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And so it goes on and on and on. It perked up at the end when Tel Currie was talking about gypsy kings and bare knuckle champions. So the majority of the book was about really boring stories from people who were "Supposedly" Real Hard Men. But never told you why or what they had done. If you were to buy this new,you would be bitte rly disappointed,and out of pocket. Dont Bother with this!!!!! Read full review. Skip to main content. About this product. Stock photo. Brand new: lowest price The lowest-priced, brand-new, unused, unopened, undamaged item in its original packaging where packaging is applicable.
The Mammoth Book of Hard Bastards. It is the real hard bastard's absolute willingness to fight literally anyone, his ability to be uncompromisingly violent, his complete lack of fear, and unwillingness to admit defeat that makes him stand out in a crowd. Read full description. See details and exclusions. See all 3 brand new listings. The rituals of attack. The pre-fight twitches of men with bad intentions and no fear of consequence.
Knives may be the tool of choice for the career criminal but I found to my cost that people are nothing if not inventive when it comes to finding and using expedient weapons to bash, slash and pound each other. Doormen regularly face a multiple of offensive weapons in the course of duty; guns, coshes, bats, bars, crutches, craft knives, carpet cutters and cars — a maniac called Tank once drove a Ford Cortina through the front doors of a busy Coventry club to enact his revenge after being barred by the doormen.
Even people can be used as implements of pain when an equalizer is called for. An infamous pound doorman and former wrestler called Bert Assarati found himself before a judge after hospitalizing several men, one of whom was in a particularly bad way, outside a London nightclub. Given the chance, people will even attack you with their bodily fluids: blood, sick, spit, shit — nothing is sacred. One drunk and incapable man was so angry when I asked him to leave the club that.
It was very embarrass- ing.
I could smell the vapour for days. Without question the most dangerous weapon by far was the one handed to every customer that stepped across our welcome mat; a beer glass. Even the uninitiated in a second of drunken madness can end a life with the speared edges of a broken glass.
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And the girls were often the worst offenders. Especially when another female stood between them and their man. I had to administer first aid to a beauti- ful twenty-something after a love rival cracked a wine glass on the edge of the bar and rammed it into her face. She hit her with such force that two inches of the glass stayed buried beneath her cheek- bone. It took six hours of reconstruction to fix her face. Dealing with women was not always so violent, but it was often tricky. I had my fair share of sexual come-ons from scantily clad beauties with a penchant for large men in tuxedo suits.
The door is a seductive trade offering local celebrity, free beer and loose women to those with a weak will and a strong libido.
In my defence — and to my shame — my indulgences were infrequent and never without a post-coital dose of guilt and remorse. Personally, I found more profit in light flirtations than full-on promiscuity.
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The lady in question thanked me by lifting her skirt and flashing a frilly pair of pink knickers that clung Kylie Minogue-tight to the neatest little bottom I have ever set eyes on. I was the envy of every man in the club. It became a Saturday night ritual that never failed to please.
The Mammoth Book Of Hard Bastards
Sadly, it ended the night she turned up on the arm of a man with a face like ten boxers. Still, it was good while it lasted. Some women wanted more for their money than a bit of sexually charged banter. For several weeks I complimented Lala on how nice. I mentioned her hair, her shoes girls like that and how nice her perfume was. I badly misread the situation. What had been an innocent flirt for me was patently a red-hot come-on for her.
Not all of the women I encountered were so enamoured by me. A rather irate lady once tried to decapitate me with the stiletto end of her right shoe while I wrestled her boyfriend from the club. She was having none of it. I was lucky. Another doorman was stabbed in the ribs by a maniacal mother with a pair of nail scissors when he tried to stop her daughter — the bride-to-be — from having live sex with a hen- night strip-o-gram.
The Mammoth Book of Hard Bastards Robin Barratt C & R Crime
Personally, when dealing with women, I always recommend restraint. There is rarely cause to be physical. A keen eye and a quick wit is often all you need. The mere mention of large bottoms, flaccid bosoms and a hairy upper-lip are usually enough to send a body-conscious female scurrying for safety. We refused a rather large lady entry to a club one night because she was violently drunk and scaring the other customers and the doormen.
It is when the gender is ambiguous that confusion can trigger sheer terror. Tuesdays at Busters nightclub was alternative night, which meant a culture dish of gays, geeks, goths, punks and trannies. Nothing too bad in that,. Nightclub toilets were also the favoured hidey-hole for criminals and vagabonds.
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Bag thieves used toilet cisterns to dump stolen and fleeced handbags, whilst muggers regularly attacked and robbed their unwitting victims when they were at their most vulnerable; unzipped at the urinal or de-bagged on the can. Messy but effective. And it was the doormen who had to clean up afterwards. Equally unpleasant was the mess left when too much partying resulted in a vomit fest. Escorting the ill and the infirm from the premises without getting a jacket full of sick yourself was tricky, if not impossible.
It was defi- nitely my least favourite task. Occasionally, and disappointingly, those on the make were the doormen them- selves, though, despite suggestions to the contrary — and certainly from my experience — this scenario is rare. A good door team would not be seen dead dealing drugs. They are constantly on the lookout for dealers and users, both of whom get short shrift and a fast exit from the club if they are caught. No moral crusade, I can assure you, just part of the job description.
People are fixated by the evils of drugs and there is little doubt that for those who deal and those that take there can be no undam- aged escape. But as an empiricist I would argue that if drugs are evil then alcohol is the devil incarnate. And the deadly trilogy of stress, booze and nightclub ambience is all the. Alcohol has always been linked with — and often blamed for — many of our societal ills, not least the burgeoning growth in unsolic- ited violence. No doubt there is a link between binge-drinking and bar-fighting, but the former is surely a trigger and not the root cause.
Pubs and clubs are brimming over with angst-ridden folk looking to displace a bad day, a bad week or a bad life in a good night. Perhaps that would explain why the violence — often heinous, sometimes fatal — is completely disproportionate to the triggering stimuli. But, in the buzz of a busy nightclub it is just one of the many reasons people will find to enact atrocities on each other. After a decade of standing under nightclub neon and nearly losing my faith in human nature I had the growing realization that violence was not the answer. It is a cruel and ugly language, the parley of ignorant men, but a means of discourse none the less and, when you are dealing with the hard of thinking, sometimes a quick punch in the eye is better understood that a lengthy over-the-table negotia- tion.www.cantinesanpancrazio.it/components/niciruv/101-disattivare-abbonamenti.php
The Mammoth Book of Hard Bastards | Bouncer (Doorman) | Nightclub
Some people — even despots and dictators on the world stage — will listen to nothing less. The situation — one that should have found a negotiable solution — started innocently enough. A local man and martial artist of some repute was consistently and blatantly challenging my author- ity and testing my patience by refusing to drink up at the end of the night.
For three months I tried to be nice, laced my requests to drink up with politeness and respect, all to no avail. He obviously mistook my politeness for weakness and one late Sunday evening — in a fit of arrogance — he barged into me when I was collecting glasses. It was the final insult. My hat tipped, I invited him on to the tarmac. The fight was short and bloody. Although my opponent was a black belt he was ill-prepared for the pavement arena. When the paramedics were called I knew that I had gone too far, and my capacity to inflict hurt had astounded even me.
I felt sure that he was dead when the ambulance took him away under a wool blanket and a flashing blue light.