X and his conversation stopping bullshit
A close runner up to the legendary Doug is this guy. I won't name him because he's actually a nice chap. Like Doug, he has his self esteem issues, but unlike Doug X posesses a conscience and will never steal the limelight.

Anyway X is an only child. A thoroughly nice and highly intelligent chap who has quite an obvious inferiority complex with people. I speak with a certain degree of guilt because I too used to take the piss out of X during his moments of being somewhat "realistically challenged", however he'd always be the very first to offer sympathy and support during times of crisis and this fact oft went unrecognised during recrimination over his frequent shit talking.

God, the shit talking...

I suppose it started when we left school. Sixth form was a different ballgame and X wanted to fit right in. However, goodwill was in short supply when the bollocks started which spurred him on to greater claims.

The fact that at 17 he'd never kissed a girl was shameful for him. He'd be the first to berate the other guys who hadn't managed this milestone yet in an act of blatant irony, but he didn't help his cause by trying too hard to appear cool to his mates. Hence statements like "Uh, I really want to get off with that bird over there" - with the ephasis on "burrrrrrd!" at eighty decibels. Or even the statement "Ah, I'd bone that!". One can only imagine how a lady's heart can be melted under such a charm offensive.

Some notable attempts to look cool consisted of:

a) Phoning me up and telling me he was coming round to pick me up and take me to the pub in his mate's Toyota Supra, upon which X was insured to drive because he was "such a good mate". Strangely no sign of X or the Supra.

b) Any night out with X would usually involve the sentence "I wonder if Lawrence/Gareth/Ricky is out tonight?". When anyone retorted with "X, who the fuck is Lawrence/Gareth/Ricky?", X would respond with "Uh, one of my London/Basildon/Romford bods". We quickly learned to reply with "Ah, right".

c) Claiming to own a copy of and included in his "set" any rave track being played at the time (okay, this was 1991!). This latter point proved highly irritating when out in a nightclub with X asking each of us if we'd heard "Gardeners World Rave" or somesuch.

Each of these minor precipitations of horse faeces was viewed in the context that X's heart was in the right place. However is piece de resistence came on 24th July 1993, during a friend's summer BBQ. The sheer enormity of the lie was such that the date is forever etched in my mind.

I'd turned up bearing my regulation eight cans of Luftwaffe lager and a brand new denim shirt. "Nice shirt!" commented one of my lady pals as she walked past and playfully undid a couple of the poppers.

"Uh. I get all my clothes flown out from a mate in New York" opined X.

At this point there were a few glances exchanged but we continued in conversation, having chosen to ignore X's statement out of politeness.

My burgers grilled, I retrieved them from the bbq and applied the requisite "Maggi Hot Chilli Sauce" to my burger and that of another partygoer (also female).

"That's fucking good chilli!" she replied, having taken a bite.

Seeing an opportunity, X went for gold.

"Uh. I get my chilli sauce flown out from a mate in the West Indies".

X realised that in a moment of madness he'd just deluged the entire table with a tonne of well matured horseshit, snuffing the sanctity of conversational background noise in doing so. Eight other mouths went silent, agape in shellshock at such a brazen bullshit barrage. The bullshit horse had bolted and X knew it. The expression on X's face was such that he realised that he'd have made less of a cunt of himself had he unzipped his fly and waved his old boy around in the middle of the patio.

"Uh... Uh...." he started to say, desperate to fill the conversational void with an anecdote which would blot the collective memory of his WMD grade arse-speak. But words wouldn't flow. Nothing filled the hellish void. None of us present even attempted to bale X out, so we waited out the conversational void en masse until the beads of sweat began to form on X's reddening forehead.

"So, anyway..." we continued, without a smirk or guffaw. The relief on X's face was palpable. He'd gotten away with it and escaped ridicule.

Until an unseen passerby exclaimed:

"Simple X, you're talking crap" and continued on his merry way.
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Thu 29 Nov 2007, 18:52, Reply)