the bare-faced cheek.

Example one, of the Hairy fellas nefarious carry-on:

It started with a girl. No, that's not accurate, it started with a urinary tract infection.
Hairy was pissing blood, or bloody wee, for all the difference that makes. It was an ongoing issue over a couple of weeks, we were all kept up to date with the pinkening of the stream on a day to day basis, and I for one felt deeply indebted to Hairy for this touching and utterly needless window onto his inner-life. If the accompanying pantomime seemed extravagant (did I really need to watch a man act out the imagined actions of his own abused kidney?), well fuck it, what else would we listening to of a thursday evening drowning in Dutch Gold?
Hairy lived in digs at the time, I think, or maybe he was sharing a room with somebody, either way he couldn't bring a girl home for the dirty deed.

And there was a girl, more than that, a woman, a married woman. That was pretty exotic in our circles, the only married woman most of us knew were our mothers. I was living an early twenty-something life in Dublin, which consists of interacting almost entirely with other people in the exact same age group and social situation, which is great fun and very liberating, but comes with the cost of a total erosion of the ability to communicate with proper adults (people with responsibilities). Hairy never suffered from this social retardation, and as a result of his ability to talk frankly and openly to anybody at all he frequently made friends and picked up chicks from outside our socio-economic-whatever stratum.
This is not always a good thing, Hairy is the only man I have ever known to actually sleep with his friends mother, a woman that Hairy himself described as looking a lot like Bob Dylan.

So Hairy had a meeting set with this lady, and no place to entertain her.I was working that night, can't remember where, but I was coming home later for some boozing, Hairy only needed the room for a couple of hours anyway, so that was that, all panned out and militarty like. We had a few beers before I left for work, and I distinctly remember haveing one of my rare gemlike comic flashes: " ...And here listen Hairy, don't be leaving any strawberry milkshake on my bed ye durty fecker", laughs all round, hero exits.
Hero re-enters some 8 hours later, much drinking and ribaldry follows.

A couple of days later I met the Hairy Fella in his natural habitat, the Dodgy Few or maybe WheelieBins , and delighted with himself he launches into a story vaguely resembling the set-up I described here, only with a twist ending,.In this new ending I walk into the living room the next morning with a gooey glob of pink stuff hanging from my cheek unbeknownst to myself, and the Hairy fella says "ahar har Kfs, I left ya a wee strawberry milkshake on yer pillow last night." Laughs all round, Hero stands flabbergasted.

Its not the fabrication of filthy lies in pursuit of a good story that gets me, although I was there man, that didn't even happen a little bit you fucking nut.
No, its my line, he stole my fucking line and put it into his own poxy gob, the durty thief.