No ID, No Idea, Part 32

, , , , , | Right | January 10, 2018

(I work as a security guard at a nightclub. A group of guys appearing to be tourists are all standing in line. They look fairly young.)

Me: *to the first guy in the line* “May I see your ID, please?”

Guy: “What? No, I left my passport back at the hotel.”

Me: “I’m sorry, but without a valid ID I can’t let you in.”

Guy: “I swear to you I turned 18 just last month. You have to believe me!”

Me: “I believe you.”

Guy: “YES!”

Me: “The age limit here is 20.”

Related:
No ID, No Idea, Part 31
No ID, No Idea, Part 30
No ID, No Idea, Part 29

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Someone Has To Be The Responsible Party

, , , | Right | December 31, 2017

(This happens on New Year’s Eve. We open the club about ten minutes after the fireworks and soon a girl approaches me.)

Customer: “Why are you working today?”

Me: “Because you want to party?”

(She looked really confused as to how this made any sense but left soon, leaving my coworkers and me confused as to why else we would be working.)

Impatience Is A Dish Best Served Raw

, , , , , , | Right | December 12, 2017

Many long years ago, I worked as a server in a nightclub. As was often the case, I was asked to work a reserved party. One customer ordered food and a drink – not too complicated, right?

Well, not two minutes after I submitted her food order to the kitchen and gave the customer her drink, she demanded, “Where my food?!” I assured her that her food was on the way, and left to take orders from the rest of the customers.

Every time I passed her, it was “Where my food?!” and patient explanations from me that the chef needed time to actually make it.

After the third or the fourth time, I’d had enough. I leaned in and said clearly, “If you want your food raw, I can bring it out now.”

The customer backed off, and I had no more problems from her until I delivered her order.


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Bouncing Somewhere Else

, , , , | Working | November 16, 2017

(I’m on holiday in New York and have gone to a nightclub for a few drinks with some friends. I’m from the UK. The club we choose has a sign specifically stating that foreign forms of ID are accepted.)

Bouncer #1: “ID.”

(I hand it over.)

Bouncer #1: “This is fake.”

Me: “How?”

Bouncer #1: “The UK doesn’t have driver’s licenses.”

Me: “I’m pretty sure they do.”

(Another bouncer comes over and takes my ID and moves it underneath the light overhead.)

Bouncer #2: “Looks genuine enough. She can come in.”

Bouncer #1: “No, she can’t.”

Bouncer #2: *sighs* “Why not?”

Bouncer #1: “We don’t let foreigners in.”

Bouncer #2: “Well, that sign says otherwise.” *to me* “Sorry about this; he’s new.”

Bouncer #1: *looking at my ID again* “She’s under 21.”

Bouncer #2: “December, 1989. She’s 26!”

([Bouncer #1] blushed and handed my ID back, then let me in. When the club was full he stood at the doors and glared at me the entire time. While I can’t help but commend [Bouncer #2] for his professionalism and experience, [Bouncer #1] ruined our night. We found another club and went there for the rest of our holiday.)

Stripped Of The Relevant Training

, , , , , | Working | October 30, 2017

(I am 17. I have left home and am broke, so I lie about my age to get a job in a nightclub. I am a month away from being 18, so I don’t feel too bad. There are no checks and screenings by a lot of places at this point in time. However, I am THE most naive young woman. I know nothing about how the world works in reality, and I find myself working in a nightclub that has seven different rooms and bars, all with different themes. I’ve never even been to a pub or bar socially before this night. I am assigned to [Bar #1], which is pretty normal, and most of the customers seem to be okay. I mess up quite a few drinks, but it is laughed off when I tell the customers it’s my first night. I am doing okay, I think, and even manage to navigate my way around the multi- and split-level corridors to get to the bathrooms and back. The place is a total warren. And then:)

Supervisor: *shouts over the music* “[My Name]! Go to [Bar #7]! They need a barmaid!”

Me: *shouts over the music* “Where’s [Bar #7]?”

Supervisor: *shouts over the music* “Downstairs! Ask someone on the way!”

(So off I trot, trying to find my way to [Bar #7], asking various customers and staff along the way. Whenever I ask for directions, however, I get comments like, “You don’t want to be going there, love,” or, “Why the h*** are they putting YOU there?” or, “Who the bloody h*** told YOU to go to [Bar #7]?” and so on. But nobody will tell me why I shouldn’t go there, so I get stubborn and carry on. When I finally find [Bar #7], 20 minutes later, I drag the door open, only to be blasted with deafening music – much louder than upstairs. I walk to the bar, and look at the shocked face of the barman there.)

Me: *angry now* “What on earth is the matter with everyone? Why shouldn’t I be here?”

(My new colleague just spluttered and pointed at the stage, going beetroot red in the face. I turned around just as a woman on stage was removing her last piece of clothing with a “TA-DAAA!” gesture. She posed there, stark naked, to rapturous applause from the 200 men watching her. The lights went down, she dashed off the stage, and all 200 men turned to face naive little me at the bar, who was standing there with her bottom jaw resting on the top of her prim little lace-up shoes. I was the only female in the room after a full-on strip show. Gulp. It actually didn’t turn out too badly. I think most of them saw me as a substitute daughter, while the rest were so embarrassed to be caught watching a stripper by a very shocked young woman that they left [Bar #7] in quite a hurry and bought drinks elsewhere.)

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