Foodge woke surrounded by tenebrous gloom. His initial impression was that he had been buried alive! Two facts argued against that; One, he was face down, and Two he could smell leather, sweat and a faint scent of lavender. The sound of a high-speed electric motor cut through the silence. He was now quite sure that he wasn’t underground, as he was pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to hear much underground. He tried to move, but the crick in his neck and pins and needles in his arms prevented any activity. He tried to call out, but his dry throat, and the fact that his face was pushed into the surface on which he lay, prevented more than a plaintive. “elp….ay…agh!” The stomp of heavy footsteps had Foodge’s highly trained musculature ready for action. He was suddenly blinded by sunlight as a heavy blanket was jerked back from his face. Foodge clenched his eyes shut, ready for whatever torture his abductor had prepared.

“What the f$*&.” Merv exclaimed, sweat running down his face (he had just returned from his morning gym session). “I thought that Fern and Emmjay took you home!” Merv was assisted by young Wes to slowly get the hapless detective up from the chesterfield, onto his feet and gently ambulate him out of the Ladies Lounge, and into the Main Bar.

“Someone must’ve slipped me a Mickey Finn.” Foodge surmised, based on his amnesia and throbbing headache.

“Mickey Finn!” Merv laughed.” How about eight bottles of our best Porphyry Pearl between you, Fern, Emmjay an’ Effemm?” A bowl of Granny’s wedges appeared on the bar next to a pint of Trotter’s Best. “Get these into yer guts, son, that’ll fix you up!”

Foodge was onto his third pint before he started to feel human. Merv went about his publican duties, which seemed to involve a lot of restocking, straightening of bar stools and disposing of broken glasses. It all started to come back to him. He had, in promise to his solicitor decided to sack Fern, but, lacking the guts to do so by himself, brought Emmjay and his First Mate to provide support over a couple of drinks.

The sacking had been a disaster. As sackings go, the only worst sacking in history was the sacking of Gough Whitlam. Fern had reacted badly to the news, and fled to the Ladies, knocking over two pints of Trotter’s Best and a bowl of wedges in the process. Foodge sat there dumbly hoping that Effemm would leap into the fray, or, rather the Ladies, and provide succour to the young woman. She didn’t move. Nor did Emmjay, except for an almost imperceptible sideways movement of his eyes, which Foodge took to mean that it was his responsibility to comfort Fern.

Foodge had never been to the Ladies, and was surprised to learn that it was a fairly spacious, clean and well appointed and maintained area. It wasn’t hard to work out which cubicle held young Fern, the sobs could be heard out in the bar.  Meanwhile, Emmjay and Effemm were laying bets as to how many minutes it would take Fern to wheedle her way back into Foodge’s employ.  Effemm won: seven minutes had elapsed before the pair returned and Foodge announced that, whilst it was true that Fern had been dismissed as secretary, she had been re-employed as Office Manager. He also announced that there was a new phase in Foodge’s operations, which would involve computers, mobile phones, digital cameras, and so on. Emmjay, who was a fairly canny fellow and couldn’t let the opportunity go by, offered his services as I.T. Consultant and Network Engineer (whatever those jobs entailed).

This, of course, meant that the ‘afternoon drinks/sacking’ had become a party to mark two new positions in Foodge’s company. Foodge called for ‘bubbly’ and Merv obliged with Porphyry Pearl. Foodge demanded food, and Granny cooked wedges, with sour cream and sweet chilli sauce. Foodge wanted music, and, unfortunately the jukebox was stuck on ‘A Summer Holiday’, which repeated over and over. I guess you can’t have ‘em all.

“Well”. Foodge thought out loud. “Here’s to the Pigs Arms and all those who imbibe in her. May her Best Bitter stay bitter, and her Pink Drinks stay sickly sweet!”

“What was that, Foodge.” Merv’s bulbous head popped up from behind the bar. “Wannanuther drink?”

“Nothing, Merv. Yes, why not?” Foodge grinned as he tipped his Fedora back from his forehead.