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Cheap pub or not, a Saturday night will always bring out those with more disposable income than brain cells. As much as big-spending partygoers can be the life of the night, the Brat is a subcategory of those who in this brief moment of expense will think they're a local celebrity. They weren't borne from a womb; they were made when a wizard dropped a plastic champagne flute on a rented suit at a shitty wedding reception. They have $40 of cheap coke in their pocket and they are not afraid to let you know about it. They will click their fingers at you so hard it must cause them joint pain.But when they are buying three bottles of marked-up Moet and a grimy tray full of Jameson shots, they may as fucking well be famous. That's the hardest thing: Watching the kind of twats who probably think custom number plates are the height of sophistication waft around the bar like they own the place, while people stand there and resolutely don't punch them. That's the way to deal with Brats: quickly and efficiently. A tight smile that says, "If your card gets declined I'm sending the CCTV footage of your crestfallen face to all my mates."Incomprehensible Girl and Her Wife-Beating Escort
Probably the least fun. The girl will hate you before she even reaches the bar. He will too. Don't smile at them. The guy will think you're flirting and so will she. Their worlds are governed with paranoia. These two-headed dragons will cook you alive at the first opportunity. She will be beyond trashed, and to deny either of them service will be like telling a rabid dog to sit down. "I wan' threee samboo-cahs… no, no… four samboo-cahs… six shots of Fosters… err."
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Pick-up artists get a bad rap these days, and that's because they're among the worst people alive. Shit pubs have their own versions, which are a trifle less peacocking and have more stains on their pants than their club counterparts. But don't be fooled into thinking these men are in any way innocent or lovable—these vulturous bloodsuckers are constantly on the hunt. You can spot them because they will do magic hand tricks over the glasses of Bacardi-Cokes they are buying for girls. They are true evil shrouded in a cloud of body spray.

Problematic and unsolvable. These cretins want your blood. Whether metaphorically or physically, they are merciless at what they do. A rare strain of prick as they will just appear at any time of the day and come at you with persistence—without the need of alcohol. Clear and audible insults will be made in the manner of this: "You're so slow at your job. Are you a fucking robot or something?" They like to repeat rhetorical questions too, like they're asking something deeper within themselves. They leave. Next customer—yet something is hovering in the corner of your eye. It will be him. "Isn't he just a fucking robot? Look at him. He needs new batteries." Their influence among others is heavy and they will try to turn the pub against you if they can. Manipulative but clumsy. The Nutter's bursts of anger will indicate a lack of control. Also, they always seem to pay with large, hot handfuls of change. If need be, work with their stupidity and get them kicked out. Change that battery, you cock.The sad truth is that people are stuck in these positions, working their asses off for a wage that covers the essentials to stay alive. There are so many contradictory terms in Britain at the moment, like: living wage; higher paid jobs in London; customer is always right. Britain is a cruel, unforgivable place at times. Instead of getting excited about a minute pay rise we should be putting focus on trying to make people somewhat happy about that large factor of they life they spend laboring away.Follow Steven Bradbury on Twitter.