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This is a question Lies that went on too long

When you lie you often have to keep lying. Share your pain. When I was 15 I pretended to be 16 to help get a summer job. Then had to spend a summer with this nice shopkeeper asking me everyday if I was excited about getting my GCSE results. I felt like an utter shit. Thanks to MerseyMal for the suggestion.

(, Thu 8 Mar 2012, 21:57)
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This question is now closed.

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Gulf war in 1991 my parents thought I was suffering from some kind of post traumatic stress disorder as I was quiet, withdrawn and kept myself in my room all day.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.
(, Sat 10 Mar 2012, 20:26, 26 replies)
I convinced the world that I didn't exist.

(, Sat 10 Mar 2012, 20:03, 5 replies)
In 1995 I told a usenet group that Johnny Marr had changed his name as a play on words of the french phrase "j'en ai marre".
It came back as The Truth™ a couple of years later and I was all like "lol" and that. Then a couple of years later I heard it again. Then a couple of years later. I've even heard it on radio fucking four. It's not true. Or maybe it is. I don't know any more. I've had enough of it.

edit: I probably wasn't all "lol" 'cause that totally hadn't been invented ... I was probably all like proper words and that.
(, Sat 10 Mar 2012, 20:01, 10 replies)

I fucking hate mint sauce.
(, Sat 10 Mar 2012, 20:00, 3 replies)
I was Monty's (son's) double
Backpacking around Russia with a friend back in the day I was on an overnight train to Moscow. The carriage attendant was a friendly old chap and liked talking to travellers. Our only problem was we spoke English and French and he spoke mostly Russian and German with only the odd phrase here and there in other languages between us.

Nevertheless, with the aid of mime, a phrasebook and our smattering of words we could all understand we established the friendly old codger's name was Binyamin and he was a Jew who had fought in WWII against the Soviets for the Germans (the world is indeed weird). Since he brought up WWII, I informed him that my father had fought in that war also, with Montgomery, in the 8th Army.

At this revelation Binyamin pumped my hand, slapped me hard on the shoulder and led us off to his small compartment where he plied us with vodka.

"He's got really friendly," said my friend.
"I think he's got the wrong end of the stick and now believes that my father WAS Field Marshal Montgomery in WWII," I said, trying not to splutter on the practically pure ethanol he was serving us in the guise of vodka.

This was confirmed when other staff members passed and an excited Binyamin would drag them in and inform them that I was, in fact, Monty's son; whereupon it would be handshakes and backslaps and more vodka. I never disabused the good chap of the notion and I imagine he still tells people to this day that he once drank with Monty's son.

More of a misunderstanding than a lie but I still feel guilty about not setting him straight.
(, Sat 10 Mar 2012, 19:52, 1 reply)
I do

(, Sat 10 Mar 2012, 19:45, Reply)
Ricky Martin
Seriously, how could he be anything but gay. Who was he trying to kid?
(, Sat 10 Mar 2012, 18:59, 2 replies)
Your call is important to us.

(, Sat 10 Mar 2012, 17:46, Reply)
You'll be fine.

(, Sat 10 Mar 2012, 15:36, Reply)
The Immaculate Conception...
(, Sat 10 Mar 2012, 14:24, 3 replies)
I dare say I"m not the only bloke who, as a young man, just starting University, tried to cover up their virginity by inventing a string of non-existent girlfriends. But I think, with hindsight, it would have been more sensible to er come clean- I might have got more sympathy shags! I doubt anyone believed me anyway.
(, Sat 10 Mar 2012, 12:08, 6 replies)
A Famous One.
"I never had sexual relations with that woman"
(, Sat 10 Mar 2012, 11:33, 7 replies)
Has to be my first marriage.

(, Sat 10 Mar 2012, 9:49, 2 replies)
fame and driving in los angeles
earlier in my student days, one year i went to the states sans green card, and i took a job as a messenger boy/delivery man for a snooty company that worked around the more affluent areas of the city and had the contracts for the more secure deliveries. i’ll never forget the time we screwed up a major order for a cooker that just had to be there on time for the lead singer of the group no doubt (yes, platinum blond her). i remember her manager screaming down the phone threatening to sue and all sorts of shit because of the delay but in the end we appeased him by promising to bung him a free one, cheap cunt, but unfortunately no matter what the arrival would be delayed a few weeks, and this being the end of june, we gave them the next month as a delivery date.
now the same day i also had to take an important expensive as fuck parcel to a certain no facial expressions Cher, who (not a well known fact) has a huge and priceless badge and brooch collection and was waiting on the delivery of a 1960 rarity from tennessee or some shit like that.
now you may or may not know that these mansions have a common tradesman's entrance round the back (chortle), and you can imagine my amazement at pulling up, getting out of the van with the receipts for the cooker and the badges and getting a full on view of ms stefani, fully stretched out as naked as the day she fell from her mommy's chute, sunbathing shamelessly in her back garden, just as ex mrs bono came out onto her rear porch.
i'll never forget those first few words that i delivered to these rich and famous wenches, etched invisible in the air for all eternity.
gwen. july. your oven. have two. keep lying.
cher, your pin.
(, Sat 10 Mar 2012, 8:37, 13 replies)
Pearoast from December 2007
As a kid I had a neighbour "C" who lived a few doors away but never spoke to us. I found out why, one day when I was about 14. He once had squired my mother's older sister about for a few months and things had got pretty serious, an engagement was being considered. That was in 1946 - 47. He claimed to have been a genuine Tobruk Rat but when it emerged that he had never even been in the army my aunt told him to clear off.

In 1979 I was working back not too far from the old home town and one of the new hires was telling us about the old bloke at his last work boring the pants off the staff with his reminiscences of Tobruk. Yes, it was "C".

Length - At least 33 years telling the same old lie.
(, Sat 10 Mar 2012, 6:10, 7 replies)
"Yes I'm ready and responsible enough to be a parent"
Do you ever feel competent when you've got kids, or is everyone just making it up as they go along?
(, Sat 10 Mar 2012, 4:53, 12 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.
(, Sat 10 Mar 2012, 2:10, 5 replies)
Just give them some money
I've discovered that if you have someone in your life who really wants a loan, the quickest way to make them disappear forever is to give them one. They lie to themselves and say they want to pay you back, but they are confounded by their sheer inability to do so. Tangled by their good intentions, they manage the dissonance by vanishing.
(, Sat 10 Mar 2012, 1:27, 3 replies)
My heart's beating like a fucked clock.
But 25 years later I'm feeling ok.
(, Sat 10 Mar 2012, 0:07, 3 replies)
Iraq has WMDs,
and can launch them in 45 minutes.

(, Fri 9 Mar 2012, 23:43, Reply)
You lying get!

(, Fri 9 Mar 2012, 22:01, 5 replies)
I'll call.

(, Fri 9 Mar 2012, 21:54, Reply)
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"


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.
(, Fri 9 Mar 2012, 20:07, 19 replies)
Of course
I'll respect you in the morning.
(, Fri 9 Mar 2012, 18:45, 2 replies)
Apparently, I'm a responsible adult.
And somehow, the lie seems to become easier with each passing year as I stare further into the barrel of turning 30.
(, Fri 9 Mar 2012, 17:18, 8 replies)
Poetic License
So many years hence, i was acquainted, through a friend, with a lovely, leggy blonde lass with norks you could leap out of a burning building onto. shy, but furtively filthy, and genuinely nice to boot.
i think she saw me as a bit of rough (a fair description at the time) now she was an english student (literature not language) amd i was.. well, less said about what i was at the time the better. part time member of society will suffice.
I am however, fairly well read, verbose, and, in the dim and distant past, have had some dabblings with poetry and creative writing.
i MAY have, in some way, portrayed my interest in said subject as somewhat more than it was.
this MAY have been influenced by a desire to investigate more closely what exactly was jiggling about under that cardigan and those librarian style glasses,although of course i can't comment.
inevitably, this led to me being forcefed (in fairness, in most cases fairly enjoyably as i had free time and love a good book) classic literature, and then, upon travelling the 2 hours by train to visit her uni, rather than the hot rumpus i was hoping for, receiving the equivalent of having my english homework marked. of course, there was nookie too, but the passion for books FAR outweighed the passion for schlong. i did like her, but after about about 4 months i finally succumbed to the fact i was NOT the mr darcy she clearly wanted to mould me into, 'poetry and long walks by the canal' are *poetry and long walks by the c..* from what i wanted from the arrangement, and despite her being very nice albeit neurotic and on the needy side of needy, it was doomed to failure.
the moral of the story is, be yourself, or the person you're trying to bone will fall for the fake, and it's tiring, and guilt-inducing in equal amounts keeping it going.
(, Fri 9 Mar 2012, 16:29, 9 replies)
Back in 2003, on the first day of freshers week in University, I was round another person's flat doing the whole 'awkward socialising with new people' thing that recent home-leavers go through. To help along the way I'd already consumed a few beers with my flatmate, who'd invited me to the flat we were currently in. After a while of people constantly introducing themselves to one another, the girls who owned the flat decided it would be a great idea if we went round in turn and said our names so that everyone, albeit briefly, could know everyone else's name. So thus
"I'm James too"
...went round the room, like some sort of weird roll-call. It came to my turn. I'm not entirely sure why - perhaps due to the drink - but instead of saying Gibbon's actual name, I just said "Arnold". Completely straight-faced. A couple of the girls giggled. Before my brain could re-engage after my hilarious quip and clarify that I had been joking, roll-call proceeded round the room. I'd missed my opportunity! These people actually thought I was called Arnold.

I'm not even sure, apart from Mr. Schwarzenegger or Mr. Rimmer, that I could even name an Arnold off hand. But Arnold I had said, and it stuck. For weeks, I'd have people coming up to me saying 'hey ARNOLD!', 'how's it going ARNOLD!'...and each time, I'd usually correct these people who had been in attendance that night. However, a couple of people still didn't believe me - it became a bit of a joke in itself, with them refusing to even believe the name on my passport was good enough evidence of not being an Arnold.

Now, nearly ten years on, there are still a couple of people who call me Arnold. They probably always will.
(, Fri 9 Mar 2012, 16:20, 5 replies)
'afternoon'. How hard can it be?
Just had a call to book a meeting on tuesday morning.

I was told, and I quote, "Morning is usually between 8 and 1".

"No" I replied. "Morning is USUALLY between 8 and 12".

I remember having the same conversation when my kitchen was being delivered 15 years ago. HOW LONG DO WE HAVE TO PUT UP WITH THESE CUNTS? B3ta, can't we buy them a watch, or something?
(, Fri 9 Mar 2012, 16:15, 1 reply)
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.
(, Fri 9 Mar 2012, 15:49, 38 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."


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?"


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.
(, Fri 9 Mar 2012, 15:48, 10 replies)

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