How about idiot shop worker?
Once I was helping out a friend of my Dad in his newsagents. I say newsagents, it was a tiny little shop that sold suck (does anyone still call sweets suck?) and pop and papers.

Helping out had its benefits, I got to read all the papers, even the rags and I got a few cans of coke to see me through the day. At 15 that was important, but I digress.

One day a man came in asking for lighter fluid. He seemed unable to hear me when I asked what size he would like. He pulls out an old style hearing aid. You know a large speaker that then links to his ear.

Seeing this I lean in to speak into the speaker.

"We do, what size would you like?"
".......only this is my novelty lighter you see..."

It's not only the customers who are stupid.
(Dangerous Disco Trev Isn't my real name, Fri 5 Sep 2008, 10:49, 2 replies)

Hello, I'm from British Gas. I'm here to read your meter...
That was my standard opening line to whoever answered the door I was stood at one summer.

Now this made for an interesting job... not only did I meet a massive cross section of society but I did so on their "home turf", plus they weren't expecting me so all sorts of states of unreadiness were found.

Some highlights if you like;

- "We've just had a gas bill, I don't want another one!"
"Well you'll be getting a bill anyway but if I read the meter it will at least be accurate instead of estimated".
"But I don't want a bill, you're not coming in."
"OK, I'll write it down as refused access then?" (For those in the know this is a black mark against your name in the eyes of the gas board!)


- Then there was the nutter... The door opened on a VERY hot summers day and there stood this lady about 60yrs old in a heavy winter coat and tea cosy hat.
"Are you here to take me to the hospital?"
"No, just to read the gas meter".
"Oh, because I think I'm supposed to go to the hospital".
My notes told me the meter was just inside the hallway and behind her I could see the small cupboard it was in. After gaining entry I then became alarmed by the fact that EVERY FUCKING INCH of wall was written on in various pens. The outpoured mental rantings of someone clearly not right in the noggin. It was like something from a hollywood film, total nut job.
After reading the meter I left sharpish, only to be pursued down the road as she called out "but we need to go to the hospital! The doctor will be cross if I'm not there!"


- Another favourite was I rang the doorbell and almost instantly the door opened to a man sitting on a small footstool in the hallway in a string vest and shorts literally polishing a shotgun.
From upstairs a lady called out "Who's at the fucking door!?"
"Some wanker from the council!" he replies, all the time staring right at me.
"No," I stammered back at him, "I'm the wanker from the gas board".
Luckily he found this amusing and let me in to read the meter... "Nice gun" I commented as I left.
"Yeah, I'm waiting for the man from the council." he replied.
(golddust QOTW now revolves around being a cunt, Fri 5 Sep 2008, 10:44, 5 replies)

I know this is about taking it with a smile, but...
I'm normally a very placid person, I've worked in pubs for the last 8 odd years. However, sometimes things just boil over.
One night, we'd been heaving with drunk knobs, and it was kicking out time. All I could think of was sitting down and having that quiet after work pint and spliff, I'd had a shit day and needed it.
Now, I'm being polite, asking customers to drink up. One particular group of cocks have decided to start singing, so I go over and ask them again to drink up and leave. One of them turns around and says "OK mate", takes a small sip of their almost full pint and turns back to their mates to join in with the chorus.
I leave them be for a couple of minutes, only to return and find no more has been drunk from their glasses. I go over again, and exactly the same thing happens. I'm getting pissed off now. They're delaying my relaxation time.
Next time I go over, I politely point out that it's 20 past and time for them to go, and the bloke says "Yeah mate, don't get your knickers in a twist" (or something like that), takes a sip, turns around and starts singing again.
I see red, he's a little fucking 19 year old cunt trying to impress his mates. I whisk his pint away to shouts of "Oy! That's mine! I hadn't finished that!"
Quick point at the clock by me, "It's 11.30, this pint became mine 10 minutes ago. Now....FUCK OFF OUT OF MY PUB!"
"You can't talk to me like that!", says scrote-boy, genuinely shocked that I've sworn at him.
"I just fucking did. Now FUCK OFF YOU CUNT! I've had a shit day and you need to go!"
"Yeah, how shit's your day been", great idea to antagonise me now, well done fuckwit.
"I've worked a 13 hour shift and my mate hung himself this morning" (yes I know, it should have been hanged himself, but I was cross)
"Oh. Sorry" says knob boy and him and his mates leave without finishing the rest of their pints or making some sarky comment.

By the way, sorry Olly for using your death as backdrop for a not very funny story.
( monkeyboyalpha jumping on the bandwagon since, Fri 5 Sep 2008, 10:36, 2 replies)

again onetel
Back in the day when more people were on dialup than broadband.

A Business customer had recently switched from Dial up to broadband, as we promised it would save him money by paying one flat fee, instead of 1p per minute.

3 months pass and he calls up. He is shocked at how much his bill is showing, approx £2000.

He then proceeds to complain about how he thought it would only be £27.99 a month.

I check his account and it shows phone calls connecting every 3 minutes, then disconnecting to the same 0845 number everyday for 3 months.

It then dawns on me that he is still using Dialup. For several computers in his office. Upon asking him, he complains. It turns out he connected the modem up correctly. Everything to do with his Broadband was fine, however he was still using the old IE icon and as a result was connecting via dialup.

"i wondered why it was slow" he said.

We made him pay up.
(Dan dan dan They tik urh jerbs!!!, Fri 5 Sep 2008, 10:32, Reply)

Customers are like French people. They're not ALL bad.......
Back in my hotel/pub/restaurant days I had some UTTER tools for customers. These range from:

- The person who kept calling me ANYTHING other than my name. He got other customers doing it, too, to the point where I nearly resigned. However, there was a happy ending. One of the bouncers gave him a right pasting (he didn't like him either) and, funnily enough, everyone started calling me by my name after that!

- The person who thought it'd be extremely funny to grab my hand and wouldn't let go (on a busy saturday night!). He let go when I dragged him over the bar.

- The customer who insisted that Nokia was a Japanese company, until I corrected him.

- The pub DJ who said "I want to send my kid to a private school, because, no disrespect, I don't want to end up like you!". I, respectfully, pointed out that this job was a part-time job whilst I studied at university (I passed with honours, by the way. He still DJ's.).

- And my favourite, the group of yobbos who kept calling me "Asif" (I am of an ethnic persuasion) even though my name wasn't. Again, this stopped quickly, when I pointed out that, in actual fact, THEIR name was "Asif". As in "Asif they're going to get served, they carry on like this". Needless to say, they got the message.

In the interests of balance, I would like to write about some of the lovely customers I actually enjoyed serving. They are:

- The couple who used to come in every Sunday for lunch and used to leave me a tip. Even when I was working in the kitchen and didn't see them, they always bought me a drink for after my shift.

- The two old dears, who were friendly but babbled a little (They used to call a microwave oven a "micro-oven"). They used to leave me a 10p tip. Even though it wasn't much, it still meant a lot to me.

- The old scottish couple who came in for lunch every sunday, but never left me a tip. Then one christmas they gave me a christmas card with a fiver stuffed in it.

- The bouncers who used to protect me from horrible customers. (Though, one of the bouncers, (jokingly, no malice) beat me up. I did have it coming. I called him a "nonce of the highest order". Bouncers can be so touchy!)

- The young lads who looked like chavs, but were really, nice blokes.

- The quite sexy girls (in a "girl-next-door" kind of way) who bought me a drink at christmas and new year. This one meant a lot to me, because prior to that I thought I was invisible to the opposite gender!

It was a mixed bag at my old job. But I'll always remember the good customers. They made my terrible job worth coming in for. :O)
(The Stig, Fri 5 Sep 2008, 10:30, 2 replies)

Working at Burger King
Threw up some idiots over the years. The best one?

One day a complaint was recieved about me. I'd been rude to a customer and completely uncompromising in my refusal to help her. I'd refused to accept vouchers that were well within date and accepted at the retail park, so yes the address was on the accepted stores on the back of the voucher.

"I'm sorry I can't accept these" said I.
"Why not? What do you mean you can't accept them?"
"We don't have a zinger tower burger on our menu"
"Well it's on the voucher"
"Yes, it is on the voucher. This KFC voucher"
"HOW DARE YOU SPEAK TO ME LIKE THAT"

The conversation may be paraphrased slightly but the situation is completely true. Oddly enough I wasn't disciplined!
(Dangerous Disco Trev Isn't my real name, Fri 5 Sep 2008, 10:27, 1 reply)

The Motor Trade
There are hundreds. Now I know that I'm automatically a slimy Arfer Daley type to most of the population, but the liars, blaggers and bullshit merchants are quickly hoofed out these days.

1. The Classic.

Saturday afternoon. I've been with you for hours. You're on your third prolonged visit. You've test driven half the forecourt, before finally settling on the first one that I recommended. It's in your (alleged) budget. I've given you top money for your collection of rivets travelling in close formation. I've chucked in a couple of goodies. I can do the free insurance. It'll be ready on Thursday. Everyone else has gone home. There is no more coffee that can be ingested without bladder failure.

At long last..."Do you want to buy the car?".

Simple question. Oh, you like it, good. This is your fourth visit, and by now you know my stock better than I do. We have burnt more fuel on testdrives that a 747 uses to fly the Atlantic. I have no more small-talk. DO YOU WANT TO BUY THE CAR? IF YES, GIVE ME A DEPOSIT. IF NO, GO HOME SO I CAN LOCK UP AND GET COLD BEER.

"Look, I can't hold it for you without a deposit, someone could come in tomorrow and buy it, even over the phone, look I'll even make it refundable until Monday, just please make a decision"

"Pfft, you salesmen, always trying high pressure sales, ho ho *knowing grin*"

(High Pressure? HIGH BLOODY PRESSURE? If I'd been high pressure they'd have been into the car I chose in half an hour and gone...the only 'High' prssure around here is making my veins stand out like mating watersnakes on my forehead...)

"We'll think about it"

"AAAAAAAAARRRRRRGGGGHHHHH".

Sunday. "Bring Bring. Hi, I've been looking on your website......"

Deal Agreed. 5 minutes tops.

Monday. "How DARE you sell that car, you knew we wanted it, it's a disgrace, we want to see the Manager, I'll have your job for this"

Manager:

"Did we offer you a test drive? Yes? Did you like the car? Yes? Did we offer you the right price for your car? Yes? Did we ask you if you wanted to buy the car? Yes? Did we warn you that without a deposit it was still on sale? Yes? And DID YOU GIVE US A PALTRY £100 deposit? No? Please go away."


2. Don't ever do this. You will be followed home, your pets harmed, your gnomes broken and your prized collection of Princess Di memorial plates will be frisbeed into the nearest sewage farm.

Spend a good hour or two jumping in and out of every car in the showroom, attempting to negotiate a price on each one, going through the options list in microscopic detail, having cars dragged round from the compound so you can see 'that' colour on 'that' model, and then finish with the immortal line...


"Well, if I win the Lottery, I'll be back"

Twats.
(osok Rebel without a clue, Fri 5 Sep 2008, 10:26, 4 replies)

ugly death slapper
Another reppin' tale.

She was about four feet tall and as ugly as sin. Her face looked like it had been moulded from putty by Edvard Munch and coloured in by a molested child. The local Greek guys dubbed her 'the monster'. Nevertheless, this didn't stop her shagging the captains of every yacht moored in the village (six), who presumably got so drunk that it didn't make a difference in the dark.

But her two defining characteristics were a chronic self-absorption and an obsessive hypochondria. The former was manifested in a non-stop monologue about how assertive she was, how she definitely wasn't a lesbian, how men kept falling in love with her and how nobody liked her and she didn't care and everyone could just fuck off if they didn't accept her.

The second meant that during her two weeks, she had sunstroke, malaria, meningitis, blood poisoning and food poisoning. All of this reached a climax on the last day, when I was collecting people for the airport transfer.

Her curtains were closed. She didn't answer the door. When she finally did answer, the fetid stench of the room was horrific and she looked even worse than ever, green circles around her eyes and breath like a Frenchman. She hadn't even started to pack and the coach was waiting. She had meningitis and she needed a wheelchair.

I got her suitcase and tossed about half of her stuff into it (making sure to include bottles of suncrean and shampoo with no tops on) . No folding - I just threw it all in, kicking under the bed whatever I couldn't fit in. Then I kicked the case down the flight of concrete steps to the coach (while she hobbled behind me for maximun sympathy value).

At the airport, she asked for a wheelchair and a doctor. She got neither.
(frankspencer, Fri 5 Sep 2008, 10:22, 1 reply)

Job Centre
My sister used to work for the Job Centre. Despite this she is actually a perfectly civil human being, and treats people with respect. she never laughs in people's faces, no matter how ridiculous the request. Except one time...

A rather large, somewhat hesitant African fellow who'd recently arrived on these fair shores sat down in front of her, explained his situation briefly, and then, sotto voce, leaned in...

"I want to speak to Ronald McDonald"
( Sonic James Doom forgetting the date since... umm..., Fri 5 Sep 2008, 10:18, 3 replies)

Marks & Spencers, a Christmas yuletide log
Word was spreading like wildfire among the staff.
I was among a pack of teenagers acting as Christmas workers at an M&S in a greater London shopping centre, and stacking shelves at the time.

There was a woman on the shop floor doing a poo.

I decided on hearing this rumour, that I was going to investigate, and trotted through to the food tills. There was indeed a small melee around a till, where yes, a woman was crouching over a green bucket, the ones normally used for the flowers in the horticultural dept.

Red-faced, she'd hitched up her skirt, and was coiling one out in full view of a rather packed department store ten days before Christmas.

She didnt even look like a weirdo. Quite posh in fact. She stood up and handed the bucket to a male member of staff, and said to the ashen faced till girl....

"I'm so sorry. I'm pregnant."

The M&S guy said, 'we have customer toilets.'

to which she replied,

"I didn't want to lose my place in the queue."
(whitehorse, Fri 5 Sep 2008, 10:15, 8 replies)

Old Perv / Duck Serial Killer
Long time lurker, first time poster. Be gentle with me!

Back in my student days, I spent one of my summers back home working in that bastion of frozen excellence, Iceland.

As some of the pikier among you might know, Iceland also sell a few fresh products like bread, eggs and fruit.

Anyhow, our store in deepest darkest Lincolnshire was frequented by an old and extremely grotty old bloke who rode a mobility scooter. Every morning he would be waiting outside the store in his pork pie hat and dirty mac as we rolled up the shutters. The process was the same every morning; he'd drive himself into the store's entrance and shout until someone came to help him. Whoever came first, he always insisted on being served by the 16 y/o school leaver who would bring him five loaves of brown bread which he'd pay for in exact change which he produced from a large ladies purse with smaller purses inside for each denomination of coin. Once we'd loaded the five loaves into his basket, he's tootle off on his merry mobility scootered way. This happened every morning, seven days a week.

Okay, he's a perv and a weirdo.

Anyhow, the story gets stranger. One morning I was enduring a walk of shame after and all night houseparty just outside of town when I spotted said weirdo by the river. Ah, he feeds the ducks, I thought. But I was only half right. Suddenly he leapt out of his mobility scooter and began chasing the ducks up and down the bank, swinging two loaves of bagged bread like nunchuks in each hand. Once he'd cornered a duck he pelted the little blighter with the bagged loaves until it laid dead on the riverbank. Then he returned to his mobility scooter and began devouring the fifth loaf in great handfuls whilst laughing.

I called the police needless to say, and yes, he was in face a notorious paedo. I think the duck murdering was the last of the Police's concerns about him!

Apologies for length? Fuck it, I know you love it. I'm the new daddy round this board.
(KidIcarus, Fri 5 Sep 2008, 10:11, 3 replies)

"Why are your lights on?"
I have recently left a post manning a Tesco petrol station. One of my shifts was a Saturday night, finishing at midnight. After ten o'clock we'd lock the shop, my colleague would go home and I would serve alone through the hatch.

Part of our policy was not to fetch anything from the shop area while serving through the hatch, as it led to queues building up. The main shop (500 metres away) was open 24 hours, so most people huffed a little when I refused them a ham sandwich and made their way down to the store.

Some customers, however, preferred to stand and argue- a pointless activity, as I would only fetch things for paramedics or the occasional taxi driver.

So, with this background made known, I can deliver one of my favourite pieces of customer relations.

"Hi, pump number 12 and an egg and cress sandwich please."

"I'm sorry, we can only sell fuel and cigarettes through the hatch *taps highly visible sign on window that says the same*"

The following was said in a tone so angry and confused it is usually found only in conversations with train conductors.

"THEN WHY ARE YOUR SHOP LIGHTS ON?!"

"Urm... So I can see what I'm doing."

The customer paid and left in silence.
(Generator cannot be named for legal reasons, Fri 5 Sep 2008, 10:10, Reply)

Reppin'
Yes I was a holiday rep for six weeks until they discovered they'd hired the most sarcastic and misanthropic person in the world to work with people on holiday. Part of the job was receiving complaints from tourists - and they had many.

The best one was a guy who'd booked a pot-luck holiday and been shunted to the hotel with no facilities on the edge of the island. Nice enough place, but in the middle of nowhere. When I arrived, he'd manage to piss off the whole hotel with his tantrums. He was waiting for me in reception with a virulent tan and his too-small sunhat perched on his head.

He had prepared a four page written report of his woes, which he insisted on reading to me with an oratorical delivery. In short, his issues were:

- The waitress wore braces to hold her trousers up. A waitress should not wear braces.
- He had seen communist graffiti on the island.
- Even though the taxi transfer had been free, he had felt compelled to pay the driver anyway, and now he wanted a refund.
- The taxi driver had broken the speed limit,
- The landscape was 'lunar' [I pressed him this, pointing out that there was no Ionian Sea on the moon, but he was adamant].
- The management had put a free fruit basket in his room and had then refused to remove it. It's presence was making his wife suicidal and he wanted it removed.
- Nails were sticking out of the hotel roof - around 4 metres above ground level. It was a health and safety hazard, he said [presumably for people filled with helium].
- There was shredded paper all over the beach. [he insisted on showing me the green, sea-weed-smelling 'paper' and said he was taking a sample back to England for chemical analysis.
- The hotel manager was 'fat'.

I jotted all of these complaints down on the official form - and then tossed it out of my car window as I went for one of my habitual four-hour coffee and cake breaks.
(frankspencer, Fri 5 Sep 2008, 10:08, 7 replies)

Another "stimulating" Driving School one, while I remember it...
The driving school for whom I worked was a small and simple outfit. Unlike the giants of the driving instruction world, such as BSM or the AA, we did not have the luxury of areas out the back to practice driving, let alone anything so sophisticated as a full driving simulator.

The customer on the telephone, of course, does not know this - no harm in asking, is there?
"Hi, I want to start learning to drive."
"Well, this is a good place to start."
"Yeah, I'm a bit nervous about getting in a real car. Do you have a stimulator?"
"A driving simulator? No, sir, we don't have one, I'm afraid."
"No, I want a stimulator."
"I think you mean a simulator."
"..."
"A driving simulator?"
"Yeah, a driving stimulator."

I avoided (a) the temptation to direct him to a website which might be able to meet his needs and (b) any jokes about the kind of "relaxing" he wanted before he got into a real car. This, I feel, was impressive self-restraint on my part. I wonder if he ever found himself a stimulator...
(LongJohnBaldry, Fri 5 Sep 2008, 10:07, 1 reply)

Rimmington's....
I was a very shy 17 year old and worked at a posh and well to do traditional chemist in Bradford city centre, called Rimmington’s (no pun intended!).

I had been working there for about 6 months when a big chap came to the counter and demanded that I “don’t laugh at this, I mean it, don’t laugh!”.

This automatically had me laughing internally but I put on a straight face and asked how I could help.

He told me that he was excessively sweating and again reminded me not to laugh.
This was becoming increasing hard (especially with my two, also young, colleagues stifling giggles beside me).

He went on to explain that his `excessive sweating’ was between his bum cheeks and yet again reminded me not to laugh!

I’d not come across this complaint before and decided to ask the pharmacist what would be most suitable.

I wanted to look professional but I couldn’t think of anything apart from laughing as I had been told not to so much.

I managed to compose myself enough to say that we had a customer suffering from excessive sweating and the pharmacist asked me where. I really couldn’t manage to say between the cheeks without laughing so I pointed to my lower back hoping that this would explain.

The pharmacist recommended a specialist deodorant called Dryclor and I sold this to my customer.

After he had gone, (and the pharmacist was back in dispensary), we all burst out laughing (It had really been building up!) and my colleagues decided to check the small print on Dryclor.

It clearly stated that it was NOT to be used on one’s intimate areas. SHIT!!

I was in fear of reprisals for at least two weeks but luckily he never back to complain about his sore arse!
( DUMBLONDE is a rubber lover girl, Fri 5 Sep 2008, 10:04, 3 replies)

Hundreds of them in HMV, Oxford Street branch...
But the one that sticks with me the most was a nervous looking fellow, obviously very shy, who'd been sent to find a particular piece of music. I asked if he wanted help, and he pushed a torn scrap of paper in my hand.

I unfurled the handwritten message, and the reason for his problem became clear. He'd been sent off to look for that old Scottish classic:

A May Sing Grays

No wonder the poor sod couldn't find it on any CDs...

The other favourite was someone after something "really emotional, you know? Music that really MEANS something. None of this pop crap, I want some passion in the performance."

After about half an hourof trying various things, this translated to "Sell me some Celine Dion"

...
( Sonic James Doom forgetting the date since... umm..., Fri 5 Sep 2008, 9:52, Reply)

Driving Lessons for Christmas
As veterans of the Bastard Collegues qotw may remember, I used to work the reception desk in a driving school.

Around one chilly Christmas time, as I reclined in my seat, doing bugger all, a customer swaggered in.

I say "swaggered" because he didn't walk in; he put himself into the building in that manner adopted by the alpha males of chav hunting groups, which seems to involve swinging one's whole body left and right, which I think is supposed to establish their dominance, but looks more like they're doing a little dance, or possibly just doing it to make sure gravity doesn't get the better of the tracksuit bottoms hanging halfway down their arses.

" 'right, bruv"

This is a driving school. I'm a complete stranger who was unfortunate enough to be on the desk. The one thing I am not is your bloody brother. "Mate," I could have tolerated, but "bruv"? Grow up and pull your fucking trousers up.

"Good morning. How can I help you?"
"Yeah, bruv," for the love of all that is not shitthy in this world, please stop calling me 'bruv' "you got, like, a gift pack, or sumfing?"
"Um...what are you looking for, exactly?"
"Like, if you wanna buy lessons for someone, you got a gift pack or sumfing?"

A gift pack. Sure, why the fuck not? Your friend wants some driving lessons, so let's give her the lessons and maybe throw in some treats and goodies. Maybe we could throw in a little plastic toy car, or one of those toy steering wheels so she can practice steering at home. Or perhaps, because it's almost Christmas, you presume we can wrap up the driving instructor and his car in pretty paper with reindeer on and top it with tinsel and a nice bow?

I restrained myself from such sarcasm.
"Well, normally if you want to give driving lessons as a gift, then we sell vouchers."
"Ah, izzat all?"
"Well, you're just looking to buy driving lessons, aren't you?"
He doesn't reply to me; instead he gets his phone out and calls a friend.
To said friend: "Yeah, mate, they only do, like, vouchers...yeah, bit crap innit?"
And the conversation continues in this vein while he swaggers/dances up and down the front of the office. Great, so you're going to just come in here and openly insult my attempt to help you with your request. You utter cockdonkey.

He finally gets off the phone and undulates back over to my desk.
"I dunno mate, you know it looks a bit shit, dunnit, if you just like, give 'em some vouchers?"
The customer is always right...
"Yes, well, I'm afraid that's the best we can offer."
"'cos it's for my girlfriend, innit?" Is it really? How stupid of me not to guess... "I fought I'd get 'er some driving lessons. But she's, like, eight months pregnant."

Your girlfriend is a month away from going into labour and you thought it would be a great idea for her to start learning to drive. You're a twat.

This post is long enough already without me detailing the lengthy and quite boring process by which I managed to get rid of him - but only after selling him about ten of these vouchers. The girlfriend's name eventually appeared on one of the instructors' timetables and fortunately there were no tales of someone's waters breaking in the car. I shall simply treasure that day as the closest I ever came to physically assaulting a customer with any sharp, pointy stationery I could lay my hands on.

Thank you for your patience. There will probably be a couple more from the Driving School in due course.
(LongJohnBaldry, Fri 5 Sep 2008, 9:41, 2 replies)

One-stop photo
I was working in a photocopying shop that happened to be next to a photo processing place. One lunchtine, some prick in a suit walked in and arrogantly slapped his film canister down on the counter. Didn't say a word.

I looked at the film. I looked at him. He looked at me in that way people look at uniformed shop monkeys - like I was a turd under his shoe.

"Yes?" I asked, with the intonation of 'what do you want, dickhead?'

He even didn't speak. I wasn't worthy of that. He just gestured to the film on the counter with an 'are you some kind of retard?' expression.

"It's a film." I remarked.

"CAN. YOU. DEVEL-OP. IT?" he enunciated, as if speaking to an incontinent old woman.

"THIS. IS. A PHOTO-COPY-ING. SHOP." I retorted in the same manner.

He reddened. He snatched the film. He stormed out of the shop, pursued by my sneering laughter.

One of the many jobs I was fired from.
(frankspencer, Fri 5 Sep 2008, 9:39, 5 replies)

An epic multi-post
Customer #1:

"Does your laptop get hot when it comes up with this error?"

"Erm, I have my mobile phone next to it, if thats what you mean?"


Customer #2:

"I heard IT are rolling out some new software after testing, so I've beaten them to it and installed it myself, but it doesn't work"


Customer #3:

A customer called up on a mobile (as a lot do due to only having a single phone line)

Customer: "Hi, I can't connect to the internet through Dial Up." (At least they actually know what they are using, right?)

Me: "Ok, lets just check a few settings quickly"
(procedes to check Dial Up networking, etc...)
"Ok, can you reboot your machine now please?"

* Due to "point and peck" ability and the fact that nothing I tried actually changed the situation, and Windows throwing up several seemingly random errors, it takes me 30 mins to get to this point and during the 'Wait for Windows' pause: *

Customer: "Whats the weather like there?"

Me: "A bit overcast, not too bad though."

Customer: "Thats good, its pouring down here, the telegraph pole at the end of the road was struck by lightning last night, I've not been able to connect since."

Me: "..."



Customer #4:

Customer: "Hi, I'm having trouble with my emails. I can send but can't receive."

Me: "Ok, what is your username?"

Customer: "*****, also, my desktop isn't working. Have you any problems at your end?"

Me: "No we aren't experiencing any problems here, when you say desktop, what do you mean?"

Customer: "Well, my emails aren't working, and I have a blue screen. Its been like this for 10 minutes."

Me: "Ok. A blue screen with text on it?"

Customer: "No, its just a blue screen."

Me: "Do you not have any icons or start button?"

Customer: "No, All I have is a blue backdrop. Is this what is stopping my emails at your end?"

Me: "It sounds like a problem with your computer, have you rebooted it to see if that helps?"

Customer: "Yes, I have rebooted it a few times and I assumed it was because I couldn't get my emails."

Me: "I think you'll need to look at your PC and get it working correctly before I can help you, as without a Start button or any desktop icons I can't check any email settings with you."

Customer: "Oh, so I need to sort out my emails here first?"

Me: "No..."



Customer #5:


I was once an employee at a large DIY store chain in the UK as a till jockey/general dogsbody. I had one customer ask me to scan a lawnmower's barcode to check the price was the same as on the shelf (they are drawn from the same system, so not likely to get a mismatch) it came up as £149.99.

He told me that it was too expensive, even though it matched the price tag on the shelf (!?!) and asked me to remove it from his transaction.

I proceeded to remove the item and scan a few other items. The amount came to £3.49. He paid me £3.50 and of course, got a penny change.

As he was walking away, he looked at his receipt and then stormed back over to me while I was serving the next customer, barged them out the way, then started shouting.

"You've charged me for that lawnmower! Remove it immediately!" I then proceeded to inform him that if I had charged him, the total would have been £153.48, not £3.49.

He then said: "Bring me your manager, I am not happy!"

It took my manager 10 minutes to explain this while I served the following queue of equally bemused customers.
(Ethelred is watching cheese grow, Fri 5 Sep 2008, 9:30, Reply)

Like this qotw?
I came across this site some time ago.... not sure how or when (may have even been through b3ta, but i'm not sure). It's good reading, though.

www.actsofgord.com

Let me know what you think!
(downhill without brakes . It was the worst day of my life, Fri 5 Sep 2008, 9:26, 4 replies)

A long time ago
In a county (thankfully) far, far away. Okay, Essex.

I was a Desk Monkey at a car hire place. Now this particular firm had a deal with a certain Irish airline, in that you would buy a flights & car hire inclusive package. The travel agent would give you a voucher thingy, which you gave to me, and hey presto I would give you a car. Sounds easy-peasy, hey?

However, what every single sodding travel agent would neglect to tell the customer was that they had to pay a deposit when they took the car, for fuel and accident excess. Give the car back with all bits attached and a full tank, and you get it back. Simple, eh?

'Twas even printed on the folder containing said voucher, to make it easier for the hard of thinking.

Foolproof, ja?

Naah.

Firstly, after the group cringe when we saw that one of these flights had landed, the customers first of all had to find the right desk. You know, the one with the same brightly coloured logo that is printed on your voucher, and coincidentally has people from your flight standing in front of it. So after queuing ap at the wrong desk, and now and then at the taxi desk or airport information, they would eventually get to us.

Firstly, we just hope that the cretin at the travel agent has bothered to book, and we always kept a few cars in reserve for that very real chance. About 20% of agents didn't, they just booked the flight and assumed that leprechauns did the rest.

Secondly, we pray that they've brought their licence. I really don't care if you showed it to the travel agent in frigging Paddyville Mr O'Flaherty, I can't sacrifice a gerbil to Almighty Bob and have a vision miraculously appear in front of me. No DVLA to call, of course.

Thirdly, we wait for the kick-off over the deposit. Oh, your travel agent (who coincidentally forgot to book the car) didn't tell you? Blimey, my surprise-o-meter just exploded. Why do I need one? £50 damage excess and £40 fuel deposit, Mr Customer. Yes I'm sure you have been driving for 33 years without a scratch, and I'm sure you're a man of your word, and if you're running late for your return trip you wouldn't dream of dumping the car with an empty tank and no wheel trims on the terminal forecourt causing the bomb disposal chaps to make a visit. Pay up, please. Yes you can complain, it'll be filed along with all the other ones, however I'm not getting sacked because you haven't read your paperwork.

The last and best, I promise. Been through the licence bit (luckily his wife had brought hers). Had a screaming match as the car hadn't been booked. Had another screaming match over the deposit. Had what would have been a screaming match over the non-booked child seat for their fat, ugly & ginger offspring, if I hadn't gone ta-daa! and produced one. So instead we have a scream about why we hadn't fitted their non-booked sprogseat (like we know just how fat your child is madam) into their non-booked car. Followed by a rant after I reveal that I am unable to fit it due to liability, but there are instructions attached. Have a nice day.

Three minutes later "This is INTOLERABLE" etc etc - "you've given me an automatic, I can't drive an automatic *hurls keys* you're incompetent fecking twats..."

*examines keys*

"I gave you a Seat Ibiza" *grits teeth* "sir, which is not available in automatic. However, as I cannot spend any more time arguing with you over our fleet model range, I will check in this car and give you a free upgrade to this other car..."

"fecking twat, saying I can't find a car in a car park, mutter, mutter" goes Mr Twentytoes.

New keys, time to bimble off to the car park to check. Yup, they'd ignored the rectangular plate thing with the letters and numbers on, and instead got into the first unlocked (thanks, customers) car on the line.

And then I spot them, all smiles now, and they jovially wind down the window to announce "we had the wrong car!!!!!HoHoHo"

"Hohoho" I responded, fists clenching involuntarily. "By the way, that child seat is fitted wrong, you'll need to move it as it needs a 3 point belt to be safe" (was attached by a lapbelt only)

"You fecking shite, you should have had the fecking thing fiteed, I'll report..."

"SHUT UP"

"If you have an accident with that seat as it is, your child will die or be horribly injured. I will refit the seat for you, and you will go away. Don't even say another word."

They didn't.

When they came back a week later, however.....
(osok Rebel without a clue, Fri 5 Sep 2008, 9:13, 1 reply)

More ‘call centre’ fun…
My nephew works at a call centre for package holidays and wotnot. Recently, he told me about this conversation:

Nephew: “Can I help you?”

Customer: “I’d like a refund on my holiday please”

Nephew: (after taking details and tapping into computer revealing info on a £2000+ holiday) “I see sir. May I ask why you require this refund?”

Customer: “...Because I forgot to go...”

Nephew: “Jesus wept” (hangs up)
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Fri 5 Sep 2008, 9:04, 2 replies)

I get at least one of these a fortnight at my work.
Me: *goes to reach for a plastic bag*
They: "Oh, no thank you, i won't have a bag. got to save those trees!"

...

They're not even joking.
( Willwillwritehiswill An arse like a slapped face., Fri 5 Sep 2008, 9:02, 6 replies)

Cine-Hell
I work at a cinema in the Medway Towns, where the word chav was invented, i have a few such stories.

-Our main screen has two doors, both with a massive '1' above them. the amount of people who cannot comprehend the thought of one room having two doors astounds me, i can only assume they think we have two screen number 1s or that someone stole the 0 from screen 10. when they ask me about it i usually say
"don't worry they both show the same film at the same time", or split them up, telling one half of a group they are in one door and the other half are in the other door.

-we have six tills so we can more convieniently steal enormous amounts of money from you (we are a cinema after all), customers can always be relied upon to stand patiently at an unmanned till, sometimes for minutes at a time, even when staff are vainly trying to call them over to a till when they can actually be served, and then complain about having to wait.

-people at the box office often attmpt to buy tickets with vouchers for another well known cinema chain i do not work for. when i inform them of their error, they then say,
"well where am i now then?" and in my head i think
"if the 20 foot sign above the fucking door didn't help you, i'm not sure i can"

and finally a word on the british queuing reflex.

-when a film is about to begin, people queue outside the screen door, waiting for us to clean the previous rabble's rubbish so they don't have to sit in another persons popcorn/spilled drink/melted ice cream/piss soaked underwear/used condoms/shit filled crisp packets (no, really, but thats another story). Unfortunately, the people of medway are somewhat ungrateful for this service and often come in anyway and get stroppy when we explain we are still cleaning, telling us to hurry up. Naturally i then work slower.
When we are done, the doors are open and the sheep file in.
Once however, i returned to a screen about 20 minutes after having let people in, another queue had spontaneously formed, not at the door or the bottom of the aisle in the screen, but halfway along the corridor between the two, for no reason. i approached the body of people and asked them all why they were queuing here, from within the mass a womans despairing voice replied
"we don't know!"

i rest my case. apologies for length and poor spelling :)
( spikedirection no frills, no skills., Fri 5 Sep 2008, 8:58, 3 replies)

The Sad, Sad Tale of Mr N64
Many moons ago, back when i was a student, I worked Sundays as a Sales Assistant for a famous stationary and entertainments chain.

It was about 8:30am and the store had just opened that moment. Myself and a fellow assistant were standing by the comper games section, where he was informing me that the managers had decided that the stock room was being cleared out, many a treasure had been discovered, and would be put on sale.

One of the prized items found, was an N64, mint in box. The other sales assistant proceeded to point out another member of staff had resereved this little treasure. The entire conversation was held at little more than a whisper, as we were supposed to be working, and were instead, like all good assistants, slacking off.

To my surprise, two minutes after I had decided to go back to pricing something, HE showed up. He was in his mid-thirties and most likely still lived with parents. He was known to all of us in the entertainments department, as he had once brought several playstation 2 games and proudly boasted that he would not unwrap them as they would depreciate in value.

Anyway, he grabbed my attention and calmly asked whether or not he could buy the N64 that I had just been talking to my colleague about.

Rather than asking if he had been stalking me, as there was no way he could have heard that conversation, I apologised and informed him that it had already been reserved by another customer and was not for sale. At this he simply said "Ok, not to worry!".

What proceeded after that, was the most anal behaviour I have ever seen by anyone. Period. He went around the ENTIRE store, asking EVERY single member of staff what the stores policy was on reserving items for staff. He when into heated discussions with the manager and supervisors. Hounded servers at the till points causing some rather awkward queues.

Eventually he left the store.

About three hours later he returned. He had been around every other local store that had be open to bug every other member of staff in the surrounding area about how staff were allowed to reserve items for themselves. He presented several handwritten pages of what other sales assistants and managers had said to him. At this point he was pactially crying about buying this N64.

Luckly (probably the one time I've ever appreciated having a manager in store)we had one of our new and younger managers in; she wasn't one to stand for this sort of crap. She had him escorted out of the store, and told him in no uncertain terms that if he ever caused a scene like this again, he'd be banned.

And thus, the legend of N64 Man passed into sales assitant lore.
( theoriginalsteve <this space intentionally left blank>, Fri 5 Sep 2008, 8:56, Reply)

My sister
when she was a student, worked one summer in a haberdashery type shop.

One day, a woman from Dundee* came in and asked my sister for 'a buttonette'.

She was confused. She'd never heard of such a thing. However, the shop did stock a range of buttons and she directed the customer in this direction, at which point the woman got a bit annoyed and repeated, "Naw, eh'm wantin' a buttonette".

My sister had to then ask her to explain, whereupon she discovered it was actually, "a but (bit) o' net curtain, fur meh kitchen windae".

Oh dear.

(translation provided on request. Dundonians are not known for their eloquent speech, and pronounce the i sound, for example in pie, as eh. "Eh'll hae a peh")
( K2k6 has a proper job these days, Fri 5 Sep 2008, 8:26, 1 reply)

Me as a customer
Bloody hopeless I was. When I was a young whipper snapper (17 to be precise) I went to the chemist to get my prescription. Fair enough you might think.
Except I hadn't ordered it nor been to collect it myself from the doctors. In my head somewhere I realised my mistake but not before the nice but exasperated lady informed me of how the system worked. If she had the choice of using colour illustrations she would have jumped at it.

She must have thought that I thought you could order drugs like you could a fish supper.
(muzzvsworld, Fri 5 Sep 2008, 3:58, 1 reply)

Yid
Many moons ago i used to work in a pub/resturant type place.

So one night standing at the bar having a smoke before my shift starts and its mega busy so decide to start early and help the chaps behind the bar.

Get changed and come out and there is this fat little woman screaming at my manager.

FLW - Him, that yid over there, he is the one.

Me - Me?

FLW - Yeah you fucking yid.

Me - Eh?

FLW - You didnt bring my order over like i asked you to, fucking yids.

Me - But ive just started my shift and havent served anyone yet so i think youve got me confused.

FLW - You lying yid, dont fucking lie to me.

Then she throws a pint glass at me

Me - Thanks for that, great start to my shift that is.

She then tries to jump over the bar to attack me, but slips off and falls to the floor, of course i started to laugh as did most of the people at the bar.

FLW - im gonna get you fired you fucking yid bastard.

Me - You do that.

She then left but not without throwing more stuff at me.

The next week she comes in, spots me behind the bar, i spy her and she just stands there. Then runs at the bar screaming YYYYYYYYIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD, but she fell again, i laughed again, police were called.

Now, i should point out i dont look Jewish, have never been mistaken for being Jewish and have no idea what she was on about. Was pretty funny though. I never did see her again.
(Lanceuppercut, Fri 5 Sep 2008, 3:47, 1 reply)

Difficult Cuntstomers.
Once worked for a McDonalds. Like several umpty billion other students. Anyway, during one of my last shifts for the fucking awful place, about 10pm(ish) some woman wanders up to my till and asks for something which involves fries. Can't for the life of me remember what else she wanted although I do recall the miserable bitch was quite fuckable, but she had clearly had a shit day and was looking to take it out on someone. Cue, your's truly.

Anyway, I assembled her meal and upon asking for payment she claimed that I had handled her bloody fries with my fingers. Now (a) there is a perfectly servicable fry scoop for sticking their manky chips into a bag and (b) well, there is no (b) because (a) is such a bloody good argument. I made this point, she had none of it, and being quite a nice person I decided to cook her a nice fresh load of fries and made a deliberate show in front of her of scooping up her fries without a single bit of soya and shite ever approaching my fingers.

Well, once again and now spectacularly unbelievably she claimed I had man-handled her sodding chips into the bag. So, I asked the manager to deal with her and fucked off.

So, awkward fucking woman in McDonalds, L/Spa about 11 years ago... I am now a NASA astrophysicist, and you are probably still a difficult cow moaning about a bag of shitty chips in your local chav eatery. Fuck you and fuck off, etc.
(Dr. Scambolic, Fri 5 Sep 2008, 3:04, 5 replies)

Abused Baristas, Unite!
While I worked at Barnes & Noble, I was not only a bookseller, I was also scheduled to work shifts as a barista. The best of both worlds, right?
Wrong.
We got some real nutjobs at that place.
There was the germophobe woman who insisted that we not touch (hell, we could barely even breathe on the damn thing) the rim of her coffee cup, and watched us like a hawk as we processed her order.
We ran into tons of problems with the giftcards, because we were technically a B&N cafe that served Starbucks coffee, NOT a Starbucks.
People would constantly be trying to pay with Starbucks giftcards, and when I told them we couldn't take them, they would look at me like I just shot their beloved golden retriever in front of them.
I actually had a customer laugh and say "You must be joking", all while holding out the giftcard to me, like that would make it work.
There were more than a couple WTF instances.
Like when a woman ordered a frappuccino, then brought it back to the counter, complaining that "it was cold".
No duh. That's what the drink is.
Then there was the caramel guy.
First off, the order was originally made by one of his co-workers. She had come in (she worked at a nearby store), and given us a massive list of drinks. We make them, she leaves, everyone is happy.
Not so much.
This guy, one of her co-workers, comes back with one of the drinks we gave her. He wants more caramel in it. Okay, no big deal, put a little more caramel on it, he's happy.
Right?
No.
Then he spills the drink all over the condiment bar. He wants us to remake the drink. Does he know what it was? Of course not.
Can't we identify it by the spillage, he asks.
All I can tell is that it was some sort of hot coffee/espresso drink.
One call to his coworker later, and he finds out it was a caramel macchiato.
So we make another one.
He wants more caramel on it.
More caramel.
More.
Can't I just give him a little cup full of caramel?
"If I don't get her enough caramel, she'll kill me!"
Sure.
Bastard.
(Betsy Braddock Thee before thine, except after thou., Fri 5 Sep 2008, 2:44, Reply)