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This is a question Anonymous

One of the B3ta team danced on stage at the Brixton Academy dressed as an enormous white rabbit, and lived to tell the tale. Confess the stuff – good or bad - you've done anonymously.

(, Thu 14 Jan 2010, 12:10)
Pages: Popular, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

This question is now closed.

Skanky neighbours...
Early 90's I used to live in the parochially termed 'little Beruit' in east end park Leeds (nice).. it was and still is a shite hole, cram packed full o' your finest types, on my street we had a bit of a wide-o gangsta hard man dealer type, who loved to let everyone know how cool he was.. I personally never had any real problems with him apart from the odd bit of mail sent to my address for him ...usually from a foreign place... I was quite paranoid at the time due to weed shrooms and phet and was growing a bit for personal"honest officer" therefore any attention brought to my door was unwelcome

I felt it was my civic duty to somehow exact a postal type revenge and set about completing every single mail order catalogue, advertising bumf, religious sect tackle and old person equipment retailer questionaire on his behalf for his address asking for visits from door to door salesmen and prosletysing mormons etc...

Length.....Long but worth the effort....

I also still find the humour in completing suggetion slips and putting them in the suggestion box with the classic "put up a suggestion box"
ANON
(, Sun 17 Jan 2010, 17:26, Reply)
Notes of chaos
Me and my good friend Kev once spent a hell of a lot of time winding up the neighbours who shared the hallways of our block of flats. Most of them were down and out types, who had nothing better to do than steal, fight and make other people's lives a misery. So we decided to have some fun.

Many a bored and stoned night was spent writing 'notes' for the neighbours, which we would slide under their doors.

Mostly these were harmless, with just basic nonsense scrawled across them, but after a couple of days of doing this, things started to get out of hand.

One note was under the door of a paranoid guy with the words 'Who's laughing now?' written on it. We never saw him again.

Another note was pinned to this chav-type girls door with the words 'Can you PLEASE keep the sex noises down, i can't sleep'

This ^^ particular note caused a bit of a fight if i remember rightly. As her chav boyfriend asked her who she had been sleeping with, she then assumed it was her neighbour who had pinned the note to her door and a very loud arguement ensued. Although the best bit was none of the three even really knew what they were arguing about, because they were all innocent.

A 'Breakfast' envelope was also delivered to one guys door ( fat bloke), which consisted of evaporated milk, some dry cereal and buttered toast stuffed in an envelope.

I'm sure there were more... many more...
(, Sun 17 Jan 2010, 16:06, 2 replies)
Anonymous writes...
It was a lovely walk back from the house party, Beer Elf and her mate Julie singing together as they wobbled happily back to chez Beer Elf, Gazing up as the sky grew lighter with a new day..

"Lets go back to mine, get a brew and a blanket, and return, to watch the sunrise, it won't be long now.."
Julie concurred, and so that's exactly what they both did.

And as it started to get light, they noticed that, from their vantage point perched atop the War Memorial, there was a housing estate between them and the sunrise.. So they drank their tea, clambered down to the ground and wobbled off past the bowls club, and it's beautiful, immaculately tended Green, now lightly frosted with early morning frost.

Beer Elf was inspired. She climbed the little gate, Julie called after her,but Beery didn't respond, she was now on a mission. So, with all the logic possessed by piss-heads and her blanket draped over her head, she started.

Julie says she later saw a TV version of Samuel Beckett's "Play without Words" and it looked exactly like Beer Elf, as she scurried back and forth on the frosty grass, bundled up and purposeful. Shuffling her feet as she went. To no apparent purpose. other than to look a bit strange in the pinkish early morning light. Eventually, Beery Climbed back over the gate and surveyed her handiwork...

Yes, it was Beer Elf that shuffled about in the frost, and spelled out the word "FUCK" in letters about 18ft tall. On the village bowling green.

Julie later told me that it was the talk of the Co-Op, and lots of senior citizens were very upset and blaming the teenagers. Not the respectable grown up that was really responsible, and still feels really guilty...

/edited because I clicked post by accident the first time...
(, Sun 17 Jan 2010, 13:43, Reply)
Books.
I don't very often buy new books, I tend to get them from a really good second hand bookshop close to where I live. The books there aren't expensive so what I to do with ones I have really enjoyed is to leave a note inside saying 'I really enjoyed this, you might too'.

I'll then leave them in a public place like a cafe, train station or on a park bench for somebody else to find and (hopefully) enjoy.
(, Sun 17 Jan 2010, 12:39, 7 replies)
I knew this would come in handy
It's a pearoast, but, best anonymous call I ever made.

www.b3ta.com/questions/hell/post328416
(, Sun 17 Jan 2010, 8:07, 1 reply)
REVENGE
I went out with a girl once. Nothing too unusual. But what made this a little different was her ex-boyfriend, who couldn't seem to fathom how this girl could fancy, let alone BE WITH another bloke. It beggared belief in his eyes. And thus began the campaign of pure, bizarre stupidity.. Vitriolic emails came thick and fast.. and when he realised he wasn't getting the reaction he wanted, he moved onto prank calls (in various accents - usually Scottish or Irish) pretending to be the head of a firm in the area of business I was, and still is in, wanting to do arrange a meeting with me, in person, that day. Emails pretending to be from another girl trying seduce me.. Just really strange stuff.

I never retaliated, of course, figuring that the less I responded the more it wound him up. Until things reached a head and I simple had enough. I had a eureka moment; a way to get my own back without him actually knowing it was me. I wouldn't see the repercussions, but I'd rest safely knowing that this was going to fuck with him for months, possibly years to come.

The plan? Write his phone number on toilet doors the length and breadth of the land: 'YOUR COCK - MY MOUTH - Call me: **** 07*** ******' etc etc... in service stations, gay bars, public phone boxes.. anywhere really.

Even now I still see his number etched on walls now and again. Serves him right really.
(, Sat 16 Jan 2010, 22:28, 14 replies)
Silly Cows.
Those of you that watched Central TV in 1985 may recall seeing on the news a report of hideous acts of vandalism against cows. Or to be more precise someone had gone to a farm that was adjacent to the M5 and used pink aerosol spray cans to paint 'moo!' 'mmm beef' and 'steak here' on the side of some cattle for all the commuters to see on their way up and down the motorway. (Oh - and anarchy symbols on their hind quarters for added effect.)

It caused quite an uproar with villagers from nearby Upton St Leonards with them suggesting the reinstatement of national service or the return of the death penalty for such crimes, and even a local MP appearing saying that the people who did it could cause the death of cows due to stress and poisoning. Utter nonsense of course but great press for Sally Oppenheim for that was her name.

The local papers had much to say about it especially after the following week another farm further down the M5 had the same done to it's livestock, but this time with cartoon cocks, 'meat is murder' and 'meat is yummy' now emblazoned on the poor creatures. One person even said they nearly crashed as they were so shocked too see such an outrageous offence to their sensibilities.

The final act was again one week later - and this time it was not quoted in the press but the cows were now tagged with the words 'eat' 'pigs' and 'instead' as a message of support for the bovines. The words 'fuck' and 'you' were added to two others in the hope that these would stand next to Daisy who unknowingly wore the word 'pigs' - this of course intending to be a message to the Police who would no doubt be called to investigate this heinous crime.

After nearly 25 years I feel the time has come to stand up and apologise to the following:

- any cows that were harmed.
- any farmers who had their livlihood challenged in some unknown manner.
- to the Crass-fan squatters who got raided by over zealous Police who wanted to pin it on them.
- anyone fucking stupid enough to be offended.

In our defence we were very young, had been reading some very odd books, but most tellingly had a freezer full of hand picked mushrooms and had been chomping on them for a good month.
(, Sat 16 Jan 2010, 20:51, 2 replies)
Eleanor
A few years ago when I worked in London, I got into the habit of going to the pub of a Friday evening with a group of mates from work. The group consisted of four other blokes and Eleanor (for that was definitely not her name). Now Eleanor was a bit of a strange bird, no supermodel but kind of alluring in her own way, and incredibly filthy. During the course of these drinking sessions we had been treated to many tales and fantasies about her sexual exploits and the things that floated her boat - some of which were sexy, and some of which were just plain disturbing.

She was also prone to some highly risky behavior, such as walking home alone across Clapham Common in the dark every Friday night - despite the chivalrous protests of the blokes she regularly drank with. We knew she carried pepper spray anyway, and she always seemed to make it home safely, so we had long since got out of the habit of making a fuss about it.

So one night we're sitting in the pub as usual, when out of the blue she says in an exasperated tone "you know, I've been walking home alone in the dark every week for months - you'd think someone would have had a crack at me by now." Knowing Eleanor, none of us are particularly shocked to hear this, and we take it in stride as she elaborates on her fantasy of a shadowy figure grabbing her in dark, dragging her into the bushes and having his way with her.

But the next part we didn't see coming: "How about if one of you does the honours?" Now some uncomfortable glances are exchanged as Eleanor confirms that she wants one of her 5 male drinking buddies to basically force himself upon her on the way home that night. "I'm going to the ladies' now," she says, "so you'll have a chance to decide who it is. And we won't mention it again for the rest of the night."

While she's gone, we go through the phases of "is she joking?" and "well I'm not doing it", and quickly reach the conclusion that none of us is willing to do the deed, and in any case, we're pretty sure this is just another of her fantasies and she would never seriously follow through on it. True to her word, Eleanor changes the subject as soon as she returns, and doesn't speak of it again for the rest of the evening. At the end of the night we all charge off in different directions as usual, Eleanor taking her usual hazardous stroll across the darkened Common.

The following Friday, Eleanor arrives late to the pub having been held up at work. When she sits down she looks at each of us in turn, as if searching for something in our expressions. Apparently finding no answers there she declares "Whoever it was last week - same time again tonight?". We exchange glances, not knowing what she's talking about, and respond as such. She looks puzzled: "On the Common on the way home last Friday. You know what I'm talking about." Doubt is beginning to cloud her expression now, as we figure out how to tell her that if she did "meet" someone on the way home last week, it wasn't one of us. It takes a lot of persuasion to convince her we're not winding her up, but eventually she believes us, and looks a little shell shocked to say the least.

She tells the story: Last Friday she sets off across the Common for home, still mulling over the fantasy she discussed with the boys in the pub. She doesn't really expect any of us to actually do as she had asked, but the conversation in the pub has raised the possibility just enough past the realm of pure fantasy that she feels a little more "excited" than usual. So much so that, when she hears brisk footsteps approach her from behind and feels a strong arm around her neck, she just goes along with it and allows herself to be dragged backwards into the shadows. In her ever-eloquent words, "I was wet before he tore off my knickers." She goes into some (too much) detail about what ensued which I won't elaborate, suffice to say that her unknown partner was "forceful but not too rough" and that she was pretty sure the guy had slipped on a condom before getting down to business - which kept her convinced that "she knew her attacker". All in all, she had a pretty pleasant time.

Now, though, the normally unshakable Eleanor is looking a little spooked, but - Eleanor being Eleanor - she quickly starts to shake it off and reflect on the fact that one of her greatest fantasies actually happened without damage or consequences. (This girl, as I implied earlier, has some serious issues.) So much so that by the end of the night, she's actually joking that she can't wait to walk home to see if she'll "get lucky" again. We boys, of course, are strongly protesting that there's no way we're letting her walk home alone after last week, and that she was lucky not to get seriously hurt. But come the end of the night, her strong will trumps our alcohol-addled heads, and she toddles off home alone once more.

That night, I follow her across the common and repeat my performance from the previous week. She fucking loved it.
(, Sat 16 Jan 2010, 20:32, 34 replies)
Put the kettle on love
A few years back a mate and I wrote an official looking letter to the local gossip mongerer who also happened to be the most gullible old crow on the planet.

The letter mentioned that the council were planning to build a multi storey car park on the strip of land adjacent to her property, in the middle of a quiet residential area and that the builders would need a friendly face to make them their regular cuppa.

Cue the dumb old bag telling all her neighbours.
(, Sat 16 Jan 2010, 20:14, Reply)
stalking
several years ago, i was friends with a girl named jane. jane's dad owned an off-licence, which she worked in practically every day. i would very often sit with her to keep her company and laugh at the drunks that came in.
one day, we were looking at some photos of jane's recent holiday, when i spotted a really ugly bloke in the background of one pic.
"who's that minger?" i asked. "no idea," she replied, "just some random bloke in the pub."
on seeing this spectacular munter, an idea had begun to form. a bad, yet good idea, one that involved our mutual and newly single friend, debbie. we would send her a letter from this man, declaring his undying love for her! what a great wheeze!
as debbie was familiar with my atrocious handwriting, i dictated the letter and jane wrote it. there was a lot of "i've watched you from afar" and "you're the most beautiful woman i've ever seen", with added "i've asked the girl in the chippy where you live". chuckling away to ourselves, we slipped the ugly man's photo into the envelope along with the letter and posted it.
then we waited.
three days later, debbie came running into the shop, clearly distressed. "i'm being stalked by and ugmo!" she cried. "here, read this!" she thrust the all-too familiar letter into my hand. she was clearly upset by the fact that she believed this bloke had been asking people where she lived. jane and i both made great play of reading this letter, trying to convince her it was romantic rather than creepy. "but he's ugly!" she wailed. "he's not that bad, actually," i replied. jane agreed. debbie looked at him anew. "well," she said, "he's all right, i suppose. he wants to meet me tonight at the train station. should i go?"
at this point, jane and i could no longer restrain ourselves and burst into laughter. "it was us!" i yelled, "we sent the letter!"
with her face slowly turning a dark, mottled purple, debbie turned on her heel and stalked out of the shop. she didn't speak to me for a month.
she got her own back, though; i'd left a pair of knickers in her house when i'd stayed the night. they were proper granny-warmers. she wrote my name on them in black permanent marker, took them to the local pub and pinned them to the dartboard.
funnily enough, we're still friends :)
(, Sat 16 Jan 2010, 20:01, 3 replies)
Feminist tracts
Years ago, my brother was in some weird long term relationship with a raging feminist man/woman person who I detested with a passion - so I subscribed to a years worth of Mills & Boon romantic slush novels in her name. She was fuming. Heeheehee.
(, Sat 16 Jan 2010, 19:17, Reply)
Weston-super-Mare Gnomes
In Weston-super-Mare one night a number of years ago myself and a mischievous chum came down with a bout of kleptomania, presumably caused by the imbibition of huge excesses of alcohol. Homeward-bound from a night of debauchery in a strange residential area, a garden gnome was espied, then retrieved, from some unsuspecting resident's front garden. We decided the gnome was to be our pet, and that I would be the first to enjoy our "shared custody" of him.

The next evening, my guilt and regret for this act of theft made unbearable by my still-present hangover, I figured the best bet would be to return "Dave T. Gnome" (his new moniker) home under the cover of night... A "drive-by gnome re-homing", if you will. On the drive there I passed my friend from the evening prior and stopped to give him a lift home. Unfortunately the combination of his mischievous willfulness and my carefree attitude led to us not returning Dave, but instead driving the streets for hours, scouting for more gnomes to purloin.

Our reprehensible gnome-thieving behaviour continued off-and-on for about five weeks, at the end of which, in addition to Dave, we had accumulated some thirty-two gnomes and various garden ornaments of similar nature. These were all of varying sizes (I definitely remember we had two stone tortoises - one the size of my hand and one about a foot high which took all my strength to lift).

As I was too lazy to move them after their filching, they had remained in the boot of my car. This made it particularly awkward when driving as roundabouts and tight corners shifted the weight enough to make the rear-end "kick out" a little at anything over 15 MPH. So I had to somehow get rid of them, surreptitiously.

Of course, we didn't actually want these things, and a few weeks later, thinking it was time they were returned but realising I couldn't remember where each came from, I drove at 3a.m. to a local park, where I made several trips offloading them. After half-an-hour I had carefully arranged them all in a single small area amongst the bushes.

The following week, a half-page article on page three of the local paper reported that a young girl who was playing in the park was delighted when she had stumbled upon the sight of thirty-odd garden gnomes and various stone creatures placed as if talking to each other at a cocktail party. The reporter couldn't explain where the heavy stone ornaments had come from or why they'd been put there and appealed for any resident of the town who was missing a garden decoration to call the newspaper to have it returned. I was happy that these folks would have their gnomes back, relieved that my friend and I wouldn't be getting reprimanded for it, and quietly proud that I'd made the paper (albeit anonymously). A silly, perhaps idiotic, thing to do, but hopefully reading the story brightened some folks' day.

Length? What matters is not the length of the wand, but the magic in the stick... apparently. :)
(, Sat 16 Jan 2010, 19:13, 3 replies)
Anonymously, eh?

(, Sat 16 Jan 2010, 18:18, 3 replies)
In lectures in first year (300 people plus) we'd switch on bluetooth on our phones
and then scan for phones that are active and send them a picture saying "Hi there - I can see you...." written on a notepad. We would sit at the back and so could see if anyone looked around while holding their phone. If we managed to hook someone we'd send another message...

"you're sitting in the 12th row on the left aren't you"
or
"I like your blond hair" etc etc

You could sit and watch this person getting a little more agitated with each message. We only hooked a few in each term but it was quite fun.
(, Sat 16 Jan 2010, 15:59, Reply)
Why bother
I register my mates email address to Big brother every year, as he hates the show, for a daily update. Gutted this year as they have stopped that service. If they haven't let me know as I am missing at on some quality swearing at the PC moments every morning.
(, Sat 16 Jan 2010, 15:11, Reply)
I once worked for a crap supermarket
something rhyming with Bainbury's.

As I was told to sort the trolleys out in the car park (I was a till jockey at the time), I noticed a White Van Man park in one of the disabled spaces.

He got out and gave my colleague a grin, walked 10 foot then pretended to limp.

I went back into the store and got one of our "DO NOT PARK IN DISABLED SPACES UNLESS YOU HAVE A PERMIT" stickers and stuck it directly in the drivers field of view.

While he was in the store, it started to rain. Due to the above sort-of-mentioned supermarket was a tad tight, their stickers were paper based, not laminated or plastic, just sticky paper.

Rain + sticky paper = angry white van man peeling 5mm pieces of smeared and ripped soggy sticky paper pieces from his windscreen. For 40 minutes.


I just smiled and went inside before he saw me.
(, Sat 16 Jan 2010, 13:59, 1 reply)
Watford Harlequin car park
If you ever had a note on your windscreen saying "You park like a twat" then that was me.

You were parked like a twat.
(, Sat 16 Jan 2010, 11:43, 2 replies)
Anon office weirdo following
Imagine a man who would come into work and annoy people with a weird sense of humour.
Imagine a man who was skinny, unshaven, wore an old baseball cap, grey tshirt and black trousers with a black BUMBAG hanging around his waist.
Imagine a man who struggled to make friends everywhere, but was not going to stop trying with a little bit too much enthusiasm.

Well I happen to work in a large busy office with this guy, and although we do ridicule him for various justifiable reasons (he can be a bit of a cock at the best of times) we had to nail him with a prank or two. One of these pranks was quite cool actually; I managed to get 5 managers to anonymously send him Valentines cards to him all offering a complete bestiary of sexual positions. Considering he isn't exactly a man of Ronaldo qualities he was literally beaming all Valentines day at the new interest. Bragging and gleeing ensured as all of us humoured him on, leaving him in the possesion of happy thoughts all day of his unseen admirers.

It's a shame everyone was in on the joke though, and when he found out all 5 cards were from different male managers he was more than gutted to say the least. Oh well, shouldn't wear a bumbag then you weirdo.
(, Sat 16 Jan 2010, 11:03, 4 replies)
this is an embarassing one....
when I was at school there was one guy in our year who was a bit of a cock so to exact our revenge we decided to send him an anonymous letter telling him what we thought. I am not really sure what we hoped to get from this but I am sure in some way we were trying to stear him on the correct path......or maybe not.

Anyway the letter was compiled (I won't go into detail of what was in it as to be honest I am very shamefull of what was written)and then we came to the end and it required a parting signature. We thought for ages what it should be, 'The Equalizer'? (this was in the 80's)maybe 'The Three Muskateers'?. All good but not good enough so we settled on........A PRINTED ADDRESS LABEL ONE OF US HAD GOT FOR CHRISTMAS!!!! Why? I haven't got a f****** clue, it seemed a good idea at the time. I am sure most of you thought Totach was bad but he has nothing on us.

The letter was duly dropped in his cubby hole for collection by the recipient. Fast forward 2 days to chemistry lesson (Mr Mclean, legend!) and in walks the deputy head...not looking happy. Could Phil please come with me, NOW! I shrink having an idea what it was about. Phil leaves with deputy, I am left with 3 other co-conspiritors (sp?) sweating like a....[you know], will he dob us in?

He didn't, he returned to tell us that twat face had given it to his mum and luckily she was happy for the school to deal with it rather than aproach Phil's parents directly. Strangely he also didn't get any form of punishment, with hindsight it was probsbly because it was so bad it was beyond detention territory yet as he was generally a good kid he wasn't worthy of expulsion.

So in summary don't send an anonymous letter with a return address lable at the bottom, trust me it always ends in an epic fail!!
(, Sat 16 Jan 2010, 10:03, Reply)
College For Sale
I can't lay claim to this one, but sadly the perpetrator, my best friend, passed away many years ago and is not with us to tell the tale.

In the 70's there were numerous teacher training colleges closed due to a surfeit of teachers in the system. Ours was top of the very first list. (it really wasn't very good!), and the morning after a very large "For Sale" sign appeared strapped t the top of the college gates.

As I recall it remained there for a week, before the hapless gardeners removed it.
(, Sat 16 Jan 2010, 9:36, 2 replies)
Calling In The Cops
My old workplace was in a small office building. Next door, a motel served as a magnet for vagrants of all sorts. At night, drug-selling hoodlums converted the office building's parking lot into a drug bazaar. (Ironically, the excellent security lighting in the parking lot attracted the hoodlums, because it made it easier to count the money).

I didn't like this state of affairs, so I'd linger long after work and wait, gazing out the one-way windows, until Satan's minions were busy flashing their cash and drugs. Then I'd call in the cops.

Sometimes the cops responded in time to catch the drug dealers, and sometimes they didn't, but eventually all the hoodlums grew paranoid, sensing they were being watched, and left the vicinity.
(, Sat 16 Jan 2010, 6:11, Reply)
I'm sure it's bindun, but...
I have a habit of, when redecorating, leaving little messages for the next people to uncover.

Under a new lounge carpet, on a rectangular section on the concrete that I especially discoloured: "the bodies are under here"

On some plywood I used to cover up a boiler exhaust (before I put the wallpaper up): "have you found the bodies yet?"

On the underside of the floor on a new shed: "If you are reading this, I was killed and buried here. Please tell the police!"

Under the sand I used to level the ground, before I put a new brick patio down, I put a grotesquely twisted white tape body outline - with a severed head - and some scraps of "police line, do not cross" yellow tape

Under the wallpaper, on a fairly thick wall on an old house in Somerset "Have you found the money yet?"

On some breeze block I used to block up an old central heating vent: "IRA Arms cache - do not open"

I've been the recipient or witness of a couple, too:

Once, I was *ahem* fixing the odometer on an old Cortina. I opened it up and there was a little note inside: "Oh, no - not again!"

And - a pearoast - a mate's BMW kept getting broken into, and the radio nicked, while parked in a multi-story car park in Bristol. Eventually, he got sick of it and didn't bother with a replacement. He left a note on the dash saying "no radio fitted". Someone smashed the window and wrote on his note "just checking"
(, Sat 16 Jan 2010, 5:27, Reply)
Does this count?
As is normal for a Saturday night I got pretty hammered a few weeks ago and I ended up meeting some girl. At the end of the evening she said she was leaving and we discovered we didn't live too far apart so decided to share a cab. Talk got sexy in the back and before long two drops-offs turned into one and we were heading back to her place.

I wasn't sure if she remembered my name, but I certainly didn't remember hers and I wasn't about to blow my chances by asking. So we spent the evening drinking, eating some cookies she'd baked and having sex all over the house.

The next morning on the way home I phoned my mate and asked him, "so, do you know who the fuck I went home with last night. I have no fucking idea!!". Through some nifty detective work we were able to deduce her name, but it wasn't easy.

Does that count as anonymous sex?
(, Sat 16 Jan 2010, 3:11, 2 replies)
Nothing bad really
I mail money anonymously to the families of firefighters and police officers who die in the line of duty.
(, Sat 16 Jan 2010, 2:55, 2 replies)
Upset a rubbish town
Remember the Geordie Citizen and Whitley Bay Citizen? Humourous semi-satirical digs at council ineptness and awful local papers, and the non-news they report.

Probably don't remember the lesser-known St Neots Citizen, of which I can rightfully claim to be "Editor".

Earlier in 2009, local overgrown-housing-estate-posing-as-a-new-town Cambourne, between St Neots and Cambridge, became momentarily famous for having the highest birthrates in the world. International news and everything don't cha know!

This called for a little light ribbing, or perhaps ripping. Cambourne Mums Can't Keep Legs Together was quickly knocked up, much like many of the mums in the village, complete with an actual real quote stolen from a proper newspaper and all sorts.

I typed, I posted, me and my hundred or so regular readers went about our day.

Until the local papers took up the story, following a complaint from an aggrieved Cambourne slapper. My fifteen minutes of infamy had arrived. This being the arse end of Cambridgeshire, it was "reasonably big news" for a while.

Sadly, though, the Citizen is published anonymously. So I had an entire village full of chavfactories fuming at me, but not actually knowijg who I was.

Comment for the letter the crazy wench sent to the local paper. Length, girth apologies.
(, Sat 16 Jan 2010, 2:46, 5 replies)
Anonymous note
Ive pondered whether to relate this but hey why not, others have admitted worse.
I once popped an anonymous note through the letterbox of a male friend.
His wife who I barely knew, rang me one morning to ask me to cover for her if he asked if she had been with me the previous night.
No warning, and no thank you either as she hung up before i could say WTF?
Luckily he didnt call and after a few days angst about it i relaxed.
Didnt approve but felt it wasnt my business to interfere.
Until she rang me again one night to say she had told him we were going out for the evening.
This time i managed to register my displeasure at being roped in and found out who she was playing around with.
Unfortunately I knew him, and the last woman he had been 'seeing' had recently let slip she was being treated for a STD :(
I told her I wouldnt say anything but never to call me again and never ever use me as a false alibi again either.
Then i went round and slipped an anonymous note through his door asking him to ring X that night and ask to speak to his wife, and to get a sexual health check asap.
Rang the bell and ran off.
Pretty much lived in fear and waited for the explosion and angry wife on my doorstep for ages but nothing happened.
I bumped into him in the pub a few weeks later and he told me they had split up and she had moved out because she had been having an affair.
Feigned shocked surprise and offered my commiserations etc.
Didnt ask of course about any STD repercussions but assumed/hoped he had followed that extra bit of advice.
(, Sat 16 Jan 2010, 2:36, Reply)
Patience is a virtue...
Long, long ago in a small, private "Christian" college, my non-Christian friend--indeed he was so non-C as to be Jewish--had a roomie who was a pompous, self-righteous, judgmental and no doubt deeply repressed obnoxity. He was saving himself for marriage with his oh so pure ladylove, and considered himself a martyr for tolerating his Jewish burden. Well, Mr. Purity was away one weekend and we were contemplating a lovely pic of his mum and dad on his dresser. The frame was clearly expensive and precious to him. So of course we drove to the corner 7-11 and purchased the worst porno mag of the day--Hustler--and selected the grossest picture, cut it out, carefully took apart the frame and placed the porn neatly between the photo and the backing. And we left it there, knowing that in ten years, twenty years, even when he was dead and his grandchildren were rifling through his effects--surely some day the picture would fall off the mantle or his wife would want to put a new photo in to surprise him--the porn would surely come to light, sooner or later, and Mr. Purity would have some 'splaining to do--or his sainted memory would be sullied as his progeny spoke in hushed, shocked voices about "the incident." We knew sooner or later he would get his comeuppance; that was enough for us. My friend was so perverse as to hope that Mr. Purity himself found it and had to live with the horror of knowing he had for years kissed a grotesque whore cootchie goodnight and slept peacefully with abomination right there by his head--evil thought, evil world!--or maybe he would even start wondering whether there was more to Mum and Dad than he ever suspected. He deserved worse, really.
(, Sat 16 Jan 2010, 2:28, Reply)
Singapore, June 8/9th 2002
I didn't like the place anyway, but I had heard the net was closing in on me, so I hightailed it out of there. Not before I shit in a jiffy bag and posted it to my boss.

Anonymous? Well, I suppose she might've recognised the handwriting, and probably deduced it was a product of my labour reasonably quickly, but it wasn't accompanied by a manifest or any other identifying documents, so yes, anonymous, and that's what I'd like to confess. Oh, I just have. There.
(, Sat 16 Jan 2010, 1:53, Reply)
I'm responsible for
One of those popular anomyous quotes in magazines and inspirational calendars and such. But if I tell you which one, it won't be anonymous anymore, and we can't have that.
(, Sat 16 Jan 2010, 0:50, Reply)
I confess
In 1992, some idiot spray painted the word 'YOU'RE' on the 'WELCOME TO PENZANCE' sign on the A30 just outside, um, Penzance. It's still there to this day. I don't know what's sadder, my single act of grafitti twattery or the fact that no-one has got around to cleaning it off.

I also blinded (not permanently thank Fry) a German back in '83 in a twilight ski-resort based ruckus but I better not go into too much detail in case the KrautPolizei are still on the lookout. I am bad.
(, Sat 16 Jan 2010, 0:29, 6 replies)

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