when I was 16/17
I was always sent into the off-licence to buy the vodka because I purposefully carried a ridiculous amount of junk in my bag
Mirrors, hairbrushes, makeup, receipts etc.
If I got asked for ID I would look though my purse, "I know it is in here somewhere I remember putting it in" then proceed to empty the entire contents of my handbag onto the counter in order search through it.
Upon ‘realising’ that I hadn’t got my non-existent ID I would look like I was going to cry and start babbling about how expensive a replacement ID was and that I must have left it on the train, still spreading the contents of my bag across the counter
The idea was to generally hold up as many customers as possible until the person working just sold me the alcohol to get me out of the shop.
Success!
(ecilA Alice...has nothing to do, Tue 15 Jul 2008, 17:53, 2 replies)

Faking the ultimate fake (Warning, not so ultimate)
My brother is a the best of times, an arse.

I enjoy winding him up and then some, (It's the only way I can get any fun) he's very naive too.

Sometimes I also try to rope his mates in on the whole fake thing.

But to my brother, I've had several girlfriends that never existed, had several jobs when in truth I've only ever had one, and I failed... miserably. I'm also a total hardnut in his eyes, this is where the story begins.

During his first year at secondary school I was in year 10, and some second year kids had started to bully him, doing the older brother thing, I went to have a "word" with them.

They never spoke to him again, and instead ran away from him, he thinks I beat the shit out of them. What really happened is I told them they shouldn't pick on him as he's schizo and carries a knife with him.

He still believes that I beat them up and they leave him alone because of me.

Length, it's about 12 inches and serrated.
(Maccy Divided by 0 on, Tue 15 Jul 2008, 17:46, Reply)

fake id
dear readers i am blessed or cursed with a youngish looking face so constantly used a older friends provisonal driving license as id
to get in to clubs at aged 16 right up until i was 25.Went with a friend to a club the other week and was not asked for id the bloody cheek!! as i am now 31 and feel a bit miffed as my age must be started to show!!
be gentle dear readers for i am new at this apologies for it not being funny !
(bizkitmoggy, Tue 15 Jul 2008, 17:28, 3 replies)

Faking being a B3tard Faker
It seems from most posts that the postees or posters are either:

Gay
Mad
From Newcastle
or work in IT

Being none of the above, I must be a faker.
(TheRiddler Hmmmmm... I concur., Tue 15 Jul 2008, 16:49, 30 replies)

I just faked
reading some of the very long QOTW answers. Seriously people, even those without ADD find some of them a bit long winded.

I also recently faked letting a pungent fart. My girlfriend was the culprit and I was being a gentlemen as we were in company. Mind you I did lean over and whisper 'You'd better go have a shit love' as it was quite a foul niff.

Now i'm faking writing when i've nothing to say. I guess i'm caught. That is all.
( sneep used to date Freddie Starr's hamster, Tue 15 Jul 2008, 15:46, 2 replies)

Flaking it
My tale of faking it is an embarrassing melange of lies, inveiglements, and obfuscation. Read on brave reader…

I was staying in a cheap hotel in Taipei a couple of years ago looking for a job to keep me going when I was travelling. Money was running out, and I had to survive on the cheap street food to keep me going.

I scoured the Taipei local foreigners section on websites looking for jobs on a daily basis and applied for any and all jobs. Crucially, I always lied about my Mandarin speaking ability which was ‘sub-basic’ and sexed it up to ‘fluent’. This proved to be a critical mistake as I found out later on.

I received an email from the British Embassy in Taipei asking for lots of details about me, which, if they liked, they would then offer me a part time job as a representative/translator for UK citizens at Taoyuan airport as and when was necessary. They were a bit desperate for people and they would pay me a monthly retainer to be ‘on call’ and pay for the hours that I actually did. This was fantastic. There was only one problem; they needed to interview me in English and also in Mandarin.

Well, I thought, I can blag my way through it can’t I? They had given me a week and I swotted up with my Mandarin books. I thought that I had done very well, I studied quite hard, and thought that I could probably fleece them.

Day of the interview: I rocked up in my best slacks, shirt and tie. I brought all my documents with me and I was feeling confident. I was led into a room with a few people in it. There was one British woman, and two Taiwanese people, one man and one woman. I said “hello, how do you do?” in English and Chinese. The British woman welcomed me and I had the gentlest interview from her for about 15 minutes. I was very confident now. The Taiwanese pair then started to interview me. ‘Hellos’ were exchanged again, and then they asked me some simple questions about where I lived, how I liked Taiwan etc. in Mandarin. This was basic stuff which I had practised with in long prolonged bar sessions with attractive Taiwanese barmaids. This was easy.

Then they asked me something to which I had no idea. They frowned slightly, and then asked me pretty much the same question in a different way. No idea. Then they asked it in a baby fashion:

“What is your opinion on huahuahuahuaahuxie?”

I asked what type of ‘huahuahuahuaahuxie’ they were referring to.

“There is only one type of ‘huahuahuahuaahuxie.’You mean you don’t know what ‘huahuahuahuaahuxie’ means?”

“Erm no.”

“‘huahuahuahuaahuxie’ means ‘huahuahuahuaahuxie huahuahuahuaahuxie of huahuahuahuaahuxie.”

“Ah, I think it is good.”

“How about huahuahuahuaahuxie huahuahuahuaahuxie huahuahuahuaahuxie huahuahuahuaahuxie?”

“Also good?”

“You think that huahuahuahuaahuxie huahuahuahuaahuxie huahuahuahuaahuxie huahuahuahuaahuxie is good?”

“erm…”

It was at this point that I realised that the game was up. Had I been more on the ball, I might have realised it 5 minutes earlier, and been the first to realise it, instead of the fourth.

The British woman and the Taiwanese people then had a long discussion in Chinese about me. I was too busy trying to stop drenching myself with sweat to listen properly.

The British woman then said in English “So what was it like studying Mandarin in Cambridge as it says here on your CV?”

Ah! I had forgotten about that little cherub. I stood up, muttered my apologies in English and Chinese, and walked out the door.

I went back to the hotel, packed my backpack, and took a plane to Seoul where I faked being a prairie oyster farmer from Montana which is another story.
(powervator and NONE SHALL PASS, Tue 15 Jul 2008, 15:42, 6 replies)

pub nutter
I was in the pub last night having my after-work pint, when something odd happened.

The resident mentalist, Michael, is a daytime alcoholic who comes in for a Guinness or eight every day. While he's there he likes nothing better but to sit there muttering to himself - occasionally shouting such gems as "FUCK OFF! JUST FUCK OFF!" to no one in particular.

Yesterday, he came up to me, and spoke.

"If you think I'm talking to myself, you're wrong." he said. "I became psychic 3 months ago. I'm not talking to myself, I'm talking to the other psychics. Not that I care what anyone thinks anyway."

Then he ambled away, muttering.

Makes me wonder whether he IS faking it.
(Half of Stephen Fry's right buttock pissed on your dog on, Tue 15 Jul 2008, 15:13, 4 replies)

You horrible bastards
You could have faked being nice! Now you've gone and made that DonkeyJelly fella run away and sulk.
(bazmorningstar efil4nat3b, Tue 15 Jul 2008, 15:13, 39 replies)

Ah-ah-aahh-CHOO!
In the early 1980s I worked for a certain strike-ridden (no longer existent) British car company in East Oxford.

Some friends of mine were in a band and were supporting the Damned at the old Oxford Poly (now Oxford Brookes) and as I was working nights, I had no way to get to see them but then I had a bright idea...

As the gig was on a Wednesday, I decided the only way I could get out of work (they were utter bastards to work for so I had no choice) was to appear too ill to work. Thus the plan unfolded.

So on the Monday and Tuesday nights I took a pepper shaker to work and snorted ground white pepper at regular inervals during the shifts to give me the appearance of someone with an extremely bad cold: sneezing, coughing, red face, sweating etc. This also made my snot turn a particularly nasty brown colour and lo and behold, when I missed Wednesday's shift but turned up on Thursday as normal, I was asked why I'd come into work at all as I'd been so ill at the start of the week.

Result!

Fooled the bastards and went and had a fantastic night watching my mates' band and then the Damned, who I still go and see every year as I thnk they're ace.

Punk Rock - Do things your own way!
(Joe Strummer's Telecaster in tune with the world, Tue 15 Jul 2008, 15:04, 1 reply)

I don't smoke...
... but I do dabble in the odd bit of Mary Jane.

Thus, I have a packet of tobacco and some Rizla to hand often. At work, I pretend to be a smoker. It's a good half an hour's worth of paid breaks over a short shift and I just chill with my music and a paper.
(MJPerry was crude but clickable at, Tue 15 Jul 2008, 14:01, 3 replies)

I'm faking
the fact that I'm currently living off benefits. As for as extended family and friends know, I'm 'working from home'.

Anyone recruiting?
( JeffTheDogFucker Can you dig it?, Tue 15 Jul 2008, 13:55, Reply)

I've faked male orgasm.
and slid a finger up her to catch the inevitable 'mess' to save the sheets and popped my finger in my mouth.

What can I say? It wasn't happening.
( Syncubus Yarr! Ye'll be walking Planck's Constant! [GMT-5], Tue 15 Jul 2008, 13:53, 6 replies)

You Know
This post has been deleted 'cos it's making me think bad things

Cheers
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Tue 15 Jul 2008, 13:16, 19 replies)

Simon & Garfunkel
I continuously fake listening to music in my headphones. It's great people don't pester you plus they don't know you can hear them when they're on the phone to 'mrs flowerlysnugglepumpkin'.
(the_riviera_kid , anyone fancy making me a brew?, Tue 15 Jul 2008, 13:16, 1 reply)

MY Left Foot

REAL story now…

I am faking it this very moment…well I’m trying to anyway…

Let it be known that I am what is affectionately known in the trade as a fat, alcoholic ‘Rhinog-a-hog’. I chow Chinese food in articulated lorry-like quantities, and quaff booze and red meat in a way that would make even Henry VIII blush and say: “Fucketh me Poo, forsooth you certainly can quaff ye shitloads of booze and red meat!” (Or however he would’ve spoken at the time)

You get the picture.

Also, somewhere along my wobbly stagger through life I happen to have contracted a not too altogether pleasant kidney disease.

Now if you add the above lifestyle to said disease, they combine to create something truly magical…and when I say ‘magical’, I mean something that, despite my tender years (ahem), fucking hurts like the famous ‘fucking hurty Mchurter bastard hurting pain’ of Fuckinghurtsville, Arizona.

I’m talking about Gout.

Last night I settled into my regular drunken stupor without a care in the world. Yet I woke up this morning with my left foot feeling as if someone had gently poured molten lava over it; whilst simultaneously dropping a comedy ‘pythonesque’ 16 ton weight on top of it, before jumping up and down on top of that…and then introducing my groaning, withered stumpage to whatsername out of that film ‘Misery’ who promptly got to work on it with her trusty sledgehammer.

Thinking back, the phrase I was looking for at the time was possibly something like:

“Ouch, that tends to ‘smart’ a tad”…

However, I opted for the slightly less orthodox:

“FUCKINGJEEEEESUSFUCKINGCHRISTMYFUCKING CUNTYFUCKBASTARDYFUCKINGFOOTAAAARRRRGGHHHH!!!!!”

All fine and dandy so far, but here’s the problem. As I’m almost tired of banging on about to you good people, I have only been in my new job 3 months…Therefore throwing a sickie is out.of.the.question. I have to go to work…even dragging my lame-arsed gammy left peg behind me if need be.

So what can I do? I can get on with it. That’s what.

The sheer agony of putting my socks on triggered a howl so piercing that it must surely have had the neighbours reaching to the phone to call either the RSPCA or ‘Werewolf-Catchers-R-Us’.

Every step towards the toilet was like stamping on broken glass covered in acid (and not the good kind) whilst being given a vigorous foot massage by the Incredible Hulk in a ‘rather more than slightly pissed off’ mood.

After the excruciating experience of getting dressed etc, I had my next problem. I then have to drive to work. In my manual car.

I have tried to remember the faces of people at the bustop for later apologies, because I sped by with the window open and my head hanging out of it like a rabid Golden Retriever…growling “OWWWWWGRRRFUCKINGOWWWFUCKINGCUNTSSSAAARGGH!” every time I needed to press the clutch.

Eventually…I arrive at work, sweatily fall out of the car into my parking space and start to crawl ‘commando’ stylie across the car park before somehow getting to my feet and through the door.

I arrive at my desk and my boss is already there.

Boss “You alright, PF?”

Desperately grimacing and attempting to fake the fact that I was contemplating removing my foot from the knee, I answer:

“Oooh grrrfuckinghell I’m fine cuntingfuck thanks for asking”

Boss: “Well, I’m in meetings all day today so you’ll be on your own…ok?”

Thank sweet, blossom-scented fuck! For once…God has finally decided to smile on me.

I collapse into my chair and bury my head in my hands, shaking in purest anguish and vowing never to touch another drop of alcohol or slab of meat again…well…at least until tonight anyway...

Of course, before long I have to bow to the inevitable ‘call of nature’. Therefore I need to make what seems like the 58000 mile round trip to the toilets. Gripping onto my chair handles I heave my shoddy shattered carcass up to my feet and start to shuffle along…muttering plentiful expletives along the way.

By now I’m resembling Igor from an old Frankenstein movie as I hobble towards the toilets…I’m bent over and belming with my leg trailing behind me…and as I look up I notice I am passing the company director who always walks with a limp… then it hits me

“Fucking hell he thinks I’m taking the piss!”

I desperately try and straighten up, whereby the pain increases making even the muscles in my face contort and spasm…

And I wink at him.

Time stops.

His eyebrows furrow in a look of quiet disbelief as my eyes widen to the size of dinner plates…

I have finally turned into a fat look-alike of Gollum…And through the pain barrier I try to speak…

“NNngggbbbllu”

Oh dear lord.

Giving up on life, I continue to the toilets and on arrival it hurts so much that I can’t even piss.

Obviously, I’m now back at my desk. The other people in the office are staring at me strangely even as I type this, possibly in wonder at my highly dubious attempt at covering up the agony by screwing my face up and gurning so hard that all I now need is a horses collar to stick my head through. I also keep making impromptu noises like ‘Ooooyahh”, “DAAARGH” and “fuckingchrist” every time my foot touches anything…like air.

I’ve now just been told that I have an important meeting at 2pm. The Director is going to be there…yet I can’t even concentrate on anything except ‘painpainpainpain’ ad nauseum.

If I need the loo again I’m going to do it in my pants.

Pray for me.

My left foot? – Daniel Day-Lewis can suck my stump…he should try MY fucking left foot…he doesn’t know what suffering is.
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Tue 15 Jul 2008, 13:01, 17 replies)

Faked being a demon
I have a friend, a wonderful dad of 4 teenage lads, poor fella. He used to be my boss and he's genuinely one of the nicest people I've ever met, funny, clever, never calls me a cunt or anything. His one and only flaw, he's quite religious. You wouldnt really know it unless you asked, and he would never ever preach. We spent a few years working together, travelling to customer sites, with plenty of overnight stays in crap hotels and B&B's and plenty of time to discuss life the universe and everything. In terms of religion I am the polar opposite to him but I enjoyed our arguments. His favourite one of mine being "where exactly does it say in the bible that one should go to a cold, stone room and sing crap songs every sunday morning?".

We lost touch for a while, then one day we got talking again. He told me that he and his 4 lads had formed a 'family band', each on a different instrument. He told me that the first 'proper' gig would be on the next sunday. At church. I was promised that "it may surprise you.". Remember. Nice. Religious people are really nice. I hate nice. Almost as much as churches. I only go when a close relative dies/marries in one.

I agreed to go, I liked the guy, he was so happy but to me it was a duty thing, I really really didnt want to sit for an hour and watch this potentially horrible, horrible thing. I suppose, despite our friendship, whole religious family thing just made me think of the Flanderereseses in the Simpsons. I had always managed to separate my friendship with him from the whole churchy family thing.

I formed a plan. An evil, horrible plan. (In retrospect. At the time, i thought it would be funny). I arrived at the church, and met my friend. He and his sons where loading their amps, guitars and whatnot in the main doors. About 30 or so fellow parishners and the vicar were milling around the door, making niceties and laughing at the vicars crap jokes. I was introduced to everyone, I was very polite, they were frighteningly happy (to them I looked like a potential new recruit of course, they must have invited people to church all the time knowing full well they'd never turn up, they'd nearly got me inside. Some of them might have actually been dribbling).

Someone said, 'after you' and gestured to the open doors of the church. Time to execute my plan.

I walked to the door and as I reached the threshold I suddenly bounced off an invisible force field. I staggered backwards, and someone tried to catch me. People looked concerned that I'd hurt myself, I looked confused. I tried again. Nope, bloody forcefield. After a few attempts, I took a running start. In a majestic piece of acting, i 'bounced' violently off the forcefield again, staggered back 20 feet and fell into a bush. I stood up, covered in mud and twigs, and said to the (by now) rather unimpressed congregation "I dont think god wants me to go in.".

My friend took me to one side and said, "look, these are my children, my wife is here, the vicar and some of my oldest friends. You have embarrassed me in the most horrible way. I think you should leave."

And I did. I slouched back to the car and drove off. I've never seen them since.
( I have run out of coke is a little sweaty, Tue 15 Jul 2008, 13:00, 3 replies)

Christmas? Bah! Humbugger off!
I'm a bit of a curmudgeonly old sod at times and usually more so on the run-up to Christmas, or The Furtive Season as I not-so-affectionately refer to it.
False bonhomie does nothing to cheer me and I loathe random people whom I've never before met wishing me well for no good reason.
So it is that I've come across the perfect way of getting instant revenge on these unwelcome morons who generally can't tell a cross from a crucifix, checkout staff particularly: when I'm asked (as we all are at some point) what I'll be doing for Christmas by some spotty, seventeen year-old single mum with the average IQ of a dead badger, I like to look them in the eye and say "praying for you and your kind to the Lord Jehova, that he may forgive you and take you into his light. Would you like one of our tracts?" The effect of this invariably shuts the moron up immediately, with the added bonus that they'll think twice before asking another person the same question. However, if I'm in a particularly foul mood, I'll look at the ceiling and tell them "nothing. I'm alone this year as I've just lost my wife and kids in a car crash."
Shuts the stupid twunts up every time.
(Joe Strummer's Telecaster in tune with the world, Tue 15 Jul 2008, 12:25, 5 replies)

Fake Meat
aka The Tale of Kaol and the Not-So-Quorn

I was once in the process of engraciating myself with a nice* girl from sixth form, when I recieved a message from her to say her parents were away for the weekend, and did I want to come over?

I thought that this sounded an excellent idea, and said that I'd bring over some of the lasagne that I'd cooked.

Getting to hers, we ate the meaty, pasta-based goodness, and then started watching some budget horror film.

She then said that it was the best vegetarian lasagne she'd ever had.
I had a moment of panic, decided to lie, and nodded, smiling.

She'd seen the panic shoot across my face, realised I'd forgotten that she was militantly vegetarian, and much anger ensued.


*OK... A rather odd girl.
( Cawl, Tue 15 Jul 2008, 12:23, 35 replies)

OH DEAR GOD
wait,wait....it only shows the person who's looking at it.....heart rate going back to normal
(europe-who, Tue 15 Jul 2008, 11:51, 7 replies)

Torso
And thus it was spaketh that the third child of that unholy marriage wouldst grow and mature to become the lord of all that was within earshot. Henceforth, extending his mighty torso so as to create the illusion of an elongated midsection, he that was once a snub-nosed ne’er-do-well had now blossomed into a handsome yet strangely cross-eyed young man. His midriff was the envy of the village, and he would use it to charm the ladies out from their tents. The community was awash with the burbling of excited nymphettes whispering such lustful murmurs as, “My, what an abdomen! It fair makes me damp!” and “His belly button must reside in such lofty heights above his pubis that the two shall never meet!” And they would swoon and rub themselves upon the most unlikely of apparatus. (One villager spoke of a sprightly young thing that affected such a delicate and prolonged stroking of her petals upon their letterbox that no post could be delivered for three whole days!)

And so village life continued, with all the young maidens fantasising about their young lord’s torso. But it came to light one day, during the local chariot race, that all was not as it had seemed for all those months. One chariot inadvertently snagged the youthful liege’s trousers and bolted away, tearing the garment from his noble lower section. It then became apparent to everyone present that his abdomen was just like that of any other man. He had simply been wearing his trousers well below his hips, thus creating the impression of a low crotch and, by default, and elongated torso. With the chant of, “Fake! Fake! Trouserfake! Fake! Fake! Trouserfake!” ringing in his devious, papery ears, he was beaten all the way out of the settlement by his once loyal subjects and, stripped of his title, was forced to live in the woods, scraping together a modest diet of sparrow’s feet and wasps. He lived in that woe begotten fashion for many years until, as prophesied, Gary Coleman appeared atop a grinning white steed, whisking our hero up into his stumpy brown arms and taking him to live in his castle with Culkin, where he still resides to this very day.

I am sorry to say that it was indeed I who faked a lengthy trunk, and I paid a hefty penance for my deception. Culkin and Coleman hold no value in the length of a man’s torso (in fact, Coleman’s is the shortest I have ever seen on an adult male), and Culkin in fact seems to prefer a truncated midsection, claiming, “The closer together the cock and nipples the better, as far as this cat’s concerned!”
(stusut79, Tue 15 Jul 2008, 11:42, 6 replies)

I didn't expect the BBC...NOBODY EXPECTS THE BBC!!!
A couple of weeks ago I was skiving off at work reading the BBC website and one of the "Have your say" questions was about whether trial by jury was still a good thing. Having been called up for jury service 2 years previously I decided to post a response regarding the uneducated misfits I had the misfortune to share the experience with. This is where the fakery starts.

I like to keep my real name off the internet, So I signed in as "Robert Waverley", the pseudonym I use whenever I need one. For some reason you need to give an email address and a telephone number, so I gave an old email address and my mobile number. Job done, I ranted on about my fellow jurors who shouldn’t have been entrusted with mopping the floors, let alone deciding the fate of the defendant. Rant over, I logged out and got on with some work.

Ten minutes later my mobile rang "number withheld". Shit. I was really busy and one of the firm’s partners was in earshot. I answered.
Voice: "Hello Robert?” Shit.
Me: "Umm, yes." Shit.
Voice: "This is so-and-so at the BBC, I would like to interview you about your experience of jury duty." Double-Shit.
Me: "Well it was 2 years ago, look, I can’t really talk as I’m at work"
Voice: "Ok Robert, but I would really like to ask you some questions...do you feel that the whole system of trial by jury needs reforming?”
Me: “Ga?” At which point I can see the partner walking in my direction holding a file that he obviously wants to discuss with me.
Me: "Look, I’m sorry, but I AM at work and I have to go” I hung up just as the partner reached me. I rolled my eyes and explained it was a recruitment agency cold calling (more fakery, it’s all secrets & lies…SECRETS & LIES!).

So there you have it, the BBC wanted to interview Robert Waverley about his experience of jury service. Little did they know that there is no Keyser Soze Robert Waverley.
( Colonel Dracula Two manky hookers and a racist dwarf, Tue 15 Jul 2008, 11:24, 13 replies)

Future faking
I’m not a religious person by any means. I don’t have a problem with people who are, as long as they respect my non-belief in the same way that I would never presume to ram my atheism down their throats. But…

As some people know, me and the sweary one are getting betrothed next year (nicely co-inciding with the Edinburgh B3ta bash). We’re not having a huge ceremony, she would prefer something small and intimate, and since I’ve been there before, I’m happy to do what she wants. As long as we’re both there, I don’t really mind. I’m happy with a small do, followed by a huge party the week after. Couple of bands playing, family and friends around us, and a lifetime of happy ever after. Sorted.

Now, I’m not a stingy chap by any stretch of the imagination, but I do keep a close eye on my finances. I like to know exactly what is coming in and going out each month. I get palpitations if I think I’m going to go overdrawn. I hate being in debt, even if it’s just owing a few quid to a mate if they’ve bought gig tickets for us. The last few months have been a bit tight as Tourette’s has been out of work, but now she’s gainfully employed things are turning around. Saving any money over the last year has been an impossibility; and we’ve only just cleared the credit card from last Christmas. Hence another reason for a small ceremony – what’s the point in getting into abject hock by spending thousands of pounds on one day?

However, to have a civil ceremony is actually more expensive than if you have a religious service. So do we fake being true believers for the sake of a few quid, or do we remain true to our (lack of) principles?

They do say that Jesus saves… about £100 in this instance.

*Rubs chin*
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Tue 15 Jul 2008, 11:18, 19 replies)

Psyche!
Actually, my last entry was a fake.
It wasn't a Uni it was a Poly!
(RayPugh So, what are you wearing?, Tue 15 Jul 2008, 10:51, Reply)

Drunken Japes
When I was a young and foolish Ray at Uni, I was meandering home late one night after a skinful and found myself being hassled/menaced by a gentleman of the homeless persuasion. I pushed him into the extremely cold canal by which we were standing.

I still don't know why but, rather than trying to rescue him, I just smoked a cigarette while he drowned. He hardly made any noise.

I never had any coppers at the door or anything but I scanned the local news every day for weeks in my state of advanced paranoia and I didn't dare get drunk in front of my mate for the rest of the term in case booze loosened my guilty tongue.

So, there you have it; I had to fake not being a murderer!
(RayPugh So, what are you wearing?, Tue 15 Jul 2008, 10:50, 4 replies)

As we speak
I am faking the last two months of environmental records for the cafe. Not that there was anything the environmental health people would get uppity about mind. Just I've not recorded them in two months as I know fine well at the time that the soup was at 80 degrees C and that the floor was swept and the tables cleaned.
(Teran Thinks Pogonophobia is funny, Tue 15 Jul 2008, 10:19, Reply)

eins zwei drei
I've been living and working in Japan for the past year. My attempts at learning the language have been pretty woeful. The extent of my ability stretches to ordering a few pints and being able to read the kanji (Chinese symbols) for 'fire extinguisher'.

A lot of my foreign friends here speak the language almost fluently. This makes me feel like an idiot when I'm stuck in a long conversation with them and some Japanese people.

However, last week I given an opportunity to claim back some linguistic pride. Somebody asked me what other languages I spoke. I might add that this question wasn't asking me IF I could speak another language but instead asking me which one. That's right native English speakers... everyone else in the world learns a second language.

Anyway, I was armed with my Standard Grade (GCSE) in German and declared that I was fluent in the harsh, barbarian tongue. I got a few impressed nods and was asked to say something. I went with "Der hund ist leer" which means "The dog is empty". After a minute or so of basking in the limelight I went back to drinking in my quiet corner.

I'm not exaggerating when I say everything came crashing down around me about 5 minutes later. My friend from the next town turned up at the bar with someone I didn't recognise. He then introduced himself to everyone at our table.

His name was Stephan and he was from Frankfurt.

" Oooh really? Hanta just told us he spoke German! "
" Ahh ja? Very gut. "
" Stop staring and make some room Hanta! "

There's very few times in my life where I have experienced that level of shock. I very rarely boast about things I am good at nevermind making stuff up. I thought I was safe with my little white lie considering I live in the most rural prefecture in Japan. I know every foreigner out of the 300,000 people that live here and they are all from English speaking nations.

It turns out he was couch surfing (sleeping for free on stranger's couches) around Japan. He just so happened to turn up five minutes after I decided to tell everyone I spoke his language fluently.

Everyone stared and waited for me to say something in German. My brain was flashing back in time trying to think of something... anything to say.

" Wie gehts? "

Yes... fucking yes. How are you? Let's see you deal with that Stephan you random, couch surfing bastard.

That was enough for everyone at the table and they went back to talking Japanese. It turns out old Stephan spoke perfect English and I explained what had happened. He pissed himself laughing and I ordered him a beer in Japanese.
(bigbillybaws, Tue 15 Jul 2008, 9:27, 3 replies)