staff members starting having words with each other, and before you knew what was going on one of them - a senior bar staffer - had only gone and tripped over a kerb and smashed his face in. He lost a tooth, may have disclocated his jaw (it was clicking constantly when he spoke) and there was blood and fat lips everywhere. A right mess. Naturally, he refused to believe he'd tripped over and instead decided to take it out on his three 'best mates', also staff, even going as far to ask them how much money they'd be willing to take to fuck off out of his life forever. He's a thoroughly decent and amiable guy when sober but this has unfortunately been coming for a while. They're really going to have to crack down on this after-hours staff drinking, as we're getting a fairly major incident every other week. The best option, rather than banning it entirely and punishing most of the innocents, is to just lay down a law that they have to all leave at midnight. End of problem.

Besides that, one other item of note was another young staff member bolting out of the complex about 1.30am, pissed-up, with a baby in a pram. It didn't take me long to realise that he hadn't actually come into the complex with the infant, and naturally I called it over the radios and for a little while started to fear the absolute worst. Especially when he came back into the complex ten minutes later by himself.

What happened, it turned out, was that he was so angry at a young female parent in the bars who was out of her skull despite having her 7-week old daughter in a pram next to her, that he'd found out where she was staying and taken the baby back to her chalet, where her mother was waiting. It was actually a pretty good deed, but it kicked off a right panic and for a period we assumed it was a bout of baby-snatching. The mother was so drunk that she literally had to be carried back to where she was staying by another punter. Quite shocking really. At least, it would be if this kind of thing wasn't becoming entirely too familiar.

Freebies. Right.

2007-06-18T01:30:00.000+01:00

After the events on Friday and the way it's been at my place of work for the past three months, I've decided that my new and firm policy is unless I get a free drink from the management (or some kind staff member) post-business once I've locked the place down I'm out of there. Fuck paying for my own cider; a drink should be basically unofficially written into your contact like it is at every other bloody nightclub. I was down the rather swanky Black Market on George Street on Friday and the doorstaff there were getting free Cokes, coffees and even fucking Red Bulls all night long. And that's how it should be. Draft Coke costs the venue fuck-all. Likewise coffee. The cost of a draft pint in a barrel of beer is something between 35p and a quid depending on the barrel size, and don't fucking tell me they're paying £2.50 for a can of Red Bull and selling it on at cost. Fuck that.

On the upside, I did get 1 1/2 free giant-sized hot dogs tonight, but I'm still not happy.

Bilbo's disciplinary ending with a verbal warning; a light slap on the wrist if you will. While I had no vested interest in seeing the guy get the boot, he did everything in his power to warrant it. Once again, management have proven that everybody is basically the same - loyal and hard-working staff don't get anything in the way of a reward, and unreliable and bone-idle layabouts don't get anything that resembles a punishment. To wit, you're all the fucking same to us.

Otherwise, the main highlight this evening was a series of overnight caravan robberies, and all the flimsy evidence pointing to the uber-chav 'wigga' boyfriend of one of the ENTS girls, who happens to be leaving the job tomorrow. Coincidence? Hmmm.

I love this game.

2007-06-17T04:45:00.000+01:00

Fucking hell, all kinds of crap came out tonight.

Things that are so massive that I can't possibly reveal them because they might destroy people's lives.

I will say that I found out that the two new blokes - who are on a one-month contract while we're short-staffed - are being paid significantly more than us and this has pissed me off significantly. There's also a rumour going around that they're not on a short-term lease at all; rather, they're the start of a proposed contractual buy-out of our security. To be honest, if that's true, and they keep me and the boys on staff, it's no bad thing, as our money will go up some forty per cent. But if it's anything else... fuck 'em.

Bilbo has a disciplinary tomorrow. Not sure if he's going to actually get the boot or not, but I doubt it.

Meantime, Potter, who is turning out to be a total fucking fruitcake - yesterday, Jabba caught him banging his head against a sign and saying, "I must do better" over and over (what!?) - came walking down to the main gates about eleven pm tonight. Jabba, Bilbo and myself were there.

"You alright mate?" I said, as he looked a bit off.

"Nah," he replied, "I've gone numb down my left-hand side. It's something to do with my migraines."

Hell-o.

"You sure you didn't just lean against a wall too long?" I ask.

"No, I get it all the time," he says.

"Why don't you take the rest of the night off mate?" Jabba suggests.

"No, I'm alright."

"No, really. Don't worry about it..."

And then suddenly little old, wet-behind-the-ears, ten-stone Potter steps right up to Jabba, one hand, in some kind of 'beak' formation, repeatedly pointing in his face and says, "NO. I SAID I'M ALRIGHT."

I looked in Jabba's eyes and I could tell that (a) this was the last straw and (b) he was probably going to slap the fucker, and justifiably so. But because Jabba is Jabba, he did the right thing and immediately sodded off for a cigarette break. As soon as he was gone, I turned to Potter and said:

"Don't ever fucking talk like that to him again. He was only trying to help you out."

And then he reacted the same way to me, and started with this, "OK, OK..." with his hands up and shit.

"No," I said, "Don't talk to me like that, either. You do not treat the people you work with like that."

And then I bollocked him some more, and left him by himself for ten minutes or so. Eventually he came over and apologised, so I bollocked him that I wasn't the person he should be apologising too, and sent him off after Jabba. The shitty part is that Jabba has been looking after the little twat ever since he's been here and as I said above I knew this was the end of all that. He did apologise, and Jabba accepted it, but he later told me that it's now very much a case of 'fuck him', and rightly fucking so. What a prick. I keep trying to find just a glimmer of a redeeming quality but it doesn't fucking exist. Hitler was an animal lover; this guy is just the kind of wanker who couldn't be any less suited to his choice of career. With social skills like that, I give it two weeks before some punter beats the crap out of him. And I won't lose a second's sleep over it.

Later, we had to kick out some prick - who I'm almost certain is a local - and he started up with all this, "Look at all you old bastards on steroids. I'm going to go away and shave my head and then I'll come back and sort you all out."

What!?

Otherwise, on my night off last night I ended up down the Brass Monkey with some friends and my missus, and lo and fucking behold I only ended up getting involved in breaking up two bloody fights that kicked off right behind where I was sitting. The door staff? Nowhere to be seen. The manager thanked me (and my mate, who also got stuck in) but did we get a free drink? Did we fuck. Meantime, my missus bollocked me for the rest of the night. "You aren't bloody working!" she said, and she was right - I wasn't - but believe me, you can't switch the fucker off. I walk into any room now and I'm immediately checking out the people inside to see who might kick off and who looks like they can handle themselves. And while I won't cross a crowded room to get involved in a knife-fight between two pikeys, I will get involved when somebody brings the fight to me. But still, a bottle of Magners wouldn't have killed them.

King of the Chavs

2007-06-15T11:00:00.000+01:00

A picture taken Wednesday night at my place of business.

Shockingly, he works there. Don't have nightmares.

Lock-in, Jr.

2007-06-14T04:00:00.000+01:00

We had a bit of a mini lock-in after work tonight - the complex has two managers, and the younger, infinitely more sociable one has been promising us a proper lock-in for a while now, and it is something we'll do before peak season (i.e., August). Tonight, we (security, bar staff, ENTS leader) collectively barraged him into a mini-session, and on tab, too. Better still, the security #2 (Lynch) is paying for it. You can't ask fairer than that.

Subsequently, I've come home and had a few more sherbets and I now have no idea what the hell happened over the course of my shift tonight. I do know that I had something to write about, but it'll have to wait until tomorrow.

I realise this is a bit crap, but it's beyond my control. On the upside, I've found that the shame is like the pain: you only feel it once.

Sick.

2007-06-13T02:00:00.000+01:00

I appear to have once again picked up the dreaded man-flu, and have felt like crap throughout my entire shift.

That is all.

Freaks.

2007-06-12T02:30:00.000+01:00

The new staff have definitely made a difference in how we control the club - basically, as you'd expect - and because I've actually been only on the doors/gates for three nights now I've found myself having a much better handle on who is coming in. When you're on the (actual) door some of the time, you only see some of the people, which naturally gives you a grip on some of the potential risk. Since Saturday, it's been very easy to spot problem areas and as a result whenever something has happened it hasn't been a surprise.

One chap - already well pissed-up - had an early exit tonight. He subsequently re-appeared just outside the main gates with a can of Stella, and went and sat on a grass hill about a hundred yards away. And then promptly passed out. Park security came to deal with him, but had problems waking him from his slumber. When he finally did get up, he seemed to go into some kind of panic and promptly ran off. They went in pursuit but he kept on running every which way, until ultimately he thought it would be a good idea to climb into one of the fenced-off electrical areas, lost his balance, and smashed his head on the concrete floor. He then woke up from that, refused to go to the hospital (and, we were told, speak any kind of recognisable language, even though he was English) and went back to his caravan instead. As he walked past me on the gates he was clutching quite a nasty looking wound on the back of his neck. Later, I noted an ambulance making its way in his direction. Ten quid says he tries to sue the park.

We had some other fiftysomething bloke in tonight who kept on asking everybody in security if they were an ex-army guy - myself, specifically, about four times - because he was. Just one of those punters that, given half the chance, will waffle on all night, and as he became increasingly intoxicated it became increasingly dull. His missus was well off her face too, and the amusing part was both of them had earlier (whilst sober) ridden up to the complex on very old-fashioned bicycles. Watching them trying to leave on these bicycles provided significant laughter material. When I checked out, they were still there, probably a hundred yards from the main gates and with neither of them having any idea where they were staying and not a single key between them.

The other highlight tonight was some lunatic who had stalked his ex-wife and children to the park and was now hanging around outside the lower exit, menacing anybody who passed his way. We had loads of complaints about him, but he never made any kind of effort to enter the camp and so there wasn't an enormous amount anybody could do. Rumour has it he walked here from Brighton, too. What a fuckwit. Later, a girl, who was probably 19 or so, and absolutely chavtastic, told me she'd had an encounter with him that had riled him up quite a bit. "What was he going to do?" she told me, "Stab me? I've already been stabbed once before. I ain't afraid of that."

Quite. She asked my opinion on whether she should go back and apologise. "Probably best to leave it," I said.

Tension.

2007-06-11T01:30:00.000+01:00

It's rarely a positive when you have to eject somebody within an hour of starting work.

About 7pm tonight, Worthy and Jabba kicked out a guy who had been giving the lead ENTS girl grief and - more seriously, in this place - swiping a bottle of wine without paying for it. He went peacefully enough, but over the course of the night his entire family, and all of their friends, were ejected too.

They were all your cliched London pissheads and the women - specifically, the mother and her sister (i.e., the aunty) were the worst. They always are - drunk middle-aged women are a fucking nightmare. They don't stop talking shit (usually the same shit, on some kind of endless loop) and flat-out refuse to do anything, including leaving. Worthy had been having words with some of their twentysomething kids all night and it mounted to the point where Jabba thought he was going to snap. He called us all into one of the bars to deal with the potential conflict, but also, as he informed me later, to make sure that Worthy didn't go AWOL. Because it looked that way; he had a real fire in his eyes. He was into his second all-day (9am-closing time) shift in a row and it's not a clever move on his part. He needs the money but those kinds of hours are not conducive to peak performance. I was right there when he and one of the lads were smack on the verge of swinging away and to be honest they were as bad as each other. As I said, however, the women were far worse, and took ages to get out. One of them even did a sit-down protest outside the main doors. We really need to get some Tazers. I mean, what are you supposed to do? If I rabbit-punch them I'll be the one who gets blamed.

Both the new guys were off-duty tonight but came up to the complex to have a drink. One of them subsequently got hammered, while the other - the young'un, or Potter, as we'll call him - did not, and later announced himself as a teetotaler. I'm always a bit suspicious of blokes who don't drink but Jabba doesn't either, and he's a cracking lad, so bygones and all that. However... about half-eleven Potter comes outside to get some air and promptly informs us that he's feeling really down on himself and might burst into tears at any time. And that this happens regularly. Why, why, why did he want to be a doorman, then!? It's stressy enough as it is. Jesus. If he lasts the full term - both are contracted for only one month at the moment - I'll be very surprised. I bet he proudly pulls out a Blue Peter badge next week.

Furthermore, it's not really a positive seeing one of your team getting wankered in front of all the guests/owners/staff on his first night off.

Rumour has it Bilbo is going to get the boot in a few days. This has cropped up before and nothing has ever happened, but yet another family member of his was 'rushed into hospital' tonight and he was gone before 8pm, never returning despite promising that he'd be back later. He's either the unluckiest bastard ever or some of these 'incidents' have come straight from Satan's bottom. The new night-manager (Lynch) doesn't like him anyway and neither does #1, so he's definitely on the way out. Sometime. I think the reality is that if they can find somebody solid and permenant enough to replace him, he's gone. I have mixed feelings about it. As I've said before, his heart's in the right place and when the shit hits the fan he's always there, but he's about as reliable as Chris Langham on a school trip. You reap what you sow.

Old and new.

2007-06-10T03:45:00.000+01:00

There were seven of us on duty tonight. Seven.

So many, in fact, that they sent three down the lower bar, leaving four of us up top. The two new guys seem alright; one of them is an early thirtysomething Welsh chap and the other is a 23-year old Essex boy who looks about 14. I kid you not. Moreover, Friday night was the first night he'd ever worked the doors. Jabba said he'd been literally shaking several times. Problem is when you look like a kid, you don't really command a lot of respect, and he got a fair bit of stick from 'lad' types. He seems nice enough but is potentially a liability - a target, if you will. Nice counts for fuck-all in this job.

With so many staff on we didn't really know what to do with ourselves for the first four or five hours and ultimately Bilbo and myself stayed outside all night; 6am-2pm, making the odd trip into the complex to see what was going on. Not much, was the answer, but of course we had another domestic after midnight.

We noticed some bloke giving his missus grief about how and why she wouldn't give him the key to their chalet, and very quickly he became verbally aggressive. I never witnessed it myself, but a few minutes later (out of my sight) he ended up hitting her. She storms off, and goes around the side of the complex, balling her eyes out. Ultimately, we find one of her friends and pair them back together, while the prat of a boyfriend goes back to the chalet and sits outside on the grass.

Nothing unusual here, then. Same old, same old, etc. However, the friend quickly abandons the lady-in-distress and goes back into the main bar with her other mates, and kids, and carries on knocking them back. The kids loiter in the arcade and end up having a bit of a scrap with a female owner's kids, after her brats (because that's totally what they are) pushed a three-year old to the floor, who was actually an epileptic (and duly had a fit.) Now, the friend is outside having a toe-to-toe with the owner, and it all gets very nasty. Names are called, threats are made, and the owner is very pissed off (thank you.) She wants me to chuck the other woman out, but my hands are somewhat tied. If she goes, the domestic lady has to go, and that doesn't seem right at all. Meantime, I know what the owner's kids are like (little shits) and can tell they're milking all their tears for all it's worth. So, nobody leaves. And then they all do, independently, one after another. The thing is, knowing how this owner is she's going to be fuming at me for a while now, but really, I'm beyond giving a fuck. They're all cunts at the end of the day.

Bouncer (2002, Ray Winstone)

2007-06-08T17:00:00.000+01:00

The full 10-minute short movie. Worth a moment of your time.

Diddy.

2007-06-07T02:30:00.000+01:00

Well, the two new guys that were meant to be starting tonight are now starting Friday. This annoys me a little bit as I won't get to see them until Saturday, so I'm tempted to go into work Friday night and creep around as some kind of 'mystery punter' just to see what's what. I probably won't, but then again I do go a bit mental sometimes.

A couple of highlights tonight. The first - the biggie - was Jabba's dad, who has recently stated working on park security, accidentally let slip that his son's nickname was Diddy, as he was going home. As in, "Bye, diddy." Well, we didn't let that one rest all night and probably never will. Jabba is 6ft4 and 18+ stone, remember. Diddy! You can't make this stuff up. Edmonson even arranged for the DJ to play Doo Wah Diddy Diddy at midnight.

Later, Jabba, Edmonson and myself, as well as one of the complex cleaners, were standing down by the external gates, chatting, moaning, bitching and taking the piss as usual. The other three were in the hut and I was outside. Suddenly, this seagull swoops down, and dive-bombs me with a string of shit. Jabba starts laughing, but as he does, the bird strikes again, except this time the wind catches it, and Jabba, Edmonson, and the poor cleaner bastard get totally pebble-dashed. The cleaner even has it all over his head. The way the wind caught and zoomed it in towards them was like that bit when the Death Star gets torpedoed in Star Wars. Unbelievable, but bloody brilliant. Much respect to Ben Gunn.

Otherwise, at one point there was five of us in the main complex and it really was a total piece of piss. We didn't know what to do with ourselves. There'll be seven on Friday and Saturday this week. It's almost a farce, after three months of staff shortages. Most nights are going to be very easy but part of me wonders if a greater visible security presence might trigger the odd bit of group rowdiness. We'll see.

Right, I'm off for a pair of days. Be safe.

Domestic.

2007-06-06T02:30:00.000+01:00

I was in a funny, disinterested-cum-lethargic mood all evening and to be honest I'd rather have been somewhere else. However, I do have two fairly typical/odd incidents to report.

About 8pm a chavtastic couple came running down to us at the gate - that's myself, Edmonson and Bilbo - and the woman said that she'd had her handbag on one of the machines in the arcade, and now it was gone, and she assumed the family next to them had taken it. This family had been pushing a baby in a pram, and she asked us if anybody meeting that description had come by. They hadn't, and we said as much. And then both of them immediately went bonkers and starting piling on the abuse, before storming back up to the complex. So, collectively, we thought: fuck 'em.

They come back a little later, ranting and raving, and chav-bloke is issuing all kinds of threats and insults. We don't take any notice. They storm up to the lodge and a few minutes later come back with one of the park security guys. They walk back to the arcade where the bag had been 'stolen' - and find it immediately, right next to the machine that they were playing. It had fallen on to the floor. Duh.

I speak to the bloke and explain how because of his behaviour we hadn't exactly been overly-enthusiastic about helping, and he accepted this. His missus, however, was in a foul one, and started accusing her man of having just 'pushed her'. She stormed off. He gave up and went back to the bar. We all realised this was a domestic waiting to happen.

We were right. We never saw him leave, but at some point the bloke returned to his caravan, and then came back up to the complex. He had a small gash on one side of his forehead and a large, bruised bump on the other. "Fucking women," he said, "I try to apologise and this is what she does." He's totally alright with us and is acting fairly reasonably so we let him back into the bars. He keeps popping out to the front to make phone calls (it's one of the few places you can get a signal) and then a little later leaves again. Soon after, we get a call over the radios from park security informing us that he'd met up with his missus a little further down, and once again the two of them had belted each other. He comes back up, but this time we tell him that he can't come back in. Again, he's fine, totally accepts it, and leaves.

Meantime, his missus has called her mother who has called the police. They never show up, but somehow the bloke must have got wind of something (not from us), because he then spends the better part of an hour scurrying all over the site looking for hiding places. Eventually the park boys catch up with him, again contact the police, who state that unless something else happens, they are happy for him to return to his caravan. With his missus and her mother. We never hear anything else, but you can really see that one ending well, can't you?

The best part? The entire family come from Malvern Way. Local residents will know that not only is this probably the scumiest area in the entire town (I have a theory that all chavs originated from there), it's about an eight-minute drive away. Absolutely fucking mental.

Later, a tobacco tin gets handed into the bar. It's opened and, lo and fucking behold, it's packed full of rolled-joints and a lot of quality cannabis. Nobody can seem to decide on how much it's worth, but it's clearly a lot. And this is supported by the fact that the owner - who's clearly an idiot, desperate, or has balls of fucking steel - goes up to the bar and asks if his tin has been found. I mean, what was he hoping for? Yeah, yeah, sure mate. We took one of the joints as a finder's fee - hope you don't mind. He's fucking lucky we don't have some kind of policy where things like this are immediately turned over to the rozzers.

For a short period chav-tastic geezer above had left his bag - full of clothes after his missus chucked him out - behind one of the bars, and we had an idea where we could plant the tin in there and phone the police, thus eliminating two problems in one throw. But management weren't all that keen, the pussies.

Tomorrow, we have two new doormen starting. It'll be interesting to see if they (a) don't show up, or (b) are anything but right wankers. Believe me, it's going to be one or the other.

Peace.

2007-06-05T03:00:00.000+01:00

Thank Christ, a quiet night; just what the doctor ordered.

We have a system at work where if the bars meet their preset 'targets', the staff left on duty after they close get a free drink. I think I'm on a company record with ten nights in a row. And as I said before, I've become one of those right wankers who insists on a pint of cider. What a cunt.

There's a staff crisis at the moment. I'd estimate that we have only about 40 per cent of the people left on the books who actually were there at the beginning of the season. And they're dropping like flies; in the last week, at least six well-established employees have either quit or been given the boot for some reason. I think that by the time the high-season kicks off, which is basically August, we'll have around 10 per cent of the original team working in the complex. What this means, of course, is the 90 per cent of the workers will be either (a) inexperienced or (b) useless tossers who they're hired out of sheer desperation. Good times, good times.

I watched Dead Man's Cards today. Highly recommended if you enjoy seriously gritty and violent British movies. I liked it so much, I'm actually going to shell out for the fucking DVD. This, believe me, is a very rare bird.

View the trailer here.

Tolerance.

2007-06-04T03:30:00.000+01:00

Christ, my buttons were pushed tonight.

We all have a breaking point, and I like to think mine is not only well in the distance, but pretty firm. The last week I've had a few guests, mostly owners, somewhat jokingly telling me that from time to time I'm 'rude' to them, but after discussion what they've agreed is that I'm basically blunt. To the point. A 'straight talker', somebody said.

Fair enough. I can certainly live with that.

Tonight, however, I had so much fucking abuse that one more incident would have seen me going not only past the edge, but so fucking beyond it I'd probably have lost my job.

The problem was that the two incidents I experienced basically happened at the same time... twice.

On Friday, Jabba and Worthy had problems with these two women who got absolutely rat-arsed, starting groping up other women on the dance floor, threatened and swore at other guests (in front of children), and when ejected, repeatedly cursed at and threatened Jabba and #2, even going so far as to raise a glass to them. Pisshead women really are the worst.

The thing was, they tried to come back in on Saturday and when we told them they were barred, they were shocked; they clearly had no memory of any of the incidents and were absolutely apologetic and humble. That, we assumed, was that.

No.

They came back again tonight. I'd never seen them before but Worthy noticed them sneak by us, nodded to me and I escorted them back outside again. They were already pissed, and while not really abusive, were certainly a bit full of it. They kept on asking what they'd one, why they were barred, etc, but I wasn't interested and just told them they had to leave. Worthy, however, started going through all the things they'd done again, and while he did that I turned my attention to two other blokes, and a child, who were coming up to the door.

"Have you got your passes, lads?" I asked.

One of them pulled out his wallet. "I've got mine, mate," he said.

I turned to the other guy. "You got yours mate?"

And then he immediately got funny.

We've discussed this many times at work. While a group showing up without any passes at all is a no-no, if enough people in a booking have remembered their passes then, more often than not, if they're actually, you know, polite, we don't really have a problem with it. Especially if we know their faces. I didn't know the face of either of these guys, however, and one of them went straight into 'cunt' mode.

"Oh come on," he said, "I'm here with my kid. What am I going to do?" and started to push by.

"I'm sorry, mate," I replied, "You can't come in here without a pass."

He started giving it all this and that until I pointedly told him - twice - that if was going to have that kind of attitude he wasn't coming in at all. He shut up then and sent his mate off to get his pass for him (from inside the complex, where he'd apparently left it). The guy returned soon enough and the twat went inside, but not before making some sarcastic remark. I've started to develop a pretty reliable radar for tossers in the club and immediately sought out Jabba to give him the lowdown on the dick, suggesting we may have a problem later. I saw him once again that night, when all he said was 'Alright mate', and I figured (again, foolishly), that that was probably that.

Maybe an hour or so later I was at the door when a big family group came out, with multiple prams, etc, and to be honest I wasn't paying an enormous amount of attention. But when someone asked me for my autograph, I looked around and saw it was the tosser. The passes that guests use to get into the complex have various animal prints on them (for some daft reason) and the current one has a bear, but he seemed to think it was a monkey. "That's your picture on there, isn't it?" he said. He was laughing to himself in that way that people do when something they've said is only funny to them - I clocked his missus and she looked absolutely fucking horrified, as did the other people with him - but he thought it was the best thing ever.

As he'd kind of come up on me out of nowhere I was caught on the backfoot a bit, but I really wasn't in the mood. "You don't want to do this," I said, and stepped up to him. He just carried on walking, pushing out his pram and laughing, while his wife told him to be quiet and everybody else just kind of got on with it. I could feel the heat rising within me and it was one of those times where you were kind of hoping that he'd do something physical, just so you'd have an excuse to punch him in the nuts and then stamp on the side of one of his knees. But he just fucked off laughing that stupid laugh and it actually made me feel a bit empty; a bit ashamed of myself, to a point, because of my inability to react in a way that I found satisfactory, and he found to be a problem. But your options are so fucking limited. Unless a patron actually tries to force violence upon you, there is little you can do. You can roll with it and 99.99 per cent of the time I can wisecrack anybody into a corner, but because this guy was acting like such a prick in front of his wife and child, I just felt like I couldn't do anything. And I'm guessing he knew this, because as said when he was by himself earlier in the night he just did as he was told.

Probably two minutes had passed when Worthy called me into the main bar. I went inside and lo and fucking behold, the mouthier one of the two women had somehow got back into the complex and was sitting at a table having a pint. I went straight up to her and told her, again, that she was barred and had to leave now.

"I'm going to finish my pint," she said.

"You're not," I replied.

"Well, wait till my husband gets back and I'll go."

Husband? Up until now I was pretty sure she was located somewhere on the right-side of 'flaming' and 'lezza' but I gave her the benefit of the doubt. Seconds later this bloke walks up behind me. "Is this him?" I ask her, and she nods.

"Sorry mate," I say, "But your wife has been barred from the complex, and must leave."

"My wife?" he says, "I only met her twenty minutes ago."

The cheeky cow.

I tell her she has to leave now and she stands up, with her glass. She starts giving me all this lip about how I'm this and that (mostly, a wanker) and that she wasn't doing anything wrong, blah blah fucking blah. Eventually she agrees to go but only if her 'husband' can be with her when we escort her outside. By now we've decided to take her through the nearest firedoors, and agree with the plan as it'll make things easier. However, she goes to leave with her half-full pint and when I grab it to stop her, she raises it in a way as if she's going to use it as a weapon. Remember that this is all taking place in a packed main bar and a lot of people are watching. Jabba is nearby and while she begins to rant and rave again, I whisper to him that we're almost certainly going to have to physically remove her. This is something we've never done with a woman before and to be honest raises all kinds of complications.

But then she suddenly downs her pint and starts to go towards the back doors. The man comes along for the ride but I can tell by his face that he's bitten off more than he's prepared to chew and he doesn't stay for long. Once outside, she truly unleashes her torrent of abuse but Jabba and I just humour her, agreeing with what she's saying just to keep her moving. We get her out the back gates where she announces that her real husband is actually the 'chief of police' - you know, like in Cagney & Lacey - so we just step back inside and close the doors behind us. But that ain't good enough for her; no, she has to open them again. Jabba steps up to hold them firm but another violent burst from her catches his arm, which pisses him off no end. He slams the door open and she goes flying a little bit, but no harm done. Now, however, it's all about how she's 'only 5ft2' and how these two 'bald rugby bastards' were picking on her. We tell her the police are now going to be called and I make a call up to the lodge to try and scare her away, but she just gets more abusive, telling us how she's going to be back later with weapons, friends, etc, and finish us off.

Lovely.

Finally, she walks away and out of sight, but we can hear her for a long time, mouthing off at our ghosts and giving us all the details about how much trouble we're both in. The silence that followed was bliss, and Jabba and I respected it by saying nothing at all; we just looked at each other and shook our heads.

This all happened over about fifteen minutes. It left me reeling a bit to the point where, pissed off as I was that I felt I'd handled the first situation badly, but had had enough abuse and name-calling to last me a lifetime, I was in no mood for anything else. For the rest of the night I kept expecting one or both of these fuckwits to turn up again, probably and actually fucking armed, and my mindset was 'Fuck it. To hell with the consequences.'

It's probably a blessing for all (myself absolutely included) that they never did. But, man, I'm still fucking pissed.

Foursomes, firings and fights.

2007-06-03T04:00:00.000+01:00

First of all, I had two days off this week. Thursday and Friday. You'll recall (of course) that last week I told you I was going to work the Friday (yesterday) but because management changed, the shifts changed, and that was no longer necessary. I'd done thirteen of fourteen days before this, and I was fucking knackered. However, because life is a fucking cunt, I came down with some kind of grade-A, man-sized superbug on Thursday evening and spent the better part of 24 hours lying in bed feeling really sorry for myself. Yeah, that's right: man flu. Proper, hardcore disease that would kill weaker men, and makes delivering a baby look like popping an Opal Fruit into the mouth of a rhino. Somehow, I got through.

What I missed, of course, was all kinds of shit.

First of all, Worthy. He dropped me home from work on Wednesday night, and was then meant to be taking three sub-twenty year-old females back to their residences afterwards. What actually happen was all four of them went to his temporary, for-the-night-only chalet - en park - and indulged in sexual shennanigans. A foursome, if you will. And this didn't come from his lips (snigger). At least, not at first. Jabba had heard a rumour, and together we picked it out of the guilty parties, telling each that one other had already blagged. The suckers (arf) fell for it. Eventually Worthy himself coughed up (oh, stop.) Of course we pushed it further by telling him that (a) it was a sackable offense, which was true and (b) the GM had found out about a sexual incident involving 'the new guy', but 'seemed' to 'laugh it off', which was false. He bought it all.

What all of this highlights is just how many fucking slappers are employed at my place of business. That's not a sexist statement; Worthy's blatant pursuit of the ladies is already becoming a bit of an issue. While he's great in any kind of conflict situation, the old 'weakest link' argument has many layers. It's no good being useful in a fight if you're getting a blow-job off some tart in the disabled toilet when it's all kicking off, is it?

Work-wise, Jabba told me it had all been pretty peaceful, like the rest of the week. They'd closed down on Friday night and were getting all of the owners out when suddenly it just all kicked off. One longstanding owner, but an unknown to all of us, had been drinking hard all evening. When some shit was said, he went mental, punching another bloke so hard in the face that, according to Jabba, one second he was fine and then suddenly his entire nose just seemed to explode. He then hit someone else, elbowed Jabba in the chops and then went and headbutted Bilbo... who wasn't even working that night. Bless.

(This has puzzled me; the lunatic was, Jabba said, taller than him, so somewhere at 6ft4+, and Bilbo is short. Shorter than me. So what did the crackpot do - step into a ditch!?)

Suffice to say, this geezer should be a goner. The final decision - yes, they need to make one - will be made tomorrow. If he stays, I think a lot of people will leave. It'll be a farce if he does. Rumour has it this is like the fourth or fifth incident in which he's been involved.

Bilbo. I've mentioned before his somewhat eratic working schedule, and the last time anybody had seen him at work was Friday, May 25, when he showed up on time, informed Jabba and Edmonson he had a doctor's appointment but would be 'back in, at most, an hour', then didn't show up again until the following Thursday. And was headbutted on the Friday.

Problem is, he's piled a whole heap of hay on the old camel's back and the new security management have never really liked him anyway so... they're going to get rid of him. However, he was working park tonight and when I saw him in the security lodge around 9pm he was in the middle of writing his notice. Or so he said. If there's one thing I've learned at this place, it's never to believe anything until it fucking happens. But either way it does seem his days are numbered. I have mixed feelings about it; he has been a major liability at times but fundamentally he isn't a bad bloke - he actually has a decent heart - and when I see people ganging up on somebody, especially behind their backs, it never sits well with me. But it's definitely a case of taking the piss a bit too much.

Jabba, meantime, was in one of his major gumpies tonight, and was giving it more of the 'I've had enough, mate' melarchy. He says this enough, and lately with significant venom, for it to be a worry. For me. If he leaves, I'm basically fucked. Edmonson's head has been elsewhere for weeks now and with all the staff problems and weak links in the chain we've had since I've started it's going to make my position a fucking nightmare. But the thing is I can't blame either, or, indeed, any of them for wanting out. The job has plenty of bullshit, but you accept that when you sign up. You don't need or want the bullshit from your employer, too. Or, indeed, your colleagues. You need to be able to trust somebody. Jesus, anybody will do.

Midget fight - does it get any better?

2007-06-01T19:30:00.000+01:00

I long for the night when something like this breaks out at work.

Jobsworthy?

2007-05-31T04:00:00.000+01:00

I've been called a 'Jobsworth' three times in my career as a door supervisor.

1. When I told a father that he was breaking the law by supplying his 8-year old child with alcoholic beverages.

2. When I barred a 17-year old kid for drinking on the premises - he'd flittered between sneaking in cans of Stella and getting his 18-year old mate to buy drinks for him - after two warnings.

3. When I ejected a 20-something bloke from the premises for stripping off... on the main stage.

I mean, fucking hell, what was I supposed to do? Look the other way? There's an area that's grey and there's one that's very fucking black and white. What most people don't understand is that if they're, you know, nice, and ask us for advice or help, instead of just assuming they can do xyz, then we'll usually make every effort to be of assistance. If, however, they're aggressive from the very first second - be that in regard to forgetting their pass, smoking somewhere they shouldn't, being generally reckless, etc - then they can fucking well fuck off.

You want me to look the other way? Don't be such a fucking cunt.

Easy.

2007-05-30T03:30:00.000+01:00

Another very late night. I need to get back on the ~~speedballs~~ Red Bull.

Worthy, who you'll remember is the latest DS addition, is working out very well. We're actually related by marriage (honest) but don't let that put you off. The important thing is that he's more than just a body, and I don't mean that in any post-modern gay sense. As I've said before, you're only as strong as your weakest link, although sometimes I wonder if that statement is a bit too close to the classic poker quotation that states that if, after the first 20 minutes, you don't know who the sucker is at the table, it's you.

Very busy tonight, but it seems to be a good crowd. Somebody pointed out that this half-term week is fuck-off expensive, and only a right cunt would pay good money to turn up and be a right cunt. Lots of pissheads, of course, but they're an easy-going, apologetic bunch.

One bit of good news today is that the complex is cracking down on the DJs playing R&B and the more hardcore dance music. Now, that might sound a bit off, and even a little prejudiced, but believe me - nothing gets the young'uns/hopheads more fucked than an hour or so of that kind of music (he says, in his mid-30s). The DJ booth now specifically states that that kind of thing must be kept to a 'minimum'. Time will tell if it actually happens, but it's a positive step forward. Fuck the kids, as Jonathan King once said.

Ring.

2007-05-29T03:30:00.000+01:00

It was a long night, we went the distance (2am), but apart from a few generally insignificant odds and ends, it was basically an easy shift.

However, we had a few owners in, two of which are a youngish couple (late 20s) who have been together for over five years and recently got engaged. They're both very nice, but they rarely come out and drink; the woman in particular. Tonight, however, they were celebrating another owner's birthday, and as it typically goes with non-drinkers, it wasn't long before they were both pretty drunk, her in particular. However, they're very pleasant, as said, and I figured that was that.

About midnight, however, one of their friends came up to me and said the lady had lost her engagement ring. The story was that jokingly she'd taken it off and thrown it at her beau, he'd put it in his pocket, and then lost it. Naturally, she was beside herself and because she was drunk quickly became a bit hysterical. The DJ put a call out to the bar and I spent the better part of an hour, on-and-off, looking for the thing. Especially when the chap mentioned it had cost him five grand.

It never turned up. I kept on expecting to see a glimmer of light somewhere near the dance floor (the only places he'd been was the bar, the dance floor and the toilet) but when it didn't happen after sixty minutes I figured either (a) somebody had picked it up, or (b) it had been kicked somewhere - most likely under the tiny gap beneath the stage - and it was going to take a miracle with a pair of eagle-eyes to find it. I even went up to the bloke and asked him if he'd searched inside his shirt, trousers, other pockets, etc, but he'd assured me he had, and it wasn't there.

About half an hour later I'd basically given up hope. I was walking down by the doors to the club when suddenly the chap walked by, got my attention, and beckoned me outside. We walked well out of earshot and he looked and me and said, "Tell her you found it."

And held up the ring.

When I'd left him earlier, he'd gone over himself again and, fucking hell, lo and fucking behold, he found it in one of his trouser pockets. Basically as I had said.

Now, understandably not all that keen on taking the full brunt from his missus who'd been doing her nut for a couple of hours while he'd had it in his possession all along, he asked me to pretend I'd found it. I double-checked with him to make sure this wasn't some kind of elaborate joke, and it definitely was the ring, but he assured me everything was as said.

So, I went back in, found her, dropped the ring in her hand, and Jesus Christ, the poor girl couldn't have been any more grateful. I was alright with that, but then when everybody else started shaking my hand and the DJ called out that I'd found it over the microphone, I felt like a right cunt. I even had to make out I'd found it outside the toilets, to cover the boyfriend's arse.

That's fine; all in a day's work, etc. And when he came back inside and she rushed up to him, passed on the news, and they embraced, it was all worth it. I guess. The bloke and I shared a private nod - him, thanks, me, no worries - but I felt ashamed enough to spill the beans to Jabba and Edmonson, neither of whom seemed to give much of a fuck. I guess you had to be there.

I tell you what, though, I'm not sure I've ever seen so many diamonds before. That thing was huge. No wonder she was crying her eyes out. I would have been.

Actually, I wouldn't; it's a bit harsh, but that's one of the big differences between a man and a woman. A woman loses her wedding ring, she's inconsolable. A man loses his engagement or wedding ring, and he's upset... but only because he knows his partner will be. Personally, he doesn't give a fuck. But he has to - and does - because she does.

But deep down, all he's really thinking about is the insurance claim.

Sunday, fucking Sunday.

2007-05-28T03:30:00.000+01:00

The final night of the footballers', and up until about 10pm all was well.

You'll remember last time I told you about the series of presentations/awards ceremonies that go on on the Sunday, and how busy that shit gets, specifically because, unlike the Saturday, each team hands out special presentation tickets to pretty much anybody they like. The place was heaving, and because of the bad weather (it rained solidly for about five hours), nobody really wanted to leave the complex. It's busy to the point where your presence is almost redundant; the place is impossible to police and there are so many people swarming around that you are almost compelled to not see the wood for the trees.

But... it seemed to all be in order. Kids doing their typical Lord of the Flies stint, their parents/uncles/aunties/someone they casually knew once getting smashed, etc etc. No worries. Jabba had even gone down the lower bar to help The Lodge out. Then, out of nowhere, a bloke chases two kids out of the complex. "You... get back in your fucking bed NOW!" he says to one, then, "And YOU... get in your FUCKING BED NOW!" to the other.

Hmmm, I think. What have we here. I follow them outside just to see what's going on, but they're turned the corner before I'm there. Somebody comes up to me and says, "Don't worry; they're his kids." OK, not the way I'd have handled it, in a public place and all, but fair enough. I go back inside.

Ten minutes later, my attention is drawn to a large crowd outside the complex collectively walking towards something. I look out, and the same bloke is back again, but this time he's going full on with another geezer. I run down there and force myself in between them, giving it the usual "Come on lads, break it up" shite, but then it gets a bit odd. One of the blokes is being quite aggressive; his opponent is adopting more of a restraining stance. The restrainer says to me, "Just leave us mate, it's alright." Which is all well and good, but when his mate says to the other guy:

"Don't do this; I'll fucking hurt you."

Well, I can't really just piss off, can I? I split them up and the aggressor just runs off, literally. I note then that a woman is watching, who identifies herself as the nutter's wife. Both of them then turn on me. "What did you go and do that for? We were trying to stop him," they say.

What transpires is as follows. Earlier, we'd had a report over the radio of some of the football kids banging on caravan doors, pulling out the electrics, etc. This isn't unusual when it's busy, but it was to the extent where it was a problem, and it was dealt with. The kids that the psycho bloke had chased out of the complex were his own, and were involved. However, other kids were involved too, and something appeared to have gone down between these different kids and psycho's because his agenda then became all about tracking down and, one assumes, physically punishing them, to the extent where his wife, and the guy who I now discovered was his best mate, felt compelled to stop him.

Nutter had already been ejected from the lower bar before he came up to see us. I'd already called it through to all security before he did a runner, and in the piss-pouring rain we all followed him outside the complex and down into the park. He was gone, but for a moment his best mate then became the issue. They were all a bit drunk, naturally, and he went from the usual accusations of 'all bouncers are cunts...' to us explaining why we acted how we did because of what we saw, and then him realising how it all looked. He was fine, we were fine, the bloke was gone, so we all went back inside. Not before, however, he'd revealed that the lunatic was one of the team's manager.

Then another call came over the radio from the new DS, who we'll call Worthy. I couldn't make out the message at all but it didn't take me long to realise that the lunatic had somehow doubled-back behind us and got back into the complex. Several blokes were now holding him back. Amusingly, as I walked up, the biggest of the football security blokes went up to him - he's at least 6ft4 and 20 stone - but was met with a resounding "FUCK OFF!", and duly did. Yeah, cheers mate.

Worthy tells me what happened. At the last minute, he clocked the guy going back inside but before he could act psycho had gone up to another manager and headbutted him. What is it about this fucking place and headbutts? Worthy managed to get him in an armlock and outside, and by now the throng had seen him well away from the doors but he was still acting like a proper mental. His mate had explained to us how us being there, but keeping distance, while his friends calmed him down would be the best medicine, and it was working. Then, naturally, another one of the football security boys walks straight up to him, says this and that, and it all kicks off again. Eventually, he leaves, has another go at the lower bar, is kicked out of there again, and then last I heard was being taken off the complex.

By now, the park had a real sinister vibe going on, was still packed to the gills with pissheads, and I'll admit I feared the worst. We're talking a couple of thousand drinkers here, and three doormen. You do the math(s).

Somehow, however, we got through it. A woman passed out in the main bar and had to be taken away by ambulance, and clearing a walkway for the stretcher wasn't a piece of cake, let me tell you (pissheads don't like it when they have to leave their comfy tables), and we had all kinds of petty crap with kids and teenagers doing their usual shit, and half an hour after closing time we discovered eight people were only halfway through their game of tenpin bowling (and the odds of the duty manager switching the machines off and refunding their money was somewhere between 'none' and 'fuck all'), but somehow we got them all out.

And Goddammit I'm fucking knackered.