At our small petrol station and convenience store, we have many types of fuel — not just unleaded and diesel but also home heating oil and red diesel. Red diesel is the fuel for tractors and general heavy equipment used on farms or construction, woodchippers, etc.

It is ordinary diesel dyed red as it is sold tax-free at the pump for farm and construction use. It is highly illegal to use this diesel in your car, and the red colour makes it easier for customs to dip car tanks and detect it. Our red diesel tanks are always kept locked, and the key is given ONLY to customers with the relevant paperwork to show they are allowed to buy it. Our home heating oil pump stands separate from the other pumps and is clearly marked on the pump itself, and there’s a sign on the wall right next to it. This pump isn’t locked.

From the tills through the window, I see a rather big, scruffy man take plastic barrels from his car parked next to the home heating oil and proceed to pump the oil into his drums once I authorise the sale, as is normal for anyone wanting to top up their home heating tank at home. He fills the drums, puts them in his car, and then comes in to pay.

Me: “Pump six, sir? That’s £67, please.”

The customer puts his debit card into the machine. He pays and I hand him his receipt. He turns to leave and then glances at his receipt.

Customer: “Hang on! This says heating oil! I didn’t want heating oil! I wanted the red!”

Me: “I am sorry, sir, but you pumped the heating oil. The red is totally a different pump.” *Points through the window.* “The red is there, sir, clearly marked on the red pump, and it is locked.”

Customer: “That’s what I wanted! I am a farmer! I have my paperwork!”

He takes out the paperwork that does entitle him to the red diesel. He throws it at me.

Customer: “Fix this! Give me back my money and let me get red!”

Me: “I am sorry, but I can’t. You pumped the heating oil pump.”

Customer: *Condescendingly* “Then open the tank and pour the oil back in. I WANT THE RED!”

Me: “Sorry, but I cannot do that. The oil is now possibly contaminated by your drums and can’t be returned.”

The customer pitches a fit and I call a manager. I explain the customer’s mistake to him. He reiterates what I have told the customer.

Manager: “…and you should have known that the red is always kept locked and that you needed to come in to get the key. The home heating oil is not locked, sir, and is clearly marked. Sorry, but we can’t do anything for you. I suggest you use the oil in your home heating tank and come back with clean drums. AND THEN GET THE KEY FOR THE RED AT THE TILL. Good day, sir.”

The manager leaves and the customer looks rather forlornly at me. He looks like he’s about to cry.

Customer: “My house uses gas. I don’t know anyone who would buy this stuff off me! I was even wondering to myself why the pump wasn’t locked.”

I can only shrug and watch him shuffle out, get into his car (still parked beside the clearly marked home heating oil pump), and drive off. 

Customer #2: “Hi. Can I get the key for the red, please? Here is my certificate.”

And that is how it is done.

I went for a job interview with a warehouse that offered a retail shopping service.

I was buzzed through the gate after a wait. The main door opened, but the reception area was dark. I wandered through empty open-plan offices until a man appeared and directed me to a small area. That was a warning sign. It was a busy weekday, and the office was seemingly closed.

There, I learned that it wasn’t a one-to-one interview. It was a group interview. After a few questions, the other six applicants and I were led into the warehouse where the interviewer told us we would need to do a two-hour “trial” on the floor, packing up orders. That seemed fishy to me; unpaid trials are not normal here.

I asked a few questions and was proudly told that the other people currently working in the warehouse were earlier applicants. It was a small business, and I have a background in shipping, so after asking, I learned that they had a reasonable quantity of orders per week, which could easily be packed by one or two groups of people on “trial shifts”… without ever needing to actually hire staff.

That was the only interview I have ever walked out of.

One evening, my wife and I went out in Belfast to see a friend who was performing at a comedy club. After the event was over, we said goodbye to our friend and walked back to the car. It was early summer, so even though it was well after 9:00 pm, it still wasn’t dark yet.

As we reached the street where our car was parked, we were approached by a young man in his late teens or early twenties on a bicycle.

Young Man: “Excuse me, guys, can you help me?”

We stopped walking.

Me: “What’s up, mate?”

Young Man: “I’m a bit lost. I’m trying to get into Belfast. Can you give me directions?”

My wife and I looked at each other.

Me: “You’re in Belfast. Are you trying to get to the city centre?”

Young Man: “No, I need to get to Belfast!”

Wife: “My husband already told you that you’re in Belfast! If you want to go to the city centre, then…”

She gave him directions to the city centre from where we were.

Young Man: *Nodding* “Oh, right, and that’s how I get to Belfast?”

Wife & Me: “You’re in Belfast!”

Young Man: “Really?!”

Me: “Yes! This area you are in now is the Cathedral Quarter. It’s all Belfast.”

Young Man: “Are you sure?”

Wife: “We’re definitely sure!”

Young Man: “Oh. Okay. That’s strange!”

He cycled off. My wife and I looked at each other and laughed.

This remains the weirdest interaction we’ve ever had with a stranger. If the young man had smelled of drink or drugs, we’d have known what was up, but he didn’t! He appeared to be completely clean and sober. We’re not sure if he was joking around or just really confused!

I become friends with one of the managers in the railway division and he tells me about a customer complaint that he got.

At the time, he had a pretty important role in the company; he was in charge of Rail Safety And Standards. Basically, his department wrote all the rules about rail safety and would be liable in the event of an incident. As you can imagine, he took his job VERY seriously!

One day, the customer service department passed him a complaint from an angry passenger who had complained:

Passenger: “My train was delayed by forty minutes and I was late for work!”

The customer service team had compensated her in line with company policy, but she still wasn’t happy, so they’d investigated and found that the delay was due to a signal failure outside the station. Signal failures were my friend’s responsibility to deal with, so he was asked to respond to the complaint.

My friend replied to the woman and apologised for the delay. He explained that in a signal failure, all trains into and out of the block protected by the signal would have been stopped, and no train would be allowed to pass through the block without a “pilotman” (basically a trained signaller) on board. My friend explained that, on the day in question, the failed signal was just outside the station, and since the pilotman couldn’t travel by train to the station, he therefore had to drive over and was at the mercy of city traffic. Hence, the train was delayed for forty minutes. My friend explained that these arrangements were in place for everyone’s safety.

He told me that he wasn’t exactly surprised by her reply.

Passenger: “I don’t give a s*** about safety — mine or anyone else’s! I just want to get to work on time!”

In early 2016, I quit a dead-end job in a call center and was looking for new pastures or at least a way to pay my bills. A certain company was recruiting for a sales team, and I figured I’d give it a go. I mean, if nothing else, a year and a half in customer service had sure fine-polished my gift of the gab.

The interview went fine — so much so that they excused me for ten minutes and then invited me back in to offer me the position. In retrospect, that should’ve been my first warning sign — who hires someone based on a fifteen-minute chinwag and ten minutes of deliberation? But oh, well.

I showed up on my first day for the contract signing, and it was then revealed that we’d be working on commission only. This should’ve been my second warning sign because if I don’t make any sales on a certain day, I don’t eat that day.

We then went off to a morning meeting in what they called “the Atmosphere Room”. This meeting consisted of everybody pairing up in twos and practicing the (near-identical) sales pitch on each other — with a boombox blasting loud dance music at the same time. According to the trainers, this was to “motivate us to talk loudly and confidently”. I was a bit skeptical, but I didn’t want to be “that guy,” so I played along nicely.

Then, we actually got off to work. It turned out we’d be doing “campaigns in residential areas” — which I quickly learnt was door-to-dooring — so as to recruit benefactors for a cancer fund/research organisation. “Commendable purpose, if nothing else,” I thought to myself. But I soon wised up.

For starters, said organisation had no operations in Northern Ireland (NI), so that alone made it tough to tickle anyone’s interest. Moreover, NI already had a variety of local organisations and hospices doing an amazing job. Lastly, I was no sales expert, but even I knew that knowing your demographic group is key. I also knew that NI was still shaky and divided despite the 1998 Good Friday Agreement, and saying the wrong word at the wrong place at the wrong time could still get you into a heap of trouble.

With that in mind, it’d make sense to focus only on Protestant/Unionist areas, right? Nope. We’d be sent off to random neighbourhoods with no regard for sectarian division. Now, imagine walking into a staunch Catholic/Republican area, asking people to donate to a London-based English organisation that doesn’t even operate in NI. In retrospect, I believe it was only my non-Irish/non-Ulster accent that saved me from major carnage. (“Ach, some weird Caneedien or Austreelien… Lad don’t kno’ any bettur!”)

The trainers kept telling us that for every thirty doors knocked, we’d be invited into thre homes, and out of those three we’d perhaps make one sale — in plain English, a conversion rate of 3%. We shouldn’t be discouraged but instead be more assertive and positive. We were expected to cover 100 to 150 households during one ten-hour day in the field, while keeping a tally of the number of houses visited, doors answered, invitations inside, and sales closed. After we’d visited the last house, we were to return to point of origin and revisit all houses that hadn’t answered the door the first time. After Round Two, it was lunch — which, by the way, wasn’t company-paid, so everyone had to find something on their own. With a very limited selection of shops and food outlets in no man’s land, it always ended up being overpriced fast food. On average, I’d spend £4 to £5 on lunch each working day. And unless one of the trainers would take us in their car to our respective patches that day, bus tickets were, too, funded by us. A day ticket in Belfast was £4 back then if memory serves.

At the office itself, things were getting more and more ludicrous. We were not allowed to drink beverages of any sort in the “Atmosphere Room”, and we weren’t allowed to go near the reception area if there were visitors in the waiting area. (They probably didn’t want us to warn inadvertently any “new fish” about this whole madhouse.)

On my fourth day, I started crunching some serious numbers. If, best-case scenario, I’d close a deal with 3% of the households visited, and each sale gave a commission of £2, I’d have to knock on 200 doors a day just to cover lunch and bus tickets that day! Never mind rent and utilities that whole month! There are only so many residential areas in NI! 

The drop that finally tipped the scale, though, was when I’d just returned to the office one evening. The dress code mandated trousers and a dress shirt, and as it’d been a fairly warm summer’s day, I was beat and rather dehydrated. Toilet facilities were scarce in the field, so everyone tried to limit their fluid intake.

As I still had a soda left in my backpack, I helped myself to it. One of the trainers walked by, and I jovially raised the can in a sort of toast. She flipped! What was I doing here? I wasn’t supposed to be out here drinking soda, but instead, I should be in “Atmosphere” to deliver the final tallies! I was like, “Gee, hold yer horses; I only got just in like thirty seconds ago!”, but she’d have none of it. 

And that’s when I left. I couldn’t even be bothered to hand in a formal resignation. I just left and never came back. Rack off, ya collection of lunatics!