Being a little pr**k as a kid - we all did it.

Whining Civvy

War Hero
Back in days of yore when news was printed on tree matter, local shop owners would employ mere children on quasi-slave wages to get out of bed at the crack of sparrow fart and collect a bundle of them, to be delivered via bicycle to worthy customers before they had their breakfast. Although I was gifted one of these fine jobs, I never truly appreciated it and was quite resentful that the people I was delivering to were happily a-bed whilst I was out there in the pissing rain just so they'd be able to read whatever bollocks was in the papers that day while they chewed their marmalade on toast. One customer in particular drew my ire due to his possession of an annoying yappy dog who regularly disturbed my serenity as I shoveled the Daily Mirror through his door. Yip yip yip every time, and the one time I told it to shut up the outraged owner happened to be on the other side of the door and gave me a mouthful for it, earning my lifetime enmity in the process.

One Christmas time an aunt of mine - one of those ones who always gives you clothes as a Christmas present - had some form of brain spasm and gave me the most enormous bag of sugared almonds instead of another jumper as I'd expected. This would have been fine, were it not for the fact that I hated sugared almonds and she knew that perfectly well. Fortunately, I also received a catapult because they were kid's toys back then and not the offensive weaponry of today, and, being a bright and malicious spark, I had the idea of putting these two things together and giving the owner of the yipper his comeuppance.

From that day on, while the bag lasted , I would, at varying times during my paper round, either scoot ahead or double back, and spend a few moments firing sugared almonds at the front of his house until the dog was in a positive frenzy of yipping. I would keep it up until the front bedroom light went on, then the hall light - meaning he'd got out of bed and gone downstairs to sort the dog out - before stashing the tools back in my paper bag and p*ssing off. I was never caught, and quite probably never even suspected, but God alone knows what he thought of all the cracked almonds scattered across the front of his house. The finest moment was when he, quite audibly from my vantage point some way down the street, screamed "SHUT THE F**K UP" at the dog. The memory still makes me feel warm and pleasant even at a distance of coming up to thirty years. Happy days.

I can't have been the only little s**t on these forums. What did you get up to?
 
Shooting my (at the time) best mate in the arse with an air rifle.

As I was a framer's boy, Himself bought me one with a view to trimming out the rat population.

I was 10. John, my mate, was also 10.

As boys of that age usually do, the conversation quickly transitioned as to whether denim would be a successful barrier to air rifle pellets.

As it was my rifle, he was nominated for the slot down range.

Through the safety of some years past, I can report that, no, denim provides no ballistic protective qualities whatsoever.

John's squealing covered 4 octaves, though :)
 

Joker62

ADC
Book Reviewer
Back in days of yore when news was printed on tree matter, local shop owners would employ mere children on quasi-slave wages to get out of bed at the crack of sparrow fart and collect a bundle of them, to be delivered via bicycle to worthy customers before they had their breakfast. Although I was gifted one of these fine jobs, I never truly appreciated it and was quite resentful that the people I was delivering to were happily a-bed whilst I was out there in the pissing rain just so they'd be able to read whatever bollocks was in the papers that day while they chewed their marmalade on toast. One customer in particular drew my ire due to his possession of an annoying yappy dog who regularly disturbed my serenity as I shoveled the Daily Mirror through his door. Yip yip yip every time, and the one time I told it to shut up the outraged owner happened to be on the other side of the door and gave me a mouthful for it, earning my lifetime enmity in the process.

One Christmas time an aunt of mine - one of those ones who always gives you clothes as a Christmas present - had some form of brain spasm and gave me the most enormous bag of sugared almonds instead of another jumper as I'd expected. This would have been fine, were it not for the fact that I hated sugared almonds and she knew that perfectly well. Fortunately, I also received a catapult because they were kid's toys back then and not the offensive weaponry of today, and, being a bright and malicious spark, I had the idea of putting these two things together and giving the owner of the yipper his comeuppance.

From that day on, while the bag lasted , I would, at varying times during my paper round, either scoot ahead or double back, and spend a few moments firing sugared almonds at the front of his house until the dog was in a positive frenzy of yipping. I would keep it up until the front bedroom light went on, then the hall light - meaning he'd got out of bed and gone downstairs to sort the dog out - before stashing the tools back in my paper bag and p*ssing off. I was never caught, and quite probably never even suspected, but God alone knows what he thought of all the cracked almonds scattered across the front of his house. The finest moment was when he, quite audibly from my vantage point some way down the street, screamed "SHUT THE F**K UP" at the dog. The memory still makes me feel warm and pleasant even at a distance of coming up to thirty years. Happy days.

I can't have been the only little s**t on these forums. What did you get up to?
Like yourself, a paper boy. Sundays were the worst double thickness Times (yeah, I had a bit of a posh round). Anyway one twat decided not to donate to the annual Christmas box, so his Sunday Times got scrunched through the letterbox in a one'r, he decided to make a complaint, next Sunday, I made sure that it went through unscrunched by posting every page individually in no particular order.
ETA, I also used to steal the orange juice (in pint glass bottles) from some of the properties along the round, never my customers thoug, that would've been stupid!
 
Like yourself, a paper boy. Sundays were the worst double thickness Times (yeah, I had a bit of a posh round). Anyway one twat decided not to donate to the annual Christmas box, so his Sunday Times got scrunched through the letterbox in a one'r, he decided to make a complaint, next Sunday, I made sure that it went through unscrunched by posting every page individually in no particular order.
ETA, I also used to steal the orange juice (in pint glass bottles) from some of the properties along the round, never my customers thoug, that would've been stupid!

Did you particularly enjoy trying to get Sunday papers through letterboxes like this?

1614600432559.jpeg
 

BratMedic

LE
Book Reviewer
I had a couple of betting shops on my round, on a Saturday they both got every paper known to man to stick up on the walls round the shop, the *********.
 
Playing football as you do in the car park on our estate. Banana feet here kicks the ball over a fence into a garden. Ball thrown back over deflated with 3 holes in it from a garden fork.
Our little gang of 10 year old lads were, in a word, little bastards. Into Darren's dads garage, oily rags, paper, petrol and anything else flammable, all stashed up against the fence next to the twats shed... And

Whoooomph!
The lot went up, fence, shed and the wooden cladding on the house.. Oh how we laughed, that'll teach the bastard to pop our football. We then legged it as fast as we could when the police tipped up just after the fire brigade.. Never did catch us for it.
 

theoriginalphantom

MIA
Book Reviewer
I had a morning round, an evening (Manchester evening news) and the Sunday round.
Nobody else in the village was interested in delivering papers so I was on a comparatively good wage.

With the houses being on two sides of the valley I had legs of steel from all the cycling.
 

sidsnot

War Hero
Weekend paper rounds.
Ringing doorbells and scarpering. Having 10p for sweets and being able to buy enough and have change.
Scrapping with my cousins over a piece of Sunday roast crackling at my Nans house only to find one of the adults had it.
 
As a child my best mate and I used to collect lost golf balls from the long grass alongside the driving range at the local golf course and sell them back to golfers at about 50p for a bag of 10. A satisfactory arrangement for all concerned. (we used to walk through it in bare feet to find them, surprisingly easy). If, purely hypothetically, an up-his-own-arse-with-his-own-self-importance golfer tries to confiscate our recently harvested balls as they were “stolen property” and threaten to call the police, it would be an amazing coincidence how quickly all 4 tyres on a Mercedes go flat when the driver tries to reverse out of his parking space when, purely by chance, 4 nails had been wedged in behind the tyres.....
 
Having 10p for sweets and being able to buy enough and have change.

That’s a lie.

As a child, if you’d be given £100 you’d have spent it all on sweets with no change.
 
A friend near me had a go kart they used to keep in an unlocked outbuilding. I used to watch for them going out then borrow it for a bit of a jolly.
 
The finest moment was when he, quite audibly from my vantage point some way down the street, screamed "SHUT THE F**K UP" at the dog. The memory still makes me feel warm and pleasant even at a distance of coming up to thirty years. Happy days.

Not a little shit story, but a big shit story. The old lady who used to live across the road had an ancient lab, Max, who would bark at people walking past if it was dark. Naturally if I returned from the pub, Max would bark at me, usually followed by a bellow of “Max, shut up” from his owner, he would then generally go quiet as I went through my front gate. Under no circumstances then would I come back out of my garden and provoke Max into another round of barking. Multiple times. Eventually leading to complete meltdown from his rather prim older Scottish lady owner “Max, ******* shut the **** up for fucks sake, stop ******* barking you stupid ******! “ etc etc.

Because that would be immature and unneighbourly.
 
Can't remember what we did - probably something involving fireworks, but me and my mates got chased out of Walpole Park in west london by one of the park keepers. We thought we'd got away from him on our bikes when suddenly he appeared behind us on a motor scooter, in full on hot pursuit mode...

We eventually lost him by taking off in different directions and using back alleyways...

Incidentally I used a similar technique many years later when my Tp was being followed by an "enemy" helicopter while on exercise in Belgium. A quick bomburst into various tracks in the Ardennes forest and an RV grid sent via radio saw him off... :)
 
Being sucked off by members of the local lawn bowling club whilst sharing cans of Stones Bitter in pervy Hughie's house.

Halcyon days indeed.
 
As boys of that age usually do, the conversation quickly transitioned as to whether denim would be a successful barrier to air rifle pellets.

As it was my rifle, he was nominated for the slot down range.

Through the safety of some years past, I can report that, no, denim provides no ballistic protective qualities whatsoever.

John's squealing covered 4 octaves, though :)
I learnt at about the same age that a .177 pellet wont go round corners in a length of brewers tubing.
Well to be fair it never got into the tube and instead hit the knuckle of my index finger where I was holding the pipe against the muzzle.

So it still could work.
 

Latest Threads

Top