S&M shop
Last time I was in London, I walked past a shop in the environs of Soho that had latex equipment and whips etc in the window. What drew my attention, however, were a few Victorian spanking lithographs that - for reasons of my own - made me ring the bell to get in.

The door buzzed open and and I entered. Inside, I beheld a display of handcuffs, spiked wheels, horse bridles (!) and urethra expanders (!!). There was the usual array of studded leather and latex. But no shop assistant.

I loitered for a while looking at nipple tassles and strap-ons, and then I heard footsteps approaching from beneath. It was the assistant: the gayest man in the world. Whatever it is that tells you a man might be gay, this guy was the original mould. He was wearing a skintight latex tanktop, a leather cap at a jaunty angle and trousers so tight that MY voice got higher. Additionally, he has a sort of insinuating smirk so non-hetero that he made Graham Norton look like Pierce Brosnan.

What truly unnerved me however, were the latex gloves on his hands. The fingertips were stained brown.

I asked about the pictures and he descended to ask the manager. I heard no voices. Then he returned to say that the pictures were just copies and of no intrinsic value. I asked another question and was told that the manager wasn't able to ascend the stairs (followed by a smirk so powerful that it turned coffe into a fruit smoothie in the neighbouring cafe).

I pictured the manager strapped to some kind of rack face down with a ball in his mouth. Then shook the picture from my mind immediately.

Not the customer from Hell, but definitely in the wrong place.
(frankspencer, Tue 9 Sep 2008, 15:33, 17 replies)

I work in the corporate environmental field
On one trip to Jo'burg I visited a plant on a refinery site. Three days before I was due to leave it was on the international news that a gas pipeline on the site had exploded during maintenance leading to headlines such as "explosion kills six people, over 100 are injured and at least nine are missing".

Three days later, when I arrived the plant was back up and running. It was explained to me that it was ok because "they were blacks".

Valves used to blow and the gas analyser I had showed toxic levels of various nasties in the atmosphere INSIDE the buildings that people worked 12+ hours within. I felt very unsafe for that entire month that I worked there and only really relaxed when I was back in my bed on the plane home.
( M3rx likes the Asian ladies, Tue 9 Sep 2008, 15:33, Reply)

Cats
I occasionally volunteer for a Cat Charity in my spare time and spend a fair amount of time with the furry buggers, so I suppose my customers are these bastards.

They're skittish as hell, and terrified at any movement; I've had my hand shredded many a time just doling out food. It's not their fault really, it's the bastards who have abused/abandoned these animals that are the real bad guys, but I digress.

I was processing the new arrivals in the cattery when I came across a ginger Tom, un-neutered. He was fucking huge, like a furry bastard wheelbarrow with a tail. I knew as soon as I saw him he'd be a handful and I was soon proved right when I knelt down outside his cage to check his food and water.

"YARAHHAWWWWWWWWWWAHOOOOOOAHO"

I nearly crimped off a length in sheer terror as the furry bastard launched himself at the door with such ferocity he nearly broke the lock. The noise he was making was unearthly - the fluorescent dim from the lights was making his eyes glow red, this was no ordinary cat.

He was scrabbling through the bars of the cage trying to grab my hand with his frying pan sized paws, I was having none of it and screaming blue murder back at him "I'LL PULL YOUR FUCKING TAIL OFF YOU LITTLE SHIT, STOP CUNTING AROUND OR I'LL RIP YOUR BOLLOCKS OFF!"

Magic. He went quiet. He'd left a chunk of fur in the cage door; I picked it up. Slightly bloody and still warm, that was my

cussed tom hair from hell.
(Himjim died a little more inside on, Tue 9 Sep 2008, 15:28, 5 replies)

"not me" stories II
Not me 4
BT. My dad worked for a large telecomms company as a project manager for some time. In the early 80's, BT ordered a number of new telephone exchanges from said company and my dad project managed their instalation. The one that caused him all the grief weas in Nowheresville, Hampshire. It was litterally in the middle of a field, a good 5 miles from the nearest other structure. Exchange was built and kitted out. BT then requested it was demolished and rebuilt, at the company's expense. Why? It had been built 3/4" (19mm)too far north.

Not me 5:
Mate of mine works in a job centre just outside Liverpool. One lad came in one morning and smelled so bad that the woman who's desk he sat at threw up pretty much as soon as he sat down.
(ScousersPet, Tue 9 Sep 2008, 15:26, Reply)

Libraries - part 4
We have a man who comes in the library, who we will call "Mr Bishop". Because that's his name. He's not realy aggressive or batshit insane, but he is incredibly annoying. He comes in every morning and tried to fit every newspaper's crossword onto the glass of our A4 copier. So I often spend my mornings watching this 60 something year old man hump the copier in a vain effort to save 40p or so. He also talks very loudly, and for some reason comes to me with all his technical enquries. Several customers have tried to fight him for is loudness, photocopier humping and general bastardry, and annoyingly I have to prevent it from happening.

Anyway, just last week justice was served. He wants to know the maximum recording length of a CD. So I'm looking online for him and thanks to a ridiculous modern day layout he is able to stand behind me and watch what I'm doing. Eventually he gets bored and decides to go and hump the photocopier again. As he walks off he obviously didn't take note of his surroundings, noteable the corner of my desk which was...ooohh let's say...about crotch height. Cue the corner of the desk cracking him square in the Stalins, and him going down quicker than Jade Goody on a persuadable radiologist.

I still have purple streaks on my face from holding the laughter in.
(GONEism, Tue 9 Sep 2008, 15:19, 1 reply)

The MAKRO post below
reminds me of another my missus regaled me with. She told me about a fellow colleague who was the nicest girl you could ever meet.

She was on till, dealing with an ever-increasingly flustered customer. Till girl (I can't remember her name, I think it was Laura, but not sure) had gone out of her way to help the customer - calling round the other local stores.
A manager wandered by and Laura called him over and asked him his advice. Customer addresses manager:
"I hope you're not going to be as useless as this.... prostitute!"
Laura walks off crying.
Apparently manager told customer to "Get the fuck out of my store before I call security to throw you out just like a scumbag shoplifter".

Woman leaves sharpish. No complaints, nothing.

Manager buys Laura some chocolates and some flowers.
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Tue 9 Sep 2008, 15:18, 4 replies)

I work for
an 'alternative' shop. We get our fair share of customers from hell, the best one was "Doobry Lady". We called her this because thats the word she used to describe things when she did'nt know what they were.

This lady was a raging alcoholic, who'd stink of vodka at 9.30am. At one time was pregnant and insisted we touched her stomach. We politely declined, and on one occassion she lifted her top up to show one of the others her stomach and her boobs fell out, I was watching it on CCTV and paralised by fear. The poor girl who witnessed it, took her a while get over that sight.

She had a eyebrow piercing, came in to show us stating "This bar, it's in my head!". She used to by oversized sleepers to wear as a nose ring, and used to try and make us fit them. "We're not insured" was the ususal statement. She had a manky nose, oozing pus.

She carried a knife in her bag as well, which meant we were all very polite.

Crazy crazy lady.
(kids_will_be_skeletons, Tue 9 Sep 2008, 15:11, Reply)

Working tech support is great fun /sarcasm
As mentioned before, I used to work tech support for a certain fruity ISP (this was before they decided to reduce their chances of getting scurvy.)

As many of you who have worked tech support know, there are three types of people who will phone you:

Type the first is the customer who knows what they're talking about when it comes to computers. These customers are the Holy Grail of the tech support world as it doesn't matter what jargon you use.

Type the second is the customer who doesn't know what they're doing when it comes to computers and is brave enough to admit it. At least with these customers, you know to speak down to your level.

And type the third are the ones who know nothing about computers but claim to anyway. These are the really annoying ones. And these are the ones who are most likely to get angry.

One customer who called the centre ended up speaking to a supervisor who advised him that there was no way he could get his replacement modem faster. He lived in the next town over, so he threatened to come to the building where the centre was located to get his modem swapped. We thought nothing of it, until security called up about half an hour later saying that the customer was there and refusing to move till he had spoken to the supervisor.

Another customer wanted to cancel his contract, and thought they had good grounds, due to a one letter spelling mistake in his user name. Apparently it was vitally important for his email address.

Then there was the gentleman who kept phoning up due to a problem with his webmail address, from which he was running a business. Despite the fact that a) we didn't offer webmail tech support and b) it quite clearly states in the T&C that the webmail is for personal use only and you run a business from it at your own peril.

Cease and reprovides were also a good source of customer frustration. Mostly about the time it took for them to be done (as proscribed by BT, outwith our control). The other one from these were the customers who thought the broadband was attached to their phone number, would take their old number with them when they moved house, then expressed surprise that they couldn't automatically connect to their broadband.

(It doesn't help that BT sometimes screws this up. Like the poor customer I had who couldn't connect. It turns out that once BT had stopped the broadband on their old line, they provided broadband...

...to the old line. Explaining that situation to my supervisor was fun.)

And now, my favourite story. With broadband through a phoneline, the company can only guarantee a connection to the main phone socket into the house. The reason is that, even if the extention socket was put in by BT themselves, it's still not designed to carry the signal.

So, I had a gentleman call in unable to connect. I went through all the standard tests and then said I needed him to try plugging the modem directly into the main socket. He said he couldn't do that as the computer was too far from the socket. I asked how he was connecting the two of them. He said that he was using an extention cable. I asked how far the computer and modem were from the socket. He said about 30 feet. I advised him to get an extended RJ11 cable (the one linking the modem to the phone line). He refused as he didn't want a cable trailling through the house. He then insisted on a line test. I refused, pointing out that I couldn't run the line test until he had tried from the main socket into the house. (Unsaid but thought was the fact that the problem wasn't on the line in the first place.)

He then started saying that he wanted to cancel his contract. I pointed out the only way he could do that was to pay off the remaining 11 months. He said he should be allowed to as he wasn't getting the service he was paying for and that he would be seeking legal advice. I pointed out the 30 foot extention and the fact that it stated quite clearly in the T&C (which he needed to agree to both when he regestered and when installing the software) disagreed.

He then claimed that the T&C didn't apply to him because he didn't read them before clicking I agree.

At this point I was seriously tempted to tell him to get a picture of his lawyers face when he said that would be his argument as I'd love to see it. Instead I pointed out again what he needed to do, said again he couldn't cancel the contract and the call was ended.

BTW: if you have to phone tech support about a broadband problem and they tell you to unplug all the phones and try connecting with only the modem plugged in it's either a) they need you to do that or b) they're bored with talking to you/it's affecting their stats and want to get you off the phone.

Length? Longest call was over an hour.
(williamthebloody, Tue 9 Sep 2008, 15:11, 2 replies)

Libraries - part 3
We have a local nutter come in by the name of Tracy. She has a problem with banks. I don't mean the staff either - she actually stands out side the bank next door and screams at it. Anyway, one day she decides to pay us a visit and asks to get a library card. We need proof of address to prevent pikeys from nicking all our DVDs and vanishing into the sunset. She tried to use a birth certificate which of course, we couldn't accept, despite her very accurate argument of "well, it proves I exist". Anyway, this refusal sent her into a hellish frenzy of banshee rage, and being the supervisor, I catch her. Figuring that properly, properly crazy people are more concerned with proving they're napoleon and whatnot than being criminals. I give her a card, she suddenly turns into this polite, cordial, well spoken young lady. She thanks me and turns away. I relax, thinking it's all over. Then all of a sudden she wheels around:

"It's coz my dad's dead innit".

Bless em.
(GONEism, Tue 9 Sep 2008, 15:03, Reply)

Clothing Shops
In my younger days i worked in a few clothing stores and I knew what I was doing....
Shame some of the customers didn't.

*A woman who swore blind she was a size 28" waist - Cue me running upstairs and downstairs with many different Levi's in a 28" waist....finally she clailms that "All our Levi's must be defective!!!"
So I take a look at her and have a good estimate of what size she is, run upstairs and find a pair of 32" jeans and carefully take the tags off and change them. She tries them on and complements me on finding the perfect size!!!

* Getting a pikey in to return a 'defective' jumper to us - not only did it stink to high heaven of smoke and god knows what, but it was also of a make that we stopped stocking Two Years ago!!!

* The best was me working in my dads store and having to deal with a woman who had issue with our returns policy - We only refunded if the product was faulty, otherwise it was an exchange or credit note - after calling me many nasty names and demanding to see the owner my dad politly told her that he was the owner, not to treat his staff this way and to p*ss off out of his shop and don't come back!


* Oh yeah there was also the guy who used to run into the shop and steal the left shoe from the dummy - but he was never a customer!
( Random Image Yes, yes, I'll speak to you on Monday, Tue 9 Sep 2008, 15:00, Reply)

Another creepy man
I think I attract them...

Anyways, during my first year at uni I worked in a nightclub that was part of a chain that had a seventies theme named after a style of trousers of that era, in Wales' second biggest "city". It was an OK job, I like the music and I got to dance. Some of the customers were lovely, mainly the regulars. Some of them were complete idiots.

This one customer was the reason why I left.

It was a usual saturday night, busy, full of welsh chavs wanting a blu, the turkish predators who would surround the dance floor looking for fat single mothers (easy money) and the drunk people who weren't allowed in anywhere else. Yes, that was the calibre of our clientelle. It was my turn for an hour on the floor collecting glasses and bottles. It was nearing the end of the night, and I was glad to be off the bar for a while. So I'm walking around with my basket, minding my own business, inwardly and often outwardly cursing everytime I heard the smash of yet another drink being thrown on the floor. I bend down to pick up a bottle from the floor and this old man puts his hand down the back of my trousers. I stand up pretty sharpish and scream in his face "What the hell do you think you're doing?!" He shrugs his shoulders at me and grins "Just having a laugh love" Having a laugh?! How the hell is that having a laugh?! I'm close to exploding at this point, but I know that it would be easier to get the door staff to deal with him as that is their job. I go over to them, explain the situation, they laugh and say to me "Oh you love the attention".... wtf?! So over to my boss to explain the situation once again, about how I really don't appreciate being felt up by sweaty old men, and he turns to me and says "Well, he'll probably tip you later." I look at him increduously, put my basket full of glasses down on the floor, and walk out.

Got a phone call the next day asking if I could cover him as he wanted to watch the football. Twunt.
(timewarper, Tue 9 Sep 2008, 14:56, 4 replies)

Libraries - part 2
We do a loyalty card scheme. Every time you take two books out you get a stamp, and after 5 stamps you get a free DVD/CD/talking book rental.

Me: Yes sir, you can rent anything you like for free

Man: What, even the books?
(GONEism, Tue 9 Sep 2008, 14:44, 1 reply)

Not exactly customers from hell
But my friend describes dealing with some customers as making him feel a bit like Satan...

He worked for the call centre of a particular insurance company, dealing with home and valuable insurance etc mainly.

The way he describes it, and his reasons for leaving make it sound extremely stressful, as frequently he would have to deal with the woeful sobbings of people breaking down on the end of the phone when they were told that because they answered a few questions wrong the insurance company weren't legally obliged to pay for their whole house and all their belongings being water damaged etc.

He said that for all the downs, there were a load of really grateful people who even sent in thank you letters and the like, but that telling people that all the stuff they thought was insured was in fact not going to be replaced was a bit much for him after a while.

I know that we should all be less attached to our stuff as it is just that, stuff, but I can only imagine that hearing someone crying down the phone to you after you've essentially just pushed them over the edge can only be a hellish experience.

This has led me to reaffirm my leanings that insurance companies are complete twat-rackets who you need to keep a very scrupulous eye on what you're paying for.
(Scrumpy does not negotiate with terrorists,, Tue 9 Sep 2008, 14:40, 1 reply)

James Bond's employee of the month
1990 or thereabouts. I worked for the Royal Bank of Scotland.

I saw the man first. He walked into the branch, clad in a camouflage jacket, his head freshly shaved apart from a tuft at the back which he had missed. And sure enough, he walked over to my till position.

“Can I draw some money out?” he asked. I reached for a withdrawal slip and asked if he knew his account number. He didn’t. I asked for his name, and when I checked he had no account at the branch. I asked if he had an account at a different branch but he did not. So, I told him that he could not draw any money out. In a flash, he asked to speak to the manager.

The manager was a lovely bloke, close to retirement and always immaculately dressed (as an aside I saw him one weekend and he was still wearing a suit, although he had abandoned his tie in favour of a cravat). I asked him if he would be prepared to speak to the lunatic at my till and, after I explained the story, he said that he would.

“Alright, chief,” the lunatic began. “I’d like to draw some money out.”

“How much would you like?” asked the manager.

“A cool million,” came the reply.

“You don’t have an account though, do you?” said the manager.

The man shook his head. “Well, I’ve got one at the post office.”

“And how much do you have in there?”

“Twenty-eight pence.”

The manager just shook his head. “No. I can’t help you,” he said.

“Can I have a loan then?”

“You can apply for one.” He handed the man a form. “Who do you work for?”

“James Bond,” the man replied. Everybody in the banking hall giggled.

“No,” said the manager. “I’m sorry.”

Surprisingly chirpily the man turned away and with a friendly “oh well, thanks anyway” he walked through the banking hall, took our foreign exchange rates board, put it under his arm, and walked out of the door, abandoning the board in the middle of the A56, as we discovered when a confused-looking customer carried it in a few minutes later.
(nasalhair The Twix guy!, Tue 9 Sep 2008, 14:36, 1 reply)

Libraries
Well, one advantage most counter-monkeys have is the ability to remove people off the premises when they get too unruly. Not so libraries. Since we're so desperate for customers we'll whore ourselves out to any paedophile, substance abuser and general nogoodnik. We're not allowed to throw people out because, and I quote, "It looks negative". Remember that next time you take your kids to the library. So, on with the first of many tales.

Me: Hello, can I help?

Pikey w/spawn: My son's doin' a project on dinosaurs innit. I want some books.

[off I goes, merrily in search of our dinosaur books]

[I return with 4 or 5 books on dinosaurs. She flicks through them]

Pw/S: Well this ain't no good - I want photos !

By god, I wish I was joking...
(GONEism, Tue 9 Sep 2008, 14:35, 1 reply)

Omar
In the dim and distant, I picked up a friend, well aquaintance, Omar by name. Now this was in the 80s, when things, especially where I come from, were considerably less multicultural than they are today. However, I had a Bangladeshi foster sister, and at least some notion of how other cultures worked, so Omar sort of latched on. We weren't bosom buddies, and as a beer-drinking metalhead our social lives didn't exactly interact, but at least I didn't tell him to feck off for being ethnic.

Now Omar came from a very very religious family. Uber traditionalist, marry your cousin at 12 kind of thing, these days would probably have MI5 hiding in their wheely bins.

Now his folks were 100% adamant that Omar must be kept away from alcohol, women, and indeed anything that might corrupt his soul. I was seriously vetted as a friend, and his family made Saudi customs look moderate - Cosmopolitain was regarded as pornography, so fuck knows what they'd have made of some of my stash of crispy Fiestas. In fact they'd kicked off like a good 'un when I'd lent him a copy of Kerrang, as there was some female flesh on display. It came back with several pages torn out, and a lecture on the nature of all things haraam, and how they would be following me (!) to make sure that I did not corrupt their son.

Blinking flip, sez I, but as Omar was an alright sort, with coincidentally an enormous and verging on the deranged-look-at-me-with-my-Semtex-waistcoat brother, I squeaked 'OK'.

Unfortunately, Omar was a fanny-rat. He desperately wanted to introduce a young lady to his Eastern Promise. He would stare at the top shelf magazines with the look of a starving man offered chips & gravy, would liberate the Sunday colour supplements to see if there were any swimming cossie shots, with drool dripping intensity.

Pretty soon all the local newsagents had been warned off by enormous foaming brother, and to be quite frank I was getting fed up acting as his moral guardian.

And then came the day, when I had innocently bimbled into Smiths to peruse the mags. On my tod. And was gripped by an issue featuring a certain Ms McPherson wearing not a lot. Could have been FHM or something similar, so it was basically revealing rather than pronographic, but I digress.

"Osok, Hi!" Oh, 'tis Omar. His bulging eyeballs locked onto the glossy pulchritude in my hands like meat-seeking missiles, and his body temperature went up so fast condensation formed on the shop window.

With a tremble in his voice, he said "l-l-l-l-ets hhhave a look". As his brother walks in the front door.

Heavens to Murgatroyd, I'm going to be lynched. Albeit for a crime I did not commit.

Like lightning, I tackled Omar, hurling the tumescent victim into the next aisle where he came to rest by the Barbie pencil cases, as I casually replaced the magazine in the rack and wandered off.

His 'smacked-puppy' look still haunts me, although the *squeak* that issued forth from his suddenly terrified sphincter as he spotted his brother does not.

And that, dear readers, is how I....


Thrust Omar From Elle.








I am so very sorry
(osok Rebel without a clue, Tue 9 Sep 2008, 14:25, 10 replies)

"not me" stories
Not me 1:
Mate of mine used to work in Game (I could do a whole rant about how he and his colleagues all thought they worked in the games industry, but won't) highlights include:
Customer who was told he shouldn't really buy GTAIII for his 10 year old son, then came back a few days later, threatening to "report them" because of the violence, swearing etc. in the game.
Bloke in his mid-20's who expected the trade-in value of his game to be £34.99, because "that's what you sell it for". He basically expected to be able to do a straight swap of a game he's bought months previously for a new one.
The bloke who would come in and ask the release date of just about every upcoming game, every day. And never bought anyting.
The hundreds of "I want a game like X, but not X" customers. See also "I've already clocked that" customers.
Console fanboys. Nuff said.
People trading in games that looked like they'd been run over, but expected full price for them.

Not me 2:
Mate who worked in B&Q - his main problem was with customers returning "unopened tins of paint" that were actually filled with water, bricks, sawdust etc.

Not me 3:
Wife used to work at a credit card company. Like all credit card companies, they would do mailshots with a freepost envelope. The Accounts Incoming department would regularly open the returned envelopes to find them filled with shit. Literally. Now, I can see "sticking it to the man" but these were minimum wage slaves, who had to work fairly long, crappy hours, performing mind-numbing tasks who didn't really deserve to put their hands in someone else's shit.
(ScousersPet, Tue 9 Sep 2008, 14:18, Reply)

The creepy Pharmacy Guy
Wrong on an entirely different level...

I used to work in a small local pharmacy when I was at secondary school. I started in the afternoons after school, and was eventually promoted to Saturdays. Woot!

Anywho, a fair few odd balls came in to our pharamacy, but one always sticks out...

I was doing my thing one Saturday, making shelves look nice and all, when a man approaches the counter to collect his prescription. So i find it for him, and politely ask him to fill in the back. He looks at me for a moment and asks "You used to work here during the week, didn't you?" I reply in the affirmative. He smiles, looks down at my breasts and says "My you've grown!" I felt physically sick. I was only 14 but an early developer... he must have been near 50. I collected his form and hid round the back until he had left. I refused to serve him after that. Especially as one days as I was walking home for my lunch break, he happened to pop out of the off licence as I was walking past and stared at me all the way up the road. Creepy man.

The viagra customers were never that pervy, I guess coz they were getting some!

Sorry for rambling, first post after much lurking!
(timewarper, Tue 9 Sep 2008, 14:14, 4 replies)

Important
A friend of mine works for a large printer manufacturer doing something clever with contracts. As part of his role he has the (mis)fortune of dealing with internal customers - sales monkeys who are close to agreeing a pan European / global agreement with an external customer. His role is to ensure that everything is watertight legally and that the aforementioned monkey hasn't promised something they can't deliver.
Consequently, as the £ signs and dreams of commission flash through their tiny minds, he often finds himself party to some less than helpful dialogue.

On such an occasion recently a sales twit called him late afternoon;

Sales Monkey: "I've tried calling the French office to get the finishing touches done to this European agreement but nobody is answering"

Friend: "That's because the French office are closed for summer holidays, nobody is there. Didn't you read the email that went round?"

SM: "But I need to speak to somebody in France urgently!!!"

Friend: "Like I said, nobody is there. The French office closes for 2 weeks every August"

SM: "I need to sign this off this week, I demand to speak to somebody in the French office!"

Friend (getting irritated) "Listen, there's nobody there. You'll just get a voice message. It will have to wait until next week"

SM: "but..but...but..I'M REALLY IMPORTANT!"

Friend: "I can't believe you just said that"

Discounting continental holidays and their impact on day to day business for a moment; who on earth in their right mind would declare their own importance like that !?!!?!
(mcgriffto, Tue 9 Sep 2008, 14:10, 1 reply)

Dear Customers of Call Centres
Hello. My name is Captain Wow, and I help to run a call centre just like the ones you phone up. Maybe I even help to run the one you phone quite often. If you work for my very large client (and over 30,000 of you do) then it'll be my team who you speak to.

I'd like to bring your attention to a few points that I'm sure, if heeded, will make both of our lives more simple and much nicer.

Number one: your mum may think you're as special as the first snowdrop of whenever it is that they grow. Jesus may count you as one of his most favourite sunbeams. All this said, to me you're just another customer, to be treated exactly the same as everyone else. I don't give a fuck how important you think you are, it's not going to help at all.

Perhaps if you're very, very nice to my agents and you've made a particularly large error (it happens) then I might waste some of my tiny budget in helping you (even though it may be bending the T+Cs to almost breaking point)... however if you're rude and labour under the VERY bloody mistaken understanding that you know the terms and conditions better than I do (and I helped set them in place) then you'll find my patience and small budget at exactly 0% capacity.

Number two: Husband/wife/daughter/son/mate/dog/vauxhall astra/skin cell of my customer, you don't count. You do in the grand scheme of things, but not as far as I'm concerned and certainly not in terms of being able to access their account. Data Protection Act, fool.

In the same way that your bank doesn't allow me to call up and say 'Hello, I'm Mrs UnderInformed and I'd like to move all my money into the account of one Mrs Captain H Wow', I'm not allowing you to do that here. It doesn't matter how much you stamp your little hooves and froth at the mouth, it won't happen. I won't allow my agents to help you and I certainly won't be doing it myself.

Number three: if you DO need to speak to a manager, the best way to get in touch is by explaining this calmly to the agent you're speaking to. I appreciate that you might be upset, but screaming 'LOOK BITCH I NEED TO SPEAK TO YOUR FUCKING SUPERVISOR NOW PUT ME THE FUCK THROUGH BEFORE I FIND YOU AND TEAR YOUR THROAT OUT' (yes I am quoting there) is probably not going to help you when you get put through to me.

That's the thing about call centre managers- we've generally moved up from being agents ourselves. This means that not ONLY are we totally unfazed by your pissy insults, but we're bloody sick to death of the useless, dickless carping. We can also make you accessing us quite difficult. There are some people my team now will not service, on my instruction, and that's not the end of it. If it's a scheme provided by your employer that you're ringing about, I can make your life very difficult indeed. A lot of employers look very unfavourably on behaviour like that, and it's not unheard of for sackings to occur. I actually think that's a bit much for just a bit of vocal impotency but never mind, eh? It's no skin off my nose if you suddenly find yourself without a pot to piss in because you couldn't behave like a grown up.

Number four: luckily I'm a nice person, so this point really doesn't apply to customers who call in to my team, but it's still a valid point. Most of the time, any agent will have your home address, telephone number, sometimes bank details, answers to most frequently used security questions..... just don't. Whatever gobshittery you're planning.....don't. Because there's always one agent ready to snap, somewhere out there. Chances are your superb example of cuntism might be the one to push them over the edge.


I may send you a second letter with more points, but I think this is more than enough for you to work on for now. So I'll bid you adieu with one final thought.

YOU RANG US.

Kind regards

Captain Wow
( Captain Wow currently being a cunt in Infamous, Tue 9 Sep 2008, 14:06, 27 replies)

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)

A few years back
I was attending a university launch event. My boss volunteered me and my mate to sit at the door and hand out name badges to people as they came in. Now I wasn't best pleased at this, as I had been working a lot on the particular technology which had resulted in this launch, so thought I deserved better than to be doing a menial task.

I'm also not very good with faces. Not quite prosopagnosia, but I do find it a bit difficult to recognise people.

Anyway, the punters were coming in, and we were asking names and dishing out badges as required, when this bloke came in and stood in front of me.

I looked up.

He looked back.

"Your name, please?" I enquired.

"I", replied the chap, addressing me like something he'd found on his shoe, "am the Principal of the University".

"Oh, right", I said, and rummaged through the badges for his one. "Sorry I didn't recognise you, but I don't suppose you don't know me either, do you?"

He continued on his way.
( K2k6 has a proper job these days, Tue 9 Sep 2008, 13:55, Reply)

The Big Bosses Touch Typist
A call came down to the Helpdesk via one of the many minions, telling us that the Big Bosses PA, who was much too important to call herself had a problem with Word.

She was typing away at a gazillion words per minute, but it was all coming out gibberish.

It was a Friday.

We couldn't figure it out, so we said we'd get her pc in for testing on Monday.

On Monday it miraculously fixed itself... so we carried on blissfully ignorant of what it was that was wrong, assuming it was a strange blip - or that she was an idiot.

A few Fridays later an irate big bosses touch typer called us herself this time - it was doing it again and she was mightily unimpressed.

We couldn't fix it - we left it for a Monday collection.

Monday came and it was back to normal. Go figure...

Anyway a few more calls about this Friday thing, and one of the lads in the office who'd farted and pissed us all off, was forced to go up and see her after the Big Boss called our boss to tell us he was now pissed off too because it was doing "it" again, and she couldn't get this report finished. And he wanted that report. Yesterday.

This lad watched her do her amazing touch typing and it all came into focus.

He came back to the office, and told our boss what was going on... And our boss promptly picked up the phone and said "We figured out the problem" to the big guy "your secretary is shitfaced and has her fingers on the wrong letters".

And so ended that little drama... and we moved on to the woman who used her cd rom tray as a cup holder.
(Kaplaaah Wasting time on the net since 1994., Tue 9 Sep 2008, 13:53, 1 reply)

Some people phone Samaritans to have a wank
... because 0845 numbers are cheaper than 0898 numbers and there's a pretty good chance you'll get through to a polite young lady.

We end the calls as soon as we realise what's going on, but they keep trying.

I'm a man so I get fewer of these calls than the female volunteers do - they tend to be heterosexual men so they hang up as soon as they find they're talking to another bloke.

However my gentle, caring, Samaritans voice is a bit softer than how I usually speak, so occasionally they misinterpret my gender. It gives me great satisfaction when the conversation goes like this:

Me: Samaritans, can I help you?
Him: Ooh, hello!
[From the tone of his voice I'm already pretty sure he's dick-in-hand.]
Him: And what can I call you?
Me: My name's Ben.
Him: What!?
Me: My name's Ben.
Him: Uh.. *click*


(Posted under my spare profile to maintain Samaritan volunteer anonymity.)
( I'm usually someone else, Tue 9 Sep 2008, 13:24, 2 replies)

Open University Residential School
I had the priviledge of working on the OU residential summer schools in the school office this summer. It wasn't a bad job for a student over the holiday - five weeks long and the pay wasn't bad either, and I quite enjoyed myself.

However in the last week, I'd been in an insufferable bad mood all week and was liable to biting anyone's head off that so much as looked at me in the wrong way. So when a student decided to get rude with me 2 days before my contract ended, I decided I was going to get slightly irriated back.

Student: "I'd like to congratulate you on your sense of humour"
Me: "Excuse me?"
S: "I phoned ahead and asked for a quiet room and you've put me in a room where all the students stand outside til 3.30am talking and smoking AND it's next to a bus stop! I phoned the porters 3 times last night to ask the other people to move on and now I have assessed practicals today and I'm tired!"
Me: "Unfortunately I can't control the actions of other students and you have been in that room since Saturday, it is now Wednesday, why have you not asked to move room before now?"
S: *Looks shocked*
Me: "Well I SUPPOSE I can move you to a room at the back of the building but we don't have information on which rooms are where so it will be completely at random and you may end up in a worse place..." *sighing and shuffling through key cards of spare rooms*

At this point the girl I was working with gave me a terrified look and ran across the office and offered to take the rather annoyed looking student across to the porters with the key cards because they would know which rooms were on the back and which weren't.

When I changed the room details in the system later I noticed that the room he had been in was the same room that a friend of mine had been living in all year on campus. This particular friend bats for the other side as it were, so I had great satisfaction in realising that my friend had been having gay sex in this man's bed!!

Length? How would I know?!
(Petite chien is going to do science to it, Tue 9 Sep 2008, 13:08, Reply)

working in "The World's Tallest Cinema Complex"
I had plenty of customers from hell.

Unfortunately, being security, it was my job to deal with them.

I have many of these, so they will appear often.

The most annoying of these was the cardholder who would come in every night, without fail, and get a ticket to the last film to leave the cinema. Not a problem in itself.

Being security, it was also down to us to be the last staff members visible - so removing all customers floor by floor.

This man was rather large, with milkbottle glasses, and came in everytime with 2 coffees from a coffe shop. He also smelled, badly. (I had the misfortune of being stuck in a lift with him once).

After his film finished, he would shuffle off to the disabled toilets, and stay there, for anything up to 15 minutes. Strange noises were often heard, and he did once leave his stains on the floor - but there was never a shit done. He was indeed, enjoying himself. Smelly cunt
(bamboozled Can hear you getting fatter, Tue 9 Sep 2008, 13:02, Reply)

I’m the customer from Heaven…(I think)

As I regularly bombard these illustrious pages with tales of my ever increasing Chinese food addiction, always obtained from my local (sainted) Eastern Star, I tend to gloss over the quality of service I am provided with; and how I in turn try to make their wonderful lives as easy as possible.

Besides being an excellent tipper and always having the exact money available, this is how the telephone order conversation has ‘evolved’ over the years

2 Years ago and before:

ES: “Hello, Eastern Star”
Me: “Hi, I’m like to order some food for delivery please”
ES: “No problem sir, what would you like?”
Me: “I’d like a special Chow Mein, Extra Noodles, A portion of chips and curry sauce please”
ES: “Excellent sir, Can I have your address please?”
Me: “It’s Number 4, ******* Close”
ES: “Very Good sir, It will be there in 20 minutes”

Between 1 and 2 years ago:

ES: “Hello, Eastern Star”
Me: “Hi, I’m like to order some food for delivery please”
ES: “No problem sir, what would you like?”
Me: “I’d like a special Chow Mein, Extra Noodles, A portion of chips and curry sauce please”
ES: “Oh, is that Number 4, ******* Close?”
Me: “Why, yes it is!”
ES: “Very Good sir, It will be there in 20 minutes”

Between 6 months and 1 year ago:

ES: “Hello, Eastern Star”
Me: “Hi, I’m like to order some food for delivery please”
ES: “Number 4? The usual?”
Me: “Yep!”
ES: “20 minutes”

Last six months:

ES: “Hello, Eastern Star”
Me: “Hello!”
ES: “20 minutes”

By next week I want to either trim it down further or I’m going to set up a sort of ‘Bat Signal’ that I can shoot into the night sky, thus saving me the effort of that one word.

What can I say? – I’m a (big, fat) creature of habit
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Tue 9 Sep 2008, 12:53, 10 replies)

Oh, where to begin...
Five years in Ottakar's/ Waterstones gives you a fair insight into the overwhelming fuckwittery of the general public. Especially around Christmas time, when cretinous, monosyllabic in-bred mutants who would never EVER venture into a book shop were it not for the fact that one of their family members has managed to learn to read and has requested whatever the in-vogue True Crime book is that obviously makes you hard by association from reading it. Nuggets of literary ignorance have included:

1. It's my girlfriend's birthday coming up. I'd like to order a first edition of 'To Kill A Mockingbird', please.

2. When is the new Harry Potter out, despite it being national news, us having dedicated an entire corner of the shop to it, and having a sign the size of my flat behind the till.

3."I'd like to return this book, please. It was an unwanted Christmas present." More convincing when it doesn't have 'Merry Christmas, 1995' written in the front of it. In 2006.

4. "I'd like to order a £200 textbook, but I refuse to pay for it upfront. You might stitch me up."

5. "I'd like to buy a dictionary for my daughter. She's not a retard." Congratulations.
(Nimrod's Son Boredom provokes some interesting habits..., Tue 9 Sep 2008, 12:51, 2 replies)

As I have previously mentioned
I used to work at a popular pizza chain, delivering pizza on mopeds.

The level of thick-headedness displayed by the customers was incredible.

Once, I rode 5 miles through the wind and rain to deliver a pizza. "Where are the dips?" said the customer. "I ordered dips!"

"I'm sorry, I didn't see anything on your order about dips." I said. "But I'll be coming back up this way in about 20 minutes - why don't I drop them off then?"

"But I want them now! I ordered them, and I want them!"

So off I go back to base, get the dips, and ride back (by this point it had started thundering - a big, ugly full-on storm was brewing.) I knock on the door. Twatface appears, snatches the dips out of my hand, then slams the doors.

Not a tip. Not even a 'thank you' for putting my life at risk riding in a storm to deliver fucking dips so your fat little cunt of a daughter can stuff her face.

Next time, I spat in his pizza.



And another one. One of our riders managed to stack his bike into the back of a parked car. Nothing major, twisted shoulder etc, but he was taken to hospital for a checkup.

Phone the customer. "Hello?"
"Hello, I'm calling from ****** Pizza, I'm afraid your pizza will be about another 45 minutes as the driver had a crash on his way to you."
"That's not good enough!"
"I'm sorry, all the other drivers are out on deliveries."
"You tossers!"
"Listen mate, one of our drivers has had a crash and frankly, his life is far more important than your pizza. Why don't you fuck off and get it elsewhere?"



He did too.
(Half of Stephen Fry's right buttock pissed on your dog on, Tue 9 Sep 2008, 12:45, Reply)

When movies bomb
Working in a cinema in Northern Ireland in the mid-nineties was always eventful. Since my beloved, inbred hicksville country is about 400 years behind the rest of the UK we often had to put up with things like Ian Paisley and his merry band of Free Presbyterians picketing the lastest releases. Showgirls incurred the wrath of the righteous (Flesh! Fornication! Could lead to dancing!) and going to see In the Name of the Father was a tense waltz past the placards.

It was The Devil's Own that proved most controversial though. A film worth picketing for Brad Pitt's dodgy accent alone, it did not escape the attentions of the Loyalist factions who saw it as some kind of glorified IRA recruiting vehicle (perhaps they were peeved at the implication that Republican terrorists are strapping blond Holywood hunks). Anyway, I was selling tickets for that evening's showing when the call came in.

Norn Irn in the mid-nineties had a well-established system in place for all things Troubles-related, so codewords were used to confirm that bomb threats were legit - as legit as a bomb threat can be, anyway. We were told there was a bomb in the cinema in one of the 10 screens. We heard the code word, and we responded. The evacuation procedure sprang into place and we began herding people out of the multiplex. I held the door open and cheerily reassured the customers that it was just a precaution as the RUC Land Rovers raced up outside.

Then, and I am astonished looking back at this but at the time it seemed perfectly normal, our managers appeared and asked us to search the cinema. Yes. We, who were getting paid under £4 per hour and had to wear dreadful uniforms into the bargain, were told to go and search each screen for suspect devices. The deadly, lethal, bomb-y sort.

I got cinema 2. As I approached the front row I saw a sports bag peeking out from under a seat.
"Um, John..." I said to the security guard who was tentatively poking around the back row, "there's a sports bag here..."

"Get out NOW," was his immediate response and the pair of us legged it to the door and into the foyer where we alerted the men with guns to our findings.

I then had to go outside and ask several hundred people if anyone had left a sports bag behind. None had.

The customer was very, very wrong. Nice customers do not leave suspect devices in cinemas for twenty year old girls to find.
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Tue 9 Sep 2008, 12:43, 7 replies)