Taking your time

When I ask someone to leave it's not likely that they are the only person in the venue.
It's very likely there are a lot of people in. Some of these others will require my attention shortly, some I'll already have in mind, some won't have done something to catch my concerned eye yet.
I do have a lot of patience. I don't like to use it all at once, on any one customer.
When I've told someone three or more times in differing ways that they are leaving, I've given them time to let their mates know they're on their way out, I've waited while they get their cloakroom ticket out of their pocket, always finding it in at least the fourth place they look, I've waited while they stumble and wrestle their way into their outer garment and I've waited as they make it down to to the front door and stumble off the front step. I'll brief the front door folks and turn tail back to the many others awaiting my consideration.
What I'll not do is spend any-more time talking, arguing, listening to the insults, the excuses, the grovelling, the cheapskate attempts at bribery or the fantastical threats. I'll just leave them there and they can wander in in their own time, I've got better things to take my time. There may be a soda water to be gotten from the bar, or a toilet check or maybe, just maybe another drunk to be shown the door.

The good guy

When two or more idiots decide to let their testosterone run free and uninhibited from alcohol decide to attempt some non-invasive reconstructive surgery some other folk often get involved. We as doorstaff are paid to get involved and de-escalate the situation.
Sometimes a decent punter wades in and then it's a whole different story. Some rare occasions, these interruptions act to de-escalate the situation. Without the uniform and some of the Milgram experiment type authority that comes with it, its not usually successful. They can at best slow it down and allow us to get there before it's A&E for all parties. They can at worst be holding back one of the aggressors arms as he gets twatted by someone else.
Sometimes a prick of a punter wades in and that is an all too common story. They see the chance to land a cheeky punch or kick as the main protagonists tangle. Maybe the lead muppets had knocking into them as they were getting knock down, or maybe they'd crossed earlier and not been strong enough in spirits to start anything. They may just be scrotes who get a kick from smacking someone they vaguely know when they can get away with it.
When we've gone in and folded them all up into uncomfortable shapes we sometimes get the chance to unwrinkle them and their stories. If they are genuine, honest and not riled up so far that to let them back in would be dropping a firecracker in a bath full of petrol, they may be allowed back in. If they're scummy, drunk, shifty or just huffing and puffing a bit too much they'll be let loose to wander on. Not to keep on scrapping, we hold them back enough to stop them scrapping on our street. We try and send them that way and the other with enough of a head start.

Here comes the

Sun.
Here come the drunken groups of gents who've spent all saturday afternoon in the beer gardens. Turning up to nightclubs to be singled out for their wearing of sandals and shorts with an all over body burn. The little patches of rain that fill a UK summer, even on a weekend, seem to do little to dampen their spirits, even if it does dampen their T-shirts.
Here come the hen nights, readying for the inevitable summer season of weddings. When fancy dressed and full of alcopops, wandering about the town from unsuspecting bar to unsuspecting pub or restaurant, terrifying the tourists.
Here come the tourists, in a long drawn out season of sight-seeing, over-indulging and re-capturing lost youth before encountering their real age in a club mainly packed with young locals.
Here come the mornings of walking out of the club when the sun is coming up and the chicks in the nest are squawking loudly. Trying to sleep as the sun stabs shafts of bright heat through my closed heavy curtains.
Here comes the seasonal sporting event guests to the city who always mean more hours and a load more bother.
I love the summer me.