Swapping a C into punters

If you do a public facing job, over time you'll slowly grow to despise them. You might move to intolerance of them, but slowly they'll get under your skin and you'll hate them. There will always be nice ones, ones that make you smile and have hope there are still decent corners of humanity left out there. Unfortunately these are the rare islands of sanity in a world of self absorbed, self centred, retarded filth that make up most of the drinking public. I know that decent people don't go out and avoid pubs with doorstaff, the sad fact that idiots seem to occupy all the space not filled with even moderately nice people is depressing. I've learnt that even though I hate them, I still enjoy the work. You can look beyond the customers and the sticky floored smelly venue to the act of doing the job well, earning respect and maintaining professionalism. That provides sufficient reward to deal with the punters, with an C or not, and not just give it all up as a bad job.

Invincible

I am still amazed by the ability of folks, most often men it has to be said, who in drink appear to become invincible. With a sufficient number of over-strength lagers inside them, they can seemingly do amazing feats of strength, stupidity and self abuse which would leave most sober folks, exhausted, broken or befuddled.
I have seen grown men piggy back two others, at the same time, up a steep rain soaked street. This was done, to some applause, from a taxi queue which he had decided would be too long hence he became the one man hansom cab.
I have seen and heard a gent rip a door from it's hinges with his fingertips after convincing himself the door opened inwards at the hinge side. This involved wrenching 6 screws, three each plate, from their positions deep in a brick wall. The offender and offended door emerged into the rest of the toilet area, with a load crash, to find a troop of doorstaff ready to escort him from the venue and escort the door to a store room until the night was over.
I've seen a gentleman, for surely he was one, punch an outside wall, repeatedly, until the plaster was off the brickwork, his hand was a squishy mess and we were waiting on two varieties of blue light taxi to arrive. He then gave us the finger, picked up his bottle of beer, with the busted hand, took a swill of beer, poured some blood and beer down his chin and sallied off into the night.
Oh for the mornings after.

Shut it!

Standing in the doorway, refusing entry to a family gaggle of chav, I really just wish they'd accept reality. That reality being, the entire group, cousins, sisters, uncles and aunts are not coming in. Too much bad hair dye, very visible brands and sparkly things on both boys and girls.
What they do, is make a lot of noise. Some of it is aimed at me and my colleagues, for being unreasonable, 'dickheads', 'useless jobsworths' an similar stream of entertaining nonsense. Some of it is aimed at the previous lot for arguing the toss and getting them all refused. Some are trying to get an understanding as to what the heck is going on, has gone and will be going on. With 20 nasal whining and complaining voices talking across me I really do wish we'd have a decent shout, inside or out and we could leave these muppets to it.