I'm Trending, Bab (A story)
One night. One fight. One viral video. Clive's life as a nightclub doorman was simple until the internet decided he was trending...
I’ve worked the door at The Phoenix for fifteen years now. Weren’t my life’s ambition or nothing, but it pays the bills and I’m good at it.
“Look ‘em in the eye,” that’s what Danny told me my first shift. Danny was head doorman back then, big lad with cauliflower ears and knuckles like walnuts. “You can see the trouble coming if you look ‘em in the eye.”
Ironic that, considering what Sheila said when she left. “You never bloody look me in the eye, Clive. Always looking past me, looking for trouble.” She wasn’t wrong. Twenty-two years of marriage and I probably spent half of it scanning the room over her shoulder. Force of habit, I suppose.
Saturday nights are the worst. Kids today, they can’t handle their drinks. In my day, you’d have ten pints of mild and maybe a scrap on the way home, but you’d still turn up for your shift at the factory Monday morning. These lot now, two WKDs and a Jägerbomb and they’re throwing up in the smoking area, crying about some lad who’s ghosted them on WhatsApp.
“You alright there, bab?” I says to this girl slumped against the wall last week. Mascara halfway down her face, high heels in her hand. “Need me to call you a taxi?”
“I’m fine,” she says, then projectile vomits a rainbow of alcopops onto my boots. Seventy quid, them boots cost me. Got ‘em in the sale at TK Maxx.
“Not glamorous, but it’s honest graft,” that’s what I tell our Jason, though he don’t listen. Ain’t seen him in three years now. Lives down in London, doing something with computers. “Cyber security,” he calls it, whatever that means. Sheila says he’s doing well. Bought himself one of them electric cars. Costs more than I make in a year, probably.
I don’t do social media, me. Never seen the point. Our Sharon—that’s my niece—she’s always on about it. Instagram this, TikTok that. “You should get on it, Uncle Clive,” she says. “You could be an influencer with them stories from the club.”
I just laugh. “Who wants to see a fifty-three-year-old doorman with a dodgy knee and a bald spot?” I says. “I ain’t influencing no one except maybe which kebab shop to avoid at 3 AM.”
My routine’s simple enough. Get to work at nine, check the CCTV’s working, radio check with the lads, and then it’s showtime. Stand by the door, arms folded, looking mean but not too mean—you want to deter the troublemakers, not the paying customers. Club makes its money from them girls buying sixteen-quid cocktails, not from the lads who think they’re Conor McGregor after a few Stellas.
Most nights are the same. “ID please, mate.” “Sorry love, them shoes ain’t suitable.” “Calm down, lad, she’s not worth a night in the cells.” Time drips by like the condensation on the windows, and before you know it, it’s 3 AM and you’re peeling sambuca-soaked students off the pavement while the taxi drivers circle like vultures.
I’ve got a little flat above the British Heart Foundation shop on Queen Square. Nothing fancy, but it’s mine. Well, the bank’s, technically, but I’m chipping away at the mortgage. Got my recliner, got my telly, got my little balcony where I sit and have a cuppa in the morning. Sometimes I’ll nod to the pigeons. They’re good company, pigeons. Don’t ask nothing of you except maybe the odd crust of bread.
Nights off, I’ll have a pint or two at The Wheatsheaf, watch whatever football’s on. The lads there know me, don’t bother me too much. “How’s tricks, Clive?” they’ll ask, and I’ll say, “Same old, same old,” and that’s that. No drama. I like it that way.
Or I did, anyroad. Before it all went mental.
It was the last Saturday in April when it happened. Warm night, bank holiday weekend. Always a nightmare, bank holidays—everyone gets paid, everyone’s got the Monday off, everyone thinks they’re bloody invincible.
The queue went all the way down to the taxi rank, and we were operating one-in, one-out by midnight. You get a feel for it after a while—the air changes, like before a thunderstorm. That electric feeling.
This group of lads had been denied entry earlier—too pissed, giving it the big’un to Darren on the door. They’d gone away, but now they were back, hanging about by the kebab shop opposite, giving us evils.
“Keep an eye on them,” I says to Mo, the youngest on our team. He’s a good lad, Mo, studying sports science at the uni, built like a brick shithouse but gentle as they come. “They might try rushing the door later.”
Quarter past one, it kicks off. Not them lads, as it happens, but a different group—some local boys and a bunch of students. Started over nothing, probably—a spilled drink, a wrong look, somebody eyeing up somebody’s girlfriend. Tale as old as time.
It spilled out the front door like a burst pipe—all shouting and arms and legs. I was on it straight away, wading in, pulling them apart. There’s a knack to it, like handling snakes—you got to be firm but not threatening, confident but not cocky.
“That’s enough!” I says, putting myself between the main two. One of ‘em—skinny lad with a neck tattoo—he’s proper going for it, all windmill arms and spittle flying. “Pack it in, you daft sod, before the police come.”
That’s when he swung for me. I saw it coming—remember what I said about looking ‘em in the eye?—and I stepped back, but his fist caught me shoulder. Weren’t much, but it were enough.
Training kicks in. I grabbed his arm, twisted it behind his back, nice and controlled like they teach you on the course. “Calm down, sunshine,” I says in his ear. “You’ve had your fun.”
His mates didn’t like that. Three of ‘em came at me, and I had to shove neck-tattoo lad away to deal with them. He went down, dramatic like, screaming like I’d broken his arm, which I hadn’t.
“Back the fuck up!” I shouted, louder than I meant to. I’m not proud of the language, but sometimes you need to be heard over the music and the shouting.
One of ‘em pushed me, hard enough that I stumbled back. I pushed him back—proportionate force, like they teach you—and then Mo and Big Dave were there, and the whole thing fizzled out as quick as it started.
Neck-tattoo lad was still on the ground. His mates helped him up, all “we’re gonna report you” and “you’re finished, mate.” Heard it all before. I just radioed it in to management and got back to work.
Didn’t think nothing of it. Just another scuffle. Cleaned the blood off me shoe with Diet Coke—works a treat, that does, something about the acid—and got on with my night.
Sunday morning, I’m having my toast and tea, watching the pigeons do their pigeon things on my little balcony, when me phone pings. Message from our Sharon.
Uncle Clive ur famous lol 😂 🔥 💀
Attached is a link to something called TikTok. I’ve heard of it, obviously—I’m not a dinosaur—but never used it myself.
I click it, and there I am. It’s me, alright, from the night before, but it looks... different. They’ve slowed it down, made it black and white, added some dramatic music like from them superhero films. And the text across it says “Wolverhampton Bouncer Goes Berserk 💀💀💀”
The video shows me grabbing neck-tattoo lad, but cut so it looks like I’m attacking him out of nowhere. Then it shows me shoving the other lad, but you can’t see him pushing me first. Makes me look like some kind of psycho doorman, taking out innocent clubbers.
Below it, there’s comments. Hundreds of the buggers.
bouncer having a midlife crisis looool
imagine getting bodied by someone’s grandad
this is assault, he should lose his license
Some supportive ones too, to be fair:
lads clearly giving him grief, deserved it
as a woman I feel safer knowing bouncers like this are dealing with troublemakers
But mostly it’s people laughing, calling me names, making memes out of me frozen face. Apparently, I pull a proper weird expression when I’m angry—sort of like a constipated bulldog, according to the comments.
I don’t know what to do with this information. I try to reply to some comments, explain what actually happened, but I need an account to do it. So I make one. CliveThePhoenix, I call myself. Profile picture’s just my face, looking serious by the door of the club. Mo took it last Christmas, said he needed it for the staff board.
I post a comment: This video is misleading. The lad started it, I was just doing my job. Nobody got hurt.
Then I sit back and wait. Nothing happens for a bit. Just more comments coming in, none of them acknowledging what I’ve said.
So I try something else. I hold up me phone, press record, and just talk.
“Right, so I’m the doorman in this video, and it weren’t like that at all. This lad and his mates were causing trouble, he swung for me, I restrained him using proper techniques. I’ve been doing this job fifteen years, never had a complaint. They’ve edited this video to make me look bad.”
I fumble around a bit, trying to figure out how to post it. Eventually I manage it, then put me phone down and finish me toast, which has gone cold.
By the time I’ve washed up, me phone’s going mental. Pinging like a submarine with a leak. The video—my video—it’s getting comments too. And not just a few. Hundreds. Then thousands.
he came to defend himself lmaooo
why he sound like my grandad trying to use the microwave
nah but he’s kind of a vibe tho
PROTECT WOLVERHAMPTON BOUNCER AT ALL COSTS
I check the numbers at the bottom of my video. Ten thousand views. Then twenty. Then fifty. By the time I’m getting ready for my Sunday evening shift, it’s at a hundred thousand, and I’ve got notifications saying people are “following” me. Seven thousand followers. For what? For being an old doorman who don’t know how TikTok works?
I show Mo when I get to work. “Mate,” he says, looking at me like I’ve grown another head. “You’ve gone viral.”
“Is that bad?” I ask him. “Should I see a doctor?”
He laughs so hard he has to sit down.
By the end of the week, I’ve got over a hundred thousand followers. I’ve posted a few more videos—just me talking about doorman stuff, really. How to spot fake ID, worst excuses I’ve heard from people trying to get in, that sort of thing. People seem to like it. They call me “wholesome” and “unproblematic,” whatever that means.
Then the messages start coming. Companies wanting me to talk about their products. “Protein powder perfect for security professionals,” one of ‘em says. They’ll pay me five hundred quid to hold it up and say I use it.
I ask Mo about it. “That’s normal,” he says. “You’re an influencer now, Uncle Clive.” He’s taken to calling me that, same as our Sharon does.
“I’m a doorman,” I tell him. “And I’m too old for all this nonsense.”
But five hundred quid is five hundred quid. So I do it. Stand there in me living room holding up a tub of something called “BEAST MODE” and saying it helps me stay alert on long shifts. Complete bollocks, of course—only thing keeping me alert on shifts is the four cans of Monster I neck—but the money’s in me account the next day.
The podcast invitation comes next. Something called Midlands Madlads, run by a couple of lads from Dudley. They want me on as a guest, talk about going viral, about being a doorman, about Wolverhampton nightlife.
“You’re a local celebrity now, bab,” says the email. “Our listeners would love to hear from the man behind the meme.”
So I do that too. Sit in their little studio—basically a shed at the bottom of one of their gardens—and talk into a microphone for an hour. They’re nice enough lads, ask me about funny stories from the club, get me to do me catchphrase.
“My catchphrase?” I say, confused.
“Yeah, you know—’Back the fuck up!’“ says one of them, doing an impression of me that sounds nothing like me.
I oblige them. “Back the fuck up,” I say, feeling like a right tit. They love it. Their listeners apparently love it too, because the episode gets more downloads than any they’ve done before.
I start noticing changes in myself. Small things at first. Wearing me good jeans to work instead of the cheap ones. Buying some fancy aftershave from Boots. Getting a haircut at the proper barbers instead of the ten-quid place by the bus station.
The sunglasses were Mo’s idea. “You need to build your brand, Uncle Clive,” he says, like he’s some kind of marketing genius and not a twenty-year-old who still lives with his mum. “Get yourself some signature style.”
So I buy these wraparound sunglasses, wear ‘em on the door even though it makes it harder to see trouble coming. I start calling the club “the arena” when I talk about it in me videos. I find myself checking me phone constantly, counting the likes, reading the comments.
Management notices. Gary, the operations manager, calls me in for a chat.
“Clive, mate,” he says, looking uncomfortable. “We’re a bit concerned about all this social media business.”
“It’s just a bit of fun,” I tell him. “Good publicity for the club, innit?”
“That’s just it,” he says. “You’re representing the Phoenix online now, and some of the content... well, it’s not quite the image we want to project.”
Turns out he’s seen the video where I demonstrate how to put someone in a headlock if they try to rush the door. “Health and safety nightmare,” he calls it.
But he doesn’t push it too hard. I reckon he’s worried I’ll quit, take me newfound fame elsewhere. Truth is, I wouldn’t know where else to go. The Phoenix is home, more than me flat above the British Heart Foundation.
Besides, I’m enjoying it. Walking round Wolverhampton city centre and having people recognize me. “It’s him!” they’ll say, nudging their mates. “The bouncer from TikTok!”
I was in Greggs the other day, getting me usual steak bake, when this group of girls asked for a selfie. Me! A fifty-three-year-old bald bloke with a dodgy knee, posing for selfies like I’m bloody Ed Sheeran.
“I were walkin’ round like some kind of poundshop Tyson Fury,” I tell Mo, who nods like he understands exactly what I’m going through.
I ain’t, though. Not really. Late at night, when I’m sitting in me flat watching the numbers climb, part of me knows this ain’t real. That sooner or later, the internet will move on to the next thing, and I’ll just be Clive the doorman again. But for now, I’m trending, bab. And, I have to say, it feels pretty good.
It were a Tuesday morning when it all went to shit.
I was in Asda, picking up some microwave lasagne and loo roll, when me phone started going mental. Fourteen notifications in the space of about thirty seconds.
I check it there in the middle of the frozen food aisle. Message from Mo: Have you seen the new video?
Followed by Sharon: Uncle Clive are you ok? Don’t look at social media
Too late for that. I open TikTok, and there it is, right at the top of me feed. Another video from that night. Different angle this time, shot from behind the crowd by someone I never even noticed.
The slow-motion, the black and white, the dramatic music—same treatment as before. But this one shows something the first video didn’t.
Shows me grabbing neck-tattoo lad by the throat, not the arm like I remembered. Shows me shoving him to the ground hard enough that his head bounces off the pavement. Shows me saying something—can’t hear it over the music they’ve put on, but you can read me lips clear enough.
“Touch me again and I’ll fucking end you.”
Did I say that? I don’t remember saying that. But there it is, plain as day, me face all twisted up, saying words that could cost me me licence. Words that could cost me me job.
And the caption on this one: “Violent Doorman Snaps: Full Video They Tried to Hide”
Two million views already.
I abandon me shopping trolley right there, walk out the shop in a daze. By the time I get home, me phone’s impossible to keep up with. The comments are flooding in, different tone now.
knew this old prick was a thug, could tell from the first video
someone check on that kid, looks like he got seriously hurt
typical boomer thinking he can get away with assault
An email pings through from BEAST MODE protein powder: “In light of recent developments, we’re terminating our partnership effective immediately.”
Then one from the podcast lads: “We’ve decided to pull the episode. Nothing personal, but we can’t be seen to endorse violence.”
My phone rings. It’s Gary from the club.
“Clive, mate, we’ve got to suspend you pending investigation. The SIA wants to review your licence. And to be honest, the club can’t be associated with this kind of behaviour right now.”
“But Gary, it weren’t like—”
“Look, I believe you, but my hands are tied. We’ll call it a suspension rather than a termination, save you some dignity, yeah? But you can’t come in until this is sorted.”
I sit there staring at me phone for what feels like hours. Then I decide to make one more video. Set the record straight once and for all.
I prop me phone up on the kitchen table, press record.
“Right, so you’ve all seen this new video that’s going round. It’s me, yeah, but it’s not showing the full story. That lad had been causing trouble all night. He’d already swung for me once. I was just doing me job.”
I’m feeling alright, keeping it together, explaining how it’s easy to take things out of context, how in fifteen years I’ve never had a complaint about excessive force.
Then I start thinking about the club. About how I might not go back there. How I might be done as a doorman for good. How me entire life’s just been pissed away because some pissed-up student wanted a viral video.
And it hits me all at once. The pressure behind me eyes. The tightness in me throat. Fifteen years. Fifteen fucking years of Friday and Saturday nights. Of breaking up fights. Of getting spat at, sworn at, threatened.
“I’ve given me whole life to that job,” I hear myself saying, voice cracking. “Keeping people safe. That’s all I ever did.”
And then I’m crying. Actually fucking crying on camera. Big fat tears running down me face, voice gone all wobbly, nose running.
I should’ve deleted it. Should’ve started again, kept me composure. But I were past thinking straight. I just hit post and threw me phone across the room.
Biggest mistake of me life.
By teatime, the crying video had more views than either of the fight videos. The comments were brutal.
Cry harder, Clivus Prime
when your protein sponsorship gets cancelled
bootlicker tears taste the sweetest
man built like a fridge having a whole breakdown
Then the edits started. Someone deepfaked me face onto some Love Island contestant having a meltdown. Someone else set me crying to dramatic violin music with the caption “Oscar-worthy performance from Wolverhampton’s finest crisis actor.”
And then, buried in the comments:
For anyone who wants to tell this violent thug what they think in person: Flat 3, 24 Queen Square, Wolverhampton. Right above the British Heart Foundation shop.
TikTok deleted it when I reported it, but it was too late. Me address was out there.
The brick came through me window at two in the morning.
I were half asleep when I heard the glass shatter. Thought it were a gunshot at first, that’s how loud it was in the quiet flat. I jumped out of bed, heart hammering in me chest, and found it on me living room floor.
Just a house brick, with a note wrapped round it, held on with an elastic band. One word written on it: “WANKER”.
I called the police. They sent a couple of constables round an hour later, took some notes, told me there wasn’t much they could do unless they caught someone in the act.
“Try to stay away from windows,” one of them said. Helpful advice, that. In a flat that’s basically all windows on one side.
Next day, I got a pizza delivery. Didn’t order no pizza. Driver insisted I had. Extra large meat feast with all the toppings, £24.99. I sent him packing.
Then another one came. Different company. Then another. By the end of the day, I’d had seventeen pizzas delivered, plus three Indian takeaways, two Chinese, and a load of desserts from some place that only does puddings.
The delivery drivers were getting proper annoyed, thinking I were pranking them. I tried to explain, but they weren’t having it.
Day after that, it was the 999 calls. Apparently someone had phoned in saying there were a woman being attacked at me address. Armed police kicked me door in at three in the morning, had me face down on the floor before I even knew what was happening.
Once they realised there weren’t no woman, that it were just me in me pants watching reruns of Match of the Day, they were alright about it. Even apologised for the door. But you try getting back to sleep after that.
I tried texting Sharon. You alright, bab? Been a mad few days.
No reply.
I tried again the next day. Could do with a chat if you’re free. Your internet-famous uncle, lol.
Nothing.
I called her. Straight to voicemail. “Sharon, it’s your Uncle Clive. Give us a call when you get a chance, yeah? Miss you.”
She never called.
A week after the second video dropped, Gary called from the club.
“Clive, mate... look, I need to be straight with you. We’ve done a review, and we think it’s best if we part ways.”
“You’re sacking me?”
“Let’s call it a mutual agreement to end your employment. Full notice pay, reference if you need it. But we can’t have you back on the door, Clive. You’re too much of a distraction now. People come to the club looking for you, asking where you are. It’s not good for business.”
“Said I were too much of a distraction. Bit rich, comin’ from a bloke who once shat himself on camera at the Christmas party.”
Gary didn’t laugh. Truth is, I don’t feel much like laughing either.
“Your stuff’s in a box at the office. You can pick it up whenever. Sorry it’s ended this way, mate. You were a good doorman.”
Were. Past tense already.
I don’t leave the flat for a week after that. Just sit there with the curtains closed, watching daytime telly and ignoring the occasional pizza delivery. The notifications have slowed down now. Internet’s found some new victim to tear apart.
I find myself talking to me phone sometimes. Not recording, just talking. Like it’s a person.
“Two million views on that crying video,” I tell it. “Two million people watching me fall apart. That’s like, what, thirty Molineuxs full of people. All looking at me, all laughing.”
I scroll through old messages from our Jason. Last thing he sent was three Christmases ago. Thanks for the gift card Dad. Will call soon. Never did call.
There’s a birthday card from him on the mantelpiece. Still sealed. Come back in February. I never opened it. Don’t know why. Felt like if I opened it, I’d have to reply, would have to reconnect, would have to be a proper dad again. Easier to just let it sit there. Let the distance grow.
“Maybe if I’d trended a bit earlier, he might’ve seen it,” I say to the phone. “Might’ve thought, that’s me dad. Or…maybe not.”
The pigeons are still coming to the balcony. I throw them some bread, watch them peck at it. Simple life, being a pigeon. No one filming you. No one judging you. No one hating you for something you may or may not have said in the heat of the moment.
“I were never after fame,” I tell me phone, lying on the coffee table, screen cracked from when I threw it. “Just wanted folk to think I did summat useful. I kept ‘em safe. That’s the job.”
It’s been three weeks. I need to get out. Need to breathe some air that don’t smell of stale pizza and self-pity.
I find myself walking past the Phoenix. Can’t help it. Feet just take me there like they have for fifteen years. It’s early, only seven o’clock, but there’s already a queue forming. Weekend crowd, dressed up to the nines, pre-drinking from cans of G&T and them little bottles of wine you get from corner shops.
There’s a new lad on the door. Young, built like Mo but with a haircut that must’ve cost a fortune. He’s smiling, chatting to the punters, posing for selfies with a group of girls.
I watch from across the street, hidden behind a bus stop. He looks happy. Looks like he belongs there.
A group of lads walk past me, headed for the club. They’re loud, already half-cut, pushing each other and laughing. One of them clocks me, does a double-take.
“Oi,” he says, stopping. “Aren’t you that bouncer? From the video?”
I hesitate, then nod. What’s the point in denying it?
He steps closer. I can smell the booze on him, see the look in his eye. That look I used to watch for, that look that means trouble.
“Thought you were well hard,” he says, smiling. “Turns out you’re just a sad old man.”
I don’t see the knife until it’s too late. Just a flash of metal, then a hot pain in me side.
The lad’s still smiling as I fall to me knees. His mates are laughing, pulling out their phones.
The screens light up their faces as I press me hand to me side, feel the warm blood seeping through me fingers.
“Smile, Clive,” says the lad with the knife, his phone pointed at me face. “You’re trending again.”
Thanks for reading!
I hope you enjoyed this one. I wanted to capture the authentic voice of my hometown of Wolverhampton in the West Midlands.
Writing in the Wolverhampton vernacular presented unique challenges and opportunities. The dialect has distinct grammatical patterns—the occasional use of “were” instead of “was,” the double negative, the omission of certain articles, and the replacement of possessive pronouns with “me” instead of “my.”
Words like “bab” (term of endearment), and phrases like “giving it the big’un” are essential to capturing the region’s linguistic character.
I aimed to convey the cadence and rhythm—the matter-of-fact delivery, the understated humour, and the self-deprecation that characterises conversations in local pubs and workplaces.
Clive’s voice—direct, unpretentious, and wryly observant—reflects the straightforward communication style I grew up hearing (and you can probably hear in my own Author Diary podcasts, though my accent’s a bit watered-down now).
There were moments while crafting Clive's voice when I found myself hesitating over certain Wolverhampton expressions that might have pushed the linguistic boundaries too far for readers unfamiliar with the dialect.
I initially wrote lines using "do'" (sounds like doe) (as in "I do' want no trouble") and contemplated having Clive declare "Y'am a good lad" to Mo or mutter "Yow ai' coming in" to troublesome punters.
The authentic rhythm of "He wor even looking my way" nearly made it into the final draft, alongside Clive reminiscing about childhood days spent fishing in the "cut" rather than the canal. I particularly regretted cutting a scene where Clive describes an annoying regular "chobbling" on a hard sweet while trying to chat up uninterested women at the bar.
The phrase "He d'ai even try to hide the knife" would have added regional authenticity to the final scene, and "I car believe what's happening" would have captured Clive's disbelief as his world unravelled.
These expressions represent the deeper layers of Wolverhampton's linguistic heritage—the words that truly separate locals from outsiders, verbal markers of belonging that remain somewhat hidden from the mainstream but continue to thrive in everyday conversations.
I hope the story honours the distinctive voice of Wolverhampton while telling a universal story about dignity, connection, and the double-edged sword of visibility in our hyperconnected age.
Let me know what you think in the comments.
Jon
