Quicker police response times would suit (and shirt) campus security

The gentleman who approached the security counter was wearing a suit but no shoes, socks or shirt. And he looked like he’d had stimulants for breakfast, his eyes sticking out like SpongeBob SquarePants’.

It was 7am. In the foyer behind him, the university was coming to life. Members of the housekeeping team were cleaning door handles, while a few lecturers hunted for their own caffeine-based stimulants. But I focused on the visitor, who was telling me that he needed help because his twin brother had just been kidnapped by six people on a micro-scooter.

I checked his knuckles and his breathing for signs of recent violence – both were clear. Then I explained that, unfortunately, we couldn’t let him borrow our landline to phone the police but that we could still help him.

As I escorted the gentleman through a frosty car park towards a phone box that I knew wasn’t smashed, I felt bad that he was barefoot while I was in thick-soled size elevens. But I was also focused on remaining in “single cradle” position as per my last round of physical intervention training – gently escorting someone away from trouble by walking alongside them with your palm on their tricep. The main thing was to stop the visitor from pulling office doors or accosting students for their phones (something he’d tried to do already).

I later wrote up the encounter as trespassing: a civil offence and an occupational hazard on a campus with open gates. It’s one of the many so-called “low level” crimes that the Home Secretary has recently vowed to combat.

In a January newspaper column, Shabana Mahmood describes a Birmingham childhood in which her dad, a shopkeeper, had to fend off thieves with a cricket bat. Today, she wants the public to feel less boxed in when it comes to protecting themselves – even in light of a reported 58 per cent increase in street theft.

As someone whose duties mean I’m the first response to thefts, attacks and student house parties gone wild, feeling less boxed in sounds great. All of the above are crimes that require careful judgment and quick reactions; with police response times recently recorded as 12 minutes for immediate incidents, it will be nice to potentially get emergency help a little faster if Mahmood’s proposed FBI-style National Police Service frees up more patrolling police officers, as intended.

Academic staff might welcome more patrolling police officers too, especially if they’re hosting a political debate that boils over or trying to contain a violent love triangle whose vertices have each discovered each other’s coordinates in the middle of a maths lecture.

The threat of police involvement is a good deterrent when reacting to a crime – but only if the criminal is at least half-rational. When local teens began shooting university windows with catapults and then screamed “You can’t touch me” as we approached them, we explained that the damage they were causing meant that their initial offence of civil trespass was now aggravated trespass: an indictable offence for the prevention of which we could technically use reasonable force.

Luckily, we didn’t have to – something I’ve been grateful for in light of the recent news story about a bus driver being sacked for chasing after a thief who’d stolen a necklace from one of his passengers. Of course, I’d have had the footage from the camera on my protective vest to vouch for my restraint, but, as anyone who’s witnessed a dodgy VAR decision in football will tell you, there’s a chance the close scrutiny may do more harm than good. Actions captured on media devices can make everyone involved look unprofessional.

Moreover, while all UK citizens are allowed to use reasonable force to protect themselves/others/property, how much is “reasonable” is for the police, the Crown Prosecution Service or a jury to decide. And when you undergo physical intervention training, you’re specifically told to use only the same level of force you would to hold a sandwich.

Being filmed agreeing to that – while demonstrating sandwich-light holds – was part of my accreditation. But it was a rule I had to break when my shift-mate and I were called to a student who was self-harming one Sunday morning, attacking her arms with a box cutter knife. Awaiting the arrival of the police and fearing the student was about to hit an artery – potentially causing a catastrophic bleed – we were forced to apply a non-sanctioned hold.

During the encounter, I was juggling worrying about keeping the student safe with worrying I might end up in court for assault and worrying I might be fatally wounded – as a supermarket security guard recently was while trying to stop a shoplifter from stealing alcohol.

Luckily, my instincts are usually in good order thanks to a mix of life experience and my training. The most forceful I had to get last month was when security were contacted by a member of the student outreach team who’d observed a “strange-looking” individual loitering around the bike racks.

I followed the tell-tale fishy scent of synthetic cannabinoid “zombie drug” spice and found the strange-looking gentleman crouched inside a student bike locker, which he’d hot-boxed by continuing to smoke with the door closed.

The spice cadet was together enough to follow my advice and leave without the need even for canapé-level force. But the encounter wasn’t entirely free of physical contact given the cloud of fumes that came into violent contact with my lungs.

As I watched him leave the grounds, I realised I was staring and that I couldn’t get my teeth apart. I spent the rest of the shift trying to work out whether I was high or whether I’d accidentally pressed “double shot” on the coffee machine. I managed to keep my shoes, socks and shirt on though.

George Bass is a security guard at a UK university. He is the author of What the Bouncer Saw: Life on the Front Line of the Security Business, which will be published in May by Little, Brown.