by Belinda
'Sounds perfect,' said the lads. 'How much does she charge?'
The reply was more than they could ever have wished for: 'Oh, don't worry, he won't charge a thing.
Phillip Seldon does not know whether anyone has actually used this revenge, but it has proved a highly popular discussion point with the ladies during his courses. (Phillip runs courses in Manhattan entitled: 'How to Get Even without Breaking the Law', in which he teaches people how to use totally legal and socially acceptable methods of revenge, such as the media, bankruptcy court or even jail. The three-hour course costs $39 - details from Seldon on 001 212 570 6500!)
First, hire a prostitute to pick up your ex-man – any bar or meeting place will do; just make it look casual. She has been briefed to seduce him and, of course, get him to take off his clothes. Then, when he is naked, relaxed and beginning to enjoy himself, she will point at his 'member' and roar with laughter at how small it is, how bent it is, how thin it is, or whatever his particular hang-up may be.
A man came home early and caught his wife in the act with another man. He led him down to the garden shed, still naked, and took him to the work bench where he put his penis in a vice. He reached for the saw.
'You're, you're not going to...?' stammered the interrupted Lothario.
'No, but you are!' laughed the cuckold as he set fire to the garden shed.
- with thanks to Jethro, the famous Cornish comedian.
A woman planned her revenge on her boyfriend and his best mate very carefully. She arranged to meet them in a bar one Saturday night with the objective of 'getting ripped'. They had an endless succession of Tequila Slammers but the boys did not realise she had a prior arrangement with the barman and that the colourless liquid in her glass was, in fact, water. By the time they left they were completely brainless and they weaved their way back to her place for a nightcap, after which both chaps collapsed in a stupor.
She managed to drag both of the passed-out forms to her big double bed. She stripped them both naked, put them into bed together and scrubbed their private parts, front and back, with a toothbrush until they were red and raw. Then she made herself scarce. The boys woke the next morning, badly hungover, naked in bed with
each other and with very sore parts. She left it to them to work out what had happened.
Piers Adam is a man with a successful chain of restaurants and a well-developed sense of humour. One of his best friends is top photographer Bob Carlos Clarke and the two of them are always playing tricks on each other. Sometimes these get a little out of hand.
The first Piers knew about it was when he received a letter on the letterhead of a well-known private hospital saying:
Dear Mr Adams,
Miss Emily Oppenheimer has asked us to contact you directly having recently visited our outpatients department for tests.
Unfortunately these tests have proved positive and Miss Oppenheimer is concerned that you have transmitted the infection to her as you have been her only sexual partner. It is most important that you should submit yourself for testing without delay. In the meantime you should not engage in any further sexual activity with any partners of either sex and, in order to reduce the spread of infection, please forward us a list of all your sexual contacts during the past eight years.
Please do not panic. It is possible that you are not a carrier and, even if you are, recent medical advances have vastly improved the treatments and life-expectancy of sufferers. If necessary, our counsellors will be available to explain the nature of your illness.
Yours sincerely,
Dr A Scholes.
Our hero was petrified. He spent a day arranging his funeral and putting his business in order. He telephoned the hospital to contact Dr A Scholes but they had no record of him, nor had any of its sister hospitals. After forty-eight hours of cold sweat and tears, he worked out that his dear friend Bob was behind this. Right, he thought. Photographers use models. Time for revenge.
Piers managed to get some letterhead from one of the UK's top model agencies and invented a story to get his own back on Bob. His letter read:
Dear Bob,
I have been informed about allegations that have been made about you concerning a sexual assault on one of our models, Sophie Anderton, on a recent shoot. Obviously we have to take this matter seriously and I believe that the police have been informed so that they can make their own inquiries. I do hope that this matter can be resolved quickly so that your reputation need not be tarnished more than necessary.
Yours sincerely,
This was followed up with a solicitor's letter informing him of criminal proceedings.
Unfortunately, the correspondence went to the wrong studio where it was leaked to the press and what started as a merry joke between friends was to become a living nightmare for both Bob and Piers.
The first Bob knew of it was when a group of paparazzi arrived outside his darkroom. The phones started ringing and the world's press were on to the story - the private joke had become a public concern -'the world-famous photographer and the under-age model.' Bad enough if it is true but far worse if it is nothing but a joke gone wrong. The News of The World wanted to run the story and it took the combined efforts of Piers, Bob and a barrage of solicitors and injunctions to prove it was nothing but a hoax.
- with thanks to Piers Adam and Bob Carlos Clarke for letting us use the story.
Oh, how she wanted to get her revenge on her husband but they were both caught out hook, line and sinker. He telephoned her to say he would be back very late that evening as he was in a meeting with Peter Taylor and would be going out afterwards. She knew he wasn't telling the truth. Peter Taylor was lying next to her in bed.
A sexy Soviet was treated in hospital for swelling and inflammation. His wife had discovered he was being unfaithful and found a condom hidden in one of his pockets. She carefully opened it, put in a little ground pepper, resealed it and slipped it back into its hiding place.
When Phillippa Arugez received an anonymous parcel containing a pair of her husband's boxer shorts and a mocking note, she decided revenge was in order. While he was asleep, she poured a pan of molten candlewax over his private parts. Three skin graft operations later he decided that the marriage had run its course.
The other diners in the restaurant were, as one does, trying to look as though they were taking no notice but at the same time hanging on to every word of the arguing couple in their midst. Even the most stoic among them could not contain their mirth at the grand finale.
When the girl got up to leave the man unzipped his fly, pulled out what could only be described as a whopper, plonked it on the table and cried, 'Well, you won't be wanting any more of this then I presume.' Exitone very red-faced ex-lover.
Nasty Neighbours
A man that studieth revenge keeps his own wounds green.'
Francis Bacon, The Essays
Nasty Neighbours
An uneasy peace reigned between two neighbours in a genteel and leafy part of Ealing. Their mutual loathing was no secret in the area and there had always been feuding over the exact position of the dustbins, the positioning of cars when parked and endless problems over noise and boundary walls. The relative tranquillity was shattered in spring when the crocuses came up. They had been planted in formation to read: 'We hate the Bartletts'.
Following a blazing row over a skateboard which ended years of friendship, a woman plotted revenge against the couple next door. For nearly two years she bombarded them with junk mail, sending off forms from newspapers and magazines filled in with their names, and blitzing them with mail order catalogues, booklets, information on double glazing, conservatories, book clubs and music clubs. Salesmen plagued them day and night, representatives arrived on their doorstep and a steady stream of goods had to be sent back. The final straw came when the victims found that they were being blacklisted as time-wasters and bad debtors by credit companies.
The Rt Hon the Lord Stafford became upset when Beech Caves, at his home
in Staffordshire, were continually being used for rave parties. In order to stop them he had fourteen tons of pig slurry dumped in the mouth of the cave. The ravers had the last laugh - what he hadn't realised was that the cave was directly upwind of his mother's house. She had a large houseparty at the time and was distinctly unamused.
In Natick, Massachusetts, outside Boston, two neighbours had settled into a regular and lifelong feud. They deliberately upset each other and things finally came to a head. The wife in the yellow house went to answer the doorbell one day and was nearly shocked to death to find an undertaker, who had come, he said, to collect the body of her husband whom she had believed to be alive and well - and at work. She genuinely believed he must have been killed on his way to the office.
Some time after this nasty event their neighbours received an entire truckload of wet cement on their doorstep. Unfortunately it had dried before they discovered it.
A good Christian was always picking fights with his Jewish neighbour so, in retaliation against the gentile, the Jew sent him a card at Easter saying: 'I'm sorry we killed your God.'
Deep in East Sussex two neighbours lived in peace and friendship... until the dog at 24 ate the rabbit at 26. It was four years before the neighbours spoke to each other again.
Came the time of number 26's daughter's sixteenth birthday and the people at number 24 bought her a huge box of chocolates - she was a chubby little thing and renowned for her sweet tooth. Theywere having drinks
together, and the 24s handed over their present with a few well-chosen words about how glad they were that they were all friends again. The birthday girl opened her present and, to their horror, they saw it was a box of chocolate bunnies. They truly had not realised when they bought it.
They had to move house two months later because relations became so bad.
Road Hogs
'He meditates revenge who least complains.'
John Dryden, 1631-1700
Road Hogs
The blonde was clearly wearing nothing under her fine silk shirt and Susie's fiancé could not take his eyes off her. Throughout dinner in the top London restaurant Caviar Kaspia, Susie had a lovely view of his back as he talked animatedly to the blonde and shared endless vodkas. Later, in Annabel's, he danced and laughed with her for hours. Susie ordered a bottle of the most expensive champagne on the wine list and put it on his bill, but even that did not bring him back down to earth - he continued to flirt and ignore her totally. As she sat at the table, Susie plotted how to get her own back.
When it finally came to their departure, she smiled sweetly at him and said she'd had rather a lot to drink -would he mind driving home? She knew he had had far more to drink than she had. She also knew that one of his brake lights was not working, which greatly increased his chances of being stopped by the police. She chuckled to herself when she saw the blue flashing light in the rear-view mirror...
A bus timetable clerk had encouraged drivers to run ahead of schedule, persuading them to go faster so that he could quit early and meet his girlfriend, but the inspector stopped him. To get his own back the clerk sent the inspector seven tons of horse manure, an undertaker with a hearse, a lorry-load of ready-mixed concrete, a repairman
to deal with a fictitious gas leak and three tons of anthracite. He also sent a scrap merchant to collect a wrecked car from him and placed a newspaper advertisement to sell the inspector's car. Unfortunately, this sweet revenge resulted in the clerk being sent to jail for two months.
A certain well-known rock 'n' roll star was waiting for a taxi in the Cromwell Road. It was a damp and unpleasant evening and he was delighted to see a comforting yellow light on an approaching cab. To his horror, a gaggle of American tourists who had been watching him waiting in the rain leapt out of a doorway ten yards ahead of him and flagged down his cab.
It stopped for them. The star approached the cab to protest but the Americans already had the door open. As he arrived one of them turned to him and drawled: 'Say, do you know which thee-a-ter is showing The Mousetrap?' 'Yes,' he replied, 'It's at the St Martin's
Theatre. Oh, and by the way, the---did it.'
(- culprit's name removed to preserve this great mystery!)
Some time ago a farmer in the West Country had been involved in a lengthy battle with the council - letters had been going back and forth for over a year about planning permissions yet he was getting nowhere. Finally, enough was enough. He loaded up his slurry tanker - a machine used to propel breathtakingly smelly semi-liquid clods of animal waste on to fields as fertiliser. He drove to the council offices and sprayed this organic matter all over the front of the building. He was subsequently fined but in a television interview said that it was worth every penny of the fine he had to pay in order to let the council know what he thought of them.
Stop press! We have recently heard that the same man was in dispute with his bank about overdraft charges -and, you guessed it, they too became the beneficiaries of a truckload of manure.
When the recession really bit in the late Eighties, leading to the virtual extinction of the yuppie, a lot of city boys lost their jobs with immediate effect. It became fairly common practice, when asked to return the company car (a Porsche, of course), to leave it on a double yellow line outside the office, collecting parking tickets and wheel clamps, while the bosses tried in vain to locate the keys. The ex-employees would simply have chucked them down the nearest drain.
As the final shot of their long-running battle, a jilted woman drove her ex-boyfriend's car to Heathrow and parked it in the short-term car park where the charge is £1.80 per hour. It was three weeks before she told him where it was - nearly £1,000 later.
A rejected Romeo was found guilty of endangering life and of drink and driving offences when he took revenge on the girl by driving a car at her house. He was so drunk that he missed the house and hit the one next door.
'I am glad I owned up and, although I know I did the wrong thing, I am not ashamed.' So said a council executive's wife, adding that men should take heed of the fact that women are less prepared now to sit back without retaliating. 'We are less frightened of our feelings and expressing them. There are going to be more cases like this,' she said. And the reason for her revenge?
Infidelity, of course. She decided to act when her husband continued to live and sleep with her, whilst carrying on an affair with a business colleague. She discovered that he was with his lover. 'I saw his Mercedes outside (which I had chosen).' Using her spare key she got into the car and, with her Irish Wolfhound at her side, drove to the Town Hall. She aimed the car at the large, plate-glass doors, revved the engine, took off the handbrake and accelerated forward, smashing the doors to smithereens. She then reversed the car and drove to the sea wall, where she planned to drive the car into the sea. 'But there was a man fishing so I just dumped it,' she said. The intrepid duo then ran home. She was already down as a suspect when she owned up to the Police two days later. 'I feel a lot better,' she told them.
It was slowly becoming a living nightmare as Annabel Hornby started to realise that her husband's affections seemed to be greater for his beloved car than they were for her. The car certainly took up more of his time. One of them had to go and it was not going to be Annabel. She took a space in Loot advertising the sale of her husband's car for just £10. She was slightly surprised when no responses were forthcoming. However, after a second week of advertising, a student turned up at her door and could not believe his luck when he exchanged a £10 note for an extremely valuable, genuine Ferrari.
There are just under 30,000 policemen in London and around about the same number of cabbies. Usually an atmosphere of peace and cooperation prevails between the two but, occasionally, the one has to get the other back in line. Under the old Hackney Carriage Act a number of laws govern cabbies. Amongstother requirements, they are
duty-bound to hand in any lost property to the police.
One cabbie tells of a period of time when they were frequently being
harassed at a particular taxi rank: the police continually moved them up and gave them a hard time about causing obstruction. For a month, each and every cabbie familiar with that rank waged a campaign to get their own back. They handed in every item of lost property found in their cabs, including empty cigarette packets and newspapers, and we're told that some of the more enthusiastic cabbies went through the rubbish to find broken umbrellas, old macs and discarded bags which were duly handed in. It was not long before an amnesty was called and peace reigned once more.
It was Christmas time and a young couple were on their way back from a drinks party, driving through the country lanes of Kent. Oh-oh, they thought, seeing the blue flashing light behind them; time to pull over. A policeman approached the side window. 'Excuse me, Sir, have you been drinking?' 'Yes,' beamed the occupant. 'May I ask how much, Sir?' said the policeman. 'Certainly: four, no, maybe five whiskies,' he replied. Suddenly the policeman became officious and started reading the man his rights. 'But... officer, you don't...' he stammered, trying to get a word in edgeways, to no avail: the policeman was having none of it. The occupant was not a vindictive man but was incensed by the policeman's rudeness. Right, he thought, have it your way. I'll get you back for your brusqueness.
