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Written by Big M.
Merv had endured a shit house morning. He’d run to the gym, full of the lightness of running, or whatever that quote was, hit the squat rack, gone too heavy, too early and had his right knee collapse from under him, which wasn’t the purpose of doin’ squats! He’d bludged a lift from one of the young blokes and hobbled through the yard to the rear entrance, only to hear O’Way’s dulcet tones. “I said it’s a paedo job!”
“Yes, Speedos, everyone should have a pair!” Foodge was just pushing a Cup of Chino across the bar as Merv hobbled in.
“Morning Father, how’s the Church of St. Generic Brand goin’?” Merv tried to push himself in between Foodge and the expensive Eye Tallion Expresso machine.
“Dunno, I’m here on behalf of the Church of Rome, with Extreme Unction.”
“Oh, shit.” Merv quickly crossed himself. “Spectacles, testicles, wallet ‘n watch. Now what does Holy Mother Church want with our own Foodge?” Merv had assumed that the good Father was trying to co-opt Foodge into summit. He was clever that way.
“Promoting sales of Speedos!” Foodge piped up.
“Not Speedos, paedos.” The Father gestured for something stronger than a chino.
“So the church is selling paedos?” Now Merv was confused.
“Fuck no!” The good Father downed half a pint of Trotters Pilsener. “They’re forming a special task force of Paedo Hunters to root them out, for want of a better word.”
Merv now had a pool of water forming under his knee from condensate on the bag of ice balanced on top. “Foodge, old son. Can you throw us a towel?”
“Throw in the towel? No, I’ll be a Paedo Hunter until the end!”
Christ, Foodge, why is everything a double entendre for you? A towel, the cotton thing hangin’ up!”
“So, if I’m to become a Paedo Hunter will I get a gun?” Foodge was finally making himself useful and had mopped up the ice water and started to help Merv to one of the lounge chairs where he could elevate the knee.
“Of course you won’t get a fucking gun, you can’t be trusted with tooth picks.” Which was true, Foodge had endured a previous episode with toothpicks. Let’s just say the magistrate was lenient.
“Let’s just say that the London trip has two aspects. You will be on a fact-finding mission as a Private Detective learning about English detection methods. That’s the cover. The other, secret, aspect is looking for paedos. You’ll be liaising with MI5’s Paedo Branch, and no one else. Do you understand?”
“Yes, so I assume that I’ll be getting a special Paedo Hunter Badge, or MI5 Paedo Officer ID?”
“No, Dopey Dora, it’s fucking secret!!” O’Way had ducked behind the bar to pull a second pint. “Oh, and we expect you to travel alone. You need to maintain the façade of the swinging PI, man of the world, type of presentation.”
A small smile crossed Foodge’s pale lips. “So Granny can’t come?”
“Of course she can’t come. She’ll fuck the whole thing up!” Father O’Way finished his second pint. He certainly wasn’t used to drinking this early. Normally he waited until nine, or even ten.
“Granny won’t be happy!”
vivienne29 said:
I think the earliest should be 10 am and only if you are on holiday camping near the beach. Unless you are in Paris and someone shat in the bidet and you have to go to the bar next door to use their toilets to wash your face and clean your teeth.
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Big M said:
The last time we drank beer before ten was after driving our Subaru liberty along a four wheel drive track to get to a camp site. I think Mrs M was concerned when water came up to the bonnet.
I try to avoid shitting in the bidet so am unfamiliar with the latter.
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vivienne29 said:
it wasn’t me who did it but it resulted in the plumbing of an old six story accommodation ‘hotel’ ceasing to function. Took four days to fix. So that was our means of washing – next door in the bar starting day off with one alcoholic beverage and a trip to the loo.
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Big M said:
No, I couldn’t envision you as a bidet pooer.
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Therese Trouserzoff said:
In my third year uni Christmas holidays I went on an expedition to Huskisson with three mates. We had had several sherbets that evening and we camped on the beach – I think it might have been called Caves Beach.
When we woke up in the morning – strangely with a ferocious thirst … and a headache of a similar calibre, there was nothing to drink – except warm KB (for the younger reader a beer that thankfully does no longer haunt the pubs in this fair land – it had a sugar content upscale from Coke and was often referred to as “Kids’ Beer” – aimed at luring children into early onset alcoholism.)
In such times of hydration distress was it better or worse than drinking one’s own urine ? Let me just say that one’s own urine is less likely to give you diabetes.
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Therese Trouserzoff said:
Viv, priceless image there a turd in a bidet. Not unlike a turd in the White House.
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Mark said:
Nine or ten, why wait that long sister. Stupidly funny as usual. Keep dem comin
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Big M said:
Thanks, Sibling, nine or ten? The first numbers that came into my head, like most of this was the first words I scribbled onto the back of the dunny door this morning.
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Mark said:
I’m sure your dunny door or in fact your entire dunny may like to keep a lot of those things to themselves. Just sayin’ like… 🙂
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Big M said:
Probably best not mentioned?
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