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This is a question My Arch-nemesis

I lived in fear of a Darth Vader-esque school dinner lady who stood me perpetually at the naughty table for refusing to eat mushy peas. An ordeal made worse after I was caught spooning the accursed veg into her wellies. Who, we ask, has wrecked your life?

Thanks to Philly G for the suggestion

(, Thu 29 Apr 2010, 12:01)
Pages: Popular, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

This question is now closed.

My train-nemesis(es), or how I became a public-transport vigilante.
I used to have a fairly hellish hour-and-a-half commute to work. This, in and of itself, would not have been too bad, however I had to undertake this daily 3-hour round trip on public transport; the worst kind of transport.

After a while, many things begin to annoy, chief among them being the symphony of white noise, squirted forth from the mobile phone of various little oiks. This monstrous racket, the kind that sounds like music being performed by angry wasps, was the bane of my life. If I had remembered my headphones, and to charge my iPod, it was fine, but there were many days when my life was near ruined for a good half-hour stretch. It became clear to me that I was going to have to strike back at the heart of the problem.

One day, there sat before me one happy chappie, whose music was so painful and grating that I decided that this was my moment. I simply had to punish him for his insolence. Not by getting angry, oh no, but by a much stealthier method. I pretended to enjoy his music. I started to look over, giving little appreciative nods if he caught my eye. He looked away quickly, but the fear was clearly setting in, I was beginning to turn the tide, and claim back my train. However, his music was still not switched off, relying on his mild homophobia was not working, and the nuclear option was called for.

I stood up, crossed the carriage, and began what can only be described as a 'dance', to his music. Now, I am on the wobbly side of portly, and my dancing skill is (to put it politely) not too high, but where I was lacking in these areas, I made up for in brute enthusiasm and pelvic thrusting. I launched my ample frame around that carriage like I was trying to dislodge a troublesome ferret from inside my trousers.

These 'moves' were accompanied by that 'special' facial gesture. Eyes scrunched closed, head back, a delicate bite of the lower lip. In this instance, this pose was conveying that the sheer act of my dancing to his music was giving me nothing but sheer, orgasmic, animal pleasure.

Oddly, he seemed to decide, fairly soon after that, that he didn't really want to listen to music any more, (either that, or he was afraid of catching a stray moob to the face from my lunging) and he turned his noise-box off.

Check. Mate.
(, Thu 29 Apr 2010, 22:34, 9 replies)
[From 2007]
I Do a Performance course at University, and there's this one girl who is possibly the laziest little bugger on the planet. She never pays attention in class, nor does she do any of the work. One time, we had to do a summative assessment of a play that we had all seen. We all worked hard; except this one girl.

So, it's 3am the night before we have to hand in this essay. Lazy Girl rings the doorbell of my flat, waking everybody up. She's stark drunk. She knocks on my bedroom door, and confesses that she's screwed for the following day. She wants to know if she can get my help. I look at the situation: she's desperate, teary and seems genuinely at the end of her tether. So, I decide to be the good samaritan and lend her some notes I made. She's grateful, then she leaves to write up an essay.

Fuck that.

The following day, she's back to being a lazy bitch and doesn't even seem grateful for what I did. Not only this, but when we get out marks back, she yells at me for giving her rubbish notes. [What the stupid idiot did was copy the notes up WORD FOR WORD, so she ended up handing in bulletins and abbreviations.]

Not really appreciating this, I decided I would have my revenge.

Next time an essay was due in, I composed a series of fake notes about the play that we'd seen; especially a series of paragraphs I wrote about a fake characters I had invented called Richard Stockwell, and how 'his performance in the play showed arrogance and evident small masculinity".

The night before the essay came. Lazy Bitch pulled the exact same stunt. I gave her my notes, and told her to write them into an essay this time to prevent what happened last time. She agrees. She writes the essay the day before handing it in, hands in in, and goes back to being an ungrateful bitch.

Oh, did I mention that our course lecturer was called Richard Stockwell? Oh, I'm pretty sure I did.

She's not on the course anymore.
(, Thu 29 Apr 2010, 13:32, 4 replies)
mrs allen
this bitch from hell started off as my brother's nemesis, but became mine. make a cuppa and grab snacks, i think this is going to be a long one.

my brother and i went to different schools. when he was in second year juniors(about 8), he got a new teacher, mrs. allen. she took an instant dislike to my brother, which i can sort of understand as he's a cunt. he never mentioned it at first, but over the course of about 2 months, we noticed a change in him. he became nervous, quick-tempered and utterly obsessed with personal hygiene. he would spend his pocket money on deodorant and body spray, which is more than a bit odd for an 8-year-old.
finally, after catching him scrubbing his hands with wire wool, my mother demanded to know what was wrong. my brother told her that, every morning, his teacher would make him show her his hands. she would then shout, in front of the entire class, that his hands were filthy and he was a dirty boy. she would then make him stand on his chair and tell the other children to blow raspberries at him. he had started scrubbing his hands before school and wearing gloves until he got there, to no avail. there were lots of other little things she did to make his life a misery, but i can't remember them right now.
needless to say, my mum went completely tonto. she stormed up to the school the next morning, dragging my brother behind her and demanded to see both the headmistress and the bitch teacher. after lies, denials and threats of legal action, bitch teacher was told that she was no longer wanted at the school and, after finishing the term, she left.

when the next term started, i began first year juniors in my own school. i, too, got a new teacher. can you guess who it was? of course it was her. the first day, she called the register. as she got to my name, she stopped and asked me if i had a brother. i said i did. i told her his name. i watched the expression on her face change to something quite scary.
now, i'd never met bitch teacher before, so i didn't put two and two together. she, on the other hand, decided that i must suffer. over the next six months, she tore up my homework and told me to do it again because it "looked wrong", gave me detentions for crimes such as having a cough or dropping my pencil, marked my work as wrong when it clearly wasn't, called me a retard(i passed the 16+ exam at the age of 9) on an almost daily basis, told the other children they should call me a retard as "it might motivate her to do something right", accused me of stealing her purse, then refused to apologise when she "found" it in her handbag
and so the list goes on. i never told my mum, as i thought i might get into trouble.
one day, i'd reached my breaking point. after once again calling me up to the front of the class to berate me for spelling something wrong, bitch was most annoyed to be told by a nervous and quavering little smash that it was in fact she that was wrong. "WHAT DID YOU SAY!?" she demanded. i repeated that she was wrong, not my spelling. i told her i'd checked the word in the dictionary, so i knew i was right. this proved too much for her and she slapped me, hard, right across the face.
big mistake, bitch.
within 2 minutes of the slap, the bell rang to signal the end of the school day. i ran outside to where i knew my mother would be waiting. when she saw the angry red handprint across my face, the midden well and truly hit the windmill. she imediately took me inside to see the headmaster, who sent for my teacher. as she walked into the office, my mother took one look at her and yelled "YOU!"
apparently, my headmaster hadn't been told why she'd left her last teaching position, an oversight my mother quickly rectified. when he heard what my mother had to say, despite all the bitch's protestations that we were actually great friends, he told her her days were numbered. he asked my mother if she wanted to press charges, a pretty rare occurence back then. "just get that woman away from my kids," she replied.
the bitch was finally sent packing and all was, once again, right in my little world.
sorry for the length but, if you've stuck around to read this lot, thanks :)
(, Thu 29 Apr 2010, 21:10, 9 replies)
My Arch-Nemesis
was my first girlfriend who I now know to be a complete and utter cunt of the highest order. Sadistic and twisted, cruel and patronising. Evil, manipulative. Horrible. This isn't a kind of "she tore my heart out and ruined my life". Those kind of stories are for diaries and crap poems.

Instead I'll tell you how she liked to behave. The first six months of our time together was fine, a bit rocky since it was my first real relationship with someone, and I figured I'd have to take the highs with the lows. Then it gradually descended into just a real abusive horrible relationship in which I felt trapped. I mean, I was no 100% perfect boyfriend since I had no idea how being with someone was meant to go, especially at the age of 15/16. But conversely I don't remember doing anything henious in order to warrent these horrible episodes. One of the problems was that she was a year older than me and I was still in many ways a child. Unable to stay out too late because of parental worries, etc.

Some choice cuts were:

- Arguing about something, and then her initiating make-up sex, and at the point of climax, getting off me and standing over me, shouting and screaming, continuing the argument, leaving me spasmodically writhing in a fucking horrible intense mix of pain and pleasure.

- Flinging an entire pint over me at a club night I'd gone to just to give my demo tape to a local band. She threw the pint at me - totally unprovoked - then fled the club. Cue two hours of searching the city for her, only to find her hanging over the edge of the riverbank threatening to jump because it "was all my fault". I coaxed her back over the edge, which she responded to by smashing me across the face, letting my glasses fly and crack on the pavement (and then me doing a kind of "Daphne-from-Scooby-Doo-pat-the-floor-because-can't-see-anything" impression, as is often reminded to me by my friends and witnesses of the night). That night, because I was so confused as to what had happened, I did the worst thing and left my friends in Cardiff with no money or any way home so I could take my girlfriend home in the car. All the way home she pummelled shit out of me as I drove her to her house. (Similar thing happened in V festival in 2002, when she forced me to leave my friends in Staffordshire because she'd argued with her friend - my best mate's girlfriend.)

- Forcing me to try to get off with some strange guy at a club because she thought I was "bisexual but afraid to express it". When I told her I didn't want to, she threatened to leave me and spill all my secrets to friends and relatives (since I was younger and it was her who introduced me to drink and drugs mainly, she had a lot of shit she could spill to get me into a lot of shit with my family).

- Nearer the end of the relationship, I remember spending four hours on public transport to go visit her in university only to be delayed by half an hour because of train troubles. I got off at her stop, with a bouquet of flowers, which she took off me and stamped into the floor, giving me a huge torrent of shit about why I was so late and inconsiderate. She stormed off and we didn't talk for the whole weekend.

- Driving to university to see her for the weekend with her sister, to whom she told she'd fucked some guy the night before. When I got upset about this, she said "Don't be a fucking crybaby, it was just a fuck."

- Hearing her father had been caught with child porn on his PC, which meant he had all his computer equipment taken off him. Months later, he asked me to set up a new computer in his office, which I declined to do. When she heard this, she battered shit out of me for not supporting her father. (He got off all charged of child pornography possession, by the way.)

- Forcing me to leave her house after an argument, then lying underneath my car so I couldn't drive away, screaming at the neighbours about how she would kill herself and I'd be responsible.

There are many, many more instances which prove that she was a horrible person, but I am 100% convinced that I have repressed these memories just because they are so disgusting and horrible.

I can't express enough how much I felt trapped in this relationship. I didn't know how to end it, plus her endless shower of abuse and terror made me scared to leave. At the end, after three years of this, I tried my best to tell her it was over, but she would still come to my house and act like nothing had happened. She would not pay attention to the fact that I wanted to end it. I didn't know what to do.

So, I fucked her sister.

Plenty of times. When she was sleeping in the next room, too. I would fuck her, tell her I was leaving for a cigarette, then go and fuck her sister.

This carried on for a couple of months, then I moved away to university and started a new relationship with someone far far better. I went home on the Christmas holidays, having already told her on the phone that I was seeing someone else, and found her crumpled in a pile on the floor of her room. I told her it was definitely over for good. In her last-ditch attempt to keep me, she tore off my trousers and gave me a teary-eyed, desperate blowjob. I pushed her away and left, never saw her again.

I was told some months afterwards that she intended to sue me for giving her a cold (from stress), which turned into a chest infection, which turned into pneumonia, which - apparently - could have killed her with her bad asthma. Part of me wishes it had.

I'm told now she's engaged to someone in Manchester. The poor cunt.

Apologies for length (but her sister didn't complain).
(, Tue 4 May 2010, 11:31, 44 replies)
How to get barred from a sandwich shop
Someone else's Nemesis, not mine.

There's a guy at work, Dan, who was trying to lose weight a while back, but still wanted to have his favourite lunch of a jacket potato a few times a week. A simple solution was found: Instead of cheese and beans, just have beans, giving you a fairly nutritious and non-fatty meal.

Anyway. The Greek guy who works in the sandwich shop kept getting this wrong, and just giving him both cheese and beans, so he decided to be extra clear about it.

'Look, mate, you keep giving me cheese AND beans and I just want beans. Just beans. Alright?'
'Yeah, yeah - no problem mate. Don't you worry. Just beans...'

He gets back to the office, and sure enough, there's a nice big pile of grated cheese on top of the beans. So he heads back round the corner.

'Look, I just want beans, it should be simple enough - just beans...'

The guy gives him one with beans.

Next day, he goes back, reassured that the chap now understands this strange and exotic food order.

'Can I have a jacket please, with beans and NO cheese. No cheese. OK?'
'No problem mate.'
'OK, I'm going to check this now, before I leave... OK, well this has cheese in it. I don't think you're really listening to me. No cheese.'
'Oh, sorry mate. I'll have another go.'

Another potato is duly served up. Again, he decides to check before he leaves the shop. Again, there's a great big pile of cheese.

I'm not quite sure how I'd deal with the situation, and I can understand that it was extremely frustrating, but throwing the potato at the guy then dragging him over the counter whilst screaming 'NO CHEESE MOTHERFUCKER! NO CHEESE!' didn't go down too well, and Dan now does his own jacket potato and beans in the microwave.
(, Thu 29 Apr 2010, 16:38, 7 replies)
My fiancee owns Basement Cat.
If you ever go to the Lolcats website you'll know what I mean- the black cat with green eyes, the Desolate One, the First of the Fallen, the Destroyer of Souls, She Who Must Not Be Named.

In truth she looks a lot like this:

She's a fairly average-looking black cat with short fur. Often she's quite snuggly, and in particular has taken to me over her actual owner.

The thing is, she's always there, lurking in a corner.

I wake up in the morning to her walking on my bladder. If I throw her off she simply returns. When I get up to go piss, I turn around to find her watching me from the doorway because she pushes the door open. I go downstairs to make coffee and turn around and trip over her. When the coffee is made and I take a cup to the living room to sit down in a chair, I invariably sit on top of her. Once she's made her protests known and has stalked around the room, she waits until I have the laptop open and then jumps up onto the keyboard.

When I cook dinner she's there under my feet until I kick her, at which point she lurks in the corner. We sit down to eat and there she is, finding a piece of paper or a plastic bag or something else noisy to tromp around on so that we pay attention to her. If we're watching TV she finds something else crinkly to thrash around on, making as much noise as possible. When we go to bed she's there at the top of the stairs waiting for us. If I lock her out of the room she claws at the door. Once she's in she insists on sleeping between my knees.

The last thing I see every night is this:

The one question that I've had for my fiancee that she's never been able to answer is...

What the hell does she WANT?

Actually, she's starting to make me think of Teh Fear...
(, Sat 1 May 2010, 17:07, 5 replies)
Warning: serious problems ahead.
My arch-nemesis is this fucker here. For those who cannot be bothered to click the link a shortened version is: he is a fucking scumbag of a fucking footballer by the name of Archie Thompson.

I can't talk about this easily, but the basics are these. After two years of what I thought was a happy marriage, my wife became pregnant with twins. It was the happiest day of my life, but everything became very strained from then on. My wife became distant with what I thought was stress and understandable worry about the future, but that's not it. Eight months in she tells me, instead, they might not be mine. I nearly die of a number of things but manage to ask whose could they be, if not mine? ARCHIE FUCKING THOMPSON'S. They met while she was at a fucking convention in Belgium where she was out for a night and he was playing football in that city at the time. They had then begun an affair whenever she went over there for business.

I spent a month trying to digest this situation after she left to stay at her mother's, saying she didn't know what she was going to do but couldn't be with me right now. I didn't argue, I had no idea what was going on in the world. I couldn't function. I couldn't eat, work, sleep, do anything.

Then she went into labour.

Even in those circumstances, those incredibly difficult circumstances, there was no way I was going to miss the potential birth of my children. I went to the hospital... and HE WAS THERE.

The reasons I hate him would seem painfully clear by now. But it's not what you think.

It was when she told me whatever the result of the birth was, she was going to be living with Archie from now on. It was when she said the kids were going to call him Daddy. It was when she said they were moving to Australia as he'd gotten a deal with a new club there. And it was when, oh, it was so especially when, after the birth (what turned out to be) MY TWO DAUGHTERS, and naming the first one after her mother, she turned to him and said...

"Arch... name 'er sis."

(disclaimer for legal reasons: this is NOT TRUE IN ANY WAY)
(disclaimer for other reasons: I'm sorry, please don't hit me)
(, Mon 3 May 2010, 21:26, 10 replies)
The Devil cat
In our little ground floor flat in Earslfield, Mrs. Nimrodihnio and I were given two kittens as a wedding present, as you would imagine these delightful little fluffy bundles of filled us with love and affection.
About three months after we got them, Mrs. Nimrodihnio opened the curtains and jumped back in shock as there was a thin, almost alien like looking Siamese cat on the window ledge staring in. After much shooing it sauntered away stopping for a little backward glance before disappearing.

This started to happen on a regular basis and would catch it staring through the window at our kittens indoors.
Mrs N grew to get really freaked by this cat as she would suddenly see it staring at her from some vantage point overlooking the back garden, I just told her she was being paranoid.

Time came to let Cosmo and Harley out and I put a cat flap in the back door and gradually allowed them out. Very shortly they would come running through the cat flap stopped and do the arched back and big tail hissing at something outside. I could never get to the back door in time to see what was spooking them but had a pretty good idea.

We started to hear cat fights and finally saw that the Siamese that was stalking us was responsible, we had months of this with them coming in after being ambushed and being scared to venture out the back door in fear of being jumped.
It came to a head one morning when Harley was caught halfway through the cat flap and was screaming. When I got to the back door and opened it with her still stuck, the ‘devil cat’, as it was now known, ran off. There was blood everywhere as it had ripped a large gash in Harley back leg. I wrapped her in a towel and ran to the vet in Tooting where they sedated and stitched her. If I hadn’t been there the vet told me, she would have bled to death.
The experience changed Harley into a nervous and frightened little cat and I swore revenge on the beast that did it. I actually knocked on every house on the street and those adjacent to see if I could find the owners and when I did, they refused to believe me, despite the accurate description and the vet bill that their darling little cat could be responsible and maybe I needed to get a life.

I then started a campaign which obsessed me for months to get this psychotic beast sent back to hell where it belonged, which included;

Getting up and an unbelievably early hour for weeks and hiding behind the curtain top window open with a big jug of water at hand when it came to stalk us in the morning, big success. Apart from occasionally falling and spilling the jug on the bedroom carpet

Water hose at the ready in the back garden for hours on end only for me, when i went inside to see it through the kitchen window sauntering through the garden, it clearly was observing and waiting, failure

Catapult, epic fail, broke a neighbours window

Hiding in the garden camouflaged, caught pneumonia, fail

Water pistol, the big pump action kind, mixed success, had a tendency to splash the neighbours as I fired it over the fence in its path home, I had worked out its route home and time the falling of the arc of water so catch it. I had co-opted a mate to call out the fall of shot in pre-registered fire plan.

It did have the effect of minimising its stalking but Siamese are known to be psychotic and could it keep away ? could it fuck.

The seminal moment came was when I caught it in the middle of fight with Cosmo, I heard the screeches and unearthly yowling and moaning that they do and pulled on a pair of boots rushed straight into the back garden and saw this tumbling scratching fight that looked straight out of a cartoon. They suddenly stopped it and there it was with its back to me... I took my chance and booted it at least 6 foot and sent it crashing into the hedge. David Beckham himself could not have caught it more sweetly. The shock on its face was utterly satisfying and as soon as it regained its control it shot off.

Next day the owner came round and did I know anything about how his cat had been injured? and waved a vet bill, which I feigned any knowledge of and said something about karma and it had it probably had it coming, but if he wanted a contribution to have it put down I would gladly help out.
We moved eventually but Harley was never the same happy little cat she once was.

It now knew I had the upper hand and it lost had lost its edge as it would see me with an evil grin, stroking a water pistol and it would slink off.

It’s one of those moments described as a peak experience that you can recall with clarity the absolute feeling of joy/supreme satisfaction/frustration unburdened that was realised in that swinging boot that connected with the devil cats arse and seeing it tumbling slow motion in a perfect arc with the look of total shock and disbelief.
(, Fri 30 Apr 2010, 15:51, 4 replies)
The Cuntbag Bitch
I’’m pulling myself out of QOTW retirement to write this tirade. I really don’t know where to begin so I’ll begin by saying this woman is the devil incarnated.

I started my current job back in October 09. I am a lowly Human Resources gimp who has the mentally draining job of telling people why they can’t have a pay rise and why they’re loosing their jobs. Not particularly fulfilling I’m sure you’ll agree, but being a university I naively thought I could avoid the rough and tumble of the ruthless private sector, the last time someone was this wrong they got into a car with a bearded Yorkshire man who claimed the hammer was a tool for work. So, I arrive for training on the Monday morning and this is where we meet our mentors. I can safely assure you all that this was not like the Jedi Council and if it was I would have been fired instantly for the amount of abuse I was thinking. There she stood, her black hair straightened to the point of follicle surrender and a tan that could only be best described as the defecated doodling’s of a mental patient on a blank canvas, but with far less purpose. Then the wardrobe, oh fuck me I smelt the power issues instantly. Stiletto’s that wouldn't have been out of place in a trannies wardrobe and the one-piece suit of an uptight lesbian who had been molested by Bernard Manning while telling suspect racist jokes. Now, I’m not one to judge too soon so I though I would give her the benefit of the doubt. She did seem nice enough if somewhat a bit needy for attention, but being eager to please I just listened and got my head down (oh er misses).

A few weeks roll by and I’m starting to notice a change in myself, I didn’t know what it was so I ignored it (classic male behavior). I had been in the role for 3 months and I was beginning to have feelings of sickness at the thought of going anywhere near the place. In all my previous jobs I have been made to feel like a valued member of the team but in this role I was feeling like the dog muck in the corner that no one wants to deal with. I was afraid to do any work as the bitch jumps over my mistakes with patronising red pen and sends me emails to the effect that I'm a pile of rubbish. She always re-enforces the negative and if I do something well I'm made to feel like a toddler who has just learned not to defecate himself, patronising is too soft a word for it. I’m not usually the sort of man that takes this sort of crap and I did try having a word with her line manager, what a fucking mistake that was. According to them she was an angel who is very professional and efficient, since when did that make anyone good at training? Basically, I was palmed off and told to know my place. It was clear to me that the management team had her lined up for a management job in the near future and did not want their plan jeopardized.

More weeks role by and the atmosphere between her and me is becoming very frosty but information is thrown my way that makes me feel reassured that I’m not imagining the animosity. According to a well-placed source, she was annoyed that her female temptations did not work on me and she was shipped out of another department a few months before I started because “everyone fucking hated her”. This was followed by casual accusations of racism, the accused being the most pc/nervous person I have ever met, and management fudged that one too and sent the accused off to counseling. Things were starting to add up, she was hungry for power and didn’t want anything or anyone to get in her way. To be honest I didn’t care about her aspirations, I just wanted to get my work done and forget about the place when I left at the end of the day. I tried to leave these feelings at work and not bother my partner with them but these constant negative feelings just wouldn’t go away. My confidence was shot to pieces and I felt like a shell of my former self. But the crazy part of it all is when I was ‘up’; the feelings were just as uncontrollable and I tried to stretch this out as long as I could. The stark contrast in emotions made it all the more difficult to accept the demons dragging me back into the negative pit. Everything was becoming a struggle to comprehend in a positive manner and she made it all the more difficult by using my probation meetings as a tool to make me look like an utter prick in front of management. The utter cunt had photocopied my mistakes and drew up correct to incorrect ratio statistics. She brought these out in a probation meeting and explained to all and sundry that I was a fuck up. I just wanted to cry, the old me would have boxed my way out of that corner but I was beaten. I accepted my fuck up status and carried on.

Back in late January of this year I got struck down with a kidney infection and flu. This truly fucked me up for nearly a month and I had to take a fortnight off work for this. I’m pretty sure my mental run down state contributed to my physical state but it was a blessing in disguise. Being ill was rubbish but that was the best two weeks in months. The feeling of an excruciating piss was a walk in the park compared to seeing that cunts face again.

The return to work was awful. I was greeted with an email from that utter cuntbag slagging off my work and basically calling me rubbish. I saved this email and sent it via the office manager. Meetings were held and she got a bollocking. A minor victory was hailed but this seemed to only reinforce her dislike for me and the relationship has been awful ever since. I have tried talking to her about how i feel but she seems oblivious to all my feelings. She has recommended that I do not pass probation and therefore loose my job. She doesn’t care that I will get thrown on the dole cue and basically fuck up my life. My probation has been extended due to the illness I had but I have been told that I have 6 weeks to produce 100% error free work. I would like to point out that the kind of errors that I am making is due to holes in my knowledge, not application. Her training methods are appalling and I have pointed this out but again my words have fallen on deaf ears, even though I have done a lot of training in previous jobs. I feel she does not want to pass me information and get me through this sodding probation. She wants me to fail and I feel the management team is just waiting for me to leave or can my arse. I have come to the end of my tether with this cunt and I’m looking for a new job. Fingers crossed. I have contacted my union rep as I have been told that I have been set unreachable targets to save my job (I have found fuck up’s in her work that I have sneakily photocopied and hidden for a rainy day). Not sure how I feel about this as she is a slippery little cunt who may know how to wriggle out of it. But saying that, she didn’t know where Mexico is and a failed glamor model. Wish me luck peeps.
(, Sun 2 May 2010, 19:03, 17 replies)
This fucker.

Thinks it's so grate.
(, Sun 2 May 2010, 7:55, 1 reply)
Rap Attack
There was an unspoken comraderie at university that was equal parts heart-warming and blood-curdlingly infuriating. The 'Indian Massive'. As a mixed-race (or 'dual-heritage' to be ultra PC) English-Indian I straight away acquired a large group of friends through one of my Indian housemates, who all seemed to refer to me as 'blood'. It was rather difficult, in fact to know who anyone actually was, largely because everyone called everyone else 'blood' or 'bruv'. Confusing monikers aside, it was nice to be accepted into a group of people based purely on your heritage (I grew up in a very white area, so seeing so many brown people in one place anywhere outside of my house was a revelation), kind of like reverse racism.

I digress. It was through this group of respectable pharmacy and medical students (what else?) that I met Sav's brother. Sav has informed us that his brother was a 'baaaaaaad martial artist bruv' (in this case, 'baaaaaaad' meaning very, very good) as well as an established 'rap battler'. In the stlye of eminem in the green-filtered and seemingly gramatically incorrectly-titled 8 mile, this gentleman would participate in verbal bouts of musical melee on stage.

Immediately, I disliked him.

When I actually met him one night, Sav came over to me and 2 friends and gestured to the white shell-suited, fully-blinged skinny Indian wearing sunglasses at 10 in the evening standing 10 feet away, resolutely not looking in our direction. "This is my bruv, bruvs'.

I wish, I WISH, that there was some way that I could get down in writing here what happened next. Sav's brother approached my friend Steve, and proceeded to introduce himself via the medium of rap. However, it was less of an introduction, and more of a verbal tirade, waving his gold-ringed fingers in Steve's face with his hands in a 'West-side' position, it was simply staggering to see. The only line I can remember is 'You're a child molester, from Leicester'. Steve is not a peadophile, and he is from Hertfordshire, but there was no way this man could have known anything about any of us. He just rapped insults at us for a good 2 or 3 minutes while we stared on in stunned silence. When he was done, he turned his back and continued to stare at a nearby bush or something.

What manner of human would do such a thing? Everything about him is offensive, I hope a rival wordsman raps him into a humble life of polite greetings and low self-esteem.
(, Thu 29 Apr 2010, 15:24, 14 replies)
Primary School Shitbag
My story will probably be similar to many this week in that my arch nemesis was a fellow class mate at primary school. His name was, and probably still is, Russell Giles, and I loathed him with a passion. In fact, I still do. Thinking about him makes me angry. Year 7 (we were 11/12 years old) was when I finally snapped. He would spend most of the day trying to outdo me in one way or another, and weeks and weeks of his constant one-upmanship culminated in an petty acts of revenge on my part, and nearly saw me kicked out of the school.

Part of me thinks it was jealousy; I wasn’t unpopular by any means, I got on with most of the people at my school and did well in class, even the girls didn’t mind me (they would often steal my pencil case). I like to think that Russell didn’t like this, in fact, he probably saw me as his arch nemeses at the time. However, looking back, the rest of me realises that he was just a cunt of the highest order. If I only needed 30 stickers to complete my Panini album, he’d say he needed 29, but would he swap any stickers he had as swopsies with me that I needed? Would he fuck – even if I offered him 5 shinies for his normal Barry Venison sticker. This was just one example of how he tried to make my young life difficult. I was always the person he’d chase when he found a spider, much to the delight of the rest of the class. It was always me that got a snowball aimed at my face, or my head pushed under the water fountain at break time. My PE trainers would get thrown up onto the roof at least once a week and I would be his main target when playing Cops and Robbers during lunch. A few other kids in our class started commenting on how Russell was always trying to outdo me. One joked that he thought class fitty, Emma, was going off me and had started to fancy Russell. Whatever I did, or wherever I was, he would be there, stealing my amazing jokes and trying to make the girls laugh. I was beginning to crack…

It was during a Friday afternoon free study period that my plan to gain revenge on my arch nemesis came to fruition. I remember it vividly. It was a hot Summer’s afternoon, and a gentle breeze came in from the open windows. The time was normally used to catch up with any work you were behind on. I used this particular period to form my plan, with the help of my best friend at the time, Daniel. I’d vented my frustrations to him on a number of occasions, and this Friday afternoon was no different.

“He’s a tosser, Dan. I hate him. I wish he’d just die”, I whispered.

“Do something about it then”. Dan looked at me in the eye. “He loves making your life a misery, get him back. I’ll help you”.

“Phew, I thought you were telling me to kill him for a moment! I need to do this, I need to wipe that smile of his face. Get me some lined paper, I’ll write down our plan.”

And so for the next hour, we discussed various ways to get Russell back. The plan was to start off lightly and progress from there. Being young and naïve, the ways to get Russell back got more ingenious and impossible to achieve, although they would result in ultimate humiliation. Two I remember in particular were ‘After school, get Russell to look away from the road by shouting his name, and Dan will push him into the fat lollipop lady so that they both fall over’ and ‘Fill a sausage roll with dog poo and give it to Russell to eat and make him go blind’.
The bell sounded to signal the end of the lesson.

“It starts Monday”, I told Dan.

The weekend came and went without incident, and come Monday morning I was eager to get started. During registration, Russell whispered ‘gay’ when my name was called out. There was stifled laughter from some kids, but I just looked at Russell and stared. He smirked back at me and I carried on staring until he looked away. ‘One-niI’ thought I, and I knew I was going to make sure he got his comeuppance. I realise this story is dragging on a bit, and if I went into great detail about what I actually did to Russell during the week, it would turn into an essay. So in list form, he are some of the things I remember doing:

-Dan and I hid every pritt stick in the class in Russell’s draw. When our teacher questioned their whereabouts, we hinted that Russell had them. She opened his draw and he was left red faced, as he had 15 sticks of glue stuffed in the back. His protests to the teacher fell on deaf ears
-We rolled up a piece of meatloaf and stuck it on top his rucksack. All the girls thought he had a piece of poo on his bag. Russell looked annoyed.
-I told Emma that Russell had a plastic blanket on his bed because he was always wetting it. The rumour spread like wildfire.
-There were numerous attempts to put drawing pins on his seat
-Dan farted in his draw one lunch time and closed in quickly shut
-We hid worms and ladybirds in his lunch box.
-We named Russell as the culprit after someone had left skid-marks in the boys toilets. I knew it was Simon Ramsden really, but didn’t care.
-Dan, being quite a fast runner, would target Russell during ‘It’ and make him ‘It’. We would then stay in the safe zone for the remainder of break.
-We told Sandra, a girl who struggled with her weight somewhat, that Russell fancied her.
-We hid a ballet shoe in his PE bag (I don’t know why)

Looking back, it looks as though I turned into a bully for a week. But after 2 years of him being a wanker, I felt it necessary to do what I did. Russell was getting more and more agitated as the week went on, and on Thursday lunch time, it all came to a head.

“Stop being a fanny and leave me alone”, shouted Russell. The playground went silent.

“Oooh, egg-gy”, I remarked. “I don’t know what you’re on about, Russell”, I replied.

With that, Russell launched himself at me, pushing me in the chest. I fell backwards, but grabbed his shirt as I fell backwards, and pulled him down with me. We hit the ground and rolled around, trying to Chinese burn each other. Russell got me in a headlock and started to rub his knuckles frantically across the top of my head. It hurt like a bitch, but I summoned up the strength to wriggle free. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted the sand pit. I made a dash for it and picked up a fistful of sand. As Russell sprinted at me once more, I flung the sand in his eyes and he went down easier than Stephen Hawking after a few beers. Kneeling over him, I pressed my thumb into his eye. My frustrations were all coming out, in a very aggressive manner. Russell begged me to stop. I did momentarily but then started kicking his shins.

“I hate you, you prick”. I pulled off his shoes and chucked them into the hedge. A large circle had formed round us now, with kids shouting ‘Fight, fight, fight’. I was eventually pulled off of Russell by a teacher, and to shorten a long story ever so slightly, I was nearly suspended over my actions. I had to get my mum to explain to situation I had found myself in. One thing though, Russell soon backed off after that incident.
(, Thu 29 Apr 2010, 15:08, 3 replies)
Ex workmate
The only thing worse than harbouring a deep, festering hatred for someone is having to work with them, and present a vaguely united front to your bosses, the buying public etc. Even though both of you are so fucking sick of the sight of each other that the urge to kick them in the bollocks and violate them with cacti is overwhelming.

For a few years I worked with this lumbering idiot of a Scotch, name withheld for medical reasons (seeing it in print makes me sick). I was immediately superior to him and it wound him up something fearsome; he was a bit older, thought he could do a better job than me, the usual bollocks. I never thought he was much cop at the job he was supposed to be doing and felt he'd be better off keeping an eye on his responsibilities instead of on my office. But, and here's the bastard part, whenever anyone asked if there was any tension, any disagreements, we both had to adopt this ridiculous rictus-like grin and say that all was positively dandy. The idea that all was not well did not fly with those to whom we were answerable.

With hindsight, I probably did let my judgement slip because I was watching my back. I made some bad decisions and the pressure grew for a new pair of hands to take the wheel (love mixing my metaphors, me) and guess who was first in line with a massive, shiny knife to plunge into my back? I saw the signs and left him with no chance of doing a good job. I realise now that I see the full extent of my actions that I shouldn't have been such a twat in my last few months, but I wanted to see the bastard suffer, and suffer he has. I've thoroughly enjoyed watching him fail where I mostly succeeded, and according to most sources the street's the place to go he'll be out of a job inside a week. Ha ha fucking ha Gordon, you mumbling one-eyed prick.


T. Blair
(, Thu 29 Apr 2010, 15:00, 4 replies)
Look at it, the cocky cunt.

It hates me you know.
(, Thu 29 Apr 2010, 15:04, 2 replies)
My Ex Wife
This is a woman who I should have put under the patio years ago...

We've been divorced over 15 years now but because of her venom and seemingly infinite capacity to hate, I've not seen my son for over 13 years. He's 19 in two weeks and every time he sees me, he looks at me with something approaching hate. Seemingly, she's programmed him that way over the intervening years.

When he was five, he was diagnosed with asthma, and the ex asked me when I went to pick him up for a two hour access visit if I could refrain from smoking in his general vicinity. "Naturally" say's I, "does he have an inhaler?" "Yes" say's she..."Can I have it in case he has an asthma attack?" says I. "If he has an attack, you bring him straight home!" says she. Ex wife needed to be in control to such an extent, she risked our son's health.

This is just one anecdote in a whole series of nightmares that stopped when I just gave up contact when he was five and a half. It was either that or I'd have leapt from the nearest railway bridge in front of a speeding train, such was my state of mind.

I've since moved on, remarried and have two wonderful daughters, who I treat like my absent son in some ways..season tickets to the football and barbecues on the patio etc etc.

Quite simply, that woman has ruined my life and my son's life all for her own selfish, vindictive benefit. There's very few people that I wish dead on this earth but she is top of my list.

and "CJ" If you ever read this, you may understand a flavour of why I had to stop seeing you. The next time you see me in the pub, please don't ignore me mate, I miss you terribly and always will do...cheers


Sorry for the lack of amusement here..

EDIT: I have actually attempted contact three times over the intervening years, all ignored. He's at university now, ironically doing a Law degree where they probably teach you to look at both sides of an argument an look for the facts (this info attained third hand, as is the case in these situations). Given the encouragement from you, fair posters, I think I might have another go via his Facebook profile...In the event I get a positive response, I'll personally mail my thanks to each and every one of you!
(, Thu 29 Apr 2010, 14:09, 15 replies)
My Unknown Toilet Enemy
I am one of those people who regularly attends the office bogs every day as I am quite happy to say I feel 10 times better after a good dump, whether it be in work in a toilet cubicle or in my own home (on a toilet, of course :p).

As I work in a large office however there are various Gents dotted around the large building. As a result of this I am very picky as to what toilet I want to use. If there is a small puddle in front of it, urine smudged upon the seat or maybe something worse, I will avoid like the plague. Also if the lock on the door fails to work then neither do my bowels, amount of loo roll left etc etc. So I end up drifting about like a twitching hobo until I find a loo that fits my criteria. When I do find one, 5-10 minutes of bliss is experienced as I deposit the faecal matter into the pot of despair. All is well in the land of Jeccius once more.

However. One particular fateful day in the office and Jeccy was doing his usual "toilet surveillance", and spotted a nice tidy and more importantly dry cubicle to "pay my deposit to the porcelain bank" as it were. I sit down and lean forward, egging my way towards some brown bliss when for some reason I turn my head to my left, following a smell which was not coming from me. At eye level, just about a foot from my nose was the plastic toilet roll dispenser. And sitting upon the top of this was a plastic cup from a vending machine in the break area.

And the cup was full of shit. Someone else's shit. And it stank. Of shit, no less. It stank of someone else's shit.

I almost puked. But I had another problem too. I'd only noticed this alien-turd-coffee after I had started releasing one myself, and for the love of God I couldn't stop mid-flow. So I sat there, hands clasped around my mouth as I struggled to evacuate both the contents of my arse and out of the cubicle before I'd add some chunder to the potent mix. I managed to finish up rather quickly, grab some roll rather sheepishly from under the brown cuppa-soup and wipe like my motherfucking life depended upon it. Once done, a quick flush and I was out of there.

5 minutes later I actually had to report it to our HR (which was fun), and they had to send in some poor bastard from Facilities to properly give the contents of the cup a burial at sea, but they never did determine which dirty bastard in our building laid the cup-log in the first place.

I have an enemy in this building, and he currently has no face. But he has logs, and is not afraid to share them. He is my unknown toilet-nemesis, and I still live in fear of finding another Chalice of Ultimate Brown-Power.
(, Fri 30 Apr 2010, 19:49, 11 replies)
Not me, but a mate Will
did well for himself. Good on him I say, a combination of good fortune and hard graft got him where he was. He got himself a nice car and a vast house. In my opinion, too big just for him on his own.

Well, I say on his own. At his house, he had a live-in cleaner sort of person. 100 years ago, she would've been a 'domestic servant' I suppose. I'll call her Maria for that was her name. A right battleaxe she was too. Apparently she did a fine job of running a tight ship but would often get noticeably ticked off if my mate took liberties.

After moving in, he decided to throw a large house-warming party. More people turned up than he'd expected and the celebration went right through the night. By the time the last guest shuffled out the door and cleared off, it was just coming up to 7am.

That's when he realised what a fucking tip his house had been left in. It was going to take some serious tidying up. He knew his cleaner, although a very thorough worker would not clear up the mess on her own and he thought they should tackle it together.

But he had gone almost 24 hours without any sleep and was dead on his feet by then. So he decided to go to bed, catch up on his sleep, and then tidy up when he got up again that afternoon.

However, the battleaxe cleaner intercepted him on the landing. She went ballistic and wouldn't let him into his bedroom.
"If you think I'm going to clean up this pigsty, you're very much mistaken"
"We'll do it together later." he replied.
"Fuck right off, you can do it yourself now. You've got a fucking nerve, taking me for a mug."
My mate knew better than to try his luck. He had an inkling that if he tried it on she could quite easily push his head through the wall.

He sloped off to make a token effort, leaving her standing guard at the bedroom door. He wandered about the house collecting the empties, the food, misplaced items and so on. The usual party aftermath.

He told me it took him absolutely ages. He said the Banyan Tree was the hardest to tidy up and after performing a quirkafleeg headed back to his bedroom to find the old trout had cleared off. He got into bed, but the room was spinning and immediately jumped up, ran to the bathroom to shout soup into the porcelain telephone.
(, Thu 29 Apr 2010, 15:59, 4 replies)
Arch-Nemesis? I'm an arse, I have two of them.
Stifle your laughter, I make no secret that one of my hobbies is that I am involved professional wrestling.

It doesn't come up in polite convosation much, but one question that is asked a lot is "is it fake". My answer to this is no, although the results are scripted and punches are (occassionally) pulled. It hurts, it hurts a lot.

I kinda fell into it with somebody I thought was a friend (John - not his real name) at the time. I am a tubby bastard, and as a result needed to shift some weight. We had an agreement that this guy was to help give me some circuit training (he'd train people for 3 hours, hour 1 would be a circuit training & generally getting fit), and in return I'd help out with the website, running the shows. I had no intention of actually fighting, or even being in front of an audience, but I persued it as I was beginning to get fit.

However, in doing so, John was slowly beginning to eat away at me, systematic bullying of me & a few other people I know. Nothing scary, but making me feel about 2 feet tall. This culiminated in a day whereby John announced that, despite having no actual wrestling training, he was short of a wrestler to fight this guy (Chris - not his real name) coming in to help out his shows. And he was going to set him on me to teach me a lesson. The match to John's sick delight became a handicap match, with Chris bringing Eddy (again, not his real name), both of whom would be facing me.

I'd never met John & Eddy, but from a third source he was trained in a very "old school" way of thinking. It's rarely easy, and often people were legitimately beaten up to toughen them up. I was completely out of my depth and didn't want all this, all I wanted was to get fit. I didn't want to be beaten up for free in front of about 30 people. John stated over and over again that he was glad that I was going to be "fucked up" by this wrestler. Lovely piece of work.

One of my main problems is that I am too loyal probably for my own good, and I arrived at the show crying my eyes out, where things changed immediately.

I wasn't on the show. Neither was Chris & Eddy, who showed up in the crowd, and left after 2 or 3 matches.

I found out exactly what happened - Eddy had heard about what was going on (news travels fast) and walked out refusing to be put on the shows that John put on. Instead him and Chris was going to put on his own shows - and wanted me to be a part of it. I was invited out on the piss with them (always a bonus) and that's where they spelled out what they wanted me for - a web designer first, in exchange for getting fit, and then when confident they'd put me at some capacity on shows, paid for.

It was like a breath of fresh air, I'm still a tubby bastard, but I feel a lot fitter - thanks to these guys, confidence in my abilities have improved. So much so that I went from being a web designer, to an announcer, to a referee, and finally a manager. A manager who's two arch nemesis were Chris & Eddy. Eddy retired in January of this year, leaving just me & whoever I'm managing to feud with Chris.

This coming Sunday, I have agreed to step in the ring with this Chris, to settle a year long feud that we have been running together in shows for the past year. Tickets are selling like hot cakes to the delight of us all. I do know the outcome yes, and I know that I'm probably going to be very sore & have a few bruises, but I am happy that in 2 years of knowing both Chris & Eddy, that they would never ever make me do something that I don't agree to.

So yes, to you all, me, Chris & Eddy are arch nemesis, but really, Chris and Eddy are two of my closest friends.
(, Thu 29 Apr 2010, 12:39, Reply)
I created my current nemesis by being nice!
A few months ago the company I work for moved from some shoddy run down business park in the middle of Wakefield to a converted manor house on the outskirts. The place itself is placed in an odd location. It is surrounded by a few large houses that are owned by a few more well off people. To separate the toffs from the council estates located nearby the council has decided to leave a woodland area in-between that contain all types of wildlife. If the weather is decent I will spend my lunch hour walking around the place, it helps me wind down and gets me away from the workplace.

A few weeks back I was walking along and found a small pond. I had already started eating my sandwiches and decided to finish them off at the side of the pond watching the 3 ducks sat at the side of the water . The ducks eyed me up and slowly made their way across the pond to investigate. By the time they had reached me I had finished my sarnie and crisps and was about to eat the biscuits I had packed, one of the feathery buggers craned his neck in such a way that I thought the duck was trying to say “Ooh that looks nice can I have a try please mister”. As I was in a good mood I happily broke up two of my custard creams and threw them to my new animal friends who wolfed them down straight away.

I returned to the pond every day and would happily feed the ducks a few of my biscuits when I went. Until I forgot my lunch one day and had to buy a pasty from the local shop. I walked back past the pond and along came the ducks to greet me. As I had no biscuits I thought that they would be ok with a bit of crust from the pasty I was eating and threw it to them. Big mistake! Maybe there was some pepper on the crust or maybe Custard creams are like a drug to these feathered buggers as after one of the group tried to fit the crust down its throat it immediately spat it back up. The 3 ducks all looked at me as if to say “What the hell iis this , we wanted our biscuits dammit” I just shrugged and continued to make my way back to the office. One of the feathery buggers then decides that I must be hiding something and he is going to attempt to search me for food and starts to advance towards me flapping his wings and quacking quite loudly, I just walked away as I thought that the RSPCA (or RSPB) would jump out of somewhere nearby if I tried to kick the demented little sod.

After this incident the little fuckers have realised that they can’t trust me and will sit on the roof of one of the houses near to the woods entrance to watch me coming. For me the scene at the end of The Birds is a daily occurrence (except with 3 small custard cream addicted junkie ducks instead of murderous birds) If I even look like I am going to take a different route away from their pond the buggers will fly (well glide really) off the sodding roof towards me while quacking.

I know I should just go somewhere else for dinner but I don’t like the prospect of spending my dinner time in the office. I am also toying with the idea of putting bourbons in my lunch instead just to see how they would react, I can’t really beat the crap out of them with a squash racket can I?
(, Wed 5 May 2010, 12:00, 4 replies)
My ex-wife cheated on me with a co-worker.
If this isn't the very meaning of nemesis, it should be. The bastard managed to fuck up my marriage, with the usual disastrous results to the kids. I ended up broke, living in an apartment, paying child support and basically starting over from scratch as though I were twenty again, only with more wrinkles and grey hair.

It's okay though, I got appropriate revenge. I let him keep her.
(, Mon 3 May 2010, 22:23, 6 replies)
My nemeisis;
Whoever it is that keeps suggesting QOTWs that amount to little more than "tell us about people you worked with that you hated" over and over and over again.
(, Mon 3 May 2010, 13:20, Reply)
My arch nemesis,,,,
...was a lad that I first met when I came up to uni, he was less awkward than me, got put in a better flat in University Halls than I did, slept with two girls that I really genuinely liked ruining the thought of them for me. He just always seemed to be doing better than I was and would pop up to unknowingly rub it in my face at the worst possible moment. We lost touch for a year or two when he moved into a better house than me with nicer people...

I say he was my arch nemesis because a few years ago I started gradually getting my own back. I started working for the same Leisure company as him and was soon promoted to his level, which he did not like after being able to make my working life hell for a good few months. Things got better when he got caught giving away stock and I was promoted above him in his place thanks to his misedemeanours.

After eventually gaining his promotion, and being sent on the relevant courses to gain the legal licenses required we were even once more (damn!) and he started gradually doing better than me (double damn!)

He continued to generally piss me off for about a year until last month he got fired for getting drunk and relieving himself in the service yard at work - on CCTV. Most of the staff believe he has resigned and worked a short notice due to family and financial reasons... I know the truth, I also know that he is 26 and back living with his parents with no job!

Muaahahahaahaahaha! Arch Nemesis defeated.

Length: About 6 years, and then probably around 6 inches which got him into trouble!

ps. Click I like this if you think I should tell the staff the real reason he "resigned"
(, Mon 3 May 2010, 1:31, 10 replies)
On my word, unleash hell...
It started off so well. When we met I thought that we'd be friends forever. We spent ages together and always had a good time. He took me new places and introduced me to new things (including b3ta), it was like seeing a whole new world.

But then it went wrong, he had an evil side. He demanded more and more from me. My work suffered, relationships fell by the wayside, my social skills and spelling reverted back to primary school level. By the time I realised, it was too late. My life is no longer my own, I had become his slave.

But like all slaves through time I dream of breaking free. So I say this to you Emperor INTERNET.

My name is Bo Nidle,
Casual internet surfer.
Loyal servant of real life.
Husband to a neglected wife,
owner of a rapidly growing gut
And I will have my vengence,
in this life or the next.
(, Thu 29 Apr 2010, 17:40, 1 reply)
Dodgy business owner
A few years back I was a manager in the environmental protection agency. In my dept we dealt with spillages, toxic waste from industrial accidents to retail business dealing with their waste issues that might affect the environment, fly tipping etc. That along with looking into and approving and licensing companies that dealt with this commercially. It was a pretty responsible position that I took seriously.
We were informed about a new business that had started and was promising a lot to clients and they used a lot of PR and TV advertising. We went round on a semi official visit where I was met by one of the co-owners who claimed to have a doctorate, which was unsubstantiated , and refused to let me inspect his unlicensed facility for storing the waste product, he couldn’t show me any plans or what testing they had done for this kind of long term storage or even any safeguards which was very perturbing as it appeared to be self built.
But what really annoyed me was how rude and patronising to me personally but also his attitude to the health hazard this threatened which was huge as it was in a heavily urbanised area.
Experience told me that it had to be some kind of scam as it just didn’t add up along with the co-owners obfuscation and patronising attitude, we had great working relationships with all our waste storage companies and this one was totally unlike them.

As per correct procedure, I immediately went back to the office and pulled out the necessary paperwork to get it shut it down as I was really concerned and also, I admit, to put him down a peg or two, I called for police back up who we thankfully had a good relationship with and were able to support us at short notice. I also had someone from the power company to shut the power off and to make sure it was safe.
We arrived and again met by the co-owner who the police managed to subdue despite his protestations and we shut it down. Unfortunately due to the way it had been built it caused minor explosion and waste release.
To cut a long story short we took them to court , despite my reasoned arguments and what I thought demonstrated showing that they were con artists the mayor found in their favour I think mainly due to their scaremongering and also to some political considerations and directed the cities services to give them all the support they needed.
They subsequently managed to destroy swathes of the city and, I think deliberately, completely doused me in molten marshmallow

I really hate that Peter Venkman
(, Fri 30 Apr 2010, 18:05, 13 replies)
For two years at school, before he got expelled...
...a bigger, older kid called Mark bullied me fairles relentlessly. Culminating in one dinner break where he and his mates trapped me at the bottom of a staircase (with locked doors, etc.) while they stood on the floor above and hawked green phlegm at me, kicking the crap out of me if I tried to get past them and escape. This went on for the best part of an hour.

Some years later, after he'd been kicked out for being a thickie thug, he was in the local paper having jumped out of a first floor window (second floor, Merkins) during the course of an interrupted burglary. And landed on wrought iron railings, perforating his bowel because one of the spikes went up his arse.

I couldn't have imagined a better comeuppance if I'd tried.
(, Fri 30 Apr 2010, 14:25, 12 replies)
Honestly, it's not my fault
I live on a croak estate. Most of the people are over 60, so my wife and me are seen a bit as the youngsters in the street.

My neighbours, being at home all day with nothing to do, often fabricate reasons to complain or at best comment on. Albert (the knob) has already been mentioned. When I got fed up with his "leaves from your tree are falling in my garden"-type moans I put this nice apex piece on the side of my brick shed facing his garden;


It's massive, and he still hasn't noticed after nearly a year.

My real nemesis though is the old fart from 2 doors down. He and his wife have always been quite abusive (the neighbour between us left ecause of them).

For some reason they started to accuse me of having stolen their cat, just because they can't always find it. I usually laugh at them, but the last time I was out washing the car and he came up to me with a 10 minute tirade of abuse and shouting. I laughed a fair bit at first, especially at the "I'll fucking do you" coming from a fat 71 year-old to a fairly fit 44 year old with 38 years of karate training.

Eventually I told him to piss off, then went inside and rang the police to report him. Result! 2 hobby-bobbies turned up, and took my statement. They even asked if he had mental illness problems (how impartial is that?).

They went to see him the next day, them came back to me some time later. He's been given an ASBO essentially, and told to keep away.

He's still a nemesis, but now I can go past his house with a wry grin, meowing, and watch him stomp off indoors like a loon.

I was thinking of putting up one of the "Cat found - tasted like chicken" posters. Any other ideas??
(, Thu 29 Apr 2010, 13:28, 8 replies)
Jeremy Clarkson
It would be very easy for me to launch into a lengthy diatribe about how much I hate this man, how much he infuriates me and how much I want to smack him in his smug face with a shovel. Doing so, however, would simply mark him out as "someone who I find annoying," rather than a nemesis - I am possibly missing the precise meaning of the term, but in order to be my "nemesis" he must have some way of infuriating and frustrating me on a more direct level than by simply being an arrogant cuntflap.

Now, my general objection to the man is fairly obvious, and certainly not unique to me: he's one of a cohort of people who, for some inexplicable reason, have been given regular columns in national newspapers, in which they seem to have free rein to spout their opinions on whatever they choose. This cohort includes such fine, upstanding specimens as Melanie Philips, Jan Moir, Richard Littlejohn, and, of course, Jeremy. Many of you will recognise these names as regular peddlers of arrogant, ill-informed, often bigoted, frequently delusional bullshit.

Now I appreciate that Clarkson probably knows a lot about cars. Top Gear is probably a suitable environment for a man who clearly likes nothing better than to drive an unecessarily massive car, and preferably using it to run over some foxes and/or French people in order to assert some sense of great masculinity which I have to assume he cannot derive from his own genitalia. If I want to know about some gross, unwieldy, inefficient monstrosity that comes under the loose term "4x4" and can be made to sound really exciting if described in that bloody silly voice he always puts on when talking about a car, I might ask Jeremy.

If, however, I want to know about something other than cars, I probably wouldn't ask Jeremy. The man knows about cars and journalism. As evinced by various incidents over the last few years, he clearly doesn't know about online banking (how I laughed when he published his bank details in the paper and someone managed to hack into his account thusly). Somehow, of course, he felt he was in a position to describe the event which triggered this as a "big polaver over nothing."

Ditto climate change and the environment. Most scientists will tell you that there is a great incentive to stop burning fossil fuels, partly due to the emissions, and partly due to the fact that, at the rate we're going, we'll run out of them fairly soon and then we'll be a bit fucked. Scientists who, even if they don't work with these matters directly, must have read at least some of the peer-reviewed literature in order to understand how their work relates to these things. Many of them would say we ought to be worried.

Not Jeremy. No, he's spotted one or two articles in the national press which suggested certain elements of the changing climate might not be as bad as previously thought, and has decided that the whole thing is, once again, a "big polaver over nothing." No need to worry, folks, the scientists might be predicting doom and gloom but Jeremy reckons it's going to be fine. Well, thank god for that...

I'm ranting a bit now, and many of you are probably wondering how this makes Jeremy my nemesis. Surely, you might think, Melanie Philips is equally full of shit, and probably spouts more of it onto the page on a daily basis. You'd be right, of course, Jeremy is by no means the only offender, let alone the worst.

The reason he's my nemesis, rather than just "that twat who I wish would be banned from any and all written publication," is because, every so often, just when I really am frothing with rage at the insufferable image of the man, when my housemates are watching (another fucking repeat of) Top Gear, and when I feel I could not hate the man any more universally...the bastard says something funny. It's probably scripted, almost certainly not his own "wit" shining through, but it's enough to make me smirk, and in doing so, it softens the boiling rage with which I want to brutally assault the man.

It's not fair. I loathe the man, and I want my hatred to be complete and consistent, because the objectionable cockdonkey seems to diametrically oppose everything I stand for - and then the bastard makes me laugh, making a mockery of my irrational hatred, fettering and bridling an anger that was previously unfettered and unbridled. This doesn't stop him being a cunt. It just frustrates me.
(, Tue 4 May 2010, 11:22, 31 replies)
Honda accord posters
Not the people who post quite-probably exaggerated, but still often amusing, posts, but the sniping cunts who reply to them with the rather tiring "and then you were sucked off by a supermodel in a Honda Accord".

Even if you had any reason, except being a twat, for posting these comments, you could at least express your disbelief in a manner that doesn't make you look like a catchphrase-spouting moron. I hate you.
(, Fri 30 Apr 2010, 18:29, 10 replies)
I have been debating whether to include this, but against all my better judgement, have decided to.

My real nemesis.

Her name is Alice. She is the epitome of the phrase 'vacuous, attention seeking spunk bag', yet seems detemined to haunt me for the rest of my life. Allow me, if you will, to take you back seven or eight years...

Belladonna is at secondary school. Not just any secondary school, but an all-girls one. She likes alternative music, and her sense of style reflects this, along with her everyday demeanour, and her *shock* willingness to learn. This does not sit well with the chavs and dolly birds. Belladonna is bullied. Quite badly. Just as she is about to give up hope, she stumbles across an enclave of like-minded people made up of a few people from her year, a couple from the younger years, and some from the older. This is good. She feels at home. She stops self-harming and enjoys the company of people who don't want her crucified for her non-conformism. She is introduced to Alice, a girl from two years above who shares her taste in music. Everyone gets along, and is happy. Alice, as the loudest (and in retrospect, most obnoxious) of the group, is Queen Bee. This sits well with Belladonna - after all, she and Alice are good friends, yes? Oh. Apparently not. You see, whenever Belladonna goes off somewhere, Alice takes it upon herself to disparage whatever it is that she doesn't like about Belladonna that day, despite complimenting her on it earlier. She doesn't like Belladonna's glasses. Belladonna's new shoes are stupid. Why is Belladonna always reading books? Eventually, Belladonna finds out about this, and is further back than square one would be, wondering why someone who she so (misguidedly) respected would hate her so much. Before, she had always known that her taste in music and clothes would get her bullied, so why is it that someone who shares those tastes would also bully her? Belladonna must be a bad person, she reasons. Depression kicks in again, and she is self-harming more and more, and trying to be needed by anyone who will have her. It is a bad time, and will continue for about a year, before she leaves the school and meets a certain Mr. Anodyne.

Fast forward in time...

So, you might see why I hated Alice at that time. However, you might also think that I should MTFU and stop whinging about what happened in secondary school. Surely a few snide comments aren't enough to elevate her to nemesis status? Well, no. For a couple of years, I'd forgotten about her. I'd regained my self-confidence, and just concentrated on Me and Mr. Anodyne, and getting myself an edu-ma-cation. But then, up she springs, into my life, over and over again.

The first time was when I had met my mum for a few post work/college drinks (she's cool like that). I went out for a smoke, and ran into a person I'd just made friends with a few weeks before - sat next to Alice. He introduces us and explains that they work together, before we point out (through gritted teeth) that we already know each other, and swap the least heart-felt smiles ever seen on humans. I made my way inside, and saw her (through the window) whispering to this person and looking at me. He never spoke to me again, despite the fact that we'd got on ridiculously well.

The second time I saw her was essentially the same. Someone I knew, and was friendly with whenever I saw, worked with her. As soon as Alice saw I knew her, the whispering began, and she never spoke to me properly again.

The third (and final - so far) time came only two weeks ago, when she came into the pub I was working in, with her new boyfriend - who happens to be the son of some of my good friends. Nothing has happened yet, but I had to put up with her screeching attempts to dominate conversation and pointed glares all night.

The thing is, I could have let all this go, but she is, quite literally, one of the most obnoxious people I've ever had the misfortune to meet. She *must* dominate every single conversation she's in, and is the kind of girl (who makes me sick) who must always point out to the guys in the room that she is infact, female. She quotes vacuous publications like Heat magazine (don't ask me how I know, long story) in an attempt to get laughs from people who haven't heard it before, and the thing that galls me most is that she is, without a doubt, one of the stupidest people I've ever met.

And I still don't know what the hell I've ever done in order to make her want to make people hate me. I don't even know what it is she's telling them, because all I ever did at school was listen to her and agree with everything she said because she was older than me and we liked the same music.

Fucking Twatbag.
(, Tue 4 May 2010, 20:31, 19 replies)
My Car!
My car, it's pure evil. It's not the newest car in the world, and it is a Vauxhall, but I look after it and get it serviced but that's never enough for it. Every time I save up some money, for a new telly for instance, it senses and deliberately breaks an expensive pars.

Worse it always does it at the worst time: half 11 at night at Liverpool airport, knackered after a day trip to Ireland? Perfect time to have the oil pump disintegrate and come within inches of destroying the cam belt! Even better a 2 hour tow back to North Wales.

Taking your misses to a job interview? Alternator goes and no car for you.

Giving your friends a lift to look a wedding interview and running late? Why not snap a suspension coil and ruin the CV joints at the same time.

It even let's me think I've fixed something myself with the Hayne's manual, by not having a fault any more, waits until I've told people I fixed it, then breaks down this morning with a faulty starter.

It even waited until last week's question closed before doing it! It's evil, pure evil!

First post please don't eat me!
(, Tue 4 May 2010, 16:56, 8 replies)

This question is now closed.

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