Milton's Hell.

I sat across a bar table in deepest Coventry listening to Dan, a colossus with a penchant for violence. A relic from my 'door' days, 'Desperate Dan' talked through the bottom of his tenth bottle of 'bud'. His trunk-like fingers wrapped tightly around the frosted glass, the bulbous knuckles sitting to attention, pronounced and ever-ready for action. His small blue eyes, hidden beneath furrows of frown, were on constant sentry; they raked the shadows looking for enemies, never settling for long enough to meet mine.

Hidden beneath the crusty exterior, perceptible only if you cared to search, was a normal man, a farther, a husband, and a son. A friend. I had a soft spot for Dan, though tonight I wondered how I had ever been a part of his world.

Dan uses his 18 stone to protect doors in the city, he is the archetypal night club doorman, the bouncer and has been for the last 12 years.

He hasn't changed much other than a few new working scars, which he displays like prized collectibles.

As I listened to the soft slur, from one too many Buds and a few too many bangs on the head, it was almost as though I had slipped into a time warp. He recited, almost verbatim and through the same 'bottle bottomed filter’, his perennial fable of wanting to 'come off the door' and seek pastures new. And if it weren’t for the shackles- money, mortgage, a couple of kids and the societal bias against 'people like us’- he’d do it too.

He went onto explain how none of it was his fault (I abused the same line) and that even the bloodied victims of his intolerance had 'asked for it'. In twelve years time, his liberty and life still permitting, I'm sure I'll hear it all again.

On average Dan knocks out one person a week and, he says, it worries him. 'I'm getting better at it lately’, he said starting his eleventh beer, ‘in fact I'm getting too dangerous for my own good!'

Dan was too dangerous for his own good twelve years ago.

As I looked across the table I saw my former self looking right back, I heard myself revelling in the vignettes of past battles, and justifying it with a rationalisation that would make Freud proud. I could almost feel the 'sugar high' of drunken praise from my same-ilk mates.

Our conversation was broken by a furore at the bar door. Frank, another doorman friend from beyond who ‘got off’ on maiming innocents, entered with fresh blood splashed up his shirt like an explosion transfer and a smile of satisfaction etched across his fleshy face. Within seconds he was surrounded by men hungry for some bloody narrative.

It turned out that Frank had just bitten of a fellow’s nose in a fight and pushed his thumb so deep into his eye socket his knuckles disappeared. He told his captivated audience that he 'really didn't want to talk about it', but continued talking all the same. He quickly rushed through the 'justification stage'- as is always the way, every one agreed that he was completely justified- then made haste to the meaty bits. 'And the funny thing was,' he told his bewitched gathering, who all secretly wished it was them telling the story, 'when I spat out the nose it hit Baz (his mate) on the leg'. The roars of laughter echoed off the walls and every one took turns in slapping Frank on the back (those who knew him well kissed his head), telling him what a great bloke he was and 'fair play to ya' Frank'.

A line of 'Buds' sat on the bar like winner’s cups.

It transpired that Baz then crushed the severed nose with the heavy swivel of his right heel, like he was killing a cockroach, so that surgeons couldn’t stitch it back on again.

Whilst this might sound abhorrent (and it surely is), it is normal to the people who professionalise violence. When you become familiarised with these ways through over exposure a level of dehumanisation occurs and you stop seeing a potential threat as a member of the same species. He becomes little more than a river-bank-rat, good only for shooting practice.

There are rats of course, those that understand nothing less than a 'dig in the mouth', but the majority are nice people, normal family men unconsciously discharging build-ups of societal stress. They are no more threatening than your great aunt. In retaliation to their cheeky badinage they anticipate, at most, a lively debate, maybe even a scuffle that they can brag about later, in the factory canteen. Few, if any at all, anticipate losing bodily parts.

I was exposed to so much violence as a bouncer that I almost lost my faith in human nature. When confrontational people stepped into my world I had absolutely no qualms about knocking them right back out of it again. But I was fortunate. Providence intervened and the violent mind frame, which had become my shadow, disappeared under the light of realisation. I refined my aggressive energy, which I had thus far misappropriated, and redirected it more constructively. I set about creating a new world for myself.

Before the first drink could even wet his lips Frank had five witnesses who would swear on their mothers' graves (most of who were not even dead yet) that he was with them all night. This is an important part of the procedure if you want to keep your liberty for any length of time. If the police did arrest him (they didn't in this case, they kept their 'noses' out of it) the charges would probably have been dropped, through lack of evidence, at police station level or at the very worst thrown out by the CPS (Crown Prosecution Service).

As a secondary means of insurance Frank sent a 'witness scarer' to the crime scene to ensure that the blood was hidden in a mop full of Detol and witnesses lost all short term memory.

If the case did come to court life would be made very uncomfortable for anyone that recognised him.

This is not to say that they all escape prison. Those who lack the judicial eye often go 'down the steps'. Lenny 'five years' just got life for his third '18' (Section 18 Wounding With Intent), Charlie is serving an eight for attempted murder, and Mad Mickey is currently remanded, pending sentencing, for trying to lobotomise a fellow with the speared edges a broken beer jug. All failed to secure a tight alibi.

Frank has been involved in more woundings than any other person I know, and thus far he has not seen the inside of a prison cell. But karma has the memory of an Elephant and I guess it is only a matter of time until he reaps what he has sown.

Five years earlier and I'd have been the first to greet Frank at the bar door, I know I would. I'd have also stood in line to pat him on the back and buy the lad a drink for a job well done and a tale well told. Hell, I'd even have volunteered myself as a witness to his innocence. Now, watching and listening, I felt only sadness. I have to tell you that I was so happy to be a visitor in my dark past and not a resident. Even just passing through felt like a retrograde step.

Frank and Dan are trapped in a world that I have been lucky enough to escape. I, like them, had once risked all for the transient and conditional respect this kind of existence proffered. So it’s not with a sense of judgement or condemnation that I write these words, rather it is with a sense of understanding and compassion because I walked the same path.

I can see the downward spiral they’re on but it doesn't have to be this way. People often feel at the mercy of their environment, they use blame as a calming balm, but I say we choose our environment and we can choose better. Many believe the doorway out is locked, and maybe it is but it can be reopened. The key is to accept responsibility for our own destiny, then and only then do we have the power to unlock our potential.

My autodidact escape route was through the library. Knowledge offered me an exit from my worse nightmares and an entry to my greatest dreams, and it was an education without pedantry-I thrived on new information. It was just a matter of making a tangible commitment and redirecting my energy.

Once you take this first step it's almost as though the whole universe conspires to help you.

As for Dan, Frank and my other friends trapped in Milton's hell, I pray they might see that it is a hell of their own making, and that they have the choice of change. In the mean time I continue to scan the 'Court' and 'Obituary' columns of my local rag for their names. Sadly many of them have already appeared in print.