Someone told me about a certain story series on this site, knowing I had a perfect experience to add to the collection. A young woman approaches me in the underwear/lingerie section of our large clothes shop.

Customer: “I need to be measured for a bra. I just got some work done, and I’m a few sizes bigger!”

Me: “Oh, uh… congrats? I can put you in for an opening at 4 PM today?”

Customer: “I can’t see someone now?”

Me: “Our fitting expert is with a client at the moment.”

The woman looks over to see our fitting expert with said client, a woman in her sixties, it would seem.

Customer: *Scoffs.* “She needs to be measured for a bra? Like anyone is going to appreciate what’s going on down there!”

This is a large store, but our department is small, so both the fitter and the client have heard every word this woman has just said. The client fixes the woman with a hard stare and says in a thick Scottish accent:

Old Scottish Woman: “You’re one to talk! Like anyone’s ginna look at your droopy chebs when ye hiv a face that wid turn a funeral up a side street.”

Customer: *To me.* “Are you going to let your customers be treated like that?!”

Me: “Ma’am, she’s a customer too, and you asked for it.”

Customer: *Angered, turning back to the older woman.* “Your t**s don’t need a bra, they need a hammock!” *Starts storming out.*

Old Scottish Woman: “And win I was your age. I didna need to get mine all propped up like a melon just ta feel good, ya punched lasagna!”

Me: *To the older woman.* “I’m so sorry about her.”

Old Scottish Woman: “Och, don’t worry about it. Her heid is full o’ wee shops, and they are all shut.”

Related:
Never Pick A Fight With An Old Scottish Woman, Part 9
Never Pick A Fight With An Old Scottish Woman, Part 8
Never Pick A Fight With An Old Scottish Woman, Part 7
Never Pick A Fight With An Old Scottish Woman, Part 6
Never Pick A Fight With An Old Scottish Woman, Part 5

I work in a small shop in a Scottish seaside town, popular with the tourists.

I’m behind the till, ringing through a few postcards and a packet of mints for a tourist when, out of nowhere, a man starts full-on shouting.

Customer: “This is ridiculous! You don’t even stock the right adaptor! What sort of tourist store is this?! How am I supposed to charge my phone?!”

He’s waving a phone and making a scene, so I try to calm him down.

Me: “Sir, we’re just a small local store and we don’t stock a lot of electrical goods. There’s a small shopping centre in [Nearest Town], but here we—”

Customer: “—which is twenty miles away! I thought y’all in Europe were above all this Kentucky Fried Bull-S***!”

Before I can speak further, there’s a loud “TSK!” from my queue. An old local lady, late seventies, hair like a storm cloud and a tartan shopping trolley as her shield, marches forward and wedges herself between him and the counter.

Old Lady: “Whit’s this carry-on then? Shoutin’ at folk like a wean that’s dropped his ice cream?”

Customer: “What the f*** are you saying, you old witch!? Mind your business!”

Old Lady: “Oh, it’s ma business when you’re bawlin’ in ma ear, ye absolute berk plank. Yer brains must’ve fallen out an’ gone on holiday without ye.”

The customer blinks, stunned, as the queue erupts into muffled snickers.

Old Lady: “D’ye think yellin’ at the lassie’ll magic an adaptor out the wall? Honest tae God, you’re spreadin’ misery everywhere yer tumor blizzard, nae help tae anybody!”

Customer: *Blinks.* “Excuse me?!”

Old Lady: “Oh, you’re excused, son. Excused from havin’ a clue. Now shut yer gob, pay for yer sweeties, and stop actin’ a grotbag harmonica!”

The man looks around, realising everyone is now watching him, grinning. He mutters something under his breath, pays, and slinks out, adaptor-less.

The old lady turns to me with the sweetest smile.

Old Lady: “Two scratchcards and a packet of polos.”

She wasn’t next in line, but nobody dared tell her that as I sorted out her transaction.

I swear, I want her as store security forever.

Related:
Never Pick A Fight With An Old Scottish Woman, Part 8
Never Pick A Fight With An Old Scottish Woman, Part 7
Never Pick A Fight With An Old Scottish Woman, Part 6
Never Pick A Fight With An Old Scottish Woman, Part 5
Never Pick A Fight With An Old Scottish Woman, Part 4

My boyfriend and I were on a long road trip, about seven hours with a few sightseeing stops planned. We ended up getting delayed way more than expected and didn’t reach our next hotel until around 8:30 p.m. 

Check-in took a while because the receptionist was very thorough and just generally engaging in small talk; sauna hours, restaurant locations, breakfast times, where we were from, the whole nine yards. Eventually, we made it to our room, exhausted and ready to collapse. 

Two minutes later, my phone rings.

Receptionist: “Hello, this is the hotel. It’s getting quite late, and we wanted to check on you to make sure everything is going well. When do you think you will arrive?”

I recognise the voice. It’s the same woman who just checked us in.

Me: “…Uh… we… already arrived? You just checked us in.”

Receptionist: “…Oh.”

Awkward pause.

Receptionist: “…Okay. Have a pleasant stay.”

And that was some very subtle foreshadowing, because as we later learned, “confused and unprepared” was basically the hotel’s entire personality.

A long time ago, I used to work at a mobile/cell phone company in Glasgow, Scotland. I got promoted to shift supervisor just before the holiday period and was fairly pleased with myself. However, this meant I had to work Boxing Day, where we often encountered the returns and the less-than-pleased recipients of devices.

As I go to unlock the door this particular December 26th, I notice a very well-built, bald-headed man angrily pacing outside. For anyone who doesn’t understand how scary a sight this is, Glasgow is typically known as the stabbing capital of Europe. So, naturally, I am not looking forward to the upcoming conversation

I wait until he isn’t really looking to unlock the door and hurriedly shuffle behind the counter before he can storm in to try to get something between us.

Me: “Hello, sir. What can I do for you?”

Customer: *Slams a device on my desk and starts screaming.* “This piece of s*** was sold to me last week, and it’s faulty. You’ve ruined my daughter’s Christmas!”

Me: “I’m sorry to hear that. I’ll get that sorted for you. What’s wrong with it?”

Customer: “What does it matter? Christmas ruined. I had to deal with a sobbing child all day yesterday!”

Me: “That’s awful, I’m really sorry to hear that. Would you like me to refund or replace it if I can’t fix it?”

Customer: “You can’t fix it. It doesn’t switch on. Look!”

He starts frantically pushing the red button. At this point, I already know what’s happened. Most phones you and I know have an off/on switch. However, this model had an OFF switch (red) and an ON switch (green). I push the green button. The phone switches on immediately.

Customer: “How did you do that?!”

Me: “Oh, this is a bit of a tricky phone type if you don’t know them.”

I explain.

Customer: *Very sheepishly.* “Oh… er… okay, thanks mate.”

He leaves, red-faced.

At which point, I went and sat down. My colleagues in the back who had heard the commotion peeked their heads out to see if I had been turned to mush.

Boss: “[Coworker], why are you late?”

Coworker: “I had trouble with my car.”

Boss: “What was the trouble?”

Coworker: “I didn’t get in it early enough.”