I'm not Danny West.

 

I don’t understand it. I really don’t. I’ve told the same story a hundred times, polished every detail until it shines like a polished turd, and still they look at me with those sceptical eyes. That slight tilt of the head, the raised eyebrow, the way their mouths tighten just a fraction. It’s infuriating. Why won’t they just believe me?

It was supposed to be simple. A small adjustment to reality, really. Danny West to work on an oil rig for six months. Danny was driving a lorry to Poland. It's not nothing to do with me. Pick your version—I have several, each one airtight. I rehearsed them in the mirror, timed my pauses for maximum sincerity, layered in just enough emotion to make my voice crack at the right moment. I even cried once. Real tears. Do you know how hard that is? And for what? For them to nod politely and then whisper behind my back anyway.

I repeat it, of course. Consistency is key, they say. So I say it again. And again. Slower this time, with more conviction, as if volume and repetition will hammer it into their thick skulls. “I told you already,” I explained, my voice patient and wounded. “I’m not Danny West?” That line usually works on television. On them? It lands like a wet rag. They shift uncomfortably, change the subject, or—worst of all—give me that pitying look. The one that says they know.

So I escalate. Gaslighting is an art form, and I’m a dedicated practitioner. “You’re remembering it wrong,” I tell them gently. “I’m not Danny West. I’m John Williams. Believe me. People mix things up all the time.” I plant little seeds of doubt in their own memories. I remind them of times they were wrong about something trivial. See? Everyone’s unreliable sometimes. Why not you, right now, about this?

When that doesn’t stick, I manipulate. I bring in allies—people who owe me favours, or useful idiots like Babs. I weave them into the narrative: “Even babs agrees with me. Right, Babs?” Babs nods because she’s a dedicated commentator on my YouTube videos. I create evidence where none exists: messages to myself, timestamps that line up perfectly because I spent three hours adjusting them. I go the extra mile. I lose sleep crafting the perfect alibi. I rehearse conversations in my head until I can predict their objections and counter them before they even speak.

And still—nothing.

It’s exhausting. Do they have any idea how much work goes into maintaining a really good lie? The constant mental gymnastics, the vigilance against contradictions, the emotional labour of pretending to be offended by their doubt. I’m not just lying; I’m performing truth. I’m building an entire alternate universe and inviting them in, and they stand at the doorway squinting like they smell smoke.

The frustration builds in my chest like a scream I can’t release. Why is the truth so seductive to them? It’s messy and inconvenient and often unflattering. My version is cleaner. Nicer. It protects feelings—mostly mine, but theirs too, if they’d just accept it. Yet they cling to their scraps of “evidence” and “logic” like drowning men with driftwood. I see the calculations behind their eyes: the cross-referencing of dates, the remembering of offhand comments I made months ago. They’re trying to catch me. Me! After everything I’ve done for them.

I’ve gone bigger. I’ve doubled down in front of groups. I’ve cried harder. I’ve accused them of lying, of conspiring, of being paranoid narcissists. “You always do this,” I say, voice trembling with righteous anger. “You never trust me.” And for a glorious second, sometimes they look guilty. But it fades. The doubt remains, stubborn as rust.

There’s a special kind of loneliness in being disbelieved. You stand there, offering a beautiful, well-constructed fiction on a silver platter, and they choose the ugly, jagged facts instead. It makes me question everything. Am I losing my touch? Are people getting smarter? Or is the world simply too cynical now to accept a well-meaning adjustment to reality?

I’ll keep trying, though. I have to. Because admitting the truth would be worse than their disbelief. It would mean I was wrong. It would mean they were right. And that… that I cannot accept.

So I’ll smile. I’ll repeat the lie once more. I’ll gaslight a little softer this time, manipulate a little gentler. Maybe tomorrow they’ll finally believe me.

They have to.

Don’t they?

After all, I’m John Williams.