Review: LyingLike George Washington, I am crap at lying. Not for moral reasons, but for reasons of incompetence. Still, this enables me to lord it over my morally dubious friends, who merrily lie away unhindered by guilt or helpless shiftiness while I loll about on the green grass of the moral high ground, eating the ice cream of righteousness.
I used to be better at lying: between the ages of 13 and 17, I spent a lot of my time impersonating an 18-year-old. At the time, I thought this was a brilliant success, but looking back I wonder if the city’s bouncers and barmen were more impressed by our fake IDs (constructed using a photocopier, Tippex and someone’s older brother’s driving license, and resembling nothing so much as a Blue Peter-inspired arts and crafts project gone horribly awry) or our Baby Slapper outfits. Those were the days, when a miniskirt and blue mascara seemed to scream maturity.
On a related note, I saw Abi Titmuss in a bar on Saturday, dancing among Sharon Osbourne impersonators. “Abi,” I said, “I really admire your work.” No I didn’t. See: a lie! Or a joke. Is a joke a lie?
In any case, my teens were my lying glory days. Now I just can’t do it. I can’t act either. I told an acting student this the other day, and he said, “It’s really easy. Just pretend you want this glass of water.” “But I don’t want it,” I said, baffled.
Back in the day, I had a mercifully brief “friendship” with a young man with an unhealthy fondness for Samuel Beckett, The Smiths and women’s clothing. I once told him he had hurt my feelings (by being a mental, but I didn’t mention that part). “That’s basically a lie,” he said. At the time, I found this monstrous, but looking back it seems quite funny.
Lying: An important social skill, but just not one I happen to be very good at. 4 out of 10.