Roger Livesey  The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp (1943)

Battington-Smythe, Colonel, retired.

 Story by Big M

Foodge had been fairly uncomfortable in the wedding tackle department for a few days. He had tried to obtain some confidential advice from Merv, but there were either too many bar flies around, or Merv was caught up with trying to sell-on two hundred bottles of Fijian Sham-Pain, that he’d failed to shift on Cup day.

His usual confident, Uncle Emmjay, had won a motza on the Cup, so had treated himself and FM to a luxury holiday at Port Kembla Caravan Park in their brand new, two berth ‘van.

He was still cranky with O’Hoo, and was giving him the cold shoulder, so asking him for advice about the trouser flute was out of the question.

Granny? Well, no.

Manne? He was probably still a virgin, so, no.

Hedgie? Too caught up with Bowling activities.

Eventually Foodge decided to wander over to Rosie’s House of Depilation and Torture. Unfortunately Rosie was less than impressed with Foodge’s request, and declined to take a look at the offending member, instead referring Foodge to the twenty four hour medical centre that was only open until six in the evening.

Foodge had waited for twelve National Geographics and two Women’s Weekly Giant Crosswords when a neatly dressed, elderly man with a crew cut, and a clipped moustache summoned him into the treatment room. “Battington-Smythe, Colonel, retired.” He motioned for Foodge to take a seat. “Just having a recce at your notes, here, young chap. Previous heart problems, no military service. What brings you here?”

Foodge’s bloated cheeks went red. “It’s…ah…um…” He nodded towards his crutch.

“Oh, that sort of a problem, we’ll have a short arm parade then, lad!” The Colonel started to don some gloves. “Been playing away from home, I suppose some young filly is a lucky girl.”

Foodge sat staring blankly, wondering what the hell a ‘short arm parade’ could be.

“Come on lad, stand up, belt orff, trousers down!!” The Colonel seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time examining Foodge’s privates. “While you’re here we may as well check the prostate, bend over lad”

Foodge was unused to his poop chute having this level of intimacy with another man. “That’s a beautiful tattoo, Mr Foodge, does it have a partner?” The Colonel was removing his gloves and washing his hands.

“Yes, um, my mate O’Hoo has the mirror image”

(One may recall that both O’Hoo and Foodge have dragons tattooed across their cheeks)

“With this sort of problem, one normally does some blood tests, then starts some treatment, but I’m not one for all of that namby-pamby carry on” The Colonel injected a big dose of procaine penicillin into Foodge’s flabby butt cheek. “I mean, in war, one may as well go in with all guns blazing!”

The Colonel sat down to write in the notes. Foodge tried to sit, but the pain was extraordinary. “Here’s a prescription for some antibiotics. Take the full course for fourteen days, and, while we’re about it, no alcohol.” The Colonel leaned forward, sotto voce. “You should let aforementioned filly know about your current status.” The Colonel tapped the side of his nose with his finger.

Foodge was still none the wiser as to his ‘present status’, so thanked the doctor and headed next door to the chemist.

Later that evening, Foodge hobbled into the Gentleman’s Bar, and gingerly propped one cheek onto a stool. “Evening Foodge, looks like you’ve been in the wars.” Merv chimed.

“You don’t know the half of it!”