| This entry is part of the August Journal Smackdown (Pants Edition), in response to the topic |
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I'm not one for lying.
By that I mean that while I do say I have a prior engagement to get out of seeing someone, and I have phoned in sick without reason once or twice (a very long time ago, haven't done it in years. Really), I don't spin yarns. No towering untruths in the name of fun or (better yet) coercion.
I did once lie about my profession. Admitting you are a computer programmer either leads to a blank stare or tech. support questions, both of which I'd like to avoid, so one time I said I worked for the local council in the waste management division. It lead to a more interesting conversation and now that I think about it, maybe I should take it up. It certainly worked on that occasion.
My most successful lie is not particularly spectacular or sordid, bad or big, but it gave me two moments of joy.
Back story: In 1956 the first Irish sportsperson to win an Olympic gold medal since the foundation of the state was Ronnie Delany. It was slightly embarrassing as he dedicated his medal to the Pope or something, but there he was -- a successful Irish athelete.
Back story two: My surname is Delany (can you see where this is going?) but the more common spelling is Delaney and it is my cross to bear that I have to correct everyone, every time, but such is life.
Moment one: In 1992 I was in a friend's house shooting the breeze about whatever, and there was an article in the paper about Ronnie Delany as it was some anniversary of his medal win. I smiled and muttered Uncle Ronnie under my breath (audibly, you understand). When quizzed about this remark I told a forlorn tale of how I never saw my uncle Ronnie since the big argument he'd had with my dad and it was all a bit sad really. My friend's eyebrows were brushing the ceiling and his renowned cynicism was being brought to bear on these remarks. Now this man is a good friend of mine, but he is a strong believer in Being Right and would pride himself on being a good bullshit detector. So he asked me some innocuous questions which I fielded easily enough but then he asked the question that he clearly thought was going to be the killer blow.
If he's your uncle, how come he spells his name differently?
Without saying anything, I held up the newspaper so he could read the headline. And he capitulated. It was funny (to me) that because he was wrong on one count (fairly spectacularly, in the scheme of things), he completely collapsed and apologised for doubting me and so on and so forth. Despite the fact that I had proven nothing.
His brother still reminds him of it.
Moment two was about three years ago. I had spun the same tale to some work colleagues of mine and they had no reason to doubt me and were therefore not as much fun, and I forgot I'd ever said anything to them. But one of them came to my wedding and the second thing he said to me (after congratulations) was, would I mind introducing him to my uncle. Who? I said (I had other things on my mind you understand and besides, none of my uncles were there). Ronnie, he said. I'd just like to shake his hand.
I feel sorry now, he just wanted to meet the man himself, but at the time I thought it was funny. He couldn't understand why I'd bothered telling the story and I couldn't explain it either. I hope that wasn't the only reason he came to the wedding.
Today was casual Thursday. At least I was working from home so I didn't bother with the half-hearted business casual I shrug into most days. If I owned a pair of pyjamas I'd have worn them, but as the washing machine repairman came today, perhaps that would have been too low-budget-gay-porn-flick. Although knowing me they'd be stripy flannel PJs. Not terribly sexy.
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