First bar job was in Bumblefuck, Somerset.
For reasons probably best kept to the landlady, we sold liquorice shoelaces behind the bar.

The local skinhead was about the size and intelligence of a barn.

He requested a pound's worth, and made sure he got every one.

Still - I had the last laugh - he's still there.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Fri 15 Apr 2011, 15:58, 3 replies)

Yarp!
P.S. Click!
(sarcastic fringehead feet of clay, buns of steel, head of lettuce, Fri 15 Apr 2011, 18:56, closed)

I don't get it?
Gentleman with short hair buys sweets, ensuring he recieves the amount payed for, and said gentleman still frequents the establishment in which the incident occured. Is this supposed to be about a bad job or greed and, whichever one, why?
(Me, I'm not... in any way intoxicated, Sat 16 Apr 2011, 11:38, closed)

Come now - play the game.
You know what liquorice bootlaces are like - long and sticky. They are supplied in a tub, and are all knotted and tangled together. They're a penny each, so for a pound you get 100.

He made me count out 100, individually, because he's one of those twats who's life is so meaningless he gets off on belittling others.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Tue 19 Apr 2011, 9:58, closed)