My younger brother used to live opposite a particularly unpleasant and irascible old man named Tom, who jealously guarded the parking space outside his terraced house as if it were his own. There was no designated parking bay or any other restrictions, but he had decided that that particular bit of street, by virtue of it being immediately in front of his house, was exclusively reserved for his car. He would remonstrate angrily with anyone who dared to park there in his absence, and one day reduced to tears the young, pregnant wife of a friend of my brother who had been visiting the nearby community health centre. It was decided that they had to teach Tom a lesson.
My brother works in the motor trade, and managed to acquire a beaten up old Fiesta that, nevertheless, was taxed, MOT’d (and covered on his own trade/dealer insurance). It had been traded in against a newer car but was probably bound for the scrap yard – perfect for what was required. He and his mate waited for the old chap to drive off, then parked the Fiesta in his spot and left a ‘For Sale’ notice with the victim’s phone number stuck inside the rear window. When he returned, he quite predictably took exception to this and went up and down the street knocking on doors to find out whose car it was. With a commendably straight face, my brother asked him if he had tried ringing the number on the ‘For Sale’ notice. “Of course I have,” Tom replied, “it’s always bloody engaged!”
After a few days they decided to twist the knife a bit and, having spotted a discarded show-room dummy in a skip behind the local department store, my brother liberated it and put it in the driver’s seat of the Fiesta, one hand nonchalantly resting on the steering wheel, the head turned provocatively towards Tom’s house. This made Tom even angrier as he realised, perhaps for the first time, that someone was winding him up. He phoned the police, who turned up (probably as much to shut him up as anything) but politely told him that there was nothing they could do. The car was perfectly legal, no offence was being committed and no, they couldn’t tell him who it belonged to.
Three weeks later, with the car still parked there and Xmas approaching, my brother and his mate sprayed ‘Merry Xmas Tom’ along the side, hung baubles inside, sprayed fake snow along the bottom of the windows and dressed the dummy in a Father Christmas outfit and beard. An explosion of rage equivalent to that of a small nuclear device detonating could later be heard emanating from the opposite side of the road.
Come the end of January, and with the road tax due to expire in a day or so, Tom made it known that he would be straight on the phone to the police and the council to get the car towed and the owner prosecuted. He was literally hopping mad when my brother’s mate from the garage turned up with a pick up truck to take it away at the 11th hour – even standing in the road in front of the car in an unsuccessful attempt at preventing it being loaded.
Truly, revenge is a dish best eaten cold.
My brother works in the motor trade, and managed to acquire a beaten up old Fiesta that, nevertheless, was taxed, MOT’d (and covered on his own trade/dealer insurance). It had been traded in against a newer car but was probably bound for the scrap yard – perfect for what was required. He and his mate waited for the old chap to drive off, then parked the Fiesta in his spot and left a ‘For Sale’ notice with the victim’s phone number stuck inside the rear window. When he returned, he quite predictably took exception to this and went up and down the street knocking on doors to find out whose car it was. With a commendably straight face, my brother asked him if he had tried ringing the number on the ‘For Sale’ notice. “Of course I have,” Tom replied, “it’s always bloody engaged!”
After a few days they decided to twist the knife a bit and, having spotted a discarded show-room dummy in a skip behind the local department store, my brother liberated it and put it in the driver’s seat of the Fiesta, one hand nonchalantly resting on the steering wheel, the head turned provocatively towards Tom’s house. This made Tom even angrier as he realised, perhaps for the first time, that someone was winding him up. He phoned the police, who turned up (probably as much to shut him up as anything) but politely told him that there was nothing they could do. The car was perfectly legal, no offence was being committed and no, they couldn’t tell him who it belonged to.
Three weeks later, with the car still parked there and Xmas approaching, my brother and his mate sprayed ‘Merry Xmas Tom’ along the side, hung baubles inside, sprayed fake snow along the bottom of the windows and dressed the dummy in a Father Christmas outfit and beard. An explosion of rage equivalent to that of a small nuclear device detonating could later be heard emanating from the opposite side of the road.
Come the end of January, and with the road tax due to expire in a day or so, Tom made it known that he would be straight on the phone to the police and the council to get the car towed and the owner prosecuted. He was literally hopping mad when my brother’s mate from the garage turned up with a pick up truck to take it away at the 11th hour – even standing in the road in front of the car in an unsuccessful attempt at preventing it being loaded.
Truly, revenge is a dish best eaten cold.
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