Another one from the Holiday Camp electronics store
because the electronics store wasn't like 'Dixons' or 'Comet' but one that indeed sold electronics of the discrete variety (I'm pretty sure we sold over 300 different types of transistors alone, never mind capacitors, ICs, soldering kit, PCB board etc) as well as other electronic gubbins, we tended to attract a specific slice of the population. Ham radio enthusiasts were rarely a couple of hours apart, model railway fans and electronics hobbyists made up the bulk of the remainder, as well as some pretty serious engineery types who couldn't wait for the mail order to show up the next day and needed stuff on the spot.

Now, hobbyists are an amiable lot, generally quiet, unassuming, polite and intelligent, as were the model train enthusiasts. Engineers were professionally courteous and knowledgeable. You've guessed that there wasn't a whole lot of female content in the aforementioned consumer brackets, so when a lady of any half-attractive variety appeared at the counter there was usually an imperceptible struggle among the counter staff to get through your current customer and be next to talk with a real live lady. I think on average we got about two a week on a Saturday, and none at all weekdays.

But I digress. The company started off in the field of DIY build-yourself-an-electronic-organ from a kit, a venture started out in the owners' back bedroom but by 1994 had swollen to 30 shops nationwide as they diversified into electronic components and kits and then took on other stock lines in a related vein. Pretty soon, kits to make amplifiers were accompanied by the speakers to ply the sound from, the cabinets, crossovers, grilles and so forth. Then came microphones, mixing desks and disco lighting. Then car amplifiers, subwoofers and speakers for them too. This led to an altogether different brand of clientele. The professional shoplifter and burglar.

One day a shoplifter wanted to get access to the secure storage cabinets (that used to be glass-doored fridge units but were converted to 'display cabinets' and padlocked shut). To protect the cabinets, a loud siren would sound if any of the doors were opened without the security system being keyed off. Magnetic proximity sensors would know if the padlocks had been defeated and the doors opened, so we felt pretty safe in leaving them unsupervised during the day.

That doesn't stop the shoplifter. He went to the tool section and nicked a pair of side-cutters, pliers and a screwdriver. Then drifting back to the key lock he levered the keyswitch cover back with the screwdriver, snipped the wire to the siren with the sidecutters and uses the pliers to wrench the padlock hasp around until it breaks. Alarm is disarmed, doors are opened and £100's worth of items go missing. However we hear that another branch of the same company lost 3 18 inch woofers (speakers) from the shop floor in one day, despite being tagged with high-tensile steel tags and the proximity alarm by the door which somehow didn't go off.....

However this was an invisible crime, and to most people's mind, a victimless one. What happened another time was a full-scale break in through the roof. Boxes kicked over, flo-pack everywhere, lots and lots of car amps and speakers nicked. The bell box was stiffed with expanding foam so it was virtually silent, the phone wires cut so the dialler device couldn't leave an automated message with the cops.

The tidy up was lengthy, the cataloging of missing stock tedious and repairing the security a pain, because (oh, we sold security systems as well :-/ ) the previous installer was an ex-member of staff with an eidetic memory- he cross wired all of the sensors with different colour schemes to foil a sharp-witted tom-cruise-o-like but never wrote down what was stored in his head. So I was tasked with reinstalling the security system with improvements.

The bell box was to be located off the front of the shop at roof level, an alarm strobe in plain view above the door and all the sensors rewired. Now, being perched atop the folding ladder to drill into the metal-framed doorway for affixing the strobe light, the ladder, er, folded. I came down about 6 feet onto the concrete flagstones and (I found out later) fractured the scaphoid bone in my right hand. But the shop was still defenceless against further crime so I finished wiring up the rest of the system and even had to hang over the edge of the roof to drill and screw in the alarm bellbox somewhere incaccessible- with a broken hand and feeling sick and dizzy.

I never saw the 'customers' who broke into the shop but I ended up with a broken hand because of it. Bastards.
( Rotating Wobbly Hat That's not a banana. THIS is a banana., Mon 8 Sep 2008, 18:58, 3 replies)

Not strictly a customer (aka Driving School Japes pt 3)
...but it made me laugh.

One of the instructors was dropping off a pupil after a lesson. Said pupil lived in a block of flats, and the instructor had her pull into a residents' parking bay.

Just as the pupil switched off the engine, a head poked itself out of the window of one of the flats.
"Oh god, it's him," said the pupil, "my neighbour. I swear he's got it in for me."

She wasn't wrong. As soon as this neighbour saw who was driving the car, the head retracted back through the window, to shortly reappear through the door of the block, with the rest of the neighbour attached.

"How dare you?" He asked the instructor,
"Can't you see this is resident's parking?"
The instructor tried to point out that (a) she wasn't parked here, she was just stopping to drop off her pupil and (b) the pupil was driving the car, and she was a resident anyway.

But he wasn't going to let it drop. He continued in this vein until the instructor - who, it must be said, is an incredibly friendly and good-natured person - lost her patience. She wound up the window and muttered,
"Oh, why don't you just fuck off?"

Unfortunately he heard her.
"HOW DARE YOU SAY THAT TO ME? Your phone number's printed on this car: I'm going to phone your manager immediately!"
And off he stormed, back into the block of flats.

Back in the office, as I sat idly doing bugger all, the phone rang. Just as I'm about to launch into the standard "Good afternoon, how may I help you?", I'm stopped by the instructor's voice:
"Crow, it's L****, I'm coming back to the office. The phone is about to ring. For god's sake, don't pick it up."
"Um...ok..."

Lo and behold, a few seconds later the phone begins to ring. And after the first ring, her car pulls up outside the office. She looks like she's in a rush.
"L***, it's ringing - what the hell's going on?"
"I'll explain. Just a second."
And with that, she picks up the ringing telephone and shouts
"Why don't you just FUCK OFF?"
Before hanging up.

I really hope it was that pupil's neighbour on the other end of the line*. I would love to have seen his face.

Apologies for length; _{I'm more embarrassed by my flagrant switching of tenses during the story. Sorry!}

*_{At least, I didn't receive any phone calls to complain that day, so I'm going to assume she either got the right chap or scared off some nervous 17-year old who'd just called to book a lesson...}
(LongJohnBaldry, Mon 8 Sep 2008, 18:33, Reply)

reverse stalking.
Once I was run at work by James Valentine, the host of The Afternoon Show when I was young.

I got a bit excited, and said "are you the James Valentine". He said "um, I don't know." I was going to say "were you the host of the Afternoon Show", but instead I decided to say "were you Paul Kelly's saxophonist", just to show that I knew that I guess.

He said yes. I launched into this (true) story about how, when the Afternoon Show was on, my friends said that I looked like him, and I also had the same first name, and they said that I should write to him and go on the show to prove that I wasn't really him...

Then there was a little bit of silence. He laughed nervously, and I realised that I sounded a bit like a crazy fan - and also he'd just given me his address.

So yeah, sorry about that James - I got the same name as you from my parents, I didn't change it to get closer to you. And if anyone went through your garbage soon after that, it was just a coincidence.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Mon 8 Sep 2008, 18:30, 1 reply)

Another old dear called into the department....
...demanding her husband's username and password for his e-mails.
"I'm very sorry about that," says we, "it's against the Data Protection Act."
"YOU WHAT???!?!?!? I WANT THOSE DETAILS NOW!!!!"
"As previously stated, we cannot give these out unless we speak to your husband first. Is he available?"
"HE'S NOT, HE IS BACK IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS."
"Really, what's he doing there?"
"If you must know he's the deputy leader of the Lib Dems." - This was a few years back, so it could've been quite a few people, feck knows which one though, I can't remember last Thursday properly let alone a few years back.
"Well unfortunately he will need to contact us so we can comply to the Data Protection Act sorry."
I remember her responce to this comment.
"MY HUSBAND WRITES THE LAWS!!!!!" Jumped up bitch.
"Really? Well I guess he would like to lead by example and not break them, as do you madam."
"I WANT YOUR MANAGER ON THE PHONE!!!!"
"Certainly madam. I'm sure he will advise you of the law on this and how we cannot break it for you. 1 second please..."
She kept him on the phone for 20 or so minutes and she got absolutely nowhere with her ranting. Oh well.
( Jeccius Steam Borderlands 2 junkie, Mon 8 Sep 2008, 18:27, 2 replies)

Okay, which one of you is this?
This has to be a b3tan.

So come on, 'fess up. Who is this?
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Mon 8 Sep 2008, 18:26, 8 replies)

whilst working at Greggs..
i served the Devil,Hitler and Saddam Hussein

there all twunts

However, adolf is surprisingly polite
( Mr Nerdy-Speccy-FuckNuts Ouchy ouchy wa wa!, Mon 8 Sep 2008, 18:06, 3 replies)

Me dad 'n' his friend were the Customers From Hell
A quick pearoast, but it fits rather lovely thanks :)

There was a small local video store, before the days of Blockbusters, where this spotty stuck up twange of a kid used to work. My uncle used to be a member, but used to get alot of grief about returning videos and not rewinding them etc.

Me dad and his mate called Wynford (an oil worker who done alot of work in Libya in the 80's) went to the local video store, where the welsh/libian was trying to join their rental club. Both walk in wearing sunglasses and leather jackets, (as for some strange reason it didn't rain that day in wales) and approach the counter to join the club.

They are greeted by the snotty student jobsworth who is looking at these two men and starting to get a bit nervous. Cowering behind his acne he asks "How can I help?"

Wynford shouts out directly down to this jobsworth with lots of arabic (which we found out later was "How much for your camel?"). The jobstworth now looks as my father who is smiling, and nervously asks "What did he say?"

"Ah, my colleague has asked how do you become a member of this establishment?".

The jobsworthy calms down a bit and asks me dad to ask him if the other person has any forms of id. Now me dad, quick as a flash, barks out a load of bollocks, which sounded roughly like Arabic, but was just jumbled crap. The jobsworth looks at Wynford, and Wynford smiles and pulls out his wallet. Then he does a "Fletch" impression and drops 20 forms of rolled up ID down to the ground, ranging from a libian green card to foreign exchange. The jobsworth shit himself, run out the back and called the management in, which as soon as they turned up at the shop's front desk they were greeted by two normal middle aged men with their sunglasses and jacket off who were just looking to rent a video. Awww bless.
( Jeccius Steam Borderlands 2 junkie, Mon 8 Sep 2008, 18:04, 1 reply)

I worked at McDonalds
To fund my drinking through University

The worst shift was the Saturday night shift due to the excessively drunk people

Now the one thing you can't accuse a McDonalds of is lack of hygiene as the kitchen gets dismantled and cleaned every night. To save the night shift waving hello to the morning shift the Production bin (that warmed chute at the front) will be filled up and the kitchen starts to get cleaned while the staff at the front carry on selling burgers.

As we neared closing time sometimes things ran out and the punters had to choose something else, most were fine about this, one bloke wasn't

tosser: quaterponderwithcheese no gaps, no 'can I have', not even 'I want' just a slurred quaterponderwithcheese

me: Sorry Sir we have sold out it's just what you see here *points at big macs, chicken burgers, ect ....*

tosser: quaterponderwithcheese

Me: Sorry it's just what you see here *points*

Tosser: *grabing my shirt* give me a fucking quaterponderwithcheese you retarded Mcdonalds prick

Me: I'll be right back

So I went out back picked one of the quaterpounders that have been thrown away (more than 10 mins in the production bin makes them even more shit than they normally are) , popped it under the bun toaster to warm it up a bit. Then added some more ketchup & mustard and topped it off with a great big hawked up loogie and a couple of slices of cheese warmed it all through again and gave it to him

Me: sorry about the wait and the confusion no charge

He walked away very pleased with himself as he had 'won'

I watched him drunkenly stuffing my creation into his stupid fat face laughing my ass off
(sittingduck Attention seeking, bullshitting fuck-knuckle, Mon 8 Sep 2008, 17:53, 1 reply)

"Do you know who I am?!!"
A friend of mine had a job in a call centre, working for some bank or other. One day she got a call from a customer asking why he had been refused credit. She explained the reasons but it wasn't going to wash. It turns out that the customer was a famous dancer, one might say he was the original lord of the dance.
"Don't you know who I am?!!!" he screamed at her. She quietly paused as she read his details, repeated his name a couple of times to herself and said "Sorry sir, I haven't got a clue."
(Mr McKenzie Mr McKenzie, Mon 8 Sep 2008, 17:51, 3 replies)

Not entirely PC
I don’t know what it’s like now, but working on an IT helpline in 1992 it was wimin that were nightmare customers. Obviously we didn’t speak to the people who weren’t having problems so it was a self selecting group, but Christ on a bike they were hard fucking work. Unable to follow simple instructions, nervous / angry or alternating between the two and just generally not able to cope with a keyboard that did more than type.

Wimin “It’s not working”
Support “OK, what isn’t working”
Wimin “THE COMPUTER!” – already angry-
Support “OK, what is it on the computer that isn’t working”
Wimin “EVERYTHING!” – shouting-
Support “Right, I just need you to answer a few questions…”
Wimin “CAN’T YOU JUST FIX IT” – screaming down the phone-

After about an hour I’d finally work out that after 2 years of using a PC they’d suddenly started to double click with the right button, or their keyboard was dirty so they were using the one still plugged into a neighboring PC. And then get pissy when you told them what the problem was.

There were a few loonies among men we supported, but they where mostly happier to work with you to resolve the problem and face the realization they’d done something a bit silly without getting shitty.

In my next job I was a project manager moving companies to new buildings and the like. Moving a team of men is a piece of piss. Have a couple of meetings, agree the desk layout, give them a tour of the new office, sort out the infrastructure as per the plan, place the desks, they arrive sit down and start working.

A move works just the same with a group of wimin, right up to when they arrive on the first day. Then it starts. “I can’t sit here I’ve got my back to Judy you’ll have to move everything round”…not a sniff of recognition that this may be a little awkward. Soon to be followed with there’s a draft, the sun’s in my eyes, it’s too dark, it’s too bright, hot, cold, dry, humid, something’s giving me a rash, I’m getting bitten by something, I’m getting a headache, this chair’s making my legs go numb, I think that plant is poisonous, there’s something wrong with the water, the toilette’s too low / high, the colour of the walls in the lift gives me panic attacks*…and on and on and on. To save my sanity I soon learnt to build more time and budget into a plan for moving teams that were predominantly female.

So there you have it. If you want challenging customers choose are job where they are mainly not men.



*I wish I was making these up.
( Ring Of Fire A petty, drooling belming butthurt retard., Mon 8 Sep 2008, 17:42, 1 reply)

Customer from hell: ME
A lot of these posts are about stupid rather than unpleasant customers so I think this one's vaguely on-topic.

I learned German at school and used to go to Germany and Austria quite regularly, so my command of German got to be quite good. I was by no means fluent, but prided myself that I could reserve hotels, order food and do other essential stuff in German with reasonable confidence.

Learning Czech after moving to Prague ousted most of my German from my brain (there's not a lot of room in there, I guess!) and so my German these days is as rusty as an unlicensed minicab. But still I try, sometimes with disastrous results.

I was taking the car from the UK to Prague, and as this is a two-day journey I stopped overnight in a little German town near the Rhine. Treating myself to a well-deserved beer after the long drive, I was pleased that I could still manage "Guten Abend" and "ein Bier, bitte" without too much difficulty. Flushed with my success as a cunning linguist, I lit up and realised that I needed an ashtray. I called the waiter over and with my best accent I asked

"Haben Sie ein Arschloch, bitte?" Cue look of stunned amazement from waiter and people at surrounding tables. Thinking my pronunciation to be at fault, I repeated it while making knocking-off-ash gestures to illustrate. Eventually I got my ashtray.

Those of you who speak German will know why I received the reaction I did. For those who don't - the German for ashtray is Aschenbecher. I'd asked the poor chap if he had an arsehole.

I don't even know why the word Arschloch featured in my limited vocabulary. Too much German porno, probably.
(eesnahk, Mon 8 Sep 2008, 17:30, 2 replies)

An open letter...
Dear lady in the sparkly top
I wasn’t supposed to be working this evening. The barman cried off sick, a consequence of too many nights in a row eating E like they were skittles. It’s only my third night behind the bar, it’s a Saturday and frankly, I’m out of my depth. Serving students on a Friday is one thing, running a private party for what seems to be the population of a small (albeit rather inbred) country is quite another.

It’s noisy, and people are drunk, I get that. It’s pretty much the function of a pub, to provide alcohol, to help you make merry, to celebrate whatever the hell it was you were celebrating. But let’s get a few things clear. Cleavage will not help you get served quicker. Neither will shouting or waving a twenty pound note under my nose. I serve people in the order that they arrived at the bar. I’m good like that.

When I ask you whether you would like ice in your drink, a simple “yes” or “no” will suffice. You don’t need to look at me like I’ve asked you if you’d like me to rape and kill your children. Furthermore if you don’t answer me, I’ll put ice in your drink. And I will keep asking you, politely, and subsequently adding ice to each drink until you specifically ask me not to. It’s my job.

I would prefer it, however, if after I’ve served you possibly your eighth drink of the evening, when you suddenly decide that you don’t want ice, that you inform me. Don’t put your hand in your drink, scoop out the ice and fling it in my face screaming “I said no fucking ice, you fucking stupid bitch.”

That sort of thing tends to get you swiftly removed from the pub.

But you know that now, don’t you.
(Rakky (forgot her password) The muffin maverick, Mon 8 Sep 2008, 17:25, 3 replies)

This must have happened about 100 times.
I used to work as a car park attendant, and someone would ALWAYS forget where they had parked, and come ranting to me that someone had stolen their car. So they would tell me what car it was, and that it was "parked near the front in car park 1" for example, and they would scowl at me when I suggest that it might be in another car park:

"you're wasting your time looking over there, I'm positive that it has been stolen!"

me -"is this your car over here at the back of carpark 2?"

"........ah....yes, okay bye then.."

after this happens repeatedly, it gets a little bit grating.

edit: Also, when i used to work in a pub kitchen, someone ordered a "very well done" steak- ie. overcooked, and then sent it back as it was too tough!
(biggiantmat, Mon 8 Sep 2008, 17:23, Reply)

American express
I had the joy of queuing up behind an irritating American business man in my local Dominoes Pizza. He was obviously on an overseas business trip and some poor sap had been lumbered with babysitting him for the night.

So Yankee doodle was loudly going on about this and that to a bored Brit as we stood waiting to place our order.

Once served proud American announces "Oh, I'll get this" in a gesture of goodwill to pay his way, and offers the counter monkey his credit card... American Express.

"We don't take that" replies Pizza boy.

"You must do! It's American Express Gold card!" replies the Yank.

"Should've left home without it" replies I from the back of the queue to several smirks and a red faced Yank who now can't pay his bill.

That's when he kicked off.

Summary result, check the accepted payment methods before offering to pay.
(golddust QOTW now revolves around being a cunt, Mon 8 Sep 2008, 17:18, 2 replies)

Test Drive? But of course
Back in the dim and distant days of 1998, things were all fresh and happy. The Grinning Spiv and his ilk had been voted in, things really were going to get better, and I was a VW Sales 'Consultant'. Woo. I preferred the term 'whore', but never mind.

Now as it happened I was also the dealerships high performance 'specialist'. This basically meant I was trusted to drive the naughty stuff without killing myself and random members of the population, and the post was mine as I wasn't coked out of my little tree on a regular basis, and hadn't crashed anything at Millbrook, despite trying very very hard.

(I also nearly had a purple Golf VR6 with purple leather upholstery as a demonstrator, but thankfully the Good Taste Fairy stepped in and slapped me around the chops, but let's leave 90's lack of taste on the side)

Hanyway, on the forecourt was sitting a Golf VR6. At the time, these were regarded as a serious bit of kit, and as such were stolen and crashed on a regular basis, therefore 19 year old lads on their first visit did NOT get a testdrive, they got a demonstration.

This particular Golf had been in stock for ages. Absolutely nothing wrong with it, apart from being Dog-Knob Red, but it just didn't sell. So it was due to make it's sorry way to the auctions, which was a shame as it was a genuinely nice motor (and I took a pride in what I sold), plus I got paid an extra £50 if I sold anything that had been in stock for more than a month.

So a young chap turned up and is sniffing around the car, literally a day before the truck was due to collect it. We have a wee chat, he seems happy with the numbers, and then he asks for a test drive. Now, as it was this specific car he was alleging an interest in, and I only had a day to deal, not too much of a problem, so off we go.

Laughingly I say "don't scare me too much" as we trundle off. And he didn't, at least until we went for a quick blat down the A1.

"Give it a wee bit of welly", I suggest, expecting a quick Vroom and then a slow down to normal-ish velocity. This is, after all, why VR6s were made.

70
80
90
*cough*
"We'll be coming off at the next Junction, so you'll need to get over to the left"

(This is the A1 by Hatfield, where you go under the Galleria)

90
100
110
120

*extremely meaningful cough as I cling onto the upholstery with my sphincter alone*

"Slow it down now, and come off at the next junction. Please"

120
110
100

*junction approaches*

100

100

*junction really approaches quite jolly fast indeed*

100

*ohh shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit*

To come off at this junction now required swerving from lane two across the packed lane one, possibly utilising the hard shoulder, although my eyes had closed at that point and I was watching my life flash before me.

YC: "Facking wicked mate"

Me: "Gng"

YC: "Course, I can't afford the insurance"

Me: "Just pull over there for a sec? Ta. Now give me the keys. Now get out of the car"

YC: "What you facking talking about?"

Me: "Get out or I'll drag you out. You're not driving this car another foot"

YC: "Fack off, you can't do this you cahhnt"

Me: "I am not a crash test dummy. I am not selling you this car that you have just admitted you can't afford, and you have nearly killed me and a load of other people by driving like a complete and utter tit. Now out"

YC: "You facking etc etc"

Me: "One more word, and you can walk back"

YC: *sulks*

Back to base, and as soon as YC gets out of the vehicle he goes into full monkey-arm-swinging, skinny-chest-puffed-out hard man act. Apparently he was going to have me sacked, the premises were going to be torched, and I was going to get my head kicked in. Not necessarily in that order. And no, he wasn't going to leave the premises unless I "fancied some".

"I want to speak to the Manager you Facking Cahnt"

The Manager is naturally hiding, so I stick my head around his office door and give him a summary of the afternoon's events and my intended solution to the problem.

Back to the irate polyester-clad gibbon on the forecourt.

"He says you can Fuck Off too"

"Or wait for the police. Your choice"
(osok Rebel without a clue, Mon 8 Sep 2008, 17:13, 2 replies)

You utter, utter twunt...
Dax, that was his name. Working in a bar, there was this wanker Dax that came in at 12 in the afternoon to get pissed, left at 2am the next day and, without fail, URINATED all over the damn sofa there every Saturday!

He was a mate of the landlord therefore his disgusting habits were seldom questioned no matter how many times I mentioned it to the barman...

He would ask me out for a drink when he was in his 60s.

He would ask me "why do you look so spooky?" because of my eyeliner, and just because I wasn't a tarted up chav with her tits resting on the bar.

He bit and spat his damned nails all over the tables.

He stunk.

He would drink Guiness and complain about the perfect head (ho ho, innudendo.) on it so the freeloading bastard got half a pint for free due to my actually fine Guiness pouring skills.

He spoke to me as if I were taking notes for an upcoming biography. Every single boring bloody detail when I was faced with a herd of angry football player demanding their stella.

I ACTUALLY GOT THE SACK WHEN I TOLD HIM TO JUST FUCKING DRY UP AND STOP YACKING AWAY AT ME.

He just wouldn't stop talking.

I will go there one day and what I shall do to their toilets in there will be nothing short of an Eli Roth movie involving toilet matter.


So ner.
(trippeh, Mon 8 Sep 2008, 17:02, 1 reply)

Motorbikes
Made me a bad customer.


Yeah, bastards...
I bought my SV650 second hand from a dealer who gave me a good deal. Nice bike, good set of leathers. Anyway I failed my test and spoke kindly to the shop who said no problem, we have space to store it.

I managed to pick the bike up with Carol my partner a few weeks later. She having been a motorcycle mechanic and Rider instructor a couple of years previously.

So the bike is brought out to us and the shop guy tries to teach Carol how to start the engine. Only it is dead. A non starter. So he goes to get a battery booster. Carol is not impressed.

The shop guy starts the engine and it runs for two minutes before cutting out. Oh the frustration. Shop guy assures us that he had only just prepared the bike for delivery. Carol tells him the battery is very flat due to the alarm they fitted and it not being run for weeks.

They start to dismantle the bike in the street, Carol looks visibly annoyed and tells them to bump start the bike. Oh no they say, it is a problem with something else.

They leave the bike looking tatty and I am livid. The shop guy tells me that my attitude is not helping him repair my bike. Maybe I should come back tomorrow. It is after all only a three hundred mile round trip from here!

Shop guy bumps the bike and it runs down the road and the lovely Suzuki motor is purring. Carol and I climb aboard and hit the street. Engine dies...

I storm back into the shop... Why can't they supply me with the working motorcycle they promised me when I visited the week before to complete the sale and organise a collection date? Shop Guys gets stressed and tells me that he is not amused by my attitude.

He takes bike back and they hit it with a battery booster again. Oh a surprise, the battery was flat. The engine bounces off of the limiter, Carol clenches her teeth and tries not to destroy the little man with her violent wit (and kevlar gloves).

Engine now running, we hit the traffic and head up the motorway. Twenty minutes later the battery is nicely charged and the bike is wonderful. Carol is grinning from ear to ear, she was not expecting so much from such a "Small" bike.

Back home I notice a sticker... Alpha Dot... They claim that Suzuki recommend them. Suzuki say other wise. Alpha Dot inform me when, after two weeks of trying, I finally get through on the phone that should my bike be stolen the bits will be returned to the owner registered with them. Oh I say, I have just bought the bike, so that will be me then. But I was so wrong... Why would they do that? Getting more cross that they refuse to believe that I bought the bike, I ask them what I should do. "Well madam, you can pay us a large pile of cash to register the bike in your name instead!" No thanks, you incompetent cretins. Phone is returned to the receiver...
( Rev. Jayneflakes Buy my book, I need the cash for drugs and hookers, Mon 8 Sep 2008, 16:59, 10 replies)

True story from my father
My father worked in the oil & gas industry in the 1970s/80s, designing bits of oil rig. As you can probably imagine, the workplace around that time was about as politically correct as the Black & White Minstrels celebrating a stag night at a Chubby Brown gig.

Anyway, each rig was built up from several different modules, which were delivered to wherever the rig was being assembled by the engineering contractor themselves, before the module is inspected, certified and then bolted to the rest of the structure, in a process not unlike a scaled up Meccano set.

This was cutting edge stuff, very expensive and very technical. The calibre of the engineering businesses involved was quite intimidating (ie firms like Bechtel, Brown & Root, etc).

Sure enough, a module the size of an office block was duly delivered to the site near Aberdeen.

The engineer assigned to inspect the module - a Scots chap well known for shooting straight from the hip - is tasked with monumental responsibility, if he accepts a piece of equipment that later fails, the trail of paperwork will lead right back to him and an investigation will result.

After a prolonged inspection, the Scots engineer has grounds to reject the module, it having displayed a number of faults upon delivery. This would set the whole project back several months and cost the subcontractor roughly £2m (in 1983 prices) to rectify.

"I need you to fill out this form to explain the exact nature of the issues" said the uptight suited manager accompanying the module, knowing an investigation into his failure to deliver a working module is pending.

Sure enough, the engineer fills in the reams of paperwork. I can quote his diagnosis of the problem verbatim:

Please describe the exact nature of the fault:

"It's fucked"
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Mon 8 Sep 2008, 16:52, 8 replies)

Credit cards
Another memory from the bookshop, in the days before Chim & PIN as reminded by a post below. Not really bad customers, but it used to annoy the fuck out of me. It was always Americans:

'Can you sign this, please'
'Sure' (Signs)
I look at the card. 'There's no signature on the card'
'No, I don't sign the card, in case it gets stolen'
(Pause) 'But if it does get stolen, then anyone can just sign your name on the back and then use it as much as they like'
'Are you accusing me of something?'
'Never mind'

It also used to surprise me when every now and then I'd actually ask someone to sign again because their signature didn't match the card, and they'd get all pissy about it. I can't understand this attitude - if your fucking card was stolen, wouldn't you want the shops to be alert for forgeries?

And don't get me started on Chip and fucking PIN. Or the new 'security numbers' on the back. Graaaaughgaah.
( flatfrog Staring vacantly into space, Mon 8 Sep 2008, 16:51, 5 replies)

I used to work on the hot food counter of a large supermarket chain
A gentlemen once asked for some roast potatoes. I started to get him the potatoes, as requested, and he started to rush me.

"Come on, come on, my wife's waiting outside"

I asked him to calm down, as I was getting his potatoes as fast as I could.

"I could have cooked my own potatoes by now blah blah blah.."

To which I replied if that was the case why didn't he.

"I don't like your attitude," he said, as I handed him his potatoes, "I'm going to go and complain."

"I thought you were in a rush," I replied, "Are you sure you have the time to put in a complaint?"

With that, he flung the potatoes I had just served him across the counter at me and walked out in a huff.

I guess he must have cooked his own potatoes that night.
( FreudianSlap, Mon 8 Sep 2008, 16:46, 1 reply)

Scary bookshop lady
Working at the South Bank bookshop a few years back, we used to get quite a few people in that oughtn't really to have been out and about at all... One I particularly remember was a very earnest woman who seemed quite normal at first. The conversation went along these lines:

Her: Excuse me, I wonder if you could help me at all?
FF: Yes, of course, what can I do for you?
Her: Good, well, I'm a victim of a police crime.
FF: I'm sorry?
Her: Can you hear me? Can you hear what I'm saying?
FF: Yes.
Her: Could you repeat what I was saying?
FF: You're the victim of a police crime.
Her: Yes, you see they've been dubbing my voice.
FF: I'm not sure I understand.
Her: They've been dubbing my voice. You see, I'm talking - can you hear what I'm saying? But I'm being dubbed so that people can't hear what I'm saying. And then they think I'm saying mad things.
FF: Right.
Her: (getting slightly more agitated) And they've been poisoning my food, and poisoning my air, and every time I try to tell someone about it, they dub my voice. Can you repeat what I'm saying?
Manager (coming over): Can I help at all?
Her: (pleased to be getting some proper assistance) Yes, thank you. Can you hear what I'm saying?
FF: I'll leave you to it.

I've always loved this delusion of hers - the perfect example of an unrefutable belief.
( flatfrog Staring vacantly into space, Mon 8 Sep 2008, 16:20, 8 replies)

my friend got angrily berated by a client
when he arrived late for an appointment. 'I would've expected better, that's not very professional' etc.

Which would've been fair enough, but what made my friend less apologetic than he would've been otherwise was that he's a social worker, and the client's an imprisoned paedophile.

I'm not sure which one I would've gone with - 'true, but on the upside I don't rape kids', or 'sorry, you have no idea how distracting it is being allowed to walk around outside.'
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Mon 8 Sep 2008, 16:10, Reply)

Someone rang up the Tax Office when I worked there
because their tax refund had had a big bite taken out of it, and all the form said was "government department" (or something similar).

I said that it's almost always one of two things: a debt to the dole, or unpaid child support.

Do you owe money to child support? Yes. OK then, question answered.

'But it's my money!'.

Well, no, you see if you have a debt to child support then...

'It's my money!'

Ah, well...the thing is that child support will...

'Well I'm just not gonna pay any bloody tax then!'

I might have been missing something here, but I'm unclear as to how someone can have a sense of grievance about the fact that they've failed to support their child.


EDIT: also, if you're getting refunds from your tax returns, you can fail to fill out as many you like, dolt.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Mon 8 Sep 2008, 15:56, Reply)

My favourite customer number 2
So, still working for Vision Express, but now assistant manager of a store.

Now, appointments with the optician are 20 minutes long, and we ask people to come in 10 minutes before their appointment time to have some tests and check their details before the main test.

So this bloke comes up to the desk.
"Hello, I've got an appointment at 11:00"
"Well it's 10 past 11 so I'm afraid you've missed it."
"What do you mean I've missed it."
"Well the appointment is only 20 minutes long and you have missed half of it."
"Well this is sodding ridiculous. It's not my fault I'm late, my wife's got cancer".
How that makes a difference I don't know. Also he had a swastika tatooed on his hand, didn't make me feel inclined to help him.
At this point the optician chips in.
"The next person is already here ready to go. I'll see them and then I'll try and fit you in."

So someone else takes this chappy in to have his pre tests done before he goes in for this test. I go off to have a tea break.

Well turns out that the person that was seen before this man had a problem which meant the test took the full 20 minutes. This meant that the optician couldn't fit this man in as the next person was on time. The optician spoke to the man and apologised but she couldn't see him today.

Someone came and got me as he was kicking of a demanding to speak to the manager. So I came out of the back to be faced by this twunt.
His first words to me "Oh it's you is it you fucking jobsworth cunt"
This did not sit well with me.
"What did you just call me?"
"A fucking jobsworth cunt"
The shop had fallen silent. Behind this man I can see another customer who was a black guy built like a brick shit house drawing himself up to his full 6ft 4. I also know that Di is listening to this. All you need to know about Di is that she is a big Geordie lass.
Emboldened by this I pulled myself up to my full 5ft 2 3/4ins.
"Don't you dare speak to me like that. Get out of my shop before I call security"
He stared at me for about two minutes before walking right to the door of the shop and turning to shout. "You're a fucking cunt you know that".


Two weeks later he came back in and had a test which he was on time for and spent £500. Twat.
( Mrs Entity is in hiding., Mon 8 Sep 2008, 15:49, 5 replies)

a guy rang up my work
wanting information about his wife's account, which we couldn't give to anyone but her.

So he said 'I'll just go and get her', and then did a high voice, pretending to be her.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Mon 8 Sep 2008, 15:44, 4 replies)

Today it's MY turn.
This weekend was a bad one. We've had the remnants of Hurricane Hanna come through with lots of rain, so you expect a few things to go doololly, don't you? So when my phone went out I was not overly surprised. However, as I have phone, TV and internet all coming through a fiber optic line in my back yard and I still have TV and can get online, having a dead phone seems a bit odd.

So I called Verizon this morning (may they eternally smell Courtney Love's growler) and got their voice menu system. After about ten levels of the voice menu, I get to the point of speaking to a human. "I'm transferring you to an agent now. Please wait... I'm sorry, your call cannot be processed. Please hang up."

Twice this has happened. As I'm in the office I can't scream my usual tirade of obscenities, so I've been using every bad bit of English slang I could think of. ("Shower of cranberrying wankers" was the beginning.) I'm sure that the people around me suspect me of speaking in tongues, or maybe of being possessed by the spirit of Bertie Wooster.

However, at lunch time I'm going to drive down to the corporate HQ in downtown and kick up enough of a scene that I'll make certain that they pay attention to me long enough to get this shit straightened out. And if they don't I'll go back there after work and curl out a nice big Richard the Third on their front steps.

Hamtouchers!
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Mon 8 Sep 2008, 15:36, 16 replies)

The Phone
I work in an IT office, nothing exciting and the job role plays no relevance to this tale and on one particular occasion I had been sent out to a client site for 6 months, I had a nice new desk and much to the amusement of the client employees I was give The Phone (yes the capitals are necessary).

The Phone as is common in offices had it’s own direct dial external number, The Phone due to an unfortunate lacking in luck had a direct dial number that was almost exactly the same as the Manchester United official kit hotline with the only difference being a simple transposing of the last two digits, as the new keeper of The Phone it was up to me to field all the inevitable calls and I couldn’t just unplug it and ignore it as I never knew when my boss would be phoning up to check on how things were going at the client site, oh how I grew to love The Phone.

Pretty much every single day was punctuated by a call from an irate Man U fan thinking that it was my fault that I couldn’t supply them with the latest shirt, not once did anyone apologise for dialling the wrong number and disturbing my day at work, one of the better occasions went as follows:

*Ring ring*

Me - Sigh

*Ring ring*

Client – (Laughing) You’d better answer The Phone, it might be your boss.

*Ring ring*

Me- Sigh

*Ring ring*

Me – Hello Bloggs and Co, Me speaking.

ManU Fan - I want to order a kit (no hello, no please, no questioning the company name, just straight to business)

Me – I am sorry (why am I sorry, it is your fault but I am at least polite) this is not the Man U kit hotline, this is Bloggs and Co and you have dialled the wrong number.

ManU Fan – No I haven’t I dialled the number in the latest magazine so it must be right now I want to order a new kit.

Me – I don’t doubt that the number in the latest magazine is correct however I believe you have dialled it incorrectly and have come through to the wrong place.

ManU Fan – I have not got it wrong now will you take my order.

Me – I am afraid I can not process your order as I do not work for nor am I affiliated in any way with Man U, this is Bloggs and Co and this number is xxxx78 and the number you require is xxxx87

ManU Fan – Yes I know that is the number I require, that is what I dialled so it must be right and I want to order a new kit.

Me – I work for Bloggs and Co and I can not process your order and I suggest you redial the number in your magazine and you will then get to order the kit you desire.

ManU Fan - *Click*

Me – Geez that one didn’t want to give up, what a *ring ring*

Me – Sigh, Hello Bloggs and Co, Me speaking.

ManU Fan - I want to order a kit.

Me – I am sorry this is not the Man U kit hotline, this is Bloggs and Co and you have dialled the wrong number.

ManU Fan – No I haven’t I dialled the number in the latest magazine so it must be right now I want to order a new kit.

Me (Realising this is the same person again) – I was just speaking to you before and this is still not the ManU kit hotline, please try redialling the number in the magazine.

ManU Fan – I just redialled it so it must be right.

Me – I am afraid you have still come through to the wrong company, you need to redial the number in your magazine and take care with the last two digits.

ManU Fan – *Click*

Me – What a genius we have on the phone today, he’s a real *ring ring*

Me – Sigh, Hello Bloggs and Co, Me speaking.

ManU Fan - I want to order a kit.

Me – This is still the wrong number, please try dialling xxxx87 very carefully.

ManU Fan – It’s not the wrong number, the magazine says xxxx87.

Me – Yes I know, but you have dialled xxxx78, please redial more carefully.

ManU Fan – *Click*

Me – I just know what’s going to happen next *Ring ring*

Me – Sigh, Hello Bloggs and Co, Me speaking.

ManU Fan - I want to order a kit.

Me – When I tell you to redial the correct number are you actually re-typing the number or are you just pressing the redial button.

ManU Fan - I am pressing the redial button.

Me – I suggest you type the number in again and please make sure you take care with the last two digits.

ManU Fan - *Click*

Silence is golden.

Day after day after day it went on like this and somehow it was always my fault, I deeply regret being on client site because had I not needed to be all professional and impress the client I would have happily taken all their personal and credit card details and ordered them all the most expensive Chelsea kit I could manage, they would have loved that.
(LexLexington Feels the need, the need for a speedy cup of tea, Mon 8 Sep 2008, 15:25, 10 replies)

Favourite customer number 1
when I was working for an opticians one of my jobs was to teach people how to use contact lenses.
I really enjoyed this part of the job. As someone who has a very high prescription I know the difference wearing contact lenses can make to someone's life.

Well one day I was asked to teach a girl to use her lenses. She was a complete chav. I'm sure I've seen her since questioning the fathership of her children on Jeremy Kyle.
She had a +8 prescription which meant that she had very little near vision. This makes it all a little trickier but I'd done it loads of times so I was sure I could teach her.
I showed her what to do and asked her to have a go. She had one try and whines 'I can't do it'.
'Don't worry it takes a while to get used to it, just have another go.'
'can't do it'
This carried on for an hour. But we got there in the end. I also showed her how to use the cleaning fluid. This is a very basic cleaning fluid which you use by pouring some into your hand and rubbing it on the lens.

A week later she came back for a check. Turned out she hadn't been cleaning the lenses properly as she was too lazy to rub it. So we gave her a different solution. This is a peroxide based solution which cleans well. However, peroxide and eyes don't mix, it is vital that you use this product correctly so it is neutralised before you get it anywhere near your eyes.

Well like a paedophile in a playground, you can see it coming can't you.
She comes charging in with red eyes, 'you fucking bitch, I've fucked my eyes up because of you.'
Now I've done that before when I'm being dumb, yes peroxide in your eyes hurts like a bastard but you won't do much long term damage.
The optician saw her and checked her eyes, no damage done.
Before leaving the store she finds me again. "You fucking bitch, I've fucked up my eyes and an it's all your fucking fault'.
Now I didn't take kindly to this.
"Leave now before I call security. I'm cancelling your lenses. I do not tolerate being spoken to like that leave".
So off she stomped.

Well a couple of days later a different chav came in.
"Hello, I've come to pick up some lenses"
I asked the name.
"I'm Shazney Bloggs"
Which was the name of the chav girl.
To which I replied "No you're not, please leave".

Not very exciting I admit, but there we go.
( Mrs Entity is in hiding., Mon 8 Sep 2008, 15:17, 3 replies)

Not so much from hell
My sister has just returned from a holiday in France, where she was travelling with some friends of the family. Upon her return she shared this tale about her travelling companions:

When they arrived in france, the friends of the family went to pick up a hire car they had booked.
When payment was required the husband handed over his credit card, only for it to be declined and cut in half in front of him. This made him very angry, he demanded to know why the card had been cut up - it was 4 years out of date!
(thinking he would be clever, to prevent multiple cards being lost or stolen, this was the only card he took with him)

His wife had a look through her purse... result, she had taken her new platinum card with her, and gave the card to the man on the rental stall.
The person then asked for her driving license. (thinking she would be clever, to prevent losing or getting her driving license stolen, she left it at home)
So now there was the dilema, one has a driving license, the other has a credit card in their name.

They ended up with a very large cash advance on the good credit card and having to pay a 300 Euro penalty for refusing to give a valid credit card.
( Maximinimus you stick around I'll make it worth your while, Mon 8 Sep 2008, 15:08, Reply)