When my ex-girlfriend was 18,
she went on a holiday to Majorca with her boyfriend at the time. The couple staying in the apartment next door to theirs were rather frisky, and fucked noisily several times a day. The Ex was something of a voyeur, and all this turned her on no end, and so she ended up alternating between pushing her ear to the wall and flicking herself off while they fucked, and grabbing her boyfriend and having him scuttle her violently from behind while they listened to the neighbours make the beast with two backs.

After about a week of this she went onto the balcony and saw that the couple next door were about the same age as her grandparents, and did a bit of sick in her mouth.
(cs1ca, Fri 3 Jan 2014, 16:49, 24 replies)

Coke cans of doom
I lived with an Italian guy for a couple of years. We rented a town house with a big bay window and a tiny front garden - literally 4 by 2 feet of gravel with a hedge. He was good fun, a hard working and personable dude who liked a drink and knew how to talk to the ladies. He was a man of the world, but a different world,so occasionally he would make endearing errors like stocking the fridge with Tennent's Super on the grounds that "in Italy, Tennents Scotch Ale is the best British beer you can buy, ah?!".

He was also the kind of guy who, if he saw work that needed doing, would willingly get stuck in without being asked. For example, one morning I took it upon myself to trim the unruly hedge out front and he soon appeared, sporting gloves and a rubbish bag, and offered to take care of the clippings.

As anyone who's tackled that particular task will tell you, it's almost impossible to get normal grade bin liners to hold a hedge clipping of any substance without being shredded so it took about 30 seconds for my mild-mannered accomplice to transform into ITALIAN RAGE MAN. "Va fanculo," he announced. "My balls are completely broken. I go now to the shop for a proper fucking bag, not this cazzo piece of shit." I carried on clipping, knowing when to keep my nose out, as the stylishly black leather jacket-clad figure stalked off to the corner store.

He returned presently, sporting some heavyweight garden sacks and the phone number of a girl he'd met along his 100 yard journey. Carrying on with the task at hand, he was happily filling the bag when my attention was again taken by an enraged yell.

"The fuck is this shit?"

"What's up, man?"

"Behind the small hedge. Is a fucking..." he leaned into the void between a small bush and the front wall of the house. "is fucking.. two hundred of empty Coke cans."

I descended the ladder, inspected the bush and found him to be completely correct. Some of them had clearly been there a while, judging by the rust, but it was undeniable: the space under the bush was completely filled with discarded fizzy drink cans.

"You know what piss me off? These are all the same. Is all Coke. No Tango, no Sprite. Is just Coke. Is one bastard who is doing this things."

He may be from the North of Italy but I recognised the look in his eye from the Godfather films. You can insult a man's choice of beer but you can't litter his garden. The disrespect, I could see, would not stand.

I convinced him that the cans were ancient history, and that the important thing was to clear the garden. But he was agitated for the rest of the day, and after work on Monday I found him fuming in the kitchen.

"You know what I found in the garden this evening, man?"

I held my breath.

"A FUCKING Coke can. This bloody bastard is still fucking with my garden."

Now, our hero here works in IT so it didn't take him long to come up with a plan. Within the hour we had a webcam pointing out of the living room window and recording the bush out front. The short USB cable meant his laptop was perched precariously on the TV stand but he bolstered it with a cushion and, satisfied, eventually calmed his nerves enough to retire for the evening.

The following evening he was home early to check the evidence. Nothing.

Wednesday he was out of town on business but rang me twice to make sure I'd checked the footage for evidence. I had, but saw nothing untoward.

On Thursday I came home, opened the front door and found him hunched over the laptop, his vengeful countenance lit only by the glow of the screen.

"Man."

"Yes mate."

"I have found the coolprit."

"Oh aye?"

"I don't understand."

He turned the laptop for me to see. The webcam had been taking one shot every five seconds, so there were only three frames of the crime being committed. In the first, there was just a foot visible, intruding into the front garden area. The second image was blurry, but obviously showed a figure leaning over the bush to place something into the space behind it. But final frame was the money shot; our phantom litterer had turned enough to reveal their face to the camera. It wasn't a belligerent chav, it wasn't a thoughtless kid, it wasn't a mentally unstable homeless guy tidying litter off the street. In fact, we both recognised the face.

It was the batty old woman next door.

We knew her by sight; I'd cut her lawn a couple of times and (I hoped) she would've just said if we were doing something to upset her. What the living shit she was sticking Coke cans behind our hedge for was a mystery.

Now, the thing about Italians is they're very proud, to the point where you can't cross them if you value your life, but they also value their family and friends above all else. I could actually see the confusion on his face - the nice old girl next door was clearly filed in a part of his mind that was completely incompatible with the embodification of pure evil that he had built his litterbug nemesis up to be.

Eventually, we decided to talk to the police. They'd be able to get her some help or something.

The generously proportioned officer at the station did agree to send someone round to have a chat and see if there was a problem. But, he said, we wouldn't be able to press charges since the littering occurred on private land (our garden) and thus was not technically a crime. Obviously we weren't going to go that far anyway, but an interesting tidbit for you there.

We returned home, somewhat mollified, and sure enough the Coke cans stopped appearing after that.

No more than a month later, however, I came home to find policemen in the neighbour's front garden.

"She died," said the WPC. "We're not suspecting foul play."

The house went to auction the following April, and in May the Italian and I moved out, he to Scotland and I into London. We never spoke about our elderly ex-neighbour again.

Lesson learned. You do not fuck with an Italian's hedge.
( pineapplecharm D d M Y, H:i, Thu 9 Jan 2014, 13:57, 5 replies)

The accidental spy
or stalker, I guess. It was a pleasant calm day at the seaside the other week, the winds were only forcing us to walk at 45 degree angles to make slow forward progress and the spray of the sea was getting battered over the seawall to sprinkle salty snowflake-a-likes into the red-cheeked faces of those stupid enough to be out doing some post Christmas shopping. That would be me and some visiting relatives then.

We took a detour into an arcade to cut through to the main shopping area and I held the door open for a man getting blown in the same direction. He had a moustache, a stupid hat and zero fucking manners. He half turned when I mumbled "ignorant cunt" a bit too loudly when he failed to say thanks for holding the door open and then carried on his way. From then on it seemed everywhere we were going he was too, just a few steps ahead, and I think he noticed as he kept giving furtive glances behind him. We even popped into McDonalds and there he was coming out of the toilets as I went in. In one shop we passed on escalators going in opposite directions and I swear he did a comedy double-take.

As we headed home along the less blustery but now pissing it down promenade I spotted him again a good block ahead of us. Not wishing to put the shits up the old fella again I bundled my cohorts into the nearest newsagents/cheap tat shops to give him time to reach minimum safe distance. Can you guess who was in there buying The Sun and some baccy? I gave out some kind of maniacal short shriek of laughter followed by giggles that wouldn't stop as hat guy fled in terror, now condemned to a lifetime of checking over his shoulder for the deranged seaside stalker woman.
( Ms Shenanigans put something interesting here later, Mon 6 Jan 2014, 9:32, 19 replies)

Cleaner Cam
A while back I had to find a new cleaner. The old one had been with us years and become part of the family. She was trustworthy, loyal and above all, an excellent cleaner.

But she got deported so a replacement had to be found. A suitable candidate, a friend of a friends' cleaner's sister duly arrived for an 'interview'. She seemed nice, polite and most importantly had a valid visa. So she started the next week - but by the end of the following week, I'd lost £100. I remember coming home from a work party and depositing five, £20 notes on the kitchen table. I left early to work the next day and passed our new cleaner at the front door. When I returned home, the £100 was gone.

Not wanting to fly off the handle and accuse her, I thought I'd lay a trap. She was due in the next morning, so I hid my camcorder on the top shelf in the living room and hit 'record'. That night I got the camera down and settled in to watch two hours of 'Cleaner Cam'.

Oh. My. God.

This girl could clean for England! Or maybe the Philippines. She hoovered, dusted, sprayed and even lifted the sofa to clean underneath it - something our old girl had never, ever done. She worked solidly for two hours, even when she was out of shot I could hear the hoover, or the taps running to fill the mop bucket.

To top it off, when I went into my bedroom, I found the missing £100 in an envelope in my top drawer, with a note from her saying that this was a safer place than leaving it on the kitchen table.

I felt guilty for a bit. And then I ended up having an affair with her and had to let her go.

But that, as they say, is another story.
( Albert Marshmallow is a completely irredeemable cunt, Tue 7 Jan 2014, 15:55, 14 replies)

A friend of mine had a flatmate who was a bit paranoid
This guy Derek actually owned the flat and let out two of the bedrooms, so technically he was the landlord too. So my friend, who I'll call Stuart, as that's his name, came back from T In The Park a bit weary and shellshocked. It was therefore a bit much to find that Derek had installed cameras in the flat, one in the lobby and one outside the flat door. All a bit Howard Hughes, and not the kind of thing you want to see when on a massive comedown.

Stuart was not to be deterred though, and made a plan. Once he'd recovered, and when Derek was out working, he climbed out of his window, inched his way across the balcony and got into Derek's bedroom (his door always being locked, of course). There he saw that the cameras were hooked up to Derek's computer, recording all day (for his review?).

So he called up a few of us. Then he sat at computer, paused the recording, and we got into position in the lobby. He re-started recording for a few seconds while we danced like total spazzes, paused it, then recorded it with no-one there, paused it so we could appear out of nowhere doing more spazz dancing... and repeat, and repeat. For about half an hour.

Next day Derek asked him to move out. Not a word was said about the videos.
(McChinaman banned, Tue 7 Jan 2014, 12:05, 6 replies)

my first flat in london was a tiny shithole rooftop apartment at the top of long set of stairs that were in perpetual darkness
its one redeeming feaure was a small balcony. I noticed one of my flatmates had taken to having his bowl of cereal standing out on it each morning. This went on for weeks. One day I decided to join him.
Apart from the ubiquitous noisy pigeon sex, the other thing of note was a women in the apartment opposite and down one storey undressing in the bathroom. With the window open.
For the next few weeks and months I had my weetbix standing next to him on the balcony.
Fuck I love pigeons
( cumquat may will not be commenting further on the allegations, Thu 2 Jan 2014, 19:40, 11 replies)

Au pair
When number 1 daughter was a mere baby, a girl from Brazil came to stay with us - free board and lodging in return for light babysitting duties. We'd accidentally gained an Au Pair!

Now, being new parents, we were terrified of Bad Stuff happening to the sprog, and so considered using a Nanny Cam. I was discussing this with a colleague at work, and I was explaining the problem I was having deciding where to put the camera to check on the Au Pair.

"Just under the rim works best," he said, without thinking...

!
(moon monkey is busy making memories worth repressing, Thu 2 Jan 2014, 15:57, 7 replies)

Long story short, I spied on my own mouth.

( Dr. Shambolic je suis charlie, Thu 2 Jan 2014, 13:35, 3 replies)

I'm an IT Manager. So I have control over all the mail servers and internal comms in our company. I was asked by a Director to remove a couple of emails accidentally sent to two members of staff, before they returned to work the following day. This I duly did. However while there I discovered that these two people spend most of the day bitching about pretty much everyone in the company (including their boss), usually while being extremely friendly to their face - often they are typing these vicious emails to each other WHILE having the conversation with their 'target'. Horribly two-faced. What gets on my tits is all the stuff they say about me though. I'm now addicted to it and getting myself more and more wound up every day. I can't reveal I've seen their mail because it makes me look unprofessional. But I've opened Pandora's box and now hate going to work. Serves me right I guess!

Although they have broken the two Golden Rules of the office - (1) Don't use work email for personal communications, and (2) Don't piss off the IT Manager.
(Euan_Kerr, Tue 7 Jan 2014, 15:54, 25 replies)

danishbackon's story reminds me…
I worked in IT when I lived in Abu Dhabi at the turn of the millennium. My mentor was a one man IT department, a friendly Egyptian fellow and I was being trained up as his assistant. The company I was employed by was quite large, so for some reason EtiSalat (the UAE's version of BT) allowed us to sort out our own internet filters for some reason - meaning you could access pretty much any website you wanted from work.

Anyway, I was flat sharing with two guys much older than me, both married with their wives still in England. They also both worked for the same company as me (it was a company flat, see). One day at work one of them - John - called my boss up asking for some computer related thingy to get sorted out from the workstation in his personal office. Several hours later my boss does that "auto-connect link thing" where you remotely take over someone's workstation to troubleshoot. Only, as soon as he's connected, we see his screen, and he's looking at animal grot on the internet - a woman sucking off a horse of all things. At work! So my boss instantly unconnected, extremely embarrassed, and nothing else was ever said about it.

Except… being curious, and having access to the relevant technology, I remotely looked though his internet history later on that evening. Apart from several animal porn sites, the majority of sites he had frequented at work were of the ilk "are you worried you have AIDS?"

Finding out your flatmate watches animal porn at work and has been keeping the local prostitutes in business COULD have made for quite an awkward time flat-sharing, but luckily we hardly ever saw each other…
(SigourneysBeaver took off and nuked the entire site from orbit on, Tue 7 Jan 2014, 13:46, 2 replies)

Spying on your own family
Not me, but my new boss. He's American: the most Republican, gun-owning, good ol' boy you can imagine. The first time he came to Europe I took him out to dinner and tried to make non-work related conversation in order to get to know him. He'd just moved house so we were talking houses and gardens, and told me that he had a lovely little play house in the garden which was a miniature replica of his own house. How sweet, I thought. Then he said, "But I haven't put the CCTV in there yet."

"Oh", I said, "are you worried about burglars in the play house?"
"No, no", he replied, "I just like to know what my family are up to. I have cameras in all the rooms of the house. I can access them via the internet so I can see what my wife and children are up to any time of the day or night while I'm at work or travelling."

After that I found that I could not discuss politics, climate change, health care, gun ownership and a host of other topics with him, as they exposed the massive gaps between our points of view. And this is my boss, so I have to at least get on with him. So now we only discuss work.
(Smale is stuffed, Tue 7 Jan 2014, 9:00, 18 replies)

Your mother once got so drunk she thought a frozen cornish pasty was a hat.
That's my ice pie on someone story.
( Dr Preference AjcuiVd289, Thu 2 Jan 2014, 18:45, 3 replies)

Albert Marshmallow, the end.

( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Thu 2 Jan 2014, 12:38, 2 replies)

Accidental voyeur
After helping out with a play at a local theatre, I needed to return some equipment. So I went along to see the next production, and in the interval asked where I could find the director. "He's through there," I was told, and pointed at a door.

Now the play being performed this week was set in a girls's school. When I opened the door, I found that it led directly into the backstage area where about 30 teenage girls were changing into their school uniforms ready for the second half.

In your fantasies, that might sound like the start of a classic Sexy Schoolgirls porn scene, one for the long-term wank bank. You can imagine me in a smoking jacket, with a pencil moustache and monacle, carrying a bottle of champers and two glasses. "Me, the girls of St Trinians, and three dozen shots of Rohypnol? What WERE they thinking???"

In reality, I kept my head down and my eyes firmly fixed on the floor as I hurried through to the next room. I still clearly remember the pattern on the carpet.

Coward.
(moon monkey is busy making memories worth repressing, Mon 6 Jan 2014, 11:53, 6 replies)

Rear window
This one time that fit bird in the flat opposite left her curtains open all afternoon and I saw she had a lady friend round. At first it was all cups of tea and gossip but all of a sudden the bird donned a pair of rubber gloves. Rubber gloves! Her friend was just sat there on the couch with her legs open.

It's not often you get to see someone do the washing-up while their friend watches telly. Phwoar!
( .Yeti. El amor en los tiempos del cólera, Sun 5 Jan 2014, 20:49, Reply)

Spying, I suppose.
I lived on the 6th floor of a building. There was another identical building opposite me.

A girl on the 3rd floor used to frequently prance around her apartment naked, with all the curtains open, and lights on. You have to assume she was not bothered about being seen.

One day my girlfriend at the time was at my place. I said "Hey, look, that girl is flashing again", which sent my gf into an immediate apoplectic rage.

Next time, I'll keep my fucking mouth shut.

(yes, wanking, etc. Good one)
(username failed moderation, Thu 2 Jan 2014, 14:56, 12 replies)

LOST

( Dr Preference AjcuiVd289, Thu 9 Jan 2014, 12:30, 3 replies)

Well, I am off for a few weeks. I hope to spy on lots of things while I am away but not in a creepy way.

( d.r._and_quinch when will you be famous?, Mon 6 Jan 2014, 18:10, 4 replies)

Wanked myself almost to death.
On a family holiday when I was about 15 we went to some tourist-full beach resort. I soon discovered that the the changing rooms at the swiming pool had louvres on them meaning one could see out of them but not in to them.
I was 15, the women were topless, I wanked!
I've not seen the like to this day and keep meaning to work out where it was so I can go back and wank myself to death as an old codger.
(Me, I'm not... in any way intoxicated, Sat 4 Jan 2014, 19:06, 10 replies)

at university
I wanted to slip a valentine card under the door of one of the fit girls in Hall but didn't know which room she was in, so a mate came up with a cunning plan: wait until she left the bar and then run outside to see which bedroom light came on.

I did this.

I got the wrong room.

The girl who got the card (which, to make matters worse, didn't have her name on it, just a poem) was the Hall munter, universally known as The Walrus.

Thankfully one doesn't generally sign valentine cards, or I would have been fuX0red. And not in a good way.

On the bright side, I raised The Walrus's self-esteem to a point where she did later shag my mate Jim. Mind you, he was still on the rebound from his crush on kd lang (we had fun breaking that news to him).
(rogerzilla, Thu 2 Jan 2014, 19:23, Reply)