What a… Nice Man

Would you like to know something about me that a lot of people don’t know?

I’m a really good liar… when I want to be. The reasons why not a lot of people know this are twofold. Firstly, I very rarely use this superpower of mine. I don’t use it professionally or in relationships. In fact, I only really ever use it for self-preservation. The second reason you don't know this is… well… because I’m a really good liar.

(Before I progress further, I should say that there will be an element of strong language in this post so take a view on that, eh?)

But, getting back to the self-preservation thing, it’s definitely something I do; lying to survive. And, mostly, it relates to cars and driving.  I get shirty, you see, when it comes to cars and driving. I say things that I probably shouldn’t say or, more pertinently, that I shouldn’t be heard saying. Sometimes, people hear me saying them and get a little belligerent. That’s when I break out my little talent. I don’t know Kung Fu and I can’t give off a bad smell like a skunk (well.. Friday nights, perhaps…) so I use what little talent God gave me. I lie through my teeth.

You need a ‘For Instance.’ I can tell, even from here. Okay, I’ll tell you one but, I warn you, you won’t believe it. You’ll say, “He’s embellished that story. That dude never bought that line.” But, if you think that, you’ll be wrong. Because I didn’t and he did.

I was walking through the TK Maxx car park one day, heading to meet a good friend.

(Shoop da doo)

When I stopped to watch a car drive along, across the roadway I was about to traverse.

(Cross la rue)

Sorry. Sorry. The story just sounded like it might fit into that ‘Da Dooh’ song from ‘Little Shop of Horrors.’ The one where Seymore finds Audrey II. I’ll stop it now. Sorry.

So this car was coming towards me, and it was going very, very slowly. So slowly that I could have probably stepped out and crossed in front of it and been halfway to my appointment before it got to the place where I was standing. But I didn’t think that was right. In fact, I became rather convinced that the car would stop for me and wave me across, given how slowly it was going and all.

I waited and waited. The car eased on through. Slowly, slowly, it came up alongside me. The driver and front seat passenger gave me no acknowledgement whatsoever.

As the car passed me. I clearly uttered the following opinion:

“What a Fucking Asshole.”

The car went on and I started over the road behind it but not before noticing the driver’s window had been opened as the car had passed. I had crossed the road and was making my way on through the large car park when my peripheral vision informed me that the car was describing a very large, very slow, circle around the outer reaches of the parking area. It was working its way back to me.

I kept walking. The car closed in and eventually pulled up in front of me. Second time lucky, I guess. Peering in the open nearside window I saw a little old lady in the passenger seat. The driver was across the way. He was lurking in the gloom over there, but I could still tell that he was an enormous tattooed man with a long grey goatee.

“Hey,” he said, across his purse-lipped old Mum.

“Hey,” I replied.

“Don’t call me a ‘Fucking Asshole’,” he said.

“Sorry?” I replied, he was a long way into the car and he was also a little quiet. I had reckoned I had got the gist of his statement but wanted to be sure.

Granny piped up.

“Don’t call him a fucking asshole,” she said.

I remember that scene in the first Terminator movie where there’s a guy at Arnie’s door asking questions and Arnie/Terminator has to come up with a reply for him. You get to see his mind processes flicking through the various options available to him.

I did that. When Granny said ‘fuck’ to me, I did that.

Here’s what I came up with.

I laughed at both of them. I laughed warmly and with some enthusiasm. I could feel them both looking at me in disbelief. He with all the brawn and Granny with all the outrage and the cute linguistics.

“You thought… you thought…,” I laughed some more. “You thought I was calling you a Fucking Asshole?”

They looked at me some more.

“That’s so funny. What on earth would I call you a ‘Fucking Asshole’ for? I mean, what did you do?”

They were clearly at a loss. In their little world, they hadn’t done anything.

“I was talking to myself,” I said, “I just remembered that I forgot to lock the office door and I called myself a ‘Fucking Asshole.’ I do it all the time.”

I shook my head in disbelief. “You thought…” Then I laughed a bit more. 

Then the man laughed and then Granny sort-of laughed. I was kind of hoping she swear again ‘cos that was kind of cool. “Man, you’re fucking crazy!” or something like that. But she didn’t.

I smiled some more and pointed at them with the gun-fingers of both hands.

“Fucking assholes!” I said, in a poor New York accent and with a big smile.

Then they drove away.

As they went, I gave them a warm wave, solely for the benefit of his rear view mirror. As I started once more on my way to my rendezvous, I reflected on the interaction that had just occurred. 

“Fucking Assholes,” I said.


Jules said...

Was this an Audi? Audi drivers seem to be quite touchy, in my experience. As I was walking to my train one morning, an Audi came towards me with the stereo pounding. This is in a residential area before 6am, so you can guess near enough what I muttered. Anyway, he stopped, leaned out of his window and asked me what I'd called him. I responded with, "What? Sorry, mate, I was miles away, muttering about my boss." He laughed and drove on. The second time, same situation, different Audi, bass thumping pre-6am, I made the mistake of gesturing. He stopped, and this time I couldn't be bothered to blag it, so I told him what I thought of him before I walked off. Daft but I got away with it. It's not complicated though - keep the noise down in residential areas before 6am.

Pam Nash said...

I’m laughing, a lot! ������
Fucking asshole ��

Jim Murdoch said...

So not only do you lie but you also use cuss words? Shame on you Kenneth, shame on you. Two things then: lying and swearing. I am lousy at the former and virtually never do the latter. I was brought up to not lie. It was a biggie growing up. Stealing was bad but lying was REALLY bad. I’m not sure what made it so bad but I just got used to not lying or staying shtum, lying by process of omission. That is still my favourite way to fib but half the time people can still tell there’s something going on under the hood. I don’t have a poker face not that I’ve ever played. Played bridge with Tom and his wife a few times but not really my thing. Rather play scabby queen to be honest. I know my wife appreciates my honesty. If I say I like a meal she KNOWS I liked it because she knows when I haven’t liked one.

I have encountered compulsive liars a few times. The worst was a boss who told the most ridiculous porkies: he maintained he was ex-SAS, a proof-reader for Penguin Books, had a tank of piranha fish that were so violent they’d crack the glass, was once blown off a cliff and then blown back on by a freak gust of wind and, despite driving a rust bucket had (apparently) an E-type Jaguar in pieces in his bedroom. I once picked up the extension and found him chatting up the speaking clock: I jest not.

As for swearing, well, my parents never. Not ever. Well, once my dad said “bloody” only he pronounced it “bluedy” and I laughed so hard I ended up getting spanked. (Ah, the good ol’ days.) Kids in the street swore but it never felt right. I have tried but it’s just not me. Sometimes I slip a few choice expressions into a poem if it seems appropriate but I’m not sure I’d ever read include them in a reading, not that I ever expect to do a poetry reading any time soon or in the far flung future.