My calling in London: I cut drunk fucks off fences

Last night, I had my most bizarre experience of London yet, if not my entire life.

Walking home after paying a deposit on my new room, the streets were dark, empty, and quiet. Then I heard some grunting and groaning.

I looked around, focusing and refocusing my eyes in the dark, and was startled to see a guy hanging off a fence right in front of me!

The fence is about 2 meters high, spoked but not sharp. It separates the sidewalk from the grassy lawn of a residential building. He was sprawled over it face down, with his legs hanging off the outside of the fence. Imagine those people jumping off buildings and landing on fences in the movies?  That’s how he sort of was.

He smelled like a drunk , obviously was trying to climb over and got stuck. I decided to carry on walking.

He went on groaning, and curiosity got the best of me.

I backtracked for a closer look, and saw that he’s stuck coz his jacket is caught on one of the spokes.

I said, “You alright?”, half expecting him to tell me to fuck off and let him be, thereby relieving myself of the “responsibility” to help.

He grunted, “Uh, not really.”

“You want me to help you?”

Another groan.

You’re not really supposed to leave someone hanging off a fence right? My mother brought me up right, but she never specified what to do if you find a drunk stuck on a fence. I’ll ask her next time.

So I stepped over, investigated his jacket some more, told him that his jacket’s stuck on the fence and that I’ll try and pull it off.

It didn’t work, so I told him to try and push up on the fence with his feet so I can lift his jacket up.

He kicked around with his boots, almost kicked me in the face and moaned that he couldn’t.

In the middle of this, I suddenly realized that this would make an AWESOME photo, but thought the better of it. If I’m going to help him get loose, the last thing I need is a drunk dude chasing me down an empty street.

I gave it some thought and said, “Look, if you don’t mind me cutting your jacket, I have a knife here and I can try and cut you down.”

He said to do whatever. So I went ahead, “Look, I’m gonna cut your jacket now, but keep your legs still and don’t kick me in the face ok?”

His jacket was tough, and my blunt swiss army knife is one I’ve been using for years. Who would’ve thought that this very cherished gift that my mom gave me for my 18th birthday and one I’ve carried with me everywhere ever since, and one I once haggled with airport security to not confiscate, is now used to cut a dumb fuck drunk down from a fence?

So I sawed off his jacket, and immediately realized that his trousers went through the fence too. Since the jacket is not supporting part of his weight anymore, his entire body is now hanging off by the arse of his trousers. They began to rip. I see his big white arse expanding in size right in front of my face.

I said, “Look, your trousers are stuck too and I’m gonna cut them off ok?”

At first, I was trying to be nice, cutting his jacket in a way that won’t cause too much damage. But as I cut one bit after another, it was starting to seem like I could be cutting forever and then I just went fuck-it and basically hacked at his clothes as I see fit. I DO NOT want the hole in his arse to get bigger. For no reason other than the fact that it’s in my face.

Because of the way he was positioned, there was no telling how much of his clothes were caught, and therefore how much longer I’ll be hacking. But all of a sudden, with no warning, he was cut loose, limbs flailing, kicked me in the chest and dropped to the ground.

I stepped back, hands in my pockets, an amused smile on my face, “You alright?”

Mumble mumble grunt grunt.

“What were you trying to do?”

“Climb over.”

“And why were you trying to climb over?”

Mumble mumble grunt grunt.

“Alright. I’m going ok? Bye.”

He mumbled some thanks, rubbed his arse, staggered up the street to the front door of this building and pressed a few buttons to try to get in. There is one big rip in the middle of his backside, a few other smaller holes where I’ve cut, and torn on his jacket.

I went home, told Stefi how I’ve just cut loose some stupid drunk fuck, who I assume lives in the building he was trying to get in.

The same building Stefi is moving into on Saturday. She was like, “Shiiiiiiiit.”

8 thoughts on “My calling in London: I cut drunk fucks off fences

  1. Hey Po, yeah, I bet this story is mad enough! Feel free to link to it. Just in case, I’ve also just put a link up in your comments section.

    Sarah, I do wonder if other people’s seen him like that before I came along and just decided to leave him there.

    And I wonder if he might be too drunk to remember….heheh…

  2. Oh gosh…that makes it sound really bad doesn’t it? I carry a “knife” just as the government is trying to clamp down on knife crimes! Grrrr….

    Alright, to make it clear, I use a swiss army knife thing, no bigger than your nail-clipper, as a key-chain. And what do I use it for? The scissors to cut sewing thread and packets of crisps, and the little blade for opening envelopes. And for sentimental value. I wish I have cooler uses for them, but I don’t.

    Until this drunk came along. There you go.

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