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Story by Big M

I have no idea why I like this photo but Foodge does it everytime.

I have no idea why I like this photo but Foodge does it every time.

Foodge stood at the bar absentmindedly polishing a pint glass with a cloth sans dead flies. It was mid morning so O’Hoo wandered in for his usual morning tea of Trotters Ale, followed by Trotters Best, then a Granny’s Special IPA, Imodium, paracetamol and aspirin, that’s what IPA stands for, don’t it. “You’ve been making a right racquet in front of the pub.” Foodge observed, for observation was his forte, as a Very Private Dick.

O’Hoo wiped a foamy mustache away from his upper lip. “Big job, Mr Foodge, those old, cast iron down pipes leak like a busted arse when it rains, rusted to buggery.”

Foodge didn’t think that busted arse’s and buggery would go together that well. “So, you intend to put plastic ones in?” This sounded good in Foodge’s mind, like playing with Airfix model.

“Nah that would look like shit!” O’Hoo picked up another canoe (no, not a kayak, the place won’t run to kayaks, or litres for that matter). “I’m hitting them with some you-beaut rust converter, and then I’ll paint ‘em the same colour as the tiles. They used to have seals in each joint made of jute, or hemp, or some such thing, but I reckon we can afford some silicone!” says someone, sorry looking through the database I think this comes from O’Hoo, yes, no, maybe, yes, it is definitely O’Hoo.

Foodge was starting to get uncomfortable with all of the tradesman’s talk. “Yes, indeed, that will come up a treat.” The only silicone that Foodge had any experience was at Glenda’s House of Pain (and depilatory services).

“Foodge.”  O’Hoo leaned forward. “Have you had that chat with Granny, yet?”

“Did you have to bring that up?”  Foodge started polishing a glass with a great deal of nervous vigor. “I don’t know how to go about it. I’ve asked Mr Merv for advice, I asked Big M, and I even asked my accountant. They all said. Be yourself, just relax…’’

“Sounds like pretty fair advice, I mean, you have to snort things out, she’s obviously sweet on you! ” says someone, pretty damn good advice actually.

“Yes, I am Mr O’Hoo!” Granny had been in the doorway to the bar the whole time. And why wouldn’t she be sweet on him?

Mr Foodge, former Pleece Prosecutor, Private Dick, and handsome to boot, could have any girl in Inner Western Cyberia, but chooses to hang out here, in our humble pub. Granny turned hurriedly, wiping a tear on her sleeve as she descended the concrete steps to the cool and quiet of the cellar, tripping semi-fatally suffering a sub-epidural hemorrhage enabling the script writers to kill her off and never mention her again.

Foodge stepped through the doorway to catch up with her. ‘Ah, shit, mate, let her go, you’ll never understand sheilas.’ O’Hoo had slipped behind the bar to pull a fresh ale.

Foodge ignored O’Hoo’s sage advice, and caught up with Granny who was hunched over in the corner, the only sign of her crying was that periodic shuddering of her shoulders. ‘Granny.’

Granny turned away.

‘Er, um…Granny, what about if we, that is, just you and I take the Zephyr for a spin, and end up where we end up’

Granny turned to face Foodge. ‘Really, just us?’

‘Of course, O’Hoo can man the bar’

Foodge found himself in an embrace that was so tight; he thought he would never breath again.