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This is a question Vandalism

I got a load of chalk, felt-tip markers and paint from friends one Christmas in a thinly-veiled attempt to get me involved with their plan to vandalise the toilets at the local park. My downfall: Signing my name. Tell us your stories of anti-social behaviour.

Thanks to Bamboo Steamer for the suggestion

(, Thu 7 Oct 2010, 12:10)
Pages: Latest, 16, 15, 14, 13, 12, ... 1

This question is now closed.

But is it art?
Several years ago, on one side of the Yarra river, the Federation Square project was in full swing. The logo for the project was a capital F in a square, and stickers with this were liberally applied to all the fencing, site offices, and so on.

On the other side of the river, the art gallery decided to have a bit of a facelift, and put up temporary fencing around the front, with the slogan for their upgrade project painted all over it. In artistically significant, all lower case, it read "art like never before!"

A veritable wave of stickers crossed the river within days.
(, Wed 13 Oct 2010, 12:13, Reply)
Botanic Garden, Belfast
While studying in Belfast many, many moons ago there is a park beside QUB called the Botanic Gardens. At one entrance there is a statue of Kelvin, in his robes, mouth slightly ajar, reaching out as if talking or lecturing or something.

Each year at valentines day someone would always climb up and stick a rose between his teeth. While I was studying nearby we would climb up on the same night and hang a G-String or any kind of ladies underwear off his hand and smear his fingers red or brown depending on what we had close at hand. We always used something non-toxic that would wash away easy, we were responsible vandals.

Kudos goes to the students who climbed up at Halloween 2002 and gave him a full on Gene Simmons from KISS makeover.
(, Wed 13 Oct 2010, 12:09, Reply)
Village graffti
Written on the side of the old golf shop in a Cambridgeshire village is 'Histon sucks beach boys'

But what does this mean? Is it unfinished and means Histon sucks, beach boys yay. Or does it mean the population of Histon should suck the beach boys.

I'm confused.
(, Wed 13 Oct 2010, 12:05, 6 replies)
Pad and pen
In a small meeting a few months ago with the big bods of the company, and Joe Scaramanga to my left, imagine my pain as JS quietly lent over, drew an enormous jizzing cock and balls on my notepad, and lent back to study earnestly the speaker and their presentation.

Thus my next half hour was spent A: trying to keep my composure and B: trying to get him back.

And Mrs Vagabond calls me immature.
(, Wed 13 Oct 2010, 11:19, 3 replies)
I live in Oxford...
And contrary to the stuff so far about intelligent graffiti, the one that always made me chuckle was a sign for Swindon, near my house. Some little yob graffiti'd "is are Shit!" on the sign. It always amused me how illiterate they were, probably skiving English to do it.

Then one day, on my way back from Swindon, god knows why I went there, there was a sign for Oxford, and some Swindon-ite had daubed "is wankers" on the sign.

I feel this proves that Oxford is just a regular city, just like everywhere else, and not a bunch of Rahs. We can match Swindon for incorrect grammar.
(, Wed 13 Oct 2010, 11:14, 1 reply)
I live in Barnsley, a place where most of the graffiti is usually the same old crap you see elsewhere and nothing out of the ordinary or amusing. That was until mid summer 2009 when the local council made a huge mistake and unveiled a statue of one of the local residents Dickie Bird.

I have met Dickie on a number of occasions and can truly say he is a miserable sod and from the look of it a number of local residents seem to think that too. Come to think of it, I think whoever built the thing might have felt the same way as they decided to put the statue on a small plinth and easily within reach of any normal person.

The sight of this bloke dressed in his umpires uniform and raising his finger with a grin on his face seems to have inspired the locals to get creative with it and despite the fact that the central police station is a stone’s throw away I have seen him with a variety of clothes on (Mainly women’s), carrying a pizza box and more bizarrely someone had impaled a kids doll to the end of his finger making it look like Dickie was having the time of his life fiddling with a minor (Kid I mean and not one of the locals from down the pit).

I’m just waiting for the day that someone paints his face joker style as that would look truly creepy.
(, Wed 13 Oct 2010, 10:35, 2 replies)
If you think you'll be bored reading this, you probably will.
Apologies for not sticking strictly to the question, but it's the graffiti which will stay in my memory most.

Beautiful, sunny gentle summer days often found Steve and I climbing the golden sandstone outcrops around the south east of England. Perhaps one of my favourites is a place called High Rocks. Nestled amongst lovely woodland, you wouldn't be surprised to see a circular door and Bilbo himself at any point saying hello.

One of the climbs at High Rocks is Infidel. A single 6a move doesn't make for a particularly tough climb, but the atmosphere is compounded by the solitude and silence (even the birds seem to revere the place) and more so by the ancient graffiti which adorns it;

"Infidel! Who with thy finite wisdom

Wouldst grasp things infinite and dost become

A scoffer of God's holiest Mysteries.

Behold this Rock, then tremble and rejoice.

Tremble, for He who formed the mighty mass

Could in His justice crush thee where thou art.

Rejoice that still His Mercy spares thee."

March 21st 1831 J.Phippen

(The top of the climb is capped by a huge stone seemingly jutting straight out of the firmament above you in a mockery of physics.)

We used the climb as a middle ground warm up, but I fell off. Don't be scared, reader, I was secured by a rope at all times! But due to the giant rock above, the pendulum swing as I detached from the wall sent me flying backwards in a nice arc. Steve's a good belayer, and brought me to a gentle touchdown at the furthest point of this arc.
As my feet touched the ground, a flash in the corner of my eye accompanied a huge THUMP. Just in front of me, a dog had fallen off the ledge to the right of the cleft between the rocks. It looked dead, but I ran over to check all the same. As I got within a foot from it, it twitched a giant death throe twitch and almost cleared the ground. It's back was broken, and the noise it made will be the noise that haunts me on the darkest nights. I could hear children above, and yelled up to try and locate the owner.
"Keep the kids away" I shouted, "You best come down here quick mate" to the owner.
He came down, and his tears started immediately. The dog was still a way from death itself, so the owner stayed with it till it died. It was buried to the left of the climb, in full view of the inscription which makes you stop and think.

So, the small gap between knowing and understanding that concept of fatalism, the dog almost validating that tenuous life line we all have, and all along, under the words someone carved almost 180 years ago all came together to give me a taste of life and its bitter aftertaste.

Mr dog owner, I'm sorry you lost your dog, but I could see your love for it was true, I hope you both found peace.

Oh- here you go,

Length isn't as important as height on this occasion.
(, Wed 13 Oct 2010, 9:55, 3 replies)
I used to live in a house across the road from an old orchard in the middle of a tiny village. Sadly the orchard was bought by a developer with plans to build a load of houses on it. The locals formed an action group and protested and managed to get the number of houses reduced from 43 to 9, but the trees were all uprooted and building work started. The first bits of minor revenge were to move the surveyor's marks, move the wood and tape marking out the plots, etc., but the work of course continued and the houses were built.

The developer himself chose (unwisely) to live temporarily in one of the new houses; directly opposite my house, as it happened. Of course everyone in the area hated him: he'd spoilt the character of the village, so no one was interested in getting to know him. What's more, he had a big Range Rover and used to drive up and down the tiny lane, talking on his phone all the way, swerving round horses and children.

One morning I went down to the local bottle bank to drop off some empties. There in the field next to the container was the big Range Rover, sunk up to its axles in the soft earth. I guess he'd driven on to the field to turn around, not realising that it was so soft. I took a picture on my phone.

By the evening he'd got a farmer to pull him out and the car was parked on his drive, opposite my house, covered in mud. I printed out the picture of his car stuck in the field, wrote 'TWAT' on it, and crept out late at night to put it on his windscreen, as a reminder of his stupidity.

Next night I did the same thing. I revelled in this little act of revenge, reminding the fool of what a twat he was, and I imagined his fury every morning, seeing another picture there on the car. He didn’t have a garage (no garage = room for more houses = more money) and he was limited in where on his drive he could put the car. I didn’t put a picture there every night, just maybe once a week, and never the same night of the week. I kept this up for 3 months or so until the evenings got too light and it was difficult to go out under cover of darkness. I never saw him in the morning, when he got to his car, so I don’t know what his reaction was, but I like to imagine him fuming every time he saw a piece of paper there.

A couple of months later he moved away, to everyone’s great rejoicing, probably to go and ruin another village somewhere else. My little act of revenge was petty and childish. But it made me very happy.
(, Wed 13 Oct 2010, 8:28, Reply)
Perhaps not quite on message, but maybe worthwhile. Back in the mid 90's I spent some time living in Middlesbrough or "M'Bronx" to the locals. It were indeed grim up north, so drugs (mostly not massive, I'm ashamed to say) were a fairly staple part of our diet and entertainment. This was in the days of mandatory Rotweiler ownership for anyone who thought themselves a toughie, so buying said drugs was even more terrifying than usual. It was the summer of the "Devil dogs" kids being maimed all over the shop. One particular time, I remember waiting terrified outside our dealers house as three unleashed ones as big as rhinos tried to alternately shit on and bite bits off of the car. Anyways when all was clear we stepped up to the house.
This was one of those end of terrace houses with a solid wall down one side. Or at least it was supposed to be solid. Instead there was an almost perfectly round hole a few feet off the ground, about the size of what you imagine a round from a serious tank would do. In fact it looked exactly like the footage from Yugoslavia at the time. As our guy was clearly visible through the hole, happily watching telly, it seemed silly to go use the door so we mimed a knock and walked in to deal with business. Pleasantries and transaction exchanged we made a our excuses and left via the hole.
At no point did anyone make mention of the decor. As we turned to have a last look at the damage we noticed that whilst inside some one had sprayed in huge white lettering around the damage the legend. "MOTHER BINGO MANHEAD'. Never returned or explained any of it...........
(, Wed 13 Oct 2010, 4:19, Reply)
The crazy tree climber
Back in the land of the long white cloud, there was a phemomenon of road cones appearing on the top of trees. And not just your run of the mill christmas trees but "huge shit your pants if you were to climb them trees"
It seems that some rascal had been climbing trees and pruning the top 6 feet of branches off and placing a road cone on top like some pointy orange fairy.

There are articles on this but i cant seem to find any at the moment.

Edit: this is one but not the one im thinking of www.stuff.co.nz/taranaki-daily-news/news/4137520/Treetop-cone-has-council-stumped

Number two: www.stuff.co.nz/manawatu-standard/news/4059360/Surprise-pine-tree-topper-no-angel
(, Wed 13 Oct 2010, 3:52, Reply)
Wall cheese
When I was in Grade 11, a friend of mine purchased a chickenburger from the college canteen one lunchtime. Upon unwrapping it, he discovered it contained a slice of processed cheese. Not being a fan of the plasticated delicacy, he removed it from the burger and slapped the mayo-covered side against a concrete wall of the nearby building so it stuck there. When another friend arrived for lunch and asked whose cheese was stuck to the wall, Friend #1 pulled out a marker and wrote "This cheese is mine!" on it.

And there it stayed, come rain, come shine, come snow, for the rest of the year, withstanding the elements unchanging and proclaiming its message to the world. A photograph of the cheese even made its way into one photography student's end of year portfolio.

Sadly, when we returned the next year, the cheese was gone from the wall, presumably chiselled away by the groundsman. All that remained was one forlorn corner with the top of an "S" visible, amidst the lone and level concrete stretching far away.
(, Wed 13 Oct 2010, 2:51, 2 replies)
I didnt get a pic
Maybe next time I visit.
Some wag has added the letters Sch onto the road sign where my mum lives
So it now reads Schlong lane
Its been there over a year now, either no-one notices or cares
(, Wed 13 Oct 2010, 0:53, 5 replies)
The EnviroCrime Department
Harking back to a time when I used to live in a somewhat more scummy part of London, I looked out of the Living room window one Sunday morn, only to see the following motif: "D'Corum woz ere", scrawled in 6 foot high letters on the road in front of my house.

Not the most imaginative statement I think you'll agree, but at least he'd made an attempt to punctuate it, although there probably should have been and apostrophe before the "ere" -Anyway, I digress.

Having seen posters by the Met and the Mayor of London about graffiti - "Graffiti, Together we can fight it! (or something)' I decided to ring up the local Rozzers.

There were two things they wanted to know: 1. Had I seen anyone in the act of committing the crime and 2. Did any of the graffiti touch my property. The answer was 'no' to both questions. Point 1 - because there were no witnesses their view was there was no point getting off their fat lazy arses to investigate. Point 2, because the graffiti was on the road outside, and wasn't technically touching my property, I wasn't a victim. In fact if anyone was the victim, it was the local council, and if anyone wanted to put together a prosecution, it would be the council too. I then entered into a philosophical discussion about whether just because you're the witness rather than the victim of a crime, does that mean it is no longer a crime. If a tree falls in a forest....?

Anyway, to cut a long story short, I was instructed to ring up the Council's dubious sounding Enviro-Crime department. I explained the situation to the Phone-Monkey and was then asked, was the graffiti racist or offensive in anyway? Too dim to realise where this was going, I explained what it said, and that the "ere" was lacking an apostorophe - Hell, Lynne Truss could walk down our street at any moment and I wouldn't like to take my chances with that kind of pedantry! Basically, what he was driving at was that if it was racist or had a swear word in it, it would become a priority and would be removed quicker. I kicked myself for not insisting that the e in ere looked a bit like a swastika!

A few days later they did eventually clean up the Graffiti and all was right with the world again.
(, Tue 12 Oct 2010, 23:47, 3 replies)
I remember visiting a friend who was still at college, I had graduated (sort of the previous year).A group of us sank a great deal of wife beater and vodka and thought it amusing to shout obscenities as loud as we could - I decided to go one better and took the large salt container and wrote in huge letters CUNT across his neighbours drive. This was a Friday night and I reasoned in my slightly befuddled state that as the neighbour was a builder’s yard I could wash it off before Monday morning and they wouldn't come round to investigate.
Two things were wrong with my plan:
That much salt needs an awful lot of water to dissolve especially when the only means of delivery is a kettle.
Builders work on Saturdays...........
(, Tue 12 Oct 2010, 23:23, 2 replies)
Mumps Bus Station- Oldham; mid 1970's
"Between the iron gates of fate
The seeds of time were sown
And watered by the deeds of those
Who know and who were known
For knowledge is a deadly friend
If no-one sets the rules
The fate of all mankind I see
Is in the hands of fools!"
(alpha and omega symbols- cba with the alt codes...)
This was on the wall of the Midland Bank that faced the bus stands for years, and provided much cogitation material for the confuzzled hordes of schoolkids that awaited there,until eventually it was removed.

It is apparently a lyric from a song by Aphrodite's Child, starring one Vangelis, IIRC.

No-one ever knew where it came from....

unless You... know otherwise!
(, Tue 12 Oct 2010, 22:58, 6 replies)
Written on a wall near my house

In a (fairly) quaint village in Berkshire, above the road name, scrawled at head height on the wall in chalk was the following piece of graffiti:

Fight AIDS - smack a queer

The funniest thing about this was that it somehow managed to stay on that wall for a good ten years. In fact it might even still be there now...
(, Tue 12 Oct 2010, 22:39, Reply)
Renaming villages may result in increased commute times
Hutton Roof, a small village in Cumbria, is signposted from the A65 several times. Up until a year or so ago, all the signs had been slightly modified to show the way to Button Moon. Lovely!

Unfortunately some humourless council clean up crew have wiped out this bit of whimsy.
(, Tue 12 Oct 2010, 22:32, Reply)
How an entire year group got expelled
well, more like asked to leave, but still, it sounds cooler this way.

Long ago were the days when I was but a young mouse in the fields of my school. And such times were about to draw to an end at school, as all the upper sixth (18 years old for those that don't know) came into school for their last ever Monday before breaking up and leaving on exam study leave. Naturally, we could not let such an event past without leaving out mark upon the school that had given us so much fu..., enjoy..., well, so much over the years.

So it came to pass that on this final Monday, the entire school came in to find that we had indeed left our mark on the school. Quite a lot of marks actually. It started simple, with the usual tricks. Wallpapering up the entrance to the school; breaking onto the roof and replacing the school flag with a Jolly Roger, leaving fish in hard to reach places, the usual. However, this was only the start.

One group had decided to spray paint, in bright green, in big letters their feelings of certain teachers onto the ramp leading down to the staff car park. Imagine the delight on said teachers face when he comes down to see that "[said teacher] fucks pigs" among many glittering delights.

Bury surely the piece d'resistance of this motley crew was this: taking that our school had a rather large cricket field in the middle of the grounds, these scamps did 2 things; first to drive a car all over it, cutting the turf up no end. A mild annoyance you might think, but considering the pride the school put into the field, the emotional damage was quite high.

Second: they applied weedkiller all over the cricket field. And when I say all over, I they took their time to draw out a massive cock and balls (with mandatory three drops) onto this cricket field, and then made a not unflattering comparison between the cricketing phallus and the deputy head. This was genius as far as a lot of people, including myself, were concerned, as not only did the weedkiller kill the grass, leaving the imprint in the ground, but the school painted over it in green, trying to camouflage it. Instead, this only extenuated the problem as the different colours made it easier to see.

So when the entire year group is called in at 11am that morning, and told in no uncertain terms to clear out their lockers and get out, many left with a sense of pride, as we all felt we had achieved something that day. And then we went to the pub.

Length? About 4 years to fully get rid of it
(, Tue 12 Oct 2010, 22:26, Reply)
Yet more graffiti
I'll just leave this here...

(, Tue 12 Oct 2010, 22:07, Reply)
back of a portaloo door
on a building site in Basingstoke..

'Swallow my jizz you Paki schoolgirl whore'

Misogyny, racism and pedophilia all in one pithy phrase.
(, Tue 12 Oct 2010, 19:53, 3 replies)
Googly Eyes
I purchased a job lot of sticky backed googly eyes off ebay while bored. I'm now adding them to posters whenever I get an opportunity. Click I like this if you want to see pictures.
(, Tue 12 Oct 2010, 19:46, 9 replies)
I have pictures of 2 of them . . at home
I lived in Bristol for many years. Banksy is a famous Bristolian, obviously.

There is a pub with one of his works on an outside wall. This has been covered in glass for artistic reasons, and not in any way to increase the value of said building.
In True Bristolian style, next to it, some wag has drawn a CDC and signed it Wanksy.

In another part of town, there was for many years a 'Homos are gay'
on a wall.

Years back I remember a pavement upon which some illiterate had painted 'FUCK MY GENTLY'. My Evil Ex an I often laughed at this. Even more when another wag changed it to 'BUCKLE MY SHOE GENTLY'.

Will hunt the photos of the first two out when I get home.
(, Tue 12 Oct 2010, 17:55, 1 reply)
Three Wednesdays in Norwich
Once upon a time in the sleepy hamlet with aspirations of being a city that is Norwich (former Capital of England, apparently - presumably this was before the Rest Of The World beyond the borders of Norfolk had been discovered), there was quite a decent rock night to be found at a little club called Zoom. I should stress that Zoom was to little as Gordon Ramsay's ego is to large; the first time I went there, having spent the previous two years frequenting the mighty Nottingham Rock City, I literally walked around the club in twenty seconds and asked "where's the rest of it?"

But that's not the point. When I lived in the man-flat of hideous hilarity, myself and my flatmates Michael and Tim got into the habit of spending our Wednesday nights jaunting down to Zoom and getting horribly drunk. One time I was so lashed I think I tried to convince someone that Metallica hadn't lost it (circa 1998. Post-Load and, gods forgive me, Reload). Dearie me.

Good times, then. One night as we staggered home at 2am, Tim declared with utter conviction that he needed a piss, and he needed this piss with greater urgency than the remaining distance to the flat would permit. So he turned around, faced the wall of the alley behind Jarrold's department store that we happened to have wandered up, and proceeded to relieve himself of about £8 of recycled Dutch lager. Now, you can probably guess what happened next; it was late, we were wankered, the sound of urine hitting brick could be heard; Michael and I suddenly needed a piss more than Russell Brand needs a wash. And a good kicking. That's also not the point.

As we left said alley and found ourselves back on a street sufficiently well-lit for each of us to check our jeans for splashback, Michael pointed out, for some ungodly reason, that the alley included another entrance to Jarrold's, and in this entrance was a letterbox. "I wish I'd pissed through that fucking letterbox", he slurred with worrying vehemence.

Tim and I were torn between wondering why - on earth - he would wish to piss through a letterbox (imagine if it was one of those spring-loaded jobs... could you summon the concentration and finger strength to keep it open whilst trollied?) and assuming that, as was often the case with Michael, the answer would be "why the fuck not?". The latter won out, so obviously, we goaded him into going back and doing so.

"Can't now, can I, no piss left. Next week"

And so almost exactly 7 days later we found ourselves in a similar position. But this time Tim had the presence aforethought to point out to Michael, when he decided to go to the toilet just before the club kicked out, that if he saved it up he could deposit his alcoholic discharge through Jarrold's letterbox. Tim was joking. Or so he claimed. Michael, of course, took it deadly seriously.

I've lived in Norwich for 13 years now and have never seen anyone so keen to get to Jarrold's as Michael was on that night.

Bold as brass, he strode up to the back door, opened the letterbox (not remotely spring-loaded, it appeared) and merrily pissed through it. The door was plate glass so we were permitted the glorious sight of Michael's wee arcing gracefully through the air to create an impressively sizeable puddle on the carpet within. I have expected him to have shed a stone or two when he finally extracted himself from Norwich's premier department store.

I wish I could tell you that the worst part was hearing Michael call me and Tim a pair of fannies when our immediately subsequent need to piss was physically manifested against a wall instead of through the same letterbox.

I wish I could tell you that the worst part was Michael's insistence that we go back to Jarrold's the next day so he could see how much the stench of his piss had infected the interior of the store.

But the WORST part came on the third successive Wednesday, when, drunk as fuck and thoroughly wound up by Michael's claims to be the manliest of us all (he was from Luton, for fucks sakes) because he was prepared to defile a carpet through a letterbox, Tim and I were absolutely prepared to follow his reprehensible example. All three of us marched up to the back door, all three of us propped the letterbox open and, almost simultaneously, reached for our flies.

The letterbox was not especially wide.

Thank every conceivable deity, we realised what we were about to do just in time, gave each other a remarkably sheepish look, and ambled off to separate corners of the alley to unload our bladders. Is anyone else really starting to need a piss as a result of reading this? I feel like I could fill a paddling pool.

To alleviate the tension, I joked that we had narrowly avoided complete protonic reversal. I was shocked and appalled that neither of them got this.

"You know... if we'd crossed the streams..."

Apologies for crap punchline, this story is actually 100% true
(, Tue 12 Oct 2010, 17:03, 9 replies)

I 'belong' to a motorbike forum. Over the years we've had a lorra laffs, made money for charriddy by racing C90s around fields for 4 hours @ a time, like that ...

One of the guys had some stickers made up - about 150mm wide by 10mm high, with the words 'Nodding Dogs' the Social Clubs for Cunts with bikes' on it in red and silver.

For some reason it was decided that these should be put in unorthodox places, so I personally know of stickers placed behind the strengthening ribs in vans, on the back edge of the bootlid in hire cars, on the back of the loo on an aircraft, underneath the doors on the SL500 prize in a vegas auction, on the underside of the grab rail in a London Eye pod ...

.. there were hundreds IIRC, and they all went ...
(, Tue 12 Oct 2010, 17:00, Reply)
In a place called 'Wellington', many moons ago....
I'd been out of the lash with my good friend Matt, and we were on the way home from an epic night of debauchery with the goth girls in the local heavy metal pub (good, dirty, times!) when we came to the local bus depot which was closed for the night, all the little buses tucked up for sleepy times. The depot was on a short road, linking two of the main through roads into the town, one leading to Morrison's and the other to the centre of town, and on one of these main through roads there were some road works taking place. They had left far too many bollards and barriers knocking about, and it suddenly seemed that the most obvious thing in the world to do was to move the roadworks and block off the bus depot completely.
For over an hour, in the dark and cold biting wind we toddled to and drunkenly fro, moving cone and light, barrier and bollard, until we had completely zoned off both entrances to the depot, it looked like a professional job too. Just as the last cone went down, we heard a sound that struck fear into our hearts. WOOOOOOOOOOO! Accompanied by a quick flash of a rotating blue light. Our whole escapade had been seen by two of Her Majesty's finest, and as we had left enough cones etc to still cover off the actual roadworks, thus causing no immediate danger, they had decided to let us finish our task, before busting us and making us move everything back to whence it came. 'Alright lads?'
'Err, yeah'
'Going to put that back are you'
Another hour and a half later, they came back round, just as the last cone went back into its original position.
It had long stopped seeming funny, and had also began to rain. I was now sober.
I still hope for another opportunity to rectify this injustice, the road is full of pot holes and is due a bit of work again...I'm waiting, waiting......
(, Tue 12 Oct 2010, 16:54, 1 reply)
A bit different from the usual
Scrawled on the back of a toilet door:

CALL -insert phone number- FOR CAKE

Makes a nice change from sex, I suppose. Unless cake is some sort of euphemism....
(, Tue 12 Oct 2010, 16:33, 7 replies)
Littlehampton Circa 1995
" I Hayt Si?" Could never understand it - used to drive me mad.
And either a dyslectic dark worshipper or a passionate seamstress
In the middle of the road in block letters I WORSHIP SATIN
(, Tue 12 Oct 2010, 16:17, 3 replies)
A494 to Chester, couple of years ago....
A white prison van with "Gary Glitter's tour bus" written in the dirt on the back. Brightened my drive to work :o)
(, Tue 12 Oct 2010, 16:16, 4 replies)
Dean is an absolute wanker
When I worked for my cunt of a boss at Morrisons he made my life miserable... bullied me and my staff and whathaveyou until I wound up having some kind of breakdown just before xmas.

To make myself feel a little better about this sorry situation I took it upon myself to adorn the inside of as many morrisions trailers as possible with the legend 'Dean is an absolute wanker'. Many times I nearly got caught in the act, but the crowning glory was clambering up a stack of pallets that had been loaded on to the wagon so I could write on the ceiling.

If you're 'lucky' enough to work for these bastards, have a look in the back of the grocery wagons... I'd love to know how far my message has got.

Dean is STILL an absolute wanker.
(, Tue 12 Oct 2010, 16:15, 2 replies)
This is kind of a big one
Way, way back me and a couple of friends were on our way back from the cinema, kind of late at night, across junction 10 of the M6. It was undergoing loads of roadworks, though at that time of night they were deserted, and the workmen had left a few odds and ends lying around, including a can of white line-marker (like spraypaint except it comes out of the bottom, rather than the side).

We immediately seized on the possibility for mischief - we saw where they had marked out the bits of the road to dig up (mostly square patches labelled numerically) and set about adding a few of our own, so 907 became 907A and we added our own area 907B before 908, which naturally became 908A so we could draw 908B and so on. Before long, we'd added fake roadworks markings all the way around the junction.

Every time I go past and see the tailbacks at J10, I like to think I'm partially responsible for the junction's terrible design, though I claim no responsibility for the abortion that is J7. That's been fucking terrible for years and ironically is the one I end up using most.
(, Tue 12 Oct 2010, 16:10, 1 reply)

This question is now closed.

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