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This is a question Conned

swiftyisNOTevil writes, "I have recently become obsessed with the BBC Three show 'The Real Hustle' - personally, I think of it as a 'How To' show for aspiring con artists."

Have you carried out a successful con? Perhaps you hustled a few quid off a stranger, or defrauded a multi-national company. Or have you been taken for the wide-eyed, naive rube that you are?

(, Thu 18 Oct 2007, 13:02)
Pages: Latest, 16, 15, 14, 13, 12, ... 1

This question is now closed.

Did I win or not?
Picture the scene…

Bristol Temple Meads station, wino-smack head approaches and says, 'Mate, I'm short of my train fare home, can you give us a quid so I can get myself to Weston Super-Mare?'

I oblige.

Next day, same ned approaches and says, 'Mate, I'm short of my train fare home, can you give us a quid so I can get myself to Weston Super-Mare?'

All said within ear shot of the British Transport Police officer standing near us. (BTP aren't real old bill, they just ride around the country listening to football fans singing songs).

So, following yesterday's 'donation' I am starting to smell a rat and I ask the smack head, 'How much is the fare?' he replies with something along the lines of 'a fiver' and 'I only need a pound' - clearly, he's trying to con me. One, Bristol Temple Meads is a shithole of a station and you wouldn't want to wait there even if you were skint, two, you wouldn't make the same mistake twice, if you ran out of money yesterday, you wouldn't get a train to Bristol the following day and three - I had huge doubts about his other four-quid.

Anyway……. I've piped up with, 'tell ya what, you give me your four quid and I'll go and buy your ticket!'

Copper start to snigger. Smack head bloke looks confused.

Smack head mumbles, 'I might need more than a quid actually' - I replied, 'well, give us what you've got and I'll make up the difference!'

Copper starts to see something good might happen.

Copper pipes up with, 'That's very kind of the gentleman isn't it? Tell you what, once you've got your ticket, I'll escort you on your train journey to make sure you get to Weston without any problems!'

And so that's what happened. Smack head ended up giving me no money, which was a shame, so I was down about six quid, but the copper had a whale of a time getting to watch someone who really didn't want to go to Weston being forced to go there.

Technically, I'm out of pocket and to a degree, I was conned. However, in terms of being stitched up good and proper, the smack head who didn't want to go to Weston Super-Mare was!!!!

I'm claiming a win for that.
(, Thu 18 Oct 2007, 17:09, 8 replies)
Passive Aggression

Near where my folks live in Hertfordshire, there's a big open air market that runs every Saturday on the old unused airfield. Complete mixture of everything - meat, vegetables, computer games, bags, crappy tools, phone unlocking. Probably half or more of the stuff on sale conveniently 'fell off the back of a lorry'. But by far the biggest single set of retailers are the clothes retailers. Never the same stock each week, whatever they can flog goes out on the racks.

As it happened, my mother and sister were looking for some jeans. Since trying them on wasn't exactly going to be possible, they did the best they could by holding them up against my sister and visually comparing - no size labels inside. They bought the jeans and got multiple assurances from the kindly indian gentlemen running the stall that if they didn't fit, they could get a full refund.

Quick walk home, try them on and they're too small. Walk back to the stall... and mysteriously, the nice gentlemen have forgotten their promise! No refunds are given ever, why on earth would we have told you you'd get a refund? We'd never do that.

They ask to change them for a pair of a different size instead, not an unreasonable request. Again denied. And speaking to the market manager/supervisor does bugger all - they don't interfere with transactions.

Unfortunately, when it comes to money and bargains, my mother is more stubborn than a truckload of mules. And she has nothing better to do on a Saturday.

Picture a terribly British little middle aged middle class woman standing in front of a clothing stall telling every single person who goes in that if there's a problem there's no exchanges or refunds. Picture said woman telling every single customer exactly what happened to her. Picture a very angry set of stall owners trying to get her to move on, and her ever-so politely pointing out in a voice that Hyacinth Bucket would be proud of, that she's not on their stall and is on public property. In a very busy market, with lots of passers by and witnesses. Picture several little throwaway comments about the bad quality of the stitching and the likelihood that the colours will fade.

Now picture that, with the woman in question keeping this up for *two hours* solid. During that time, the stall made about five sales total, and the surrounding stallholders kept bursting into giggles at random points.

Eventually, the stallholders cracked, and shoved some money into her hand and told her in no uncertain terms never to patronise their stall again.

The crowning jewel in this little every so British protest was not the fact that she was mistakenly given £20 instead of the £10 she paid.

Nor was it the fact that she kept the jeans as well.

It was the fact that after shoving the money into her hand, the man turned round, and walked straight into one of the poles holding up the sign at the front with a very satisfying *CLONG*

It's surprising how effective making a scene can be. Not to mention how irritating a good bit of passive aggression is. Unsurprisingly, my mother views that day as one of her greatest triumphs. It's not often you get a triple whammy.

Apologies for length. I relurk now and return to the shadows.
(, Sat 20 Oct 2007, 4:58, 8 replies)
I was conned by an old man in a cloak
Yeah it turned out those were the droids I was looking for.
(, Thu 18 Oct 2007, 22:33, 3 replies)
be aware, I recently went to a b&q store in mersey side and was approached by a member of their staff and asked if I wanted decking? well, I got the first punch in, but I feel the lesser vigilant person might not be so sharp.
(, Fri 19 Oct 2007, 15:02, 3 replies)
It's been sixteen years that are gone forever and I'll never have again
I arrived in Manchester to study at a pretend University in mid-1990. On (I think) my second day in town I was strolling down the main road (Oxford Road) when I was approached by a well-dressed man of early middle years.
"'scuse me, son?" He asked politely, so I 'scused him. "I wonder if you can help me. God forgive me, I'm trying to get to the men's hostel in Wythenshawe and I've not got my fare for the bus and, God forgive me, I was wondering if..."
Well, undoubtedly you can see where this was going. The upshot was that I was pretty callow and naive at the time so he got some cash out of me. I wised up pretty sharply when two days later, I was walking down Oxford Road again when he came up to me: "'Scuse me son, God forgive me, I'm trying..."

As time went by I realised that this man and a compatriot would walk down opposite sides of Oxford Road, accosting everyone who passed with the tale that, God forgive them, they'd lost their fare to the men's hostel in Wythenshawe and could they be spared some change? This went on for the entire five years I lived in Manchester. A couple of times a week, "'scuse me son..."
You know how it goes. Sometimes they got some money out of me if I was feeling flush, sometimes not. I learned the location of a Mens Hostel which was literally a hundred yards from Oxford Road and went through a period of directing them to it with all appearence of helpful cheer and goodwill, saving them the trouble of getting to Wythenshawe. They didn't like that much, because apparently the central Manchester hostel didn't have the right facilities. Perhaps the pool wasn't of the right quality, or the central Manchester hostel didn't give complimentary chocolates in the rooms and Wythenshawe did. I don't know.
The most striking thing about this bloke was that he didn't give any appearence of being your average homeless man. Whilst not smart, he certainly wasn't a bum, either. He plainly took care of himself; shirt and tie, personal hygeine, he made an effort, which was enough to at least predispose me to listen and sympathise and occasionally cough up.
I did wish he'd occasionally use a different story, though.

Eventually I left Manchester. A couple of weeks before I left, I had been walking through town in a pretty poor mood for lady-related reasons when: "'scuse me, son, God forgive me, but...". I turned to him and replied:
"Look, you've been trying to get to the mens hostel in Wythenshawe for five years. I really think you could have walked it by now."
And then I left town. I thought that was that.

A couple of weeks ago I was staying in a central Manchester hotel whilst up there to see chums and on Saturday morning I took a walk down Oxford Road to the Manchester Museum, one of my favourite places. As I was walking, a familiar figure approached me.
"'scuse me, mate? God forgive me, but I'm trying to get to the mens hostel in Wythenshawe..."
I was so shocked I put my hand in my pocket gave him a quid.
Subsequent to this, though, I've been thinking. I'm now fascinated by this man, and what his story must be. He's spent the last sixteen years walking up and down Oxford Road in Manchester, asking people for money to get to Wythenshawe. What could make someone think that this is a good way to spend all that time? I stop and think about the thimgs I've done since 1990. I've got a degree. I've started my own company. I've seen the view from the top of the Pyramid of the Sun, the Temple of the Jaguar and the Space needle. I've seen attack ships in flames off the shoulder of Orion and T-beams glitter at the Tannhauser gate...
In the same period this guy, come all weathers, has been hanging around outside Whitworth Park pretending he wants to go to Wythenshawe. Is there a good living to be made on Oxford Road panhandling from students? Or is he on day-release from a local Sanitorium and knows nothing else? Or is he a tragic figure like King Pellinore or Sisyphus, doomed by the gods ever to quest for the mens hostel in Wythenshawe but never to find it?
I think the next time he collars me, probably in 2022 the way things are going, I'm going to offer to buy him a drink and ask him his story.
(, Tue 23 Oct 2007, 12:05, 17 replies)
Grandma vs Grandad
My Grandad (God bless his scoundrel soul) was always on the make - after a few pence for his next pint of bitter. My dad recounts with a smile of disappointed admiration at the time Grandad broke open his Queen's Jubilee framed coins to spend down the Legion. But this next con was ingenious.

Back in the sixties, when my dad was a teen still living at home, my Granny would, in between her 'big shops' once a week, look in the larder, find they were low on food, and would ask Grandad to pick up a few tins of their usual fayre.

Grandad would come home some hours later, present Granny with a few supplies and she'd give him the few coins to reimburse.

This arrangement happened for a few weeks when the weather turned colder and my dad went out to the coalshed to fill the scuttle. Imagine his surprise (or not) when he also scooped up a tin of beans! Rummaging around, he found some corned beef, and some tomatoes. He took them in to show his mother, who promptly marked an X on each one with a pen and asked him to return them to the coal shed.

My Grandad returned from the pub, and brought with him...a tin of beans, one of corned beef, and one of tomatoes. Each marked with an X. Outstretching his palm to his wife, he was reimbursed not with coin but a whack round the head with a cast iron frying pan!
(, Sun 21 Oct 2007, 19:19, 1 reply)
in the 1980s
I must have marched against apartheid at least 6 times.

Did I ever get my free Nelson Mandela?
(, Sat 20 Oct 2007, 16:47, Reply)
Image and video hosting by TinyPic

They don't have anything bigger than a size twelve.
(, Sat 20 Oct 2007, 15:49, Reply)
Not been conned, but have conned myself.
I like to think of myself as being too clever to be scammed. But I have committed one terrible scam which still haunts me to this day. Apologies in advance for length, girth, etc.

As a quick aside before I start, I'm not looking for kudos for this, nor am I proud of what I did. This was a silly idea that I had when I was young and naive and thought that nothing could possibly go wrong...

Most of my friends took the decision to go straight from A-levels to university. I, however, was offered a three day a week job doing odd jobs at a local web design company. Therefore I decided to defer my university entry for a year. Said company were paying me quite handsomely, and coupled with the minimal work hours, this meant I was able to jet around all over this fair isle visiting friends at their respective universities for long weekends of partying, boozing, and partying some more.

My weapon of choice for getting to these places was National Express. Very reasonably priced, more comfortable and punctual than trains, and if I travelled on one of the right routes, I was provided with entertainment on the coach TV screens. I would book my seat a couple of days in advance via their website, print off an e-ticket, and go visiting.

On one particular trip I made the observation that upon boarding, the drivers don't really pay much attention to the e-tickets. I made an assumption on this trip that the driver was probably only checking the route number (i.e. 402), and the origin and destination of travel. So I made a mental note next time I booked a ticket to save the e-ticket HTML file to my hard drive for further investigation.

Being an experienced website designer had its uses. I realised that it was perfectly easy to tinker with the e-ticket's HTML file and edit the information contained therein. So next time I travelled I printed out a counterfeit e-ticket, tailored to my exact route and journey, to see if the driver let me on. I chickened out at the last minute and bought a genuine ticket as well, stored safely in my bag just in case the fake one was turned down. But as I expected, the fake one passed the scrutiny of the driver's inspection and I took my seat, happy in the knowledge that I now possessed the ability to travel for free on National Express.

Of course I wouldn't have done this if I had felt any guilt. But I couldn't bring myself to feel guilty about it. This was a victimless crime. These coaches I was riding on would still be running if I wasn't riding on them. The few extra pennies that they would have to pay in fuel due to my weight were more than offset by the generous £2 tip I would anonymously leave on the driver's dashboard upon alighting. Nobody was losing out!

This was until one fateful journey, when I was set to go and stay with a friend in London. "Just get the coach to Heathrow, my housemate can pick you up from there", said this friend. Two minutes of HTML editing in Notepad, and I had 'booked' myself a ticket. Can you see where this is going?

Fast forward to the coach station: I boarded and took my seat on the coach, noting that it had turned up seven minutes before its timetabled departure. I then noticed the driver conducting a head count. And then pulling away six minutes early, presumably because the number of passengers on the coach matched the number on his passenger list. Except-fuck. Fuck fuck shitting fuckity fuck. I wouldn't have been on the passenger list, having not actually made a bloody booking. If the driver had counted the right number, we were clearly missing one passenger. Glancing out of the window I saw this one passenger: a young lady, laden with luggage, frantically running towards the coach trying to get it to stop. But the driver hadn't noticed her. And I couldn't bring myself to let him know she was there, in case I was found out and reported to the police. We drove off, minus this would-be passenger.

I spent the entire journey racked with guilt, which increased tenfold when I realised that this poor young woman was probably on her way to Heathrow to catch a flight, which I probably made her miss.

That was the last time I travelled with National Express, and certainly the last time I even thought about creating counterfeited travel documents. Someone was bound to lose out at some point, but unfortunately in this case it was an innocent passenger, and not the person who deserved to lose out (me).
(, Thu 25 Oct 2007, 1:37, 2 replies)
Nintendo Wiiii
In the height of the release of the Wii Console, I couldn't get one anywhere. I therefore had to revert to Ebay.

I found one and paid over the odds for it, and yep you guessed it - the fucking thing never turned up. Cue torrents of abuse from Mrs Hoogs and what a gullible pleb I was.

After weeks of emailing this twunt I had no joy. I then thought, "I wonder if he uses MSN Messenger" - Well tickle my tits till Friday he did. However I added him under a different address and msn name.

I told him i had been given his mail address from someone on ebay, and had he any Wii's for sale. Halfway through the conversation he added a mate who dropped a right fucking bollock.

He copied and pasted the guys address in the 3 way conversation, only turned out he lived 20 miles away.

Needless to say I had my Wii and some cash after I drove to his house with 3 mates and threatened to slit his throat.

The fucking robbing cunt.

I then had him banned from ebay

Length? - ram it
(, Fri 19 Oct 2007, 23:05, 3 replies)
naughty fake prozzies!
i went to a pub with a friend of mine once, many years ago. i had no idea what kind of place it was till i got there.
it was a prostitute's bar.
i really, really didn't want to be there, but she was paying, so i stayed.
before long, 2 really ugly guys came over and started chatting us up(or so i thought). they bought us many drinks and, after a while, they seemed less vom-inducing than i'd first thought. suddenly, my mate asks me to get her some tissue from the ladie's loo. when i came back, she was deep in conversation with the ugmo twins, but stopped talking once i got there. i was a bit annoyed by this, but didn't really think much of it.
more drinks happened.
eventually, captain ugly and the boy putrid both needed to pee, so we were left alone for a couple of minutes. my friend uses this time to whisper at me "i'm not touching these two!" i agreed that i didn't plan on letting either of them wash his winky in my kitchen sinky, either. "i've got a plan" says she, "when i tap your leg, go to the loo and stay there until i come and get you." i was about to ask for more details, but unfortunately, the brothers grim had returned.
i waited for about half an hour, when suddenly, a size 7 stiletto shoe whacked me in the shin. realising that this was the "tap" i'd been waiting for, i made my excuses and hobbled off to the bogs.
after about 20 minutes, my friend arrived. "stay close and do what i say" she whispers. we begin walking back towards the bar but, as we passed the front door, my friend yelled "RUN!" and proceeded to do so. i had no idea what she was up to, but i followed her out of the door and down the street. we'd only gone about 150 yards before we heard our erstwile escorts chasing us. fortunately, a black cab was passing, so we flagged it down and jumped in, speeding off before they could catch us up. trying to get my breath back, i stared at my friend, who was almost hysterical with laughter. i demanded to know what was so funny, and the truth came out.
our drinking companions had thought we were prostitutes. i can understand it with her, but i do not look like a prozzie! anyway, when she sent me for tissue, she had negotiated a price for a "date" with the both of us. they had paid upfront. having no intentions of doing what she'd been paid to do(and knowing that i would want no part in it), she waited until i'd been in the loo for 20 minutes, then volunteered to come looking for me, thus facilitating our escape.
she'd ripped the poor buggers off to the tune of £150.
i didn't know which offended me most, her offering me up as a buyable shag, or the fact that she'd only asked £75 each. talk about cheap.

length? 14 years and i still feel guilty.
(, Sun 21 Oct 2007, 21:19, 3 replies)
I was convinced to donate money 'to help run' a popular website.
All I got in return? A small rabbit icon that appears beside my name. None of the free bumsex that the owner promised. Ginger tosser.
(, Thu 18 Oct 2007, 20:45, 4 replies)
Watching and having a polite drinky-poo one night in a Northen Uni bar, a large rugby chap suddenly, and loudly tells his tablefull of fellow drinkers:

"If you put a tenner on the table, I'll go and shite in a pint, come back and drink it!"

After a lot of "he'll never's" and "he won'ts", the fellow drinkers clubbed in a tenner. As I was drunk and curious, I chipped in a quid - after all, you know you'd pay to see this...

The chap then disappears to the toilets, and returns with a large brown mound in his pint glass, which, after a little crowd teasing, he takes a manly swig from.

I'm not ashamed to say I nearly barfed, as did everyone else. He then, majestically, sweeps the money off the table, pockets it, and says: "It were only a Mars Bar, you twats!".

I didn't begrudge him the pound, the whole performance was sheer showmanship.
(, Thu 18 Oct 2007, 18:00, 3 replies)
During my school years...
...some of my friends hit on the idea of crashing weddings (this was pre-film). They regaled me with their tales of the week before, and so I dutifully showed up at the local posh hotel the following week in appropriate shirt and tie.

The ease in which we successfully managed to integrate ourselves into the proceedings was staggering. We literally walked straight into the hotel, and into the reception/disco which was in full swing, and started to amble around and pick at food.

All was going well, until we started to notice a few people looking at us a bit funny, so we gathered ourselves, and moved towards the lift to head back to a bar, satisfied with our complimentary vol-au-vents and sausage rolls. To our horror, as the lift doors began to close, an arm shot into them and stopped the lift and a bloke got in, and demanded to know where we were going.

My friend is quite fast on his feet, and blurted out "We're friends with x, and he invited us as he didn't know many people. We were supposed to meet him here but he didn't show and now we feel out of place so we're going to the pub". Much to our amazement the bloke simply laughed, and stuck out his hand. "No worries lads, my names Tony and I’m the best man. Feel free to stay, and if anyone asks you who you are, say your my mates".

So we re-entered the hall and began chatting to other guests, and having a few drinks. The best part was towards the end when we all started dancing at the front, and a small crowd moved around us and watched. At the end of the song, the bride came up to us and congratulated us on the dancing, and casually said she didn't know who we were.

"Oh! We're Tony's friends!" came the answer, to which she replied "Oh I'm sorry! I thought you were just randoms!".


I happen to know my mates on that night sometimes frequent these boards, so A) Sorry if I stole your story before you, and B) Cheers for a great night!
(, Thu 18 Oct 2007, 14:36, Reply)
Not me I swear...

(I don't smoke dope for one thing)

A mate of mine is the type who'll drive 20 miles out of his way in an attempt to save a couple of pence on a loaf of bread and usually comes a cropper whenever there's 'bargains' to be had.

He was in a pub one night when he was approached by a hoodie-wearing scumbag.

"Want any dope?" he was asked. He answered in the affirmative and then thought of a plan. If he could get a kilo or more, he could then flog it on to his workmates at a huge profit margin as, being nice middleclass IT geeks, they hadn't a clue as to buying dope.

So he agreed a time and place for the transaction, chuckling away to himself at the sight of the scumbag nearly wetting himself at the thought of all that cash. He came up with a plan, he'd insist on seeing the dope first and only then get the money only he'd claim that he couldn't get all of it as agreed so it would have to be X minus a few quid or more or no deal.

The following day he arrived at the meeting place. He was to enter a phonebox, part of a pair, in the middle of a sinkhole estate. He stepped inside the booth and the phone rang. Picking up the receiver, it was the scumbag on the other end.

"I'm in the other phonebox and I'll slide a sample under the partition." A lump of dope, wrapped in tinfoil duly appeared. My mate checked it and it's good stuff. "I'm off to get the money so" he said and drove away.

within the hour he was back and, as planned, explained that he could only withdraw a certain amount. The scumbag wasn't having any of this so they started to haggle. My mate felt that he was getting the upper hand when the scumbag's mobile rang.

"Christ! That's my mate who's keeping watch. He said the cops are on to us and they're heading this way!"

My mate was about to split when the scumbag said "Look, it's now or never. Give me the money you have on you and I'll give you the dope." So my mate handed over the cash and got a large block of dope wrapped in tinfoil. With that they both left the scene.

My mate got home and decided that a celebratory joint was in order. So, he opened up his prize package and realised he'd spent umpteen hundreds on a kilo of turf.
(, Thu 18 Oct 2007, 13:51, Reply)
Service Station con (no, not the pot of tea)
In common with many of you out there, I was once accosted by a chap in a motorway service station car park. Now, I had stopped for a nap, and was blearily staggering towards the bogs for a quick pee before getting on my way.

“Pssst, excuse me seeeenor” came a voice from a parked car, “do you a-speak Spanish?”
Groggily shaking my head, I found myself holding a lovely suede jacket, thrust into my hands by a vaguely dago-ish looking character.

He started his pitch – He was sorry about his poor English, he was on the way back from an exhibition, flying home to Spain, stock left over blah blah, and I stood there, gradually coming back to life, realising this “Spaniard” actually kept dropping into a Mancunian twang now and again.

He was on a roll because I’d not told him immediately to fuck off, and explained in broken English that he had several of these jackets in the boot, would I like them all for £350, rather than their retail value of £350 each?

Being a nice polite kind of chap I told him that was rather a lot of money, so sorry, no.

“How much ya got then mate, erm, m’sieur” asked Pedro, “I ‘ave to shift them all before I fly ‘ome, to-a Milan, make us an offer, like”

Realising Pedro was turning into Luigi, (via Manchester), and that I was being stitched up, I faced the arctic wind blasting across the car park which made my eyes water. Turning to face him I explained :

“Well, it’s like this mate, I’m skint, this fiver is all I have left to my name. My business has collapsed, the bailiffs repossessed my house this morning, my wife fucked off with my best mate, even the dog bit me. My bank sends me death threats and I’m actually on my way down to the Clifton Bridge to do some unattached bungee jumping. That nice shiny Jag you just saw me get out of belongs to my neighbour, who has been fucking my 16 year old daughter and has got her into making porn films for Arabs. Well, it did belong to him, he won't need it now, I gave him a good smack with an iron bar after I was evicted this morning, along with his wife.
Anyway, I really need to get going while I am still ahead of the posse that’s after me. Is that a police helicopter? Oh God, I have to go, I won’t let them take me alive. This jacket will be useful though, the one in the car is soaked in claret, fuck, I’ve never seen anyone’s brains before, have you? Here, take this fiver, God bless you. Sorry I haven’t got more, but at least you have one less jacket to get rid of. Look out for me on the news later wearing it. Shit, it’s them, I think they have seen me……”

Off into the service station I jogged, leaving a wide-eyed astonished Pedro/Luigi/Paul from Longsight sitting there staring at the fiver he had flogged a £350 jacket for to a murderer on the run.
Only for a few seconds though, as I reached the doors, I heard the car rev up and screech away.

Not bad really, considering I had expected him to sprint after me, drop the foreign rep façade and get his jacket back, whereupon I was going to expose his scam in a Roger Cook-stylee. (Incidentally, my Oscar-winning performance is obviously BS, apart from the death threats from the bank, they really can be quite blunt when I exceed my overdraft limit)

My Dad loooooves his suede jacket I thoughtfully got for his birthday. Yes Dad, you are right, it did cost a packet, but it’s my way of saying thanks for all the shit I’ve given you over the years.

Bingo, 2 cons in one day. Result!!!

Length? I’m breathing deeply and thinking about fishing love, I can go on like this all night.
(, Wed 24 Oct 2007, 21:00, 2 replies)
Hoof Hearted
When I was younger I had an arguement with my brother about a nasty smell that was lingering in the air.

"wasn't me!" I said
"wasn't me either" said my brother
"Was too!"
"Was not. I can prove it. Smell my bottom."

I lent forward towards his bent over arse and inhaled deeply. At which point the complete bastard farted a wet sloppy one.

I'll never fall for that one again ( I was 27)
(, Tue 23 Oct 2007, 8:53, 1 reply)
Spanish summer students
As a bright 10 year old who's dad worked in a bank I was aware that money was money and banks would take what others wouldn't.

So I got dispatched to one of those summer camp things run by PGL so my parents could get some peace.

Some spanish kids decided to con me and were very pleased to sell me some £1 notes for 50p each having found the shops wouldn't accept them as they had been withdrawn, they were just useless paper. They were so pleased with themselves the next day they sold me some more.

I showed them to my dad with a big grin, he gave me some more money and said see how many you can get.

After 2 weeks word had got around everyone of the 500 spanish summer camp kids and they'd offloaded about 50 old notes onto me that presumeably their parents had left from holidays or they got from dodgy bureau de changes in Spain.

Then my Dad took me to his bank and I deposited all the notes into my bank account :-)

You see, even when a bank note ceases to be legal tender on the high street, banks have to honor them for years to come.

Suppose this was the conman double bluff, they thought they were conning me and I knew I was conning them!
(, Thu 18 Oct 2007, 16:51, 1 reply)
A long long time ago
... when I was a mere 11 years old or so, I went to a local car-boot sale, and my mum gave me a quid to spend.

With the words "there are some things worth much more than that pound on sale here" echoing in my ears, I saw a kid watching his mum's stall.. he didn't look bright..

"I'll buy that bit of paper off you for a pound"
"Um, ok"
"Thanks" *exchanges pound for the Tenner*

I didn't use any mind techniques.... I just picked on a daft looking kid.. and now, nearly 20 years on I still feel like a heel.

My brother and I dined on cola bottles that afternoon... =)
(, Thu 18 Oct 2007, 14:10, Reply)
Jack Shit
I once sold a cow for 3 magic beans.

Turns out they were just LSD.

When I came round from my trip, I had climbed up the nearest lamp post and was shouting something about a giant...
(, Tue 23 Oct 2007, 18:50, Reply)
Conning low life rat bag.

Longish one from the late 80’s..

I was 20, stranded in Port Authority* bus station in New York, on my own, with so much luggage I couldn’t hold it all at once.. at 2:30am, tired and hung over.

Stranded, because I’d turned up with a valid pre-paid ticket for a bus to Connecticut - but with a timetable two years out of date.
(Great travel advice from the university)

The ticket office was open, but just said “Tough, only option is to wait until a coach goes tomorrow”.

So I sat there, trying to work out what to do next, feeling about as vulnerable as you can, surrounded by the sort of people that hang around in Port Authority at 2:30am.
Next bit of joy: a huge, massive, enormous, guy walked up to me - even though I used to work out several times a week, he was two of me. If I gave it my best shot, I reckoned I wouldn’t have even slowed him down. Hell, he probably wouldn’t have even noticed.
No police around – I found out later they will only patrol PA in pairs or more.

He asked me why I was there, I explained the story.
He said “Give me $20 and your bus ticket, and I’ll get it exchanged.”
Although that was all the cash I had, and I knew I wouldn’t be seeing them again, I handed it over.
In all honesty, I was just pleased to have the chance to remain in one piece, keeping my credit cards and passport was a plus.

5 minutes later he came back, with tickets from an alternative bus company, and more cash than he’d started with (turned out to be a cheaper ticket!).
AND a guy on an electric trolley for my luggage.
He then explained that he had “a bit of a problem with the police, so couldn’t get me to the gate, buy his mate would give me a lift”.
I gave him the $20, which he hadn't asked for.
His mate gave me the lift right across PA, which is vast, and saw me onto the coach.

All these years I’ve dined out on this, and I’ve finally found the con. I haven’t got a proper answer to this QOTW. Thieving git.

*For those fortunate enough not to have heard of Port Authority - really not the place to be: www.aic.gov.au/publications/rpp/31/RPP31-10.pdf
(, Thu 18 Oct 2007, 16:04, 2 replies)
Ok lets say you have a prepay mobile phone from, ooh i dunno, lets say an operator called "yellow".
You can also get a prepay top up card that you can use at most point-of-sale (POS) terminals in the UK. You pay, they swipe your card, the phone is topped up, everyones happy.

Now, use all your credit up. It must be ZERO.

Lets imagine a supermarket called "Alfresco". You could gather some produce from the shelves - a few cheap items, and join a queue for the tills. As they scan each item, half way through, ask them to top up your phone - £50 will do, and hand over your prepay top up card. The scanning recommences. Your topup goes through. Take your phone out and dial a number, make sure it connects, burn up a few pence of credit.

When you are told the amount for your sale, make sure you have mysteriously forgotten your wallet, say you have enough for the scanned produce, apologise and ask them to refund the top up. The top up you havent yet paid for, but crucially - have used partially. They will do this - its called a 'reverse' in the world of POS. There will be an error on the system but it will not be processed properly by the Alfresco 'front-end' till which will happily carry on, having removed the £50 top up from the sale. The backend system will flag an error in a log file somewhere and move on. The cashier will see nothing, the till will work as it always does, its not really a till anyway.

You pay for your goods, and leave. You notice that mysteriously your phone seems to have about £49.85 worth of credit on it. Funny that.
(, Thu 18 Oct 2007, 15:49, 1 reply)
Way back in the mists of time when I still thought AOL was the internet...

I made friends with a woman in one of AOL's chat rooms. We got on really well and although things got a bit flirty there was never really anything sexual: she was married and I wasn't planning on coming between her and her husband. We met a few times and then she seduced me. Well I say seduced... she said "my husband has just told me he slept with someone else five years ago and he doesn't understand why I am upset: let's have sex" and I said "erm ... ok".

A few weeks later I was just about to shut down my PC when I get an IM from a girl I have never seen before saying "hi, I liked you profile, do you want to chat?" Being a polite sort of person I said ok and we chatted for a while. She was flirty but I wasn't really as she had told me she was 18 and I wasn't really interested in someone who was only a few years older than my kids.

Over the next few day this girl wouldn't leave me alone. Everytime I logged on she would appear and I, being a little bewildered, would chat to her giving fairly noncommital answers to everything.

To be honest I was flattered that this pretty young thing would be interested in me (and yes, she said she was bisexual and that distracted me from rational thought) so I probably ignored the warning signs. Like when she sent me "naughty" photos of herself which, while similar looking girls, were obviously different people.
Her: Yeah, they were taken a few years apart
Me: Jesus, that means you must have been underage in some of them
Her: My mum and dad are really liberal

Then she started asking questions:
Her: Have you ever slept with a married woman?
Me: Yes, my ex wife
Her: No, I mean someone else's wife. I find it a real turn on.
Me: Yes, but it was nothing special
Her: I have a thing about red headed women, have you been with one?
Me: Yes, it was all a bit crap really
Her: Tell me about it
Me: I don't kiss and tell
Her: If you want I could come round and you could reenact it
Me: Thanks but you are a bit young.

Now I sound like I was the model of restraint but truth be told I did give her more information than I would liked her to have had and, in the face of her advances and I was less cautious than I would like to have been. Eventually she asked if I wanted to see another picture of her. As she sent it she said she was on the right.
So the photo slowly downloads and there on the left is the woman I shagged a few weeks ago. And on the right is this very burly man who is very obviously her husband.

I got a phone call that night from the woman "so, I am a crap lay am I? I was nothing special?"
She had got home from work and been presented with the edited highlights of a week of chat.

I was left feeling more foolish than I have ever felt. The only consolation is that I never gave out my address.
(, Thu 18 Oct 2007, 14:21, 3 replies)
When I was at school, I considered myself a canny lad and decided that the best way to get into girls' pants was to know my enemy and discover how they worked. I talked to them about their problems, I read Jackie and Just 17 etc. to discover how they thought and what they looked for in a man. I learned that 'a sense of humour is more important than good looks', or a that giant schlong was no substitute for a ready smile and a warm hug.

And do you know, I was a virgin until I was 21.

Turned out women are total liars about what they want.
(, Tue 23 Oct 2007, 9:09, 4 replies)
Hospital car park
When my better half was giving birth I had no choice but to use the carpark. This is charged at £1 per hour!!(robbing fucks) upto a daily maximum of five pounds a day.

Having been there for 2 days my ticket was now going to cost me ten pounds.

I'm so worked up about the fact that you even have to PAY to park to go see your sick/dying/birthing loved ones that it's all I allegedly go on about whilst there.

But wait. On the ticket machine where you pay your fees and get an exit ticket I spy a sign. Lost tickets are charged at the full day rate of five pounds. Woo Hoo half price.

I press the buzzer and speak to the monkey on the other end.
'I've lost my ticket for the carpark'
'okay just go to the barrier and press the call button'

I get there press the button, speak to the monkey again and teh barrier magically lifts in front of my eyes.


Woo Hoo

Apparantly I couldn't shut up about that either.
(, Sun 21 Oct 2007, 12:36, Reply)
Photoshop + thermal printer = free parking

(, Sat 20 Oct 2007, 10:59, 2 replies)
Godlike Status?
So you want to know what it's like to be me?

You poor, deluded fuckers.

You wouldn't want to be me. Honestly. I've had some good times, fuck, some GREAT times. But you still wouldn't want to be like me.

You want to know why? Because I also have a dark side. I call it (nods to Churchill..) My Black Dog.

Yes, my friends, I suffer from depression.

I've been in loony-bins. I've been in places where Dante would throw up before he described them. I've been so fucked up I really don't know how I made it through. But I did.

I've been rich (almost a million quid in the bank), I've been poor (living on noodles and sweetcorn after having aforesaid cash in the bank.)

I left almost the biggest house in the village I lived in and moved into a rented flat carrying my life in two bin-bags. I looked at them, the only things I owned at that point, and thought:

"Is that it? Is this my life? 2 fucking bin bags?"

This was 4 years ago.

I've been so ill (depression) that I was pretty much paralysed. It's hit me several times over the years that, now, I count every day without it as a gift.

So, when I write, I try to tell the funny shit that's happened to me. Hell, it's happened to everyone. The amusing, the interesting the good the bad and the ugly. For me it's catharsis. A defence against The Black Dog.

But I can't help but like my brothers tag for Psychiatric Hospitals.

"Napoleon Factories"

So, me "godlike status..." Do me a fucking favour...

So if anyone on B3ta thought I had a great life... You've been well and truly conned.


P.S . I haven't went Tonto for a few years. Mainly down to finding a drug that works for me and, the love of a good woman.

P.S. - You want to hear some tales from a loony-bin? They'll fry your soul.. Or make you cry.
(, Thu 18 Oct 2007, 15:48, 12 replies)
Glove box trick
Every time my friend picks up his brother from the airport, he asks him to look in the glove box for a CD. He then slams on the brakes.
(, Tue 23 Oct 2007, 10:16, Reply)
Deaf and Dumb lighter sales
Okay, not one to normally post but this is one of those ones that's too good to resist.

A good mate of mine who I shall call Steve(oddly enough that's what his parents call him too), was on holiday in the canaries a couple of years ago.

One night he was in a bar with his partner and a few other tourists that he'd got matey with when in walked a young lady who proceeded to place a card on each table explaining that she was deaf and dumb, she would like the good folk of this bar to buy a lighter from her as this was how she made ends meet. My mate Steve smells a rat, he'd been conned by lookie lookie men in the past and was'nt having this at all. He told all and sundry that she was a con artist and even totted up that she must be earning in the hundreds nightly. She catches Steve's eye and quickly hurries round collecting her cards before she is well and truly rumbled.

Steve with an air of smugness, turned round and said to the assembled crowd (clearly impressed with his powers of deduction) 'well that got rid of that scamming bitch' and rather than just sit back and take the plaudits, he had one other final act to perform before being hastily headhunted to Scotland Yard. 'Watch this' says he, the girl was out of the bar which was one floor up and walking down the pavement outside. Steve took a handful of change and threw it so it landed behind her, brilliant jingle jangle noise behind her and everyone in the vicinity turned to look at the pennies from heaven.

All that is, except for one person who carried on walking another 20 yards without flinching and then started having a spectacular argument with her equally deaf and dumb boyfriend in sign language, probably wondering why she had'nt flogged anything.

Steve for his part got the evil eye from everyone in the bar and those who saw it play out from street level. Honestly, throwing coins at a deaf beggar, how low can you go?.

Length?..........never mind the quality, feel the width.
(, Mon 22 Oct 2007, 13:40, Reply)
If a man comes to the door and says he is conducting a survey and needs to see your tits DO NOT show him your tits - he is only trying to see your tits.
(, Fri 19 Oct 2007, 13:24, 4 replies)

This question is now closed.

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