My late dad was the hardest nightclub bouncer in a tough working-class area in Medway, Kent. He was a bodybuilder and terrifyingly quiet; you never quite knew what was going through his head.
My underage sixth-form mates knew he would refuse them entry if they tried to get into the sprawling, sticky floored and aggressively heterosexual nightclub where he worked the door with a formidable scowl. Luckily, I would sooner pour petrol in my eyes than set foot inside. He told me he broke the arms of any drunken louts giving him trouble. I believed him.
