Sorry. Just look for Jimmy Reid Speech on Youtube 🙂

Attribution: I found this wonderful speech on Tony Wilson’s collection – Speakola. Do check it out.

Reprise of an oldie but a goodie !

06WednesdayJan 2010

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Foodge Private Dick

≈ 28 Comments. – you can go back to the original story if you want to read the comments 🙂

I can’t remember whether Mark , myself or Both of us wrote this …

“Da” ? “Da!”. Trotsky was not really giving his Russian much of a workout, which was fine by me since he’d already exhausted my extensive knowledge of the lingo.  My surprise at discovering that the Hell’s Angles were led by Leon Trotsky was not inconsiderable, but it was not the full deal.

The steel entrance door snicked open and another familiar face sloped in.

“G’day Foodge” said O’Hoo as he flopped down in the chesterfield .  “Lend us one of your Lucky Strikes”, he continued with the tobacco theme – much to the pleasure of a reminiscing Gez.

Now there was a man of iron.  Not only was O’Hoo recently deceased, but he didn’t seem much put out with the new tattoo beaten into his arse cheek.  He just flopped right down and totally ignored the dermal disruption.

“Thanks for coming over”. “My pleasure” I said, keeping an eye on Trotsky and his ice pick.  But Trotsky was looking at O’Hoo as if he (O’Hoo) was Stalin – or more likely Beria.  He was in his box and the crowd was looking to O’Hoo for the run of play.

I was starting to feel less like I was going to be shipped off to do some concreting on a Russian Mafia-owned building site; some foundation work, if O’Hoo was the big cheese at Highbury.

“Jesus”, I’ve got a splitter of headache.  Do you have….” I pulled out my remaining aspirin… “Anything stronger”?.  He was talking to the room more so than he was talking to me.

Pi handed over a small leather bag with the makings of a line or two.  I was pretty sure it wasn’t Rinso.  O’Hoo had only recently come back across the Styx, and now he was off for another dance with Morpheus.  No wonder he wasn’t particularly worried about his new tatt.

This was starting to shape up like the cast list from War and Piece.  Not Tolstoy’s epic“War and Peace”, but Gez and Mike’s attempts to get things published by Unleashed.

O’Hoo was skating along the edge of the local constabulary and playing first fiddle for the Hells Angles.  Nice.  A double agent.  A double agent with a septum that flapped like a loose spinnaker in a stiff nor-easter.  Not a good look for a copper.  A dribbly snoz from a snorting habit.

O’Hoo was flying and suddenly wanted to revisit our night out.  ‘Hey, Foodge.  Let’s go back and score some more ink”.  He said.  It wasn’t a suggestion.  It was an instruction.

“I have a score to settle with that bastard who gave us the spiked JW Reds”.

“What bastard was that ?”.  My memory tape for last night was completely wiped.

“The fuckin’ one-armed guy.  You remember !  The bastard in the cassock !  They were callin’ him Sandy”.

Things were taking a turn for the worse.  I’m tagging along by “special invitation” with a speed-balling cop/Russian Mafia double agent in search of a one-armed drink-spiking priest called Sandy.  I was a bit distracted.  I’d forgotten about Trotsky.  And I had nearly forgotten about my appointment with the blonde Miss Anne Thropy.[1]

[1] Astute readers will notice I changed the spelling of this character’s name to improve the pun.  Don’t bother going back and checking, I’ve probably changed the previous one by now.

Story by Merv (in the third person)

Emmjay sat in the far corner of the front bar.  It was quiet.  The only thing that gave away that the pub was open … was Emmjay over in the corner and Merv quietly dirtying some glass canoes with a rag that looked like it was worn by one of the Pharaohs – but greasier.

He had the look of world-weariness that only his mates in force, could put a dent in.  In front of him was a crumpled piece of paper.  Emmjay’s eyes closed, and he nodded off into some kind of reverie.  Spotting the crumpled piece of paper and hearing Emmjay’s  muffled snoring, Merv soft-shoed his way over and soundlessly withdrew the piece of paper.  Taking it back to the bar, Merv poured himself a glass canoe of trotter’s ale *, adjusted his pince-nez, sipped from the glass and read the following:

Dear Patrons of the Pig’s Arms. This letter is to beg forgiveness for Emmjay’s protracted absence from the pub. 

He has had some rather pressing issues to deal with in the last six months including getting the sack from a highly paid job with a fucking insurance company, to being offered three new jobs in the one week (which to pick ?).  He ultimately chose a part-time job for a research-based wing of a not-for-profit disabilities organisation – and then, because the pay was pretty low, he took on another job part-time testing a web portal.  The problem that he then faced was that the not-for-profit organisation did not pay enough to cover the mortgage – and the web portal testing demanded a full-time tester, so Emmjay got the flick from that as well.

Emmjay’s been having a bit of a struggle with his ADHD, and I have to say that his morale has been a bit down and he clearly wasn’t able to fit in visiting the pub.  He has been coming home from work so exhausted that he typically goes to sleep in front of the TV after dinner – and then wakes up four or five times in the night.  This tiredness stuffs up his next day at work.

Merv was starting to get the picture.  He took the only obvious option – another pull on his Trotter’s Ale. Merv continued reading.

Mr Merv, Emmjay’s not been feeling like writing much and his sense of humour is hiding under one of the blankets on his bed.  He was clearly elated by Labor’s big win, but equally depressed by what he sees as Russian Hordes raping, pillaging and slaughtering Ukrainians.  And the flattened and burnt apartment towers really upset him so he’s stopped watching the News again.

Just to make sure that the universe has piled on sufficient shit, he came down with Covid-19 yesterday and faces a week isolating in Tim the Cabin Boy’s eerie.  Fortunately , he’s vaccinated up to the eyeballs, Mr Merv and he says it’s not too bad – just like a rather large cold.

His partner FM has been putting a lot of support into our boy and her kindness knows no boundary.  I know he’d be stuffed without her.

Anyway, Mr Merv, FM and I will be encouraging Emmjay to just start writing a little bit every day – and hope that he comes good and returns to the Pig’s Arms post haste.

With our very best regards,

Mrs Jay.

Merv took another pull on his Trotter’s, smiled and reached for the phone…

*   For readers concerned about Merv’s health, it wasn’t one of the glasses Merv had befouled previously.

Hiya Scotty from Marketing.

I know how much you like to get on the tools in preference to boring sh1t like running the country, and I think this has been one of your great strengths – tool-wise you can do almost anything.

Nothing seems to faze you – from flying fighter planes, driving tanks, doing a fast lap as a Mount Paranormal navigator, making bits of stuff, hammer and nail. Struth – even sweeping up an already swept up gym floor and striking fear into the hearts of everyone risking a quick salon shampoo.

We’ve been really impressed how you’ve become a great outdoorsman (still waiting for you to shear a sheep – if Barnhouse Joy lets you) replete with Viyella shirt, moleskins and RM ding boots.

But I think the great debt the nation owes you Scotty from Marketing is that above and beyond all else, you’ve shown every Australian and statespersons and monarchs around the globe … how f*cking easy it is to be the Prime Minister of Australia.

And if, heaven forbid, you ever tire of the job, I want to let you know that I am ready to step into your shoes and give the country some respite care. I know where to get a hard hat and all the tools (Pig-Tel male order) and I can be out there in front of every photo opp in literally a flash. Well, not quite as bright as your flash. (How are the old retinas, by the way ?)

I sincerely hope that you can still see straight because you had better not take your eyes off Mr Potato Head, especially since he’s in charge of all the guns and sharp swords.

I forgot to say that I have a ukulele, and from what I’ve seen and heard, I’m pretty well on top of the April Sun in Cuba.

So don’t forget to take me up on my generous offer – and maybe we can lay a couple of bricks, light a fire under a few steaks and rinse our gums with some frothy beverage. I’m pretty sure that we’ll keep the barbie under tight control and just in case, I’ll invite a couple of Rural Fire and SES volunteers – so there’s no chance you’ll be asked to hold a hose or bale out the cabana.

Your old mate

Mervyn Purvis,

Licensee of the Pig’s Arms.