"Can you smell something?"
When I was working in a computer games shop, we were dealing with part exchanges and people were binning their 8/16 bit cartridge systems to replace them with the superior 32 bit monster Playstation.
We were selling these at the time hand-over-fist and our old console back-catalogue was massive. Damn, those were the days :) Now I've got all those games on one DVD (me bad :p).
One customer however was almost infamous (and he was to our store). Nice enough bloke, but he had one problem. He stank. Of cat piss. Fucking rancid smell of piss. Enamel melting it was, we'd smell him coming up the street before he got in the store. So rather quickly we knew him as "Cat Piss Man", and on this particular day he'd come to our store for business.
He brought in a big black bag with a large box in it. One of the guys under his breath muttered "He's brought the pets in", but rather lamely it turned out to be the Super Nintendo/Street Fighter 2 Turbo bundle pack instead. We took in all the games and the SNES, Cat Piss Man leaves with the PSX and a few games, everyone's happy. Ish. As we're sorting out the stock in the back room, we realize that the SNES works, but the box stank of piss. It fucking reeked of the stuff. We bought 3 boxes of wet-wipes and scrubbed away furiously at the games, the boxes, the console, but the smell wouldn't go.
So we got the empty SNES box cover, stuck a price tag on it and stuck it on the shelves. This was to be our weapon.
You see, one end of this box had been removed and the smell inside the box was still as "lemon-fresh" as the day it left the feline bladder. This made for an improptu but very effective "Piss Cloud Cannon" and was used on our regular customers to great effect. Asking a regular customer to look in this box, and when they glanced in through the hole we gently squeezed the sides of the empty box spraying the customer with the natural breeze of a mad woman's house in Tipton (or my next door neighbour's house actually, she's got 10 of the fuckers). Many a laugh ensured and the Cat Piss Cannon lasted for weeks on end.
Fucking stank it did.
( Jeccius Steam Borderlands 2 junkie, Mon 8 Sep 2008, 10:46, 1 reply)

Two pints of lager and you can fuck right off...
It’s 9pm. I have at least 3 more hours till I can go and die quietly in a corner. This is my 3rd double shift of the week behind the bar and the pittance I’ll earn barely covers my taxi home, a taxi I have to get as the bar manager seems to makes sure that I have to work until 1 minute after the last bus leaves. I’m fat, tired, sweaty and very, very pissed off.
So when on returning to the bar after having changed a barrel and grabbed a crate of mixers to restock the fridge, I was overjoyed to see a queue 10 deep waiting to be served. Waiting because the bar manager was half way through his 2nd bottle of red of the evening and was too busy regaling his cronies with totally fictitious stories of his time spent in a Turkish prison to get off his arse and actually do the job he was being paid for.
I staggered past him, carrying my crate of tonic water. As I rest the crate on the edge of the bar I hear a slurred West Country voice pipe up, “Oi moi luvver, should you be carryin’ thaa’ in your condition?”
“What condition would that be, you festering sore on the arse of humanity? (*)”
“Well, Oi’d say you were at least 5 months gone.”
Note to patrons. It does not endear you to bar staff if you ask them whether they are pregnant. Not when in fact, they are just fat (**). In fact, can I recommend that you never ask a woman whether she is pregnant unless you can actually see a baby coming out of her at the particular moment.
I served the inbred retard his pint of ‘thorn with a smile. Then went and cried in the cellar.
I think I’m allergic to the general public.

(*) Last part of sentence may not have been said out loud.
(**) Not so much fat as ‘a little heavy for flight’.
(Rakky (forgot her password) The muffin maverick, Mon 8 Sep 2008, 10:37, 7 replies)

Comeback
In a pub somewhere:

Chav (who looks about 13): "Gizzus five pints of Stellaaa"
Barstaff: "Have you got any ID?"
Chav: "Ehhh, fuck off, I'm fucking twenty innit! I pay your fucking wages you fucking caaaant"
Barstaff: "And I pay your school fees. Now please leave."
(Merrep, Mon 8 Sep 2008, 9:37, 1 reply)

A good few years back
Was asked to cover supporting dial-up internet calls for a few weeks as our company was reorganizing which department did what and a few of us were placed on this transitional team. We took the calls and worked until midnight for a few weeks, but it wasn't that bad really (the jobs quietened down after 10pm).
One call come in though which pissed me right off. This guy calls in and I do the usual biz (ie bring up his record and account history) and see he's had months of calls to us and various problems. He says to me that he's had loads of issues with this and he wants to quit. So I tell him that it wasn't normally our department that do this, but due to all the hassle he's experienced I could get that done for him. I confirm security (oh aren't I a good little boy), disconnect the account and apologize.
My thanks; "You don't even fucking care, don't you!!!"
"Eh?"
"You're meant to try to save me as a customer!"
"That's not me job mate, if you want to speak to someone about that I'll pass you to the proper disconnections..."
I never did, he swore at me for 10 minutes saying how I don't give a fuck about anything and how people like us should be linched. Well fuck, sorry for doing what you asked bud. I didn't realize you didn't actually want to disconnect but wanted a full and frank discussion on work ethics and general customer attitude, how ignorant of me.
It was after 10 minutes though that the cruncher was heard. "By the way, I work for you guys in ***** department. I'd never treat anyone like that."
"WHAT???? YOU'VE BEEN SWEARING AT ME FOR 10 MINUTES FOR SOMETHING I DID FOR YOU AND YOU WORK FOR US?"
I went a bit mental on him for another 10 minutes after that thanking him for not working from our office as it wouldn't have been pretty. After he actually apologized to me, I asked him politely if I could help other customers whom I didn't care about either which he was currently holding up with his ranting, to which he promptly ended the call.
2 weeks later in the office I get a message from my manager at the time to go to a meeting. I wasn't too sure what this was for as me manager at the time was a power-tripping bitch (got dragged to 5 of these in a month all complaining about me when I'd worked there for 5 years already and never been to one, only because me manager changed, go figure). I sit there and the "Power Cow" opens a file and shows me a record of that particular job. Apparently this jobsworth come into the office and emails the head of our company with a big stinking complaint about me, saying how I didn't give a shit about our customers. I sat there smiling as Power Cow reads this complaint off and asks if I remember him.
"Oh aye, that's the guy who swore at me for 10 minutes and then said he worked for us, yeah I liked him."
I never heard anything else about him after that. It wouldn't surprise me if he works in McDonalds and complains at the drive-thru on his day off. The cunt.
( Jeccius Steam Borderlands 2 junkie, Mon 8 Sep 2008, 9:24, Reply)

ID, as in I Dont like having the piss took.
I have said this before to a customer.

"look, Kid your five foot four with at baby face. I have overheard you having a conversation with your mate about how shit you think school is. To top it off you are buying imitation WKD children's booze with pocket money change. I'm not even going to bother asking for ID, so put it back on the shelf where you got it. The pick and mix sweets are on isle 6 , and don't even think of insulting my intelligence again"
( willenium Fist bump for verification, Mon 8 Sep 2008, 8:31, 1 reply)

Took a phonecall in an I.T. department a few months back
"Hi this is Jeccy, how can I help?"
"Now, before we start, yes, I've looked at porn."
"What?"
"The problem is I can't get my emails."

No idea what that had to do with porn, I dunno, maybe he was just bragging.
( Jeccius Steam Borderlands 2 junkie, Mon 8 Sep 2008, 8:27, 9 replies)

Ungrateful Fuckers.
Here Down Under the local strippers are having to deal with ungrateful punters. In the following tale, from today's newspaper, a stripper is being prosecuted for raping the best man. Enjoy.

********************

The alleged victim, who was the best man, gave evidence in a closed courtroom at Melbourne Magistrates' Court today.

Linda Maree Naggs, 39, is accused of sexually penetrating him with a sex toy during the party on the Mornington Peninsula last year.

One of the men who attended the event told the court the group was behaving in a “mature” fashion during the strip show by Ms Naggs.

“It wasn’t over-the-top rowdy or aggressive,” he said.

The court was told the groom encouraged the best man – who was described as “very conservative” - to participate in Ms Naggs’s performance by sitting on a chair while she undressed and rubbed her breasts in his face.

The court was told the best man was happy and smiling during the show.

He ended up on all fours, with Ms Naggs riding him “like a dog or a horse” and holding a sex toy, the witness said.

“(The alleged victim) said to her 'don’t put it in',” he said.

Moments later the best man squinted and got up quickly, calling Ms Naggs an idiot and telling her to leave, the court was told.

During the altercation that followed, Ms Naggs threw a punch and threatened to call in “bikie mates”, the witness said.

After the pair was separated the best man went to a bathroom and said he was bleeding.

The preliminary hearing is continuing.


Cheers
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Mon 8 Sep 2008, 7:03, 4 replies)

A long rant about ... Parents ...
... or, rather, customers of the great Government school system of Australia. 'Customers', even though it's FREE education.

One of the reasons I prefer teaching in Asia - if the parents are twats, they bitch-out the Asian staff, 'coz we don't understand them.

This happened back in Oz. I hate teaching bogans (chavs, white trash). How many times can you tolerate explaining that I CAN'T tell them how to spell, "HAFTA" and, "COULDA", because they AREN'T WORDS!?!?

Little bogan girl runs up to me at the end of lunch period with a lunchbox emergency.
Her yoghurt has burst open, covering the inside of the box, and the apple that accompanied it.

Pushing aside my surprise that she actually has something other than take-away food for her lunch, I start cleaning out the lunchbox.

She has the apple in one hand, yoghurt pot in the other - "Waddowoi do wif dis?"

It's an empty yoghurt container, what do you think?

"Throw it in the bin."

Off she toddles. Things are cleaned up, problem sorted.

Until the next morning.

I'm sitting on the floor with my class of 5-year-olds, most with emotional and/or psychological problems, one is autistic and VERY violent. Easy to set them off into screaming chaos.

Bogan girl's mum - a veritable hambeast - suddenly appears at the door with a posse of large, grotty-tracksuit-wearing, ugly-stick victims.

"Oi. YOU. YOU TELLED BOGAN GIRL TO THROW OUT 'ER APPLE YESTERDEE WHO DO YA FINK YA ARE HUH YA BLOODY BITCH I DON'T WORK ME ARSE ORF TA BUY SHIT FOR YA TA CHUCK OUT I WANT YOU TA PAY ME FOR THAT FRIGGIN APPLE!"

I calmly attempted to explain the real story, at the same time wondering how "having kids by multiple fathers and getting child allowance" translates in her mind to "working [her] arse off". And trying to ignore the threatening looks from her 'gang'.

"I WANT ME MONEY FOR THAT APPLE I'M GOIN' TA THE PRINCIPAL YA FAT COW YA FINK I CAN WASTE MONEY?"

Well, buying your kids take-away for every school lunch would indicate that.
"WE'RE GONNA BE BACK, ROIGHT GIRLS?" Her 'girls' nod.

Keep in mind, I was a small, 24-year-old. They were in their 40's (I know the mum was also a grandmother) and just one of them could've kicked my arse.

Apparently, the principal told her politely that it was a 'miscommunication' and that further issues with me should be brought directly to him.

Bogan girl later stole my purse, took out my money that was there to pay bills after work, and left the purse in the carpark. All my cards got bent when the cars drove over it, so I couldn't use the ATM to get more cash, and it was Friday.

This sort of crap happened all the time, parents think that because we raise their children for them, so that they can spend more time cheating Centrelink and being scummy and shoplifting from Crazy Clint's, that they can dictate what the school does and heap abuse on the hard-working 'education implementation and assessment officers'.

I've also been physically attacked, threatened and generally disrespected by parents and students alike.
I hate teaching in Australia.
(Celerydemon, Mon 8 Sep 2008, 4:49, 6 replies)

Bookstore slavery
One miserable year I took a summer job in a large bookstore which shall remain nameless. (But if I were to name it, I'd call it "Barnes and Noble")

Working in the main store was purgatory.
"No sir, there is no possible way I can search 'book with bluish cover' do you remember what the title was, maybe?"

Actually, some of the worst customers were also the funniest. For example, the smelly homeless bum who would go up to the counter and demand we order 20 different yachting magazines. And when we filled out the order form for him, we had to write down his full 'name and title' which started with Lord Something-Or-Other and consisted of a 40 word long mishmash of random names and titles.
If we refused to do this, we got roundly sworn at--not like he ever paid for the magazines when they actually arrived. Oh yes, and by the way, this was in America, where the closest they get to nobility is Elvis.

And then there was the fellow who'd go stomping through the video section shouting "Where are all the adult films?" at the top of his voice.

Poor homeless nuts. They just camped out in the store because it was somewhere warm to go before the homeless shelters opened for the night.

Not that the cafe was any better. All the time people would reject the drinks they ordered, saying that they didn't expect the drink I had given them. Look, if you don't know what it is, DON'T ORDER IT. It's that simple. I ended up throwing away on average 15 drinks a day.

And then there were the people who ordered extremely specific custom drinks and threw an enormous fit if they weren't exactly perfect...but I could rant and rave all night like this.

Good riddance to that job!
(TheWonderfulWombat It came to me in a dream., Mon 8 Sep 2008, 4:02, Reply)

The wanker
About a decade ago I used to work for an ISP that also ran a few of those dating lines, xxx lines etc. One of my fun jobs was to answer calls when the lonely souls checked for any new messages. This was ok, some nights were busier than others but free internet rudeness for your shift wasn't to bad. Until one fine night I answered a call on line 5, thing about line 5 was that it was a premium line costing a few bucks a min so i had to answer promptly and record the calls. On the other end I was greeted with a curious but regular tapping noise, the equalizer creating spikes on the screen in front of me, not allowed to hang up, i repeated my greeting to be met with slightly quicker tapping, I stay silent, for a couple of minutes before i notice the spikes on the EQ trail off and the call ending. Cool, methinks, i listen back to the final part of the call to see what was said as after a while i had turned the sound down on the noise. It was a man groaning as he had obviously just soiled his phone in my ear. Bastard masturbator. So anyhoo I had an amusing time ringing my mates and playing the final 20 seconds or so down the line to them and listening to the confused responses and horror at his happy phone ending..
People suck.
(neighbour of the beast 668 has watched you in secret on, Mon 8 Sep 2008, 1:57, Reply)

Barman in dingy club
The "club" had a student night which the locals took to include school pupils as well. Now this meant we had to be careful about who we served without asking for I.D. everytime. The police were at the door one night but it still remained busy so it probably wasn't that bad.
Fuck some customers were painful though.

1: The young posh student who came up to the bar saying somebody had spilled his vodka and lemondade. Without trying to sound too disintrested I said "Right?"
"Well can you pour me another one?"
Words fail me.

2. As we got busy on the nights where all drinks were a quid there was often a long wait. One guy consistently tried to shout my attention, and I mean shout. If he didn't get chucked out I would serve him (last of course) by which point he would still shout angrily.

3. A bar manager who would always give his money to the barman to get the round in then go through the ridiculous charade of whether we had diet pepsi in this week to go with his vodka. I politely declined and said no not this week. Six months this went on and he still asked every week. To be fair he did so apologisingly as he knew the manager was a right twunt.

4. The young lady who ran the karaoke was a bit of a mare. Ego to match mariah carey but was glad just to have auditioned for X factor and run her own karaoke night. I put on a cd for one part of the bar as there was no d.j. in that area. Picture a mix c.d. with Bowie, Clash, Pixies and The Jam. Considering in my home town all clubs played pop or trance it was pretty out there. Cue her asking me to change the c.d. for something more lively to entice the customers in. It was 12:30am and there were 2 other customers in the room. If I had put on her Jive Bunny c.d. it was hardly going to bring the roof down was it?
(muzzvsworld, Mon 8 Sep 2008, 1:33, Reply)

I worked in a call centre for a debt collection agency.
Anytime someone told me they 'didn't owe Fitness First any fucking money' I just agreed.
So much easier.
( Captain Tripps is your taxloss lover from Liverpool, Mon 8 Sep 2008, 1:28, 2 replies)

Supermarket
Worked as a till monkey in a small supermarket for under a year. Mostly easy stuff but the odd customer from hell appeared.

1: The bloke who came in to buy value lager every day that smelled of wee. Possibly due to consuming value lager every day.

2. The guy who screamed at me for selling fish that could be contaminated. It was mackrel and it was vaccum packed. Once I explained it to him he stroked the packaging in awe as if he was on "Tommorows World."

3. The couple in the queue who were looking at each other knowingly. He was in his 20s, she probably in her 40s. All above board until she started licking her lips at him. God that was painful.

4. A guy trying to buy booze who was in the year below me at school. Making him 17 or very nearly. He tried to buy booze at least 3 times showing his I.D. which showed his correct date of birth.
(muzzvsworld, Mon 8 Sep 2008, 1:18, Reply)

Self-cooking sausages
I used to work on the hot food counter of a large supermarket chain. On this counter we sell hot sausages.

It was early on the evening, between five and six o'clock, the store had quietened down, and we were getting ready to close for the night. From nowhere appeared a fat middle-aged woman:

"I bought these sausages earlier, and they're all burnt. They weren't burnt this morning. I want my money back."

As sausages cannot cook themselves, I assumed that they must have been burnt from the moment of purchase.

I'd like to point out here, that you can see the sausages in the counter when you buy them, so if they're too well cooked for your liking, you don't buy them. She showed me the sausages she had bought, and I thought, fair enough, they are on the overcooked side. Although why the hell she bought them when she must clearly have seen they were overcooked is beyond me. I apologised and offered to cook her some fresh ones. Off I went to fetch some fresh sausages but found to my dismay, that we had run out. I went back out to her and told her we had run out, and to take to the sausages to the customer service desk for a refund.

"A supermarket, as big as *insert big supermarket chain here* has RUN OUT of sausages. That's just not good enough, I DEMAND to see the manager."

I explained to her that the manager wouldn't be able to do anything other than give a refund, which I had already offered her, but she insisted on seeing him, obviously believing he possessed some sort of magic-sausage-appearing skills.

The manager came, and the woman moaned about these sausages being burnt, and how I'd been extremely rude to her:

"He was rude to me when I bought them first thing this morning as well."

To which I replied I didn't start work until mid-afternoon. She got her money back in the end, and hopefully contracted some sort of food poisoning from any and/or all sausages she ate in the future.
( FreudianSlap, Mon 8 Sep 2008, 0:13, 2 replies)

Carrots
Picture the scene. Zapiola is a discontented Large Evil Supermarket shelf stacker during the summer break of his first year at university. He's being messed around on the hours he's working, furthermore he's missing out on spending some quality time* in bed with his newly acquired girlfriend, and in addition he's quite badly hungover.

So there he is, dutifully stacking carrots and trying not to allow the vile mixture of last nights beer and dry roasted squirrel kebab overcome his already churning gag reflex, the blood coursing roughly through the veins in his temples, causing a thin sheen of sweat, cold cold sweat, to shimmer gently accross his forehead. At the same time he's having to wear a t-shirt with the Store Logo on thats several sizes too small as apparently they don't usually have staff over 6ft 3. Oh and he's desperately hoping that he can get away for a few days of what his grandmother terms 'rumpy-pumpy' with aforementioned better half**.

Carrots are, by definition, orange tubes, ranging from small to large. The salient point being, they are basically orange, look like carrots, and most sentinent human beings raised in the UK have probably come across them at some point during their sojourn in this flitting hell we call life.

So, there he is, stacking carrots, trying not to be sick, and thinking 'other thoughts'.

Intruding into this mildy queasy yet at the same time pleasureable train of thought is a well dressed woman of about 50. She does, however, stink of urine, have teeth that seem to be more an optional extra that she bought from Halfords, and extends her vicious claw and grabs Zapiola's arm.

"Boy, where are the carrots?"
"Well madam, right here" quoth he, indicating to the two shelf display full of orange vegetables and gaudily festooned with signs proclaiming 'carrots'.
"Boy, are you sure those are carrots"
"Erm... yes."
"Where are the carrots!"
"Erm... right here... under the sign that says carrots. You can tell which ones the carrots are, because they're the ones that look like carrots."
"Well, I shall be forced to believe you. But if you've been lying to me and these aren't carrots then I shall be forced to speak to the manager about it."

With that the lady picks up several carrots and, glaring viciously at Zapiola, puts them in her basket and stalks off. Zapiola breathes a sigh of relief, and turns back to stacking carrots. A few minutes later she's back, suspiciously eyeing Zapiola, before slinking off again. Over the course of the next hour or so the crone would appear every few minutes, glaring harshly at Zapiola and muttering underneath her breath.

Zapiola was glad when his shift was finally over and started drinking on the bus home.

The general public should be culled on a regular basis.

*definition of "quality" time may vary
** turned out to be an entirely undeserved cognomen for the faithless harriden. Breathe... breathe...
(Zapiola zip-zap-zop, Sun 7 Sep 2008, 22:54, 5 replies)

Have you reduced that?
When working in a small convenience store we weren't fortunate to have those fancy barcode reductions stickers that some of the larger chains have. Just little orange stickers. You could just tell who was going to be trouble, as some lady would always come waddling along with a heaving basket of reduced goods. Not content that we actually know how to do our jobs, they always seem to like informing us about every single product being reduced and then saying "Why haven't you reduced it?! It's coming up the same price!" Eventually they were the customers who I just didnt even bother being polite to and just stuck my hand out rather than telling them how much all their cheapo/mouldy stuff cost.
(komodo128, Sun 7 Sep 2008, 21:42, 3 replies)

My back still hurts
As you know, I sometimes do house calls for home care nursing visits. Last week I went to someone's house after calling him and telling him I was running late and would be there at 5pm. Working day is ostensibly over at 5pm, but I routinely work until 7, 9, 11pm because patients seem to wait for me to show up to dump their utterly self-solvable problems in my lap.

Anyway, I walk in and he is reclining in bed, pants off and mooning me like the Grand Pasha (the Grand Pasha reclining not mooning, that is)and startes berating me that I'm late and all he asks for is the common courtesy for a call, but oh no, I couldn't even do that, he laid down at 2 because I said I'd be here at 2:30 and who did I think I was abusing patients like this...
I cut him off and say "You agreed to 3:30, not 2:30 and I called you well in time to tell you I would be here at 5." I found later he tried that with my supervisor when he called to complain about me but she had overheard the original call and knew I had set the time at 3:30 and told him that.

I asked why in the world would he stay in bed after I didn't show up if it was that important to get up and accomplish something--bear in mind, yes, he's in a wheelchair, but is very independent and active. He transfers himself and is a young, very strong 33 year old. He declines to answer me and throughout the visit keeps looking at his watch and asking his girlfriend (and why can't she accomplish these vitally important errands, I ask you?) when the gravel pit closes since he DESPERATELY needs to pickup some gravel to landscape the house-he's doing it himself, you see. Then what time does the local grocery store close; he needs some milk. And so on and so on...

Somehow his piss poor time management is my fault. Ok, fine-I shrug it off and try to do my job which is to pack a bedsore on his buttock, change an IV dressing and draw some blood. He insists he needs his wheelchair RIGHT NEXT to the bed-I can't possibly move it to do his wound packing. The other side of the bed is shoved up against the wall, a new position I might add, I suspect created solely for me so I can't use that side of the bed. He tells me I have to LEAN OVER the w/c and do this.

While I am in this awkward position, he freely shits all over my field, grunting with the effort, telling me he just can't help it, it's taken me so long to get here he's had to hold it in all this time, etc. The wound is about 2 inches fromt he margin of his anus so I am treated to a lovely scat show.
I ask for applicators - long wooden handled Q tips - to pack the various tunnels and tracts of this bedsore. He tells me ,"We don't have any, just stick them in with your finger." Granted I'm wearing gloves but I can feel in exquisite detail every fucking gooshy, pus filled, nasty passage up his ass wound. I am gagging silently and if you didn't know this already, I'm a big fat tub of an American and almost nothing puts me off my food and makes me gag.

In the subsequent 40 minutes, I attach the vacuum (gross stuff warning: open area of leg muscle. www.youtube.com/watch?v=AYb5HzA0tEw NOT my patient...the black spot on his leg is really black foam rubber packed in there, covered with something like sticky cling film and a vacuum attached to apply negative pressure. For some reason, neg atmo pressure helps wounds heal in a fraction of the time. Coolest part is at 5:50) It works great. He tells me it's not right, it's leaking, he's dissatisfied and I am to START OVER. I grit my teeth, pull it off and start working for another 45 minutes, bending over the whole time. And he's redfaced with the effort to shit on me during the process.

When I change his IV dressing (PICC- an IV 19 inches long through his upper arm almost into his heart) he deliberately jerks and almost pulls it out. This would entail a trip to the hospital and emergency surgery to replace at the tune of thousands of dollars. Most likely at my expense. Thankfully for me, it's sewn to his arm. I don't think he realizes that.

Then for the coup de grace, he moves while I'm drawing his blood and the needle punctures the vein. He does this twice. I stop and apply pressure and try another spot. (For those of you who know, I couldn't take it out of his PICC line the easy way because he forbade me, saying it would clot off if I did. It wouldn't)

While filling the tubes on the third try, I notice he has pulled off the pressure dressing, is dangling his hand down and pumping his fist to make the torn vein push blood into the surrounding areas. I ask him to stop, but he acts as though he can't hear me, staring straight ahead.

By the time the tubes fill, he has worked up a nice little hematoma the size of a hen's egg. It's painful and black and is going to look like hell. In fact, when his body destroys the red blood cells in this huge ass thing, the debris will probably throw off his next lab blood draw.

He looks at it with satisfaction and a grim little smile, "Oh yeah, that's pretty bad. You really don't know what you're doing, do you? Boy, I'm going to have to show this to the doc when I go in tomorrow" and blah blah. He's practically orgasmic over the fact he now has visible evidence of trauma. I want to stab the needle into his eyes at this point and I'm biting back tears because my back hurts so badly.

He finally releases me from my hostage status 2 and a half hours later. I rested over the weekend, but on the next Monday after I drive to work, I can't get out of the car due to back spasms and had to take two days off.

He asked for me the next visit and I catagorically refused to ever go back there again. I told my supervisor I'd quit and file for assault before I'd go back. She sighed and told me he's gone through almost every nurse in our facility, so I'm not alone. I suppose I could have walked out, but I was afraid he'd sue me for patient abandonment.

Apologies for length, I'm too depressed to even make a joke. I hate this job.
(TDub Nunc id vides, nunc ne vides on, Sun 7 Sep 2008, 21:41, 11 replies)

ID Please
Sorry, another one. They're all coming screaming back to me!

This one again comes from when I was a checkout girl. I was working one evening and it was fairly close to closing time. This meant that there were only 3 of us left on checkouts. I was down on the very end till by the door (which was apparently supposed to be against policy, what with me being a girly) and the other two were up near the other end, where the supervisor stand was. This wasn't a problem, I had peace and quiet and most customers didn't notice me. (Although I did have to put up with "The Feeling" music blasting from the AV aisle.)

Anyway, this girl came through my checkout to buy a bottle of wine. She looked fairly young, so I asked her for ID. It's best not to risk it, what with a possible court appearance and hefty fine. She turned round and shouted to her mum. Fair enough, thinks I, her mum has her purse of something.

"Sorry," I say, apologising for the 'inconvenience'. She ignores me and shouts again to her mum.

"Mum, come here, this fucking cow wants to see my ID".

I was pretty shocked. Not sure I deserved abuse. She turned back to me and the tirade started.

"I'm 20-fucking-5. Ask my mum. She'll tell you. Who the fuck do you think you are? I've been old enough to drink for 7 years and now you're refusing to sell it to me? What a fucking disgrace," blah blah blah. While she's shouting she's leaning closer and closer to me and I'm starting to get a little nervous. I reach down to turn my 'help' light on and look up to check it's turned on. Fuck. It's broken. As I've looked up, she's interpreted that as me rolling my eyes.

"Don't roll your fucking eyes and me you stupid fucking bitch." I tried to explain that I wasn't but I might as well have not bothered.

After what seems like a lifetime, her mum comes over.

"Mum, tell this bitch how old I am." Now, most mothers would surely not condone this abuse? Her mother didn't bat an eyelid as she replied.

"What's all this? She wants ID? But you're 24."

I don't know where I got the guts up to speak, because I was on the verge of tears. But I heard myself saying, "But you said you were 25..." That probably wasn't the best move I've ever made. I then had both of them on at me, when at last the supervisor realised what was happening and had them removed.

Seriously, what is wrong with some people?
( El Lazarus is calm now, Ish,, Sun 7 Sep 2008, 21:36, 5 replies)

"I DON'T LIKE BEING RUSHED!"
...was the phrase once screamed into my face by an irate Christmas shopper when I'd quietly asked her to sort the entire contents of her handbag somewhere else. At least she did move away, albeit still shouting abuse at me. She may not have liked being rushed but I don't think she'd have been entirely enamoured of being punched by the queue of people built up behind her waiting to use the only working cash machine around either - the one she'd decided to sort her handbag on having got her own cash.

And then there was the highly intelligent - or maybe just very very high - regular user of one of the public libraries I've frequented on the staff side of the desk. Bringing back a DVD she'd borrowed, except she wasn't. Opening the case revealed a very badly made copy.

"I'm sorry Madam, I can't accept this."
"Why not?"
"It's not one of our DVDs."
"Yes it is. You can see from the case."
"The case is original but the disk isn't."
(Getting huffy) "It's the one I borrowed."
"Er, no. This is a copy. It's easy to tell because the disk has a blank label and it's coloured on the recorded side - our disks are official releases and they're clearly printed on the label..."
(Louder) "This is the disk I borrowed."
"I'm sorry, that's not possible. Our barcode and security tags go on the disk and you can see they're not here. We couldn't possibly have issued this to you."
Customer snatches back DVD and stalks out. She returns later the same day and slams the disk on the returns desk.
"Sorry, Madam, I can't accept this."
"It's the disk I borrowed. Look, there's the barcode and security tag."
"I can see that Madam. I can also see they've been peeled off the original disk and stuck on here. Quite badly actually, they're covered in fingermarks and scrunched up. The barcode does correspond to the original disk though which proves you still have it." At this point the options were explained to her to (a) return the original, (b) pay for the original, or (c) continue to insist the home-pirated version was ours in which case we would ask some nice uniformed people from the police station to look at it for us. She left with the disk and we never saw it or her again - which wasn't the most satisfying end to the story but it's the true, if dull, one.
(cisco, Sun 7 Sep 2008, 21:34, 1 reply)

It must suck to be Alan Rickman.
"Did you enjoy your meal Sir?"

"Oh yes, it was wonderful. Thank you so. much.."

"Oh...I, um...."

"And don't get me started on your service. You're really excellent at this aren't you? You and all the rest of you here."

"Please...don't kill me."

"You know, I think I'm going to give you a really. big. tip."

"Aaaaaah!!!"






"Hm. That was strange."

"Yeah. Similar thing happened to me last week."
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Sun 7 Sep 2008, 21:04, 6 replies)

Accidental revenge on a twunter punter.
It's a bit of an epic I'm afraid, but bear with me.

This tale comes from my time working for a large, nay, international hotel chain. Let's just say their name rhymes with "Stilton."
This paticular day was passing much like any other until that fateful moment I took "the call". Now some years have passed since that day but I believe it went something like this:

Me: Reservations, how can I help you?
Twunt: My name is Mr X from company Y. I need to book a room on our company rate on date Z.
Me: (checking availability) I'm sorry Mr X, but we are actually fully booked for that night.
Twunt: Oh, well what about an executive room then?
Me: As I said, we are fully booked for that particular night.
Twunt: Okay then, I'll have a suite.
Me: (rolling my eyes skywards) I'm sorry Mr X, but as I explained the hotel is completely full for that night. All of our rooms, suites and even our Presidential Suite have been booked for that night.
Twunt: But I work for Company X, we place several thousand room nights with your company each year, I demand that you book me a room.
Me: I really am very sorry sir, but unfortunately I simply do not have a room available to book on that date. You see there is an international rugby match on that date.
Twunt: Yes I know, that's why I'm coming.
Me: What I can do is place you on our waiting list should a room become available. However I'm afraid that you would not be able to use your company rate on that day, it would be at the hotel's full published rate.

At this point the twunt launches into a full blown hissy fit and starts screaming and yelling about how it wasn't good enough, did I know who he was (yes I did, he was a desk jockey coming for a jolly on a major event weekend trying to getting a company rate even though his visit had fcuk all to do with the company.) He carried on with how he could have my job for this, how the hotel was just ripping people off just because there was a major event on (it's called supply and demand you moron) etc etc etc.

When he had exhuasted his litany of "valid" complaints I resumed with:

Me: I'm sorry you feel that way sir, would you perhaps like me to transfer you to our central reservations office and they could check for availability in one of our other hotels in the vicinity?
Twunt: Well if that's all you are going to do for me I suppose so
Me:(Silly me, I forgot, I should have offered to personally go and build an extra room just for you twuntface) Certainly sir, no problem.

I dial the number and transfer the call before they answer - it's their problem now, thought I.

And that was that. Except it wasn't. The phone rang again a few moments later.

Me: Hello, reservations etc.
Twunt: Are you taking the fcuking piss?
Me: I beg your pardon sir.
Twunt:You said you were going to put me through to central reservations.
Me: ...err yes.
Twunt: Well you put me through to the fcuking Samaritans
Me: ...
Twunt: Are you there?
Me: Yes sir. I do apologise for that, I must have misdialled. Let me try again for you.

This time I dialled the number, made sure they answered and then put the call through.

After I'd done that I walked through what I'd done in my head, because I couldn't believe I would have done that. Nothing for it but to dial the number.....

Voice: Hello Samaritans.
Me: Er, sorry I think I have the wrong number.

To my dying day I will never forget the response...

Voice: Are you sure?

Felt like saying, "well now you come to mention it I've just had this phone call...."

In my defence it turns out that the Samaritans number and the number for our central reservations were remarkably similar, just a couple of digits different at the start. So if you were the poor bemused Samaritans volunteer who had to speak to the twunt I mistakenly put through to you, I humbly apologise. You people are amazing.

If you are the twunt who phoned me, well you are a twunt and I couldn't give a badger's nadge what you think.

Pop! Goes the cherry. And I thought it would be so special.
( thunderthunderthunderthundercats wonders how much a Thundercat Ho charges?, Sun 7 Sep 2008, 20:44, 2 replies)

Free holidays!
This lady buy some ink cartridges from our shop, they have a sell by date that’s about a month in the future, so we think nothing of it, until in about 2 months later on a Monday she comes back very upset, complaining they were faulty.

It turns out that these particular cartridges have a chip in them and the printer will not work if they have reached the sell by date!
Maybe they should have called it a “use by date”
It’s the first time we’ve ever heard of this happening, so we apologise and offer to replace them with new ones.

“That’s not good enough!” She shouts, almost crying with rage. “I just put them in yesterday (Sunday) when my old one ran out to print out letter to go with my tax return.” “Because I’d left it to the last minute to get the return back to the tax office, I now have to do it today and so I’ve had to cancel my skiing holiday!”
“You owe me the money for a skiing holiday!”

By now tears of rage/distress are welling up in her eyes and I managed to refrain from asking why she didn’t just use a pen and write the letter!

She spent another 20 minutes demanding the best part of £2,000 for her holiday!
You can guess she didn’t get it!
(jethou1, Sun 7 Sep 2008, 20:19, 1 reply)

10 feet glass windows
I used to work for Argos. Which was actually an ok job, if you can handle being shouted at a lot.

There was one moment of amusing-ness, which happened whilst I was working late to sort out the Christmas displays. As we all know, sometimes when you've been on the drink, the need to pee consumes all corners of your brain until you can think of nothing else. I can only assume that this is what happened to one chap one night.

We had 10 feet high glass windows all along the front of our store. This guy came and whipped his pecker out, right in front of the window I and a colleague were working on and proceeded to relieve himself all over it. He was completely oblivious of our presence until he had finished, when it was like a bulb went off in his brain. He looked up slowly, whilst we stood there grinning at him and my colleague waved her pinky finger at him.

He ran away pretty quickly.
( El Lazarus is calm now, Ish,, Sun 7 Sep 2008, 20:12, Reply)

Have "Merkans" any braincells ?
This didn't happen to me, but a story relayed during my residence in the tourist magnet that is Cambridge.
American tourist approaches the official at the gate of Kings College, and wanting to appear all-knowing in front of the rest of the assembled party from across the water asks "Tell me sir, is this building pre-war?"
The official looks at said tourist and with all the wit he could muster replied, " The building sir is pre America !!!"

Job Done
(Betty Boothroyd's Love custard Tourettes at the KOB, Sun 7 Sep 2008, 20:04, 3 replies)

"I'll have your job for this!"
In my dead-end minimum-wage retail occupation, I long for next time someone utters the classic "I'll have your job for this!". Why? Well, I've had the ideal reply ready for some time now.

"Ooh, you wouldn't want it. The hours are long, the pay terrible, and you meet the rudest people".
(The Incredible Sulk Finally remembered his password on, Sun 7 Sep 2008, 19:40, 5 replies)

Hello planning department, how may I help?
I work for the planning department at the Council as a development control officer. Basically, I deal with planning applications. These range from a small extension on the back of someone's house to a fuck off great big 47 storey building (and everything in between) so come into contact with all sorts of 'customers'. Here are a few examples.

1. The little old lady.

N.B. Old people always begin a conversation with how old they are, as if that's going to make a difference.

Me: Good afternoon, planning.
LOL: I'm 95 years old, and last night the brook flooded and sewage has come into my garage and got into my cinema organ. Can you come and clean it up?
Me: Erm, this is the planning department, I think you need someone in Waste Management. Can I put you through?
LOL: You're the Council aren't you?
Me: Yes.
LOL: So when are you coming round?
Me: I won't be coming round, but let me put you through to Waste Management.
LOL: Why not? I've got sewage in my cinema organ. It needs cleaning up.
Me: But we're the planning department...

Ad infinitum until she finally grasped that a planning officer was not going to personally come round and sweep shit out of her cinema organ! This is an absolutely true example and possibly the wierdest phone call I have ever had.

2. The 'I know my rights solicitor'.

These people always announce they are solicitors and then proceed to tell you quite how much they know about planning law. Inevitably, they know absolutely fuck all.

There was Mr McFuckwit, who decided that we hadn't told him specifically that a particular development was going to house people with mental illness, criminal records, etc, even though the description of development was 'Erection of 20 start up flats for the recently homeless' and all the supporting information with the application told him where they were going to be referred from. This was apparently 'against the law'. I know, a good description of development would be, 'Erection of 20 start up flats for the recently homeless, criminals, mentalists, and other undesirables.' FFS. I took particular offence as I was suffering from mental illness myself at the time. He complained to the Local Government Ombudsman (Axeman Jim's equivalent had to write the letter) but was told roundly to fuck off.

Another example was the guy who told me that if whilst next door's extension was being built it fell on his children, he would sue me. He was a solicitor you know, and knew the law. If he knew the law that well he would know that (a) planning has nothing to do with the structural stability of an extension and (b) he couldn't sue me personally anyway, only the Council (who wouldn't be responsible for an extension falling down in any case).

3. Tell me where my boundaries are!! Now!

Someone has just fallen out with their neighbours because their fence has been moved 3 inches their way. The Council _must_ know where their boundaries are, surely. We hold information on everything. No. I have no idea where your boundaries are, nor do I give a fuck about your petty squabbles with your neighbour. So, who do I consult, they ask. A solicitor. But, they whinge, that costs money. I must know the answer, I work for the Council. In ever decreasing circles until they put the phone down or I can, as soon as they swear.

I have exactly the same arguments about the position of people's drains. I don't know and I don't care.

4. You're killing my children.

Normally, this involves the erection of mobile phone base stations which are apparently going to give all their children cancer. Bollocks. Normally, they phone me from their fucking mobiles to complain.

My favourite however was this one:-

Me: Hello, planning department.
Fuckwit: How dare you propose a mobile phone mast near our house (for near, read about 200m and for 'you' read 'mobile phone operator'. I'm always personally responsible for allowing people to make applications though, apparently).
Me: The application is under consideration blah blah.
Fuckwit: Where exactly is it going?
Me: Next to the other one.
Fuckwit: What other one?!? *explodes with rage*
Me: The other one, that has been there since 1998. And if you didn't know that was there, and haven't managed to notice it in the last 10 years, this is hardly going to be a blot on the landscape either is it.
Fuckwit: *puts phone down*

My other favourite was the guy who got really upset about a window in an extension which would overlook his garden (from quite a distance however). This was because he had a 2 year old daughter, who played in the garden, and a peadophile might have moved into the house with the extension. He was absolutely obsessed about this eventuality and I worried for his sanity.

5. You've made my wife ill

Inevitably, if someone doesn't like the proposals for something, it makes their wife ill with the worry. All I can say to that, is, if that's the most you ever have to worry about, then you're a very lucky person indeed.

6. Tescos are cunts. I gave up two years of my life fighting them. That is all.

I used to work at Sainsbury's on the customer service desk as well. I'm not sure which provided the greater pool of fuckwittery.

Length? Metric scale only.
(grandmaswhiskers, Sun 7 Sep 2008, 19:34, 4 replies)

Lord give me strength
Having worked in retail between the ages of 16 and 22, I've had my fair share of spacker customers.

A couple of the strangest/fairly irritating ones were when I worked for Sainsburys. We had to ask every customer if they needed a hand with their packing (yes, I know it's annoying when you've only got a sodding sandwich but we had to do it). One strange woman used to come in regularly and accept help, then spend about 5 minutes at the end of the checkout re packing everything. Now this would be understandable if the checkout monkey had packed it badly, but she did it no matter who she went to. Ok, so this isn't so bad. But one time she decided she was gonna re pack it, and put one item in every bag. Wtf?! Meanwhile I've got a queue of irate customers who I can't serve til the bint at the end has got out of the way.

One summer I was asked to work on 'produce' (fruit and veg to most of us) full time. The worst shift was Wednesday evenings, as I had to go round reducing everything that would soon be at it's 'sell-by' date. There was one woman in particular who would follow me round the department, waiting for me to reduce stuff. "Are you going to reduce this? No? How about this? How about this? This one isn't reduced enough. Can you knock more off for me?" Yes I can knock more off, not for you though love. Run along now.

Sometimes, it's the twatty staff that are the problem. A few months ago, I went shopping for some cushions (oh yea, cushions!) with my mum. When we got to the till, I said my usual "Hello!", because it's nice to be polite. However, the girl (teenage chav) was too busy talking to her mate about her boozy holiday to even look up, let alone say hello. I then realised I didn't have my store card, which you need to be able to shop there for some reason.

"No problem, you can use mine" says mum.

Only in true mother-fashion, she can't find her purse. I ask the girl if I can get a new one there, or whether I should go to customer services. She then lets out a sigh of epic proportions and says she SUPPOSES she can do me a 'day pass'. She then stomps off down to find them, then stomps back with a form.

"I CAN'T FIND MY PEN" she moans, to whom I don't know. She finds a pen and slams it down in front of me with the form.

"Fill this in." I start filling it in and she then says "Just put your card in here" pointing at the chip and pin machine. I'm getting a little fed up now so I say "I'll just finish filling this in first thanks". To which she sighs again and starts tapping her fingers on the side.

I finish the form and put my card in the machine, where it is declined. I panic, and turn to mum and say, "hang on that's not right". Mum offers to shout me the cash, then remembers her purse and starts asking me if I think it's been stolen, then the girl says "no it is right, LOOK, it says it right HERE, DECLINED."

I take my card out and realise it's expired. Bugger, I've forgotten my new one. So I say to the girl, "Sorry, I'll have to leave it." For some reason, she then says, "There's no need to be rude to me." WTF?!?!?! Seriously, I'm about to go apeshit. She's been nothing but rude to me and now she's lecturing ME on manners? Don't think so, bitch. I think I was very restrained to just say "Like you've just been to me throughout this entire transaction, you mean?" and walked out. Fucking bitchface cuntbag.

I think the customer from hell who really takes the biscuit wasn't one of my customers, but one who a girl I worked with once served. I don't know what happened, but it ended in the customer throwing a pasty at the girl. Rude, but pretty funny.

What? The girl was a cockmunch!

Sorry for length, I just get so fucked off!
( El Lazarus is calm now, Ish,, Sun 7 Sep 2008, 19:09, Reply)

I worked in customer service on and off for 15 years
while I was a scummy student and as such have a loathing for customers now, but I treat them as I would like to be treated myself; with respect. If I can't answer their question right away then I refer them to someone who can or make a note of it and get back to them. It's common courtesy, simple. I now work in the veterinary industry which is essentially the same thing as private health care and you have the stresses that go along with it. Part of my job is to speak with owners and make sure they're being kept in the picture with regards to their pet's treatment. Ie, making sure that the right vet has called them and spoken to them and they understand their options. It can be stressful when things go wrong, but quickly rectified through good communication from all parties and the right message getting through.

Having worked with highly trained, highly educated medical professionals for a while now, I cannot understand the NHS and it's treatment of people. My father has been in hospital since Mid august for lung cancer, which was first suspected to be pneumonia until they did an x-ray which showed the ominous shadow on his lung. Fair enough, he was a smoker for 35 years, then quit for 22 years and has had a stroke, a heart attack and two types of cancer in those 22 years.

What gets me is that he was in hospital for a full week and a half before they mentioned the big C. Understandably they don't want to get sued for saying "Oh we think you have this"..."Oh wait, we were wrong, you don't", but he and my mother have literally been kept in the dark the whole time as they do ECG's, MRI's, X-rays etc...and then told nothing of results.

He was sent home on Thursday evening and told by the cardiologist to get as much exercise as possible as he'd been lying on a hospital bed for so long that exercise would do him good. This guy also thought doubling his heart medication the day before he left as well would be a smart plan. To come back for appointments with the oncologist (cancer specialist) and a bunch of other specialists on Monday. So he goes home and Friday morning has his second stroke. Great. So he's back to A&E on the recommendation of his ward nurse, stays in overnight and then is transferred to another nearby hospital for geriatrics for rehabilitation as his legs aren't working now. This is without warning to him or any family members and done solely at the discretion of the two hospitals.

So understandably, when we rock up to the second hospital, we're wondering why he's been transferred to somewhere with no machines, no doctors and only one nurse. Oh right, because he needs rehabilitation...only it's the weekend and rehab is only monday to friday, so he can instead lie in his bed or sit in his chair as he can barely fucking move now.

As I stated before, I work with animals and their owners as I'm currently training to be a veterinary nurse. If I spoke to a client the way this nurse spoke to us, I'd be looking for a new job by the end of the day. "Oh you've not had a stroke, don't be silly...I can call a doctor out if you like, but they're really expensive...oh no that that matters, but...". THAT is not a fucking smart thing to say to someone who's father has had previous personal experience of EXACTLY what it is like to have a stroke AND a heart attack and is insistent that this is what is happening right now. Oh and the knob end porter who's reluctant to call the one and only nurse..."Ooh look you've got a tv in here...Mmm...yes I could let you look at the notes, only the nurse has them right now...do you know how to use the tv remote, let me show you...Mmm....yes I suppose I could call the nurse...did you know it's even got freeview channels on the tv?"

We tried politeness, we tried firmness and none of these worked, so instead I resorted to being a bit rude and called her out on the fact that my father at the age of 72 still works, therefore still pays tax. He is therefore paying for his NHS treatment and as such I'd appreciate it if she's call the doctor as HE is the person able to make a sufficient diagnosis of a stroke, locum or not. Oh and if he could explain exactly why he'd been transferred to a different hospital with no means of checking for suspected brain bleeds, then that'd be pretty fabby too.

I left at this point, but can happily report that the locum doctor did turn up and was fantastic...listened to my father and agrees that he's most likely had another stroke. I'm angry as all we'd wanted all along was for a doctor worth their mettle to sit down and explain things to my parents as lung cancer, possible thyroid problems and a stroke is a lot to take in over a few weeks. Instead they were ignored until I opened my gob and got shouty.

Apologies for lack of funny.
( fuck shit up the best you never had, Sun 7 Sep 2008, 18:31, 11 replies)

The model customer
One christmas period, whilst working as a despatch rider, I took an overnight delivery to an estate on Old street. Overnights are normally stuff people have ordered online, that have arrived overnight from other parts of the country. So I cruise in to this estate, poke around till I find the door, hand over the package, get a signature, and turn to leave, but the girl who signed says 'excuse me?', so I turn back, 'here' and shoves out her hand, I reach and take the folded up bit of paper she offered me, and she closes the door. A fiver! three times what my company payed me for delivering that job. I went and spent it on the only product I love more then bikes - food. YUMMY!
Having read some of the amazing stories on here, and having worked in a clearly almost idylic retail sector for a while (a bike shop), I have to say, those of you who are on the front lines for this stuff have my sympathy. My parents never drummed into me the need to be polite, they just showed, by example, that it's always possible to get what you want, and generally takes less energy, so I'm always polite to a T with, well, anyone, but particularly those who are 'serving' me. I always chat with the checkout staff in the supermarket, even though, in central london, it's rare to see the same ones twice (in the big stores), and feel bad on those days where I'm not feeling sociable enough to say hello, etc. I am on good terms with the bods in the canteen at work. As a result, I always get the biggest jacket potato in the canteen, and extra toppings, till staff often just pass over things that don't scan right twice in a row, and (as I always talk about food) I've picked up recipe ideas from a pretty diverse range of people. All for the cost of a smile, and a couple of well placed words.

back on topic, not a customer from hell, just from another dimension: any of you who have spent any time in crouch hill, stoke newington or inbetween may have spotted captain Birdseye (as he was known to us in the bike shop) An old geezer with a full white beard and long white hair tottering around on his bicycle wearing a flourescent yellow site jacket and hard hat. He was convinced that the sales manager, Matt, was the boss' son (even though the boss' two real sons both worked there at times, and looked nothing like Matt). The boss got so bored of him after a while (he used to talk loads, never to me, though) that he took to locking the doors and pretending to be closed, or running and hiding if we spotted him coming. He stopped coming after a while, so I guess he got the message. God, then there was this other guy, american, seemed wired most of the time, came in one time with some other bloke, maybe his boyfriend, with a 12 ounce coffe from the costa down the road, and was honestly juddering from the caffeine, he spilt coffee everywhere, had flecks of spittle on his lips as he talked, another time the alarm went off as he was leaving, and he was totally sound about me searching him, so he was in my good books, generally.
Finally a funny one: a nice enough lady, wanting a service for her bike, the mechanic came out, evaluated it, talked her through everything that would need doing, and quoted her a price, pointing out that some of the components would cost more, due to their not being so common any longer, to which her reply; "but my bikes not that old; I've only had it fifteen years!" - "Oh, only seven years younger then me, ma'am" I chipped in.

Length/Girth? 700x23 here.
(pins, Sun 7 Sep 2008, 18:28, 1 reply)