The other night, we finished our drinking with a mojito, which, by the way, is always one mojito too many. That's perhaps why I next found myself in KFC. Now, KFC after midnight is no oasis of salubrity and that's not just down to the food. To say that the one on George St has a lamentably poor queueing arrangement would be overstating it. It has no queue. Nonetheless, it was still with some frustration that I watched two gorillas walk in past me and start ordering. I made the mistake of expressing this frustration. The guy turned to me and snarled "If it's between pushing in front of you and losing $4,000, I'm pushing in, and if you've got a problem with that, we can just go outside and I'll beat the shit out of you". Hey, put like that, it was hard to argue with the guy's priorities.
Later, as I made my way home, it wasn't the rudeness, the all-too-common aggression or even how pushing-in ahead of me was going to stop this guy losing $4,000 that intrigued me. No, the thought that kept running through my head was, "Why were both of those guys wearing matching bright, white tracksuit-tops?"
It no doubt reflects poorly on my sense of self-preservation, and maybe it was because of that mojito, that my mind dwelt on the more sartorial aspects of the encounter but seriously, is this some kind of uniform for bogan gangster-apprentices? Who makes these rules up?
One always has such high hopes when sitting down to write something, but in truth, all that springs to mind are the small oddities one encounters...Then again, maybe I've just become a grumpy middle-aged man!
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