I was randomly Google’ing the keyphrase ‘Estate Agents‘, as normal people do on an idle Sunday. I came across an article that captured my attention on the Telegraph website. The article wasn’t informative or useful in any sense, it was just an entertaining rant. Bryony Gordon, a journalist, was basically expressing herself, making it clear why It’s easy to hate estate agents, specifically the kind that work for Foxtons. In retaliation, a barage of agents commented and essentially told poor Bryony to go fuck herself with a sledge hammer. However, I get the impression that the agents ate the bait, consequently Bryony got the reaction she wanted.
I have no experience with dealing with Foxtons, so I’m not in any position to shake Bryony’s nipples and congratulate her on an accurate masterpiece, but I have had some bad experiences with estate agents in general, so I can relate to her rant. After all, I am the condescending schmuck that wrote, 15 Reasons Why Estate Agents Are Idiots. Similarly, I was also on the receiving end of a few vicious blows after that stunt. Will I ever learn?
Anyways, onto my point; the article reminded of a time when I was threatened by a girly looking Estate Agent and his fruity sidekicks.
Last Christmas I was working part-time as a barman in a Hotel to raise some extra pocket change. I worked in a bar which was placed in the corner of a banqueting hall. It was always busy during Christmas; a lot of companies were having their staff parties. One company amongst the several others happened to be Martin Stewart, a local Estate Agents based in Sawbridgeworth, Hertfordshire.
At about 11 o’clock an overweight agent in a cheap suit rolled over to the bar and ordered two alcoholic drinks. He was evidently drunk; his cheeks were rosy, his longish 90’s centre-parting hairstyle was irritated, he looked greasy/sweaty and his River Island suit looked unhappy. I think it was safe to assume that he was going home to his parents alone that night. He grabbed the drinks off the counter, turned around and walked off without paying. I hopped out from behind the bar, followed him down to the dance floor and politely said, “Hey mate, you’ve got to pay for those drinks”. He looked at me, pushed me, and said “fuck off”. I was a bit confused; perhaps he had misheard me, because I definitely didn’t say anything offensive. I asked him again to pay. He pushed me again and said “fuck off”. While this guy obviously wanted to fight, I ws left standing there, scratching my head, wondering 1) what was happening 2)why someone let this monkey out of his padded room. He looked like such a penis. He was about 23; you could just tell he thought he was hot shit. He was wrong. He was a sweaty greaseball that probably drives around in a MINI that has “Martin Stewart” plastered over it one too many times. He had probably graduated from slick-camp earlier that week, with the assumption of thinking the world was his oyster.
At this point people were starting to circle around as they acknowledged something was going on. The hotel staff started accumulating behind me, and in true western style, standing behind the monkey were all the estate agents. It was the ultimate standoff. I was waiting for people to start chanting “FIGHT, FIGHT, FIGHT!!!!” That would have been fitting actually, because I felt like I was put into a playground situation (due to that shithead).
The director of Martin Stewart’s came over and asked what the problem was. I said, “this guy (I pointing at the monkey) walked away with drinks without paying”, the Director said, “how much does he owe, I’ll pay it?”. As I was about to take the money, another guy came over from the company (I think he was a manager), he called me over into a corner (everyone followed) and aggressively said, “look, i told you not to serve that guy, he’s drunk too much”. My response was, “you didn’t tell me anything like that. What are you talking about?”. He muttered and said, “well, I told someone! We’ve spent a lot of money here tonight; we shouldn’t be treated like this”
Treated like what, you stupid cock-face? All I was doing was trying to get payment for a commodity your dumbass employee ordered. I shouldn’t be treated like this, surely? If the monkey has drunk too much, then send him home. The bar staff aren’t there to baby-sit your cowboys. Moreover, I seriously can’t stand it when someone thinks money can justify ill-mannerism. When he made that comment about spending a lot of money, i started to formulate mental images of force-feeding him the remains of a shattered Pinot Grigio bottle (there are always plenty in the bottle skips).
The director came over again and stood next to his colleague and said, “look, we’re sorry. He’s just drunk, that’s why he never paid.” I just nodded, took the money and walked off. I wanted to say, “I don’t care how drunk someone is, it’s no excuse. The etiquette of paying for a product is not something you forget when you’re under the influence of alcohol, that’s something you forget when your brain falls out of your head. If a pisshead walks into a kebab shop knowing they have to pay for the food they order, i’m sure your girly-looking employee can remember the process of ‘paying'”.
10mins after the situation had defused the Director dragged the monkey over to the bar. The Director made him shake my hand as a sign of good gesture. It was so premature and cringe worthy; reminded me of school (again). It was like the headmaster had forced him to do it; it was apparent he wasn’t sorry at all. As the monkey shook my hand, he whispered in my ear, “if you ever step to me again, I will smash your head in”. I looked at the director and said, “he’s threatening me”
The Director did nothing and said to me, “if you want to complain, write a letter to the head office” I said, “what good will that do? Are you going to do anything about the complaint since you’re the director?” His response was, “probably not” He was DEADLY serious. He genuinely wanted me to write a letter of complaint, whilst admitting that he probably wouldn’t discipline the fucker.
It was such a surreal experience. Still to this day I can’t wrap my head around the situation- they actually thought they were in the right. I think it just highlighted exactly what type of people/company they were. Stupid.
Granted, any group of drunken delinquents could have put me in a similar situation. But it wasn’t just any old group of people; it was a bunch of estate agents thinking they’re something special. In retrospect, the agents were bigger idiots than I initially thought at the time. Fingers crossed they’re with in the bracket of agents that had an easy ride during the housing boom and are now struggling because of the market slowdown. I’m not bitter or anything (no, really!), but I hope they’re in a world of financial pain right now.
Now, here’s the sweet part; little did they know I was due to view 4 houses with them that week- I made appointments over the phone so they had never seen my face. It goes without saying that I didn’t show up. I ended up buying a house from one of their competitors. I also made my Nan use another rival company, as she was looking for a house in the same area.
I would NEVER consider using Martin Stewart’s because of that incident. I don’t deal with inconsiderate, useless, stupid, cock-sucking assholes. Ironic that. I just described an ex…
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