Canary the Compulsive Liar
Back when I was 19, I worked in a pub in Pontefract, which is known locally as Ponte Carlo as being stuffed full of far too many bars. I worked in one of the trendier ones (well, it served paninnis) which had a prestigious late licence and did £1 a drink Tuesdays. Thus, the bar was packed.

Now, we had a 'relief manager' for 2 weeks known to the staff as 'canary', because he never, ever changed his clothes, especially the bright yellow shirt he clearly thought attracted the ladies. He was Southern, and a total cock. Clearly lied about his salary (he slept on the dirty old staff sofa to avoid staying in a hotel), his prowess with women (he was 5 foot tall), and he was generally a slimy letch.

It was so busy that when I reached through the crowd to pass him a stack of empty pint glasses (he was 'helping out' by stacking the pot washer) they impacted and broke. He went, for some reason, apeshit (could be the fact I turned down his pathetic sexual advances the day before). Told me to get out, I was fired, and barred from the pub forever (harsh I know, I was more upset at losing £1 a drink Tuesday than my job). I stormed off. Well I called him a cockney twat and stormed off.

The next day I came in to collect my stuff. My regular boss had been called in because the night before had been a shambles (since I was the only one collecting glasses, they ran out, and when they'd run out of bottles too, people had deserted the bar.) Canary had a bandage on his hand and kept repeating how I'd nearly severed his thumb and I was a liability. After pointing out to my boss all of canary's 'truth issues' I proceeded to rip the bandage off his hand. No cut.

I was reinstated, and canary was fired. And barred. Bwahaha!
(Northern Lovely, Fri 1 Sep 2006, 14:19, Reply)