I used to work in an independent bookstore. We were known for being quirky and selling novelties on the side. I had bright rainbow hair whilst I was working at the shop and getting my degree at the same time.

One day, a woman came in and my manager led her around. I greeted her and sold her some books and we had a nice conversation about local art. I didn’t think much of it until my manager mentioned that the woman was buying the store and would be the new owner.

A few months later, I graduated and got an entry-level position in a job in my field. I decided to dye my hair back to its original brown and remove my facial piercings.

The sale of the shop completed and the new owner came in and introduced herself. We talked and got on well.

Until…

She mentioned that she was glad that the eyesore with “bright hair and metal in her face” had left. I let her talk for a while as she proceeded to get more agitated about “that girl,” Going as far as accusing bright-haired me of being a drug dealer.

I’ll never forget the look on her face when I informed her that the bright-haired girl was me.

I didn’t see her once for my two final weeks at the store.

(I’ve been telling my officemate about my unfortunate trip back to London from visiting family on the bus where, due to a combination of traffic, mandated breaks for the bus driver, and no replacement drivers being available, I ended up making my own way from a stop at the edges of London — as opposed to the stop in central London that I was meant to be taken to — to get back to my flat. A feedback survey is emailed to me so I decide to do it, reading it out to my officemate.)

Me: “‘How satisfied were you with the journey?’ Hmm… Somewhat dissatisfied.”

Officemate: “Somewhat?”

Me: “Yeah. I am somewhat dissatisfied.”

Officemate: “I kind of thought you’d go for ‘very.’ Didn’t you end up at Heathrow?”

Me: “Yeah. But I was thinking about this. I mean, Heathrow is London Heathrow. It had the name in the title. So it’s not like he just completely abandoned us in, I don’t know, Reading or Strood. He was kind of close. Right city, I mean.”

Officemate: “I thought it took you nearly two hours to get home from there.”

Me: “True. It did only cost me a quid, though.”

Officemate: “On top of your bus ticket?”

Me: “Yeah.”

Officemate: “Did they offer you compensation?”

Me: “Nope. They said we could wait 45 minutes for the driver’s break to finish or make our own way and I just thought, you know what, it’ll be quicker for me to make my own way.”

Officemate: “You have a very low bar for satisfaction.”

I am flying home from Spain with my two-year-old son. The airline gave us the option of pre-selecting our seats beforehand to ensure that I would be next to my son.

However, bizarrely, our seating arrangements put me on the window and him on the aisle with a space in between.

I try to appeal to the stewardess but she tells me that I will have to ask the person who was assigned the seat if they will move.

Just before takeoff, a group of lads boards the plane. They are wearing matching shirts. All of them look worse for wear and are clearly coming home from a stag do/lads holiday.

One of the lads comes and sits in the seat between me and my two-year-old. I ask nicely if he wants to move to either the aisle or the window, but he declines. In fact, his exact words are, “Don’t rabbit on at me, love. I’ve had a long week and I just want to sleep off some of these drinks.”

Fair enough.

What follows is what I can only describe as a nightmare to a childless, 21-year-old male with a hangover.

My son decides that this new man is his best friend. He asks him every question under the sun. He tries to get him to play Paw Patrol and help him with his colouring. When the drinks trolley comes around, the man has to help him with his drink as I can’t reach.

This goes on for an hour before I get up and take my son to the toilet.

When I get back to our seats, the man has silently moved to the window seat and fallen asleep against the glass.

I did warn him.

This story is part of our Spain-themed roundup!

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It was Halloween and the local theatre was playing The Rocky Horror Picture Show.

My best friend and I dressed up. He went as Rocky and I decided to dress as Frank N Furter. We went all out.

When we arrived at the cinema, the usher told us that there was a half-hour wait before the screen would open to allow us inside. The film did not start for forty-five minutes.

My friend and I waited in the coffee shop past the ticket check with all of the other Rocky Horror fans, when I noticed that some people were going into the screen we had been directed to. I made a comment and my friend dragged us after the people so we could choose some good seats before they were taken.

We pushed open the doors — my friend in his golden hot pants and body glitter, me as a sweet transvestite — to a completely full theatre, waiting for the tail end of the season’s most popular action movie.

Rather than turn tail and run, my friend suddenly clapped and remarked that he hadn’t seen the film. He pulled me into a seat and I slowly sank deeper and deeper as we watched the last ten minutes of Looper.

So many people turned around in their seats to catch a glimpse of us in costume, and whispered to one another, that no one could hear the dialogue for the end of the film.

When the film ended, we stayed in our seats and watched Rocky Horror without an issue. When we got chatting to one of the ushers as we were leaving, they remarked that they had seen us slip into the theatre, but thought that the reactions we would get were too funny to bother stopping us.

(I work at an Irish pub owned by a management company. I am the assistant manager. Our general manager has come in recently and has not dealt much with the area manager yet. One day quite soon after Saint Patrick’s weekend — our busiest day of the year — our area manager comes in for a meeting with the two of us, as he occasionally does at random intervals, mainly to complain about stuff. It is worth noting that both the general manager and I are Irish, and the area manager is English.)

Area Manager: “So, why haven’t you put up those posters I asked you to put up?”

General Manager: “You sent that message this morning; we haven’t had time yet.”

(It is 9:00 am. The message to print and put up the posters came at 8:00.)

Area Manager: “Oh, I see. Typical f****** Irish, can’t do f******* anything we ask you, can you? Both of you are useless. F****** Paddies.”

(For a second, the general manager and I stare at each other, stunned. Then, the general manager stands. It’s worth noting he is huge, and towers over the area manager. Everything he says is delivered in a very calm, but hugely menacing voice.)

General Manager: “You get out of my pub, right now, or I’ll put you out through the f****** window.”

(The area manager seems to realise he’s made a mistake. He laughs nervously and looks at me. I’m pretty much a pacifist at the best of times, but this guy has been getting on my nerves for a while, and this is the last straw. I stand, as well.)

Area Manager: “And what are you going to do?”

Me: “I might open the window first.”

(The area manager left very quickly. He was later transferred to another area once my general manager complained and refused to work with him anymore. The kicker? The company was owned by an Irishman.)

This story of part of the St. Patrick’s Day roundup! This is the last story in the roundup, but we have plenty of others you might enjoy!

23 Times Waitstaff Had To Deal With Customers From Hell

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