If anybody checks
my profile, this is the third story I have posted regarding a different pub chef, as they are all fucking insane.

I'm not sure what was wrong with Diddly-Dee, but I suspect that it was due to him having had his brain removed, and functioning instead on a few inches of brain stem in the manner of a beheaded chicken. This story does not take root in his stupendous incompetence as a chef, or in him being a plankton-stupid, illiterate, nazi-sympathising closet homosexual with a penchant for luring homeless men back to our staff accommodation with bogus offers of work (not to mention a disturbing interest in 'beardless youths') or in the two weeks he spent over one christmas walking around the west end with a basket of increasingly rotten fruit attempting to offer it to policemen, in the mistaken belief that said policeman would then be obliged to take it to great ormand street hospital for him. (As opposed to walking for ten minutes there with the fruit himself, while it was fresh - when he found a copper, they told him where to stick his fruit)

No, it is in the fact that, to top it all off, he was a compulsive liar. Diddly-Dee claimed to be irish. Apparently, all of his brothers spoke only gaelic, only he spoke english, ablight with a distinct rustic, exceptionally english accent. Later, he mentioned that he went to school in cornwall. And that his family lived in cornwall. And that had never been to ireland. And so on, with his entire life, bullshit all. He had a long-suffering teenage daughter, who almost acted as his carer, forever interjecting into his tall tales with "no, you didn't, dad", and "no, you haven't, dad".

The most stupendous lies, at least as far as we were concerned, occurred following my boss' refusal to allow him retract his umpteenth drunken resignation, which he, as usual, posited around what he perceived to be an irreconcilable alienation from his colleagues, due to his clandestine adoration of hitler, his fucking of tramps and his lusting after disturbingly young 'men'. So he moved out, and we thought we would never see or hear from him again.

Within a few days, we started getting phone calls.

Diddly had always claimed to have run numerous pubs in his own right, something we didn't believe on account of the his having shit for brains, and because all his work anecdotes involved him washing dishes. Following his resignation, he appeared to have tried to convince pub management agencies of this fact too, as my boss, The Whelk, susequently began receiving phone calls asking if he would be willing to provide a reference for 'his manager' Diddly. It would appear that Diddly was telling all and sundry that he, not The Whelk, was the current manager of our establishment (as opposed his actual status as the former cook), while falsely claiming The Whelk to be his area manager.

Somehow, somewhere, it worked, and some poor sap gave him an interim contract to run a pub for them for a few months. Well, I say 'poor sap'.....

Having finally got his own pub, he stopped reciting that particular fabrication and the calls stopped. The months passed, and he slipped gently from our minds, appearing only as a spectre in drunken stories. However, a few weeks before Diddly's contract with his new employer was due to expire, the phone calls started again, asking if Diddly was there, and if they could speak to him, which he was not, and therefore they could not. And then followed letters, promising that "if he returned the cigarette machine, he would not face prosecution". Then debt collection agents followed, seeking the return of the said mechanised dispenser of fags.

It transpired that, towards the end of said management contract, he had disappeared, vanished, run off, taking with him nothing aside from the pub cigarette machine, not clothes, not possessions. One of his employees had arrived for work one morning and found the door open, swinging in the wind, the place deserted, like something from the mary celeste, or rather a mary celeste with a pale patch on the wall where a fag machine should be. We tried to imagine what had become of him - had he departed to live in a small dell, surrounded by lustful cherubim and living off the small change and bountiful tabs within his box of delights? An idyll, of sorts, nice thoughts, but no.

The truth was nothing of the kind, and was revealed in all its glory when two turkish men barged into The Whelk's pub, doused it in petrol and demanded an audience with Diddly. Or they would set it on fire. They had been looking for ol' Diddles, and had acquired his forwarding address. Which was our place. The lying bastard had had falsely given to all and sundry (including the fag machine people) our address as his own. He would be manager of, and live in, said establishment, he lied, as he slipped out of the door with nought but a cabinet full of cancer sticks and fifty pee coins, slinking awkwardly like a jangling, retarded fox into the north london night.

It transpired that the pub he had taken over was, in fact, a gambling den run under the auspices of a turkish crime syndicate, which was why they could find no-one aside from our cornish mutton-headed friend willing to run it. Having taken to the playing of card games against criminal gamblers whilst bereft of any knowledge of said game's rules, he had run up debts which significantly exceeded the monetary sum he could ever hope to earn in the remainder of his lifetime, resulting in IOUs secured against his internal organs, and he had fled to avoid the collection of dues in fingers and spleen. And passed all his shit onto us. The lying bastard. Fortunately, the turks never 'lit up', and left, convinced he was elsewhere, sincerity assured by the pissing of our collective pants.

Needless to say, we didn't see him for about a year, and then only from afar, as one of my colleagues saw him, in the distance, gesturing towards our building, appearing to reminisce of events that had probably never happened to a disturbingly young man around whose waist he had suggestively placed his arm.....
(cs1ca, Tue 29 Jan 2008, 1:05, 9 replies)

This story is pretty hard to follow
But it is quite funny that he got on the wrong side of the Turkish Mafia (I didn't know there was one!) and is apparently not dead.

Also, learn the difference between 'who's' and 'whose'. One of them means 'who is'.
(Stu Moo winner of five nobble piece prizes, Tue 29 Jan 2008, 2:21, closed)

He still
isn't dead. He was seen as recently as last month.

The grammatical error was actually edited out before I read your comment. As was the phrase "turkish mafia".

*checks profile*

Bloody student.
(cs1ca, Tue 29 Jan 2008, 2:42, closed)

well, I can't deny that I'm a student
And although I should have been doing this ridiculously difficult electrostatics work, I decided to correct grammar on b3ta.

Good use of time? I think so...
(Stu Moo winner of five nobble piece prizes, Tue 29 Jan 2008, 4:17, closed)

But surely,
is that not the way of the student? Procrastinating always worked for me in said situations.

I've been a student myself on three separate occasions, and therefore can barely comment.
(cs1ca, Tue 29 Jan 2008, 4:24, closed)

Stu Moo
You PEDANTIC tit (strike 2). You are not going the way of the B3tan, are you? Look, lurk, read, digest, look again, lurk a LONG time- and then, when you have completely inhumed the essence of B3ta, consider posting.
Much hugs.
( Duke Of Belmsford has got 99 records, but Jay-Z ain't one, Tue 29 Jan 2008, 7:52, closed)

Likes
*clicks*
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Tue 29 Jan 2008, 9:14, closed)

"jangling retarded fox"?
BRILLIANT!
( rachelswipe with a fork, Tue 29 Jan 2008, 10:55, closed)

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
Agreed. I had a brief flash of Vince from The Mighty Boosh when I read that.

*clickety click*
(Sir Harrington Titsmith disgraced himself on, Tue 29 Jan 2008, 11:59, closed)

Pedantic
sums me up in a word
(Stu Moo winner of five nobble piece prizes, Tue 29 Jan 2008, 14:02, closed)