Friday, April 24, 2009


Anyone lucky enough to know me personally will know that a lack of common courtesy in others is liable to make me as mad as crickets. Unfortunately, folks, it's a rude, rude world that we live in populated with stupid, stupid cunts.

Nowhere is this more apparent than in my work in the customer service industry. Gentlemen and their respective wives, I am a barman. There. I said it. Frequently I am faced with an irritating level of abuse and - more frequently still - an infuriating level of stupidity. In the interests of both of us, I have compiled a handy list of what not to do when ordering your tipple of choice. Follow them, and I'll kiss you full on the mouth. Ignore them at your peril.

Not any more, you're not. The above sentence is bellowed frequently by what can only be described as reprobates. Usually male. I am, by and large, fully aware of who is awaiting service. I garner this awareness through the use of my eyes. I do not need you to tell my ears of your place in the queue, particularly when you've just arrived at the bar fresh from your latest date-rape. So kindly, Sir, shut the fuck up and wait patiently on your Midori and lemonade, you hard-ticket, you!

2. "NAE ICE!"
Now, I understand some of my readers will suffer from sensitive teeth. As do I, on occasion. My advice to you is this: buy some fucking Sensodyne and stop whinging like the little bitch you are. Thanks. The "no ice" quandary has a deeper significance than mere tooth-pain, however. Yes. Y'see, various idiots seem to believe that having no ice in the drink makes the drink more alcoholic. Dear God. A rudimentary knowledge of physics and the rules of displacement absolutely destroys such claims. By having ice, the drink-to-mixer ratio is improved in your favour. Get it? Got it? Good. Other nonsensical behaviour which relates to this includes asking for one ice-cube (which will melt much faster than several would - yet more physics phun!) and removing the ice from a drink and placing it on the bar. Simple etiquette of the bar dictates that you cannot under any circumstances pull something blithely from a wet place and allow it to drip everywhere! Really! My bar is not your mother's bedroom floor!

Put simply, if you can't accurately name the beverage you wish to imbibe, don't order it. A list of examples can be found below:
  • WKD - pronounced "wicked", not "doubleyookaydee"
  • Kopparberg - not "Koppanbarg", "Koppenberg", "Koopenbarg" or "Kronenbourg"
  • VK - not an "orange WKD"
  • Miller - not "Millers"
  • Dr Pepper (shot) - not "wan ae em mad hings in eh gless"
Unacceptable under any circumstances.

Alcohol first, mixer second, ie "vodka & Red Bull". Honestly.

Firstly: don't bitch to me about beverage prices or the unheralded alteration of such. More on that later. On another note, 9.99756 times out of 10, I will have given you the correct change. If I haven't, I will notice. I appreciate you telling me how to do my job. I really do. Just as you'd appreciate me accompanying you on one of your many whoring sessions to gently advise you to employ less teeth in your (frankly, amateurish) fellatio technique. However, there is a reason that you're on one side of the bar and I'm on the other. I'm right, you're wrong. And there's nothing you can do about it.

Safety in this area is guaranteed, providing you modify number 3's credo: if you don't know what's in your drink, how to produce it or what it is, don't order it. Thus, if you visit the smaller bar and ask for a pint of lager or beer, I will glare at you with extreme prejudice. Why? Because the wee bar is host to not one, not two, but zero draft taps. Where am I pulling this cider and blackcurrant from? Ask me again and it'll be my bile duct. This happens, on average, once a week. Everyone, just stop it. Similarly, if you order a long vodka and I inform you that, sadly, we're out of bitters, don't stare at me blankly as though I've just told you the world isn't flat and doesn't end at Langbank. Merely take a moment to reflect on your crushing stupidity and order another ridiculous thirstquencher.

In a related issue, if I do tell you that we've run out of a certain substance, service, or level of patience, do not huff. I am not in charge of what we stock. I am not in charge of setting the prices. I am not in charge of your misplaced, disproportionate sense of entitlement. Therefore, just as I don't blame you for the moonlit skies or the dream that died with the Eagle's flight, don't blame me for things I can't do anything about. Please. Oh, by the way, that sleeping satellite is your fault. Anybody? No? Damn.

When you order, for instance, sambuca in a contemporary establishment, you may find that more than one variety is on offer. When faced with such variety, hear the options out and make your decision. Do not bark this paragraph's titular sentence. It is very rude and upsetting. I've cried myself to sleep over such brusqueness. It makes me sad. So stop it, hmm? Furthermore, why not sample one of the new products? You may just like it! You liked it when your ex-lover put their finger in your arsehole didn't you? You didn't expect that, did you? You didn't think you'd include it regularly in your masturbation sessions, did you? Eh? No. But you liked it, didn't you? Ha! Queer! So try something new! Don't stick to the stuff you know. If you want to be cool, follow one simple rule: mess with the flow! Don't stick to the status quo! Anybody? No? DAMN!

9. "Shphlmknphshthhhhspck"
The above is a rough translation of what you all sound like when you've had twelve too many. If you are in such a diabolical state, I cannot serve you. By law. The Queen forbids it. It makes her cry. So don't fire up your ire, boys and girls, because it's misplaced and uncalled for. Instead of getting angry at me for refusing to serve you, why not focus your anger on yourself, and the fact that you are an intoxicated waster, an affront to your mother and a nuisance to the world at large. For shaaaame. Go and hurt yourself now, please. Also, don't be sick on the bar. One time, it was as thick as a pizza and the same circumference and texture. Abhorrent. If I came in to your place of employment and vomited on your workstation, would you be amused? Hmm? Well, you probably wouldn't care as you don't work. Let me rephrase that. If I vomited on you in the dole queue, would you be amused? No. You'd stab me to death, then kick my holey corpse. Exactly. So don't.

And, finally...


...say please and thank you. Every time. Should go without saying that you shouldn't go without saying it, but there you go. A sad sign of the times. Bring back the fifties and nuclear fear!

And that, for now, is it. More shall undoubtedly follow. Have any of you ever perpertrated such transgressions? If so, leave me a comment and I'll inform you of your penance. There may be scourgings. Huzzah!


Jennifer Hendry said...

This is one of the funniest things I've ever read in my life.

I love you!

Jacqueline said...

I actually just peed myself reading this! Two very enthusiastic thumbs up!