to the Liverpool gangs. They were disorganised, fiercely independent and totally fluid in membership. Many of the top faces were little more than latter-day guns for hire, who would join a gang to carry out an armed robbery or a warehouse raid, and then move onto their competitors once the âworkâ had been executed. There was no hierarchy or manor to protect. The pecking order was purely based on crime-driven revenues. Financially, many of the gangsters were wealthier than their counterparts in London and Manchester. Organisationally, it was a recipe for disaster. There were constant gang wars, internecine feuds, shootings, stabbings, murders . . . it was total chaos.
Loyalty was based on who was paying the âwagesâ at any instant. Astonishingly, the one keystone, the only constant that kept the whole house of cards from imploding on itself, was the code of silence, or the gangland code as it was known to doormen and club owners. No one talked to the police, no matter what. Against this backdrop, Paul launched his bid for power and began his struggle to carve out a profitable niche.
----
PAUL: Before I took over the door, the Oslo nightclub was pretty innocent. It was stuck in a time warp. It was full of Norwegians and Germans who just wanted to get drunk and get laid. Sometimes theyâd refuse to pay £25 for a bottle of vodka. They knew they were being ripped. Which is fair enough, but itâs one of them. Iâd have to do them in anyways. I was taking my wages out of the place and the right to charge drunken seafarers £25 for a bottle of vodka was that of the management. Thatâs how they made their bonuses. As long as I ensured it kept coming, it was happy days all round. Mind you, I half used to think about taking the place over lock, stock. But in truth, I could not be arsed with the hassle.
On my second week a huge German seaman just refused point blank to hand over his dough to the barman. There was no messing round in these situations â it was rule by rod of fear, literally. I hit him over the head with a baseball bat. Had a good run up as well, to be fair. But the baton just snapped like a chopstick over his skull and he was just left standing there. He picked me up and threw me across the room. But that was all civilian stuff. Silly stuff. I was too busy plotting and scheming to be bothered by sailors kicking off and that.
It wasnât long before I started letting in all the bad lads. I turned the Oslo into a den for meets, where the lads could come and sit down and have a meeting about this and that, without having to worry about the busies and none of that. There were a few places like that around town. Useful places, where the boys could come and do business. For instance there was the Jokers Club on Edge Lane near Littlewoods. It was 24 hours on the trot. There were card schools in there and all the gangsters would go there to discuss work. Not to have a good time and show off and that, but to organise things, to get all their ducks in a row before doing something.
There was another place called the Lucky Club. It was a seamenâs club and if you were English you needed a letter from God to get in. But that was the point, Billy Grimwood could go in there and put together a blag and no one would understand nothing. The seaman would be halfway to the Pacific the next day. No witnesses to meetings, no surveillance, fuck all. So that was my template for the Oslo, know where Iâm going? Thatâs what I desired most.
For security I brought in my best mate Mick Cairns on the doors. I met him when I was 17, fighting on a ferry as it happens. He had hands like shovels. He could hangle violence. One night some gangsters chopped him up with a sword, hacked right down his spine and cut his back to ribbons. It would have killed most men, but he survived. He was also a good earner as well and if he had a good score, heâd kick some back to me â just
Loyalty was based on who was paying the âwagesâ at any instant. Astonishingly, the one keystone, the only constant that kept the whole house of cards from imploding on itself, was the code of silence, or the gangland code as it was known to doormen and club owners. No one talked to the police, no matter what. Against this backdrop, Paul launched his bid for power and began his struggle to carve out a profitable niche.
----
PAUL: Before I took over the door, the Oslo nightclub was pretty innocent. It was stuck in a time warp. It was full of Norwegians and Germans who just wanted to get drunk and get laid. Sometimes theyâd refuse to pay £25 for a bottle of vodka. They knew they were being ripped. Which is fair enough, but itâs one of them. Iâd have to do them in anyways. I was taking my wages out of the place and the right to charge drunken seafarers £25 for a bottle of vodka was that of the management. Thatâs how they made their bonuses. As long as I ensured it kept coming, it was happy days all round. Mind you, I half used to think about taking the place over lock, stock. But in truth, I could not be arsed with the hassle.
On my second week a huge German seaman just refused point blank to hand over his dough to the barman. There was no messing round in these situations â it was rule by rod of fear, literally. I hit him over the head with a baseball bat. Had a good run up as well, to be fair. But the baton just snapped like a chopstick over his skull and he was just left standing there. He picked me up and threw me across the room. But that was all civilian stuff. Silly stuff. I was too busy plotting and scheming to be bothered by sailors kicking off and that.
It wasnât long before I started letting in all the bad lads. I turned the Oslo into a den for meets, where the lads could come and sit down and have a meeting about this and that, without having to worry about the busies and none of that. There were a few places like that around town. Useful places, where the boys could come and do business. For instance there was the Jokers Club on Edge Lane near Littlewoods. It was 24 hours on the trot. There were card schools in there and all the gangsters would go there to discuss work. Not to have a good time and show off and that, but to organise things, to get all their ducks in a row before doing something.
There was another place called the Lucky Club. It was a seamenâs club and if you were English you needed a letter from God to get in. But that was the point, Billy Grimwood could go in there and put together a blag and no one would understand nothing. The seaman would be halfway to the Pacific the next day. No witnesses to meetings, no surveillance, fuck all. So that was my template for the Oslo, know where Iâm going? Thatâs what I desired most.
For security I brought in my best mate Mick Cairns on the doors. I met him when I was 17, fighting on a ferry as it happens. He had hands like shovels. He could hangle violence. One night some gangsters chopped him up with a sword, hacked right down his spine and cut his back to ribbons. It would have killed most men, but he survived. He was also a good earner as well and if he had a good score, heâd kick some back to me â just
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