I used to work as a kitchen-porter
in the only Ipswich restaurant listed in the Good Food guide. It was not the most fulfilling job in the world, but it was made much better by my colleagues, who (for the most part) were a great laugh. In the three years I worked there, there were several "interesting" characters who passed through our doors, including among others Matt R, the trainee chef who'd turn up, burn everything and bugger off home; Ronnie, the world's slowest potwasher, nicknamed "Ronnie the Rocket", "Red Hot Ronnie", "Ronnie Sizewell B*" etc.; and Wilf, the (alcoholic) Mancunian potwasher who'd spend half of his shift talking shit in an entertaining sort of way (eg. "'Ey Sam-man! Guess how many thongs were sold last year!" / "No idea" / "Fookin' six milyin! Tha'ss a lot of thongs, man! It's like fookin' two milyin more'n last year!" etc.) and the other half putting on a fantastic turn of speed and getting everything done in record time.

But probably the character I remember most was Steve, a lad who was only a year or two younger than me (I was 18 at the time) but looked about 30 and was built like a brick shithouse. He was a nice lad, and he wasn't actually handicapped or anything, but he was a bit slow and had a mental age of about 10. If he was doing the evening shift, he often had to go home at 9pm because his mother wouldn't let him out any later, which was just brilliant when service finished and the entire restaurant's washing-up wound up in your sink. He had some kind of skin condition, and his hands started peeling and flaking when he put them in water for long periods; this was not hindered by gloves at all, and led him to the conclusion that he was "allergic to water". Riiight. He would also go up to the main-course section when it was in full flow and say to Stewie or whoever was there, "Ooh, that pasta looks nice!" in a pointed, enthusiastic kind of way. "Ahh, ahh, I'm feeling a bit faint - have you got any chips??" he'd say, and when a bowl of chips was sent down our way, he'd be all "Brilliant! How much do you want for them??"**

The finest moment of all, though, was at the end of the last shift I worked with him. He was getting his bike from the yard and asked me to hold his bag for a moment. I took it and almost got my arm wrenched out of its socket, as the bag seemed to weigh about 40 pounds more than I expected it to.

"Fucking hell Steve, what have you got in there - bricks??" I quizzed.
"Yeah, I have actually!" he said enthusiastically.
"..."
At this point he opened up the bag and revealed an irregular pile of masonry.
"They were knocking down a wall on the other side of my street, so I got some of the bits and put them in here!"
"Why???"
"So's I can strengthen my back a bit!"
"..."

Mad as a hatter.

* like Roni Size, but (like the Sizewell B powerplant) old, crap and didn't work very well.
** We often got given fresh odds and sods (including chips) by the more generous chefs, and were not obliged to pay for them.
( The Mock TurtIe ™ --- Thinks you are a cunt, on, Sat 22 Jul 2006, 14:12, Reply)