by Belinda
- with thanks to Nigel Dempster, who first revealed the story in the Mail Diary.
The two-timing boyfriend had no sense of smell so Shirley, his cheated-upon girlfriend, devised the perfect revenge. She decided to spike his aftershave with pee from a hospital sample. 'It absolutely stank,' said nurse Shirley. It worked. Her rival, having a reasonable sense of smell, became totally disenchanted. He and Shirley are now back together.
Having had a few days to compose herself after she had been dumped by her boyfriend, one young lady decided to weave a little fairytale around the whole episode in order not to lose face. She pretended to all their friends that he was leaving the country to take up a new job in the Far East. To play out her fantasy to the full she cancelled his milk, his papers and his cleaner and had the electricity, gas and telephone supply terminated. That was before she put his house on the market and sold his car.
'This story relates to a period of much loneliness and intense introspection, after I had come down from Oxford University. A lady whom I had loved, but who had finally grown weary of my pursuit, sent me a postcard depicting the execution block in the Tower of London. On the back she had tersely conveyed the message that I was being given the chop, and that she would be marrying another gentleman - signing it curtly with her initials. The card was dated April 1st 1965.
It so happened that I had in my desk a postcard depicting the Pets' Cemetery at Longleat, which I sent to her by return of post - dating it April 2nd 1965. On the back I inscribed the letters "R.I.P. - A".
- with thanks to the Marquess of Bath, Alexander Thynne, who adds that, after an interval, they became the best of friends.
'I heard this story of revenge when I lived in Africa: Daisy and Dick had been married for some time. He was not without his faults but she was the sort of wife that always tried to belittle him in public, especially when it came to his party tricks.
'Dick had learned to read minds. It started as a party trick but often he had a run of luck and was able to say accurately which guest had chosen which object from the array placed on the dining table. Daisy hated the adoration this apparent sixth sense brought to Dick and she was always undermining his glory with the odd remark that "Uri Geller he was not." Dick bore this stoically but felt he could have had a little more support from his wife.
'It was when Daisy returned to Johannesburg from Kenya on one of her visits to see her parents who had settled there that Dick knew she had been unfaithful. One of the many habits that Dick had that irritated Daisy was his smoking. He had tried many times to give up the habit but the will was always too weak - another Achilles' heel for Daisy to stick a barb into. ''This time," he had said to himself as Daisy's plane taxied down the runway towards the spectators' gallery, "I will give up." And he stubbed out the newly lighted cigarette on the floor.
'Daisy gave him a very warm welcoming kiss and just as he was about to tell her of his new resolution she presented him with a carton of cigarettes. Never before had she given him a light, let alone a cigarette - and she was uncommonly nice. The details of her trip, however, were vague. From such a precise woman this was disturbing. Then there was the odd phone call to someone called Simon and a postcard came from Mombassa, Kenya, with the words "Never forget. S."
'Dick confronted Daisy. He told her he knew she was having an affair. The reply was level and direct. Daisy was a good-looking woman and constantly used the mirror to see how her arguments became her. The reflection in the wardrobe's looking glass showed truth in all its majestic righteousness. Daisy was a leading member of the local church and often read the lesson with the same open candour that she now addressed to her reflection.
' "Typical," she sighed in double. "Why can't you men ever realise that women can have wonderful yet platonic relationships? Why is the smallest innocent action blown up into a mountain of sexual activity just to satisfy your fantasies? Simon happens to be a very lovely person who has just arrived in Nairobi as a missionary." Here she paused. In between straightening a stray coil back into her blonde beautifully combed hair she had caught sight of Dick's face with incredulity written all over it. Surely not a missionary! He imagined him in that position calling out to whatever God he stood for, as he and Daisy rejoiced and alleluiaed together. Just as Dick thought he had the advantage, the moral high ground was taken by Daisy as she accused him of Extra Sensory Gutter Perception.
'Not much was mentioned again. The signs were still there but the cloak of sainthood became like armour around Daisy. Dick was angry and impotent. Daisy went frequently to church and made more trips to Nairobi. Mummy and Papa were selling their house and needed a daughter's helping hand.
'It was after one of these trips that Dick found a stack of airmail letters, the type that are made of lightweight paper, pre-stamped and folded to post. A round dozen. Dick took care to count them. The next day there were eleven. Dick casually asked Daisy if she had written to anyone. "No," was the reply. "To whom should I be writing?" "I don't know - you have been known to write letters from time to time." "I suppose your extra senses tell you I have been scribbling letters but are not accurate enough to say to whom." The window reflected the pearls round her elegant neck as Daisy twisted them about her slim fingers. She only looked away from her image when she heard Dick explaining that he had counted the letters. Nothing to do with Extra Sensory Perception. "You've taken to spying on me have you? Well it so happens that I wrote to mummy. It slipped my mind." With that she left Dick with his list of chores and drove off to see friends and play tennis at the club.
'Dick thought a quick visit to the local pub would allow him to find a tinge of self respect in a pint of bitter. As he looked for some loose change, which he knew to be behind their wedding photograph showing Daisy's parents in deep mourning over their daughter's choice of a husband, Dick discovered yet another postcard. It was a picture of the sun setting over Mount Kilimanjaro. Written on the back was the message, ''I pray the snows will melt again.” Surely they hadn't gone to Kilimanjaro and done it in the snow?
'Another letter had gone from the pile of airmail letters. Evidently Daisy had used the stack as a pad. The impression of the ball-point pen showed on the top letter. Carefully Dick took a soft-lead pencil and rubbed it over the top letter. Quite clearly the writing showed up. It started, "My dearest Darling. Dick still suspects but is so gullible that after he huffed and puffed he has accepted everything I have told him. He really is so stupid." The "so stupid" was underlined. The letter then went on to reminisce in graphic detail what they had done (and the missionary position was not the only one) and how much they were going to accomplish in whatever temple of love they would next meet.
'In the following hours Dick struggled with his emotions and his desire to strangle her. He came to the conclusion that he didn't hate her. He just didn't like her very much. Should he walk out? Daisy had made a very comfortable home. He'd miss that. Teach her a lesson? Let her car tyres down? Put soap in her toothpaste? No. Revenge must be sweet and a dish to be eaten as hot as curry.
'Daisy arrived back in a very good mood that lasted as far as the kitchen. Why wasn't the table laid? The salad prepared? What had Dick been doing all afternoon? Dick said nothing for a while and then when Daisy paused for breath, as she caught sight of her glorious self in the oven door, he started. "My dearest Darling," he began.
She sighed. "Oh, you're not going to start all that again are you?" But her voice trailed away as Dick, unrelentingly, quoted on and on. Line for line the letter she had just posted to her lover thousands of miles away. Written and then posted immediately. Yet here was her husband speaking every word she had written from her passionate heart. Her legs gave way and she sank to the floor. Her eyes glazed over and dribble dropped from her slack mouth. How? How? How?
'Dick's revenge was complete. Daisy never learned how he knew her innermost thoughts and spoke them aloud. To her it was total magic. She never again doubted his ability to read minds and his mystical perception. It was the fear tha
t Dick could see into her mind that kept her from ever straying again and she became his devoted servant for the rest of their married life.'
- with thanks to Robert Young, film director.
'The late mother of an extremely close friend of ours decided she had had enough of her husband's philandering, but not of her husband. So she decided to call the bluff of his latest squeeze who, it seemed, was fairly determined to lead him to the altar. She telephoned the hapless harpie and invited her to tea at the Ritz. Tea and cakes arrived and the atmosphere was cool but dignified as the conversation turned to the matter in hand.
'Yes, she did love him and wanted to marry him, said the mistress, and nothing would deter her. Our friend's mother smiled sweetly, said she completely understood and that she would drop off their two children with all their belongings at the weekend.
'For some inexplicable reason the erring husband returned to the marital home pretty pronto where they all lived happily ever after.'
- with thanks to Willie Christie, film director.
It was a disgusting winter's evening and Dai Llewellyn was driving the gorgeous Gerda Schiller through the underpass at Hyde Park comer towards Tramp. As he drove, he mused over how he was going to break the bad news to Gerda - it was 'Dear John' time. At Tramp he suggested that they 'take it easy for six weeks'. He told her that he would drive her back to his flat: she could sleep there, he would sleep at his brother's place and, the following day, he would sort out somewhere for her to live.
Good as his word, the next day he found a flat and returned home to get Gerda and her bags. As he opened the door it was clear that she had not packed. An empty whisky bottle lay ominously on the floor. Suddenly, she appeared, growling in her distinctive accent: 'Here is yours, baby,' and pointing a 12-bore at his chest. It was Dai's good fortune that she did not know about the safety catch.
A week later, a picture of Dai appeared in a newspaper. He had been to a fancy dress party as the Midnight Cowboy, wearing cowboy gear on top and stockings and suspenders underneath, with a .45 Magnum replica gun in his holster. Someone had decided to report Dai to the Police Anti-Terrorist Squad who duly arrived on his doorstep with three or four squad cars. Only after several hours of serious interrogation were they satisfied that he was not a threat to public safety and that the gun was, indeed, a replica. 'There may be no connection between the two incidents,' said Dai, 'but the inspector in charge of the raid told me at a subsequent meeting that the informant had been female - with a pronounced foreign accent.'
Sexual Subterfuge
Heav'n has no rage, like love to hatred turn'd,
Nor Hell a fury, like a woman scorn'd.'
William Congreve, Love for Love
Sexual Subterfuge
'I was going out with a young lady. One Saturday night we were having a few drinks together in the pub. She went to the ladies and when she came back she accused me of chatting up the barmaid. Later, we returned to my flat in Putney.
'When I woke up the following morning, I was distinctly uncomfortable in the nether regions. I couldn't think what was the matter. I looked around and my girlfriend was nowhere to be seen. Then I spied a note, beside which was a chilli pepper. The note informed me that she had rubbed the pepper on my willy and had stuck a little bit up my backside. I spent the whole of Sunday in the bath, trying to take the heat out of my punishment.'
- with thanks to Peter Dean, actor.
A couple lived together for a while until he replaced her with a younger model. The jilted lady was sad that they never had the catharsis of a final row, to which she attributes the following behaviour.
Some time after he had moved out, her lover came back to her place to collect his things and there ensued that horrible sharing of the spoils: these are my CDs, those are your Orwells, you're welcome to those stinking shoes etc. While he was going through the bathroom cabinet she noticed his briefcase sitting,
innocently, in the drawing room. In it, she discovered his passport. She took it out, and a biro and, in the 'Any Distinguishing Features' section she found herself writing 'No Penis'. Knowing that no one ever looks at their own passport, she still takes immense satisfaction from imagining the looks of pity he must get every time he goes through customs.
- with thanks to A A Gill.
One hot afternoon at the end of a particularly unsuccessful visit to Windsor Races, a regular punter found himself with only a fiver to get back to the railway station. He approached the only cab on the rank and asked the fare to the station. 'Fifteen quid,' said the surly cabbie.
The punter offered the fiver with the promise to pay the balance on his next visit. The cabbie's reply was succinct and to the point: 'F— Off.' So the punter was forced to walk all the way to the station; miles and miles in the blazing sun.
Some weeks later the same punter had a gloriously successful afternoon at the Windsor track and, emerging from the course, saw that the same surly cabbie was third in line on the rank.
The punter approached the first cab and asked the driver: 'How much to the station?'
'Fifteen quid, Guv,' came the prompt reply.
The punter leaned into the cab and asked sotto voce: 'How about another twenty quid for a blow-job?'
The furious cabbie shook his fist at him and called him a filthy pervert. The punter good-naturedly approached the second cab on the rank. The same question provoked the same sort of response: 'Nob off you twisted git!'
With a shrug, the punter approached his old adversary
of weeks before. 'How much to the station?' he asked quietly.
'Still fifteen quid,' replied the cabbie.
'Fine,' said the punter and hopped inside.
As they pulled away from the rank the punter leant out of the open cab window, caught the attention of the first two cabbies, winked knowingly and gave them a gleeful thumbs-up. As their jaws dropped he knew that they would never see their colleague in the same light again.
- with thanks to Christopher Wilkins, writer.
Joan found out that her husband was up to no good. She carried on a bold pretence of knowing nothing about the affair but put itching powder in his underpants. After several days he became so worried about his scratching that he thought he had a sexually-transmitted disease and confessed all to his wife.
A Royal Marine was training in Northern Norway. On a dark, November night he went to a discotheque where he met a vision of Scandinavian beauty. Despite the language barrier they managed to communicate and she indicated that it would be a good idea if he went back to her place.
The following morning he awoke at 8 a.m. and, looking around the sparsely furnished bedroom, he wondered where he was. He smiled as it all came back to him but came down to earth with a terrific bump when he looked around. He saw that he had no clothes, no shoes, no wallet - everything had gone - and so had the girl. They must have been stolen. Groaning, he grabbed the telephone and phoned the camp to explain the situation. Having been advised what to do, he thought he would get his own back by leaving a little memento. He climbed
in the middle of the bed - and crapped. Just then his Scandinavian beauty came back in, with all his clothes most beautifully laundered and ironed and his shoes polished to perfection.
The summer heat was unbearable and the traffic in Milan had ground to a halt. AC Milan was playing at home and noisy football supporters were everywhere. A young couple had been crammed on a slow train among football supporters, and were now stuck in a taxi: immobile amongst the stationary cars in the searing temperatures. They were running desperately late for an evening function, but they still had to get back to their hotel somehow and change. Their tempers were running high.
Now came the final straw: he absolutely insisted on stopping for a drink. No, he couldn't wait until they got back to the hotel. The queue at the street café seemed endless but he was adamant - he had an absolute fixation about having a grapefruit juice. She stayed in the car and fumed as he got out to join the queue.
'Oh, what's the Italian for a grapefruit juice?' he asked.
'Pompino, uno pompino,' she replied innocently.
Her mood lifted in anticipation of coming events. Eventually he got to the front of the queue. 'Pompino, per favore,' he shouted above the noise to the pretty teenage girl behind the bar. The queue of burly football supporters broke up and collapsed with laughter as did his wife. The Italian for grapefruit is 'pompelmo'. He had just asked for a blow job.
When London's most confirmed bachelor announced he was going to get married, his friends could hardly
believe it. A rampant sexist, racist and homophobe, he loved his bachelor ways and prided himself that he always had a bevy of beautiful babes on his arms and in his bed. He was positively looking forward to the inevitable stripper he would get on his stag night.
However, he had also been the instigator of some appalling behaviour at all his friends' stag parties so they decided to give him a stag party to end all stag parties and get their revenge for past deeds. Their research led them to 'one of those agencies' and the gentleman at the other end of the telephone was most helpful, asking after his particular preferences and peccadilloes.
'I've got just the person for you: black; ugly as sin; arrives, undresses the "victim", ties him to the table in front of everyone; administers a perfect "Hugh Grant special" and then does a slow striptease. If you blindfold your friend before the grand entrance, he'll get a lovely surprise afterwards.'
