Trust Me

The great lies of the twenty-first century are: trust me – the cheque's in the mail – and, I'll still respect you in the morning.

American author Robert Heinlein once wrote that there are three ways to tell lies. The first is to look the other person right in the eye and lie through your teeth. It is the technique of novices.

More advanced, said Heinlein, is the method of the politician. You mix the lie with a good measure of truth so that it is difficult to separate the two.

But the method of the master is this: you tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but truth—but you tell it so unconvincingly that nobody will believe you.

Without wanting to argue with Heinlein I must say the best liar I know uses the first method, and he's good.

My long-time friend, Scotty, said he'd been fishing in Tasmania when he hooked an enormous fish on a light line. After playing it for ages he landed the thing, only to be overcome by a wave of respect for its courage. So he set it free.

He doesn't know what species it was. He didn't get a photograph. Nobody else saw it. Just Scotty.

And how big was it? That's what made it such a good yarn. He didn't hold his hands apart, he paced it out on my carpet.

When I howled with laughter he looked hurt and insisted he was telling the truth.

He's enjoying his retirement now but I understand he was approached by a prominent politician to massage the facts about a failed shopping centre at Orange Grove.

Does he have a new career in the offing? Maybe, but telling whoppers in Macquarie Street would be like taking coal to Newcastle.