Another techtard
Him: This is the fifth time I've bought my PC in to be fixed and you tell me there is nothing wrong with it. It won't start at home.

Me: I've had it up on the bench for hours running all sorts of tests and can't find anything wrong.

Him: (getting very angry): It won't start at home. You are lying to me.

Me: I assure you. It is yours. I have already spent hours on this and I have other customers to deal with.

Him: (crossing the line) It's not mine. Your not even fucking looking at my fucking computer

Me: It is yours and I can prove it. I'm opening your internet history...

Him: Stop, no!

Me: ...and it says you have visited...

Him: That's private information, you can't look at that!!

Me: ...adultfriendfinder.com, russianbrides.com...

Him: STOP THAT NOW!! THAT'S PRIVATE!! I'm GOING TO COMPLAIN TO YOUR MANAGER!!!

Me: ...transgenderlove.com, sadococklove.com, does this sound familiar to you?

(click!)


Me: You might have a shitty phonecall coming your way

The boss: ...

(ring ring!!)


I didn't get a bollocking and we had a bloody good laugh about it. However, my boss had agreed to make up for it by sending someone to his house to fix it on site. Naturally I declined to do it myself.


We also used to have a guy bring his PC which was full of gay pr0n, but he had very lovingly pasted his face on to the man taking it in each picture. It must have taken ages and his photoshopping skills were quite good. Anyone on here?
(spunkyD, Fri 5 Sep 2008, 16:23, 2 replies)

further bar woes
During my undergrad finals, I worked part time in a very local bar - the kind where 5 men with the same name sit at the dimly lit bar smoking and ogling the bar staff, beer or cigarette in one hand, fiddling with themself under the table with the other, and it's the same every fucking night, and has been since the day the bar opened in the year AD 20. This bar was in a village about a 20 minute walk from where I lived, a village with 3 churches, 3 bars, and a small Post Office general store, which was only open from totally inconvenient time to ten minutes later, and during the annual may fair, the fair queen would always have some truly arresting disfigurement, either missing an arm, eyes staring in different directions, webbed hands, a beard - something eyecatching in an 11 year old girl anyway. Although we were only a half hour drive from 'the big city' (Glasgow - not a hotbed of culture, unless you really go looking for it), most folk hadn't been further from home than the Bishopbriggs shopping centre down the road (a B&Q, a Halfords, an Asda, and MacDonalds - it was the height of sophistication for some of them).

So as you might imagine, for the bar regulars, having a young, buxom lady tending to their boozy needs was a dream come true. I may be a bit plump (okay, fat), but I have large breasts, and my uniform required me to wear a very tight white shirt and short black skirt, so the old men could lech, and maybe buy more drinks. That I could answer some of the more difficult questions on the 'Who wants to be fleeced out of a pound coin' machine endeared me to them further - most got confused at the concept of multiple choice, so were glad of an explanation that just because C was correct once, doesn't mean that C stands for correct answer.

One night, after asking a large group of neds to kindly fuck off at least until they started secondary school, one of the regulars asked me for a pint of bitter with peppermint cordial (this was a favoured drink there, for some god awful reason), so I was preparing his drink for him, and his hand started to reach across the bar towards my right breast. With a raised eyebrow, I moved backwards, and enquired as to what he thought he was doing?

'Ach, ah jest wanna feel wan like, by the way, ye cunt' quoth he.
'Well don't' I said, and finished off pouring his pint.
'weel, howse aboot ah gie ye a pound fer a feel?' he responded.

And do you know what? For some reason, best known to her, my boss sacked me after the police had been round. How was I meant to know it was a glass eye?


Luckily, after the circumstances had been explained to the police officer, fuckwit decided not to pursue the complaint, and I was asked to refrain from lamping elderly men in the face in future, no matter what the provocation. Oh well.
( ascorbate, Fri 5 Sep 2008, 16:23, Reply)

misunderstanding the Irish accent
I used to work for a well known camera manufacture who I will say begins with an 'N' and end with 'ikon'. We had a call centre based in Dublin where customers would get technical support ect.

One lady called and was advised that her camera needed to be repaired at the head office. She was then advised by the Irish call centre op to send her camera to '380 Richmond Road'

It eventually arrived, but instead addressed to:

'Tree 80 Richmond Road'
(sweatytramp, Fri 5 Sep 2008, 16:02, 5 replies)

Used to work in a 24 hour service station
Once, while doing the 7am shift on a Sunday, a gentleman with a crutch came in shortly after I'd started my shift. There was no-one else around much as you'd expect at 7am on a Sunday morning.

"Got any booze, mate?" He enquired (this was the mid ninties, many years before they actually started selling booze in petrol stations).

"No sir, sorry. This is a petrol station."

"Sure?"

"Yes sir, I'm sure. This is a petrol station. We sell petrol and a small range of basic household groceries."

"So, you don't have any booze then."

"No."

"What about you. Have you got any booze on you that you'd sell?"

"No sir. We're not normally allowed to be drunk at the counter."

"Sure?"

"Yes, I'm quite sure. If I had a half-bottle of vodka in my shirt pocket, I think we'd both be able to see it, wouldn't we sir."

He cranes his neck around the counter to see the area out back where we keep all the stock.

"What about back there. Got any back there?"

"No sir, I already said we had no alcohol."

"Sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure. It's not in our usual line of stock so it won't be in there."

"Could you check?"

"No sir, there's none there."

"But someone else who works here might have left some there. Just go and have a quick look for me."

"No sir, we're not allowed to bring in alcohol."

"Can I look?"

"No sir, this area is for employees only"

"I'm going to look"

So he walks round to the door that leads behind the counter and starts trying the handle. It's locked, of course, but this doesn't deter him. He keeps trying.

Ten minutes or so pass, a couple of customers come in and look quizzically at the man in the corner who is repeatedly trying an obviously locked door.

Eventually he came back into the main area of the garage.

"No booze then?"

"No sir."

He started mournfully at the crisp display for a short time. Then sneezed up the most revolting spray of lumpy nasal gunge I've ever seen all over the crisps.

And then he left.

And there was no way I was cleaning those crisps. Heaven knows what customers who came in later that day and bought them might have ended up contracting.
(MattDP (Squiggle), Fri 5 Sep 2008, 15:59, 1 reply)

BLT?
Many moons ago I worked in teh media for this harpie who owned the company. She used to corner me in the hallway and get me to escort her down to the Starbucks because she was afraid of being mugged in Soho by 'all the ungodly queers' (I kid you not)

One morning as I escorted her into the shop, her greedy talons clutching at my arm as she tottered on her impossibly high heels (I remember she was about 4'9"), there was a long queue and she started screeching about service and how as a long time customer she should be served first. Knowing that she was a right pain, but a bit of a goldmine that must have spent over a grand a month there on all sorts she'd buy but not consume, just because she could.

Anyway, the manager comes up to her and asks her what she would like

Bitch: I want a double frappalapptingablahlblahblah with no ice and no caffeine.
Manager: Madam, all frappalapptingablahblahblah are made with with ice.
B: Oh, well, make me one without ice. And I want this toasted (hands him a BLT)
M: Certainly
B: But I don't want the bacon or the lettuce or the tomato and I only want some butter with it.
M: So you want plain toast, madam?
B: Erm...

At this point she made a huge fuss while her mobile rang and she was trying to retrieve it from a bag that was HUGE and stormed out of the shop, still teetering on the heels.

Manager gives me this sympathetic look and tells me that she shan't be served there any longer since all his staff were sick and tired of dealing with her.

I got made redundant a week later.

Length? About 17 people in the queue. It was 9.15 am after all...
(Marmoset Bored bored bored of cnuting revision..., Fri 5 Sep 2008, 15:56, Reply)

I hate customers
Humanity in general has a lot to answer for.

Stupid wobbly meatbags.

Anyway, I've done a fair bit of bar work, as a shift manager, in the past, and the worst thing about it is the people.
I find it hard to work a shift sober.

People are fuckin' rubbish.

The mush-brained money-wavers... No, it won't make me serve you any quicker, if anything I'll decline to serve you, pour myself a drink, sip it slowly and then think about getting on to you.

The scumbag city-boys that think I'll be impressed when they wave a fifty.

No, I'm not impressed, it rapes my till-change. Also, you're a cunt. Good work.

The ones who change their mind when you've already poured out their double Malibu and coke... "Oh... Can I have a vodka instead?"
No, you can't. You dumb fucking slab of beef.

And the fuckers who don't say please or thank you.
They're the ones who get the dirty glass.
With cobwebs in it. And get the wrong change.

There was one old man who decided he'd get served quicker if he shouted "Sonny! Sonny! Give me a pint of IPA! Oi, Sonny!"
Over and over again... Whilst people were 3-deep at the bar.
After the first couple of minutes it really got to me.
A few minutes after that I lost patience and walked over to him.

"Excuse me sir I'm afraid that I can't make a judgement as to your age. Do you have any identification?"

He looked at me, incredulously and replied "Of course I don't, I'm 67."

I shrugged and said "I'm afraid that I can't risk the licence, and I don't feel comfortable making the call as to your age. I'm not going to be serving you."

He stared for a few seconds before screaming "I DEMAND TO SPEAK TO THE MANAG-"
"I am the manager," I cut in "You're crowding the bar, can you leave please"

He did leave.
A lot of customers congratulated me that night.
( Cawl, Fri 5 Sep 2008, 15:55, 6 replies)

And a happy fucking New Year to you too
When I was in the Sixth Form I got (forced by my evil stepfather) a Saturday job in Tesco as a cashier.

'Twas about 8:50pm on the night of Christmas Eve.

A few facts to bear in mind:
*The entrance doors were locked at 8:00pm, no customers are allowed in after this time.
*From 8pm onwards the words "The store is now closing, could customers please make their way to the checkouts" had been repeated over and over.
*The Store was supposed to close (and my shift end) at 8:30pm.
*The bus that I needed to catch that would take me home and to where all my mates and pretty much the entire Sixth Forms of the Boys' and Girls' school were in the pub, was at 8:45pm.
*The next bus was at 9:45pm.
*Absolute chaos in the store that day, the entire supply of carrier bags had ran out some time ago.

A gentleman cunt came up to my till and I proceded to scan his shopping. He asked me if I had any carrier bags. I apologised and informed him that the store had ran out of carrier bags some time ago. This wasn't good enough he informed me. So I called a supervisor who agreed to go and hunt out some bags. She appeared a little while later with just four and said that that was all that she could find. I don't recall him thanking her for her trouble.

A short while later whilst still scanning his mountain of shopping, another of these fuckers who had left their Christmas shopping to the last minute came up to me and asked if I had any bags. Again, I apologised and said that I didn't. She was perfectly pleasant and thanked me any way. After she'd walked away the man said to me "That wasn't very Christian of you".

CUNT

Naturally I didn't respond as I would have been sacked if I'd told him to FUCK OFF...
( stopmeandslapme Cometh the hour, cometh your mum, Fri 5 Sep 2008, 15:51, 1 reply)

I work in a fairly large supermarket chain
I get bored easily when I'm stacking the shelves, so I've resorted to speaking in funny accents to the cuntstomers when they ask me questions. Last week I told one of them I was filming undercover for BBC panorama
(europe-who, Fri 5 Sep 2008, 15:50, Reply)

Old men are creepy.
So I work in a supermarket on the Counters, so like, the deli and stuff. But also the bit which is basically fast food.

So I'm there selling cooked whole chickens, and this old guy comes up and I say "Hi mate what can I get ya?"

He leans over and whispers "Rape is impossible. Girl with knickers off runs faster than man with trousers around his ankles! Heehee!"

Then he walked off without buying anything.

Anyway I tried it and it turns out he was wrong.
(Uhmfhshhghd, Fri 5 Sep 2008, 15:50, Reply)

Classic
customer rage, it maybe an oldie, but its the angriest customer i've ever heard

www.youtube.com/watch?v=ETQq4a1dskM
(Cancer Joy was short lived, Fri 5 Sep 2008, 15:36, 3 replies)

"YES I 'AVE FUCKIN' SHIT MY SELF"
It's not often I'll post here but I'm enjoying this QOTW so I'll share my experience of working at the ever so classy establishment known as 'The Goose' in Nottingham.

As many who have lived in Nottingham and had The Goose would know that 'A': it's a shit hole and 'B': it attracts tramps, nutters and every alcoholic thick old smelly bastard Nottingham has to offer. Was a great day when I finally left there.

However one busy Saturday night, after taking shit loads of abuse of these sad old fuckers 11:00pm finally came around. A female colleague had asked a white trashy tattooed chav woman to kindly finish her drink and leave as we were closed. As many of you are aware most filthy chav retards aren't exactly known for being rational (let alone drunken chavs).

Because of my colleagues request "could you finish your drink please as we're closed", said chav woman kicked off and erupted in the biggest rage fit I had ever seen.

"HOW FUCKING DARE YOU, YOU LITTLE SHIT..." etc
(i'm sure you know what an angry person sounds like).

This then caused the female bouncer to step into action (who like us just had enough of these fuck wits that night), the woman was not reasonable so I'm guessing the bouncer saw little use in trying to reason with this 'walking abortion' and immediately removed her from the bar with force.

Upon doing this chav lady's bowels thought it would be nice to say 'hello' during the activity of being dragged silly out of the bar.
unfortunately she was waring a skirt at the time.

After having the odd plop whilst walking/being dragged she proceeded to argue her case to the bouncers out side of the bar, absolutely red with rage whilst an every now and then to odd poo would plop from her skirt.

at this point she has made a bit of a spectacle and a small crowd gathers around for a bit of entertainment.

"whats up? shit your self?" asked the bouncer

"YES I 'AVE FUCKIN' SHIT MY SELF!" argues chav, she then notices one of her sad loser friends a distance away and shouted...

"SIMO, SIMO, SHE'S MADE ME FUCKIN' SHIT MY SELF!!!" (did I mention small crowd)



The amazing thing is, the next day when the female bouncer arrived for work, shitty chav actually had the cheek return to the bar (let alone return to same town) and give female bouncer the filthiest look ever.

so that was a 1st for me, i had met some one who had shat them selves in public and unbelievably had still felt dignified.



sorry for length etc
(sweatytramp, Fri 5 Sep 2008, 15:15, 4 replies)

Pea roast time
I used to work in a SPAR-type convenience shop.

I had a queue of customers that I was serving when a woman walked in smoking a cigarette.

This was 7 years ago - I would have thought that it was fairly obvious that it was no longer acceptable to smoke in shops, but no; in she came, puffing away.

"Could you put that out, or take it outside please?" Said I.

"Why? Doesn't say I can't smoke in here on the door." Says Chavella.

"..." I said, stumped, as I realised we actually _didn't_ have a no smoking sign on the door anymore.

"Besides, you sell cigarettes don't you?" She said.

"That may well be the case, madam," I said,

"But I should point out we also sell condoms."
( IHaveABadFeelingAboutThis most likely working from home on, Fri 5 Sep 2008, 15:13, Reply)

When I was 16...
...I was just about emerging from that gawky awkward, frizzy ginger-haired phase that had plagued me for the previous 15 years, and I also got my first job as a Saturday assistant at Clarkes shoe shop in Gillingham.

It was a tiny little shop that I used to get served in for school shoes throughout my youth. We couldn't afford those fancy machines that measure kiddie's feet automatically, so we had to use those yee ancient measuring blocks where you have to move the bar down and yank a strip of measuring tape across the foot to get the width. You know the things I'm talking about. Now they're normall only used for kiddies and the occasional dim adult who can't remember their size.

HOWEVER, one day a truly enormous man enters the shop. Imagine Andre the Giant's slightly shorter, fatter, metal fan brother. He was a great chunk of a fellow who had wondered in with his chum (why they were browsing for shoes in dainty little Clarkes I have no idea). I think he'd spotted a pair of big ole boots in the sale and quoth he, "Ooh I've got no idea what size I am, ere, do you think you could measure me."

Of course muggins here is the one left to do the job while colleagues run and hide and possibly laugh. His feet were like heaving great slabs of sweaty ham, slapped onto the puny measuring block. Like trying to measure a blue whale with the measuring tape you sometimes get in a cracker.

Anywho his feet hang off the edges of the measuring block and they're kind of sweating and breathing as if they are seperate organisms from his body. I end up guessing that he is about a size 14 as his toes poke off the end of the scale and his width is a double H or something. Pure guess, I was just desperate to get away from them.

He was actually quite a nice bloke and I think he felt slightly embrassed to be getting his feet measured by the scrawny little shop girl. I think chiropodists are a bit kinky...
(Eldoofus, Fri 5 Sep 2008, 15:10, 1 reply)

Boomerangzzzz
Yes, there have been many cocksnappers divest themselves of what little intelligence they have right in front of me...too many to remember in one go...too painful.

Had a guy phone up the well know holiday firm i was working for and ask "what holidays have you got for free today mate", i explained that we don't, won't, and never had..."Oh, my mate said that sometimes you give'em away free if no one has booked them" i sent him on his crestfallen way. In fact that may well have been a good one for the gullibilty qotw

Same job, another woman phones up, on a very busy day, where every call is counted and you are bitch slapped if your conversion isn't met. She asks if she could buy a CD of the music we used when customers are on hold. :-/. She then admits to phoning up in the past, just to hear the music.....

Same job, a very quiet Monday night and this very softly spoken woman comes on and asks about good places to go by herself. She suggests Morocoo, i suggest not, but on she goes anyway, for fucking ages, on and on about previous holidays and the like...i don't mind, its quiet anyway, and she sounds like she wants my cock up her arse...this could have been close to the truth, as she eventually asks if i would like to join her ion the holiday, and that she would pay....I politely declined. That particular call was used in my monthly review and got me a hearty slap on the back.

Another time, we had an amazing offer on for Morocco again, funnily enough. This asian guy calls up and wants to book "40 or 50 people on it". Ok i think, big commission here.. So, i advise him to get all the names, and dates of birth of everyone travelling, and i would call him back the next night. I did. His wife answered and hangs up on me. I call again, lots of commission. She answers again and says i had better not phone again as she is sick of being pestered. I try and explain, but her accent is so thick and she is so fucking stupid, she just brays on in her foreign tongue before handing me to the irate husband, who on realising who i am and what i actually want, calms the fuck down. I can still hear his harpy of a wife screeching in the background. He then goes on to recite the list of people, over half of which have the same surname. All the while he is arguing with the harpy, and it is getting very confusing. I had to book 15 rooms with this going on......he phones back in a few weeks later to say that i have double booked various names, the supervisor listens to teh call, comes back ashen faced and shakes my hand. I done it all by the book and the stupid cunt was to blame for the double bookings...

Working in a tv/video/white goods style shop. We rented various appliances to the detritus who couldn't work out that actually buying the stuff worked out cheaper. This guy comes in and DEMANDS we give him more detergent for his washing machine, as "he rents the machine and therefore should be given the powder stuff along with the machine" - dizzy cunt was stinking of shit and probably had been eating teh powder, told him to go away, but only after he stood in silence for 10 minutes. TWAT

Then, to turn the tables, and I was the customer from hell. Living in Derby with a heavy Glaswegian accent had its advantages. I got into boomerangs, and had a few. One day i decided to upgrade and sped down to th elocal 'rang store. I grasped the wonderful laminated joy that was, 'Skyrider',
from the shelf. Ahhhhh, perfect weight, erotic curves, nice action. I wanted it, i wanted to hear it swoosh as soon as possible.

The surly chap at the counter didn't share my glee and took my money in silence and closed the till..no receipt, no thanks, no bag even. I asked for my receipt and he huffed and puffed and wanked the till until a receipt spunked out from its serrated urethra.

So i head to the park beside my house, but fuck, its a bit too windy for 'ranging...far too windy....so what do i do...head home and wait for the wind to abate...FUCK THAT.....i check out the park.....hmm, only 2 pram faced locals with a pram, but they are WAY over there, on the path, i mean, WAY over there. OK, i'm in the middle of the grass, lots and LOTS of space......

...The Skyrider leaves my hand with a confident swish, and immediately soars up vertically to a dizzying height, caught in the strong wind its normal parabola is increased 4 fold and now the pram faced chavs are within its remit.....and so, as if by magic, the Skyrider is magnetically attracted to the trio of unsuspecting targets. I can only stand in mute horror as it dives at a terrifying speed directly towards them, and i mean, directly.

I closed my eyes, and prayed and probably pee'd a bit too.

I open them up and look over, the pram faced munters are still talking and the babe in the pram still has all its limbs. I head towards were my mind predicted the 'rang would hit. They look confused as i head towards them, as i approach i see the Skyriderm, about 2 feet away from the pram. Its beautiful curved body cracked and stove in. I reach down for the thing and its then i realise that they didn't even see it approach or land...how lucky they were. I pick it up and head home......or do I.......do i fuck.

I head straight back to the shop, i am already convincing myself that this was NOT my fault and that the 'rang must have had a fault as such, nothing to do with me. I was unemployed and the outlay for the thing was all my spare cash for the week. It wasn't truly broken, its back was broke and needed a miracle, and no further craziness. So I arrive and the guy looks at me

"i want a refund for this item, i threw it once(true), it hit the grass and it now looks like this"

"you must have thrown it wrong, or it has hit concrete"

"nah mate, yer mistaken, i threw it correctly and it landed on grass, now be a good shopkeep and exchange this for a fresh one"

"erm no, you broke it pal"

"look, here is my receipt...."

"..i knew you would be back he said, you asked for that receipt, i knew you were up to something"

".....look mate, i only want an exchange, i done everything in the instructions and now it's bust, now please sort it out"

This goes on for well over 30 minutes, customers come and go, but i don't. I wore the poor cunt down, and he gave me a lesser model and let me keep the bust one. Yay. Until i get to my bike and see someone has stole my fucking saddle.


Instant Karma.

So fuck though, i do enjoy a good argument.
(Cancer Joy was short lived, Fri 5 Sep 2008, 14:45, 9 replies)

cold calling
Much as I despise the interruption. I do have some fun from these. My usual responses:

- Just let the phone dangle off the cord so they can hear the radio or whatever in the background. Sometimes they stay on the line for ages.
- Begin to sing in a faux-operatic voice about my genitals.
- Lie. One company was offereing a free mobile phone to anyone aged between 16 and 60. I told them I was 103.
- Ask them if they have welcomed Jesus into their life.

I've got no pity at all and I refuse to be nice to this person who has invited themselves into my personal space to sell me some shit. It's bad enough in itself, but when someone with an inpenetrable Bangladeshi or Chinese accent tells me their name is Rupert or Whitney while my delicate caper sauce is burning on the stove, it's time to fuck them over.
(frankspencer, Fri 5 Sep 2008, 14:45, 8 replies)

I am not violent . . .
nor do I easily lose my temper, swear or otherwise intimidate other people (intimidate? I'm 5ft nothing for goodness' sake)
But . . . two days ago I threw a patient out of a clinic. *Do not* piss off a Greek girl . . .

Why?

Well, I was always raised to be polite - "please" and "thank-you"; to show respect for elders, and especially to be polite to three members of the community: policemen, doctors, and priests.

Mr AGF (Arrogant Greek Fuckwit) is a 20 year-old who sauntered into clinic Wednesday morning (public outpatient clinic in a very busy hospital), with chronic pain problems after a wrist injury sustained in a car accident. He also wanted an extension on his sick certificate (it's been 9 months already). My junior resident had a chat to me, then asked for help (from me) - something's not right she feels; he should be better now, but his range of motion is lousy, and all he wants is more time off work. We had a chat about him outside the room (with AGF listening) about his options for rehab - BTW this guy has been stringing his injury out for a l o n g time, claiming Workcover *and* TAC should cover his bills.

AGF bellows: "come in here and say all that to my face instead of talking about me outside!"

Mrs Legless enters the room and tells AGF exactly what she told her resident - ie: your injury was a long time ago, and you're still not as mobile as I would want. You need to take responsibility for your own rehab - it's your wrist, not mine, and your problem if neglect your physiotherapy. We can offer you help, but you need to be the one who controls your own rehab.



Actually, that wasn't quite what happened . . .



Mrs Legless enters the room with a resident in tow. I'm treated to a tirade of "I've been waiting here for two f*#%ing hours", "you know nothing about my injury", "don't you look at me like that" (not entirely sure what he thought I looked like), with chiming-in from AGM (arrogant Greek Mum) about how rude we all were. 5 minutes of shouting from him, with restrained replies from me, and I've had enough. AGF is frothing at the mouth, ready to leap up from his chair.

"Lana, leave the room - this is going to be a code" (code grey - violent patient - and I'm worried this dick is going to take a swing at someone). The friendly security guards arrive, and haul this little shit to their office. Funnily enough, he becomes quite contrite there "I know I have a short temper" - "I was frustrated with the wait."

Well, tough luck kiddo - you're banned from this clinic and this hospital - unfortunately for you, the surgeon who performed your surgery was next door listening to your rantings, and he doesn't want you back here - seems he's not keen on his staff being sworn at - so tootle off to your GP and find some other sucker to treat you. If you have no GP (you don't - I checked), you're on your own - but you'll need someone to fill in your certificates for obtaining your benefits.

Yes, AGF, to paraphrase you, it is my "fucking job" to deal with patients, and treat even the slack-jawed chavs that need medical attention; funny how that sort of behaviour is "not on" at your local bank or when you call the plumber around; ranting about a wait at the hairdresser's won't score you points; but walk into a clinic, hospital, or doctor's waiting room, and suddenly good manners don't apply any more.
( Mrs Legless . . . belongs to, well, you know . . . :), Fri 5 Sep 2008, 14:34, 3 replies)

I am a customer from Hell.



I am a customer from Hell.

If by ‘customer’ you mean ‘rapist’, and ‘Hell’ as ‘my local Cost Cutter’.
(powervator and NONE SHALL PASS, Fri 5 Sep 2008, 14:29, 7 replies)

I used to work in Tescos cafe
And we got all kinds coming in. The builders would always arrive in the morning for their massive breakfasts and were absolutely stellar guys who were polite, appreciated the fact 15 big breakfasts took a while to prepare and always cleaned up after themselves.

We did also get Mrs Furcoat and her shrivelling husband who would come in every Saturday afternoon for their dinner. Mrs Furcoat always asked to be served by the same girl (I forget her name lets go for Ann), however on once occasion girl was on holiday so I politely informed Mrs Furcoat of this and offered to serve her instead. Begrudgingly they accepted. They wanted "generous" portions, because Ann was nice to them and they always insisted on the meal going in the microwave for a minute "to make sure it's properly hot" (wtf?).

They also always left the table a mess and generally were rude and up their own ass.

The following week Ann was off again, Mrs Furcoat haughtily asked if she was there I said no I was the only one in at the moment (as the person who was supposed to come in was running late). Mrs Furcoat puffed out her chest and said "I'll have lasagne"

I kind of snapped a little. I have a really short fuse when it comes to rude people. However if the situation was repeated I would do everything that follows exactly the same...

I replied with "Lasagne what?"
She shot me a venomous look "lasagne and chips"
Smiling sweetly now (which is bad, I'm not sweet. If I am smiling like this I either want something or am about to be a total bitch) "lasagne and chips what?"
The husband nudged Mrs Furcoat and quietly mumbled "please".

Mrs Furcoat did not like this. Mrs Furcoat yelled across the hot plate of slightly wilted goodies at me "PLEASE, although you should know that I have had cancer and I come here every week to give you business"

Calmly I replied
"Unless it was cancer of the manner gland I suggest you either say please or leave"

Strangely I never saw them again....
( TGB checking Off Topic is still shit at, Fri 5 Sep 2008, 14:18, 8 replies)

Nightmare
So, this bloke walks in, asking for four candles...
(scentless_apprentice takes two bottles into the shower!, Fri 5 Sep 2008, 14:13, 4 replies)

McDonald's
Working in McDonald's has it's perks. Cheaper food, crap pay e.t.c. But you can guarantee almost every day there are several truly fucking stupid complaints/comments. Here are several:

(Coming up to Christmas time)
Customer: Can I have a Big Mac meal with a 'Santa'
Me: (Tries ignoring the blatently stupid joke) Yes sir, anything else?
Customer: Can you make sure it's a Santa and not a Fanta? (Giggles to his wife and kids in the car)
Yes very funny. Now fuck off and choke on your pickle.

Customer: Can I have a Big Mac please, but under no circumstances am I to have pickle in it, I am extremely allergic to pickes, if I eat one I will die.
Me: Yes no problem, I take it you don't want the sauce on it either?
Customer: No I like the sauce, just no pickle as I'm extremely allergic to pickles.
Me: Yes I understand, but there is pickles in the sauce too, so if I left the sauce on there you would most surely die!
Customer: Are you fuckin' thick? I DONT. WANT. ANY. PICKLE. UNDERSTAND???!?
(I really really hope you suffer so badly through me trying to prevent your immediate death. Have a nice day)

Customer: I ordered a Quarter Pounder with Cheese but I wanted it without cheese
Me: You do realise that all quarter pounders come with cheese? The clues in the title. I can get one made for you.
Customer: Well shouldn't you ask if I wanted it without cheese?
Me: Well no, if you order a quarter pounder with cheese, you're gonna get cheese on it.
Customer: Well I think it's disgusting. I want to speak to a manager.
(Off I go to get the manager who tells her the exact same thing, so she takes the half eaten burger out of the box and throws it in his face. Then has the cheek to ask for a refund. This was the first time I ever heard a manager tell a customer to 'Go fuck yourself you sour faced cunt'

Customer: Excuse me, what time are you open until?
Me: Half past 10 (It was 9 o clock now)
Customer: Ok, so will I be able to buy my food now?
Me:...........

Customer: Excuse me, I just bought a cheeseburger and by the time I got home it was cold.
Me: I'm sorry about that, would you be able to return and we can replace it for you?
Customer: You're taking the piss! I just drove 10 miles home, I'm not driving 10 miles fucking back!
Me: 10 miles? I'm sorry, but that's why your burgers probably cold.
Customer: Don't be a smart arse with me boy! I'll take you to court over this. If I ate this I could've got food poisoning.
Me: (Hang up, walk away shaking my head)

There are so many more but I can't think of them now. Seriously think my IQ has been affected in that place.

Length? Well 10 miles is quite a distance you know.
( sausagesucker just paid £5.00 for a cup of Tea!, Fri 5 Sep 2008, 13:58, Reply)

How do people dress themselves
I get asked some stupid questiosn from Ebay Customers,
1 - why the PAL version game/video/DVD wont play on their amaerican player.
2 - Numerous threats due to non delivery of item, sometimes prior to the money being sent!!!!!!
3 - I was asked if the Charles & Diana champagne flutes I was selling were those used at the reception.
4 - The amount of bidders who don't read the listing then complain about the item boggles the mind.
5 - I had one bloke complain that I was trying to corrupt his son, the son had hacked into his ebay account and bought a GTA for the xbox. Somehow his son nicking the password, posing as him and recieving the game was my fault!!!!!

In fact it is always my fault.

Work - Oracle Support,
1 - Some of our users are such tards they are up to 50 password resets cos they have forgotton it.
2 - I had a women recently who couldnt email a screenshot of the error because it would be easier to fax it as she has not got all day to spend on this.
3 - The amount of emails I get saying "Oracle doesnt work can you fix it please" would amaze, at least once a day.

My fave was a lady who submitted a wwritten warning about me to my head of dept and my subordinate(???) saying I was rude and patronising (fair comment most of the time) for having the audacity to say "would you like me to show you how to do that?".

Why is it most of the people I serve have either too few or too many chromosones?
(CaptainSpunker, Fri 5 Sep 2008, 13:44, 2 replies)

Ciderman
Another tale from morrisons, this time concerning the local alcoholic 'ciderman'. Ciderman was known from afar throughout the town for being a jolly outgoing sort of pisshead, who was harmless to the point of comedy.

I often saw him sleeping on the benches outside the store and conversing with the group of skateboarders who had made him their official pet/mascot.

The first time I had the pleasure of serving him at a till, he approached me like a crab. that is to say he walked sideways with a spry gait. He then deposited 10 bottle of Weston's organic cider on my till* and yelled "How you doing mate? yeah mate I'm all right? cheers mate, sorted!". I should note that I hadn't said anything at this point. "errm seven pounds fifty please" I nervously added

Ciderman grinned and pushed his fingers under the brim of his hat and without removing it pulled out a dirty, crumpled tenner. I gingerly took it and gave him his change. He them proceeded to push the coins back under his hat, again without removing it at any point. And with a hearty "cheers mate" he was on his way.

It showed alot about Morrisons customer/staff relations, that the politest customer was a homeless wino.

The next time I saw Ciderman he was preaching his message of shop tolerance to the masses. Walking through town on my lunch break I saw him towering over a terrified child of about seven. In what I assume what he believed to be a friendly manner of advice he was shouting at the boy while pointing at a nearby poundstretchers.

"you dont wanna go in there THEMS BASTARDS IN THERE, they fuggin' told me your too drunk. IM NOT TO DRUNK bastards!"

Meanwhile a few yards away the group of ska8er-Bois who had adopted him were pissing themselves laughing. One of them shouted to ciderman "leave him alone, your scaring the poor lad"

At this Ciderman jolts to attention and yells "ITS ALL RIGHT LADS, IM JUST 'SPLAINING TO HIM ABOUT PAHHHHNDSTRECHERS"

After I got back from lunch I spend most of my shift terrified that a bit of wee had escaped from laughing so hard.

*this is how posh Hertfordshire is, even the tramps eschew white lightening.
( willenium Fist bump for verification, Fri 5 Sep 2008, 13:43, 1 reply)

McDonalds
As a lot of people, I used to work there.

I won't complain about the job, frankly it was the best job I've ever had in terms of job satisfaction, from cooking your own breakfast ("Triple Sausage McMuffin please!") to serving on the drive through after just having my trouser pulled down, to running Cannibal Corpse (Hammer Smashed Face) through the in store speaker system. Was ace!

However, as this is about customers from hell, i'll talk about a couple that I saw happen to others, and happen to myself.


-Chav elects to throw a milkshake at a 'member of staff'(clue in the '), covering the back of his head as he's backing out from the toilet with wet hands.
Turns out he wasn't a member of staff, but a bit of a hardman. The chav learnt that with a bloody nose, a black eye, and a full contingent of staff refusing to acknowledge they saw anything except for this lad throw the milkshake ("Maybe you slipped" quoth the manager)



- I'd spent half the evening tidying the lobby area, and was doing my final sweep in the 5 minutes before closing the restaurant. Group of kids has been in the corner for the last half hour throwing shit on the floor, and then denying it was them. Their mates then come in and 'accidentally' kick the pile of rubbish I've swept up. Twice.
At this point I'm gritting my teeth, trying not to rise to them, so I just laugh and say "Mind out twinkletoes, anyone would think that was intentional!"
At which point he turns, and spits in my face.
Within 30 seconds my manager had vaulted the counter to stop me from smacking this lad's head into the nearest table. He storms off with his mates, claiming "He'll get the police on us, he's connected" (To what?)
Police turn up, surprise surprise, no-one had seen a thing, it was our word against theirs. Considering they had a history already, they were then bollucked for wasting police time.



Last but not least, the store manager was a woman called Clare. She wasn't skinny, but was by no means fat at all. She was a great manager, but horrible to be told off by, because you always knew that she was right, and would never go over the top.
However, this changed one night. A bloke storms in, pushing the customers out of the way (including a pregnant woman with her family) and throws a Chicken sandwich into Clare's face. In the quarter of a second it took for everyone to fall silent across the restaurant, you could almost hear the mayo sizzling on her face, such was her anger.
There was another manager in the restaurant who had worked with her for 10 years, and says he's never seen her that angry.
Long story short, she grabs his tie, pulls his face over the counter, and smacks him square in the nose, with a nice crunch.
She then proceeds to bash his head into the counter a few times, before letting him fall to the floor, dragging him to the glass door, and throwing him THROUGH it. She then asks me to take over her till, and goes off to calm down, and have a little cry (adrenaline always mixed her up a bit).
She also phones her rugby playing husband, who turns up by the time the guy is able to stand up, and simply lays him over his shoulder, throws him into the boot of the car, and goes for a very bumpy ride, before dropping him off at the police station a little while later.
We never saw him again, but he was instructed by his PAROLE OFFICER to write a letter of apology to her, and never come our way again. It turned out he'd not been long out of prison for assault, he supposedly had an 'anger problem'.

However, the best bit of this entire story? The letter was addressed to "The Mental Bitch That Broke My Nose".

I think it's still framed in her living room now.

Length? A4
( Agnostic Antichrist Baltimora, Fri 5 Sep 2008, 13:38, 8 replies)

Telling customers to fuck off
Inspired by DG's heroics.

I'm sure you're all aware of a cheap and cheerful (ROFL) retail establishment by the name of Lidl.

I worked there for a period of 7 months between late 2004-early 2005 before I moved down to Leeds with then Miss Keloid.
I was in a celebratory mood. This despite the fact it was now 8.15pm and I had started the shift at 7am, with one half-hour break around lunchtime. The reason for my good cheer was it was my last day and I was all packed and ready to move.

Officially the store closes at 8 and there were still stragglers wandering up to my till.
I jokingly said, "Come on folks, haven't you got homes to go to?" Most in the queue indulged me with at least a chuckle.
One bloke didn't. He was only just five foot tall, had a patchy beard and a combover. In fact he looked a bit like the slightly deformed comedian you sometimes see on on QI and Mock the Week.
"How dare you!" he chuntered. "We pay your wages, you know."

I fixed him with what I imagined to be a basilisk stare (I probably just went cross-eyed and dribbled a bit).

"You're a bit fucking short for that high-horse, aren't you?"

The place went silent. A few people giggled nervously, one poor bloke choked on a mouthful of pseudo-Red Bull we sold for 25p, which he had serruptitiously opened.
To this day, that remains the single greatest come-back I've ever countered a comment with.

Eventually, having gone varying degrees of puce, the wee fella exploded.
"How...how dare you!" his voice ricocheted round a few octaves with rage.
"I'll get you sacked!"

"To be honest, mate. It's my last day, and I can't be bothered with your attitude. Leave your basket and fuck off!"
The fact I could literally look down on the apoplectic little fucksock had elevated me to Zeus levels of authority.

He eventually stormed off to get the manager, who let me leave early. I was congratulated by several of the departing customers who told me I had made their day.
( Boss Keloid Got your mother's maiden name tattooed on my arm, Fri 5 Sep 2008, 13:21, 8 replies)

Ebayers from Hell
Dear God I have lost count of the number of cockwipes that I have had to deal with while selling on the site thats a godsend to all thieves with an internet connection. I can't stand the ones that are complaining about the time it takes the item to arrive (Despite the fact they only paid for the sodding thing 2 minutes ago), but I have had a few more bizzare complaints against me, the more recent ones are:

I once sold my collection of Star Trek videos to some yank that complained that the videos wouldn't work on her US recorder, despite the fact that I mentioned they were all PAL format in both my listings and in the replies to the earlier questions about postage costs.

The army bloke that tried to claim his money back for an item he had never recieved despite the fact that I had proof that it had been signed for by him (Ok it was a bloke with the same surname that signed it so it may not have been him).

The clueless mother that bought a game for the Wii to play on her daughters XBox (If it was a multi format game I would have forgiven her but it was Mario Galaxy FFS)

But the worst Ebay purchase has to be the used mobile phone that my wifes mate has recently bought. The bloke that sold the kit decided to post it off without deleting anything from the phones internal memory. From what we saw he was having a couple of affairs with the local Chavs (You could tell by the horrid spelling mistakes in the messages), enjoyed taking photos of his cock and had a number of videos similar to 2 girls 1 cup stored in a special folder.

My wifes mate is having problems getting any response from this guy (the phone came with a totally fucked battery and it was a bit more worn than it was described).

I've told her to threaten to call up one of his women if he dosent reply, that may get him to respond quicker.
(mon bison powered by magnets, Fri 5 Sep 2008, 13:19, Reply)

Halifux. Always giving you extra.
Whilst this is technically a case of the business being shitty, I’m sure that they looked on it as my ex wife being more than a little awkward, so I shall tell the tale anyway.

By the time my ex mother in law died, I had already been split from her daughter for about a year. We were still quite close at the time though, the situation with her mum’s illness kind of being the glue that continued to bind us.

The day she died, we both went up the street to sort a few things out – notify the undertakers, close bank accounts, that sort of thing. I went along more for moral support than anything else. All was going well, until we got to the last bit of financial stuff to sort out. With the Halifux; with whom she had some shares and a TESSA. We went in, waited in the queue, then got to the counter. I let my ex do the talking.

“Hello”, she said, “My mum died this morning and I’m sorting out her affairs. I know she’s got some shares and an account with you but I can’t find the papers; I was just wondering if I gave you the details, if you could let me know how much was in them and possibly close the accounts? I’ve got her death certificate here”.

“Yes, of course”, the cashier began. This sounds promising. “I’ll make you an appointment”. Or, maybe not.

“I don’t really have to want to come back, to be honest, can’t you just tell me now?”

“I’m afraid we can’t”.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s a private matter”.

“But there’s nobody in here”.

“It’s company policy”.

“I really don’t mind, all I want to do is get this sorted today so I don’t have to worry about it. Please?”

“You would need to make an appointment to be seen in a private room”.

“Honestly, I really would prefer to sort this here”.

And on it went for another five minutes whilst my ex got more and more frustrated. Eventually, probably to shut her up and get rid of her, they acquiesced to her request, and the matter was sorted within about two minutes. The accounts were closed and the assets transferred to a holding account.

“Thank you”, said my ex to the teller monkey, politely but with obvious disdain.

“You’re welcome”, came the terse reply, “but next time this happens you will need to make an appointment”.

My ex turned, and calmly remarked “I can assure you that my mother isn’t going to die a second time”. Then she turned on her heel and walked out. Secretly, I was quite impressed.

I closed my account with the Halifux the very next day.
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Fri 5 Sep 2008, 13:15, 2 replies)

chav walks into a bank
him: oy, i've got a cheque
her: yes? is it in your name?
him: yeah... can i, like, have some money for it?
her: um no... you have to open a bank account to do that
him: er, WHAT?!
her: yes
him: ah, bollocks
( charlie?, Fri 5 Sep 2008, 13:14, Reply)

Not sure if this has been mentioned.
Judging from the seven pages of rants within the last 24 hours, it's safe to say that quite a few people have experienced arsehole customers.

It doesn't matter what occupation you're in, there's only one thing worse than an irritating customer who's trying to get you to do something you're refusing to do (throw in free stuff, refund an item etc). Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present to you the one type of person guaranteed to send me into fits of apoplectic rage more than the arsehole customer:

The Undermining Manager.

Picture the scene, some self-obsessed tosser with an inflated sense of entitlement is demanding that you refund him the original cost of a TV he bought 6 years ago. The TV which 'stopped working' after he chucked a can of wife beater at it when his niece gets thrown out the qualifiers of the latest Britain's Got Talent because that nasty judge says she's got a voice like the Feline Armageddon. You stick to your guns of politely explaining that it's against company policy, and he utters the dreaded line "I demand to see your Manager!".

So, now you have to stroll into the staff room to interrupt the Manager's three hour lunch break. No doubt he'll sigh, as he has to heave his cheap-suited arse out of his nest in order to deal with this matter in his typical, training-course supplied, Managerial style.

You take him down to the customer, who's fit to burst with barely contained self-righteous fury. You explain to the boss (in front of the customer) the situation, and how you've stated the company policy, manufacturer's warranty, and been a good little shop monkey.

The boss then turns to you and says "Stop being so obtuse and just refund the customer.", then smiles warmly to the customer before returning to 'finish his lunch'.

Immediately you're made to feel an inch tall, all credibility (what little you had) has been cruelly felched from you, and the whole shop saw this. The cunt in front of you is practically orgasming, Grade A smarm seeping out from every pore, that "I always get what I want" grin plastered on the face that every fibre in your being wants to set on fire and put out with a pickaxe.

Your pride, indeed your soul, is crushed and raped as you have to process the refund. Finally the gloating, gaping cunt leaves, but your anger doesn't subside. No, because in that one instance where your Manager totally undermined you, your hatred for the customer spawned a malicious, seething child of pure fury with one purpose in life: I must exact vengeance on the Manager.

Unfortunately, my constant acts of revenge against said Manager did little to quell my anger. Eight years later, whenever I see my old boss, I'm instantly transported to that moment, and the homicidal rage flares up again.

I don't think I hate anyone more than I hate him.
( Labia Majora You keep on talking but it makes no sense at all, Fri 5 Sep 2008, 13:06, 5 replies)