By Big M

Foodge sat alone in the Nathan Rees memorial Cinema, located in the second floor of the Pigs Arms. He was dressed in his usual, or, rather, unusual clobber, grey stripped three button suit, crisp, white, bespoke business shirt with French cuffs, held together with silver cuff links bearing his family crest; a goose passant, rampant on a blue lake with daffodil embellishments, College of Laws tie, in a Windsor knot, light grey braces, black brogues by Loake of London, all topped by a black Fedora which sat on the table, brim side up so as to not alter the shape of the brim. He was waiting for young Wes to report on the goings on at the Cronulla Sharks surf gang, which, Foodge hoped, he’d infiltrated without pissing oodles of Foodge’s client’s hard earned cash against the proverbial masonry.

Foodge liked the cinema. It was cool and dark, which allowed one to sit and meditate over a refreshing beverage, and it was rarely used, unless Merv had managed to scrape up a ‘fillum’ that fitted into the ancient projector which hid behind the back wall, Its lens was always just visible to those inquisitive enough to be looking at the back wall. There was little risk of being disturbed on a Wednesday. No Bowling Ladies around (they always played an ‘away game’ on Wednesdays, in fact, they always played an away game, as they had no green of their own). The Hell’s Angles, those motorcycling geometricians, held a meeting twice a month to discuss such arcane subjects as; slide rule maintenance, Poiseuille’s law and it’s relationship to boundaries between laminar and turbulent flow, and so on.  Foodge could hear Merv’s monotonous voice from the Main Bar droning on about liquor licences, tax and ‘owsa man supposta make a livin’ sellin’ beer’?

The sound of the side door opening made Foodge look up. “Wes, good to see you…” Wes wasn’t there. In his place stood someone who looked vaguely familiar. It was Warwick, or Warren or… Waz, that’s right, thought Foodge, this is the bloke that helped me with the photos in the MP case. “Gooday Waz, how’s it hangin’?” Foodge occasionally tried to add a tradesmen like quality to his banter.

“Sorry mate, I’m looking for Merv.” The chap had a couple of those expensive laptop bags, which he struggled to carry. “He’s got trouble with his jukebox, and I’ve got some upgrades which may sort it.”

Foodge wondered how this master of digital imagery could sort out a jukebox. “ Merv’s downstairs, whinging, as usual.” Foodge thought this to be rather witty. “That jolly jukebox has been stuck on Cliff Richard’s ‘Summer Holiday’ for weeks, which I don’t mind, but, I funded a small party last week. “ Foodge blushed at the memory, although, he’d been so inebriated that the memories were reconstructions from Emmjay, Merv and Fern. “Couldn’t dance, no Cha Cha music!”  He liked to think of himself as a South American lady-killer.

Editors clarification: not actually a killer of South American ladies.

Waz couldn’t help but notice that Foodge had been sitting in the dark with his iPhone and beer. “What are you up to, sitting here all by yourself?” Waz had cocked one eyebrow, but didn’t look like he was going to fire it.

The facial expression was completely lost on Foodge, who was basically an ingénue. “Err…ah… meditating.”

“OK mate, I’ll let you keep on ‘meditating’. Waz started to back out of the doorway, hoping that Merv might happen along and save him from this deviant. “See you mate!!” Waz turned and ran.

Foodge was none the wiser, as he pressed the red button under his armrest, which signalled Merv to return with, yet another, pint of Trotter’s Best! Foodge looked up, once again, to the sound of the door. “Thanks for ‘trotting up’, Merv.” Foodge thought this particularly witty, and was recording it on his new iPhone. He looked up to see that it wasn’t Merv, but young Wes, wearing a ‘Male Nurse’s United’ T-shirt, tracksuit pants and slippers. “Oh…err…young Wes, what the hell are you doing in your pyjamas?”

“I worked at the nursing home last night, which is, in fact, my real job, and just woke up!” Wes settled his considerable frame into the seat next to Foodge. “Have you just rung for service?”

“Yes, I have.” Foodge thought it rather luxuriant being able to ‘ring for service.’

“I’ll run down and get it.” Wes disappeared then emerged through the door about five minutes later with a Trotter’s Ale and a long black. “OK, Foodge, why the urgent meeting?” As he placed the pint on a coaster so that it wouldn’t damage Foodge’s hat.

“Feedback, lad, how’s the case going?” Foodge had his iPhone out ready to jot down points of interest. Foodge, just quietly, was becoming a pain in the arse with that bloody iPhone!

“There’s little to feed back.” Wes sipped on his coffee, frowning slightly, as he’d forgotten to put a dash of cold water in the cup. “They’re all good blokes, hard workin’, respectful of women…you know?”

“I had them pegged as a pack of hooligans, ne’er do wells and dole bludgers.” Foodge seemed to hold fairly strong opinions on surfers. “What about the girl?”

“Imogen? She’s a lovely young lady.” Wes seemed a bit defensive.

“Young lady, she’s a teenager, and we’ve been hired to look after her.”

“No, Foodge, she’s twenty two years old, not a teenager, and, no, doesn’t need looking after. “ Wes wearily replied, as the sound of a bass guitar and drums cut through the stale air. “Ah, the party’s started.”

“What party, no-one told me?” Foodge was indignant.

“The Friday night Pigs Arms party, you know? Warrigal loads up the jukebox with new toons, and we, well, rock on.

The pair made their way down to the main bar where Angles, Lambrettists, and Bowling Ladies were already dancing. Emmjay and First Mate, who couldn’t help themselves, were dressed in evening wear that Emmjay had ‘borrowed’ from the ABC wardrobe – not worn since Jim Dibble retired – and probably not missed either, O’Hoo and Vinh had a romantic table in the corner, whilst Gerard and the mysterious H were, unsuccessfully trying to teach the dancers the samba. Atomou was in a corner lounge trying to convince Lehan, ‘Shoe, Asty and Algy the health benefits of ouzo. Even Janet had brought the twins downstairs to expose them to, what she regarded as, classical music. Julian was upstairs packing for his ‘Isle if Wight trip’.

Merv pushed a pint towards Waz, who sat at the bar, taking it all in. “On the ‘ouse, mate, you don’t know what your Fridee night music mixes mean to us at the Pigs.”