Before I begin, you must know that this is not a love story. To be honest, it's quite the opposite...
There comes a time in a young mans life where he must venture out into the big, wide world and look for a part time job. A friend of mine encouraged me to join him at Tesco where he was a till monkey. Sitting down all day can't be a bad thing I thought so promptly applied. Weeks went by and nothing. My Mum was getting annoyed at my laid back approach to seeking employment.
I had banked on Beatties toy shop in the Broad St Mall taking me on but as of today I have still not heard from them. I believe they closed down about 8 years ago so am not holding my breath. Anyhow, on a bright July day in 1999 the telephone rang and Tesco offered me a job.
Though, not the one I was expecting....
"Unfortunately we currently have no vacancies on checkouts but ARE looking for staff in the cafeteria"
With Mother breathing down my neck and the rest of my friends gainfully employed I had little choice but to accept the position. It would be a decision I would not forget. After a tedious induction day I realised the full horror of my choice. Full length red apron, straw boater and work issue 'safety' shoes were the uniform standard. Thankfully my short back and sides negated the need for the hat (a disposable paper option was available and slightly less embarrassing) and though my safety shoes were ordered they never showed up in my entire tenure. THANK CHRIST. They made Brantano look like Gucci.
The first month was a blur of cleaning tables, washing dishes and emptying and loading the industrial dishwasher. Emptying and loading, emptying and loading, emptying and loading. My intelligence was being tested to the limit. As LFO's 'Girls of Summer' and TLC's 'Unprettier' blasted out of our radio I thought to myself can this get any worse?
The answer is yes. I had kept fairly quiet in my first month, I'd befriended a guy called Matt who started at the same time. He was my age and shared a similar sense of shame at working in such a horrific place. At least when we worked together there was a bit of banter. That could not be said of my other colleagues...
Firstly, there was Jane. On a Saturday morning she was Queen of the cafe. Loud and in charge, she called the shots. Jane was a physical behemoth with more than a striking resemblance to Jabba the Hut. Her favourite thing to show me was the wet patches on the underarm of her work shirt after a particularly busy session serving on the hot plate. GOOD GOD. Why would a human being do such a thing!?
Enid was another who had a unique approach to getting to know me. She was basically the female equivalent of Herbert (Family Guys very own paedophile) and decided that flirting with me was the best way to welcome me into the cafe community. Petrified is the only word to describe the ordeal. Enid's favourite quip was saying that her husband 'wouldn't mind'. He also worked in Tesco as a shelf stacker and looked like he could drop dead at any moment.
Whilst on dish washing duties I delivered a slightly bizarre friendship with a colleague called Brenda. She was in her late forties, with broad shoulders and stood about 5ft 10. With her physique I often thought she could have played American football at quite a high level. She was quite motherly, often asking me if I had a girlfriend and telling me that I was a nice boy.
We did a secret Santa one year and I drew Brenda. Having completely forgotten about it until the day of gift sharing I panicked and bought her the only thing I knew she liked. I don't know how I managed it but she loved the 20 Superkings and Lighter I got her. Even more unusual was after I'd worked there for a year Brenda left suddenly and no one ever told me why. I dare say it but I missed her a little bit, emptying and loading was never the same after that (no crude innuendos please).
I managed to achieve several firsts during my Tesco affair. I played a part in a full store evacuation early one Saturday morning. We had nearly run out of chicken nuggets for our kids meals so I went onto the shop floor to retrieve some. I instructed the two young girls I was working with to wait until I got back before doing anything. This did not happen. On my way back to the cafe the loudest fire alarm I have ever heard went off. It was deafening. Within five minutes everyone was in the car park and all the food in the cafe was ruined.
After a brief investigation it became clear the two halfwits had put the last few chicken nuggets into the industrial microwave. This ordinarily took one minute. They had decided ten minutes was more appropriate. Muppet's. I was quite sure one of the girls had a bit of a thing for me but romance never blossomed. Her Magnum P.I. facial hair might have had something to do with it...
After a year or so I was a well rounded cafe employee with multiple talents consisting of serving food, till skills and menial cleaning tasks. In a work performance appraisal I was even described as an 'asset' to the cafeteria. However, this glowing review led to some unwanted responsibilities. With staff turnover fairly frequent I was essentially in charge after 3pm on a Saturday until I left at 7 o'clock.
This is not ideal for a slacker like myself, who at 17, liked to avoid hard work at all costs. Matters were made worse by the quality of staff at my disposal. There was Jackie (bless her) who at 4ft 10 could barely see over the hot plate. She was quiet and timid and I thought if she fell over she'd shatter into a million pieces. Meetu was a slightly different proposition, her English lacked, shall we say, coherence, and therefore I had to reduce my vocabulary considerably for her to understand me.
It was at this point that things took a turn for the worse. Brenda and Matt were long gone and my motivation was distinctly lacking. Friends of mine who didn't work Saturday started doing fun things and I felt left out. Sick days got more and more frequent. After booking a holiday to Gran Canaria I decided to stick at it and ask for extra shifts during the summer holidays to fund my enjoyment.
As I was about to ask for the additional hours I was called into the managers office. He then began to read a list of all my reasons for being off work...
Bad knee
Migraine
Sore Back
Diarrhoea (A personal favourite of mine because they never question it. Just to clarify, I never really had it)
Headache
Cold
So, it seems I'd not been particularly clever at disguising my sickies. Maybe, just maybe, I should have concentrated on one or two ailments rather than putting my body through the implied hell my long list suggested. I pleaded for more work and said things would change but it didn't work. For the record I was not sacked, I had my notice ready in my back pocket and as soon as I was denied the shifts I handed it over.
Work didn't always disappoint. During a game of after work pool in the staff room with Matt, we discovered, after knocking the white off the table, that the container the money fell into was loose and could be removed easily. We both left work that night with a 'bonus' £20!
On my last ever shift I carefully planned and executed the abduction of an entire chocolate fudge cake, which at 99p a slice in the cafe, had a retail value of around £16. That night my friends and I devoured the stolen sweet with delight. IN. YOUR. FACE. TESCO.
And...
I once accidentally melted a price gun on a hob that I'd inadvertently turned on minutes before. The smell of burning plastic is not a pleasant one.
Nico
Thursday 1 October 2009
Tuesday 19 May 2009
Birthdays
Birthdays. Birthdays. Birthdays? Are they really that great?
It seems the older you get, the less significant they become. As a youngster you crave them, and as an adult you try your best to ignore, repel or deny them completely. Yesterday I celebrated my 26th and for me it was just like any other day. I probably shouldn't even use celebrate to describe it, it was such a non-event... event. Not that that is a bad thing, I had a very nice dinner at home with my family. Fun filled presents of youth such as Playstations, Bikes and Toys are a distant memory and pratcial gifts have taken over (This year I asked for some new glasses and some shelves!).
It wasn't always like this though. I've had some memorable, comical and emotional birthdays, here are a few highlights...
I can't recall an awful lot from my 4th birthday but one thing that sticks in my mind is that I had a Thomas the Tank Engine cake, it was a thing of beauty. Though, for reasons I am still not fully aware of 22 years later, it got covered in rather a large amount of sand and was completely ruined. The only other memory of that day is me... crying. One year later and fully recovered from the emotional trauma of a sandy cake, the aptly named 'Mr Magic' arrived to entertain some friends and I. Back in 1988 he was likely seen as an upstanding member of society, his act nowadays probably screams paedophile. Anyhow, he would ask volunteers to come and assist him with different tricks and everyone duly obliged. When it came to my turn I decided the best course of action was to refuse, shout, start crying and run upstairs to my room to cry some more.
Not off to the best of starts...
Things were looking up by my 8th birthday, arguably one of THE greatest days of my life. Not only did I get a Nintendo Gameboy but the family and I were off on holiday that very day! I also clearly remember that I was wearing an official England 1990 World Cup shellsuit, it was one hell of an outfit. If that wasn't enough my darling mother had spoken to the airline about it, so for about 3 seconds on that day I sat in the cockpit and piloted the flight from London Gatwick to Palma. I was pretty fucking good too. And to top things off it was also the day that Tottenham beat Nottingham Forest to win the FA Cup. They haven't won it since mind. Nevertheless, a truly unforgettable day.
I was back on form by my 11th birthday. A trip to Chessington World of Adventures was on the agenda and I was uber excited. On the morning of the excursion my mum wasn't feeling too well and said she wasn't going to come. She further reinforced her argument by saying she was scared of the rides anyway, that I couldn't argue with. It didn't stop the waterworks though, and once again the tears started cascading down my face. It did the trick though, my mum did attend and most probably had a rubbish time. Sorry mum!
Birthdays 12, 14 and 16 had two things in common, they were all parties in my infamous De Beauvoir road outhouse, and thankfully, there was no crying, from me anyway.
The 16th was the most momentous, it was the first birthday party I've ever had where alcohol was allowed to be consumed. That one fact accounted for most of the physical and mental damage that was caused that night. One broken outside toilet window (Robert Tait), One broken greenhouse window at number 46 (Tom Taylor) and one vomit splattered carpet (Amy Adams, no relation). Usurping all of those was me telling the girl I was besotted with (not in a dangerous way) at the time to fuck off. It was a combination of stress and terrible timing! It most probably happened during the 8 minute version of 'You Don't Even Know Me' by Armand Van Helden. Note to self, never let Jack Burton make you a mix tape.
On my 21st I decided to try something new. For the first time in my life I set foot in a casino, and the phrase beginners luck has never been more appropriate. At the Grosvenor in Southampton I somehow robbed them of close to £300! However, the real magic was to happen in the Reading branch of the Grosvenor a few days later. After losing £80, Daniel Maskell tossed me a £5 chip as a half arsed birthday present and told me to try my luck. On an empty roulette wheel I placed the chip, naturally, on number 21. It was the only bet on the entire table. The ball whizzed around the wheel and with a dash of Hollywood, a sprinkle of fate and a shit load of luck the ball rested inside number 21. It was a birthday miracle, and one that was worth a cool £175.
I nearly forgot about my 9th birthday!
Did you ever have a birthday at a time when you were completely obsessed with something?
Well, in 1992 I was WWF crazy (the wrestling federation not the wildlife fund) and every present I got that year was wrestling related. Wrestlemania VI on video, a WWF microphone, WWF figures, A replica ring complete with spring loaded turnbuckles and a replica WWF championship belt. The crowning glory was the white pants I received, complete with Ulitmate Warrior picture emblazoned on the front. I can still picture myself jumping up and down on my parents bed mimicking different wrestling moves in said briefs, good times...
Nowadays though, for me, birthdays are just another day. I have always preferred Christmas day because there is a collective enjoyment to be had, There is nothing better than sharing your happiness with close friends and family. Speaking of which, one of my closest friends is getting married in ten days time, and I can barely contain my excitement. If that wasn't enough, in December I'm going to become an Uncle. Birthdays just don't compare...
It seems the older you get, the less significant they become. As a youngster you crave them, and as an adult you try your best to ignore, repel or deny them completely. Yesterday I celebrated my 26th and for me it was just like any other day. I probably shouldn't even use celebrate to describe it, it was such a non-event... event. Not that that is a bad thing, I had a very nice dinner at home with my family. Fun filled presents of youth such as Playstations, Bikes and Toys are a distant memory and pratcial gifts have taken over (This year I asked for some new glasses and some shelves!).
It wasn't always like this though. I've had some memorable, comical and emotional birthdays, here are a few highlights...
I can't recall an awful lot from my 4th birthday but one thing that sticks in my mind is that I had a Thomas the Tank Engine cake, it was a thing of beauty. Though, for reasons I am still not fully aware of 22 years later, it got covered in rather a large amount of sand and was completely ruined. The only other memory of that day is me... crying. One year later and fully recovered from the emotional trauma of a sandy cake, the aptly named 'Mr Magic' arrived to entertain some friends and I. Back in 1988 he was likely seen as an upstanding member of society, his act nowadays probably screams paedophile. Anyhow, he would ask volunteers to come and assist him with different tricks and everyone duly obliged. When it came to my turn I decided the best course of action was to refuse, shout, start crying and run upstairs to my room to cry some more.
Not off to the best of starts...
Things were looking up by my 8th birthday, arguably one of THE greatest days of my life. Not only did I get a Nintendo Gameboy but the family and I were off on holiday that very day! I also clearly remember that I was wearing an official England 1990 World Cup shellsuit, it was one hell of an outfit. If that wasn't enough my darling mother had spoken to the airline about it, so for about 3 seconds on that day I sat in the cockpit and piloted the flight from London Gatwick to Palma. I was pretty fucking good too. And to top things off it was also the day that Tottenham beat Nottingham Forest to win the FA Cup. They haven't won it since mind. Nevertheless, a truly unforgettable day.
I was back on form by my 11th birthday. A trip to Chessington World of Adventures was on the agenda and I was uber excited. On the morning of the excursion my mum wasn't feeling too well and said she wasn't going to come. She further reinforced her argument by saying she was scared of the rides anyway, that I couldn't argue with. It didn't stop the waterworks though, and once again the tears started cascading down my face. It did the trick though, my mum did attend and most probably had a rubbish time. Sorry mum!
Birthdays 12, 14 and 16 had two things in common, they were all parties in my infamous De Beauvoir road outhouse, and thankfully, there was no crying, from me anyway.
The 16th was the most momentous, it was the first birthday party I've ever had where alcohol was allowed to be consumed. That one fact accounted for most of the physical and mental damage that was caused that night. One broken outside toilet window (Robert Tait), One broken greenhouse window at number 46 (Tom Taylor) and one vomit splattered carpet (Amy Adams, no relation). Usurping all of those was me telling the girl I was besotted with (not in a dangerous way) at the time to fuck off. It was a combination of stress and terrible timing! It most probably happened during the 8 minute version of 'You Don't Even Know Me' by Armand Van Helden. Note to self, never let Jack Burton make you a mix tape.
On my 21st I decided to try something new. For the first time in my life I set foot in a casino, and the phrase beginners luck has never been more appropriate. At the Grosvenor in Southampton I somehow robbed them of close to £300! However, the real magic was to happen in the Reading branch of the Grosvenor a few days later. After losing £80, Daniel Maskell tossed me a £5 chip as a half arsed birthday present and told me to try my luck. On an empty roulette wheel I placed the chip, naturally, on number 21. It was the only bet on the entire table. The ball whizzed around the wheel and with a dash of Hollywood, a sprinkle of fate and a shit load of luck the ball rested inside number 21. It was a birthday miracle, and one that was worth a cool £175.
I nearly forgot about my 9th birthday!
Did you ever have a birthday at a time when you were completely obsessed with something?
Well, in 1992 I was WWF crazy (the wrestling federation not the wildlife fund) and every present I got that year was wrestling related. Wrestlemania VI on video, a WWF microphone, WWF figures, A replica ring complete with spring loaded turnbuckles and a replica WWF championship belt. The crowning glory was the white pants I received, complete with Ulitmate Warrior picture emblazoned on the front. I can still picture myself jumping up and down on my parents bed mimicking different wrestling moves in said briefs, good times...
Nowadays though, for me, birthdays are just another day. I have always preferred Christmas day because there is a collective enjoyment to be had, There is nothing better than sharing your happiness with close friends and family. Speaking of which, one of my closest friends is getting married in ten days time, and I can barely contain my excitement. If that wasn't enough, in December I'm going to become an Uncle. Birthdays just don't compare...
Tuesday 5 May 2009
The Old Woman and the Monkey Story
I love stories. I love hearing them and I love telling them. A witty anecdote can impress, amuse and astonish anyone. It also helps if you don't mind laughing at yourself. This is a prerequisite for me as most of my stories revolve around my own ineptitude. "As long as I don't end up in hospital it will be a successful weekend" is my most famous beginning to a story. If you ever want to hear the whole comedy of errors feel free to ask next time you see me!
On to the featured narrative...
This is only a short tale but the uniqueness of it left me no choice but to come out of blogging retirement to share it with you. A small, middle aged woman came into the shop today, she had a kind of Susan Boyle vibe going on, only less satanic. After perusing the shelves she asked politely if we had any monkey related products other than the door hangers she had already spotted. My boss informed her that we had a tin of monkey plasters and she was overjoyed to purchase them at the reasonable price of five English pounds.
Then she began talking...
At first I paid little attention as most customers tend to talk boring nonsense but her delightful Scottish accent encapsulated me. I was hanging on her every word. She was a teacher and the monkey plasters were for her pupils. I was about to ask why but there was no need, she was on a roll. It turned out that long ago her class had adopted a monkey. Sadly though, it was on its way to join Bubbles, Koko and King Kong in the big jungle in the sky. In the animals honour the class were holding a memorial service, very sweet I thought.
The wee teacher was not finished though. I was curious to find out how the poor monkey had met its demise but was hesitant to ask. It didn't matter as the motormouth lady was not stopping! It had been in quarantine she explained, so I immediately concluded that the poor thing was riddled with more diseases than a Thai hooker. I couldn't have been more wrong.
After a lengthy period away from civilisation the hairy primate was allowed to roam wild and free again. Not knowing exactly where, geographically, the lady was referring to, I chose to imagine an African jungle in uuh... Africa somewhere. However, she informed me that it's first foray back into the outside world took place on a golf course!
This poor choice of location was to be the downfall of the unfortunate monkey. As the teacher casually unfolded the conclusion of her story she slowly began breaking into a childish grin. I was completely focused on her face, my mouth also starting to form into a smile and she uttered the inplausible words "the poor thing got hit in the head by a stray golf ball!"
UNBELIEVABLE.
And suddenly she was gone, like a fart in the wind, shuffling out of the shop to tell someone else her preposterous but true tale. I never once doubted her and I still don't, at least I think I don't. I had so many questions to ask... Why take a monkey for a walk on a golf course? In fact that's it. WHY THE FUCK WOULD YOU TAKE A MONKEY FOR A WALK ON A GOLF COURSE!?
Actually, one more question... How do you tell that to a group of primary school children!? the poor little nippers would have been distraught!
If they had a Darwin Awards for animals this would have to be right up there. How unlucky.
Rest in peace my banana eating friend... Rest in peace.
On to the featured narrative...
This is only a short tale but the uniqueness of it left me no choice but to come out of blogging retirement to share it with you. A small, middle aged woman came into the shop today, she had a kind of Susan Boyle vibe going on, only less satanic. After perusing the shelves she asked politely if we had any monkey related products other than the door hangers she had already spotted. My boss informed her that we had a tin of monkey plasters and she was overjoyed to purchase them at the reasonable price of five English pounds.
Then she began talking...
At first I paid little attention as most customers tend to talk boring nonsense but her delightful Scottish accent encapsulated me. I was hanging on her every word. She was a teacher and the monkey plasters were for her pupils. I was about to ask why but there was no need, she was on a roll. It turned out that long ago her class had adopted a monkey. Sadly though, it was on its way to join Bubbles, Koko and King Kong in the big jungle in the sky. In the animals honour the class were holding a memorial service, very sweet I thought.
The wee teacher was not finished though. I was curious to find out how the poor monkey had met its demise but was hesitant to ask. It didn't matter as the motormouth lady was not stopping! It had been in quarantine she explained, so I immediately concluded that the poor thing was riddled with more diseases than a Thai hooker. I couldn't have been more wrong.
After a lengthy period away from civilisation the hairy primate was allowed to roam wild and free again. Not knowing exactly where, geographically, the lady was referring to, I chose to imagine an African jungle in uuh... Africa somewhere. However, she informed me that it's first foray back into the outside world took place on a golf course!
This poor choice of location was to be the downfall of the unfortunate monkey. As the teacher casually unfolded the conclusion of her story she slowly began breaking into a childish grin. I was completely focused on her face, my mouth also starting to form into a smile and she uttered the inplausible words "the poor thing got hit in the head by a stray golf ball!"
UNBELIEVABLE.
And suddenly she was gone, like a fart in the wind, shuffling out of the shop to tell someone else her preposterous but true tale. I never once doubted her and I still don't, at least I think I don't. I had so many questions to ask... Why take a monkey for a walk on a golf course? In fact that's it. WHY THE FUCK WOULD YOU TAKE A MONKEY FOR A WALK ON A GOLF COURSE!?
Actually, one more question... How do you tell that to a group of primary school children!? the poor little nippers would have been distraught!
If they had a Darwin Awards for animals this would have to be right up there. How unlucky.
Rest in peace my banana eating friend... Rest in peace.
Tuesday 17 February 2009
Wednesday 18th February - Agitation, Consolation and Ken
A trio of teenage girls came into the shop today and they clearly thought they were 'whacky'. I don't like whacky. I despise whacky. It's similar to the concept of 'cool'. Thinking you're cool automatically makes you uncool and the same applies to the theory of being whacky. Underneath the facade of plastic rabbit ears, poorly crayoned face paint, Spongebob rucksacks and colourful jewellery is most likely an unbelievably dull person. Increasing the volume of your voice, saying things like 'that is sooo me' whilst looking at a badge that reads 'drama queen' and squawking the messages of offensive greetings cards so that all around you can hear doesn't make you whacky. It makes you really fucking annoying. I'm sure it's just a phase. If it's not those girls have spinsterhood and cats to look forward to in the adult world.
Slightly less of an irritance than teenagers but still high on my list of peeves is mobile phones, and more specifically the appropriate time for their use. Customers that use them whilst buying something bother me. Firstly, it's rude. The fact that however the customer treats me I generally dislike them is inconsequential. I expect to be acknowledged and not treated as a second rate citizen. After all, good manners cost nothing. Slightly ironic, and rich coming from me but I don't care.
Secondly, and drawing on my extensive research of common sense, using ones mobile phone can majorly hinder the simple act of purchasing something. A customer with common sense would end the call swiftly or explain to the person with whom they were speaking to 'hang on a minute'. The Apes that I have to contend with adopt the classic 'jam the phone between shoulder and cheek technique'. This causes all manner of problems, particularly for ladies whose purses rest among the overcrowded contents of there bucket bag. Tilting ones head 45 degrees has an alarming effect on people. Balance becomes a real issue, the hand can no longer find the pocket and arms wave around as if independent from the rest of the body, though only from the elbow down on the side in which the phone is squashed. The rest of the arm stays glued to the persons torso. It's painful to watch.
One good thing to come out of this week was my first proper chat with Ken since Christmas. As usual we covered nothing new, the weather dominating proceedings with a sprinkle of Reading F.C to mix it up. Ken also made a rare purchase, a 'make tea not war' badge. Twas a gift for a friend he told me. Before he had selected this he asked me what the badge 'birthday slapper' meant. I explained a slapper was 'a girl who is not very nice' so based on my appauling but not completely dishonest definition Ken decided against that design. Nevertheless, the highlight of his visit was that I was able to get some photos of the great man without him even noticing, and he was all of three feet away!
Ken carefully selects his purchase.
He asked me if I liked his hat. I stupidly said I liked the colour.
As you can see, it's black.
He goes a bit shy when I ask him if he likes Cricket. Doesn't
like talking about the unfamiliar does our Ken.
We share a joke.
Charlie, hypnotised by Kens words.
One last thing, went to the Oakford film quiz on Monday night and though our team didn't fare so well in the overall standings, about ninth out of eighteen teams (some of the questions were REALLY hard) we did manage to claim a consolation prize for coming up with the best team name. Christian Bale's Directors of Fucking Photography took home this beautiful garden gnome, which was been signed by each member of the team: Kevin, Col, Izzy, Lizzie, Rizzy (Rachel) and myself.
Isn't he hideous!?
Annoying Recurring Customer Question
"Where is Jessops?"
It's 50 yards down the street! The panic in peoples eyes is ridiculous. Carry on going in a straight line you muppet.
Retail Lesson #4
Never try to explain the irony of the Reading postcards to anyone with a poor grasp of English.
Homework
Create a map showing customers how to get to Jessops. It'll probably look like this.
-------------------------------------------------------------------->
Nico
Slightly less of an irritance than teenagers but still high on my list of peeves is mobile phones, and more specifically the appropriate time for their use. Customers that use them whilst buying something bother me. Firstly, it's rude. The fact that however the customer treats me I generally dislike them is inconsequential. I expect to be acknowledged and not treated as a second rate citizen. After all, good manners cost nothing. Slightly ironic, and rich coming from me but I don't care.
Secondly, and drawing on my extensive research of common sense, using ones mobile phone can majorly hinder the simple act of purchasing something. A customer with common sense would end the call swiftly or explain to the person with whom they were speaking to 'hang on a minute'. The Apes that I have to contend with adopt the classic 'jam the phone between shoulder and cheek technique'. This causes all manner of problems, particularly for ladies whose purses rest among the overcrowded contents of there bucket bag. Tilting ones head 45 degrees has an alarming effect on people. Balance becomes a real issue, the hand can no longer find the pocket and arms wave around as if independent from the rest of the body, though only from the elbow down on the side in which the phone is squashed. The rest of the arm stays glued to the persons torso. It's painful to watch.
One good thing to come out of this week was my first proper chat with Ken since Christmas. As usual we covered nothing new, the weather dominating proceedings with a sprinkle of Reading F.C to mix it up. Ken also made a rare purchase, a 'make tea not war' badge. Twas a gift for a friend he told me. Before he had selected this he asked me what the badge 'birthday slapper' meant. I explained a slapper was 'a girl who is not very nice' so based on my appauling but not completely dishonest definition Ken decided against that design. Nevertheless, the highlight of his visit was that I was able to get some photos of the great man without him even noticing, and he was all of three feet away!
Ken carefully selects his purchase.
He asked me if I liked his hat. I stupidly said I liked the colour.
As you can see, it's black.
He goes a bit shy when I ask him if he likes Cricket. Doesn't
like talking about the unfamiliar does our Ken.
We share a joke.
Charlie, hypnotised by Kens words.
One last thing, went to the Oakford film quiz on Monday night and though our team didn't fare so well in the overall standings, about ninth out of eighteen teams (some of the questions were REALLY hard) we did manage to claim a consolation prize for coming up with the best team name. Christian Bale's Directors of Fucking Photography took home this beautiful garden gnome, which was been signed by each member of the team: Kevin, Col, Izzy, Lizzie, Rizzy (Rachel) and myself.
Isn't he hideous!?
Annoying Recurring Customer Question
"Where is Jessops?"
It's 50 yards down the street! The panic in peoples eyes is ridiculous. Carry on going in a straight line you muppet.
Retail Lesson #4
Never try to explain the irony of the Reading postcards to anyone with a poor grasp of English.
Homework
Create a map showing customers how to get to Jessops. It'll probably look like this.
-------------------------------------------------------------------->
Nico
Wednesday 11 February 2009
Thursday 12th February - The Bug Incident
The most random episode in the sitcom of my life happened on 3rd March 2008. A quite astounding, you wouldn't believe it if you heard it tale of horror, fear and downright preposterousness. It is so unbelievably absurd that there won't be any adjectives left in the world when I am finished. It's a sequence of events SO catastrophically bizarre that even a combination of David Lynch and Derek Acorah couldn't have created such an ambiguous narrative. I might be exaggerating just slightly.
On a bitterly cold March night I made my way to my good friend Jack Burton's house to partake in an evening of PlayStation, Match of the Day and a late night fight between David Haye and a Welshman with a unpronounceable name, and as it happens, a glass jaw. The short pugilistic bout was over inside two rounds. At around 2.30am I concluded it was time for bed and promptly booked a taxi to chauffeur me back to my humble abode.
On arrival everything went according to plan. I double locked the door behind me, fetched myself a drink and floated upstairs looking forward to resting my tired bones. However, the moment my head hit the pillow the plan took an unexpected turn. My state of relaxation was interrupted by a noise. At first I just thought it was coming from outside but on closer audio inspection I realised it was my letterbox.
Holy shit!
Why on earth is someone using/tampering with my letterbox at 3 o'clock in the morning?
My initial panic was multiplied by the fact that this was a rare night where I was home alone. My housemates Alan and Tom were living it up on the slopes of Whistler and my girlfriend at the time Alex was staying at her halls of residence. The clattering of the metal hinge intensified and I had no choice but to take action.
What do I do I repeated in my head. I know, I'll turn some lights on! That will make them go away. I slowly edged out of my room and switched the landing light on. Still the clapping of the letterbox continued. I stood at the top of the stairs in only a pair of boxers, shivering, and once again found myself thinking the worst. Are they trying to get in? What happens if they get in? Am i going to die?
It's alright I deduced, I have a cricket bat in my room . I retrieved the bat from next to my drawer, picked up my phone as well and returned to the top of the stairs. My heart was pounding, my body shaking and I was, for want of a better phrase, shitting myself.
I flicked the downstairs hall light on and off a few times and all of a sudden the racket disappeared. I hesitated for a few seconds before making my way down to the front door. By standing where I was on the stairs my view of the door had been completely obscured so I had no idea what had taken place. When my head dipped under the ceiling and I saw what was in front me I was flabbergasted. My eyes were wide like frying pans and the hairs on the back of my neck stood to attention as I comprehended the reality of it all.
The first thing I recall was seeing that the letterbox was wedged open with a bit of cardboard. And then I looked down...
In the hallway were around a dozen disgusting looking creepy crawlies. Some lunatic had posted some fucking insects through my door at 3 o'clock in the morning! What the Bejesus is wrong with the world!?
Most of them looked like cockroaches but there was also a few I didn't recognise. I later discovered they were locusts. Here are some images of the little buggers.
(These are not to scale. Though in my mind they will always be obscenely huge. Also, while searching for these pictures I was nearly physically sick)
I WAS SCARED. I was positively freaked out. I needed to speak someone. I was cold, semi naked and alone. My masculinity went out of the window for the time being. It's too late to phone my Mum I concluded so rang up Alex who said she would be over shortly. As I waited for her I got to work disposing of my new housemates. My weapon of choice was my sturdy golf umbrella that featured a slightly pointed tip, perfect. I impaled, crushed, squashed and pulverised the miniature nightmares until they lay motionless on the laminate floor. Job done. Or so I thought...
Still feeling nervy, I decided to call the non-emergency Police number and explain to them what had happened. The kind lady on the other end of the receiver said she had never EVER heard of any story like it and reassured me that any officers in the neighbourhood would drive around and see if anyone suspicious was lurking in the area. She also asked if I had any enemies, or done something to anyone that might have warranted such a backlash. Unsurprisingly, nothing came to mind!
Knowing Alex's arrival was imminent, and confident that my bug loving adversary had long scarpered, I put some clothes on and decided to head outside to see if I could see her walking towards the house. I hoped it would cure any anxiety still festering within. Then I opened the door...
In the doorway was an empty plastic container, sand scattered around and approximately forty or so more of the tiny beasts. I practically leapt out of my skin. What the bloody hell is going on?
I can't kill all of these with my umbrella!
I could see Alex approaching and as she got nearer I shouted and warned her of the impending danger. She took one look at the insects and joined me in looks of astonishment whilst throwing in some hysteria of her own for good measure. It took me five minutes to persuade Alex to take a leap of faith over the bugs and into the hallway where I promised her that all the bugs inside had been sadistically dealt with. Once inside we agreed to go straight to bed as it was 4am, and contend with the problem in the morning.
After about four hours of awful sleep I got up early to face my demons. I was due to play football at 10.30am so wanted a clear mind and relaxed body ahead of the encounter. After much deliberation I selected a new weapon to battle my foes, the mighty hoover! After sucking up my dead pals inside I opened the front door to a bright and chilly morning and set about vacuuming forty live insects into a dusty grave. It was a most satisfying, yet haunting experience, and one that I will hopefully never have to repeat.
It hasn't happened again, funny that...
Nico
On a bitterly cold March night I made my way to my good friend Jack Burton's house to partake in an evening of PlayStation, Match of the Day and a late night fight between David Haye and a Welshman with a unpronounceable name, and as it happens, a glass jaw. The short pugilistic bout was over inside two rounds. At around 2.30am I concluded it was time for bed and promptly booked a taxi to chauffeur me back to my humble abode.
On arrival everything went according to plan. I double locked the door behind me, fetched myself a drink and floated upstairs looking forward to resting my tired bones. However, the moment my head hit the pillow the plan took an unexpected turn. My state of relaxation was interrupted by a noise. At first I just thought it was coming from outside but on closer audio inspection I realised it was my letterbox.
Holy shit!
Why on earth is someone using/tampering with my letterbox at 3 o'clock in the morning?
My initial panic was multiplied by the fact that this was a rare night where I was home alone. My housemates Alan and Tom were living it up on the slopes of Whistler and my girlfriend at the time Alex was staying at her halls of residence. The clattering of the metal hinge intensified and I had no choice but to take action.
What do I do I repeated in my head. I know, I'll turn some lights on! That will make them go away. I slowly edged out of my room and switched the landing light on. Still the clapping of the letterbox continued. I stood at the top of the stairs in only a pair of boxers, shivering, and once again found myself thinking the worst. Are they trying to get in? What happens if they get in? Am i going to die?
It's alright I deduced, I have a cricket bat in my room . I retrieved the bat from next to my drawer, picked up my phone as well and returned to the top of the stairs. My heart was pounding, my body shaking and I was, for want of a better phrase, shitting myself.
I flicked the downstairs hall light on and off a few times and all of a sudden the racket disappeared. I hesitated for a few seconds before making my way down to the front door. By standing where I was on the stairs my view of the door had been completely obscured so I had no idea what had taken place. When my head dipped under the ceiling and I saw what was in front me I was flabbergasted. My eyes were wide like frying pans and the hairs on the back of my neck stood to attention as I comprehended the reality of it all.
The first thing I recall was seeing that the letterbox was wedged open with a bit of cardboard. And then I looked down...
In the hallway were around a dozen disgusting looking creepy crawlies. Some lunatic had posted some fucking insects through my door at 3 o'clock in the morning! What the Bejesus is wrong with the world!?
Most of them looked like cockroaches but there was also a few I didn't recognise. I later discovered they were locusts. Here are some images of the little buggers.
(These are not to scale. Though in my mind they will always be obscenely huge. Also, while searching for these pictures I was nearly physically sick)
I WAS SCARED. I was positively freaked out. I needed to speak someone. I was cold, semi naked and alone. My masculinity went out of the window for the time being. It's too late to phone my Mum I concluded so rang up Alex who said she would be over shortly. As I waited for her I got to work disposing of my new housemates. My weapon of choice was my sturdy golf umbrella that featured a slightly pointed tip, perfect. I impaled, crushed, squashed and pulverised the miniature nightmares until they lay motionless on the laminate floor. Job done. Or so I thought...
Still feeling nervy, I decided to call the non-emergency Police number and explain to them what had happened. The kind lady on the other end of the receiver said she had never EVER heard of any story like it and reassured me that any officers in the neighbourhood would drive around and see if anyone suspicious was lurking in the area. She also asked if I had any enemies, or done something to anyone that might have warranted such a backlash. Unsurprisingly, nothing came to mind!
Knowing Alex's arrival was imminent, and confident that my bug loving adversary had long scarpered, I put some clothes on and decided to head outside to see if I could see her walking towards the house. I hoped it would cure any anxiety still festering within. Then I opened the door...
In the doorway was an empty plastic container, sand scattered around and approximately forty or so more of the tiny beasts. I practically leapt out of my skin. What the bloody hell is going on?
I can't kill all of these with my umbrella!
I could see Alex approaching and as she got nearer I shouted and warned her of the impending danger. She took one look at the insects and joined me in looks of astonishment whilst throwing in some hysteria of her own for good measure. It took me five minutes to persuade Alex to take a leap of faith over the bugs and into the hallway where I promised her that all the bugs inside had been sadistically dealt with. Once inside we agreed to go straight to bed as it was 4am, and contend with the problem in the morning.
After about four hours of awful sleep I got up early to face my demons. I was due to play football at 10.30am so wanted a clear mind and relaxed body ahead of the encounter. After much deliberation I selected a new weapon to battle my foes, the mighty hoover! After sucking up my dead pals inside I opened the front door to a bright and chilly morning and set about vacuuming forty live insects into a dusty grave. It was a most satisfying, yet haunting experience, and one that I will hopefully never have to repeat.
It hasn't happened again, funny that...
Nico
Sunday 1 February 2009
Monday February 2nd - When Charlie Met Ken
About 18 months ago, a man began coming into the shop on a regular basis. As I learned nearly a year later, his name was Ken. He was always dressed practically for whatever the prevailing weather conditions were. In the summer, a Panama hat complimented his shirt and shorts combo where as in the winter a knitted red and blue scarf, warm jacket and Russian Cossack style hat were the order of the day. Coincidentally, the weather would be one of his first and most used conversation starters with me.
Ken looked like how you might expect your mates Grandad to look. Around 70 years of age, short, slightly hunched back who tended to favour a slow shuffle rather than a walk. Facially his most interesting feature were his slightly pointed upper front teeth. They sort of reminded me of upside down white picket fence posts. And though he was always fairly upbeat rarely did I see those teeth crack a big smile. That I would have to wait for until the Christmas of 2008.
One thing that struck me immediately was that he was not completely well mentally. His style of behaviour was uncommon, though I couldn't diagnose what the problem was. He would always fire questions at me that i think he already knew the answers to but it was like he needed confirmation. Deep seated insecurities I pondered, possibly a difficult past that had taken it's toll on him psychologically? Things would become clearer as our friendship developed.
During the early days he would slalom in and out of the card stands and now and again would actually buy something. Strangely, he nearly always bought cards in two's, which led to me think that he was some kind of Noah's Ark enthusiast. He was always affable, occasionally the repetition of our discussions would grate on me but I thought here is a man who gets a real satisfaction from our little chit chats so thought better of my pettiness.
Mondays were usually Ken's choice of visiting day as he worked the three following days. Usually around half past eleven I'd look up from the Telegraph crossword and see his familiar face. As time went on he became more comfortable in my presence, telling the odd terrible joke that I always gave a fake chuckle too. He would always laugh at his own gag, which i found more amusing than the joke itself. Some of our encounters went on for about 15 minutes, and he often got in the way of customers but he was never any bother. He went as far as to tell me that other shops had told him to leave as the staff weren't allowed to chat so I made it my mission to give him some time on a Monday.
Our friendship was taken to the next level on a day that I wasn't even working. Whilst on holiday, Ken ventured into the shop only to see that I wasn't there. Legend has it that he asked where I was (I have no idea how he described me!) and my 'funny' bosses told him that 'Charlie' was away on holiday. So on that special day, to Ken, I became known as Charlie. And I am still known as Charlie today. The first few times Ken used this moniker I failed to respond but over time I started to remember and embraced my new found pseudonym. It was at this point that I first learned that his name was indeed Ken. It was a name I wasn't to forgot in a hurry.
Monday morning banter with Ken became a regular fixture in my week and although I never really looked forward to it, it did break up what was traditionally a quiet time of the day, and as I discovered, it had become part of his daily routine so I never begrudged his visits. The weather, Reading Football Club, his work colleagues and what he was doing for the rest of the day were the normal topics of discussion. Occasionally, he would present me with a problem that was troubling him, he did worry an awful lot. In this light I could see he was as a very gentle, caring man, never wanting to offend or upset anyone as it clearly affected him. He wasn't at his best when analysing situations. I did what I could to provide rational responses that I hope he understood and gave him the reassurance he needed.
As the festive season approached, our friendship became official. The first Monday in December and Ken popped in to deliver a Christmas card to me that simply read 'To Charlie, from Ken'.
Then this happened...
Ken: "Friends give each other Christmas cards, don't they Charlie?"
Me: "I suppose they do Ken"
Ken: "So does that make us friends then Charlie?"
Me: "I guess it does Ken"
It was like Facebook in the real world. He requested my friendship and I duly accepted. Twas a very sweet moment. However, the best was yet to come. I now had to decide whether to return this seasonal cheer with a card of my own. For the next two visits Ken left cardless as I waited for the opportune moment to make my move. I chose a safe design with a cat wearing a Santa hat, Ken will find that funny I resolved.
His next visit featured a very brief chat as the shop was absolutely manic and I couldn't spare a moment. As Ken prepared to depart I called his name and he turned around. I handed him the card and wished him a Merry Christmas and something magical happened because I have never seen a man smile so much in all my life. After he opened the envelope his eyes danced over the uncomplicated message (To Ken, From Charlie) with excitable energy and he said thank you with such genuine exuberance that I could have cried. He marched triumphantly out the shop and walked down the street clutching the card as tight as he could, his smile lighting up Queen Victoria St, absolutely beaming. I have no idea where he was going but I hope he told all he met of the Christmas card he got from a man, sorry, his friend, called Charlie.
Nico
Ken looked like how you might expect your mates Grandad to look. Around 70 years of age, short, slightly hunched back who tended to favour a slow shuffle rather than a walk. Facially his most interesting feature were his slightly pointed upper front teeth. They sort of reminded me of upside down white picket fence posts. And though he was always fairly upbeat rarely did I see those teeth crack a big smile. That I would have to wait for until the Christmas of 2008.
One thing that struck me immediately was that he was not completely well mentally. His style of behaviour was uncommon, though I couldn't diagnose what the problem was. He would always fire questions at me that i think he already knew the answers to but it was like he needed confirmation. Deep seated insecurities I pondered, possibly a difficult past that had taken it's toll on him psychologically? Things would become clearer as our friendship developed.
During the early days he would slalom in and out of the card stands and now and again would actually buy something. Strangely, he nearly always bought cards in two's, which led to me think that he was some kind of Noah's Ark enthusiast. He was always affable, occasionally the repetition of our discussions would grate on me but I thought here is a man who gets a real satisfaction from our little chit chats so thought better of my pettiness.
Mondays were usually Ken's choice of visiting day as he worked the three following days. Usually around half past eleven I'd look up from the Telegraph crossword and see his familiar face. As time went on he became more comfortable in my presence, telling the odd terrible joke that I always gave a fake chuckle too. He would always laugh at his own gag, which i found more amusing than the joke itself. Some of our encounters went on for about 15 minutes, and he often got in the way of customers but he was never any bother. He went as far as to tell me that other shops had told him to leave as the staff weren't allowed to chat so I made it my mission to give him some time on a Monday.
Our friendship was taken to the next level on a day that I wasn't even working. Whilst on holiday, Ken ventured into the shop only to see that I wasn't there. Legend has it that he asked where I was (I have no idea how he described me!) and my 'funny' bosses told him that 'Charlie' was away on holiday. So on that special day, to Ken, I became known as Charlie. And I am still known as Charlie today. The first few times Ken used this moniker I failed to respond but over time I started to remember and embraced my new found pseudonym. It was at this point that I first learned that his name was indeed Ken. It was a name I wasn't to forgot in a hurry.
Monday morning banter with Ken became a regular fixture in my week and although I never really looked forward to it, it did break up what was traditionally a quiet time of the day, and as I discovered, it had become part of his daily routine so I never begrudged his visits. The weather, Reading Football Club, his work colleagues and what he was doing for the rest of the day were the normal topics of discussion. Occasionally, he would present me with a problem that was troubling him, he did worry an awful lot. In this light I could see he was as a very gentle, caring man, never wanting to offend or upset anyone as it clearly affected him. He wasn't at his best when analysing situations. I did what I could to provide rational responses that I hope he understood and gave him the reassurance he needed.
As the festive season approached, our friendship became official. The first Monday in December and Ken popped in to deliver a Christmas card to me that simply read 'To Charlie, from Ken'.
Then this happened...
Ken: "Friends give each other Christmas cards, don't they Charlie?"
Me: "I suppose they do Ken"
Ken: "So does that make us friends then Charlie?"
Me: "I guess it does Ken"
It was like Facebook in the real world. He requested my friendship and I duly accepted. Twas a very sweet moment. However, the best was yet to come. I now had to decide whether to return this seasonal cheer with a card of my own. For the next two visits Ken left cardless as I waited for the opportune moment to make my move. I chose a safe design with a cat wearing a Santa hat, Ken will find that funny I resolved.
His next visit featured a very brief chat as the shop was absolutely manic and I couldn't spare a moment. As Ken prepared to depart I called his name and he turned around. I handed him the card and wished him a Merry Christmas and something magical happened because I have never seen a man smile so much in all my life. After he opened the envelope his eyes danced over the uncomplicated message (To Ken, From Charlie) with excitable energy and he said thank you with such genuine exuberance that I could have cried. He marched triumphantly out the shop and walked down the street clutching the card as tight as he could, his smile lighting up Queen Victoria St, absolutely beaming. I have no idea where he was going but I hope he told all he met of the Christmas card he got from a man, sorry, his friend, called Charlie.
Nico
Saturday 31 January 2009
Saturday 31st January - Tired, Cranky and Whinging
Things that are annoying me today...
1. Football Hooligans - Idiots. You'd think that they would consider a wardrobe change to make it difficult to spot them but no. I think they like people to know what cretins they are. I Saw some at the station this morning and their Burberry hats and Stone Island jackets just scream out 'I am a twat who knows nothing about the actual game of football but likes to fight'. Football has enough problems as it is without the word itself preceding hooligan to create such a vile subculture. Why do you never get Rugby hooligans? Or Tennis hooligans? Why aren't Andy Murray 'fans' calling up Roger Federers 'followers' to rendezvous just outside Melbourne Park to engage in fisticuffs?
2. Teenagers - They can't talk quietly, they shuffle around in packs and I hate them. One particular low jeans wearing lothario was swanning around the shop chomping on a pastry from Greggs, spilling most of it on my hallowed shop floor. I looked at him and said in my most authoritarian voice: " Do you mind not spilling your pastry all over the floor mate".
It may not sound like much but his chums spent the next 5 minutes ripping it out of him and I basked in their collective laughter.
Nico 1-0 Teenagers
It may not sound like much but his chums spent the next 5 minutes ripping it out of him and I basked in their collective laughter.
Nico 1-0 Teenagers
3. Someone left an empty Starbucks cup in the shop. This is a great excuse to rant about the soul stealing brand from across the pond. There are four in the town centre, FOUR!! Reading isn't that big, we're not even a bloody city. Firstly, it's far too expensive. Secondly, it'll make you fat. A vanilla bullshit cappulatte grande milkacino has nearly as many calories as a big mac. If they keep saturating the market then independent traders aren't going to be able to compete. If I had a surefire way of not getting apprehended I would orchestrate a synchronised window smashing of all the Reading locations (After closing of course. I'd like to avoid any bystander injuries). I just want to stick it to 'The Man'.
4. It's seriously cold.
5. I have football tomorrow but my legs feel heavier than an American at an all you can eat buffet. If my muscles don't loosen up soon people will start calling me the Tin Man.
6. Thinking back to last nights poker game and how irritating my brother is when intoxicated, and winning. It's a truly horrific combination.
7. The Guardian magazine printed the answer to the Scrabble puzzle halfway through so I accidentally saw the solution before seeing the conundrum thus ruining it for me.
7. The Guardian magazine printed the answer to the Scrabble puzzle halfway through so I accidentally saw the solution before seeing the conundrum thus ruining it for me.
Luckily, this photo cheered me up.
GOOD LORD! Known simply as... Man who looks like thumb.
On a more serious note, whilst meandering through the Oracle with a friend, we both remarked how frustrating it was when the people strolling in front of you stop all of a sudden. The third occasion this happened was at an escalator. A most inconvenient time for such deceleration I thought, so mumbled something loudly enough so the group in front could hear. As it turned out one of the people ahead of us had a learning disability. The dad of the group gave me a look that made me feel smaller than an ants suitcase. I felt awful. I'm very sorry, it was an honest mistake.
Retail Lesson #3
Only try and humiliate customers who are younger, smaller and geekier than yourself.
Customer quote of the day
Me: "are you OK?"
Teenage Girl: (softly spoken and shivering) "I can't open my purse. My hands are fucking cold"
You had to be there!
Nico
On a more serious note, whilst meandering through the Oracle with a friend, we both remarked how frustrating it was when the people strolling in front of you stop all of a sudden. The third occasion this happened was at an escalator. A most inconvenient time for such deceleration I thought, so mumbled something loudly enough so the group in front could hear. As it turned out one of the people ahead of us had a learning disability. The dad of the group gave me a look that made me feel smaller than an ants suitcase. I felt awful. I'm very sorry, it was an honest mistake.
Retail Lesson #3
Only try and humiliate customers who are younger, smaller and geekier than yourself.
Customer quote of the day
Me: "are you OK?"
Teenage Girl: (softly spoken and shivering) "I can't open my purse. My hands are fucking cold"
You had to be there!
Nico
Thursday 29 January 2009
Thursday 29th January - Common Sense
Common sense is a wonderful thing. Simply, some possess it and some do not. During my years at But is it Art? I have seen thousands of punters come and go, each with an original take on the concept of common sense (I don't want to keep it writing to so lets go acronym crazy and call it CS). This has encouraged me to formulate a graph, which demonstrates the CS of shop dwellers in direct proportion to my assumed intelligence of them, and as a result, how much it will cause me to dislike them.
Here are my results:
CUSTOMER COMMON SENSE GRAPH (CCSG)
Disclaimer: The results on this graph are entirely based upon my thoughts and do not represent the philosophy of But is it Art?, its staff, its shoppers, or any company that deals with, or affiliates itself with But is it Art?
Here are my results:
CUSTOMER COMMON SENSE GRAPH (CCSG)
Disclaimer: The results on this graph are entirely based upon my thoughts and do not represent the philosophy of But is it Art?, its staff, its shoppers, or any company that deals with, or affiliates itself with But is it Art? Based on the results of the Customer Common Sense Graph (CCSG) one can immediately see that thick individuals (or groups, I don't like to discriminate) are a lost cause. These are the people who ask vague questions such as, "Where do you get your cards from?" and "Do you sell picture frames?"
However, the most annoying, excruciating thing that a customer with no CS does is to remove their credit card from the pin machine before he or she is meant to. A regular excuse is because they saw the words 'remove card'. What they fail to include is the fact that adjacent to these is the phrase 'DO NOT'. Why are you looking at the right hand side of the screen? How do you read a bloody book? Left to right, that's how. The pin machine is not Jewish and is not written in Hebrew so why start reading from that side? You imbecile.
If everyone began to ignore these important words in other everyday situations anarchy would ensue. Young wrestling enthusiasts would be trying things at home, destroying tables, ladders and chairs. Zookeepers would spend half the day mopping up the blood of foolish humans who had decided that feeding the lions was a good idea, and swimming pools would be awash with illegal activities such as running, bombing, shouting, pushing and the old favourite, heavy petting.
Referring back to the CCSG, the bearable customers make CS mistakes that are of a mild annoyance and only result in a small and disposable anger on my part. An example happened this very morn when a lady bought two items that came to £6.50. She left the shop but returned 5 minutes later wondering why she had been charged this amount for these two purchases. I told her the individual prices and she thought the calendar was supposed to be half price. I explained it already was and blah blah fucking blah. She changed her mind and I refunded it without fuss. Then I thought to myself why did she knowingly pay £6.50, when to her the transaction should have been £4? Why don't you look at the amount on the receipt or the till before you pay you berk? You could've saved both of us the hassle couldn't you love?
Moving on.
Like a solitary rose in a garden full of weeds, a realistic Newcastle United fan or an honest politician good customers with exceptional CS are hard to find. When you do get one it's like being on crack (Just to clarify I don't actually know what this feels like, I just mean it's very moreish). The transaction flows effervescently on a creamy cloud of wavy wonderment where unicorns dance and I am the King of the party. The chat is polite, brief and informative, the purchase paid for in cash. The customer acknowledges my presence but doesn't pretend to be my friend and we both respect the boundaries that the sacred shop counter represents. It's beautiful.
The worst culprits highlighted on the CCSG are the brain elite. Like Spidermans Uncle says, "With great intelligence, comes great stupidity". I might have changed most of the words to that line but you get the point. Why is it that those with superior intellectual capacity also have the ability to fall between staircases, pull out a woman's hair on a bus or have absolutely no social awareness whatsoever? I'm stumped.
Maybe, just maybe, they have too much information stored inside their Mensa minds. The simple act of purchasing a birthday card is too difficult because they are overflowing with considerations about how tough it must be for a lone, independent shop to survive in the cuthroat, capitalist, Starbucks loving society in which we live where the challenging economic climate and the constant homogenising of products and corporate takeovers makes it a constantly demanding task to run a successful business. aaaaaand breathe....
Or! They are just dumb too and I'm giving them undeserved credit. That's probably it.
I conclude that the CCSG is 99% accurate and you should disagree at your peril.
On a lighter note...
Comedy customer quote of the day
"This is a postmodern gift shop, FUCKING HELL! I'm surprised you don't get raided by the police"
(An incredibly charismatic, middle aged West Indian man with a beaming smile who reminded me of a thin version of my favourite secondary school geography teacher, what a legend).
Retail lesson #2
If you expect the worst of a customer, you can never be disappointed.
Homework
Relax, you've had a hard day.
Nico
The worst culprits highlighted on the CCSG are the brain elite. Like Spidermans Uncle says, "With great intelligence, comes great stupidity". I might have changed most of the words to that line but you get the point. Why is it that those with superior intellectual capacity also have the ability to fall between staircases, pull out a woman's hair on a bus or have absolutely no social awareness whatsoever? I'm stumped.
Maybe, just maybe, they have too much information stored inside their Mensa minds. The simple act of purchasing a birthday card is too difficult because they are overflowing with considerations about how tough it must be for a lone, independent shop to survive in the cuthroat, capitalist, Starbucks loving society in which we live where the challenging economic climate and the constant homogenising of products and corporate takeovers makes it a constantly demanding task to run a successful business. aaaaaand breathe....
Or! They are just dumb too and I'm giving them undeserved credit. That's probably it.
I conclude that the CCSG is 99% accurate and you should disagree at your peril.
On a lighter note...
Comedy customer quote of the day
"This is a postmodern gift shop, FUCKING HELL! I'm surprised you don't get raided by the police"
(An incredibly charismatic, middle aged West Indian man with a beaming smile who reminded me of a thin version of my favourite secondary school geography teacher, what a legend).
Retail lesson #2
If you expect the worst of a customer, you can never be disappointed.
Homework
Relax, you've had a hard day.
Nico
Tuesday 27 January 2009
Tuesday 27th January - Daydreaming
I knew this would happen. It's poetic justice, or cruel irony, or something like that. I start a blog to regale stories of amusement and disbelief in my place of work and on only the second day I have absolutely nothing to talk about. The minions actually behaved themselves today. One lady did inadvertently insult my colleague Steve but he made her feel uncomfortable so justice was served almost instantly. The whole episode screamed of a cringeworthy scene from The Office. She may not return for a while.
I did have quite an odd dream on Saturday night. I was at a friends party (a fantastic party too I might add) and several things that had featured throughout the evening created the ingredients for what was a particularly random sleeping hallucination. I was discussing with someone how I preferred it when a girl made you work for her affection, having it given to you on a plate we deliberated, was not a hugely attractive quality. I guess it depends on a multitude of factors but based on the situation I felt I was in my thought processes led me to believe that this was the correct course of action. Maybe this is why i am single.
Anyway, my night time coma experience began with me chasing a girl around various different places, a green area with statues and a water park spring to mind. Coincidentally, it was a girl I had met at the party who I was chasing, and as dreams go, it was panning out splendidly. Running around, flirting and with a knowingness that something good was likely to occur. When I located her at the end of a flume in my fantasy water world I excitedly moved in for a kiss, only to be knocked back almost immediately. She then smiled quite demonically and suddenly disappeared. BITCH (may I point out that the human version of this person is anything but).
Confused was not the word, I had no idea what had just taken place. Luckily for me another friend appeared, also a party guest that night and also the friend that had introduced me to the girl who was now rejecting me in my sleep. I remember this much of the conversation...
Me: "What just happened, why didn't she kiss me?"
Elin: "Because she's a Jehovah's Witness!"
RIDICULOUS. Though at the time I accepted this as a perfectly reasonable excuse! After reading up on the aforementioned religious movement tonight I still have no clue as to its significance. Maybe it was an elaborate Monty Python gag that went straight over my head, or perhaps I should just stop writing this very second.
I pray something happens at work tomorrow. If I have to keep describing my dreams I'm likely to be committed.
Shit, I've got a day off.
Nico
I did have quite an odd dream on Saturday night. I was at a friends party (a fantastic party too I might add) and several things that had featured throughout the evening created the ingredients for what was a particularly random sleeping hallucination. I was discussing with someone how I preferred it when a girl made you work for her affection, having it given to you on a plate we deliberated, was not a hugely attractive quality. I guess it depends on a multitude of factors but based on the situation I felt I was in my thought processes led me to believe that this was the correct course of action. Maybe this is why i am single.
Anyway, my night time coma experience began with me chasing a girl around various different places, a green area with statues and a water park spring to mind. Coincidentally, it was a girl I had met at the party who I was chasing, and as dreams go, it was panning out splendidly. Running around, flirting and with a knowingness that something good was likely to occur. When I located her at the end of a flume in my fantasy water world I excitedly moved in for a kiss, only to be knocked back almost immediately. She then smiled quite demonically and suddenly disappeared. BITCH (may I point out that the human version of this person is anything but).
Confused was not the word, I had no idea what had just taken place. Luckily for me another friend appeared, also a party guest that night and also the friend that had introduced me to the girl who was now rejecting me in my sleep. I remember this much of the conversation...
Me: "What just happened, why didn't she kiss me?"
Elin: "Because she's a Jehovah's Witness!"
RIDICULOUS. Though at the time I accepted this as a perfectly reasonable excuse! After reading up on the aforementioned religious movement tonight I still have no clue as to its significance. Maybe it was an elaborate Monty Python gag that went straight over my head, or perhaps I should just stop writing this very second.
I pray something happens at work tomorrow. If I have to keep describing my dreams I'm likely to be committed.
Shit, I've got a day off.
Nico
Monday 26 January 2009
The beginning of something mediocre - Monday 26th January
So...
I work in But is it Art? (As featured in The Guardian independent shopping guide 2007)
The shop has been in Reading for over 30 years and sells all manner of weird and wonderful cards, gifts, t-shirts and pictures.
Enough of the shameless plugging.
After being inspired by a French checkout girl (http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/europe/france/4029292/French-check-out-girl-becomes-best-selling-author.html) i decided to document the goings on of my day to day encounters with the shoppers of my precious town.
Something i have noticed when it comes to retail is that the words used to describe the place you work often has a direct correlation with the personality of its customers. I often hear the adjectives 'funky', 'different' and 'cool' bounce off the shop walls and these words exemplify the kind of buffoons who set foot into the beloved place i call work. Throw in the odd Daily Mail reader, packs of ironically cheery emo kids and a man who thinks i'm called Charlie and we're just touching the surface of something quite magical. Nothing would give me more pleasure than seeing 'But is it Art?' the sitcom air on BBC3 at 1.30 in the morning sometime in the future. Anyway, enough rambling of dempgraphics and television aspirations...
In my opinion, there is no doubt that the customer is the most intriguing aspect of any retail environment. The individuals i encounter on a daily basis are all beautifully unique yet contradict themselves with an aura of overwhelming stupidity. Like a plague of paradoxical zombies they meander around the shop, confused looks on their faces, relying on you to save them from any problem they may encounter because, as i have learned, a customer not only expects you to know everything about the place in which you work, they expect you to know everything about EVERYTHING.
Today, a man brought up a fire bucket ashtray (£7.50, an excellent gift for any smoker) to the counter and enquired how much it would cost to send said item by post to Japan. How the fuck should i know!?
What a preposterous question, maybe i had the look of a Japanese postman?
I explained politely i had no idea how much it would cost to send and he trotted off to return it from whence it came. This got me thinking, If i had instantly given him an approximate figure would he have followed through with the purchase or was this whole interaction destined to be a waste of his and my time?
I'm fairly confident it's the latter, which again got me thinking...
Why did he even bother in the first place?
To be honest, i don't think he knew. I do have sympathy for these people, put me in an office anywhere and i become a giant baby, incapable of completing the most basic of tasks. Certain habitats just don't suit certain people and this inevitably leads to foolish behaviour.
Despite my mild annoyance at this micro experience i am still absolutely fascinated by what the clientele of tomorrow will bring to the table. These little nuggets of patron idiocy are so essential to my daily grind that i should probably welcome them rather than rant about them. Ranting is a lot of fun though. I would like to point out that i had nothing against the customer who annoyed me today, he's probably a jolly nice chap when he's not buying ashtrays. And this was the most interesting transaction i had, twas a boring monday. I couldn't have written nearly as much about the lady who dropped her change on the floor.
Stereotype of the day
Australian man buys lighter wearing a straw hat with Fosters logo emblazoned around the edge.
Retail Lesson #1
The customer expects you to know everything about EVERYTHING.
Homework
Brush up on Royal Mail international parcel prices
Nico
I work in But is it Art? (As featured in The Guardian independent shopping guide 2007)
The shop has been in Reading for over 30 years and sells all manner of weird and wonderful cards, gifts, t-shirts and pictures.
Enough of the shameless plugging.
After being inspired by a French checkout girl (http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/europe/france/4029292/French-check-out-girl-becomes-best-selling-author.html) i decided to document the goings on of my day to day encounters with the shoppers of my precious town.
Something i have noticed when it comes to retail is that the words used to describe the place you work often has a direct correlation with the personality of its customers. I often hear the adjectives 'funky', 'different' and 'cool' bounce off the shop walls and these words exemplify the kind of buffoons who set foot into the beloved place i call work. Throw in the odd Daily Mail reader, packs of ironically cheery emo kids and a man who thinks i'm called Charlie and we're just touching the surface of something quite magical. Nothing would give me more pleasure than seeing 'But is it Art?' the sitcom air on BBC3 at 1.30 in the morning sometime in the future. Anyway, enough rambling of dempgraphics and television aspirations...
In my opinion, there is no doubt that the customer is the most intriguing aspect of any retail environment. The individuals i encounter on a daily basis are all beautifully unique yet contradict themselves with an aura of overwhelming stupidity. Like a plague of paradoxical zombies they meander around the shop, confused looks on their faces, relying on you to save them from any problem they may encounter because, as i have learned, a customer not only expects you to know everything about the place in which you work, they expect you to know everything about EVERYTHING.
Today, a man brought up a fire bucket ashtray (£7.50, an excellent gift for any smoker) to the counter and enquired how much it would cost to send said item by post to Japan. How the fuck should i know!?
What a preposterous question, maybe i had the look of a Japanese postman?
I explained politely i had no idea how much it would cost to send and he trotted off to return it from whence it came. This got me thinking, If i had instantly given him an approximate figure would he have followed through with the purchase or was this whole interaction destined to be a waste of his and my time?
I'm fairly confident it's the latter, which again got me thinking...
Why did he even bother in the first place?
To be honest, i don't think he knew. I do have sympathy for these people, put me in an office anywhere and i become a giant baby, incapable of completing the most basic of tasks. Certain habitats just don't suit certain people and this inevitably leads to foolish behaviour.
Despite my mild annoyance at this micro experience i am still absolutely fascinated by what the clientele of tomorrow will bring to the table. These little nuggets of patron idiocy are so essential to my daily grind that i should probably welcome them rather than rant about them. Ranting is a lot of fun though. I would like to point out that i had nothing against the customer who annoyed me today, he's probably a jolly nice chap when he's not buying ashtrays. And this was the most interesting transaction i had, twas a boring monday. I couldn't have written nearly as much about the lady who dropped her change on the floor.
Stereotype of the day
Australian man buys lighter wearing a straw hat with Fosters logo emblazoned around the edge.
Retail Lesson #1
The customer expects you to know everything about EVERYTHING.
Homework
Brush up on Royal Mail international parcel prices
Nico
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