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This is a question Fantasists

Eddie Spunkbubble says: I used to know a sad case who fancied himself as a bit of a 007 and bragged that he always carried a loaded 9mm pistol in his attache case "just in case". Overheard by an off-duty copper, he was asked to make good on his claim. A packed lunch, red face and a stern warning "not to act the twat" and he never did it again. Tell us of Walter Mitty types.

(, Thu 5 Jun 2014, 11:40)
Pages: Popular, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

This question is now closed.

The Lost Prince of Wythenshawe
When I was a young teenager in the early 1970s, my mate's mum had a neighbour who was big, loud, genial and totally overbearing. She arrived at his house with a runt of a man one day who, it turned out, was her husband, Ray. Turns out Ray had a reputation as a bullshitter, although that word barely touched the sides where he was concerned.

My favourite Rayism was the time he claimed he'd been waved down (he was a cab driver) by a man wearing a jacket with gold rings on the sleeves. 'Can you help me?', says the man. "I'm a bit lost. I'm looking for Manchester Airport."

Ray was only too delighted to help, especially when the man revealed he was a helicopter pilot who had landed his machine in the fields over the road, and his VIP passenger - Prince Philip, no less - had to get to an important engagement at the airport. Despite the fact that the airport was only a half-hour walk from where they were (and could be seen from the top balcony of a small block of flats) they'd got lost, so if Ray would oblige by driving to the airport, they'd fly behind, following his car. Which, of course, they did and Ray was personally thanked by Phil the Greek for his assistance at a critical time.

I've come across a few fantasists over the years and I have always been slightly fascinated by them. They totally, utterly believe the shit they come out with, think nothing of any impracticalities and just expect everybody to believe the most outlandish tales without blinking an eye. I always wondered if the mundanities of life (and perhaps a hideously overbearing spouse) force the imagination to squeeze itself out of all sorts of mental orifices in all sorts of twisted ways.

Still, better than the telly. Well, it was then, anyway.
(, Sun 8 Jun 2014, 15:01, 7 replies)
Juan Quar reminds me...
When I was at school, there was a short fad among a group of my classmates for ouija boards. They'd meet up in the evenings to try to contact the dead, and on at least one occasion spent a lunch hour trying to commune with spirits using a board that they'd drawn on the underside of an upturned desk in one of their form-rooms.

Naturally, all this spiritualism would generate a kind of bragging competition about who managed to contact whom. Sid Vicious was a popular choice, for example.

And then one day, one of the group had a story that could trump the lot. He'd contacted God on the ouija board, and they'd had a chat.

His omniscience presumably failing him for a moment, Yahweh asked my classmate about who was next on his list of contacts.
"Oh, OK," said God. "Just be careful."

Sadly, I we never did learn whether Beelzebub had anything interesting to say.
(, Sun 8 Jun 2014, 10:04, 1 reply)
I like money.
(, Sun 8 Jun 2014, 7:27, 2 replies)
Used to know a bloke who was well into the occult.
He reckoned he was on speaking terms with various demons which he'd personally summoned from Hell.

Many people were wary of him, possibly more because they thought he was nuts than from any real belief in his *powers*, but I used to openly mock him. He tried threatening to send *something* to my house at midnight to frighten me. I said 'Fine, go on then, bring it now, put it in my hand!'

He told us stories of the weird things that happened around him. You could apparently say and do certain things to bring about the result you wanted, after which you'd sold your soul and were damned.
Being young and foolish I tried this - once - and got what I wanted, in a bizarre way. If I've lost my soul I may have sold it very cheaply.

One of the things he said was that he didn't expect to live long, and would die horribly. By our 30s we had lost contact. He moved away and I didn't hear of him until last autumn, by which time he'd been dead from cancer for a few years. He'd suffered terribly.

Coincidence? Who knows?
(, Sat 7 Jun 2014, 22:37, 5 replies)
Anyone know how to hack Hotmail acccounts?

(, Sat 7 Jun 2014, 14:10, 2 replies)
Guy down the chip shop thinks he's Elvish
Pointy eared twat.
(, Sat 7 Jun 2014, 13:56, 1 reply)
Dark forces are massing in the wild and ancient land of Kazan.
Unless you reach the Great Throne in time the murderous vizier Chingiz will take power. Who knows what evil will flow from Kazan if his vile schemes succeed.

But time is running out. You must face Chingiz before it's too late: the destiny of Kazan is in YOUR hands.

Part story, part game, this is a book in which YOU become the hero! Two dice, a pencil and an eraser are all you need. YOU decide which routes to take, which dangers to risk and which foes to fight.
(, Sat 7 Jun 2014, 13:20, 8 replies)
Fantasy cosplay and more:

NSFW due to toys inserted in various orifices.
(, Sat 7 Jun 2014, 13:18, 1 reply)
I seem to attract these cunts.
I work in IT so my brother in law to be reckons he fits out the networks in all the places I've been but couldn't set up my mums wireless printer, fail.

My mate collects vinyl and he has some twat at his work claiming to make £30k a week from his network of record dealers, owns 2 farms in Spain and has a lockup with over a million records guarded by hells angels. He works in a curry factory. Yep...
(, Sat 7 Jun 2014, 9:23, Reply)
My mate George!
He once told me that he had done a sex at a real woman who was definitely not imaginary and who was a proper, real person who existed and everything.
(, Sat 7 Jun 2014, 0:18, 7 replies)
village kid at big school
As is always the case there are always a whole bunch of things you just "don't get" if you are brought up far from civilisation.

Learning why certain people have certain nicknames is one of them.
So. It wasn't long before I just had to ask why 'Stephen' had the nickname 'IBM'. I had the erroneous thought that it might be because he had a computer at home (He had already told me he had a computer - I'd not seen it and to be fair this was about the time the ZX80/81 was about the limit of things.

Nope. It was because he was known as the Incredible Bullshitting Man.
(, Fri 6 Jun 2014, 21:02, 4 replies)
Just re-read the question - I am Walter Mitty's Head
All the people I know are honest and truthful.
(, Fri 6 Jun 2014, 20:59, 3 replies)
Diabetics are all making it up, just want attention innit.
(like me)
(, Fri 6 Jun 2014, 20:52, Reply)
I am 47 but remember the Kray's like they were my brothers. Blind Beggar, that's my local. Good lads.

(, Fri 6 Jun 2014, 20:51, 2 replies)
I am Christine McVie and I wrote most of the hit songs for Fleetwood Mac.

(, Fri 6 Jun 2014, 20:50, Reply)
06/06 - an important date apparently. I know nothing of white mans culture and wars.

(, Fri 6 Jun 2014, 20:28, Reply)
A guy at my work reckons he's got two lawnmowers.

(, Fri 6 Jun 2014, 20:09, 4 replies)

(, Fri 6 Jun 2014, 18:55, 4 replies)
Never ask someone who is in / has been in the TA (Territorial Army) what it's like.
Not only will they never stop churning out "TA Tales", most of them will be bullshit, and they will at some point claim to have been in the Territorial SAS.
(, Fri 6 Jun 2014, 17:57, 10 replies)
Years ago I worked with a guy called Nick who claimed he'd snogged Natalie Imbruglia in Turnmills nightclub.
Nickanory we called him...
(, Fri 6 Jun 2014, 17:49, 1 reply)
Zido, the Space Dog
Helloooo sweeeties!

Me again XXXXXX! 2 stories in one week! You LUCKY lot!

The biggest fantasist I ever knew was a chap called Len Dixon. Or it might have been Ken Dixon. Or Bob Dixon. Or Ron Micklethwaite. Something like that, anyway.

It was in my last (male) incarnation whilst I was working in a senior position for a large corporation, based in a lovely business park, all concrete and glass and coffee shops and the occasional tree.

I headed up a small team of professionals of all ages and background, all working on important projects for the company (can't go into any detail, trade secrets you know!!). Most of them were young thrusting smart keen chaps and chapesses, but there were a couple of older ones too. Len, or Ken, or Ron - let's say Len, it's easier - was one of these. Len was a quiet, unassuming little man in his early sixties, with a cherubic round face framed by frizzy grey hair. He had a little pot belly and a strange loping way of walking, other than that he was completely normal, until one day. I valued him for his experience (he'd been with the company all his life) and insight into our processes, and also socially; he could put away more whisky (or is it whiskey?) than anyone I had ever met. Whether this had anything to do with his - with what happened, I don't know. Probably.

Every week, I held a team meeting to hear updates on all the various projects under my radar and discuss team business. I usually held this on a Monday at 10am. It was a good way to start the week, to get everything in focus and kick off the week's work. I always supplied biscuits, and sometimes cakes, so these meetings were quite popular amongst staff.

One Monday I noticed that Len Dixon wasn't at the meeting. he hadn't phoned in sick and no-one had heard from him or knew where he was. I started the meeting anyway intending to deal with his unauthorised absence later. Ten minutes into the meeting, however, there was a commotion as a strange figure entered the boardroom. It took me a few seconds to realise that this bizarre figure was actually Len Dixon.

He was wearing a close-fitting bright red jumpsuit which accentuated his paunch grotesquely, bright yellow Wellington boots, and a bright yellow cape. On the chest of the jumpsuit was a stylised letter 'Z'. There were hushed mutters of exclamation as he calmly walked to the table and took his seat as though everything was normal.

But everything was not normal. Far from it. Now he was seated I could see that, on his head, he wore a brown cloth hat with long brown flaps dangling down over his ears that looked all the world like spaniel's ears (shut up). And over his nose he wore, secured by an elastic band, a toy plastic dog's nose complete with drooping whiskers.

Struggling somewhat to maintain my composure, I carried on with the meeting, asking for updates from each project lead - and wondering what the hell would happen when it was Len's turn to address the meeting.

That time soon came. 'Len, would you please update us on the URC project?'

Len didn't responded, merely continued staring down intently at the papers on the table before him.

'Len?' I repeated. Still no response. 'Len, can you hear me?'

Len raised his head and stared into space. 'Len Dixon doesn't exist any more. I am Zido, the Space Dog. Please therefore address me as such from now on.'

There were gasps, giggles, guffaws, even a few snorts of derision - I quelled them all with a raised hand. Len was clearly undergoing some sort of crisis but the time to deal with that was later. Smoothly, I said, 'Of course, Zido. Your report, please?'

Len gave his report in his usual calm professional manner, the only difference being that now, he was dressed as - and believed himself to be - Zido, the Space Dog.

After the meeting I took him into Meeting Room 2.2 for a little chat.

'Okay, Len, how's things generally?' I began.

'Zido,' Len corrected. 'Zido, the Space Dog.'

I gazed into his pale blue eyes above the plastic dog nose. I looked at the floppy ears, the red jumpsuit and yellow cape. 'Are you doing this for a bet?'

He blinked. 'Doing what for a bet?'

'Pretending to be this Space Dog thing.'

He frowned and shook his head. 'No. I am Zido the Space Dog. And I would kindly ask that you respect that.'

'Fine.' I exhaled. 'So is everything okay at home? Any health problems?'

'None,' he replied. 'I am feeling fine.'

'But you now want to be called Zido, the Space Dog, and wear that uniform?'

'No,' said Len, sounding irritated. 'I AM Zido the Space Dog, and this is what I wear. Do you have a problem with that?'

I considered. I highly valued Ken's input. Other than the costume, and the name, he seemed sane enough. 'As long as you can do your job, er, Zido, no, I don't have a problem.'

He stood up. 'Then if you will kindly permit me to get on with my work?'

I nodded, and he left.

I checked with HR and according to the rules of diversity, there was nothing that said Len couldn't dress up as and call himself Zido the Space Dog. We had to respect each individual's protected characteristics, and, as long as they displayed the appropriate expected behaviours, everything was okay.

And, indeed, everything was okay. Len continued to perform his duties as well as, if not better than, before; the only difference being that now, he dressed as - and believed himself to be - Zido, the Space Dog. I held a meeting with his immediate colleagues to brief them and ensure that everyone treated him with respect, as I would not stand for any bullying (unless, of course, it was me doing it).

Things came to a rather abrupt head one Friday a month after Len had 'come out' as Zido, the Space Dog.

I was on my way out of the office and saw Len slipping out the fire escape door. Curious, I followed him and was alarmed to see him trotting up the staircase, yellow cape billowing in the wind, towards the roof. I followed, wondering what the hell he was up to. I had a bad feeling about what was about to transpire.

When I got up to the roof, Len - Zido - was standing right at the edge, staring out over the concrete and glass expanse of the business park. I approached cautiously.

'Zido?' - I'd got so used to calling him that, that it never even crossed my mind to use his real name - 'Zido, what are you doing?'

He gave no sign that he'd heard me, just kept standing there, cape and ears fluttering in the strong breeze.

'Zido!' I shouted, stepping closer. 'Come back inside! Now!'

Zido muttered something but the words were carried away by the wind.

'What did you say?'

Still he didn't turn to face me. 'I'm going home.'

'To your home planet?' Zido had not told us anything about his (obviously fictional) homeworld or background - yet. Was this about to change?

This time he did turn, to frown at me. 'No, to 9 Berrymead Gardens. This Earth is my home planet.'

So saying he turned away and took a step closer to the edge.

'Zido!' I cried. 'Don't! Get the bus like you normally do!'

He turned to face me once more, and I gazed into his watery blue eyes either side of the toy plastic dog's nose. Were those tears? The brown spaniel ears flapped forlornly in the breeze. He looked infinitely lost, and profoundly sad. 'Zido, the Space Dog, can fly,' he said so softly, so calmly. 'I am Zido, the Space Dog, therefore I can fly.'

So saying he turned and stepped off the edge.

We were on the top floor of a twelve storey building.

I heard him say 'Oh!' in a surprised voice just as he disappeared from view, and then, 'YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRGH!' as he obviously realised that, although in his mind he was Zido, the Space Dog, in reality, he wasn't; and, therefore, he could not fly.

There was a distant, heavy, squelching, splintering thump, followed by screams. I winced and peered over the edge. There, far below, lay the broken body of Zido - of Len, Len Dixon, one of my best project managers, in a spreading pool of blood. Slowly a crowd of onlookers gathered round and I turned away, disgusted.

What a waste. What a waste of talent. What a waste of a good life. How could someone be so completely, so fatally deluded?

See you next week, Sweeties!! Off to try to mend my TARDIS now!!!


(, Fri 6 Jun 2014, 17:47, 15 replies)
I met an Otter who swore he was Elvis.
Lying little furry bastard.
(, Fri 6 Jun 2014, 17:16, Reply)
I post the best story every week but the mods don't let it go on the front page because they're desperately jealous of my anecdote-telling skills.

(, Fri 6 Jun 2014, 16:21, 4 replies)
One of my classmates at secondary school was quite a bullshitter.
Among other things he told us he was on the front cover of a surfing magazine. Obviously we made fun of him for this outrageous and unconvincing lie for a boy of 13 for several enjoyable weeks. We knew he was living in a fantasy land, and he had hoped this claim would make him look extra cool.
Until he brought the framed magazine into school to prove it. Far from the apologies and acceptance he had hoped for, he then 'got beats', for it was judged that being on the cover of a surfing magazine was gay, and therefore he was gay.
The end.
(, Fri 6 Jun 2014, 16:05, 3 replies)
Years ago...
...I knew a bloke who claimed he'd once seen a flying pig, in a quite convincing wig.
(, Fri 6 Jun 2014, 15:29, 7 replies)
she was the girl in school everyone felt uncomfortable around, probably due to the smell. she came out with such utter shit in order to make herself seem more interesting, such as there were fairies in her garden and she'd caught one and now it lived in her bedroom, or she'd won £20,000 in a beauty contest in america(she'd never left england in her life). if you called her on her lies, she'd report you to the headmaster and say you'd hit her.
one day, she came in to school with 3 scratches down her left arm. when asked how she'd got them, she told us she'd been for a walk at midnight(she was about 10) and been attacked by a werewolf. unfortunately for her, her brother overheard her. "pack it in, you little weirdo," he said, "you did that yourself with the garden fork!"
(, Fri 6 Jun 2014, 15:17, Reply)
I once touched Britt Ekland's elbow.

(, Fri 6 Jun 2014, 15:10, Reply)

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