Premium unleaded, Mars Bars, a Mini Cooper S and inconsiderate bastards

I reckon one of the banes of current life is the modern service station. In the ‘old’ days, a happy chappy would come out, ask cheerily “fill ‘er up?’ and you’d say something like ‘yes thanks’ or ‘$20 please’. Well actually no, because in the old days $20 would have filled a swimming pool. My first car, a Mini Cooper ‘S’, was full with $2-20. And that was the Go Juice of the time.

Anyway, they would then check the oil and water (and the smart ones would suggest they were both half empty, as well as were the   brake and clutch master cylinders) and top those up as well. The REALLY good ones would also check your tyres. (‘Oohh maaaaaaate! Wearin’ a bit thin on the front. Bit dangerous that. I’ll order in a set of four for yer’).

You’d might get a windscreen and rear window wash, then pay the bill and off you would go as he counted the extra dollars relieved from you.

Today, as well as there being no happy chappy, meaning you have to do this all yourself – and really who can be bothered – the design of the everyday super-servo as they have become is abysmal. Instead of four rows of two pumps (allowing two cars per row to be filled), there is one row of six (allowing only one car per row to be filled). Further, the person in front is always as slow as a wet week.  As are the pumps usually. And the angles of entry and exit are just ridiculous. Try towing a boat through. I have personally demolished enough bowsers to make a fox hunting pack.

(Gerrit? Bowsers. Bow-wow? Never mind. Moving right along…..).

And when the person in front has finished, they saunter off to the shop, and spend the next 10 minutes browsing magazines, deciding whether to buy a Mars Bar and then realise they have left their wallet in the car. So they saunter back and go through it all over again.

When they finally get back after paying the bill and buying whatever rubbish they decided on, then it’s time to sit in the car, check the mirrors, remember they haven’t yet cleaned the windscreen, reset the trip meter, remind the missus to do up the seat belt and then trundle off at 2 kph.

By now, I don’t know about you, but I am almost pounding on the steering wheel in frustration at the time lost. World War I was shorter. And in the waiting time, the (alleged) green house gasses I have (allegedly) emitted have added another 35 tons of carbon dioxides to the cow and sheep farts already there. Or is that methane?

Anyway, finally you drive forward, shut the engine off, pop the lever for the fuel cap cover and unscrew the cap. Now there is The Choice. Standard unleaded,  premium unleaded or Super-Dooper Go-Juice? Dilemma. You know the car runs fine on the stuff that is $1.20 a litre (less the cash back thing from the Shopper Docket), but the ads tell you that if you have a performance car (which I do) then the Super-Dooper Go-Juice will make the Monaro jump tall Toyota Hi-Aces in a single bound. But that’s $1.40 something a litre. And of course the stuff in the middle also  beckons, saying ‘pick me, pick me – no-one ever picks me!’

On a whim blinded with the promise of all that potential POWER, you hit the button for the Super-Dooper Go-Juice (as your credit card winces). By the time the operator has hit the button to let you start filling, the length of time for WW II comes and goes … and then the fuel dribbles through at an interminable rate.

God forbid you need air in the tyres and water. I can never find the locale for those new gizmos they apparently use. So again you don’t bother. I ran for three days with a flat tyre before someone pointed it out to me.

At last, you can brave the ‘shop’ and stand in the thirty deep queue, with each queue-e scrabbling for credit cards, rewards cards and shopper docket receipts when they finally get to Bylynda, or Tarquin behind the counter. Why can’t they get all this stuff ready beforehand?  You fume further and cast nasty glances at everyone range during the wait.

When you finally make it to the till – and of course there is only ever one operator no matter how many cars are banked up outside as the other employee is stocktaking the Chupa Chups or sorting the ice creams into alphabetical order – is when the full horror of the entire operation hits you! You’ve left your credit card on the fridge.

You are as bad as the rest of them. You, sanctimonious inconsiderate bastard.