During my summer break, I often work part-time for a local country club/golf course. I help the groundskeepers, and I took the job with one provision: “no member interaction”. I’m what you would call a surly old b*****d.

One morning, I was finishing my shift, and I noticed an older woman stumble. She looked injured.

Me: “Do you need help? Or do you need medical attention?”

Woman: “Oh, I’m fine. My daughter will be right here soon.”

Her daughter returned, very distraught, but the woman said she had just slipped and would be fine. As the daughter helped walk her mom back into the clubhouse, I brought her clubs up and left them outside. (Heck, they were on a cart.)

Now that was how the end of my day began.

As I walked back to a maintenance shed to retrieve my water bottle, I heard someone come up behind me.

Member: “Excuse me. My friend and I would like some iced teas while we let this other group play through.”

Me: “Okay, go ahead…”

Then, she tried to push a $20 bill into my hand.

Member: “Can you hurry? We don’t want to wait all day.”

Me: “If you’re waiting on me, you will be waiting all day. That’s not what I do on the course, and I’m leaving.”

Member: “You work here, and I’m a member, so you do what I need.”

I said something to the effect of:

Me: “Lady, what you need is therapy if you think I’m bringing you tea.”

I walked off while she was still talking.

The next day, the “manager” stopped me and told me there had been a complaint.

Me: “I don’t care. Fire me if you want, and find someone else to clean the goose s*** off the patio each day.”

The waterfowl come onto a large patio area overnight and leave calling cards everywhere.

Me: “I had an agreement: No Customer Service!”

So, I walked away and went home.

My manager called me the next day asking if I would please return to work. He said later that he’d talked to the member and informed her that grounds staff do not interact with members.

That last part about not interacting with members/customers isn’t completely true. I have enjoyed many rounds of golf with members. There’s an older gentleman who asks if I have time for a round just about every other week. Let’s just say my golf prowess makes him look like a PGA champ…

I’m a Maître d’ at a country club where you have to be a paying member to eat in the bar or the restaurant. I repeat: every single member paid yearly dues for their membership.

One particular night the restaurant is booked up and doesn’t have any available tables.

Member: “I’d like a table for me and my wife.”

Me: “I’m afraid we’re fully booked at the moment.”

He points out some open tables.

Member: “What about those ones?”

Me: “Those tables are reserved.”

This is denoted by little stands in the middle of each of those tables holding signs saying, “Reserved”.

Member: *Becoming furious.* “I’m a paying member and it isn’t right for you to turn me away!”

After a solid minute of him arguing and cussing at me my manager finally comes out and explains:

Manager: “Sir, if you want a table you will have to make a reservation like the rest of the paying members have.”

He remains furious but reserves a table for at least one night for the next four weeks ahead.

And then proceeded to not show up for any of the reservations, as if he was teaching us a lesson.

Little did he know that if someone did not show up for a reservation within a timely manner, we relinquished the reservation and gave the table to walk-ins. No sweat off our backs.

I am a bartender at an outdoor cabana at a country club. It’s a very weird situation because I see the same customers every day, for hours at a time.

One day, our Miller Lite keg runs out and all we have is Natural Light. I switch the kegs and the tap and begin serving.

Rich Club Member #1: “Why are you serving us this cheap stuff?!”

Rich Club Member #2: “Yeah! With the amount we pay, we shouldn’t have to drink nasty beer!”

I call my manager and explain that the customers — most of whom have already prepaid substantially for beer all day — are getting angry. He comes down.

It should be noted that this manager doesn’t normally manage the bar; he’s usually somewhere else in the club but he’s having to cover. Not really knowing what he’s doing, but making an attempt to look competent, he switches the Natural Light tap (not the keg) to a Miller Lite one. I’m about to tell him when one of the club members from before marches up to him.

Rich Club Member #1: “[Manager]? Finally, they got someone competent over here! Get me the Miller Lite now!”

[Manager] pours him a glass of the cheaper, nasty beer from the Miller tap, and the club member takes a sip.

Rich Club Member #1: “Much better! You need to be here more often and train these bar guys!”

The same people came back, got the beer, and were overjoyed that we had “changed” it for them.

My dad is a massive golf fan and is literally always watching it on TV. One year, a Tournament is coming to a nearby country club, so my mom gets tickets for him and some of his family to go watch. The country club sells merch for the event, and my mom decides to go early to get it so Dad can unwrap it on Christmas and then later be surprised with the tickets. My mom tells my grandma this, and my grandma invites herself along.

Mom: “Okay, but remember that this is a country club and there’s a dress code. You have to dress up, so no jeans.”

Grandma: “That won’t be a problem.”

The day comes to go to the country club and my grandma shows up… wearing jeans.

Mom: “Mom, what the h***?! I told you that you can’t wear jeans!”

Grandma: “But these are my good jeans!”

Mom: “It doesn’t matter! They might not even let you in!”

Grandma: “But [My Name] is wearing jeans.”

Mom: “She’s also not planning on getting out of the car! She’s just along for the ride so we can stop somewhere that normally is out of the way.”

We went to the country club and, sure enough, the staff made a huge fuss and almost kicked Grandma out. They only allowed her to stay as they literally would only be there for five minutes. My mom was incredibly embarrassed, while my grandma continued to argue that her jeans were “dress jeans”.

The golf club where I work is hosting a dinner dance for a local businessman, with lots of very well-off guests.

A man comes to the bar and orders a fairly large round of drinks. His total comes to about £100.

I tell him the price, and his demeanour flips from cordial to furious.

Guest: “£100?! Do I look like I can afford to buy £100 worth of drinks, huh, fella?”

I give him a once-over, taking in his midwinter tan, designer suit, expensive watch, and gold jewellery, not to mention his wallet that is on the bar in front of him with half a dozen £50 notes visible.

Me: “Er, yeah. You do.”

He locks eyes with me for about five seconds, then his angry expression splits into an enormous grin, and he bursts out laughing.

Guest: “Well played, fella, well played!”

He hands me a credit card and pays for his drinks.

Guest: “I’m sorry for messing with you at first. That was mean of me. Here, this is for you guys behind the bar; you’re doing great!”

He then handed me three of those aforementioned £50 notes, gave me the double finger guns, and headed off with his drinks.