From the internet...
A few years ago, on a forum I can't remember, the tale of two people falling in love...

A fairly nice community existed on the forums, which included a young bloke and a similarly aged girl, getting along quite well, got chatting on msn and after a while decided to meet in real life. In real life they got on like a house on fire, quickly becoming an item and after a whirlwind romance got married. Hoorah said the community and many messages of congratulations were posted.

Sadly the tale soon took a turn for the worse, our blissfully happy couple were out one day and ended up in a serious road accident, the girl tragically dieing from her injuries. As happens in close communities on the net everyone on the forums did what they could with messages of condolances and keeping the guy going and trying to keep his spirits up and help him through the hard times on msn.

It then came to light a few months later that the girl never actually existed, and everything was a complete fabrication by some bored bloke sitting on his computer...
Quite impressive really when you consider the effort he must have put in being two people, having conversations with each other on the forums and running two msn accouts as two different people chatting with various other forum members.
(442, Fri 30 Nov 2007, 13:00, Reply)

Another mother one
My mother decided to volunteer to work with disadvantaged young people in Sheffield - no idea why. She hates chavs and is a snob. Maybe she had a guilty conscience.

She soon discovered that most of the young people who used the drop-in centre were scum. There was one guy who'd been locked away for setting fire to a cow while high on glue. And plenty of foul-mouthed teenage slappers. After a couple of days she couldn't handle it anymore.

She could have just resigned from her obligation, but that wasn't dramatic enough. So she pretended to fall down a flight of steps. The first I heard was when a panicked colleague of hers called me and asked me to come and collect my 'crippled' mother.

I rushed into the war-torn area of the centre and was led to my mother, who was still lying spread-eagled on the floor as if having sailed down the stairs on to her face. She stood with great show of pain and hobbled to the car, whereupon she announced she was fine and it was all a set up.

What boggled the mind was that she'd lain there on a filthy floor for 20 minutes groaning and pretending to be crippled RATHER than just say she was going home. That has to be pathological.
(frankspencer, Fri 30 Nov 2007, 12:57, 2 replies)

Army woes
You know how some people always seem to attract the nutters? Well I always attract the armchair warriors who are convinced they have had a long and distinguished career in the army. I read a lot, and I have read many first hand accounts of military service, from first world war biographies to more contemporary accounts like the Andy McNab books, so I can usually spot a bullshitter because I have read the book they have based their fantasy on.

Here are some oddballs wot I 'ave met:

Bill was my fencing instructor. I got to know Bill quite well over the 18 months I attended his club and all he ever talked about was his time in the army and all the fighting he had been involved in. The only problem was that as far as I could tell, he had been a British Telecom engineer all his adult life and his anecdotes seemed very similar to those in "Bravo Two-Zero".

Lucy was an attractive 25-year-old blonde who worked at the same company as my brother. I got chatting to her at a party and the “nutter” alarm bells started ringing immediately when she told me that she was an accountant (like me) when I knew that she was in IT sales. I let it slide because she was attractive. She then went on to tell me that she was in the territorial army...(shit, here we go)...and was the first female soldier to complete the Royal Marines basic training and was about to start training with the SAS. The funny thing was, that week I had read a newspaper article about 3 female soldiers who had just completed the Royal Marines basic training and one was going off to do some training with the SAS. The article had a nice big close up of the 3 female soldiers; needless to say Lucy wasn't one of them.

Justin was on the same stag do as myself and we got on straight away. Things were going swimmingly until the curry house when he told me that he used to be a Captain in the territorial army. My heart sank. For the rest of the evening all I heard were anecdotes about "Rupert’s" and the IRA gunman he "Slotted" in Northern Ireland (just like Andy McNab in "Immediate Action") and the horrors he had seen in Yugoslavia that didn’t seem to horrify him that much and were straight out of a book called "My war gone by, I miss it so". He even told me a very familiar anecdote about the time he was stationed in Germany and he drunk drove a lorry carrying a tank across the commanding officers front lawn, running over the CO's dog in the process. I know that I have read that or seen it in a film, I just can’t think where. I avoided him like the plague at the wedding, but I overheard him telling anyone who would listen about his role in operation desert storm (despite the fact he would have been 15 at the time). Twat.
( Colonel Dracula Two manky hookers and a racist dwarf, Fri 30 Nov 2007, 12:48, Reply)

Doxins liars..
I've bought only a couple of things from high street electical retailers like Doxins in the past.

On both occasions, the spotty, wide-boy twat of an 'assistant' has said "Yeah, I've actually got one of these myself and their brilliant".

I'm sure they use the same line about everything they sell - fucking liars.

To quote Lee Evans on the same subject - "Where do these blokes live, a fucking warehouse?"
(mejt, Fri 30 Nov 2007, 12:43, Reply)

Lying to the death, almost
Back when I was at middle school, the whole class used to go to an old victorian swimming pool for lessons. The very first time we went we were buzzing and as we were getting into our trunks there was a great deal of bragging about how great we all were at swimming. The proof of this was the many badges that held our tiny speedo's together. I was adorned with 10, 20, 50m badges that my mum had lovingly stitched on over the previous year. Some kids had taken the bronze and silver awards and were proudly thrusting their heavily decorated crotch at anyone within earshot. As we were getting undressed in the cold communal changing room there was one set of trunks that caught everyone's attention, Nathan's.

Nathan was what was known as the class scruff. He smelt a bit funny, his jumpers were full of holes, he lived in a rough part of town and was a bit odd. Every class had one, and he was ours.

Every inch of his trunks were covered in badges. You couldn't actually see a pair of trunks, just badges. Golds, silvers, bronzes, 1 mile, 2 mile, this was Duncan Goodhew with dandruff. He was showing them off but for a ten year old was being pretty modest, fair play, I was pleased for him. He was regularly taunted by some of the bigger lads in class, yet finally he was getting some long overdue respect.

As we lined up on the pool side the instructor asked us all who couldn't swim. About eight kids sheepishly put their hands up and were smirked at by the rest of us as they trudged of into the shallow end to play with the floats. At the edge of the pool us men inflated our chests and one by one jumped in and swam to the side. Nathan was one before me, I felt humbled to be stood next to such a natural, his inevitable swan dive would put my feeble technique to shame. I remember him hesitating before the jump, and then he went.
HUGE SPLASH,
then nothing....



...absolutly nothing.
I looked down and he appeared to be stood on the bottom of the pool looking one way then another. Was this an exhibition of lung capacity? How long could this human eel stay underwater?

After what seemed like an eternity the silence was broken by the instructor kicking of his trainers and diving in. Nathan came to the surface clinging onto the instructor like a baby gibbon, coughing, eyes full of chlorine and tears. He was given a dressing down and sent to the non swimmers.

It seemed his lie had gone too far. Faced with a group of boasting boys how could he come clean that he couldn't swim? or even worse, that his mum had got his speedo's at the local jumble sale?

He had two choices - admit the lie or drown.
An easy choice for a 10 year old.
.
(sparks , oh, I don't know., Fri 30 Nov 2007, 12:43, 2 replies)

most definitely NOT a sausage jockey
I'm not a raging pillowbiting homosexualist

nor am I a Nazi

I certainly don't like being the 'wife' either

(countrylicker, Fri 30 Nov 2007, 12:39, 1 reply)

Sports cars
I genuinely used to feel for new kids arriving at our school, especially at secondary school were piss-taking was an all-day pastime. Usually, new kids who were rich or had something cool about them would fit straight in, but if they were less than 'mainstream', they struggled to get friends.

Lucklily, one newbie had a plan.

From the off, he told us that his parents both owned a Ferrari, and that his sister drove a Lambo. Talk about overegging the pudding. If he'd said they owned a Cossie or an XR3 we would have been impressed, but he went straight to the top with this one.

As if it needed disproving, I lived round the corner from him and announced during another one of his car-based lie-fests that his family in fact only owned one car; a battered Y-reg Toyota of some description. After a few high-velocity denials, he eventually had to 'fess up that his family weren't the supercar driving bunch we'd initially believed. No shit, Sherlock...
(titusyouclown, Fri 30 Nov 2007, 12:37, Reply)

Woo-hoo!!!
First Post !!!!!1!!!111!!
( Udderbelly A tale of four titties, Fri 30 Nov 2007, 12:29, 3 replies)

Why do they think they'll get away with it?
I have known two compulsive liars in my time, the first guy was at secondary school, and he would tell all kinds of lies, which I mostly believed (gullible I know). He said:

* He'd pulled David Couthard's girlfriend when he went to the British grand prix
* He'd inherited tons of money from a long lost Uncle, but a month later, through some family argument he'd been disinherited, so was no richer.
* He was named in a high profile divorce with some couple who none of us knew - I actually believed this...
* He'd boxed an an amateur level
* He knew Steven Spielberg, and had sent him some script ideas for a new Indiana Jones film.
* He'd had testicular cancer but was fine now.

There were loads of these stories, but I believed most of them, and it was only when some friends started laughing about the stories last year that I realised they were mostly bollocks.

This experience did, however, prepare me for the most prolific liar I've ever met. It was at uni, and this guy called Dave would lie about everything. I can't remember all the lies but here are a selection:

* He'd been selected to play cricket for the county (he was quite a good cricketer, so this was possible) and they'd given him an MG as payment...the only problem with this is that we knew people who played at this level and knew this was crap. When some of the guys visited him at home later that year he 'briefed' them before coming into his parents house. Apparently he told them "you can't mention the MG as it has caused a real rift with my Mum, and it upsets her to even talk about it. I had to get rid of it, but it's best if it goes unmentioned".

* He broke his nose in an "accident" (he wouldn't say what kind). To repair the damage they had screwed in a metal plate. He claimed he could feel the screw heads, and that fridge magnets could stick to his nose - we tried to stick one to him and he went nuts, claiming it would rip his nose open. He almost shat ourselves laughing at that one.

* He made up stories that the girl he was seeing was suicidal. I knew her mates, and they were all far more concerned about Dave, as they all knew he was a complete fantasist.

There were a couple of people that really hated his lying, and it reached a peak when he came in one day saying he'd just been to Sainsbury's...one of the lads leaped up saying "No you didn't Dave! I bet you fucking went to Tesco!". It really was so bad that no one believed a single thing he told them.
( trebor_minty, Fri 30 Nov 2007, 12:23, Reply)

'Friend' of the family
My Mum used to have this mate who she met at church, seemed like a nice enough girl at the time. Anyway, she latched on to the old dear, who, being a friendly sort, accepted her friendship with open arms and would do anything for her. Said girl was always coming round ours and befriending my sisters whilst sewing the seeds of fabrication (Geddit?=) in their and my Mum's heads.

Anyway, she proceeded to talk about her boyfriend, who we'd never met, and inform us she was getting married. Mum duly received an invitation, along with the news that she was pregnant. This was all great news, or so we thought, until we got scan pictures, which were obviously not hers. She was skinny as hell and was in no way pregnant at all. Mum gave her the benefit of the doubt, until 3 or 4 months later when she came round with an album of baby pictures claiming it was premature, although the pics were quite distinctly of two different babies.. by this point, we had invitations to a fake wedding to someone who didn't exist and were starting to be just a little bit creeped out.

Mum being the kind person she is, decides to have a word with the parents of said girl and inform them of these strange circumstances, and that she indeed needs help of a psychiatric nature. Needless to say they had the blinkers on and changed the subject quickly, and said they weren't aware of any issues. The father had had plastic surgery to his face and was a bit of a strange looking health nut, whilst the mother was severely overweight.

Now, I guess she was a very needy person and craved attention from others, and as her family were clearly bonkers as well, she had no hope.

Sorry for creepy tone, I just feel that there are seriously some people out there with some serious issues, aside from the 'Billy Bulshitters' from school. Like the kid that had a helicopter land in his garden. He didn't have a garden. Has anyone seen a helicopter land on a balcony? No? Didn't think so. What a cuntface.

1st post.. 'Can I get a woop woop? Kids getting widdit'
(pablosamigos is up in yo George Foreman, Fri 30 Nov 2007, 12:19, 2 replies)

The colourblind artist
A friend of mine at Uni has a shaky grasp on reality. This makes talking to him very frustrating, as a lot of the time in lectures he will get exactly the wrong end of the stick and will then tell you the inverted message he gained from it immediately afterwards. However, when you straighten him out as to the correct interpretation, he will, even if halfway through a sentence then say EXACTLY what you've just said to him as if he's correcting you and has known what he was talking about the whole time. This works retroactively. Whatever he says at the time he is speaking is the view he's always had, even if you've just seen him U-turn in mid-flow.

He also projects very heavily. Whatever he is feeling, he interprets as what the other person is feeling, ie: if you question him on something he's said which is obviously wrong and he starts to get frustrated he'll tell you to calm down and not get agitated...in an agitated voice!

However, this is not his fault. Why, you may ask? He has quite bad schitzophrenia and is on medication for it, combined with other secondary learning difficulties like severe dyslexia. This is why he's only partly aware of what he's doing in terms of consistency and truth. Oh, and we're art students (painting, sculpture, printmaking etc) and he's, yes, colourblind. Not actually such a handicap for an artist as you can do anything 3D or black and white etc, but he insists on trying to use colour in his work, mainly because others are.

Despite the fact that this is all partly brought on by his illness, it doesn't make him any easier to deal with, or the consequences of his direct lies (which he does know are lies, I've asked him about some and he said it was just "y'know, for a laugh") any less damaging. Last year we all lived in the same dorm building. Halfway through the year one of the guys from the floor below me took me aside and asked if he could talk to me about something delicate. Oh dear, what had I done? This guy was quite quiet, very nice, a bit mad but only in the way that students are a bit mad - I didn't think I'd done anything to upset him. He closed the door.

"Look, I know you're friends with *insert colorblind artist's name*, I just wanted to know why he hates me, all the things he's been saying, because I haven't done anything to him and I just don't know and..."

by this point he was close to tears, so I asked him what was up as I hadn't heard anything about him.

He told me that the CBA had been telling everyone that he was dangerous, that he'd grabbed this girl and raped her and that he had a history of rape. The police knew about him and he was actually only out on probation, that nobody should go near him because of the danger. Of course, people who didn't know the CBA for the liar he was believed this, and the way the lies were told so frankly made it easy to believe. CBA didn't even know this guy at all. I can't think of a more shitty thing to do to someone.

Of course, now none of us know whether to ignore everything the CBA says. Is his backstory true? Did he have a girlfriend who killed herself, was he really in the army and did he really shoot a 13 year old kid in Northern Ireland. All of it is possible and not too far-fetched, but when reality is that malleable, who do you trust?
( Hampster Squared has stuff at www.tilla.co.uk, Fri 30 Nov 2007, 11:56, Reply)

Phone/Jack/Errr....
I used to work with a chap called Phil, who seemed unable to go for more than two seconds without spouting a blatant lie. It was bizarre, as if it was his language. I wasn't too bothered by it, happy to ignore the porkies and let him live in his fantasy world. My friend though, let's call her Clare, loathed Phil with a passion and took great pleasure in popping his bullshit-bubbles. Two examples off the top of my head;

1: Phil was pacing around reception, involved in deep conversation on his mobile. He was negotiating a major DJ gig with a top club. We knew Phil had played a few sets before, but these were mainly mobile discos at birthday parties. This phonecall, on the other hand, sounded like a big-money deal supporting Pete Tong at Cream. Phil was negotiating hard, telling the man on the phone exactly what he wanted. He sounded very impressive, barking his list of demands into his phone.

Then his phone rang. Out loud. In his ear.

It was Clare in the next room, who was surprised to find that she got straight through to his mobile, almost as if there wasn't actually anyone on the line. Phil tried to recover this, answering the call, snarling "Hello Clare", then hanging up and continuing the conversation with the mystery promoter. Sadly, it had lost a bit of shine by then.

2: Clare and I were talking when an excited Phil burst in. "Oh my god, I just had the best weekend!" he beamed. "You know the Comedy Store in London? I did a stand-up set there on Saturday night, and it was brilliant! They want me back next week!"
Naturally, we were impressed. "Go on then" I said, "Let's hear some of your jokes!"
"Right" he said, composing himself, "I'm obsessed with celebrity magazines. Hello, OK, I love them all, can't put them down. I was just reading one today..."
Before he had a chance to continue, Clare interrupted.
"That's Jack Dee's routine! He did it on TV on Sunday night!"
Disappointingly, Phil's pathalogical lying didn't stretch as far as accusing Jack Dee of obviously seeing his act and stealing it, instead choosing to look sheepish and skulk off.
(costas, Fri 30 Nov 2007, 11:52, 1 reply)

A bloke I worked with....
Couldn't help himself. I don't know if it was his attempt to 'fit in' or be 'popular' but one of his many claims was that he designed the iMac on his own, and that, 'When I was working on it, I thought it would be good to put a USB port on it. I did and got paid a huge bonus for doing so' - this would, of course be a great boast if it was true, however he was fresh from studying and working in a call center.

Something else he couldn't stop himself from doing was claiming to either own, use to own or had a brother who owned absolutely anything you could get your hands on. Example...

I was building a patio at my house and thought... 'Hmm, it's taking ages using a pick and shovel, I want to get my hands on one of those mini-diggers you can rent!' - I've mused this openly and would you believe it, this lad piped up with, 'My brother has got one of them, he'll lend you his!' - I had grave doubts about it, but he insisted that his brother would deliver it to my house on the Saturday so I could get on with building my patio.

Come Saturday, I'm waiting, the lad from work had my address and knew I would be waiting in for his brother to bring the mini-digger long -even though I was convinced this digger didn't exist.

To cut a really tedious story short, he never came over with a digger.

Back to work on Monday and i've asked him what happened, why didn't his brother show up? - After initially denying we ever had the digger conversation, he said, 'oooh, that was this weekend was it? Sorry, I thought you meant next weekend'.... 'Still, it's too late now anyway, he sold the digger on Sunday as he wants to buy a plane'

I lost my temper with him in the end and sacked him. I then refused to give him a reference, pointing out when he questioned why, 'I don't think it's appropriate, not when you've got Steve Jobs to write one for you'...

His response... 'Yeah, I know that, but they want a personal reference and I thought you'd do it.'

The man was a twunt of the highest order.
( JeffTheDogFucker Can you dig it?, Fri 30 Nov 2007, 11:51, Reply)

Kids, eh?
My step-son is 6. He has recently learned to lie but has not yet learned that stories are supposed to be truthful, so will happily embellish a boring story to make it more interesting.

For example, last week he told the story of he and some friends trying to kick a football over the playground slide. Not only did he manage this but, amazingly, managed to kick the ball over a neighbouring house. Genius!

Myself, as a child I only used to lie to get out of work. The best example is when I told my parents that I didn't have to do my homework because the school had burned down.

They didn't believe me.
(MrC. Having the most boring username on b3ta since 2004, Fri 30 Nov 2007, 11:49, Reply)

Email
I email people pretending to be a nigerian banker and offer to split $20,000,000,000 with them.
(golddust QOTW now revolves around being a cunt, Fri 30 Nov 2007, 11:46, Reply)

Friend
When my friend Becky first came to my high school, around the second year, the lies would just fall out of her.
She'd claimed she wasn't a virgin (which was quite impressive as we were only about 12 at the time) which we all believed, except for when she went on about how the lad had spelt out " I love you" in candles, how many candles would you need for that!?

She also claimed she knew Gareth Gates.
I wasn't completly innocent though, I said I knew that shitty band 3SL (the brothers of that girl from Steps) and that I was going out with Shia LaBeouf.
( Lollylegs lite, Fri 30 Nov 2007, 11:45, 1 reply)

Got quite drunk one night
and when I walked home, I realised I didn't have my keys. Sadly, nobody was at home and I didn't want to break a window and climb in, so I did the sensible thing of lying down and sleeping on the patio.

I truly am a logical path lie-er.
(__, Fri 30 Nov 2007, 11:42, 1 reply)

Iranian Intelligence
A few years ago, I managed to achieve a lifetime ambition by visiting Iran for a holiday – it’s a wonderful place and thoroughly recommended. Despite the reputation of the country, we had no trouble at all from anyone – I even managed to get into a conversation with the religious police about whether British or Persian women are better looking… but that’s a different story. However, there was one occasion when the ludicrously inept security services did seem to take an interest in us.

We were in Esfahân, and a few people from the group and I were having a wander along the river. One thing about being a foreigner somewhere like Iran is that the people are incredibly keen to come and talk to you – they don’t get many outsiders I guess. So, on this morning, as on the rest of the trip, we’d been chatting away merrily with the locals as we went.

Just as we decided that it was time to find a tea-shop and a hubble-bubble, Kenny pointed out that one of the Iranians seemed to have been (a) following us, and (b) talking to any local who had talked to us. Eventually, this slightly suspicious guy approached us; it happened to be Kenny to whom he spoke first. Things started normally enough – where are you from, what do you do, and so on.
Kenny: I’m a German teacher
Man: Oh? Germany? I lived in Düsseldorf for five years. I’m an engineer and had a job there in the 1980s.
K [suspicious, and smelling a rat]: Nicht war? Der Tot ist ein Dandy; Trinklied. Ich hatte ein Wort. Was ist die Befindlichkeit des Landes? Ozean und Brandung.*
----------- * K actually spoke proper German. I don’t, so I’m reduced to reproducing Einstürzende Neubauten song titles as a poor substitute. But you get the picutre. ----------
Man: Ummm…
K: Hamletmaschine! Was ist ist, was nicht ist ist möglich!
Man: I didn’t actually learn any German
K: In five years? Really? None at all?
Man: Ummm… Goodbye!

The man then engaged another of my companions in conversation a few minutes later; miraculously, when Paul told him that he worked in computing, the man also currently worked in computing. And later in the day, when we met someone else from our party who had been in the same part of town a bit later, she had been approached by the same man, who, once again, took an interest in her but had yet another biography of his own.

So, if there are any Iranian intelligence agents reading this, my advice to you would be to settle on one cover story, and not to pretend that you speak languages you don’t when people tell you that they teach that language for a living. Oh, and it's possible that if you approach two Brits in succession, they might realise pretty quickly that you said different things to them.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Fri 30 Nov 2007, 11:42, 1 reply)

Serious as cancer
I've known TWO guys who falsely claimed they had cancer. Surely the king of all lies?

The first, Darien, I worked with. Needless to say he had a lot of time off for "treatments". He shaved his head and eyebrows, and when someone mentioned that their Aunt had cancer and she lost her eyelashes too, his were gone the next day. He was NOT well liked when people realised the truth.

The second guy, Karl, actually claimed his cancer was fucking TERMINAL. He was going around talking about the bands he was going to have play at his wake. What a fucking hero! He ended up moving to Scotland as obviously that's not really a lie you can back away from so his social life was fucked.

I actually nearly laughed in Karl's face when he told me he had terminal cancer as he was known as a complusive liar ( and claimed variously ot be a master chef, secret agent and/or ninja warrior) and I'd already falled for it once with Darien. Felt guilty for a while about that - hell, compulsive liars aren't immune to cancer - but was eventually vindicated.
( wangmaster2000, Fri 30 Nov 2007, 11:12, 23 replies)

No need
This one guy I used to hang around with would just constantly lie but it got to such a point that nobody ever believed anything he said.

some classics include:
* his nipples weren't in line but that was caused by being in a lorry which his dad crashed and rolled several times.
* He was scared of water because he fell in a swimming pool when he was a baby and nearly drowned (actually was embarrassed about his squint nipples).
* he had sex with a girl in a barn while he was on holiday (only seemed to have sex while on holiday).
* A guy he knew built a mobile phone from scratch but it had to be pushed around on a trolley as it was petrol driven.
* A hot air balloon landed in his back garden one morning so he brought a cup of tea out to the pilot (council estate with a 20" x 10" garden surrounded by trees).
* His dad has beat up hundreds of guys for no real reason.
* His dad once did a handbrake turn while going at 115MPH in a Cavalier because he forgot his piecebox and kept perfect control.
* He has a wife and 2 children but works in a carwash while his wife is unemployed (true) but has 2 houses, one is rented out.

There are more but you just ignore and agree with everything after a while.

Apologies for length but of course his was huge.
(rosstheboss, Fri 30 Nov 2007, 10:57, 4 replies)

Rick Moore - Blackpool - Just so you know
This tosser mis-heard the lyrics of Peter Gabriel's Games Without Frontiers, and thought one of the lines was "She's so funky, yeah". It was, of course, "Jeux Sans Frontieres", the French version of the excrebale It's a Knockout, i.e. Games without frontiers (or bounds). When challenged about this, the cunt avowed he was at a Peter Gabriel concert and PG announced, that to clear up any confusion, the words were in fact "She's so funky, yeah".

To this day he stands by this bollocks in the face of irrefutible evidence to the contrary, and still wears his hair in a comedic scouser perm with appropriate mustache.
(RichardInSydney would like to know why teh date & time is, Fri 30 Nov 2007, 10:53, 3 replies)

Records
I had a friend who was a mess of contradictions, he loved music, but didn't want to be a music-geek and would defend his non-geekness to the death.

On calm questioning of how he had amassed a record collection of over five thousand, he relayed the following story to me:

I was walking past this house and I heard someone shouting. All of a sudden, a rare Beach Boys record hit me on the head. Someone was having a blazing row and throwing their partners collection out of the window. That's how I got my collection.

Let's review this story:

5000 records, enough for customised shelving and a reference system - thrown out of a window?

5000 records carried home to a house over a mile away by one small man?

If he wasn't interested in records how would he know a rare Beach Boys record from a non-rare one? I certainly wouldn't

My friend is well known for his tall storys, which have also included:

Having a tattoos based on a 1950's television show, when asked if we could see it, we were told his 16 year old sister had paid for it to be removed

Getting a blow job from Shirley Manson after a concert before she was famous

Meeting most of his friends at school/in prison/at an AA meeting, when in fact, they met at a science fiction convention.

For all that could said about my mate, he's one of the brightest, funniest people I have ever known, and I wouldn't change him for the world.

Big Fat Liars, embrace them, life is more boring without them!
(Jugular, Fri 30 Nov 2007, 10:51, Reply)

myself and a couple of other b3tans
used to work with a girl who should be best known as hairy jenny(she was very hairy).
She didn't exactly lie about things, she never ever told the truth, and if for whatever reason she did, she'd embellish it till she might a swell have lie din the first place.
examples include telling people that her boyfriend was a fireman, a police officer, a forensics expert, a doctor and other proffesions and occasionally he'd actually be her fiance though a wedding was never mentioned.
many of her family members died more than once and her parents divorced(but somehow still did the weekly shop together and pretended to be married).
And finally she asked for a day off to go to a wedding(she was the maid of honour for one of her oldest friends) less than a week before the event...my boss and I told her she couldn't go, after said wedding we were informed that the brides sister had to fill in as maid of honour. As far as i know she is still moving to a big house the south coast within the next 6 months where her boyfriend/fiance will have a fantatic job and pay for everything so she never has to work ever(on a job of less than £20k a year).
no apologies for anything
(Just Harry What should I put here?, Fri 30 Nov 2007, 10:47, Reply)

City-wide lying
A couple or three years ago, I was living in Norwich and unemployed. Valentine's Day was approaching and I had no money to get something for the missus. Luckily, the local radio station, Shite FM (or maybe it was Broadland), was running a competition to find the most unromantic man in Norwich. All you had to do was - if you were a girlfriend or wife - write a story of your unromantic partner.

Quick as a flash, I knocked out some bullshit about me being a football fanatic (I'm not interested) and generally crap and lazy husband. I was quite proud of it, and submitted it in my wife's name.

We won and I had to go on air to expand upon my lies, which I did with aplomb and with even more lies, as my poor wife shuffled nervously at the bare-faced whoppers spinning fluently from my lips. The prize was a meal at a nice French restaurant and a full day beauty spa for me [manicure, facial, massage, haircut etc.].

And mother always said that liars get found out.
(frankspencer, Fri 30 Nov 2007, 10:37, 1 reply)

To Badgers Wear Corpsepaint



I had the misfortune to date someone like that. She could make a trip to the shop to buy a bottle of milk seem like a week of murder and mystery on the Orient Express. Nothing was ever mundane and ordinary for her, oh no, it had to be high-octane drama every time.

She had some mad fantasy that her father, who'd been dead for decades, was still alive and living in the South of France but didn't want to contact her because he didn't want her mother to find out. How the fuck she knew all this if he was never in touch with her was never explained. I later heard that she bailed out of the car, on the way to her dad's funeral, and ran off - not to be seen again until a couple of days later. So, not seeing her dad dead & buried meant he was still alive. It also explained why she hated her mother because she (mum) would insist that her dad was dead.

There was some other stuff about being a groupie to several famous bands when she'd merely seen them in concert and not, as she claimed spent time with them on tour. She also claimed to have acted in several West End plays despite her never showing any interest in the theatre or joining any acting companies.

After we broke up, she told her colleagues that I was stalking her and that she feared for her safety. I was confronted by two of them in the pub one night and given a warning. I convinced them that I had no such intentions. Quite the opposite in fact, I feared for her safety as, on a couple of occasions, when she spotted me she ran across a busy street in a blind panic and nearly got run over.

The last time I saw her was earlier this year. I was passing through a department store when one of the display dummies caught my eye. It looked just like my mad ex - it *was* my mad ex! She must have spotted me first and pretended to be a dummy so I wouldn't notice her.
(Fanta Menace Is tall enough to see over the fence, Fri 30 Nov 2007, 10:31, 2 replies)

Eric
Apologies in advance for the length...

In what was probably the most deeply unsatisfying moment of my career to date, I spent nearly 3 years working in a jobcentre, trying to persuade an assorted bunch of scrotes that working for a living was actually a good idea, ‘cos, like, you got money and shit. I soon realised that this was a fairly futile pursuit, as they would invariably point out that as they already got money for doing sod all, why should they have to get up at 6.30 in the morning to go and do something they didn’t enjoy? Like me?

When I think back, it was a fair point.

Anyhow, I did a variety of different jobs whilst working there, taking new claims, then graduating onto 6-monthly review interviews, before finally being landed with the joy that was New Deal. For 18-24 year olds. I remember the crushing feeling of despondency that I felt inside when my boss told me the news. Having already worked there for a good 18 months, I was fairly familiar with the hardcore caseload, and pretty much knew what to expect. A bunch of (mostly) idle ne’r-do-wells, with a chronic aversion to work, training, and general responsibility, and who’s highlight each day was waiting for the off licence to open so they could get their next fix of Diamond White.

My shoulders sagged, and I let out a despondent sigh. I threw myself into my new role with what was becoming customary disdain, and set about learning all the foibles and quirks of the multi-million pound scheme that was New Deal.

Now, the main difference with New Deal was that the clients had to attend weekly or fortnightly interviews to help them back into work or identify suitable training that they could do, in order to make them less of a burden on society. In reality, these efforts were mostly in vain, and about as productive as a spacker in a hand-clapping workshop. But, I got paid to do a job, and by God I was going to do it.

And then I met Eric.

Eric was, how shall we say, not exactly respectful of his need to turn up every 2 weeks. He could not equate that in order to get his £120 a fortnight, or whatever it was then, that he had to endeavour to turn up, and when he did turn up, on time. This was an alien concept, obviously. Every other week I would sit and listen to various reasons why he couldn’t get in on time. And every other week I would have to send his case off to an adjudicator, who would invariably decide he was a fuckwit and either close his claim, or take a couple of days benefit off him as a sanction for not meeting his responsibilities.

Typical excuses would include:

• I was in hospital having my appendix out. (Where’s your appointment card then? Erm, I didn’t get one. OK, I’ll just give the hospital a call).
• I forgot. (Me pointing out that if I forgot to turn up for work regularly, I would be sacked).
• I thought it was next week. (Me pointing out that he had an appointment card with the time and date clearly marked).
• I didn’t know it was supposed to be this morning. (See above).
• My Gran died this morning.
• My dog had to go to the vets.
• My Gran died yesterday afternoon.
• My car broke down. (Eric lived about a 10 minute walk away from the Jobcentre).
• My Gran died last night.

And so on. Probably not pathological, but a habitual liar in any case.

One morning, as I was preparing for the day’s interviews, I saw that Eric was due in at 11.30 for yet another interview. 11.30 came and went, and still no sign of Eric. After 10 minutes I was just about to close the book on him, when he came charging through the doors, red of face. “I can’t make it for the interview”, exclaimed Eric.
“But you’re here Eric”, says I, “why don’t you just sit down and we’ll do this quickly”?

“No, you don’t understand, I can’t do the interview because I’ve been arrested”.

Oh good grief. “Eric, if you’ve been arrested, then why aren’t you at the Police station, in a cell”?

“No, I mean I was on my way in, and as I got out my car a copper nicked me. He’s outside now waiting for me. I told him I needed to sign on first, and I needed to see you. You can come and speak to him if you don’t believe me”.

So I followed Eric outside, and sure enough there was a member of the constabulary waiting. He confirmed that Eric had indeed been nicked, for not having a valid tax disc or something, and was required down at the station.

I reluctantly had to give him that one.

Still a lying little scrote though. And when I eventually escaped the Jobcentre, and got a nice job, I still read the local rag for that area. Eric made a guest appearance in the court pages nearly every week.
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Fri 30 Nov 2007, 10:17, Reply)

My ex-partner is a pathological liar,
she has been telling the same stories for some years now, frequently in family court affidavits, or just anyone who will listen. At first telling , one might almost believe what she is saying, however if you have heard them before, you notice that they have become more embellished/serious as time goes by. I find that the hardest thing to deal with is that she seems to honestly believe every word that falls out of her mouth as if it were gospel.

One of her more minor(less damaging) stories, was to inform all my neighbours (mind you, we were still together at this point), that I had raped her, and then whilst she was pregnant, dragged across the room by her hair and then thrown her down the stairs, because I had found she was pregnant with a girl. In the same story she also told them about our huge fairytale wedding, down to fine detail about the dress and ceremony. All of this was , of course completely false, as I realized shortly after she became pregnant that she was absolutely crackers, I had made a mental decision that I would not ever consider marrying this person, but I did remain (stupidly) in the relationship soley to try to keep my young daughter sane.

Anyway, if you ask her, I am a murderer, a rapist, a wife beater, a child molester, I kill most types of animal, as long as it is hers, I have stolen her daughter(at the hands of the Federal Magistrates Court), I phone her employers to have her sacked, I made her work 14 hour days for years( our contractor receipts show less than 20 full days, for the year), I have tried to blow up her car, and apparently I have shagged thousands of women whilst in a relationship with her( I wish), and forced her to engage in group sex activities.

There are others bit these are the ones that spring to mind, and I can actually prove these ones, as she has submitted them in affidavit to the magistrates court, so I have copies.

Fuck I hate her, now I know why my neighbours used to look at me weird.
Oh and I guess I learned a very hard lesson
1.Dont fuck psychopaths.
2.I you must fuck psychopaths, do not make them pregnant.

This is good and free advice to anyone who owns their own penis.
It may just save your life.
(M61A1 CUPID- STUNTS, Fri 30 Nov 2007, 10:13, 3 replies)

i knew one.
oh wow where to begin. I used to work with possibly THE biggest liar in england. ok i list it:

1) he claimed that the queen stopped a train that was running above the store we worked in just so she could shake hands with him.
2)He claimed his mate had hit an eddie stobart lorry at 150 mph on a motorbike, got up, brushed himself off and walked away.
3)Every now and then he would put on a dodgy limp nd when you asked him what was wrong he would reply 'war wound, vietnam'. He claimed regularaly he was in vietnam when he was only about 25 at the time.
4) he claimed he had worked in a motorbike repair shop for 15 years... despite being A) too young and B) having worked as a trolly pusher in morrisons all his life.

He used to go on about his magic fireblade (bike for those of you who have nooooo idea) and how fast he had got it, accidents he had had. Finally i got so fed up of him talking to me about shit i confronted him about not even owning a license and not having a friken clue about bikes anyway...... His answer??? .... he claimed his license was spanish so couldnt ride in the uk and the hells angels were after him too. I pulled him up on all the silly things he had said about his bike ( one being 'it goes 250mph') he got all upset and never spoke to me again. He also claimed once he came to work on his jet ski.

To be fair he was retarded and actually had the medical condition pathological lying. eventually he got sacked when they found out he was offering to take trolleys back for old people and pocketing there pound coin hahahaha.




am i supoosed to appologise for the length here?
(Serbitar Has a furry shit canon called Whitey., Fri 30 Nov 2007, 10:10, Reply)

I've never been in the army
but I stumbled upon this, which had me laughing my tits off:

arrse.co.uk/wiki/Pte_Golden
( Mitsy, Fri 30 Nov 2007, 9:57, 2 replies)

The Legend of ATM Al
I was at an ATM pulling out a couple bucks before I headed down to mexico for an evening of strip clubs and free tequila.
There was a man lurking, thick glasses, suspenders, about 40.
He came up to me....
"you know, i used to be the man who filled these ATMS with money.... you just change out the cash cartridge..... but i figured out a way to trick it, and stole thousands of dollars doing that..."
I was intrigued, and asked him how... and he actually told me a fairly intelligent and detailed account of how it was all done. He then proceeded to tell me of how back when he was in his 20s, ATM Al used to work under george w. bush selecting his christmas gift wines that he would send out to all of the diplomats. He told me how one day, while at a local restaurant, Jack's, he sat down to a bacon and eggs breakfast with the president, and the president had brought along a young woman, a woman whose identitiy was concealed because she was a secret government project. she was a "secret baby".
He told me how he went home the next day, and was watching his television, and couldn't get that woman out of his mind...
"And you know who popped out of that television? MARIE ANTOINETTE... and that bitch took my last fresca"
he was going on and on about how upsetting the loss of his soda was when he paused... took a few steps back, and began to point at me.
"IT WAS YOU! YOU'RE ONE OF THE SECRET BABIES!" he cried out as he flailed his arms.
In a state of sheer terror and panic, i responded.
"yes. I am"

... i lied.
(cinnamonsugarz, Fri 30 Nov 2007, 9:51, 1 reply)