I was sitting at my desk when I remembered a call I'd forgotten to make. I found the number and dialled it. A man answered, saying "Hello." I politely said, "This is Sean. Could I please speak with Robert Campbell?" The rude b**stard screamed in my ear "Get the right f*kin number!" and slammed the phone down on me. I couldn't believe it, but being a thick skinned old squaddie I decided to let it go. When I tracked down Robert's correct number, I discovered that I had accidently switched the last two digits. After ringing and speaking to him I decided to call the 'wrong' number again. When the same guy answered, I yelled "You're a C*nt!" and hung up. I wrote his number down with the word 'C*nt' next to it, and put it in my desk drawer. Every couple of weeks, when I was paying bills or I'd had a bad day, I'd call him up and yell, "You're a C*nt!" It always cheered me up. When caller ID was introduced, I thought my therapeutic "C*nt" calling would have to stop. So, I called his number and said "Hi, this is John Smith from BT. I'm calling to see if you're familiar with our caller ID program?" He yelled "NO!" and slammed the phone down. I quickly called him back and said "That's because you're a C*nt!" One day I was at Valley Park (Croydon for you non sarf London peeps) Shopping Centre, getting ready to pull into a parking spot. Some guy in a gunmetal grey Land Rover cut me off and pulled into the spot I had waited patiently for. I hit the horn and yelled that I'd been waiting for that spot, but the idiot ignored me. I noticed a "For Sale" sign in his back window, so I wrote down his number. A couple of days later, right after calling the first "C*nt" (I had his number on speed dial) I thought that I'd better call the Land Rover "C*nt" too. I said "Are you the bloke with the gunmetal grey Land Rover for sale?" "Yes, I am." He replied. "Can you tell me where I can see it?" I asked. "Yeah, I live at 129 Coombe Lane in Croydon. It's a terraced house and the car's parked right out front." "Cheers. What's your name?" I asked. "Steve" he replied. "Steve Hansen." "When's a good time to catch you in, Steve?" "I'm home most days as I'm currently unemployed." "Listen Steve, can I tell you something?" "Yes?" "Steve, you're a C*nt!" Then I hung up and added his number to my speed dial too. Now, when I was feeling naffed off, I had two a**eholes to call. Then, one Monday when I was feeling particularly churlish, I came up with an idea. Icalled C*nt #1. "Hello?" "You're a C*nt!" (But I didn't hang up.) "Are you still there? he asked. "Yeah" I said. "Stop calling me!" he screamed. "Make me," I sneered. "Who are you?!" he shouted. "My name is Steve Hansen." Where do you live?" I live at Coombe Lane, Croydon, a terraced house, with my gunmetal grey Land Rover parked out the front." He said "Right! I'm coming over right now. You better start praying!" I said "Yeah. Like I'm really scared, C*nt!" and hung up. Then I called C*nt#2. "Hello?" he said. "Hello, C*nt" I said. "Listen!" he yelled. "If I ever find out who you are..." "You'll do what?" "I'll kick you a**e!" I answered "Well, C*nt, it's your lucky day. I'm coming over right now, so say your prayers!" Then I hung up and immediately called the police, saying that I lived at 129 Coombe Lane, Croydon and that I was on my way over there to kill my gay lover. Then I called the Croydon Advertiser about the hoodie war going down in Coombe Lane, Croydon. I quickly got into my car and headed over to Coombe Lane. I just got there in time to watch the two C*nts beating the cr*p out of each other in front of six police cars, a police helicopter overhead and a news photographer. Now I feel MUCH better. Take it from me, anger management really works.