Category Archives: Big M

Foodge 39 – Merv’s Bunniephobia

19 Tuesday Feb 2013

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rabbitStory by Big M

Merv had really started to relax. Janet’s new hearing aids had done wonders for his sleep, after the first few nights when she woke up screaming because the twins were crying (she’d never heard them at night, before). Now the little buggers were starting to sleep through. He guessed that they were just crying for their mum all along. Merv and Granny had been back at boxing training. He wasn’t back in top form, but was enjoying himself. He’d even followed Foodge’s advice and enrolled in a course ‘For Old People What Can’t Read Proper’, as Merv liked to say.  Merv ran the cloth across the bar for the umpteenth time that morning, catching a few extra droplets of Trotter’s best, human hair, and the occasional drop of blood from last night.” Can I pour a drink for you, young sir?” Foodge had wandered in for his ‘elevenses’.

“Oh, well…err…. ah, I don’t mind if I do.” replied Foodge, as he wedged a plump cheek on the nearest stool (Foodge hadn’t been training, and the Paleo diet had been taken over by wedges, sour cream, bum nuts on toast and ‘mata’ sauce).  Foodge had been helping Merv with his homework, and had a few good tips, such as, keeping the ‘g’ at the end of ‘ing’ words, and not using ‘youz’ as the plural of’ you’. Merv felt like he was quite ‘plumb in the mouth.’

“Have you managed to visit O’Hoo, yet?” Enquired Merv, as he filled a tiny glass with cold green tea for Foodge.

“He’s in Switzerland, or Norway, or is it Sweden?”

“No, Foodge, he’s in rehab, after his liver transplant, transplant. You were here when Emmjay was telling everyone.” Emmjay had spent an entire day quoting on the provision of WiFi, as Merv had seen this as the missing piece in the Boutique Brewery/Pub he had always envisioned. In the end it was going to cost too much to install, and even more to run, ‘just so a pack of ponces can sit around with their laptops and iPads.’  Of course, the 800-inch plasma TV remained.

“So, Emmjay flew to Switzerland?” Foodge was still convinced that O’Hoo was in some exotic continental sanatorium.

“Yes, mate, that’s right, flew to Switzerland for the arvo.” Merv shook his head. “Anyhoo, excuse the pun.” Merv leant forward to speak sotto voce. “Do you think you might find time to proof read me essay?” Merv surreptitiously slipped an A4 page across the bar.

Foodge was already wearing his black framed reading glasses that he had purchased at a new boutique they called ‘Vinnie’s’. “Oh, this is an unexpected honour…thirsty work, though” A glass canoe instantly appeared at Foodge’s elbow. “Is this a response to a set question?

Merv was even quieter than sotto voce. “We had to write about a childhood fear.”

Foodge burst out laughing. “Rabbits…scared of rabbits!!” As he scanned the page.

“Shh.” A red-faced Merv pounced out from behind the bar. “Sir may feel more comfortable here.” As he manhandled Foodge into an ancient, cracked Chesterfield, in front of the disused fireplace. “If you can just shut up, I’ll get you a day ticket to bloody Switzerland.”

Foodge had no idea of the level of embarrassment that he had caused Merv. His mind had already wandered to Swiss clinics, with Swiss nurses, and Swiss timepieces, and Swiss banks, and, of course, Swiss drinks near Swiss fireplaces after a day of Swiss alpineering. “S’pose I’ll need a new passport.” Merv had already gone back to his station by the bar. “Mr Merv, I suppose there aren’t any leftover wedges, or bacon, or eggs from breakfast?”

“Might be.” Merv knew that there would be because Granny had a soft spot for the occasional private dick, but she never let on. She treated Foodge with the same contempt as most people.

Foodge had taken his proof reading quite seriously, and had noted a couple of spelling and grammatical errors in blue pencil. When he put the paper down, he thought to himself. “Those rabbits really can be quite scary.” His musing was interrupted by a plate of wedges, eggs, bacon, and another glass canoe of Best. “Thanks Merv. This story is rather well constructed. You should receive a good mark.”

Merv quickly took the paper back, with a slight shiver. “Those bloody rabbits.” He thought.

It was Merv’s turn to have musings interrupted. The voice from the giant plasma droned on. “…And our continuing story of pleece corruption, Detective Chief Inspector Rouge is still at large, as we have been reliably informed is disgraced detective O’Hoo. The Pleece Commishnar has just announced a ten thousand dollar reward for information leading to the alleged whereabouts, of either, or both, or one individual of the pair.”

Foodge 35 – Rosie’s Advice

17 Monday Dec 2012

Posted by in Big M, Foodge Private Dick

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keeltyindisguise (2)

APF Simulapic of O’Foo and “Friend”

Story by Big M

Merv was out of sorts all day. He had to wait for the lunch time crowd to disperse, then, of course the Bowling Ladies lingered on for a ‘spin round the bar’ with ‘Our Mr Merv’, which Merv usually didn’t mind, but he was anxious to get over to see Rosie, at her tattoo emporium and house of pain. He was so distracted that he managed to step on Beryl’s right foot, twice. The first time he mumbled an apology. The second he felt compelled to compensate her with a glass of ‘South Sea Island’ gin and Aldo’s tonic.

He finally bid farewell to the Bowling Ladies, packed up the old urn and Blend Forty-three, then headed over to Rosie’s. He was surprised to find the waiting room empty, but the strangest noises emanated from beyond the beaded curtain that concealed the view of the inner sanctum. Merv sat and busied himself with the puzzles in ‘That’s Life’. The sounds stopped, then a red faced, and rather well known Local Member emerged, ducking his head and mumbling something about the union credit card.

Rosie herself came out to greet him, clad in a very short silk robe, black silk stockings (you know, the one’s I like with the seam at the back, and the butterfly on the ankle) and stilettos. “Missa Merv, Losie been expecting you!” She beckoned him with her right index finger.

Merv was transfixed. He dropped his pencil, and magazine. Merv had never shared this with anyone, but he had quite a penchant for petite women, particularly Asians, and, more particularly, Rosie. “Err…um…ah…Rosie…I …”

“Losie know all about bad dream!”  Rosie walked over and picked up Merv’s drooping jaw that was about to leave a stain on her carpet. “Losie know all about babies that cry at night.” Rosie spoke perfect English at home, but liked to bung on an accent for the punters. “Losie rike to help Missa Merv.” Rosie took Merv by the hand, and guided him into the inner sanctum, which was in fact, her tattoo studio (of Foodge’s tattooed arse fame). “Sit, and tell Losie all about dleam!”

Merv sat uncomfortably in the tattoo chair, which was like a dentists chair, but had more levels of adjustment, and an array of armrests, and so on. He looked at the range of inks, and the disposable needles. ‘A hell of a lot different to when I got me tattoo’, he thought. Merv also remembered having to get a Hepatitis B injection after his first, and, hence, only tattoo! Rosie had placed her stilettoed foot on the low coffee table between them, revealing a little more thigh than Merv felt comfortable seeing.

“Come on, Merv, let’s cut the bullshit.” Rosie suddenly dropped the accent.  “What the hell’s going on?

Merv was flabbergasted. “Pfft…what…err?

“OK Joe’ I go back to funny Chinee accent” Rosie stood, with her hands on her hips, letting them sway ever so slightly. “I’ll tell you an old Chinese story about man who work twenty hours a day, lun business, rook after famirry, up all hours of the night…then, one day…he have heart attack…die a painful death…you wan that, Missa Merv?”

“Um…err…you can go back to ordinary English…um, but, who else is goin’ to do all a the things that I do?”

“You have a wife, get her to look after the twins.” Rosie had sat down on a stool, and, had decided to drop the ‘Chinee’ accent.

“But, she never ‘ears ‘em cry.” Merv implored, with both hands outstretched.

“She needs new hearing aids, or, needs to leave them turned on!”

“What bloody ‘earin’ aids?” Merv was flabbergasted, again!

“You mean she doesn’t know she’s deaf?” It was Rosie’s turn to be flabbergasted. Everybody knew that Janet was deaf. “Take her to see my cousin, he’s an audiologist. I just happen to have one of his cards. You say ‘Losie’ sent you, he’ll give you discount.”

Merv was astounded. This could be the answer. He thanked Rosie, and hurried out, insistent that he didn’t need a special massage, or a wax, or even an eyebrow tint. He got back behind the bar in the Main Lounge in time for the evening rush. Granny was already sick of pouring pints, tore off her apron, mumbling something about pressure lines in the cellar, then disappeared.

Foodge was back in his usual spot, only slightly worse for wear with his tie half mast, his Fedora tilted back at a ridiculous angle, and his old packet of camels in his hand. “So, how did you get on with our fair Rosie?” He asked, rather too loudly for Merv’s comfort.

“Orright, mate, settle down, ‘ave another pint.” Merv pushed another canoe across the ancient bar. He was interrupted by an insistent screech.

“Merv…you down there?” Janet was in fine form.

“Yes, my love.” He yelled back.

“Merv…Merv…you there?”

“Yes, of course I am, my angel!” Merv was getting quite loud.

Janet’s red face suddenly emerged from the gloom of the staircase that went up to their private rooms. “Merv, you’ve been here all along…why didn’t you answer me?”

The entire bar put down their drinks in unison, and retorted. “He bloody did!!”

Merv was also red faced, and had a small tear in his eye, as he took Janet aside. “Janet, my love, this just confirms something that I’ve been suspecting…you’re going deaf.”

Janet must have been losing her hearing for a while, because she subconsciously lip-read, and understood. “I can’t be going deaf, not at forty four!” Yes, she was young to be a new mum. It was her turn to tear up.

Merv suddenly caught something out of the side of his eye. The Mexican hat, Hawaiian shirt, Bermuda shorts, and dense moustache couldn’t disguise the features of a man old before his time. “O’Hoo”. He shouted. “What the bloody hell are you doin’ ‘ere?” As he dropped Janet’s hands, and grabbed O’Hoo in a bear hug.

O’Hoo looked around furtively. The only danger was Foodge stumbling towards him with a canoe that was about to capsize all over O’Hoo’s Hawaiian shirt. “Um…under cover…need to know basis…Oh, Christ, can you hide me Merv??”

Quick as a flash Merv grabbed hold of Janet, O’Hoo and Foodge, quickly righting the aforementioned canoe. “Upstairs, the lot of yuz, we’ve all got things to sort out.” As he dragged them up to the Nathan Tinkler Memorial Sitting Room.

To be continued.

Foodge 35: The Dream

29 Thursday Nov 2012

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Boxer on the Canvas – Painting borrowed from Emily Proctor

Story by Big M (at last !)

Bang…bang! The punches just came out of nowhere. Merv knew that the second one had shattered his right zygomatic arch. He stood, teetering for what seemed like half a minute, but, in reality, was half a second. Then the lights seemed to swirl, and the crowd roared. Then some guy hit the ‘down’ button on the elevator, and the big man took the express straight to the basement, then another guy pulled the fuses, and everything went black. Merv remembered the stench of the rough canvass, as he collapsed, face down, arms askew, unable to protect his face as he fell.

He remembered Foodge yelling from the side. “Stay down Mr Merv, he aint fightin’ fair!” (Foodge managed to forget his grammar at the fights).  The ref started the count and Merv knew that he had ten seconds to get the circuits in his brain working again, find his feet (which seemed like they were somewhere at the other end of the ring), stand up and look like he could continue the fight.

The ref was renowned for giving a fighter every chance to avoid a technical knock out, so usually slowed the count down, but, this time Big Bill knew Merv was in trouble, so counted to ten, nodded at the adjudicator, who rang the bell, then dropped to one knee to try to render some aid whilst the ambos wended their way through the wild crowd.

Merv remembered one voice. “Get up, you great lazy oaf, come on, your kids need you!” Granny was leaning over Merv, who was back in his bed, next to Janet, who was blissfully snoring away. “Get up Merv, you’ve got a sick kiddie to look after!” As she passed the whimpering infant to her dad.

“What do you think’s wrong?”  Merv was embarrassed that he had slept through the cries.

“I’d reckon it’s middle ear infection, by the way she’s been pullin’ at that right ear…you’d think her mother mighta noticed!” Granny clearly had another agenda that she wanted to push. “I’ve given her some Neurofen, which should start to take effect. In the mean time you could slip down to the Casualty Department and get her looked at. Five on a Tuesdee mornin’ should be pretty quiet.”

Merv managed to get the child seen by a nice young doctor, who prescribed some antibiotics, and promised to send the family doctor a note. Merv was back at the Pigs Arms in time for bacon, bum nuts and wedges, the child was back to her delightful, bubbly self, unaware that she had disturbed half the household. Merv quietly shovelled his breakfast into his mouth; occasionally rubbing his right eye in disbelief…the dream seemed so real. He had two problems to sort out, one, was the dream, where did it come from? Why was he dreaming about being knocked out, again? The other problem was Janet. Granny was probably right, she may well be the laziest mother in the world, she never got up to the twins at night, in fact, she seemed to have no maternal instincts at all!

Merv’s reverie was interrupted by a voice that emanated from a rather well dressed fellow in three-piece black suit and black Fedora. “Too early for a heart starter?”

“Foodge, you under cover?” Merv moved along the bar to pour a pint of Best.

“No, funeral today, one of the greatest Private Dicks ever to grace this city passed away last week.  “Nosey Newton.”

“Wasn’t ‘e the bloke who bashed up ‘is girlfriends?”

“No, that’s the actor. Nosey could sniff out a philanderer at fifty paces. There wouldn’t be any more bacon…or perhaps some eggs…or perhaps some wedges?” Foodge needed to fortify himself for the day ahead. “You seem to be down in the dumps, what’s going on?”

“Coupla problems, well, women problems, an’ this recurring dream.” Merv transferred another full plate to the empty place on the bar in front of Foodge.

Foodge blushed; he usually associated ‘women’s problems’ with minstrel station, or something worse.

“Why have you gone red, all uva sudden?” Merv was now busying himself with the filters on the coffee machine.

“Well, I can help with dreams, but, ‘women’s problems’, well…err…you’ll probably need a gynaecologist!” Foodge kept looking down at his second breakfast, hoping to avoid any eye contact with Merv.

“Not them sorta problems…problems with Janet, you know…relationships ‘n’ stuff. I put in twenty hours, some days, and she manages to do…well, bugger all. Granny and I have been up half the night with a sick kid, and Janet still hasn’t woken.” This was true, Janet couldn’t function on less than ten hours a night.

Foodge was relieved. “Well, I’m not immune to problems with women.” Which was true, in that, Foodge had no problem with making himself repugnant to women.  “And I can’t help with sick kiddies, but I, or rather, I know who can help with dreams…Rosie!”

“Rosie, as in ‘Rosie’s House of Pain’, Rosie? Merv stopped fiddling with the filter.

“Yes, but she hasn’t managed to help with my recurring dream. You know, the one where I wake up with a tattoo on my derrière.” Foodge nodded to the empty glass canoe, which Merv replaced with a fresh pint.

“You have got a tattoo on yer arse!” Merv was incredulous, would the kid ever wake up to himself? “But, you reckon Rosie can help?”

“Of course, but don’t tell her that I sent you…there’s still an issue of monies owed.”

Merv wasn’t surprised, but, at least Foodge’s bar tab was down to double figures. “Well, I might slip over there right now, while it’s fresh in me mind.”

“Nooo.” The effort of speaking whilst drinking had forced Foodge to aspirate some Best. He pulled a neatly pressed linen handerkerchief from his pocket (where did he find the money for these new clothes?). “Whatever you do, don’t knock on her door until after lunchtime, or else there’ll be hell to pay. I know?”

Their conversation was suddenly interrupted by the unmistakable screams from Janet.” Merv…Merv…where are you?  You there are nappies to change up here!”

“See you Foodge, enjoy the funeral.” Merv slowly climbed the stairs to the apartment above the bar.

Foodge 34: Ask a Mate if He’s OK!

27 Thursday Sep 2012

Posted by in Big M, Foodge Private Dick

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Box Step Fox Trot , Tango Echo, Roger X-ray

Story by Big M

Merv had been standing behind the bar, absent-mindedly polishing the same glass, for about twenty minutes. Foodge was starting to get a little worried, as Merv had shown no interest in his plans to enter the 2016 Disabled Olympics as a caber tosser, nor had Merv even commented on Foodge’s new ‘Green ‘n’ Gold Oh-Limpic Tracksuit, which he now wore, as part of his tilt towards 2016. Foodge was loath to discuss another bloke’s feelings, but had an excellent opener for these sorts of discussions. “So…how are you feeling, mate?” Foodge enquired, as he struggled to balance a lump of egg white on top of an over-crispy fork full of bacon.

Merv continued to stare straight ahead, whilst the cloth in his hand risked wearing through the wall of the pint glass. He suddenly realised that someone was speaking, and jerked his head around to face Foodge. “Sorry, mate, a thousands miles away…another pint?” As he swept the empty glass away from the bar, and started to fill another, all in one deft movement.

“Mmmm…yes…ah.” Foodge had already forgotten what he was asking, as men often do where feelings are concerned. He was concentrating on the last mushroom that seemed to manage to evade being spiked onto his fork. “No, are there any more eggs? You see, this caveman diet is absolutely terrific, no bread, grains, eat as much as you like…goes with the training.” Foodge flexed a bicep.

“You won’t be needin’ this, then.” As Merv took back the freshly poured pint of Trotter’s Best, slopping a little onto the old, hardwood bar. “I don’t think cavemen drank much beer, do you? Besides, I’ll bet they didn’t sit around inside eatin’ bacon ‘n’ eggs, an’ drinkin’ pints!”

Foodge was suddenly desperate for a conversation change, and then remembered his previous question. “Sorry, Merv, I was asking before, how do you feel?”

Merv sat the pint back down in front of Foodge, who eagerly picked it up, and skulled half of its contents. “How do I feel? I’m glad someone asked. A little bit empty, at the moment, Foodge. Not depressed, or nothin’, but, as I get older I just wonder what the heck I’ve done with me life. I know, you may look at me, and think, ‘there’s a man with everything’, and you’re right, I’ve got the pub, Granny’s like a mum to me, and I’m clearly punching above me weight with Janet, she’s bloody gorgeous, and much easier to live with now that she’s topped screamin’ all of the time, and the twins are great, an’ I don’t mind the three hourly feeds, every night, no, you’d be right to envy me, mate.”

Foodge shifted uncomfortably on the timber bar stool, painfully aware that there was still room in his caveman-like digestive tract for a couple more eggs and bacon, but not for any of those little mushrooms. “Empty plates here, Merv.” As he nodded towards the plate. “Wouldn’t be a bit more bacon, and a couple of eggs left in the kitchen?”

“Sorry, mate.” Merv took up the plate, and cutlery, slipped them into the dum waiter behind the bar, and wrote out a chit for another round of bacon and eggs  ‘for our Olympian’. Foodge’s latest craze hadn’t gone un-noticed by Granny, who’d laughed until she was hoarse when she’d heard of Foodge’s plans to become a caber tosser. She reckoned he couldn’t throw a walking stick, let a lone a great lump of wood. Merv turned back to the bar to continue his monologue. “I just can’t help thinkin’ that I coulda done something big, you know, like if I’d stayed with the coppers, I’d probably be a DCI by now.” Merv rarely mentioned the pleece, as he’d left in disgrace.

“Or, perhaps I shoulda kept me boxin’ career goin’, you know, turned professional, and all that?” Merv had failed to remember that he’d left boxing after being cheated out of more that a few victories. “I used to be a bloody good ballroom dancer!” Merv’s eyes lit up, as he stepped out from behind the bar to waltz elegantly around the room, expertly navigating his way around a couple of Bowling ladies, who’d wandered into the Main Bar to ask Merv if he could put the urn on, and get the sachets of International Gold Roast, and little packets of sugar out from behind the bar. “Certainly, ladies.”  Merv grabbed Beryl and took her for a quick spin.

Merv returned to the Main Bar, having filled the urn, put out the coffee cups, and associated bits and pieces. Foodge was just finishing his third plate of bacon and eggs, and once again, had an empty glass in front of him. Merv filled another pint, and took away the plate and cutlery. “Ah. Yes. Dancing lightens the heart.” Merv missed his ballroom dancing, and really wished that Janet would give it another try. He’d never really worked out why she fell over every time she tried to dance. Was it her left eye, that unsettled her whilst it continued to ‘do it’s own thing’, seemingly disconnected from the right?

Merv sighed, as he ran a cloth over the bar, more out of habit, than need. “Pity I never ‘ad the edjacashun, you know, ‘avin’ to leave school when I was fifteen, an’ all that.” Merv had always been painfully aware of his lack of formal education, in spite of the fact that, as a weight lifter, he knew every bone and muscle in the human body, and had a natural gift for mathematics, eschewing modern cash registers, ‘because I can work it out in me noggin’’.

“You know it’s not to late.” Foodge took a sip from his fourth Trotter’s, grateful that Merv seemed to have forgotten to limit his intake of alcohol during his discourse.

“Too late for what?” Merv was surprised to be interrupted, as he had taken centre stage all through lunch.

“Education.” Foodge retorted. “You could do something through TAFE, or a Community College, or Open Foundation at one of the unis.”

“Nah.” Merv shook his head, and took up a pint glass, which he began to rhythmically polish. “That’s for kids, not for us old blokes.

“Well, I was just reading on the weekend about a ninety year old who has just completed his second Master’s degree. He didn’t start any formal learning until he was sixty five!”

Merv suddenly felt like he was standing on a high diving board, both exhilarated and frightened at the same time. “I’d need some ‘elp, you know, me spellin’s no good…”

“I’d help.” Foodge quietly smiled.

“You, how could you help?”

“Merv, you seem to forget that I wasn’t always a shamus, I had to do a couple of degrees to get to be the Deputy Director of Public Prosecution. Yes, humble reader, Foodge’s fall from grace has been quite spectacular. “I could help with English, and essay writing, used to be pretty good.” Foodge took a long pull on his fifth pint. ”Ended up doing an honours degree in English Literature, even got invited to do a doctorate, but, you know, the pull of the law, public office and all of that.”

They were suddenly interrupted by a slightly red faced Beryl. “Oh…err… Mr Merv, the Ladies and I were just wondering, if…you know…. well, you’re so light on your feet…”

Merv took up the challenge, kicked the jukebox into gear and started foxtrotting with Beryl around the bar; whilst the other Bowling Ladies lined up, ready to ‘cut in’. Merv had a grin from ear to ear. Foodge shifted himself around on the barstool so he could watch the spectacle, but managed to miss the footrest, and found himself in a crumpled mess on the floor, again!

Foodge 33 – The Interview

22 Thursday Mar 2012

Posted by in Big M, Foodge Private Dick

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But in the Pig's Arms, the gloves are off.

Story as told to Big M by Foodge

Editor’s note:  When I visited the Continuity Department, there was a note on the door.  It read “The Continuity Department will be closed yesterday due to an upcoming death in the family.  In the event that readers have difficulty following the thread, tell them that this is a flash – back, forward or sideways.  We’ll get back to you – unless we already have.”

Merv stood at his usual post behind the chipped and stained timber bar, absent mindedly polishing a glass canoe with a dirty rag. He had given up struggling to open his left eye against the bruised eyelids, and, he’d realised would have gone cross-eyed looking over the plaster on his nose. He wore a self-satisfied grin, in spite of the obvious discomfort. Foodge sat opposite, his Fedora sitting brim side up on the bar, a pair of aluminium crutches at his side, and a pint of Trotter’s Best at his elbow.  He couldn’t stop grinning. The silence was broken by main door slamming shut, and the bounding steps of one of the fattest men in Cyberia. Both men were shocked to see  the shapeless figure of  ‘Little’ Jack  Stanley, Senior (and only) Sports Editor for the Inner Western Cyberian Bugle, resplendent in his battered grey Fedora with ‘Press’ pass stuck in the hatband. “Gidday, dyouz mind if I interview youz fur the Bugle?”

Merv’s self satisfied grin disappeared, and he shook his head, almost imperceptibly, as any more vigorous movement set the bell ringers to work in the back of his scone. Foodge, however, tried to snap to attention, forgetting the cast on his left leg, which caught the bottom of the stool sending him reeling forward, into Jack’s arms. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes’, Mr Foodge?” Jack struggled to push Foodge back into his natural position on the barstool.

Foodge took a few moments to settle back into the barstool, took a long swig at his glass canoe, then gestured to Merv for another. Merv complied then mumbled something about kegs ‘n’ pipes, then disappeared into the cellar. “You know why’m ‘ere, son, you got the inside dirt on Mauler v. Merv, aintcha?”

Foodge nodded enthusiastically. “Well, I must say at the outset that I was the catalyst for the match, you see, I had put myself forward as the light-heavy contender for the Police vs PI’s, that is short for Private Eye, or Investigator, one of which I am, currently, and, I’m not ashamed, quite successfully.” Jack was taking all of this down in shorthand with a stubby pencil, the tip of which he seemed to lick more than seemed necessary. “Unfortunately, I drew The Mauler as my opponent for the first match. This seemed to coincide with a sprain…I mean, crushate ligament, necessitating the urgent application of plaster to said leg..I mean knee.’ Foodge took a moment to nod at the affected leg, as if Jack hadn’t noticed the plaster cast and accompanying crutches. “Mr Merv heard about my plight, and, being a card carrying member of the PI fraternity, offered to step in.”

“ ‘ang on mate, I thought Merv was expleece?” Jack interjected. Merv had re-appeared, happy that Foodge had taken over the telling of the tale. He pushed a canoe across the bar to Little Jack.

A Little Jack goes a long way ...

“Yes, indeed, Mr Merv IS ex-police, and, that is where the enmity with the Mauler…I mean Senior Constable Frank Malleson began. You see, Mr Merv, in spite of his size and pugilistic prowess is a gentlemen. Senior Constable Malleson, on the other hand is a brute, who regularly seems to manage to extract a confession from suspects just before they are transferred from holding cell to Emergency Department. Anyhoo, Mr Merv left the police service some years back and, for a while, toyed with the idea of Private Detection, hence the PI licence. Anyway, I’m sure your readers don’t need to know the history of Mr Merv, except that he was a contender for the aforementioned boxing contest. Foodge stopped to take a long pull at his canoe, realised it was empty, and motioned Merv for a refill.

“ So Merv was subbed in only five weeks out from the match?” Jack pushed his Fedora all the way back on his noggin, pausing to scratch his bald pate. Merv couldn’t help noticing some particles of food had lodged in the creases between chins.

“Yes, I’d suffered a sprain, I mean subluxation of the..er…anterior…crushate… anyway. Mr Merv threw his hat into the ring, and, with myself as Manager, and Granny as trainer…” Foodge was interrupted by Little Jack.

“ ‘ang on mate, ‘oo’s Granny, an’ wots ‘er real name?” Jack paused to inspect the tip of his pencil.

Foodge looked at Merv, and Merv looked at Foodge. “Granny.” Retorted Foodge. “Everyone knows Granny!”

“Not everybody in the readership knows Granny, besides, this could go viral, you know, David and Goliath story, readers world wide will want to know the facts!”  Jack was sweating profusely, and the old Fedora was now tipped beyond forty-five degrees.

“Facts never seem to be a problem for you journalistic types, but, if ya  just cool yer ‘eals there for a minute I’ll slip upstairs ‘an arx ‘er, she’s mindin’ the twins while me missus gets ‘er eyebrow waxed.” This wasn’t all she was getting waxed, but, Merv, ever the gentleman didn’t want to broadcast Janet’s level of hirsuitism across the country. Merv bolted up the steps, past the Nathan Rees Memorial Ballroom/Cinema Compex, past the Kristina Keneally Memorial Powder Room, up another flight of stairs to his apartment above.

Foodge had taken on board some of Merv’s suggestions for promoting his business, so, after a couple of awkward minutes, cleared his throat. “I suppose you report on subjects aside from sport?”

“Nup.” Jack had loosened his antique tie, and was sipping at the iced water that Merv had thoughtfully shoved in front of him, in response to his apparent diaphoresis.

“So, some of your colleagues must have an interest in crime and detecting?” Foodge was already struggling.

“Yep, but they get all they can write about from the courts and the Plee..” Jack’s sentence was interrupted by screams.

“After all I’ve done for you, you ungrateful bastard, picked you up, dried you out, given you a job, and you repay me by tryna publish me name in all the papers” There was a thump, then a door slammed, followed by the creaking of stairs.

“Listen, Foodge, old mate, I’ve just remembered an appointment, ‘ow about I drop back ‘ere tomorra, when things have quietened down?” With that Little jack was gone

To be continued.

Foodge 28 – A Hot Foodge Sunday

26 Monday Dec 2011

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Punting - for folks with just a couple of Oxford scholars

Story by Big Magnum

Merv had been pacing the floor behind the bar all morning. Two problems, one was the bloody Christmas decorations. He’d finally found two, foot high, tinsel trees and a red and green banner with the words ‘Merry Christmas’ emblazoned across it, then spent ten minutes sticking the damned thing up. Problem two was Granny keeping a shotgun in the hotel, so had decided that it would be best to get rid of it. The Pleece had an armistice for illegal, or unregistered, weapons, but that was now over. The miserly part of him knew that the Purdy was worth a few Oxford Scholars, so, rather than simply letting the piece go, Merv had started to think about ways to get rid of the gun and, get some easy readies. His ruminations were disturbed, not so much by a presence, but more by an aroma, Foodge had just staggered in, resplendent in his new track-suit and running shoes.

“Jeez, Foodge, it’s thirty five degrees out there, yer gunna die of heat exhaustion!” Exclaimed Merv, as he hefted another tray of glasses into the rack under the bar.

“Well, Merv, as you are fully aware, I missed our morning’s training session so I’m trying to make it up.” Foodge had been on surveillance all night, only managing to take a couple of murky photos of a man behind the wheel of the senator’s car. Later, the man in question would prove to be the hotel valet who was moving the car to the forecourt. “Anyway, thought I could procure some rehydration therapy here.” Foodge had an enthusiastic gleam in his eye.”

“Too right you can, Foodge, here’s a glass a water, on the house.” Merv pushed a glass canoe of cold water across the bar. “I’m not sellin’ you beer in that state!”

Foodge reluctantly took the glass, knowing that Merv was probably right. “Well then, Merv, what’s on the luncheon menu today?”

“Same as it’s bin for thirty three years, but, for you, Granny will knock up a salad.” Granny had been ‘knocking up’ a salad for Foodge for the last eight weeks, which, with reduced alcohol intake, and some training, had brought about a quantum improvement in his overall health. “While yer waitin’, yer can give me a hand.”

“Oh, um…er” Foodge, in spite of his improved fitness, was still averse to any kind of physical labour.

Merv motioned, with his index finger, for Foodge to lean in closer. “What do you know about guns?”

Foodge breathed a sigh of relief. “Sorry, don’t do shooters.” He’d heard Phillip Marlow say this in a film.

“No, not to shoot someone, I’ve got to get rid of Granny’s Purdy, so, thought I might try and sell it.”

Foodge’s pupils dilated. “Did you say a Purdy?? What sort of condition?”

“Sixty years old, and as good as the day it was made.”

“Mmm, let’s see.” Foodge had whipped out his iPhone, and started pushing keys. “Here you are.” He held up the device for Merv to examine. “Nineteen Thirty One model, under and over, sold at auction in the states for thirty one big ones.”

Purdy

Merv went weak at the knees, grabbing the bar to steady himself. “I thought we’d get a few hundred bucks for it, not thousands.”

“Yes, indeed, what you need to find is a high end gun dealer who’s willing to give you a fair price. The other thing you should do is do a Google search and find out what prices people are prepared to pay.”

Merv thought that Foodge was talking gobbly gook with the google business, so nodded and smiled. “Well, thanks Foodge, you’ve earned your keep today.”

“No worries, any Googling needs, I’m your man!” This wasn’t strictly true, as it had taken Emmjay the best part of two weeks to teach Foodge how to use the iPhone. Foodge was hoping that this would be another traditional Christmas spent sucking down Trotter’s Ale, imbibing wedges and regaling the assembled piglets with tales of derring-do, only to wake up on the floor of the Gent’s on Boxing Day. He was surprised to see the place filling up. Gerard and the Mysterious ‘H’ were the first in (he hadn’t seen young Viv pop in through the kitchen to start on the evening meal), followed by Emmjay and his First Mate, both dressed like Bogart and Bacall on a date.

A small band, composed of O’Hoo on the bass, Asty on the guitar, Dr Mick on the euphonium and DCI Rouge playing percussion, had started playing some new fangled pop music. ‘Steely Dan’, or some such thing. Sandshoe and Lehan Ramsay had started to dance, and were quickly joined by Atomou and his missus. The music was suddenly drowned out by the deep throated roar of un-silenced Charlies. Algy’s group had arrived! The party was in full swing, the music occasionally stopping for an oration by J.G Cole, Atomou and even O’Hoo.

Foodge was gob-smacked. It looked like becoming the family Christmas that he’d missed for so many years. “Merv, I think it’s time I shouted the bar, Trotter’s Ale all round!” Merv couldn’t help but notice a film of tears in Foodge’s eyes, but was polite enough to ignore it and started pouring.

“Yes, Foodge, Merry Christmas to us all”

Foodge – Merv Snap

02 Wednesday Nov 2011

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Old Man Sitting in a Rocking Chair By: Marc Desimpelaere (simulated Merv)

Story by Big M.

It was mid-afternoon as Merv sat in his old rocking chair in the midst of the cellar. Merv had that sense of weariness that goes with being a man satisfied with his lot in life. He often slipped down to the cellar to ‘catch up on some paperwork’, which, invariable, resulted in him being woken by his own snoring. The cellar was a comforting place, redolent with scent of roasting barley, from Granny’s oast, as well as that rich, beery smell, that only a publican can love.

It had been quite a productive day, Merv reflected. An early morning boxing session saw Foodge give Wes a clip around the ear, for the first time, plus Merv felt like he was back to his young body building days as he’d dead-lifted close to half a metric ton. Mid-morning he’d driven Janet and the twins to the station to catch the train to her hometown of Lithgow to visit her parents. Hopefully not for too long, as a stay in Lithgow placed one at great risk for exogenous depression.

There’d been a roaring trade at lunchtime. Algernon had brought his mycologist mates from the uni for a beer tasting, which was only terminated by Merv and Wes carrying them out to the Vice-Chancellor’s car, to be driven to the university for some ‘special’ tests.

Merv put his head back, and was just listening to his own regular breathing when he heard a voice from above. “Get outta here you drug pushin’ bastards!” Merv leapt to his feet and bound up the steps three at a time. He rounded the corner to the Gentlemen’s bar to be greeted by the sight of Wes pushing two fat, tattooed, baldy headed bikers through the front door, whilst Hedgie, former NSW Aikido champion, had a third bikie in a painful wrist lock, constantly yelling. “Bloody steroid pushin’ bloody bastards.”

Merv pushed in hard behind Wes to help eject the pair of miscreants, then quickly locked the door before turning to Hedgie. “Mate, you better let go before you end up on assault charges.”

“Assault charges!! Fecking assault charges! I’ll give this baldy headed grub some assault charges.” Hedgie almost effortlessly leaned further into the wristlock, which had the appropriate effect. The bikie screamed, then started whimpering, and then bent at the knees to take the pressure off his wrist. Wes unbolted the door as Hedgie tossed the hapless fellow through the opening whilst taking a loud slap at the bald head.

The three men were trying to take stock of the situation when Merv heard a mechanical ‘click’ from somewhere upstairs. It took him some seconds to register the sound, and then turned, yelling. “No, Granny!!” He lunged up the stairs behind the Gentlemen’s Bar, dashed passed the Nathan Rees Memorial Ballroom, rounded the corner at the Kristina Keneally Memorial Powder room, then out onto the shaky balcony above the Ladies’ Bar.

“Noooo!”

“Bam!”

“Bam!” Granny expertly cracked open the breech of the weapon, ejecting the cartridges onto the floor, and reloading, all the while keeping her eyes on the retreating bikies.

Purdy Impressive

Merv pulled the Purdy from Granny’s gnarled fingers, and unloaded the weapon before stowing it under the ancient park bench that had sat on the balcony for ever (actually, it was only since 1957 when the Angles got onto some ‘special stuff’ purchased from a bloke in a dunny at a pub, all hallucinated, moved a builders scaffold to the front of the Pig’s and placed the park bench in it’s current location). Granny slumped onto the bench, shoulders hunched, bony elbows balanced on knobbly knees, her drawn, wrinkled brown face covered by those long, gnarled fingers.  Merv flopped down next to her.  “Granny, it’s just passed three, there’ll be kiddies comin’ outta school!”

Granny’s bony shoulders started heaving up and down a long time before the sobs came. Then there were tears. Merv was bewildered, as he’d never seen Granny cry, even after a thump to the nose during some over enthusiastic sparing, which left her beak blue, and then green. He put his arm around her. “What’s wrong, love?”

Granny just shook her head like a petulant child, pausing to wipe her eyes on the back of her forearm.

Merv was stumped now, I mean, crying sheilas and all that. The bright sunny balcony suddenly darkened, as if in the umbra of some strange moon. Merv looked up to find Young Wes standing over him, who motioned for Merv to step away. Merv wanted to shake his head and stay, but everything inside him wanted him to get away from crying Granny, or, more to the point, for her to stop crying. Merv nodded weakly. “I’ll…err…go an check the Gentlemen’s Bar.” He quickly extricated himself from the park bench, stooping to pick up the shotty.

Merv had sowed the gun in a locked cupboard upstairs, then went to the bar, pouring himself a double ‘Southern Seas Cognac’ (an oxymoron, surely) and downing it in one gulp, the acrid fluid burning his palate and oesophagus, then giving his stomach an accurate impression of an ulcer. He looked around at the Bowling Ladies, all of them looking a little pale. “Sorry ladies, a sherry or brandy, just to bring some colour back to the gills?”

“Don’t worry about our gills, thanks Merv!” Retorted Beryl. “What about Granny, we can hear the sobs from the Ladies’ Lounge, and you’re down here drinking?”

“Err…ah…um.” Merv rubbed his huge paw over his bristly scalp. “Wes is up there, you know, he’s the one who’s usta workin’ with sheilas.”

Beryl was about to launch into a tirade about Merv’s responsibilities, and what a bastard he was, and leaving a young lad like that to do a grown man’s work, when Granny and Wes appeared at the bottom of the stairs, a box of cartridges in Wes’ hand.  All of the Bowling Ladies rushed to her like a flock of seagulls to a discarded chip (and, yes, like seagulls, some of them only have one leg!). They gathered around her, and then magically whisked her into the Lounge, with Beryl at the rear, still glaring at Merv.  The tension was broken by the arrival of both Detective Inspector O’Hoo, and his partner in crime, I mean, detection, Foodge.  Both men were visibly thinner, tanned and more sprightly. “‘Allo Gents, pints all round?” Stammered Merv nervously. “Business or social call, Detective Inspector?”

“O’Hoo tilted his trilby back, rubbing his face with a handkerchief. “ A mixture of both, really, there’s rumours round the station of shots fired in the main drag. My response was that no one would be silly enough to own a firearm, much less discharge one, round these parts, so I thought I’d come ‘n’ ‘ave a gander.” O’Hoo took a long pull from his glass.

“Foodge nodded sagely.” There were some big Charlies in the street, I reckon a couple backfired. Bad fuel, you know?” To no one in particular.

Charlie

The Bowling Ladies had gone quiet. Beryl piped up. Granny, can you just write in the minutes that the meeting ended…” She paused to look at her watch. “Three twenty seven?” Granny nodded as she scribbled on a sheaf of papers.

O’Hoo looked around. “I reckon you’re right, Foodge, backfirin’ motorbikes.” He was disturbed by the sound of The Muppet’s theme tune. He fished a swish looking mobile out of his pocket. “O’Hoo…yes…yes…bikies…yes…no…OK…thanks.”  Then hung up. “Five blokes on big Charlies were arrested by uniformed pleece, for speeding. Their bikes were searched and all were carrying illegal hannabolic steroids, speed, coke and great wads of cash. They were blabbing on about being beaten up and shot at, silly buggers!” He looked at the bottom of the empty glass. “Anymore beer in that tap?

Foodge 27 – Merv Spills One

30 Thursday Jun 2011

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Not the black one, the grey one......

Story by Big M.

Foodge had slept half of the day after his workout with the Pig’s Arms crew, so showered, dressed in his second best suit, unsuccessfully tried to beat his black  Fedora back into shape, gave up, and decided to wear the grey one that ‘shoe sent from South Australia. He sauntered into the Main Bar half hoping to catch up with Wes , to finalise the surf gang investigation and fully hoping to avail himself of some brews. “Pint of Trotters, thanks Merv.” As he gingerly mounted the bar stool, using the footrest to push his flabby buttocks all of the way onto the seat.

Merv complied. Foodge downed the amber liquid in one long gulp. “Another, thanks Merv.”

“No, Foodge, that’s it. We’re gunna wean you orff the piss, and try’n get you fit!”

“But…psht…arr…but, you can’t. I’m a paying customer!” Which wasn’t strictly true, as Foodge only sporadically paid his tab.

“Listen, Foodge, this is for you own good!” Merv’s brows were even more firmly knitted together. “I don’t want you to end up they way I used to be.”

“What’s the John Dory, Merv?” Foodge was down with the young people’s way of speaking, back in the 50’s.

“Listen Foodge, I’ll tell yer this once, and once only, and if yer tell anyone else, I’ll job ya, OK?”

Foodge nodded.

“I’m a reformed alcoholic” Merv was deadly serious.

“But you drink beer all day.” Foodge immediately thought he had the upper hand.

Simulated non-alcoholic beverage (not actual size)

Merv shook his head. “Cold green tea, fizzed up in the Soda Stream, very refreshing, and gives you punters a good impression.” Merv poured Foodge a pint of carbonated green tea to try. “Anyway, it all started when I was in the coppers. Beryl came and made allegations of cheating in the local African Violets Growers Competition. She alleged that a well-known identity, who shall remain nameless, but was married to the, then, mayor, had cheated by illegally importing African Violets from Africa, and entering them in the competition. I knew it wasn’t a police matter, but I went ahead, seeing as how Beryl was good to all of us kids when I was a little’n. He stopped to have a long pull from his pint.

African violence

“I managed to find a paper trail all the way from a wholesale grower in Africa, all the way to the local identity’s address. Took the evidence to the DCI only to be told, in no uncertain terms, to drop it. So I did, much to my shame.” Later that year Beryl came to me again alleging that the same person had cheated at the Lewisham Fair Sponge Baking Competition. Once again, paper trail all the way from a well known hotel in Sidney, all the way to ‘er letterbox. This time I didn’t let Beryl down, I went straight round to ‘er ‘ouse and arrester ‘er. Unbeknown to me, one of my colleagues managed to ‘lose’ all of the evidence, and I was in strife for wrongful arrest.” Merv couldn’t look Foodge in the eye, which was good, because Foodge was bloody uncomfortable hearing all of this.

“The other blokes started pickin’ on me. You know? Little things like decoratin’ me locker with icin’, or dispatchin’ me to an incident at a flower show, and so on.” Merv had a tear in his eye. “I loved bein’ a copper, but I couldn’t go on. The whole of the pleece force knew all about it, blokes used to snigger at me, ‘here comes the patty cake police’. I’d ‘ad enough. Took redundancy, and hoped to open me own private detectin’ business.” Merv stopped to blow his nose.

Cruel cake for a policeman

“Never took off, no contacts in the coppers, not like you ‘n’ O’Hoo, ‘e’s a good mate to you.” Foodge nodded. “Started drinkin’ in ‘ere every night, lookin’ for contacts, an’ woke up every mornin’, face down in me own piss ‘n’ spew. One mornin’ Granny rolled me over,  slapped me across the face, and said to me. ‘Merv, you’re a good man, you need a job, and I need a barman, so let’s get it sorted!’”

“So, who taught you how to fight?” Foodge was eager to get as much out of Merv as possible.

“Doctor Umentry was me first trainer.”

“What, the old bloke who owns the gym, is he a doctor? Maybe I should se him?” Foodge saw an opportunity for free medical care.

“No, not a medical doctor, ‘e’s got a PhD in philosophy. Still does some lectures over at the uni, but loves ‘is boxin’. Anyway ‘e was me original trainer when I was a youngin’. I was one fight away from becoming the NSW ‘eavyweight champ, when a brawler named ‘Peabody’ blindsided the ref, kneed me in the tackle an’ broke me nose as I went down clutchin’ the goolies. Never fought again, well, not in the ring!” Merv absent-mindedly adjusted the ‘men’ before he went on.

“Anyway, Granny ‘ad seen me fight in me younger days, so, not long after she gave me the job, she started to train me, ‘opin’ I might make a comeback. Never did, me ‘art wasn’t in it.”

“So, Granny was a boxing trainer? Foodge’s head had been a bit muddle this week.

“Not so much a trainer, as a fighter. Boxin’ ‘as always been illegal for women in New South Wales, but, there was a shortage of boxers in the war, so girls like Granny used to either, enter illegal fights in gyms dotted about the place, or, enter legit fights pretendin’ to be a bloke, which probably weren’t to ‘ard for ‘er.” Merv laughed. “Anyway, ‘ere’s Granny with your salad, want some more tea with that?”

Foodge 26 Foodge Gets into a Scuffle

27 Monday Jun 2011

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Foodge tried to relax in the Emergency Department bed, but, clearly they were designed to discourage both, relaxation, and any desire to stay on the med for more than a couple of hours. He was waiting for the doctors to read the CT scan of his head, but, by the sound of the conversation, weren’t looking at his. “Fair bit of brain shrinkage.”

“No focal signs, but could have dementia.”

“Sometimes see this sort of pattern in older alcoholic males, but, seems OK for a sixty two year old.”

“Look at the date of birth, he’s only forty two.”

Forty-two, thought Foodge, I’m forty-two. Sounds bad for the poor old fellow.  A young doctor, wearing green ‘scrubs’, who, to Foodge looked more like a mechanic’s apprentice than an Emergency Physician, pulled the curtain back.

“Mr Foodge, I’ve reviewed your CT with one of my colleagues. We think you’re OK to go home, as long as you stay with someone, do you have any family?”

“No…err…actually, yes.” Foodge had a bright smile on his bruised and battered face. He realised that the Pig’s Arms was his second home, and that Merv and Granny would keep an eye on him. Wes had driven him to the hospital, in Merv’s Bedford truck, straight after the incident, and had hung around to see if Foodge was OK (this wasn’t strictly true, Wes has spied a pretty emergency nurse, and was trying to invite her out for a drink).

“Who’s your local doctor, Mr Foodge, so I can send a discharge summary out?”

“Doctor Hewson, near the Pig’s Arms Hotel.”

“I think you might be telling porkies there, sir, as he’s been deregistered for some years, you know, after the ‘trouble’?’ The doctor winked conspiratorially. “How about I send the letter out to the new medical centre on the main road, and you can make an appointment this week?”

The doctor closed the curtains so that Foodge could remove the backless gown and struggle back into his, now, torn trousers and jacket, and picked up the flattened, felt disc that had once been a new black Fedora. He hobbled passed the nurses’ station, picked up a copy of the discharge letter and into the waiting room where young Wes was happily typing his number into the aforementioned nurse’s mobile phone. “Ah, Foodge, you OK? Uncle Merv said to bring you back to the pub, if that’s OK with you? Do you want me to swing by your joint, to pick up some toiletries, or whatever?”

Foodge shook his head, and immediately wished he hadn’t as all the hangovers of a lifetime came back for drum practice. “No.” He whispered.

Like all of the events at the Pigs Arms, there’s a story to it. It was early evening and Foodge had carefully parked his Zephyr in the area behind the pub, and felt quite lucky, as he’d managed to park in a single parking spot, between the shed and the chicken coop (it was really the parking spot that was reserved for Granny, but she preferred Merv’s truck), and was whistling away, looking forward to a debriefing with Wes, who was still on the surf gang case, as well as a cleansing ale, or three. Out  of the shadows stepped a figure which deftly pulled the back of Foodge’s jacket down, pinning his arms behind him as a second figure punched him in the eye, whilst a third started Flamenco practice on Foodge’s ribs. He remembered someone yelling to ‘kick him hard in the guts!’ almost at the same time as a familiar voice yelled, “Get outa ‘ere you flamin’ dingoes!” Merv appeared and helped Foodge into the Main Bar, where Granny started applying first aid.

“Must’ve been six of them, big blokes, they were.” Mumbled Foodge, as Granny dabbed blood away from his right eye.

“No, Foodge, three. Three teen-agers, in fact. Our local identity beaten up by three kids.” Merv shook his head. “ They’re the little buggers who hang around the back of pubs trying to con someone into buying them some beers.” Merv was interrupted by Janet’s screams (The sight of blood had set her off, again), followed by the cries of the twins.

Merv and Granny had insisted that Foodge go to hospital to have his ‘noggin’ checked out, so Wes, being ‘nearly a doctor’, in spite of the fact that he wasn’t yet a nurse, was allocated the job of escorting Foodge to and from hospital.

Foodge returned to the pub to find that Merv had made up a room next to Wes’ on the third floor. He ended up spending two nights, which is about the same time that it took for the headaches to settle. Foodge was intended to pay mere lip service to the doctor’s request that he go to the new medical centre, but Granny physically dragged him there (it was in the same shopping complex as Aldo’s). Foodge had assumed that the doctor would find that he was the fittest forty two year old he’d ever seen. Unfortunately the truth was somewhat different; overweight, hypertensive with abnormal liver enzymes and hypercholesterolaemia. The doctor’s advice was less beer and wedges, more leafy greens and exercise. Merv decided that he was just the right person to sort Foodge out with ‘boxin’ lessons’!

One week later found Foodge in front of the Pig’s Arms at 06:00 a.m, waiting for Merv. Foodge had only ever seen six in the morning from the other side, having been up all night ‘on a case’, or, more often, drinking. Merv, Granny and Wes all burst from the front door of the pub, all in running shorts, T-shirts and joggers. “Who’s car are we taking?” Foodge looked around.

Merv laughed. “Car! We’re runnin’, it’s only five clicks”

I won’t describe the journey, but, let’s just say that it wasn’t a ‘run’. They arrived at ‘Doc Morton’s’ gym, which, like all boxing gyms, stank of sweat and dust. There was the usual boxing ring in the middle, weight lifting area in one corner, punching bags in the other, with the other two corners clear for skipping, etc. Merv and Wes headed over to the weights where they started on some squats whilst Granny tried to teach Foodge how to skip. She terminated the experience after he’d fallen for the fifth time. Merv and Wes decided that the best way to learn was for him to watch them spar, with Granny giving running commentary, which started with simple things like, ‘Merv’s got a great right-left-right combo’ and, ‘note how he punches from the waist, uses his whole body’ but quickly degraded to “Give it to ‘im, Wes.” “Get orff the ropes.” “Hit him harder!!!”

Merv put Foodge in the ring with Wes and tried to teach a basic move which involved stepping out of the way of a punch, then countering with a  right to the mid-section and a left to the side of the head as the he stepped past the opponent. Unfortunately Foodge got his left and right mixed up for the first four attempts, so walked straight into Wes’ fist. The fifth time he literally tripped over his own feet, landing heavily on the canvas.

“OK Foodge, that’s enough for today, ready to run home?”

Foodge shook his head, pulled out his iPhone and called for a taxi. Training was over for the day!

Foodge 26 – Friday Night Happy Hour

10 Friday Jun 2011

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By Big M

Foodge sat alone in the Nathan Rees memorial Cinema, located in the second floor of the Pigs Arms. He was dressed in his usual, or, rather, unusual clobber, grey stripped three button suit, crisp, white, bespoke business shirt with French cuffs, held together with silver cuff links bearing his family crest; a goose passant, rampant on a blue lake with daffodil embellishments, College of Laws tie, in a Windsor knot, light grey braces, black brogues by Loake of London, all topped by a black Fedora which sat on the table, brim side up so as to not alter the shape of the brim. He was waiting for young Wes to report on the goings on at the Cronulla Sharks surf gang, which, Foodge hoped, he’d infiltrated without pissing oodles of Foodge’s client’s hard earned cash against the proverbial masonry.

Foodge liked the cinema. It was cool and dark, which allowed one to sit and meditate over a refreshing beverage, and it was rarely used, unless Merv had managed to scrape up a ‘fillum’ that fitted into the ancient projector which hid behind the back wall, Its lens was always just visible to those inquisitive enough to be looking at the back wall. There was little risk of being disturbed on a Wednesday. No Bowling Ladies around (they always played an ‘away game’ on Wednesdays, in fact, they always played an away game, as they had no green of their own). The Hell’s Angles, those motorcycling geometricians, held a meeting twice a month to discuss such arcane subjects as; slide rule maintenance, Poiseuille’s law and it’s relationship to boundaries between laminar and turbulent flow, and so on.  Foodge could hear Merv’s monotonous voice from the Main Bar droning on about liquor licences, tax and ‘owsa man supposta make a livin’ sellin’ beer’?

The sound of the side door opening made Foodge look up. “Wes, good to see you…” Wes wasn’t there. In his place stood someone who looked vaguely familiar. It was Warwick, or Warren or… Waz, that’s right, thought Foodge, this is the bloke that helped me with the photos in the MP case. “Gooday Waz, how’s it hangin’?” Foodge occasionally tried to add a tradesmen like quality to his banter.

“Sorry mate, I’m looking for Merv.” The chap had a couple of those expensive laptop bags, which he struggled to carry. “He’s got trouble with his jukebox, and I’ve got some upgrades which may sort it.”

Foodge wondered how this master of digital imagery could sort out a jukebox. “ Merv’s downstairs, whinging, as usual.” Foodge thought this to be rather witty. “That jolly jukebox has been stuck on Cliff Richard’s ‘Summer Holiday’ for weeks, which I don’t mind, but, I funded a small party last week. “ Foodge blushed at the memory, although, he’d been so inebriated that the memories were reconstructions from Emmjay, Merv and Fern. “Couldn’t dance, no Cha Cha music!”  He liked to think of himself as a South American lady-killer.

Editors clarification: not actually a killer of South American ladies.

Waz couldn’t help but notice that Foodge had been sitting in the dark with his iPhone and beer. “What are you up to, sitting here all by yourself?” Waz had cocked one eyebrow, but didn’t look like he was going to fire it.

The facial expression was completely lost on Foodge, who was basically an ingénue. “Err…ah… meditating.”

“OK mate, I’ll let you keep on ‘meditating’. Waz started to back out of the doorway, hoping that Merv might happen along and save him from this deviant. “See you mate!!” Waz turned and ran.

Foodge was none the wiser, as he pressed the red button under his armrest, which signalled Merv to return with, yet another, pint of Trotter’s Best! Foodge looked up, once again, to the sound of the door. “Thanks for ‘trotting up’, Merv.” Foodge thought this particularly witty, and was recording it on his new iPhone. He looked up to see that it wasn’t Merv, but young Wes, wearing a ‘Male Nurse’s United’ T-shirt, tracksuit pants and slippers. “Oh…err…young Wes, what the hell are you doing in your pyjamas?”

“I worked at the nursing home last night, which is, in fact, my real job, and just woke up!” Wes settled his considerable frame into the seat next to Foodge. “Have you just rung for service?”

“Yes, I have.” Foodge thought it rather luxuriant being able to ‘ring for service.’

“I’ll run down and get it.” Wes disappeared then emerged through the door about five minutes later with a Trotter’s Ale and a long black. “OK, Foodge, why the urgent meeting?” As he placed the pint on a coaster so that it wouldn’t damage Foodge’s hat.

“Feedback, lad, how’s the case going?” Foodge had his iPhone out ready to jot down points of interest. Foodge, just quietly, was becoming a pain in the arse with that bloody iPhone!

“There’s little to feed back.” Wes sipped on his coffee, frowning slightly, as he’d forgotten to put a dash of cold water in the cup. “They’re all good blokes, hard workin’, respectful of women…you know?”

“I had them pegged as a pack of hooligans, ne’er do wells and dole bludgers.” Foodge seemed to hold fairly strong opinions on surfers. “What about the girl?”

“Imogen? She’s a lovely young lady.” Wes seemed a bit defensive.

“Young lady, she’s a teenager, and we’ve been hired to look after her.”

“No, Foodge, she’s twenty two years old, not a teenager, and, no, doesn’t need looking after. “ Wes wearily replied, as the sound of a bass guitar and drums cut through the stale air. “Ah, the party’s started.”

“What party, no-one told me?” Foodge was indignant.

“The Friday night Pigs Arms party, you know? Warrigal loads up the jukebox with new toons, and we, well, rock on.

The pair made their way down to the main bar where Angles, Lambrettists, and Bowling Ladies were already dancing. Emmjay and First Mate, who couldn’t help themselves, were dressed in evening wear that Emmjay had ‘borrowed’ from the ABC wardrobe – not worn since Jim Dibble retired – and probably not missed either, O’Hoo and Vinh had a romantic table in the corner, whilst Gerard and the mysterious H were, unsuccessfully trying to teach the dancers the samba. Atomou was in a corner lounge trying to convince Lehan, ‘Shoe, Asty and Algy the health benefits of ouzo. Even Janet had brought the twins downstairs to expose them to, what she regarded as, classical music. Julian was upstairs packing for his ‘Isle if Wight trip’.

Merv pushed a pint towards Waz, who sat at the bar, taking it all in. “On the ‘ouse, mate, you don’t know what your Fridee night music mixes mean to us at the Pigs.”