My parents offered to take my wife and me out for lunch to a place my mum had selected, one of those “gastropub” places you see popping up all over the UK. She chose well, as the food was delicious, the menu was varied, portion sizes were excellent, and the service was very professional. We really enjoyed our lunch. The weird bit was this.

On this particular Sunday afternoon, the place wasn’t really very busy; there were just a few families like us and a couple of barflies. Almost all the other patrons were, like us, fairly typical of the sort of clientele you’d find in a place like this, in the sense that they were chatting, laughing, and generally enjoying themselves. I say, “almost all,” because the three people at the table behind ours were most definitely the exception.

They were an elderly couple and their adult son who arrived around the same time we did. They looked at their menus and spoke to the waitress only to order drinks and food. The rest of the time they sat there in total silence. And I really mean that. While waiting for their food, the three of them sat there looking daggers at each other. When they got their food, there was still no conversation, not even of the, “Oh, that looks delicious,” or, “How’s the chicken?” variety. Throughout the entire meal, they just stared at each other.

I bet Christmas is a bundle of laughs in that household.

(This story is courtesy of my father-in-law. He is a regular at a busy little pub in [Large City] with an interesting mix of clientele. This pub is located on the main road and shares a car park with a reasonably large police station. One night things get a bit rowdy and a large-scale fight breaks out. Windows are being smashed and people are staggering away bleeding. Naturally, the landlady calls the police.

Landlady: “This is the landlady of [Pub] on [Street]. We’ve got a massive brawl going on; could you please send some help?”

Dispatch: “No problem, but the nearest officers we have right now are 30 minutes away.”

Landlady: *glances down the street at the busy and active police station* “Isn’t there anyone who can get here faster?”

Dispatch: “Sorry, duck, there isn’t. Tell you what; do you think you can keep the fight going until we get there?”

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(I work in a fairly busy pub and have picked up a number of funny stories, but this one has to be the strangest. A new coworker comes up to me and informs me that a homeless man is bothering some guests who are eating at one of our outside tables. She doesn’t know how to deal with it and the duty manager is sorting out a problem in the cellar, so as the most experienced employee around, I have to deal with it. It’s late October, and though it’s a sunny afternoon, it’s still quite chilly out. I go to see what the problem is and find a drunk man holding a half-empty bottle of wine — a brand that we don’t sell — with no lid, harassing a mother and daughter at our outside table. At the next table over is a family of tourists, including some young children, who are also visibly disturbed.)

Me: “Excuse me, sir, I’m going to have to ask you to move on.”

Homeless Man: “What for?”

Me: “You’re bothering our guests.”

(He seems beside himself with rage and starts sputtering.)

Homeless Man: “If your guests are, are experiencing botherations, then that’s no business of mine!”

(He proceeds to set the wine bottle down on the women’s table, pull off his shirt, kick off his shoes, drop his trousers, and run down the street in his boxers. I’m shocked, the two women are shocked, the tourist family is shocked, and the doorman, drawn over by the sound of commotion, is also shocked.)

Doorman: “What did you say to him?”

Me: “I just asked him to move on!”

Doorman: “Well, he’s f****** moving!”

(My friends and I have been meeting once a week for around a year to play board games and catch up. We go to a pub that is quiet, cheap, and convenient for everyone… but the staff can be a little off. This week we have booked two large tables for the group. When we arrive, one of the tables is full. We ask the people if they can move, and they say they are nearly done. Then, they sit around drinking for another ten minutes and then leave. Not really a problem. We sit around the two tables we’ve booked and one of us puts a bag of games on a third empty table. It has a small reserved sign on it and there are many other empty tables of the same size. One of the staff members comes over…)

Bar Worker: “Whose bag is this?”

Friend: “Oh, I’m sorry; I think that’s mine.” *goes to move the bag*

Bar Worker: “This is a reserved table. You can’t come in here cluttering up a clean reserved table.”

Another Friend: “Okay, fair enough.”

Bar Worker: “And another thing: you need to tell us how many people are coming. You take up a lot of room and we need to know how many people are coming.”

Other Friend: “Sorry, we don’t always know.”

Bar Worker: “You need to book more tables; there are too many of you and you need to book more tables.”

Other Friend: “Fair enough…”

Bar Worker: *interrupting* “We need you to book more tables; you can’t just take up everywhere. This was a reserved table; you need to understand that you can’t use all the clean tables.”

(She continued on like this for a couple of minutes, interrupting if we tried to placate her. Eventually, she left and we all kind of shrugged because half of the pub was empty and we were only using the two tables we had booked. We noticed that all the tables around us had reserved signs put on them but they all stayed empty the entire night.)

(I’m the assistant manager at a pub, working the Christmas party night. We’ve got 150 people, drinks flowing, both a marquee and the main pub open, and a Rod Stewart tribute. Carnage. After a recent scam with £50 notes, we’ve been told by the bank that we can no longer accept them. I’m working the main pub making drinks for a man when I notice the note in his hand.)

Me: “Oh, sorry, love; we’re not allowed to accept £50 notes. Banks—“

Customer: *staring in complete disbelief* “What?”

Me: *internally, “maybe let me finish?”* “We don’t take £50s anymore, mate.”

Customer: “Well, I’ll just go back down and speak to [Owner].”

(I’ve had enough; we’re heaving and I’m already sick of dealing with pretentious assholes when this customer decides to stare into space and ignore everything coming out of my mouth.)

Me: “[Owner] will just tell you the same thing… Sir? Sir, do not ignore me… Sir. We have been told by the bank after a recent slew of scams not to accept £50s… aaaaand you’re walking away.”

(My colleague catches my eye, as do a number of regulars after my outburst — I’m known for being the welcome party and having a smile ready for everyone — as the customer proceeds to bump into the other manager, a person notorious for bending the rules, and inform him that I’m “refusing to serve” him. I don’t hold my breath; I know what’s coming after many years of customer service and on Not Always…)

Other Manager: *accepting the £50 note* “Well, we can’t accept these; if we put this in the till it’s breaking the rules.”

Customer: *smiling happily as he gets his own way* “That’s what she said, but it’s a good note.”

Other Manager: *aka the one who got scammed by the fake £50 which wouldn’t have fooled a toddler* “I can see that. Here you go.”

(I watched in calm fury as the £50 was exchanged — not from the till, but the safe where the money from tonight’s tickets was being kept — before returning to making drinks. In total, the bill came to less than £10 and I bit my tongue. It’s common for customers to buy staff drinks, and I’ll admit I took no convincing in accepting multiple drinks tonight. Proof that even managers get screwed over by management.)