Why I wrestled a bogan in the street (true story)

Let me tell you the last time I made a giant arse of myself in public.

It started, as these things usually do, innocently enough. 

I hadn’t had my morning coffee and was searching for a café when I wandered past a pawn shop, and thought, Why not?

“BEE BAW,” blared the door chime – unnecessarily loud.

Behind the counter sat a bloke in his mid-forties: bleached blonde hair, an NBA 2017 All-Stars tee that looked vacuum-sealed to his body, and a (possibly pawned) Shane Warne-style diamanté earring.

He didn’t look up. Just kept scrolling on his phone.

So I coughed. 

Then I coughed a little harder.

Eventually, he raised his head, locked eyes with me, and let the silence stretch just long enough to make it awkward. Then he said:

“You look like you need some money.”

Without missing a beat, I shot back: “What interest rates do you charge?”

He slowly put down his phone, eyeballing me.

(Blokes with no money don’t ask about the interest rate first up)

“Get out of my shop!” he snarled.

And that’s when the trouble started.

As I walked out, I noticed a poster of his interest rates and charges in the window. And for reasons I still don’t quite understand, I whipped out my phone, and did the most Karen thing I’ve ever done in my life:

I stood on the sidewalk and took a photo of the poster.

And then I heard …

“BEE BAW”

Shane Warne was bowling out the doors with steam coming out of his blingy ears. 

“Put your phone away, this is private property!” he yelled.

And then he made a jelly-rolled lunge for my phone.

Two middle aged men grunting and swearing and making a ruckus in the street. Not my finest moment. 

Yet later on I looked into it, and what I found made me even angrier.

It turns out, pawnshops have been around since the 15th century. Back then, they were known as banks of pity, lending small sums to people doing it tough, in exchange for something small they owned.

They haven’t changed much since.

Here’s how it works:

You give them your Nana’s necklace, they give you cash.

Pay them back (plus enough interest to buy your nana’s first home in 1974), and you get it back.

And if you don’t? 

They flog it in the front window next to a busted NutriBullet, a lawnmower that hasn't started since the Rudd Government, and a copy of Shrek 2 on DVD. Don't think of pawnshops as sleazy Salvos … they’re really loan shark shops.

And make no mistake: in the current cost-of-living crisis, these guys are not offering a lifeline, they’re stealing food off the table from kids.  You see, these loans are structured to roll over again and again, which means some end up charging the equivalent of a staggering 480% interest. And it’s all perfectly legal, because pawnshops are largely exempt from the National Credit Act.

My view?

The government needs to close the loophole and hold these outfits to account. Because the only thing sadder than a dirty old NutriBullet in the window … is knowing someone skipped dinner to keep it there.

Tread Your Own Path!