In the security control room at the university where I¡¯m based, there are a dozen bells, sirens and assorted electronic alerts that could go off at any moment ¨C and that we guards need to be ready to respond to 24/7.

Fire alarms. Anti-intruder systems. Emergency telephone lines. Personal distress alerts for campus users who feel endangered but don¡¯t feel comfortable speaking to us on the phone. The newest is a system that tracks smoke detectors across student accommodation. It recently directed us to a pot of chicken left on a hob by a student who¡¯d gone out to work ¨C presumably thinking nine hours on medium heat would work the same as a slow cooker.

But the most hair-raising recent alert was the ping of an email in the security inbox: an announcement that the university needed to save millions of pounds and would therefore be shedding hundreds of jobs via voluntary redundancy.

The news wasn¡¯t unexpected, of course. We¡¯ve read endless stories about similar bombshells at other UK universities, with almost half ?and even more cutting jobs, with ?predicted to top 10,000 by the end of this academic year.

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I hope that everyone whose position is at risk has got enough in the bank to tide them over until their next gig. But the starting pay in our security role is minimum wage, which means a lot of us are already used to living hand-to-mouth. Now, the threat of having to scramble for work means many of us are tightening our belts even further and crossing our fingers that our employer doesn¡¯t start viewing security the same way we view takeaways: a treat that you have to think twice about whether you really need.

That said, some colleagues welcome the offer of voluntary redundancy, betting that they can boost their income at least temporarily by finding another job before their exit payment runs out. Some who are ex-forces also like the idea of finding a new career that gives their knees a rest.

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In the past, whenever voluntary redundancies have been announced, applications from front-line facilities staff, such as maintenance, housekeeping and security, were usually rejected. ¡°Unfortunately, you¡¯re just too cost-effective,¡± a previous boss told us.

The last bloke I know who got a payout was the car parks controller: he was effectively a one-man department, so there wasn¡¯t the risk of triggering an avalanche of redundancy applications from departmental colleagues if he was let go. But his role wasn¡¯t really redundant: his duties just got spread among us; we still curse him whenever we¡¯re required to issue a parking ticket.

Perhaps that¡¯s why the university isn¡¯t calling this round of staff cuts ¡°redundancy¡± but, instead, ¡°early exit¡±. And of the shift of five guards at the site where I¡¯m based, three have been granted it and have already left. So it¡¯s now down to me and a colleague, plus an agency guard, to patrol and protect 50-plus buildings, keep people safe and chase off the gangs of local kids trying to force their way into computer labs.

But my remaining shift-mate and I still really enjoy our jobs. It feels great to know we can keep people safe, break up fights and come to the aid of anyone who feels in danger ¨C even the students who had drunk too much dizzy water and were settling their kitchen cleaning dispute by hitting each other with traffic cones.

Our continued employment may not be in our own hands, however, and we¡¯ve been doing maths to see what we might get paid if we are fingered for compulsory redundancy. It doesn¡¯t look great given our low salaries.

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A few months ago, our supervisor joked about pooling our wages and sticking a bet on at Cheltenham racecourse. He¡¯s now gone, but he¡¯d worked out that even if we were to win the National Lottery¡¯s Set for Life game (?10,000 every month for 30 years) twice over, we still wouldn¡¯t be taking home as much as the average university vice-chancellor.

This is why the rush to cut jobs feels a touch counterproductive to me, especially when the savings seem to be coming?mainly from front-line staff on modest wages. Every time I hear about another technician or receptionist getting a leaving card, I think of transatlantic balloon crossings. If I was in a basket that was dropping towards the waves, I¡¯d chuck the heavy stuff out first, not the burner or the passenger who only weighs nine stone.

Perhaps my nautical perspective stems from the fluctuating tides of people that security have been charged with watching over in recent years, like lifeguards but without the view. In the pandemic, we were called key workers and remained on campus as the human tide washed out ¨C apart from the metal thieves and those with designs on the groundskeepers¡¯ shuttered tool shed.

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Now that the redundancies have been announced, the tide is finally rolling back in. My shift-mate and I have been encountering lecturers who we presumed had left but who, after a few years of working from home, are now keen to prove that they¡¯re vital to the running of the university.

As for me, if the powers that be conclude that I no longer fall into the vital category, I¡¯ve worked out an early exit plan: security at the local hospital. The hours might not be as regular, but I¡¯d still get to help people.

Plus, I¡¯d probably see some of the students who overindulged and who are now facing the dreaded charcoal flush as a treatment for alcohol poisoning. I¡¯d finally be able to say to them: ¡°This is why we told you to put some water in it.¡±

George Bass is a security guard at a UK university.

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