Belgian Shopkeepers are The Worst
Needed new shoes as my Dr.Martins boots had begun showing signs of fossilisation.

So I go into an average shoe shop and immediately spot UberBitch with an expression telling me that she, and not the attractive young assistant, was in charge.

Cue some perusal on my part.

I select my first pair of non-Dr.Martins shoes in eight years and proceed to sit down and try them on (and no, no-one had asked me if I wanted their help - but that's par for the course in the land of Chocolate, Beer and .... erm.... well not much else).

Anyway, I'm both amazed and amused to find that my clown-feet are actually not giving me grief in said shoes and so I'm about to take them off to and stick back on my Docs. in order to pay for these new-found boats at the cash desk. Suddenly UberBitch, using her hormonally-supercharged sense of FuckYou stomps up and demands to know my shoe size.

Now, continental sizes are not my forté, so I proceed to tell her in near-perfect Allo-Allo French "Zees wans arh joost parfet pour moi. Zank yoo enyweh".

No, fucking way, mate! - let a customer decide what they want all by themselves? Are you meeehhhdddd??? - Never, I tell you - NEVER!!!

I explain that I'm in a hurry and could she please just ring these little fromage-moulds up for me?

Could she fuck.

In front of the whole fwappin shop (there were shit loads of customers since it was January sales) she HOLDS UP my mutagenic Docs for the customers to see and shouts "Zeez arh size 9 in UK, non?" "You can't wear a Euro size 41 - too small!!! Oh ho ho ho - fer too smoll!!!"

"Vas te faire foutre", I tell her and grab my docs.

At least I managed a fart before I left.




P.S. Sorry for teh girth. Needed a rant.
(Gone Native, Thu 12 May 2005, 17:30, Reply)