Ok, brief recap …
wordsx3, a former friend of mine, despite the fact that he thinks I’m a liar creative with truth, gave me a meme prestigious blog award, which left me obliged to cunningly hide a rather mundane truth amongst six ludicrous lies and then invite anybody stumbling across this nonsense to guess which was which etc.
Still with me? Well done.
Here’s what you had to ponder and choose from:
1. I once featured in an advert for a well-known brand of toilet tissue when I was three.
2. I am part Aleutian (No, look it up, what you’re thinking is ‘Alsatian’)
3. I once rode on an elephant as part of a carnival but had to get off when I started to get seasick
4. My maternal family can be traced back to the time of the Norman conquest
5. A medium once told me that I am a reincarnation of Cecil Beaton (look him up too, yes HIM, stop laughing)
6. I was once savaged by a Great Dane (the dog kind, not somebody from Denmark) in a most unScooby-Doo like manner, whilst walking on the beach with some friends
7. I have had a book dedicated to me
I’m not sure whether to be flattered or concerned that several people thought #1 was the truth. I can assure you though that I have never been in an advert for toilet tissue or any other product. I just said that because it was poo-related.
#2 came about because wordsx3 said he didn’t think people would believe that I used to be black. I still think it was a credible option, but wordsx3 said having Aleutian heritage could really get people guessing. However, not a single person was fooled. Shows how much wordsx3 knows!
#3 is a complete fabrication. I have never even been to a carnival, let alone mounted an elephant as part of one. I did once go to the circus when I was 4, but my Mother made me wear a very dodgy pair of green trousers and a donkey thought my legs were particularly succulent, well-grown blades of grass and tried to eat me. Don’t even get me started on the clowns.
#4 would be rather cool if it was true. But it’s not. As far as I know I don’t even have any ancestors called Norman. My family on my father’s side can be traced back to some bloke (i.e. my paternal grandfather) in a Welsh town with a ridiculous amount of letters in it’s name, requiring three buckets of phlegm to pronounce it. My maternal family are somewhat more exotic in as much that they can be traced back (via my Auntie Pam’s memory) to at least the late 1800’s, a North London tribe known by the exceedingly uninventive name of ‘Smith’.
If I could have just one wish it would be that #5 was actually true. I’m sorry, somebody else will have to wish for world peace, maybe the next Miss World. I’m still laughing at myself for coming up with that one … and yes, that is very poor form.
#6 is true. I told you my life was dull.
I was 15, on the beach with a couple of friends having a nice, leisurely evening stroll when this bloody Great Dane came bounding up, full of frisk, tongue lolling happily, clearly sensing he had found a playmate in the dopey tart who greeted him with friendly enthusiasm and an invitation to “Go fetch!”. Unfortunately, for me, something must have been lost in translation, maybe he really was from Denmark, because he blatantly ignored the stick I had thrown for him and instead decided I was an intriguing mix of lamb chop and a really big chew toy, clamped jaws that suddenly didn’t seem quite so chummy around my arm and proceeded to shake me like a Polaroid picture. At first I just laughed, thinking it was all a bit of fun, he just wanted to play. But then I noticed that what I had at first taken to be a bit of a goofy grin that only dogs and Tony Blair are capable of, was in fact more of an aggressive snarl. Also that my friends were looking most uneasy as they started to back away. I chuckled nervously and suggested that he might like to let go and then we could have a really super game of fetch.
It’s very hard not to panic when a dog, so large you could enter him for the Grand National, is sinking his teeth into your arm. He made it obvious that he wasn’t in the mood for ‘fetch’ or bargaining of any kind. So I got tough, remembering all I had learnt from Mary Woodhouse, Mary Poppins and my grandmother I adopted a no-nonsense tone and commanded him to let go. But I don’t think he can have been suitably impressed because, far from releasing me, he just growled louder and shook me harder.
I knew then that there was only one thing I could do. I screamed. Like the girl I am.
“GET THIS FUCKING BEAST OFF ME!”
However, my cowardly friends made it clear that they would sooner wrestle in a tag-team match against Godzilla and King Kong than come anywhere near me and my new buddy Cujo.
“Just tell him to ‘sit’” was the advice of one of them, repeated in an increasingly astounded and panicky tone that irritated me to the point of wishing I could actually set the dog on her.
“Shall I go and get some chips or something?” was the only offering from the other. She later explained that she’d had thoughts of maybe luring the Hound of the Baskervilles away with the promise of a saveloy and a pickled egg and wasn’t just being heartlessly single-minded as I’d first suspected.
Thankfully, an intimate fish supper for four, with me as a starter, was not necessary as the dog’s owner finally showed up and called him off. Thoroughly shaken, in every way possible, I looked down at my arm to assess the damage. It was summer and the beach in question was in England, so of course I was wearing a long sleeved top and luckily this had taken the brunt of the damage.
Seeing the dog was safely back on his leash, my two friends suddenly found their long-lost courage and launched a scathing verbal attack on the dog’s owner, demanding to know why ‘Old Yella’ was allowed to run around at will, free to molest hapless young ladies who meant well, even if they did have a fatal tendency to think themselves North London’s answer to Dr. Doolittle.
The owner apologised and explained “It’s just a phase Benji is going through”
“BENJI? A PHASE? ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?” said one of my friends incredulously, in a tone so high pitched only Benji could hear her. I think it’s fair to say that she screeched for all of us though.
The end of the story is that the owner gave me twenty quid, supposedly as a generous gesture to enable me to replace the pesky top that Benji got caught on his fangs, but in reality as an incentive for me to keep my mouth shut. And I did, not because I’m that easily bought (honest) but because I love animals and was genuinely worried they would be forced to destroy the dog if I made an issue out of it. Several people have told me, having heard the story, that it was irresponsible of me not to have reported the incident, that it could have been a small child and the damage could have been worse etc, and I don’t dispute that. But it wasn’t a small child and the damage was minimal. I was rattled but never truly scared for my wellbeing, Benji was just a young dog with lots of energy and a tosser for an owner. It was my decision to make and I made it. So no lectures, please.
As for #7, I would love to say that it’s true but it’s a big, fat, fib. I just said it in the hope that it might inspire one of you talented bastards to pull your finger out and finally write that book you know you’ve always wanted to write, and then you can dedicate it to me by way of showing your everlasting admiration and gratitude.
So there you have it.
Congratulations to Darren’s dog, no doubt a ‘Benji’ in the making, and Mr. Condescending for guessing correctly. And thanks to everybody else who took a guess, especially as you thought my life is more glamorous and exciting than it actually is.
I’m off to bed. G’nite x
Ps: The most amusing part of writing this post was in trying to come up with a title. Amongst the many discarded gems were: “There’s a veritable conflagration in my pants” and “Could my pants BE any more fiery?” … but then I realised that it just sounded like an advert for thrush cream or an unfortunate venereal disease.
