Tool Time

At the convenience store where I pretend to work, it is a truism that we get all sorts walking through the door, especially on the night shift. But this truism is true only to the extent that it is incomplete: what we get walking through the door are all sorts of tools, twats, tossers, and morons of infinite variety.

Take, for example, the tool I encountered recently who just also happened to be a motorcyclist. Said tool and a number of other motorcyclists pulled up at the bowsers and attempted to fill up. However, I declined to authorise the pumps because said tool and his pals had not removed their crash helmets. It's a security policy at the store that motorcyclists attempting to use the pumps have to first take off their helmets - otherwise, what could be more useful for the purposes of a drive off than a face-enclosing helmet that completely masks the nascent felon's identity?

So, being the conscientious type, I promptly jumped on the PA and informed the gang of two-wheeled tools that they had to de-helmet first, after which time I would be happy to authorise the pumps. Well, they did as they were asked; but once they had finished filling up, it seems one of their number (the aforementioned tool) was deputed to not only pay their collective bill, but waste my time with a pre-eminent display of toolmanship.

To some extent, I blame myself: I really should have seen it coming. As the tool approached the store, he eye-balled me with that manic I've-got-a-bigger-dick-than-you-have glare that tells you you're in the presence of an A-grade eunuch with a chip on his shoulder. To tell you the truth, I felt a little shiver run down my spine and the hairs on the back of my neck stood up; Spiderman ain't the only one whose senses tingle when danger's immanent. But it was busy and I had lots to do, so I suppressed my premonition and got on with my award-winning impersonation of customer service.

Which was dumb. Which was a mistake. Which serves me own right. Because when the tool finally arrived at the counter, and before I could even tote up the bill for him and his moto-tool mates, he said: "I see you're discriminating against motorcyclists now."

To which I replied with my usual tact: "You bet".

His next line: "So what if a Muslim woman wearing a headscarf comes along? Are you going to tell her to take it off?"

I'll be honest: my immediate impulse was to burst into laughter and offer to wrap his head in toilet paper, this latter being his crown for having won the Moron of the Year Award. But then I saw from the expression on his face that he was absolutely serious. In fact, he was outraged by the thought that he should be required to take off his helmet while some Muslim woman might be allowed to stroll into the place willy nilly and remain covered.

Suppressing my laughter, I explained that it was a security requirement; I even went to the lengths of explaining that the same requirement to take off his helmet would apply if, for example, he just wanted to enter the store to buy a carton of milk. It wasn't about petrol - it was about security.

"So you wouldn't make someone take off their religious headdress, but I have to take off my helmet?"

I will confess that by this stage I was dumb-struck; not because I couldn't think of anything to say, but because everything I wanted to say to him involved suggesting rather forcefully that he perform the kind of physical contortions that are either illegal, impossible, or both. But as I said, the store was busy, and I had no desire to insult other innocent customers simply because this tool had decided to exhibit his idiocy on my patch.

So instead I gently suggested that the instant Muslim women on motorbikes wearing hijabs started pulling drive-offs, that would be the instant we'd start discriminating against them, too.

You'll agree that, given the extremity of the provocation, I was the very embodiment of reason and sensitivity. But the tool, being a tool, took grave offence and demanded the right to make a complaint. I told him - rather casually, I'll admit, because by this time I was getting bored - that he should call the company's customer care line; they'd be glad to hear (indeed, would be fascinated by) his moral indignation at such harsh treatment. And, of course, I proffered this assurance with just enough of a hint of a smile, and with just the right inflection of voice, to suggest that he would be a) listened to; b) taken seriously; c) offered an apology and/or compensation; and, d) that the company policy would be changed forthwith.

Satisfied that I'd been put in my place, and that his penis had grown another three or four inches as a consequence, the tool departed - no doubt to tell his tool-brothers what a hero he'd been in the fight against the ongoing persecution of motorcyclists by the wicked petro-industrial complex. If there's anything that will warm the cockles of this old, cold heart, it's the sight of a self-satisfied tool riding triumphantly off into the sunset of his own delusions.

And what is the point of all this tool-bashing (if you'll pardon the expression)? Well, for one thing, it just goes to show you that the life of a convenience store console operator is rarely dull. On the contrary, it's very interesting - "interesting", that is, in the sense of the old Chinese curse: may you live in interesting times. And for another thing, you're all meant to be hugely impressed by my restraint in suppressing the impulse to introduce this tool to the art of cleaning convenience store toilets - head first! But more important than any of these is a simple and profound lesson: just because some bloke sits astride a machine that could break the sound barrier doesn't mean he's either a scientist at the Large Hadron Collider, or Chuck Connors. It just means he's a dickhead, pure and simple.

Or, if you prefer it in politer terms, a tool. A complete, total, twatting, tossing, tool!

Talk to you soon,

BB

Quote for the Day: Moral indignation - that which, in most cases, is 2 per cent moral, 48 per cent indignation, and 50 per cent envy. (Vincent de Sica)