Graeme Whitfield
ABOUT once a week I think with great fondness of the 27 minutes when I convinced one of my colleagues that world champion triple jumper Jonathan Edwards was related to Little Mix singer Perrie Edwards.
“He’s her uncle,” I said.
“Is he? Really?”
“Yep.”
“Are you sure? They don’t look alike.”
“I think it’s by marriage but he’s deffo her uncle.”
It was so transparently a lie but my colleague spent 27 minutes believing it and it was honestly one of the high points of my professional life. (It’s a low bar, to be fair).
There is, of course, an argument to say that I shouldn’t be so proud of (a) telling lies and (b) making those lies so preposterous. I am a 52-yearold man of moderate professional standing and I probably should have grown out of such foolishness by now. But I’m not having it. Je ne regrette rien because I am great at telling silly fibs and my strong feeling is that it very much adds to the general merriment of the world.
For clarity – and the sake of what professional reputation I still have – I should point out that I very much restrict this tendency for falsehoods to certain parts of my life. I do it in the pub, and around the office, but not when I’m doing what I like to call “journalism”. I take that very seriously (honest); it’s just that, in my down time, I like to claim that 19th Century American humorist Mark Twain is a descendant of the Man-I-Feel-Like-a-Woman singer Shania Twain – and then see who believes me.
Fabricating fictitious relatives is a favourite trick of mine. Newcastle Council leader Nick Kemp is the younger brother of Spandau Ballet members Gary and Martin Kemp but failed the audition to be bongo player (he didn’t really). Education
Secretary Gillian Keegan is second cousin twice removed of Geordie hero Kevin and was a regular visitor to St James’ Park (of course she isn’t.) In the 1990s I spent a number of weeks claiming that the girl band Cleopatra were from Benwell (not even nearly true) and at least one person fell for it.
At times I search my conscience on this and wonder if my fondness for whoppers is a sign of great moral failing. It certainly is a cause for concern just how persuasive I can be in passing off falsehoods, as the ability to lie convincingly is a skill that is generally associated with politicians and psychopaths (neither of which is a career path I want to follow).
I figure that as long as I keep my nonsense harmless – I have been telling folk for years that ginger people never go grey and everyone just nods in agreement – I shouldn’t do too much damage. Just don’t trust anything I say when I’ve got a pint in my hands.