17th May - The Most Stupid Lie I Ever Told

Put yourself in my shoes... September 2009, you've been chomping at the bit, waiting to start Uni, especially after a mediocre gap-year spent working in the local pub, saving money, and spending every waking free minute playing Football Manager and watching Skins. In an age where my Sixth Form years were surrounded by 'cool' indie kids in GAP hoodies, skinny jeans, and Converse/Vans, I tried to replicate their success heading into my first week of Uni. 

A trip to Argos & Primark in Reading saw me leave with a pair of ambitiously green plimsolls, some slim black jeans with a faded grey patch on the knees, a now infamous red and blue checked shirt, and a brown leather 'Dunlop' satchel. All topped off by the 'hooded' faux leather jacket with hemmed cuffs. If I was going to pull off my faked love of The Wombats, Pigeon Detectives, Kaiser Chiefs, and Arctic Monkeys, I'd need a USP to go alongside it. 

Enter, the guitar. Except, I never owned a guitar, never played one, had never even touched one. But that didn't stop me posting tactical brags on days off of how I'd 'written a new song', or planned to spend my upcoming weekend 'strumming one out'. Actually, that latter part was probably true. Believing myself to now be some sort of fanny-magnet Pete Doherty, it wasn't until I was placed in the heat of battle that I realised just how stupid this lie was. You claim to play a guitar, so you surround yourself by preppy trust-fund cunts who love to smoke an edgy roll-up and... You guessed it, play the guitar. 

There was always one cunt at every house party who took it too far. We've all had a nice time, the clubs have closed, we stink of Apple Sourz and misguided testosterone, and amble back to student halls, desperately clutching a carton of cheesey chips. At this point, the resident Lindsay Lohan-wannabe would usually pipe up with the suggestion of 'afters' in her ketchup-stained kitchen, and hoards of spotty teens would pile in to play their 6th game of 'Ring of Fire' of the evening, and take turns on the iPod dock. That is, until your stereotypical Cunty McCunt-Face type pulls the plug out and suggest we all listen to his 'ballads' instead, clutching his acoustic guitar which he's ambitiously gone to his own room, seven blocks away, just to fetch. ("Oh it's nothing, I basically just live across the hallway, yahhh, yahhh). 

At this point, my knees are weak and palms are sweaty. There's vomit on my sweater... Potato salad, probably. I make my excuses. "I don't play when I'm drunk" is my personal fave (since when did that stop Noel Gallagher?), or "Oh I think yours is tuned different to mine". In extreme cases of panic, I might pull out the "Ah my fingertips are too sore to play tonight, anyone got any vaseline?", or try desperate stunts to divert their attention away, like using Henry the Hoover as a live oral sex aid, or jumping off the nearby balcony onto the grass 10 feet below. All of this is going on whilst THAT guy, the guy who - in these situations - is always some kind of love rival for the girl you're crushing on - quizzes you like he's the hot-seat of fucking Mastermind, on who you saw at 'Reading Festival'. "Ahhh, I forget really," I mumble. "You forgot who you saw headlining Reading, like, 6 months ago. Dude, WTF?" he replies, his voice growing louder. "Yeahhhh...", I add. "Too pissed, probably. You know what I'm like. Maniac. George Best the second over here.. Right, anyone fancy a game of Twister?!". I look back, and facepalm so hard. Pulling off a false identity is one thing, but to tell a class full of Freshers I could play Guitar... 

... By far the most stupid lie I ever told.