Phone reps sticking it to the man
There's a mobile phone shop in a certain London shopping mall who continually lies by selling a phone to somebody with a 10% discount (with little or no ID, just a credit check based on what you've told them).
Once the contract goes through, he then phones up their network as a member of staff and tells them that you work in the shop opposite and gives a fake employee number. Discount applied.

He either is waiting to get sacked (as he does it in front of his manager) or hates the network that he works for.
(Iggy Pop's Teeth, Sun 20 Jun 2010, 21:38, 1 reply)

o2 discount
I very much enjoy getting one over on companies with poor customer service, and in my experience o2 are terrible, which makes them my target of choice.

I remember a time when I was battling with a shop assistant to get a new BlackBerry 9700 for a friend, trying to haggle it down to less than £30 a month (because we're cheap). o2 refused, saying there was absolutely no way they could do it for less than £35. So we went across the road to get a written quote from T-Mobile, who whilst also refusing to give us the phone for any less than £35, did write down all the information on a piece of T-Mobile paper for me. I simply borrowed the assistant's pen, crossed out '£35 a month' and wrote £25, crossed out '500 texts' and wrote 'unlimited' and then drew a big circle and wrote "new join offer!". I took this back across the road to o2 who immediately agreed to match it. I now do this whenever my friends' contracts are up for renewal.

The previously mentioned friend has just set off traveling. Whilst her travel-partner was effortlessly allowed to suspend her phone contract with Orange for nine months, there was no such joy from o2 who said there was "nothing they could do unless you're in the army". With this in mind I fired up Microsoft Word and, using some dubious military themed images I'd found on Google, knocked together a letter reminding 'Lieutenant Parker' to pack enough warm jumpers for her military service in Norway. o2 accepted this and suspended her contract - but why make your customers jump through hoops to get what they want?

Perhaps this is less 'sticking it to the man' and more 'casual fraud', but either way it feels delicious.
(foxx, Sun 20 Jun 2010, 21:24, 7 replies)

Graffiti
After a false start, I wrote "Romani ite domum" one hundred times on the palace walls. That showed them; after all, what have they ever done for us?
( The Incredible Sulk Finally remembered his password on, Sun 20 Jun 2010, 20:26, 6 replies)

Kinda doing my self over too
I live in a really shit house. Well I say house, it's a flat and I say flat, it's the converted top floor of what used to be one of the most violent and dangerous pubs in the NW of England. (I only found this out AFTER moving in.) People have died here, and I wondered why the rent was so cheap.
Anyway, to cap off this concoction of crap the landlords are total wank (Charge £1 per wash/dry to use our tiny washing machine and massive tumble dryer, are only open between 10:30 and 2:30 and are just generally horrendous.). The first week we moved in my flatmate had to sleep on his floor, in his already cramped room, because of a massive piss stain on his mattress, and they didn't bother to change it for two days. Then when he told them his bed was also broken they took an extra week to fix it.
I asked when I moved in if I could smoke in the house. They said, unequivocally, no. Not under any circumstances.
The toadlady/landlady quipped after I asked "But, erm, we can't check so just don't do it yeah?"
"Oh yeahh, course I won't I'm not even a big smoker anyway (lie #1)" Came my reply.

8 months on and not only have I smoked in this room (and the entire house to boot, including the toilet (NB: if you have a tiny toilet and a load of jazz cigars, its basically law that you have to hotbox. Try it!)) but I've broken the bed, put a hole in the wall, moved all their shit about and just generally not cared for it at all. And the best bit is because of the shitty condition of the house before I moved in they can't blame me because I can say it was like that before. I even have 'dated' pictorial evidence proving this! Its kind of at my detriment, because I live in a shithole, but its my one year of being slovenly before I move in with MR ONS and the missus.
(Donki has been bored since, Sun 20 Jun 2010, 19:02, 5 replies)

Traffic wardens
If you come upon one ticketing your car, simply drive off. They cannot stop you leaving and they cannot force you to wait for the ticket to be printed and processed on the grounds that "It's in the system now". Both these things are entirely illegal, and the wardens know this. Cunts.
( MatJ LOOK, Sun 20 Jun 2010, 18:18, 7 replies)

A ltter two teh ferrys
As it's Fathers Day, I think I should treat you to the tale of when my dad finally swallowed his pride and asked me for help. There's two things you should know prior to this story: 1. My father and I get along like kittens and a lawnmower. I've undergone 22 years of physical and psychological hell at his hands, only staying because a bunch of Tories got together 30 years ago and decided to make it impossible for me to get a place of my own while simultaneously affording luxuries such as gas, electricity and food. We exchange maybe two sentences a month. 2. Helen Keller could write a better letter than my father. Anyway, here we go....*wavy lines*

A few months back, the rest of the Badger family are off on a day trip to France. I'm not invited. After doing their bit of shopping and whatnot, they go to head back on the ferry. The bloke at the stall points out that my Dad, somehow, misbooked the tickets to state he'd be coming back a month later, not the same day. It's a choice of spending a month in France, or coughing up £80 to rectify the error. They choose the latter. The next day, Dad is at the computer writing a letter, giggling. He prints it off and shows it to my mother with pride, going on about how 'the bastards will pay'. She goes to the kitchen, tears welling up. Me being a curious chap, I take a look when he's not about. Below is the gist of the message:

'Dear Sir:

We booked a ticket with your company on [this day], aiming to come back the same day. I realise now that my wife must have made a mistake as I have never gotten it wrong myself in the past, and we were charged 80 quid to come back. Clearly she shouldn't have been allowed to book the tickets herself because she's dyslexic. If you give me my money back we'll call it even.

Thank you

Mr Badger'


'Well,' I thought 'I think I know how this is going to end.' Sure enough, a week later a letter arrives telling Dad in as many words that a) it was his own silly fault b) his letter was incredibly sexist and c) stop wasting their time. Faster than I could say 'I told you so', the letter is thrust upon me and I'm told that I'm far better qualified to do this than he is, so why don't I stop smirking and solve this problem myself. Yes, where I come from, that's the closest I've gotten to my father passing the torch. I got to work:

'To whom it may concern,

I am writing in regards to the aforementioned letter from my father in dispute of the additional charge incurred at his own ineptitude. I would like to apologise for the ill-mannered and sheer incompetence in which he addressed you. Clearly, he was in the wrong, and made a laughing stock of himself under the misguided ideal of redemption. However, to pin the problem on the dyslexia of his wife of 25 years when the fault was in reality his own, is barbaric at least. We don't want the £80 back, but would you please reply consoling my mother that the guilt shouldn't be hers?

Regards,

Foxy Badger'

I didn't expect to hear anything back. A fortnight later, I get a letter from the company.

'Dear Foxy,

Attached is a cheque for £80, addressed to you. Buy your mother something nice. There's nothing wrong with being dyslexic.'

We went out for a fancy meal with the rest of the family. Dad wasn't invited. In reflection, I feel rather fluffy.
(FoxyBadger (try saying it backwards), Sun 20 Jun 2010, 17:12, 21 replies)

I like to stick it to the man
by having the balls to try and make a career for myself that I actually enjoy, nay, love, and never fucking settling for some godawful job that I can't fucking stand, that makes me miserable every day of my life from the day I start til the day I retire.

I work for myself, earn fuck all, work long hours but I've never been happier because when I wake up in the morning I know that the only person thats going to decide what I do today is me and that is a fucking great feeling.

For those of you wondering what I do for a living, I make short films, and music videos for up and coming bands with the occasional corporate job thrown in if I really need the money. Which isn't often.
( PMGT -Bacon., Sun 20 Jun 2010, 16:35, 3 replies)

China Government
These gimps have blocked Facebook, Blogspot, Twitter, Youtube, bit.ly, Google Documents now that Google.cn has upped sticks to Hong Kong, allmusic.com, and thepiratebay.org. It has blocked websites about China such as Danwei.org and anything that doesn't present a rosy picture of the Middle Kingdom. Any pages which mentin Tiananmen 1989 are blocked, as are pages with footage of the Tibet unrest in 2008 and info on the Dalai Lama.

But I'm currently in Beijing and can access all of these websites thanks to my VPN. Fuck you, Great Firewall! Fuck you, Hu Jintao!
(McChinaman banned, Sun 20 Jun 2010, 15:48, 9 replies)

Sticking it to the traffic warden
I occasionally get my hair coiffed, curled, clipped or chopped at a nice little salon. The only problem with this salon is the lack of parking facilities outside, however there's a pay and display car park a five minute walk away. So even though I'm immensely lazy and the only places my legs willing walk to are a) the bar and b) upstairs for a spot of rumpy pumpy this really is no great shakes.

One day I arrive at the salon and see the one available parking space is taken, swearing under my breath I drive to the pay and display car park. To my dismay I realise I possess five pence less in change than the required amount to park my vehicle. A rummage through pockets, under seats and in the boot yields nothing except a few crusty McDonald's fries. Getting increasingly frustrated and late for my appointment I drive out of the car park to the newsagents at the top of the street to get some change.

I leave my car illegally parked on some double yellow lines while I quickly run inside to buy a Twirl and break a twenty. An elderly lady is having a natter to the only sales assistant serving and I start hopping from one leg to the other as I get more and more grumpy about my disorganisation and how late I am getting.

Eventually I get served after what was only really about two minutes but felt like twenty. I briskly walk back out to my illegally parked car to see a traffic warden hot footing it to book me. The traffic warden is about 50 yards away. Our eyes meet each other and in a slow motion chariots of fire moment we both break into a run. I make it first, jump behind the wheel, start the car and am driving away as she draws level with me and gives me what can only be described as a look of death.

I smile sweetly and flip her the bird, drive into the pay and display, park up, pay the requisite charge and arrive only 10 minutes late for my appointment.

Success!
(Fireyfox is prepared to change, Sun 20 Jun 2010, 15:01, 4 replies)

Working at the courts
I saw The Man having it stuck to him every day. The solicitors would try all sorts of tricks to keep people out of prison.

A common ploy was to ask an Accused's mates and less salubrious relations to stay out of court for his appearance, rather than go in to support him. The brief would then assure the Beaks that his client had cut all ties with his former low companions and had vowed to go straight.

The magistrates would usually fall for it and Chummy would get a suspended sentence/tag instead of porridge. Job done!

I wasn't above a spot of subversion myself. One day, a scruffy-looking youth rolled up for an appearance, having broken his tag conditions for the umpteenth time. He was on a knife-edge - if the Beaks were feeling grumpy he was going down.

His appearance wasn't helping, but as he was currently sleeping on a mate's sofa he didn't exactly have an extensive wardrobe to draw on.

I suggested that he ring round and get someone to lend him at least a shirt and tie to appear in.
Ten minutes later, a friend of his rushed in wearing his full weddin' suit. They swapped clothes in the lavvy with a minute to spare and the Accused entered the court looking immaculate.

He was out in no time with a stern warning and a short extension to his tag. He and his mate changed their clothes back and were quickly on their joyful way.

OK, the people I'm talking about have broken the law and should pay.
BUT -
a. We are individually powerless against the full weight of the law without representation
b. It's the lawyer's job to get the best result for their client
c. If it was YOU in trouble, you'd expect no less!
(Juan Quar is clinging to her front teeth on, Sun 20 Jun 2010, 13:25, 11 replies)

Sticking it, by proxy
A friend of mine was in need of a hip replacement, and was referred to the required orthopod for the job to be done. Now, given that my friend is also a lecturer, a mutually agreeable time - a reading week, was chosen. Both surgeon and patient found this to suit them both, and it was booked.

Fast forward a month later, and a call comes out of the blue. It's a junior administrator, informing him that 'since you didn't agree to the 6 week date', one which neither the surgeon nor the patient could make it to, 'then it is with regret that we are cancelling your operation.'
No discussion, no negotiation, just an almighty 'get fucked', and 'no, we won't rebook it, because you didn't like that date that suited us.'

Now, he's rather upset, and given that I've previously worked with the maniacal drill-wielding specialists that we call orthopaedic surgeons, he asks me for advice. Previous experience in this field has led me to believe that surgeons do not like the order of their theatre lists tampered with, and if done so, it's often done on the quiet by manglement, in the hope that by the time they find out, they've either moved on, or purchased a steel door which is impervious to drill bits and hammers. So I told him to tell their secretary that something is wrong in the state of their lists.

Roughly an hour after he informed them, he gets a call back from the secretary, who happily informed him, 'You have your original date back. I wouldn't ask too many questions about how we did it.'

Somewhere out there, there is an NHS administrator bolted to some scaffolding by a very angry orthopod.
(witty_ditty has made multiple miaows since, Sun 20 Jun 2010, 13:09, 4 replies)

this is tenuous but he is a man and i would very much like to stick something in him... like a sword
last night at approximately 12 o clock i am punched to the face by one girl, forced to the floor by another by my hair and kicked in the face ... and luckily nothing else happens because some passers by intervene.

i wobble the ten minutes home and ring up my soon to be ex-boyfriend in tears.

i have interrupted his night out with friends. his response to my peril "are you using this to see me?"

oh yes, i am definitely using being attacked as a reason to see you. it couldnt be the fact that i am alone in my room, the bulb has gone and that the right side of my face has puffed up.

so my faith in humanity was destroyed by two walking wastes of sperm and someone that i thought could be trusted.

so, ideas? objects to stick into him?

another way i link this story is that someone's foot was stuck to my face but i am not a man.
(ladyintheradiator, Sun 20 Jun 2010, 13:02, 30 replies)

Wear A Tie - Die!

In the late 90's I was hired to run a project at a large insurance company in the North West. I got the job as the new head of IT was an old boss who I got along with famously. As part of my TOC I'd insisted that I wouldn't have to deal with users and I wouldn't have to wear a tie. A suit - yes, but no tie. We also agreed that I could wear scruffs (jeans and t-shirt) when needed.

So I started work and, on day one, was hassled by the head of HR for not wearing a tie. I calmly explained that I didn't work for his company, I was an external consultant, and if he had a problem with that to take it up with the IT Director. This didn't go down well. For the next month, on and off, I was getting copied in on snippy emails where my act of defiance was being held up as the first step to the moral disintegration of the company.....

Then, one day, I came in in scruffs. He went fucking ballistic! He was about a cunt's hair away from actually frothing at the mouth. He did have little bubbles of spit on the corners as he ranted and raved about my attire. It could have been frightening if he wasn't such a short-arse but he eventually wound down enough to actually let me speak.

"I'm going to be spending most of the next week under the floor tiles, running cables. Do you really expect me to wear a $1000 suit to do that?

"Yes" he snarled. "Unlike you, WE have standards"

"Talk to John" I sighed "I don't have time for this. I, unlike you, am only bothered about getting my job done properly"

So this was the pattern of the next few months. He'd bitch and rant, I'd ignore him. Until the glorious day (for him) when I walked into the office at 2pm wearing a suit and tie. He looked as if all of his birthdays had come at once.

"Well I won't be needing that anymore" I said as I walked past his desk, taking my tie off...

"What? What? WHAT?" he spluttered "Why were you wearing a tie and WHY ARE YOU TAKING IT OFF!!!"

"Oh - I had a meeting with an external supplier. As I was representing your company I felt it appropriate to be properly dressed. You have a problem with that?"

"but...but..but.."

"Take it up with John I" said kindly.....

Finally my project was completed. Brought in under-time, slightly over budget but everyone was happy and I made my rounds of the floor shaking hands and saying goodbye to people. Head of HR bustles up. Shakes my hand and says:

"I know we've had our little ups-and-downs but I'm sorry to see you go. If you ever need a reference, give me a call"

Insincerity shone from him.

"That's very kind of you" I said (considering he'd been doing his level best to get me sacked from the day I walked in) "Could I have your business card?"

Beaming, he handed his gilt-edged,embossed, card over to me. I looked at it.

Then tore it into tiny pieces in front of him and let the pieces drift to the floor.

"Won't be needing that anymore" and picked up my bags and walked out.


Cheers
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Sun 20 Jun 2010, 12:33, 4 replies)

Every now and then
I try to be "sociable". But. And its a very big BUT; I end up annoying people to such an extent that they want nothing to do with me. I have frequented a number of internet forums and find that they are full of just the sort of people who I think might be nice, but are, in fact, stupid fools. This appears to be the norm,as the internet allows trolls to survive and thrive. Occasionally I might even allow myself the luxury of thinking there might be some decent people within these "forums". This is never the case.

Some housekeeping is now in order. I can safely say that all the B3TAn head-stuck-firmly-up-their-own-behind-types who have ignored me (there must be loads - I've made sure of that) are getting it "stuck to them" by this post. It'll never "win" cos no-one will ever see it, but I so DO "win"!!!

Housekeeping, you ask? Well; thats because those who didn't "ignore" me before this post, will do so now and I can lurk about the site in a semi-anonymous fashion.

I think they call this a "pyrrhic victory".
(gearanach #wankwankwank, Sun 20 Jun 2010, 10:37, 24 replies)

Another tale of hardxcore man-sticking-it-to-ness
I've been terribly miserable lately due to yet another car accident that was 100% not my fault, plus I've been having lovely mood swings because of the cocktail of drugs I'm on to cope with the pain. Then last weekend while reading the paper, I noticed an offer from a local casino: sign up for a swipe-card thingy, and you get a free buffet.

That's all it said. Just "sign up for card, get free buffet" - no small print, no "restrictions apply," no asterisk. No. Strings. Attached.

Wow, thinks me, that buffet is the best-rated restaurant in town! So I trot down there and sign up for a card, at which point the lady behind the desk explains that you have to earn 20 "comp points" on your card by gambling in the first 24 hours after activation to get the free buffet.

Motherfuckers lied to me. I'm already pissed off, but I shuffle off to find my favorite slot machine (the "Alien" themed one), and stick $10 in it. By the time I've lost my money I've made my 20 points, so I go back to the desk to claim my free buffet. The lady looks at me like I'm a simpleton and explains that while I do indeed have 20 comp points, I need 20 something-elite-points to get the free buffet. She swipes my card and informs me that I have earned a whole 2 of these points. This means I'd have to spend close to $100 to earn my free $12 buffet. "That's why we give people 24 hours," she says, as though this is obvious.

Now I'm feeling completely screwed over, plus I'm hungry, and what with the medications I'm on I'm about ready to have a complete psychological breakdown right next to the "Kitty Glitter" slot machine. I just trudge over to the buffet in near-tears and shell out the $12.

How did I exact my revenge? Most casino buffets "respectfully ask that you do not remove food from the premises."

Yeah. 12 macaroons, 10 macadamia nut cookies, 10 lemon bars, 5 fortune cookies, a handful of saltines, an orange, and a liberal helping of mints and toothpicks somehow made their way home with me.

Take that, casino!
(And yes, it made me feel better)
(Exempt OH WOW, VICODIN, Sun 20 Jun 2010, 7:28, 6 replies)

I wouldn't normally do this but..
I thought this appropriate....

Take This
( fagilliD Fuck I'm good!, Sun 20 Jun 2010, 4:42, 1 reply)

My father-in-law
Always visits a certain roadside restaurant on the A1, which shall remain nameless but has a small fat cook as its logo. The service in this particular establishment is always dire, but on one occasion managed to fall far short of their normal low standards. I don't know the exact details, but maybe they served it in a dog bowl or something.

Most people would pay up and never visit the place again. Other people would complain or refuse to pay.

My f-i-l doesn't say a word, pays as normal but ensures all the cleaning materials from the toilets leave in the car with him. I think he's still working through the industrial Toilet Duck a few years later.
(rogerzilla, Sat 19 Jun 2010, 21:29, 5 replies)

How I stuck it to the bitch in charge
Once upon a time I worked in a residential home. Although those who lived there became residents before they needed nursing care the home operated what was cheerily called a 'till death policy' which meant the home would cater, as much as it was able, for the changing needs of the residents stepping up to nursing care where required.

I was a young 17 year old girl, my career advisor had told me to that I would be suited to becoming a nurse. I quickly secured a job at this exclusive residential home in a very upmarket location on the Wirral. The home looked like a beautiful place to live: large open living rooms, a large dining room with linen table cloths, everywhere was carpeted with expensive looking swirly carpets, high ceilings, large doorways. The interview process was brief: I confirmed my name and interest in the position, was issued with a uniform and told to arrive at 8.00am the following morning. I was contracted to work 36 hours per week.

The work at first was hard and soul destroying. As I was the most recent recruit the tradition was that you are made responsible for residents who are incontinent. I was given no training on how to change residents to ensure their dignity and no manual handling training. At the time I was too eager to be well liked and progress that I didn't speak up. I was also shit scared of the manager who had a sharp tongue.

After I'd gotten over the initial shock of what the work entailed little details began to cause me real concern. The heating was on high 24 hours a day to keep the residents warm, it also kept the staff in thick cotton uniforms and tights a veritable candida breeding ground. However the itchyness of my muff was not my concern. The servery which housed cups, plates and glasses was also home to the condiments which accompanied the residents' meals. Huge wholesale containers of Happy Shopper mayonnaise and tartar sauce. Checking the labels of these hydrogenated fat filled vats of cholesterol, becoming translucent in the heat confirmed they did contain egg. That's right, egg based product held unrefrigerated in the equatorial temperatured servery being dipped into with buttery knives meant cross contamination was rife.

It was common knowledge amongst the staff that many of the residents were thought to be weak stomached, suffering from diarrhea and vomiting with reasonable regularity. Being keen of eye and shy of mouth I began to keep watch of which residents were ingesting the foul salmonella laced condiments and sure enough they were being ill. I voiced my concerns to the nursing home manager as tactfully as I could, she went ape shit and accused me of being a mole from the environmental health, called me a busybody and a jobs worth and made me feel like shit for speaking up about the health of the residents. She then proceeding to make my life increasingly difficult for the next week. She locked the incontinence pads cupboard and then went out shopping meaning I had to leave residents in filthy soaking pads for hours with no means to change them. She put me on the bath rota for 5 residents per evening meaning I had to rush the weekly baths and upset the residents.

In short - she was an evil bitch.

I started to notice more and more things. There was a cook in employment by the home who prepared the meals for the residents. The kitchen, in the basement, was a complete health hazard. None of the sides had been cleaned properly in a long time, there was raw meat in the fridge above cooked meat, supposedly vegetarian meals were made with beef dripping. One resident's special dietary requirements of low potassium were completely ignored.

Fast foward about four weeks I come down with a terrible chest infection. I really shouldn't go into work for risk of infecting the residents. The elderly with weakened immune systems could quite easily be finished off by a chest infection. I called up the manager and said that I had a chest infection, she lambasted me on the phone and told me I must come in as noone could cover my shift. I arrived at 8.00am just as my colleague who had covered the night shift was leaving, she met me at the staff entrance with the message "[the manager] says that if you're not well to go home because she doesn't want to listen to you moaning". I saw red, not only because I had a dragged myself in partially out of fear and partially from a mistaken sense of duty when I was very unwell but to met with that message made my blood literally boil. I stomped into the staff room slamming my feet on the parquet floor to show my annoyance. The manager looked up from her morning cigarette with disbelief at the level of noise I was causing. Before she could speak I barked

"SHALL I GO HOME THEN? BECAUSE YOU DON'T WANT TO LISTEN TO ME MOANING?"

She looked away amused and said 'Yes' dismissing me with a flick of her hand.

"RIGHT THEN, GOOD LUCK FINDING SOME NEW STAFF"

And with that I unzipped my stripey green uniform, stepped out of it and marched out in my bra and tights, my head held high. Two days later I received a letter from management stating that I wouldn't be paid my owed wages due the manner of my resignation and not working the required notice period. I wrote them a very polite letter back stating that they were legally obliged to and also referencing in a veiled threat that I had never signed anything to say I opted out of the 48 hour working week arrangement (I had regularly been working over 60 hours per week). Within two days I received a cheque for my owed wages. I then shopped the fuckers to the Care Standards Authority and the Environmental Health.

The home was sold shortly afterwards to a private Healthcare agency who took it over and improved the standards so I heard from my former colleagues.

Bastards, served them right.
(Fireyfox is prepared to change, Sat 19 Jun 2010, 21:12, 12 replies)

i wear this crown of shit
Hah, take this, dead country legend. I feel the "Hurt" done by Trent deeper.
(funktrash soul = combustion engine, Sat 19 Jun 2010, 20:09, 9 replies)

My mum stopped me sticking it to The Man.
The Man in this case being Mr. Tesco.

In early 1998 I started working for Tesco as a checkout boy. At the tender age of sixteen I waltzed into Tesco for 'orientation' and was told to come back for the late shift that evening.

So I appear and apparently I'm not on that day's rota. "Sod this!" I thought. "I'd rather play computer games all day!" so like the lazy boy I was, I wrote them a letter saying that I just plum didn't want to work for them anymore.

I got a letter a couple of weeks saying that they were sorry I was ill and that they hoped I would return to work soon. Another couple of weeks later I received another letter stating that I had been fired, accompanying which was a cheque for £100. Why they sent me this cheque, I do not know, but they did and I deposited it in my bank account and forgot the whole affair.

A couple of years later I arrived home from another gruelling three hours at college to discover a letter waiting for me. I opened it to reveal another cheque for £100.

The more astute amongst you will realise that I received the second cheque in 2000. Tesco, in their wisdom, had set their payroll system back two years in order to escape the wrath of the millennium bug until they were ready to implement a solution, thereby ensuring that I received a second cheque.

My mum made me throw it away, fearing that any attempt to cash it would result in me being investigated for fraud and bumraped in hell by Hitler for all eternity.

A pity. I could have used it to buy a DVD player.
(ElectricMonk is falling awake on, Sat 19 Jun 2010, 18:05, 1 reply)

Additional contact information.
Jaycatt's post reminded me of a conversation I enjoyed the other day at work. A sales rep from a company that isn't very good called me while I was a little busy looking at lasers on the internet:

Him: "I'm XXXX from XXXX. Just calling around our customers collecting additional contact information."
Me: "Mmm-hmm."
Him: "Have you got a fax number?"
Me: "Are you going to send us promotional faxes?"
Him: "Yes."
Me: "Then I don't have a fax machine."

It gets better.

Him: "Do you have an email address?"
Me: "Are you going to send me spam?"
Him: "No."
Me: "Are you going to send me amazing promotion details?"
Him: "I believe that's the idea."
Me: "I don't have a computer."
(ElectricMonk is falling awake on, Sat 19 Jun 2010, 17:15, 6 replies)

Loud, loud music.
One of my two jobs is working in a clothes shop. A big, fairly cheap chain style one. So clearly anything above us shop floor drones is soulless £££ grabbing twattery.

The new idea is "Louder is better!" for the music. Fair enough, I like it above background level when its a nice tune. Couple of grievances here though:
1) The shop CDs are awful. God knows who made the remixes of all the chart songs of the past 3 months, but they need killed.
2) We cant bring our own CD's / plug our music players in because it breaks the whole "uniform" of the stores.
3) Loud music is music where you have to literally stand beside someone and shout to hear them. Many a customer has been lost because I simply cannot understand them, and ive had many a bollocking for not doing something that was shouted at me from across the store for simply not hearing what was said. At All.

So, where do I stick it to the man you ask?
Theyve tried to get everyone to sign a sheet of paper "swearing" that the musics gonna be big loud and cool, man!
Yeah, like im going to sign that.
Good luck sacking me for it.
(bredstkcriminal, Sat 19 Jun 2010, 15:55, 5 replies)

I absolutely, point blank refuse
to buy a razor with more than 3 blades on it. I may have been suckered along on the ride as far as 3, but no farther!

No matter how many knobs, whistles, vibrating bits, sonic pulsers or battery operated laser targetted beard-hair vapourisers they add, I refuse to believe it will shave me any better than my little 3 bladed warrior (which I resharpen on my arm every time I use it, negating the need to buy replacement blades at a million quid a pop).

Ha! Take that, gillette! Put that in your smoke and pipe it, wilkinson's sword! You won't be duping me, and all your clever yet useless gadgets are a big waste of money!

I'm really not that much of a rebel, am I?
( baw__bag contains traces of nuts on, Sat 19 Jun 2010, 15:11, 32 replies)

Pretty much The Man begging me to stick it to him if the truth be told.....
And a blatant verbatim copy/paste repost if I'm honest, but it fits.

**I'll say the same thing as many times as i want, you're not keeping me down you fuckers**

Probably about 10 years ago my boss at the time sent me off to the bank sounding like "that vest" as they were then (are they still that now?.... I digress) to get some change, he wanted £60 in £20 notes changing to fivers.

I get to the counter, hand over the cash, ask for fivers in change, and the young laddie the others side of the glass obliges... he's counting them as he goes.... "35, 40, 45, 50, 55, 60, 65, 70, 75, and £80. Anything else I can do for you?"

I believe in Karma, this isn't my money, my boss paid me sod all (this was before the minimum wage which came in about 3 months after I left and worked for someone who wasn't a tit, had I still been there I would have been about £40 a week better off) and £20 felt like a lot. Also if I had been responsible for a £20 error in his shop and he found out he would be the worlds biggest arse for at least a week to me, so it was almost instinctive not to take it.

"Errmm.. I think I only gave you £60"

The young chap looks at his colleague, rolls his eyes, doesn't agree or disagree or recount what I gave him but starts to count the fivers again, this time a little tersely.

"*sigh* 5, 10, 15....... 55, 60, 65, 70, 75, and 5 is 80. Will that be all sir?"

"Seriously I'm sure it was only £60 I gave you"

Again, he doesn't count the money I gave him, this time he wasn't a happy chappy.

" *deeper sigh* 5. 10. 15. 20....... 55. 60. 65. 70. 75. And. Another. 5. Makes. 80. anything else I can do for you. Sir?"

I realised that I wasn't getting through so off I go. I put on a bit of a fumble in pockets "oooh have I given him all the money" thing in front of the boss just to make sure he hadn't given me £80 and I hadn't counted it right, and didn't mention it to him. If I had he would have genuinely wanted my winnings seeing as it was his cash which caused the confusion, and he was a money grubbing, vindictive, tight arsed monkey.

I wonder if my £20 started the avalanche that has become the banking implosion? Mighty oaks and tiny acorns and all that.
(tinypod will never learn. Ever., Sat 19 Jun 2010, 12:49, 1 reply)

Purely psychological and totally petty.
A forum I frequent used to be dominated by a regular who was normally reasonable and intelligent; however, sometimes he would become a frothing egomaniac and take a completely irrational, vehement dislike to certain people. Anyone who tried to stand in his way (i.e. defuse the situation) was guaranteed to receive threatening private messages and/or a request for their immediate banning. Naturally, this created quite a sour atmosphere.

As time went on, he got more and more power-crazy. One of the things he liked to do was obsessively search for his own name, and have the last word with anyone who had mentioned him in a less than complimentary fashion. Often, these threads would be days old and so no-one would see his sparkling wit, but the important thing was that he'd had the last word. At some point, I heard about his ego-searching and decided to throw a (rather small) spanner in the works.

If you used the search engine on this forum, it would look through the entire message for the text you were searching for - including all the special tags (bold, underline, image embed etc.) that aren't normally visible. One of these tags allows you to create a hyperlink; on b3ta, which uses standard HTML, you insert such a tag by including <a href="link to website goes here"> text goes here </a> in the message. Like this. Now when you click "post", the tags in your message are reduced to a standard format before what you typed in actually gets posted. However, the hyperlink tag is left unaltered, and it is entirely up to the poster to make sure their link points to a valid website. And if there is no text in between <a href="..."> and </a>, the link will be completely invisible. Like the one at the end of this sentence.

So by copy/pasting <a href="this user's name"></a> into every single post I made, I mananged to fill his ego-searches with completely irrelevant results. I've no idea how effective it was, but the thought of him sitting at his desk, searching for his own name, clicking through page after page after page of rubbish, slowly getting angrier and angrier generated enough amusement to keep on doing it till he left.

By the way, if you know of any online egomaniacs/self-proclaimed authority figures like this, please feel free to try this on them.
( The Mock TurtIe ™ --- Thinks you are a cunt, on, Sat 19 Jun 2010, 12:27, 11 replies)

Insurance reports
Back in February, I was in a car accident in Edinburgh. I wasn't hurt but my (relatively inexpensive) car was written off. I had to phone up the insurance company to explain that it hadn't been my fault, and give an account of what actually happened. All through the process (during which I was on hold for half an hour at a time in three different departments) it became plain that the employees had been told that rather than referring to other cars involved as "The Audi" or "The Toyota", they had to refer to them as "Third Parties".

I shouldn't have done it, but I had just been in a nasty car crash and I had no money and no patience left. My final account of the accident was roughly:

"I pulled onto the roundabout in conjunction with a third party on the left and a second third party between myself (the first party) and the first third party. The first third party pulled sharply out of the left-turn-only lane into the path of the second third party who, upon seeing the first third party was forced to swerve into myself (the first party). The first third party drove off leaving the second third party and myself as the first party in bits on the roundabout".


This may have contributed to the reason it took them so long to pay out, but it did mean that I got to keep my very nice courtesy car for nearly three months.
( MatJ LOOK, Sat 19 Jun 2010, 11:37, Reply)

Sticking it to the man by proxy.
I only got this job because I was dating the boss's daughter: www.b3ta.com/questions/badmanagement/post752542

Being young, experimental, and curious about her body, she was an extremely filthy girl and we had many a happy time exploring each other's sexual desires.

She was particularly fond of watching hardcore porn and was eager to try almost anything that she had seen on video. Pretty soon after we started dating, and to my delight, she admitted that she had an insatiable appetite for anal sex. As you can imagine, my young mind kicked into overdrive at the opportunity presented to me - I had never (and have since never met) any woman that is in the least bit interested in drilling for oil on the moon.

If I'd had a particularly bad day at work, she would receive my virile seed right up her arse and, although blissfully unaware of my vengeful motivation, she was usually more than happy to oblige.

There was a certain amount of satisfaction in knowing that, no matter how terribly this fat fucking discharge of a boss treated me, his young princess had screamed with ecstasy the night before as my pulsating young cock ripped apart her quivering corn-hole at the seams.

Small victories.
(god_is_a_ghoti Carpe Deum., Sat 19 Jun 2010, 10:41, 3 replies)

Weston Super Shite Town Council are a bunch of wankers who wank off each other while wanking!
Just after I was made redundant and my claim for housing benefit and council tax benefit had not even been lost for the first time, they sent me a bill for Council tax! To which I replied with the honest fact that I had no income.

The stupid fact is though, even if you are utterly with out money to even buy food, let alone pay a huge outrageous bill, they still demand that you pay.

Finally after my claim had been lost for the second time and I was forced to complain and they told me that I was not eligible for benefit and they demanded that I pay the full amount. Now which orifice was I going to pull just over £900 from I asked?

Thankfully I had already made my first monthly payment (which had got lost in their pathetic computer system) so when they sent me the red letter, telling me I now owed them the full amount in one easy payment due to my non payment I was rather angry.

I now understand why the Town Hall has toughened glass payment booths. I could have thumped the bitch but thankfully I had my bank as a witness to my paying the first installment. The thicko behind the glass counter looked a little sheepish as I forcefully explained the situation, carefully pointing out their fuck ups and then explained that they had lost my payment.

The lying promise of phoning me at home was pathetic and I walked out in utter disgust. Apparently, I was not alone. The computer system had failed a lot of people and was due to be repaired.

The lying, dick chomping, shit sniffing, arse stretching, wank sock wearing, cunt whores!

You should have seen their faces when they had to apologise...


They still wont give me benefit, despite my being on Jobseekers. But they have now acknowledged that I am up to date with my Council Tax. Come the revolution, they will be put against the wall and have to wait while we find the paperwork to execute the cunts, should only take a day or three!
( Rev. Jayneflakes Buy my book, I need the cash for drugs and hookers, Sat 19 Jun 2010, 10:35, 2 replies)

I made the police pay me $22.
Many, many years ago my ex-gf gave me two tickets to go and see A Midsummer Night's Dream (it's a play by some fellow called will Shakespeare) being done by a famous and with-it modern company. I don't exactly know why she gave me these tickets, apart from the fact that she got them for free from her ex-bf whose father ran the festival the play formed part of. My then-gf did not wish to go (I suspect she was having secret liaisons with said ex-gf) so I went with a mate and took the gf's car.

It was fabulous. I had a single beer before, and a single scotch during interval. We headed homewards. Being an older Italian car, there were naturally gremlins with the electrics and it was for one of these that the constabulary pulled me over. The very polite older guy copper rumbled over his capacious belly-and-chin-set that he'd seen I had a tail-light out (the opposite one from that which I'd changed the week before, sigh) and in a friendly and jocular way said "well if we don't tell you, how would you know?" So no harm done, just a happy pair of coppers glad not to be dealing with some actual bad shit on a Saturday night. Needless to say, as with every pull-over, there's the old 'random' breath test. No problem, as the legal limit is 0.08 and given what and when I'd drunk I'd be lucky to max out at 0.02.

So the cheery, compact but curvy lady plod is holding the machine up almost suggestively while I blow through the straw, the machine beeps, and her heretofore sunny and chatty demeanour suddenly shifts, just a tad, to the right.

"I'm going to ask you to do that again, OK?" OK, then, so repeat procedure....beep....and....demenour level now degraded to 'standard system response only' level, as "I'm going to ask you please to accompany us to the station now."
"Why? What does it (the machine) say?"
"I can't tell you that."

I know full well how pointless argument is at this point, but we have a quandary. My mate has no licence. Nor can he actually drive, he being one of those rare blokes who made it all the way past 30 without ever seeing the need. We are far from home, and public transport is not an option. He will have to get a taxi home. This sucks, because taxis are expensive and both he and I are studenty types (well, a poet and underemployed musician respectively in truth) so are permanently broke. Sigh again.

My journey to the central city lock-up is enlightening, as I'd never seen the inside of a paddy wagon up close, and given the shiny hose-out interior, the hard steel 'seating', the lack of seatbelts and the driving style of your average copper I can see how so many folks are 'accidentally' injured while resisting arrest from inside their cage. The coppers are now completely chatless, cold, professionally detached.

I share the holding room with two prostitutes who were not good conversationalists (no speaking English) and a fellow extremely happy with himself and the world and showing it by rubbing himself all over and caressing the corners of the walls with his cheek, like a cat. He was an amazing chat, and was in there for the second time that night, following a drink-driving charge, release, and then an arrest for "a little bit of everything [giggle]".

Eventually I am ushered in to the room where the high-tech desk-mounted breathalyser equipment resides, the one they need to use for court purposes. At each point of handover from officer to officer I am asked if I have any complaints about my treatment thus far. I ensure them that they are all fine exemplars of their trade apart from the fact that their machine is clearly fucking wrong. I may not have said fucking, actually.

Back-timed to the time of incident, according to the Big Brother machine, my true reading would have been approximately 0.01. I hardly register a whiff right now. At this point I calmly ask why the fuck I am there. I do say fuck for sure this time. There is the slightest intimation of a shrug in response, with the merest millimetre-measure crinkle of wryness at the corners of eye and mouth. Not so's the cameras could detect.

Curvy blonde demeanour champion is bouncily back at news of this, and forestalls my next peeved question by announcing that they're heading back to the "vicinity of your vehicle" - her words exactly - and they could give me a ride. I could wait through....here....in the garage, with the van.

Also in the unlocked garage with the unlocked van is a small collection of police equipment such as batons, spare radios, flashlights, shotguns.....on a wee rack. Yes indeedy, a pair of riot guns. Right next door to Mr Happy Wall Crawler who is now having some lightning flashes of screaming regret and terror, and an unlocked door between us. Opening the passenger door of the van I see donuts. Yes, donuts. I couldn't believe it either. Where do you get donuts in a city like this - hardly donut capital of the world - at midnight?? The police clearly have Secret Powers we can only guess at. I didn't eat one, in case I got caught.

Now's when I wished the cops would please revert to type and shut up because I have to start answering chatty questions for the 15 minute ride back like "oh, is that the play with the fairies in?" and "do you follow the cricket? I follow the cricket, what did you think of that...(insert random cricket thing here)".

When I finally got an answer to *my* question about wtf was I doing in lock-up, ms. smiley chirper just said "Some of our equipment's really old and doesn't work properly all the time. We don't have the budget to get the new stuff."

The car was fine, thanks for asking. Big guy reminded me about the taillight and apart from the absence of my mate it was like groundhog day 2 hours earlier.

I sent a letter explaining the situation and expressing my displeasure at having to "pay for my friend's taxi ride due to police incompetence." etc etc. No response. But to shorten this already stupidly-long anecdote, I kept at it, and eventually after a few half-hearted suggestions from different bureauplods about compensation forms, appeals, court appearances and one particularly nicely-penned one of mine on the subject of what some of my friends in the press have suggested....came a cheque, 8 months later, for the exact amount on the copy of the (forged) taxi receipt I'd sent them. No note. End of story.

Imagine apologizing for length in a court of law. Or a bawdy house.
(dadadali has hybrid vigour, Sat 19 Jun 2010, 5:22, Reply)