Social pests: A handy guide

Recently there was a lot of brouhaha on the behaviour of some tourists on the tarmac in a Vietnamese airport. That might have been cringey and perhaps weird but it’s not a habit. On the other hand, we suffer the small habitual vandalism of public life by people.

These are not evil people. Evil requires planning. These are people committing misdemeanours against civilisation with the casual confidence of someone who believes that “This works in my bathroom so no reason for it not to work at Changi airport departure hall.” They are the termites of etiquette. You see them, not dramatic enough to call security, can’t smack them with a newspaper but still persistent enough to make holes in society’s patience.

Let us profile some.

1. The sultan of the speakerphone

This is the person who places their mobile phone on speaker mode in public and conducts a full conversation as if sending the last distress signals on the Titanic.

“HELLO …HELLO…. YES …..”

They do not “take a call”. They broadcast one like a Supernova casts light.

Imagine you are sitting in a café or a theatre or a lounge, trying to read, or merely cogitate (Cogitate means “think” when expressed on LinkedIn) and suddenly you are sucked ears first as an unwilling participant in a family dispute about a washing machine delivery, a cousin’s visa, or whether someone named Meena has spoken to the contractor. (NOTE: That one can speak with a contractor is an urban legend), Contractors (Raju / Hasan etc) are gifted individuals for whom renovation deadlines are like those shadowy squiggles that you see when you close your eyes. If you ignore it, they disappear.

You did not consent to this call. Yet here you are, drowning in the minutes of a meeting you never attended. The Speakerphone Sultan has a special genius: they convert a private conversation into a public-sector consultation exercise.

Worse still, speakerphone conversations are never about anything noble or uplifting. No one has ever overheard a speakerphone call about curing malaria or reversing global warming. You will never hear an Einstein:

“PAUL… IT’ C SQUARED ….C SQUARED …E= MC SQUARED….THAT WOULD BE IT”

It is always something like:

“NO, I TOLD HIM ALREADY. ASK RAJESH. RAJESH KNOWS WHERE THE ICE CUBES ARE”

And now we and 300 others know that Rajesh knows. Phew, I will sleep well tonight.

2. The swimming pool costume revolutionary

Every swimming pool has rules. Most of them are simple. Shower before entering. Do not run. No Diving and yes, Wear proper swimming attire.

And yet, into this blue rectangle of human hope enters the Swimming Pool Revolutionary: a person whose definition of swimwear is any garment qualifies provided it’s damp enough.

They arrive in gym shorts, cotton T-shirts, Bermudas, football jerseys, churidars etc.

The issue is not fashion. The issue is that a swimming pool is not a laundry experiment and people should adhere to the rules from a lowest common multiple of manners.

The Revolutionary, however, sees regulations as suggestions for less imaginative people. They enter the pool with the air of a Che Guevara starting a swimming pool movement.

“Why cannot wear? It’s just shorts.”

That sentence has damaged more common facilities than budget cuts.

Public pools, condo pools and hotel pools are among the last places where society still tries to maintain a fragile pact: we shall all share this water and pretend it is clean. The least we can do is not enter it in sleeping shorts and shatter that pretence.

3. The gym sweat philanthropist

This person believes in giving a piece of himself to wherever he goes. Unfortunately, most of it is sweat. They finish using a bench, treadmill or exercise mat and simply walk away, leaving behind a glistening human watermark which stares at you with the charm of a warm beer on a rainy day. It is less a gym station and more a biological signature.

Every gym has signs saying, “Please wipe down equipment after use.” These signs are not subtle. They are everywhere. But the philanthropist reads them the way senior management reads employee feedback surveys: with visible awareness and no behavioural change.

There is a special horror in approaching a gym bench and seeing the outline of another person’s torso in moisture with the said person still strutting around admiring himself in the mirror. It is like discovering a dead body with half a knife sticking out, while the murderer is right there holding the other half.

One hesitates. One looks around. One wonders whether to report it or burn the facility to the ground and start afresh. The gym is supposed to be a place of self-improvement. But every unwiped bench reminds us that muscle can grow faster than manners.

4. The aircraft taxiing rebel

The aircraft has landed. The cabin crew has made the announcement. The plane is still taxiing. The seatbelt sign is on. Everyone has been told to keep mobile devices in the appropriate mode and remain seated.

But one passenger has urgent business.

They must watch reels.

Not call a doctor. Not check on a sick relative. Not coordinate a rescue mission. Reels showing a man dancing next to a golden retriever.

The Aircraft Taxiing Rebel is a fascinating contradiction. They are obedient enough to queue for boarding, remove laptops at security, and complain about baggage rules. But the moment the plane touches down, they become freedom fighters.

5. The café colonists

This person orders one coffee and occupies a table for three hours.

Not quietly, either. They colonise by stealth.

Laptop open. Charger plugged in. Bag on one chair. Notebook on another. Half-finished cappuccino positioned like a land deed. Occasionally they glance at the cup to ensure the café still understands the legal basis of their tenancy.

They are not having coffee. They are running a branch office. Some even conduct Zoom calls from the table, thereby merging several pest categories into one premium misconduct combo deal. They speak loudly, wear earbuds, say “Can you hear me?” six times, and then spend the next hour discussing strategic alignment while an elderly couple in their 70s teeters nearby with two trays with a Grande and a sandwich each, and no place to sit.

If the café is empty, live your best freelance life. Write the novel. Build the deck. Discover yourself. But when people are circling with cups in hand, your one Americano cannot become a 99-year lease.

What unites all these social pests?

It is not malice. It is not stupidity. It is not even bad upbringing, though the evidence occasionally points in that direction.

It is main character syndrome. Each person behaves as if the public world is merely background scenery in the film of their life. Other people are extras. Rules are props. Shared facilities are available for personal interpretation. It’s time to call curtains on it.