The twenty year lie
Five of us shared a house in the last year of university, all blokes trying to find jobs. Bob had a particularly good opportunity with a bank, which was his absolute dream job. Now Bob was the kind of person who professed to taking massive drugs. The night before his interview we were sitting round having a drink and Bob was giving us his drugs stories. Mike produced a small pink pill and offered it to Bob, saying he didn’t know what it was, but it was reputedly strong stuff. Bob took the pill and necked it. For the rest of the evening he professed to feeling a little light-headed but nothing odd.

Next day Bob went off for his interview, returning late afternoon with a tale of woe: another candidate had said there was a drugs test as part of the interview process. Knowing he’d taken an unknown drug the night before, Bob had run out of the offices. Bye-bye nice job. Mike felt awful. He’d told the rest of us that the pink pill was in fact a child’s sore-throat tablet: he’d given it to Bob as a joke, and now Bob had messed up the offer of a good job. Mike couldn’t bear to tell Bob the truth.

We all kept in touch as we eventually found jobs and moved away, found girls and settled down into the middle-class routine of work, marriage, kids. Except Bob: he drifted in and out of temporary jobs, travelling to Eastern Europe and then Asia. Eventually he moved to Australia, moved in with a girl and took a job which was nothing special, but allowed him to live. While the rest of us kept in touch, Mike and Bob’s friendship was strained. All this time Mike was thinking to himself that he’d caused this by his lie: if only he’d told Bob the trick on the day of the interview, or even just afterwards, Bob might have had another chance, got the job, and had a different life.

Ten years after leaving university we all met up again: the first time that Bob and Mike had seen each other for many years. As we caught up with each other’s lives, and Bob explained his happy-go-lucky existence, Mike couldn’t hold it back any longer and burst out with the story about the tablet: he was so sorry, he felt awful. Bob was silent: he stared at Mike, and shook his head slowly. “That’s all right mate, water under the bridge, hey?” he said. “Still, I wonder what might have been…” We all took a sip from our pints and stared at the table in silence for a while.

Mike left the get-together soon after. As soon as he was gone Bob burst out laughing. He’d realised the pill was nothing. In reality he’d had a change of heart as he got off the tube to go to the interview: did he really want to spend his life commuting to work with everyone else, and settle down to play happy families? He’d had a great time travelling the world, and he couldn’t be happier where he was now.

That was 10 years ago. Bob still hasn’t told Mike. In fact he didn’t like Mike much anyway; losing his friendship was no loss as far as he was concerned. The twenty-year lie, still going.
(Smale is stuffed, Mon 12 Mar 2012, 14:52, 15 replies)

My own death
When I was about 10 or 11 my class at school was encouraged to get a penfriend in Africa. It was organized through some charity, and the idea was to make us more culturally aware, or something. So I ended up writing to some boy around my age in Nigeria.

It started off quite interesting and fun, we sent photos of ourselves and shared information about schools, but after a while I ran out of things to say, and he started asking if I would send shoes, or money, or help him get to school in Britain. I felt embarassed about this. So I faked my own death. I didn't write for a couple of months, then I sent a letter, trying to disguise my handwriting, explaining how I was Smale's dad, and Smale had tragically died in a road accident so he wouldn't be able to write anymore, ok? Bye.

But my penfriend wrote back, expressing his sadness, and asking for more details. Stupidly I couldn't resist elaborating on the road accident. So then he wrote back again, asking for a photo, to remember me by. So I sent one, and thanked him for his concern, and we exchanged a few more letters, but finally the correspondence faded away.

But then the charity who organised the thing in the first place decided that they would arrange some exchange visits with our school. They wrote to the head mistress. They expressed their sadness at my untimely death. The headmistress called me into her office. "You're looking well Smale," she said when I went in, "considering you died 6 months ago."
(Smale is stuffed, Fri 9 Mar 2012, 13:23, 4 replies)

The ending
to Simon and Garfunkel's "The Boxer"

Not just one lie, but a calculated series of them.

Utter bastards.
(magic the cat will someone please think of the kittens, Fri 9 Mar 2012, 15:29, 4 replies)

She makes me ill.
Drunkenly told my brother's wife that she was attractive in a flirty, too pissed to realise the sheer brevity of what I was doing, heineken soaked haze. She did have nice tits though and the glimpse of cleavage was enough to bring out the trouble in me.

Thing is, I thought she'd forget or at least laugh it off as pissed cock-talk. But no. Every Christmas she forever flirts with me whenever I see her. Winks. Makes inappropriate innuendos in response to anything I say. In front of family. The dosey cow thinks it's our little secret. And this has been going on for years and years and fucking years.

Originally, when the event happened, she was a two-bagger at best. Now she's a hideous fat cunt who genuinely terrifies me.
(thorneyvilla, Fri 9 Mar 2012, 11:24, 17 replies)

Me and my transsexual wife
I am a huge fan of the Eurovision Song Contest. I have been since I was 14, when it became my hobby and my passion. No-one really knows why (although many theories have been posited), but the majority of hardcore Eurovision fans are gay men. When I say hardcore fans, I mean the people for whom the Contest is not just an annual event, but fan-club members who spend the rest of the year listening to the songs and talking about the Contest on online forums. There are some straight fans - including myself - but we are in the minority.

Henceforth, since my teens, some of my best friends have been gay men.

The problem was though, that for many years they could not quite believe I was really straight. There were two main reasons for this: firstly, every other male Eurovision fan they knew was also gay - therefore statistically it was probable that I would be too. Secondly, I was rather a "late bloomer" in that I did not have a real girlfriend until my mid 20s - therefore giving rise to the explanation that the reason must be because I was in the closet, and just did not want to admit it - even to myself. In this context, there was therefore a lot of good-natured joking about my orientation, which caused my friends hours of amusement.

I finally met Rachel - the wonderful woman who was to become my wife, and my friends finally came round to believe that I did after all like drinking from the furry cup, and that I was not inclined to play the rusty trombone.

But then there was Mona. Mona is also a Eurovision fan, but she was more a friend of one of my friends, Stuart, than directly to me. Mona is a (straight) female Eurovision fan from Greece who drives a bus, and she takes no nonsense on the night routes.

When I got together with Rachel, Stuart thought it would be amusing to tell Mona that I had finally "found myself" - admitting that I was gay all along, but that I did not want my family to know, therefore I had managed to find myself a pre-op transsexual. From this point on, Mona firmly believed that Rachel was born a man. The joke was facilitated by the fact that Rachel was born in the Far-East, and although not from Thailand, Stuart told Mona that she was.

The first time that Mona met Rachel was when Mona hosted a Eurovision party to which several people were invited, including Stuart, Rachel and myself. At this point both Rachel and I were unaware of the joke-lie which had been told - however Rachel later reported to me that Mona had been giving her funny looks all evening. Naturally, Mona was curious about this person who looked like a woman but who was actually carrying around meat & two veg in her trousers.

When Stuart later told me about the lie, he also told me about Mona's post-party comments to him: "It's amazing, isn't it? Rachel looks so feminine! It's a wonder what surgery can do these days!"

When I married Rachel last year, Stuart told Mona about it - and Mona's response was: "But they can't marry, surely? It's not legal??"

The problem is now that the lie is two years old, and the belief is firmly entrenched in Mona's consciousness. Stuart wants to tell her that the joke's been on her all along - but if he does, then Mona will be embarrassed for herself and angry with Stuart for stringing her along. Therefore Stuart says nothing - letting Mona happily believe that I'm now married to a shemale.
(EuroSong I love horse meat: best of all the animals, Fri 9 Mar 2012, 12:37, 26 replies)

A Derailed train...
It was Faliraki twelve years ago and six lads, including me, went to that delightful place for the same reasons everybody else does. We found the small wally-trolley train that ferried families to the front immensely funny and would make the 'pull-down' gesture to get the train driver - think convoy truck driver - to ring his bell. We then would point at all the families and shout 'saddo'. It became the habit of the holiday and whenever something fortuitous or funny happened we would all make the 'train' gesture and shout 'Toot toot'.

Two of my friends, (who I shall call Steve and Durham and both with long-term partners, I might add) spent the night with two Polish ladies and slinked off with them in a taxi. Yours truly, had a fallow night and staggered home for sleep.

The next morning, after the microhangover that only the young have, wore off and the rest of us watching Steve and Durham do the walk of triumph. I will not dwell on Durham falling down a cliff as it is not pertinent to the story. Instead, I will talk of their night with the ladies in question.

While Durham was bumping ugly with the one young lady. The other young lady seemed less than interested and the reason why became apparent when Steve went for a wee. It was likely they did not sell tampons in Poland as she had bought Greece's entire stock in her bathroom and this most likely explained her reluctance to have sex with young Steve. He was disappointed but philosophical and did the gentlemanly thing and held her while she slept. Two hours later, he awoke Durham so they could escape while the ladies slept but before he left, he point at the young lady's knickers, where the string of her tampon was visible and poking out. Steve then pulled the string softly and started whispering 'toot toot' and they both laughed. Childish, yes. Funny, a little bit, but the 'toot toot' and gesture gained a whole new meaning to us.

Two weeks later, and we are back in England and I am in the back of a black taxi with Steve, Durham and their girlfriends. Steve's partner then announces to everyone that she had secured a promotion. Cue a massive load of congratulations and me, unthinkingly shouting 'Toot toot' and doing the train gesture. Time stopped. Both Steve and Durham stopped laughing and stared at me. Meanwhile, Durham's partner Helen found this gesture funny and started doing it too. She asked where it came from and Durham then regaled her with the story of the trains in Faliraki and how it was from an R Kelly song - heaven knows where he came up with the second part. But for Helen, it stuck. She would do it to anyone when something good happened, so much so that we accepted it and I did not receive the customary glare from Durham any more.

Five years later, Durham and Helen got wed on a beautiful beach in the Caribbean - I was lucky to be one of twenty guests at the wedding. We were all a bit older and wiser and our days of philandering were long behind us. Steve had met his now wife and was spending his weekends at garden centres, the saddo, and was sat beside me while they gave their vows in the glorious sunshine. The registrar pronounced them husband and wife and she turned to everyone beaming with love and happiness and looked me in the eye and went 'Toot toot'. Durham's baleful glare returned that day, I can testify to that. It was even worse when we returned to a marriage party where she had printed 'Toot toot' on all the napkins.

They divorced some years later. Nothing to do with events in Faliraki, or tampons, or train drivers she said. They'd just grown apart. I nearly told her the entire story then, she was and is a lovely woman but I thought why spoil a happy memory?
(occasionallyfunny, Mon 12 Mar 2012, 14:14, 14 replies)

I generally don't lie
... not because I am lovely, but because I am lazy. The upkeep of a lie requires more energy than I am prepared to spend.

Nonetheless, I couldn't face telling my ferocious German auntie, of whose judgement I live in constant fear for some reason, that I'd met my Canadian now-husband while playing World of Warcraft. It was all too much. First, I'd have to explain the internet to her. Then, I'd have to explain MMORPGs to her, and convince her that it wasn't a shameful waste of time, and that neither of us were total losers, that he was just a blue collar guy, and that I wasn't going to emigrate etc. etc. She'd absolutely have a meltdown about the whole thing. I resolved to tell a great honking fib to keep her sweet:
"I met Mr. Badger at a cocktail evening in Vancouver while visiting a high school friend who now teaches art at the university there".

She was not satisfied with this. Indeed, she was surprisingly pissy about it and harangued me with questions about the affair until well after we'd married and I had, in fact, emigrated. I had to come up with more and more elaborate biographical facts about the non-existent high school friend, my husband's provenance and occupation, and Vancouver itself (I have never left the airport there). She was very down on the whole thing and straight out told me that I was stupid and that this man was "a drifter" and not to be trusted. The waves of emanating scorn could be felt across the Pacific.

Eventually the festering guilt and inability to embroider further on my bullshit got to me, and I 'fessed up on a visit home. I met this man playing Warcraft. That's it and that's all.

She was thrilled. And relieved. And absolutely enchanted by the concept of online romance. "Ach- so it was meant to be, then". I could have wept. Or punched her. Or myself. I'm not sure which.
(lonelybadger, Sat 10 Mar 2012, 2:10, 5 replies)

The batteries once ran down on my walkman whilst I was listening to Guns 'N' Roses.
I coldn't be arsed to stop it or take my earphones out whilst it slowly played through the album.
(Me, I'm not... in any way intoxicated, Tue 13 Mar 2012, 16:15, 6 replies)

This one is but hours old.
A friend of mine's just had his first child. I texted him to find out whether she'd got a name yet, as she was slightly premature and they weren't quite ready.

"Yes." he replied. "It's Alice Louise Stevenson."*
"Cool mate! Congratulations."
"Do me a favour, my phone's nearly out of free texts, and you've got an unlimited contract. Text round and spread the word, would you?"
"Sure thing, mate, sure thing."

And now many of our less pop-culture-savvy friends genuinely believe that the baby's name is Alice Louise Stormageddon Stevenson.

Gone on too long? Perhaps, but personally, I really hope it sticks. Imagine the things she could acomplish with a name like that; the mighty empires she could grind to dust beneath her heel! Hail, hail, a thousand times hail!

*Not her real name, obviously. I'm not condemning the poor wee mite to B3ta ignominy within days of her birth. I'm a bastard, but not that big a bastard.
(universalpsykopath loves what you've done with your hair., Sat 10 Mar 2012, 23:54, 7 replies)

My colour blind sister...
kept confusing red and green. Give her a pack of fruit pastilles and its fun for her and a worry for mum and dad.

appointments are made, specialists are called.

one day my mum was chatting to the neighbour, and I had to come clean.

mum: "I'm really worried, she keeps saying that leaves are red and the kettle is green."

Neighbor:"oh noes. have you made a doctors appointment?"

mum:"yes shes going into hospital tomorrow"

me:" shes not really colour blind"

mum:"what?"

me" (little brothers name) taught her that red was green and vice versa for a laugh"

He as about 6 years old at this point and was already knew enough about eye tests to know just what would worry my parents the most. The little shit kept up with his 'tutoring' right up to the point when my sister was about to be prodded and poked in the eyes by the doctors.


I don't want kids, they might turn out like him.
( willenium Fist bump for verification, Fri 9 Mar 2012, 20:07, 19 replies)

Lottery win
About 6 or 7 years ago, my partner and I decided to pull the old lottery win April Fool on my step daughters. Not thinking for one minute that any of them would be daft enough to fall for it.

This basically involved Mrs Bort reading the numbers from our computer screen, whilst I call on all my Am dram experience to embellish the lie with some excitement along the way. Once all the numbers had been read out, we jigged around the house whooping with delight and watching in amusement as 3 of the 4 daughters saw straight through the ruse, and asked us to go back to bed. The one remaining daughter, the eldest ironically, believed every word of it.

As a bit of background to this I should say that the elder 2 girls lost their father when they were 6 and 7 respectively. His death had affected them both terribly at the time, but in the intervening ten years or so, careful work by their mum had put them back on track.

Maybe it was a lingering rawness that had made the eldest burst in to tears and exclaim aloud that at last things were going right for us for a change. Her sobs and the period spent hugging her mum made me feel like the biggest tool in the box, and although her mum had been a willing accomplice to the gag, i knew that it would be up to me to extinguish these flames.

Luckily she took it well, or at least she seemed to, but I will never do anything like it again.

Length - around 10 minutes all told, not traditionally long, but put into context, a fucking lifetime.
(Ovon Bort Wondering why he chose this username, since 1999, Mon 12 Mar 2012, 12:06, 7 replies)

Smell my cheese
Was trying to woo a lady at work that I rather fancied the pants off, and was in the 'flirting like a bastard but not with enough encouragement to actually go for it' stage. I was due to head off to the Dordogne for a week with an old uni mate to visit another former uni friend who was running a Eurocamp site out there. I'd mentioned my impending holibobs, and she informed me that she absolutely loved french brie and could I possibly get her some while she was over there.

Right, thinks I - a thoughtful (if slightly pungent) gift could seal the deal.

Of course, I spent the next week getting shitfaced on cheap red wine and totally forgot about the present - even visiting a bloody food festival in a local village and not manging to purchase some bloody brie. After I'd got home, I realised on my way into the office that I had totally bastard forgotten about it, and was about to head back into work without te one thing she'd asked me for. Not only that, I was pretty bloody skint as well. Titwank.

With a flash of inspiration, I dived into Asda and bought some smartprice super-bargainous brie all shrinkwrapped and whatnot. I also bought a sheet of brown paper and a roll of string. Unwrapped the brie and re-wrapped it in my more authentic paper and string presentation, then handed it over.

She was really touched I'd gone to the effort of bringing it back from my holiday for her, and promptly invited me round for dinner - with cheese and biscuits to follow. Yes, we did get together that night and it lasted a few years - often when telling people how we got together she would tell this story about me bringing her home a thoughtful present from a holiday and she invited me round to share it etc etc.

I know, I'm a bad man :-( A four-year relationship ultimately started with a bit of total bullshit. And no, she didn't notice that the brie was cheap asda shite. Ho hum.
(Bappage, Mon 12 Mar 2012, 11:56, 7 replies)

The truth about Saint George
Turkish not English? Check. George of Lydda.

He did kill a dragon, though. Two dragons, in fact. And they were Chinese dragons, at that. But what do you do with a dead dragon? You can't eat them - poisonous, see?

So old George asks around, and gets told to dig a big pit, roll in the two large reptilian corpses, being careful not to step in the puddles of blood as it would dissolve his armour along with most other parts of him. Once he's done that, he has to use lots of quicklime and potash and other such caustic subtances to try to neutralise the nasty dragon toxins.

And they were the lyes that went on two Lóng
( shinyshinyscalp less a man, more a way of life, Fri 9 Mar 2012, 14:43, 4 replies)

The Case of the obsessive Auntie and mysterious bathroom stain.
Every Tuesday mum and I would go up for tea at my Auntie Janet's house. One one occasion around the age of 11 or 12 I needed to go to the bathroom to drop the kids off at the pool and as I was sitting on the throne alone I decided to have a little 'play'. The unfortunate result was an oily stain on a cheap porous laminate bathroom door which was directly in front of the toilet. No matter how much scrubbing I gave the door the incriminating stain would not shift. There was only one thing for it - pretend the stain wasn't there and that it was nothing to do with me if asked about it.

The following Tuesday I was gently queried by my auntie asking what it was that I'd got up the back of the door. My reasoning was that if I was consistent enough in my denial she'd eventually forget about it.

This went on sporadically over the following 2 or 3 years with my denials being as persistant as her querying. Eventually I forgot about it. Move on a handfull of years to a meal in a fancy restaurant in celebration of my 18th birthday. Surrounded by family my darling Auntie pipes up,"I finally worked out what that stain was you put up the back of our bathroom door."

There was a silence, all eyes were on me. The implications of this statement and my realisation what everyone was thinking what it was set my face aglow.

"I had to test all sorts of things on the back of that door to work it out."

WTF?

It turns out that after a few years she'd had enough of trying to get me to admit anything so had gone through everything she had in the bathroom, squirting a bit of each onto the door - trying to work out what it was.

"It was one of those liquid filled scented bath pearls wasn't it?"

Relief.

I admitted that indeed it was one of those tantalisingly squishy balls of bath oils that I'd been giving a good old squeezing as it ruptured and squirted its oily mess all over the door.

Although to this day I wonder how many people still think I'd drained my tiny spuds over her bathroom even though I can't remember if I was physically advanced enough at that age to do so.
( Airman Gabber Living life like a 70's BBC presenter, Fri 9 Mar 2012, 15:48, 10 replies)

Back in China
Me and and a group of friends had been out all night, it was about 4am we were all terribly, terribly drunk.

It was that time of night when the bar is empty - save a group of stragglers who have now taken over the pool table and juke box and nearest segment of bar area

Music was on loud. When all of a sudden, one of the lads who we had met earlier in the night, started jumping up and down next to my good friend Paul. In my drunken state, never one to miss an opportunity of a dance I quickly lept to my feet and joined them. Bouncing up and down, arms wiggling about in the air.

Suddenly Paul grabs me and shouts, "its ok! Its ok!. Leave it Dan, Leave it!!" in a very Sober defusing manner.

Confused I ask him what he means.

"We werent fighting mate" he said "we were dancing"

Still confused I decided to just agree with the situation and necked some more beer.

The next morning, according to Paul, I was a hero. and everyone in our Team in work thought I was too.

I was brought Cups of Tea's, given cigarettes, and bought a Beer later that evening.

Inquisitive I ask him in an open manner, so as to disguise my lack of knowledge to the sudden love for me.

It turns out Paul believed my attempt at 'dancing' was actually me trying to break up a fight between him and another guy, and trying to subsequently take the guy out. Of course this wasnt the case, I was simply dancing, and so it appears dancing like someone trying to break up a fight.

It was at this point that instead of trying to convince paul it was a big misunderstanding, he made me shut up so he could explain why he had never had a friend who would have done something like that. He gave me this speech about how much it meant to him. One of those speeches where its quite obvious by the wobble in the voice that your friendship has just risen a level to that akin to Brother.

So instead of telling the truth, I raised my glass and congratulated our friendship. I explained it was nothing, and that as a friend I would always be there for him.

Ahwell.
(Dan dan dan They tik urh jerbs!!!, Mon 12 Mar 2012, 16:30, 2 replies)

Walked into a quiet pub
and for some inexplicable reason, I ordered a pint in a Scottish accent. It just came out. I think I'd been thinking in Sean Connery's voice (which I heartily recommend to add a bit of character to your own internal monologues).

Got chatting to the barman while waiting for my friend to turn up. Still in Scottish accent.

When he turned up, quickly explained what was going on, and continued sitting at the bar and speaking in a Scottish accent all night.

Got easier and more natural as I drank more, strangely.
(SnowyTheWereRabbit the Leporid from Hell, Fri 9 Mar 2012, 10:10, 10 replies)

Vertisac?
In years gone by I was camping with friends in the lakes in summer. It was hot and the campsites we stopped at unannounced were all full. Driving away, again, I spotted a tent – about 2 feet square and 6 feet tall. I announced to my mates GF that it was the all new space saver tent. It’s the future, the story went. It will alleviate overcrowding. I explained that occupants slept vertically, hanging from the apex in a space age sleeping bag called a Vertisac. Developed by NASA for the conquerage of space and all that.

Sucked it all in, she did, and repeated the story for at least three years...... until we camped next to one and the owner put a sanilav in it.

I now know the meaning of ‘sullen.’
(HildaOgdensdogsdead DILLIGAF. Well?? Do I??, Tue 13 Mar 2012, 20:13, 5 replies)

"God made me pregnant, Joseph"
"I swear".
(TheManWithThePlan cussed your mum on, Fri 9 Mar 2012, 10:21, 2 replies)

it's been almost 70 years.....
I didn't die, I just moved to somewhere less German
(Anne Frank started to build a loft conversion on, Fri 9 Mar 2012, 8:25, Reply)

Parents thought I was emotionally damaged
When I came back from the first Gulf war in 1991 my parents thought I was suffering from some kind of post traumatic stress disorder as I was quiet, withdrawn and kept myself in my room all day. It wasn't till a few years ago that I pointed out to them that at the time I was 19, it was the height of the rave scene and I had a massive addiction on getting mashed of my face at any given opportunity. When asked why I had gone along with the whole post traumatic stress shite, my reply that it was easier than fessing up that I was a massive pill head did not go down too well.
Mum still aint forgave me.
(Hammy1801 may have scabies!, Sat 10 Mar 2012, 20:26, 26 replies)

twilight
someone told the producers of this sparkly teen angst vampire shite that it was good. not wanting to seem uncool, teenagers perpetuated the lie and spread it.
now, thanks to their vanity and need to fit in with the crowd, this utter shash has become a worldwide "phenomenon" which is practically inescapable.
fuckers.
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Fri 9 Mar 2012, 15:49, 38 replies)

Private Finance Initiative, anyone?

The abhorrent mess that is PFI should never have been started, let alone allowed to become the bloated industry that it now is.


It was started by the Tories under John Major, and enormously expanded under New Labour. The current mob have shown no particular inclination to get rid of it, which is extremely disappointing but not entirely unexpected.


PFI is predicated on a colossal fib: that private companies can borrow as cheaply as the government. This is of course nonsense, as anyone with an understanding of the principle of economies of scale can understand. Furthermore, PFI projects invariably require vast numbers of expensive lawyers, accountants, consultants and advisers, which push up the cost.

PFI has been a particularly good lie for politicians because it enables the true cost of the projects to be kept off balance sheet. Tony Blair and Gordon Brown enormously expanded the PFI programme, because it meant that they could rather cynically use the projects to gain votes, leaving the vastly inflated costs to be met by the taxpayer in the future.


It should be ended now, but I don't see Osbourne doing so anytime soon. In the meantime, your taxes will continue to be poured into the greedy mouths of PFI professionals.
(anvil, Fri 9 Mar 2012, 13:36, 5 replies)

My dearest Elizabeth
By the time you read these words I will be far away; I plan to take my leave tonight and cross the moor by moonlight until the next village rises to meet me. You will never see me again, and I hope you will nurture some tender thoughts for me in your heart, warmed by the memory of what we were rather than on the black things I have done.

Your ears have become sharp of late to the emptiness of our coffers, and the bareness of our bricks stares at you. You have watched me come home from t'pit with nowt in my pockets but a few handfuls of tea, the cheering tea that I love so much and that you never had the heart or hardness to deny me. P'rhaps you will look back on my stained, abandoned mug in a different air when I make my confession: that tea has become my sunshine and my lifeblood, and I cannot live wi'out it.

When it were a thrifty month, your things did go missing from the wardrobe, and from the silver drawer, and were not eaten by mice or swallowed by the floorboards. The truth it pains me so to say is that all your wealth, Liza, went on t'Oolong.
( .Yeti. El amor en los tiempos del cólera, Thu 15 Mar 2012, 13:11, 4 replies)

Best QOTW ever
I mean seriously...
(mr-lizard Hell's teeth man!, Wed 14 Mar 2012, 1:06, 11 replies)

I was shocked to discover that the woman I knew as 'Mother'
was really a prostitute who was no relation to me.

Then I remembered it was my idea to call her that.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Mon 12 Mar 2012, 12:36, Reply)

Star Wars mushrooms
I told my little girl that eating mushrooms gives you 'the force'. She beleived me for years but never managed to aquire the use of the force. She does however like mushrooms now.
(beebolbod for those that are hard of hearing - LISTEN, Fri 9 Mar 2012, 14:32, 10 replies)

Being interviewed by the local Chief of Police.
I once applied for a job which had something or other to do with 'Shop Safe' schemes, similar to the 'Pub Watch' schemes that mean if you're barred from one you're often barred from all, or at least followed round by security. I wrote on my application that I had previous experience of such schemes of course, I think the phrase I used was "actively involved" in the shop safe scheme in Newbury.

The truth was I'd gone along once in my 3 years working in retail in Newbury and that was only because they had free tea and biscuits. We all passed round a folder of mug shots of the local hoodlums and giggled at their pronounced brows etc.

Long story short I wasn't expecting an interview, I certainly wasn't expecting a panel interview with the Canterbury City Centre Manager, the Head of Kent Shop Safe Schemes and worst of all the Kent Chief of Police in his full uniform and hat perched on the table.

Never one to back out of something I sat politely and answered all their questions, elaborated further on my involvement in the scheme in Newbury. They then told me about the job itself, to revive the flagging Shop Safe scheme in Whitstable and then launching one from scratch in Herne Bay. Of course I'd be reporting directly to the Head of Shop Safe and liaising regularly with Kent Police.

I walked out of the interview laughing at my slight miscalculation of both my own skills and the seriousness of the job I applied for. Of course I was laughing on the other side of my face when they offered me the job. I obviously couldn't do it, eating tea and biscuits was not the required experience for setting up something like a shop safe scheme from scratch. I politely turned down the job, alas that wasn't the end of it, the City Centre Manager called me up and asked me to meet him in the board room of the council offices. He then sat telling me how right I was for the job. I told him I was doing an OU course in psychology and didn't think I'd have the time to do both, to which his response was that he could definitely get me doing some work experience with the local forensic psychology team thanks to his connections with Kent Police. Eventually after an hour in that room and the weirdest 3 days of my life I was able to turn down the job and walk away, the lie still intact.

Moral of the story? Think twice about lying on CV's and applications just in case they DO give you the nuclear codes and you have trouble turning down jobs.
( JebediahSpringfield, Fri 9 Mar 2012, 9:53, 5 replies)

Oops.
In year 8 at school, I developed a 'migraine problem'. They normally sprang up on Wednesdays, just before biology, and often when I hadn't done my homework. Strangely, the medical profession has yet to investigate Wednesdayitis.

This went on for a good couple of months, with strange 'stomach aches' and 'really bad headaches' springing up whenever I didn't have the balls to tell my teachers I hadn't done my homework.
Until January, when I had a seizure and was referred to the hospital for tests to find out whether I was epileptic.
I'm not. Woo!

But.
'Are there any other health problems you want to talk about?' asks the well-meaning consultant.
'Actually, there are these headaches she's been having...' says my well-meaning mum.
Yes, those definitely sound like migraines, they say. And it definitely sounds like you're missing a lot of school because of it. Here, have some tablets. Lots of them. Some to take every day, and some to take when you have a migraine.

I've never had a migraine in my life. Barely even had a headache.

Never trust a 13-year-old who hates school, she'll kill the NHS single-handedly.
(and now for someone completely different, Wed 14 Mar 2012, 19:20, 7 replies)

If I were a rich man...
I spent the entirity of friends wedding reception drunkenly pretending to a colleague of his that I was the son of The Earl Of Essex, "Britain's 17th Richest Man". They loved how 'down to earth' I was and how I didn't "act like a flash git". I even let them buy me a couple of drinks after the free bar ran out, after doing that reluctant 'No, no, it's OK...well, if you insist...' thing. It was fun, being rich for a day, but I didn't think much else of it until a few weeks later when my friend and I met up and he told me about coming back to work after his honeymoon and being accosted by his colleague thanking him for a lovely wedding and waxing lyrical about how nice that 'really rich friend' of his was. Apparently it took him all day to piece together from the stories who this rich friend may have been. In the end he didn't have the heart to risk making the guy feel stupid by telling the truth so, 6 years later, still has to pretend to be best friends with the heir of the Earl Of Essex.

God knows how he will explain it away if his colleague actually ever Googles this and discovers a) The actual Earl of Essex is not a fabulously wealthy man and more importantly b) is unmarried with no legitimate heir.
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Wed 14 Mar 2012, 16:33, 11 replies)

Not really a lie, but something of a strange discovery.
I found out this weekend that I have spent the last 2 years thinking I was a year older than I actually am.

How the fuck do you lose track of something like that?
(username failed moderation, Mon 12 Mar 2012, 9:27, 6 replies)