family
I've faked a family, specifically my children.

You see, I have a weakness. Its 'Love Hearts' - you know the Refresher(tm) type sweets. I just love the feel of them dissolving my teeth. The only place near me is the co-op that I use when I need the odd item. Its staffed with rather young but quite fit, chavvy teenage girls from the estate.

Every time I go in to buy a loaf of bread or something, I grab a couple of packs of Love Hearts. When it gets to me in the queue I always have to, and I cant stop myself, say something like "tut, the kids just love these, they'll rot their teeth though!" to the look of utter indifference. I have actually said more directly, "these arent for me, they're for the kids".

I am such a gay.
( I have run out of coke is a little sweaty, Mon 14 Jul 2008, 14:44, 6 replies)

Job
On my last day at a company I'd worked at for three years, we went out to the pub for a long lunch as was the tradition. I got bought a few pints, and did the sitting with each person for a few minutes thing, until the accountants and other people I didnt really know fucked off back to the office and I was left with my team and one or 2 managers skiving.

I sat with Steve, one of the senior techies, a very abrasive, and often aggressive, arrogant guy but whom everyone respected on a technical level. Once you saw past the front, there was a decent guy somewhere in there and I'd spent 3 years learning from him, and gradually warming to him. I genuinely respected the guy.

He was very funny, but also scathingly sarcastic, by no means a geek, but his social skills were more of those found in the hardest corners of the sales department and his stories of conquest were legend - and mostly true, according to the ladies that corroborated.

I was genuinely sad to realise this was my last day working with him, I knew I was unlikely to meet anyone quite like Steve again, and I made this clear to him, and after maybe, 3 or 4 pints, I told him I would miss him.

Which made his reply all the more surprising.

"Well, to be honest cokeboy, I've always thought you were a cunt."

Time stands still for a moment. Before I've had chance to reply..

"When you first started, I didnt like you. Since then, I've made a concerted and continued effort to get you fired and have been doing right up until you decided to leave. In fairness, I had almost given up, you've done well. Don't take it personally or anything but you are most definitely a cunt, but a cunt who has done quite well - in that I couldnt get you fired. And I've got quite a few people fired in my time."

He stood up, finished his pint, SHOOK HANDS with me, and left the pub.

i was astonished. And sort of impressed. But I knew he mean't it. I'm secure enough to know that his words would never actually affect me, but I've never forgotten them. But more so in a way that its obvious he's the cunt (well obviously I'm going to say that) and I've never forgotten how he faked liking me.
( I have run out of coke is a little sweaty, Mon 14 Jul 2008, 14:38, 7 replies)

This is Rock and Roll....
In the late 80s/early 90s I used to pretend to be David Quantick of the NME to blag into gigs. It worked a treat in those pre-internet years, especially in America. In fact I even had fake business cards.

A club I used to visit found me out after an ingenious bouncer had seen a picture of the journalist in a magazine and checked with an NME photographer that was attending if I was the great man or a charlatan (Not the Tim Burgess type I hasten to add.). I survived the kicking by admitting it was a lie and I was not David Quantick..... but in fact David Stubbs of Melody Maker and had used the pseudonym as a 'bit of a joke'.

The photographer looked on smiling and said nothing as the bouncer thought this over and finally relented. Needless to say I bought the snapper quite a few drinks that night and was mentioned in the next weeks NME.
(Tugnut I got them all..., Mon 14 Jul 2008, 14:11, 2 replies)

I have no idea
why you all find me so attractive, I have a face like a bag of spanners and clearly the middle one is a fake tit

signed

That woman from Total recall
(Halfy By light alone, Mon 14 Jul 2008, 14:04, 13 replies)

My uncle was a palaentologist
and, a very unusual combination, also a creationist.

A few years ago he claimed to have found fossils of a dinosaur, in a stratum which would indicate that the creature was alive at the same time as human beings.

This, of course, would have meant re-writing most of geological history, and would have been a big win for creationists.

It turned out pretty quickly that he'd faked his find (it was a real dinosaur, but he didn't find it where he said he did). He was fired from the university, and pretty much black-listed from the profession.

He was quite surprised at people's hostility to him. As he said, most people have faked an organism.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Mon 14 Jul 2008, 13:49, 3 replies)

Walter Mitty? Pah, amateur
I am notorious for inventing the most ridiculous nonsense if I get bored. Examples?

- putting up a brolly in the Louvre, and wandering round making up history of paintings to see if I could get merkins to follow and listen (a few, but not for long as I'm a crap liar)

- answering any questions asked on the street (especially charity bashers) with a heavily accented "I speeeek ooonly seerbo-croat"

- making up careers in pubs when talking to strangers. Alexei Sayle wrote an awesome short story on these lines, but as yet, have been unable to get anyone to buy me a pint for a good story as his character does repeatedly.
( prince-igor si tacuisses, philosophus mansisses, Mon 14 Jul 2008, 13:10, 4 replies)

ID
.
I worked at Longnbenton DHSS Office for a while as part of a project I was involved in. This place is one of the biggest Government offices in Britain with around 7500 staff. It's a shithole.

On entering you had to flash your pass at the bored looking security people. But one day I lost mine and, as I was already late for a meeting, flashed a Kidney Donor Card instead. Straight in.

Emboldened by my success the next day I flashed a milk bottle top. They still let me in.

My ultimate though was flashing nothing at all. Just walked through the gates, waved my hand at them and carried on walking.

Cheers
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Mon 14 Jul 2008, 12:20, 8 replies)

First job in IT...
...First day.

Meet the team, the boss said. Where upon I met all of my soon-to-be mates, and one odd chap who I shall call Neil, for that was his name. All the lads were in the 'IT Helpdesk' on one side of the building, Neil sat alone among stacks of unwashed coffee cups in a small cupboard full of hoovers. Well maybe they were important servers, who knows.... Anyhoo, I mentioned to Neil about my apprehension about this job, and that this was my first in IT. I'd never had any experience of most of the issues the guys were expected to fix, and it worried me a little.

Then the alarm bells started tolling in my mind when he said the immortal phrase:

"You've just gotta fake it 'till you make it." Accompanied by a moonfaced smug smile.

All at once, I realised several things. One, Neil was a cunt. Two, Neil was happy lying about knowing stuff to all the team. Three, Neil now knew I knew nothing. Four, Neil knows *I* know he's a lying cockend. Five, I need to keep my CV handy.

But over the years, I grew to adapt to things and my honesty and non-fakery actually got me more respect. Neil The Cunt managed to piss me off almost daily, with stories and really unhelpful nonsense, and in fact tried to get me sacked once. But I had the last laugh, because his undoing was down to him mouthing off at a head of department - no amount of faking could get the fat fucker outta that one.... HARDY HAR HAR...

Length? Was the width of that fat redneck that most people hated.
(unknownstuntman, Mon 14 Jul 2008, 11:43, Reply)

You're so fake, I bet you think this post is about you...
Most fakery is a good thing, a bit like telling a little white lie to spare someone’s feelings. Think about it, you fake an orgasm; you’re saving that person from feelings of inadequacy, you fake that you know what your doing in your job…sod it…we all do it, we cant be expected to know everything.

However, one of the most nefarious things you can do is to fake enthusiasm. This is usually done to get what you want or to bend someone to your whim. If you can pretend to be enthusiastic about something when in reality you couldn’t give a monkeys toss, then you are a cold-blooded Machiavellian faker. Lets have some hypothetical examples to back up my opinionated ramblings theory.

Relationships: You’ve been seeing someone for a few months, they seem quite keen but for you it’s no big deal. They are dangerously close to saying the L-word and they want to know how you feel.
You say “You’re very special to me (try not to say “Spesh-ul” with your eyes crossed) and I love spending time with you”.
Reality: You’re ok, not really the person of my dreams, I like having sex with you but I don’t want to marry you.

Job Interview: You’re asked why you want to work for ‘Shotgun, Bastard & Dribble LLP’.
You say: “I am especially interested in your client base, I have 7 years experience in dealing with small to medium sized entities with an average turnover of etc etc etc”
Reality: What? Its just a job dipshit, actually I hate my profession and all that sail in her but guess what? I still need to pay the bills which means I have to spend the majority of my life whoring myself to corporate twats like yourself.

Christmas: Somebody wishes you a merry Christmas
You say: “Merry Christmas”
Reality: Fuck off

Neighbours: Good morning, would it be possible to trim your hedge back a bit as it blocks our light, also, in 2 weeks time we’re going on holiday, could you feed tiddles while we are away…
You say: “Of course, I was just getting round to it and it would be my pleasure to feed tiddles”.
Reality: Ha, I was growing that hedge just to piss you off because of that time you cut it back without permission when I first moved in, if you had any bollocks you would have asked me months ago. I am so going to nose around your house when you’re away, I might even “top deck” your toilet, look it up on the internet you spineless cockmuncher, oh yeah, you cant read my thoughts can you. Can you?

Job Appraisal: It’s your bi-yearly one to one with your manager. They ask if you have enjoyed your first six months.
You say: “Oh yes, everyone is really nice and I find the work both challenging and interesting. I have especially enjoyed being involved with our conversion to international auditing standards”
Reality: Every day that I work here, something inside me dies forever. I am a gnats chuff away from quitting in order to bum around the world for a year.

So there you have it, irrefutable proof that faking enthusiasm makes you worse than Hitler. Who wants a coffee?
( Colonel Dracula Two manky hookers and a racist dwarf, Mon 14 Jul 2008, 11:40, 9 replies)

archebuld2
I've been hesitant to post this, as I've still not yet been rumbled on it.

A while back, in March 2002, I joined a forum. At the time, I was a wee child with merely 15 years and three months of life behind me. I had come to realise, through reading, that the young were poorly tolerated on these forums, frequently mocked and derided.

So, I "invented" a person to be. For ease of calculation, I decided this person was born in 1980. This made me 22, rather than 15. Much more respectable, I reasoned.

The lie grew from there. I don't recall exactly why, but I reasoned it'd be cool to be a Japanese person, living in Britain, on this British forum. I created a back story, a job, and a persona. The persona was loosely based on my own, the back story and job bore no resemblance to my own.

As the forum grew and aged, much like this one, it developed a core of main users. I remember the names still.

darth_diggler, creamerybutter, Cherry_Eater, Fred_Durst_101, Oi_Oi_Spanky, sixshot6, Escaped_Monkey, Darth_Morbus.. apologies to any I've missed, but these stick most in my mind, and I know one or two also post on b3ta.

I don't know if anyone else here has ever tried to keep up a false identity. Looking back, the feeling is bizarre. I'd go to school in the morning, and be me. After school, I'd do my homework, have tea etc, and then I'd go online and become somebody else. Psychologically, it might have been an escape from what was- at the time- quite an unhappy life for me.

As time carried on, though, my avatar's life became more complex. He found a wife and got married. His mother died. He had a child. Somehow, I managed to keep this life up, and I managed to not get rumbled.

Couple of years ago, I got my first proper job, and I was studying at the same time, with a girlfriend; I simply stopped coming online as much, and when I was online, I didn't fancy maintaining a second life. My own life had become better, so I didn't really need the escape.

I still pop back now and then, but it's only really to see who I still recognise on there. I feel 6 years of this fantasy is quite a long time, so I guess I'm now "coming clean", and putting it behind me completely.

I feel quite bad for having deceived so many people, but I also realise it's only online, and doesn't matter all that much in the grand scheme of things. I guess quite a few of them began to suspect I wasn't who I claimed to be.

Apologies for taking so long to kill him, but archebuld2 is finally dead.
( Thinker, Mon 14 Jul 2008, 11:15, Reply)

Fake child
Morning all. First real post, so please be gentle.... Just remembered this story from only a few weeks ago, and apologise for length in advance. I always do...

A short while ago invites were sent out to me and a lot of my friends from back home for a party of, frankly, epic proportions. 'Excellent' thinks I, not only a chance to see all my friends in one place together, but also an opportunity to get drunk as a lord in fancy dress.

The party itself can only be described as 'bangin' and everyone was having a good time and it wasn't long before the cries of 'limboooo!!!' were heard throughout the house, by some obvious genius with a stick. After many an amusing attempts at limboing (?) I was called up to show off my mad skills, which promptly ended, very quickly, with me in a horizontal position, at approximately knee height, apparently attempting to headbutt the floor. (so I'm told, I just remember opening my eyes to an oddly quiet kitchen full of people staring at me. From the looks I assumed I'd passed out and wet myself or something, until the crushing pain of my skull rang throughout my head)
After refusing medical treatment on the grounds that I still had my bottle of Blackout cider that wasn't going to drink itself (What do doctors know anyway eh?) the night carried on without a hitch. For anyone else that is. You see, that knock to the head had some effect on me that evening. I quickly became an incoherent babbling mess. Nothing to do with the booze occifer!. Must have been the altercation with the ground that's done it!

Anyways, after a short while, for one reason or another, I stumbled off to find myself a quiet place in the garden to phone my girlfriend/pass out with my head in my lap and expel my stomach's contents over my legs....
It's here that we get to the crux of the story folks, as many people were wondering where I had gotten to, me included, my best (.......) mate took it upon himself to come up with a brilliant ruse. He decided the best course of entertainment would be to tell people that the reason I had disappeared was because my girlfriend had rang to inform me that she was pregnant, and we were having a baby, and that I'd gone on an insane, self destructive rampage throughout the village... Brilliant.

After waking up and being heavily confused as to my whereabouts, I stumbled back in to the kitchen, to be confronted with a huge cheer from EVERYONE. This, as you can imagine in my fragile state, shit me right up. Then the congratulations came. This , too, shit me right up. Then came the slow trickle of info that I was having a child. This, as you'd probably gathered, really did shit me right up. Did the phone call happen? Am I having a mini me? What's the quickest way to Mexico!? etc. After much panicking on my behalf, my friend took me to one side, and let me in on the ploy. Hilarious, thinks I. Bastard.
The story was now out, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. Not while my speech patterns resembled that of the Elephant Man on acid anyway. Mentally crippled, I stumbled back to a friends house that night to sleep off the shame, and awoke a mere shadow of my former self to escape back to Bristol.

The only question that now remains with me and my friend. Do we keep this horrible charade up? Can I have a fake child, and get away with it for our own amusement? More to the point, how long can this terrible fiasco be kept up without anyone finding out? Click 'I like this' if you think I should find out and make a little mini Scrumpy facebook page in about 9 months.


Apologies for length. It's my b3ta cherry officially popped, and I didn't want to do anything until we were both ready....

Edited for basic grammatical sense.........
(Scrumpy does not negotiate with terrorists,, Mon 14 Jul 2008, 10:44, 4 replies)

I'm bloody great at faking it, I made a shitload of money doing it too.
I once had a bit of a scam going with a similar minded accomplice. We would look in the upper class newspapers for live in nannies at wealthy London homes and I would go in and pose as the greatest nanny ever. I did this by getting my accomplice to look through the rubbish left by our target house (So I knew a bit about them beforehand) and use it to my advantage.

Even though I had a decent bit of background info on the family the trick to getting the job was to get the kids interested in keeping me as a nanny which I managed to do thanks to a combination of trickery and mind games. I started this by making sure the kids were looking out the window then arriving at the family home via invisible wire (To them it looked like I was flying to the doorstep- the little buggers love a bit of magic). The truth was that my accomplice was a bit of an odd job man so all these props were 'borrowed' from the local theatre (He would also use the wind machine on other potential applicants if it was available).

After passing the typical Q & A you get from parents I would then take the kids out for (What they would later call) a magical day. All I really did was feed them a bunch of hallucinogenics and left them under a pile of coats in the corner of a pub while I got totally pissed with my American mate with a crap cockney accent (The accomplice I have been talking about, he would also help me get the kids to believe anything). After a few days of getting the family to trust me I would then tell them that the wind had changed and I have to be off. What they didn't know was I would be taking half of the valuables from the house too (you try searching my handbag, it can hold a lot of stuff and unless you know what you want you haven't got a chance in hell of finding anything).

Practically perfect in every way, my arse!
(mon bison powered by magnets, Mon 14 Jul 2008, 10:02, 3 replies)

Double fake!
When I was at Uni I joined the university air squadron, this involved flying and learning about military type stuff while at the same time being a student, we were paid like the TA and everything it was great!

Anyways, one night we went out to a local bar, there was a big gang of us out and all was well and drunken. I should mention at this point that I was a first year and a bit of a twat (I'm a lot of a twat now) and thought I I was the mutts nuts being a flyer and all (I know, I know)

Anyways, Me and my mate Ringo (scouse lad who played the drums) were chatting to these 2 girls and they ask the inevitable 'what do you do?'

We should have been honest and explained that we were students up for a night out who were also involved in the squadron and sometimes were lucky enough to fly planes, instead we decided to go with the 'oh, yeah, we're pilots line' (possibly may have said we were trainees so keeping some modicum of honesty about it)

At which point the girls point over at the rest of the squadron (who appear to have taken to spectating at this point) and say to us 'well, that's odd because your mates say that you are all postmen'

Bastards but taught me a valuable lesson!

I now only fake if I know there is no one else out who knows what I do or if they are in on the plan!
(Fuckarma was masturbating into your handbag, Mon 14 Jul 2008, 9:44, Reply)

I got accused
Of faking it earlier today, actually.

So I'm in bed with this girl[1], and since we've already made the beast with two backs several times, naturally I'm a bit tired, and when she starts to go down on me, I did worry that I wouldn't be able to finish.

Somehow I managed it, and I thought she would stop, but she didn't, and kept going for a while afterwards (which actually hurt a little bit), and I was lying there thinking "how can you stop a girl from giving you a blowjob?"[2] until she eventually gave up, took it out of her mouth, and told me it had gone soft.

"Well I'm not surprised, I finished about ten minutes ago. Frankly I'm proud I was able to stay up for so long afterwards."
"You never came!"
"Believe me, I did. I'm pretty used to the feeling,"
"No, you can't have, there was no stuff!"
"Honestly, I did come, sometimes there's just not any come."
"That doesn't happen!"
"Of course it does!"
"If you didn't like it, you could have said."
"But I did like it, it was fantastic. Hence my orgasm."
"You must have faked it."
"Well, I didn't. If you want to believe that, then that's fine, but I'll just lie here being right, and you'll be wrong."

She didn't believe me, so she actually rang a friend of hers (a gay dude, who she described as "having had loads more cock than you") to find out whether it is possible for a man to come without any issue. He told her that it could happen, but then at the end of the phone call said "yeah, but he was faking it".

Well, she was right in a way, but she should have asked me about three hours earlier, because what she didn't seem to notice is that when we were fucking, I did finish a bit too early so had to carry on for ages and pretend to finish. I thought she would have spotted that one, but I got away with it, only to be falsely accused later on.

[1] who I really hope doesn't read b3ta.
[2] and if anyone can tell me, i'd be really grateful. i mean i suppose i could have just grabbed her and kissed her, but i don't think she'd have got the hint, she seemed to be enjoying herself.
(stapleface, Mon 14 Jul 2008, 3:56, 7 replies)

Smash Bang Wallop
One night, when I was about 14, my best mate was out with some Bigger Boys he vaguely knew. I never found out the details (he has since completely refused to talk about it to me) but I assume they were sixth formers - one of them had just passed his driving test. Anyway, they must have been bored and decided to go out for an drive about. Perhaps the guy was driving like a twat to show off his new skills, perhaps they were just unlucky, but either way wall met car and suddenly they weren't driving any more. Fortunately there were no serious injuries, but someone called an ambulance and things ended up with my mate having to spend a night in the hospital for observation.
The next day at school some people knew there'd been an 'incident', but because it was my best friend, and because the Bigger Boys didn't go to our school, I was the only person with all the information. When the first person or two asked I told them the real story, but pretty soon that got boring and I became... more inventive. I never really meant it to snowball quite so fast, but soon the entire school was buzzing with talk of how Dave was 'in a coma', 'fighting for his life', 'might not pull through'.
That morning, Dave's mum must have rung into school to explain why he'd be absent. I can only assume that the message was badly relaid or the conversation very brief, and that my teachers were too lazy/idiotic to double-check, because at morning break we were all called in for a special assembly.
"As many of you may have heard by now, last night Dave Smith was involved in a serious car accident. He's quite badly ill in hospital, and we all send our wishes." I forget exactly, but it went along those lines.

The next day, Dave turned up for school with a plaster on his cheek. The avalanche of questions on the school bus didn't prepare him for the looks of shock and bewilderment he recieved from everyone when he got to school - it was like they were looking at a ghost. He was called in to see the Head Teacher but it quickly became clear he was as bemused as everyone else and wasn't behind it all.

Even today, the occasional person walks up to him and asks "Aren't you the guy who was nearly killed in that big car crash a few years back?" Whenever it happens, I suppress a little smile. Because of the way the rumour spread and snowballed so fast I was never fingered, although I did own up to Dave a while later. He took it pretty well.
( Cassius Kray floats like a butterfly, stings like a trout, Mon 14 Jul 2008, 0:52, 1 reply)

Sadly
I am not spartacus.

Shame really.
( BadBadman saw an incorrect comma placement on, Mon 14 Jul 2008, 0:33, 5 replies)

Oh, and.....
In a couple of weeks time, I will be going to the regional finals of the nuts poker league, having finished second in our local league.

Most of the time I have to wait until someone tells me if I've won the hand or not. I don't have a bloody clue how I managed it, and I'm more than a tad nervous about going.

Not a bloody clue.
( baw__bag contains traces of nuts on, Sun 13 Jul 2008, 22:29, 1 reply)

Faking it? I'm a master.
I'm one of those odd people who doesn't hide much. Every idiotic thing I've ever done is promptly reported to my hooting, jeering friends for them to laugh about.

But there is one thing that I'm hiding. I've gotten away with it so far but I'm bound to be found out eventually.

Nearly thirty-one years on this planet and I do not have the first idea what I'm doing, where I'm headed or how to get there. I've had a vague idea for most of my life that I want to do something arty for a living, but apart from that, nothing. All of my friends, some of them a good ten years my junior, all have drive and direction. Everyone my age has good jobs and families of their own..... I was on that path a few years back too, but all of a sudden the arse fell out of my world and I've been staggering around from meaningless job to meaningless job and pathetic relationship to pathetic relationship ever since.

Outwardly, I pretend it doesn't bother me and I'm happy to wait for whatever life throws at me next, like a twig on a mighty stream. But inside, I'm shitting myself. At best estimates, I'm at least a third of the way through my life and I've got nowhere!

None of the real people have spotted me yet though. I stand amongst them in the pub as they discuss work and their bloody whingeing other halves and I tut and roll my eyes like I know just how they feel. One day they'll rumble me, I just know it.
( baw__bag contains traces of nuts on, Sun 13 Jul 2008, 22:24, 9 replies)

I still cringe when I think of this.
When I was a nipper (so many of my stories start that way) I was still developing my rather strange sense of humour. Looking back, I don't know why I thought my mum would find this amusing, but I wasn't a malicious kid I was just, well, weird.

I decided to play a little prank on my mum. I got a big plastic bottle and drew what at a cursory glance might have appeared to be blood on it with one of my mum's bingo markers. I then carefully arranged myself at the foot of the stairs with my head on the bottle. What a cracking wheeze! My mum would emerge and think I was dead! And then I would spring up, shout "Hahaha! Look! I am not dead! It was a joke" and we'd both fall about laughing! Genius.

You really would have thought she'd have been happier that I was alive than she appeared to be. I don't think I sat down for about a week after that one.
( baw__bag contains traces of nuts on, Sun 13 Jul 2008, 21:58, 1 reply)

Survey
For Geography homework once, we had to survey shoppers and put the results on a chart. After asking a load of people and generally being politely declined, I thought "Sod this" and went home, made a up a fairly believable spread of results and submitted it. Got a good mark too.

And they couldnt prove a thing Bwahahahahaha
(kitescreech still here, Sun 13 Jul 2008, 21:44, 7 replies)

I once quite cunningly...
altered my friends ID card after i had robbed him of his wallet like a Fagin trained homeless child.
6th form is generally quite relaxed so super glue wasn't hard to come by
and this was the end product

i62.photobucket.com/albums/h109/jonnysmith15/untitled-1.jpg

He seemed fairly ammused by the whole situation and his poor attempt of ripping the paper off didn't exactly go to plan
but fair to say he has to resort to using his driving licence as identification

and who says I.D's are hard to fake !

length? - about 5 mins for the whole process
( Mr Nerdy-Speccy-FuckNuts Ouchy ouchy wa wa!, Sun 13 Jul 2008, 20:55, 1 reply)

anyone for tennis?
after an amazing sunday spent AT WORK i am now about to go and meet my friend at her swanky tennis club up in hampstead to hoon off all the free pimms with champagne and bbq food and perve over all the hot ruperts and tarquins in white shorts show a real and genuine interest in joining.

i know precisely nothing about tennis. or squash. or cricket. my real name isn't clarissa-henrietta ponsonby-smythe and i have a faint but discernible northern accent. i have a feeling i might be ejected shortly after entering, so to speak...
( rachelswipe with a fork, Sun 13 Jul 2008, 18:22, 4 replies)

Christmas
I fake enjoying Christmas.

I was born in to the type of family that you see regularly on Jezza and Trisha demanding DNA tests etc...

I love my family, however I do not like my family. Spending time with them whilst they get drunk and obnoxious is not what the festive season should be about. I took a decision a few years back to knock the pretence on the head and now spend the day under my duvet eating chocolate and watching schmaltzy movies, which is ace.

People from non – dysfunctional families can’t understand this, which is why it is much easier to lie to them and fake Christmas.
(DryGoldfish, Sun 13 Jul 2008, 17:52, 1 reply)

My life, to my parents
I am 20 years old and my parents don't really know me any more, I feel. As far as I know they still think I'm their really sweet innocent daughter and that butter wouldn't melt. They don't know I'm not a virgin, which amuses me quite a lot as my mother has on several occasions attempted to probe me and find out but will never ask me outright and I always look like I don't know what she's talking about and change the subject. They also don't know that I drink alcohol and yet I am a university student! My parents are a little naive, I feel. They have also failed to notice my minor psychological problems that rear their ugly heads every time I do exams, and have been for the past 5 years, and I can actually be about to have a panic attack in front of them and hide it. I haven't been home since April and have no desire to until August. It makes me quite sad really, I wish they could see the real me sometimes and I have tried but I lost the ability to talk to them about anything important a long time ago. Then again sometimes I don't know who I am, so how can I expect anyone else to know?

On a more lighthearted note, I actually cannot fake anything or lie to anyone ever. This is actually a surprising advantage when it comes to poker because it makes my play very unpredictable (even to myself!). I also have never (successfully) faked an orgasm!

Length? It needs to be longer than that, honey ;)
(Petite chien is going to do science to it, Sun 13 Jul 2008, 17:09, 5 replies)

In case you care....
In my earlier qotw answer i forgot to back it up with pics so i have added some in a reply.

Sooooo pics so it did happen.

sorry no shark, helecopter or bridge

b3ta.com/questions/fakingit/post197242#post198318
( Peej, Sun 13 Jul 2008, 13:14, 4 replies)

Exposed
A year and a half ago, I started dating the most wonderful girl on Earth. Except I'm a big wuss with regard to talking about this sort of thing, so I never told my terribly posh and easily disapproving parents how we came to meet (it involved much, much alcohol and circumstances that might have made my father smile and congratulate me behind mother's back, but would certainly have launched a thousand ships and a million disapproving words from my mother), and once we've been going, I really couldn't face the increasing wave of reproach. Living half a continent away, this isn't too hard to engineer, even if one is close to one's parents. So we've had an awesome time, while my dear parents were in significant ignorance about me going out with the Girl.

Until I was stupid enough to land myself in hospital with a medical emergency (this sort of shite happens to me way too often!).

At which point, as soon as I was in a state to, I had to call my parents. Which, as conversations go, was rather fun.

- So now you're on your own, son?
- No.
- Care to elaborate? - all pity and compassion vanished from my mother's voice at the instant.
- Umm...
- Out with it!
- Well, I'm here with my girlfriend.

Boing. about a minute of mute silence on the other end of the phone; cue me assuming a twisted grin and wondering whether I'll be beheaded, impaled (more or less a family tradition) or merely disinherited and would have to make my living playing the flute at the corner of St Paul's. Much to my pleasure, my parents decided it's not wise to traumatise me so soon after being ill by a tirade of shouts and a long moralistic lesson about loyalty and truthfulness, probably mostly in classical Greek and long drawn-out quotations from Plutarch and Cato the Elder. So the conversation ended on a cool but not overtly hostile note, and that as of itself was a battle won.

Deciding to fess up at this point was probably the right choice. The Girl got away having saved the day in their eyes, my parents being fully cognisant that I'm a loser and couldn't tie my shoes unless given express guidance, and my little untruthfulness was never brought up again.

Conclusion: it's not a sin if you don't get bollocked for it.
(adelie discovered the joys of a board sig on, Sun 13 Jul 2008, 13:03, Reply)

Identity
I must admit that i'm not Tiger Woods.

'tis all :-)
(james_tiger_woods is going to start his killing spree on the, Sun 13 Jul 2008, 9:25, 7 replies)

I was...
By all accounts a bit of a twat as an older brother. At approximately age 5, and with a brother of about 18 months who I wasn't best keen on, we'd go, with the still present Dad and Mum, to his parents; Nana Cissy and Grandpa Tommy.

Nana Cissy was grand, if memory serves. She had a bottle of advocaat in her bedroom which I'd go and have a tot of, every time I visited. She also had a copy of Bram Stoker's Dracula, which I also read a few pages of. She'd also always, in the kitchenette, have some fairy cakes and iced fancies on a doily which would be doled out close to the end of the visit.

Now, when the brother hit about 18 months, and was belatedly taking his first steps; he, being a little bugger in and of himself, used to get his hands everywhere and not only that, used to get all of the attention.

So I concocted a viable plan. I nicked a number of the fairy cakes and iced fancies, took tiny bites out of them, and then hid them in Nana Cissy's bed.

When they were found, the brother got a jolly good slap around the back of his legs, as the bites were too small for me.

Result. Nowadays I could take on Gil Grissom and win...
(Chickenwire social lubricator extraordinaire, Sun 13 Jul 2008, 9:10, Reply)

I was...
By all accounts a bit of a pillock whilst at school. My mother, a single parent, and but 19 years older than I, was, to all intents and purposes, much better a bigger sister than a mother, guiding me through the pitfalls of exams and such-like.

She was great at the time, if I wanted to bunk off she'd write me a note. If I wanted out of PE, she'd write me a note. If I'd not done my homework, she'd write me a note.

A scrappy piece of paper, a scrawling "Chickenwire has scurvy hence must be kept from all sorts of exertion, including PE and climbing the frames" and her spidery signature at the bottom of the page.

In effect, I got away with murder, and in more enlightened times, today, for instance, I would have been the subject of parenting orders and worse. In effect, I faked my school career up until the age of 15.

I hadn't completed my homework one day that fateful year (1990 if memory serves), and subsequently persuaded my mum that I was scrofulous or something, and couldn't go into school that day, thus avoiding any distasteful confrontation with the teacher who had the nerve to ask for 1000 words on Jacobite nonsense.

So that day, off my dear old mum went to work, and I lounged around in bed, introducing Sir Peter to the joys of a good old stretch and hastily videoed rude fillums. Then at a reasonable time, I got myself out of the stinking pit and began to write out the requisite 1000 words ready to hand in - all in good time, you understand.

That night, when the mum came back from whatever it was that was bedraggling her and keeping me in VHS tapes I asked her for a note to cover my absence from school.

She complied, said it would be ready for me in the morning and so I went up to the bed, ready to unleash whatever fury I had remaining on the evil Sir Peter, content and safe in the knowledge that the feared confrontation at school the next day would be blah blah blah...

When I got up in the morning, and having choked the life out of Sir Peter, I picked up the envelope on the table and sauntered off to school.

Luckily, on arriving at school, and having caught up with the previous day's gossip, I realised that the Mum never put the notes in an envelope, I opened it and read...

"Dear Sir,

Please excuse Chickenwire's absence from school yesterday. Much as he protested scrofula I believe his absence was due to a much more serious condition. That of his ne'er do well, lazy, good for nothing attitude. He's a little bastard basically, and if you fancy putting him in detention, following a jolly fine roasting, that'll be more fool him, and I can enjoy a bloody good laugh at his expense."

Luckily I could fake her signature quite well.

And all because I hadn't tidied up. I ask you.
(Chickenwire social lubricator extraordinaire, Sun 13 Jul 2008, 8:55, 3 replies)

Ah...
First of all, my parents, as has already been chronicled in the pages of this great site, were not incredibly wealthy people. Not poor, but they would never have been able to afford to send me to a grammar school on their own. So, when I won an assisted place at a grammar school, they were delighted. My mum, being a) fron NZ and b)catholic, took great pains to assure me that this place was a privelege and not a right, and any abuse thereof (i.e. being a lazy little shite) would not be tolerated.

I worked hard. Oh I did. Until 6th form, when I discovered free periods. My first 6th form report was - shall we say -less than promising. Mum assured me that if I didn't buck my ideas up, then I was out of there and also would be chucked out on the street for the no good waster son that I was, so help me Mary mother of Jesus, etc. etc.*

Anyway, I digress. The intelligent B3tard will have worked out where this was going. The summer term report came out and it was a complete flangeweasel. Although I was a lazy little embuggerance, a lot of it was patently unfair, mainly from my chemistry teacher, a man for whom I had a similar hatred that Hitler had for the chief rabbi of Berlin.

"Oh fuckity fuckity fuck wanky ball cock arse felchery" uttered the young carrot upon seeing this report. "This is likely to result in a second hole in the ozone layer if mum reads this." I genuinely feared for my life, my liberty and my growing collection of art pamphlets. However, two small items could have saved my testicles from the proverbial half bricks of matriachal anger.

1: Reports were seen by us before being sent out to the home address by post. I knew that this would give me about 3-4 days leeway to sort things out.


2: My school made use of a high tech new-fangled system called "MS Word" to type the reports, so that they could all be collated etc. etc. I knew enough about computers (most of my spare time being spent trawling late 90's websites rather than revising) to know that I could fake my school report! Huzzah!

So, the summer holidays started. I got up early every morning (used the excuse of wanting to watch the cricket) prior to the post arriving. On the 3rd day, the dreaded A4 envelope arrived. I collected the post, hid the school letter and delivered the remaining post to breakfasting progenitors. (I was so devious that I even kept a letter back from the previous day to use as an "emergency letter" just in case my school report was the only one delivered and parental suspicions were aroused by the clanging of a letterbox.)

I waited until Dad was at work and mother was cleaning something, then carefully...oh soooooo carefully opened the letter. I scanned both sides of my report (as I needed the headmaster's signature and the school crest) created a quick excel table, inserted the relevent text and hey presto - ready made report! I took a great deal of care over the comments to make them believable. I printed it off, agonising over the headmaster's signature as it was a bit blocky, re-sealed it in the envelope and chucked it in the post the next morning.

10 years on, my parents still have no idea what a devious little fuck they bred...thank God, because I reckon I would still have 7 shades of crap beaten out of me!

* _{feel free to insert any left footer ramblings of your own desire here. You're probably right.}
( Undercovercarrot got done for gross misconduct on..., Sun 13 Jul 2008, 5:30, 3 replies)