Don't ask me why I know these.
Take dice to the pub and when you want to do these pretend to borrow them from the barman. I have found that people are suspicious of people who take dice to the pub.

1) You and your selected drunk each put £20 in change on the table and agree to play until someone has lost their pile of change. Explain that you each put £1 in and all they have to do is predict if they are going to roll a higher number or a lower number than you. So, for example, they say 'higher', you roll the dice and score 5, then they roll the dice and score 7, they win the £2. Unles you really are an unlucky fucker you will eventually win all their money as you have the slight advanatage of all draws being paid to you.

2) This one is good for conferences, or anywhere people who don't know each other are forced to gather and pretend they like each other. Borrow three dice from the barman and get a piece of paper and a pen. Divide the piece of paper into six boxes and write the numbers one to six in each box. Explain to your drunk colleagues that you will run the game for them and you are not going to gamble so you cannot be accused of cheating. Tell them each to pick a box and put a pound coin in it. Ask one of them to roll the three dice and explain that each time a number comes up it wins a pound which will be paid from the losing bets on the table. For example 1,2 and 3 are rolled, 4,5 and 6 lose and pay 1,2 and 3. Remember that you are running the game and paying the winning bets from the losing bets. This means when someone rolls three numbers the same, for example 1,1,1, you pay the 1 box in the following way - £1 from 2, £1 from 3 and £1 from 4. This of course leaves £1 in each of the 5 and 6 boxes. This £2 should very quickly find it's way into your pocket. This is a particularly good one as everyone who loses doesn't care where their lost pound actually goes and everyone who wins doesn't care where their won pound comes from. Keep playing until they are all skint and you have a pocket full of change.
( TriedItOnceAndDidn'tLikeIt made you lose the game on, Fri 19 Oct 2007, 12:41, 1 reply)

Beggars! Magazines! Footwear!
I was recently walking through town and some beggar was asking if I wanted a "Big Issue".

I merely looked at him, then at my feet and said "No thanks, my footwear fits perfectly well. Why would I need a bigger shoe?"

He looked at me blankly.
( disasterprone "Pyjamas caused the Holocaust", Fri 19 Oct 2007, 12:30, 8 replies)

The homeless
I keep getting approached by homeless people trying to scam me - but they aren't very good at it.

The way it works is this: having spotted you on the street, they come up and say something like "Big Issue, please!". But it's often the case that, if you look closely, they're already holding several copies of same. So they clearly don't need yours after all: they're just hoarding them - although I have no idea why this might be.

But: a word to the wise. If you get approached by someone saying "Big Issue, please!", think twice before handing your copy over. The greedy twunt probably already has more than enough.




Oh....
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Fri 19 Oct 2007, 12:28, 1 reply)

Free drinks
Being fortunate enough to be on the good looking side of average I have never had to work to pull ladies in a bar or club. This has now got to the point where if I'm really not interested in pulling that night, I will now frankly take the piss.

I will wait for you to chat me up, will expect you to buy the drinks to lubricate my sparkling conversation, then give you a pay-as-you-go fake number at the end of the night for you to leave pathetic messages on which my friends and I will play back and laugh at. I will never con you into thinking you have a chance but I won't exactly correct you if you somehow get the wrong idea and choose to lavish me with drinks all night.

I somehow think of it as poetic justice for the thousands of girls that do it to us menfolk up and down the country on a nightly basis.
(quantum raspberry quizzically quashing Quebecans, Fri 19 Oct 2007, 12:24, 4 replies)

I am ALWAYS getting skanked
Every day, someone seems to take me for a fool, in some new and exciting way. With all the experience I have at being fucking fleeced, you'd think I could spot these things a mile away. No. Every time it happens, it enrages me beyond reason. I'm certainly not gullible, but they always seem to get one over on me. Gaaah.
( the_other_jeff_lebowski Croutons on my tits, Fri 19 Oct 2007, 12:19, 6 replies)

good job I can afford to throw away £2000
The cliche of travelling tradesmen offering to do jobs as they are "in teh area" is known to just about everyone right ?
NOT my wife. Fell hook line and sinker, paid cash in hand, no tel no or address.
£2000 for some roof repairs that looked liked they been done by Stevie Wonder on Ketamine.

I got trading standards involved, but a "we know where you live" phone call soon persuaded me that it wasn't worth the bother.
(skyblue1987, Fri 19 Oct 2007, 12:16, 1 reply)

Identity Theft
A few years ago I was living in digs in Derby. Was on my own in a big 3 bedroomed house, all hunky-dory. I had taken on the gas/electric (as I was the only occupant) and was paying accordingly. Now 2 other chaps took up residence, seemed ok and everyone was chipping in to pay the gas/electric. Now comes the science bit, I left and informed Powergen that I was moving on and they cancelled the account under my name, they would also send the remainder of the bill so we could pay it, informed the 2 chaps, all fine.

This happened in September 2005.

Fast forward to March 2006 where I get a bill from Powergen for the remainder, to the tune of £180, sent a text to one of the chaps where I got a reply stating it's not my bill you pay it yourself and don't ever contact this number again, the other fella I had to send a letter to his parents, got a reply back stating that they haven't seen him in months and don't know where he is. So I'm stuck with a bill for £180 which I paid......

Doesn't end there....

Fast forward again to March 2007 where I receive a letter from a debt colection agency stating that I owe £813.96 for the address in Derby. Following frantic phone calls I found that the 2 cnuts had opened another account USING MY NAME! the day after I left the house in Derby. So they had free gas/leccy for 9 months before doing a moonlight flit bastards!! Therein follows many calls between myself and debt agency to this day, it's still not sorted.

Moral: Don't EVER put your name down for nothing, people will take advantage and fuck you over at the first chance. Honesty will get you nowhere and it would seem that total twunts will always get on in life.

Apologies for length

Rant over!
(Skeksis 2nd place is 1st loser....., Fri 19 Oct 2007, 12:15, Reply)

Little old sofa lady
Not quite sure if this counts, but in Brighton I advertised a double mattress in the local paper, cheap cos i was getting a new one.

The phone rang and a frail voice said "hello? I'm ringing about the mattress. I'm afraid I don't have £20 but if nobody else is interested..."

I felt guilty for even trying to charge money so I said "no problem you can have it for free. when do you want to collect it?"

"Well I don't have a car love, I'm 92, but if you could find any way of delivering it I would be so, so grateful. My bed is so hard and it hurts my hips.."

I looked up where she lived and it was a few streets away. Fuck it, at least I'd get into heaven. (not the nightclub, the afterlife).

"OK!" I said. "I'll try and bring it round in the next hour or two".

I hoiked it onto my back and tried to carry it, but it was so heavy and kept bending in half. I kept going though, stopping every few metres to wipe the sweat from my brow.

But then it started to piss down with rain so I conceded defeat, and decided to try again later when the rain had stopped.

Exactly an hour later the phone rang. I picked it up and an even, old lady voice said "Where the FUCK is my mattress".
In the background i could hear "Mum, I really don't think.."
But she said again, louder. "Where the FUCK is my mattress you fucking...little.... SHIT you bring it here to me right now".

I hung up and left the mattress in the street for the council to collect, and since then I never lift a finger for another soul, so its a happy ending.

Apologies for length of my mattress.
( browser still relating boring anecdotes into a void on, Fri 19 Oct 2007, 11:42, 4 replies)

con or not?
Any regular taxi from Cambridge to Newmarket costs £35

A yellow / black taxi from Newmarket to Cambridge Costs £25

They also diddle the meter, drive stupid longer routes when your drunk and generally take the piddle something chronic.
(Halfy By light alone, Fri 19 Oct 2007, 11:37, 1 reply)

Stitched Up, Good and Proper
Ah, Wakefield. Often I find myself harking back to the hazy, crazy days of studenthood, reliving the good, bad and ugly times that came with it.

For those of you that have spent time in the country's smallest city (by populopus, fact fans!), you may know of a horrid little bar off the bullring called Juice (or, at least, it was called Juice. I think it was called Tickle after that, and God knows what now...) - anyway, I digress.

For some reason known only to me, once I'd finished my studies I decided to hang around. And, while hanging, I managed this bar. It was hell. Hell with nobs on. A hell so complete even Hieronymous Bosh would have shied away from painting it.

Anyway, I digress again. Walking home from work on crisp evening, I was approached by a very nice young lady. Well spoken, well dressed, good looking - you know the type. She captivated me instantly, and asked me the question that all men pray to be asked by such divine creatures:

"Have you got two tens for a twenty?"

Well, of course I have. I'm a Bar Manager, don'tcherknow? I remove my wallet, slide out two clean, pristine £10 notes, and swap them for a £20.

"Thanks," came forth the words from her lips, "I owe you one."

And then she was gone.

So I continue my stroll home, lost in my reverie of rescuing a damsel dans distress. I'm a bon viveur, a knight in shining armour, a veritable honourable gent. In short, I am a hero. And what do heroes do? That's right, they treat themselves to a four pack of lager and a packet of fags.

So I stop in Threshers, select my produce, and go to pay.

"£9.60 please luv." says the till lady. "No problem," says I, peeling off the £20 I have so recently acquired "Here you go!"

I think you can see where this is going.

The good looking BITCH had taken ADVANTAGE of me! I was trying to help someone out, and got nothing but a dodgy £20 note for my trouble. This taught me a valuable lesson:

NEVER trust ANYONE, EVER. ESPECIALLY IN FUCKING WAKEFIELD.
( Devil_In_Tights the *real* DiT!, Fri 19 Oct 2007, 11:24, 5 replies)

Wide-eyed naive rube
I believed her protestations about a future for us.

£10,000 later I finally woke up.

I can't even muster up much anger towards her; most of my scorn is reserved for my own stupidity.
( flake has nothing against your right leg, Fri 19 Oct 2007, 11:07, 1 reply)

I've conned EVERY woman in the world
into not having sex with me. Thus allowing me extra time for sleep.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Fri 19 Oct 2007, 10:56, 1 reply)

Not me personally, but
we've just had to change our policy for taking direct insurance claims at the vet's where I work. Direct claims are for people with very large bills, so the insurance company can pay the vet's directly instead of the client paying us and then claiming back from the insurance company.

The reason for the change was that one client ran up a bill of about £600 and asked for a direct claim. Fine - we take the claim form, fill out our bit and send it back to the client to send to the insurance company (making sure they've signed and ticked the box to pay the vet, not the policyholder).

One lot of people we did this for, however, changed the form back to have themselves paid, and promptly pulled a disappearing act. So. Not only did they get an op costing around £600 for free, they also earned themselves this amount off the insurance company to put towards their next holiday or car.

To avoid getting conned again we now send the forms direct to the insurance company, who weren't too happy about the whole incident either.
(Zem flolloping floopily around Squornshellous Zeta, Fri 19 Oct 2007, 10:54, Reply)

Anglian Water
"One hundred and fifty seven pounds? I think that's somewhat excessive for six months!" I opined.

"Well sir, that's about normal. Seriously, I don't see a problem there" replied the laughingly titled 'customer service operative'.

"Well, it's just me. Can you explain these charges?" I challenged

"Yes sir, you've used xxxx units of water. You owe us £156.95".

One year on I'm now a customer of Thames Water. Despite bathing AND showering daily, my water bill for the last six months was £80.99...

Anglian Water have not only royally ripped me off, but bent me over, whipped off my shorts and fisted me too for good measure.

I hope they all drown slowly in the effluent they overcharged me to dispose of.

Robbing cunts.
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Fri 19 Oct 2007, 10:43, 8 replies)

Eel
I pulled on my mukluk boots and wrapped a shawl around my flabby shoulders. It looked cold outside. I would have to make this quick or else risk losing everything: my bodily warmth, my girth, my dignity, maybe even my life. I faced the door, humming “Venga Bus” in my mind’s ear in an effort to work myself into a frenzy. “The Venga Bus is coming,” I hummed. And it was coming. It was coming fast and catlike, rolling down the avenue of the mind, turning the corner of the gut and parking itself deep in my bowels. Cometh the bus, cometh the man. I darted for the door. I had to move fast. I threw the door open and lunged outwards, my legs flailing like hot pythons while my nose grunted and squeaked a catatonic rhythm that served only to confuse the hoards of mice that had assembled.

Culkin and I collided on the pavement and landed in a heap. The mice dispersed. I was most disgruntled.
“Culkin!” I bawled. “Culkin, why for doth thou linger in such a manner, akin to that of a dormant street-ostrich? Tell me, attractive boyman!”
The tears came fast. Culkin clasped his hands to his cheeks. It was all he knew how to do. He needed a cuddle so I embraced him, taking him under my shawl.

We lay like this on the street for some time. The passers by on that busy morning street barely noticed, although Boycey gave a knowing wink, and Wincy Willis gave her trademark doff of the hat. She always was and always will be a true gent.

I mustered the strength to carry Culkin inside. He was unconscious so I lay him on the bed. I carefully removed his jeans, and the room filled with the familiar strawberry scent. There was a scratch at the door. It was my loyal dog, sitting proudly like a patchwork tomboy on the doorstep. I invited him inside.

Culkin slept for three days while my perfect little furry urban hippo and I kept watch.

On the third day I mixed a broth and put a small spoonful to Culkin’s lips. The aroma killed him instantly. I vomited blood for ten minutes while my faithful canine landfish gave a silent prayer. Then, like a Trojan eel, he leapt up, and it was only then that I noticed the zip.
“No!” I howled. “Thou art my beaglehorse! My fleshy, wet-nosed brethren! What sorcery is this?”
On only his hind legs, my betrayer used his forepaws to unzip all the way down his undercarriage. And then, from beneath that canine exterior there emerged a sight I had hoped to erase from my mind for ever.
“No, Coleman!” I sobbed as I fell to my knees.
Gary Coleman stepped out of the dogsuit. His cheeks were rounder than ever. His stumpy brown fingers clicked a rhythm – ta ta ta-te ta – and I was transfixed. He then issued forth a guttural howl from deep within. Not again.

I was forced to listen to him screeching the story of the time when Muhammed Ali had mistaken him for a child. I used to love that story, and he often regaled me with it in bed. But now each syllable rang bitterly in my ears. The erection rose swiftly, the thrusts were short and fast, and the climax came quickly. Culkin’s body lay on the floor, ruptured and malformed, and I could only stare in horror at the ungodly jimmynudgery I had been compelled to perform. Coleman had conned me yet again!
(stusut79, Fri 19 Oct 2007, 10:39, 5 replies)

Getting a free pint
Only works once on each venue / victim:

Take a sheet of tissue paper and a rubber band. Stretch the tissue paper over an empty pint glass and secure with the rubber band. Place a 50p (or if you are flush a £2) coin in the centre.

Challenge A. N. Other to a bet. With a lit ciggie you take turns to burn a hole in the paper. The person who causes the coin to drop loses and buys the round.

If you win, fair play. If you lose say "double or quits".

Take out another sheet of tissue paper (though this time you use flash paper) and repeat. Tell them as winner they go first. As soon as the fag touches the paper it will burst into flames and the coin will drop. Smile, enjoy your drinks and leave ... before their mates arrive to beat you to a pulp.

Points to note:
1) Doesn't work so well since the smoking ban (this was 4-5 years ago)
2) Can also be used as a chat-up routine (if you like smokers and ... yes it worked)
3) Msg me if you want to know where to buy the flash paper. Magic Circle stores sell it.
(Dionysian Aut viam inveniam aut faciam, Fri 19 Oct 2007, 10:34, 3 replies)

OK not so much a con as sheer incompetence
I spent 6 years trying to pay for the gas I (and the four others I sublet to) used. Every 6 months or so, I'd ring up British Gas and tell them that I didn't seem to be getting billed...

Once the person on the other end had stopped laughing, they'd take all my details, take the meter number, the address, the reading I'd taken on moving in, the current meter reading and then they'd promise to send someone round.

And then it'd go quiet till I got more antsy about the sheer amount of money I'd owe if they DID send a bill.

Eventually, I moved. I rang them to say I was moving and they said thank you and that they'd forward the final bill.

I'm still waiting 7 years on... Maybe they forgot to put a stamp on or something.
( chthonic, Fri 19 Oct 2007, 10:32, 3 replies)

I was conned.
"I'm a bit of a rocker myself" and "I love that you look after yourself"

Became "This is horrible, turn it off!" and "You're such a wuss, with your moisturiser"

Only after we were married though.

Or the best one "Yes, I'll come to your rehearsal, it'll be good to see you play" became "If I'd known you were in a band, I wouldn't have married you" O_o


(Professor Kenny Martin Hmm? What?, Fri 19 Oct 2007, 10:32, 4 replies)

Insert
She said "I do". Turns out, she doesn't.
(sirolimus, Fri 19 Oct 2007, 10:26, 2 replies)

Ribena
I once bought a Ribena Ice Lolly, when I opened it I saw a small air bubble in the top. It was not very big but, I took a photo at an angle where it looked like the hole ran all the way through. I then wrote an email to Nestle, saying how disappointed I was, blah blah, so they sent me a voucher for £4. Big Time! I also got a letter of apology which said they'd had a word with the factory floor guys and told them to be more vigilant(edit ;).

I felt bad but 4 ice creams for free cure that quite quickly.
( SauronWibble I'll hold it, you lick it..., Fri 19 Oct 2007, 10:22, 2 replies)

Also,
When I was of a younger age, I went to a evangelical church to be saved, be forgiven for my sins, and generally feel like there was an invisible friend that watched over me in the bad times, et tal.

Nice people and all, but seriously?! Pfffft!

....
[todo: insert cock joke here]
( slippery doctore, Fri 19 Oct 2007, 10:20, Reply)

Real Hustle Real Life
Heard on the local news the other day someone used a Real Hustle scam on the high street in Canterbury, and conned £200 out of a bloke for a 'laptop'. Not sure what the hustle was, but top effort!
(jimmy_stavros, Fri 19 Oct 2007, 10:19, Reply)

Not me
But I once convinced one dole-monkey in the local that if he was quick he could bite his own ear. He wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed. Hilarity ensued.
( slippery doctore, Fri 19 Oct 2007, 10:13, 1 reply)

National Express to Liverpool
Got to love those scousers. Not sure if this was actually a con or not, but it was funny...

In the heady days of early teenhood, a female acquaintance and I headed up to Liverpool from London on the National Express to go and see her brother, who was living in dope-filled student digs near the hospital.

We bought an open return, intending to spend a few days up there getting slaughtered then coming home again.

The bus was packed with chirpy Scouse types, and it was quite a fun journey all in all.

Anyway, about 5 miles before the Mersey Tunnel, the conductor came round collecting tickets, and proceeded to tear both the outward and the return ticket from our booklet.

I thought it odd at the time, but being 18 and stoned said nothing.

He carried on and near the front of the bus he did the same to an old bearded man, who at first just looked confused.

Then once the conductor had stopped, this old fella yells out "he's on the fiddle!".

Everyone ignores him, he looks as though he's been sleeping in a puddle of piss, and with the thick scouse accent combined with the amplitude of voice, he had mental health issues written all over him.

So the conductor walks up to him asking what his problem is, and he just repeats his accusation, then starts peppering his sentences with various profanities.

It doesn't take long before the professional National Express employee takes umbrage to this, and tells the old man to shut up and stop being a twat.

Suddenly the old chap gets up and punches the conductor straight in the mouth, really hard, and a scene from a wild west movie began.

The driver was doing about 80mph and looking out for his mate who was not doing too badly, but the fight was fairly even, as the old man was pretty big and clearly knew how to box.

The bus was swerving, these to pugilists were rolling around from one end of the bus to the other, old ladies were screaming, I and my lady friend were trying not to laugh.

In the end another passenger gets involved and they eventually manage to pin this old dude to the ground, all the while he's yelling about having his return ticket stolen.

I look at my empty booklet and it dawns on me that he's actually right.

The cops arrive as the bus is literally in the mouth of the Mersey Tunnel, drag the old guy off the bus and chuck him in a meatwagon.

The conductor is in a bit of a state, couple of teeth missing and certainly a fresh selection of facial bruises which would undoubtedly be turning purple before the weekend was through, he climbs back on the bus to a round of applause from the hitherto screaming old ladies.

"Welcome to Liverpool" he says with a gappy smile.

Everyone laughs, and we carry on our merry way.

Had a great weekend, clubbing and pubbing, (this was the early days of the indie-rave scene, Stone Roses and Happy Mondays, so everyone was out getting wrecked and having a good time) and when it came for us to head home, we went to the National Express portacabin to explain our ticket situation.

They issued a replacement return wiithout any question whatsoever, which leads me to believe this was a common scam, re-selling return tickets to London and re-issuing replacements.

I often wonder what became of the old guy, becauuse essentially he was right, the conductor was on the fiddle...
(randomkaraoke is seeking mong-wobble-gif mongering on, Fri 19 Oct 2007, 10:10, 3 replies)

Sponsored events - how I broke school records, and how I nearly got molested
This is long. Sorry...

Hmmmm.... well, I'm one of those ridiculously honest folk. If, say, I'm a penny short at a shop and the owner says "don't worry about it" I'll obsess about giving that penny back at some later date.

But, I had a phase in life, aged around 11, when I was largely unsupervised. An outsider in the town of Horwich, having not long arrived. My Dad had just divorced my stepmum, and I was living with some random family again. At school I was generally good... then sponsorship day came around. You were encouraged to get these forms and fill them in, asking for money from people to get you to do things, like run ten miles or something equally pointless. I'd always been very good at fundraising - often knocking on doors and persuading neighbours, but this time round, thanks to the lack of supervision, I'd failed to resist the lure of the Battlezone machine. Yes - I'd spent some of the sponsorship money.

That's how it started really. Fessing up to random family wasn't an option. I had a shortfall to make up, and panic was setting in. Then I realised, some people just handed me money and didn't pay attention to whether I filled in the form or not. I always did (being essentially honest) but suddenly I found an answer! So I continued my fundraising, carefully avoiding filling in some details. After completing my two forms I had all the money back, and about £20 for the school - a lot in 1980.

Thing is, it was going so well, and I did really enjoy Battlezone, and sweets, that I asked for another form from a teacher. And at that point I also realised that the distribution of forms was unaudited.

Now, I make no excuses for this, it was wrong, I'm ashamed, and I shouldn't have done it. I've tried to make amends, but also, in a way, I'm quite proud of the work I put into my by then large scale fraud.

I enlisted the help of a friend and fellow Battlezone enthusiast. Together we collected as many sponsorship forms from as many different teachers as possible - the more absent-minded the better. We then systematically worked every street in the town. Every evening we'd go out and spend about two hours collecting money. The idea was that 80% would go to the school, and the rest to us.

But Battlezone and sweets weren't enough. Oh no, once you've sampled the good life you want more. Yes, more! Before we knew it, we were buying packets of biscuits, pop and playing Galaxians. Our greed knew no bounds.

Of course, there's another downside to turning up at every stranger's house in a largeish town. I knocked on the door of an elderly-ish gentleman. Nice chap he was. Very friendly, beard like Santa, and he gave me a couple of quid. And would I like a nice warming drink? "Why of course!", says a rather naive me, following him inside. He handed me something called, I think, White Tiger. Enjoying the idea of illicit alcohol, I lapped it up, even taking a second glass. All this time he was telling me about his art - that he loved painting - especially, it seemed, young boys. He asked me if I'd like to model for him....

Now drunk for the first time in my life, I woozily felt it was time to leave and find my mate who was working the other side of the street. At this point the old fella became... shall we say 'clingy'? I just assumed he was lonely. But I needed to go and the spinning room feeling was getting to me. In the end I talked my way out of his cottage and into fresh air, where an anxious looking friend was found - him worrying where I'd got to for half an hour.

Excitedly, I regaled him with this tale of the lovely old duffer artist, who painted boys and gave me alcohol! "Maybe you should go in too?!" I asked. He went mental. It seems accepting alcohol from strangers is worse than accepting sweets. Nobody had told me this. I knew about not looking at rabbits in cars, and not crossing railway lines, but at school they never tell you not to take spirits of strangers. Ho-hum. I still don't know to this day whether he was dodgy or not. Probably not, really, but you can never be sure....

Anyway, back to the fraud... we continued it for another two weeks, stepping up efforts as the sponsorhip closing date approached. I even considered finding new recruits to help me clear the whole town out.

But, rather like a prepubescent Tony Montana (yes, I know this story predates his story, but humour me here), the good times and expansion were my downfall.

Random family's mother became suspicious of my seemingly endless personal source of Bourbons and Ginger Nuts. That, the weight gain, and disappearing every evening on 'business' led to her going through my room. Something I felt Mr Montana never had to put up with. Still, I knew my number was up - she found the stash of money. And, coupled to the fact that I kept scrupulous notes on where we'd been and what was to be kept aside, meant that the full scale of the sting was fully uncovered.

My forms added up to about £150, with £40 still unspent. So what did random family do? Well, they weren't going to pay off the school. That could have opened up another can of worms. So they did what any accessory would do in such a situation and hid the evidence, snitched my mate to his parents (he was found with about £50 missing, but poor notes - the amateur), told my dad and bollocked me. And we were both grounded. Dad said he'd have to dig into his pocket to pay it all off, but I knew only the non-fraud forms were sent in. I was leaving the town anyway, just after all this, so I never really saw the aftermath. I did have time to make a final (fully honest) collection, and hand over the ultimate and seemingly fully accounted takings of around £60.

It wasn't all bad for me - I left before the awards day, but I later learned that I'd been awarded a special mention for being the second best fundraiser of the year!

As an adult I've worked on corporate payroll accounts and finance systems dealing in billions. And of course, been completely clean with them - even advising on how to avoid fraud. I'm really quite glad I got caught - it taught me that no matter how much you desire a Kit-Kat, the social elevation of a Galaxians high score, or even that delicious cream slice - fraud isn't worth it - you get caught, and then get watched very carefully for years afterwards.
(clopinettes, Fri 19 Oct 2007, 9:53, 1 reply)

Not me but...
The guitarist in my band. Now, I have no sympathy as this is sheer idiocy and frankly deserves to be exploited. Let's begin.

This all starts when we're playing a gig and his guitar dies. Bugger, no sound. He's left handed, so has to borrow a right handed one and play it upside down. After this utter debacle, we decide we need some backup for him...

After a trip round the guitar shops I'd found him loads of nice, left handed, decently priced backup guitars, but no. He wants the most expensive thing he can lay his hands on, and sets his sights on a vintage Gibson, left handed.

These are not the easiest things to find, and after no luck in the UK, he ventures online to a guitarists forum to see what he can find. After posting one message, he gets a reply almost instantly from a guy with a left handed version of exactly the guitar he's after, who's willing to sell it and ship it to him for £2,000. "Great!" thinks he, and, unperturbed by the fact that this guy doesn't want to list it on E-Bay for a quick buy it now (for buyers / sellers rights etc), quickly goes about wiring this chap some money. Now... what do you think happens if you wire £2,000 to a stranger in Brazil with no guarantees or protection?

Idiota.
( Sonic James Doom forgetting the date since... umm..., Fri 19 Oct 2007, 9:48, 1 reply)

Of course...
there is also this.
(><(((">, Fri 19 Oct 2007, 9:24, Reply)