Sweet Revenge: 200 Delicious Ways to Get Your Own Back

room. In it, she discovered his passport. She took it out, and a biro and, in the 'Any Distinguishing Features' section she found herself writing 'No Penis'. Knowing that no one ever looks at their own passport, she still takes immense satisfaction from imagining the looks of pity he must get every time he goes through customs.
    - with thanks to A A Gill.
     

     
    One hot afternoon at the end of a particularly unsuccessful visit to Windsor Races, a regular punter found himself with only a fiver to get back to the railway station. He approached the only cab on the rank and asked the fare to the station. 'Fifteen quid,' said the surly cabbie.
    The punter offered the fiver with the promise to pay the balance on his next visit. The cabbie's reply was succinct and to the point: 'F— Off.' So the punter was forced to walk all the way to the station; miles and miles in the blazing sun.
    Some weeks later the same punter had a gloriously successful afternoon at the Windsor track and, emerging from the course, saw that the same surly cabbie was third in line on the rank.
    The punter approached the first cab and asked the driver: 'How much to the station?'
    'Fifteen quid, Guv,' came the prompt reply.
    The punter leaned into the cab and asked sotto voce: 'How about another twenty quid for a blow-job?'
    The furious cabbie shook his fist at him and called him a filthy pervert. The punter good-naturedly approached the second cab on the rank. The same question provoked the same sort of response: 'Nob off you twisted git!'
    With a shrug, the punter approached his old adversary

     
    of weeks before. 'How much to the station?' he asked quietly.
    'Still fifteen quid,' replied the cabbie.
    'Fine,' said the punter and hopped inside.
    As they pulled away from the rank the punter leant out of the open cab window, caught the attention of the first two cabbies, winked knowingly and gave them a gleeful thumbs-up. As their jaws dropped he knew that they would never see their colleague in the same light again.
    - with thanks to Christopher Wilkins, writer.
     

     
    Joan found out that her husband was up to no good. She carried on a bold pretence of knowing nothing about the affair but put itching powder in his underpants. After several days he became so worried about his scratching that he thought he had a sexually-transmitted disease and confessed all to his wife.
     

     
    A Royal Marine was training in Northern Norway. On a dark, November night he went to a discotheque where he met a vision of Scandinavian beauty. Despite the language barrier they managed to communicate and she indicated that it would be a good idea if he went back to her place.
    The following morning he awoke at 8 a.m. and, looking around the sparsely furnished bedroom, he wondered where he was. He smiled as it all came back to him but came down to earth with a terrific bump when he looked around. He saw that he had no clothes, no shoes, no wallet - everything had gone - and so had the girl. They must have been stolen. Groaning, he grabbed the telephone and phoned the camp to explain the situation. Having been advised what to do, he thought he would get his own back by leaving a little memento. He climbed

     
    in the middle of the bed - and crapped. Just then his Scandinavian beauty came back in, with all his clothes most beautifully laundered and ironed and his shoes polished to perfection.
     

     
    The summer heat was unbearable and the traffic in Milan had ground to a halt. AC Milan was playing at home and noisy football supporters were everywhere. A young couple had been crammed on a slow train among football supporters, and were now stuck in a taxi: immobile amongst the stationary cars in the searing temperatures. They were running desperately late for an evening function, but they still had to get back to their hotel somehow and change. Their tempers were running high.
    Now came the final straw: he absolutely insisted on stopping for a drink. No, he couldn't wait until they got back to the hotel. The queue at the street café seemed endless but he was adamant - he had an absolute fixation about having a grapefruit juice. She stayed in the car and fumed as he got out to join the queue.
    'Oh, what's the Italian for a grapefruit juice?' he asked.
    'Pompino, uno pompino,' she replied innocently.
    Her mood lifted in anticipation of coming events. Eventually he got to the front of the queue. 'Pompino, per favore,' he shouted above the noise to the pretty teenage girl