Another IT bod
Like many others here, I have worked in IT support as a call monkey providing support from the complex to the mundane (such as resetting people's passwords when they forget them).

You'll find on the Tuesday after a bank holiday weekend the number of calls at the beginning of the day is much larger than a normal week, mostly with people wanting their password reset.

It seems they can be trusted to remember the password without typing it in for two days,but not three.

It's ONE fucking password - most IT service desk people have to remember at least 6 or 7 for all the systems they support (in one job it was about 16), and they can't remember one, which is normally as simple as "monday1" or "sunshine5". How do these retards remember their way to work in the morning?
(d371ght back again since, Thu 4 Sep 2008, 21:11, 7 replies)

I waitress in a delightful little cafe on a station in a forest.
So most of the customers are muddy cyclists and families with carloads of screaming brats. I've worked there a very long time (read: two years), so I'm used to them now, and the messes they leave, however bad they are - mud and dirt and spillages galore. And believe me, some of the stuff people leave on their trays is vile: used plasters, and hair anyone? (the hair is worse when it manages to get unnoticed into the sink and ends up twined round you fingers).

However, sometimes I still get shocked by the bomb sites people can create in such a short time. There used to be a girl worked there, same year as me at school, called Zoe. Oh, what a slag she was. She got fired for not turning up for work one day, then ringing an hour or so later, claiming she couldn't come in that day, as she had been out boozing the night before (this was a very regular occurrence)and her drink had been spiked. Quite unfair to fire her for that, surely?

Nope, not when she'd used the same excuse at least twice before. Oh, and she was generally lazy and rubbish anyway.

Anyroad, a few months after she was fired, she came into the cafe with a couple of her friends very early on a Saturday morning - quite clearly straight from a night on the town, quite clearly still drunk, and generally looking like death warmed up and poked with a stick.

They ordered their full Englishes and station batches (a full English breakfast on a bap), sat down and made a screaming, giggling nuisance of themselves (Luckily, it being so early, there were no other customers). When they finally left, another waitress and I ventured over to survey the damage.

1 broken teapot
1 full bottle of strawberry milkshake spilt everywhere: table, floor, chairs, sugar bowl, walls, etc.
The majority of two breakfasts and a station batch strewn all over the table
Several handfuls of napkins in a pile. Unused, but in the milkshake trajectory.
30 or so packets of salt opened and poured into a neat mountain.

The shoulders of the other waitress and I slumped visibly. It took a ridiculously long time to get that corner presentable again.


Pretty Strangers and Promises: we get people like that too. There are large signs in both the cafe and the adjoining ice cream parlour that, "Due to a number of forgeries, all notes will be checked"

I get at least three people per day saying something along the lines of "There's nothing wrong with that one, I made it myself this morning, lol!"
Thanks. Because it just wasn't funny enough the first thousand times I heard it.

More tales shall be forthcoming.
(Applebite Uh! A cow!, Thu 4 Sep 2008, 21:05, 1 reply)

Piss and Poo
Some lady did a poo in our changing rooms, not just a little one, but a full squirting streak all up the wall - nice... not something i wanted to find coming back from my lunch...

Some chav sat in one of the chairs we display outside the shop and pulled down her knickers and did a wee-wee - classy!
( SkUG >_O i got a couple of stitches in my eyeball... ow, Thu 4 Sep 2008, 20:50, 5 replies)

Seamus
Working in a small music shop back in the early 90's, my heart used to sink whenever Seamus was spotted and the call would go out :

"Fuckwit approaching! I'm going for a dump, you deal with him R"

Great. Just fucking great. Seamus, a dullard of such density, you would think he was putting it on. He used to haunt Irish clubs up and down the country, with his accordion or keyboard, doing traditional Irish sing-songs. A talented musician, undoubtedly, but a fuckwit none-the-less.

Three times a fucking week, this man would come into our small town shop and go through the entire stock, as if he'd never seen it before. Every single drum, keyboard, guitar, fucking triangle, he wanted to have a look at it.

"Oh, superb keyboard dat" he'd enthuse, as he fingered (oo-er) a few chords on a Yamaha (sadly, silently, because "the power was off" so he couldn't sit there and treat us to his whole repertoire).

"Oh, superb microphone dis. One two. ONE TWO" he'd declare, as he picked up another SM58 and would speak into it, not plugging it in, just speaking into the top. Erm, yeah, sounds fantastic Seamus.

The thing was, we weren't allowed to tell him to fuck off, because every now and again he'd whip out a huge wad of cash and buy some of the stuff he'd been eyeing up. There was always a scramble for the bog though when he was spotted, no-one wanting to be the one left listening to him drone on about whatever. Especially when the stakes were upped by one of us :

"Hey Seamus, speak to Pete, he'll give you guitar lessons, won't you Pete?

He came by every day then for weeks just to speak to Pete, who had mysteriously developed a serious bowel complaint, keeping him in the toilet for the whole afternoon. Pete threatened to kill me for making the guitar lesson suggestion, and I really do think he meant it, he was NOT amused!

Then one day the boss simply locked the door whenever Seamus approached. The cretin thought the place had shut down, despite there obviously being customers inside, he could see them through the window. Doh!

I still dodge into shops like Mothercare or Jamrags R Us if I happen to see him walking towards me in town.
(Rsoles, Thu 4 Sep 2008, 20:49, Reply)

Not me but the shop nextdoor
was a very high class maternity wear shop.

It had nice comfy chairs just outside the changing rooms.

One afternoon when all the changing rooms were full of pregnant ladies a man came in, sat down in the chair, got his lad out and wanked himself square and round again.
( Mrs Entity is in hiding., Thu 4 Sep 2008, 20:40, 12 replies)

Book Shop Retards
"You wouldn't happen to have a copy of Gulliver's Travels, would you?"

"I'm not sure, Madam, please allow me a moment to check the computer for you."

*checks the computer for her*

"Yes, it would appear that we have several, would you like me to fetch a copy for you?"

"Hmmm, perhaps you could. I checked and you have Ulysses and The Dubliners, but there's no sign of Gulli..."

"That's James Joyce, Madam. You'll find Gulliver's Travels under S for..."

"I know who wrote Gulliver's Travels, young man."

"Then you'll know to look under S, for S..."

"Don't patronise me, boy. You think I don't know what I'm talking about?"

"All I'm saying is that if you wish to purchase a copy of Gulliver's Travels, you'll need to look under S, for Sw..."

"Well I never! Honestly, the youth of today."

"..ift. I'll fetch you a copy shall I?"

*goes and gets a copy, but returns to find a different customer in her place*

"She's gone, mate. Said something about never having been treated so rudely in all her days."

"Good. How may I help you, sir?"

"Well, I had a look, but you don't appear to have The Bonfire Of The Vanities by Brett Easton Ellis."

"Um..."
( Moey, Thu 4 Sep 2008, 20:37, 1 reply)

ahh the memories...
on work experience a girl came into the fishing tackle shop i was placed in (the girl was also on work experience from my school/year) and asked for a "glass hammer" i prompty replied "oh you need the high street branch, all the hardware is in there" another 10 minute walk away - oh im so cruel but how i did laugh :)
recently
Hello i've being sent in for a long weight (wait) "oh we'll have those in about twenty minutes" as said gullible twit is walking out the shop ready to come back in 20 minutes... i point out that a long wait is actually 20 minutes and that he'd been had...
20 minutes later he walks back in "hi, yeah im here for that long wait" again explaing that 20 minutes in infact a long wait he twigs this time, not to be outdone he asks for something to take back just to prove a point i guess... handing him the nearest thing i could find (a meat hook) I told him to say that we where out of long weights and only had sky hooks (another common thing i'm often asked for) 5 minutes later a rather dizzy girl walks in "hello "boy" was sent in for a long weight but he came back with this *shows meat hook* i've being sent over to see if you have a left handed one" *turns meat hook around* "there you go" the words "oh i'm gonna kill him" where shouted as she stormed out the shop :D

And can i have 2 meters of fallopian tube please?

Ok not customers from hell - but hey
Story from a fellow work college who used to work in a clothes store - in walks small hunch backed woman who absolutely stinks of piss "excuse me miss, have you got any black underwear, i don't have to change them as often as the white" *sicks up abit* - SHE STINKS

And i've yet to meet a customer that is right!
( SkUG >_O i got a couple of stitches in my eyeball... ow, Thu 4 Sep 2008, 20:31, 4 replies)

customers are nothing
i work with small children. iv been kicked in the head with tiny feet, had my hair pulled, been screamed at, punched, spat on, dribbled on and you name it. this is nothing. this i can do. children are meant to do this.

take my boss now...

i come in, SHATTERED, and she reminds me that im doing the late shift.

whut?

i was written down as doing the day shift. i checked yesterday after my last shift.

she irritably tells me that i should check the rota board more carefully because she's got me written down on her sheet as doing the late shift as well.

i sneak into the room with the rotas on a loo break to see for myself. underneath monday someone has very carefully but blatantly rubbed out 5 and written 9 over the top.

bitch.
(ladyintheradiator, Thu 4 Sep 2008, 20:30, 1 reply)

Call Centre Awfulness
This is my tale of customers from Hell. The weren't awful customers because they were moaning shitehawks or rampant wanksocks. It was the circumstances involved that made this a particular nightmare.

I worked in a call centre at the time for a well-known mobile company, let's call them Slag Mobile to protect names (subtle, subtle).

I was working the evening shift until 1am. It has been a normal evening, veering wildly between bewildered old dears who couldn't figure out which button was the spacebar, and psychotic businessmen who could no more do without their phone than Ron Jeremy would do without his cock.

Then, at around 10:10 I received a call. I attempted to remove all traces of boredom and apathy from my voice, and reeled off the welcome spiel in a voice dripping with false enthusiasm.

There was silence for a few, somewhat eerie seconds. This was follwed by an almost imperceptible sob. Here we fucking go, some little kid's out of credit, I thought.
Eventually there was a voice, definitely an adult female, but audibly upset.

To cut the story short, the woman had called earlier to sort out her voicemail as there was a message she couldn't retrieve. Unfortunately she had gotten through to one of the many fuckwits employed by Slag and been given some poor advice.

I soon ascertained that she would have to be put through to the technical services department, which had conveniently closed at 10:00. Has she phoned 10 minutes earlier the story would have ended there.

The woman burst into tears. She was replaced by a volcanically angry bloke. This fellow turned out to be her husband. In between cursing myself, Slag in general, and the bearded shit-balloonist himself, for a shower of cunts, he explained that his wife's brother had been in a car accident and the voicemail was news on his condition.

For ten minutes I tried to explain that there was nothing I could do for them at that time. The more upset his wife became, the more incandescent he got. Eventually, the woman had dissolved into a bizarre, lupine keening sound while he yelled, "Are you fucking happy? Are you fucking happy?" at me. I felt the smallest I have ever felt in my life before or since.

Then a house phone rang in the background. The bloke paused from berating me to answer it.

The woman's brother had died.

The woman upped the grief another notch, wailing like a banshee that got caught in it's zip. The bloke had started sobbing, and I was pretty fucking close myself.
I said, as calmly as I could, "I'm sorry I couldn't help you. I don't see any reson to continue with this call. I'm so sorry for your loss". I then ended the call.

I sat for about fifteen seconds, completely numb. I then stood up and booted my chair. It span 180° in the air and promptly disintegrated.

A woman came over from the other side of the room and told me how well I had handled the call, and to go and have a break.
She had only been taping the whole thing as part of my monthly review!

Length? A fifteen minute ordeal in the 7th circles of customer Hell! Dante had nothing on me.
( Boss Keloid Got your mother's maiden name tattooed on my arm, Thu 4 Sep 2008, 20:29, 3 replies)

PC FUCKING WORLD
Yes, I was a techie for PC World, and working so closely with the public you get to meet some fucking insane characters. This is my favourite one:

*customer bangs on the desk with his fist, I look up from the PC I was upgrading. Banging fist on desk is never a good start..

"COME HERE IMMEDIATELY!" Shouts the man, very short, about 50 with a balding head but a big beard - they're the worst

So I trot out, good as gold, noticing that he had brought his PC in a trolley, including the monitor, cables and The Sale of Goods Act printed out and highlighted the sentences that he thought would add weight to his case.

Me: "What seems to be the trouble, sir?"

Mr Twat: "THIS PC YOU SOLD ME IS FAULTY!! I SPENT OVER £500 ON THIS! (it's probably the cheapest one we sold at the time)

Me "Ok I can have look for you, what seems to be the trouble"

Mr Twat "DON'T TAKE THAT TONE WITH ME, I HAVE DRIVEN 6 MILES TO BRING THIS FUCKING SHIT IN"

Me "Please don't swear at me sir, I will help you but I won't be sworn at"

He turns a shade of purple that I didn't know existed.

"I'LL SAY WHATEVER I DAMN WELL PLEASE"

The store was quiet but a small crowd had started to gather. The security guard had gone down off his podium and was ready to press the panic buttons. I was shitting myself but was suprisingly steadfast in the face of this loony.

"Could you tell me what the prob....."

"THE RED CARDS WON'T STAY ON THE RED CARDS"

Me: "Excuse me?"

Twat: "THE RED CARDS WON'T STAY ON THE BLOODY RED CARDS!"

Yes, he had printed out the entire Sale of Goods act (about 2 reams of paper-worth) he had unplugged his PC, put it in his car, driven all the way (probably at 80mph) - because he didn't know how to play fucking Solitaire

He was still shouting when he left the store, after I had explained the rules of Microsoft Solitare, and left the car park with his tyres screeching.

There were some other corkingly awful customers but I think my brain has created a special compartment to hide them from my waking thoughts to stop me going insane. Maybe some more will escape and I'll let you guys know!

Length: 3 gruelling years before I left for a proper I.T job, 4x the salary for a fraction of the grief!
( h3donist tryin' to play me out as if my name is Sega.., Thu 4 Sep 2008, 20:28, 8 replies)

bags for my mother
well i suppose this could count as a customer from hell because he was possibley a homicidal maniac.
the first ever job that i had i was a shop assistant in a small fruit shop.i was taking stock off one night 15 minutes before closing(we used to just leave basics out like carrots and stuff when it go to near closing) when this man wandered in. now nothing unusual about him except maybe he had a bit of a trampish look to him and seemed to be singing a nursery rhyme under his breath in the voice of a small child.

so he came over and asked me where the bags for the carrots were. he then placed in a few carrots and then shouted me over again to ask if he could take a few of the plastic carrot bags home with him. so i said of course (they were just your typical see through plastic bags that you can buy in a box from a shop).

i then went over to the till and continued to serve him when our conversation went a bit something like this:

him: oh them bags are nice and big
me: *smile and nod*
him: they're just right for my mother
me: oh are you buying the carrots for your mum (polite conversation i really don't care what he does with those carrots)
him: OH NO! THOSE AREN'T FOR ME MOTHER THE PLASTIC BAGS ARE!
me: well thats nice of you.
him: yeah they're just the right size for her, if i cut her up real small she'll just about fit. well thanks, bye.

as you can imagine i was a bit speechless at that reply

other highlights from the shop include (these are all elderly customers by the way):

- woman who'd come in on the same day every week and attempt to run me over on her mobility scooter while i'm carrying bags or boxes that are quite heavy (she used to ram into the back of me until i eventually managed to get the stuff were it was supposed to be, i had to be polite so i couldn't slash her tyres sadly)

- woman who'd constantly ask me the prices of things then tell me i was wrong. i'd show her the label and she'd say that was wrong. she made up the prices as she went. yet never complained when charged the price i'd told her.

- woman who decided to flip us all off because she insisted she'd given one of the girls £10 note when it was a fiver. we went through the till and everything and several customers agreed with us. she was about 60 and we all fell about laughing when she did.

you never forget the site of an old lady telling your boss to fuck off and sticking up the finger.
(i eat crayons, Thu 4 Sep 2008, 20:27, Reply)

Try the Swiss navy...
I used to work in a cross-channel ferry call centre. The memory of one call still brings a smile:

"Do you do ferries to Switzerland?"

"No. Sorry madam."

"Do you know who does?"
(silencer, Thu 4 Sep 2008, 20:22, 2 replies)

Halogen PIR lamps
When I worked in a consumer electronics retail outlet that sounded like a holiday camp from a sitcom, we would occasionally take stock of some kind of wonder-product which was impressively cut-price (if slightly ropy in construction and quality control was 'pick 4 out of 100 to test and if they work, the other 96 probably will)

But I digress.

We had a PIR (Passive Infra Red) triggered halogen security light on sale for £20. Hundreds and hundreds of these things went out of the door at high speed because of their low, low price and word of mouth.

So given the large amnount of numbers going out, you expect some genuine faulty units back.

However, sometimes you have to refuse a refund because the customer has quite clearly borked it themselves. But for some reason, they think that they can bluff through, get angrier, demand to see the manager and ask for refund, petrol money, compensation et cetera.

One bloke brought back our wonder PIR halogen lamp saying it didn't work and he was pissed off and he had taken time off work and did we realise how much money he was losing etc etc etc.

As was the custom, when someone brought something back 'broken', we'd always test it out in front of them, to prove it was working if it was their mistakes that rendered the unit unworking.

We had a quick-connect mains block with crocodile clips for mains electricity and would cut a metre of mains cable, strip and wire it into the lamp and the quick connector socket, powered it up and HEY PRESTO, the lamp came on for 30 seconds when you walked in front of the sensor. Case closed. Yes?

NO. I wired it up, I'm a professional engineer et cetera and it wouldn't work in my back garden.

Now, you'd be surprised how many people look at a screw block with three terminals on and not be able to match up wires of the same colour on one side of the block to the existing ones going to the lamp circuitry. So having proven that it worked I referred him to the wiring diagram in the instructions and added (as a get out clause) that for insurance purposes perhaps he ought to get a qualified electrician in to do the job. He went nuts.

Shouting, swearing, the manager was summoned at this point and then repeated everything I'd told him but oh no, he wanted another one. Sigh. OK the manager says, in this instance we'll do a swap. Have you a receipt?

No.

OK, did you pay for your lamp with a credit card? we can go back over the shop records and look for the transaction if you can tell us when it was and it would help if you could remember about what time of day you came in.

'Three weeks ago, 10am on Wednesday'.

The manager and I exchange a long look after noting the spiderweb-crusted, weatherstained sun-faded unit. That's like Judith Chalmers saying 'I'm only 29 and I like the occasional carrot'.

The manager looks back through all the shop records, and eventually phones head office for all transactions on the given credit card. They phone back 5 minutes later.

The customer HAD bought a GK05 PIR halogen lamp on this card. 11 months and 5 days earlier. That was his entire credit card buying history in this store.

The fucker was trying to get a free replacement on a WORKING product that was nearly a year old. The managers' brow knitted. Right.

We went back out front to see the customer and the manager told him that the unit was far too old looking to be 3 weeks old (It was that way when he got it) and had he bought one some time before? (He can't be expected to remember everything, can he?) and all we can do with this one is send it away for repair (What? And leave his back garden prey to thieves and burglars in the meanwhile?).

"Plus it seems to be working OK now sir" I chipped in, flicking the power switch and demonstrating the unit's sensitivity by standing across the far side of the shop and crossing the beam, turning the lamp on.

"FINE" he stormed, "I'm going to go to Wickes instead and buy a PROPER lamp. All my friends are going to hear about this" he finished and stomped off, leaving a big black streak of rubber as he pulled out of the car park and did a huge wheelspin up the road in anger.

Silly customer. He doesn't have any friends to tell about this really.
( Rotating Wobbly Hat That's not a banana. THIS is a banana., Thu 4 Sep 2008, 20:18, 1 reply)

Call centres, Canadian style
An associate of mine we shall call the Baron, used to work in a call centre in Canada. He was browsing through a newspaper when he saw a story on a guy in eastern rural Canada who had been convicted of buggering a sheep. The Baron, seeing that they had printed this guy's name and address, looks up the phone number for this mutton-lover, then dials it, with much of the rest of the call centre listening in. After a few rings, a guy answers, and the Baron shouts "DAAAAAAAAADDDY" in his best, sheeplike voice. Cue raging threats of voilence on the other end of the phone, and most of a cube farm simultaneously pissing themselves with laughter.........
(Lord Blumpy is mildly off-topic on, Thu 4 Sep 2008, 20:16, 1 reply)

Subway in Portsmouth...
Customer: Can i have a BLT?

Me: sure, 6 inch or 12 inch?

Customer: What's the difference?
(flying-fox, Thu 4 Sep 2008, 20:15, 4 replies)

Horses
Never, ever, ever work in a tack shop. Ever. I've been doing so for the last 11 months, lovely store at lovely Equestrian Centre, full of lovely (genuinely lovely) rich people and as you all know, horses aren't a poor mans sport, they cost a fucking fortune, it's still pricey if you don't own your own. 99% of my convos go like this;
"Good Afternoon, how can i help?"
"I'm enquiring about the cost of riding lessons, but we haven't got a fortune"
*then i'd suggest Halfords for a pushbike*
"right, so, *insert blather about highly overpriced sport*"
"oh, that really is a LOT of money, could you not do it any cheaper?"
well of course mam, the clients we've had for 20 years have to pay that much, but you're dear FAT HORRIBLE CHILD FROM THE COUNCIL ESTATE, sorry 'Shaznay' can have it free because you've given me a really desperate look and changed the tone of your voice.
At which point i kindly have to explain that the 50 pound an hour is unfortunately, non negotiable (whuddathunkit?)and they get irritated with ME, because I set the rules dont you know? and on the whole act like i'm the worst sales asst. ever and that i really have insulted them by not lowering the price.
I waste a good 2 hours a day, when i actually have important stuff to do, explaining that horses aren't for poor people. I really don't feel bad about it anymore. Just irritated.

so in short, if poor...

FUCK OFF.

i reiterate

fuck
off.

(p.s, i'm not rich, nicer end of the working class and i actually took this job so i wouldn't have to deal with the chav level commoners.)
(dresden, Thu 4 Sep 2008, 20:14, 9 replies)

Tales from the Motorway Part Two
I just cottoned on to the sheer amount of stupidityness I encountered on the job at the motorway service station in Canadia. I shall now regal you with another tale. Or, if you like, skip to the next reply, what the hell do I care?
Winter, 1998. A large portion of Ontario and Quebec was mauled by about 36 hours of freezing rain. There were massive power outages for weeks – we had no electricity to run our fuel pumps. Telephone lines were down all over the place, so there was virtually no communication. This was before the days of mobile phones. It was a national emergency. Look it up, it was called ‘ICE STORM 98’ by the papers. With uppercase letters.
Anyhoo, one day I was sitting there, reading all the dirty magazines (without CCTV to catch me, I had plenty of workwanks), when a man drives up looking for petrol. He tries the pump, ignoring the multitude of signs saying ‘No electricity, no phones’. I leave my humble pile of dirty tissues, and stroll outside to inform him he is out of luck, no petrol for him. He replies with “But I need gas.”
Erm…
Okay, in that case, I will personally repair all the downed power lines between here and the power station, just for you. Because you need gas.
The same day, a man comes in saying he needs to use our phone. When I tell him we have no phone lines, they are all broken, he rebuts, “It’s a toll free number, though,” he said.
Oh, okay, then.
Wankers.
(w4I4q1O1 was hard at work on, Thu 4 Sep 2008, 19:56, Reply)

Call Centre Story Reversal
OK, a bit of a reversal on the general theme:

So I called my wonderful bank HS-guess-the-rest, to complain about the fact that a credit card transaction had failed to be processed, and as far as I was being told by the vendor, was down to my bank declining the transaction. I'm not a stingey bugger, I had plenty of funds for this, but I digress...

So I'm calling the Complaints department of said bank, because I am an aggrieved customer. The "conversation" went something like this:

Me: "Hi there, I've got a complaint about the fact a transaction was declined"
Her: "......silence......"
(I listen a little closer, and notice she's not silent, but is infact talking to her colleague sat beside her)
Me: "HELLO"
Me: "HEEEEELLLLLOOOOOOO......"

(after a couple of attempts, I realise that the automated call system has patched my call through to her, and she is oblivious to the fact that she has a call. In fact, because of the distance of her voice, I summised that she had taken off her headset. The conversation she had with her colleague went something like this):

Her: "And he said, why can't you access my account, I've given you my details, and I said, well you haven't given me the correct security details, so I can't verify that you are the account holder, and the account is in your wife's name. Well my wife isn't here right now, and she's not going to be very impressed if I have to phone her up and wake her just to get her details for this stupid thing. Well I'm sorry sir, you will have to do this, or call back another time when you do have her details. I'm not FUCKing taking this bullshit, I demand you let me into the FUCKing system. Sir don't take that tone with me. Why the FUCK not, you're not being FUCKing helpful. I'm sorry I'm not being FUCKING helpful sir, but that's not my FUCKING problem... and another thing, who the fuck does he think he is, ordering me around like that, I mean fucking hell, I'm not here to take this kind of bullshit, that guy can go fuck off..."

(Towards the end of this tirade, her voice became decidely loudly, so I'd decided that she'd obviously put her headset back on. She was still oblivious to the fact she had a live call)

Her: "... I mean, what the fuck, if that guy thinks he can do my job bet..."
Me: "Hello..."
Her: "....Stunned Silence..."
Me: "Hello, I know you are there. Just for your information, I have recorded the last minute and a half of that conversation you've had with your colleague, and will make this available to your..."
Beeeeeeeeep. And I was hung-up upon.

So I promptly called the complaints department back, and spoke with another individual, who actually answered the phone, and I explained my original gripe, and now my new gripe that the complaints department took a call, ignored me, and then hung up on me when they realised they'd fucked up.

I know the kind of shit you call-centre types take, and I'm not defending the ass-hole who got her this wound up, but have some dignity and answer the phone and apologise for it. I since learned via a letter that they'd pulled the tapes of the incident, and the operator involved was reprimanded for her action.

And the sting in the tail, it was the vendors fault after all for not processing my credit card properly!
( DavyBoyInGravyJoy Grey Goose Vodka on Ice, nothing finer, Thu 4 Sep 2008, 19:46, 4 replies)

So many tales, so little time...
So I won't be posting them all now and bore you to death.

I used to be a cashier at a small petrol station. We must have had every fuckwit from the inbred towns/villages nearby buy fuel from us. Here are a few morsels to entertain:

1. There is a big sign next to the till informing customers that we do not take cheques. There are also signs on the pumps so you can see them before/as you fill up.
Customer Twat: Pump #3.
Me: That's £20.36 please.
CT: (gets out chequebook) So who do I make this payable to?
Me: I'm sorry sir, we don't take cheques.
CT: You used to.
Me: We haven't since February 2006. (the date being March '08)
CT: (getting irate) Well, you haven't put any signs up.
Me: (points to sign) There are also some on the pumps.
CT: No there aren't.
Me: Yes, there are.
CT: (angry now) No, you're lying I would have seen them!
Me: (resisting urge to slap CT) If you don't believe me I can show you them.
CT: Yes I want you to show me where they are
Me: (sighs, gets other girl to cover till, goes out with CT and points out bloody huge notice on pump) That one.
CT: Oh.
Me: And as you can see ALL the pumps have them on.
CT: Oh I didn't see that.
(He could have redeemed himself by apologising, but oh no.)
CT: They should be bigger.
Me: (pissed off) Yes, A5 is a bit small I suppose.

2. "I'm a journaist, don't you know?"
"Oh right. But I still can't take this card as payment, sir." says I.
The PIN was blocked. Not just forgotten, or some cards don't have a PIN allocated and a little slip prints off to sign, but no this was locked, and the little machine was coming up with 'Do not accept card.'
In order to persuade me to over-ride it (no way) he had brought his Press Pass card as proof of identity, and was now saying:
"I'm going to put in an official complaint. And you'll be in the paper, and..." he ranted on and on, until some nice man (the only one in the area) told him to shut up, pay with aother card and fuck off.
Thank you, nice man for saying what I couldn't.
The journo promptly paid and scurried off. He did put in a complaint and my manager promptly told him to fuck off to as I had done everything right. Yay me.

And now as an engineer:
3. One of the best call outs I've ever been to.
The brief: A customer was complaining that his uninterruptible power supply was making a 'funny noise'. In I go with a colleague.
The machine is fine, nothing wrong. I ask the customer
"So what noise was it making?"
"It's doing it now."
"Erm... that's the machine running normally."
"Really? It's a bit noisy isn't it?"
"Uh... no. This is one of the quieter ones."
It seems the customer had put more load on the unit, and now it was working harder, the frequency had changed.
He wouldn't believe it was okay until we fired up the laptop and let him look at all the status reports. IDIOT!

If you like, I will post more. If not, I won't take up any more of your time ^_^
( VandenPlas can't think of anything clever - no change there!, Thu 4 Sep 2008, 19:44, Reply)

Games Workshop
I used to work part time in GW, Merry Hill. For those who dont know, the do Warhammer and Warhammer 40K; sell books, figures, scenery etc etc. So one day a woman comes in and asks "Do you sell mobile 'phones"

WTF?

(And bear in mind Merry Hill has LOADS of mobile phone shops)
(kitescreech still here, Thu 4 Sep 2008, 19:40, 3 replies)

I think it might have been me...
Or more specifically, me and my friend Mike. Mike's birthday is on July 3rd. This is important.

Earlier this year (April) while we were still in our last year of 6th form, we went together on the school skiing trip to Austria. Great fun, and at the end of the week or so, we decided we should give our instructor a present.

Wandering around the local off licence, we spotted the perfect thing. "Stroh", for the unitiated, is 80% alcohol. "Perfect" says I. However, when we get to the checkout, we run into a little problem. I've left my ID back at the hotel, and Mike is only 17. They're a bit more relaxed over there, but ONE of us still need ID. Fuckit.

Mike decides to try it on anyway, and whips out his driving licence.

"Ach, nein! Zis says you are 17, not 18"

"Cock" thinks I. We've been had.

But no. Mike looks puzzled for a moment, then comes out with one of the best lines I've ever heard:

"Oh! I see the problem. You see, in England, we put the month and the day the other way around. So 03/07/1990 is the 7th of March, not the 3rd of July".

"Is it? Im Austria, ve do not do zis. But I know zey do zis in America... I am very zorry to have caused zis problem. Thanks you for telling me about zis. Enjoy!"

We walk sedately out of the shop then leg it, grinning like idiots. But that's not the best part.

A few customers behind us was someone from the other ski group. Someone who was 18, and also had a driving licence as ID.

Someone who's birthday was January the 18th.

I like to think of the poor shop assistant looking at that ID, and I only wish I could have seen her face when she realised she'd been well and truly had...
( MatJ LOOK, Thu 4 Sep 2008, 19:38, 5 replies)

The customer is usually mental
When I was a barista, a woman threw a scalding cup of coffee at a co-worker because we were out of the muffin she wanted.

That's right. Over a muffin.

She missed, and it was fun to watch the security guy drag her from the building.


Then there was the classy fellow who ordered a bagel, toasted to a very exact shade of tan (he kept making me take it out of the toaster so he could check it), with a precise amount of margarine, two slices of cheese arranged just so and bacon, done to a specific crispness and layered to his liking.

We made what he wanted because a) the cafe was slow at the moment and b) it was hilarious to watch a grown man taking fifteen minutes to order his unnecessarily complicated food.

Then, after he'd finished his food and before his ill-behaved child had a chance to finish trashing the table, he ordered a second bagel -- and this part is important -- 'exactly like the one before'.

Now, dear readers -- would you think that he did indeed want exactly what he asked for before, in all its detailed splendor? Indeed, we thought the same and made it.

He then began to throw a tantrum that would put a spoiled toddler to shame, wailing that what he really wanted was just a plain, toasted bagel, and nothing at all like the one before, as he had stated so clearly.

As the cafe's owner had empowered us to 'deal with morons however you like, because stupid people are bad for business', it was at this point that we told him that in the future, he would do well to remember to ask for what he wants since other people aren't psychic and it was now time for him to leave.
(louveciennes , Volvospotter, Thu 4 Sep 2008, 19:37, 3 replies)

Some of my favourite customers are from "Down South"
but then so are some of the worst spacktards!

We have one crazy old bat who phones us from Devon and moans that it's costing her a fortune. We've tried so many times to explain that 0845 means the call isn't charged at the overseas rate, but she won't have it. So far as she's concerned, Scotland is "abroad". We now tell her to send a copy of the phone bill with the charge on it for a refund. So far she hasn't.

The other "favourites" are the ones who have purchased a contract with a company bearing the name of our nation in the title. All mail has a return address showing "Edinburgh", and yet they're still surprised when told "the chap I spoke to had a Scottish accent" doesn't help us establish who it was. Most of our "chaps" have Scottish accents. So do most of the chapesses, for that matter.

Every so often we get the old "oh, I love your accent, I could listen to it all day" flannel. Some of them might even mean it, but usually they're trying to butter us up. It doesn't work. We're not going to divulge confidential information to someone not entitled to it just because they're nice to us. This, of course, is also known as "hiding behind the Data Protection Act".

Still, it does lead to us collecting a nice line of insults. If I don't get insulted then I haven't done my job right!
(TheWeeWitch hasn't been here much recently .., Thu 4 Sep 2008, 19:31, 3 replies)

I work in a sweet shop
It is the sort with rows of jars of sweets on shelves, that I have to weigh out for the customer, the sort everyone seems to remember from their childhood. Hence the comments:
"Gosh, I don't suppose you remember any of these, do you?"
"I'm like a kid in a sweet shop, hahahahahahahahaha."
"Oh, I suppose it's all in grams now, I don't suppose you know what a quarter is, do you?"
"They were bigger when I was a kid"
"Oooh, penny chews! Of course, they used to be four for a penny when I was a girl"
"They don't make those any more, we'd better get some." (to which I usually reply, "no, they stopped making them in 1988, and am almost always believed.)
And of course, the ever hilarious:
"Can we still pay in old money?" (usually said by a fat, balding, middle aged to elderly man who insist on making eye contact about a foot too low.)
The only amusement I have ever gained from these comments is through a list of the most common. With it, I play "Sweet shop bingo:" whenever someone says one, instead of yelling, "That's not funny, you utter, utter imbicile!" in their face, I tick it off. I play this with another worker there: each time we get a full house, the other has to buy them a bag of sweets.
(Pretty strangers and promises, Thu 4 Sep 2008, 19:27, 2 replies)

Screw
Many moons have passed over the tepee since I worked in a motor factors - that's a car spares shop which isn't Halfords and where the staff usually have a clue. Chap walks in and holds up a screw. "I want a screw like this" he said " but a bit longer, slightly bigger diameter and with a different head." You had to be there . . .
(The Jannie, Thu 4 Sep 2008, 19:22, 3 replies)

No Maps Required
Many moons ago, in the world of Canada, I worked at a large motorway service station. Our biggest market was the long haul lorry drivers who would come in for diesel. We would also get very busy on bank holiday weekends, dealing with the general family type public.
Our station was 175 miles east of Toronto, on the same motorway. Every weekend, some chap would come in and ask me how much further it was to Windsor, Ontario. “Two hundred and twenty miles west of Toronto,” I would say, “about six and half hours due West. Stay on this road, and you can’t miss it.”
Every weekend, there would be someone who would respond, “But I left Toronto two hours ago!” Seriously, every weekend.
I would assure them in the gentlest terms possible (ie without laughing out loud at their tiny brains) that they had been driving down the motorway in the WRONG FUCKING DIRECTION. “You should have gone west from Toronto. Shame really, you would have been there by now!”
Of course, it was my fault, I was pulling their leg, etc etc.
Wankers.
(w4I4q1O1 was hard at work on, Thu 4 Sep 2008, 19:22, Reply)

Lots of customers from hell
Being in the building trade we get lots of customers from hell, there are just to many to tell you about.
( Duke Otterby you pre-verts, Thu 4 Sep 2008, 19:15, 4 replies)

I worked in a school uniform shop in Chatham last summer...
...times were hard you see. The shop employed naiive students over the summer which was obviously their busiest period; so everyday there were swarms of podgy stressed out families "needin a new tie and polo shirttt" and kids moaning, "Cant I get my trassis from New Look these ones are gay". Etc Etc

I actually used to play a game in my head where I would guess what school the family coming through the door went to. Slow + Inbred= Shitty Comprehensive (I went to one so not being a snob) Dazed + Patronising= Private School.

I digress...anywho kids are fat these days. Not always morbidly obese (always hilarious to serve a kid who needs a 52" blazer that had to be specially made) but I swear at least 8/10 kids that came through the door were overweight. You would think that the kiddies would be the problem with the job, but it was actually their fatter stupid parents who were the worst offenders, as they would see it as their divine right to be served solely by you amongst the 10,000 other customers, and would get highly irate if you had sold out of something.

One human man-boob was buying his dawwwerrr (daughter) a school uniform for her first day at primary school. Primary school uniforms are rather cute these days with bear logos and cardigans in an aray of colours (v annoying when little Sazuki-Chanel wants a gween one and you only have blue left!) and their parents are uber proud of little Shaznay-Crystal in her very first uniform and take photos on their mobiles to send to Nan.

Anyway things are going fine with the man-boob until it transpires that we are out of his kid's size in cardigans (because they're such little hefters we were selling an awful lot of age 11+ clothes to 6 year olds appaulingly).
"What!? Why don't you have none left??"
"Um...well, we have sold a lot of that size..."
"But she goes to school in 3 days, whashe supposed to wear??!"

Aha; therin lies the problem. What kind of twat goes to buy his child's entire school uniform for her first day with only 3 days to spare!? Of course I couldn't really say that but was sorely tempted, so merely tried to hint this with a:
"Well the schools are going back soon and we have sold out of so much and have been very busy..."
He doesn't really accept/comprehend this simple fact so goes to rant at my boss for failing his dawwerr. He genuinely seemed shocked that we had been selling a lot of stock.

Sorry for length and lack of funny but it amazed me how many people came storming in to buy an entire school uniform with mere days to spare and then got irate with the staff when we sold out. Perhaps they thought no one else buys their school unifom in summer...
(Eldoofus, Thu 4 Sep 2008, 19:15, 6 replies)

It was a dark and stormy night
and I was working for the largest electricity distributor in England in the call centre that took incoming fault reports from customers with loss of supply.
Our area covered more than five million homes and tonight the network was taking a hammering with gale force winds, flooding and general biblical style chaos.
At 2 in the morning we had nearly 3 million homes without power and nearly 200 calls in the call queue from irate members of the public wanting the know just what the fuck we were doing about it.
I finish with my call, count the standard five seconds we are allowed to collect our thoughts between call before the earpiect bleeps indicating the next call in coming though.
BEEP
"Welcome to the 24/7 supply fault line, please start by giving me your postcode."

"Never mind that, I just need to know where I can buy a pen"

"A.. a pen?"

"What are you? Simple? A pen, a biro, le stilo a bloody pen! Call this customer service? I need a damned pen"

"Madam, it's two in the morning and you've called the electric board fault line on possibly our busiest night this year"

"I know that! I'm not stupid, I just want to do my crossword, are you going to tell me where I can buy a pen or not?"

"I'm sorry Madam, I have callers waiting to report faults waiting to get through, I suggest you go to a shop in the morning. Goodnight"

Bizarre. Just bizarre.
( NobbyNobody 21 years a b3tan, Thu 4 Sep 2008, 19:08, 2 replies)