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This is a question Customers from Hell

The customer is always right. And yet, as 'listentomyopinion' writes, this is utter bollocks.

Tell us of the customers who were wrong, wrong, wrong but you still had to smile at (if only to take their money.)

(, Thu 4 Sep 2008, 16:42)
Pages: Latest, 24, 23, 22, 21, 20, 19, ... 1

This question is now closed.

I think I might be being a demon stylee customer
But I am of the opinion that a certain fruit named mobile phone company can french kiss my rusty sheriff's badge before they get another penny out of me.

I've been with l'orange (spelt in Frenchness so as to not reveal les identities) since 2001 so that's a fair number of years and quite a bit of cash (I only have the figures for the last couple of years, but it's over £1.5k in that short time).
The few times I've had problems, customer service has been on the greener side of wank. Oh and that includes them not being able to spell my name for a number of years. I don't think I've ever met anyone with the surname 'Alexandra' so why do they insist on it being such?
Then I was conned into having insurance for the full year because I'm a mong and didn't cancel it after 3 months.
But of course after dropping my phone in 'the sink' I was told I shouldn't have had it in my hand and that as I wasn't taking due care with my handset I wasn't covered. Bastardos? Yes.
So it was with much glee and a spring in my step that I skipped along to a Virginal shop where I have a friend who's a manager.
"Give me good deal, person who I am acquainted with" quoth I. Didn't matter that I knew him as I would have got the same deal anyway: A good one that was better than pisspoororange.
Long story shortened:
Friday - Start Virgin account. Get PAC from egnarO.
Sunday - egnarO phone dies, out of spite.
Tuesday - 'New' month of line rental with egnarO starts, but can't and don't use phone because it's dead.
Wednesday - Number transferred so can no longer use egnarO phone.

A week later, bill arrives asking for £25 for the month line rental. Of which I used one day.
I should point out my contract ended in June and I didn't sign no paper saying "I want to carry on using this tariff." I've been paying for the same tariff since then, yes. But I didn't agree to it.
That's the base upon which my careful crafted letter is resting:
"Dear peeps,
I ain't giving you £25 for a piss poor service I didn't use for the ONE day it was available to me.
Kindly fudge off. I'll give you 60p+ VAT max. What say you?"

They cashed the cheque I enclosed for the money I owed for the previous month, and sent a letter saying: "It appears you haven't paid £25... kindly do so."

A copy of the original letter is winging it's way towards them again...

I'm a grumpy fecker, I know.

Length is like the story, irrelevant. But you love it anyway.
(, Wed 10 Sep 2008, 12:19, 2 replies)
There's no petrol in my car...
I had this twice in the time I worked as a cashier in a petrol station. Not so much hellish, I suppose, but dumb.
On both occasions the conversation went something like this:
Customer: I've just filled up, but the petrol hasn't gone into my tank.
Me: You mean nothing's coming out when you squeeze the trigger?
C: Yes, but you've charged me for a full tank.
(For those of you who don't know petrol/diesel is on a type of flow meter. If there's nothing dispensing i.e. AIR neither the price nor the litre displays will move.)
Me: (explains above)
C: Well, there's nothing in there, my petrol gauge hasn't moved.
Me: Ok, let's have a look. Are you sure your gauge is working?
C: Yes
So here's where the story splits as I review respective cars...

C1: Look see I turn the ignition and...
Me: And the gauge goes straight up to full? Did you start the car after you filled up?
C1: No I just looked at the gauge.
Me: And it's a new car, right...
(goes on to explain in lengthy detail that some cars need power before they read)
C1: Oh.

C2: (turns ignition) Look, see, it doesn't move.
Me: May I...? (reaches over and taps the perspex over the dial) There we are.
C2: Oh.

Neither of them apologise either. Bastards.

I did hear a tale from my manager that a woman had filled up and a week later came back saying the pump must have cut her short as she wasn't getting as many miles to a tank as she normally did, blithely forgetting the masses of roadworks that had sprung up on her normal route.

Also a piece of advice - this is not meant nastily as I have problems on a new car finding out how to open my fuel cap whilst feeling like a total tit:
Skoda Octavia Mk I - there is a button on the central console above the radio with a petrol pump symbol on it. That opens the fuel door.
Renault Laguna Mk I - there is a little lever down by the drivers seat that opens the fuel door.
10 minutes it took me with my first Laguna (d'oh)!
(, Wed 10 Sep 2008, 12:00, 3 replies)
James Mason
Mate of mine designs bespoke RPG’s for gamers with far too much time and money on their hands. Recently he got a commission for a WW2 North African conflict game from some rich descendent of General Montgomery wanting to live out his great uncle or granddads missions via the medium of the kompootur.

The client was extremely specific about the details and my mate even got to read some of Monty’s diaries in order to get the specifics just so such as tank camouflage, angle of the sun, even the tone of the African desert sand, positions of the enemy obviously etc but yer man’s main fixation was with uniforms.

See, apparently, both Monty and his nemesis were rather vain men and had a tendency to change their uniforms almost daily in order to look more impressive in the field.

Monty had a thing for browns and greens whereas the other fella was mad for black and grey as was the wont of his contemporaries.

So, my mate has designed an entire wardrobe which can be changed with the simple click of a button.

Impressive, nay?

I mean, Monty looked fabulous but truth be told he had nothing on the Custom Morph Rommel.

(, Wed 10 Sep 2008, 11:52, 1 reply)
My mate
was once a customer from hell.

After a heavy night out in Preston, he gets up to go to uni, slightly worse for wear.

On the way he stops off at the butty shop for a chinese chicken special butty and then pays with a £20 note.

Shopkeeper hands him change for a £5 note. My friend points out that he paid with a £20 and would like the correct change, shopkeeper insists he gave a £5.

Much arguing unsues, with shopkeeper adamant that she is correct which then turns into extreme anger and she throws the till drawer on the floor in front of a shop full with waiting customers.

Friend storms out without his money, checks his wallet and finds the £20 note he thought he'd paid with. Dies a little bit inside, and never returns to the shop, not even to apologise to the poor woman.

He said it was on a baton, about 6" long...
(, Wed 10 Sep 2008, 11:19, 4 replies)
I worked in a coffee shop fir a bit while at school/college
We always had customers come in who couldn't pronounce caffetiere properly.

It was great fun pretending not to understand what they were asking for, looking confused as they tried several different pronunciations and then resorted to doing a plunger motion with their hands.
(, Wed 10 Sep 2008, 11:16, 2 replies)
Inspired by Welgar's post below
I was in town one lunchtime, and wandered into W.H. Smiths to get a copy of New Scientist.

As I was walking through the book section, a middle-aged woman with a face like a slapped arse prodded me on the arm and barked
"You! Where are the travel guides?"

I shrugged and said "I don't know", before walking away.

A couple of seconds later I felt her hand on my shoulder, shaking me, while she screeched
"How dare you turn your back on me!"

Now, I'm really not a fan of misc-stranger-type-people touching me, or screaming, so I span around and said
"Don't touch me. Fuck off."

She went red, then purple, then white.

Then the real screaming began.


I got confused at this point. Manager? What the fuck?
I was wearing my normal work clothes, which consisted of a leather jacket, t shirt, army boots and black jeans.
The staff in Smiths wear a horrible blue-ish/purple-ish shirt.
No similarity at all.

I shook my head and wandered off, while she marched over to the till and started ranting, pointing and screaming at the member of staff there.

I grabbed the magazine I wanted and walked up to the till next to her.

The guy she was ranting to looked at me over her shoulder and raised his eyebrows.
I met his gaze and shrugged, then pointed at the magazine.

"Excuse me madam, I need to serve this gentleman."
"Three pounds fifteen please"

The woman stared at me, slack-jawed, as I paid for the magazine, smiled sweetly at her and walked out of the door.

The last thing I heard was her screaming "WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME HE DOESN'T WORK HERE?"

*shakes head slowly from side to side*
(, Wed 10 Sep 2008, 11:11, 2 replies)
Final Airport One,I Promise
Now, we used to see a fair old cross-section of humanity pouring through arrivals, and as luck would have it, we got all the 'odd' ones. Why? Because you could pay for your hire car in advance, in another country, in cash, get a voucher, and pay your security deposit in cash. So all you needed was a driving licence or something resembling it. All the other hire companies insisted on credit cards, but not us, no siree.

So, we saw a succession of odd characters who needed a car with absolutely no connection to themselves (at least that's what they thought), and every now and then we'd have to retrieve some of our cars from the police/customs compound, covered in fingerprint powder, and hopefully not cut to tiny bits.

Now one of the girls working there, Michelle by name, was very ambitious. Thick as a plank, but once the scripts were programmed, she would robotically do her job quite well. Anything outside the script, and she was in a creek-minus-paddle situation. It also helped that she was quite easy on the eye, and quite frankly quite do-able, if you weren't put off by the raucous Harlow accent.

Now, she was after a promotion, and was always showing how dedicated she was. Whenever she handed over the keys, she would always end up with the words "now if anything goes wrong, or there's anything at all you need, just call me, my name is M-I-C-H-E-L-L-E, that's Michelle, anytime. Have a nice day".

Soo, off a big metal bird comes these three chaps. Normal enough, except that one had a briefcase tied to his wrist, and the youngster was obviously stoned off his tits. I'm not sure where his mind was, possibly orbiting Neptune, but he was ambling around, bumping into things and smiling like a Cheshire Cat. The 'talker' seemed normal enough, but he reeked of Ganj, even though he was coherent enough, and both his eyes were actually pointing in the right direction, so Michelle does her uber-customer relations bit while covertly glancing at the visiting Area Manager.

Two days later, the car is overdue. "Oh bollocks, not another one" sez I, as I amble off down to the plod. Nice copper finds out that the car was in the custody of HM Customs, and it'd be a while before we got it back. "Ho Hum, I'll tag it on the system, give us a call when you're finished, will ya?"

(Turns out our chaps had been attempting make a fairly hefty freelance pharmaceutical purchase)


'Ring Ring'
"Hello, ThankYou for calling XXXXXX rental, my name is Michelle, how can I help you?"

"Isz Kev"


"Iss Kev, I had the Mondeo on on Schunday I fink. Schbeen umm lost. Needszz anuvver car.........(clatter)....fleeble....THUD. Brrrrrrrrrrr"

(Released on bail, gets more stoned than a biblical execution, and tries to blag another car to go about his business....)

'Ring Ring'

"Thankyou for...."

"S'Kev. Need 'nuvver car NOW"

"I'm sorry Sir, as the last vehicle has been detained by the authorities, I am afraid that I am unable..."

"You shed if dere was ANYTHING I needed I should call you ya schlag..."

"But But But" Sez Michelle, sounding like a small malfunctioning outboard motor..."But"


Management time...

"What you need mate, is a solicitor"

"Whozzat? But how'm I gonna get back *Sobs*" Brrrrrrrrr....

And that

Was when the Bust Stoner Called 'Chelle.

(, Wed 10 Sep 2008, 11:05, 3 replies)
Another quick one from the wonderful world of record shops.
A friend of mine was manager at a second-hand record shop in the Fulham area a few years ago. A few weeks after the Jill Dando murder, detectives came in to his shop asking him whether he recognised a man in photos they had.

Manager: "Yeah that's that Freddie Mercury fruitcake, always in looking for Queen records"
Plod: "Do you realise he was obsessed with one of your female employees?"
Manager: "He was sometimes hanging about looking at them, yes."
Plod: "Why didn't you report this to the police?"
Manager: "This is a second hand record shop, if I had to report every lonely, dodgy-looking bloke who leched over the women who work here, I'd never get anything else done."

He always knew he was innocent though.
(, Wed 10 Sep 2008, 11:01, Reply)
Pot plants.
I work as a part-time checkout supervisor at my local supermarket. As with any job in the service industry, I have had my fair share of wanky, obnoxious, drunk and sleazy customers. As well as the one who wet himself at my checkout. And yes, the customer is nearly ALWAYS wrong. However, I digress. This story is of the day I lost faith in the human race.

It was a typical quiet Tuesday night, and I was just about to head off to take my break. A large, aggressive-looking woman (who looked suspiciously beardy...) comes storming up to my checkout holding a pot-plant. I scan it for her and ask her if she would like a plastic bag. She then proceeds to inform me that
"This is a gift, I would like to get it gift wrapped!"
I raise my eyebrows and explain that we are a supermarket chain and we do not specialize in wrapping up pot plants in pretty paper. I suggests she visits the nearby gift store if she expects this sort of treatment.

"Well, that's just NOT good enough!! I want to see your SUPERVISOR!"

I duly inform her that I am in fact the supervisor. I ask if she would like to speak to our store manager, who was nearby. She declines and proceeds to talk at me for HOURS about how

"they should train you better, you need to be prepared to meet the needs to EVERY customer", blah blah blah.

By now I am getting VERY hungry and rather irritable. I burst out with:

"You appear to enjoy the sound of your own voice very much, but if you would just listen to ME for a moment...we are a SUP-ER-MAR-KET. I don't know where you usually shop, and what amazing gift-wrapping checkout operators you've been talking to, but we will NEVER wrap up your pot plant. I have some newspaper under my checkout. Would you like me to wrap your plant in NEWSPAPER? No? Then GO TO A GIFT SHOP."

She proceeds to slam the pot plant down on my checkout and storm out. Score: $5 of hers wasted, and I sold myself the pot plant for 50c later. It died three days later.

Moral? Do NOT fuck with a hungry supervisor. Ever.
(, Wed 10 Sep 2008, 11:00, 1 reply)
As a kitchen hand, I don't ever have to deal with the customers...
I have to deal with their messy entrails of chewing gum, sticking plasters, upset waitresses...

What really gets to you after a while is the invisibility of what you do, you can work your fingers to the bone, slave yourself to death, and no-one even knows you exist to thank you.

It mightily fucks me off, when during a rush, I have had to fill your order very quickly (as well as washing dishes, I prepare small items, such as entrées, small desserts, salads...), I have had to move heaven and earth to find all the ingredients, because we are running low, heat everything up, present it nicely, while you sit on your smug arse, I send it out to you, at the right temperature, beautifully presented, a bit of extra this or that because I've kept you waiting.

You fucking eat a third of it, and leave. I wash your fucking plate, knowing my hard work has not only gone unnoticed, but completely unappreciated. If you ever work in a kitchen, be nice to the plate monkey, he really needs it.

Length? Irrelevant, it's only a hollow shell after all.
(, Wed 10 Sep 2008, 10:23, 3 replies)
mistaken identity
Back in my 'lecy board days we wore a green polo shirt and blue trousers as our uniform .

Oneday i popped into superdrug to get something as i was passing by. It wasnt my usual branch so i had to look for it (panadol i think unsurprisingly) . As i was checking the shelves an old biddy came over to me and asked me where something or the other was.
"Sorry iv no idea"

"This isnt good enough " she replies

"Sorry but i really dont know"

She starts to get worked up now
" You should im going to report you to the manager!"

"See if i bloody care"

Then the penny drops Superdrug staff wear (or did im not sure now) an identical green polo shirt.

Finding my panadols i go to the tills just in time to hear the banshee cry of "thats him". She wobbles over to the tills with a confused looking man. i patiently wait for her.

"This man was so rude and unhelpful to me . I want him sacked"

Quick as a flash i pull my 'leccy board ID out of my pocket and slam it down on the counter.
Putting on my most insecere smile "Sorry dear , i think you have made a misteak. Im with the electric"

The old bats face dropped like a ton of bricks.
(, Wed 10 Sep 2008, 10:19, 5 replies)
not a playpark
A few years ago i used to have a mate who worked in a large bed and bedding retailer who relate the following tale to me.

It was the middle of summer so the staff had permantly left the automatic doors in the open position to get a bit of a breeze through.
Near the doors they had one of their display beds made up with a nice white bedspread and sheet/pillowcase set. This was not cheap linnen by any stretch.

Across the carpark the family from hell arrive. Surprisingly they wernt the usual chavtastic council estate family that you would expect. So mum , dad , daughter and Damien get out of the car.
Young Damien is off sprints across the busy carpark , through the doors and takes a leap at the bed.

Unfortuantly he misstimed it a lot and ended up going facefirst into the headboard. A very solid wrought iron headboard.
lots of claret spills from Damiens nose and mouth, all over the expensive bedding.

Lots of comotion and the parents make an entrance. Mum takes one look at the scene , sees my mate (being the nearst staff member) and starts to scream abuse at him.

Apparently it is all their fault for not looking after their offspring , despite the fact that he was in the shop for all of 3 seconds before royally fucking his face. Despite the fact that the shop is a erm shop and not some soft play ballpit. Despite the fact he was out of control. Despite the fact HES YOUR FUCKING KID.

The parents take their offspring and fuckoff calling the staff all sorts of names.

Did i mention the now ruined bedding that now resebeles a Jackson Pollock painting.
Did the parents make any offer to compensate the shop for the loss of this ? Did they fuck.

Still at least it taught damien a lesson hopefully. Or perhaps next time a car will clean him up in the carpark instead.
(, Wed 10 Sep 2008, 10:00, Reply)
I used to run a corner shop…

And I think the most surreal experience of my life occurred whilst I was there.

It was an otherwise ordinary day, I had dealt with the usual patrons requiring their standard products...when two men (who must’ve been identical twins or clones or something) walked into the shop.

They were both short(ish), fat, and bald (well, they had a couple of hairs on the top in a ‘combover’ kind of way). They sported 5 o’ clock shadows on their yellowish skin and wore blue trousers with white short sleeved shirts.

I know what you’re thinking and you’re right. Both of them looked uncannily like Homer Simpson. My jaw dropped as I was waited for them to shout ‘Doh!’

Unfortunately, that never happened, because as they approached me I could see they looked miserable. Desperately unhappy in fact. I wondered what could possibly depress the men in such a fashion as they got closer to the counter.

As one of them started to speak I immediately noticed a broad German Accent. I speak a little German, so asked them if there was anything I could do to help, and we struck up a conversation.

I discovered that they were two brothers from a city in the district of Osnabrück, Lower Saxony, but they were constantly travelling the world in search of a strange Gypsy Princess who had put a hex on them when they were children.

Deciding that this must be either a bizarre practical joke or a couple of portly mentalists, I gently responded that I had not seen such a ‘Gypsy Princess’, and told them to promptly get the fuck out of my shop.

I do remember thinking to myself, as I threw the spackbaskets out into the street, that I will never forget the day I met the ‘Cursed Homers from Melle’

*loses will to live*
(, Wed 10 Sep 2008, 9:24, 9 replies)
Plenty of posts here on business clients. Here's my take:

Client comes to us with a vague brief - so vague that you'd think it had arrived by spirit medium or astrologer: "I want you to write some copy for a website. It should have some tips. It should be chatty. We need it in ten minutes."

Copy duly produced. Naturally it's shit because of the timing and vagueness. The client is livid: "This isn't at all what I wanted. I could have done this better myself. THIS is what I want..." And there follows a piece of writing that could have come from a poorly-educated recent immigrant rather than a head of department.

So I have another go (noting that the ten minute deadline now seems to have changed to next week). This one is even worse: "No no! I didn't want tips as such; I wanted a guide. And can it be less chatty?"


So it's another try. This time the client likes what they see... but they just want to make a few changes of their own. Finally, what's printed is a misspelled piece of illiterate shite that will cost the client a couple of grand and have no effect at all.

And that'll be my fault.
(, Wed 10 Sep 2008, 9:11, 2 replies)
Just remembered this
Not me, an ex-colleaugue. Her Dad, broad Scots accent, went into a posh department store and at the Perfume counter asked for a bottle of "Anus Anus"; the assistnat (apparently) didnt bat an eyelid and replied "I think you'll find thats Anais Anais, Sir"
(, Wed 10 Sep 2008, 8:22, Reply)
A guy in the office
has been making hell with BT since he was installed 18 months ago. He's played fuck with them over an initial install mistake and kept on their backs every month ever since.
Because he's a qualified solicitor, he's kept on turning the screws just enough to get continuous credit from their retentions team. In fact he just come into the office this morning bragging with a cheque from BT for £108 in refunds.
He's still yet to actually pay them anything.
(, Wed 10 Sep 2008, 8:09, 1 reply)
Men's Gallery or Why Girls are Worse than Boys
I’ve worked in retail, bars and sales and encountered my fair share of those self centred, arrogant mental retards that we like to call the general public. But the worst by far was when I was dancing.

The guys knew the rules and were, at least mostly, quite well behaved.

There was Nic the foot fetishist, who would not care whether or not you took your clothes off, all that mattered was the high heels came off and he could watch you massaging your feet. He was willing to pay well for this and never hurt anyone. He was intelligent and liked to strike up conversations about philosophy, art and literature with any of the girls who could keep up.

There was the rich Arab who just wanted me to marry him so he could take me home to show off to the family. He used to offer to take me shopping. For one day spent with him and dinner that night he would spend $15,000 buying me whatever I wanted, I just had to let him watch me try the things on that he purchased. (I never went, BTW)

Bruce, the hair fetishist, who just wanted Barbie and I to toss our waist length hair (one black the other platinum) all over each other for an hour at a time.

The customers from hell were the girls.

Drunk, no matter what time of the day or night they turn up. Often with their boyfriends.

They’d yell at you if you payed too much attention to their boyfriends, and yell worse if they thought their boyfriend was being ignored.

They all wanted to get up on stage and dance and make out with the dancers on stage for their boyfriend’s entertainment. After all, they’re GIRLS, the rules don’t apply to them, do they?

YES THEY DO! I don’t care that you’ve got a cunt, I still don’t want you pawing at me. The rules say no closer than 30cm and that’s what they fucking mean!

You want to come backstage? Do you work here? Then NO, you cannot come backstage. Why not? Because you’re not staff you dozy drunk bitch-on-heat.

So please remember girls, if you go to a strip club and you’re not being paid to dance, you’re a customer and as such have to abide by the rules. You’d be disgusted if you saw a guy behaving that way.
(, Wed 10 Sep 2008, 4:52, 7 replies)
Just remembered this one.
During my ungrad years i had the pleasure to work at my student union, well volunteer, they paid with food and as much post mix one could drink. I digress.

I will explain the lay out the Union. The front door faces into the campus and there is a paved area outside the door, and beyond a grassy area. Union stops at the edge of the paved area. On this area a several benchs. When you walk into the building you have a reception area/foyer, to your right are the toilets and on the left are three doors. On into liberty's, one the zeros and one into geordy's. In order chill out area, night club area and the the pub. On a friday night they are closed in this order, 10pm liberty's, 12pm geordy's, then 3am Zero. Lib's had comfy sofas and was a mecca, once closed, for the volunteers, it also has massive windows and a great view of the paved area. You get to watch drunk people, always fun.

Anyways, a guy is thrown out and then his friends for being dicks. So the three of them stand on the paved area for 30 or so minutes showing abusing, calling the stewards w**kers and doing an over sized w**king gesture etc etc. You probably get the picture. So they get bored and leave. One of them returns shortly thereafter and tries to be polite and asked if he can go back in to get his jumper. His ted barker jumper. We ignored him, with such lines as "don't look at him and he will think we can't hear him". I don't know if he got his jumper back.

There was also the pr*ck who got throw out, then started kicking off outside the front doors. We watched and so did the stewards. He was making trouble and Bob the head steward decided it would be a good idea to calm him down before he hurt someone. So Bob (who is irish, built and knows how to handle himself) steps outside to talk to him. Word are exchanged and a punch is thrown at Bob, who ducks and physically launches the guy a couple of feet back. The guy is on the floor, and Bob is on him, along with a few other stewards who carry him inside to see the duty manager (DM). it took over and hour to get this sorted, in which time Bob had him in a headlock/sleeper move as he kept kicking off, he managed to get hold of a stewards glasses and crush them. He got a life time ban for that. Oh and i beleive arrested for good measure.

On last guy, he made me laugh. The DM on that night was a frined of mine and so told me the full story. The guy had broken something or other and was in the dog house. DM has him in the office and is trying to get his details. Basicall student ID which is photocopied and then we decided what to do next. Anyways they are in there for ages and the DM is explaining he needs the idea and everything can be settled in house or he can simply call the police. The DM is patient and it goes on and on. Finally he said right last chance or i call the police. No change so he calls for the cops. As soon as he puts the phone down the guy is complient. Hands over the id card, which teh DM photocopies, and begs that he call the police off. Too late. The arrive run his details and he has a warrent out for his arrest. So they cart him off. If he had only given his ID up the worst he would have go was a life time ban, mostly would have been fined and had a temp ban. Idiots.

I have a couple more, for another time.
(, Wed 10 Sep 2008, 4:05, Reply)
atomic cunten
a friend of mine works in the "adult entertainment" industry. he dresses in silly outfits and goes to parties for hen nights, 21sts, menopausal baggages, all that kind of stuff. he enjoys his job and has taken me along for a laugh more than once.

one night, i had decided to go with him as we were going to the pub afterwards, so we were both eager for him to finish his work. we rolled up at the last appointment for the night, an ordinary, unassuming terraced house. however, waiting to greet us was none other than kerry katona, she of pikey iceland ads fame. "you're late!" she snarls. "what time d'you call this?" my friend looks at his watch "um...five minutes before we said we'd be here?" he answers. muttering to herself, she gives him the details he needs to fill out a presentation card for the birthday girl.
now, due to the fact that my mate and his colleagues have been attacked by drunken women countless times, company policy states that they MUST be paid BEFORE they go in, a fact which is fully explained during booking. ms. katona, however, thinks that this should not apply to her. she tells my friend she'll pay him when the job is done. she begins to walk back into the house. "fine," says my friend, "we'll just be going, then." the look of shock on her face gives me a warm glow to this day.
"you can't do that!" she shrieks, "we hired you!" "well," replies my friend, "if you want the job doing, i suggest you pay me." with exceedingly bad grace, she grudgingly doles out the required cash. "i think i should at least get a discount" she huffs. "sorry, madam, we only give discounts if we are running very late or we can't provide you with exactly what you wanted when you booked."
she really is going atomic now, her cheeks puffed up and a most alarming shade of purple. "the cheek!" she sprays. "DON'T YOU KNOW WHO I AM??" my friend gave her a quick up-and-down glance, before replying "no. should i?"
i really thought her head was going to explode.

she still tried to get extra polaroids and bottles of booze free, despite the fact that it would have come out of my mate's wages, which he took great pleasure in telling her, all whilst wearing an "i don't give a fuck who you are" look on his face.
pikey, grasping cow.
(, Wed 10 Sep 2008, 3:02, 7 replies)
Bike shop and a half
The first one was at a large, orange themed car parts/pretend bike retailer. Customer walks in holding a front wheel. He says he has a puncture, and wants and new tyre and tube.

"That'll be about £20, depending on the tyre....ooh, hang on. It's got sick on it. You'll have to clean that off first"

The tyre had lovely chunks of curdly, scrambled egg looking puke on it. Awesome.

"Yes, I know. That's why I want a new tyre and I want you to do it."

"Ok. Fuck off."

He went a bit mental. Stormed off to the supervisor, who after I had explained my side of the argument, came back with the mother of all replies.

"Fair enough...."

Now I work in a proper, specialised bike shop, you tend to get a higher class of idiot. The ones you really don't know how they hold down their 40K a year job.

Mannie buys a cycle computer off us. I take it out of the box and show him how to fit it.

"will this fit my bike?"
"How do you know?"
They fit any bike
"and mine?"
"Can I bring it back if it doesn't fit?"

so he buys it...all happy for a week or two, then he comes back in.

"Hi...I bought this computer off you..I'm not sure if it's set up right. I think it's showing a slower speed than I'm going.."

I check the setup (it's based on wheel size) It's fine, I say

"Can't you adjust it? I think it's wrong. I seem to be going a lot faster than it says..."

There is about 10 minutes of conversation between us, which I shall miss out, mainly because I wasn't really paying attention myself and can't really remember what was said.

Then he dropped the biggun...

"Can't you come and ride alongside me and then I can compare the speeds?" I was speechless. I just had to walk away.

Last bloke not really a customer, but you have to admire the guy for determination. We'd just locked up,shop closes and half 5, this was about quarter to 6. Shutters down, lights off, computers off etc. Guy steps under the front shutter and starts banging on the front door, just as we are about to leave. We stay out the back, waiting for this guy to bugger off. But he doesn't. For TWENTY minutes. In the end, we decide to leave anyway. Unlock the front door, "Sorry mate, we're closed"

"That's ok, I just wanted to know what time you opened in the morning"

"Um....9. Like it says on that sign, there" (pointing to the closed sign on the door)

Fucks sake.
(, Wed 10 Sep 2008, 2:38, Reply)
oh dear the floodgates have opened
I have spent too long working in retail :(

I did a stint in working in a gift shop in the run up to Xmas.
From Oct till end of Dec.
One day in mid December a lady came in to ask if we had any of this particular decoration left?
She described it, and I didnt recollect it.
She went into very detailed description and where it was placed in the shop.
She got very irate when I said we had never stocked that item.
Told me it had been in a display next to the fountain.
We never had a fountain?
She then got even more angry that we had changed the layout of the shop so couldnt find the decoration.
I very patiently explained ( thru gritted teeth) that we hadnt changed the layout.
At this point the poor woman was almost popping a vein and yelling at me for being useless and not knowing our stock.
I rang the boss and she told me we had never stocked that item.
The woman was almost screaming at me now and asking why we had changed the shop layout.
I had a lightbulb moment and asked her if she had bought them from another shop across the road that did have a fountain and sold those ornaments ?
More yelling about how she had bought it from us and had never been into that other shop in her life.
Then flounced out.
On my lunch break sitting in the square, I saw her exit that 'other' shop with full bags, she saw me and swept by nose in the air.
No apology, snooty cow.
(, Wed 10 Sep 2008, 2:24, Reply)
A friend of mine used to work at Ann Summers
As you all know, Ann Summers tries to euphemistically market itself as something more highbrow than a sex-shop. That is, it gives an impression that it's all about the "unicorns and rainbows" side of sex and is in no way sleazy and to re-enforce this, only women (and accompanied men) are allowed inside. However, in practice, this is nothing more than a marketing gimmick. Most of the customers there would feel equally at home in a regular sex-shop. How do I know this? I have some insider information...

Years ago, I used to share a flat with one of my female friends called Melanie (not her real name). Melanie wanted to become a hairdresser, but couldn't find the work, so instead, she took on a stopgap job as a shop assistant at Ann Summers. Often when she came home, she would tell me tales of some of the moronic customers she had to put up with.

There were all the usual stories about rude and ignorant customers, but the ones that stood out the most were the ones that had something to do with the nature of the business. Some were amusing, such as the multitude of women who complained that their new 'best friend' was either too large to go in or didn't touch the sides, and so wanted a refund. Often, these frustrated women would just place the used toy on the counter, not realising that not everyone wanted to handle someone else's used sex-toy. Sometimes, these stories were a bit on the off-colour side. Melanie often said she wanted to say, "For goodness sake, if you've got a raging yeast-infection, please clean the toy you want a refund for!" Melanie would say this with a straight face and not look grossed out at all.

However, some stories were slightly more ... ermmm... how shall we say ... interesting. There would be the occasional customer who would complain that the quality of the orgasm she received was insufficient. Melanie would then explain that either they read the instructions properly, or try and be 'creative'. They would then reply by going into great detail about their masturbation habits and how they used it. Melanie relayed these stories to me in graphic detail.

One of the things that turns me on is a woman pleasuring herself. Some of these stories went into so much detail that I would often have to make a trip to the toilet to take care of business as soon as our conversation ended. Me and Melanie were good friends, and that's as far as it went. She wasn't my type, and to be honest, I did not find her attractive in that kind of way, so I just pictured Melanie's customers in the scenarios they described. Also, I was too courteous to ask if Melanie ever took home a few 'goodies' from the shop, and had no interest in finding out.

One day, after telling me a particular story that involved a customer discussing in great deal a step-by-step guide to using their new Deluxe Vibrating Rabbit, I was getting so aroused that I couldn't wait for her to stop talking about her day, so I just made a beeline for the bathroom. When I finished, Melanie was still there.

"Did you just go and have a wank?" she asked me forthrightly.

She had never questioned me about this sort of stuff before. I just stood there and blushed.

"Look, you head off for the bathroom each time I talk about my customers' masturbation habits. Surely there's a connection."

Words were trying to get out of my mouth, but I didn't know what the words were. I just stammered for a bit.

"It's OK. I know you're single, and need some release from time to time. Men will be men. Don't worry about it."

Sheepishly, I admitted that I did 'do it' in the bathroom.

"As long as you clean up afterwards, there's nothing to worry about."

Before I could say anything, she said,

"Tell you what. Tomorrow, Ann Summers herself is coming into the shop to give a demonstration. If you're interested, the space under my counter is big enough to hide someone. There's a small gap you can look out of, and the whole space is covered, so you can do what you like with yourself without anyone seeing."

I trusted Melanie enough to realise that this was not some kind of prank.

"Ann Summers giving a demonstration?" I thought to myself. "That will certainly be something I can tell the grandkids."

I would finally get to see the mythical Ann Summers herself. I had heard about these so-called Ann Summers parties where someone would come round to a group of women and try and sell them sex-toys. I was always intrigued about how this would work. Would Ann just organise an ordinary party but when an appropriate moment in the conversation popped up, would she then steer the conversation to launch it into a sales-pitch for a particular sex-toy? Would she give a demonstration? Was she that much of an exhibitionist? Did this turn her on? Thinking it through, I started to wonder if this was just part of her elaborate masturbation ritual. Was her empire of stores nothing more than a by-product of this? So many questions that needed answering; so I agreed.

We got there before opening time, and Melanie let me in. We were the first ones there. She pointed out the space behind her desk and I just hid myself there. I soon found the opening. It was at just the right height for me to lie down and get a good view of the shop. The store was soon opened. As with all retail outlets, Ann Summers had its fair share of goons, loons and buffoons in the checkout queue. There were no interesting incidents, but thankfully, Ann Summers herself showed up. She was in her mid 40's but looked quite fit for someone of her age. She carried herself with great confidence. For someone who goes around giving public demonstrations of sex-toys, it was something I had expected of her.

Ann soon stood at one end of the shop. She started to introduce herself to the crowd. Most of the customers stopped their random milling about to listen to Ann. In my hiding place, I had an excellent view. Nobody was blocking it and I could see Ann in all her splendour. After talking for a bit, she took off her fur coat and shoes to reveal that she was dressed only in a red bikini. However, something seemed a bit wrong. At first, I couldn't figure out what it was. My attention then zoomed toward her bikini bottoms. There was a rather 'un-feminine' bulge at the front. Could it be that the legendary Ann Summers was in fact a transvestite? I desperately wanted to believe this wasn't true, but evidence seemed to suggest otherwise.

Just then, Ann took off her top. Her breasts were round and small, but pretty firm for someone of her age. Their small size meant they didn't have much chance to sag. Her nipples stuck out just slightly below the centre. She got out a set of nipple-clamps and attached them. The sight of this was starting to arouse me, but because I still had doubts about her true gender, I was starting to feel a bit uneasy. 'She' was giving out commentary about how it was making her feel. I pretended to ignore it but it was turning me on. It was certainly getting my attention, but I felt dirty. I had to know the truth.

After a while, Ann took off her bikini bottom. What I saw took me completely by surprise. While there was no willy to be seen, it was the hairiest bush I had ever come across! The hairs seemed to defy mistaspakkaman's first rule of pubic hair that states they only grow to a certain length and stop. Hers seemed to go on much longer. But the bush looked very well maintained. The hairs stood out on end in a uniform pattern. It was like she had grown her bush into a perfect afro. I swear, it was as if Foxxy Cleopatra was constantly going down on her. No wonder she had a bulge!

My imagination immediately started going into overdrive. Could she hang sex-toys off her pubes like Christmas-tree decorations? In fact, every day would be Christmas for her if she had that many sex toys to play with.

It was at this point that she repositioned herself. Safe in the knowledge that she really was female, I could now touch myself without giving myself any psychological scars or putting my morals into a spin. However, in her new position, all I could see was her afro-bush and not much else. Without being able to see her face contort into orgasmic ecstasy, I just had to make do with seeing what she did to herself, and because it was completely covered by a massive bush, I couldn't see anything. To make matters worse, she chose the smallest vibrator she could find and started talking about it.

Without being able to see anything, I was feeling somewhat disappointed. I then remembered that Melanie was a trained hairdresser. Maybe she could trim the afro-bush just enough so I could see what was going on. I got out my Swiss-Army knife and got the scissors out. I tapped Melanie's leg to get her attention. I then whispered into her ear the following:

"Cut Summers' 'fro Mel!"

Apologies for length.
(, Wed 10 Sep 2008, 2:23, 17 replies)
Today in the cinema a flustered woman runs up to me
"Oh god, please help me! My son's arm is trapped in one of the seats!"

I didn't see it personally as I was too busy having a laughter wee in the kitchen, but apparently it was a very chubby arm.
(, Wed 10 Sep 2008, 2:14, Reply)
Video shops attract idiots
An example of idiots and video shops is when newspapers have free dvd giveaways redeemable at your local video shop. We'd get these boxes delivered of some shitty 50's film nobody had ever heard of and have to give them out whenever somebody had a voucher from the paper. This was not a never ending tardis for free films. At the start of the shift we'd get people queing outside the shop. A few would even try to get in when you opened the shutters until you pointed out that you don't open for another hour. As soon as we'd open there'd be a mad rush of cheapskate wierdos after a free film they'd probably never heard of. But the worst was the people who'd come at the end of the shift. The look of total fear on their face when told we'd ran out was priceless. I even had a guy demand we gave him a free dvd of his choice because he had a voucher and it wasn't his fault we'd given them all away. He wasn't in the shop for much longer.

We had another guy who we were sure had never showered in his entire life. He'd wear the same stained John Smiths fleece every day and thought we were his friend. Other customers would walk down an isle, catch a whiff and then make the best faces we'd ever seen whilst turning heel and getting away from him. We'd always be on the lookout for these reactions and it never got old. The worst time was when I was on the door (we'd need someone on the door to keep out the gangs who'd barge into the shop and take every packet of sweets we had) and I let this guy in with his nephew. His nephew (looked inbred) went off into the shop to choose his games, but the smelly fella stayed by the door. By me. For half a fooking hour! In this half hour of incredible stench I'm pretty sure I was close to passing out at least thrice and my nostrils are yet to recover. I also found out that he "doesn't know why, but when it rains he itches". All the while the other lads on the shift don't even try to contain their laughter and even share a few laughs with the regulars at my expense. As soon as he left I took a massive break to regain my will to live.

But I suppose we were possibly the staff from hell. It was me and my mates who ran this shop and thus, the rules were never taken seriously. My mate would sneak up behind a regular deaf customer, fart and run away leaving the poor fella in an invisable cloud of smell. We'd also shout things to this guy and put phrases like 'Lick my balls?' into conversation with him. Good times.

Edit: for a few weeks we also (unintentionally) confused a few groups of foreigners who, probably attracted by the bright blue and yellow lights, thought we were a bar. The looks on their faces when they actually dance throught the door and they could only see dvds and no alcohol was brilliant. Only happened twice. I a month.
(, Wed 10 Sep 2008, 2:13, Reply)
"I know my Rights"
Oh really? Then why does your face go blank when:

- I try to discuss the Sale Of Goods Act.
- I remind you of the fact that shelf edge labels are an Invitation To Treat, not a Binding Offer.
- I cannot give you a definite answer to your question, because that would be speculation with regard to Fitness For Purpose.

Do not take me for some conjurer of cheap tricks. I am not trying to rob you. I'm trying to help you.
(, Wed 10 Sep 2008, 2:10, 7 replies)
Customers from hell
I used to work in a bookshop.
One day this guy walks in with his aged parentals.
Then proceeds to tell me about this book he wants and has been searching for it for years.
How desperate he is to get a copy but hasnt much money.
He did find one copy online but they wanted £120 for it.
It was like his life depended on getting it, but at a price he could afford.
He practically pleaded that we were his last hope
My memory pinged that I knew someone who had offered it recently and I made the call.
A 1st edition copy that the guy was willing to sell for £20!
While still holding the phone, I told the guy the good news, and we would get it in for him the next day.
His parents were thrilled, made many comments about how glad they were that they came in and asked.
The guy stood there looked blankly at me and said.
'oh ok thanks I'll think about it' and left
Never to be seen again.
I still wonder to this day what he was on?
(, Wed 10 Sep 2008, 2:01, 1 reply)
Smallminded small shopkeeper
As an HGV driver, I don't get to meet many members of the public, unless I'm delivering direct to their houses or businesses.

One guy stands out though. It was on a bulk icecream round and this anal little toad was getting his weeks stock and his promo gear for the summer campaign. He had 35 boxes, a BIG sticker for his freezer, a swing board and a couple of flags. He began by putting the sticker on the floor and razoring out all the lines he didn't sell on religious grounds because some of them were demonic (Think 7 deadly sins). It's apparently illegal to advertise stuff you don't sell. Sticker looked like a complete abortion. Then he opened every box, and counted the contents. By the time he'd finished, half of them were melted. Then he saw the swing board, and started ranting about how it was a trip hazard and obstructed the pavement. Then he wrote this on the delivery note: "Accepted without any admission of liability, debt, promise to pay or fitness for human consumption".

Face like a termite, voice like a mosquito with piles.

Three drivers had been banned from his premises for laughing at him.
(, Wed 10 Sep 2008, 1:53, Reply)
not a customer from hell ...
.. just one who made me very sad. I work in the local minimart thingy in a very middleclass area (guardians and organic veg boxes allround).And thereofre there is the very middleclass attitude of "yes golly homelessness is just awful, just terrible, i always buy the big issue my heart just bleeds for the poor buggers, but ermm i really dont think it appropiate for them to be outside OUR shops etc". Anyway there is a homeless man who has recently been hanging outside the store, a bit smelly, very dirty (but hey, what do you expect from a guy who doesnt even have a bed never mind a shower!) but very nice, very polite, doesnt hassle anyone short of offering to watch there dog for a them if there popping into the store. but get this, our charming, caring manager has decided we are not allowed to serve him alcohol or cigarettes fair play if he appears to be allready drunk or has been causing problems this is store policy but we are NEVER allowed to serve him alcohol on the sole account he is homeless (come on if ANYONE needs a drink its someone who has to sleep on the streets right?). So in he comes one afternoon a (somewhat manky) tenner in one hand and 2 bottles that cliche white lightning. "sorry i cant serve you" "oh umm why?" "sorry" *looks at feet* he needs no more explanation replaces teh bottles and leaves but not without giving me the saddest look in the world. Being a rather sensitive young girl at the height of hormone induced emotional unstability - i manage to annoince with my voice cracking "assitance till 1 please" before running off to the toilets to have a little cry and lookinga little bit insane to customers and collegues alike. so umm basically teh moral of this (long and not excactly rib cracking story is) the coop pretends to be all good and ethical but hwen it comes to the homeless are actually a little bit mean. boo!hiss!

i shant apoligise for length you chose to read this far (maybe in anticiaption of funny/meaningful/puntastic/vaugely intersting punchline ... err sorry folks!)

spelling and grammer atrocious (yes this may well be spelt wrong ) but i just can't resist them big words!
(, Wed 10 Sep 2008, 1:33, 8 replies)
actually, i was an alright customer i reckon...
so on the 2nd of september this year my mum was in a car crash with 2 trucks:


Her's was the red car.
She's been home for quite a bit now, she didn't have any major injuries but her knee's messed up and she's always really exhausted, btw she has diabetes and manic depression, so she's really got a whippin from the shit stick.

So i go up to the local coop to get the shopping in as per usual, she's asked me to get paracetamol cause she keeps getting a head ache.

My mum's bungalow is in a small market town, basically large village, so a lot of people know each other, i've had a chat and am on friendly terms with a lot of the people in the shops around the place.

So i get to the till with just one small pack of paracetamol and there's a relatively new guy on the till who i've had cheerful banter with a couple of times. I've only got a few things, like the usual, milk and bread, with the paracetamol.

He says "you're really going to laugh when i tell you this"
I says "what?" *inquisitive smile*
He says "you need identification for that"

I laughed, disbelievingly of course, i tried, and left with my milk and bread.

She got a car from the insurance company today but she doesn't feel confident to drive it, i don't even think she's barely gone outside since the crash...she doesn't really remember it though.

I think if i tried harder i probably wouldve got it, i feel bad not to have come back with it now. She keeps complaining about when she stands up she feels dizzy and stuff...for fuck sake. I left my passport at my dad's, i'll get it tomorow. And i'll get the paracetamol aswell. Wish me luck.

EDIT: if they dont give it to me with the passport tomorow i actually will become the customer from hell.
(, Wed 10 Sep 2008, 1:33, 3 replies)

This question is now closed.

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