6 posts tagged “cuntstomer service”

Hello. I'm subideal. I used to blog here, some time ago. Anyway, hi! *Waves*

So I started this new job, and I told the landlord of the pub I was working at previously that he shouldn't be shy about calling me if he was stuck for staff. I couldn't guarantee that I'd always agree, but I'd certainly try and help out if he found himself in the shit.

I found myself working there on only the second evening since starting the new nine-to-five. Yeah, I know, I know. But I've been pretty good at declining since. Anyway, it was a Tuesday evening, so I figured it would be dead, and I could just read a book at the end of the bar.

I have befriended a Polish girl who used to work in the newsagent next-door. She seems to have moved to the UK seeking Eldorado, and has met with the type of disillusion endemic in such a quest. I empathise with this. Plus, I'd be lying if I said that I don't have something of a soft spot for her. She is just the cutest thing!

She crossed my mind, and I decided to text her to see how she was getting on. This was unnecessary, as she came into the pub within a minute of the thought. I have tremendous power! Anyway, she propped up the bar, we chatted, and she ended up hanging around for about three hours.

When she first came in, The Clodfather was sitting at his usual table (for those not already acquainted with The Clodfather, part one can be found here, and part two here; that is, assuming anybody's actually reading this). He spoke loudly at us both a couple of times, as he is accustomed to doing to anybody prepared to listen - or even if they aren't, come to mention it. Then he left, to go and play skittles (he has modestly told me that he is the best skittler in the area). After he'd gone, Polish Cutie scowled, and announced that she didn't like him. I told her that she wasn't alone in this. She went on to tell me how he'd been really shitty to her and her (then) boyfriend in the shop once, for no good reason. And that he had an unfriendly, gnarled bulldog look about him. This is fair comment.

He returned as she was about to leave. "You're still here then? Fair play," he said to her. He then went on to ask her if she was any good at gardening, as she could come and work for him. He wittered on about having employed a fully ripped bloke to work for him, and that he had been useless, and she was bound to be miles better. The whole time Polish Cutie said nothing, avoided eye contact with him, and looked coolly at me instead. The Clodfather continued talking. He's not very good at reading the signs.

He then embarked on his favourite conversational tack - self-flattery.

"Women are always surprised when they learn how old I am. They says 'You're not 62, [Clodfather]? My God! You look good for your age,' they says. I says 'I am,' I says. 62 years old. What do you think? You think I look good for my age, love?"

For the first time she turned to look at him, and her look withered every plant in the city. "Honestly?" she countered. I heard The Clodfather's heart snap in half. He was speechless. She bid me good night, and left. I turned away from The Clodfather and pretended to clean up the back of the bar, as I didn't want him to see the smile that had swept across my face. I'm sure that it was so big that it exceeded the edges of my cheeks.

"Did you hear that? Can you believe it?"
"I know [Clodfather]. Some people, eh?"
"God, you try to be nice..."
"I know," I said. There was no point in trying to explain the difference between being nice and trying to get someone to flatter your vanity to him. He wouldn't understand.
"Where's she from?"
"She's Polish," I answered, still not facing him.
"I knew she'd be from somewhere like that. You can tell from that look. They're mean-spirited."
I also knew that there was no point in trying to explain the difference between being mean-spirited and not putting up with a load of shit to him, so I reached for some empties, and disappeared into the kitchen to hide. I was still beaming. There is nothing quite like watching a small, young lady with fairly elementary English making a fool of a large, seasoned, knuckleheaded native to really make your month.

Working in a city centre pub gets you down after a while. Every time I find myself mopping the floor or polishing brass drip-trays, I think the same thing - 'Why am I still doing this at age thirty? There was a time when life was so much better than this. When exactly was it that I fell off the map?'

But it is more than just the menial tasks. The volume of lost souls that drift into and out of the pubs in which I work is staggering. When I worked at The Ship Of Fools, you'd get the occasional lost soul - but in the main, you got chirpy holiday-makers, and locals of a quiet seaside village twinned with some hamlet in Utopia. The city, though, is something else. There are hundreds of them. I don't really know where to start. I saw who I imagined to be the loneliest guy in the world. He was a tubby, bald chap with really thick specs, an open white shirt and grey suit with the trousers tucked particularly high; and was wearing something that looked like a medallion if I remember rightly. He ordered a pint of Strongbow, took it to his table, and sat looking at the floor. I cannot put into words what it was about this guy that gave me a rush of sadness so overwhelming that I had to repeatedly pat my upper chest to stop myself from bursting into tears. There was just something about him. And I am usually a stolid and emotionless fuck. I hoped more than anything that he had someone waiting for him at home, or a friend somewhere to talk to.

Then there was a woman who came in, who told me that her brother had just walked into the river on Wednesday afternoon the week before. She was trying to piece together the last days of his life, and knew that he enjoyed drinking at this pub. In all likelihood, it was the last place he'd been before finally giving up hope. I didn't charge her for her drink (I didn't really know what else to do). She asked me if I'd known him. I told her I hadn't; but then, I only worked at this pub once every so often. I told her I'd fetch the landlady. The landlady began talking to this woman, and it became quickly apparent that she had no idea who the woman was talking about either. "Oh... Maybe I should have brought in some photos of him," she said flatly, shaking her head.

And then there's the folk who for some reason feel compelled to impart seriously dodgy opinions to me almost every other day, and expect me to agree with them (I say 'opinion' - what I mean, of course, is the blackened lather of their brainwashing). Yes, of course I think that homeless people should get their act together, and go get a fucking job. And it's a different person who'll spout this poison each time. Here's a brief (verbatim) conversation that I steered away from very shortly afterwards :
Cross-Eyed Bloke : And those immigrants - we should kick them all out too.
subideal : Ah, but some of them are just so *pretty*! [I was trying to lighten the tone]
Cross-Eyed Bloke : Yeah. But others are just so lazy.
subideal : Well, even if that's so, I'm sure as many native Brits are as lazy.
Cross-Eyed Tool : That's only because they haven't got the jobs, because of the immigrants...

Eh?

It's got to the stage where I find myself pacing back and forward, thinking 'I hate this. Why the fuck am I here?' on a loop.

Even the perks are illusory. One pub won two tickets for Reading Festival, after they'd sold more premium spirits than any of the brewery's other managed houses in the city. I was offered a ticket. "But that's a match day weekend. Are you sure you can spare the staff?" I asked the landlord. "Look, you've helped me out loads of times with little or no notice. You and [another staff member] have shown more dedication than all the other staff - even the ones who supposedly want to do this as a career. This is my way of saying 'thank you'." Which was a lovely gesture; but one which the landlord had to regretfully retract a couple of days later, as the weekend really will be an all hands on deck weekend. Nine Inch Nails! The Shins! Dinosaur Jr! Not for me!

But wheels have a habit of taking an upward turn. This morning I was offered a new full-time job. A job writing copy. Which I am thrilled about. In a weird way, I do love my pubs; but I cannot tell you how pleased I am to be able to escape from them.

I am living a peculiar twilight existence at the moment. I tend to go to bed between half past three and half past five in the morning. I vacillate between hyperactivity and sluggishness, between being sharp and among the fairies, between joy and utter despair; and the turnaround is swift and unpredictable.

A customer caught me yesterday during a jaded spell. He was a bloke in his forties, propping up the bar. The following conversation ensued. It is unlikely to be verbatim, due to my floaty head - but I shall do my best.

"It's come to something when all you have to think about is wiping your arse, innit?"
"Yes," I replied tentatively.
"You know what I mean?"
"Er... No. No, not really."
"You know. You go from A to B, and then C to D. But sometimes it's just the A to B. Do you get what I'm saying?"
"No," I said; "No, if I'm quite honest, I don't."
"What conversation do you think we're having?"
This struck me as quite an odd question. "I'm not sure. I think you're trying to use a metaphor to explain something; but I don't really know what that something is. I think you need to add a little more detail."

At this point he went off on one about toilet paper. He told me that people like myself made decisions to do with recycling and sustainability (I'm not sure I do make such decisions, but I let that slide), but - at the end of the day - you needed jobs to keep people ticking over. He seemed to be implying that reusability in general was thought by the great and the good to be the way to save the planet, but doing so was undermining people's basic right to work and buy toilet paper. At least I think that's what he was trying to get at. He was clearer on the point that this was in some way my fault. He kept referring to me as being "up there", and the enemy clearly seemed to be "people like" me. He was becoming increasingly angry.

"You see what I'm getting at?"
"Er... I suppose so."
"People like you don't see what goes on below, that people need jobs."
"Well, I *do* see that people need jobs."
"You're up there, making these fucking decisions that affect people like me..."
"Look dude - I don't know what role you think I have in the decision making process; but - if you haven't noticed - I work in a bar."
"I used to fucking work in a bar. And in a kitchen too, washing dishes, getting my hands in the fucking sink. Whereas you pieces of shit up there..."
"Look mate..."
"You're going to tell me to drink up now, and leave."
"You stole my thought. That's exactly what I want you to do."

The conversation was a bit longer and more convoluted than this, but it was difficult enough to follow, let alone fully recount. I couldn't get out of him why he seemed to think his issues were my fault, and at one point he called me a "cunt". As a representative of a company that stresses the importance of customer service, one must obviously bite one's tongue on a regular basis. So I decided to stop listening and unload the glass washer. The girl I was working with returned to the bar from elsewhere, and asked me if I was having any trouble with the bloke. I rather unprofessionally blurted out that he was a "fucking twat", fully intending him to hear.

As luck would have it, he was vomitoriously ingratiating with my colleague, so it was no problem for her to ask him to leave after he continued to rant and swear. If I'd have done it, I suspect he would have become violent. At one point, he was complaining to her that it was his son's fourteenth birthday, and he wasn't allowed to see him. In fact, he hadn't been allowed access for years. "Where's the justice in that?" he spat. I felt a powerful urge to inform him that - if his son was to have the best start in life - keeping cunts like him away was the best possible strategy. But I managed to keep a lid on it. Just.

This week, I step up the hunt for a proper job.

At the moment I am putting off a household task. Last night, after working from eleven in the morning until half ten (fresh from working until three in the morning the night before), I was quite looking forward to putting my feet up, drinking a beer, and watching some kind of monster-related B-movie. All the offies were closed by the time I finished, but I managed to negotiate buying a bottle of Stella from a tiddly Irish chap who stopped me in the street to ask the time. I went home, walked into the kitchen, managed to drop and smash the bottle of beer (I had been carrying a lot of stuff), and felt like crying. This morning, the Once Sweet Ecologist shouted at me for having chipped a tile in the kitchen, and threatened charging me to retile the entire floor. In the 'Best Start To The Day' league, I fear that this one is unlikely to be a trophy contender.

Anyway, before I mooch off to B&Q, I thought I'd tell you a little more about The Clodfather - because I have to suffer him almost every day, so I don't see why you shouldn't.

A little bit more background about this chap. He always pays for his pint with a note. But always. Never with change. I am certain that this is because he feels he must seem The Big Man.

And attention from the ladies? He can barely move under the strength of his own fanny magnetism. Or so he'd have you believe. The standard spiel, which I've now heard dozens of times, goes a bit like this :

"And these young women always comes up to me. And I says 'Thank you very much, but I'm married'. And I says 'I'm old enough to be your grandfather'. And they says 'How old are you?' And I says 'sixty-two'. And they says 'Noooo - your wife is very lucky'. And I says 'I know'. Been married thirty-five years. I don't like her... But I love her! Ha ha!"

Well, on Saturday night, I was lucky enough to see The Clodfather in action. The pub was choc-full of students who'd just finished their exams. And the local Lothario was in his element. He approached a whole host of good-looking girls, launched into his patter about himself, and pawed them all over with his plump sausagey mits. The responses ranged from frosty to just plain frightened. After he left one poor lady alone, she looked sufficiently creeped out by the unsolicited attention that I felt compelled to say to her "I'm sorry - some of our customers can't tell the difference between being charming and sexual harassment". This thankfully put her at ease; but I hadn't been joking.

When he came in yesterday, the pub was completely dead and I had nowhere to escape. "God, women here last night?" he said; "Oooh. I got kisses. They loves Uncle [Clodfather]. But I says 'I can't - I'm married'. My son was yur. He says 'Dad - you still got it'. And I says 'I knows it - just don't tell yer ma! Ha ha!"

The third person in the room suggested we all tell jokes. The Clodfather way exceeded my expectations. "What's black and lives in a tree? A coon waiting for a council house! Ha ha! Is that good?" He looked very pleased with himself. I had to tell him that if by "good" he meant 'outrageous and racist', then it seemed more likely to qualify. This is a man who, at another point yesterday, informed some customers he did not know - without a trace of irony - that he was "a very clever man".

A little while later, a nice-looking young lady walked past in the street.

"Ooh, did you see her? She was lovely. I might go and get her, and bring her in here."

"You do that," I said flatly, flipping through 'Empire' on the counter.

"She's about your age. I could bring her in here, introduce you both, tell her I'm yer dad..."

My blood flushed cold. "Don't". I can't remember the exact words that followed this, but I made it fairly clear that I would never put up with him making such a claim. It made me feel really uncomfortable. He looked hurt. Normally when I say something he takes personally, I try to then lift his spirits by telling him I was teasing him, and give him a 'matey' punch on the shoulder. But this time I couldn't be bothered. 

Yesterday morning I met Malcolm. He instantly struck me as 'not quite right'. But then, who is?

Malcolm is probably in his sixties, I would say. He did seem like a fairly amusing sort. His talk of how he was "still looking for a nice man to look after [him]" as he grew older did raise a smirk. And I also quite liked : "There was nothing on TV, so I turned it off and fiddled with myself. You know - with the palm. I was doing my MOT. I'm still in service, it seems."

This was all well and good when the only other customers were the pre-midday regulars. However, a couple of young ladies walked in, and Malcolm enquired "Are you lezzie?" I think everyone was a little shocked by this. I had to get over this before warning him that he should be more polite in future. I was equally surprised that the girls didn't leave immediately.

I later learned from some girls who work at our sister pub that he is banned from almost every hostelry in the city centre. My landlord instructed me that we wouldn't serve him after midday (theorising that he couldn't be too drunk before then). They also told me that they had reason to believe that he went into their pub, took mental photographs of the barmaids, went home, and acted on said images. Ewww.

I went into the local market at about one o'clock to pick up some bacon and tomatoes. I saw Malcolm babbling excitedly yet inexpertly at some poor soul working another stall.

I am slowly re-acclimatising to city life. But I'd almost forgotten about the array of little suckers that attach themselves to its underbelly.

Why, hello!

As most of you probably already know, I am working in a pub at the moment. Almost every day, I might add. This means that almost every day I have to deal with people, treat them right (fortunately, I have yet to deal with the dilemma of how to respond if a customer requests a 'happy ending'), and secretly judge them. Y'dig? Anyway, here are some observations wot I have made, with the loose uniting theme of 'dealing with customers' :

• I do not like it when British Bulldogs who spend 50 weeks a year living in Spain come in, and angrily prescribe how UK pubs should be run to unwitting bar lackeys. I prescribe that you fuck off, sir.
  
  
• Yesterday, I had to fill out a multiple-choice questionnaire set by the brewery, ensuring that I am comprised of 'the right stuff'. It had questions like 'If a customer makes an enquiry whilst you are busy serving another customer, should you (a) snot in his face, (b) make a pass at his wife, (c) set his children on fire, or (d) politely inform him that you are currently busy seeing to someone, but he shall have your full attention very shortly?' One GENUINE potential answer to the question 'What should you do if a customer pays with a fifty pound note?' was 'Tell them how lucky they are'. The landlord gave me a second answer sheet, filled out with all the right answers, in case I couldn't be bothered. He was wise to do so.
  
  
• One of the regulars is a peculiar chap. His heart is basically in the right place; but his unrelenting insistence of how good a person he is, and how much of "a character" he is, is quite frankly starting to annoy the piss out of me. He is also pig ignorant, but will not stop imparting his unwanted 'wisdom'. After I refused to agree with him that most of the country's problems have been caused by people coming from overseas, the next time I saw him his tune had taken a remarkable U-turn; he was now telling me how many Asian friends he had, and how the all called him "The Godfather", on account of how good to them he always was. Please.
  He is also very forthcoming in telling people about his stomach cancer. This is by no means an enviable position in which to find oneself. Now, I'm no doctor, but I would hazard that drowning the problem with booze is probably doing more harm than good. This is, of course, his choice. But don't self-righteously bray to other customers that you never drink at home, or claim that you're "taking it easy" when I serve you a mere five pints (after you've arrived en route from another pub). This type of denial is fooling only one person; and that's the guy who is absolutely convinced that he's the greatest and wisest guy on God's Earth. It makes me feel sad and annoyed in equal measure.

That'll do for now. More whinging soon!