DOORMEN FEATURE: Making sure a night out is fun and free from trouble is part of the job for the security men.

And reporter EMMA-KATE LIDBURY was relieved that they were on hand when she went clubbing in one of the town's growing number of night spots

SANDWICHED between 30 stone of muscle and enough back-up walkie talkies to make the A-Team feel secure, I should really feel safe. But for some reason, I just don't.

Maybe it's the cocktail of drink and drugs that an increasing number of revellers seem to be indulging in.

Either way, it seems as if one spark will send Fleet Street into a fiery, riotous

uproar and the people left to save the place will be the doormen standing guard on the entrances of the countless bars and clubs.

They have been standing there since 5pm and, as the night wears on, they are

increasingly wary of every passer-by.

Men who look like they might have sunk several pints before tea-time are pulled aside for questioning and young girls who have already gulped too many alcopops are told to re-think their plans for the evening.

Door supervisors seem to undertake a variety of roles, from the dangerously heroic to the infinitely dull.

And as the night progresses, I am introduced to doormen's standard procedures.

Drunken punters come and go, but the longer I spend with the doormen, the more I realise they are more than just flies on the wall who hold open the door at that vital moment.

They know what to look for when it comes to hassle and are more than diligent in their assessment of every reveller that passes them.

We move inside the Lava Lounge club.

While most men might skulk around every nook and cranny of the bar looking

for eye candy, doorman Billy Hawkins is looking equally as industriously for signs of potential trouble.

The disabled toilets sometimes a hotspot for drug

dealing are checked thoroughly, as are fire exits and dark corners of the dance floor.

This is no ordinary night out. If anything untoward is spotted, back-up is called for and within minutes, help is at hand.

Suddenly, a 20-something man decides to expose himself on the empty dance floor.

Two doormen rush in to carry him out and he is duly removed, embarrassed and ashamed, left to sober up on the pavements outside the bar.

As he later moves on to try to gain entry to another bar, he discovers that the system is against him and he has already been barred from every pub in the area thanks to the Pubwatch scheme.

So it is the end of the night for one reveller, but, at 11pm, the night is still young for the doormen.

Most of the trouble will start at around 2am when the 1,200 clubbers in the area attempt to grab a lift home in one of the elusive 20 cabs that line Fleet Street.

By that time drink and drugs will have left an indelible mark on revellers and sense and sobriety are just a dim and distant memory.

The tired and weary doormen can only hope it is not too long a night.