BALD - Diary of a Female Bouncer

By L Penn

This bold diary opens its pages from professional female bouncer, cdb's unflinching exposé of her nights working London's clubs to reveal the truth behind the conflicts and promos, comradery and betrayals.

All documented events from the year 2009 to 2014, are placed bare in a fast-paced layout where every kind of club is covered from dingy ramshackle joints, to high-end bar/eateries, and each night told, from a woman's unique perspective.

Everyday folk to trending celebrities, you are invited to experience this lone female among men surviving barmy situations to the calm of slumped consumers, and dealing with wonderful creatures to rioting mobs, cdb and Penn tell it like it is, unveiling true tales of a gritty city's nightlife.

322 pages. True Stories  

• Language: English
• Publisher: L Penn
• Release date: Jul 31, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393201137

Book preview

BALD – Diary of a Female Bouncer

by

L Penn

Table of Contents

Table of Contents

Copyright © 2019 revised 2020 cdb/penn version 2.0

Chapters

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

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16

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20

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22

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Copyright © 2019 revised 2020 cdb/penn version 2.0

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CB/Penn asserts her legal and moral right to be identified as the author of this book.

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All rights reserved. Prior written permission required of the publisher to use, post or reproduce any part of this book in whole or in part in any form on- or off-line, except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form other than that in which it is published.

First published by Penn/CB Feb 2019 (version 2.1)

ASIN: B07VYNKZ76

ISBN-10: 108661920X

Visit the website:

http://anovel.wix.com/strongwords

Other books by this author:  Fiction Titles

Spilling Blood

Missing Him: A real love story

This book is dedicated to good night-owls,

with a special thank-you to my mum and sis

1

I DIDN’T have cancer.

Nor am I an extra on the remake of Roots.

I look in the wash hand basin. A razor-blade is to my left. Shaving gel is on my right.

I take up the gel. It’s unbranded, unscented, and for sensitive types.

That’s me. Cass Ben. Single. Early Forties. Sensitive and temperamental. The two don’t mix well but I manage both. I’m like my father. Sensitive and temperamental, he ached when mum divorced him. I was nine. He was angry. His bald head was like a Malteser in a vacuum. Veins popping around his skull resembled tiny rivers upon his skin. He was a giant. I looked up to him but mum stared him straight in the eye.

My parents, no longer together, what would they make of me now? I wonder what they will make of my new career choice. I know it’s something I never imagined.

The sensitive gel reads like a poem: First use, clean razor, warm water, rinsing applicator. I wonder if these are the same as my father’s before he began a shave.

Inhaling deeply I check my reflection in the bathroom mirror. I am not my father but I am me. Just that now, I’ll resemble him more than ever.

Careful, I make the first stroke. Front to back over the right ear. Not bad. My short afro begins to disappear. I see my father. Sensitive and temperamental. He passed it down to me.

I shrug my shoulders. They are too wide though some people like that. An ex-tutor, nursing auxiliary, and construction worker, I’ve been around the block! My prior experiences will come in handy. I’m going to need them.

After twenty minutes the short afro that once covered my head is gone. My father’s glistening skull mirrors back at me. Sensitive and temperamental. Will the two hinder or help my new venture? I try not to think about it as I get ready for my interview.

I DRESS sharp. It’s rare I dressed sharp. As a kid we wore hand-me-downs. No one prioritised fashionable clothing. If a mother’s shawl kept you warm, you wore it. School uniforms meant you were equal. No one could tell one household bettered another. I thought it would be the same wearing uniforms at work. Low and behold, I made that mistake often.

The childhood I left behind never prepared for the rigours of employment. One of ten black families on a large working-class estate, the community had trust and great companionship. Two precious things I’d find lacking progressing through adulthood.

THE traffic is bumper to bumper both sides of the A40. The dual motorway serves seven London Boroughs; it’s a Snakes & Ladders of road building. Like the board game some parts dropped you down a hell-driven pit, others glided you effortlessly along.

Six motor lanes fill my horizon. I stare at the tail-ends of cars. Names and logos different shapes and sizes, their glow of manufactured red penetrates my eyes. Brake lights. Nothing but brake lights. This is London traffic.

I check the clock on the dashboard. Don’t want to be late. I’m never late. Forgot to mention I’m terribly pedantic. Tardiness was unforgiven during my 70s education.

Arrive early for scheduled meetings. It’s the right thing to do. I’m hoping to grab a brew before my interview. First sign of a local café make a mental note. Here, have a cup of tea rang steady throughout my years.

I sigh at the time. 9:30 a.m. Interview’s in one hour.

I turn to my right.

A handsome olive-skinned male grins heavily. Does he sense my frustration? Seated high up in a massive 4 x 4 SUV, he sees down in to my ‘97 Saab.

Was he laughing at my old vehicle or being friendly? I see him punch numbers in to a GPS, Global Positioning System. He smiles at me again. This time I smile back.

Running hands around my Saab’s steering-wheel she’s christened SS. Silver Surfer. I like that she’s reliable. I like that she’s old.

The man watches as I pick up an A4 Master Alas off my passenger seat. Again he feeds me another grin while I thumb the pages.

Still old school I clung on for dear life. I hadn’t accepted all things techie yet. Yes, I was a bit of a Luddite. And suspicious of grins. There’s always something behind strange men who grin.

A car horn pops several cars back. None of us are going anywhere. Whatever the hold-up, we’ll have to wait. Drivers hate being held-up. I’m one of them.

I toss away the A4 Atlas onto the passenger seat. Heavy bass-music pumps from a BMW three cars back and to my left. I can’t see whose driving. The windows are blacked out. Isn’t that illegal? My new skills-training said it was so. Mr John McKenzie told us.

He said we are to widen our vision, clock anything unusual, be more aware, we’re entering a world of surveillance and more. I wonder how I got here, surveillance and more as I patiently await the A40 to get moving.

IT was Shefski. My Albanian, wonder man. It’s him where I lay blame and him being the reason I’m heading for this interview. Shefski, you son of a...

Months previous I’d furtively watch his mouth move during morning-break. We both worked in construction. We both started hating it. While he sprinkled excitement, good looks and temptation, I worried what career to do next. Imagining Shefski in a penguin-suit looking like James Bond, tall, slim, with oodles of charisma, was a nice fit. He was younger than me by some eighteen years. It’s 2009. He thinks I’m 27. I was in fact 42.

In spite of my age, security work could grant me opportunities. At 42, my career path stalled. I juggled several jobs before becoming self-employed working on building sites. I had no choice.

Chronic pain blighted my life. From age 12, I started menstruating. The crippling pain relieved me of a steady career. I couldn’t guarantee my attendance therefore it rendered me unreliable. Now, security work could grant me a reprieve.

With weekend-only hours I could avoid time-off being ill. I currently managed to work three weeks out of every four. An indication I didn’t have a successful career.

I’d every opportunity given to me but bosses grew tired of me taking days off. It started with two, then three, sometimes five. It couldn’t go on. Doctors supplied every pain-killer under law. My periods just laughed.

Determined to beat me up every month, my stomach, abdomen and sternum got pounded. Over and over a sadistic trail drove through prescribed opiates. It delivered extreme punishment. Every six months my dark eyes opined my GP. 

Come on, Doc, doubled-up in agony inside his surgery, I need something stronger to stop me losing this job.

With a nod he’d write another prescription hoping I’d stop bothering him. I lasted a year as an auxiliary psychiatric nurse in Towers Hospital. Not yet 21 years old, it’s a fifth missed career opportunity.

After three more highly-prized lost positions, I manage to land a maintenance job with Leicester Council. Survival rate: four years. I did a full apprenticeship. My longest stint yet, I came to London in ’92 and everything went pear-shaped.

New teaching employers empowering women had a green light. However they needed reliable staff. One week off every four. They couldn’t rely on me. After three years I was out. Hard-nosed bosses showed no pity. They didn’t even offer me redundancy pay.

Cash-strapped I’m found rudderless. Months of unemployment in London had you sinking fast so self-employment seemed my only option. Soon enough, I ran in to problems there.

With my wardrobe of skills I worked on building sites across London but contractors wanted their pound of flesh. I screwed up my lips. Here I’d encounter further obstacles. Thinking I could get away being self-employed I hit another brick wall. Surely I could choose my own hours couldn’t I? No, sub-contractors were slave-driven and you weren’t free to choose your own hours. Take a day off work, you’re looked on unfavourably. My choices diminished. Therefore, watching Shefski’s mouth move during another morning-break on a site in the Docklands, he understood my dilemma.

2

I COULD talk to him. For a young man, he’s a good listener.

That grey Monday morning in February 2009, he explained he’d been working security Saturday night for the socialite Paris Hilton. At an exclusive club in Central London, he swooned at how beautiful she was.

Shefski already trained to work in security. He was looking to leave construction and nurture his talents elsewhere. With those Albanian marble eyes, he wooed me to give it a try.

My mind stirred that night thinking over Shefski’s words. I’d miss him and didn’t enjoy the prospect. He owned a perfect smile. Aside from his James Bond fit, he was the handsomest young man I had ever seen.

27 years young, Shefski resembled Captain Scarlet from the puppet-generated TV show Captain Scarlet and the Mysterons. Bright-eyed, dark haired and fluorescent smile, it’s scary how beautified he was. Wise men like him were rare so I began shuffling ideas to work out a ‘pain timetable’.

FROM what I gathered, security work gave access to things I could manage. Washrooms being prime.

I could snatch toilet breaks, maintain hygiene, and pop painkillers. Sounded like the perfect solution. Ever since my Albanian divulged his celebrity shoulder-rubs, I thought I’d look in to this glamorous night world.

Several years ago I saw crowds gathered outside a plush hotel in London W1. The bouncers were escorting socialite David Furnish inside. Dozens of paparazzi stood clicking away as people shouted all manner of things. It’s when my lone voice yelled out, Hey David, how’s Elton?! he turned round, caught my eye and shouted back, Elton’s okay, thanks. I thought that was nice of him to respond to my single question because he had ignored all the others. Nevertheless back to Shefski’s words lingering in my mind.

Cosmopolitans mixed with weekend work, that’ll do for me. More independence, more days off, and time to manage my pain.

AFTER the day’s drive home I studied a deep blue sunset covering a Peabody Estate. It’s opposite a studio apartment I’m renting in the Hackney Borough. The fading sunlight shone mystical as I unclothed by the front window.

I saw a new vehicle pull in to the estate’s entrance. Another one pulled out. I wanted to be there paying less rent and able to afford new things. I also wanted to get away from the binds tying me to construction.

Each night I cooked hot dinners failing to realise I should eat lighter. Less on my plate meant I woke up refreshed unlike feeling I needed more sleep. Hearty food’s comforting but unnecessary in later years. Piling on pounds strangled cartilage around the joints. If I’m to work in security I need the ability to move.

Intrigued, I finished undressing and stepped in to a warm bath. Closing my eyes, I would seek further information and consult a second site colleague about my new interest.

MIKE Redford reminded me of Caribbean cricket legend, Brian Lara: Don’t let anything stop you achieving. My father made us watch cricket matches on television covering most Sundays. Us kids didn’t get it nor did we try to. Perhaps if we’d seen the majestic chess manoeuvres, we could have navigated our careers better. But Mike is one of those, a manoeuvre type.

He rose above the parapet to be successful at playing The Markets. He owned two homes and drove a £60,000 Lexus. Know any construction workers driving 60-grand cars to work! Didn’t think so! None of Mike’s exploits were achieved working three weeks out of four so I listened when he spoke.

Having spent yesterday evening working security at Reading Football Club, Mike said the atmosphere there was breathtaking. He also pushed the idea I should think about getting on board. He recently qualified. Inside the classifieds, Mike showed me the security course he’d taken. At first I didn’t think I was brave enough to jump ship. I might miss the side and drop in the ocean but Mike said, learn to swim.

The man had a fire burning in his belly that only flickered in mine. He was right. I shouldn’t let hesitation cripple my endeavours.

Dressed in black cashmere overcoat, Mike showed me a photo of him at last night’s football game on his phone. I’m impressed. He went on to explain how much the security course cost, how long it was, and where it’s located.

With a plethora of work available, one thing I learned right away is the money involved to do security. Now called ‘Door Supervision’ it was the new term for Bouncing.

At the start of the millennium bouncing was no longer a closed-shop. The trade went through drastic change. It got cleaned up and became government sanctioned.

Run by a professional body called the, Security Industry Authority (S.I.A for short) no one could be a bouncer if you had a criminal conviction in the last five years. This resulted in many ‘veterans’ ousted from the trade however it opened up for a fresher work-force to enter.

DURING my 90s hey-days, I don’t recall bouncers paying to be bouncers. They were usually heavy mates of even heavier mates. You know the Mob guys who ran or owned nightclubs & pubs. The Kray Twins are probably the most famous. They started out bouncing and never forked-out a dime. The dimes were forked-out for them so I decided to get serious and start to look in to it.

Discovering at the off, the S.I.A wanted lots of cash to train and register members. Some people would put that another way. An unforgivable landscape charging jobseekers to find work!

I ran my fingers down Mike’s newspaper article and perused closely. The S.I.A oversaw every requirement to work in security and business was booming.

Security guards are in all franchises. From corner-shops to big banks, semi law-enforcement had become norm. I wondered where things were headed as local television news anchors discuss rising rents.

If a third of a wage should meet the rent in order for people to cope, it meant most people needed £38-an-hour to meet their £1,400 monthly rent. My periods started laughing again. What average person earns that much because that was the average rent in London!

I’d no spare cash lying about which made me reluctant to pour wages I did have, in to training. Unless a few hundred quid was lying spare, I couldn’t break the S.I.A milestone. Falling in to rent-arrears would be a horror story. Private-renters are easily exploited by cruel estate agents. I couldn’t risk it. Many estate agents make it their mission to penalise renters. Late or non-payment is akin to a knife at your belly. I didn’t want to get shafted therefore I’d wait for something good to come along when fortune struck.

My sister Linda (her middle name, and two years my junior), won a small chunk of money on ‘De Europe’, my mum’s Caribbean twang for the Euro-Lottery. It’s with my sister’s stroke of luck that enabled me to pay for the S.I.A course and bring an end to my days working on building sites.

The timing couldn’t be better. Weeks later, Shefski and Mike also left.

3

I MISSED my two work colleagues. I’d like to have joined them at their security firms. They were good guys and I didn’t meet good guys often so their leaving created a void. Shefski’s charm made me smile and Mike displayed warmth lacking in others. They left before I could say goodbye. I missed out on thanking them as their encouragement gave me new light. I was never confident about making the leap without their push.

Determined to make a fresh start, I left the site in the Docklands one final time. Pulling up in to Cazenove Road N16 I parked my old Saab. Climbing out the driver seat I saw an old man repairing a brick wall to some flats. Knowing I turned my back on building, I offered him my tools.

Initially he looked surprised but I sussed him out. Regarding me with a miners-cap sat sideways on his head, he explained he worked in construction most of his life. Moaning his clients expected ‘Diamond jobs for pebble-stone money’ he stayed stuck in the trade finding it difficult to leave. Happy with all the tools I offered him, I didn’t go in to my own suffering.

Opening up my Saab’s boot, I hand over everything. Fully kitted tool bag, 4-inch grinder, mobile drill, protective clothing, his wide smile says he can’t believe it.

After exchanging sentences I’m able to wish him the best, unlike Shefski and Mike. This old gent made up for it. Reminding me of the miners fight during the 80s, the man packs away my gear as I wave him goodbye. Smiling, I walk off in the direction of Upper Clapton Road’s wide single-carriageway in E5.

The area is vibrantly cosmopolitan and I feel good as I enter the black iron gates to my studio apartment. Glancing through the barrier, Turks, Orthodox Jews, Whites, Blacks, Asians and Europeans, there isn’t anyone London doesn’t welcome.

Inside my studio I make the call and arrange a date for S.I.A training. Next, I mouth thank-you for my sister’s Euro-win cash injection and voila! Spring of 2009, I’m on my way.

I TOOK the Underground to West London.

Sat in a half-full carriage I’ve time to ponder. My mum’s best friend Shirley sprang to mind. She was a sophisticated Caribbean woman who dared.

Shirley took important steps. She wasn’t afraid to stand out which was remarkable during the 70s. Her love for action-movies rubbed off on me as I went to see the film Roadhouse in 1988.

With my new venture in to security, I imagined making ‘$500-a-night’ like Patrick Swayze’s character Dalton. He played a ‘cooler’, the head-doorman to a team of bouncers. I wanted to be like him. Cool, charming, and damn good at the job. The film’s line-up of gorgeous females alongside red-bloodied pugilistic men, Roadhouse became cult. Of course critics panned-it but the paying-public got it and I was eager to land my first job. Who wouldn’t want to be surrounded by beautiful people earning big bucks, I certainly did. I only hoped everything ‘Dalton-style’ would be at my side.

Unlike Mr Swayze’s character I had no Martial Arts training. I’d no restraint techniques either and didn’t practice Zen. I would be me. And me is all I had. Sensitive and temperamental, not good together but I’d keep in check. With no discernable role-model, I’d try and emulate Dalton. Minus kill anyone of course. A high threshold to pain (agonising periods saw to that) should see me adapting. All this was within reach. I just had to execute it.

THE S.I.A course is run by a lone older gentleman named John McKenzie.

Of McKenzie Security Ltd in Oxfordshire, the course is located at Territorial Army Training Barracks in South Africa Road, London, W12. It covered two weekends to learn the basics and pass a written exam. Under a Part One banner, you’re then fully accredited.

Other fields become open such as Health & Safety, First-Aid, Events, and Close-Protection. I’m happy to get the basics though thought I might check another programme later on. Further qualifications gave you a heads-up despite bosses saying experience is more as John McKenzie would go on to explain.

An ex-policeman from Scotland, McKenzie was the perfect grandpa. In his late 60s, he was cuddly, warm-hearted and honest. He told hair-raising stories about being a police officer and had the class enthralled. Rehashing tales about dastard rogues he chased across rooftops, after decades serving the public, he began training people for today’s security. His course over two weekends saw a mixed bunch of men and women aiming to get employment. They’re from all walks of life: African women out the service-sector, young lads off council-estates, East-Europeans grabbing whatever, and single-mums seeking something new.

It’s an entertaining four-day spread. I took particular interest in legislation, laws and safety. Age restrictions, licencing, searching, and psychology, all came in. John McKenzie taught a great deal. If I recalled half of what he said, I could be a legal assistant. But I’m no ‘desk-jockey’ and liked moving around.

SERVING my day sat at a desk wasn’t me. In all my years doing physical work, I never had a joint problem. I was looking to keep it that way.

In quick time I completed the exam and passed 100%. John said I could have a job with his contacts in Hotel Security so I kept that in mind. My immediate plans were to crack-on with work and become a female Dalton. Big bucks were my main feature. Last year’s recession started to hit hard. Like a counterpunch from 2008 they were there. Bank statements, utility bills, insurance notes, all dropping on my doormat. I dreaded opening them.

What did these companies want? Whom did they serve?

‘Payment due’, ‘interest charged’ ‘late accounting’, etc. etc...

I couldn’t keep up.

With no money coming in, a welcome piece of mail finally dropped on my doormat. Documents. S.I.A security documents, my accredited paperwork. Time to begin.

Rifling through everything I read the parts needed to register with work agencies. After earning £600-700 weekly on building sites, I found myself signing-on. In short time, my savings are eaten up.

Starting to budget, I shopped cheaper, lighter, and tightened my belt.

I discovered better supermarkets with good products enabling me to cook for days. Rustling up healthy dishes, I’d store leftovers in the fridge. I purchased cheaper beverages that tasted great and called utility providers to get lower rates. Next, entertainment companies who I got ‘loyal deals’ out of. They were willing and I got my finances reduced and under control.

Now, only the rent was breaking my bones so I had to ask for help. And I asked mum.

MY parents always paid their rent. Affordable and decent accommodation, it got paid. Never did our family suffer the threat of eviction. Decades in to my own adult life, two rent-arrears letters pinched my skin. I called mum for a loan.

Gladly, she gave me a grand. It saw off the wolves at the door. Rent paid, I could breathe easier. My breath back, I dashed to sign-up with a reputable security firm.

Still old-school, I picked up a copy of Yellow-Pages. Under security-listings I found one. I took down the address then turned the page. I would join a second firm to see who’d offer work first.

Looking up TSS Security based in West London, Acton W3, years later they’d go in to administration yet re-emerge as a new company.

Spring 2009, it is here, present day, stuck in traffic on the A40 the man in his 4 x 4 grins at me again. I try to avoid his beam and keep my face on the windscreen. He must like my newly shaved head. Something.

I turn on the radio. Capital Gold 1548 medium-wave. I glance to my right. The 4 x 4 starts pulling forward. Great! Traffic’s beginning to move.

We all get chugging along. 10 miles, 20, 30. I pass 4 x 4. He turns to grin at me again. I raise him un-plucked brows. He puts a thumbs-up. I do too. Happy trails, mister.

4

I TAKE exit A4000, Victoria Road. A further two minute drive I turn in to an industrial estate. New companies rented out office blocks. Clinical and sharp lined, white-grey pavements spread everywhere.

Cruising down a small road I pull in to a four-lane driveway. I park next to three stationed luxury cars.

One is a huge shiny grey Land Rover appearing to intimidate my Saab. Resembling a tank, I thought who owned such a machine when three humungous chaps emerge from the vehicle.

These