I use Granny in my kitchen, wipe on, wipe off

Granny Reminisces

Story by Big M.

Granny was a tad busy, what with Merv having gone off into town to look for ink for his antique dot matrix printer. He had asked all of the patrons about it, and they were split between getting a new inkjet versus a new LASER printer. They were united in thinking that the dot matrix was done.

Anyhoo, Granny was busy washing and cutting up rough looking, dirty Robertson potatoes, frying eggs, and making her own brand of salsa, as well as listening out for the bar. At least the Bowling Ladies were pretty self sufficient, and, if they weren’t, Hedgie has dropped in to fill the urn, make tea, and pour glasses (many glasses!) of Sherry.

Manne was nowhere to be seen, as usual. He was supposed to be the acting cellarman, but was frequently anywhere but in the cellar. He had developed quite a

Manne, ewe in dare

penchant for watching Redtube on his iPhone, a habit that was decidedly antisocial!

Janet had dropped the twins at preschool, then gone on the Hearing Clinic to get her hearing aids tuned up, which may explain all of the shouting for the last couple of days.

It was far too early for Foodge, Barrister at Large, to be anywhere outside Granny’s boudoir, particularly mid-winter. Besides, he had been up late working on a case (of South Seas Islands Scotch).

The nurses hadn’t finished night shift, yet, so the place was relatively quiet. Granny didn’t mind being alone. It gave her a chance to ruminate, in fact, yesterday’s spice jar mix up reminded her of a fat, slow moving little boy who had come into her life quite by chance. She was a young woman, just given up her career as a professional

Call this a hotel…

boxer, and had taken over the licence of one of the most beautiful, in her mind, buildings in Sydney, the Window Dressers Arms, Pig and Whistle. She loved every aspect of the place, from its tiled façade to its tall, proud chimney pots, and everything in between. Anyway, there was this pudgy little kid used to hang around the car park, waiting for his mum to finish drinking, or philandering, or usually, both. One afternoon said kid turned up with blood running down his shirt, and a rapidly evolving black eye. Granny rushed him into the kitchen, applied ice, gave him a pink drink, and asked him what had happened.

Well, the reader knows the story, the kid’s name was Merv, and he was bullied at school, and his mum didn’t care, and he knew that Granny had been a boxer, and could she teach him to fight? Of course she did, but it entailed training with Granny, which meant meeting her at sparra’s fart, running to the gym, where they lifted weights, threw medicine balls, skipped and boxed. There were mornings when she didn’t pay him much heed, but coached other boxers, but the kid kept his ears open, and was amazed at how much he learned.

The gentle reader knows the rest, how the bullies got beaten up, and how the fat kid hit puberty and suddenly grew muscle and lost fat, continued to train, becoming a professional boxer himself. Unfortunately Merv’s mum never spent much time with him,

Merv’s room

so when she announced that she was marrying a ‘rich cow cocky’ and moving to the country, the teenage boy didn’t mind, instead asking Granny for a room at the pub. Merv never looked back.

Granny’s reverie was interrupted by the sound of a banging at the front door, the beer truck. “Manne, Manne, where are you?”

No response, so she marched through the cellar, to fling open the cellar doors nearly knocking over an unwitting pedestrian, then lining up an old wooden ramp to guide the kegs in. “Where’s Manne?” Asked the driver, who was already positioned to deliver the first keg?

“Buggered if I know!” Retorted Granny through gritted teeth, as she rolled the first keg of Wretched Pilsener into place. “Probably watchin’ nudies on his phone.”

The driver let out a hearty laugh. “Fuckin’ wanker!” He grinned.

The cellar was quickly filled with full kegs; the empties were already out the back,

Granny’s Best

waiting to be picked up. “Still brewin’ yer own beer?” The driver had been instructed to find out, in case Granny was buying from a rival brewer.

“Yep.” Granny nodded to rows of old kegs. “Still do me own Best, Bitter, plus some seasonal IPAs an’ such.”

“Hello, looks like some patrons.” The driver nodded to the nurses as he helped Granny close the cellar doors.

Granny soon found herself in the Main Bar surrounded by cheery nurses who all enjoyed a post night shift beverage with bum nuts, wedges and salsa, whilst the Bowling Ladies had finished their planning meeting, and had sent Beryl in with a breakfast order. “No rush, dear, whenever.”

There was a sudden hush as everyone turned to see a visibly pale Manne standing behind the bar, his mouth moving, but nothing sensible coming out. He pushed his iPhone into Granny’s hands, her eyes widening as she stared into the screen.

To be continued…

In which year did Australia win the 1947 Ashes series?(For your citizenship exam)

Foodge in new attire

The Queens Birthday.

Story by Big M.

“’oo mixed up me spice labels?” Thundered a voice from the bowels of the pub.

“Dunno, Granny, maybe you did!” Replied Merv, chuckling quietly to himself, as he emptied the new glass washer.

“Are you sure?”

“Yep, pretty sure!” Which wasn’t entirely true, as Merv was unsure of most things.

“Ahem.” Foodge cleared his throat, hoping to alert Merv to a customer in need of refreshment, vis a vis, himself.

Merv looked up to find Foodge sat on a bar stool, resplendent in a brand new three

Get ya clothes on Merv

piecer, with a new black Fedora perched at a rakish angle, young Frank Sinatra style. “Ah, Foodge, what can I do you for?”

“Sir Foodge.” Replied Foodge, sotto voce.

“Stir who?” Merv was missing the point.

“You know, our Monarch’s impending birthday celebrations, regal awards and such.” Foodge was mentally willing Merv to place a canoe under a tap, and decant some amber ale.

“Oh, the Queen’s birthdee.” Merv heaved the last tray of steaming glasses onto the bar. “She’s a great old girl, isn’t she?”

“’oo are youz calling an old girl?” Granny appeared at Merv’s elbow with a bowl of wedges. “Oh, Foodge, aren’t you a picture of sartorial excellence?” She swooned, then recovered and headed straight back to the kitchen.

“Is Granny OK?”

“Yeah, you know, that time of the month.”

Granny and Foodge, lovely couple

“June is a lovely time of the year, but getting a bit crisp.” Foodge straightened his tie that was covered in tiny scales of justice.

“Nah, the minstrel cycle.” Merv started to pour a pint, but the keg was clearly empty, as froth sprayed across the bar. “Manne” He roared. “Empty keg!”

“Yes, she used to be a keen cyclist.” Foodge had managed to avoid the spray of stale beer.

Merv gave up on the biology lesson. “What’s all of this ‘sir’ business?”

“Ah, glad you asked.” Foodge instantly warmed to the subject. “A little birdy told me that someone…someone local was in line for a knighthood for services to The Law.”

Merv was more unsure than ever.” ‘oo would that be?” As he pushed a canoe of Porcine Pale Ale across the decaying well covered with patina bar.

It was Foodge’s turn to tap the side of his nose, knowingly. “You know, a well known barrister, a servant of everyone from lowly bar flies, to representatives of Her Majesty herself.”

“That boat mighta sailed, old son.” Merv pouring liters of frothy spume from the aforementioned tap. “Manne, is that keg on, yet?”

“No, I don’t think she gets around in in the QE II anymore, Mr Merv.” Mumbled Foodge

And now on ABC24 kitty meets truck

through bits of potato wedge.

“No, the knighthood.” Merv now had a sink full of foam, and it was still coming. “Manne, purge the pipe properly, will ya?”

“What, there’s a knighthood boat?” Foodge pushed the empty glass back across the bar, hoping for a refill.

“No, as in, we don’t have knighthoods, and the Queen’s Birthday has been and gone, and, they only give awards out for actresses who live overseas, failed CEOs, and already, highly successful businessmen.” Merv grinned as ale started to replace foam coming from the tap. “Why is replacing a keg like rocket science for Manne?”

Our boy was crestfallen, and eagerly accepted another pint.” I’ll tell yer what, Foodge, you’ll always be Sir Foodge to me!”

Where oh where, where is Manne?