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This is a question Lies that got out of control

Ever claimed you could speak a foreign language to impress friends, colleagues and/or get laid? Make a twat of yourself - and I couldn't possibly comment - saying you were the godson of the chairman of BP? Tell us how your porkies have caught up with you

(Thanks to augsav and Sandettie Light Vessel Automatic for the suggestions)

(, Thu 12 Aug 2010, 13:03)
Pages: Popular, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

This question is now closed.

Oh crikey - the girl who got run over.
I'd completely forgotten this one...

My parents used to ask me every day "so how was school today?" and obviously the fairly mundane stories of maths, spelling, P.E. and all the rest got a bit repetitive. During a particularly uninteresting season when I was about six years old, I started making things up. Mostly small things: Christopher got into trouble, Emma brought her pet rabbit to school, we went on a nature walk and saw some bees, that kind of thing.

One day I got home, my parents asked the question and I answered "oh, a little girl got knocked over by a car outside school and died." This was complete fabrication but to my six-year-old mind seemed not entirely unfeasible. My parents, of course, were shocked and asked for more details so naturally I invented some: it was Robbie's mum, she was driving too fast, it was one of the girls in reception, she'd crossed the road without looking, the car had run her over, some people saw it happen and lots of children screamed, all that sort of thing that came rapidly to my road-safety-fed and imaginative small child's mind.

I think it was the exertion of the hasty invention that made me seem a bit reluctant to talk further, so my parents stopped asking me any more questions and I toddled off up to my room. My parents, thinking I was in shock and of course not doubting my account, phoned the school - the number was engaged. So they called other parents, asking if anyone knew anything more about the little girl killed outside school today. I sat in my room, happily playing with Lego and blissfully unaware of the dramatic Chinese whispers-like panic, gossip and search for answers rapidly propagating along the telephone lines of the parents of infants in my year all now hastily calling each other. The school telephone remained engaged.

It was only the following morning, when I'd completely forgotten about my lie and was taken to school by my dad as usual on his way to work, that we saw a huge throng of parents and journalists waiting outside the school gates, some with bunches of flowers to place outside the school, being confronted by a very bewildered head teacher who was being accused of trying to deny everything and stage some sort of cover-up.

Fortunately, somewhere in the midst of all the phone calls and drama the night before, the original source of the utter lie had somehow been forgotten - by everyone except my dad. He said very little as he left me at the school gates but I vividly remember the huge and lengthy shouting-at session (of course accompanied by having no dinner) I got from both parents when I got home that night, on how and why lying was bad and wrong and how if they ever caught me lying again they would tell the whole school where the story of the run-over girl came from...
(, Thu 12 Aug 2010, 14:52, 10 replies)
Haircut
When I was 14, I decided it would be a good idea if I shaved my head. I’d asked my mum if I could have a ‘grade 1 all over’ but she’d refused on the account that she thought I’d look like a thug. I tried to argue that it would save me time in the mornings, plus keep me cool (it was the Summer), but still she wouldn’t let me, so I did what any young boy would do; I did it anyway.

I waited for her to go shopping one Saturday afternoon, retrieved the clippers from the bathroom, and got to work. As my hair cascaded down off my shoulders and onto the floor, I started wondering about how much trouble I’d get into. I realised that I’d made a mistake but I’d gone so far that I had to finish off the job regardless. After shaving off the remainder of my hair, I stood back and looked at myself in the mirror. I didn’t look like a thug at all – more like The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas with an illness. Panic set in, so I ran out the house and to the park to play footy with my friends.

They all loved my new look. I was greeted with shouts of ‘SKIN HEAD’ and they all wanted to stroke my fuzzy scalp. It made me feel better about what I’d done and I soon forgot all about the trouble I’d get into when I got home. A couple of hours passed, and everyone had to go home for dinner. Reluctantly I made my way home. My mum was still out. Result.

“What the fuck have you done?” were my brothers exact words as I walked into the kitchen.

“What does it look like?”

He started laughing at me.

“Mum’s going to kill you. Hahahaha. This is going to be brilliant. I knew you’d done it because I saw all the hair in the bin. You utter wanker!”

By now I was bricking it.

“What shall I do? Can we try and sort of stick it back on do you think?”

My brother laughed.

“It’s all in the bin mate. You’re dead!”

I was in big trouble. I even thought about shaving both of the cats and using their fur on my head. I had to do something. Anything. As thoughts raced through my brain, I heard a car pull up on the drive. My brother looked out and confirmed my fears that mum was home. I grabbed a black sweatshirt, and tied in around the top of my head; I copied the way I’d seen ladies wrap towels around their wet hair.

My mum came into the kitchen and started putting the food she’d just bought away, whilst asking what we’d been up to. Eventually she looked at me and asked why I had a jumper on my head.

“Errmmm, well we were playing football and I wanted to be Ruud Gullit, so I just played like this because it’s like I have dreads”

“You pillock, you look more like that woman from M-People”

I’d gotten away with it, for now at least. For the whole evening and the following day, I managed to go about my business with my shaved head without my mum noticing, by just wearing a jumper on my head when I came out of my bedroom. However, Monday morning came and the inevitable happened. As I went to leave for school with yet another jumper tied around my head, my mum called me back.

“You can’t wear that to school. Take it off”

“I’ll take it off when I get there”

“No you won’t, give it here”, and with that she pulled it off my head.

Before she could start shouting at me I spluttered,

“It…it..just fell out”

“FELL OUT? WHEN!”

“Over the weekend”

“WELL WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME?! JUST FELL OUT? Right come on, I’ll book an appointment with the doctor; you might have a serious illness”.

With that she went to the phone, dialed the number and began to book an appointment.
It took me until we pulled up outside the doctor’s surgery to admit what I had done. I had thought about trying to blag it, but I didn’t have the balls for that. I received a huge lecture about lying and disobeying my mum. I felt terrible.
A few years later I found out that she knew all along what I had done because, like my brother, she’d seen all the hair in the bin. She just wanted to see if I’d own up and how long I’d keep on wearing jumpers on my head.
(, Thu 12 Aug 2010, 16:42, 2 replies)
Mistaken Celebrity
I have the type of face that reminds people of somebody else; can’t tell you how many times someone has come up to me and said that I was a dead ringer for their brother, father, uncle, cousin, dog, ex-boyfriend. I figure I was cut from a common mold and God gave everyone else distinguishing features.

A few years back I went to a conference in Las Vegas and was waiting in the terminal for the flight back home. In my line of work, I can usually dress how I want so I was a black button-up shirt, tight jeans and harness boots. My hair was shoulder length and curly. Since it was a conference, I dressed it up with a black blazer. I had also just bought a bunch of American Indian jewelry so had some new necklaces, rings and bracelets that I was going to distribute on my return home, but that I didn’t want stolen from luggage.

So there I am in the endless tide that is the McCarran airport alternating between reading my book, standing, walking around and being generally bored. Up sidles a 50-something lady with short purplish-brown hair and large behind who plops herself down in the seat across from me. I look up, smile politely and she says, “You’re not who I think you are, are you?” Somewhat bemused, I replied, “No, I must be someone else.” She giggles as if we’re sharing a private joke and says, “I bet you have to tell people that all the time!” Now, initially, I figgered she thought I looked like a relation, but given her wink-wink, nudge-nudge attitude, I realized she thought I was someone well-known. So, in a moment of bad decision making, I play along: I’m bored, she looks harmless, what can it hurt?

So I say, “Well, you know how airports are, a person can never get a moment’s peace.” She looked at me knowingly as she empathized, “It must be terrible to have such inconsiderate people not allow you to even relax a moment.” “Yes”, I reply. She then goes on about how she loves Vegas, loves to go to the shows, but really wishes that I would’ve been on while she was in Vegas. “You’re not playing here, are you?”, “No”. “I thought so,” she continues, “because I would have been the first one in line. My girlfriends just love your music and my husband even liked that special you did over Christmas.” Oh crap, this is uncomfortable I’m thinking and start looking around for an escape hatch! She notices and says, “Oh, don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.” “Good because I’m really not who you think I am.” She giggles, fake smacks me with her magazine and says, “Oh you!” Groan. She chats about herself and family and how she loves to come to Vegas and meet people that she would only otherwise see on TV and find out that they’re just as normal as everyone else. Although I did not affirmatively bear false witness, I am silently pleading for forgiveness for not quickly correcting my batty new friend.

Now people within earshot are pretending not to listen, but quickly look away as I furtively glance around in utter embarrassment and fear that somehow I’ll be blamed for this woman mistaking my identity. This only makes it worse. I excuse myself to use the restroom and when I return, I see her a few rows over chatting with several people. I think, good, now I can lay low. It was not to be. I had just enough time to read a few pages in my novel when she trundles over with another lady and she says, “We just wanted to say hi.” “Good afternoon ladies,” I reply, putting on my most diplomatic smile. First lady turns to her friend and says, “He says he is absolutely not famous, and that he would tell us if he was.” For some reason this causes great fits of laughter, and people around us are starting to look at us. In my mind I am regretting not simply saying “piss off!” in the first instance. Then lady says to friend, “Can you take a photo of me and this totally anonymous stranger? Hee hee, hee hee.” It gets worse when she says, “This is only for me, and to prove to people back home that I wasn’t lying.”

So photos are taken, friend wants her turn, more giggling, bystanders are staring and whispering. I am trying to be gracious, saying few words, like “hello”, “yes, I end up travelling a lot”, “No, I haven’t met Simon Cowell, but I’m sure he’s nice”, “I prefer the Beta 58 to the SM58, just personal preference”, etc. I turn down a request for an autograph from one of the five or so people who have scooched closer and my batty friend whispers loudly, “He’s trying to keep a low profile!” I heard things like, “He’s so down to earth,” “He’s just like he seems on television,” “I liked him before he was really popular,” and the like.

My flight was called and because I had enough frequent flyer miles, they automatically bumped me up to First Class, which only convinced these people that they were absolutely right about me.

The lie? As I said my goodbyes and walked away I heard batty new friend tell her admiring throng, “He is the nicest guy. My husband and I met him last night at the Bellagio and he bought us really expensive champagne and we traded email addresses. You should have seen the two gorgeous ladies he was with.”

To this day, I still have no clue who I was supposed to be, but if someone shows you a photo of some “famous” person they met in Vegas and he looks slightly nauseous through his smile, it just might be me.
(, Fri 13 Aug 2010, 20:38, 14 replies)
Hold me closer, tiny dancer
I'm sure Prague is a wonderful city. I've been, but I can't attest to its potential cultural magnificence, going as I did with around 15 other blokes, most of them (collectively at least) being the type of guys who enjoy 'dancing' in clubs.

Thus is was mostly a process of: sleep most of day - shower in communal bathroom in shitty hostel - slap on cheap aftershave - down cheap beer - roam streets - night club - forrin greasy food - strip club - stagger home in daylight - sleep most of day.

Whilst in the transition period between flithy super-clubs and over-priced stripjoints/brothels, we were constantly being harrassed by what were essentially, pimps.

Trying to get us to go to their strip clubs, or presenting little cards with a variety of sexual services, like a menu. 'Autosexo' is sex, apparently.

To wind them up, we decided to making ludicrous demands of their services, claiming that we wanted to see chicken sex, snake sex, sex with a corpse, all kinds of shit we knew they could never provide. Always they would reply 'Haha no friend, we have normal sex, many beautiful girls for you!'.

However, one day, walking along the same stretch of road, someone says 'Yeah we want midget sex' -

'Yes friend, we have midget sex for you, this way!'

'Haha - wait, really?'

'Yes, pleaase!'

Confused, intruiged, caught out - for whatever reason, we followed that pimp. He bundled us into a limo, which drove us for about 10 minutes to a secret location, which it turned out was 50 meters down the road and about 20 times round the block.

Still thinking this was a joke, we reluctantly paid the extortionate entry fee ('you take our limo - you pay for entry!') under the watchful gaze of some beefy bouncers/con men (we should have legged it), and were ushered through a gigantic strip club to a side room, where our theif/helpful guide proudly displayed a selection of pole-dancing midgets in 'sexy' lingerie.

These tiny strippers were throwing themselves around the poles like tiny, malformed 'Showgirls', thrashing their hair and exposing their crotches.

We had seen scantily-clad pole dancing midgets that we will never unsee. Our lie had gotten out of control.
(, Fri 13 Aug 2010, 14:23, 11 replies)
I was at a festival a few years ago
and one of the girls we were with had arthritis, so she was allowed a wheelchair. Her arthritis wasn't so bad that she couldn't walk at all, but long queueing, etc., was painful for her. We mostly used this wheelchair to smuggle booze into the arena as they never checked her.

One night in the arena she had already gone back to the tent but had left us the wheelchair full of booze. One of my perfectly abled friends was sitting in it when it started to rain. He got up to go and get a beer and asked me to sit in the chair so it wouldn't get wet, which I did.

Whilst I was sitting and quietly enjoying the music, a really drunk guy stumbled over, didn't see me sitting down, and fell fully across my lap. Suddenly, a cavalry of nearby lads leapt over to save what they saw as this poor disabled girl from being trampled by some oaf. They yanked the guy off me and threw him away somewhere before running back to me and checking if I was ok. I didn't want to dampen their heroics so I let them believe they had rescued me and were all wonderful human beings, karma would surely reward them for their good deeds.

At this point, my friend came back with his beer and told me to get out of the chair.

"I can't" I whispered.

He repeated his order more forcefully that I vacate the chair. I pleaded with him that if he could just wait until these lads had left then he could have his chair back.

He wasn't having any of it, so he grabbed the handles and tipped me bodily out of the chair and onto the floor. The ground was a bit muddy so, forgetting myself, I leapt to my feet and jiggled around like Michael Flatley trying brush the mud and grass off. As I was doing this I looked up to see the group of heroes all scowling at me.

"Er....it's a miracle?" I ventured.
(, Mon 16 Aug 2010, 13:23, 11 replies)
i really do live here, honest!
many moons ago, during a very drunken party, i pulled a bloke who seemed very nice. within an hour or so, however, i'd realised that he was a massive twat who talked utter bollocks and loved himself, despite the fact that his b.o was so strong, it should have been on the guest list independently of him.
i decided i'd have to ditch him, the sooner the better. i made my excuses to the host and, turning to my stinky swain, told him i was leaving. "i'll drive you home!" he said. he was very drunk at this point, further proving to me what a twat he was. "it's okay," says i, "i only live down the road, just by the park."
i didn't live down the road at all, i lived three miles away. "i'll walk you!" he says and, before i can stop him, he's grabbed his coat, my handbag and my arm and piloted me sideways out of the door.
staggering more than a little, he walked me down the street and towards the park. "which is your house?" he asks. "ummm....that one!" i said, pointing to a large building about fifty yards away. i'd chosen that particular house because the lights were on and i could tell him that my parents were waiting up for me. "nice house!" he says. "i'll walk you to the door."
"no! you can't!" i cried, panicking a bit. " my dad's still awake, he'll kill me if he sees me with a man!"
my amorous companion swelled visibly at this. "oh, will he now? i don't THINK so." "what do you mean?" i asked. "if he so much as lays a finger on you, i'll fucking deck him!"
shitshitshitshitshitshit! think, smash, think!
fortunately, i was then struck with the kind of inspiration that only shows up after a few drinks. "i wouldn't if i were you, he's a professional wrestler, he'll tie you in knots."
"i'll fucking teach him a...wait, did you say wrestler?" i could see panic creeping across his florid features. "well, maybe i'll just wait by the gate and make sure you get in all right."
hoping for a miracle, i rushed up the path and rang the bell. the door was answered by a rather surprised gentleman in a dressing-gown, who looked nothing like a wrestler.
"please, can you help me?" i begged. "i'm trying to get away from that man by the gate, he's been following me and won't leave me alone. i had to tell him that i lived here, so that he would go away, but he hasn't!" i was by this point almost in tears of panic, nervousness and mild stress, which this kindly chap took to be tears of blind fear. glancing at my drunken klingon, he yelled "would you kindly leave? you're causing trouble here." like a rabbit spotting a fox, he was off. the feeling of relief was immense and probably much greater than it should have been over such a small thing, but i was half-drunk.
my saviour called his wife from the lounge, who gave me a drink and called me a cab. i may not have really been in trouble, but it's always nice to know that there are still people out there willing to help a complete stranger.
as for the smelly bloke, i never saw him again!
(, Mon 16 Aug 2010, 18:24, 9 replies)
Gary Galaxy - the local celebrity
To this day I don't know how it came about, but my mate Gary was a celebrity and all over town people knew his name.... except he wasn't.

We're talking around '99 here in the craphole that is/was Watford.

My attention was first drawn to Gary's new "game" when in a taxi on the way to town Gaz had the window down and as we drove past pedestrians he'd wave and say Hello to anyone we passed.
Full of himself he then spent the whole night introducing himself to literally hundreds of people "Hi, Gary Galaxy, nice to meet you" etc etc. The more he had to drink the more cocky he got with it. Then we started on it too, making up chinese whispers about his celeb status etc as we got drawn into conversations with random people out for a drink.

I didn't drink with Gary every week but I gather he did this for a month or so.

Then came the night I realised just how shallow the world can be. We were out in town, probably our 3rd pub of the night and it was edging toward nightclub time. I wander up to Gary, who's surrounded by a group of admiring teenage airheads, and say "C'mon mate, we're heading over the road in a min".

Then one of them breaks from the pack and in a total euphoric excitement (think teen girl meeting their favourite pop star) comes over to me and through her excitement can barely utter the words "Oh My god! How do you know Gary Galaxy!?". I look at her, not entirely sure I've heard her right... my brain mulls it over for a second, "we're just good mates" I reply. Seizing the opportunity my mate Chris comes over to us and excitedly says to her "Do you know who you were just talking to!?".
"YEAH!!!! It's Gary Galaxy!!!" she replied like a she'd won the lottery, then had to run to the loo before she wet herself.

Gary can't sing, dance, act and as far as I know has done nothing worthy of fame, ever. But it seems if you act like your famous and tell people you are, then eventually everyone believes it.
(, Tue 17 Aug 2010, 11:55, 10 replies)
I've always been a massive liar
so when my Year 1 teacher asked me what my Dad's job was during class I chose not to answer with the honest "Youth Worker", which even at the age of 6 struck me as mind-numbingly, pant-wettingly dull.

Instead I opted for - "Astronaut!"

Amazingly I seemed to get away with this, and everyone was suitably awe-struck and impressed. Unfortunately this also included said teacher, who asked if my astro-dad would be able to come and give a talk to the class about his amazing life.

Obviously this was an impossible request, but I've never been one to panic. Instead, I looked at her witheringly, and replied, "Of course he can't. He's in space."
(, Tue 17 Aug 2010, 21:16, Reply)
Christianity
One woman's lie about having an affair that got seriously out of hand.
(, Sun 15 Aug 2010, 20:58, 7 replies)
My new housemate
The girl I'm going to be sharing a house with next year is Australian. During the course of our house-hunting, I noticed that she cannot tell any British accent apart, at all. We met one girl who was Scottish and she knew that she was speaking slightly differently but couldn't place it at all.

Click "I like this" if you think I should spend the next year telling her all people with Northern accents are from Cornwall, and so on.
(, Fri 13 Aug 2010, 14:21, 11 replies)
The Day I Wore My Slippers To School
One day, at the age of nine, I accidentally wore my slippers to school.

"Hey! Duck!" shouted Steven B, "You're wearing your slippers to school!"

I looked down, saw a red pair of carpet slippers, panicked, remembered we were allowed plimsolls instead of outside shoes in class, and came up with a bare-faced porkie: "No. No they're not. They're my new school plimsolls."

From that moment on, I was doomed. To avoid ridicule, I had to sneak them out of the house every day, and when challenged on the fact that I appeared to be wearing a pair of red carpet slippers to school reply "No. No they're not. They're my new school plimsolls."

I also had to wear them in PE, and my feet were agony.

Then, one day, the ultimate humiliation - a familiar figure in the door of the classroom. My mother. My mother had come into school.

Deathly quiet as one of the great taboos was broken. Your mother. In class. It couldn't get much worse.

Then, it did:

"I saw you wearing your slippers to school this morning, so I thought I'd drop off your shoes."

We had recently discovered a new word, and as my mother disappeared into the car park, thirty voices (including, for some reason, that of my teacher) echoed as one: "WANKERRRRRR!"
(, Thu 12 Aug 2010, 15:32, 6 replies)
I invented a friend
My most recent ladyfriend was a lovley woman called Amanda, we met through work, she was doing a presentation on health and safety (she went on to cut off part of my finger! - it was an accident I admit, and not really related to this story).

So Amanda and I had been going out for about three months when I began to feel very controlled, she had met all my friends, everyone I work with and knew my neighbours. The only person in her life that I was not on first name terms with was her postman. Amanda was great but she wanted to live in my pocket, so I came up with an idea to get some alone time.

My plan was simple, I invented a friend - meet Dave, my old mate from work years back. I told Amanda that my old friend Dave was back from living in Australia and I was meeting him, worked a treat, I got a night on my own to relax and all I had to do was tell a little fib, might have been fine if I had left it at that. Over the next few weeks Dave and I went out a couple of times, I wish I could say I spent these nights in a casino or a strip club to spice things up but the truth is I stayed home and drank beer while watching telly.

Problems began when Amanda wanted to meet Dave (should have seen it coming), I tried to fob her off hoping she would give up but it became a big deal for her, she was getting a bit upset so I started adding more lies, Dave was not good around strangers, Dave was a bit of a heavy drinker so it was not a good idea to meet up. Nothing worked, it became a mission for her to meet Dave.

This went on for about six weeks, now please consider that at the time I was drinking a bit too much so was used to lying. Also consider that I really did like Amanda - I did feel a little guilty for lying but once I started it was hard to get out.

So towards the end the lies had mounted up, little by little it all adds up, christ it was had work trying to keep track of it all. It reached the point were Dave was back from Australia to break the news to his family that he was marrying a woman he met online through a jail dating site, she was English and was nearly finished a five year sentence for smuggling drugs into Australia. Dave was going through a lot, his parents were not happy and he was worried that he jail mate was using him.

The happy ending for Dave was his jail-babe had been forgiven by her parents and they wanted the two of them to come stay with them, they owned a rental property in Cornwall so it would be a relaxed place to stay for a while, no pressure as neither of them were going to be working. Dave left and Amanda never met him, I promised to stop telling lies, they are really not worth it.

I thought that would end it and my promise to be a better person would stay with me, not so for Amanda, she decided that as the jail-babes parents had a rental they could sort us out with somewhere to stay when we went over for a visit. The next round of lies had to begin.

We broke up for unrelated reasons, and I am not sorry for that, we were not right for each other regardless of mow much we liked each other.

I really do regret inventing Dave, at first it was a bit of fun, then it became a challenge but in the end it was just me telling lies to a nice woman that I wish I could have been honest with.
(, Mon 16 Aug 2010, 23:32, 9 replies)
I'm kinda in the middle of a lie of omission right now...
It could be months before this one plays out, but I have a secret and I want to tell it so bad I'm about busting. Apologies for epic length.

For the past few months I've been keeping an eye on the Humane Society and SPCA kitty listings. Animal shelters are in a bit of a pickle right now because of the economy. People are either moving and can't (/won't) take their pets with them, or they are truly so broke that they can't afford to care for their pets. There have been a lot of animals surrendered lately, especially senior cats. Luckily in my town there are great no-kill programs at the shelters, but the dreaded kitten season just happened. Shelters are stuffed to the brim, and relatively few of the adoptions are adult cats.

So a month ago I went kitty shopping. This one was totally by the book: I called my landlady, put down a pet deposit, and brought home Bell (name she came with, name suggestions welcome lest she forever be referred to as "kitty").



She's 6 years old, which decreased her odds of getting adopted. She had been there for three months and was starting to have some stress-related problems.

Two weeks ago, I impulse-adopted a second cat, Max.



He's 8 (officially "senior") and also had a three-month stint in the pen. However, he didn't take it so well and was suffering from serious kitty depression and related ailments by the time I adopted him. He'd lost weight because he quit eating for a while. Both kitties are pretty much back to 100% by now. It's amazing how quick having a home helps them out.

Max's adoption was not by the book. The landlady doesn't know about this one, but my larger concern is that my father will find out about it before he pays me back a few thou I loaned him (I know, I know, never lend money to relatives). My father tends to be an asshat about money, and he has previously pulled bullshit moves where he refuses to repay a loan because he doesn't approve of the lender's lifestyle and doesn't want to be an enabler.

It was hard enough to convince him that I could handle Bell, because I'm supposed to be concentrating on my school work and if I got a cat I'd spend too much time with it and then I'd fail out of all my classes and then I'd get kicked out of the University and I wouldn't be able to pay rent and then I'd be homeless because my own dad would be all "fuck you, I told you this would happen" and he'd take his loaner car back even though he doesn't live anywhere remotely NEAR here he would go out of his way to take it and put it in storage and then he'd be broke from buying the plane ticket out here and then everyone in my family's health would fail because of the stress of it all and we'd all die and then the universe would collapse in on itself because I'd done such a horrible thing and OH GOD IT'S ALL MY FAULT.

(Yes, that is a paraphrased version of what he yelled at me over the phone at the time, if any of you ever doubted the extent of my daddy issues)

If he found out I got a second cat there's a good chance he'd give himself a hernia thinking up end-of-the-universe scenarios and/or withhold my money thereby completely screwing me over for the Spring semester. So yeah, I'm trying to keep this one on the down-low until the 'rents come to visit for Christmas. Wish me luck, and adopt senior kitties!

Edit: OH GOD, MURPHY'S LAW GOT ME. Landlady just gave her 24-hour notification of inspection of the premises she has to do for refinancing her mortgage. The plot thickens!

Edit 2: Well that was about the shortest inspection known to man. I could have just stuck him in the bathroom, but instead I had to get all fancy and put him in a carrier hidden in the back of the car in the garage. Poor guy keeps following me around now.

(, Mon 16 Aug 2010, 19:33, 15 replies)
Not really "out of control", but I'm sort of proud of it.
I was visiting my ladyfriend in Brisbane. I observed pedantically that a footbridge's "2T MAX LIMIT" warning sign wasn't much good unless you constantly did a mental tally of the number of people on the bridge. She said "that's why there's a little warning light over there."

"Ah, good thinking."

"Nah, not really. Gotcha."

Game on, woman.

Some time later, we were on the train, when I noticed the upcoming station was Toowong. "Ah! I was reading about Toowong recently."

"Oh yes?"

"Yes, there's a pretty radical pilot project in traffic management there."

"Oh?"

"Yes, to smooth traffic flow and prevent queues, you can only take left turns."

"Gosh, really?"

"Yes, in Toowong don't make a right."

"Damn you!"
(, Mon 16 Aug 2010, 1:43, Reply)
A lie that well out of control....
Many moons ago, when I was a wee nipper about 8 or 9. I used to use my dads CB radio when he wasn’t at home during the day, especially during the school holidays. Now bearing in mind I came to England from Rhodesia 1978 the transition from wild out doors to council estate often left me totally bored, so it was obvious I’d get up to no good. So one day on the CB me and a mate Andrew were pissing about winding everyone up when this couple came on chatting about America and how they’d love to go on holiday to visit. I put on a cheesy American accent and spoke into the mike
”Big Bear on the Air, all the way from USA” This couple were most eager to whisk me off to another channel to continue our conversation, and so we did. You name it I lied about it, the food, the cars, the weather and so forth. Eventually after an hour or so of keeping up this pretence they pipe up with.
”Do you fancy an eyeball?” For those of you only used to keyboard communication an eyeball was to meet another party from the CB radio, bit like B3TA piss ups! So my mate is egging me on saying “Yea lets meet them, I’ll be your English cousin and you’re here on holiday” What the fuck I thought, a story to tell the grandkids one day. Off we trundle on our BMX’s (getting ET nostalgia here!) to the local sweetshop where we had arranged to meet. Sure enough they turned up, Ken and Maureen. They were so nice and normal and basically very gullible. I felt ashamed to be fibbing to them but I started this so I’d better keep it up and laugh my fucking head off later telling the story to all my other pals. The meet lasted about 10 mins or so, and I couldn’t wait to get back home, abandon this nasty lie. This poor couple even brought a camera along to take a picture so they could show their friends they had met a yank, augghhhh utter mind piss!! Anyway all said and done we bid our farewells as I’d lied to them and said I going back to the States in a couple of days. Hugs and kisses all round, I felt so guilty. We pissed ourselves later, telling all our mates great wind up. Then one day, maybe a week or so later finishing off dinner, the front door bell rings. I wonder who that can be? “Oh” says my dad, “Nearly forgot, we invited a lovely couple we met in the pub the other night who are also CB fanatics over for drinks” Mother rushes the plates away, dad goes for the door. Now my tiny little brain just uttered a spark and I thought “No” chance in a million (er Allison) it can’t fucking be. As I sat at the table book up to my nose as dad greets the guests in ”Please come in sit down, make yourselves at home, this is our son…..” I peer over the book, God, you complete cunt! Still hiding my face with the book, my dad ushers me over ”Come say hello and put that bloody book down” My mind racing with all the different possible choices to take to get out of this terribly embarrassing situation. I came clean, lowered the book. Should have seen the look on Ken and Maureen’s faces, wish I’d had a fucking camera! I excuse myself sheepishly and say I’ll retire to my room and let my folks enjoy adult time. I heard just as I climbed the stairs Maureen ask mum
“Your son, he’s not American is he?” I covered my ears rushed to my room jumped under the bed wishing it was a bloody bad dream. Cut long story short, if you’re still awake? They buggered off home a few hours later and nothing was said that night until the next day when my dad met me in the kitchen. He just burst out laughing”Big bear on the air” he laughed like a mad man and put his hand out “You are a twat but that was a good prank, Ken and Maureen thought it was fucking hilarious” I still felt like a right proper tit though. No more lies, no more lies …
(, Fri 13 Aug 2010, 17:59, 5 replies)
The Magical Irish Bow Tie
pearoast...


First of all, I have to applaud the Huddersfield University Events team for organising the most dreary, pathetic graduation ball in the history of time.

The only reason I had decided to go was because I had been trying to get my end away with the most beautiful blonde angel by the name of Suzanne. Id stare at her in Lectures for hours on end and when she asked if I'd go to the Grad ball with her, I was never gonna miss it.

A plate of crap food and a few too many nerve calming shots of cheap vodka later, I was on the dancefloor, doing my thing.

Suzanne clearly wasnt impressed with my moves and was staring at me like I was a demented rapist on acid.

And when she left with another man, I had 2 choices. Sit in the corner and sulk or round up some troops and go to Camel Club. The latter it was.

Earlier on in the night I had closley resembled a Fine Gentleman in my hired Tuxedo but now I looked more like a pengiun that had narrowly escaped the claws of a yeti. My kind mates, took measures to straighten me up in an attempt to get my stumbling ass past the beady eyed bouncers.

Not only did my perfectly straight bow tie, get me past the bouncers but it also seems that tuxedo's and drunk women on dancefloors are like moths and flames. A few pints later and enjoying the female attention, out of the smoke and from deep within the club, i saw a large silloute approaching.

This huge Troll promptly walks up to me and in the prettiest of Irish accents squeaks "caan oiy weear yoour tiy?"

Until this day, I do not know why but my retort came in the most outrageous faux Irish accent that sounded more like a scottish/northern irish hybrid and in the highest tone "suuure"

We had a lenghty conversation about growing up in our respective irish towns and even though I was brn and raised in rural surrey, I had gathered enough knowledge and shaping of irish words from my NI flatmates; I could pull it off.

After a long tonguing session in the club we left to go back to hers. How she didnt expose my dodgy accent away from the noisy club, I still don't know

When during the act, she exclaimed she, and I quote, "Loikes t be noisy" i felt the need to join in.

I can tell you that there is no dignity in shouting "JESUS CHROIST" at the top of your lungs in a fake irish accent, still wearing a bow tie.

Unable to keep up the act, I left at the earliest opportunity and unable to escape the from under her bridge, had to scale the fence and broke my foot on the descent.

I spent the next day in hospital with a huge hangover and an even worse sense of shame.
(, Mon 16 Aug 2010, 12:06, Reply)
I'd had a letter from the police...
Due to me being witness to a crime. On the top of the letter was the Met badge et al. The letter went in my wallet and was forgotten about.

Some time later my (huge as in tall and broad) friend and I were going to get royally plastered. We chose a bad pub to be in if it kicked off, and all knew it. Four pints of guinness ordered (two to be poured during the drinking of the first two) and I opened my wallet to pay. Mr barkeep spotted the letterhead and asks if we were police.

Simultaneously;
Me "No!"
Friend "Yes!"

A moment later;
Me "Yes!"
Friend "No!"

Barkeep; "Well, have these on me before you decide."
(, Thu 12 Aug 2010, 15:00, 7 replies)
I said there would be cake
but she broke my heart and killed me
(, Thu 12 Aug 2010, 13:51, 1 reply)
I've got an interview with the RAF next week
So when they ask me why I want to join, rather than the truthful answer of...

"I have recently lost my job and although I have been looking frantically for a new one for the last 3 months, I have only mustered one interview and a couple of weeks temping in a factory. So as you can imagine, I am in major fucking need of a job. Even though I have no desire to go all over the world and be a part of the killing of thousands of civilians and the general fucking up of the planet on the basis of George W Bush's lies and Tony Blair's gutlessness, I am applying for a career in the forces because I am getting absolutely desperate. I have had to move in with my girlfriends parents, most of my stuff is in storage and I dont even qualify for job seekers allowance, so if I need anything I have to beg money from family or my partner. Therefore putting aside the moral issues, the fact that I can and will be shipped all over the world away from my loved ones and the fact that I really dont want to be a part (however small, safe and in the background a part it may be) of an international criminal war machine, I am resigned to 6 years in the RAF in the hope of turning my life around. Also because there is a few months between interview and putting my name on the dotted line I can still hope and pray that something else will turn up before I sign my life away."

I will probably just say something along the lines of...

"I like planes."
(, Sat 14 Aug 2010, 13:41, 31 replies)
Happy Birthday to you...
Back at school, some friends and I decided to finish off an afternoon's drinking and watching football with that classiest of finales - a curry. There was about 10 of us, including my mates girlfriend who was 17 - the rest of us were all 18 or over. We ordered 10 beers, and the waiter asked for ID - we were all able to show it except for Angela (for that was her name).

Scrabbling for an excuse to get her a beer, I piped up 'she hasn't got her ID yet because it is in the post - we're actually here for her 18th birthday celebrations!' The waiter accepted my paper-thin fib (licensing laws weren't quite as strict back then' and 10 beers were duly brought out - along with further rounds of drinks without question as we om-nom-nommed our way through the menu.

I was feeling rather smug with my little fib, for which Angela was very grateful - everyone had commented on how quick-witted I was. All was good.

Until...

Until the lights dimmed, and the faniliar strains of 'happy birthday' came over the restaurants speakers. The whole kitchen and waiting crew emerged from the kitchen with a HUGE cake, big enough for all 10 of us to have some, festooned with candles and even iced with 'Happy Birthday Angela'.

The entire restaurant was clapping and cheering (the place was rammed) and we all just sank deeper and deeper into our seats, feeling nothing but guilt over the lengths these lovely guys had gone to to make her '18th' a memorable birthday :-(

On the plus side, we were shamed into leaving a massive tip so it wasn't all a waste of time for the staff...
(, Sat 14 Aug 2010, 11:48, Reply)
I am a bastard
My flatmate at uni in Edinburgh is Lithuanian. He's a great guy who speaks excellent English, albeit with a strong accent and some odd turns of phrase. He's also not afraid to ask about anything he doesn't know about.

Anyway. To the story. We were in the student shop one day, wandering around after a lecture had finished early. Ming (for that is his name) spotted a pair of compasses (circle drawing things) for sale, and asked what they were called. Being who I am, I instantly thought quick, lie. What can I call them? He isn't stupid, it has to be believable. "Oh, that's a spoon" SHIT, why did I say that? He's never going to buy this. "A spoon?" says he, a puzzled look in his eyes. "Yeah" I replied casually quick! Think of a good explanation! Don't fail me now, brain "You see, the original ones were shaped like spoons". He's NEVER going to buy this... He bought it. Hook, line and sinker. I was ill the next day and couldn't go into the practical lab we had scheduled, but apparently he got rather angry when everyone laughed when he asked for a spoon to draw circles with. He was rather more angry when he put two and two together...

Wish I could have seen his face when he realised.


Edit: This is the same flatmate I once convinced that porridge must be kept in a freezer to prevent infestation by "Porridge worms".
(, Thu 12 Aug 2010, 19:23, 3 replies)
Working in a computer shop
this regular loudmouth comes into the store with a game in his hand, a reciept in the other and a grim look on his face.

He marches upto the counter with the brand new game of the time for the PSX - "Final Fantasy 7" no doubt.

"This is rubbish!" he exclaims, with a bravado normally used by people who are trying to reanimate the dead in an abandoned windmill.

"What???" says us, "This is a modern day classic....let me guess, you don't like that kind of game, that's ok."
"No it's not that at all" he lies.
"Yes it is, you don't like it. You can say that, it's ok, we'll understand."
"No, it looks good, but it's too easy" he lies again.
"Easy? Explain."
"Well I finished the first disk in under an hour and a half*."

"You fucking liar hahahaha" we shout in unison and point at him, nerds united at the slanderous felon. He dared not challenge us again with these lies of gaming villany, no sir!

I used to like working there to a certain degree. We could call customers cunts to their face and get away with it :D

*this took on average approximately 7.5 hrs to complete per player, as the game's introduction and story a good few hours to get through, let alone playing the game. I'm such a fucking nerd it's unbelievable
(, Sun 15 Aug 2010, 13:58, 17 replies)
I created the online identity of a 40 year old married man
so I could fit in. I couldn't meet anyone in person, because they'd realise I was a bisexual teenage girl.
(, Fri 13 Aug 2010, 0:18, Reply)
When I was 15
I played pool for a pub team in a local pool 4th division league. I wasn't bad, but the rest of the team was shit, and the 35 year old captain would never pick me despite me being one of the best players, always coming up with an excuse week after week after promising to pick me the week before.

One week in particular we didn't have a league game scheduled, and instead held a couple of pub tournaments, both of which I won, walking home with about 50 quids worth of pound coins, a couple of months pocket money for a night's work. He then refused to pick me for the next week's team.

By this point I'd had enough - after not getting selected yet again, I went home (this was in about 1997, had just got the internet) and downloaded a copy of the British Pool Association's logo. I then wrote a letter stating that by not picking me he was in breach of rule XYZ and was facing expulsion from the league. I posted this letter to my uncle in London, who then posted it back down to Cornwall so that it had a London postage mark.

The captain then spent a weekend writing a 4 page ranting letter to the British Pool Association saying how I was tactically naive, and therefore didn't think I was mature enough to play for the first team etc etc. He also sent a copy to me, the local pool league, and the pub landlord.

I then wrote another letter from the Association saying that the team had been disqualified from the league due to the captain repeatedly lying in his letter, as I had supplied them with tape recordings of our conversations which contradicted his letter.

The next Monday Pool night he got me in front of the whole pool team and gave a long speech saying that because of me contacting the British Pool Association the whole team had been kicked out the league, and tried to shame me.

I then revealed it was all a hoax. He did look like a bit of a cunt at this point, having been fooled by a 15 yr old boy in front of all of his mates.

I never did play for that team.
(, Thu 12 Aug 2010, 14:45, 1 reply)
My uncle the idiot, his balls and a garage door.
I received a telephone call from my mother last night. Her first words were to splutter, “You wouldn’t beeeeliiiiiiieve what your idiot uncle has done now!”

Considering my uncle dressed like a rapist-eyed clown and tried to spank my unwilling bare bottom on my 20th birthday, I figured this would be a most enjoyable story, and it was.

Yesterday, my aunt received a telephone call from a police station 300 miles from her house. My uncle had just made best his half-naked escape from a hospital. As he got a bit slappy and kicky with the hospital staff, he was arrested and placed under supervision. Could she pick him up? “What the...?” she cried. Worried that her partner was in quite a serious physical state and even more grim trouble with the law in a strange city, she hopped in the car and raced to this hospital a state away.

Two days previously, my uncle stood up in the middle of dinner and announced he was leaving. He walked to the door, picked up a pre-packed bag and left. He would not answer his phone. Nobody knew – friends or family - where he’d gone or when (if) he’d be back. My aunt was distressed; worried about the usual things like suicide and adulterous affairs. She was ready to call the police, when the police called her.

Find out, he had been diagnosed with prostate cancer in February. Instead of telling anybody, he thought he could check himself into a seemingly random hospital, have the surgery, discharge himself straight away and spend the next several days with ice strapped to his nads in a roach-infested hotel. He didn’t have any insurance, so he was getting the surgery done in the cheapest fashion possible. The hospital wouldn’t allow him to discharge himself, so, in his woozy state; he tried to run away with his bandaged bollocks flapping in the wind. Instead of listening to the nurses’ reasoning, he just hit them. Drugs, eh?

Why not tell the family? How could he live with the big C word looming over his soul for a whole six months?

He didn’t want my aunt to know; not because he wished to save her feelings or that he didn’t want her to worry until he was certain that everything was OK. No, the cheapass was concerned about the amount of money he had to spend on himself. As he and my aunt have an agreement that x amount of money spent on one equates to x amount of money spent on the other, he was fretful that she was going to spend however much it cost to save his life on herself.

More specifically, that she was going to buy a new garage door, an issue of magnitude in my aunt’s household.

The lie got so out of control that he didn’t realise that prostate cancer surgery != garage door, and instead, he may very well go to jail on a number of charges.

Dumbass.

**This story is built on Chinese whispers, so the details are a bit sketchy. The reason, the method and the outcome, however, are accurate.
(, Mon 16 Aug 2010, 14:42, 4 replies)
Mockney repost
I panic when I have to talk to anyone that doesn't work in an office, but particularly with tradespeople.

So for some reason I'll always change my normal accent (something between Boris Johnson and Oscar Wilde) for an Essex/cockney effort -
"Blaady freezin' innit? - to demonstrate that I am just like them, and could probably fit the kitchen/clean the chimney/attach a shelf myself if I wasn't so damned busy duckin and divin makin a few quid here and there.

This came undone the other day [edit: other year] when someone came round to fix the boiler and I accidentally got the wrong voice and spoke in Australian.

"Hi, I've come to look at the boiler".
"Noice one! Cam on in, mate! Can I getcha a cap of tea?"

Even in my own ears it sounded bad, but I had to keep it up all the time he was there as it was too late to change back to my normal voice.

"Oi dunno mate, it just sorrta stopped wurkin'!"
(, Fri 13 Aug 2010, 9:49, 9 replies)
Pirate
I'd been dying my hair black since I was 13 so by the time I got to year 11 I was used to people asking me if I was a "Goff" to which I'd just reply
"No I'm FootOfTim"
However out of the new intake of year 7's there were a group who were a bit annoying. They'd constantly hover around me and a few others asking if we were "Goffs" and stuff like that.

One day I was wearing a black hair band with a skull on it when the little ones approached.
"If you're not a Goff why do you wear that thing with the skull on it?"
Not being able to resist I replied,
"It's cause I'm a pirate yaaaarg!"

They seemed to like this answer because for the rest of the year whenever I walked past one of them, they'd nudge their mate and say
"See her, she's a pirate"
This resulted in me having to answer the register with "YARG!" when my form tutor found out, as he was one of their teachers.
(, Thu 12 Aug 2010, 23:46, 7 replies)
I have read
and agree to the terms and conditions.
(, Wed 18 Aug 2010, 16:04, 4 replies)
About 15 years ago.
I'd started going out with a girl in my home town. At first I didn't think the relationship was going to go beyond the seeing each other at the weekends stage, but over time we saw more and more of each other and met each others parents and would regularly stay over at each others houses.

My lie began whilst talking to her family about holidays. Her family were well into holidays, holiday brochures were frequently read throughout the year and once a holiday had been booked it was all they'd talk about until they went on it. They even took trips to the airport to watch the planes take off and arrive.

During one of their holiday discussions her mum asked me what holidays I'd been on (I'd only ever been to Wales or the Lakes, never abroad) and for some reason (it must have been misguided embarrassment at having never been on a plane) I told her that I'd been to Florida and visted Disney Land and Universal studios years earlier. I immediately wish I hadn't said anything as it turned out that Florida was their dream holiday destination and they began asking me lots of questions about it. I tried to blag my way out of it by saying it had been years before and I didn't remember to much. But everytime a holiday conversation started it would inevitably turn to my ficticious holiday in Florida and I'd sit and squirm and lie even more about the details.

This is were the lie gets out of control.

We'd now been going out for around about a year and christmas was coming up and both sets of parents were asking if it would be a good idea for us all to have a meet up at christmas so that our parents could meet each other. I knew there was no way of getting out of this, and I also knew that some how the topic of holidays was bound to come around in conversation. To say I worried about this was an understatement. I lost sleep over it and eventually instead of coming clean to my girlfriend and her parents, I came clean to my parents.

And this is why I'll love them forever. They went along with the lie. We met my girlfriends parents and when the conversation did eventually turn to holidays (directed that way by my girlfriends parents) my mum and dad just said that we'd been to florida a few years before, gave sketchy details, and bluffed their way through it like troopers.
It was horrible, and I couldn't wait to break up with her so that the lie could be eventually put to bed! :P

I've now put away my shovel and stopped digging such big holes!!
(, Tue 17 Aug 2010, 17:12, 3 replies)
A lie that got out of hand ...
I use an artificial left arm, and have had a lot of fun over the years answering the question 'how did you lose your arm?'

Never more so than in a pub in Putney many moons ago, chatting at the bar to a couple local hard nuts who looked like Phil and Grant in Eastenders.

Anyway, the question comes up, and, inspired I say something along the lines of ... "well, I'm a Chelsea fan innit, got it cut off with a machete at Fulham Broadway tube station a few years ago in a ruckus with Millwall ..."

Cue much back slapping and several pints bought, and the night becomes a blur.

Next day I'm in the pub again, and the barman goes 'You know who you were talking with last night, don't you?'

'No' says I.

'They were the Stevens brothers! Notorious small time South London crime family. If they ever find out you were taking the piss mate, they'll properly machete your other arm off!'

So, I never drank in there again, and now only use the old crocodile wrestling story ...
(, Fri 13 Aug 2010, 13:35, 4 replies)

This question is now closed.

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