It is stupid to hurt a cop. However big your gang is, our gang is bigger. However much firepower you have, we have far more. And we have the full weight of the state behind us. Yes, it is stupid to hurt a cop. But stupidity is the distinguishing feature of criminals.

Even the smart ones are stupid.

Mahmud X came back with a couple of cricket bats. He gave one to Steve, who hefted it in his hand, grinned at me and strolled back to the bar. The Middle Eastern man with the neat beard still had a woman on each knee. They both shrieked and fled when they saw Steve Warboys and Mahmud X advancing with the cricket bats. And I suddenly saw what they were planning to do.

Mahmud hit the man across the side of the face.

Warboys knocked him off his bar stool.

Phone lights suddenly appeared in the darkness. But there was a sign on the wall. NO FILMING, it said – standard protocol in any lap-dancing joint. Warboys slapped the sign with his open palm and all the smart phones were quickly put away.

I went to help the man on the ground and found my path blocked by two gorillas in evening wear. They were not quite as big as Mahmud X but they were enough to keep me back.

‘You can’t stop it,’ one of them said, sounding almost wistful.

And he was right. I couldn’t stop it.

Warboys and Mahmud laid into the bearded man as he sprawled on the ground and women in high heels and bikinis and baby dolls covered their mouths and screamed at the horror and the drunken City boys kept a respectful distance. Now nobody was even thinking about filming the fun on their iPhones and Samsung Galaxies. They contented themselves with just watching. It was a new experience for them.

The doorman and the club owner both gave the man on the ground a good hiding but the way they worked was very different. It was the difference between a professional hard nut and a raving nut case. Mahmud the doorman beat the man with a calm but vicious professionalism.

But Steve Warboys enjoyed it.

He beat the man with the neat beard until his bat was broken in half. When it was over he stood before me, sweating and panting, gesturing at Mahmud X with his shattered cricket bat.

‘Get the girls together,’ he said. ‘All of them.’ He gestured at the man at his feet. ‘And get this one to the hospital. He’s only half-dead. You can leave him on the pavement outside A&E. And turn on the lights. Now!’

The girls were corralled.

The house lights came on.

The man on the floor was not moving.