It’s not always the customers you know…

I’ve only just realised why I’ve found it so difficult to think of anything this week...

The longest I worked with actual ‘customers’ per se was when I was a journo scum feature writer for a local newspaper. My job was to write flattering articles in order to attract business to whichever company was paying for the feature. By Jingo’s glittery ringpiece it was a cushy number.

Every ‘customer’ I saw would go beyond the 'kissing arse' stage and go straight for the full on atomic rim-job. They would worship the ground I walked on, plying me with every kind of freebie you can imagine (and I mean EVERY kind), just so I would write the most overstated uberwank in their favour and give them a little bit of shit local publicity.

But this made me cynical. On one occasion I had to do an article on a very ‘la-de-da’ hotel in Solihull. Although being just 18 years old, I was suited and booted, toffed up to the nines and driving the company Jag. As soon as I pulled up I was given the utmost VIP treatment, and was offered meals, free rooms, discounts for friends – the whole shebbang.

Now, Being about as shallow as a puddle of phlegm, this treatment worked a treat for me, and as I chatted to the Basil Fawlty of the place I started to gush complimentary adjectives all over him, suggesting that I was going to write a piece so delicious, that he would want to throw away his beloved copy of ‘Hotel Staff Jug-A-Rama Monthly’ as he would only ever want to choke his jitler dispenser over my article for the rest of his natural.

Whilst pumping him hard for information, I enquired “What would you say is the secret to your success?” in my simpering, sugar-coated-snot kind of way.

I will never forget his answer.

He said: “Because we know how to treat people. If ‘normal’ people come in then we don’t care about them, they’re bottom of the list. If you can tell they’re not too well off, too young, too old, or here for just a fleeting (read: dirty) weekend then we couldn’t give a toss about their quality of service. If they complain, we just tell them where to go. That way we can focus all our efforts and attention on the important clients…like you”

I nearly gagged on my champagne and caviar.

This superficial sucking shitbrick thought he had sussed me after about a 5 second look-up-and-down. Little did he know that by very evening I was to be wearing my skanky clothes and Nirvana top, getting pissed as a mattress and puking up over my fellow bandmates, student friends and unfortunate front row gig dwellers. Not the poshest activity I’m sure you’ll agree.

So I felt I was left with no alternative. I thanked him for his hospitality, took the freebies, shook his hand, went back to my office and ripped the place to fucking shreds in my article.
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Tue 9 Sep 2008, 14:04, 4 replies)

Stop the press!
Pooflake has morals...huzza!
( girlinthehole, Tue 9 Sep 2008, 14:17, closed)

^^^I strongly deny that remark^^^

It's just that I was young and rebellious...That was before the weight of the world broke my spirit, and turned me into the Loathesome twatspack you know and love

:)
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Tue 9 Sep 2008, 14:21, closed)

Which particular
hotel in Solihull would that be then?
(Scrumpy does not negotiate with terrorists,, Tue 9 Sep 2008, 15:01, closed)

@Scrumpy...

Considering it was 20 years ago, I'm fucked if I remember...but it was just off the A45...and had lots of (can't remember if real or fake) wooden beams all over the place.
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Tue 9 Sep 2008, 15:10, closed)