NAKED Classics.

Does that mean anything to you? No, me neither. Or at least it didn't.

"I've a couple of spare tickets for the Naked Classics Concert," my then boss, the editor of the Evening Times says. "They're yours if you want them."

I quickly phoned a friend who was delighted to join me. But regrettably I was too embarrassed to admit that I was not sure what Naked Classics are.

"Great," I told the boss accepting the offer, but not asking any questions that might betray my ignorance of the event.

However, unfortunately, my somewhat bewildered expression while discussing the nature of the Naked Classics gave the game away.

Always game for a laugh and ready to jump on an opportunity he quickly pipes up.

"It's a concert with classical music, Janice. Nothing too heavy," he assures me.

"Oh good," I smile stepping neatly into his trap. "I've never been to a classical concert."

"Yes, they're great … but I should warn you that the musicians on stage are naked."

"Naked? Naked? NAKED!" I squawk, rather taken aback by this information.

"Yes, but it's very tastefully done," confirms Tom, our group managing editor and, in his spare time, the then chairman of the Royal Scottish National Orchestra.

A FEW minutes later (having been primed by my evil boss). "Musical instruments are strategically placed, so you'll be fine. Nothing to be embarrassed about"

"Okay, that's fine then," I say, somewhat reassured and unaware of the sniggering that follows my departure from the office.

Then I remember my guest who will be coming with me to the concert. She is rather staid. How do I tell her that the musicians will be naked?

Taking the easy option, I decide it is best not to mention it and act as if I am as surprised as she is.

The concert begins and I am on edge, nervously waiting to be confronted by naked bodies. It will come as no surprise to readers, but not to gullible me, that there were none.

The concert ends and my friend and I head to a private bar in the Concert Hall. My boss and it appears every other boss who works for my company are there having a drink … and enormous belly laughs at my expense.

"Naked? You really thought they would be naked?" laughs one.

"Bet you're glad they weren't playing the penny whistle!" guffaws another.

Each of them thought they were funnier than the next.

Later, I fell asleep with the sound of laughter ringing in my head … but it was not my laughter.

My humiliation was festering all night and when I awoke the next morning, I knew I had to get my own back. I didn't know how, but I just knew I would.

Walking to work, I pass a shop and something in the window catches my eye. Staring in front of me is a cluster of realistic looking plastic spiders. My mind was racing. I nipped in and bought three.

Mornings in the office are very quiet because everyone is concentrating on working to tight deadlines. I routinely take my boss (the instigator and the object of my vengeance) a giant bowl of cornflakes to his desk, which is in the middle of a large open-plan office.

I WALK round the corner carrying his bowl of cornflakes. But he is so engrossed in editing the paper he hardly notices me.

"Morning," I say, cheerily.

"Morning," he grunts in reply with no mention of the previous evening's humiliation.

'Morning!' I think to myself. 'Well, we will see how your morning goes'.

I place his large bowl of cornflakes at the side of his keyboard and I know something he doesn't: I have placed two 50p-sized plastic spiders in his bowl of milky cornflakes.

The tables have turned.

I return to my desk around the corner from his. And wait. And wait. Silence. And then … all hell breaks loose.

"Aaargghh!!!!" The scream rebounds across the editorial floor.

I laugh out loud but quickly realise the possible impact of my actions. A joke is a joke, but, after all, this is my boss!

The floor shudders as he charges round to my desk.

"Funny, very funny Janice," he says in a voice that does not give any hint he saw the humour of the joke.

"Right, fair enough. You've got your own back, so let's leave it at that," he scowls returning to his desk. Now he knows what it is like to be embarrassed in front of his staff like I was the previous night.

A minute later, his managerial sidekick Graeme appears at my desk. He extends a hand and shakes mine.

"Brilliant," he smiles. "I've never laughed so much in years. You should have seen his face when he discovered the spider in his cornflakes. Priceless! Absolutely priceless."

"What about the second spider?" I ask nervously. I am now concerned I have maybe taken things too far and imagine what would happen if the editor of the Evening Times choked and died on a plastic spider that I had put in his cornflakes?

What a headline that would make!

"The second one?" asks Graeme.

before I could answer, Graeme was off like Red Rum racing back to his desk next to our great editor to await the discovery of spider No 2.

I was now feeling rather queasy. This could go so very wrong. I'd had my revenge but this was maybe going too far.


The roar is deafening but I am somewhat relieved that the Evening Times still has an editor who is not deceased.

Endless witnesses are keen to fill me in on the incident. The boss had returned to spooning more cornflakes into his mouth whilst concentrating on the next news bulletin when he 'ate' the second spider.

The surprise this time was even greater, sending him reeling from his chair on to the floor. Cornflakes were splattered over his keyboard. Colleagues didn't know if they should laugh or cry.

THE next minute I can hear him stomping his way back to my desk.

"Enough is enough Janice. I think we are equal now. No more, right!!!"

"Okay boss," I answer somewhat submissively.

Fair's fair. We nod and agree to a truce.

But remember, there was a third spider.

Ahead of his next business flight to London I slipped it in his briefcase between his meeting notes. I'll leave you to imagine the rest!

Lesson of the day: Never play tig with a fox!