Sweet Revenge: 200 Delicious Ways to Get Your Own Back

money. A time-consuming argument ensued but the bank would not back down and refused to accept responsibility. Eventually the customer, feeling he was banging his head against a brick wall, told the manager he was fed up and was going to transfer his account to another bank. The manager wrote back in surprised and injured tones, saying that they were 'very sorry that you wish to close the account. Has our service not been to your satisfaction?' The customer wrote back saying: 'Do you realise that an anagram of your bank's name is "Dim and Blank?" '
     

     
    Probably apocryphal. Robert Maxwell was walking round the office and he saw a man leaning against a wall reading a newspaper.
    'How much do you earn?' he asked.
    '£150 a week,' came the reply.
    Maxwell opened his wallet and pulled out £150 cash. 'Here, take this,' he said. 'You're fired!'
    The man took the money and sauntered off. He was not an employee of Maxwell, just a visiting salesman.
     

     
    Cartoonist and satirist, Alistair Hilleary, otherwise known as 'Loon' was invited to hold an exhibition in the Palace Hotel in St Moritz, a town that has seen its fair share of mayhem and high living. For a diversion one evening, Hilleary and a few others had a little fun 'rearranging' the hotel room of Hamish Leng, another well-known hell-raiser. This caused much mirth but the smile was wiped off Hilleary's face a couple of days later when he was summoned to reception by the management of the Palace who informed him that he was being sought by the Police; his credit rating was nil and would he kindly explain himself or they would have no alternative but to turn him, and his seventy-two paintings, on to the streets. Hilleary was made to sweat good and proper: the Swiss took a very dim view of the situation. It was hours later when he caught sight of the fax from the Acme Credit Control Agency in England... and recognised its address as that of one Mr Leng.
     

Military Mischief
     

     
    'Always forgive your enemies - but never forget their names.'
    Robert Kennedy
     

Military Mischief
     
    An extremely arrogant young French cavalry officer from a very aristocratic background arrived at the officers' mess of a British regiment. It was pretty quickly assessed that he was going to be a difficult one. He was standoffish and, despite several attempts to include him and make him feel welcome, he did not let up and upset everyone he came into contact with. One night over dinner he informed the assembled company of officers in the mess that, as far as he was concerned, the French army was vastly superior in terms of ability and style to their British counterparts. A red rag to a bull.
    As a result it was decided by several of the younger members of the officers' mess that he needed to be taught a lesson, and the more stylish a lesson the better. One night over dinner it was explained to him that a couple of members of the mess had found an extremely convenient and highly illegal route into what was then East Germany and that they would be taking a party of officers across that night to go and party hard in an East German pub where women and beer flowed all night. It was, of course, an extremely hazardous operation so only the bravest and most outstanding officers would go -would he be interested in joining them? His Gallic pride could not resist this temptation. He agreed. It is worth noting at this point that the regiment's location was some distance from the East German border but it was located close to a major range complex which was sealed off by barbed wire fences and manned checkpoints which, to the uninitiated, did look like border crossing points.
    The French officer and three British officers set off in one of the subaltern's cars and proceeded to spend about an hour driving around in a large circle using several different autobahns, giving the impression that they were, in fact, travelling to the inner German border. They arrived at the entry point to one of the ranges where, waiting for them, were two young officers dressed in Russian uniforms and carrying Russian replica machine-guns which they had borrowed from the regiment's training wing. At the checkpoint one of the officers in the car expressed some concern that it was highly unusual to have Russians on the gate and that the normal border guard who let them through did not seem to be there. He gave the Frenchman the customary bottle of whisky used for bribing the guards on such occasions and told him