The world is full of seemingly decent men and women who are only a uniform and a minimum wage away from becoming second-tier tyrants.
Most powerless people are nice.
Or at least they act nice.
But give somebody a wee bit of authority and only then do you see who they really are. And I am not talking about a place in parliament or even a seat on council. I mean any position that grants them the most modest degree of influence or control over other people.
And there is no shortage of jobs that afford this kind of micro-clout and there are plenty of people ready to take advantage of them.
Sure you know this yourself.
I bet there are friends of yours who, given even an iota of say-so at work, you know would quickly mutate into managers of the most egomaniacal kind.
You probably have an immediate family member that is a perfectly sound shelf-stacker, but who you are pretty sure would grow a two inch moustache overnight if ever issued with a hi-vis coat and a lollypop.
Or maybe it is you who harbours the quiet despotic streak.
I was out for pints with a friend at the weekend and he was telling me that a recent promotion means that he is now the man that authorises holidays for his colleagues in work.
“Bet you love that,” I said, having discovered the dictator that dwells within, during a year of living with him in Belfast.
“Absolutely love it, lad,” he replied.
“This fella came into me the other day and said, ‘I’m gonna need a bit of time off’.
“Without even looking up for my desk, I just took a big pause, then goes… ‘What’s wrong wi ye?’”
I was disgusted, but not surprised.
Though he is my friend, and a good one, that rottenness has always been latent in him, just waiting for an opportunity to manifest itself.
Just the other day, I was at the hot food stand when the doll manning the greasy tray gave me less food than her colleague had the week before, but charged me two pound more.
That’s either a power trip or a sackabley egregious error.
Another example that springs to mind occurred only a few weeks earlier when I was nearly trampled by one of the lads who carry cash from the bank to the security van.
I know they’ve an important job, but you’d have swore this boy was transporting diamonds through cartel-controlled Sinaloa, not carting a few quid across Market Street.
Receptionists can be particularly vulnerable to letting the authority go to their heads.
I think there is something about being the intermediary who decides whether or not you get speaking to the person you are after that gives them a kind of power by proximity.
Of course, loads of them are lovely.
But I have rang schools before and come off the phone with the impression that the principal’s secretary genuinely thinks she’s the principal.
I am so convinced that this is a legitimate psychological phenomenon that I am actually in the process of trying to get ‘delusional receptionist syndrome’ entered into the The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM).
Anyway, the list could go on and on, but I don’t want to make anymore enemies than I already have.
So let me end by saying this: No occupation is inherently corruptive. There is no such thing as a bad job; only people and the way they choose be. Which always leaves room for redemption.
So, hot food server, the ball is in your court.
The price of peace is two extra bacon, an extra sausage, and three pound off my next order.
Let’s see if you made a mistake or if my suspicions that you are filling station fascist are correct.
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