THE TRUE-LIFE TALE OF NICKY HUNT...

 

Me in Saint Andrew's Road in Southsea, Portsmouth, 1978

 

Reading about LEE JAMES TURNOCK's comic character, NICKY
HUNT, over on his blog (here) reminded me of a real-life inveterate
'fantasist' (by which I mean liar) who used to pal about with me from
1965 until he joined the Navy shortly after his dad died in 1977. We
remained friends until 1981, when I concluded that he obviously had
mental health issues and finally severed all ties with him.

 

I last saw him in Gosport near the end of May '81 when I was living
down in Southsea, and it was then I realised that he was no longer the
person I thought he was - if indeed he ever had been. This man simply
couldn't open his mouth without a monumental, unbelievable 'porky-pie'
popping out. For example, even before he joined the Navy he used to
wear an over-sized diver's watch, and when a friend (RONNIE ROSS,
now sadly deceased) asked him what it was, he replied that it was an
atomic power-pack for his bionic arm. (This was around 1976/'77,
when the SIX MILLION DOLLAR MAN was still onTV.)

 

If it had been an 'off-the-cuff' remark intended as a joke, that
would've been fine. However, in between starting and finishing the
sentence, he'd somehow managed to convince himself it was true and
fully expected to be believed. Another example (on a flying visit to our
house in December of 1980) came when my father asked him if he had
any kids yet. (He'd got married in Portsmouth Registry Office two years
before, and I had been best man.) "No," he said, "I caught an infection
from a toilet seat and they had to cut my tubes. They operated
through my back passage so as not to leave a scar."

To the best of my knowledge, those 'in-the-know' say that
infections can't be caught from toilet seats (at least, not the kind which
affect internal organs) so his claim couldn't be true. However, why the bit

about the back-door surgery? It's unlikely that anyone would ask to see
his scar so why say that if it wasn't the case? Then I realised - as a 'sailor'
he shared showers and quarters with others, so he'd need a 'cover-story'
to explain his obvious scar-free condition when he first came up with his
bizarre tale. Any normal person would simply have said that he didn't
want kids until he left the Navy, not produced a fantastic fable
that defied accepted medical facts. Not so 'BILLY LIAR'.

 

His lying was no recent development, but stretched all the way
back to childhood, as the following 1966/'67 account illustrates. One
morning in the school playground, myself, 'Billy Liar' and a fellow by the
name of ROBERT (or ROBIN) GOLDIE were standing in a line of pupils,
waiting for the bell to ring and to gain access to the building. Robert was
holding an ACTION MAN and opened the jacket to show us his dog-tag.
Action Man (or GI JOE to U.S. readers) had a rather 'stylised' musculature
with a bit of a gap between his pecs. My brother owned a TOMMY GUNN
action-figure with a more realistic physique, so I remarked upon how odd
Action Man's torso was by comparison. "That was his sister who did
that - she's got really sharp nails!", volunteered 'Billy', ignoring the
fact that Robert's sister would have to be SUPERGIRL to make
a dent in such hard plastic.

 

Regular readers may recall a previous post in which I mentioned a boy
who came into school one day with a tracing of RUMPELSTILTSKIN
(from a class reading book) on a piece of IZAL toilet paper, claiming that
he'd drawn it the night before. (Although when the paper was placed over
the book illustration and the fraud revealed, he then said that it was the
work of his sister.) Yes, you've guessed it - it was the same guy.
 

For almost as long as I'd known him he'd been plagued by cartilage
problems in one of his knees. This meant that not too long after joining
the Navy it was discovered that he wasn't fit for active duty. So he was
given a choice - either leave the Navy or take up a 'landlubber' position
at Haslar Hospital in Gosport. (He invented a tale which attributed
his long-term problem to getting his leg caught between two practice
mines while out on a training exercise.) According to him his new job
was that of 'medical assistant' (nurse), but in all likelihood he was a
hospital porter. Not for long 'though, as two or three years
later he was back in civvy-street.
 

In 1981 I had returned to Portsmouth - at his suggestion - only to
find that he steered clear of me and never came to visit - apart from
one time when I saw him on his moped coming from the direction of
my bed-sit while I was making my way back from the shops. I hailed him,
but he stopped only for a minute to say that he didn't have time to talk -
then he was off again. He was only about two minutes away from my place
and two minutes away from his base (by bike), so I wondered why he'd
gone out of his way if he'd no intention of stopping. When I got back,
my landlady revealed to me that he'd only been checking-up
to see if I had returned to Scotland yet.

Me in my room in Boulton Road, Southsea, Portsmouth,
1981. Yes, I know - it looks like a Crimewatch photo

Obviously he was worried that the longer I was around, the
greater the chance I'd eventually meet some of his newer friends
and perhaps inadvertently blow the gaff about some of the 'tall tales'
he'd spun. After all, this was a guy who, with crash helmet tucked
under his arm, used to visit bars that bikers hung out in - even
before he had a motorbike. (No joking.)  

 

Months later, when I finally returned home, my father told me that
while I was in Portsmouth, 'Billy' had 'phoned one night with a curious
request. "Mr Robson, I was in a bar the other night having a drink, and
 I told a bloke I was talking to that I'm a Lieutenant Colonel in the Royal
Navy." (This was when he was a porter in Gosport's Haslar Hospital.) "He
didn't believe me, so I gave him your number and told him to 'phone you
and you'd confirm it. If he 'phones, could you back me up?" Naturally, my
father told him not to be so daft. "Go on - a favour for a favour," pleaded
the deluded 'Billy'. My father enquired what he meant. "I visited Gordon
the other day and it cost me money for petrol for my bike," quoth Mr
Mental, referring to his lightning-quick dash to check if I was still
around. When I heard this, I gave my parents strict instructions
that, if 'Billy' ever 'phoned, I was out - even if I was in.

About six or seven years later, the 'phone (then in the hall) rang
and the answer-machine clicked on. As I stood at the top of the stairs to
hear who it was, an unfamiliar voice wafted from the speaker - a Detective
Inspector someone (couldn't make out the name) wanting to speak to me.
I went downstairs and picked up the 'phone - "Hello?" I said. "What's the
matter, don't you recognise an old friend?" The voice had changed, being
that strange hybrid accent that many 'Jocks' acquire from spending years
down south, so at first I didn't recognise it. Then the penny dropped and I
hung up without replying. The 'phone rang again and I heard his voice
from the speaker say: "I'll use my warrant card if that's what it takes to
talk to you!" Poor, deluded pillock. He was never in the police - I
checked, even 'though it was a racing cert that he wasn't.

It seems that Leopards can't change their spots. Egged on by a
friend who had also known 'Billy' we both looked at his Facebook page
about a year ago. According to him he's a Falklands war veteran who was
fast-tracked through the ranks of the Royal Navy, is thinking of taking a
course in astro-physics (or something equally far-fetched), was taught to
cook by both GORDON RAMSAY and JAMIE OLIVER, has hacked into
NASA satellites to take photographs of outer space (with a clearly-cribbed
pic from the internet), had a successful career as a world-class photographer
(although his webpage is conspicuously absent of any evidence which would
indicate it), and is a personal buddy of BILLY CONNOLLY and folk-singer
RALPH McTELL, who he claims to have known since the age of twelve.
Oh, and he learned to scuba-dive at the age of nine. (Which was all
news to me - and I'd known him from when he was six.)

Altogether now - "JACKANORY, JACKANORY, JACKANORY".
Needless to say, we both fell about laughing at this catalogue of absurdity.
Unfortunately, 'though, there is a sad side to his inabilty to grasp reality,
and let me wind up this overlong reminiscence by revealing what it is.

As I previously said, I was best man at this fantasy merchant's wedding
in 1978, but I had gone down to Portsmouth a few days in advance of the
'big day'. The morning before he was due to be married, while he was out
somewhere, his fiancee broke down in tears and confessed to me that she
was having severe doubts about marrying 'Billy'. Her brother and friends
considered him a complete weirdo and had expressed concerns over his
alarming propensity to tell the most outrageous lies at the drop of a hat.
What was I to do? I should've told her that I didn't think he was mature
enough to get married and had been telling porkies for as long as I
had known him so was therefore unlikely to change.

However, I was faced with a dilemma. If she called off the wedding
as a result of anything I said, I would then be the bad guy. I knew that he
would continue to pursue her and woo her after I had gone home, and no
doubt persuade her (against her better judgement) into marrying him, and
that I would then be excluded from the celebrations and doubtless be a pal
short as a result. So I chickened out, telling her that I would have a very
serious talk with him and explain that all his lying had to stop; that he was
about to embark on a magnificent new chapter in his life which he should
take extremely seriously and stop embarrassing both himself and his wife
with his absurd fabrications and fantasies. So I did - at great length and
in excruciating detail (as is my wont). At the end of my sonorous
oration he assured me that he was 'indeed an altered Toad'.

He was lying of course.

On the day of the wedding, when the registrar asked her if she took
this man as her lawful wedded husband, there was a long, long pause.
Then, with tears streaming down her face, she hesitantly said "I do" and
thereby made one of the worst decisions of her life. A decision that I could
probably have prevented - and to this day am filled with regret that I didn't
at least try to. The marriage lasted a couple of years or so and the poor
woman went through hell. I hope she's happy now and, should she ever
get to read this, can forgive me for my inaction. I last saw her around
August or September 1980 when they were both up on a brief visit.

So there you have it. Now take a look at Nicky Hunt over on Lee's blog.
(Link at the top of the page.) Believe me, Nicky's nowhere near as bad as
  the guy I've just been telling you about. He's certainly funnier 'though.