I farted and it was gas only. No solids. No liquids. Beat my crook guts. Happy days.
( enoughblueskyforsailorstrousers, Fri 11 Feb 2011, 8:14, 6 replies)

When I moved out of my last house, I "forgot" to replace the burst lightbulbs or mention the electrical fault that had killed the washing machine.
This was after the landlords had spent more than a year "forgetting about" the damp problem that caused most of the plaster to peel off the front wall, or the blocked chimney that caused the place to fail the gas safety inspection leaving me without the advertised central heating for the entire duration of the tenancy.

Now I'm paying £75 less in rent and about £50 less in bills every month for a far better place and they're probably struggling to find anyone desperate enough to move into such an extortionate shithole. Hooray.
( The Mock TurtIe ™ --- Thinks you are a cunt, on, Fri 11 Feb 2011, 3:18, 6 replies)

I lived in Edinburgh at one point
And was gruesomely poor. I'd just graduated from uni, and feel obliged to take take the first job I was offered. This was a crappy job temping in an office in Edinburgh's Sighthill (unaffectionately known as Shitehill). I'd stupidly spent my overdraft on drugs and general fucking around, and after a few soul-crushing weeks living in a hostel (no money for a flat: no, not me) and humiliating rejections for flat-shares (think: Shallow Grave), I evetually found a bedsit off Leith Walk. "Grubby" doesn't even begin to describe it: it had that horrible itchy wallpaper, a TV with a fucked tube (all distorted colours at one corner), and a bed. I shared a shower room with a horrible manky damp carpet and a kitchen stocked by the remnant of charity shops from the 1970s.

This was paid weekly with a week's deposit. Just scraping that together left me absolutely broke, living off cornflakes and toast. But anyways, after a few months the job was about to end, and I couldn't find another one in Edinburgh worthy of the name (it was just coming up to Xmas), so I gave up and decided to move back home at the end of the week.

I told the landlord this and said I'd like the deposit back. He said I had to give 2 week's notice. I said I couldn't, as the job would be ending; I'd be leaving at the end of the week. He said he was "sorry" but there was "nothing he could do": he wouldn't give me it back. Knowing full-well that notice periods are usually the same as the payment period, I felt diddled and conned and cheated. It wasn't like I had any money to spare.

I happened to notice that the width of the room was the same as the length of the bed. And my room was on the first floor, but as there were basement flats, there was a gap in front, and a small walkway to reach the main door. (I hope you know what I mean - basically the ground fell away in front of my "ground-floor window" to the basement flats underneath). So, in a desperate search for a petty victory, I put my bags into the hallway, put the bed up against the door, climbed out the window, climbed along the fence to the walkway, went in the front door, got my bags, left my keys behind and left the landlord to try to figure out how to get in.

I'm not proud of this. But it had to be done.
(McChinaman banned, Fri 11 Feb 2011, 2:54, Reply)

I won the 2010 amateur midget wrestling tournament.

( mike woz ere 7442200 & 7696970 getter, Fri 11 Feb 2011, 2:38, 4 replies)

Would you like hair with that?
Not really a small victory, but it was the beginning of the "Bring Domino's down one pizza at a time" campaign, which has had a good run and even after four years still dissuades people from risking Domino's.

So a few years ago I moved from Sydney to Melbourne and was catching up with some friends for a few beers. We ordered pizzas from the local Domino's store, one meaty, one veggie.

Halfway through the veggie one I find a stray hair. So we call the store and after much repeating of "It's a fkn human hair" they finally agree to send us out a replacement.

Sulky delivery driver arrives and examines pizza. Complains that we should have called before eating most of the pizza. Well excuse me sunshine but I don't pick around hairy pizza slices deliberately.

After the twunt had gone, we then discovered they'd actually deliberately baked a hair (different colour) into the replacement pizza.

Once i'd settled in Melbourne, I sent the CEO of Domino's Australia a letter, to which i'd sellotaped said hair. A month later I got a letter of apology. With a voucher for two free pizzas - collection only, and the immortal paragraph "you may not feel like pizza so please pass on the voucher to a charitable organisation".

I decided not to wipe my arse on the voucher and post it back to the CEO, but to this day every time anyone has threatened to get Domino's pizza, i've shared my experience and they've called Pizza Hut instead.

That, is my small victory.
(squirrelysquirrel, Fri 11 Feb 2011, 2:16, Reply)

Someone said: "I'll pay you the money, and then you can fuck off..."
"No, don't worry about the money," I replied, "you can just fuck off right now."
(IdlePeAcEsign if trouble were my mistress, i'd send her to them, Fri 11 Feb 2011, 1:34, Reply)

Landlords...
A few years back me and my g/f were looking for our first flat together as she was just finishing the last year of her masters degree and I, well, I was doing nothing in particular.
So I go flat hunting and am taken around some right shitholes. Price was very important though as neither of us had much money. Just as I was about to consign ourselves to living in a small, mouldy cupboard the guy showing me around took me to a property that hadn't yet been put on the books.

It was a breath of fresh air. It was very spacious and had just been freshly done up. New kitchen, bathroom, nice neutral colours. In fact the only thing wrong with the place was that the fuseboard hadn't been installed yet. The estate agent assured me it would be installed before the move in date (the date my G/F was moving out of a student house). I asked the price of the place and was elated to discover it was well within our price range so I told him i'd take it. Paid the bond, first months rent and fees the same day. Brilliant.

When it came to moving day, i'd hired a van to move our stuff in and came in through the door to find bare wires hanging down from the ceiling. No biggie I thought, having worked in domestic electrical installation myself I knew that fuseboards didn't take long to install. I offered to install it myself and have my father (a recently retired electrical engineer) certificate it. But they insisted on having 'their' guys do it. Phoned up the agency and they said it would be a week before they could install it. Luckily my parents were able to put us up in the meantime.

So after a week we moved in to our new, electrified flat and got about the business of living and starting life together.

Then winter kicked in...

Now my g/f and I don't like artificial heat. We find it too stifling and dry so we hadn't tried the boiler until the cold really set in. To my dismay I discovered that the damn thing didn't work. There was power to it and it seemed to want to start running. I phoned the agency and they informed me that they hadn't actually connected the boiler to a gas supply and that they'd contact British Gas to get the supply up and running. Great!

3 months later we were STILL without gas, freezing our asses off. Even after reminding them in no uncertain terms that it was their responsibility to supply the domestic services, as stated in the signed tennant's agreement. Eventually it was sorted and we could feel our feet again.

By this time we were half way through our tennancy and had not received a water bill. We reminded them of this too on more than one occasion. It never came.

Anyway, we had a lot of great times in that flat in spite of the crap management and when the time came to renew the tennancy we had decided to move on. So the guy who had showed me the place came around to inspect the place (he never had during the previous 11 months) a few weeks before we were to move out, wherein he informed us that he would be keeping our bond to cover the water bill he'd never given us and we'd have to pay for the decoration to be re done due to the damp and mould that had set in the stairwell in the 3 months we were without heating. I could sense this guy wasn't worth arguing with so I said nothing and let him on his way.

TO THE INTERNET, BATMAN!!! I started reading up on tennant's and landlord's rights and responsibilities and came accross a rather interesting peice of legislation called the 'Bond Protection Scheme'. In it I discovered that if a landlord fails to put your bond in to a third party protection or holding scheme and notify you of its whereabouts, they are liable to pay THREE TIMES the amount of the bond in compensation ON TOP of refunding the bond. In our case this came to the spooge inducing sum of £2000.
They hadn't protected our bond.
I don't think i've laughed so much in a while since that moment. The utter glee and absolute certainty that I could fuck this guy over royally if he didn't do exactly as I wanted.

I informed the agency about their little mishap and that I wanted my bond back in full. Mysteriously, it transpired that the property had never actually been on their books and that the guy who had shown me around was letting other properties out on the side. So he was my next port of call. I wish I could have seen the look on his face over the phone when informed of his mistake. I let him know that I was willing to come to an agreement. After all we're not greedy people. We just wanted to get out and move on and not have to go through courts and all sorts of nonsense.

So we managed to get him to accept responsibility for the ingress of mould and damp, get our bond back in full AND get him to pay the water bill that he'd waved in our faces in such a smug manner. On top of this I asked him to provide us with a sum of money that HE thought was appropriate for our inconvenience at the hands of his piss-poor management. Though I warned him not to insult us or I would take the matter further.

In the end we accepted his offer and probably came out of the ordeal a hell of a lot better than the £2000 we may or may not have got if we'd taken to matter to court, considering the water bill and decoration costs.

A few months later and my parents had bought a bungalow so we went to visit them. Guess who they were living next door to? There's nothing better than walking past someone with a knowing smile and seeing them look intently at the ground as they shuffle by...

Apologies for length.
(Megamoss, Fri 11 Feb 2011, 1:26, 4 replies)

Whilst working as 2IC in a largish industrial kitchen (retail dips, pate, meat, cheese & soups)
I had misfortune of working with an exceedingly lazy gent called Carbags (as that was his nickname - another story for another day). Carbags was my senior and the "chef". I was more qualified than him - he got better money & perks purely cause he'd been there for a long time and knew the recipes but wouldn't (couldn't) share them.
While I was paid a moderate casual rate (with NO penalty rates, leave or loading, sick leave etc.) but in charge of stock, orders, costings, the other staff (including hiring/firing), food prep, cooking, sealing and packing, Carbags cooked and that was about it. He got a salary (about 15k more than me) and an (albeit fairly crappy) company car and quite a few other perks. We both started early (0330) but often I would have to work late when Carbags would scite off early.
Germy (the very tight-fisted owner) was shit-scared of Carbags leaving and not divulging the recipes. I quickly worked out the recipes but held off giving them to Germy as a measure of respect to Carbags (who had his own fears for his job/salary as Germy was really tight).
What used to really piss me off tho was when we (myself & all the other staff) would be going hammer & tongs in order to get an order out on time (definitely all-hands on deck type of thing), Carbags would make sure Germy wasn't around then take 15 min. (@ least) to sit down with a cuppa and read the paper. Apart from him we all had the same break-times.
The last 6 months I was there I had a particularly nasty tummy-bug which eventually became chronic and was found to have been caused by my working with offal etc.(remember, NO sick leave!) - to my personal/professional hygiene credit the Health Dept. checked many times and I never passed it on. (HACCP was a bitch to get but I was the most instrumental in getting the certification).
On the day I decided to leave (with no notice after all the shit I copped from Germy & Carbags - I was casual still and only technically had to give/receive 1hrs. notice) I left a carefully thought out note on Germy's desk detailing
a.) the amount of paid time Carbags had scited (particularly noting that a lot of those times where when other staff had to do expensive overtime),
b.) exactly how much money Carbag's laziness had cost Germy in the 2 and a half years I had been there (I used my fairly extensive costing skill to good effect with breakdowns for everything) - it was actually quite a large amount and
c.) all of the recipes (most of which I cooked about half the time anyway). That was my last laugh sorry, phyric victory.
Length? The time it took for Germy to cut Carbags' salary and make him drive his own car to work!
EDITED for a bit more clarity and context for when everyone starts calling me either a liar or prick & picking my tale apart.
(Misery McUglywife an attention seeking sociopathic fuckstain., Fri 11 Feb 2011, 1:19, 4 replies)

They never had a chance....
Like most people in their late teens, money was used to fund a social life and not for saving, but to show my dear old mum, I opened an account at the Leicester Building Society and put a small but respectable amount in their top interest easy access account. I surprised myself by not taking it all out the following week and kept it there for quite a while.

Then suddenly it was announced one day how the Leicester was merging with the Alliance Building Society and how much better off us savers would be. Fine, I thought as I saw how the interest rate was slightly higher for the Gold Account at the newly refurbished Alliance & Leicester branch.

Several months later, I needed some money for a holiday and having no other resource had to finally admit defeat and raid some of the savings account. As I handed over my passbook to withdraw the money I casually commented how I was surprised that my passbook hadn't been rebranded to A & L Gold. "That's because you don't have an A & L Gold Account" said the assistant. Yours is the old Leicester Gold Account that pays 0.0000000001% interest (or something similar)."

I was not happy and told the assistant how could a Building Society effectively operate two accounts with the same name and how misleading to introduce the second at the time when everything was changing. It pissed me off rotten and therefore a letter was dispatched where I basically accused the A & L of fraud by confusing their customers.

A & L wrote back and apologised for any confusion and changed my account to the higher interest one and backdated all interest - a massive £32.10 which obviously was a shock to their system and probably the start of the downfall before Santander waded in and took them over.

However by then me and my money had long gone.
(Norfolk Enchants, Fri 11 Feb 2011, 1:16, Reply)

It's wild that I was a child
and it's great that I was an ape


not my own work , but go evolution
( horace wimp needs more than 49 characters to fully express hi, Fri 11 Feb 2011, 1:16, Reply)

I love my hometown.
It's probably got something to do with the fact that I was relocated to some satellite town, suburban concrete and cardboard monstrosity at the tender age of five. Nevertheless, nights out still involved a short (err... 1hour) bus trip to the city.

Nights out were never dull though - I fondly recall playing mince pie rugby on the bowling green one evening, and the time a random stranger decided to start wafting some amyl nitrate under my highly drunk nose. The real draw, though, was the nutters that you'd meet out and about. Most had become fairly well known over the years and the usual drink and drug addled crazies would come up with ever more inventive, and alarming ways to provide for a little more chemical companionship.

One particular evening I was in one of my favourite drinking establishments, partaking in a refreshing pint of alcoholic apple juice with my friends, when 'Ted' rolled up to our table.

I somehow doubt that Ted was his real name, but everyone has met, and probably backed away nervously from, a 'Ted'. He was relatively harmless, and well known locally so the bar staff took no real heed. On this particular occasion he had this massive, slightly bumpy-looking bag with him. Wearily, heading no thought for the phrase that would eventually be drilled into me by my wife - "Do not engage" - I asked Ted what on earth he had in the bag.

"Well," he growled, "arr bin lookin' fer somefin' in'erestin' an' arr 'appen to fine meself rand the back-er-the-docks din' arr?"

"Riiiiiiiiiiight..."

"Well you know aww vem fancy shops vey bin buildin' - 'ey've bin chuckin' loads of stock, right? So I fand meself 'iss grea' big box full of loads of brass por' 'oles an' stuff!"

"You found it...? Round the back of a new shop...? And they were chucking it out?"

"'Onest mush, arr even checked wivva manager din' arr - an' 'ee sez arr' c'n 'ave i'!"*

At which point, with almost perfect timing, a police car rolls past the window. Ted jumps like he's had a cattle prod rammed into his spinal column, drops the bag with a resounding THUNK-CLINK-clink! and is gone quicker than you can say "Errr... They've gone now."

Curious as to what dubious wares Ted has 'found' my drinking companions and I opened the bag to see what we had inadvertently won... Ships in bottles. Hundreds of the fuckers. Perfect scale models of some of Portsmouth's finest historic fleet. Quite what the barmy old wolfhound thought he was going to do with them I've got no idea, but we made sure we kept a few each and left the bag for him to find when he eventually crawled back.

And that, dear reader, is the story of my little Victories.

*I should stress that it is extremely difficult to type a Portsmouth accent accurately.
( Sonic James Doom forgetting the date since... umm..., Fri 11 Feb 2011, 0:44, 4 replies)

Drugs? No officer.
I'm 19. I have long hair. I am flouncing down the street in Kingston Upon Thames. It is 1992. I have a cold. I blow my nose and put the snotty hanky in my pocket just as i turn a corner. A police van full of Met coppers are watching me. As i pass the van, one says, "Oi! Hippy..What did you just put in your pocket?". "A snotrag" i reply. "Empty your pockets" says he. I do. I hand him my very full snotrag. He opens it up , obviously hoping to find a kilo of cocaine. It's all my green snot. He tries to hand it me back. I say, "I don't want it" and walk off. All his copper mates are howling at him as he's left with a handful of my warm wet bogeyjuice. My finest hour.
(inactionman, Fri 11 Feb 2011, 0:30, 6 replies)

Right, so, beating up midgets, buying small ecstasy tablets off someone called Victor, stealing the school bully's girlfriend and, while we're here, Maddie.

( Dr Preference AjcuiVd289, Thu 10 Feb 2011, 21:48, 1 reply)

A police van pulled out in front of me last week
He/she was only doing 60 mph and it wasn't marked from behind so I just thought it was a white van.
I started overtaking on the dual carriageway when I was forced to slam the anchors on. Cue blaring horn and flashing lights (from me).

I only realised it was the rozzers after they pulled back in and I went past.

I've not got a summons yet so I think that's a victory.
( thistle, Thu 10 Feb 2011, 21:43, 10 replies)

Sticking up two fingers to the boss.
I once had the satisfaction of telling a former employer of mine where to go. I was called into an office for "that talk." Usually, when an employers gives you "that talk" they try and sugar coat it as much as possible (it's no reflection you blah blah) but instead, they decided to give it to me with both barrels, letting me know in no uncertain terms, how shit I was as an employee. Nice. What they didn't know was that I'd been making plans of my own, and had just been offered another job on a salary ten grand more than the pittance they were paying me. I said "no worries, I've been offered another job, I was debating whether to take or not, and you've just made the decision really easy for me."

A small victory perhaps, or maybe a large one, you decide.
(Nitrous Nitrous, Thu 10 Feb 2011, 21:38, 5 replies)

Tetley tea bags
Lad in work was very bored in the office and decided to count how many teabags he had in his brand new box of Tetley, to his shock he found out he had been swindled out of 4 teabags, He spent the afternoon creating the fine email of complaint below, apologies for length etc.. hope you enjoy, we did.

To Whom It May Concern,

I recently purchased a box of your Tetley One Cup “88 Bag Box”. Out of curiosity and due to a lull in television programming I decided to count the number of tea bags in the box. You can imagine my shock when it turned out that 88 bag box was actually falsely advertised and I only received 84 bags.

How does such a large and respected company as yourselves make such a fundamental error?

As the shock subsided that a huge corporation lack the ability of counting up to 88, I realised I have been purchasing and drinking your brand of tea for the past 20 years. This brought me to the conclusion that I may have been under sold a number of tea bags in every box since I first purchased your brand back in 1989. (see my calculation below).

Tetley one cup - £2.00 (88) minus 4
I buy one box every 2 weeks = 26 boxes per year.
This is 520 boxes in 20 years.
Which by my quick mathematics means I have been under sold 2080 tea bags in 20 years.

I understand that Tetley one cup has not been a part of you brand range for 20 years but I have a reason to doubt whether the other brands you have released have not been supplying the correct amount of tea bags.

I am feeling a real disillusion to the tea bag world at the moment due to the way have been treated by Tetley. I am seriously considering changing to the rival PG tips brand, or maybe even abandoning tea all together and being a loyal customer of Kenco.

I feel like we have been in a committed relationship with Tetley and have never wavered to another younger more exotic brand, now I honestly feel like you have cheated and deceived me when I have been nothing but loyal.

How do you feel about the situation?

I really do hope you take this email seriously as I am really disturbed by what has happened to me. Never in month of blue Sundays did I think my one true love would deceive me.

I hope to hear from you soon and a prompt reply would be extremely grateful.

Thank You for your time

~~~~~wavy lines while waiting for email reply~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Dear Kevin

Thanks for your email. At Tetley we take great care to make sure that our packs contain the full amount stated. We’re proud of our high quality products and we try to make sure they reach you in perfect condition every time. Our reputation depends on this.

We don’t know how this could have happened. We can only assume this pack was interrupted during the filling process and I’m sorry this escaped our usual Quality Control procedures. Please forward the Best Before date and batch details, so I can confirm this with our Quality team.

I’ll send a voucher towards your next Tetley purchase so I’ll need a postal address to so this.

Kind regards

Sue


Dear Sue,

May I firstly commend you on your quick and understanding response, I am truly appreciative of this.

I will gladly supply the information you require but as you can understand at my nimble age I may not send the correct details on the first attempt but I will try my hardest not to waste your time any further.

These are the details I think you require
08/2010
0322
21:28

As I loyal customer I do understand that mistakes can be made and I am glad of this response because I know as well as you know that Tetley make the best tea this side of heaven. I hoped that I would receive a response and this has redeemed all the faith I lost in the company when the incident occurred.

I would like to take this opportunity to thank you for treating me as an individual and not just another bean in the tin.


End Result.......about £2 in Tetley vouchers
(Starrboy, Thu 10 Feb 2011, 21:36, 5 replies)

hot dogs and bus stops
waiting for the night bus a few years ago with some friends. 2 blokes decided to stop at the bus stop to insult us in an extremely pissed-up manner.
we asked them to stop it. they didn't.
we told them to fuck off. they didn't.
i took a deep breath and started singing the armor hot dog song as loudly as i could(trust me, i'm LOUD).
within about ten seconds, after some bemused looks and drunken muttering, the more sober of the pair said "fucking nutter" and they buggered off.
i don't care if they thought i was mental, it got rid of them!
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Thu 10 Feb 2011, 21:13, Reply)

ISP
I was with a certain ISP for many years - no problem with at all - pretty near 100% uptime, and never made a cockup.
I moved house, and then the trouble started.
As I don't have a bank account, paying them over the phone was a bit of a pain. So what I would usually do is give the money to a friend for the entire year, then pay the whole lot in advance for that year.
Of course, when I moved house they had to set up a new account. They took the money for the whole year of a friends card. Then a month later...took it again.
They said sorry and returned the money. I told them that as a gesture of goodwill, they would let me have that month free and they agreed, but it would come off of next years amount.
In the end, they did this every month for 8 months - paying the bank charges incurred by my friend each time for going overdrawn each time as well.
The following year, I got 8 months free!!

Then I changed ISP to one that takes the lot in cash each year.
(dchurch bah, Thu 10 Feb 2011, 20:12, 9 replies)

Oh yeah, since it's on Monday:
I've persuaded Falstaffette that it's not necessary to celebrate Valentine's Day Halfway Through February Day (that's what it should be called).

I know this properly belongs in 'Victories Several Times The Size Of The Damn Planet'*, but I suppose it fits here too.



*Or maybe 'Getting One Over On The (wo)Man'.
(Falstaff's Spiritual Successor, Thu 10 Feb 2011, 19:07, 11 replies)

PGMT reminds me
of an incident from a few years back.

I was on my way out of town and needed to get some cash, so I stopped by an ATM that was on the way. The ATM is built into the front wall of a bank, so you have to park your car and walk up to it.

As it was very early on a Saturday morning, I was a bit surprised to see two girls ahead of me. They were probably in their late teens, cute, fashionably dressed and chattering away as they walked together to the machine. I did the polite thing and waited at a respectful distance of ten or fifteen feet for them to finish their transactions so that I could get my cash.

Only thing is, they weren't really paying much attention to what they were doing, and were utterly absorbed in their conversation about the show they were going to see that night, what they were going to wear, who was going to be there, how Tony owed her some money so she was going to make him buy her a shirt, how the last time she'd seen Paige she was soooo drunk and hanging all over Kevin... and all the while I waited, my patience growing thinner by the second.

I had not had breakfast yet, but I had had a couple of cups of coffee. I felt pressure building in my intestines, partly due to the Belgian beer I'd had the night before, and knew what was coming. So I casually maneuvered myself upwind of the chattering girls and let out a long silent exhalation from the deepest demon-infested sulfurous regions of hell, the sort that burns slightly as it goes and makes you feel like a deflating balloon.

A moment later they stopped in mid sentence and frantically stabbed at the buttons on the machine and wordlessly left as fast as they could, their pert behinds jiggling in their haste, and at last I was free to use the machine.

Why waste words when a good crop dusting will suffice?
( Wanderer, Thu 10 Feb 2011, 18:58, 7 replies)

I have about $150 worth of outstanding parking tickets.
The DMV keeps telling me that if I don't pay their tickets, I won't be able to re-register my car or have it taken in for inspection.

I've got 2 years left on my registration and inspection, and I have a 16 year old American car with 150,000 miles on it. Needless to say, I won't be paying the tickets.
(raulduke, Thu 10 Feb 2011, 18:20, 7 replies)

Bunch of irritating "lad" wankers on the train home from Lancaster one evening.
Drinking, being loud and obnoxious on an otherwise peaceful carriage, and generally getting right on my tits - and me without my iPod to drown out the aggravation of the surrounding world.

Then it happened.

I had eaten a rather large curry almost immediately before getting onboard and the rocking of the train, coupled with my penchant for eating more than I probably should at curry houses was making me feel a little uncomfortable.

In order to relieve the pressure, I released a very long, but ultimately silent fart. Sort of like a digestive trephining if you will. The kind that makes it feel like your arse is a release valve opened half way.

A moment or two later and I dared to inhale the air to assess the damage. Strange. I couldn't smell anything at all, when I had been preparing myself to quickly get up and head to another carriage in order to avoid the subsequent accusatory glares. "I've got away with it" thinks I.

Then, the moment of my victory:

One of the obnoxious wankers sat further down the train suddenly goes "Jesus christ! Is that you???" pointing at his mate sat opposite, who immediately denied all knowledge.

"I bet it fucking was you. You never own up, you smelly cunt."

"It fucking wasn't!"

At which point his mates got a whiff and all turned on him.

"Jesus christ, you smelly bastard!! You fucking always do that!"

"IT WASN'T FUCKING ME!!!"

The conversation went on like this, getting more and more heated until it actually became an argument, with the accused eventually telling his mates that he was "fucking sick of them" and that he didn't know why he hung around with them because all they did was take the piss.

I don't know how it had happened, but the fart seemed to leave my backside, creep under at least 5 rows of seats without any of the other passengers noticing, and popped it's head up directly under the table of the irritating pricks, like some sort of gobshite-seeking arse missile.

The rest of the journey was spent with them sitting in awkward silence, contemplating their friends sudden outburst, not really knowing what to say to the guy who was now sitting in a huff staring out of the window.
( PMGT -Bacon., Thu 10 Feb 2011, 17:53, 6 replies)

Concerts
I (like you, I'm sure) have been to so many concerts / football matches / cricket matches, where the stewards search your bag as you go into the venue. When they find a bottle of Coke(TM), cola, or water, they often confiscate the bottle's lid, so that yobbos can't throw a heavy bottle at the likes of Wayne Rooney, Cheryl Cole or Muttiah Muralitharan. That's all very well if you enjoy flat cola or have a thing for spilling water on your knees, but I don't.

Imagine the steward's delight when, after the aforementioned confiscation, I produce my 'spare' lid, give them a little wave and disappear into the crowd.
( Norbert Lightowler, Thu 10 Feb 2011, 17:43, 7 replies)

squished foot
about 30 years ago, the council were putting some massive new concrete sewer pipes under the car park behind my house. when the workmen went home at night, the site security would let us play in these pipes. about 6 kids would sit inside a pipe, whilst another 6 or so would push them with all their strength, until they got rolling. great fun.
one evening, when the pipes had been there for about a week, i was standing in the carpark talking to my brother. with unerring accuracy, one large, child-laden concrete pipe chose that moment to roll right over my left foot, crushing it completely.
cue my foot doing a hulk impression, my shoe splitting and falling off and the top of my foot literally tearing open and the innards poking out.
oh, and the screaming. lots and lots of screaming.
after 3 days in hospital, 8 weeks on crutches and much pain, i was finally able to walk again. my mother, by this time, was suing the council for allowing children to play with the pipes. the council stated that all pipes were chained up inside the compound so, if i'd been injured by one of them, i must have broken into their compound and removed the chains myself. as this was in the days before CCTV cameras everywhere, it looked like we were going to lose.
and then a miracle occurred. the site security guard learned that he was about to be made redundant, so he decided to fuck things up for the council as much as he could. he gave a witness statement to my solicitor, which said that the pipes were never inside the compound and the council had skimped on costs by not using chains, instead employing a small stone wedged under the first and last pipes to stop them from rolling away. upon hearing this, the council folded faster than superman on laundry day and a couple of grand was forthcoming.
winning a victory over the coucil when you're that small(6 years old) is FANTASTIC!
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Thu 10 Feb 2011, 17:15, 8 replies)

My first, and littlest victory?
Swimming the fastest, not getting lost, and reaching the egg first.
( Extinct Jesus Dossier "...I think it counteracts Hitler's magic...", Thu 10 Feb 2011, 16:58, 8 replies)

Red Hot Pants - Dial up days.
Someone elses story reminds me of this.

Years ago there was an ISP called Red Hot Ant, who offered an 0800 dial up internet access for £65 a year.
I paid my £65 and then hardly ever got a connection, beeing plauged by engaged tones. Once on, gave it an hour, it'd cut off again, and then bam more engaged tones.

Enough was enough, I complained. They did nothing about it. So complained again on a newsgroup for connection problems.
Next minute, i was getting authentication errors whenever I didnt get an engaged tone. They sent a letter through the post saying they had terminated my account due to "Malicious use, and slanderous comments in newsgroups". They refused to give me any refund or part refund. A month of shoddy internet cost me £65!

It was quite obvious this ISP was so over subscribed that they were needing to ditch their users as they couldnt keep up and they were losing money badly.

A week later, I was handed a text file from a friend of a friend of a friend. Which contained a list of every single red hot ant username and password. They had been hacked. Tried a couple of accounts and viola! I was back in.

It appeared that if I was on someones account, it did not actually stop the owner of that account getting on also. As a few of us were using the same account simultaneously with no problem. So I felt it was a victimless crime. I had paid to be on the service, so didnt feel like I was stealing either. (im sure a load of goody two shoes will probably flame me and report me for to the cyber pohlice but I dont care).

Red Hot Ant appeared to become aware of their leak. But instead of forcing a password change to all the users, or restricting the service to 1 simultaneous logon. They put a feature on their site where you could see how many hours you had spent online. I checked one of the accounts I was using, and it said:

"In the last 24 hours you have been online for 8,349 hours". It seemed this file had obviously spread around the internet like wildfire and half the UK was abusing the crap out of the ISP.

Unsurprisingly, Red Hot Ant shut itself down.


For me it was a victory, because I had managed to get what I had paid for by sticking it to the man. But I did feel bad for them, because they had obviously been hacked, exploited and they didn't seem to be capable of taking the appropriate action to protect themselves, and their users.
(Boom- Clicks on NSFW links at work., Thu 10 Feb 2011, 16:18, 3 replies)

Alliance and Leicester.
Or Santander, as they're now known.
I had an ISA with them, when I tried closing it, they told me they'd "lost it". Their actual words.
How the FUCK can you "lose" an account? It's not as if they're a Wild West bank, with a big safe in a wooden building, and bars on the window.
2 months of complaining, and they eventually "found" it, probably down the arse crack of one of their massively bonused directors, or the back of the settee. They offered me 50 quid compo. 50 fucking quid for several grand they had "lost", useless cunts.
I refused, and suggested several of the consumer right websites/programmes/newspaper columns.
500 quid was forthcoming, not as trivial, but a lot better. Santander...cunts.
(Bear Pookie The Frankly Challenged. Halloween is coming to town., Thu 10 Feb 2011, 16:01, 14 replies)

I haven't lost the game for.......BLAST!

( The Awful Puppy Bakery is still bored, Thu 10 Feb 2011, 15:43, 3 replies)

and another escaping France story
My landlady gave me half the deposit in cash as I was about to leave, and said the other half would follow when she'd inspected the flat. I waited. She kept saying it would be coming, but after about a month I began to suspect she was just hoping that I'd drop the matter as it would probably cost me far more money to take her to court in a country I no longer lived in than to just drop the matter.

I noticed her email address was @[organisation], where [organisation] was who I was working for, and I was still on good terms with one of my bosses there.

My boss who was one of the ~5 highest ranking people in [organisation], and [organisation] is not small.

She paid up pretty fast once I got him involved.
(GothicTechie, Thu 10 Feb 2011, 15:09, Reply)

Years ago,
my brother and I had an argument, so I hid his favourite marble up my foreskin. I won that argument.
(Monkey the Chicken Twitter: death_stairs, Thu 10 Feb 2011, 15:04, 4 replies)