Everyone knows a Les. The bloke who strolls in late, chest puffed out, carrying a head full of stories he’s desperate for you to believe. In his own mind, he’s lived three lives already — rock star, soldier, lothario — but in reality, he’s the guy in the corner, reheating yesterday’s tea and boring you to tears.
Les had a knack for fiction. He couldn’t just say he went to the pub; no, it had to be a “private lock-in with the landlord,” where the jukebox broke down and he had to “DJ the night away.” He couldn’t admit he spent a weekend in Rhyl; it became a “life-changing” trip that ended in him “saving a stranger from drowning.” Every day another Jackanory episode, spun to disguise the fact that he had absolutely nothing going on.
You could see him practising his swagger in the reflective glass of the office doors, combing his hair with the same pride a bird takes in arranging twigs. He thought he was winning, thought he was on a high. But really, he was just splashing about in an empty pool — a pool that dried up years ago while he was still bragging about how deep it was.
Les liked to play the big man, the ego booster. But scratch the surface and what you got was something more pathetic: a man who hid behind fake laughter, throwing out stories like confetti because the silence scared him. He was looking for scapegoats, excuses, someone else to blame for the fact that his life was smaller than the tall tales he told.
At work, we learned to nod along, let him spin his yarns, and wait until he drifted off to bother someone else. There’s only so many times you can hear about “that time he nearly played Wembley” before the words start curdling in your ears.
Les didn’t need enemies. He’d already doused himself in petrol, lit the match, and was too busy admiring his reflection in the flames to notice.
