How I Scare Children for Money
I've spent a large part of the last couple of weeks doing summer school work for kids of around 15 years of age. Oddly, though the money helps, I did it for the love.

Part of what I do involves lying. Let me explain. There's a line of moral thought called "Consequentialism", which holds in essence that actions are right or good to the extent that they're optimific, and bad or wrong to the extent that they're pessimific. It's a nice, straightforward, commonsense account of moral decisionmaking, and, though real-life consequentialism can be quite nuanced, I give it to the kids (who've usually never before heard of philosophy) in the most basic form.

So: they generally accept that consequentialism is a plausible mode of moral decisionmaking. "Great," I say. "So you'll agree that it was OK for me to kill my flatmate."

I then launch into a story about an unpleasant flatmate whom I, with others, killed as students. We got rid of an unpleasant person, he didn't suffer (we made sure the death was painless), we got a spare room in our shared house, and the world became a better place as a result. Standard reductio ad absurdum thought experiment stuff.

The session'll go on. I need another thought experiment. This time it involves deciding not to rescue a drowning child because I'm running late and it'd mean ruining my new shoes. Again - standard stuff.

Generally, the kids get exactly what I'm up to, and why. They see the point of the games I'm playing.

But, at the end of almost every session, there'll be one kid who won't leave until he's asked me if I really killed my flatmate, and if I really left the girl in the pond. I always look offended and ask whether I'm being accused of lying.

Because, clearly, while I'm willing to stand by as innocents perish, making stories up for didactic purposes is just beyond the pale.

And that is how I scare children for money.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Thu 10 Jul 2008, 18:10, 9 replies)

Mr Shake Hands Man
I've been told before that I look similar to the bald music man, Moby.

There are similarities admittedly: we're both white, neither of us could be described as fat, and our hair cut, or lack of hair, cut, is exactly the same.

Anyhoo, a few years ago I was out in London buying records, as you do, and had almost clambered to the top of the stairwell of [insert record shop name that I've long since forgotten] when a young Japanese fella passed me on his way down.

He did a double take, stopped and followed me back up the stairs, where he patted me on the shoulder and insisted on shaking my hand.

I did the honest thing, and mumbled a very British apology to the effect that I probably wasn't who he thought I was, and made as though to leave.

He wasn't having any of it.

It was quite awkward for a moment; stood there in a cramped stairwell with a Japanese hand hovering in front of me waiting to be shaken, so I took the path of least resistance and succumbed to his request.

Now, I don't know how many of you are familiar with the bizarre game show [insert game show name, which I have also long since forgotten] that had the character Mr Shake Hands Man, but the ensuing scene was distinctly similar to that.

He pumped my palm (steady now, children) for what seemed like an eternity, while firing off question after question, fortunately too quickly for me to provide any sort of answer, and gushed about how pleased he was to meet 'me'.

I did my best to mumble responses before claiming I had a warm nut roast (or whatever it is these vegans eat nowadays) waiting for me, and made good my escape.

Hopefully he was pleased to have met Moby. I was just pleased to get away before he triggered that I wasn't really Moby.
( Moey, Thu 10 Jul 2008, 18:07, 3 replies)

I was not actually drunk...
No, this is not a story about pulling someone quite regrettable. (Bearded Whumpus, before you say anything, I was drunk when that happened!)

A few years ago, an old schoolfriend - 'A' for the sake of protecting identities - turned 18 (and lo and behold the rest of us followed suit a little while after.) Having gone to different 6th-forms, we hadn't seen each other for a while, so it was nice to catch up. It was a fairly low-key affair; I met A and other friend R, and a few hours were frittered away at a bowling alley before we went back to A's place for a few beers.

It was then I found out that D was also joining us. Oh, crap, thought I, I never could stand that irritating little cockdonkey. Well, perhaps he's mellowed a bit in the last year or so. Please god I hope he's mellowed a bit in the last year or so...

What follows is the shameful story of how I tried to escape.

Things started out alright, but it was only a matter of time before D started to get on my tits. He hadn't mellowed at all; if anything he'd ripened, and, in much the same way that a ripe Camembert makes the whole fridge stink of itself, he was filling the room with his own abrasive presence. (Not difficult, given there were only four of us there, I admit.)

Now I don't intend to brag, but the fact was that, even at 17, a four-pack of London Pride was not going to render me bladdered. A little merry, but fairly compus mentis. I was, however, rather bored, and decided to entertain the others by acting pished.

Then came my opportunity to escape. They decided that we needed some more drinks - D and I decided to go to off-licence. This is with me still playing the role of the sozzled tramp. Insisting that "I jusht need shome freshhaiir," and managing to fake almost leaving the house with nothing on my feet, it became apparent that I was playing the part too well.

The trouble was, it didn't occur to me to stop. So I rocketed off down the road, off towards the bus stop. D gave chase (he was about half the size of me, and I can walk pretty damn fast when the mood takes me) and tried to point me in the other direction. He was convinced that I was paralytic and was doing his best to get me back to A's house, with me repeating that "I know where the off-lishense ish..."

Christ, I could be quite the bastard sometimes, couldn't I?

Eventually, he gave up and left me to it, and I caught a bus. It hadn't really dawned on me that they didn't realise I was faking.

I of course got my comeuppance a couple of years later. I've met up with them since (D still grates, it has to be said), and they've reminded about how "drunk" I was that night. And, of course, I've had to sheepishly explain to them that I was just faking it. And then I feel like the arsehole I was at that age. But I'm still amazed that they believed it...

Apologies, any length is entirely an illusion.
(LongJohnBaldry, Thu 10 Jul 2008, 18:06, Reply)

Working in I.T.
I speak to people who fake thier own level of computer knowledge just to sound impressive, but in effect increasing the time it takes for me to fix thier problem and more often or not winding that person up further.

Them - No Internet!
Me - Sorry to hear that, now you have the computer on in front of you? Good, now firstly click the 'Start' button please.
Them - Done.
Me - Now click on the 'Control Panel' please.
Them - Ok, yeah go on.
Me - you do you have 9 catergories on there or 20 to 30 small items listed in the Control Panel?
Them - Urrrrr.....
Me - You have the Control Panel open?
Them - Is that the blue E? I've got no internet!
Me - It sounds to me that you have a classic case of wax poisoning, from eating too many crayons you fucking retard. Have you tried buying a newspaper instead or possibly going outside?

Utter utter twats. Wastes my time and pisses them off when we have to start again. So when this happens to me I start again and go as slow as it is humanly possible from that point, just to piss them off more.
( Jeccius Steam Borderlands 2 junkie, Thu 10 Jul 2008, 17:57, Reply)

The fake interview
Click here for the video, but I recommend reading below first.

There’d been talk around the company I used to work at about the bonus for referring someone who they eventually recruit being doubled. Many people were scouring their address books in order to obtain this lucrative prize that, in theory, seemed so easy to achieve.

With the general time-wasting banter amongst the proles of the office giving the weather a break and revolving around that subject, it didn’t take long to start sewing the seeds of an evil plan in my mind. Why not make someone up? Why not create the ultimate candidate!? If Eddie Murphy can play every role in a film which still grosses well at the box office, then surely I can find a way to make this possible?

CV screening

A quick download of a CV template later and it was time to play God. I had been involved in recruitment at the company for a significant amount of time, so knew exactly what to include on the CV in order for it to receive a positive screening. To be fair, at this stage I was still thinking that this would be one of those flippant, no-effort / few-chuckles ratio’d pranks, so didn’t put much effort into making the CV seem particularly realistic.

For example, I knew some of the keywords being scanned for, which included a good knowledge of networking and some SQL experience hence the skills section read:

Skills
--------
Networking
SQL

I felt like Anthony Michael Hall in Weird Science as I my creation stirred to life. 10 minutes of deep concentration later and he was alive. I had created…

Flavaadit Gambatron.

Aaah Flavaadit. How could anyone believe your existence? You have the syllable ‘tron’ in your surname and a beloved double-a giving your forename a masculine sound when your name was spoken out loud. Say it with me

Flavaadit
Gambatron.

It didn’t take much to unearth the ridiculousness of the name as neither his surname or forename returned a single search hit (although this seems to have changed subsequently).

I sent the email to the recruitment email address on the company website where it began its elongated journey to an inbox geographically three metres from me. The next step was to await the reply.

Download Flavaadit’s CV here.

It took just thirty minutes for Flavaadit to be approved for a telephone interview! He couldn’t believe his luck! When reading the job spec, he did think the role was made for him, but such a quick response!? Flavaadit was getting big headed.

The quick response put me at a hypothetical crossroads where two distinct paths laid out ahead of me. On the one hand, I could go over to the lady who’d approved my creation, slap my thigh in mirth then leave it as a ha-ha for the pub later. A one or two on the LOLchter scale. On the other hand… The potential was screamingly obvious. I was an interviewer in this company. I not only knew the system, I was part of it. I was in a point of power, and power is designed to be abused.

It was time to face facts. The referral bonus idea was a no as we just don’t have the technology for clones yet (or do we…? No. Not yet. But may- No. Stop it.). I started preparation for the telephone interview, and decided to see how it went from there. It was all very well going this far, but who knew where this would end up. More precisely, I prefer to wing it than to actually have a game plan, so I didn’t really know what to do other than proceed with the interview. Who knows, maybe I could even get Flavaadit to progress to a face to face interview, but I didn’t want to get ahead of myself, setting up a fake telephone interview is easier said than done.

The telephone interview

Including myself there are three people in the company who conduct the telephone interviews for my department, sharing the load between each other. Outlook Calendar research is needed to find the perfect time for the interview to ensure that I’m not the one giving it. Ideally, both of my bosses will be out of the office and I will be able to create a fictional meeting in my own calendar to ensure the interview gets redirected to one of the other two. I’ll also have to make sure it isn’t at a time I’m in a legitimate meeting myself. I can’t risk my boss being in the office, as he’ll want to know feedback on the review etc, and although this seems like a great idea, I’m not sure I want to get into trouble for it and he’s pretty good at identifying when I’m wearing my shenanigans hat. This requires COMMANDO PRECISION. In. Out. No-one knows I was even there.

The other main thing is that if I’m going to go to this level of detail, then I want to make sure that I get it all recorded for future generations to enjoy. In for a penny, in for a pound, as they say. Making this happen may be the trickiest part of the operation.

A week Friday is identified as the perfect day for execution. Boss #1 on leave and Boss #2 working from home. Open up GMail…

Flavaadit replies “Can you make it a week Friday?”.
Recruitment replies “How does 10:30am sound?”.
Check the calendar…
Damn it, the one time I have a meeting that day.
Flavaadit replies “I’m working full time at the moment, is 14:00 alright?”.
Recruitment replies “Yes, you’ll be called at 14:00 a week Friday”.
The time is set. The clock is ticking.

First things first, I’ve got to fill my calendar with some bollocks like Knowledge Transfer. No-one questions knowledge transfer because they fear they’ll be invited and end up being responsible for the knowledge being transferred. It’s a safe bet. Book it for an hour and a half. I can’t risk someone talking to me beforehand and eating into my prep time. This is far more important than work.

The most difficult, yet rewarding part of this operation is to come up with a way of filming it. I don’t own a digital camcorder and I don’t know of anyone else who does. I recall hearing that the company have one somewhere, but getting hold of it without suspicion will be a particularly tricky manoeuvre. There’s no rational reason someone in my role would need a camcorder. Also, once I’ve gotten the camcorder, I’ve got to get it in front of the interviewer in such a position that it clearly captures the whole thing. There’s no chance of hiding it somewhere, this will require the interviewer to know about the camera and be comfortable with its presence.

After a good while playing out various ideas, I started to hit brick walls. It dawned on me that I couldn’t perform this task alone. I needed a Robin, a Penfold, a second girl to my one cup if you will.

I decided to confine with the not-so-lovable prankster Pete. A great sense of humour but notorious for being the sort of person who doesn’t know where the line is. The sort of person who when all others are entertaining each other hiding each others door passes, he’s found the car keys of the quiet guy and decided to hide his car. In the Thames. On fire. Exactly the sort of person who wouldn’t bat a moral eyelid at the plan I was formulating.

Some conferring on the practicalities later and the plan began to take shape with the following fictional scenario agreed upon.

“We’re refactoring the recruitment process in the department after concerns expressed that we’re not conducting things in the best possible way. In order to make this happen we want to film a sample interview from an experienced, valued interviewer (compliments++) to use for future training purposes. Pete would also be present in this interview to ensure the camera was working correctly and also with the view to introduce him to the company interviewing process. He would be taking notes during the interview to discuss with the interviewer at a later time.”

Convincing B, the interviewer, about the camera was trickier than anticipated. Naturally she wasn’t comfortable about being filmed during an interview and it was requiring some serious schmoozing, flattery and favour-calling to even get her to consider it. Of course appearing too keen was also a problem, as the last thing I wanted to do was make her suspicious. There was also a serious danger that she would twig the little technicality that recording an interview without telling the candidate was illegal. I’d like to think it was charm that eventually convinced her, but I’m sure it was sheer brute force in the end as I reeled off so much bullshit about improving recruitment, bringing people up to speed quicker, sharing knowledge etc. that I must have appeared as some inspirational recruitment superhero for an incredibly boring modern world.

With this done, and the interview booked into her calendar, I waited until the day of the interview itself before putting the finishing touches in place. I couldn’t risk anyone finding out anything as gossip problems in the company was notorious.

When the morning arrived, I booked the camcorder and a laptop from the support department for the exercise giving them the same reasons. I’m fairly sure they were convinced I was bullshitting them, but didn’t care enough to want to know more or bother disrupting my plans.

In the room booked for my “Knowledge Transfer” I set up the laptop and placed the microphone next to the phone speaker, conducting a test call with Pete to ensure the levels were alright.

There was just half an hour until the interview itself when disaster struck. A certain department Miss Conscientious who had overheard what was happening almost ruined everything when she noticed me carrying the camcorder and questioned the legality of the filming within earshot of B, the interviewer. I laughed it off, but inside added her to my hit list. Once B had moved away to the kitchen for a cup of tea, I took the opportunity to have a quiet word with Miss Conscientious and tried to explain to her with half-baked reasons why that wasn’t the case. I don’t know if it was the adrenalised look in my eye or the aggressive tone in my voice that made her suspect something was amiss, but I didn’t have time to put her off the scent. I told Pete to keep her away from the epicentre whatever way he needed to whilst I continued the set up of the sting.

A quick check through all the necessaries and I was ready.
* Bosses out of office
* Room booked for interview; Room booked for ‘candidate’.
* Camera set up in interview room, B & Pete booked in for interview.
* Laptop with recording software ready for ‘candidate’ room.
* Mobile battery full strength.

I sat in my room and awaited the call.

Now go back and watch the video at the start of this post and ask yourself, is there a space in your company for Flavaadit?

If you can’t be bothered to watch the video, as it is about 20 minutes long, here are some excerpts roughly paraphrased.

B: Can you tell me what DNS is?
Flavaadit: Ah yes, the Danish Nationalist Society, yeah?
B: Uh, no... No. Excuse me could you repeat what you say about DNS?
Flavaadit: The Danish Nationalist Society. I don't get it.
B: Ah, okay. So just, um, just forget about it...

B: If I asked you what software you're most familiar with, what would it be?
Flavaadit: I do use Internet Explorer a lot, if you know what I mean.
Flavaadit: You know, late nights.
B: Okay
B: Have you ever encountered any problem whilst using internet explorer?
B: Any crashes? Unexpected behaviour?
Flavaadit: Well I tend to find it doesn't deal very well with popups.
Flavaadit: Basically, you go to some sites and you're just riddled with popups.
Flavaadit: Spyware as well.
Flavaadit: It'll just leak pretty much anything.
Flavaadit: You're talking about completely innocent websites and you'll end up with so much spyware on your computer, you'll wonder
Flavaadit: "Are Microsoft themselves putting it on here?"

B: Could you tell me the operating system your machine is running?
Flavaadit: Operating System? Oh yes, Windows 98.
Flavaadit: Fantastic
Flavaadit: I mean basically, I never bought into this NT side of things.
Flavaadit: 98 does everything I want it to do I mean, really, NT, what does it add?

Flavaadit: Do you have any sort of, um, I don't know...
Flavaadit: Basically, I like coffee and biscuits.
B: Yes?
Flavaadit: Do you have free coffee and biscuits.
B: uh, is it- I don't think it's a relevant question.
Flavaadit: Really? Well, I guess if I'm going to be getting about 40k then it's not really gonna matter.
( ma0sm, Thu 10 Jul 2008, 17:47, 4 replies)

Sorry, folks: it's confession time.
My real name isn't "Enzyme".


It's Iain the honourable Harrington Jambalaya, Third Earl of Thwangthwick.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Thu 10 Jul 2008, 17:43, 8 replies)

Fake weed
Once when we were kids we invited a 'friend' over in the school holidays to smoke some 'weed' that we had obtained. The substance in question was actually cherry tobacco.
We rolled up, smoked it and proceeded to watch an immense display of an idiot pretending he was stoned for the next 2 hrs. I'm not quite sure what planet he was on, but apparently his brain tricked him into thinking that there were gnomes in the bushes and the grass was pulsating.

To this day i'm not sure if the sheer power of the mind that led him to think that or if he was just being a dickhead as usual.
(The Archduke of South London I'm in your Girlfriend eating her organs, Thu 10 Jul 2008, 17:37, 1 reply)

I've been faking
all this online flirtation with Enzyme. Truth is, we've been married for six years, we have three children and we're living in a semi-detached house in a cul-de-sac in Swindon until the divorce papers come through and I never have to talk to the bastard again.

Have to go now - the baby needs feeding.
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Thu 10 Jul 2008, 17:19, 7 replies)

First post!
I've been up all night waiting to make the first post, and I finally made it! Yessss!

What was the question again?
(racetraitor has an alibi for, Thu 10 Jul 2008, 17:17, Reply)

I faked being a good church-going Christian.
'Tis true. And why did I fake this?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The year was 1983, and a young Loon fell in love.

She was not really the best looking girl around, but frankly, the Loon wasn't any great catch either. Even at that time I knew this and was not troubled by admitting as much. However, she did have a lot of things going for her- she was witty, she was intelligent, she could hold a decent conversation, and she seemed to have a fair bit of common sense about her. So she was about as good as a young Loon was likely to find.

Sadly, she had been raised Catholic.

I was not.

See, my grandparents were devoutly atheist on Mom's side, and I really don't know if religion ever played a part in Dad's family- if it did, it was a very minor role. However, as Dad was a doctor, we had to belong to a church at least for appearance sake. For whatever reason my parents chose the Presbyterian church, so I was nominally raised a Presbyterian. But while Mom was involved in the social aspects of the church as befits a doctor's wife, the religious aspects of it never took hold in our family.

So here I am, about as non-religious as they come, involved with (and eventually marrying) a recovering Catholic. What's a poor heathen to do?

When we settled down in a tiny upstate NY town, I went along with my wife's desire to join the local Congregationalist church.

The minister was a guy less than ten years older than me, and the organist was his wife. The congregation were a bunch of farmers for the most part, so things were not very formal or serious. Fine, I can deal with that.

It became known to the minister and his wife that I have some musical talent, and am a semi-competent guitarist. They tapped me to accompany her on my guitar for a few piano pieces. What the hell, I figure, it's an excuse to play music. Then they find that I can sing on-key and have a reasonable voice, so they tap me to join the choir. Again, why not? It's kinda fun in a goofy sort of way.

The thing is, of course, that I listened to what the minister had to say during the sermons and got interested in the Bible in a sort of what-the-hell-is-in-this-book-anyway manner. I read it over time, puzzling over the Old Testament and reading through the New Testament. I listened to the minister a bit more, and read a bit more, and spent a lot of hours contemplating the whole thing.

I thought long and hard about it, and concluded that it was a steaming pile. It made no logical sense to me. If we mess up in this lifetime, that's it? We're condemned to hell for all eternity and punished for eons because of something we did in our scant few years on earth? That would be like me chaining my kids in the basement and beating them daily for not flushing the toilet or spilling Kool Aid on the living room rug. If God is infinitely more forgiving than we are, why does he condemn us to hell for making a mistake? And what about people around the globe who hadn't been brought up Christian? Were they condemned to hell for adhering to their own faiths? If so, why bother creating them?

These and other matters convinced me that I was not a Christian. The smugness, the superiority, the sending of missionaries to other countries to convert them from their own system of beliefs to a different system that we outsiders feel is better- the whole thing galled me from beginning to end.

And yet here I was, married to a fanatical Christian who wanted out children to be raised in the church. Here I was, a member of the community, friends with the minister and his wife and the others in the choir, enjoying their company but not sharing their beliefs that seemed to bind them all into a community.

What's a poor heathen to do?

I faked it. I faked it from start to finish, and gradually it took on a very bad taste in my mouth. But I did it anyway.

How did it end?

As I've said in here many times, I'm divorced. Once I left her I dropped all pretense of interest in Christianity. I've always felt much closer to the divine while sitting on top of a mountain or on a lake shore than sitting in a big dusty building with strange windows anyway. I've done a fair bit of looking into the various faiths of the world, and have never found one that really fit me well. It has taken me on some very interesting paths and given me a lot of insight into religions of all sorts, but I would never claim to be part of any one of them. I guess I just don't have a pew-shaped spine.

During the divorce my ex tried to use this against me and her lawyer asked me if I have books on satanism in my house. I replied that I don't have anything on satanism, but I do have the Tao Te Ching next to the KJV Bible and my copy of The Origin Of The Species. That, fortunately, was the end of that.

Call me whatever you wish, but don't call me a Christian. I faked that for far too long.
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Thu 10 Jul 2008, 17:03, 6 replies)

Blonde
I've been faking my hair colour for. . .let's see. . .about fifteen years now. Every few weeks, I have to touch up the roots because my hair grows quite fast and they show through easily. I do my eyebrows to match, and since the colour goes so well with my skin and eyes, almost no one believes me when I admit to my real hair colour.


And what colour is it?

Would you be surprised to learn that I dye my hair a dark brown?


Naturally, it's a pale blonde. I've hated it since I was a little girl and looked forward to when I would be older, because everyone said my hair would get 'darker'. It did. It went from white-blonde to a champagne blonde. Hoping for a Pre-Raphaelite rich brown, I was very disappointed.

Fair skin, dark eyes, colourless hair -- people always used to ask me if I was ill. Now, I don't get that any more. It's a constant struggle to keep it dark, because the pale roots are so visible and blonde hair under brown dye usually ends in a red or auburn look, but I'm so much happier with it now. Today's my bi-monthly re-colouring; it's a hassle, but one must keep up appearances.
(louveciennes , Volvospotter, Thu 10 Jul 2008, 16:55, 5 replies)

Apple picking
I once applied for a job as an orange picker in Queensland, Australia. I said I had picked fruit on a professional basis for over 5 years, but the truth was I had only ever bought it from the shop.

The terrifying boss gave me a trial run along with a few others. He handed us all these aprons with pockets at the front for putting the fruit in, but I somehow put it on upside down. I tried to get it off and tripped over the strap, and fell over. I don't know how but I somehow got stuck inside the apron, lying in a fetal position, strapped up and unable to move.

A couple of others that weren't too astonished to move helped me out, and the boss roared "YOU'RE NO ORANGE PICKER!".

I said "No, as I said before, I'm an apple picker".
A kind swiss man confirmed "ze apples is so different to ze oranges, please don't be too harsh".

I was given the benefit of the doubt and was promoted to lemons within 3 weeks, until I got a spider stuck in my ear (another story).
( browser still relating boring anecdotes into a void on, Thu 10 Jul 2008, 16:48, 1 reply)

BK Goes Camp
About 9 years ago I was down in London on a Uni trip. Having been to see Blood Brothers we'd went for a meal and then round a fee bars.
My friend, who is gay, wanted to go the Admiral Duncan (the one that got nailbombed not long before that). My other friends weren't up for it but I agreed, cos I'm nice like that.
In the Duncan it was heaving. I was slightly uncomfortable squeezing past the throngs in thongs as I felt they weren;t trying particularly hard to get out of the way. We got some drinks and it wasn't long that an Italian huy offered to buy me a drink. Being a poor student and noting that a basic pint of lager was around the £4 mark I agreed. I drained that and he offered to buy me another one. I agreed, I may even have batted my eyelashes at him and played with my lip piercing in a lascivious manner.

This went on for a while, the longer it went on, the more I camped it up. The guy was thinking he was well in. Finally, my friend appeared and said he wadn't to go.
I turned to the Italian and guy and said, "I'm not gay, but cheers!" and left.
I may even have flounce a little.

Length? I really didn't want to look to be honest.
( Boss Keloid Got your mother's maiden name tattooed on my arm, Thu 10 Jul 2008, 16:46, 6 replies)

Here's how to fake a CV and get away with it.
Type your name into google.
You will get lots of information about other people with the same name.
Copy their outlandish deeds into your CV and if a prosepective employer claims you couldn't have achieved so much in one short life you tell him to look you up on google.
( Dr Preference AjcuiVd289, Thu 10 Jul 2008, 16:45, 24 replies)

"I am Brian Jacks"
I've always been tall for my age and pathetically weedy too, so I was an obvious target for bullying. Luckily fate had dealt me a better hand when it came to being a devious little bastard...

My mum, being a thrifty type and ever on the lookout for a bargain, had attended a jumble sale. There she happened upon, and purchased, an immaculately-preserved kiddy-sized Judo suit complete with belt. Next birthday I was presented with it, and quickly decided that it made me look the very bee's knees.

The devious part was when I decided to take it to school for our next 'show and tell' session. And convince everybody that I'd been doing Judo lessons for ages and could break bones with a flick of the wrist. To complete the illusion I even did a few fake moves I'd picked up from watching that bloke off Superstars.

For the rest of my (primary) school career I was left alone and even became something of a playground vigilante, defending the younger/smaller kids from the usual bullies and tyrants. Yay me.

The natural order of things was restored however when I moved on to secondary school, and was mercilessly bullied as all feeble nerds should be. Happiest days of your life, eh?
( reallywittyname veraciously conspues lexiphanicism on, Thu 10 Jul 2008, 16:42, Reply)

Casual Counterfeit
When i was but a little underage Spimf, knocking around pubs and clubs in Glasgow, the little bit of bumfluff on my top lip was often not enough secure entry into some of the more discerning meat markets. But back then most places would accept a photocopy of a birth certificate as proof of age - probably because Glasgow bouncers were scary but not anywhere near as formidable as Glasgow mums: "whit! you want tae go galavantin around with your Birth Certificate? Pfft! You can forget it boyo!"

With the aid of some Tippex, a fountain pen, some calligraphic skills and a photocopier I soon became the 'man to see' at school for fake ID's. I did a roaring trade.

In the time between school and going to art college I took a summer job at a photocopier sales firm. This was in the days before photoshop or even full colour photocopiers. Copiers that could print red blue and green as well as black were state of the art. Naturally i put this to good use.

Then, as Bob Dylan once said 'One day the axe just fell' not with the summer job but when THAT envelope dropped through letterbox one fine sunny morning - one of grades I required to get into art college was lacking - I already had a provisional acceptance. FUCKSOCKS!

My world collapsed - I felt sick. So i took the creative option - I bumped up a C to a B in modern studies. This sounds dreadful but i had to let my mother know - she knew my grades too. But going to art college was all i ever wanted to do so reluctantly she became complicit. So I got in, did well and was even tipped for a first. But on the day i was was taken aside by the course director and told no one was getting a first that year because too many had been given the previous year and 'eyebrows had been raised'. So I got a 2:1 probably poetic justice.

Since then I have carved out a successful career as a designer. I don't feel guilty because ever since, the work i have produced has always been judged on merit.

I still have the old skills though - much improved with photoshop and colour laser printers at my disposal. I've saved a couple of grand on my monthly train ticket - I bought one initialy then simply scanned and amended dates as required. I got a real buzz the first time i let the ticket bloke see it (the route i take doesn't involve scanning - just a quick eyeball from the barrier guard). I even outfox those NCP Nazi's - i have a ticket set up with every day date etc on a photoshop layer. Takes less than a minute to print off a ticket before i leave each evening. Even that saves around 160 quid a month.

Every little helps

!
( spimf ™ is whoever you want him to be, Thu 10 Jul 2008, 16:39, 13 replies)

spray tan before holiday is a pre-requisite
for an english rose (aka ultraviolet milk bottle) like me.

because, as my friend emily always says, "brown fat is MUCH more attractive than white fat."
( rachelswipe with a fork, Thu 10 Jul 2008, 16:38, 16 replies)

Kylie
I once told a girl I liked the new Kylie Minogue record in a sad attempt to get off with her.

She asked, I lied, I have lived with the shame ever since.
(Peacocke, Thu 10 Jul 2008, 16:37, 3 replies)

My "ultimate chat up line"
A few years ago, sat with mates, I decided we all needed bad chat up lines. In hindsight I was the only single one, but it could be a laugh to come up with some goodies.

My crowning glory was to tell a woman I was "The Stig" from top gear. How we laughed at the idea of me saying that to a woman, surly I'd never have the nerve.

That night I got far to drunk, and tried it. It failed but was funny. Months later I decide to give it another go, my friend Heidi says she knows just the person who'd love it. She darts off and I await the sure fire hottie to woo with my lies.

Moments later, she returns, with some one in tow, but not what I expected. A very tall Greek gentleman. WTF? She knew i was straight, yet she drops in an unmistakable male friend for me to chat up. I was shocked, didn't know what to do. "Tell him! Tell him!" squeals Heidi, like an excited cupid.

What could I do? I panicked, and said the line. He probably doesn’t know top gear, he's Greek. Wrong. He knows it, he LOVES it. I spend far to long faking it, before enough time has passed I can make my excuse and go.

Apology for length? Despite Heidi's best efforts, he didn't require one.
(Mong goose, Thu 10 Jul 2008, 16:35, Reply)

The King of Albania
.....is a nickname that a poor guy I met at Uni acquired.

Not a sexy or exciting story but something

Gavin was a nice guy, friendly, a bit loud at times but not necessarily as secure in himself as might have first appeared....he was a long way from home this being a Northern University and him being Cornish and there was no point of reference from home to keep him grounded. I don't think there's anyone that hasn't embellished a story for a bit of dramatic effect is there? Maybe I'm doing it a bit here as well, you get the drift....for this fella however it got a bit out of hand.

During the excesses of the fresher term and living in a halls of residence with lots of new people around Gavin started to bullshit and didn't know or most likely couldn't stop. First off was that he'd broken a vertebrae previously in a sporting accident and had to spend a long period of time in hospital - not beyond the realms of possibility at all, this then over the coming years then snowballed into recieving a huge whack of money through medical insurance, his late Grandfather had left him and his brother a huge sum of money in trust until their 21st birthdays and so on it went in a spiral, each untruth feeding off the other until people started to call him out about it and goad him into more outlandish gilding of each story.

Unable to make the step towards salvation and own up to a bit of bullshitting he went on and on - it was really painful to watch - I and several others having tried very hard to offer him a way out of the falsehoods on numerous occassions - he was a fantastically kind and generous guy and great to be around and probably still is, but it had gone on too long. Eventually he started to drift away and just isolated himself, got a bedsit on the other side of town, the last time I set eyes on him he looked like he was in the middle of a breakdown, a proper mess, avoiding eye contact he scarpered off and that was it. I worried for a while but had my own stuff to deal with at the time....

You might recognise Gavin as I've seen a few more of his type in my time and often they're just dreamers with low self esteem.

I caught up with him the other week through the wonders of Facebook......

He's making a mint running his own business, happily married and knows full well what a tit he made of himself, he says he just couldn't stop at the time. I've been invited over to stay with him and go out on his yacht......I'm pretty sure it actually belongs to him this time anyway.

Bullshitting - don't do it kids! (well, at least know when to stop)
(Oil Slick, Thu 10 Jul 2008, 16:33, 2 replies)

Teaching English
I've been getting drunk and harassing Asian women for the last two years. I'm pretending to be an English teacher - first in China, now in Korea.

All in all, I think my charade has passed undetected.
(drunkenfud, Thu 10 Jul 2008, 16:27, 1 reply)

Just what I always wanted
Dear Auntie Susan and Uncle Joe,

Thank you soooooo much for the novelty Rudolph the Rednosed Reindeer slippers!! The nose lights up when you walk! That's amazing! I was just saying to mum and dad that I could do with a new pair of slippers because my beautiful stripped pine floorboards are so cold in the winter and my handcrafted Moroccan leather slippers do slide a little on the carefully-chosen honey-coloured varnish. I guess that's why they call them slippers, eh? Ha ha ha!

But yes, not every 32 year old woman with impeccable taste in interior decor and a love of minimalist design is fortunate enough to have such generous relatives. I'll think of you when I wear them. Their little antlers match the embroidery on my exquisite cream silk robe.

It's a pity we don't see you as often as we should, but it's so lovely you do know me well enough to understand how much I appreciate your humourous gift-giving! Imagine being able to get those in a size big enough for an adult!

Once again, thank you, and I do hope you liked your photo frame and scented candle.

Your loving niece,
CHCB x
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Thu 10 Jul 2008, 16:27, 6 replies)

Pubs
Shortly before, on or shortly after my 17th birthday I sent off my application for a provisional driving licence with one minor ammendment: I put my date of birth as one year earlier making me officially 18.

Being below average height and with the face of a cherub, I finally had the ammo needed to get served in pubs and I did.

After a few months, my mum discovered my naughtiness whilst doing the laundry and promptly sent the licence back with my correct DOB.

Happily, I'd already been asked for ID in all of the pubs we went in so I didn't really need it anymore.
( stopmeandslapme Cometh the hour, cometh your mum, Thu 10 Jul 2008, 16:25, Reply)

curl up and dye...
I used to be a very convincing bottle blonde - courtesy of a very good hairdresser and naturally curly hair, and claimed to be a natural blonde.

Work and social friends had not seen my true mousey colours, and the lie persisted to the extent that when I dyed my hair dark brown, I had several female friends bemoan my neglection of "such a lovely natural colour".

I still haven't admitted the truth, and have a pathological fear of communal nudity as a consequence...
(Janitor Sinister, Thu 10 Jul 2008, 16:20, 6 replies)

My girlfriends parents hate me
They were giving her alot of grief about going out with me, so we faked a breakup a couple of months back. As far as they know it's still off.

I have no idea why they dislike me, and they wont tell her. Any time I met them we got on fine.
(oeb, Thu 10 Jul 2008, 16:17, 1 reply)

I am crap as a girl
I'm allergic to fake tan. Since I have no desire to resemble an oompa loompa, I'm perfectly happy about this, though the one time I did want to look glowingly bronzed for my friend's wedding, I ended up with blotchy, itchy, lumpy red shins and had to drown my sorrows with bellinis, champagne, and the bride's brother who was fortunately more interested in the area above my knees.
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Thu 10 Jul 2008, 16:12, 12 replies)

I lied
to my insurance company.

As far as they're concerned, I've got no points and no previous accidents.

They haven't found out yet.
(Half of Stephen Fry's right buttock pissed on your dog on, Thu 10 Jul 2008, 16:11, 9 replies)