My village frequently holds a “buy local” fair, where I sell handmade items. I frequently give people discounts — as long as they are nice and I am still making money on the product.

Customer: “These cushions are £3 in [Big High Street Store].”

Me: “That’s nice. My versions are £10, I’m afraid.”

Customer: “Give me one for £3. That’s what [Store] sells them for.”

Me: “I am afraid I hand-make my cushions; that’s why they’re slightly more expensive.”

Customer: “You’re ripping me off! They’re only worth £3; [Store] sells them for £3!”

I want to get rid of her.

Me: “I can give you one for £8, but any less than that, I am making a loss.”

Customer: “£3.”

Me: “£8 is the lowest I can go. Any less than that and I won’t make any money.”

Customer: “BULLS***! [Store] sells exactly the same thing for less!”

Me: “That’s because their cushions are of a lower quality; plus, I am not working hard for absolutely no return for someone who has done nothing but be rude to me.”

Customer: “GET ME YOUR MANAGER NOW!”

Me: “Hi. Self -employed. I am the boss, manager, cashier, and manufacturer. If you don’t like it, piss off.”

The customer then left, screaming about how my products were rubbish and no one would ever buy them. I ended up leaving halfway through the penultimate day, because I had completely sold out.

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This happened a bit of years ago, at a fair/carnival-type thing my home town sets up on a specified street each year. I don’t remember all the specifics of what happened, but I can sorta tell of the basics of what went down. It went mostly like the following: I was with my friend’s mother, waiting in line to get tickets from a booth, when something happened with the woman in front of us.

Woman: *Talks to the ticket booth guy, and then seemingly begins demanding something*

Me: (Silently) “Woah.”

Woman: *Begins yelling and swearing at the ticket booth guy*

My Friend’s Mom: “Hey, don’t do that! There are kids around!”

Woman: *Grunts in anger and soon walks away*

Me: *Looks at friend’s mom* “Uh, nice job!”

Ticket Booth Guy: “Umm, next?”

(I’m helping a friend at a craft show. He’s a woodworker selling furniture pieces, so he has a large tent with a no food or drink sign outside. I see a customer walk in with a cup of lemonade that’s sweating in the heat. He starts to set it down on a table.)

Me: “Hey! Please don’t put that there!”

Customer: “Why not?”

Me: “You’ll leave a water ring on the tabletop, or it could spill.”

Customer: “Well, then you need to get tables that are sturdier. You know people are going to bring drinks in here to look at what you have for sale and set stuff down.”

Me: “The table is what’s for sale!”

Customer: “What?!” *looking around the booth, confused*

Me: “We are here selling handmade furniture.”

Customer: “That’s ridiculous. Everyone knows you can’t make furniture!” *goes to set his drink down again*

Me: “Sir, you need to leave. Now. Or I’m contacting security.”

(He left, puffing in indignity.)

(I am volunteering at a booth at the local county fair. I’m running a bit late for my scheduled shift, so I’m hurrying past the various tents and stands. One that I pass belongs to one of the two main political parties. I barely even glance at the tent, since I’m more focused on getting to where I need to be. As I pass, the man running the political tent shouts:)

Campaigner: “Too scared to talk to us, huh?”

(Way to make sure I DON’T vote for your candidates, dude.)

(I’m part of a falconry display at a fair, holding a Yellow-Billed Kite for people to look at and hold. A woman comes over to see.)

Woman: “Ooh, he’s lovely what is he?”

Me: “He’s a Yellow-Billed kite called Asbo.”

Woman: “Is it okay to pet him?”

Me: “Yes, but only on his chest, please.”

(I demonstrate where to stroke him but the woman immediately starts to stroke his back and his wings. A friend of mine comes over.)

Me: “Please don’t stroke his back; birds spend a lot of time waterproofing their feathers, and our oily hands strip that off.”

Woman: *continues to stroke his back* “Ooh, he’s so soft.”

Me & Friend: “Please stop that now.”

Woman: *still stroking his back* “Why?”

Me: “You’re taking his waterproof layer off his feathers; he needs it.”

Woman: “Oh.”

(She was still stroking his back, so I had to physically remove her hand from the bird, to which she walked off in a strop.)