Author Archives: Therese Trouserzoff

Essay for a Fourth Birthday: no bull!

08 Wednesday May 2013

Posted by in Sandshoe

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Shoe 1

Text and Images by Sandshoe

The image (above) is a photo of the wire of an iron frame wire gate, modified by intensifying the colours, by cloning and re-pasteing onto it selected areas of the view through the wire to highlight the wire and converting the resultant image into interpretive forms using Photoshop.

In other words, folks who don’t know, I altered the original photo until I stopped on an image that ‘pleased’ me insofar as it illustrates the meaning (for me) in an abstract form that I derive out of the photo I started with.

Only short of the conversion of it into a kaleidoscopic form, I posted the photo of the gate wire this morning on a social network site I recently began to contribute to, blipfoto. For those who do not know about ‘blipping’, blipfoto allows a subscriber one photo a day. ‘Blippers’ sift through a daily diet of individual’s photos as they choose and comment in return. Try to upload a photo that was not taken within a recent time frame and the blipfoto programme will deny it entry. Assume a photograph from a few days ago will ‘do’ for today and the programme allocates it a position if you have one available on the calendar day the photo  was taken, if you hadn’t already uploaded one that day, and labels it ‘backdated’.

You cannot on any given day qualify for that day if you did not take a photo and you are asked to not fudge it.

Instructions are easy enough to follow, uploading a photo takes no time, the level of my subscription attracts no charge and some people write text to go with their photo.

Shoe 2

Not very different from the pub really in some ways, blipfoto, except emphasis on the Pig’s here is not exclusively photography, does not ask for anything that is an identifier other than an email address, lacks some discipline as any self respecting pub does in Australia packed with writers and artists, the inspiration of causal and casual cooks and chefs and totally, talk.

Sometimes we turn up and sometimes we do not, who knows turn tail for a while or forever, barrack for the proprietor.

Writing and posting contributions on the wall of the front bar, the Pigs Arms, The Window Dresser’s Arms, Pig & Whistle does best. This ever changing exhibition happens according to how fast the next person’s expression of their eccentric inner self gets posted and the list of contributors cycles. That’s valuable work alongside, leastwise, housing Granny and her dubious brewing equipment, Foodge, Merv the Barman and the twins and their mother, the characters all who have developed within the walls – and allegedly leasing commercial space that is at present always available in the vacant rooms of the pub, its outlier buildings for more characters if they are thought of, more mythology such as has grown around the carpark and when the plumbing blocks ,the emergency long drop left over from when the night truck collected the excreta and council workers clanged cans on purpose underneath the guest wing.

The Hell’s Angles keep an eye on security, although Foodge is a Private Dick.

The older the history of the Pig’s Arms the more layers of the story are told,.

The contributions of the barflies and casual contributors are inside the folders on the RHS of the page. A commenter can jump in anywhere but if they want and comment and contribute to the story of the bar itself without following the trail. Gosh, it doesn’t take Einstein to understand the premise keeping these premises open 24/7 is home spun, feet on the ground brawlin’ and fightin’ and spittin’ and… wrong story line, sorry, I was reading the wrong instructions. I’m a copywriter. They paid me to…

They didn’t!

Sorry. I maintain a dedicated loose grip on the truth. No-one gets paid.

Truth, honest, Mike Jones regardless hasn’t been awarded the Order of Australia yet for the Pig’s Arms even though he made it to the cover of Rolling Stone …

He didn’t!  That was Seniors magazine!

… sent me an email a while back and suggested I send in a piece for the birthday party.  I’m onto it.

Happy Fourth Birthday, Pig’s Arms at The Window Dresser’s Arms, Pig & Whistle.

#strangerparadise

07 Tuesday May 2013

Posted by in Neville Cole

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nev strangerparadisetitle

Episode One: What Dreams May Come

Thoroughly modern pulp fiction from Neville Cole

“Fucking shit,” foul-mouthed newscaster A.J. Clemente intones during his weekly wrap up show What The Fuck, Yo! “Remember our good friend, @midlifecrisisguy? Well, it appears his 15 minutes is up. Sources from Bieber Memorial Hospital confirmed that for all intensive purposes, Richard Marley, AKA @midlifecrisisguy, is dead. His TwitObit reads:

@twitobit @midlifecrisisguy Dick Marley is dead. Dead as a doorknob. He is survived by his estranged wife @hotcougarmom  and his teenaged son @fuckallyallpimp

“@fuckallyallpimp as you may remember,” Clemente continued, “is the brilliant mind behind the highly successful Mid Life Crisis channel on YouTube. It pretty much blows my skull, but, less than two years ago, what we now know as the mega million dollar MLC Empire was little more than a collection of videos documenting the fracturing of @midlifecrisisguy and @hotcougarmom’s eighteen year marriage. Now, it appears, the MLC shining star is no more. Well friends, as I often note in my blog 50 Shades of Shit, reality ain’t always as it seems. I have just received an instagram from an attending physician at Bieber Memorial. The image shows what appears to be the body of @midlifecrisisguy in state tis; but check out what @bieberphyz says:

@bieberphyz WTFY! @midlifecrisisguy aint dead yet. Hes just almost vry nrly dead, yo. But priest is comin 2 read last rights. So prolly vry soon #wtfy!

More on this strange ass story as it unfolds; but if I know you fuckers as good as I think I do, you’re about to ditch me and check out those old @midlifecrisisguy videos on MLC. Well, sit your ass down and chill, yo! I got a brand new, never seen before, montage already shredded for you. You won’t want to miss this! Fucking hilarious! Up next, the very best of @midlifecrisisguy and @hotcougarmom…and we will have it for you, right after these important messages!”

At Bieber Memorial they are taking things a little more seriously; but only a little. Marley’s soon-to-be widow, Debra, is at the virtually deceased’s bedside, looking stunning in sleek black sheath partially covering a hot pink pushup bra. Marley’s almost fatherless son, Robbie, is recording the events for an upcoming MLC memorial.

“Mom,” Robbie whispers quietly enough that the World News cameras can’t pick up the audio. “When the priest gets here you might want think about shedding a tear or two. I’m going to break so hard I’m dropping the phone, FYI. Our audience eats up that emotional shit.”

At World News Central Don Williams reports the events with all the gravitas he can muster; but even he nearly cracks while announcing the arrival of Father Yung Boy Phuc

“Holy shit,” Robbie snickers, “the priest is a gook. Classic.”

Father Phuc mumbles in latin and every phone in the room records the event for posterity.

@bieberphyz amen @midlifecrisisguy rip brah. #wtfy!

The instant after @bieberphyz posts his last rights image to instragram, the first real miracle of Marley’s pitiful life occurs: the thumb, index, ring and little fingers of his left hand all constrict simultaneously.

@bieberphyz Fuck off! Father Phuc! Lmfao! #wtfy!

“Dead man flips priest the bird. What the fuck, yo?” Clemente screams in breathy ecstasy. “@midlifecrisisguy may have to change his handle to @notdeadmiracleman if this shit keeps up.”

Inside Marley’s cracked skull all is calm. A blond vision hovers above him and kisses his fevered brow. Around about all is soft and snowy. He is bathed in bright, warm sunlight. He floats on a cloud of bliss. Back at Beiber Memorial he is bathed in fluorescent light and soaks in a pool of piss. His final answer to Father Phuc remains a middle finger salute.

“His eyes!” Robbie points and zooms in his camera phone. “They’re doing the REM flicker thing. He’s not dead. He’s not dead.”

“What’s going on?” Debra wails at @bieberphyz. “You said he was almost very nearly dead!” Not waiting for a reply she throws herself into a chair and weeps true tears of confusion. @bieberphyz immediately rushes to her side but his sudden show of concern is cold comfort.

Meanwhile, World News Central is positively giddy about their latest scoop.

“Dick Marley, the mid-life crisis guy, is suddenly the not dead miracle man! As the world waits for Marley to open his eyes and speak, news is circulating that police are looking to question a woman seen at the scene of Marley’s near demise. She has been described as “a woman with blonde hair” and is known to authorities only as “the sexy blonde.” However, sources have told World News that this so-called sexy blonde may, in fact, be a leading member of the infamous Tech Separatist Group who go by the name Paradise. Paradise is loose-knit band of rural terrorists who refuse to carry smart phones and have been known to toss televisions and computers out of high rise buildings. Any persons with information regarding the whereabouts of the sexy Paradise blonde, seen here in surveillance footage taken just seconds after the Marley incident are urged to immediately tweet any and all leads to @therealfbi #findthesexyblonde.”

nev blond walk away survillance“The problem we have,” FBI Commissioner Gordan Gotham finally responded some twenty minutes later after unprecedented public pressure, “is that the sexy blonde whom some have dubbed the paradise blonde does not use a cell phone or a credit card and has thus far managed to avoid any and all of our extensive surveillance areas. In fact, we haven’t had a single image of video provided to us since incident. All we know is what we have all witnessed. The blonde in question appears shortly after the explosion, removes her coat, places it under Mr. Marley’s head and kisses him on the forehead. After that she walks slowly away. The camera on the scene remained on the body as it is programmed to do; but what we don’t understand in why no other cameras in the immediate vicinity managed to track the sexy blonde’s escape. Frankly, we are stumped and not sure how much longer we can continue to use up the department’s resources to chase down all these wild gooses. As we have already determined there are a lot of sexy blondes out there. Or, at least, there are a lot of blondes out there who think they are sexy.”

Later that night the FBI would officially put The Case of the Sexy Paradise Blonde on hold at least until @notdeadmiracleman awoke and did something to once again capture the public attention.

Marley’s bliss ends with an ear-shattering crack. His snowy bed becomes a drifting iceberg. All around is nothing but empty ocean. Suddenly a zebra drops out of the sky and hits the berg with great velocity. Clearly the zebra is injured. All of its legs appear to be broken. From out of nowhere a hyena is swimming furiously toward the iceberg. At the same time an orangutan floats in to view on big bunch of bananas. The hyena and the orangutan get on the iceberg and the hyena starts eating the zebra which really seems to bother the orangutan. After the hyena eats the zebra he fights, then eats, the orangutan. Then, to Marley’s great surprise, a tiger, that had apparently been on the iceberg the whole time, eats the hyena. It is just Marley and full-grown Bengal tiger left on the iceberg.  “Take a chill pill, kid” the tiger says lazily. “It’s going to be a long, strange, trip.”

@hotcougarmom Plz wake up @notdeadmiracleman. Ur fam lvz U #wakeupmiracleman

“What’s this all about?” Robbie hisses and shoves his phone in his mother’s face. “You really think they will fall for this?”

“What are you talking about? I’m just trying to show support. I don’t want him to die, for god’s sake.”

“It didn’t seem to bother you all that much when we thought he was dead.”

“We all have different ways of dealing with stress. Besides, I am still in shock.”

“So what are you thinking? You’ve seen the light? It’s redemption time? We can save this family? I think not. You want to know what to do next? You come to me. There is a lot of money riding on how this all plays out. I can’t afford you messing it up by trying to figure things out on your own.”

“What are you saying?” Debra says with real shock in her voice.

“I’m saying,” say Robbie suddenly quite matter-of-fact: “If you try to run this show one more time and I will cut you out. In less than a month no one will even remember who @hotcougarmom is.”

“You would cut me out?”

“Ancient history. Count on it. So, Debra. What do you say? Shall we play be my rules from now on?”

“You’re the boss, Robbie.”

“Good. Then you won’t mind if I keep your phone for a while. You have some important tweets to send.”

Thanks in part to Robbie’s machinations, the non-stop @notdeadmiracleman media barrage continues on unabated. No story since the baby go boom bomber has captured the world zeitgeist like this one. Even males 12 to 18 are paying attention. Well, between video games. Every demographic it seems is looking for answers. Will the @notdeadmiracle man wake up? If so, when? If not, should doctors pull the plug? If they pull the plug will it be on pay per view? Is @midlifecrisisguy really dreaming? What about? What dreams may come as @notdeadmiracleman flirts with shuffling off this mortal coil? Will God save @notdeadmiracleman? Will God save any of us? Was @midlifecrisisguy really giving the finger to the priest? Is this a CIA plot? What should one wear to a spring wake? Is this whole thing just a brilliant publicity stunt? Can you believe how hot the paradise blonde is? Oh, and by the way, what’s up with @hotcougarmom and @bieberphyz? Are they an item?

Back at her paradise by the sea the sexy paradise blonde is oblivious to the @notdeadmiracleman’s great comatose adventure. She sits quietly on her front porch staring at a bold full moon hovering over a still, dark empty ocean. While, in his room, finger still raised, only his eyeballs moving, @notdeadmiracleman continues to dream.

Irresponsibility

05 Sunday May 2013

Posted by in Gregor Stronach

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Suzuki_GSF_1200_Bandit_2006_13_1024x768

Story by Gregor Stronach

As I lay recovering from my recent birthday, where a quiet evening’s drink turned into a beer and acid fuelled weekend of ultimate confusion, I began to formulate many theories on irresponsibility. I feel bad because I drank so much beer. I also feel bad that I have, technically speaking, broken the ridiculous laws that demand that my consciousness remain seated at all times while the carriage is in motion. Why? Because Society would have us believe that being irresponsible is a terrible thing indeed.

Recent major events, both personal and involving the population at large, have given me reason to pause and consider the nature of irresponsibility. It has the twin abilities of making us cry and laugh. Crying is good for the soul, and laugher is, of course, the best medicine there is. Unless you have stitches in your scrotum. Then it’s bad. But even then, irresponsible things can be good, and a quick look will tell you that they’re happening all around us all the time.

I watched in awe as Albert Park was turned into a high-speed demolition derby yet again, by the travelling freak show that is Formula 1 motor racing. I love motor racing, but really – is it a good idea to be showing vehicles travelling in excess of 300 km/h on what are, essentially, public roads? Not to be outdone, some idiot came up with the idea of cramming celebrities into Minis and setting them loose on the track.

Everyone knows that celebrities, particularly Aussie celebrities, are competitive to the point of self-harm when it comes to getting their share of the limited exposure the Australian media can offer. Given half a chance, you’ll find them stepping over each other’s dead bodies in the street to get their heads on TV. Hell – they’ll even stoop to posing nude in ‘art’ magazine Black+White for a career boosting moment of pervy fame.

So giving them moderately powerful small cars and letting them try to kill each other live on national TV was probably not the most responsible thing to do.

We’ve seen irresponsibility recently in the Australian state of New South Wales’ politics as well. I question the responsibility of the two major parties trying desperately to one-up each other on the level of punishments that they’re willing to force the judiciary to mete out to hapless criminals. But God bless the Greens in New South Wales for their visionary policy that will neatly remove the seedy side of purchasing party drugs. No one’s gonna vote for them for suggesting that the state legalise pills and speed, but bless them for giving it a go. I really do think that once they manage to crowbar Cheech and Chong from their policy committee, they’ll finally begin to get somewhere. Until then, the paperless office is ought but a nightmare for the Greens – skinning up a joint with no paper is going to be a big ask, people.

My personal life has taken an irresponsible turn as well. I was granted my unrestricted motorcycle licence, merely for achieving the milestone of turning 30 years of age. Having been restricted to riding 250cc bikes, some of which are plenty fast enough, I suddenly found myself aboard what can only be described as one of the most irresponsible pieces of machinery in the world – a Suzuki Bandit 1200 S.

It sounds impressive if you know what I’m talking about, but if don’t, just consider this. Small Korean cars are being shipped to Australia for sale to secretaries and wives with 1.3-litre engines. This bike’s engine is a 1.2-litre. The main difference between the two machines is the weight. A small Korean car with a 1.3-litre engine weighs about 1200kg. The Suzuki weighs in at 220kg.

The short explanation of these facts – the Suzuki goes fast. The long explanation, for anyone still with me here, is that it accelerates like a jet fighter, and has a tendency to take off like one too. I did an enormous wheelie out the front of my parents house whilst trying to show off the bike’s abilities. I made it home in record time from my folks house, despite having to stop and clean out my trousers.

A touch of irresponsibility isn’t necessarily a bad thing. It’s important to keep our inner child alive. Not to the extent that Michael Jackson would have you believe, but life without a shade of irresponsibility would be like living in a mausoleum.

But the level to which some of us exercise our irresponsibility is a tad over the top. For example, dragging an entire geographically isolated nation of questionable economic and political power into a war on the other side of the globe for interests that are clearly never going to be high on our list of priorities is a bit much.

Sadly, as with everything fun in life, it appears that moderation is once again the key.

First published by Rum & Monkey  back when men were men.

What Have We Done to Deserve This ?

05 Sunday May 2013

Posted by in Emmjay

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Tony Abbott wears a rainbow hair net as part of an organ donation campaign.

Story by Emmjay

As we rocket towards the next election, the one certainty, IMHO, is that Australia will inevitably get the government we deserve.

In 2007, the Ruddslide disposed of a much despised sitting Prime Minister and his party.  Australia had clearly grown very tired of a very tired, mean-spirited and uninspired government wedded to Thatcherite free-market principles.  My God !  The rodent had taken Australia to war in Iraq against massive public opinion and justified his decision with lies about non-existent weapons of mass destruction.  How bad did a government and a Prime Minister have to be before the electorate would throw the bastards out ?

Rudd’s little-disguised frustration and inability to push ahead with much change, beyond admittedly engineering a world-leading response to the global financial crisis – saw his inconceivable deposal by his deputy.  He has proven that he is not a team player – moreover he has stayed true to his real calling of being an administrator, not a politician.

Rudd’s removal left the Left supporters amongst the Centre-Left in a quandary – torn between the exciting possibilities of Australia’s first female Prime Minister and the obvious disrespect for Rudd’s achievement in beating Howard.  There were many weasel words in transparently unconvincing justifications about Rudd losing his party’s confidence, but Australia saw the reality – Labor had gone to jelly at the threat of hostile media-driven polls.

And against a backdrop of long-standing and deeply incompetent and corrupt State Labor governments, the Gillard government managed to hang on to power in the 2010 election with the help of elected independents.

None of this is news, of course, but the previous national election outcome and the widely-predicted one to come show a trend of escalating irrational anger amongst people who are so completely unwilling to think about politics and who are so easily manipulated by media ogres.  This atmosphere threatens to translate into the election of a government who is avowedly antipathetic towards the very interests of those who would traditionally have voted Labor.

Put another way, poorly-informed, lazy and witless voters, easily manipulated by a hostile media funded by cashed-up self-interested parties in mining, gambling and other environmental and social disasters are apparently happy to punish a government and a Prime Minister that they feel is bad.  When asked what is bad about the PM and the government, no coherent response is forthcoming.

And so we see the looming disaster of the possible election of a tory coalition that is not only antipathetic to the needs of everyone south of the upper middle class, a coalition that is indifferent to the exigencies of dealing with climate change, that seeks power for power’s sake, that is an arrant apologist for mega wealthy mining magnates with the social grace of pigs (apologies to real pigs), that is completely clueless about policy and who is led by a misogynist retard bully with all the grace, sophistication and style of a floating turd.

An apt description is John Howard Lite – mean and nasty but without the rat-like cunning.  A party of drop kicks led by a man who could learn a thing or two from a superior intellect – George W Bush – no mean feat.

But is Australia unique in our ability to contemplate disastrous political choices ?

I think not.  Witness the worrying rise of the extreme right in Europe – both in the Spano-Greek-Italian basket case economies and amongst the more solvent Franks and Huns.

More recently, last week in fact, saw the election of huge numbers of new local government members from the UKIP party who won about 25% of the votes in the seats that they contested across Britain.  Led by Nigel Farage (described by David Cameron as a loony – when Cameron was leader of the Opposition) a rag tag bunch of disparate people who are not in any sense organised beyond sharing a desire to be with white folk in a society remarkably like the 1950s, the UK Independent Party overnight become a major force in British politics.

For what do they stand ?  Answer: pulling Britain out of the EU and turning the taps off on immigration for the “next five years or so”.  How these policies make sense – especially at the level of a local council, I have to admit, is beyond me.

Cameron did a backflip from his new position of being in power and toned down the “loony” comment, recognising that his coalition was likely at some stage to have to engage and negotiate with these half-witted Hansonites in the very near future.

What is causing this madness ?  Why are people supporting far right arsehats – the kind that our parents fought wars against ?  I think it’s because as nations we are easily frightened and when we are frightened, we revert to type.  Australians, in the main are sheep too.

We are frightened by real and imaginary forces alike.  Like the UKIP, we are so willing to follow the first arsehole in red speedos who exhorts us to circle the wagons and break out the carbines.  And so what if a few of our own folk who have the misfortune of looking a little bit like red Indians get caught in the crossfire ?  It’s for the greater good.  One’s own tribe’s greater good.  A sacrifice worth making – so long as someone else is making it.

And it is a huge mistake to respond to far right political supporters by trying to placate them.  Chamberlain was proven badly wrong by history.  There was, and is now, no piece of paper guaranteeing peace in our time.

When Julia Gillard smacked Tony Abbott for his crass, moronic personal attacks and beat him so severely for his misogynous demeanour, it made the world media stand up and take notice.  That’s the appropriate way to treat a dog that refuses to behave – a rolled up newspaper across the snout.

But returning to the main concern, how is it that, in the face of one of the most important initiatives ever to be undertaken by any government – worldwide – and BTW, much better handled in the past by Britain than here – namely proper support for the disabled –how is it  that anyone would contemplate voting for not the party carrying the initiative, but the Opposition ?

It beggars belief why a population that overwhelmingly supports a far better deal for disabled people and their carers  – even to the extent of 60% of polled respondents accepting an increase in the Medicare Levy – would for a minute consider voting for another party that has to be brought kicking and screaming to the table every fucking time.  A party with no discernible policies beyond opposing everything.  A party with nothing positive to say, and no vision for the country beyond turning the clocks back Howard style.

Perhaps Clive Palmer and Bob Katter – who epitomise the loony far right could offer the country a way of avoiding the disaster of a Tony Abbott-led government by dumb perverse chance.  They might split the conservative vote and allow Labor a slim chance to survive; a chance to push forward with more real reform.

A chance to avoid accommodating the political wishes of morons whose sole objection to the PM is “I just don’t like her”.

I’m not a huge fan of Julia Gillard, but I do concede that she and the party have had to deal with some seriously difficult issues – from the position of a minority government, the powerful hostility of the mining and energy multinationals, a hostile media, corruption and outright incompetence in the broader Labor party and the global financial crisis, the rise of violent fundamentalists and the distractions of a deposed former leader who has justified his own removal by acting like a petulant schoolgirl ever since.

I want a tough and humane leader who admits and redresses mistakes like she does.  I don’t want some bozo on a bicycle wandering around in dayglo vests with hair nets and safety glasses, pretending that he’s a man of the people, struggling to keep his um feet out of um his um mouth.

Smells a bit Fishy

Smells a bit Fishy

An Australian George W Bush ?  Please NO !

How to Cook the Best Trout Ever …

05 Sunday May 2013

Posted by in Vivienne

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Vivienne at local Lake Hume with a freshly caught little redfin – just to prove I do have a real interest in fishing. But you have to go up the mountains to Dartmouth for the best trout described below.

Vivienne at local Lake Hume with a freshly caught little redfin – just to prove I do have a real interest in fishing. But you have to go up the mountains to Dartmouth for the best trout described below.

Story by Vivienne

First, catch your trout !

Seriously, this is what you really have to do and here is how…

My daughter and her bloke went on a camping/fishing long weekend.  As recent owners of a rejuvenated boat with new engine and trailer it was time to give it a good work out at the famous Dartmouth Dam.  They had been told about a good camping/fishing spot which could only be accessed by boat.  This was great but a bit daring as there is no mobile reception there and the weather had turned a bit dodgy.  First day was a bit miserable but they had a good fire going having abandoned the rough waters after a lot of getting wet and getting no fish.

Day two dawned and it was perfect.  Landed one big trout (and some useless carp).  Day three was also perfect and landed another big trout.

I texted daughter when I knew they must be on their way home.  They were in the Eskdale Pub and yes, Mum, have a trout for you.  Next day trout was delivered into my grateful hands.

Well the trout was big (45cm) and required the removal of head and tail fin before it just fitted my biggest pan.

I cooked it slowly in a little butter – very simple.  Served with two appropriate salads.   The trout took about 40 minutes to cook through (turned once).  I presented it on an oval dish which did it justice and then promptly forgot to take a photo (again).

The taste was ‘out of this world’ good.  Fantastic.  Moist.  It was the best fish of any kind I had ever had.   The water in Dartmouth dam is clear and sweet – part of the recipe for the best trout.

 

Foodge 42 – Steak Out – Medium Rare

05 Sunday May 2013

Posted by in Big M

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John Howard Tracksuit

Thanks to First Dog at Crikey.com.au

Story by Big M

Foodge leaned back against the smudged, stained wall behind him. He had been awake for over a day and a half, watching the ‘medical practice’ across the road from the Pig’s Arms. He was, a self confessed, master of disguise and had been through over twelve changes of clobber during the shift. He was now wearing his green and gold tracksuit that he had kept from his tilt at the disabled Olympics, but the tan leather brogues and white tennis socks had let the entire outfit down. He locked himself into a Bishopesque fixed stare with the small, tanned face across the round, laminex table. “Manne, thanks for taking over. No reports of malfeasance, and, more importantly, no sight of the target.” The target being Vinh Ordinaire Rouge, missing pleece inspector.

Foodge reached out to shake hands, but caught his sleeve on a stray screw sticking out of the aluminium edging on the table. Table, coffees and half a pie ‘n’ sauce ended up in Manne’s lap. “Err…sorry, old chum…must dash.” Foodge made good his egress through the multiple strips across the entrance to ‘Con’s café’, and hotfooted it to the Pigs.

It was, literally, a few minutes before sparra’s fart, and the sky had the slightest hint of colour, but the stars and the moon still shone brightly. The façade of the pub was dark, except for a narrow beam that escaped the crack between the doors of the Main Bar. Foodge sprinted (wandered) across the road, pulled back one of the heavy timber and glass doors, and let himself in. Unfortunately the door closer was so powerful it knocked him halfway into the Gentleman’s Bar, where a weary Merv stood, absent-mindedly polishing pint glasses with a dirty rag.  “Ah, Merv, my good man, there wouldn’t be a pint of Best there for your old mate?”

Merv shook himself from his reverie. “Granny, ‘e’s here!” As he slopped a canoe across the timber bar.

Granny appeared out of nowhere, and Foodge, being a great student of human behaviour, thought there was something wrong. Was she sick? No. There was something about her face. Had she been bitten? A rash, perhaps? No. Granny didn’t wander over and slap a plate of bacon, eggs and wedges in front of him. She seemed to just loiter in the doorway. Foodge squinted over the top of his glass. ‘Oh, shit.’ He thought. ‘She wearing a dress, and worse, she’s wearing lipstick…why the…’

“How’s our favourite crime fighter?” Granny seemed to wiggle her hips a little, as she spoke. “How about Granny rustles up some breakfast?” With that she disappeared into the kitchen.

“Merv, what the hells going on with Granny?” Foodge was so gob smacked that his pint hadn’t been touched.

“Uh, another pint?”

“No, what’s wrong with Granny?”

Merv shook his head. “Granny, there’s nothin’ wrong with Granny, in fact she looks mighty fine.” A broad grin creased his lumpy face. “It must be you!”

‘Me…what” Foodge was getting worried.

“Don’t worry, Granny gets a sort of romantic fixation on some younger bloke…let’s face it, we’re all younger blokes.” Merv laughed. “She tarts herself up, makes eyes, at her intended, then, just like that.” Merv clicked his fingers. “She’s back to her ole self.”

Their conversation was interrupted by Granny sashaying in with a plate of eggs, bacon, sausages, mushrooms, tomato, and toast made from Turkish bread. “Here you are young man, a crime fighter’s breakfast.” She paused to lay out the cutlery on the bar, complete with a real paper napkin. “Now Foodge, you are not driving home in that state, there’s a bed made up for you upstairs, where you will be undisturbed,” With that she sashayed off.

Merv was still grinning as he poured a second pint for our Foodge. “Fern rang last night.”

“Oh, good, was there a message?”

“Not sure…something about ‘making contact’…I dunno, guess she’ll catch up later.” Merv clicked the remote to the mega-plasma to watch the start of the Mourning Show.

“Pleece still have no idea about the whereabouts of Detectives ordinaire Rouge and O’Hoo…” the anchorwoman droned on.

Foodge had finished his breakfast and skulled his second pint, placing the glass down on the bar with great aplomb. “Well, Merv, looks like I’m off to bed, nighty night.”

Will Merv remember the message?

Will Foodge meet DCI Ordinaire Rouge in the car park of the Pigs Arms at five p.m?

More importantly, will Granny continue her crush on our favourite Private Dick?