Would I Lie To You?

When rendered creatively impotent, I occasionally endeavour to fill the chaste pages of my journals by recollecting tales of family folklore. Sharing with readers yarns which over the passage of time will have been embellished by various familial sources.

 Like clan members before me, I’m equally guilty of using artistic licence to augment fictional elements. Addendums which hopefully enrich an otherwise dour factual storyline. I guess, like the BBC TV show ‘Would I Lie To You’, it’s up to you, the tale’s recipient, to ascertain which segments of anecdote bear a shred of truth.

 What follows are anecdotes which contain an amalgam of fact and ‘made up’ stuff. I guess your job, if you stick with this flimflam, is to unravel which elements are figments of my imagination. Tread carefully, though, some of this stuff isn’t for the faint hearted, or those adverse to yarns of the absurd.

While in my fledgling years a great uncle randomly proffered the sage-like advice of “If you ever get lost just keep going left.” It wasn’t wisdom I sought, or indeed understood, but it taught me a) not all advice is good advice, and b) great uncle Jed was a misguided buffoon.

The only time I ever put my elderly forebear’s advocacy to the test was shortly after passing my driving test in the mid-1980’s; an occasion, when lost in the County Durham town of Chester-Le-Street. Sadly, yours truly’s decision to follow Uncle Jed’s ‘keep going left’ advice resulting in receipt of six points on my driving licence and a £40 fine. A punishment dished out after I spent three hours driving the wrong way around the same roundabout.

Understandably, my passenger, a mate played in the same football team, was seriously shaken by the event. Post-incident, the buddy developing a bizarre tick whereby upon witnessed a car headlamp coming towards him triggered a panic attack.

During these traumatic episodes his eyes spun around anti-clockwise direction and he misguidedly thought he was Head of the Welsh Tourist Board. It was disturbing to witness these attacks; however, on the plus side, during one incident he did find me a splendid offer on a weekend break in Rhyl.

Anyhow, this disability resulted in him being unable to drive after dark; or indeed fulfil his long-held ambition to visit the Car Headlight theme park in Birtley. A go to local attraction lauded by petrolheads and people who like bright lights shone into their retinas.

Despite being downhearted at this inability to drive after dark, this fella, who I will call George (as that’s his name), strove to utilise his long winter evenings productively. Embarking on niche hobbies such as developing innovative food aimed at changing the snacking landscape. Hor d’oeuvres such as infrared peanuts and fortune cookies with more accurate predictions.

Neither snack became commercially successful. Although, in his defence, his fortune cookies did foresee the future failure of the two enterprises: making him partly culpable in the fiasco. However, George was a stoic fellow and he pulled himself up by his bootstraps; this after inventing bootstraps which could to pull anyone under 15st in weight up.

Anyhow, let us return to the topic of great uncle Jed. A man for whom, during a recent genealogical dabble, I unearthed a wealth of anecdotes. For instance, legend dictates Jed’s nose was so big it was born 24 hours before the rest of his head. An unlikely tale, yet the comedic vision it paints raised a smile on my part.

His Jimmy Durante-like snozzle always a talking point at his local working man’s club. Upon entering the bar, when his head finally caught up the hooters tip, he was subjected to merciless conk quips.

Jed ordinarily laughed off the jibes as the playful teasing in which they were intended. Although, when clubland Health and Safety edicts tightened his visits diminished; especially  after committee members insisted he adorn a high-viz on his gigantic proboscis when on the premises.

Jed’s hooter becoming a thing of family folklore. Although enduring merciless ribbing for his gargantuan snout, its magnificent nostril girth saw my great uncle represent England’s Snuff Inhalation squad in the 1952 European Championships.

Sadly, the kudos of representing his country was somewhat dimmed when he sneezed in the final, resulting in disqualification for him and his teammates. The unsavoury incident meaning a referee’s dog, Archie, was unaccounted for several hours until startled event officials were able to dig the canine from a mountain of expelled snuff.

Yes, Jed certainly left a wealth of stories and anecdotes for later generations of his brood. It is unlikely that any of them are 100% true… Hold on a moment. as I’ve just made up all of the tales, not one of yarns bear a shred of truth… As you were!!

Would I lie to you?… Erm, it appears I’ve no qualms about out spouting the most shameful mendacity!