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First post time... I now work as a journalist and hope in time to get on to some of my SC tales from this job (with occasional pwnage along the lines of "I think mister dictaphone should settle this dispute").
But I'll start with a classic from the old days working in a pub. This place wasn't exactly the most salubrious location but even so, the setup to this tale is rather extreme. It's not actually the story but the pay-off that contains the SC.
So it's a quiet afternoon with only me and a supervisor working. We used to have a happy "hour" from I believe 3-6pm to encourage the desperate to continue drinking through the day. And truly we did attract the desperate. This day a group of about 6-8 deadbeats take a table in front of the bar about 5.30pm, one of whom decides to improve everyone's afternoon by collapsing unconscious thanks to some gear he took before coming in the pub.
Then the situation gets better by far as two of his mates take objection to another one who they claim sold him this stuff. Take it up another notch as the solo guy pulls a (small) knife. Great. My co-worker, for reasons I cannot begin to fathom, goes up to try to break this situation up while I call the Police.
Then my manager gets back from break, sees what's going on (effectively by this point a rather worrying standoff with my supervisor between three angry parties - one armed - and an unconscious bloke, all shouting at each other in an otherwise quiet pub) and tells me to stay behind the bar at all costs. Only too happy to oblige old boy.
Then the following exchange takes place.
BOD: Bearded old drunk who sways up to the bar.
Me: Yup
BOD: Is it still happy hour?
Me [looking pointedly at serious crime occurring about five metres away]: Well yes I suppose you could say that.
BOD: Pint of Directors then.
Me:
I mean seriously, at what point do you start to think "maybe I'll wait for this drink, or even consider obtaining it at another facility"? Presumably he was waiting for the second death.
But I'll start with a classic from the old days working in a pub. This place wasn't exactly the most salubrious location but even so, the setup to this tale is rather extreme. It's not actually the story but the pay-off that contains the SC.
So it's a quiet afternoon with only me and a supervisor working. We used to have a happy "hour" from I believe 3-6pm to encourage the desperate to continue drinking through the day. And truly we did attract the desperate. This day a group of about 6-8 deadbeats take a table in front of the bar about 5.30pm, one of whom decides to improve everyone's afternoon by collapsing unconscious thanks to some gear he took before coming in the pub.
Then the situation gets better by far as two of his mates take objection to another one who they claim sold him this stuff. Take it up another notch as the solo guy pulls a (small) knife. Great. My co-worker, for reasons I cannot begin to fathom, goes up to try to break this situation up while I call the Police.
Then my manager gets back from break, sees what's going on (effectively by this point a rather worrying standoff with my supervisor between three angry parties - one armed - and an unconscious bloke, all shouting at each other in an otherwise quiet pub) and tells me to stay behind the bar at all costs. Only too happy to oblige old boy.
Then the following exchange takes place.
BOD: Bearded old drunk who sways up to the bar.
Me: Yup
BOD: Is it still happy hour?
Me [looking pointedly at serious crime occurring about five metres away]: Well yes I suppose you could say that.
BOD: Pint of Directors then.
Me:
I mean seriously, at what point do you start to think "maybe I'll wait for this drink, or even consider obtaining it at another facility"? Presumably he was waiting for the second death.
to 
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