Category Archives: Big M

Foodge 19 – Trotter’s Best Saved

28 Sunday Nov 2010

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By Big M

Foodge and O’Hoo sat in the main bar trying to enjoy a couple of  ‘Mugs of Chino’, as Merv liked to call a mug of tarry coffee with burnt, slightly frothy milk. They’d been hard at it since dawn, which, was around ten. It was now eleven. The Pigs Arms was abuzz with noise. Gez and the mysterious H were still helping Vivienne clean up the kitchen. Eschewing modern dishwashers (which didn’t work anyway) they’d fallen into a fascinating rhythm of washing, drying, stacking and sorting. O’Hoo, in the absence of his lover, was already onto his second, day-old sausage roll, smeared with sauce from the ever present sauce bottle. Merv refused to sell sauce in little plastic packs and continued to dodge fines from the Health Inspector by claiming that his sauce was for ‘personal use’, all twenty seven hundred litres of it.

The sound of Brkon and Dermot’s stertorous breathing resonated from the cellar. Last night they had started tasting the remnants of Trotter’s Ale, Bitter and Best to determine where the beers had gone wrong. They’d put in a sterling effort, generated copious tasting notes, and then slept it off.

The sound of footsteps on threadbare carpet broke through from above, not literally, of course, but this was quite on the cards. Last night, whilst sober, Brkon had called a mate in, Algy the mycologist, who had arrived early, and asked Granny to show him around. She was still enthusiastically showing him every aspect of the pub, highlighting nuances in her brewing technique. He’d taken bacterial and fungal swabs and plates from everywhere, which he labelled and placed into a backpack. Granny giggled like a young girl every time she was complimented on some little innovation of hers. She was quite a clever brewer!

Merv was dressed in his pink shorts and tank top. Rivulets of sweat trailed down his face and chest which he absent-mindedly wiped with a bar towel. He’d been for his ritual morning run to the boxing gym. This was ‘Merv time’, and he reckoned there was nothing like ‘punchin’ the livin’ shit outta sumpthin’ for relieving stress. He quickly gave the bar a wipe then focussed his attention on some new bottles of ouzo, which he placed on the shelves behind the bar, replacing the ‘Seven Seas Scotch’, which had been imported from Fiji at very little cost, back in 1949.

“What’s the ouzo in aid of?” O’Hoo thought himself rather clever in knowing the name of the imported liquor, then embarrassed himself by inhaling some pastry, which initiated a coughing fit.

“Greek stuff, for the Greek.” Mumbled Merv, with his back to the bar, showing off slightly more ars crack than was legal in these parts

“What Greek?” Foodge’s interest was piqued.

“The famous playwright, comin’ up from Melbourne to oversee one of his famous plays. ‘im and ‘is Missus will be stayin’ in the Bridal Suite.”

“But you don’t have a Bridal Suite.”

“He doesn’t know that”. Merv smiled to himself.

Granny and Algy appeared at the bar. “Lovely system you had here, Granny.” Granny blushed again. “It’s a great pity someone had to ruin it.” Said Algy, as he glared at Merv. “I’m sure the fungal swabs will confirm my suspicions” Merv had converted the attic into a play room for the twins by moving Granny’s lauter tun from the attic down to the basement, then lining the room with gyprock which he got from ‘some bloke’.

Merv poured another round of ‘chinos’ for the lads, and a double shot of ‘Seven Seas’ for Granny, who couldn’t drink beer, unless it was her own. They sat in silence until they were disturbed by the sound of a big Charlie, sans mufflers, followed by a loud bang from the front doors, followed by another bang, then the door swung open and the door frame was filled by an enormous shape. The shape took a couple of steps forward to reveal a young man, of enormous proportions. He looked a little bit like Merv, with shaven head, smaller eyes and ears, and a Pigs Arms T-shirt. A huge pair of leather saddlebags were slung over his shoulder, and a black, open-faced helmet was under his huge arm. “Uncle Merv, Granny, remember me!”

Granny rushed forward. “Little Wesley, your Mum rang to say you were coming. When do you start uni? Have you had breakfast? Sit yourself down. Here, I’ll get you a cappuccino. Have you met Foodge, O’Hoo and Algy? They’re helping with the brew.” Before he knew it Wesley was sat down at the bar with a coffee in hand. Granny had disappeared to cook up her trademark breakfast wedges, bacon and eggs.

“So, what are you doin’ at uni?” Foodge enquired, looking up from his coffee with a moustache of burnt milk.

I’m doing my nursing degree. Sick of working in the abattoir. The only other work at Tumbarumba is the new winery, put in an application to the uni, so, here I am, and that’s if Uncle Merv will put up with me?”

Merv looked concerned. “There’s always a bed here for me sister’s boy, that’s if we’ve still got a pub, eh, Algy?”

“You’ll still have a pub if you follow my recommendations. These swabs have only been taken to confirm my suspicions. The nascent beer that had been sitting in the lauter tun in the attic was being naturally inoculated with wild yeast that was resident in the attic timbers, in the same manner as a Belgian Lambic. Covering the timbers and removing the tun has prevented this. There is no commercial yeast that matches your naturally occurring yeast, so, what I’m about to do is isolate the yeasts, using culture media, as well as yeast genomic PCR, then generate a culture which Granny should be able to keep going for years to come. This may take some weeks but, all of Granny’s ales will be back.”  Algy smiled at Merv, for the first time.

“’ow much will this all cost?” Merv still looked downcast.

“Thirty two swabs at eighty seven dollars each, plus two or three runs in the PCR machine at nine hundred and thirty a run…”

Merv’s face fell further.

… but, for Granny, I’ll do this for free.” Algy got up and left, eager to get into the lab.

Granny had re-appeared with a huge plate of wedges, eggs, bacon, and toast. She’d overheard Algy and Merv’s conversation. “This calls for a toast, let’s try some of that ouzo!”

Merv poured a round of ouzo in middy glasses (he had no idea about anything other than beer and scotch). “Here’s to Algy, and here’s to me favourite nephew, Wesley,”

“Yes, here’s to Algy, and here’s to Sister Wesley.” Foodge enthused as he downed the ouzo.

The room went quiet. O’Hoo looked at him, shaking his head ever so slightly. Granny put a restraining hand on Wesley’s chest. Wesley’s face was flushed, but he remained seated. “You’re quite the comedian, Mr Foodge, but, I hope you’re not implying that I’m some sort of purse carrying, Nancy boy, petticoat wearing, gay Mardi gras marching sheila, or you’ll find yourself coming off second best!”

Foodge went pale, clutched at his abdomen, steadied himself at the bar, then gasped out an apology. Wesley was already at his side. “You alright, mate?”

Foodge had tears streaming down his face. ”Ouzo’s meant to be sipped, not skulled. I’ll be alright when Trotter’s Best is back on tap.”

Merv shook his head, placed the bottle back on the highest shelf, where it would remain until its appointment with the visiting playwright.

Big M Heads North

25 Thursday Nov 2010

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Story and photographs by Big M

This may come as a complete surprise to most of the patrons of the Pigs Arms; I’m not a professional writer. I’m a Nurse Practitioner in a Neonatal Intensive Care Unit.

A frequent part of my job is to head a team, which travels to regional hospitals in our area health service to retrieve sick or preterm infants. We often travel in our own ambulance but this is impractical beyond about 200 kms, so, we need to fly. Today we had a call to pick up a thirty-four weeker (born about six weeks early) with Respiratory Distress, in a Special Care Nursery around 400 kms north.

The first thing we did was to have a sandwich and a quick cup of tea, empty the bladder, and change into our flight suits. The equipment is in a constant state of readiness, so there’s very little to prepare, except for driving down to the helipad and loading the chopper.  The pilot and crewman are usually happy to do an inter-hospital retrieval as there’s never any winching of personnel out of surf, sinking ships, fires or flood, just a scenic trip!

Kooragang Island and Stockton Beach.

Whilst the whole concept of flying sounds exciting, it’s pretty tedious, and takes about an hour and a half. We arrive at out destination where wardsmen help move our equipment to the nursery whilst the crew refuel the aircraft, as well as themselves.

The baby is pretty stable; as her doctor has requested she be transferred to our unit before she becomes more unwell, and the nurses have done everything to enable us to swap over to our ventilator, monitors, etc, then move back out to the helicopter. Naturally we talk to the parents, who seem to take everything in their collective stride. Mum is not stable enough to come with us, so will be transferred later.

Retrieval Unit loaded into the back of Bell 412 Helicopter - with purse-carrying nancy-boy installed.

The trip back to Newie is unremarkable, except for the baby trying to disengage herself from her respiratory support. We have a tailwind, so the homeward trip is slightly quicker. The terrain from above is remarkable. One can imagine huge glaciers carving out the various valleys along the coast, with rivers, and creeks ‘tidying up’ eons later. Some towns naturally evolved into a kind of ‘inland port’ on riverbanks where logs were sent downstream. Other towns formed next to various bays and harbours, no longer loading produce onto ships, now providing accommodation for holidaymakers.

I’m happy when we land back at the helicopter base, for two reasons; the baby has done well during the worst part of the trip, and my neck aches from the weight of the helmet. We return to our hospital to admit the new patient whilst the crew refuel to take an adult retrieval team to another location on the north coast.

Foodge 18 – A Dry Argument – Part 2

14 Thursday Oct 2010

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.... I think he said..... Boo Yeah, Bazza

 

By Big M

Foodge steered the big Zephyr, down the main drag. He was a few minutes early, in spite of waiting for Emmjay and First Mate to dress. Foodge thought that the white dinner jacket, and black silk dress were overkill, but, he thought, can take the wardrobe manager out of the wardrobe, et cetera. There wasn’t a parking space to be had. The entire street was lined with Charlies, ancient Austin A-sevens and Morris Minors, a couple of Pleece cars, and a clutch of motor scooters. Foodge left the car with the nose in a clearway. He made sure that his “Private Investigator’ card was on the dash, although this was unlikely to impress a parking inspector. They crossed the road; ignoring the crossing that was only metres away, inciting angry horn blasts from motorists.

The Pigs Arms was full, but this was no party. Lambrettists and Angles were talking in hushed tones. A very distraught Granny was surrounded by Bowling Ladies, who were in crisis mode, that is, they were making acrid tea, ham and tomato sandwiches on day old Tipp-Topp with thick linings of margarine. The really disturbing thing was, not the absence of the hum of conversation, but the absence of beer. The Professor was carrying a tray of teacups, whilst Hedgie was topping them up with the battered old enamel teapot. Merv had changed out of his morning attire of pink shorts and fluoro yellow tank top, into his good suit, and sat with a more dazed expression than usual. Janet had abandoned the afternoon TV game shows to sit and support him, all the while rubbing her gravid abdomen.

There was the most unusual aroma coming from the kitchen. Foodge couldn’t place it, but Emmjay couldn’t help himself. “Curry, Foodge, they must have a new cook!” The trio wandered over to O’Hoo, who was sharing a bottle of Shiraz with his paramour, using real wine glasses, for a change.

“Cheers Foodge”. Both DCI Rouge and O’Hoo raised their glasses, as the pub became deathly quiet.

“What the hells going on.” Whispered Foodge.

“They’ve all decided to pitch in and help solve the Great Pig’s Arms Brewing Mystery, at least, that’s what we’ve named it.” Grinned O’Hoo. “Take a seat.” O’Hoo poured three more glasses of Shiraz, whilst various patrons presented themselves, shaking hands, or patting Foodge on the shoulder, pledging their assistance.

“Dinner’s ready.” Roared Gez, from the kitchen. The Bowling Ladies had already converted the billiard table into a dining table, and had gathered an eclectic mixture of crockery and ‘good silver’. Gez brought in a huge steaming tureen of something he called ‘booyabays’, but everyone thought it tasted like seafood soup. The new chef, ‘Vivienne’ who carried a matching pot of curried prawns, followed him.

Everyone tucked in. It was even better than the Chinese at the Rissole Club. Merv served a round of Pink Drinks, then, after the meal was over, all eyes were on Foodge and O’Hoo, the Pig’s own detectives (plus DCI Rouge, but, Foodge and O’Hoo really grew up here). Foodge stood up. “I’d like to, ah, thank you all, for, ah, putting in with this meal. Err, ah, I have been putting some thought into the problems of our brews.” Foodge nodded to Granny, who burst into tears, again. He looked away, slightly embarrassed, but could feel dozens of pairs of eyes boring into him. “While there may be some natural explanation for this phenomenon, and we’ll be calling on our scientific friends for advice.” Foodge nodded to the Professor, who bowed his head slightly in response. “There may also be malfeasance at play here.” Everyone in the room gasped. “There’s no need for alarm, if the Pigs Arms, or, Granny herself have an enemy, then ruining our brews is the full extent of the damage. No one here is at risk of death or injury.” His oratory was interrupted by a gasp from Beryl, who clutched at her chest. Hedgie was at her side, in an instant, whilst a dozen wrinkled old hands foraged in a dozen wrinkled old handbags then proffered a dozen Anginine tablets. Simultaneously a couple of Angles disappeared through the front door.

DCI Rouge, ever the voice of reason, stood next to Foodge, placing her hand on his shoulder. “Ladies, there is nothing to fear, Mr Foodge is simply outlining the various possibilities, like any good sleuth.” She paused to wink at O’Hoo, who missed the gesture, as he was busily mopping Burmese curry from his new silk tie. “I would like to add that, if this brewing failure is due to malice on the part of any individual, or, indeed, any group, then they will experience the legal consequences of their actions. The Pleece take a dim view…”

The entrance of Brkon and Andy, two of the Angles longest serving members, interrupted DCI Rouge’s address. “We have nitroush oxshide bottle. It is excellent nitric oxide doner! One shniff and der heart feel better.” Brkon brandished a small blue bottle, which he’d wrenched from his beloved 1967 super charged, Munch Mammoth. “Dis make big bike feel better, too!”

Hedgie stepped forward, with a small tear in his eye, as Brkon’s action was just like a mother taking food from her child. “It’s OK, mate, the Anginine’s already done the trick.” Beryl nodded, returning Hedgie’s little smile. “Look, I dunno, everyone’s upset, and emotional. We know we’ve got the best team in the world on this. I vote we should let’em get on with it.”

There was a rousing cheer, followed by toasts with teacups and a few wine glasses. A handful of Angles started to clear the table, whilst the Bowling Ladies hovered, trying to ensure that none of the ‘good china’ was damaged. Andy and Brkon made sure that Beryl couldn’t benefit from some ‘nitroush’, then went out to re-attach the bottle to the bike. A very nervous Merv and Granny approached the detectives, with faces like mourners at a funeral. “So, where are youz gunna start?”

Foodge was ready to launch into another long-winded explanation, when Rouge cut him off. “Foodge and my little Gerald.” She paused to look over at O’Hoo who had given up on the tie, as he had spread curry stains over his new white shirt. “Will examine this hotel from attic to basement, from front door to that stinking outhouse.” Her nose wrinkled at the thought. “I’d suggest that we co-opt Brkon and Andy. We can use their skills in microbiology and chemistry. Meanwhile I will personally search every person, or group, in the pleece database looking for any clue. We’re pulling out all stops on this one.” Rouge gave Granny a hug, pecked O’Hoo on the cheek, turned on her stiletto, and left.

Merv went around the back of the bar mumbling about. “Something special.” He re-appeared with a dusty bottle in one hand, and a clutch of whisky glasses in the other. He poured the amber liquid, handed around the glasses, and then raised his. “To Foodge and O’Hoo.” Then downed his in a single gulp. They all followed. Foodge took a second to examine the bottle, which was nothing less than Merv’s favourite tipple, ‘The Famous Grouch’, seventeen-month-old scotch.

Foodge shook hands with Merv and Granny. “Thanks for your confidence, we won’t let you down. Come on, O’Hoo, to the outhouse. No…hold on…we’ll start in the kitchen. No…Emmjay and First Mate are still wiping the dishes…to the attic.” Merv and Granny sat back to let the two detectives start detecting.

Foodge 17 – Foodge and Uncle Big

25 Saturday Sep 2010

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The Newcastle Flyer leaving Stanmore Station

By Big M

I’ve written this short note by way of an apology to the patrons of the Window Dresser’s Arms, Pig and Whistle. The stories about Foodge, are simple transcripts from Foodge’s ‘dictations’. It’s probably best to try to explain just how our relationship came about.

Mrs M had offered to provide respite care for kids with disabilities. After much paperwork, and vetting by the Federal Police, we were rewarded with a message stating that we were to look after a young lad named ‘Foodge’, to give his Uncle Emmjay and Aunty FM a break. He was to be sent to Newcastle on the train. It was an exciting day as we waited on the platform of the Newcastle station, me looking only slightly more foolish than usual with a large A3 piece of cardboard with ‘Welcome Foodge’ scrawled across its front. We were eagerly examining the faces of the kiddies as they poured from the carriage doors when an enormous fellow in a brown suit, white shirt, RSL club tie and battered Fedora parked his ‘steamer’ next to me and stretched out his hand. “Big M, I presume.”

“Oh, hi.” I tried to peer around the shoulders of the gentleman standing in front of me. “Where’s the kid, I mean, Foodge?”

“I’m Foodge, there is no kid.” He pulled a box of ‘Dairy Milks’ out from behind his back, handing them to Mrs M. “Now, you must have a conveyance of some sort – A Ford Zephyr perhaps.” He started dragging his luggage along the platform towards the exit.

I quickly telephoned the contact number for Foodge’s foster parent. Emmjay answered, laughing at the misunderstanding. “Don’t worry Big M, he’s a sweet guy, you’ll love him!”

That was a few months ago. Foodge has been back to see his uncle and aunt, but seems happy in Newcastle for the moment. What can I say about him? He’s a big bloke, of indeterminate age, fit, reasonably muscular, although we never see him do any exercise. He’s polite, well spoken, likes to contribute to the household. He’s sober, never drinking more than a ‘half pint’ at the pub. He does have a Bachelor of Laws but has never practiced. He also has a battered Commercial and Private Enquiry Agent’s Licence, which has expired. Foodge’s name does not appear on the electoral roll. He’s never had a car licence, and has never owned a car. He has a bank account and credit cards, and is never short of funds.

I believe that Foodge has modelled himself on the famous pulp fiction writer Raymond Chandler’s character, ‘Philip Marlowe”, with his old-fashioned suits, narrow ties and Fedora. He refuses to own a pair of jeans, and won’t be seen wearing shorts outside the yard.  He does take it a bit far, at times, calling barmaids ‘doll-face’, or ‘toots’.  He has a penchant for out-dated uniforms. He joined the local bowling club, which he enjoys tremendously, going for a ‘roll-up’ in full bowling regalia. Emmjay tells me that he had no end of trouble trying to keep him from joining the Scouts.

Foodge makes the most outlandish claims, such as, “I’m thinking of having the Zephyr rebored”, “I invented the automatic garage door”, or, “my research proves that satellite navigation causes brain cancer”, and “the prime minister is not a real red-head,” or, “Mr Cole is making a film about my life.” Yet, he seems to have an encyclopaedic knowledge of astronomy and physics. He’s had a thesis on Aboriginal archeo-astronomy published, although is quite self-deprecating about this achievement (I don’t think it fits in with the whole 1940’s shamus persona).  He uses his own laptop computer, at home, yet struggles with the mobile phone, preferring to make a ‘trunk call’ from the home phone.

As for personal relationships he’s provided no information about his parents or extended family. He seems to have adopted Emmjay and FM, treating them as his own. He claims that a good friend of ours is his girlfriend. When we point out that she is gay, he replies. “Yes, she is, rather.”

Foodge insists on dictating these stories about his life as a ‘shamus’. Emmjay had originally started to do this on the advice of a psychologist as a way of allowing Foodge to express himself. I have tried to continue this, but it can be quite frustrating at times. “No, write it all down, no, not like that, do it the way Uncle Emmjay does it.” These stories are often extreme, revolving around his superior detecting skills, drinking ability, and sexual prowess. He seems to build up his own sense of self worth by casting others in lesser roles, for example, Emmjay is often portrayed as the wardrobe manager, O’Hoo is the fumbling copper who only gets results through Foodge’s efforts, and so on.

Mrs M and I don’t know how long Foodge will stay. We are determined to make the most of it, but will let him go back to Emmjay’s whenever. With your kind permission, I will continue to write down his stories and pin them up on the pub’s notice board, you know, in the Ladies Lounge behind that bench where the Bowling Ladies serve the tea. I hope you enjoy them and don’t find them too outré!

Foodge 16 – A Dry Argument

21 Tuesday Sep 2010

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Make Mine Expresso

By Big M

The Zephyr ground to a halt across the road from the Pigs Arms. Foodge had to park across the road, as a beer truck proudly displaying the sign ‘Wretches Pilsener’, was disgorging it’s load of kegs straight down through the steel doors in the footpath. Granny was supervising, hopping up onto the truck, then diving down into the cellar to man (or woman) handle the heavy aluminium kegs into some sense of order.  She was leaping, chimpanzee-like back onto the flat bed of the truck when she spied him. “Up early, son?”

“Home late, stake-out.” Foodge nodded to the aging Pentax, SLR in his hand. Stake out was a slight expansion of the truth, it was more like, trying to get the dirt on a stray husband at the Leichardt Ridges Hotel. The pristine Zephyr was hardly an inconspicuous observation post. “Grill on?”

“I’ll be five minutes, if this goat can pull his finger out. Already dropped one keg, for which I refuse to pay!” Granny glared at the driver.

Foodge ambled through the main doors, to find himself inside, what could only be described as a sauna. “Hello, anyone home?”

“In the back bar.” Roared the voice of Merv. “Tryin’ to make one of them ‘Cups-of-Chino!”

Granny bustled past Foodge, nearly knocking him off his feet. “I told you to leave the bloody thing until we’d read the instructions.” Shrieked Granny, as she flung the doors and windows open, to vent the steam, then tore through to disconnect the new coffee machine before any more aging wallpaper was threatened by the steam.

Merv looked helpless. “Tryin’ to go more upmarket.” He shrugged.

Foodge smiled the insipid, simpering smile of the night worker. “Breakfast?” He settled onto a stool as far from the coffee machine as possible, then flicked open ‘Barrister’s Weekly’, vigorously attacking into the Word-finder.  Merv pushed a glass canoe of Wretches Pilsener across the bar. Foodge knew by the absence of scent (smell would be a better word) and paleness that it wasn’t Trotter’s Best. “What’s this?”

“Best and Bitter are off.” Explained Merv. “Yeast died. Probably for the best.”

“For the best, for the bloody best?” Foodge was standing. “Best beer in the bloody world, and it’s extinction’s for the best!”

“Keep your voice down mate, Janet’s bin poorly.”

“Sorry.” Foodge had forgotten Janet’s delicate state, what with being in the pudding club, and grieving now that ‘Master Cook’ was finished. He leaned toward Merv, his tie draping itself through runny egg yolk and beans. “This is a disaster.” He whispered. “I can’t drink any other beer.”

“There’ll be no more PA beers until we can get new yeast, then there’ll be a trial period.” Granny had her back to them, trying to vent the excess pressure in the ‘Cup-of-Chino’ machine into a safe place, such as the sink. There was a great thump, followed by a second thump, which, inturn, was followed by the sound of the doors opening, which was accompanied by a  tuneless whistle, then, through the mist emerged the most distorted face Foodge had ever seen.

“Gidday, mates. Nice sauna” O’Hoo enthusiastically shook everyone’s hand, wrinkling his nose. “Breakfast?” Granny dashed off to the cellar for more beans and eggs. “Wizeyoo up so early?”

“Surveillance” Foodge bent his head forward and pushed his battered fedora back.

“Me, too.” O’Hoo grinned. “Big drug bust. Some bad bastards have been illegally making paracetamol, selling ‘em to old people, cheap. Very dangerous. By the way, why doesn’t it smell in here, I mean, aside from us fixing the dunnies?” This wasn’t entirely true, as O’Hoo himself carried a distinctive odour, but, like a sewage worker was completely inured to it.

“Tannery shut down, makin’ leather in Chine.” Merv shook his head, as sad at the loss of local jobs as he was for the loss of local drinkers.

“Bad news, O’Hoo.” Foodge struggled to keep a tear from rolling down his cheek. “Bitter ‘n’ Best are off!”

“No, tell me it isn’t true.” O’Hoo had Merv by the lapels, which was a pretty dangerous thing to do, what with his size and disposition. Merv expertly removed O’Hoo’s hands.

“Settle down, son, no-one’s died, it’s only beer” Merv stated, fairly unconvincingly. He started absent-mindedly fiddling with the ‘Best’ tap, looking about to make sure that Granny was out of earshot. “Look, yuz two are the cornerstone of this place, so I’ll level with yuz. It’s not so much the yeast, it’s Granny.  I know, she’s still sprightly, in and out, up and down, and she’s been happy as a dolphin since yuz two fixed the Gents, which, by the way, we’re all bloody grateful, but, ‘er arts not in brewin’.  I’m buggered, dunno what to do with ‘er.”

“But she won that award, for Granny’s Boutique Bitter, you remember, with the yeast from the underpants?” O’Hoo, avered. “What the hell is wrong with her?”

“That’s what I’m sayin’, I dunno. Thought she waz tired so offered her an all expenses paid ‘olidie to me cousin’s place in Woy Woy, but, no, wouldn’t go. Truth is she ‘ad a cuppla dud batches of  Best, then one of Bitter, then she said she’d never brew again. I think she’s lost it, she’s already made space in the cellar for Vee Bee an’ Toolies Old!”

The three screwed up their faces at the thought. Foodge thoughtfully let an eructation escape his lips, which took a bit of pressure off the ulcer. “Well lads, we all need to take it gently, you know, ‘touchy, touchy, feely, monkey’, as they say.” His head was bowed forward with his right index finger tapping the side of his nose. “My current case is a dead end, your’s is closed, O’Hoo?” O’Hoo nodded. “We both need sleep. Shall we reconvene at, say, seventeen hundred o’clock?

“You mean seventeen hours?” O’Hoo was jiggy with military time.

“No, what about five, then?

“Yep, we’ll make it five!”

The two men rose, collected their equipment, and left, leaving their glass canoes untouched. It was a sad day for Merv, his shoulders slumped as he tossed the amber fluid down the sink.

Geoffrey the Inept 7 – General Colon Oscopy

16 Thursday Sep 2010

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Insert Tab B into Slot A

By Big M

The following morning Geoffrey and Morticia were back in the clinic. Morticia was sheepish after yesterday, what with Geoffrey having to pay a sixty dollar cleaning fee to the taxi driver, plus the cost of dry cleaning his suit, plus the fact that he would probably never get the smell of vomit out of his shoes. Geoffrey was more disappointed, than anything. His virginity was still very much intact, but he didn’t have much time to dwell on it, as he was running the General Medicine Clinics, which really only involved ushering patients to and from clinic rooms, performing the occasional blood pressure or urinalysis, and basically trying to keep people calm, in spite of the clinics running two hours behind their advertised schedule. He was wandering past the Colonoscopy Room when he heard the dulcet tones of his inamorata. “Bit of help in here?”

Geoffrey rushed into the room. “Yes, my love.” He looked around to see Morticia hand ventilating a patient, who was clearly not breathing.

“Don’t just stand there, give him some Naloxone!”

“Yes, my love. Where will I find that my love?”

“In the bloody Emergency Trolley, filed under ‘N’” Morticia continued with the ventilation.

“Don’t you want me to jump on his chest?” Geoffrey thought that this sounded like the right thing to do.

“Just give some bloody Naloxone!” Roared Doctor Baxter, the Gastroenterologist, from the other end of the patient.

Geoffrey managed to find the drug and administer it correctly, which was quite a feat, for Geoffrey, then got ready to perform cardiac compressions. “What the hell are you doing, son?” Yelled Uva Kent, from the doorway. The patient groaned, as the medication had started to work. Morticia stopped her resuscitative efforts and the colonoscope was extracted from the gentleman’s nether regions.

“Ah, Sister Kent, this young lady has done a terrific job with this chap who became narcotised during a ‘scope, unfortunately, her male colleague was much less effective.” Doctor Baxter and Morticia turned the patient onto his side.

“Mister Riley, I’ll be seeing you in my office at three, and Doctor Baxter, you need to review your medication doses. I assume your keeping the patient here, for observation? Morticia will do that, and I will send an RN from the medical ward to help.” Uva turned on her heal to find herself face to face with Doctor James. “Ah, Doctor James, just been having a little chat with your lad, seems he needs some remedial education on resuscitation!”

“Well, er, ahh, He’s not, my lad, as I’ve pointed out to you before.” James was red in the face. “He may benefit from some extra education, so we’ll send him to the College of Nursing, Advanced Resuscitation Course, which, by the way, is run by a very good friend. We can give Mister Riley some financial support from the Nurses Scholarship Fund.” James turned and marched away before there could be any discussion. He had important business, letters to dictate, and a presentation on his PENIS to practice. He could end up practicing with his PENIS for the rest of the day.

Uva took one last look around the room, pausing to scowl at Geoffrey, then rushed away to more important matters, a smoke and a chat with Tess, which is where she was originally headed.

Sister Kent was surprised to find Tess was already sitting out on a low grassy hill overlooking the helicopter pad. A chopper had landed with the rotors still slowly turning. The distinct smell of burnt kerosene wafted over them from above, whilst the earthy scent of freshly mown grass rose from under their feet. A gaggle of wardsmen waited, wearing oversized earmuffs and sunglasses, which made them look like aliens. Uva pulled a Camel from her top pocket, thrusting it into the corner of her mouth, and then started the ritual of patting every pocket in order to locate a lighter. She’d just done a second circuit of pockets when Tess proffered an old, gold plated, antique Hurricane lighter. “I know, I don’t smoke anymore, but it was Dad’s.” Uva accepted the light. Drawing the smoke deep into her chest, savouring it for as long as her emphysematous lungs could cope, she exhaled forcefully through her nose. The engines of the chopper had finally powered down, and the wardsmen had started to slide the patient onto a hospital trolley.

“It never ceases to amaze me, the way there’s a bloody traffic jamb as drivers stop to gawk at the chopper.” Tess nodded at the line of cars blocking the egress to the car park. “What’s on yer mind, pet?”

Uva recounted the incident in the clinic, punctuating every sentence with plenty of gesticulations, all the while the Camel stayed perched in the corner of her mouth. “You know what’ll happen, Riley will turn into another James!”

Tess guffawed and snorted like a pig. “Then we’ll have two PENISs to contend with!” She laughed whilst her considerable bosom heaved and shook, her problem with incontinence clearly had improved. “Perhaps Geoffrey will make a VULVA?”  They both sat and tittered away, only pausing to look at one of the retrieval nurses who’d removed his helmet to reveal that it was Rick, one of the young ICU nurses, who waved, then quickly returned to his attention to his patient. “Pity Geoffrey’s not like young Rick.”

“Pity they’re not all like young Rick, you old tart.” Uva ground the butt of her cigarette into the grass, absent-mindedly chewing at a yellow stained thumbnail. Seeing fine young lads like Rick made her wonder what her own lad was doing with his life, of course, dealing with Geoffrey made her not want to know!

Meanwhile, in the Executive Suite, Dr James was dictating letters to Acacia, who was struggling to keep up, on account of her new acrylic nails being far too long to handle any sort of writing implement. James was frustrated, he was a very important man, and couldn’t be constrained by this level of inefficiency. “Acacia, if you can’t do your job, then I’ll need to find someone who can!” He blurted, after the third attempted at a simple memo.

“So, you’re going to discriminate against me because I’m beautiful?” Acacia dropped her pencil for the fourth time, struggling to pick it up with her long nails was like using chopsticks.

“No.” Replied James, absent-mindedly looking at the Power Point Presentation of his PENIS.

“You don’t think I’m beautiful!” Acacia started to cry, abandoning the pencil, now trying to dry her eyes, thereby endangering her vision. James came round from behind his desk, with some more tissues.

“I didn’t say you weren’t beautiful, I said I wasn’t trying to discriminate.” James bent forward and put his arm around her shoulders.

Acacia pushed her face into James’ chest. “You..said..I..wasn’t beauti…ful.” Her whole body shook as she cried, yet her fingers stayed splayed out to protect the nails. The cheap fabric of his shirt was rendered translucent by the tears.

“You’re very beautiful, Acacia.” James soothed. “Now, enough of this, let’s get back to work.” Acacia peaked out from under James arm, caught their reflection in the mirror and smiled at herself.

Foodge 15 – Foodge Puts one in for the Boys

02 Thursday Sep 2010

Posted by in Big M, Foodge Private Dick

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A Useful plumber locator - if you live in South Bend Indiana

By Big M

Foodge was feeling relaxed. It was early spring. The air was redolent with the perfume of flowers, which was a contrast to the odours of  ‘McLeod’s, Tanners and Fine Leather makers to the Queen.’ There was no mention of which queen, and of which country. Foodge had good reason to feel relaxed. He’d been away for two weeks in the Southern Tablelands on an intensive watercolour camp that was run by Gez and his mysterious ‘H’.  He’d produced dozen of works of art, which were of surprising quality, but Foodge was still shy about showing them to his fellow patrons. Added to this was the pleasure of driving the rebuilt Zephyr on country roads, plus the five big ones from the previous ‘case’.

“Dja read about the Local Member in the paper?” Enquired Merv, as he pushed another glass canoe across the deeply stained timber of the bar.

“No, I’ve been incontinentia, I mean, incognito, these last few weeks.  Foodge replied, absent-mindedly looking at ‘The Law Review’, which was nowhere near as informative as ‘Barrister’s Weekly’, as there was no Word Finder, very few photographs, and lot’s of long winded articles.

“Incognito doesn’t mean out of touch.” Retorted Merv, as he struggled, in vain, to remove what looked like blood stains from the bar top.

“I think you’ll find it does.” Foodge took a long pull from his canoe, looking only slightly ridiculous with foam from his ‘Trotters Best’ forming a soap like moustache.

“What’s ‘e lost his seat?”

“Lost ‘is seat, an’ gone to gaol.” Merv’s brows were knitted as he scrubbed at the stain. “Got busted importin’ gerbils.”

“Didn’t know it was illegal to import gerbils.” Mused Foodge as he tried to decipher some of the Latin terms in the Review.

“It’s not so much importin’ ‘em, it’s what he did to ‘em once ‘e took delivery.” Merv gave up on the stain, becoming fixated by the carcasses of flies in the display case. His reverie was disturbed by a string of expletives from the Gents.

“Bloody dirty bastards, can’t piss straight when they’re sober, let alone with a skin full.” Granny emerged from the dunnies with bucket and mop in hand. “I’ve had a gutful, I’m a Master Brewer, not a cleaner!” She dropped the mop and bucket and marched off to the cellar.

“She has a point.” Observed Foodge, as the stench from the Gents overpowered all the aromas of spring, plus the tannery, which was saying something.

“I thought the new standuppery, plus the new tiles would get rid of that smell!” groaned Merv.

“Clearly we have a dilemma. How do we get the male patrons of the Pigs to micturate in a tidy and accurate manner?” Foodge thought himself clever for using a medical word (he’d read it in a Woman’s Weakly, but, wouldn’t admit it!).

“Buggered if I know.” Grumbled Merv. “Can’t piss straight meself.”

Foodge went into a meditative state, which lasted almost twenty seconds. “Perhaps there’s more to this odour than just urine on the floor, I mean, everything’s new in there, get’s mopped out daily, well, until today. There must be something else happening in there.”

“All of the facilities in the Gents are top notch, I should know, paid for ‘em meself, and installed them all meself, well, with the help of the Mondrian Brothers and some of the Angles, I mean, they had all the tools.”  Merv’s shoulders were now covered in fine, white flakes as he stood scratching his head.

Foodge felt compelled to ask the question. “Are the Mondrian Brothers or any of the Angles licensed plumbers?”

Merv looked uncomfortable. “Well, how hard can it be, I mean, you only need to know that shit doesn’t roll up hill?”

“So, I take that as an answer in the negative.” Foodge was on his stride, like his old days as a barrister.

Merv’s eyes glistened. “Will I lose the pub?”

“No, of course not, all we need to do is find a plumber who’s happy to overlook the shoddy workmanship.”  Foodge looked quite pleased with himself. “Come to think of it, O’Hoo comes from a long line of plumbers. He’s the black sheep of the family, couldn’t get into plumbing college, too much maths, so, became a copper instead!” Foodge had his mobile out, and was already dialling. “O’Hoo, old son, how the hell are you? Terrific, good, yes, yes, yes, yes, no, no, she didn’t. Well, can you meet me for a drink, yes, yes? Pigs Arms, yes, soon.” Foodge pocketed the phone just as O’Hoo crept up behind him.

“Guess who?” O’Hoo ejaculated.

“O’Hoo, of course, I’d recognise that droning voice anywhere.”

O’Hoo thought that this was the height of comedic wit, so, laughed until he was hoarse. Merv pushed a canoe across the bar. Foodge gave the lad time to drain his glass, stuff a day old sausage roll into his gaping pie hole and then reiterated the morning’s conversation.

“Mawder lork” mumbled O’Hoo, the second sausage roll sticking to his hard palate, which he rapidly dislodged with a half pint of Trotters Best. Odour Lock, did you install an odour lock?”

“What the f..” Mumbled Merv. “Odour Lock, what’s an odour lock?”

“It’s a valve that lets fluid through one way, but doesn’t allow gas, or fluid for that matter back out.” O’Hoo was eyeing off a third sausage roll. Clearly his intima, DCI Rouge was struggling to keep him on a diet. “It’s illegal to install a urinal without one. Used hep me Dad install ‘em when I was a kid.”

“Dja remember how to install ‘em” Pleaded Merv.

“Remember?” O’Hoo had decided against the third roll, instead was sinking a third schooner. “Easy peasy, piece of piss. Ha Ha Ha.” More wit from O’Hoo. “I’ll do it now.”  O’Hoo marched straight out of the bar, and walked a couple of blocks to Bunny’s Hardware, returning a few minutes later.

O’Hoo was able to access the offending pipes from the cellar, and install the valve using some of Granny’s kitchen tools. Twenty minutes later, the Gents was ready for its first stench free micturition, which, surprising to everyone, except O’Hoo was a success. In fact, O’Hoo now thought of himself as being flushed with success!

Geoffrey Comes in a Taxi

30 Monday Aug 2010

Posted by in Big M

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Geoffrey cancels his trip to Malaysia

By Big M

Dr James was in a state of high excitement. The head of the Health Department was coming to present the Emergency Response Awards. A function had been organised at the Tatteredsails Club, as the Health Department Head suffered from Nosocomephobia, a fear of hospitals. This allowed Dr James to introduce himself to board members of the club, thereby enhancing his chances of joining the club. Little did he know that the club was in financial straits, as most members were retired small business owners, not the movers and shakers James was desperate to meet. He’d foregone his usual men’s wear boutique, K-market, and lashed out by purchasing a new ensemble from Mires. He walked into the Executive Suite, “Ah, ladies, I see you’re not dressed for the presentation.” Sister Kent and Mrs Tickle were wearing their normal uniforms.

Uva held the cigarette away from her face, and picked some tobacco from her tongue. “In point of fact, we are dressed for the presentation!” Uva and Tess were sticklers for employees being correctly dressed, in fact, James’ suits and ties got on both of their goats (metaphorically, only Uva owned a goat, but, that’s not for here). “We’re running a hospital, not a bank or a real estate agency!”

“I thought you could at least spruce yourselves up for my, err…our presentation.” James was indignant. “The only other hospital which received an award this year was Hopetown District, for it’s response to a train derailment.”

“Yes, another great disaster, goods train derailed in the shunting yard, one driver fractures wrist.” It was Tess’s turn to sneer. “Health care is going to hell in hand-basket, and managers are patting themselves on the backs for doing what we’ve been trained to do. Uva and I have organised some awards of our own, for doctors, nurses, wardsmen and kitchen staff, you remember, the people who actually did the work on the day!” Tess stormed out of the meeting.

Uva wasn’t ready to leave, as she’d just lit another Camel. She sat savouring the smoke in her mouth. “ I think she’s got a point, it’s not all about ‘benchmarking’ or, ‘key performance indicators’, or ‘budgets’, it’s about how well we look after our patients.”

James blustered, “We’re the highest performing hospital in the Area Health Service, our KPI’s are at the top of the scale, all within budget!” His face was as red as pomegranate flesh, and his eyes bulged like ping pong balls. Uva shook her head, stubbing out her half smoked cigarette in a Styrofoam cup, and then slowly walking out. “I can make your lives miserable…” he yelled down the corridor after her.

Miserable, Uva thought, just as she spied a young nurse with five sleepers in one ear. She let it go, didn’t have the energy to berate her. Health care really was going to hell in a handcart.

The Tatteredsails Club was quite an austere building, with its faux Greek portico at the entrance and massive gloss black double doors with highly polished brass handles. This lead to an oak lined foyer, with a small desk off to one side, behind which sat a thin man who leaned on the desk with both hands, breathing very deliberately, as those with emphysema always seem to do.  His only job seemed to be to ensure that members possessed the appropriate identification, or that visitors signed the Visitors Book. By law visitors were supposed to provide evidence of membership to some club, but a brief examination of the book revealed scant regard for the law, some clubs named as, the Alpaca’s Fanciers Guild, the Male Nurse’s Union, and so on.

Once one had signed in, one was admitted to the dank interior, with it’s ornate plaster ceiling that was intact in some places, wallpaper dating back Queen Victoria’s childhood, and carpet that was completely devoid of any pile in areas of high traffic.

Geoffrey shaped up quite well, for the awards. On Dr James advice he’d bough a new suit, $29.95 at Rivva’s. Morticia was striking in her usual long black dress, black court shoes, and stockings, with her ebony hair flowing over her alabaster shoulders. Unfortunately they were the only participants, along with Dr James, his mother, and the head of the Health Department, Dr Wilson, a petite, bird like man who’s suit was one size too big, and who’s shirt collar sat out from his neck like the locking ring for an old brass diver’s helmet.

The formalities were conducted in the main hall, which could seat two hundred. The group looked slightly silly, huddled at the front of the hall, each taking a long walk to climb the side steps, walk across the stage, clasp Dr Wilson’s hand whilst the hospital photographer took a couple of snaps, then walk to the opposite steps to descend to rejoin the group. The awards took about eight minutes with Dr James accepting both his own award, and the award for the hospital, his mother applauding loudly and stamping her feet each time. Dr Wilson made a short speech, promising that Dr James’ PENIS would be strong feature of the Health Department’s next seminar. They were then ushered through to the dining room for ‘luncheon’.

The dining room was massive, dimly lit with oak tables and chairs contrasting against the huge 1950’s bain-marie and urns in the servery and garish bar with its red wallpaper and mirrored shelves.

The club had catered for fifty, so James felt compelled to apologise to the manager. “Don’t worry, lad.” The octogenarian shook his head. “Those pies and sausage rolls’ll sit in the warmer for another couple of days ‘til our members eat ‘em, and those bottles of Porphyry Pearl‘ll go back into the fridge.”

Geoffrey and Morticia stayed until they’d had their fill of sausage rolls and ‘bubbly’. Both were too tiddly to drive home so decided to take a taxi. Halfway home to Geoffrey’s mum’s place Morticia developed a definite look. She suddenly gave Geoffrey the most passionate kiss he’d ever had in his life. “Driver, change of destination.” She reeled off her address. “Don’t worry, Geoffrey, my flat mate is on night shift, she won’t wake up until tea time!” she giggled.

Geoffrey the Inept V – Bussed

05 Monday Jul 2010

Posted by in Big M

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Colonoscope - don't know much about it, but I'll look into it for you..

By Big M

Geoffrey’s dinner plans had not gone as well as expected, that is, Geoffrey’s virginity was still very much intact. Morticia was horrified that he had not bothered to do a MasterCook inspired meal, so placed the frozen dinners back in the refrigerator, and cooked an omelette with chorizo, onion and zucchini on the side. Geoffrey felt a real pang as he watched the zucchini being diced, his libido shrinking in proportion to the remaining zucchini.

It was a busy Monday morning in the hospital clinics. Geoffrey hadn’t had a chance to speak with Morticia, as she was allocated to the Colonoscopy Clinic, whilst he ferried patients in and out of the general clinics. Geoffrey wondered what sort of person would specialise in colonoscopy. Clearly men who liked wearing bow ties and very short fingernails.

Sister Kent and Mrs Tickle were already enjoying a cuppa and a smoke in a sunny spot around the side of the hospital. Mrs Tickle had perfected the pelvic floor exercises, so that they were almost second nature. It had been a big weekend. They’d been out with the MaNICs, and had persuaded them to abandon the pub-crawl, in favour of staying at one particular club. They had chosen the local RSL, for two reasons, one, they were already there, and, two, it was desperate for members, so they’d joined en masse. Tess had relived her early days as a barmaid, lending a hand pulling schooies.

The comical figure of Dr James came blustering towards them, resplendent in his red fluorescent ‘Emergency Coordinator’ vest. “Where’s the fire, James?” Uva couldn’t help herself.

“Fire, Fire, what fire.” James looked around nervously.

“No, it’s a saying. What’s going on?”

“Oh…er…terrible bus crash…expecting lot’s of casualties. I’ve declared an ‘External Emergency’ so, you two know what to do?”

Tess and Uva nodded. “Have you sussed out just how many casualties we are expecting? Have you spoken to the ambos or the wallopers?” Uva mumbled out the side of her mouth as she lit another durry.

“No, it’s a bus crash, of course there’ll be lots of casualties!” James shook his head at her clear lack of understanding. “I’ll initiate a full P.E.N.I.S.”

“We’d all like to see that.” Tess tittered, then waddled off to perform her allocated ‘External Emergency’ jobs, which included notifying the switchboard, and distributing C.B. radios to each ward. Uva set about warning the wardsmen, bed-makers and kitchen staff of the impending influx. She did this by having a quiet smoke with the leading hands of each group. She knew that James would be closing the Outpatient Clinics and transferring people from Emergency into that area, cancelling booked surgery and calling in extra staff.

It turned out to be the most exciting day of Geoffrey’s career. Dr James had instructed him to cancel all the clinics, and send the patients home, so that he could open his own emergency room. He did this with gusto, much to the consternation of most of the medical staff, as well as the patients, some of whom had travelled long distances for their consultations. No one was more upset than old Mr Collins, who had two meters of colonoscope in his colon when Geoffrey burst into the clinic room to warn them that the clinic was about to close. Mr Collins leapt off the metal bed, in spite of intravenous sedation, taking the colonoscope with him. The professor of gastroenterology roared at Geoffrey, as they struggled to lift Mr Collins back onto the bed. Thankfully the only thing broken was the colonoscope!

The entire hospital was made ready for the influx of casualties. Patients had been discharged from wards; beds had been washed and made. The Day-Stay Surgery ward was converted into a regular ward. ‘Walking wounded’ had been transferred from Emergency to the clinics, with Geoffrey, and, thankfully, Morticia, in charge of their care.

They waited, and waited, until, eventually, one lone ambulance pulled into the Ambulance Bay. Emergency Doctors and Nurses spilled into the bay to care for their first casualty of the Great Bus Crash of 2010. The back doors of the ambulance were flung open. Everyone craned their necks to look at their first patient. It was a middle-aged man, sitting up on a stretcher, his right hand in a bandage.

The Director of Emergency was outraged. “Don’t you bumbling fools understand the principles of triage?” She roared. “Walking wounded, like this chap, can be treated at the scene, while you attend to more intensive cases!”

“There are no more intensive cases, this is the case.” The more senior ambulance officer replied, concealing his contempt for the ED Director. “This is the bus driver who was in the crash. There were two empty buses en route back to the depot. This poor bugger was following and failed to brake in time, thus running into the back of the other bus!”

Dr James called an urgent Executive Meeting the next morning. The nursing directors were exhausted, as they had spent the previous afternoon and evening trying to get the hospital back into usual shape. Even Acacia was tired, but that was fairly normal for her, even her stenographer’s pad felt like a lead weight in her hand. James was about to call the meeting to order when Uva interjected. “Total cock up, James.”

“Pardon, the meeting has not yet been opened, Sister Kent, besides, we don’t use those sorts of words here in the Executive Suite.” James was displeased. Acacia fumbled with her pencil, trying to remember how to spell ‘sweet’, as she’d given up on short hand.

“Well open the bloody meeting so I can tell you what a complete PENIS you are.” Uva was livid. “Clinic patients kicked out, inpatients discharged early, wardsmen unnecessarily pushing empty beds around the hospital, staff being paid overtime, extra food brought in and wasted, plus, we are the laughing stock of the tabloids. Did you read today’s headline? Great Bus Crash of 2010, one sprained wrist!”

“Well…er…a man in my position…er…can’t, I mean, doesn’t read anything, I mean, everything.” James stammered away. He glanced at Tess, who had a face like an ogre. “Mrs Tickle, are you all right?”

Tess exhaled. “No, not really, this whole business has put my pelvic floor back at least two months.”

“Well.” Dr James began again. “Last night I received an email from the head of the Health Department stating that both the hospital, and me, have been nominated for a special Emergency Response Award. We’ve had the most rapid response to a perceived external threat in the state. In addition to these awards I’ve been empowered to give two awards for Emergency Response to staff whom we feel particularly deserving. I’m nominating Nurse Riley and Nurse Libitina.” His speech was interrupted by the hot spray of black coffee laced with brandy that was being ejected from Uva’s lips.

“Morticia, a little creepy, but a very competent nurse, Geoffrey, does something right for the first time in his life and gets a prize for it!” Uva wiped the coffee from her chin, whilst she dug around in her pockets for her Camels and lighter. “What about the staff who came in from home, the wardsmen, bed-makers, kitchen staff?”

James held his hand up. “Sister…er…Kent. The decision has been made. I’ve emailed my recommendations to the Health Department this morning.” He looked down and noticed the dappled pattern of coffee on his shirt and tie. Thankfully he always kept spares in his office. “Anyway, I declare the meeting closed, unless there are any further…er…comments?” He looked around. Both Uva and Tess shook their heads in disbelief, whilst Acacia continued to scribble across her pad, trying to remember what was said after ‘executive sweet’. James left the room. Uva and Tess sat and stared, the blue smoke rose upwards from the Camel in the corner of Uva’s mouth, a long cylinder of ash threatened to collapse on itself. The only sound was from Acacia’s pencil criss-crossing the page.

“Bloody Geoffrey!” They both chimed.

Foodge 14 Private Dick Photoshopping

29 Tuesday Jun 2010

Posted by in Big M, Foodge Private Dick

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.... Foodge had grown accustomed to the Daily Terrorgraph's sensationalist headlines

By Big M

Tuesday afternoon saw very little progress in the Local Member case. Foodge had started a file, which consisted of, the photos, and Mrs FitzPatrick’s business card, which Merv had managed to secure the previous morning. Foodge struggled to get comfortable, as the patrons had all been moved to the Ladies Lounge while Granny and Manne pressure cleaned “The Gents’. Evidently Merv had come across a full, automatic Fouler Wear stainless steel standuppery for an undisclosed amount. Granny was adamant that the entire room should be cleaned and repainted before installation.

Foodge had the photos fanned out like playing cards on the bar. He still struggled to make sense of the angle of the dangle, turning his head this way, and then that. He was sitting, wondering what the hell photoshopped meant when Merv piped up. “Well done, aren’t they?”

“Yes, lovely photos.”

“No, the photoshopping, beautifully blended, colour matches nicely, shadows fall the same way.”

Foodge suddenly realised that ‘photshopping’ had nothing to do with buying photos, but something to do with altering photos. “That’s if they are, indeed, photoshopped!” He retorted, thinking that he may have left the legal fraternity a little too early in life.

“Fair cop, you should get’em analysed. Waz is pretty good at this sorta thing.” Merv pushed another canoe across the bar. “I’ll point ‘im out next time he’s in.”

They both braced themselves for Janet’s ritual afternoon screaming session, but it never came. She was still in the grip of morning sickness, which lasted all day. Instead the pub was overwhelmed by the sound of big Vee twins. It was the Hell’s Angles, on their Charlies. Both Merv and Foodge visibly relaxed. The Angles started to wander in. Foodge was surprised to see Emmjay and FM, as they’d always rubbished American bikes. The last to enter the Ladies Lounge was The Professor, accompanied by Detective Chief Inspector Rouge, as well as Detective Inspector O’Hoo, who, thanks to Rouge’s influence, was still maintaining some semblance to a human

“Having a meeting, are we?”  Foodge was still a little hurt that his efforts in the de Sastri case had been overlooked.

“No, Foodge, not a meeting, a presentation.” The Professor intoned. “For services to the Hell’s Angles Motor Cycle Club, we hereby invite you to become an Associate, that is, non-geometric, member.” The Professor stepped forward and pinned a badge to Foodge’s lapel, shaking him vigorously by the hand. Each club member stepped forward, some shaking his hand, others embracing him, weeping openly.

DCI Rouge then took the floor. “I have been asked by the New South Wales Pleece Commishnar to thank you for you efforts in the aforementioned case, and am empowered to appoint you as a Special Deputy to the Pleece Force.” Rouge stepped forward, shook Foodge’s hand, and then hugged him tightly, whispering. “Thanks for looking after my little Gerald.” She had tears in her eyes. O’Hoo hugged him, grinning away. “There’s a big surprise.” O’Hoo, was, after all, a big child.

The Professor grabbed Foodge by the arm, taking him to the car park, the gang followed. “We’ve managed to find an old friend.”

There, parked in her usual spot, was Foodge’s Zephyr, idling as smoothly as when she came off the production line. Now it was his turn for tears. ”How…when…err.” He stammered.

“Surprisingly enough, Foodge, some of our members are mechanical engineers, and damned good mechanics.” Beamed the Professor. “Now, I think it’s time to party. Foodge was led back inside to the sounds of the Burnside Refugees, with guest bass player O’Hoo, and Emmjay on lead guitar. Merv had moved the pie warmer to the Ladies Lounge, and had stocked it with Fresh, Country Baked frozen pies and sausage rolls. Granny had hung up the water blaster for the day, and was busy cutting potatoes for her wedges. The Bowling Ladies had arrived with ham and tomato sandwiches, with thick margarine, on day old white bread, and had started to brew their trademark acrid tea.

Janet waddled down the stairs, convinced that this was the way a future mother of twins was supposed walk in the ninth week of pregnancy. DCI Rouge danced seductively in front of the bass player, whilst Emmjay’s First Mate attempted to teach the bongo player some musical concepts regarding cadence and rhythm. Merv was flat out behind the bar pulling pints of Trotters and Granny’s Best, whilst Granny was working her magic on the wedges. Even Manne was trying to be useful, by working as the bar useful.

The Pigs Arms was rocking. Angles danced with Bowling Ladies, whilst beer, wedges, pastries and sangers were consumed at a frenetic pace. Foodge was overwhelmed with the constant pats on the back, shouts of Trotters and smiles from well-wishers. Unfortunately, this just wasn’t his scene, and, ever the professional, he found his way up to the Nathan Rees Memorial Cinema, where, for the umpteenth time this week, he spread out the photos, staring whilst sipping a cleansing ale. The scruffiest, most unkempt fellow he’d ever seen soon joined him. “Gidday, I’m Waz.” As the newcomer thrust out a hand. “Believe you’ve got some photos need analysing?”

‘Waz’ set up a laptop, and his fingers were soon flurrying across the keyboard.  “So, you’re going to scan the photos into the computer to analyse them?” Foodge queried.

“No, I’m checking the comments on my various graphics and articles that I publish on-line.” Waz sneered at some of the text that flashed across the scree. “I only need to eyeball the photos.” He stopped typing, and looked at each photo. “Not photoshopped, mate.”

“So, they’re real?” Foodge was quick on the uptake.

Waz already had the laptop folded away. “Yep, see you.” Then wandered off.

Foodge sat and wondered how he’d break the news to Mrs FitzPatrick that the photos of the Local Member really were of his member.  Janet waddled into the cinema, supporting her non-bulging belly with two hands. Pregnancy suited her, Foodge reflected, even her crazy wandering eye seemed to make some effort to work in concert with the good one.

“You must be tempted.” Janet winked.

“Oh…er…um…a mate’s wife ‘n’ pregnant ‘n’ all.” Foodge’s cheeks coloured.

“No, you dill.” It was Janet’s turn to be embarrassed. “The photos. You could flog ‘em to one of the better papers, say, The Terrorgraph or Lewisham Bugle, for thousands. It’s a pity the Mirror’s gone. They’d pay tens of thousands.”

This had never crossed Foodge’s mind, not because he was a dill, no, he was honest, another personality trait that prevented him from re-entering The Law. “I’ve never thought about it. Thousands you reckon?”

“Yep, knew you wouldna thorduvvit, that’s why I suggested it.” Janet winked again, then waddled off in the direction of the flat over the pub. Pregnancy was really taking it out of her, besides ‘Mastercook’ was about to start.

Foodge realised that Janet was trying to give him a clue, but try as he might, he just couldn’t get it. Slowly, like dawn light filtering in through the high window of The Gents, where he’d woken many a fine morning, it dawned on him. Big Red had set him up to sell the photos to a paper. Foodge had been taken for a stooge.

photo borrowed from http://www.wtfoodge.com – a parallel universe – I suspect they borrowed it too……