Episode 102 Merv and Unexpected Travel

08 Tuesday Sep 2020

Posted by Mark in Big M, Foodge Private Dick

Tags

Big M, Father O'Way, fiction, Foodge, granny, humour, Merv, O'Hoo

Granny and Father O’Way talk politics…

Written by Big M.

“Granny won’t be what?” Granny (obviously) roared from the landing of the Mary McKillop Memorial Staircase (somehow the naming of things has gone all Catholic).

Foodge looked up and started wringing his plump little hands.” Err, um, ah, um…happy?” Which was hardly a revelation as Granny was rarely happy.

“It was rhetorical!” Granny waved a bony finger at our hero. “Why won’t I be happy?”

“Oh, Christ, I mean, God, I mean Crikey, I’m going to vomit.” Foodge lurched forward, managing to spray his entire stomach contents into the fireplace, which didn’t really help. It’s not like you can burn the stuff.

This time Father O’Way spoke up. “The London trip is being financed by the Vatican, highly sensitive, and they specifically require a single male for the job. When the personal characteristics of the agent were forwarded to me I immediately thought of Foodge. I mean, he’s highly educated, has an encyclopaedic knowledge of criminal law with detective skills that put Holmes to shame. This comes from the Pope himself, with Extreme Unction.” O’Way had no idea what unction was, ordinary or extreme, but thought it added gravitas when working for the tykes.

By this stage Granny had descended the stairs, and stood in front of the Good Father. “So yer sayin’ that this is gonna be a priestly type of excursion, vow a chastity and all that?”

You are kidding me right!

“Err, yep, that kinda sums it up.” O’Way mopped his brow with a linen hanky that the Pope had given him. “We need someone with intelligence and decorum. Someone who can rub shoulders with the common man, chat about current affairs in a Gentleman’s Club, then enjoy theological discussions with the Bishop.” O’Way felt like he was losing his way. For all he knew Foodge could be a Freemason.

“So what youz are sayin’ is that I’m not goin’, but neither are any other sheilas?”

“Absolutely!” O’Way almost heaved a sigh of relief. “No sheilas, I mean birds, I mean ladies at all.”

“So who’s goin’ with him, Merv?”

“I just ruptured an anterio-posterior crucio-menisceal ligament.” Merv gestured for someone, anyone to get another bag of ice.

Granny nodded to Foodge who ambled off sullenly to the ice machine. “Well, we couldn’t send Manne, on the basis of him being a sexual deviant.”

“It was only internet porn, Granny!” A voice came from the kitchen.

“What about O’Hoo, he’s always lookin’ for extra work, unlike the rest of youz, plus he really is a detective.” Granny’s face lit up. “That way youz can try and work out where yer dragon tattoos come from.”

This was an excellent idea, as Big M had forgotten about the tattoos, and, for that matter, O’Hoo!

“The problem with O’Hoo is that he isn’t allowed into England, or, should I say, back into England.” Foodge piped up.

“That’s true, Granny, I can never set foot in England ever again.” O’Hoo was pulling a Piglet Pale Ale. “Well, not since the incident.”

Big M was uncomfortable with the way this episode was heading. Well, more of a

Big M seems upset…

collection of paragraphs, than an episode. Anyhoo.

“What incident?” Granny gasped.

O’Hoo tapped the side of his nose. “Need to know basis.” Enough said.

“Enough said.” Replied Granny, suddenly experiencing déjà vu, or whatever they say in France. “What about you, O’Way?”

“Well, agh, err, um, look there’s a dwarf!” O’Way tried to sprint towards the exit, only to find himself face down on the putrid carpet, thanks to Granny’s almost imperceptible foot work.

“Ah, the jokes on you O’Way, because there’s no such thing as a dwarf!” Granny looked triumphant.

“Actually there is, and plenty of different types; achondroplastic, hypochondroplastic, Laron, Hypophophataemic rickets, there’s a long list…” Merv was warming to his favourite topic.

Anyone for cricket…

O’Way hadn’t realised that Merv had a penchant for dwarfs, or had chosen to forget. Regardless, he’d been hoisted by his own petard, so to speak (Actually he hadn’t but Big M like to get this into conversations, along with ‘damp squib’, and ‘chance would be a fine thing’, which he didn’t understand, either). Petard or not, O’Way sat there rubbing his shin. “I couldn’t go, I’ve got Church business to attend.”

“I thought that this was a mission for, and on behalf of the Pope, hence the Mother Church Herself.” Granny smiled. “No, that’s it, yer goin’”

O’Way sat there nodding miserably.

Foodge and Merv fight for Justice Episode 101.7

05 Saturday Sep 2020

Posted by Mark in Big M

≈ 10 Comments

Tags

Big M, Father O'Way, Foodge, humour, Merv

This kind of encouragement keeps me running…

Written by Big M.

Merv had endured a shit house morning. He’d run to the gym, full of the lightness of running, or whatever that quote was, hit the squat rack, gone too heavy, too early and had his right knee collapse from under him, which wasn’t the purpose of doin’ squats! He’d bludged a lift from one of the young blokes and hobbled through the yard to the rear entrance, only to hear O’Way’s dulcet tones. “I said it’s a paedo job!”

“Yes, Speedos, everyone should have a pair!” Foodge was just pushing a Cup of Chino across the bar as Merv hobbled in.

“Morning Father, how’s the Church of St. Generic Brand goin’?” Merv tried to push himself in between Foodge and the expensive Eye Tallion Expresso machine.

“Dunno, I’m here on behalf of the Church of Rome, with Extreme Unction.”

Hey man, smoke this…

“Oh, shit.” Merv quickly crossed himself. “Spectacles, testicles, wallet ‘n watch. Now what does Holy Mother Church want with our own Foodge?” Merv had assumed that the good Father was trying to co-opt Foodge into summit. He was clever that way.

“Promoting sales of Speedos!” Foodge piped up.

“Not Speedos, paedos.” The Father gestured for something stronger than a chino.

“So the church is selling paedos?” Now Merv was confused.

“Fuck no!” The good Father downed half a pint of Trotters Pilsener. “They’re forming a special task force of Paedo Hunters to root them out, for want of a better word.”

Sweet budgies

Merv now had a pool of water forming under his knee from condensate on the bag of ice balanced on top. “Foodge, old son. Can you throw us a towel?”

“Throw in the towel? No, I’ll be a Paedo Hunter until the end!”

Christ, Foodge, why is everything a double entendre for you? A towel, the cotton thing hangin’ up!”

“So, if I’m to become a Paedo Hunter will I get a gun?” Foodge was finally making himself useful and had mopped up the ice water and started to help Merv to one of the lounge chairs where he could elevate the knee.

“Of course you won’t get a fucking gun, you can’t be trusted with tooth picks.” Which was true, Foodge had endured a previous episode with toothpicks. Let’s just say the magistrate was lenient.

“Let’s just say that the London trip has two aspects. You will be on a fact-finding mission as a Private Detective learning about English detection methods. That’s the cover. The other, secret, aspect is looking for paedos. You’ll be liaising with MI5’s Paedo Branch, and no one else. Do you understand?”

“Yes, so I assume that I’ll be getting a special Paedo Hunter Badge, or MI5 Paedo Officer ID?”

Merv has a fag…

“No, Dopey Dora, it’s fucking secret!!” O’Way had ducked behind the bar to pull a second pint. “Oh, and we expect you to travel alone. You need to maintain the façade of the swinging PI, man of the world, type of presentation.”

A small smile crossed Foodge’s pale lips. “So Granny can’t come?”

“Of course she can’t come. She’ll fuck the whole thing up!” Father O’Way finished his second pint. He certainly wasn’t used to drinking this early. Normally he waited until nine, or even ten.

“Granny won’t be happy!”

Father O’Way is not in this story

11 Tuesday Aug 2020

Posted by Mark in Big M

≈ 10 Comments

Tags

Big M, fiction, Foodge, granny, humour

Nothing to do with the story but nice to look at…

By Big M.

“Yer goin’ where?” Granny pointed a gnarled finger in Foodge’s face.

“Lunn Donne.” Foodge retorted.

“Lunn Fucking Donne!”

“No, London England.” Foodge wasn’t comfortable with this sort of swearing before lunch, or at least before a few beverages.

“London Fucking England!”

“No, just London in England. I don’t think London copulates with England.”

“Don’t get smart with me, Boyoh!”

“I’m not being smart, or even half smart.” Foodge replied, which was true, Foodge was neither smart nor half smart. Half measures worried Foodge. One could be a wit, which was thought to be a great thing, whereas a half-wit was a pejorative word for idiot. Describing someone as smart was high praise, but half smart implied cheekiness, not half wittery.

Trotters Ale cures all ills…

Emmjay, Hung and M hadn’t accounted for Granny’s reaction when they’d decided to send Foodge to Britain to be Special Envoy, or Chief Photographer or whatever the fuck they’d planned.

“Well, it’s by special request, from…you know, certain people, well connected people.” This wasn’t completely true, but the invite involved a firm of solicitors.

“Special Fucking People! Royal Fucking People. What about our relationship?” Granny had let go of her aggressive tone and had moved into the looking crest fallen, just about to cry stage of the argument.

Foodge started to panic. Are we going to have a long chat about our relationship? Is she going to expect me to talk about my feelings? He suddenly realised that Granny couldn’t have a passport because she’d never travelled further than Milson’s Point. “Granny, I may have failed to convey all of the, err, ah, implications of the invitation, I mean, as my, err, partner, I mean, love of my life, you are, um, my plus one, my, other half…”

“Oh, Foodge, that’s a different matter.” Granny was suddenly coquettish. “When’s this trip takin’ place?”

“Soon, my love, very soon.” Foodge’s voice had taken on a soothing quality. “It may be difficult to organise during the Lock Down, but there are always strings that one can pull.”

Just the two of us…

“Oh, goody, I’ll have to get all new underwear and nighties. Shoes..no, leave room for purchases. I guess I can always use the empty space in Foodge’s port. Oh, and I better get my passport out of the safe…”

“Passport?” Foodge gulped and had become noticeably pale. “Won’t it need to be renewed?”

“No, I’ve always kept it up to date, just in case. Don’t you?”

Foodge thought for a second. His passport did need renewal. He was well and truly hoisted by his own petard. Granny had already raced up to her room. Merv’s disgusting visage suddenly appeared across the bar. “Sounds like you need a drink, old son.”

Make it a double!” Foodge collapsed onto a stool. “You won’t believe what I’ve done.”

“I do believe what you’ve done, you was ‘opin’ that Granny wouldn’t have a passport an’ you’d get away to the Old Dart for an ‘olidee.” Merv was already sounding like a Cockney Publican.

“Was it that obvious?”

“I don’t think she knew, but you was ‘oisted by yer own petard.” Merv was unaware that the narrator had just said that on account of him not being part of the last scene.

“What will I do?” Read a few lines ahead sounds good.

“Well, aside from killing yerself…”Merv was already pushing a second canoe across the filthy, stained bar. “Nah, only jokin”, I reckon you’ll ‘ave a hard time getting’ outta the country at the moment, plus the Poms won’t be real welcomin’.”

“No, Mr Merv, it’s official business, you know, top people involved, movers and shakers.” Foodge drained the second pint of Trotters Best. “ This will involve intelligence, planning and courage.” All three were on short supply at the Pigs Arms. “There is one urgent matter to attend.”

“What’s that mate?”

Yeah right…

“Renew my passport!”

Merv Retires

06 Tuesday Aug 2019

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Big M

≈ 14 Comments

The Pig-Tel Mulcher, stripper, shredder and general fuckerer-up

Story by Big M

Big M had reached a heightened, or perhaps, lowered meditative state that can only be achieved by feeding garden waste through a mulcher. He~~hated~~ enjoyed this simple mindless task because it suited his intellect, as well as his vast horticultural skills. A nagging thought repeatedly interrupted his meditation. It was something he had read some months back. He had paid all of the bills, emptied the recycling basket, and watered the baby lettuce. Oh, shit, what was it? Must be some fuckin’ trick question, or somethin’ Mrs M wanted. He ruminated. Something about the Pigs Arms….Ah, Mr Merv retirin’. “Oh shit.” He yelled.

“What’s wrong, Dear?” Mrs M yelled back. “Did you cut your finger off, again, or see a snake, or get the cord on your shorts caught in the mulcher, or fall off a ladder….?”

“No, it’s Merv. Get me best suit, and brogues, and that new Fedora….Oh, wait, I’m not Foodge. Can you book me a fourth class ticket on the Flyer?” Yelled M over the sound of the mulcher.

“Probably not!” Mrs M had already lost interest.

“Why?” Yelled M, as he dragged the mulcher back into the garage.

“It’s not 1937, and there is no flyer, and you can use your Opal Card.” Mrs M knew exactly what was happening, so was already getting her handbag and car keys, knowing that the next question would be something about being driven to the train station.

Twenty minutes later Big M found himself firmly ensconced in an oxymoronically named ‘quiet car’ heading towards Sydney at speeds of up to seventy kilometres per hour. Not three hours later he found himself in the Gentlemen’s Bar at the Window Dressers’ Arms, Pig and Whistle. “Barkeep, a pint of your best.”

Merv was about to turn around and face the arrogant sod when he suddenly recognised the voice. He turned around anyway. “I’m not yer fuckin’ barkeep!” Then grinned. “Gib W, I mean Big M, I’d forgotten who was writing this episode. How the hell are you?” He crushed Big M’s soft nurse’s hand in a vice like grip. A glass canoe quickly followed.

“I’m already enjoying my retirement.” Mumbled M through a foamy, hoppy moustache. “Always thirsty work, commuting.” As he pushed the empty canoe across to Merv who picked up on the hint and proffered another foamy treat. “Anyway, I’m not here to talk about me, I’m here to discuss this rumour about YOUR retirement!”

“Ah, well, that’s difficult.” Merv looked around furtively. “It’s not me that I’m tryin’ to get retired, it’s Granny. I thought that if I sold my share of the pub she might retire.”

“Granny, why Granny? I mean, she’ll work until she drops.” Big M was already looking at the bottom of his empty glass.

“Therein lies the problem.” Merv was pretty pleased with himself for getting one of those high faluting words in, like heretofore, and such. “She’s bloody exhausted!” A third canoe was paddling across the heavily stained timber bar.

“I know the feelin’.” M was as unsteady with his words as his legs, but eagerly skulled another half pint.

“I’ll bet you don’t. It’s bloody Foodge. He’s at her all of the time. Like a boy of fifteen. Early morning, mid-morning, lunchtime, afternoon delight….that’s just a warm-up for the evening!”

“I always thought that our dear Private Dick was pretty backward in the use of the wedding flute. Especially after Granny gave him those anabolic steroids that turned out to be oestrogen.” Big M noticed that the bar had become relatively quiet.

Granny had appeared at he bottom of the stairs. “What mischief are you causin’?” As she pointed a bony finger at M.

“Ah, oo, um, er. No mischief. Um….this new Pale Ale is good, I mean really good….ah, great.” Big M stared into the bottom of his glass and started to tremble. He couldn’t help himself as he started to laugh uncontrollably. “Pftt…..Foodge….a demon in the sack!”

Soon everybody, including Merv was laughing.

“All right you lot…SHUT THE FUCK UP!” Granny was livid. “How dare you laugh at one of the finest Private Dicks in the country?”

The mere mention of ‘Private Dick’ fed the laughter like trying to put out a fire with petrol. Even the Bowling Ladies were tittering from the Ladies bar.

Granny turned on her heel and marched straight back up the Errol Flynn Memorial Staircase.

“Oh fuck, now we’ve done it!” Muttered Merv. Fuck, what will we do now?”

“The best thing we could do is try to work out what’s going on.” Came a quiet voice from the end of the bar. Manne had crept in with a big basket of eggs, having recently taken over the care of Granny’s chooks because she was too busy. “I mean, Foodge might have some hormonal problem.”

“Yes, yes, of course!” Big M picked up on it straight away. “Yes, too much testosterone, or some other androgen. Did Foodge go to an endocrinologist after the oestrogen overdose?”

“Yeah, but he said there was nothing to be done, ‘cept for a powerful placebo.” Mumbled Merv as he wiped over the taps with a dirty rag.”

“Have you ever seen Granny wait? She’s hardly very patient” M mused over a forth pint. “Would she buy steroids?”

“Nah, not after the oestrogen business.” Merv pulled a tray of steaming glasses from the washer, setting them on the bar to cool.

“Has he been to another doctor?” Big M was scratching his head, struggling to finish the episode.

“No, he hates the doctor.” Reckons they’re charlatans, unlike the legal profession.” Merv winked.

“No one else has become horny?”

“Well I can’t speak for anyone else, but there haven’t been many opportunities.” Merv blushed.

Manne shook his head. “Not since Granny caught me with nudies on me phone.”

“We need more help. Where’s Emmjay?”

“Queensland.” Merv was placing the glasses into the bottom of the refrigerator.

“Algy?”

“Thailand.”

“Mark?”

“Summer Bay.”

“The Oosterfolk”

“Costco, no at home.”

“Viv?”

“At ‘ome with ‘er recuperatin’ ‘usband.” Merv grunted as he realised that the IPA keg was empty.

“The rest?”

“Well they’re dispersed across the country as per usual.” Merv was trying to get Manne to pick up on some non-verbal cue about the empty keg. Manne was busily trying to balance an egg on its apex.

“Fuck, we’re on our own?” M slumped over the bar.

“Couldn’t you just measure Foodge’s testicle level?” Manne had given up on his egg-balancing act.

“Of course, great idea. How would we do it? Total urinary steroids. No, too much pissing about. We probably need some blood. How would we get, say, ten mls of blood from Foodge?”

“I could punch him in the nose, then save all of the tissues.” Manne said in earnest.

“I think we need something subtle.” Big M mused. “More subtle than a punch in the nose.”

“You remember Foodge thought he was about to be knighted last Liz’s Birthdee?” Merv’s brow was crumpled in concentration.

“Yep, but what’s that got to do with the price of mullet?” Big M was getting exasperated.

“Well, we tell him that we was doin’ ‘is family tree, and the Royal Family want a blood sample because they think he is a distant member of the royal family, like Liz’s third cousin, four times removed, or summit!” Merv’s brow finally relaxed.

“Yes, yes. I’ll get some needles, syringes, blood tubes, et cetera and away we go!” Big M seemed to sober up at the thought.

To be continued.

Foodge #Bigger – Double IPA

04 Monday Mar 2019

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Big M

≈ 10 Comments

Tags

India Pale Ale, IPA

Story by Big M

Big M was surprised to find O’Hoo out the front putting a lick of paint on the old cast iron down pipes. “Didn’t you repaint those last year when you renovated the front of the place?” Big M thought himself quite observant.

Vivienne had asked for a third part. Big M assumed she meant Part Three of the story about Merv’s non-retirement and Foodge’s testosterone levels. Oh, and the fact that he and Manne had venesected Foodge under the pretence of the Royal family wanting to check his DNA. It seemed that the best thing to do was to get down to the pub and find out what had transpired. Now, traditionally Big M’s stories allude to the fact that modern electric trains travel at about half the speed of old steam trains, such as the 3800 series hauling the Newcastle Flyer. We won’t go there, we’ll just assume that Big M finds his way to the Pub.

“Yeah, but the Western sun in the arvo’s plays havoc with metal paint, plus the atmospheric pollutants….”

Big M quickly tired of O’Hoo’s overly long explanation so pushed through the main door into the Gentlemen’s Bar. He was surprised to find the place empty. Unusual for mid-morning. He was considering pulling himself a Trotter’s Ale when the ugliest, most contorted face popped up from behind the bar. “Hello Merv, how’s it hanging?”

“It’s hangin’ to the left, which means I dress to the right. Why are you askin’ about me trouser seams ‘n’ dangly bits?” Merv unconsciously adjusted his meat and two veg.

“It’s just a saying. How are you?” Big M had settled onto a stool after dusting the seat with his hand.

“Oh, me? Full o’ the joy, you know.” Merv was already pushing a canoe across the battered bar. “Try that, it’s a new Double IPA, or IIPA as Granny likes to call it.”

“Interesting taste, bitter and sweet at the same time.” Big M was swirling the ale and sniffing it, then taking small swigs and inhaling through his mouth at the same time. “Galaxy and Mosaic hops….plus something else?”

“You’re a pretentious prick, aren’t you?” Merv pulled no punches. “I don’t know what fucking hops are in it.”

“I take it you’re not in a good mood?” Big M was pretty sensitive to emotions, being a male nurse, and all that.

“Well, Foodge is upset so Granny’s angry, so I’m angry!” Merv pushed another IIPA across the bar, in spite of his emotions. Publican’s reflex, perhaps.

“Why all of the upset?” Big M downed half the glass.

“Two things, one, those bloody blood tests went straight to Foodge’s specialist, and, two, Foodge spent thousands on, what he calls, ‘regal apparel’.

“Who would have thought that such a clever plan could go so wrong?” Big M pondered.

“Yes, well, us three are in the shit! It turns out that Foodge went and ordered three pairs of shoes from the cordwainer, two sets of tails from his tailor and matching top hats from the only hatter in Sydney. He’s up for tens of thousands.”

“Buy surely he can just take the stuff back?” Big M was quite ignorant in these matters.

“Take ‘em back, they’re all bespoke!” Merv gave the beer taps a wipe with a dirty rag.

“Bespoke?” Big M was clearly struggling with the core concept. “So, something to do with bicycles?”

Merv slammed his huge hand down on the bar. “Bespoke means custom made, no fucking returns, you dunce!” Merv wanted to call him a dumb cunt, but didn’t like that sort of swearing. “Foodge can explain the rest.” Merv nodded to a figure, bent over, shuffling along in an old dressing gown.

“I’ll just start with a Trotters best thanks Merv.” Foodge plonked himself on the stool next to Big M. “I’m glad you’re here, Big M, we need to chat. Merv, can you get Manne, too?”

The four men settled into the lounges in front of the fireplace. “I think we need to clear the air.” Foodge started. “Granny and I are very hurt, on a number of levels. One is that people are discussing our sex lives.” Foodge levelled his gaze at Merv who squirmed in his seat. “The second is that certain people have made assumptions about my health.” It was Big M’s turn to squirm. “The third is to exploit my Royalist tendencies. I know it is a weakness of mine, but my father, and grand father were Knights of the Realm.” This time Manne was on the receiving end of a searing gaze. “Granny and I have discussed this at length, and we feel that we can forgive if apologies are forthcoming.”

The three all blustered words of apology at the same time. Foodge quietly nodded at each of them. “Are you all sure? Mr Merv?”

“Absolutely, not another word, I mean, I won’t even notice any, er…um, noises.” Merv spluttered.

“Big M?”

“Well, no, of course, only operating on information received, er, um.” Big M’s face reddened noticeably.

“Are you sure? No more salacious stories published at whatever website you use?” Foodge stared at Big M with his best cross examining look.

“No, of course, no stories, um, nothing.” Big M wished he was on the Flyer.

“Manne, no more grand schemes around my proclivities?”

Manne had no idea about ‘proclivities’, but quickly nodded. “No, sir, I mean your Honour, sir.”

“Well then a toast, Granny.”

Granny was already bringing a bottle of South Sea Islands Champagne with five glasses. Foodge expertly opened the bottle and decanted the flat yellow liquid into the dusty glasses. “Here’s to honesty.”

“To honesty!” They repeated.

Big M quietly steered Foodge away from the group. “Are you willing to share what happened with the blood tests?”

“Well, you may remember that I was on a high strength placebo?” Foodge took a second to finish his glass. “Well, it turns out that I was on testosterone patches, and that your subterfuge alerted my endocrinologist to that fact!”

“So, you’re OK?” Big M mumbled.

“Yes, just a matter of weaning down the dose and hoping Granny doesn’t get worn out.” Foodge winked.

Later, as Big M departed for the arduous journey back to Newcastle, Granny eye’s followed him up the road. She shook her head, laughing. “Christ he’s a dumb count!”

Foodge – A Much Bigger Number in the Key of Royal Minor

26 Wednesday Dec 2018

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Big M

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

Big M, Foodge

Simulated Foodge Blood Sample
(actual size)

Story by Big M

Big M awoke in a narrow little bed that seemed to be in a tiny room. There was a tremendous knocking. ‘Oh, Christ’. He thought.’ Not Foodge and Granny again?’ The knocking seemed to continue, and, this time wasn’t associated with cries of pain, or ecstasy, that seemed to emanate throughout the upstairs rooms of the pub at intervals through the night. He suddenly realised it was coming from the door. “Please come in and stop that infernal knocking.”

A very ebullient Manne bounced into the room. “Have yer worked out a plan?”

“What, to get rid of this headache?” Big M had probably imbibed a little too much IPA, and had had very little sleep.

“Well, with a head like that, why wouldn’t it ache?” Manne cheerily replied. He didn’t really know what it meant, but his father used to say it to him when he was a kid.

“What time is it?” Big M shovelled a couple of panadol into his mouth.

“Sparra’s fart”Manne grinned.

“Why so fucking early?” Big M was searching his toiletry bag for some Zantac.

“Early, no I’ve been doin’ some jobs for Mr Merv, getting’ the kitchen ready for Granny.” Manne absent mindedly picked at a dirty fingernail. “Anyhoo, I reckon we need to get some sheila, I mean, lady to impersonate a Lady in Waiting on Foodge’s phone. You know, to explain the blood test.”

“Fiendishly clever, Mr Manne, he would see straight through a letter, but a phone call would instantly appeal to his Royalist tilt. He’ll probably think he’ll be getting a knighthood!” Just then their conversation was interrupted by a tremendous knocking, each knock accompanied by cries of….you get what I mean. “Oh shit, let’s go and have some breakfast.

A couple of hours later Big M sat back in his chair, having consumed multiple cups of black coffee, a Thai omelette , wedges with sweet chilli sauce, and Atlantic salmon. “Manne, when did the menu become so, um, er, international?”

“Well, Granny needed a break, so I’ve been doin’ some of the cookin’ You know that I grew up in Thailand, and me Dad was a chef? Manne cleared the table. “Do you think you may appreciate the hair of the dog? I mean, you look a bit peaky.”

“I was about to say that I didn’t realise you had grown up, let alone in Thailand. Excellent idea, young Manne, I mean about the beer, and the cooking.” Big M had loosened off his belt a tad, but left his button done up. ‘I mean, Christ.’ He thought. ‘Yer not on the Newcastle train now!’

Manne appeared with a pint of Granny’s Best as Foodge seemed to emanate out of nowhere. “Ah, Foodge, good to see you, Old Son!” Big M enthused as he struggled to his feet to shake our Dear Boy’s hand. “How the hell are ya’?”

“Fabulous Uncle M. You look well, how is Aunty M?” Foodge sat opposite Big M and motioned Manne to pour a second canoe. “Manne, would you be kind enough to prepare a six egg white omelette on sourdough, mushrooms, tomatoes and a side of chipolatas?”

“So, the usual Mr Foodge?” Manne shuffled off to the kitchen.

“Big day today, M.” Foodge eagerly drank the first half of his pint. “Off to the cordwainer.” Foodge motioned to the shopping bag on the floor. “Might have a poke around the Queen Victoria Building while I’m there.”

“Cordwainer, what’s a bloody cordwainer?” Big M shouldn’t be surprised at Foodge’s outlandish pronouncements.

“A cordwainer is a shoe maker. These brogues aren’t going to resole themselves!” Foodge skulled the last of his pint, and was already eagerly looking around for someone to proffer another.

“Oh, so you mean a cobbler?” Big M was also looking for another pint.

“No, I mean a cordwainer. A cobbler is simply a shoe repairman.” Thankfully Manne had placed two pints of Granny’s Pale Ale in front of them. “Besides, I think my left foot may be changing shape, so may need to have my last adjusted, or even remade.”

“Last, what fucking last?” Big was lost in the discussion.

“You know, when the cordwainer makes a shoe he makes a wooden model of your foot called a last. What does your cordwainer do?” A plate of eggs and mushrooms had appeared at his elbow. “Ah, eggsellent!” Foodge never tired of this little joke.

“I don’t have a cordwainer. I can’t afford custom made shoes.” Big M was growing exasperated, but his headache had settled.

“Don’t have a cordwainer? Next you will tell me you don’t have a tailor! Although you do have that off the shelf look about you” Foodge was searching the table for some Tabasco sauce. “Ah.” It was right there with the salt and pepper. Just then Foodge’s phone rang. “Hello, yes, Foodge here. Yes. Lady in Waiting to whom? …You want to what? ….Family tree? ….What?… Present from my pals at the Pigs Arms? …You want to what? …Blood taken?” Foodge was suddenly sitting up very straight. “I could be a Minor Royal? …Yes, of course, I’ll get the blood taken…Thank you, Your Majesty. No, Oh, thank you, your Lady…I’ll get it done today..” Foodge put the iPhone away. “Big M, you’ll never guess…”

Big M already had a syringe and needle in his hand. “Which arm. Foodge?”

A Retiring Merv

02 Sunday Dec 2018

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Big M

≈ 8 Comments

The last know image of Merv

The Redoubtable Big M walks into a bar….

Big M had reached a heightened, or perhaps, lowered meditative state that can only be achieved by feeding garden waste through a mulcher. He ~~hated~~ enjoyed this simple mindless task because it suited his intellect, as well as his vast horticultural skills. A nagging thought repeatedly interrupted his meditation. It was something he had read some months back. He had paid all of the bills, emptied the recycling basket, and watered the baby lettuce. Oh, shit, what was it? Must be some fuckin’ trick question, or somethin’ Mrs M wanted. He ruminated. Something about the Pigs Arms….Ah, Mr Merv retirin’. “Oh shit.” He yelled.

“What’s wrong, Dear?” Mrs M yelled back. “Did you cut your finger off, again, or see a snake, or get the cord on your shorts caught in the mulcher, or fall off a ladder….?”

“No, it’s Merv. Get me best suit, and brogues, and that new Fedora….Oh, wait, I’m not Foodge. Can you book me a fourth class ticket on the Flyer?” Yelled M over the sound of the mulcher.

“Probably not!” Mrs M had already lost interest.

“Why?” Yelled M, as he dragged the mulcher back into the garage.

“It’s not 1937, and there is no Flyer, and you can use your Opal Card.” Mrs M knew exactly what was happening, so was already getting her handbag and car keys, knowing that the next question would be something about being driven to the train station.

“Ah, well, that’s difficult.” Merv looked around furtively. “It’s not me that I’m tryin’ to get retired, it’s Granny. I thought that if I sold my share of the pub she might retire.”

“Granny, why Granny? I mean, she’ll work until she drops.” Big M was already looking at the bottom of his empty glass.

“Therein lies the problem.” Merv was pretty pleased with himself for getting in one of those high faluting words, like heretofore, and such. “She’s bloody exhausted!” A third canoe was paddling across the heavily stained timber bar.