November 5th: 'Obviously'

Foreword: This post contains unrestrained swearing, pain and frustration. The first draft had over fifty fucks. I believe I've cut it down to less than forty.

'Obviously', has to be the worst word. It drips Condescending Wanker. There's no need to be a douche, man, just shut up, stop talking.

While I'm rather partial to ramblings about atrocious, agonising and generally assholish customers, some aren't really that bad. This man was not one of those.

I've never been able to suffer fools, it's not a great strength nor weakness, it's a finely honed skill that has taken many uncomfortable silences to develop and fortify.

I was just standing, merrily jiving and polishing glasses behind the bar when he approached with his gorgeous wife.

In the bar in which I work we have signs, as many do, instructing patrons to order at the bar. The sign literally says, PLEASE ORDER FOOD AND DRINK AT THE BAR. It says please, that's a fucking polite sign. So this fellow steps up to the bar positively sweating the entitled arrogance and untested anger management issues that can be tasted a mile away.

"Do you do take away coffee?" He asked, that sensed arrogance bleeding into his voice. At this point I thought I was an excellent customer service professional, not having pointed out that to get to me, at this bar he'd have already passed the take away coffee stand. So I smiled wryly, throwing just the slightest glare (okay, so maybe not the BEST customer service professional but hey, my hands stayed on my till rather than sharply across his cheek. That slap would have felt so good though...).

"Yes darlin', we sure do. What size would you like?" I replied, glare steady.

"Large. Also a coke," he began, getting ahead of himself. While this was his first strike, I can forgive this as it's a simple human error, forgetting to complete the coffee order.

"Certainly sir, just before we go on, what coffee?"

"What?" He spat. He spat. Strike 2.

"What kind of coffee would you like?"

The look he threw me was one of pure disdain, it was the look of a father who had just returned home from the pub to find his infant child had shat themselves.

"A flat white," he said, "obviously."

Strike 3.

FUCKING OBVIOUSLY. No, my love, it is not fucking OBVIOUS that you want a flat white, stupid twat face, if it were fucking OBVIOUS I wouldn't have to ask and prolong exposure to your unbridled entitlement and dickheadishness (actually, this comes in later).

"Certainly, sirrrrrr."

I'm not gonna lie, I extended the last word, adding a few too many syllables than the end of sir really needed. It was satisfying.

"Also get me a coke and," he continued. I shit you not, he told me to GET HIM shit (I am aware that this is my job, but you know that entitlement we were talking about before? YEAH. Okay this point is weak but he's still a stupid face trucker fucker stupid head).

"Of course, but first where are you sitting?"

The look he threw me was beginning to feel familiar, like the stupidist shit on the underside of his boot. As a writer and film maker/connoisseur I am very familiar with this look, it is the look I receive whenever someone asks me about my degree or career. Patronising, arrogant, disdainful. I generally console myself when met with this look by understanding that I will be rich, living in an Italian fishing village with my Nobel Prize and dozen Oscar nominations while they get landed with a mortgage they can't afford, married to someone they don't even like, and doing a job with little recognition and passion. If nothing else it makes me smile.

Through the look he said, no, he growled.

"Where am I sitting? I don't know where I'm sitting! Your sign said to come to the bar so we came to the bar. You can't expect me to know where I'm sitting. I just got here!"

"It's just so we can bring you your drink while it's hot,"  said. I lied. It's not that at all, not really. We have a team of ONE person (sometimes more if the nice bartenders pitch a hand) running around a surprisingly large venue (and that's just the top floor), cleaning tables, delivering food and hot drinks. So we ask where they're sitting as a mercy to these frazzled, abused employees.

At this point, his missus had placed a gentle, placating hand on his bicep and I went to the other end of the bar to get him his coke. I didn't get him coke. I got him a fucking pepsi.

By the time I got back to them he was storming down to the left side of the venue, thus answering my question.

I, in my eternal wisdom,, have a theory. If you come across a horrible customer in all their horror, you try and get rid of them as quickly as possible to get them out and away from your life. This is wrong, stop it.

Slow down their service, make them suffer, make them reconsider their actions and endure the awkward. Don't give in to their impatience, tell them you're wanting to give the best service and then go even slower. Don't talk to anyone else, don't look at anyone else. Absorb yourself in giving them the slowest, most agonisingly uncomfortable and silent customer service possible. This is so much more satisfying.

His whole order could have gone differently, and it has, many times before.

Me: And where are you sitting?
Customer: OH I DON'T KNOW YET, WHERE WOULD YOU SUGGEST?

SIMPLE. POLITE.

OBVIOUSLY.

Rant complete. Beep.