How to annoy me if you are: A Shop Assistant

In the first of this series, the Smoking Monkey is happy to outline the different ways shop assistants thoroughly and repeatedly hack him off. This is partly for theraputic reasons and to vent the Incredible Hulk-esque levels of rage, but also for any readers who happen to work behind the tills to think about their own actions, and decide if they are genuinely asking for a slap.

Looking Down At Me
There does come a time when you have to accept that at 28, you’re approaching the end of your mid-twenties (I did A-level maths, trust me on this it makes sense). I have seen the perils of both Jeremy Clarkson and Status Quo, and know that at some point you have to accept that denim is not necessarily your best friend.

However, this does not give some jumped-up, spotty herbert of a student, who is working in Topman the right to sneer, smirk, or make jokey eye-contact with his workmates when I walk through the door.

I don’t make any efforts to be fashionable, and given that most of the manekins in the shops look like a bizarre mix of gay soldiers and childrens TV presenters, I have no interest at all about what’s “in” at the moment. I’m not trying to be something I’m not, but if I catch you patronising me in any way, you will find out what it’s like to be anally penetrated by the head of a tailor’s dummy!

Ask Me If I Need Help
Straightforward really. I’m 28. I have a fiancee, a mortgage, a pet snake, and the ability to represent a youth accused of supplying drugs. We can assume, therefore, that I am able to navigate a shop without the need for a local guide. I am not going to wander in and suddenly panic, trying to work out what I do next. I have been in shops before, and it has nearly always gone without a hitch.

You can safely assume that if there’s something I’m looking for, or if I can’t find something in my size, I have the wherewithall to come to you and ask you. Other than that, I don’t think there’s anything else I’d ever need your help with, thanks all the same.

Be Invisible
On those rare occasions above that I do need to ask an assistant for assistance (you can see where the job title comes from, can’t you), it would really help if I knew who to speak to. I’m not saying that you have to have a big neon sign above your head, but at least make sure you’re not outside having a smoke.

Believe me- I am not going to hunt for very long if I can’t find you. I will just go somewhere else and then start a campaign of hate to ensure that you and your whole branch is a failure. Oh yes… I have the power!

Ignore Me
Big one this, especially for bar staff. There is a relationship between customer and you. It works like this: I come into your place of work, because you have something I want. You are not the only place I could go to. I have money. You need to eat. I do not have high expectations, but would like to be acknowledged for existing, and also for being part of the system that stops you from starving to death or living in a dustbin like Oscar the Grouch.

Considering the above then, how do you think I will react if I have selected what I intend to buy, I’m patiently waiting to engage in this jolly transaction of cash for goods, but have to wait for you to finish talking to your mate behind the counter (or even worse, over the counter if it’s someone who’s come in to see you and is not buying anything himself) about what/who you did/saw/drank/ingested over the weekend? Let me ruin the suspense and tell you- I will walk out, and if I see someone who looks like management along the way I will tell them. Oh yes… I don’t mind wasting time if it pisses on your chips!

A fine example of this was in a Manchester Bar one Saturday. TS and I had stopped in a busy bar and waiting for a table so we could eat bacon. We were seated at the bar, and patiently waiting for the twerp behind the bar to ask for our order. And we waited, and we waited. When he’d finally finished knobbing about, spinning bottles to make a cocktail (and for the record, there is NEVER justification for flairing behind the bar), I thought our time had come.

I was wrong.

Instead, he decided to take the order from the gimp who had walked in literally 10 seconds ago (i.e. 5 minutes after us). Given that I had politely been staring at the barman throughout his whole performing seal routine to make sure I didn’t miss the important eye-contact, this was stupidly frustrating, and completely unacceptable.

I therefore looked at TS, who had already guessed what was going to happen, made a very short statement that can’t be repeated here, and flung the tab card on the bar in disgust. I may also have farted, just so others could share the tainted atmosphere that we’d experienced.

Ask Stupid Questions
I won’t list these, as I’d just end up throwing my laptop across the room. Highlights though include:

- Being asked if you want a bag when you’ve just bought 17 seperate items in a supermarket… what do they expect you to do, eat everything there?

- Being asked if that’s everything. I just put £50 worth of stock in front of you, I hate spending money, so do you really want to give me extra time to consider whether a pair of combat pants and a cartoon-based t-shirt will enrich my life? No, I didn’t think you wanted to do that.

- Being asked if I want to open up an account with your store. No, I know loan sharks who charge lower interest rates than you, so bugger off.

So in summary, if you remember the fact that you need my money more than I need that t-shirt, and also acknowledge the fact I am a competant grown-up, then we should all get along brilliantly.

This entry was posted on Friday, April 24th, 2009 at 9:03 am and is filed under How to annoy me:. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.