When in his late teens,
my mate Nameless Bob spent most of his evenings sitting with a group of his mates in a garage getting stoned, and it was there that he met Davies.

Davies was a bullshitter, one of only two chronic, compulsive liars I have ever met. He did small stuff, imaginary girlfriends he'd talk to on a phone that he'd answered but hadn't rung, but by and large it was industrial strength batshit. He'd been born in the bed next to Mark Morrison's mum's in Ipswich. He failed his basic six-week army training, but in that time had trained bomb disposal dogs, fought three wars and cradled his dying best mate in his arms. During the first gulf war, a scud missile had hit the house where he lived with his grandparents, and was still there, in the loft, despite there being no sign of structural damage on the house. While slobbing in the garage he'd found time to be world amateur rally champion, with Colin McRae as his co-driver, and had become the world's best drummer without owning a kit. He was secretly a multi-millionaire.

One day he dragged Nameless Bob into the pub I worked in. They'd overpaid his dole, and tonight, he said, they would drink like kings. After an hour of drinking stronger lager than he was used to and hinting at free drinks he fell forward and began blubbing like a bairn, unravelling into a great weepy mass of woe. After a few choruses "are you alright?" from Nameless Bob and I, he spat out

"She's got cancer"

For about a year he'd been shagging a much, much older woman from his road, ending her marriage. She had been diagnosed with cancer, he said, and a in a few days time they'd find out how bad it was. He grizzled and sobbed and bought drinks until closing time, while we all swapped 'is it true?' glances.

On the way home he asked Nameless Bob if he would join him in sleeping in a field, so he could get his head together. Bob, erring on the side of sympathy, agreed, and ended up kipping under his jacket in a field in November, while Davies slept snuggled in the army surplus sleeping bag he'd got from his house on the way.

Morning came, and Bob shivered in the frost, unable to feel his fingers. Having had it before, he suspected he had mild hypothermia, and needed to get somewhere warm. As he lay on the ground he saw Davies wake, sit up, and put his head in his hands. He shook his head. He saw Bob was awake.

"I've had some good news" he said "my missus dropped by in the middle of the night, cos she'd just got a letter telling her it was all a mistake and she doesn't have cancer!"

After promising that he wouldn't let on to his missus about the whole cancer thing 'in case it upset her', Nameless Bob went off to get hot food and medical attention.
( cs1ca, Sun 22 Sep 2013, 13:30, 2 replies)

Albert Liemallow's name is Davies?

( monster munch person, man, woman... camera... TV?, Sun 22 Sep 2013, 16:32, closed)

Me, associate with the kind of people you get on here?

Never heard anything so ridiculous.
( cs1ca, Sun 22 Sep 2013, 16:45, closed)