By Big M
Foodge and O’Hoo sat in the main bar trying to enjoy a couple of ‘Mugs of Chino’, as Merv liked to call a mug of tarry coffee with burnt, slightly frothy milk. They’d been hard at it since dawn, which, was around ten. It was now eleven. The Pigs Arms was abuzz with noise. Gez and the mysterious H were still helping Vivienne clean up the kitchen. Eschewing modern dishwashers (which didn’t work anyway) they’d fallen into a fascinating rhythm of washing, drying, stacking and sorting. O’Hoo, in the absence of his lover, was already onto his second, day-old sausage roll, smeared with sauce from the ever present sauce bottle. Merv refused to sell sauce in little plastic packs and continued to dodge fines from the Health Inspector by claiming that his sauce was for ‘personal use’, all twenty seven hundred litres of it.
The sound of Brkon and Dermot’s stertorous breathing resonated from the cellar. Last night they had started tasting the remnants of Trotter’s Ale, Bitter and Best to determine where the beers had gone wrong. They’d put in a sterling effort, generated copious tasting notes, and then slept it off.
The sound of footsteps on threadbare carpet broke through from above, not literally, of course, but this was quite on the cards. Last night, whilst sober, Brkon had called a mate in, Algy the mycologist, who had arrived early, and asked Granny to show him around. She was still enthusiastically showing him every aspect of the pub, highlighting nuances in her brewing technique. He’d taken bacterial and fungal swabs and plates from everywhere, which he labelled and placed into a backpack. Granny giggled like a young girl every time she was complimented on some little innovation of hers. She was quite a clever brewer!
Merv was dressed in his pink shorts and tank top. Rivulets of sweat trailed down his face and chest which he absent-mindedly wiped with a bar towel. He’d been for his ritual morning run to the boxing gym. This was ‘Merv time’, and he reckoned there was nothing like ‘punchin’ the livin’ shit outta sumpthin’ for relieving stress. He quickly gave the bar a wipe then focussed his attention on some new bottles of ouzo, which he placed on the shelves behind the bar, replacing the ‘Seven Seas Scotch’, which had been imported from Fiji at very little cost, back in 1949.
“What’s the ouzo in aid of?” O’Hoo thought himself rather clever in knowing the name of the imported liquor, then embarrassed himself by inhaling some pastry, which initiated a coughing fit.
“Greek stuff, for the Greek.” Mumbled Merv, with his back to the bar, showing off slightly more ars crack than was legal in these parts
“What Greek?” Foodge’s interest was piqued.
“The famous playwright, comin’ up from Melbourne to oversee one of his famous plays. ‘im and ‘is Missus will be stayin’ in the Bridal Suite.”
“But you don’t have a Bridal Suite.”
“He doesn’t know that”. Merv smiled to himself.
Granny and Algy appeared at the bar. “Lovely system you had here, Granny.” Granny blushed again. “It’s a great pity someone had to ruin it.” Said Algy, as he glared at Merv. “I’m sure the fungal swabs will confirm my suspicions” Merv had converted the attic into a play room for the twins by moving Granny’s lauter tun from the attic down to the basement, then lining the room with gyprock which he got from ‘some bloke’.
Merv poured another round of ‘chinos’ for the lads, and a double shot of ‘Seven Seas’ for Granny, who couldn’t drink beer, unless it was her own. They sat in silence until they were disturbed by the sound of a big Charlie, sans mufflers, followed by a loud bang from the front doors, followed by another bang, then the door swung open and the door frame was filled by an enormous shape. The shape took a couple of steps forward to reveal a young man, of enormous proportions. He looked a little bit like Merv, with shaven head, smaller eyes and ears, and a Pigs Arms T-shirt. A huge pair of leather saddlebags were slung over his shoulder, and a black, open-faced helmet was under his huge arm. “Uncle Merv, Granny, remember me!”
Granny rushed forward. “Little Wesley, your Mum rang to say you were coming. When do you start uni? Have you had breakfast? Sit yourself down. Here, I’ll get you a cappuccino. Have you met Foodge, O’Hoo and Algy? They’re helping with the brew.” Before he knew it Wesley was sat down at the bar with a coffee in hand. Granny had disappeared to cook up her trademark breakfast wedges, bacon and eggs.
“So, what are you doin’ at uni?” Foodge enquired, looking up from his coffee with a moustache of burnt milk.
I’m doing my nursing degree. Sick of working in the abattoir. The only other work at Tumbarumba is the new winery, put in an application to the uni, so, here I am, and that’s if Uncle Merv will put up with me?”
Merv looked concerned. “There’s always a bed here for me sister’s boy, that’s if we’ve still got a pub, eh, Algy?”
“You’ll still have a pub if you follow my recommendations. These swabs have only been taken to confirm my suspicions. The nascent beer that had been sitting in the lauter tun in the attic was being naturally inoculated with wild yeast that was resident in the attic timbers, in the same manner as a Belgian Lambic. Covering the timbers and removing the tun has prevented this. There is no commercial yeast that matches your naturally occurring yeast, so, what I’m about to do is isolate the yeasts, using culture media, as well as yeast genomic PCR, then generate a culture which Granny should be able to keep going for years to come. This may take some weeks but, all of Granny’s ales will be back.” Algy smiled at Merv, for the first time.
“’ow much will this all cost?” Merv still looked downcast.
“Thirty two swabs at eighty seven dollars each, plus two or three runs in the PCR machine at nine hundred and thirty a run…”
Merv’s face fell further.
… but, for Granny, I’ll do this for free.” Algy got up and left, eager to get into the lab.
Granny had re-appeared with a huge plate of wedges, eggs, bacon, and toast. She’d overheard Algy and Merv’s conversation. “This calls for a toast, let’s try some of that ouzo!”
Merv poured a round of ouzo in middy glasses (he had no idea about anything other than beer and scotch). “Here’s to Algy, and here’s to me favourite nephew, Wesley,”
“Yes, here’s to Algy, and here’s to Sister Wesley.” Foodge enthused as he downed the ouzo.
The room went quiet. O’Hoo looked at him, shaking his head ever so slightly. Granny put a restraining hand on Wesley’s chest. Wesley’s face was flushed, but he remained seated. “You’re quite the comedian, Mr Foodge, but, I hope you’re not implying that I’m some sort of purse carrying, Nancy boy, petticoat wearing, gay Mardi gras marching sheila, or you’ll find yourself coming off second best!”
Foodge went pale, clutched at his abdomen, steadied himself at the bar, then gasped out an apology. Wesley was already at his side. “You alright, mate?”
Foodge had tears streaming down his face. ”Ouzo’s meant to be sipped, not skulled. I’ll be alright when Trotter’s Best is back on tap.”
Merv shook his head, placed the bottle back on the highest shelf, where it would remain until its appointment with the visiting playwright.
atomou said:
Dearest Vivienne!
Whenever one of my ladies has a birthday, I’m reminded of Verdi delicious operas, Rigoletto, where the pompous ass the Duke sings his disparaging thoughts about his woman:
Women are flighty
Like feathers in the wind,
They change the tone of their voice
And of their thoughts!
Of course, it’s the pompous ass twit who is the one with the “mobile” brain.
But the music is wonderful, uplifting, a counter, an irony to his words.
You’re in the movie too, Vivienne, so check “yourself” out… though, I daresay, you’re far more gorgeous than “yourself” in this movie!
May the gods open the doors to their resplendent chambers and let you in.
May the Muses be generous to you.
May the Fates fill your days with boundless joy.
In other words,
Happy Birthday, Vivienne!
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Vivienne said:
Thank you, thank you atomou. I love music but I can’t sing to save myself.
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atomou said:
You’re very welcome, Vivienne.
Neither can I any more but when I was a kid, I used to sing in my grandfather’s -and everyone else’s- church. He taught me how to read Byzantine music and I would often be allowed to sing solo in the chorister’s box. I used to be told that “people from many surrounding villages” would come just to listen to my sweet voice lifting melodious prayers to the Almighty!
Then I grew up and lost my voice along with my god… though I did take up playing the air guitar in front my mirror, singing love songs I thought would reach the loftily throned heart of some child goddess or other!
O, Youth! Why hast thou forsaken me so abjectly?
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Sandshoe said:
There is no more noble a calling, Atomour, than being a teacher to compensate your self image in the chill hours of its final downfall…
🙂
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Emmjay said:
Heading for a Freudian slap from Mrs Ato, I reckon.
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Sandshoe said:
Was doin’ nothin’ yr honour, m’ finger slipped… ‘Atomour’ must read ‘Atomou’.
🙂
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H said:
Dear Viv, I sensed that you must be a fellow Sagittarian, another one of those lovely people 🙂 (mine is on the eleventh of December)
All the best for this one, and many more good years to come, is it too late to open up a bottle of French…never too late in my books!
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Sandshoe said:
I will be happy to tuck in here and wish Vivienne a Happy Birthday and agreeing with you, H. Yes, I have family having birthdays in these opening days of December and they, too, are simply lovely and interesting people. 🙂
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Vivienne said:
Never too late indeed but I’ll stick to the Aussie bubbly. Knew we were alike too.
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gerard oosterman said:
Happy Birthday Vivienne.
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Hung One On said:
“I’ll be alright when Trotter’s Best is back on tap.” Finally I agree with Merv.
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Sandshoe said:
I’m impressed that Foodge has got the capacity he has for uttering an apology. Mind, it seems there is an ambiguity whether he is apologising for having been untoward in his comment or in attention to the ouzo. This is a funny scene. The story so lilts to there and sets the amusing scene, but builds with tableau, characterisation and action from “The room went quiet”… delicious stuff. I could hear the rats getting ready to run the length of the bar looking for drops of sugar off Foodge’s tearing open sugar sachets and pouring them into his coffee. Does Foodge take sugar leastwise in his coffee? Merv? Merv? 🙂
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Big M said:
The threat of depressed fracture of the zygomatic arch at Wes’ soft, future, male nurse hands, plus a middy of ‘tongues of concrete’ ouzo…
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atomou said:
Bloody pubbies! They wouldn’t know a porcupine from a periwinkle!
12!
12 is for tongues made out of concrete! You can’t serve that to people who stay in your honeymoon suite! Far too uncouth! Far too barbaric! Far too indecorous! You might as well chomp on a Naga Jolokia chilli! Where’s the subtlety in that? 12 is the stuff you give to people you wanna murder!
If you really want civilised and debonnaire folk like Mr and Mrs Ato to come to the Pigs, then you must chuck that foul poison out -be careful where or you might be charged with manslaughtering negligence- and replace it with something more acceptable to sophisticates like us. Say, Loukatos, for example, or even Plomari, or Matis.
I was hoping to write my next play in your establishment and call it “Pig’s Trotters in My Soup,” or even “Vivienne, darling!” but how could I do that, stretched out on your threadbare, puke crusted carpet, dying of alcoholic breathlessness?
Would February do?
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Emmjay said:
That’s an intriguing name for your next play, ‘Mou – ” Would February Do ?”
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Big M said:
Sorry about your umbrage, Ato. I’m sure that when Merv’s budget for hard liquor (his words) exceeds $3.99 a bottle at the wholesalers (i.e. those two Fijian blokes with the white van) he’ll buy some decent ouzo, and scotch, and maybe some gin, for the ‘sheilas’.
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Algernon said:
I can remember a rather messy night with the Ouzo 12 when Mrs A and I lived somewhere else.
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Sandshoe said:
Nice to find somewhere new to live after that little blip, eh Algernon?
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Vivienne said:
I wish to confess that I do have a dishwashing machine. Its name is ‘hubby’. He took on the job when he retired. He gets one day off each month when he has lunch with the chaps – its my treat. Sometimes when his bung foot plays up I let him have a day’s sick leave. In return, on his waking up, I bring him a cup of tea in bed every day of the year.
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H said:
Viv, this place has a dishwasher, but it also has two big deep sinks and lovely outlook to the garden; I rather STAND there instead of BENDING down to a level of a mere machine…
Another funny one, Big M…I’m happy to be a helper in Granny’s kitchen, we are in good hands if Viv and Gez are doing the cooking 🙂
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Vivienne said:
Have similar outlook here – in fact every part of my house has a garden outlook. Actually Helvi it seems we are stuck with the cleaning up. Can cook on special occasions.
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atomou said:
Who’s doing the goat?
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Sandshoe said:
Who’s acting the goat?
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atomou said:
Stop kidding around, Sands!
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Hung One On said:
Spit roast please?
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Big M said:
Granny’s goat is with kid, so would be very unkind to place her on the spit roast during this very delicate chapter in her life. now, who’s the Father, anyway?
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Vivienne said:
It is my birthday today – had a big day in many ways. Am contemplating getting a teensy weeny bit shickered.
PS: who in their right mind instals a new computer on her birthday. I didn’t plan it but that is what happened. All my internet favourites are gone and I have to start again from scratch. Tomorrow…….
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Emmjay said:
The happiest birthday, Viv ! All the best to you and Mr V
Kind regards,
Emm
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Big M said:
Happy belated Birthday to Viv. Hope you get out of cooking for the day!
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Vivienne said:
I would’ve if I could’ve but it was my birthday and I wouldn’t’ve anyway. After atomou’s response to my suggestions re cooking a goat or a kid I think he should be chief goat cooker. Am hoping for some cheap crays to turn up at my fishmonger this arvo. I always have a cray for my birthday but not necessarily on the actual day. If no crays on offer I’ll be checking out the oysters. Fingers crossed!
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atomou said:
Thanks to the exposure of the Hong Kong-China tariff swindle, crays are becoming cheaper by the minute, Vivienne, so, I’m told, it’s getting closer to the time when we mere mortals can enjoy a crust’ian or two.
No crust’ian flesh has passed my lips for years! Well, a prawn or two perhaps… dipped in ouzo, of course!
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Vivienne said:
Crays not cheap – $65 a kilo – but my fishmonger is not known for his generosity. Bought a 500g cray (he buys them live and cooks them here, so it was very good) and oysters too. I’m recharged.
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Vivienne said:
Now that is what I call atmosphere. Feels so real. But just who is the cook at the Pigs Arms? I thought I’d got that gong but I’m pinged out by granny and her wedges. Wedges! for breakfast – it won’t do. Soft scrambled organic free range eggs, crisp bacon and homemade toasted bread with a garnish of freshly picked parsely.
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Big M said:
Sorry, Vivienne, you’re the guest chef. It’s still granny’s kitchen, and cellar, and attic, and, well, you get what I mean.
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Vivienne said:
Now that I know the fact of the matter I’m ok with it. Is the fine, recently renovated dining room actually open?
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Big M said:
Mmm.. not sure, I’ll check with Merv.
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Vivienne said:
I was thinking we could hire it out as a function venue if it is not in regular use. The Victorian Labor Party MPs might
be interesting in having their wake there next week. They could probably just fit in.
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Hung One On said:
Viv, you area chef. Granny is a cook. Big difference.
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Hung One On said:
We need our Trotters Big M 🙂
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Lehan Ramsay said:
It would have been kind of handy to have young Wes at the Tumbarumba Winery. The occasional bottle of wine wouldn’t go astray at the Pig’s Arms. (though it probably would have…)
Any other reason for this career change that Wesley’s not telling us about?
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