Average Bloke was having trouble getting his pump to start so he went inside to seek some help. Photo / Duncan Brown
OPINION
We’ve all heard the saying: “You can’t judge a book by its cover”. Right?
Well, this week I came across a couple of perfect examples of just that in my day-to-day travels.
Having spent a fair chunk of my working life down in the bowels of the newspaper industry, it never ceases to amaze me how diverse people are.
I distinctly recall my first week on a metropolitan rag down south when a tiny, young woman dressed all in silver - and with silver hair and makeup to boot - plonked herself down in the seat next to me.
I assumed, as any conservative country boy fresh from the West Coast would, she was dressed up for some theatrical production or other. Or perhaps she was on a lunch break from Nasa.
Turned out she wasn’t. The silver head-to-toe ensemble was her normal attire for work and she was a cracking journo regardless, he says without trying to sound old-fashioned and chauvinistic but most likely failing.
About 10 minutes after we’d explained pleasantries I heard her interviewing someone on the phone. It turned out to be a local politician and she was brilliant. Empathetic and aggressive in equal measure.
I was left with the distinct impression, as I expect her subject had found, she could run rings around him and leave him a quivering wreck in the corner.
I learned a lot from that early encounter and over the following years have come across some amazing people with stories you would never think they were involved with in a million years.
But I digress, before I’ve even started, which is a bit unlike me. Not.
So there I am this week down the line and I’ve pulled into BP to fuel up on coffee and put some diesel in the ute.
Across the forecourt from me, as I’m filling up, is a bloke in a medium-sized, sensible, family car. He’s of average height and build, bespectacled and slightly balding. The sort of guy who you’d think wouldn’t say boo to a goose.
You’d think.
So, I’ve filled up, sold a kidney and gone inside to hand over an exorbitant amount of money. I join a queue of six or seven people. There’s only one till going.
Outside, Average Bloke is having trouble getting his pump to start so he comes inside to seek help.
For starters, his voice was not what you’d expect.
Deep and powerful, it cuts across the chatter, leaving nobody in the line with any doubt this is a voice to be obeyed.
“Can you release the pump?” he says forcefully to the kid behind the counter. The kid does as he’s told and Average Bloke goes back outside as the line decreases by one.
A couple of minutes later Average Bloke is back.
“Release the ******* pump!” he snarls from the entry doors, as the kid behind the counter starts to turn red.
Interestingly, none of us in the queue, myself included I’m somewhat embarrassed to say, turns to get involved, apart from one lady who suggests he should watch his language before she goes back to texting on her phone.
By this stage, the kid behind the counter is well and truly flustered. The last supplies of blood practically drain from his face when Average Bloke comes back a third time.
This time there’s a torrent of abuse thrown across the counter at the hapless lad. Think 50 asterisks if I was trying to write it verbatim in a family newspaper and you’ll have some idea of the graphic nature of it.
This time I did turn. Just in time to see the thunderous face of Average Bloke, who seemed to have lost all sense of decorum and decency and was letting fly on a mammoth scale.
Eventually, the kid got the pump released and normal service was resumed. When I finally got outside, Average Bloke had driven off.
Judging by his demeanour, I’d say he was heading for a scheduled appointment with a stress-related heart attack.
So that was Tuesday.
On Friday I’m back at that same BP - I drink a lot of coffee - and I’m in the queue again when a huge motorcycle roars in. We all look out the window.
Clambering off the bike is the biggest tattooed behemoth you have ever seen. I’m sure the ground shook when he walked in.
Now, I don’t know about you but I‘d say it’s pretty normal for most of us to judge straight off and look the other way when we see this sort of person, for fear of offending them with a look or gesture.
I’m not saying we should or shouldn’t. I’m just saying it happens.
I know myself I’ve had some amazing conversations with such people after a courteous “Gidday” and equally I’ve been told to, er, “go away” when I’ve offered a greeting. So you just don’t know what you are going to get, do you?
On this occasion, Giant Biker Dude seemed courteous enough and stood aside when a lady needed to get past but, beyond that, he looked and sounded like he could, and would, rip your head off and wee in the hole left behind if you offended him.
So I decided not to chance it. Kept my head down, collected my mochaccino and got back on the road as soon as possible.
Not that long after, a familiar-sounding motorcycle passed me on the motorway. I didn’t think I’d see it again but 10 minutes later there it was, parked on the side of the road with traffic slowed to an absolute crawl in both lanes alongside it.
It looked like there might have been an accident.
But as I crawled past the parked bike with all the other vehicles, some of which were stopping momentarily, I caught sight of Giant Biker Dude, bent over with arms outstretched, ambling through the mass of stopped and slow-moving vehicles.
And in front of him in a neat line was a mother duck and I’d say 10 tiny ducklings.
The big fella had stopped the traffic and was shepherding them all to safety across the busy road.