Must Have Been The Test Purchase

She looks approximately 18.

HER: Hiya, you OK? Just this please [hands me a bottle of Jacques]
ME: OK...sorry, it's policy, do you have any ID?
HER: I haven't. Sorry.
ME: I can't serve you then. Sorry.
HER: [Breezily] Oh, that's ok. See ya!

Must have been the test purchaser. No swearing? Civil? Not pointlessly abusive to people with a job?

It has to be some kind of elaborate trap.

Well, thank Yahweh we didn't serve them, eh? We'll just get on with our legally mandated business of serving enormous amounts of poison to people who should, but never will, know better, and by stopping some poor sod from having a couple of pear ciders after their GCSEs have finished, we'll pretend we're saving the cocking planet.

Really, I've spent the best part of two years at the front line of selling booze to idiots, and I feel I have some expertise on the subject - THE PROBLEM IS NOT 16-YEAR OLDS. It's not even 18-year olds. The problem is grown-ups.

When I got this job, I thought I drank a lot. I don't. I may drink more than the guidelines say you should, but compared to many, MANY people, I'm abstemious. And the scariest thing is that many of these VERY heavy drinkers are your friends, your neighbours, the guy in the next cubicle/classroom/office...the white trash, with their 3-litre cider bottles and knowing winks and cheap roll-your-own baccy, worried me, but not half as much as the ones who came in dressed respectably, the ones with a copy of the Guardian or Telegraph under their arm, the ones carrying 30 exercise books all ready for marking, looking frazzled, and asked for two litres of QC and a half of the cheap vodka, and while you're at it 20 Regal...

I'm not having a go at these people, by the way. I'm sure their life would make me drink. Just pointing out that chemical dependency is not something the poor have a monopoly on.

Anyway, that's me. My work is done here, I'm offski. Thanks and respect to Kate, Dave, Lee, Ant, Greeny, Mel, Sam, Jack, Danny Boy, the Latvian guy I hardly met, all the regulars, Resentful Polish Guy, godamnit even Christine...you guys were alright.

Not the owners though, they remain a pair of utter worthless, iredeemable, shockingly pettty cheapskate cunts. Minimum wage and no christmas party? You should be hung from the nearest lamp-post, you exploitative little shitehawks.

OK, that's it. Bastardsofshop is closed. Officehell will open soon. Go to bed.

in Which We Operate A Challenge 25 Policy: With Hilarious Consequences

1. "Do you have some ID?"
"22nd September 1990."
"You what?"
"22nd September 1990."
"No, you see, I asked if you have some ID. That's not showing me some ID, that's just you saying a date. If it was that simple, I wouldn't be working here, would I? I'd just go down the social, say '4th June 1917' and spend the Winter Fuel Allowance on beer and pies."
"So you're not serving me then?"
"That's right."
"You twat."
"Possibly. Goodbye."

2. "10 L&B."
"Any ID on you?"
"Nah."
"Can't serve you then."
"Come on you tight cunt!"
"Oh go on then, seeing as you called me a cunt."
"Really?"
"NO."

Honestly, what sort of shop does this guy normally go to, where calling the staff cunts makes them more likely to look upon you kindly?

3. "Do you have some ID please?"
[Shrieks] "I'M 21!"
"That's as maybe, we check anyone who looks under 25."
"Well I haven't got any on me."
"I can't serve you then."
"Fuck's sake. That's it, I'm not coming in here again."
"Gutted. Without you coming in to buy a £2.99 bottle of wine-style fluid and the cheapest rolling baccy we've got, we'll all be on the fucking dole in a week. Shut the door on your way out and leave me to my bitter, desperate tears, you rancid harridan."

There's others, but they're all pretty much variations on those themes.

Revenge Is Sweet

So, we got busted by Trading Standards/The Filth. And just to get serious for a minute, how the bloody hell is this legal? If an undercover copper approaches you and asks you for drugs or sex, it's called entrapment and gets thrown out of court, but if they send an undercover 17.8 year old in to buy a bottle of Kopparberg, that's us in the shit. They went about it sneakily as well:

• The lad they sent in was tall for his age (17 and a half). Besides which, 17 and a half is old enough to be blown up in Helmand but not old enough to have a pint on your return? What fucking lunacy is this?
• He was buying a premium brand, not the cheap nasty stuff the underagers normally try to buy.
• He was dressed like a student. If he'd had his trackies tucked into his socks and a shaven head, we'd probably have asked for ID - as it is, we serve about 1000 19-22 year old uni students a week.
• Besides, ask any 16 year old in Plungington and they'll tell you that (Name removed for legal reasons) Convenience is where you go if you want 4 Kestrel Supers, 10 L&B, some hardcore pornography and a crossbow with no questions asked.

Yeah, I know, blah blah antisocial behaviour blah blah public nuisance blah blah corporate responsibility, you know as well as I do that's horseshit. Everyone who works in the shop lives within 3 streets of it, we KNOW who the little troublemaking shites are and don't serve them. Not that it makes a blind bit of difference, as their white-trash parents just come in to buy chemicider, WKD and own-brand vodka-type substance for them anyway. But it's one more result for the crime statistics, so we get hit.

End result of which is: one of my comrades loses his job, gets an £80 fine and a caution on his record. Which, when you're a year away from graduating and competing for jobs, is a bit of a kick in the nuts. Also, we now have to operate "Challenge 25" - anyone who looks below that age gets asked for ID. And the local 5-oh were very clear on this point; The only forms of acceptable ID are a photo driving license, a valid passport, or a PASS card. NO EXCEPTIONS.

Cut to two nights later.

"Next please!" He puts 8 Stella on the counter. I scrutinise his face. Could be 26. Could be 22. Could be some freak with a gladular problem specifically picked out by the Babylon just to get me in trouble. Play it safe. "Do you have any ID please sir?"

"ID?" He looks baffled. His girlfriend giggles slightly.

"Passport, driving license...?"

"Uh...no. I've got this though," he says, and pulls out...

A Lancashire Constabulary warrant card.

"I'm sorry sir, this doesn't have your date of birth on it."

"You what?"

"Your colleagues were very insistent on this point sir. I'm afraid I cannot accept it." I hand back the card and put his beers behind the counter. "If you'd care to return with a passport, driving license or PASS card showing your date of birth and the PASS hologram we'd be delighted to serve you. Please close the door on your way out." He looks as if he's about to kick off, but thinks better of it, just gives me the Standard Issue Copper Hard Stare and walks off. At least two people in the queue behind him are openly laughing as he leaves.

Petty regulations? We can play that game too, you bastards.