Robert McNeil: It's damn hard work being a liar – and that's the truth

Published on Monday 8 June 2009 20:14

THEY say only children and fools tell the truth, but if the "they" under advisement are neither children nor fools themselves, then presumably they are lying.

If you will excuse me a moment, I will just read that sentence back: "children", "fools", "neither", "are". Yes, it all makes sense, even if it requires a fleeting Gestalt moment to get it.

The point is this: truth and dishonesty are coming under the metaphorical microscope like never before. Prompted perhaps by our politicians, and a perception that they are dishonest – they are not, but they are born opportunists – books on how to spot liars are now flooding the market in ones and twos.

I should perhaps preface my remarks by stating an interest here: I am a liar. No, that is a lie. I am dedicated to the truth, though I do not believe it gets you far. I don't lie as much as the average person does, according to surveys, though I'd be willing to cultivate the practice, perhaps by evening class.

Some time ago, I decided to lie when invited to parties, but I was never good at it. So, for a time, I tried saying the truth instead: "I do not like parties. People behave unnaturally at them. I would rather stay at home with my collection of unusual and amusing toenails." People respected that honesty. But, ultimately, on balance I believe it better to lie, as not to like parties is widely thought weird, even though most people privately admit dreading them.

But there are lies and lies. Bluffing is a sort of lie. Curiously, any journalist will tell you it lies at the heart of our art, and our art is concerned with truth (political journalism excepted). But you needn't even say anything to bluff. I recall a day when, as a reporter, I was called over to the newsdesk. Famous pop persons were all the rage at the time though, in retelling the story, I still cannot recall the celebrity's name that was adduced. Let's just pick a middle-ranking one, such as Britney Spears, perhaps in the earlier part of career.

Newsdesk: "We want you to write an interesting article about Britney Spears."

Your hero: "Righty-oh."

Newsdesk: "Cover every angle of her latest breakdown. Get comments from academics, health experts: why does someone behave like this?"

YH: "Will do."

Newsdesk: "Try and write it sympathetically. Bring out the tragedy angle."

YH: "OK."

Newsdesk: "You don't know who Britney Spears is, do you?"

YH: "No."

The slight dishonesty here was in not admitting at the outset that I'd no idea who they were talking about. However, I figured I could ask someone later or look it up. Telling an outright lie, on the other hand, carries dangers. Once, I was asked by a colleague to go to a party that very evening, a Friday. Spontaneously and inexplicably, I concocted an elaborate story about having a massive family do, a McNeil reunion that I'd spent ages organising. I disbursed great details about uncles arriving from Australia and aunties from Canada. The excuse was accepted, amid generous understanding. On the Monday morning, I met the party-holder again and she said: "How did your family do go?" And I said: "What family do?"

Alas, I'd forgotten my porkie. Funnily enough, it's easier to memorise truth than lies. In one of several newsapaper articles yesterday about rumbling liars, a private detective said citizens looked up to the left when telling whoppers, and to the right when recalling something from memory. Aye, right.

Another expert said liars made eye contact for longer than usual, to give an appearance of honest directness. I've noticed this trait often in politicians, who pin you by the eyelobe like that snake in The Jungle Book. It's a shame you humans don't trust each other more, but understandable. I didn't get where I am today by trusting folk. I got here by telling the truth. Up to a point.

When failure means success

WHAT did I tell you? The truth: the banker who oversaw the collapse of HBOS has been made head of Jessie Boots, the high street chemist. I told you how, once you become part of this elite of boobies, you can do no wrong. In fact, the more wrong you are, the better the chances of advancement. It's how the top executive sector works. All failure is a sign of success.

It's about irresponsibility and unaccountability. Apropos of which, I heard Eddie Mair on Radio 4's PM programme ask justice secretary Jack straw seven or eight times if he was going to resign after the horrific murders of two French students. What the hell had it to do with him?

It's the same here, in Scotia, with escaped prisoners. They want Kenny MacAskill (SNP), right, to hand in his dinner-pail any time some ghastly lag absconds. They did the same when Cathy Jamieson (Lab) was justice secretary – and I argued against it then, too.

What do they expect them to say: "Oh no, a prisoner has escaped. Clearly I must resign. It's the honourable thing to do." No, it isn't. It's the daft thing to do. They're not guarding the guards.

We should treat our statesmen with greater respect. British politicians are admired around the world for their moral rectitude and financial creativity. At the time of writing, the people are picking on them, in a most appalling display of bullying. This is understandable, if evil. But the mood will pass and, soon, we'll return to more rational pursuits: like marching on the Stock Exchange with burning brands and calling for an end to capitalism! We can work out what to replace it with later.