Pizza Anybody?

There is a man I know, a strange little man. Drinks in the local pub, has a nasty skin infection on his forehead, and a very ugly "shit I thought she was a lesbian" wife. This man, whose name just happens to be Mateo, has one Italian parent. If it wasn't for his slightly continental name and overly apparent pride of his "Mafia roots" there would be no way you could guess. He drinks Boddingtons bitter, enjoys pork pies, and perhaps more importantly, speaks in a broad Yorkshire accent. Or so I thought.
I went to hire a DVD the other night, and on my short walk home from a particualrly unsuccesfull mission (for other reasons) I pass a newly opened pizzeria. Nothing massively unusual so far. As I approach this place I hear the cackle of a very passionate accent wafting its way from inside. I am sure it was an Italian accent as I remeber thinking how great it was that a real Italian peson was making pizzas for the more-often-than-not uncultured people of my village. As I pass the door however I was stunned to see scabby little Mateo vigorously barking orders in a very obvious, overly lively Italian accent. Hardly the 'stallion' I had envisioned on my approach.
Now there is the most obvious case of identity crisis I have seen in a while (about 6 months to be exact.) This sad little man is willing to pretend to be an authentic, born and bred Italian just for the sake of the slightly lacklustre job of preparing 2nd class frozen pizzas in a damp little village. I just wonder how long he will keep it up.
I guess its working though, I now have quite a fancy for a pizza. If only my wage at a 2nd class supermarket in a damp little village would provide for that. Perhaps I should work on my Itallian accent?