Sign up to The Irish Times Archive (1859 - 2008)My Account »

UPFRONT:EVERY TIME I see a bouncer at the door of a nightclub or bar, my stomach flips and threatens to dissolve its contents into my pants. Not a pretty image, but such is my affliction: the fact of the matter is that the sight of a shaved head in a doorway still gives me the scutters something fierce.

See, back in the days of Inter Certs and slow sets, I was a serious liability on a night out: the weak link in our chain-gang who always got stopped on the way into the disco, while all the rest sailed coolly in and then had to traipse back out looking for me, usually still outside and squeaking at the unconvinced bouncers. It was never less than face-flushingly mortifying, and I still feel a rush of gratitude when a kindly doorman allows me pass, even though now he might be 10 years younger than me.