Sweet Revenge: 200 Delicious Ways to Get Your Own Back

by Belinda

  'Living well is the best revenge.'

  proverb by George Herbert, 1639, and much favoured by writer and bon viveur Charles Benson

  Cash Crises

  A woman had been through a fairly unpleasant divorce from her wealthy husband. While they were together they had built up an important collection of china. One particularly fine set comprised twenty-five pieces, of which she had bought eight over the years and he had bought seventeen. He badly wanted them all and he pestered her over and over to let him have them. She simply couldn't decide whether to sell them to him or not.

  Tired of the relentless barrage, she eventually summoned an antiques expert. If they were genuine, he told her, they would be worth £2,000 each but, since they were not, they might fetch around £100 each if she were lucky. The decision was easy: she kept absolutely quiet about their being fake and sold her husband the lot for £16,000.

  Michael Howard of Leeds changed his name by deed poll to Yorkshire Bank Plc Are Fascist Bastards after being charged £20 for a £10 overdraft. The bank has now asked him to close his account and Mr Bastards has asked them to repay the 69p balance by cheque - made out in full in his new name.

  A good few years ago a friend of Dorien Manville-Hales became thoroughly fed up with the barrage of letters he received from a high street bank requesting that his £10 or £20 overdraft be settled or his cheques would be bounced. Since he had a fairly good pedigree and his family was clearly not short of money, he was sincerely irked by the pettiness of the bank and its letters. Muttering things about his mother's jewellery, safety and insurance he asked the bank whether he could open a safety deposit box, which was duly granted.

  Some time later he walked into the bank and asked to take his box out. He went through all the barriers, procedures and checks, took his box into the windowless room and was left to his own devices. Finally he declared himself finished and the box was put back. Several days later all the people with access to the strong room began to complain about the smell. Shortly afterwards, clients too started to complain: it became worse and worse and really became intolerable. Bank officials investigated the smell and narrowed it down to twelve boxes which, in the circumstances, had to be opened.

  Written authority had to be sought from box owners who could be contacted, and the procedure for opening a box without the owner present was a complicated business involving Notaries public and a main board director but at last they managed to get the twelve boxes open.

  When they finally discovered which was the offending box the bank wrote to our friend the owner asking why he had put four trout and a camembert into a safety deposit box. His reply was a classic: 'Dear Sirs, Thank you so much for your letter. You have put my mind at rest. I was due to have a dinner party that evening and I have been wondering ever since where I mislaid my shopping.'

  Revenge by National Lottery has apparently been perpetrated. Iain Madeley arranged to hold a dinner party one Saturday and invited, among others, a friend who owed him some money and always had a good excuse why he

  could not pay it back. This was early in 1995 when the National Lottery was still quite a novelty so, while drinks were being served, Iain handed each guest a lottery ticket for a little fun.

  Eight o'clock arrived and the television was switched on amid feverish excitement; even more so when five of the debtor's numbers came up. There were cheers and congratulations, lots of bottles were opened and toasts proposed. With a great flourish he produced his chequebook and generously repaid his debt with interest. Iain hid a smile as he pocketed the cheque: he had played a video recording of the previous week's lottery numbers and had carefully chosen five of the previous week's numbers especially for his friend.

  By the time his friend went to claim his winnings, the cheque had been honoured by express clearance.

  'When I was in my twenties and still one of the youngest auctioneers in London, I was conducting an auction of nineteenth-century European paintings. Amongst the crowd of gallery owners, collectors and private punters was a German dealer who normally bought cheaper paintings of all schools and styles: English or Spanish, cattle or mothers-with-babies were all meat and drink to him.

  'Whenever a painting was selling for less than about £500, a careful glance at him and the auctioneer might catch a twitch, a wink or an almost imperceptible nod of the head; woe betide the auctioneer who missed the bid... as I did twice in the first ten lots of the sale.

  'On the second miss his deep, guttural and very loud voice boomed out at me: "Vot are you doing young Bonham, are you sleeping or trying to sell pictures?" My response was something to the effect that if he bid more clearly etc., etc.

  'The rich, heavily-accented voice broke out again: "Englishman, you are a lousy auctioneer!"

  'Now, being told I am a bad auctioneer is as hurtful as being told one is a bad driver or a bad lover (for both of which I have had, thankfully, very few criticisms over the years!). I didn't miss another bid from him; indeed on the twelve lots he bought that auction I pushed him one or two bids higher on each occasion, costing him about £2,000. In 1970 that was a lot of money!

  'Ten years later, when he paid me the compliment of being one of the best auctioneers in London, I reminded him of the time, ten years before, when he called me a lousy auctioneer. I also told him it had cost him £2,000. His reaction was slow to come then the loudest laugh I have ever heard burst out. "I vos told to be polite to waiters or they spit into your food. Now I know I haff to add auctioneers to this list!" '

  - with thanks to Nick Bonham, deputy chairman, W and F C Bonham and Sons, auctioneers.

  A West Country gentleman was fed up with being outbid by dealers in an auction ring. He went to London and bought a splendid collection of rare Japanese Net-suke figures with a view to teaching the ring a lesson.

  He put a couple of the items into a local auction in Truro and bought them back himself, paying somewhat over the odds for them, watched all the time by the ring. A few weeks later he did the same, again watched closely by the ring. Then, several weeks later he discovered that the boys were heading up north to a large house sale and he put the rest of his Netsuke figures into it.

  The boys in the ring were delighted when they viewed the sale. Yes, they thought, we have a collector back in Truro; he's bound to buy this marvellous collection. They bought the whole lot, at a considerable price owing to a pretty steep reserve. When they were put into auction back in the West Country, no buyer could be found.

  Despite receiving written instructions from a customer, a certain local high street bank failed to carry out a request. As a result the customer lost money. A time-consuming argument ensued but the bank would not back down and refused to accept responsibility. Eventually the customer, feeling he was banging his head against a brick wall, told the manager he was fed up and was going to transfer his account to another bank. The manager wrote back in surprised and injured tones, saying that they were 'very sorry that you wish to close the account. Has our service not been to your satisfaction?' The customer wrote back saying: 'Do you realise that an anagram of your bank's name is "Dim and Blank?" '

  Probably apocryphal. Robert Maxwell was walking round the office and he saw a man leaning against a wall reading a newspaper.

  'How much do you earn?' he asked.

  '£150 a week,' came the reply.

  Maxwell opened his wallet and pulled out £150 cash. 'Here, take this,' he said. 'You're fired!'

  The man took the money and sauntered off. He was not an employee of Maxwell, just a visiting salesman.

  Cartoonist and satirist, Alistair Hilleary, otherwise known as 'Loon' was invited to hold an exhibition in the Palace Hotel in St Moritz, a town that has seen its fair share of mayhem and high living. For a diversion one evening, Hilleary and a few others had a little fun 'rearranging' the hotel room of Hamish Leng, another well-known hell-raiser. This caused much mirth but the smile was wiped off Hilleary's face a couple of days later when he was summoned to reception by the ma
nagement of the Palace who informed him that he was being sought by the Police; his credit rating was nil and would he kindly explain himself or they would have no alternative but to turn him, and his seventy-two paintings, on to the streets. Hilleary was made to sweat good and proper: the Swiss took a very dim view of the situation. It was hours later when he caught sight of the fax from the Acme Credit Control Agency in England... and recognised its address as that of one Mr Leng.

  Military Mischief

  'Always forgive your enemies - but never forget their names.'

  Robert Kennedy

  Military Mischief

  An extremely arrogant young French cavalry officer from a very aristocratic background arrived at the officers' mess of a British regiment. It was pretty quickly assessed that he was going to be a difficult one. He was standoffish and, despite several attempts to include him and make him feel welcome, he did not let up and upset everyone he came into contact with. One night over dinner he informed the assembled company of officers in the mess that, as far as he was concerned, the French army was vastly superior in terms of ability and style to their British counterparts. A red rag to a bull.

  As a result it was decided by several of the younger members of the officers' mess that he needed to be taught a lesson, and the more stylish a lesson the better. One night over dinner it was explained to him that a couple of members of the mess had found an extremely convenient and highly illegal route into what was then East Germany and that they would be taking a party of officers across that night to go and party hard in an East German pub where women and beer flowed all night. It was, of course, an extremely hazardous operation so only the bravest and most outstanding officers would go -would he be interested in joining them? His Gallic pride could not resist this temptation. He agreed. It is worth noting at this point that the regiment's location was some distance from the East German border but it was located close to a major range complex which was sealed off by barbed wire fences and manned checkpoints which, to the uninitiated, did look like border crossing points.

  The French officer and three British officers set off in one of the subaltern's cars and proceeded to spend about an hour driving around in a large circle using several different autobahns, giving the impression that they were, in fact, travelling to the inner German border. They arrived at the entry point to one of the ranges where, waiting for them, were two young officers dressed in Russian uniforms and carrying Russian replica machine-guns which they had borrowed from the regiment's training wing. At the checkpoint one of the officers in the car expressed some concern that it was highly unusual to have Russians on the gate and that the normal border guard who let them through did not seem to be there. He gave the Frenchman the customary bottle of whisky used for bribing the guards on such occasions and told him to get out and give it to them.

  As he approached, one of the 'Russians' stepped forward and addressed him in fluent Czechoslovak - a language unknown to the young Frenchman. After five minutes of torrential Czech abuse the Frenchman offered the bottle which was promptly smashed by the bogus guard who then, at machine-gunpoint, marched him into a dark corner where his hands were tied and a hood put over his head. He was told he was under arrest and would be taken to KGB HQ for interrogation.

  The Frenchman was thrown into the back of a 'military vehicle' and driven for another long period round in circles until they arrived at the officers' mess where he was manhandled into the cellars and tied to a chair in front of a table on which there was a strong reading light pointing at him so that when the hood was removed, he could see nothing. He assumed he was alone. He cowered - not knowing twenty officers had crammed in to watch the proceedings.

  The Orderly Officer appeared. In his hands he carried a silver tray on which was a bottle of champagne and a glass and the Frenchman was asked politely whether he would care to drink the health of his host regiment. It took several hours to convince the terrified young man that he wasn't actually in East Germany.

  After a considerable amount of pride-swallowing and a rather spurious excuse about a sick relation, he was never seen again.

  A member of the Welsh Guards recalls a time when, on exercise in Germany, they were allocated a cook from the Army Catering Corps. He was a large man and, amongst other irritating habits, he simply would not use the latrines. Every morning he would go into the bushes outside the perimeter fence to perform his evacuations. One morning the boys decided to follow him - he was not a tactical man and did not notice them behind him in the bracken. They watched him as he held on to a branch and squatted. Gently they slipped a long-handled shovel underneath him. The cook deposited his load right in the middle and the boys quietly removed it. They could hardly restrain their giggles as they saw the corpulent corporal turn to inspect his deposit and see - nothing! Puzzlement registered in his expression and, ashenfaced, he returned to base. It was evidently a sobering experience as he returned to the spot later and was seen scrabbling through the leaves, still seeking the evidence.

  Sir Reginald Bennett tells us of a young officer in an RAF mess who made a thorough nuisance of himself - he would regularly become drunk and rude, and then would become violent and start breaking things, and would

  usually end each binge by throwing up. Everyone was fed up with him and warned him that if he went on doing this he would sick up his own guts. This had absolutely no effect on him - he continued to drink too much. The others decided that this had to stop and enough was enough.

  One day, during one of his binges, they got hold of some rabbits' entrails and waited until he reeled off to bed. When he was safely asleep they crept into his room and put them all over his pillow and face. The next day he was supposed to be on duty and he appeared at breakfast, white as a sheet, very cowed and quite unlike his usual bumptious self. When asked if something was wrong he replied: 'As a matter of fact something rather awful happened. You remember you warned me more than once that if I continued to drink an awful lot and get sick that one day I would throw up my own guts? I'm sorry to say it actually happened last night - but I managed to get them back down again.'

  A tidy act of military revenge took place during the Second World War. The Pioneer Corps regiment did a lot of the less popular jobs in the Army: digging latrines, building huts and being really resourceful at obtaining and replacing broken items and parts. During the march through Normandy and Belgium a few of them were billeted at a farmhouse. The farmer's wife was an old harridan who, they said, milked the system and wanted all the perks. When the army was to move on they offered to do some decorating in her house. She was delighted and they worked like mad. One of the rooms they did was her loo which they left in pristine condition - they even redecorated her toilet seat! She only found out later that they had used varnish that never dried.

  - with thanks to Christopher Rhys-Jones.

  Squadron Leader Peter Tomlinson, ADC to 'Bomber' Harris and brother of Mary Poppins' star David Tomlinson, was a prisoner of war in Stalag 3, the Royal Air Force Officers' POW camp, for four years. It was practice for prisoners to pool their Red Cross parcels and for an unfortunate volunteer to do the most creative cooking and preparation that was possible in the circumstances. Standard additional rations were a few potatoes, some bread and half a horse to make into a soup. One particular volunteer only took on the job with great reluctance and on the strict condition that no one was ever to complain or he would give up. He was hoist by his own petard when everyone made a supreme effort not to complain and he found himself still doing the cooking three months later.

  He decided to get his own back and invite criticism: when he was collecting the rations from the horse-drawn cart he picked up some balls of horse manure as well. He rolled the balls in bread crumbs, fried them and served them up to the unsuspecting prisoners. One of them took a mouthful and exclaimed: 'Oh my God, horse shit!' Realising that this might lose them their cook he quickly added: '... but bloody well cooked!'

  Col Peter Rogers of The Blues and Royals i
s the Lieutenant Colonel Commanding Household Cavalry and 'Silver Stick in Waiting'. He is very good looking and charming and, back in his day, was one of London's more popular Debs' Delights. In the early Seventies he was stationed at Knightsbridge with the Household Cavalry Mounted Regiment and was asked to make up a party of people going to one of the most popular shows in the West End at the time. However, he admits

  he was a little naughty - at the last moment he had a hot date and he stood his friends up. They were not best pleased.

  A few months later Rogers received a very smart invitation from Lady Paget for her daughter: At Home, Quaglinos, Dinner and Dancing; Dress: White Tie. Rogers thought this a little odd as he didn't know a Lady Paget so he looked through the books and found a Lady Paget in Somerset. He telephoned her, to ask whether she was giving a party for her daughter. 'Not as far as I know,' she replied tartly. He also thought white tie (i.e. full evening dress) was improbable. His concern was slightly eased by the fact that Lady Paget's invitation was appearing on brother officers' mantelpieces - Richard Wilkinson, John Greenaway (now Sir John) and Dick Morrisey-Paine were also going and there was a certain safety in numbers. He was still mystified even while changing for the party on the evening and, to reassure himself, he went along to Charles Horsfall's room, but he had already left for the party. 'No problem,' he thought as he set off in a taxi to Quaglinos and was met in the foyer by a waiter who inquired: 'Lady Paget's party? Please follow me.' Rogers peered through the door and saw the band in full swing. As he pitched in and found himself by the dance floor, he realised that everyone else was in black tie (far less formal). By then he was on the stage in full view of the assembled company. The band instantly struck up and everyone who wasn't laughing too much sang along: 'I'm putting on my top hat, doing up my white tie...' It was all taken in good grace and the boys offered to buy him dinner. Rogers chose all the most expensive things on the menu.