He sat in the back row of the public gallery in the Magistrates Court, combing his whispy black mullet, visibly nervous as he awaited his moment in the spotlight.
I'd been sent to the court to monitor the developments after a string of bikie arrests, but out of a room literally full of social misfits, it was this mullet guy that held my attention.
For most people, going to court can be a nerve racking affair. Most are unfamiliar with the setting, unaware of the process and apprehensive about the whole prospect of running into the law.
For others, it's a novelty.
Mullet man was pretty vocal about his enjoyment of the morning's session. He was chatting to his fellow alleged miscreants, rather inappropriately asking what they were appearing for, trying to make the whole thing less awkward than it needed to be.
It didn't work.
When an accused pothead was let off with a mere fine, he had to restrain himself from clapping and congratulated the friends who were there for support.
"Great! That's a great result. Well done" he chirped as they left.
You successfully avoided going to jail after being charged with possession.
Congratulations indeed.
Soon enough, it was his turn. But before he was called up, he sat there readjusting his ratty black t-shirt, in his skinny jeans and boots, toying with an over-sized wooden crucifix necklace.
When he whipped out the comb, I started thinking maybe that was his idea of how to show respect. I need to look respectable for the magistrate, I'll comb my mullet.
As soon as his name was called, he jumped up with all the enthusiasm of a grade one kid at an end of year concert, accidentally kicking a chair with clumsily placed strides.
He was a little too energetic throughout the mention, bantering with anyone who asked him a question.
It was at that point that I heard a Gold Coast bikie turn to his girlfriend and scoff.
"Where do these hillbillies come from?"