25 Saturday Jun 2022
Posted in Algernon, Bands at the Pig's Arms
Two Albums from 1972
Album presentations by Algernon
Two albums this time, both 50 years old. The first, arguably The Rolling Stones best album, the second, Neil Young’s first solo effort Harvest. Initially both weren’t that well received by the critic but both found their followers. Enjoy.
Exile on Main Street – The Rolling Stones
Harvest – Neil Young
25 Friday Jun 2021
Posted in Big M, Foodge Private Dick, Merv
Written by Big M
The laminex desk was completely obscured by files, form guides, stained coffee cups and an overflowing ashtray. There was evidence of a previous avalanche of files onto the floor next to the grey, metal bin, which no one had bothered to tidy up. The black, Bakelite phone jangled impatiently, before a gnarled, nicotine stained hand grabbed up the handset. “Detective Chief Inspector Acker Rogerson speakin’. I’d recognise that voice anywhere…Mervette!” Hysterical laughter was followed by a coughing fit, which subsided with two puffs of Ventolin and a Marlborough Red. Two minutes elapsed before Inspector Rogerson rasped. “Just jokin’, Merv, how are ya?”
Merv didn’t appreciate the joke, so pressed on. “I’m well, but I’ve got a MisPer for you.”
“Why not get the Missing Persons Bureau to chase it up?”
“It’s a cold case. Pole dancer from the nineties. Had a sprog with Foodge. Went the whole nine yards, married, expensive honeymoon, shacked up in Darlo, then she pissed off with the kid. It seems she had joined some cult.” Merv summarised.
“Yeah, I remember. There was a heap of missing sheilas with similar backgrounds. We assumed they’d all fucked off somewhere and drank the communal Kool-Aid on the way to joining Halle’s comet, or some such thing. Why has Foodge developed a sudden interest? Has there been contact from the Mother Ship?”
“Dunno, somehow came up in conversation.” Merv didn’t really want to discuss Foodge’s penchant for the Scouts. “You know he’s shacked up here with Granny who knows nothing about this?”
“It’s common knowledge, old son. I wouldn’t wanna be in his skin if she finds out. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll go through the old files and cross-reference the with other states, Feds and Foreign Affairs. I’ll get back to youz.”
“Thanks, mate.” Merv went back to his pint of Granny’s IPA.
Rogerson dropped the handset back onto its cradle. “Fuck, fuck, fucketty, fuck. Prepare for the shit storm, lads.”
……………………..
Meanwhile, Foodge had returned to the apartment in Darlinghurst. He found absolutely nothing, mainly because the owner had slammed the door in his face. He went around all of the strip clubs but everyone refused to talk. Bear in mind he was widely regarded as a defector. He then tried check on their joint bank account but couldn’t find the Bank of NSW. Eventually he stumbled into Westpac where the teller couldn’t work out what to do with his Passbook. He eventually initiated an inquiry into a ‘no longer active account’, which could take weeks or months.
……………………
Meanwhile at a private member’s room in an exclusive ‘Gentleman’s Club.
“Boss, didja see that Foodge has started sniffing around the clubs?”
“Yep.”
“Howdja know?”
“Just received a call from a well known, or, should I say, well paid copper.”
“Oh, right, well, woddle we do?”
“About one tenth of fuck all.”
“Why, won’t Foodge be onto us?”
“Foodge is the least successful Pee Eye in Sydney, and an even worse barrister. In the entire history of the Pigs Arms he’s photographed an MP climbing out his boyfriend’s window, and got that dimwit Manne orff an exposure charge. Threat level zero.”
03 Thursday Jun 2021
Posted in Foodge Private Dick, Mark
Foodge Escapes from Buntings
Written by Mark
Foodge was sitting in the foyer of the court house rolling a durry, well with tobacco and some other funny green stuff. O’Hoo was busy talking to some official over at the counter. Foodge was in deep thought mode, why am I here, why was I born, what is my first name and you know all those things that race through you mind in the middle of the night when you can’t sleep.
“O’Hoo, hoo were you talking two” speaking phonetically so O’Hoo wouldn’t understand, asks Foodge as he deeply inhales on his durry.
“Clark, I think his name was, no Clark Cell, a standard primary cell producing 1.4328 volts at 15 degrees C which consists of a mercury cathode and a zinc amalgam anode both dipping into a saturated solution of zinc sulphate” says O’Hoo.
Oh fuck off thinks Foodge. Never ask a simpleton a question that you don’t know the answer too. “Anyway pass us the scotch”. Foodge is discombobulated now(thanks Gerard, my spell checker doesn’t know it still, after all this time).
“Where’s the press throng?” asks Foodge as he inhales deeply on his durry. Oh yes, South Sea Islands Scotch sure does taste good in the morning.
O’Hoo runs out of the foyer onto the front steps of the court house and spy’s a group of school kids passing by on an excursion or just running away from their teachers. O’Hoo approaches them and says “Look kids, I understand that this is a kid friendly web page but can you pretend to be from the media, you know asking questions, pointing microphones and taking pictures when my mate come out from the court?”
“Um, yeah, um, yeah, okay mate! Wot’s in it for us?” says a little smart arse in the front row.
“Sausage sizzle, with fried onions and tomato sauce, all round at Buntings, oh on white bread, nothing healthy” blurts O’Hoo relating to the inner psyche of the modern generation.
“Yep, wheeze in” says the smart arse.
Foodge stumbles out of the court to face the “media throng”.
“Mr Foodge, what have you got to say about the court case?” says the smart arse kid who is getting way too much media attention.
“Well” replies Foodge “ I can’t say anything while the case is in front of the court”
“Well that’s only literally, not metaphorically”. The smart arse kid is really stating to grate and you can fucking well spell that how you want to and I’m the author.
“No more comments from me except to say the chicken schnitzel on Monday night with mushroom gravy is to die for.”
O’Hoo pulls up in the Zephyr. “You drive Foodge. We are being followed. I’ve read the script”
“But I’m pissed and stoned”
“Doesn’t matter we’re fictional and anyway Gordon will get us off any charges.”
Foodge accerlates the Zephyr down the boulevard. O’Hoo jumps into the back seat and smashes out the back window.
“Why did you do that for? Emmjay will be really pissed that we went over budget.”
“I’ll get a better shot this way. Keep speeding, we are being followed by the FBI, the CIA, ASIO and worst of all the CWA” cried O’Hoo as he lets fly a few salvo’s out of the recently renovated rear window.
Foodge dodges and swerves through the back streets of Inner Cyberia as O’Hoo fires indiscriminately out the back window, trying to take care to hit any one at any time.
The FBI and ASIO cars go down when the CIA call O’Hoo on a two way radio that he didn’t know he was carrying up until now.
“Wheeze hungry” says the CIA goon.
“Take the next left and into the McJacks drive through” says O’Hoo thinking he should have added and extra T and said thought. So many questions so little time.
Everyone is going through the drive through, try saying that after a few drinks but the CWA ladies want a Fillet-O-Fish so wheeze is all held up. Wears the pleece when yous want them. Don’t you just love phonetics.
The race continues but O’Hoo is a bit too sharp for his opposition and quickly takes out the CIA car as they munch on their McJacks. The CWA are a different story. O’Hoo fires another round of high powered tracer bullets into their car from loaded magazines thanks to granny, an eternal pacifist. Don’t you love her. Peace man.
O’Hoo and Foodge drive into the car park at the Pigs Arms with the Zephyr looking in bad shape with bullet holes and smashed windows, however Foodge won’t budge until he has finished his Big McWhopper, fries and slushie. “Let’s get the fuck out of here” screams O’Hoo as he finishes his chicken burger and Coke drink.
Foodge and O’Hoo run into the bar avoiding eye contact with Emmjay. Big M and Algernon cock there weapons and the three sisters, Yvonne, Barbara and Shoe just keep studying the form guide, totally disinterested in the shenanigans. The CWA drive straight through the front doors and get out of their car opening fire with their weapons. Big M, Algernon and O’Hoo return fire and bullets are flying everywhere.
Meanwhile back in the kitchen granny is really peeved. Emmjay walks through the fire fight into the kitchen and says to granny “Lets have a bake off so we can stop this madness.”
Granny walks into the bar and yells “Stop. Stop now.” Funnily enough everyone stops. “Lets have a scone bake off to sort this out.”
All the cooks head out to the kitchen and start cooking. Scones, cream and jam are served to everyone. Hmm, all taste great. Granny says “Well, what was this agro all about?”
“Dunno” says the lady from the CWA.
“Baby, what baby” cries Foodge.
02 Wednesday Jun 2021
Posted in Sandshoe
You are Wondering – another episode of what’s on and not at the Pig’s Arms.
Written by Sandshoe.
You personally speaking, I don’t mean. You are the amorphous everybody or nobody in particular or special. You, speaking personally, have no dimension. You who is every person other than myself is meant, reading this episode or not. It is a treat for the Bish and Father O’Way that I am writing this. For you all too, but the Bish and Sandy most especially who could not have the big party they planned as an At Home.
I’m not meaning to exclude. I feel their until now unheralded disappointment. Y’all likely do not know, not yet, how crushing the disappointment was, leastwise unless you are one of ‘em, the neighbours who caterwauled that they, Bish and Sandy, would bring us … you know … undone … having people round. Feared it was whispered later when the authorities intervened they would catch you-know-what over the hedge, carried on a wisp of a breeze if not borne by a cyclonic act of an almighty.
We have not been blessed. By ‘we’ I mean y’all and I. It’s not all plain sailing anywhere much. You would think we could maybe waylay it at a crossroads. Not me exactly, precisely. I could not, I am sure. The organism blunders randomly round riding a breeze, catching a wave for all we know.
There was The Scarlet Pimpernel by Baroness Orczy. I am digressing and addressing you, the unknown and the known, the tried and true, but as well the unidentified you. The Bish turned up at the manse with suitcases to stay. Instead of having a party, the Bish and Sandy did a reading for a select group (sorry Bish, sorry Sandy as well I did not report). Your reading was a resounding success. The parallels were not missed. A reading of the narrative by Emma Magdolna Rozália Mária Jozefa Borbála Orczy de Orci, who is the Baroness Orczy, was fitting. Yes, these old friends read and enacted The Scarlet Pimpernel, by Emmuska Orczy as the Baroness titled herself.
They seek him here, they seek him there
Those Frenchies seek him everywhere
Is he in heaven or is he in hell?
That demned elusive Pimpernel…
Whose blood has not thrilled to the mystery and intrigue surrounding the heroism of the central hero, Sir Percy Blakeney the lead figure of the League of the Pimpernel. What better site for the reading than the Sportsman bar at the Pig’s Arms. Hear the sounds in 1792 of the same friendly although socially distanced hospitality the Pig’s Arms affords patrons.
“No, no,” proclaims Sir Percy in response to commiserations regarding his welfare put to him, “it doesn’t put me out, friend; nothing will put me out, unless that supper is not the very best which Miss Sally can cook, and which has ever been served in ‘The Fisherman’s Rest.’”
“You need have no fear of that, my lord,” said Sally, who all this while had been busy setting the table for supper. And very gay and inviting it looked, with a large bunch of brilliantly coloured dahlias in the centre, and the bright pewter goblets and blue china about.
“How many shall I lay for, my lord?”
“Five places, pretty Sally, but let the supper be enough for ten at least—our friends will be tired, and, I hope, hungry. As for me, I vow I could demolish a baron of beef to-night.”
“Here they are, I do believe,” said Sally, excitedly, as a distant clatter of horses and wheels could now be distinctly heard, drawing rapidly nearer.
The Bish and Sandy, you will not mind my saying so if you are wondering, even aside the argument about the use of the word ‘Frenchies’ was unseemly, your rendition was most appreciated as a contribution in these difficult times.
Footnote: The Scarlet Pimpernel can be found for a read at Gutenberg.
https://www.gutenberg.org/files/60/60-h/60-h.htm
01 Tuesday Jun 2021
Posted in Big M, Foodge Private Dick, Merv
Written by Big M
Merv wandered into the back of the Pigs Arms still shaking his head. He’d gone on a long run, in lieu of his usual boxing workout. He had been happily running down a side street when a woman slowed her car, wound the passenger window down and yelled. “Where’s yer mask?”
“There’s no mask mandate here!” Merv retorted.
“Well there bloody well should be for blokes with faces like yours!” As she roared off, leaving Merv with no right of reply.
As Merv stepped into the rear hallway he caught sight of a shadowy figure in, what appeared to be, an old Boys Scout’s uniform. “Can I help you there, Mr Baden Powell?” Merv chuckled to himself.
“What, no, I can’t even play the guitar.” Laughed Foodge.
“Not Baden Powell the Brazilian guitarist, Baden Powell the founder of the Boy Scouts.”
“Oh, um, I see.” Foodge didn’t see at all, but went along with it.
“What are you dressed up as?”
“Oh, well, obviously a boy scout. I’m hoping to try out as a Boy Scout Master.”
“Have you thought this through?”
“Well, no, but I don’t usually think things through.” Foodge wrinkled his nostrils against the stench emanating from Merv’s armpits.
“For one, it’s no longer the Boy Scouts, its just Scouts, so that uniform must be about fifty years old. I’m surprised it still exists.”
“An old bloke gave it to me. Something about it being no use in prison.” Foodge nervously adjusted his woggle.
“That leads to the second problem…the optics. It doesn’t look good for an old bloke like you who isn’t married and doesn’t have any kids to suddenly join the scouts. You know, kiddy fiddlers and all that!”
“Well, I was married and I do have a child, if that helps.” Foodge had given up on the recalcitrant woggle and too short scarf.
“What? Who? When?” Merv’s face nearly exploded.
“Well actually, it’s not really anyone’s business.”
“Yer shacked up with Granny and living under my roof, so I reckon it is someone’s business.”
“How about we move into the Gentlemen’s Bar and I’ll tell you over a few drinks?”
Merv looked at his watch. “It is after eight so I could go a couple of frothy chops for breakfast.”
Foodge was onto his third pint of bitter before he launched into his story. “Mr Merv, you may not believe this, but there was a time when I wasn’t the squeaky clean, sophisticated lawyer you see before you. I was a different man, desperate to make his mark in the world, and more desperate to become rich, not only rich, but powerful. I became a criminal barrister, on the side of criminals who, not only paid me well to keep them out of jail, but heeded my advice. I oversaw property acquisitions, take-overs of clubs, bars, casinos and even brothels.”
“Go on.” Nodded Merv eagerly as he pushed another glass canoe across the bar.
“That’s how I met her. She was a pole dancer in a strip club I was purchasing for the mob. She was beautiful and, as they say, it was love at first sight. We eloped within weeks of our first kiss. We honeymooned in Dapto, just a stones throw from Lake Illawarra, the Venice of Australia. They were beautiful times, Mr Merv.” Foodge had a little tear in his eye as he reminisced.
Merv was getting emotional so decided they needed something stronger. He poured a couple of glasses of South Sea Islands Scotch. “Where is she now?”
“Things went swimmingly, for a while. We moved into an apartment in Darlinghurst. She stopped working, well, she had to, she got pregnant on the honeymoon and we had a son who we named Foodge Junior, of course. Anyhoo, she became more and more unhappy with my life of crime. She tried to get me to leave the mob, but I wouldn’t. I was addicted to money and power. She eventually joined a cult and tried to persuade me to join, but they were complete nutters.”
“Don’t tell me she drank the Kool-Aid?” Merv refreshed their glasses.
“No, why Kool-Aid?” Foodge can be quite obtuse! “No, I came home one evening to find a note saying that they, and other cult members, were going on a great trip and that I’d never see her or the baby ever again. I raced down to the old cinema where they held their meetings but it was boarded up. I contacted the police but they just added their names to a long list of people who had suddenly disappeared. I retained a private eye for a couple of years but there wasn’t a single clue to chase down. Eventually I gave up, but not until I left the mob and went straight.”
“You know what we should do!” Merv was now slurring his words. “We should look for ‘em.”
“How, I mean, after all these years?”
“Well it doesn’t sound like the cops took much interest and yer PI sounds a bit incompetent. Now we’ve got the Internet and some pleece owe me some favours.”
To be continued.
30 Sunday May 2021
Posted in Algernon
1981 – The Albums
Playlist by Algernon
Things don’t seem – Australian Crawl (Sirocco)
Back in Black – AC/DC (Back in Black)
Romeo and Juliet – Dire Straits (Making Movies)
Icehouse – Flowers (Icehouse)
Master Blaster (Jammin’) – Stevie Wonder (Hotter than July)
One Step Ahead – Split Enz (Corroboree)
De Do Do Do, De Da Da Da Da – The Police (Zenyatta Mondatta)
While you see a chance – Steve Winwood (Arc of a Diver)
Hold on tight – ELO (Time)
Gemini Dream – The Moody Blues (Long Distance Voyager)
Stop draggin’ my heart around – Stevie Nicks (Bella Donna)
Breakfast at Sweethearts – Cold Chisel (Swingshift)
State of the Heart – Mondo Rock (Chemistry)
Vienna – Ultravox (Vienna)
23 Sunday May 2021
Posted in Mark
My eldest son sent me this clip probably just to show me that I wasn’t that great after all, just kidding.
24 Saturday Apr 2021
Posted in Foodge Private Dick, Mark
Tags
Written by Mark
Foodge was feeling pensive, no apprehensive, no nervous and a little ill as he had just taken a long swig from a pocket flask with South Seas Blue Label scotch that O’Hoo just happened to have in his jacket pocket. This was his day in court after being kicked out of Buntings for wearing his pant bulger.
“I rang the clerk of the court last night to find out who the Judge is” says O’Hoo “ It’s genitalia”
“Genitalia is your private parts, you know your dingle dongle” replies Foodge.
“Here look, I writ in down”
“That’s Jenny Taylor not genitalia. You have a one track mind O’Hoo and Judge Jenny has her own television show, you know, on one of those channels that no one watches.”
“Here, drink this” as O’Hoo passes the flask as he steers the Zephyr down the main boulevard to the court house “and granny has put a couple of semi-automatic rifles plus extra ammo in the back seat just in case we need a fast get away. Isn’t she a sweetie.”
Hmm, thinks Foodge, neatly doing away with the need for apostrophes saving the author extra typing. What have I got myself into. Well if anything at least it makes a good story. Gee this South Seas Island Blue Label tastes great as the scotch kicks in.
“Park here” cries Foodge.
“It says no parking and we wouldn’t want to encourage kiddies to break the law now would we.” replies O’Hoo desperate to get more screen time.
Hmm, thinks Foodge, since when has O’Hoo developed a conscience. At least Judge Jenny will give us a fair trial and with the extra whiskey Foodge’s confidence is growing.
Judge Jenny addresses the court “Ladies and Gentleman we are gathered here today to join this loving couple in matrimony, oops, that was the last case, anyway we are gathered here today to hear the case of Foodge versus Buntings for personal and professional damages. Mr Foodge a poor downtrodden man who not only has lifted himself off the floor of the Pigs Arms to prop up the baa to being appointed to the baa of the legal profession. Versus Buntings, a mutlibillion dollar international conglomerate that steps on anyone to get their own way. The poor downtrodden Mr Foodge is naturally representing himself and for Buntings Mr Blah Blah.” The groans are palpable, this guy can talk under water with a mouth full of pebbles.
Mr Blah Blah kicks off “Well ma’am, blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah. I refer you to your book of documents ma’am 1 A, B and C. A being the story written by Big M with B and C being statements from the sales attendants. We plead not guilty.”
Foodge gets thrown out of Buntings https://pigsarms.com.au/2021/03/31/foodge-gets-thrown-out-of-buntings/
Foodge replies “No dispute from me ma’am however I do have a witness who was standing behind me in the queue. I call Private Road.”
Private Road takes the stand and swears and oath “I swear to tell the whole truth nothing but truth so help me Gordon O’Donnell, oh and maybe a few porkies, just kidding.”
Judge Jenny intervenes “Are you in the Army?”
“No ma’am”
“So what is your first name?”
“Well it’s private ma’am”
Hmm, thinks Judge Jenny “Well yes when my husband and I go for a weekend drive in the country we can see you are very popular.”
“Ma’am, I would like to question my witness, with you leave.” interjects Foodge as he senses this episode is getting away from him. “Can you tell the court what you witnessed on that day being the 31st June 1904?”
“Well yes. Big M’s story and the attendant statements are all true however Mr Foodge here wasn’t doing anything wrong, he simply had his pant bulger in place. I was standing behind him with two of the same. You see ma’am I have Micropenile encephalopathy, colloquially called small dick brain however the medical fraternity refer to it as MP’s. I had two pant bulgers in my hand when security guards pounced on Mr Foodge and threw him out and he didn’t even get a sausage from the sausage sizzle.”
“Yes well, Mr Foodge, what are you seeking in damages?” asks Judge Jenny.
“Well ma’am ten million Inner Cyberia Dollars and free sausage sizzle on white bread with onions and tomato sauce for the rest of my days.” replies Foodge.
“Order granted, case upheld. All damages accepted. Court costs to be paid by Buntings seeing you sell pant bulgers. Just one last question Mr Foodge, what does a pant bulger do?”
“Well it makes you appear more attractive to the opposite sex, not that I would ever tell granny that, by giving the impression that you are well endowed ma’am.”
The packed gallery went wild.
14 Wednesday Apr 2021
Posted in Sandshoe
Written by Sandshoe*.
Funny, if that’s the word for my viewpoint from my cell, sorry college room in which I immerse myself in little else these days other than the study of careless and murderous intent described in terms of Crown and its judgements. Allow me to describe my commingled thoughts these last few days about specifically the Duke, that’s Mountbatten and not Wayne.
Funny, as I was saying, I was born in 1950 and I cannot recall the exact year the presence of the Duke came to my ken, but as I was reading before I went to school, I am guessing near the very most beginning of me. I recall sitting on my father’s shoulders waving a small flag as the Royal procession passed. That was the visit to Australia in 1954. I was not far older than three years of age. It is not a mystery why I got down to some really serious thinks the small past while. A thought wafted up like a liberating genie out of a bottle.
I am me in a large part because he was who and what he was.
Astounding. I was incredulous. He contributed to shaping me. I knew some men could be something like my father. Here an example was in full view on a world stage. He was sober albeit you do not understand what that exactly is, but by what it presents as. He was outspoken I knew when I was very young. That fascinated me. I saw him as brave in that regard when I learned he was opposed to the degradation of the environment. It goes on.
When I learned something of his history, when I started to understand the dimension of the political and moral dilemmas he witnessed in his experiences as a prince of Greece and a cousin of the Windsor royal family I felt astonishment at how rich the viewpoint must have been. I was a student of history and geography, economics, literature and later of the social sciences. When his kids got into scrapes and the worse they were with regard to immorality as we perceive it through the media, I wondered how much pain he must have been carrying, the worry. I had seen my stoic father walking with his shoulders back and his head held high through similar grief and worry. I had my own children.
I learned about Phillip’s mother and wondered about her decision in later life to choose a path of humility and penury in service to others. I imagined her influence on him.
Not sure when, but some time I conceived of the notion this man was so awed by the adoration of him his cousin formed when she was a child, he responded to what was required of him as a consort forever on that ground … aside the hordes, aside the media, aside Parliament, but as well because he understood this little girl. He in the first instance loved the beautiful young girl who adored him. He had no sides. I believe it is that simple.
*Sandshoe is Christina Binning Wilson (B.A. – History and Politics). Christina is a current undergraduate student of Bachelor of Laws (Graduate Entry) at an Australian University. She is a long-time contributing writer for the independent blog, the Window Dressers Arms, Pig and Whistle aka the Pig’s Arms. Nothing she writes can be taken as representing her alma mater or affiliates and no opinions she expresses are those of the College.
12 Monday Apr 2021
Posted in Sandshoe
Tags
Written by Sandshoe
“Y’ can’t be serious.”
“No.”
“What. ‘No’ it’s not possible or y’ don’t believe anything I ever say?”
“Yes.”
“How do you mean ‘Yes’?”
“100%”
“Where’s Big M?”
Hoo and Shoe are painting and papering the old House of Pain. There’s a jingle playing in a background sound track. Remember the jingle? Many hours of fun and laughter are spent at Glenda’s after? Everyone whistled it?
Big M puts his head in. He appears to be hiding the rest of what there is of a whole person behind the wall adjacent to the entrance door.
Shoe pronounces “Window Dresser’s Arms, Pig and Whistle” with relish.
“It’s a good trading name that is,” says HOO. HOO slaps his thighs, getting dust off his cover-all, well, his thighs. The Nail Salon’s gowns are none too commodious. Both of their bums (Shoe’s and HOO’s too) stick clear out the back from under the neat cloth ties that guarantee their frontal modesty. Shoe and HOO are saving their real clothes for a real job.
“The Boss wants us all to work harder.”
“Big, that’s ‘Job Description’.”
“Those gowns look better than the one I’ve got on. Not that I am ungrateful. It’s a saving.”
Shoe guesses the distance. She reaches over and throws Big M a gown pulled down earlier from the clothes stand beside Glenda’s wash troughs.
“Ta. I’ll call Big Al.”
“Who, Shoe? Who is he going to phone?”
“Who, HOO?”
We are down to the barest bones of our truth. We are to arrange a meeting of all the characters and plan a revival of business.
Thus Aristotle’s soul, of old that was,
May now be damned to animate an ass,
Or in this very house, for ought we know,
Is doing painful penance in some beau;
And thus our audience, which did once resort
To shining theatres to see our sport,
Now find us tossed into a tennis-court.
William Congreve: Love is Love (1695)
Window Dresser's Arms, Pig & Whistle 