The Bish arrived with attitude. The good Bish (there are some very bad Bishes) had been a supplicant for a semester at a mind re-training boot camp conducted in the Southern Highlands by the Society for the Restoration of All Bishops of Any Sin. FOW*, still. after all these years resident in the Manse over the road from the Pig’s Arms** carpark had some advantages as a host of his, or her, re-emergence. More important to the Bish than anything was no longer being of a fixed mindset about his, or her, personal gender or about anything at all. If anything, FOW was the perfect host. He was laid back.
The Bish greeted his friend, Sandy O’Way with gushing warmth.
“Mother O’Way, away wit’ y’ lookin’ so bonny.”
Sandy, or as we like to address him on formal occasions, FOW, hesitated.
“I’ll need to put down the suitcases, Bish.’
The suitcases dispensed with at the bottom of the staircase, FOW waited for the onrush of shock into his consciousness to subside. Being seized and hugged in an instant by the Bish was unexpected, nay unaccustomed. He picked up the suitcases again, his two hands firmly gripped on them as if on reality. The Bish filled him in as they walked up the staircase to the upper storey side by side
The Bish had seen where inconsistencies in the mortal and moral fabric tethered him, or her to the old ways in entire indifference to caring. In bondage, the Bish explicated. He waved his hands free of imagined shackles.
“We’re all good then.”
FOW wanted it to be inferred he would be Mother O’Way, MOW if necessary were it required of him. What’s in a name.
“Never been better,” the Bish punched with his fists into the very air.
“I’ll check your prescriptions. Seen Gordy*** lately?”
“Don’t forget Gord, Sandy.” Tears of beatitude and plenitude, rectitude I suspect, gratitude rolled down the face of the Bish. They splashed onto the gold heraldic design on the carpet on the staircase.
*Father O’Way
**Window Dresser’s Arms, Pig and Whistle
***Gordy O’Donnell, nuclear and unplugged physicist of all things indeterminable in the Cyberverse.
Hung. “I thought you were writing another episode?”
Big. “Err, yep, suppose so.”
Hung. “ You know, you mentioned Foodge’s head in a box.”
Big. “Yeah, I did mention that.”
Hung. “Well, get going!”
Foodge was at his usual place behind the coffee machine busily bringing her up to a full head of steam in readiness for the anticipated influx of customers.
Hung. “Hang on. You’ve started nearly every episode in the last few months with Foodge at the coffee machine.”
Big. “Well, so what, it makes the writing easier.”
Hung. “You know that I’ve been in strife with the Fictional Union of Characters!”
Big. “Wasn’t that the Union of Fictional Characters?”
Hung. “Yes, but they renamed themselves to get a better acronym.”
Big. “Well, FUC certainly has a ring to it.”
Hung. “There are regulations around the use of two dimensional characters in stories. You’re running a risk of only using a two dimensional character in a one-dimensional plot thereby undermining said character’s dimensions. In effect they can simply disappear.”
Big. “I’ll try again.”
Spot the dummy…
Granny was woken in the middle of the night by Foodge’s groans and flailing limbs.
Hung. “That’s better already.”
“Come on, darling, you’re having a nightmare.” Granny soothed.
Foodge managed to pull the pillow from his face. “I dreamed that my head was stuck inside a box.”
“What, like a disembodied head kept alive by a mad scientist, as in the movie, The Brain That Wouldn’t Die, or like someone had smashed your head into a box?”
“Dunno, I could still feel my limbs.”
“That could be phantom sensations.” Granny pondered.
“Does it matter now?” Foodge turned over to try to get back to sleep.
“It sort of does. Could you hear anything?”
“Yes, there was a humming sound behind my head, you know, pumps and so forth.” Foodge pulled up the duvet, even though it wasn’t particularly cool.
“Any voices?”
“Yes, umm, those two fellows that pop in occasionally, um, Hung and Big M.”
“What did they say?’ Granny was becoming anxious.
“Something about two dimensional characters and one dimensional plot lines.” Foodge suddenly started snoring loudly.
Granny didn’t get back to sleep, but sat up wondering what all this meant.
Granny wondering how she got into this mess…
Foodge was back at his usual station behind the bar. Merv slipped a middy along the bar. “Get that into you, it’ll put lead in yer pencil.”
“Love a stout, especially first thing in the morning.” Foodge skulled the dark liquid.
“It’s Granny’s new Porter.”
“What’s a Porter?”
“It’s essentially a type of stout.”
“Right.” Foodge pushed the empty glass along the bar, which Merv quickly refilled (the glass, not the bar).
Foodge raised the glass to his lips but his eyes were transfixed by the most beautiful face he’d seen in his life. She really was a long cool woman in a black dress (as the song goes). She was tall, slender, slightly athletic, with black hair, emerald eyes and pale, almost alabaster skin. “Morning!” He blustered, with the glass still in front of his face.
Merv was just as enchanted, but somehow, maintained some composure. “Good morning, madam, can I be of assistance?”
“What a darling man.” She enthused. “I’m hoping that you can help me.”
“Yes, yes.” Foodge and Merv leaned forward.
“I’ve lost my husband.”
A flicker of hope flared in Merv’s heart. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“No, he’s not dead, he really is lost. I haven’t seen my Alexander for months. He said he was coming to the Pig’s Arms to help out for a week or so and hasn’t been back.”
Merv was slightly crestfallen. “Alexander you reckon? Never ‘eard of him.”
“You may know of him as Sandy?”
“Doesn’t ring a bell.” Both Foodge and Merv shook their heads.
“He sometimes dresses as a priest and claims to be from the Generic Brand Church.”
“Oh, of course, Father O’Way, or FOW as we sometimes call him.” Foodge motioned to the coffee machine.
“Thank goodness, no, I won’t have a coffee, I wouldn’t mind something stronger…perhaps from the top shelf.”
Merv picked up on the hint and decanted from the South Sea Islands Blue Label.
Merv in shock…
“You know that he’s not really a priest, he just dresses that way to avoid the risk of becoming a one dimensional character. The problem is that we all run that risk in the Fictional Character Industry.”
Foodge nodded carefully, as it took his brain a little while to catch up. “You don’t think we’re all characters in some sort of fiction?”
“That’s like Descartes’ Brain in a vat idea, where some evil demon has placed a brain in a vat of nutrients and connected the nerves to various inputs to make the person think they are still alive.” Merv postulated while pouring Mrs O’Way a second drink.
“Yes, I was dreaming about this only last night, that I was a brain in a box.” Foodge motioned for a third Porter. Merv quickly obliged.
“We can’t be just fictional characters, because we’re here all of the time, talking, moving, eating and drinking. I can’t see how someone could make all of that up?” Merv wrinkled an already much troubled brow.
“Do you ever have people who seem to wander in for what seems to be minutes? They often have outlandish descriptions of themselves or their experiences.” Mrs O’Way sounded like she was on to something.
“Yes, we do.” Foodge looked slightly comical with a beery moustache. “Big M and Hung would be the primary candidates. Hung seems to appear and disappear at will while Big M always claims to have travelled by steam train.”
“That’s exactly the sort of character I’m talking about. Almost like ghosts trying to manipulate the living.” Mrs O’Way was interrupted by a tall man, who planted a kiss on her cheek.
“I hope you aren’t telling tales out of school, darling!” Grinned O’Way.
I often reflect on Lehan Winifred Ramsay and what she has meant to me.
Coming out of a University building after a Clubs and Associations training meeting yesterday evening my eye was taken by the sky. I had emerged out of the building into a dark side path I found was not lit as I expected.
Perhaps it really was because I had taken a road less travelled I happened on a friend at an intersection of the path I further took to walk home. My friend Dom is a mature age student whose specialist attention is in IT. I feel we found such important common ground in our shared talk.
I walked further with one of the security staff. He makes a difference in the work he does on campus. He walks a regular beat and recognizes the students who need the warm or plain kind word of a person who listens as another speaks. He walks a path less travelled.
Reading back over shared communication with Lehan, I see later she and I meet at intersections of a sort and I would in some ways too sadly forget if they were not captured on pages of The Pig’s Arms where we met. I wander around online and view her life work, her photography, read what we at the pub here, this wild and romantic blog post, had with Lehan as a contributor, our bold and innovative off-the-wall friend.
The work she sent me is not listed anywhere that I have found. ‘The Lotus Pond’ is one of her most beautiful and possibly significant paintings. Fireflies flash their illumination of magic and dart across the pond surface.
The Bish is excited. The Bish is having an episode. The good Father O’Way is excited. The staff at Glenda’s Waxing are excited. The Bish has not attended one of FOW’s At Homes for a good while so we are all excited his Uber turned up at the Manse front gate. One of FOW’s specialties is a rousing ‘At Home’.
FOW’s not above inviting a good dance troupe to perform either on the Manse lawn. He has asked the PA’s Morris Dancers. They have showed good form over the years.
Myself I have never heard of any of them. When I suggest I think they have danced off and away to Morris Dancers’ Dance Heaven in the sky (perhaps that is a bit long winded ha! ha! ha! hiccup!), the Bish scoffs.
“Bollocks, Christina!”
I am of a mind to write him out of this one. I keep a cap on it. I see the juxtaposition as well of the sweary word and my name, my real name, sounds with unexpected resonance.
“This is an opportunity sent from…”
“Shut up,” the Bish demands, interrupts says it mildly, “Shut up.”
He’s not happy I think the Morris Dancers are no more.
Someone dropped their hanky
“No more, the derry-o,” I sing to keep things on the up and up, cheerful.
“We never know who anybody really is,” the Bish opines.
FOW* is mopping the porch. No-one pays him attention. Nobody there.
“I’ll say it anyway.”
Nobody knows what it was. A raucous noise of a band in the Pig’s Arms Sylvia Plath Memorial ballroom sets up. It disappears like a wisp of a fanfare of a concerto.
On the other side of the car park, Merv walking through the Sports Bar is himself in explication with himself.
“She’s not here.”
Where ‘she’ isn’t or wasn’t depends on where in time you want to go with this, let me interrupt and explicate. I’ll do that sometimes. It’s knowing everything that causes everything. Merv was in the cellar of this infamous address, destination of drinkers and jokers all, place of the people, the Window Dresser’s Arms, Pig and Whistle. He’s risen up the cellar stairs to walk through the Sports Bar. FOW is mopping the floor of the entrance hall of the Manse, but not out of mind. Out of frame.
“I know perfectly well she’s not here.”
Merv is confident. Granny had left the building. Merv had watched Granny’s curvaceous arse gyrate and manipulate its way around and between the Sports Bar tables and chairs and it exit.
Emmjay is calling down into the stair well. It’s his pub. He does as he chooses. Merv careens out of reverie.
“Yes? What do you want, Emm?” Merv calls back from the Sports Bar.
“Merv, did you tell the Flamin’ Crows they could practice in the Ballroom this morning?”
“Don’t know anything about that.”
Of course he doesn’t. He didn’t know I was going to write them in. Viewpoint is everything. The soundscape is deafening. The crescendo is only bettered by the rate of debris falling from the rafters. Chook waste. Dried chook excreta. Chook feathers.
Merv and Emmjay step out into the car park for a breath of morning air unadulterated with reminder the rafters were never mucked out after the last chook was despatched to the WDAPW** Sports Bar counter menu. The sun is risen in a blaze of glory. FOW is at the gate of the Manse directly opposite. A Cyberverse taxi driver is at the Manse gate emptying luggage out of the boot of a Cyberverse taxi. The Bish is back in town.
This is where I grew up. The photo was taken in 1904. So if you take 1904 from 2021 you get twenty five. Makes me 26 this year. That’s right isn’t it Algy?
As you can see, transport hasn’t changed and the big building on the corner is the Ryan’s Hotel which meant getting to the pub was much harder than getting home. My brother-in-law and I can attest to this on many occasions.
The Illawarra Escarpment hasn’t changed a dickie bird whereas me and my brother-in-law have.
The town is called Thirroul which means “easy to pub, hard to get home” in the local lingo and in the late 1880’s everyone spoke French so the locals knew that then.
The roads are still shit and now traffic lights are needed to control the flow of horse drawn buggies. Gee how things have changed.
Foodge’s deep slumber was interrupted by an urgent need to micturate (no, not through the railing). He was interrupted mid-stream by a tap at the window. He struggled to ignore it but came a second and a third tap. He gave his local member a good shake and opened the window, just in time for the fourth tap, actually a small stone, to hit him in the forehead.
Foodge looked down at the Pigs Arms car park, which was barely lit by a single incandescent bulb. It was sufficient to illuminate a tall figure, obviously male, clad only in a ‘too small’ white hospital gown with no ties and, unfortunately, no underwear. “Mr Merv, watcha doin’ out there?”
“What am I doin’? I’m escaping”” Merv replied sotto voce. “You know what they wanted to do?”
“An orchidectomy.”
“D’you know what that is?” Merv was squirming.
“Nope.”
“They wanted to chop me nuts off.”
They’re going’ to chop my nuts off…you must be farking joking
“Well that doesn’t sound right.” Foodge turned to go back to bed.
“Can you let me in?”
“Oh, of course.”
It seemed like an eternity to Merv, but Foodge eventually appeared at the car park exit. “Come on in, old chap.”
Merv nervously looked around then darted through the door. “Quick, turn that light off, I think the cops are already onto me.”
“Why would the Pleece be after you? You weren’t admitted under an order, you were a voluntary patient.” Foodge did seem to know something about the law.
A previous FOW which has nothing to do with this story…
“Why was I manacled to the bed then?” Merv thought he’d won the argument.
“I think that Nurse Mervette may be responsible for that.”
I’m having a re bore, I recommend it to everyone…
Merv started crying again. “Don’t mention that name.”
“Come on Mr Merv, I’ll make you a cup of chino.”
“Let’s get something stronger.” Merv was already behind the bar pouring two Double IPAs.
Of course, all of this activity had woken the household. Granny, Manne and O’Hoo suddenly appeared. “Yay, Mr Merv’s home, yelled O’Hoo. Let’s have a party!”
“I’ll put the wedges on.” Yelled Manne.
“Where’s the good Scotch?” Granny was ebullient.
“Sit down Mr Merv, I’ll take over.”
“No you won’t, O’Hoo, you’d be the worst bar tender in Australia.” Granny pushed Merv out of the way and started pouring.
“Come on you lot, the cops will take me liquor licence if we get caught.” Merv remonstrated.
“Actually, Mr Merv, you are entitled, under the Liquor Act of 2007 to have a private party.” Foodge was just showing off, now.
Foodge fights for buds…
“Oh, yeah, of course, I used to go to a lot of ‘private parties’ in my youth.” Merv finished his beer and reached out for a second.
“There is one thing for which Pleece do take a particularly dim view.”
“What’s that, mate?”
Foodge looked down at the gap between the hem of the gown and Merv’s Private Region. “Wedding tackle on display, with, or without orchids!”
Foodge had tried his best. He’d contacted Janet with the offer of acting as mediator between her and Merv. She seemed fixated on the word ‘mediate’. “Mediate, mediate, you couldn’t mediate at a piss up.” Foodge had absolutely no idea what this meant. He was under the gun, coffee wise, so went back to brewing.
FOW had been listening in between pouring glass canoes and operating the EFTPOS. “Sounds like it’s over, but she may be happy to speak to a man of the cloth.”
“What cloth?” Foodge was as sharp as a bowling ball.
“You know, a minister, such as myself.” FOW pushed the bottle of South Sea Islands Irish whiskey along the bar for Foodge’s Famous Irish Coffee, which had become popular amongst the Night Duty Nurses.
“Oh, I don’t know, I think she’s a Callithumpian.”
“You know there’s no such religion as Callithumpian?” They were interrupted by Big M asking for a tray for the Irish Coffees.
“Youz aren’t Callithumpian, are you? We’ve had no end of trouble with back home.” Big M interjected.
“No, mate, just chatting.” FOW replied, as he replaced the whiskey bottle on the top shelf.
Foodge grinned. “See there is such a thing!”
South Sea Islands, real class…
“Whatever.” This wasn’t a battle worth fighting over. “Are you going to take Granny to see Merv?” Granny had responded to her favourite nostrum and was in fine form brewing a batch of Granny’s Pale Ale.
“Yes, indeed. I was hoping to give Merv some good news regarding Janet, but I think I’ll be hooking him up with a Family Solicitor.”
“Can’t you handle stuff like that?” FOW was wiping and stacking a bunch of trays.
“I’ve never handled a divorce, all criminal law, me!” Foodge hasn’t appeared in a court for three years, which may be more of a reason. “Oh, here’s the lady herself. How’s the brewing going , Granny?”
“The wort has been boiled, cooled and pumped into a fermentation tank. It just needs to cool down by a cuppla degrees then I’ll toss in some yeast. I heard youz talkin’ ‘bout Merv and Janet. Any hope?” Granny nodded to FOW who slid a canoe across the bar.
“Well, she doesn’t want to talk to me. Father wants to talk to her, but I don’t think it will help.”
“No, them Callithumpians keep to themselves. Very intolerant of other faiths.. I wouldn’t bother.” Granny skulled her drink and nodded for a second, which followed the first one quick smart.” I’m going upstairs for a shower, are you still happy to take me to see Merv?”
“Yes, O’Hoo will take over while I’m gone.”
………………………………………………………..
The van arrives for Merv…
The hospital visit went as hospital visits usually go. Twenty minutes of driving around looking for an overpriced parking spot. Then ten minutes of trying to find the ward. At least that gave one time to try to acclimatise to the smell of disinfectant, which failed to disguise the smell of urine. Eventually they found the ward where they were pleased to see that Merv was no longer manacled to the bed.
Merv had assumed that MRI-Brain was some sort of brain biopsy so had been getting worked up over the idea of a big needle, or blade, going into his brain. The nurse had allayed his fears by telling him that it was a brain scan using big magnets and shit. The scan, according to a verbal report, was unremarkable, which is medical speak for normal. He’d eagerly conveyed all of this to his visitors.
“So, what’s the next step, son?” Granny was stoic, but in reality was pretty worried.
“Well, they’re considering an orchidectomy, which seems odd, because we don’t grow any flowers!” Merv exclaimed.
“No, well that sounds good, love, we’ll push off, I’ve still got wort that needs my attention.”
As they wandered through the maze of hallways and tunnels Foodge whispered to Granny. “Why do they want Merv’s orchids?”
“I suspect it’s just some medical thing.” Granny replied, nodding knowingly.
Written by Shoe – Direction and Photography by Mark.
“Granny can’t be all that deaf,” Mark was remarking.
“I’m not going as Death,” Granny hollered. The cellar’s a long way. From is even longer by the time Granny climbs the stairs after a few quiet ones.
“Fancy dress,” Algy explained to Big M, “They’re holding an Allusion to celebrate we’re all in a better place.
“There’s a row of them in a big wooden box,” Foodge heard Granny screech as he walked in.
“I’m all done in, Uncle Merv.”
Merv set down a steaming cup of milo on the bar. Foodge expelled the breath of a man of all reason. Foodge was a season of reason. No-one dared ask. Foodge was likely to recount. He might recount his entire latest judgement. Foodge never came away from any trial without a good 40-minute obiter.
“Come to think of it,” Shoe said aloud. She thought she was only thinking it. “Foodge comes away from every trial like a man glued to postal mail.”
She wrote it down. Benj, new proprietor of the bookshop suggested, “Like a George the Fifth?”
Benj in better times…
So unnecessary. Overstatement of an adhesive. Strictly speaking, it had been used before.
“If we could make them a little less corny.”
Mark was remarking.
“Not again,” Yvonne groaned. Yvonne could barely breathe for fear if she stopped holding her breath in anticipation, Shoe would say nothing more, write nothing, least of all think.
“Breathe, Yvonne.”
Mark had it in hand. He placed the bar bill down on the, well, bar.
“I can’t read all these zeroes,” Shoe animated. “You can’t expect me to pay this as penalty. Three quadrillion billion five thousand and thirty two million…”
“That’s a heart starter,” sibilanted Big M. Big sibilanted in the face of all emergencies. He knew where to toss a vowel in for good effect when needed.
Ms Lake shouts the next round…
“Here’s a how-de-do,” Veronica Lake said. Ms Lake is new to that beer-soaked chook-squirt-stained establisment. Everyone remembers the Mexican chooks imported from, well, close to the truth.
“This is what comes of putting drinks on tick in an ever-expanding consciousness series sense,” Foodge interrupted, “I’ll take the case.”
