That time I tried to help a drunk person...

I feel like my posting on the ol' bloggeroo has been somewhat waffly as of late, so to my lovely readers, I do apologise. I guess it kinda sums up how I feel at the moment. I'm just bobbing around like a cork in a vat of wine, not really having any sort of purpose or direction. In a desperate bid to become a little bit more organised, I've decided to branch out from note-keeping on my iPhone and actually invest in a notepad. Which is typically easier said than done in Finland as they have some strange compulsion towards squared paper, rather than lined, and I just can't cope with that shit. Anyway, on to the topic at hand. This post is about the time I tried to help a drunk person. We're going back a month or two here as it's taken me about that amount of time to get over this particular ordeal. Scott and I had been out on the alcopops, or vodka; which is probably more accurate. Like the sensible and mature adults that we are, we staggered home at around 4am. I say staggered, but in fact we weren't actually that drunk. I'd managed to make the short walk home with my shoes still intact on my feet and this is the usual basis of my, 'how drunk am I?' judgement.  As we reached the entrance to our apartment block, we noticed something a little strange. As well as the usual broomstick or two (Yes, really) there was a person lying face first in a pepperoni pizza.  Now, I'm not one to judge, but I couldn't help thinking that the poor chap couldn't have been all that comfortable. Not to mention the fact that it seemed like such a terrible waste of pizza. So being the good Samaritan that I am, I gave him a little shake and tried to find out if he was A. alive and B. which apartment he lived in. You see, you need a key to enter our building so I knew he wasn't just a stray and had to belong to one of the apartments in the block. Several grunts later, (from him, not me) I realised I wasn't going to get any sense out of pizza kid so I consulted Scott as to what we should do next.  After a minute or two of wondering whether it would be wrong to eat a slice of face pizza, the chap's phone began to ring. Obviously I answered it. I politely asked the man at the end of the line if he spoke English, which he did and I explained that I was currently sitting with his friend who had collapsed in a puddle of cardboard and mozzarella cheese. I described the state that his friend was in and suggested that he come and help him to his apartment as I wasn't too keen to leave him sleeping in the stairwell. Anyway, let me put it this way, the response I received was rather colourful. I'm pretty sure he called me some not very nice names. The C word was thrown around a bit. To be honest, although he was extremely offensive, I couldn't help but admire how fabulous his English was. After calling him a rubbish friend, I think he had enough and hung up on me. Drunk pizza boy has mustered a few laughs throughout the conversation and so I felt like his good sense of humour alone would carry him through the night until his stupid, well-spoken friend came to lend him a hand. Scott and I both wished him well and retreated to our apartment for late night snacks and bed. Just as I began to doze off, I heard this almighty banging. I lay there for a few minutes, not sure if I was dreaming or not. Then I heard the doorbell go. What!? We dragged ourselves out of bed to find a very angry Finnish person hammering and kicking our door. One can only assume it was the friend of pizza boy; who was clearly offended that I'd questioned his loyalty. After an eternity of banging and shouting, we phoned the police to come and remove this nuisense from our door. Even that was an ordeal in itself. After calling the emergency number, I was put through to an operator who asked me what my problem was. I explained that some idiot was trying to hammer down my door, to which she replied, and I quote; 'Are you sure? It doesn't sound like it' Ermm, gee... Let me think about that one for a minute. Yep, there's definitely a man banging and kicking my door. What did she expect me to say? Oh no, wait a minute. I'm mistaken, my bad. Sorry officer. I had to refrain myself from laughing down the phone. So miraculously the police actually arrived; and after much shouting in Finnish, the boy left. I had no idea what was said, he could have fed them a pack of lies for all I know. The police had no interest in speaking to us whatsoever and just walked away when Scott tried to ask them what was said. I still to this day don't know what happened to pizza boy. Whether he managed to make it to his bed and finish his pizza, who knows?  I guess the moral of this story is, don't speak to strangers... Or at least drunk ones anyway. Stay safe kids.