I have to admit there are two occasions.

First one was after I moved to a new town in the UK and was living in a decent enough suburb of a large town in West Sussex. At the time I owned a VW Passat estate (station wagon) it was a pewter or metallic grey color. Very nice car.

One morning I come out to find it had been scratched from one end to the other, in some places down to the metal, I was livid. A neighbor saw me examining the damage and told me it was done by the two kids who lived at the end of the close, their mother couldn’t bear anyone having a better car than them, they owned a ten year old red Ford Sierra, and she would tell her boys to scratch the car. I couldn’t believe my ears but some other neighbors came out and confirmed the story.

Well every Sunday at 10:00 AM sharp this family would all wash and polish the family car, have lunch and then go for a drive, dressed up as if they were going to a wedding. So the following week I bought two bottles of clutch fluid and very early on the Sunday morning poured it all over the bonnet, roof, and boot. For those who have never seen the effects of clutch fluid on car paint it’s very effective. The paint very quickly swells up and blisters and then bursts revealing the bare metalwork. Believe me I’ve seen the results.

09:45 I start to “work” on my car, 10:00 the family come out with buckets of foaming water to clean their car. Well the shrieks and screams could be heard a mile off, the sleepy Sunday morning was rent with the noise. Concerned (ha ha) I approached the distraught family and enquired what had happened. I was shown the damage, it was impressive, the blister on the bonnet had already burst and the one on the boot was due any minute.

I looked the woman in the eye and exclaimed “Little Bastards, I wonder if it’s the same ones who scratched my car?” She looked back at me and knew it was me who had vandalized her car but there was nothing she could say or do. Several of the neighbors bought me pints in the local that Sunday lunchtime.

The second one was shortly after I moved across town having bought my own house. It was a small house halfway down a cul-de-sac with private parking at the back. For reasons I never understood my house came with 4 allocated parking spaces, it was only a 2 bed room house, but whatever?

I had only lived there a few days when a lady approached me and told me I couldn’t park my car where it was (in my own allocated spot) as it was her husband’s space and he would be annoyed. Not wanting to get off on the wrong foot with the new neighbors I asked her to come round when her husband got home to discuss it.

Two hours later an angry husband and wife batter down my front door (almost). I stepped outside with a copy of the house plans provided by my solicitor when the search had been carried out and explained, politely that the space was mine, as were the three adjacent to it so my parking there was legal and theirs wasn’t. They exploded, “I’ll park where I damn well like and there’s nothing you can do about it, try anything and I’ll kill you” was the friendly parting shot. So they both would make sure either his or her car were parked in my favorite spot.

Well I was working in the photo industry then and mentioned this “parking space war” to some colleagues and was advised that photo paper when well soaked in water and placed face down on a surface and allowed to dry sticks like poop to a blanket. So I got a four feet long piece of 18 inch wide paper, soaked it for a couple of hours and then placed it emulsion side down on his windshield, his car being parked at the foot of my garden making access very easy.

The next morning I left early for work. When I came home, both of their cars were parked in their own allocated parking spots, his car had a shiny brand new windshield. You see when photo paper is stuck emulsion side down and allowed to dry when you try to remove it all that happens is the paper comes away leaving the emulsion in the surface. Nothing known to man is getting that off. I explained all that to the nice police officer who visited me that evening, I also pointed out that it was probably meant for my car but the rascal who did it must have thought that as the car was parked in the space marked “13” it was mine. The police officer arched one eyebrow very impressively and remarked “Very likely” and reported the incident as “Mistaken Identity”

The neighbors were not happy, threatened violence and death (all reported to the authorities) but never parked in my space again.