Category Archives: Big M

Foodge 53 – Barristers Unite !

10 Friday Jul 2015

Posted by in Big M, Foodge Private Dick

≈ 5 Comments

982829-052e7b24-85df-11e4-9f59-4e93e361b697

Simulated Photograph of Lawyers with Client

Story by Big M

Merv had been pretty depressed, since the Church of ISIS incident. He’d placed the entire Pig’s Arms on a war footing, after repeatedly contacting the NSW Pleece, the Feds, and then Crime Stoppers.

Manne and that Fijian bloke with the van had been stockpiling everything from apples to apple cider and beer to bananas. O’Hoo had been declared the Sergeant of Arms/armourer, and had amassed enough ordnance to blow up Inner, and Outer Western Cyberia. Hedgie had become the self appointed protector of the Bowling Ladies, escorting them to every meeting and game, even having a quick roll himself, on occasion!

The Hell’s Angles had set up a waste vegetable oil run generator in the cellar, capable of powering the entire building for two or more weeks. Granny and Foodge were at the sharp end, initially ‘surveilling’ the potential terrorist cell, then attempting to infiltrate. Granny had finally attended the church fete, only to find that it really was the Church of Isis, the Egyptian goddess, and not some gang of plastique wielding, disenfranchised youth. She even managed to flog off some jars of lemon curd.

Merv was now faced with the task of offloading half a ton of over ripe bananas and apples. He had already sold six cases of ‘South Sea Island Semillon’ to an unsuspecting restaurant owner with a new liquor licence. “O’Hoo, you’d know a few green grocers?” Merv ventured.

“Mate, you’ve already tried to get me to flog those bloody bananas, besides, I’ve got me own problems trying to offload three dozen world war two grenades!” O’Hoo skulled the last of his pint, then started off. “Might be able to get some pensioners up in Bowral to take ‘em…wonder what old Ooster-fella is doin’?”

“Another pint, Foodge?” Merv pushed a fresh canoe across the worn timber counter. Merv still felt somewhat beholden to Foodge for getting him through his WEA Literacy and Not Sounding Like a Fuckwit course. “You’re not tight with any green grocers?” Merv tried to sound nonchalant.

“Thanks Mr Merv.” As he took a pull from a pint, leaving a ‘milk moustache’ like a little kid. “The only person I’m ‘tight’ with is Granny.” Nodding towards his intended as she busied herself vacuuming up some fly shit, pretending not to listen.

Foodge had managed to flog down that pint, when he realised that a tall, grey haired gentleman was at his right elbow. “Publican, two more pints of whatever he’s having.” The voice was steady and clear, kind of commanding.

“Thank you kind stranger.” They clinked glasses.

Here’s to the law, and those who keep us rich by breaking it.”

Foodge wasn’t arguing, two free pints in as many minutes.

“I’ll cut straight to the chase.” The stranger nodded to Merv for another pair of canoes. “I’m looking for the finest legal mind in Sydney.”

Foodge looked around. There was no one else there, except for Granny.

“You, Mr Foodge, I need someone like you for a big case.”

“How big?” Foodge was no stranger to negotiation.

“Real big.”

“Mmmm…how big is that?” Foodge’s glass was becoming perilously close to being empty.

“Steak for lunch, and as much Shiraz as your liver can metabolise!”

“I know you!” Merv interjected. “ You’re that bloody Chris Murffy, the bloody criminal defendin’ barrister!”

“Yes, I am thanks, big man, just keep the beer flowing, and stop interjecting!” Murffy had stood up, trying to intimidate Merv, but found himself staring at Merv’s Adam’s apple, so sat down.

“Mr Foodge, this is a huge case, a local church, a church full of innocent folk, who’s only aim is to do good works and support the community, have been accused of being an ISIS terror cell by some Islamophobe, who has launched an attack by falsely reporting them to the local and Federal police, even Crime Stoppers.”

Merv had gone pale, then clutched at his chest, then collapsed.

“Quick, someone call an ambulance!”

 

 

Foodge # 52 – Merv Makes a Glock of Himself

15 Saturday Nov 2014

Posted by in Big M, Foodge Private Dick

≈ 10 Comments

Tags

, , , ,

glocksixincol

Story by Big M

Foodge’s visit to the ‘medic’ had given him pause to think. Think about his relationship with O’Hoo, think about where those dragon tattoos came from, and think about what had happened between him and Granny. He was perched uncomfortably on a bar stool, with the, recently injected, butt cheek, hanging orff for comfort. He tried to stand up, but his leg had fallen asleep so stumbled, his hand thrust forward, spilling a pint of Pigs Arms Pink Drink across the bar. O’Hoo was immediately at his side. “Are you OK there, Foodge, old mate?”

O’Hoo had dragged Foodge back up onto the stool, then started wiping the pink fluid with Merv’s best dirty rag. “Thanks, O’Hoo, just stop that for a minute, er…mate. We’ve been friends for a long time…I…er thought I should apologise.”

O’Hoo cut him off. “It’s me who should apologise, Foodge, I shouldna told the patrons about you ‘n’ Granny, but, I have to admit, I’ve always been a bit jealous of you, with your career, your expensive suits, and shoes, always bin able to pull a bird, then, here you are with Granny…I mean, she’s so hot, and those taught abs…”

“Yes, she’s pretty taught.” Foodge remarked. “Probably self taught!” Foodge was hoping for another Pink Drink, or, perhaps a Trotter’s Best. “Anyway, O’Hoo, how did I end up in her boudoir?”

“You don’t remember? Buying her champagne, slow dancing until midnight, escorting her upstairs after, ‘Time, please gentlemen’?” O’Hoo threw the rag into the sink.

“Not exactly, and, by the way, how did you end up in there?” Foodge took a sip from his replacement Pink Drink that was provided by a very surly Merv.

“Shit, I dunno, had a few schooies, then a coupla Scotches after ‘Time Gentlemen’, then musta stumbled in there!”

Granny’s discordant humming could be heard in close proximity. She had been reading about computer viruses and decided that no one was about to get sick at the Arms, so had begun a virus eradication programme that involved aggressive cleaning of all computers and accessories with alcohol wipes.

Foodge leant forward. “Quick change of subject, mate. Where did we get these tatt….”

“Feckin’ terrorist bastards.” Ejaculated Merv, as he thumped on the bar, suddenly interrupting the tete e tete. He had been reading the Inner Western Cyberia Standard, looking through the funeral notices to make sure that Granny wasn’t dead. “Listen to this, ‘The Church of Isis invites all to our inaugural service to thank the Goddess in the traditional Egyptian manner.’ Feckin’ Gippoes!” He had the ancient Bakelite handset on the bar and had dialled the Pleece. “’allo, pleece, ‘ave you seen the paper, Gippoes under yer noses buildin’ up a terrorist cell…what..no…I’m feckin serious….” “Bastards ‘ung up”

Merv turned his attention to the assembled patrons. “Time to be alarmed, not alerted, boys an’ girls. Terror cells just up the road, an’ Russian ships orff the coast. Time to get some weapons ready. Granny, what have you got?”

Granny pulled a small; snub nosed, 38 from her pocket. “This is all I’ve got since you gave me shotty to the pleece.”

“Manne, you carryin’?”

“Just this little Walther PPK, to frighten raffle thieves.” Which is ironic, as Manne himself used to dip his hand into the raffle winnings.

“Hedgie, anything?”

“Just me snake killin’ shotty.” Hedgie replied. “It’s in the ute.”

“O’Hoo, you must have your pleece pistol?”

O’Hoo pulled a nine millimetre Glock from his shoulder holster, and a 32 from his ankle holster.

“Foodge, I don’t s’pose you’re carryin’?”

“Well Mr Merv, even though the life of a Very Private Dick is a dangerous one, I don’t usually carry a heater,, but today I’ve got these,” Foodge removed a 45 calibre Smith and Wesson from his shoulder holster, a 357 Magnum from the back of his bellt, and a snub nosed 32 from his jacket pocket.

“What’s all this for, Foodge?”

“In case I see that bloody doctor!” Foodge’s face was red with rage. “Oh, and a hunting rifle in the car, with telescopic sight!”

“Merv clapped his hands together with delight. “Alright friends, let’s get ready for war!”

Foodge #51 – Privates on Parade

09 Sunday Nov 2014

Posted by in Big M, Foodge Private Dick

≈ 11 Comments

Tags

,

Roger Livesey The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp (1943)

Battington-Smythe, Colonel, retired.

 Story by Big M

Foodge had been fairly uncomfortable in the wedding tackle department for a few days. He had tried to obtain some confidential advice from Merv, but there were either too many bar flies around, or Merv was caught up with trying to sell-on two hundred bottles of Fijian Sham-Pain, that he’d failed to shift on Cup day.

His usual confident, Uncle Emmjay, had won a motza on the Cup, so had treated himself and FM to a luxury holiday at Port Kembla Caravan Park in their brand new, two berth ‘van.

He was still cranky with O’Hoo, and was giving him the cold shoulder, so asking him for advice about the trouser flute was out of the question.

Granny? Well, no.

Manne? He was probably still a virgin, so, no.

Hedgie? Too caught up with Bowling activities.

Eventually Foodge decided to wander over to Rosie’s House of Depilation and Torture. Unfortunately Rosie was less than impressed with Foodge’s request, and declined to take a look at the offending member, instead referring Foodge to the twenty four hour medical centre that was only open until six in the evening.

Foodge had waited for twelve National Geographics and two Women’s Weekly Giant Crosswords when a neatly dressed, elderly man with a crew cut, and a clipped moustache summoned him into the treatment room. “Battington-Smythe, Colonel, retired.” He motioned for Foodge to take a seat. “Just having a recce at your notes, here, young chap. Previous heart problems, no military service. What brings you here?”

Foodge’s bloated cheeks went red. “It’s…ah…um…” He nodded towards his crutch.

“Oh, that sort of a problem, we’ll have a short arm parade then, lad!” The Colonel started to don some gloves. “Been playing away from home, I suppose some young filly is a lucky girl.”

Foodge sat staring blankly, wondering what the hell a ‘short arm parade’ could be.

“Come on lad, stand up, belt orff, trousers down!!” The Colonel seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time examining Foodge’s privates. “While you’re here we may as well check the prostate, bend over lad”

Foodge was unused to his poop chute having this level of intimacy with another man. “That’s a beautiful tattoo, Mr Foodge, does it have a partner?” The Colonel was removing his gloves and washing his hands.

“Yes, um, my mate O’Hoo has the mirror image”

(One may recall that both O’Hoo and Foodge have dragons tattooed across their cheeks)

“With this sort of problem, one normally does some blood tests, then starts some treatment, but I’m not one for all of that namby-pamby carry on” The Colonel injected a big dose of procaine penicillin into Foodge’s flabby butt cheek. “I mean, in war, one may as well go in with all guns blazing!”

The Colonel sat down to write in the notes. Foodge tried to sit, but the pain was extraordinary. “Here’s a prescription for some antibiotics. Take the full course for fourteen days, and, while we’re about it, no alcohol.” The Colonel leaned forward, sotto voce. “You should let aforementioned filly know about your current status.” The Colonel tapped the side of his nose with his finger.

Foodge was still none the wiser as to his ‘present status’, so thanked the doctor and headed next door to the chemist.

Later that evening, Foodge hobbled into the Gentleman’s Bar, and gingerly propped one cheek onto a stool. “Evening Foodge, looks like you’ve been in the wars.” Merv chimed.

“You don’t know the half of it!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Foodge #50 – Suppurating Wound Out of Careless Hygiene

04 Tuesday Nov 2014

Posted by in Big M

≈ 13 Comments

Tags

, , ,

 

Emirates Melbourne Cup Day

Story by Big M

Foodge had gone home to change into his best suit, freshly polished brogues, white socks, and the black Fedora that Sandshoe had sent him. He always wore white socks with black shoes, because he thought it made him look like a jazz musician, since he’d seen Dave Brubeck in a movie, but, everyone at the Arms reckoned he just looked like a dickhead. He’d propped himself on a stool at the Gentleman’s Bar, with the form guide from the Lewisham Gazette. He was hoping to make a motza on the Big Race. “Hey, Mr Merv, what exactly is a ‘scratching’?”

Merv was flat out, he’d bought a palette of South Sea Islands Sham-Pain from his Fijian contact, and now he was struggling to get them cold. “Not, now, mate, ask someone else, I’m as busy as a Catholic priest at a Sunday school picnic.”

Foodge looked around. O’Hoo was still in the same Chesterfield from this morning, with form guide and mobile phone in hand. Didn’t want to ask him. Granny was giving the new Turk’s head a last flick around. Didn’t want to stir anything else up with her. Hedgie and the Bowling Ladies were in the Ladies Lounge watching the lead up to the Cup on a portable Black and White telly that Merv had borrowed from next door. Just then the back door opened and Big M strolled in. “Ah, Big M, what brings you here?”

“The train.”

“What train?” Foodge had to ask.

“I caught the Sleeper from Newcastle, bound for Melbourne, but woke up here.” Big M looked like he’d been asleep, but he usually did. “Mr Merv.”

Merv slid a glass canoe across the filthy bar. “Small matter of a tab, M!”

“Oh, yes, next visit.”

“You on leave, Big M?” The question seemed to come out of nowhere, but could have been the narrator.

“No, I’ve been suspended for hanging around with shady characters.” Big M looked squarely at Foodge. This wasn’t entirely true, Big M had been seen urinating on someone’s prize roses, so had been charged with exposing himself.

“How is you dear lady wife?” Foodge suddenly remembered to enquire after one of his many guardians.

“Still struggling to get those stains outta the towels.”

Foodge went white. To change the subject. “What do you know about horse races?”

“A little bloke sits on a horse and flogs him with a whip, aside from that f*&^all.” Big M had knocked back a canoe, and motioned for another. Why, what’s going on?”

“You know, the Big Race.” Foodge mumbled as crammed a complementary ‘race day’ sausage roll into his gaping maw. “Need help with placing a bet.”

“Ask Mr Merv.” Big M nodded to Merv.

“Too feckin’ busy mate.” Merv tipped another bag of ice over a tub full of bottles.

“What about O’Hoo, he’s a veteran gambler.”

The place went completely quiet, except for O’Hoo yelling down the phone. “Scratched like a syphilitic cock…bastards!” Big M is usually pretty ignorant, but picked up that there’d been a falling out between the two best mates.

“What about Granny?” There was a low titter of laughter. Big M looked around. “What the hell have you done, Foodge?”

“Well…er…um, Mr O’Hoo severely breached a confidence.”

“A confidence about what?” Big M glanced across to Hedgie who, almost imperceptibly, shook his head.

“Um…er.” Foodge motioned towards Granny.

“You are bloody joking, not in a Green Moon.  That’s me, I’ve had it with you! I’ve gotta go, train to catch.” Big M crammed a couple of sausage rolls in his jacket pocket and took off through the back door.

Foodge suddenly felt very uncomfortable in the region of the wedding flute. He had also suffered from a late scratching!

Foodge #48 – Turkish Delight

21 Tuesday Oct 2014

Posted by in Big M, Foodge Private Dick

≈ 11 Comments

Tags

, ,

turkshead

Story by Big M

Merv was out of sorts this morning. He had been to the gym for a fairly unrewarding workout, copping an uppercut to the jaw, which landed him on his backside, all due to him being distracted. He’d jogged home to find Foodge asleep at the rear entrance to the pub. When Foodge awoke he pleaded with Merv for ‘a little bit of brekky, after pulling an all-nighter.’

Foodge’s ‘all-nighter’ was spent playing with his new camera, mucking around with various f-stops and shutter settings for low light surveillance. Now Foodge was sat at the bar downing his second Trotter’s Best, and a plate of eggs. In between mouthfuls he reviewed his photos on his iPad. “Beautiful images for such low light, and doesn’t Justice McGerkinsquirter look fit in his undies?”

Granny flittered by with her long handled Turk’s Head, which she’d bought cheap at Aldo’s. Bits of cobweb fluttered down onto the bar. “Why dyathink they’re called Turk’s ‘eads?” Mumbled Merv to no one in particular.

“Well, Mr Merv, I believe it’s because they look like Turk’s heads” Muttered Foodge as he zoomed in and out on the Justice’s Y-fronts.

“Poor feckin’ Turks, no wonder they’re always at war.” Merv flicked a sizable strand of web from his paper. What was really putting him off side was his major assignment for his WEA literacy course. “Hey, Foodge, you’re a wiz with words, how about you have a look at me assignment?”

Foodge sat up straight.” That I am, editing such a manuscript sounds like hungry, thirsty work.” Merv was already pulling another pint, and signalled to Granny for extra wedges.

Granny was humming away, lost in a world of Turks heads and Spanish romance (yes, the Spanish mechanic is still parking his work boots under Granny’s cot). “What’s that, dear?”

“Wedges for Foodge…he’s doin’ me a favour”

Foodge spent a good deal of time reviewing the manuscript, enough for two bowls of wedges, sans sour cream, and another three pints. “Well…er…Mr Merv, nice work, good spelling, well constructed, liked the introductory paragraph, and the conclusion, but…er.” Foodge was flushed.

Merv leant forward across the bar, absent-mindedly polishing a pint glass with his, ever present, dirty rag. “Yes, what’s the verdict?”

Foodge gulped, dry mouthed, taking some courage from the dregs of his Trotters. “Well, um, it’s just that it’s…err…um…quite boring.”

The bar went silent. After two minutes Merv gulped. “Borin’?”

“Ah, err, um.” Foodge had dismounted the bar stool and was walking backwards, clutching his camera and iPod. “Well, when I say boring, I don’t mean boring, I just mean, uninteresting.”

Merv slowly placed the glass and the rag on the bar. “You mean me life’s work, the history of Merv is uninnerestin’?”

“Well, yes, perhaps.” Foodge was almost to the back door when Merv vaulted the bar.

“Borin’, uninnerestin’?” Merv had crossed the gap between them in a couple of strides. “What do you suggest, how can I make me dull feckin’ life innerestin’?”

Foodge lent back, as if to escape the reach of Merv’s enormous hands, and rope-like forearms. “What about your part in O’Hoo’s and DCI Rouge’s escape from the local pleece, given that no one but you knows of what happened, I mean, you had a hand in their escape, I believe, so why not write it down?”

“Yes, of course.” Merv tore up the document in his hand. “ Me old mate, O’Hoo.” He dashed back to the bar for fresh pencil and paper. “Granny, wedges, man at work, ‘ere.” As he started scribbling like a sick man writing a will.

To be continued

Foodge #46 Granny Gets Back on the Bike

09 Wednesday Oct 2013

Posted by in Big M, Foodge Private Dick

≈ 17 Comments

Tags

, ,

08-Bultaco-Metralla-Kit-America

Story by Big M

Granny had been having a rough week. It all started with an experimental batch of Pilsener that just didn’t work. The beer was bland and tasteless, probably due to the stale hops that she had bought on the internet, rather than her brewing skills, but it was still over a hundred litres of beer that went down the drain.

Then Granny missed two mornings of boxing training because she couldn’t get out of bed, instead, leaving Merv to, not only train by himself, but also cook the pub breakfast. Things finally came to a head when Granny tried to start the pub’s ancient Victa, ‘just to give the yard a quick tidy up.’ She pulled the mower cord until she had a cramp in her side, then tried to pick it up and throw it in the skip, but just didn’t have the energy, so she dropped it on it’s side, which resulted in petrol pouring onto the grass. Granny sat down next to the mower, cradled her face in her brown, calloused hands, and sobbed.

victa

Granny would have sat there all afternoon, had not Merv come looking for her to discuss this week’s fruit and vegetable order. Quick as a flash, Merv realised that something was wrong. “What’s wrong Granny, are you hurt?” He enquired as righted the stricken mower.

“Nothin’, just chuck that old, worn out heap of shit in the skip for me!” Granny wouldn’t look up, and wouldn’t stop crying.

“I’m not chuckin’ this good mower out, probably just needs a service!’ Merv was mentally calculating the cost of a new mower, hoping it wouldn’t come to that.

“Its old and worn out like me, just get rid of it!” Granny finally got to her feet.

Merv wasn’t a psychologist, but he knew that there was probably more to this than just a buggered mower. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll drop this round to old Fernando, and see if he can get it running, I mean, there’s no sense in chuckin’ something’ out just because it’s old!” Merv placed the mower in the back of his ute. “Come on old love, I’ll make you a cuppa.” Granny reluctantly allowed herself to be guided back into the kitchen.

A week passed, and Granny remained out of sorts. Merv didn’t mind, it meant he could go to boxing training in the mornings, and be left in peace! In fact he slackened right off, and just did some low intensity aerobic work. He received the call to say that the mower was ready, so asked Hedgie to watch the bar (and Foodge, of course!), then casually asked granny if she wanted to go for a drive. “Might as well” She replied as she wiped her hands on a dirty rag. “Not getting anywhere with this.” A small pump lay dismantled on the cellar floor. Granny didn’t have much to say on the way, which, Merv reflected, was just how he liked his women!

The mower shop was in a back lane, but the presentation was anything but back lane. The name, ‘Fernando’s Small Engine Repairs’ was emblazoned across the top of the front window which held, not a bunch of dirty old mowers, but a pristine, black and silver, Bultaco Metralla, suspended from the ceiling on stainless steel wires. Granny let out a gasp. “That is just immaculate!”

bultaco_metralla

“So, you like my bike? Mr Merv, you brought your sister to my dirty workshop. This is no place for a lady!”

“Um, err…Granny, this is Fernando, the proprietor and worker of two stroke magic, umm…Fernando, this is Granny.” Fernando shook Granny’s hand enthusiastically.

“Mr Merv, this young lady can’t be somebody’s ‘abuela’? Fernando shook his head, only now revealing his grey hair pulled back into a ponytail.

“Nah, mate, we all call her Granny!” Merv was still looking at the bike wondering how the hell those little drum brakes could pull it up at a hundred miles per hour. He remembered trying to chase one when he was a highway patrolman. He didn’t fail to notice that Granny was looking at the floor, and shuffling her feet. “Anyhoo, mate, how didja get on with the mower?”

“Come in, come in…here she is, almost like new.” Fernando wheeled out the old Victa, that had been repainted, received a new muffler and air cleaner, and started like rugby league player on steroids, which he briefly demonstrated (the starting of the mower, not the football player, OR the steroids).

“Jeez, mate, she’ll go another fifty years!” Merv and Fernando huddled together to discuss money. It seemed he didn’t want to charge for any labour. Eventually Merv slipped him another fifty, whilst he wasn’t looking.

“That’s a nice little motor you’ve got there, Granny!” Fernando enthused.

“Oh.” Granny blushed.” It’s only an old Victa!”

“I wasn’t talking about the motor-mower, Senora!” Fernando winked as Merv busied himself with the mower. “How about sharing a meal with me?”

“Oh, I don’t know, I have nothing to wear!”

“Yes, you do.” Yelled Merv, from outside. “For gawd’s sake, just say ‘yes’!”

Granny was more animated on the trip home.” I think you set me up, you bugger!”

“Maybe.”

“You know that I really don’t have a thing to wear, and my hair needs cutting, and a bit of makeup wouldn’t go astray!” Granny was pretty anxious.

“It’s all sorted. I’ll drop you ‘ome, so you can ‘ave a showr, or whatever.” Merv swerved to miss a skateboarder. “Then you slip over to Rosie’s, for an ‘airdo, nail somethin’ or other, special make-up, and Rosie’s sister’s got some leftover material, an’ can knock up a dress this arvo.”

Seven o’clock rolled around, and Granny was still nowhere to be seen. Fernando had arrived, all decked out in his newest dinner suit, purchased in 1981. His corsage, however, was brand new, fit for a debutante.

Suddenly the bar went quiet, as a vision of loveliness seemed to drift though, hovering just above the floor. Granny’s grey hair, which was usually tied back, or in a tight chignon, was cascading down her back, which, by the way was bare. The backless, silk dress in jade was perfectly complemented with a string of pearls, and matching earrings. Her make-up was subtle, but it was the sparkle in her eyes, not the eye shadow, that made everyone stare. Fernando stepped forward, kissed her hand then offered his arm, which Granny took eagerly. “Don’t wait up, boys!”

dress

Only Foodge spoke. “Who was that young lady, Merv?”

Foodge # 45 – O’Hoo and Rouge on the Run

04 Friday Oct 2013

Posted by in Big M, Foodge Private Dick

≈ 42 Comments

Map of Tasmania

Map of Tasmania

Story by Big M

Foodge sat at the Gentleman’s Bar, staring at his iPhone, willing it to ring. He was expecting a call from an official within the Australian Electoral Commission. He had already finished a breakfast of bacon, eggs (from Granny’s chooks), tomato, beans and wedges, sans sour cream.

Granny still had that soft spot for our sleuth, but had put away any ideas about romance, instead pursuing a more ‘plutonic’ (sic) relationship. It was now two weeks after the federal election, where Foodge had fielded as a candidate for the LIBNATs (Liberation of Itinerate Barristers National Australian Tribunal), earning twenty-nine votes. He was demanding a recount and had been on the receiving end of some clerical running around. Australia was, after all, a democracy, he reasoned.

Merv stood in his usual place, absent-mindedly polishing glasses with a dirty rag. The previous night had been busy, and he had copped an elbow to the right eye while ejecting a couple of rowdy patrons. This morning he had taken a long, hard look in the mirror, and didn’t like what he saw, long hairs growing out of his ears. He had ruminated over it all morning.

Finally he placed the glass back in the rack. “Foodge, can you watch the bar for ten minutes?” He thought this would be reasonably safe, as it was only ten, and the rest of the pub was empty.

“Why, err, yes, it would be an honour.” Foodge moved to the other side of the bar, taking up the roll of glass polisher, as opposed to seat polisher.

Rosie’s House of Pain had just opened, but the waiting room was almost full. She was short staffed, so Rosie herself was at the reception desk. “Ah, Missa Merv, you come to avail yourself of our many services.” Rosie maintained the archetypal Asian accent, in spite of being born and educated in Australia. He took Merv by the elbow into the last cubicle. “What’s wrong, Merv, everything OK, Janet, the twins?”

“Nah, the family’s OK.”

“Granny?” Rosie was well aware of Granny’s recent descent into the world of body building steroids.

“No, she alright, better than ever, although she still has a soft spot for a Very Private Dick.”

“Well, what’s wrong, then?” Rosie blurted out.

“It’s me, Rosie, I didn’t know who to turn to.” Merv pointed to his hairy ears. Rosie laughed, not a comical laugh, more an emotional release kind of laugh.

“I can fix that in two minutes!” Rosie pasted some hot wax on Merv’s offending earlobes.  “Now, watch this.” As she expertly applied some cloth strips, removing wax, and offending hair. “Anything else Mr Merv, facial, bikini line? Only joking, but, anymore extraneous hair issues, and you come to me, OK?” Merv blushed all the way to the tops of his cauliflower ears.

Merv was as happy as a dolphin as he re-entered the bar to find Foodge polishing the old hardwood surface, with one hand, and talking on the phone with the other. “Got your call from the AEC?” Merv enquired.

Foodge shook his head. “No, it’s O’Hoo, him and DCI Rouge have emigrated to Tasmania!”

Merv shook his head. “Can I have a word in his pink, shell like?” Merv was grinned at the irony of his little joke.

“No, he’s on the phone!” Foodge pointed to his iPhone.

“I’ll talk to him on the phone, then.” Merv shook his head, as Foodge handed over his most prized (aside from his Zephyr) possession. “So, you’ve ‘emigrated’, then?” This was followed by plenty of nodding, and then head shaking. “You DO realise that your pleece issue phone had GPS, don’t you? So callin’ Foodge on your pleece issue phone is like switchin’ on a beacon. The cops will be all over you like a fat kid on a smarty. Hang up, pull the battery outta the phone, chuck ‘em both in the Derwent, and get down to Dicky Smith’s an’ buy a coupla of ‘payasyougo’ phones…bye”

“They both sounded well.” Mumbled Foodge, as he took possession of his phone.

Foodge 44 – Granny’s Cure

19 Sunday May 2013

Posted by in Big M, Foodge Private Dick

≈ 6 Comments

Tags

, , , ,

Simulated picture of Foodge's recent problem - Man Boobs

Simulated picture of Foodge’s recent problem – Man Boobs

Story by Big M

It had somehow fallen on Foodge to take Granny to the doctor. When he thought about it, Merv was busy with the pub, Merv’s missus (Foodge never remembered Janet’s name) was busy with the twins, young Wes was busy studying, and working at the Sisters of the Emphaticocordiae Nursing Home, Manne was…oh shit, he thought, Manne was still staked out in front of the Edelweiss Double Billing Clinic. Anyway, they had been to the local doctor, who must have just been told a really funny joke, because he kept laughing and shaking his head, and then directed them to see a Professor of Gynaecology at Sidney Uni.

Granny went in to see the Professor. She was initially a bit cranky, as he had examined her, and then asked her for her real name and age, which she begrudgingly gave, then sat down and perused some pathology results.

“Do you take any medicines?’

“No.” Granny replied.

“Any herbs or vitamins?”

“Not exactly.”

“What do you mean, ‘not exactly’?” The Prof cocked a bushy eyebrow in a very John Howard sort of way.

“I take a sort of herb.”

“What, a green herb that one doesn’t get from the chemist?”

“Yes, but I have to, I’m under so much stress.” Granny suddenly gushed. “There’s these dreadful friends of Merv’s who make up the most horrible stories about me ‘n’ Mr Foodge, an’ Rouge an’ O’Hoo?” Granny was on the edge of her seat.

“Who are these fellows?”

“There’s a mate of Merv’s called Emmjay, but the worst is some hanger onner named Big M, full of talk, and gulpin’ down free drinks.”

“Clearly that sort of herb may be of some benefit, but I suggest that you and this Merv fellow need to distance yourselves from these characters. Any other non prescribed medicines?”

“Well, I did buy a performance enhancer from a bloke in the Gents, you know, for me weight trainin’ an’ so on.”

“Did you happen to bring any of these performance enhancers?”

“Of course.” Granny handed over a small brown bottle.

The Prof scanned the label, and then laughed. “Granny, these are a type of anabolic steroid. Anabolic, in that, they will enhance one’s feminine attributes. These are pure oestrogen!”

“What, like pregnant lady, menstrual cycle type oestrogens?”

“Certainly!”

“Oh, poor Mr Foodge.” All of the colour had drained from Granny’s face.

“Don’t tell me you gave them to a man?”

Granny could only nod and point to the waiting room. The professor went out in search of this Mr Foodge. All he could find was a plump fellow of indeterminate age, wearing a dark grey suit, Fedora pushed back on his head, asleep with a copy of Raymond Chandler’s, ‘The Big Sleep’ on his lap. Foodge seemed to rouse, as if he knew he was wanted. “I’m a shamus…I’ll try to be taller…the flesh of orchids are like the flesh of men…” Foodge mumbled.

“Mr Foodge, could you come into the office, please?” The Professor held out a hand to guide out hapless detective through the doorway.

“Now, Mr Foodge, it seems that…” Granny interrupted the Prof.

“Let me tell him. I’m sorry Foodge, I was trying to build you up…give you a little pep…. Oh, God, I knew they were steroids. “She sobbed into a hanky.

The Prof took over.” Mr Foodge, have you had any feminine type symptoms…gynaecomastia?

“I think that’s for me and my solicitor!” Foodge was covering his confusion with fake opprobrium.

“Any galactorrhoea?”

“Now we’ll have to involve my barrister!”

“Mr Foodge, we won’t need to involve the legal profession, it seems that you have been exposed to high doses of female hormones for some time. I guess it explains the strange adiposity.” As he nodded towards Foodge’s  recently expanded derrier.

“Alright…. the treatment is the same for both of you. I was going to prescribe a powerful oestrogen antagonist, but I think a placebo may be better.”

“A powerful placebo?” Enquired Foodge.

“Yes, quite powerful.” Acknowledged the Prof.

 

 

Foodge 43 – Foodge Sleep

10 Friday May 2013

Posted by in Big M

≈ 12 Comments

Tags

, ,

big m old-greyhound-bus-terminal-julie-dant

THIS PHOTOGRAPH WAS PUBLISHED WITH THE KIND AND GENEROUS PERMISSION OF THE PHOTOGRAPHER

JULIE DANT

Story by Big M

Foodge was tired, in fact, overtired, not that the surveillance had been difficult; staying awake had been the challenge. He had photographed three cats and a garbage truck, and, the young pair having a swift knee trembler up against the front doors of the Pigs (disrespectful). His mind was racing, not the least because of Granny’s get-up and behaviour.  He lay on the fresh sheets, in freshly laundered pyjamas (this was a new experience) and stared at the flaking, high, ornate, plaster ceiling. The Pigs Arm must have been quite a grand hotel in it’s time, he thought. Then he got to wondering about Granny in her younger days. Surely she hadn’t always had long grey hair, spindly brown legs and a permanent frown?

Then he started to think about O’Hoo, suddenly realising that it had been some days since he and Manne reappearanced. Where was he holed up? Merv had quickly spirited him away to some sort of safe house, but where. What of O’Hoo? Was he guilty of some sort of malfeasance? Had he gone native whilst undercover? Did he still love Ordinaire Rouge? Where was Rouge? Was she similarly guilty? Was Santa real? His racing mind was suddenly interrupted by a knock at the door. “Mr Foodge, you’re needed urgently downstairs” hissed Granny.

Foodge leapt out of bed, hastily trying to grab a dressing gown to cover, what he regarded, as semi-nakedness (our Foodge is a very private dick). “What time is it?” He stammered, hoping she wouldn’t burst in, whilst he desperately tried to re-arrange the gaping hole in front of his privates that the pyjama manufacturers jokingly call a ‘fly’.

His worst fears were realised as the, almost paint-less door swung open, and Granny stepped in wearing so much make-up, and a short white dress, that revealed far to much varicosity than he ever dared imagine that a pair of legs could bear. ‘Christ.” He thought. ‘She almost looks like an ancient Egyptian charioteer, kohled up against the sun and sand.’

“Ah, good you’re up.” She said, looking him up and down, daring to linger at the afore mentioned Private Area. “Merv remembered the message. Ordinaire Rouge is to meet you in our car park at five, and, it’s five!” She made a point of looking at her watch. “Do you need a hand there?”

“Um…no…err….thanks.” Foodge held his gaping fly together with one hand, and motioned Granny out the door, closing it behind her. He quickly donned his tracksuit, socks and shoes, slicked his hair back, then burst through the door, stumbling straight into Granny, which resulted in them collapsing onto the floor, his head coming to rest on her exposed décolletage.

“Oh, Mr Foodge.” She already had her bony, brown fingers around the back of his head.

Foodge shook himself free and had already broken into a sprint towards the staircase. “Not now, Granny!” He shouted, as he dove down the stairs.

Foodge found himself in the car park at the back of the pub. There, parked right next to his Zephyr was Fern’s battered Corolla, with Fern sitting behind the wheel. He waddled over. “Where’s Rouge?’ He asked, leaning against the driver’s door. If he had some sort of investigative skills he may have noticed that Fern was trembling, with tears rolling down her cheeks. She gesticulated towards the back seat with a shake of her head. “Are you having some sort of spasm? You need a doctor.”

Vinh Ordinaire Rouge stepped out of the back of the car, slamming the door into Foodge’s knee. “The silly girl thinks that I’m going to shoot her…gawd knows why.”

Foodge was now hopping up and down on one leg, with his own tears blinding him to what was going on. Wham !Granny crash tackled Rouge to the ground. “How dare you attack Mr Foodge, who has been awake all night looking for you, so that you and O’Hoo could be reunited!” Granny was already sitting astride Rouge, fists cocked, ready to fight.

“What! So you know the wherabouts of O’Hoo?” Rouge managed to wiggle out from under Granny’s skinny frame.

“Yes, we do!” Merv was already marching across the bitumen with O’Hoo in tow.  “Now, you two better work out what you’re doin’, because the wallopers ‘ll be on their way.” O’Hoo and Rouge fell into each other’s arms.

It was Granny’s turn. “What I’d suggest is that you two get the hell out of here, I mean, you’re the most wanted criminals in NSW, why don’t youz go interstate?” Granny had managed to sidle up next to Foodge, and started rubbing his knee.

With that, O’Hoo and Rouge were in the back of the Corolla. “Drive on, Fern, We need to see a man about a dog.  A greyhound !”

The trio was gone with almost squeal of Corolla tyres. Merv wandered back into the bar, to give Granny and Foodge some time.  He decided to rewind the getaway and then fast forward it so the Corolla tyres produced a tinny, but audible squeal like a real getaway.

“Granny.”

“Yes, Foodge.”

“It’s just that…”

Yes, Foodge.” Granny’s eyes were bright with romance.

“Let’s go inside for a drink.” Foodge made a great display of offering his arm, which Granny gleefully accepted.

Foodge 42 – Steak Out – Medium Rare

05 Sunday May 2013

Posted by in Big M

≈ 11 Comments

Tags

, , ,

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?