DON'T call them bouncers, whatever you do. It annoys them when you call them bouncers and you don't want to annoy these guys. Especially when they're the only thing standing between you and that pub/nightclub/fast food restaurant you're, so, desperate to get into. The proper term is doormen, and it's a more appropriate title, since that's where you'll usually find them. At the door, blocking your way.
There they loom, tall and imposing, dressed usually in black, with a walkie-talkie strapped to their belt, an earpiece stuck in their shell-like. Some of them are dressed in casual, designer-style gear, fashionable but solid. Others are done up like a dog's dinner, in their Sunday best for a rough `n' fumble Saturday night. Some are clean-shaven, which nicely sets off the chest hairs curling out from under their Calvin Klein T-shirts; others sport small ronnies on their upper lips "which contrast creepily with the expansive dickie bows around their necks.
Inevitably, their heads are crowned with an army-issue crew-cut or just plain short-back-and-sides. Absolutely all of them have just one thing on their minds, and that is to keep you. from gaining entry to their premises, and they'll happily use extreme force even if it is completely unnecessary. In fact, when it comes to keeping your sorry ass out on the pavement where it belongs, unnecessary force is absolutely necessary.
Or so we've come to believe. The popular picture of the bouncer is of a gorilla in a bow-tie, built like a brick outhouse with brains to match, and liable to beat seven shades of shinola out of you if you so much as exist in a funny way. Like something out of Terminator 2, he places his vast frame between you and the door and stares robotically ahead. "Eh, I'm a member here," you will say. No answer, no alteration of stony expression. "I come here all the time," you continue. Still no answer, still no change in expression. You begin to panic.
"Look here, my good man!" you bluster, face reddening because you know there's a long queue of people behind listening to your pathetic spiel. "DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?" Of course he doesn't. You're a nobody, otherwise you wouldn't have used that line.
He looks at you as if you were some unidentified sub-species of insect, and he's sizing you up for a stomping.
You threaten, you cajole, you make facetious comparisons with a certain leader of the Third Reich. You have now lost all reason, all sense of proportion. all dignity. You shout, you scream, you call down every curse under the sun upon him, his immediate family, and even his future descendants.
That's the punter's experience. So what's it like on the other side of the bow tie?
"I've heard all the lines," laughs George Ryan, doornan at Dublin's Club M, at Bloom's Hotel in Anglesea Street; `I'll have your job' is a popular one, `you're finished here' is another good one, but the best one is `you'll be on the Gerry Ryan Show on Monday'." George, along with James Smith, is doing the door the night l. arrive up in my jeans, T-shirt and denim jacket, seeking entry.
The Club M door uniform is a double-breasted suit and colourful tie, dressy yet not too formal. Pinned to the breast pocket is a badge which says "Security" in stark black lettering, just in case anyone needs it spelled out.
Both men look stolid but hardly intimidating as they stand on each sided of the nightclub entrance, discreetly surveying each punter. Most of these people will pass through without trouble, but inevitably, at some stage of the night, someone will present themselves before George and James, and will be refused entry. And that's when the trouble might start.
Some people, especially if they're a bit drunk, will get aggressive and start shouting and screaming," says George. "The main thing to do is to try and keep them calm."
There are three main grounds for refusing entry, George says - being drunk, under-age or inappropriately dressed.
The Club M clientele is over-23, upmarket. professional, dressed casually but neatly, and here to dance to chart music and classic hits with other nine-to-five types. You'll also get people from the Irish football squad dropping in, along with the likes of Liverpool's Ian Rush.
Hippies, students and grungeheads don't seem to be clamouring to get in.
According to general manager John Madigan, Club M has experienced very little trouble in the past four years, and it's all down to the door policy.
George Ryan explains the procedure:
"When people approach the door, we greet them politely, say hello, how are you, and try to get them to talk back to us. That way we can determine if they're drunk or abusive, because people reveal themselves when they talk.
"If we refuse someone, we try to give a reason, and suggest they fry another club, or advise them to come back again tomorrow night. You have to be nice, treat them with some, respect, and don't talk down to them.
THE image of the bouncer has taken quite a bashing over the past few years, and there have been some well-documented cases of doormen getting too heavy-handed with members of the public. The worst case in recent years happened outside a Leeson Street nightclub, when Seamus Broderick, a 27-year-old civil servant, died after being punched, kicked and thrown down a.set of steps by bouncer Noel Chubb. Chubb was convicted of manslaughter in 1991, and was due to be released next May. Now, however, he is being sought by gardai after he failed to return to Mountjoy Prison after a day's release.
But rest assured, you are riot taking your life into your hands every time you try to get into a nightclub. The doorman of today is more diplomatic, more skilled in public relations, less .inclined towards confrontation. He must exude an air of authority, yet be a friendly face at the door to make the regular patrons feel welcome. On no account must he subscribe to the Ron & Ron stereotype as parodied by television comedians Hale & Pace. And as for the gorilla metaphor, well, things have moved on quite a bit since then.
Outside Buskers in Temple Bar stand two well-evolved young men, tall, handsome, dressed in white T-shirts, and wearing walkie-talkies around their waists. Their very appearance goes against the image of the fat, sweaty, moustached bouncer: these chaps are lean, clean and muscular, and the only facial hair in evidence is a slight George Michael stubble which emphasises their well-defined jawlines. They are pleasant but firm, dealing with a constant stream of humanity with authority but without arrogance.
"There's no need to be a gorilla," says one, after calmly turning away a trio of tattooed English lager lads. "You have to be polite to people - it saves a lot of hassle." Unlike Club M, the bouncers at Buskers don't offer reasons for refusal. "It only insults people when you tell them what's wrong with them. It hurts their pride, and that can make them angry." Otherwise, the door policy is the same: be pleasant, be friendly, but be ready and able to deal with trouble when it arises.
Over at The Harp on D'Olier Street, the city centre's trouble spots are never far away. The pub and nightclub stands at the epicentre of Dublin's weekend activity, right on the brink of O'Connell Bridge. For the doormen at the Harp, Saturday night brings a constant stream of people passing along this busy thoroughfare, many of whom will stop and try their luck at getting in.
Martin is the head doorman at The Harp, and he runs a 12-strong security staff to ensure the weekends run smoothly and without incident. "We never get trouble inside the nightclub, because we don't let troublemakers in," he tells me. "We get a nice crowd in here, contrary to what people might think. The girls are shop assistants, secretaries, hairdressers, and the guys are working class, labourers, tradesmen, postal workers. It's not a rough crowd. Guys do get drunk, but they're either with their girlfriend or on a stag night, so they're in a good mood."
It hasn't always been so benign here. Martin says the improvement began when the club changed its music from rave to classic hits. "We were getting all these young people in who couldn't hold their drink, but since we changed the music policy we're getting an older, more peaceable crowd. We get a lot of tourists here, Europeans, English, Scots and Welsh, and they never cause hassle."
Martin maintains the Harp's bad image is caused by incidents on the street outside, something over which he has no control. "The Nitelink buses stop outside here, and we're in the middle of the busiest part of town," he says.
"You get fights breaking out on the street which have nothing to do with us. When we get trouble outside, we just close the doors and stay inside. We never let our doormen leave the premises to break up a fight, because if he gets beaten up on the street, then our insurance doesn't cover him.
MANY people believe bouncers themselves start fights but club owners are starting to cop on that if they want to attract the right clientele, they have to have the right kind of people at the door.
It's like a scientific formula: if your bouncers are violent, psychopathic misfits, then the only people who will come to your club are violent, psychopathic misfits.
One city centre club owner was nearly put out of business by his bouncers. "They took over the whole place," he lamented. "They turned away all my regular customers and let in all their own friends. I'm sure they also let drug dealers in. And they were too quick to use their fists. I went through three different sets of bouncers before I could find the right ones." He was lucky. Other places are still enforcing heavy-handed door policies, and wondering why they're not getting a good class of customer.
In Dublin's trendy clubs, the doormen are more than just bouncers - they're celebrities in their own right. The doormen at the Kitchen, for instance, look every bit as cool and casual as the punters who come in every night. And since their customers include U2, Gavin Friday, Oasis, Patsy Kensit, Jack Nicholson and The Artist Formerly Known As Prince, they're always in good company.
"We don't get much trouble here, because we don't attract that type," says Mark Doyle. "We get trendy clubbers and music business people, and it doesn't matter what you wear, 90 per cent of the time you'll get in. We've settled into a style, so most of the customers are regulars.
"Obviously, a lot of people come here because they've heard U2 own the club, and we try not to turn them away. We just warn them it's not chart music. so don't complain if they don't like it."
Everyone who has been to Lillie's Bordello, The River Club or the Pink Elephant will know Gerry Gallagher, the benign bouncer who greeted celebrities, socialites, and wannabes as they passed through the door. As club owner Robbie Fox's right-hand man, he helped to develop an exclusive door policy based on reverse psychology: "Just refuse everyone, and everyone will want to get in.
Despite this, Gerry has made few enemies during his career as a doorman - but he's made many friends, including singer Lisa Stansfield. He's currently working for The Bloody Stream, a pub in Howth owned by Michael Wright.
"Michael wanted someone to greet people and be a friendly face at the door," says Gerry. "It's a very upmarket crowd out here, so we don't get many undesirables." A testament to Gerry's doorside manner is that, in six years working the nightclubs, he's only been attacked three times, and then it was just a matter of a few wild punches.
"Attitude is very important. If you can talk to people, then you can deal with most problems. If you put up an aggressive attitude, it's like a red rag to a bull."
