JESTER NO CAP

A lunatic works at one of the petrol stations near me. He’s not dangerous or anything, but he’s on the lunacy spectrum for sure. Every time I go in to pay for my fuel, or to stock up on canned poison to keep me awake, he’s wearing a different hat. Not like a cap or a woolly hat or a flat peak, I’m talking absolutely mental hats.

For example, when it was Easter he wore a purple top hat with bright eggs and bunny rabbits glue-gunned on to it. At Christmas he wore a Santa hat with flashing LED lights sewn in. On St Patrick’s Day it was a leprechaun Guinness hat with fake ginger sideburns attached. In between seasonal holidays he goes rogue—jester cap with bells, a deerstalker, a pointy wizard hat, a plastic crown with plastic gems. He’s got a collection. It’s his thing. He’s eccentric. Maybe a bit autistic.

Each time I see him behind the till he’s there with his work polo, name badge, and a mad hat. His name is Clive. Clive is probably late 30s. He’s skinny, short beard, full of energy. I’ve no idea if he has hair. Hats.

Clive has this strange shrill voice, coupled with the old school accent of our region. The proper Northants accent that’s since been watered down generation upon generation. It’s like “Yerooight me duck?” Clive’s voice is specific. Think Alan Moore if he was a cat and was being strangled.

Clive is overly friendly in a genuine way that makes a trip to the Esso more enjoyable than it ever should be. He calls everyone “young man” or “young lady” and calls the receipt “paperwork” from under his bonkers headgear. Clive is a Roald Dahl character in real life.

Over the years I’ve always complimented Clive’s hats. One time he couldn’t tell if I was being sincere or not, so I doubled down and told him I like people who do weird shit like that and he shouldn’t feel he ever has to not wear his mental hats. I hate the idea that he thought, even for a second, that I might be making fun of him. He appreciated that I wasn’t and we’ve had a friendly rapport ever since.

Sometimes you can feel the other people who work at the petrol station almost trying to catch your eye. It’s like they want to let you know they’re not mental like Clive is. They wanna share a little side-eye and snigger with you at Clive’s expense. I hate that shit. Fuck them. I’m always sure to make a beeline for Clive and say hello to him when the jackal type co-workers are there. Three of the four that want to mock him are obese and disgusting anyway. Not sure what high horse they’re on. Clive might be a bit unorthodox, but at least he won’t die climbing the stairs.

Earlier today I went into Clive’s Esso to pay for my fuel. I grabbed some esoteric brand energy drinks and two Daim bars as well because I’m a disgusting pig. As I approached the tills I considered buying a scratch card then decided against it. I’ve a theory that no one has ever won the top prize on a scratch card ever. Not once in the history of England. I’m sure there are news articles to the contrary, but it’s definitely bullshit. No one has ever won more than a few grand on a scratch card, I promise you. Big Lotto at work.

Then I heard Clive.

“Hello young man… fuel?”

I was horrified. I hadn’t noticed him. He was stood there, depleted. He wasn’t wearing a hat. Totally hatless. A king without his crown. An angel without a halo. I couldn’t help but blurt out the first thing that came into my head.

“What the fuck,” I said. “Where is your hat?”

Clive sighed heavy and long. He looked genuinely upset. He has hair, by the way. Short, widow’s peak, but not balding. Normal.

“Yeah…” said Clive. “Someone from head office was here doing checks and they banned me from wearing my hats.”

My blood boiled. Some cunt district manager at Esso headed out to our shitty borough to box-tick and in the process banned a man from expressing himself with crazy hats. Clive works full time minimum wage in a Midlands petrol station—without his hats, his life is just stock checking Ginsters pasties and scanning fuel cards.

I am devastated for Clive. He looks half the man he was. His light has been forcibly put out. His fire extinguished. This might seem minor to some, but I genuinely see this incident as a tragedy. A total affront to the soul and the spirit. The Esso manager is a demon.

We talked for a few minutes about what a sad bastard the regional manager is and I tried to reassure Clive that he’ll probably be able to wear the hats again soon. We both know it’s not going to happen. I paid for my fuel and my chemicals and Clive held up the paperwork.

“Receipt?” he asked.

My heart sank. Poor Clive.