Category Archives: Emmjay

Thompsen Witness Comes Forward

22 Tuesday May 2012

Posted by in Emmjay

≈ 113 Comments

Tags

, ,

 

Tripe

The front bar of the Pig’s Arms was abuzz with the news that one of Rosie’s[1] girls had “come forward” with revealing and damning evidence relating to the Thompsen affair.[2]

A Mr Thompsen was a regular visitor to Rosie’s back room and was known to request the services of a Hooker.

John Lee Hooker

Miss Letoe is reported by usually ultra-reliable news sauces to have said that Mr Thompsen was often seen to “get it on” and “rock his socks off” in the company of another Hooker.

He seemed to prefer slide and sometimes bottleneck and was often participating in what he referred to as “walking bass” activities of an unspecified nature.

“Most of our ‘Johns’ – referring to their fondness for working with known recalcitrants loosely known as “John Thomas” – came in straight off the street but we bend them to our better purposes and send them slip-sliding away.  Short a little bit – and also short of their cash” said Miss Letoe, smiling sweetly.

“But this dude was different.  He was a no-cash, credit-card wielding man whose face revealed a worldliness beyond his years.  He must have been an old single guy – he was into the Grecian 2000 – more like 2020.  And no way could he have been married – I mean only a total dickwad married bloke would use a credit card to buy a hooker.  I mean, who else would go through his papers except his wife ?”

When asked how he came to Rosie’s, Miss Letoe corrected the reporter from news saying “No, he comes after he arrives – usually in a taxi.  I know I picked up the cabcharge chits when I was ironing his trousers”.

“And what line of business do you think Mr Thompsen was in ?”.

“He was in the art business.  He was always banging on about being framed and stuff, but if you ask me – and I gather you ARE asking me, I personally think he was as innocent as the driven snow.  I mean he was often saying that his friends in some nursing operation didn’t have a prayer”.

“He seemed to be a man of simple tastes – he brought the hotdog and we brought the buns”, said Miss Letoe.

“So what do you make of all the parliamentary allegations circulating ?”

“I think they’re mostly tripe” said Miss Letoe.

“So HSU has no resonance for you ?”

“Sure, I seem to recall that he is a card-carrying member of the Highly-Sexed Ungulates”.

“Bull !”

“Precisely”

[1] Rosie’s Tattoo Emporium and House of Pain, Cnr of Heartache and Disillusionment, St Peters

[2] No relation to any actual Thompsen, you might have even thought of thinking of.

We Will Remember Eric Herring

23 Monday Apr 2012

Posted by in Emmjay

≈ 14 Comments

Tags

, , , , , ,

Eric Herring, c 1915 age 18.

On this ANZAC Day, I will remember our grandfather Eric Herring, 5th Division Artillery , 13th Field Artillery Brigade, 113th Field Artillery (Howitzer) Battery howitzers.

He was a man I never met.  He served at the Somme in WWI and was awarded the Military Medal for bravery.

Military Medal for Bravery (example only)

The action was at FLERS (north east of Amiens).  He was awarded the medal for going out and repairing the communication lines under fire, several times.  His division commander made the award recommendation at the end of February, 1917.

Many of my generation grew up in suburbs with street names like Amiens, and Poziers, names that seemed strange and unfamiliar but which, like the ANZAC memorials in every Australian town had a resonance for us.

FM and I (and five other Aussies in a minibus led by a wonderful Frenchman formerly from Togo, West Africa – a walking encyclopaedia more than the match with the one of our number who is a history teacher) visited the Somme Battlefields around Amiens where the ANZACS and Canadians saw most of the action on the Western Front.  We visited some of the many immaculately-kept Adelaide and other cemeteries around Villers-Bretonneux – the first town liberated by the ANZACS

TO THE GLORY OF GOD AND IN MEMORY OF THE AUSTRALIAN FORCE IN FRANCE AND FLANDERS 1916-1918 AND OF ELEVEN THOUSAND WHO FELL IN FRANCE AND HAVE NO KNOWN GRAVE.

This memorial has some 73,000 names but most of the unknown ANZAC casualties lie in cemeteries the responsibility of the Commonwealth War Graves Commission.  We also visited the WWI museum at Peronne, one of the last remaining trench sites – maintained and revered by the Canadians whose young men fought there with success and distinction and one of the remaining giant craters

Lochnagar Crater from the air - is about 100m across and 30m deep.

The Somme – named for the main river winding through the region was cold, wet  and windy in this late Spring of 2012.  Not uncommon weather.  The conditions reminded us of how harsh those winters in the sea of mud and frozen trenches would have been for the Diggers and the Tommies – as well as for their foes.

The Somme is in the northern Picardy region of France a couple of hundred kilometres from the Belgian border.  It is mainly flat country with a few low hills and ridges that the Germans had the forethought to occupy first and which gave them tremendous tactical advantage.

Like it was for so many other ANZAC boys, it was tough for Eric Herring.  He enlisted at 18 in the Australian Imperial Forces.  His enlistment papers show his next of kin as his uncle.  His unit landed first in North Africa where he spent time in hospital overcoming a chest infection, then he sailed on to Marseilles and travelled the length of France to Picardy where the ANZACs and other empire countries – Northern Ireland, Canada, South Africa and India were under the command ultimately of the British under (the strongly criticised and hotly debated leadership of) Field Marshall Haig.

It is true that there are Allied forces and German war grave cemeteries dotted all throughout the Somme and other WWI theatres of war in France.

Australian Memorial le Hamel

In the Memorial to the 1st Division AIF near le Hamel (a tiny village) had two pieces of information that particularly struck me.

Baron von Richthofen

The first was the story of the downing of the most successful air ace of WWI – the infamous Baron von Richthofen – the Red Baron, named for the confronting colour of his Fokker triplane.  There is strong contention over the kill today between Canadian claims that he was shot down by one of two Canadian fliers in hot pursuit and the Australian machine gunners on the ground who are recorded as having opened fire on him as he flew overhead.  They were part of the 5th AIF Division – the same division as the one to which gunner Eric Herring belonged.

The second is a quotation recorded in bronze from the French Prime Minister Clemenceau after the ANZACs, led by General Sir John Monash delivered an exemplary victory at le Hamel in 1918.

Clemenceau said “When the Australians came to France, the French people expected a great deal of you, but we did not know that from the very beginning you would astonish the whole continent”.

The autumn and winter of 1916 was a severe one for trench warfare.  Eric Herring’s record shows that he was sent to England for a spell to recover from frostbite and trench foot.  It was also a time that would see the seeds of a major breakthrough in the way the war was being conducted –the first use of tanks, by the British and allied forces – at FLERS through September.

British_Mark_V_(male)_tank

While the tanks would prove pivotal in ANZAC and British tactics in 1918 (much accredited to Sir John Monash), their first use showed more promise than initial success.  They were difficult to drive, not very reliable and crews were inadequately trained according to Trevor Pigeon[1].  However the tanks proved that they were capable of charging over and through the German barbed wire and trenches and breaking the enemy lines.  And when ANZAC troops under Monash integrated the use of tanks with preparatory artillery bombardment – carefully co-ordinated to roll forward in front of the tanks, with the infantry following behind – using the protection of the tanks and the enemy chaos caused by the bombardment, the combination of tactics was decisive in the 1918 victories.

Our guide stressed that the battle lines were in a constant state of flux throughout the battles of the Somme and the 1916 ANZAC victories were eclipsed by the German attacks that were stopped in 1918 some 65 kilometres west of the 1916 positions.

We have quite a lot more research to do and there are many as yet unanswered questions about Eric Herring’s war.  The documents – many war histories for ANZAC Divisions are digitised and available for research through the Australian War Memorial and War Archives, but they are sometimes very difficult to read with feint and elaborate handwriting on fragile, sometimes smudged pages.  We have something of a lack of clarity over unit numbers and the differences between Divisions and sub-units.

We are sure that he was a gunner and that he was awarded the Military Medal for bravery at FLERS, but at this stage, we haven’t made the connection between his AIF unit and FLERS – the battles there were predominantly fought by British 41st Division soldiers and New Zealand ANZACS in 1916.

It’s wonderful that he was one of the WWI ANZAC survivors but one of the sad things for me is that our grandfather was, like so many returning soldiers, not the same person who left Australia in early 1916.  The family photographs and my Mom’s old stories suggest that he had problems with the drink when he came home and as the Nation as well as individuals fell under the Depression of the 1930s, he struggled to adequately provide for his family.

Our Nan divorced him and he died when I was a child – a man I never met, but will not forget.

[1] Pigeon, Trevor, “Fleurs and Guudecourt, Somme”, Pen and Sword Books Limited, Yorkshire, 2002.

Not Going There, Done That.

20 Friday Apr 2012

Posted by in Emmjay

≈ 12 Comments

Tags

, , , ,

Champs de Retail

Travel Yes and No – A Reply for Gez and Helvi.

Three weeks in Paris with FM.  I had this planned for some time but it took an eternity to work up the courage and find the cash to make the commitment.

Although she has travelled the world many times before Tim the Cabin Boy was born, this is her first trip to the city of light and my fourth – in 30 years.  Two years ago I came here with Emmlet II and her old school pal – for five days only – but it was the trip before that in 2004 with the whole tribe – for 10 days over Easter that put Paris in my “must go every now and then” list.

In every visit I always had that “I wish I had seen ……..” feeling when I came home.  There is simply too much to experience in perhaps even a year or two.  And in every case I learnt things that I should avoid or find some way around.

The first thing was that it is so far away that the trip can be exhausting – so we spent a bit more cash and flew premium economy (where your nose just misses the passenger in front’s head instead of touching it).  The second distance buster was breaking the trip at Singapore for a couple of days.  Both of these proved to be good ideas but stole time and cash.  Always the trade-off.

Luck out #1 was an upgrade to business class – free champagne and a “reclining bed”, no crowd and delightful QANTAS cabin service for the ten hours to Singapore.

Less wonderful event #1 back to premium economy for the Singapore to Paris leg – departing at 23:30 and flying all night – which means three or four movies and no cabin service and no reclining bed when you could really benefit from it.

Getting from Charles de Gaulle into Paris can be a nightmare for the language challenged.  Solution: I booked a great hotel in an ideal location (for just two nights to get over the trip and because the cost was frightening) and a car to pick us up – avoiding jetlag on the peak hour metro plus navigation on and off the thing with bags. This proved to be very good thinking and the hotel people were great.

After that we moved to an apartment I found on the internet through the massive TripAdvisor site – which had used in the last two visits – TripAdvisor that is, not the same apartment.  First it was only five minutes walk away from the hotel – easy.  Second it was very economical and proved to be huge and modern by Paris standards (like 55 square metres huge) – close to three metro stations (ideal), shops, the twice a week giant open air markets at Boulevard Richard Lenoir near Bastille.  Food there is cheap and excellent – even in this early Spring (cold, by our standards and unreliable weather like Sydney in October).

Echoing your sentiments, visiting monuments, galleries, churches and museums has been an interesting event for us.  FM loves art, but is easily put off by giant queues – and so I confess, am I.  So whereas I kind of expected to line up at Musee D’Orsay and the Louvre, we have decided to give them a miss.  Just too hard and big wasters of time.  Everyone goes to the Eiffel Tower.  But not us, this trip.  The Parisian engineers had carefully ensured that on the Easter public holidays, one of the lifts was broken down and the massive queues (in biting cold wind and light rain) were advised that the wait was over two hours.  To get a birds eye view of three or four landmarks and what is a beautiful but rather homogenous Paris central skyline.

You might recall that I expressed disappointment with the Picasso exhibition visiting Sydney recently.  Our apartment manager lunched with us on the first day and asked me what I thought of the Picassos – still on travelling exhibition while their Paris digs are under renovation.  I was honest.  She beamed and almost shook my hand.  She said that the story behind the collection is that the heirs to the Picasso legacy were facing a huge tax bill when he died – which, under French law they could “pay” in kind.  So they took all of the crap that was still in the paintings shed and gave it to the people de la Republic.  She thought they got the unsaleable rubbish – which I feel reflected a certain slight anti-Spanish sentiment as much as it did a major disapproving artistic judgment.

But to be fair to Paris, the exhibition in the Musee Marmotan (many smaller Monets and other impressionist and post-impressionist artists ) was on a human scale and excellent to visit.  Musee Carnavalet (Museum of the History of Paris) was also a good experience – FM said she thought it might be better going two or three times.

But perhaps the most significant difference was in our views about what is important and therefore should be the focus of spending our time.  FM is a fashionista – hard core and many of her favourite designers are here and in London.  So shopping – the real exchange of serious wads of cash and the indolent wandering – flaneur-style around the cities are her priority.  My kind of Y chromosome carrier detests shopping in all its forms – so we have trod a careful compromise of DIY.  More Shakespeare and Co for me than any number of designers.  And more time to take it easy, read, drink wine and coffee and eat (oh, my fat and growing torso) for me.

Getting back to your reluctance to travel as sightseers, I think the internet and international security and all the hassles of travel are speaking loudly in support of your view.  If you want – for some reason – to see monuments, they are only as far away as google.

But shopping is apparently not like that.  I cannot imagine anyone being a monument-viewing-aholic.  Stuff from precisely the same designers in Paris is different in exclusive shops all over the world – and surprisingly little choice is available in Australia – relative to what you can see wandering (with intent) in Paris.  So for FM, the London and Paris designer-specific shops have been a real eye-opener.  And so too were the shops in Singapore.  You really (apparently) do have to be there to feel the width.

A tiny snip of the Orchard Rd Retail Megatropolis

Australians have for years spoken of Singapore as a Mecca of shopping.  It was incredible in terms of the scale of the retail universe there.  But perplexing too.  There was shop after shop after shop all selling the same “exclusive” brands.  Exclusive by cost, not by availability, believe me.  I’m surprised that a Zegna suit failed to attach itself to me just through repeated exposure.  for reasons of personal financial safety, I’m OK about not returning to the Asian capital of retail.

As a person somewhat interested in information technology, I paid a special visit to the “Can’t Remember Jalan Centre”.  A tired and dilapidated, if not downright grubby octagonal building of six stories each with a double ring of mainly small one man stores, many temporarily closed or just plain dead, met my countenance.  Hundreds of little businesses all selling much of a muchness with a little specialisation in communications, security or whatever, here and there.  Things have clearly moved on from the cowboy PC with everything days.  The Apple stores are nowhere to be seen in this retail backwater.  They are amongst the high fashion stores.  And they are packed to the raffles with products and customers clamouring for today’s and tomorrow’s IT.

This is in itself surprising, because anyone with a quid can buy any Apple product from the comfort of their own house without ever having to step outside.  But Apple have made their technology and their retail palaces cool places to be and to be seen.

So maybe that’s where the 21st century monuments will be found.  Not in the expensive real estate of major cities far away, but on the desk in the spare bedroom – now called “the home office”.  And since the internet can usually provide us with a picture of just about anything, I think it will be OK to pull down the Eiffel tower and build a few more Apple and Big Mac stores – and save us the cost and hassle of the trip and the bother of the retail zone.  It’ll be locals only – but then, we are all locals anyway, are we not ?

Alternatively, perhaps we can take a leaf from Lehan’s book and send a hologram of ourselves to visit a hologram of the Eiffel tower – just so we can, with some confidence, say “yeah, haven’t been there, done that.”

Poodling on the Ritz

15 Sunday Apr 2012

Posted by in Emmjay, Entertainment Upstairs

≈ 21 Comments

Tags

, ,

She moved as might a monarch approaching the opening of some great show,  preceded by a minion leading a miniature poodle.

She stopped, surveying her realm left and right, squatted and delicately placed three perfectly formed turds on the satin granite pavement.  No hurry.

Her minion waited ahead, indifferent to the Ritz doormen who feigned not noticing her indiscretion.

The standard poodle rose like a filling spinnaker, full of self-importance and padded on with careless graceful steps deigning to look neither left or right.

One white-gloved doorman withdrew to the telephone in arrears and delegated the unpleasantness to the Mairie – who delegated the job to a north African more appropriately positioned for the actual removal of the faecal treasures now adorning the forecourt.

This girl knew social ordure.  She knew her place – elevated by the wealth of her owner; above the niceties and social graces of polite company.  She was Canus aristocraticus and that was that.  Her minion knew his place too.  Minions of lesser beings – perhaps the bourgeoisie would be expected to scoop, bag and withdraw everything except their dignity – the ghost of which would remain there on the pavement.   But not this chap.  He was not a groveller to mere doormen, Ritz or no Ritz.  They were just draft stoppers in plush uniforms they didn’t even own, (but for which they paid their own laundry costs) and he was not obligated to treat them with anything greater than the poodle’s disdain.

The doormen were practiced nose downlookers and they adored exercising their imagined status by applying their stonewalling indifference on rubber necked passers-by.  Even Dolce and Gabbana-clad bling monsters.  No, particularly D&G bling monsters.  Gold was not class and bling was certainly not class.  You may park your Maserati momentarily here sir.  I’m sorry sir, but we just don’t have the space for sir’s BMW.

It was not their job to doff a white glove, don a rubber glove and abduct a Richard the Third.  But they were growing concerned at the time being taken by the Mairie’s man to appear.  They conferred.  There were discrete utterances from corners of mouths, cheesy smiling at residents entering and leaving the hotel and subtle body language suggesting that sir and madame might prefer an upwind route for the moment.

It was decided.  The youngest doorman – perhaps a doorboy was despatched and returned at a clip with an empty poubelle which he gently placed upended over the still steaming pile.  This had the effect not so much of warding passers by off or preventing them from stepping in the offending ordure, but it seemed to create a kind of public exhibit.  Passers by gathered to see the Ritz’s latest piece of installation art.

The Mairie’s  emergency van arrived.  Out sprang two men in blackface in overalls with brooms.  The tall one approached the upturned bin with due caution.  The short one pushed back the growing crowd.

The tall man carefully lifted the upturned bin, placed it on his head – helmet like, tapped the ground twice with the end of his broom stick.  The short man stood next to him and eyed the doormen.  He tapped his broomstick twice on the ground … and sang “If you’re blue and you don’t know where to go to, Why don’t you go to where fashion shits ?  Put one on the Ritz…….”

Editor’s Note:  The Ritz is a fine organisation and no way does Emmjay or anyone vaguely resembling Emmjay have any hard feelings just because they closed the Hemingway Bar and denied him a nostalgia dry martini.  But some of this story is true.  We are led to believe that the faecal matter was removed but according to Emmjay, not while he was there.

Queensland Election – Late Barking News

25 Sunday Mar 2012

Posted by in Emmjay, Politics in the Pig's Arms

≈ 29 Comments

Tags

, ,

"I intend to take my responsibilities to the pack / the park seriously, said the new Member for Veterinaria.

After recounting was completed in the one undecided seat for the Queensland parliament, The Queensland Electoral Office announced that the winning candidate was indeed one of Julian’s Cavalier King Charles spaniels.

An elated handler, Jules said “Cav has all the qualities expected in a Queensland conservative politician;

  • He can roll over on command;
  • He can sit on the back benches and beg;
  • He can follow Newman at heel;
  • He is easily led;
  • He can play dead when necessary, and
  • He is unfussed in dating circles.

When asked what was the quality voters found the most important in electing their first canine candidate, Mr Jules said “loyalty”.  “He is loyal to a fault – to anyone with a tin of Pal and a pair of Nikes and a tennis ball.”

Foodge 32 – Rosie’s House of Pain – Picture Yourself in a Boat on a River

21 Wednesday Mar 2012

Posted by in Emmjay, Foodge Private Dick

≈ 11 Comments

Tags

Foodge had a strong sense that there was trouble brewing in the rough diamond part of the Emerald City.  There many unanswered questions, like “How many unanswered questions are there ?”  Plus one, apparently.

Foodge was used to eating up the miles in Emmjay’s Zephyr and it was a pity that miles were in short supply since metrification.  Foodge understood that he could get a fair exchange rate and these days he was getting 60% more kilometres per gallon than he used to get in miles.  “Win-win”, thought Foodge.

“Thai beef salad” thought Foodge.  “The tang of tamarind sauce”.

Ed’s Note:  Wait a minute.  This is you, isn’t it Emmjay ?  What did I tell you last time you wrote a chapter of Foodge at lunchtime ?  “You said to focus, sir.  On Foodge.  Keep the self out of it. “  OK, I’ll let you have a mocha coffee, but only if you get back on topic.”

There was no parking in Inner West Cyberia.  But there was especially no parking within cooee of Rosie’s Tattoo Emporium and House of Pain (no charge for extra pain).  Foodge managed to find an amazingly free spot in the Council Car Park.  In fact there was only one other car.  It was a BMW.  Or what was left of a BMW.  It was pretty much a B.  Foodge wondered where the wheels had gone. “Nice car”, said a curiously attired young man who had borrowed his big brother – or possibly his Dad’s ’s basketball clothes – addressing Foodge.  Something equivalent to a decimal currency penny dropped for Foodge.  He thought better of parking the Zephyr in the Council Carpark.  He drove it back to the Pig’s Arms and strode out in the general direction of Rosie’s.  He was becoming really hungry.

Ed:  Don’t provoke me, Emmjay.

But Foodge knew he was on a mission larger than his appetite.  He made Rosie’s by two in the afternoon, ravenous.  It was a Tattooery unlike all others.  It was clean.  It was tidy – viewed from across the road, but like all its ilk, it was clearly painful.  Foodge pressed the buzzer on the door.  Thankfully, it buzzed.  And a Voice said on the intercom “Come in Foodge.  I’ve been expecting you.  The door opened and Foodge stood aside to allow a weeping man clutching his arm to slip past.  The chap’s girlfriend was clearly unimpressed with his attempt at unity, preferring to have her name spelled with all the vowels in the right positions. “It’s not Juno, is it Tarzan ?”  “No, Jane” said the sobbing man “Sorry”.  “You’ll be bloody sorry all right” she said whacking him on the arm with a fulsome noogie if ever there was one.

The décor in Rosie’s was vaguely Chinese – if you call red and gold with dragons everywhere “Vague”.

“Hi Miss Rosie”.  “Hello Foodge.  How do things sit with you?” Foodge’s mind flitted off his stomach and settled briefly like a butterfly on his tattooed bum cheek, before making the return trip. “Some tea, a snack maybe?” said Rosie.  She was nothing if not a woman who new the way to a man’s wallet. “Love a bite to eat” said Foodge, scouting around to see whether Emmjay’s editor was listening.

“We have some Thai beef salad” said Rosie.  “Perfect” said Foodge who had, on the odd occasion, a way of getting his way.  Rosie gave one of those wordless signals that henchmen and minions understand intuitively to help the action keep rolling on.

“What brings you to the House of Pain, Foodge ?”  “I seem to be in a spot of bother, Miss Rosie”.  “Bummer” said Rosie.  “More than you realise, probably” said Foodge, drawing a faded Instamatic photograph from his jacket pocket.  “Do you know this bloke ?” said Foodge.  “It’s a child, Foodge”.  “Yes, I know.  Kind of looks like Emmjay when he was young and in his choko and dirt-eating phase.  Sorry.  I don’t have anything more recent”.  “Looks a bit like a guy we had working here about 32 episodes ago” said Rosie.  “ He was a wizard on zodiac tattoos”.  “Can you hear any mariachis ?” said Foodge. “Check” said Rosie “Good clue.  His name was Dorito or Honcho or some such”. “Pancho” said Foodge. “Pancho Headin”.

The Thai beef salad was delivered by a diminutive Chinese man, Foodge recognised as Shorty Chen.  He spoke with a tangelo accent – traces of Mandarin but lacking seeds.  Foodge treated him with kid gloves, aware that he was thin skinned and bearing the scars of the siege of cartoon, the Jaffa Navel incident and the Boxer Rebellion where he picked up his nickname – Boxer Shorty.  Foodge had him pegged as a pithy type with a zest for life and the juice to go with it.  He was clearly a man who would give no quarter but was Seville in his fruit salad days.

Shorty’s gaze settled on Foodge for a moment longer than Foodge felt comfortable about.  Merv had warned Foodge about smooth-skinned men with loose loafers showing more interest than was usual.

Foodge was about to offer Rosie a share of his repast but Shorty cut in “Mr Rosie regrets she’s unable to dine today”. “I’ve already had lunch, Foodge” said Rosie and with the formalities out of the way, Foodge tucked into his Thai beef salad.

What business do you have with Pancho Headin, Foodge ? Rosie was more than likely playing dumb thought Foodge.  She must know that Pancho is sleeping with the fish fingers.  But why ?

“Delicious tucker, Miss Rosie” said Foodge, buying himself just enough time to allow the unicorn to cross the room.  Foodge was not used to indoor rainbows.  Feeling pleasantly tired, Foodge decided that it must be time for an afternoon kip.  Rosie didn’t seem to mind.  She was looking at him from the wrong end of a telescope.  Tiny.  Foodge could hear Mark Knopfler singing “So far away from me”.   Magic fream arng away sin garmf…… weeeee.

Foodge 31 – The Custard Thickens

19 Monday Mar 2012

Posted by in Emmjay, Foodge Private Dick

≈ 16 Comments

Tags

, ,

Hedgie pulled a tattered Instamatic photograph out of his pocket. “No shit, Foodge.  Do you know this guy ?”

“No, but yes, but no” said Foodge. “I have some vague recollection, Mr Hedge”

“The top to toe tattoos on this chap jog no memory cells?” said Hedgie.

“But this is a photograph of a kid, Mr Hedge”. “Sorry, it’s not recent but it’s the only one I have” said Hedgie.

The word “tattoo” has a special significance in the Foodge lexicon and Foodge involuntarily put a hand in the hip pocket of his Anthony Squares bag of fruit (a Salvos find if ever there was one).  The half Gemini tattoo that Foodge woke up and discovered on his right bum cheek (in Episode 1 since you’re probably wondering) was an unsolved mystery – apparently returning to Foodge’s in-tray.

“Why are you showing me this, Mr Hedge? ” asked Foodge.

“Word has it that this was the dude who parked that ink on O’Hoo and your bums”.  Foodge reddened, hoping that the word hadn’t spread to FM or Mrs M.

“Because this punter is cooling his sorry arse in a lay-down chiller at her Majesty’s pleasure” said Hedge. “Dead ?”  “I strongly suspect so.  Of course he’s fuckin’ dead.  And O’Hoo’s people are using descriptions of you two like ‘persons of interest’.  Time to start watching your arse again, Foodgie boy” said Hedgie.

On the one hand, Foodge was chuffed at being thought of as ‘interesting’, but something told him that this time it wasn’t the kind of interest that might cover his tab at the Pig’s Arms.

“Word has it that the coppers are going to pin this one on the Hell’s Angles and then rope in the Lambrettistas” said Hedgie.  “And how does that worry you, Mr Hedge ?” said Foodge.

“I would say” said Hedgie, pausing for a plunge into his Trotter’s Ale, “That could, ah, disrupt a major component of my distribution channel, Foodge.  And that could impact my donations to charity – my FBT – you know, Free Benefit Tokes”.  Foodge nodded sagely, or something like sage – possibly basil or oregano –  herbally knew it was a spicy situation, but not why it was.

“Who was he ?  asked Merv. “Who was who ?” replied Hedgie. “The deceased tattooist” said Merv.

“He was one of Trotsky’s illegitimate Mexican children – Pancho Headin.  Rumour has it that he was a hard man for the Lambrettistas, but you didn’t hear it from me” said Hedgie.

“Complicated” said Foodge.  “Isn’t Trotsky a chapter commander for the Hell’s Angles ?”  Foodge could sense some deep involvement of O’Hoo and retired to the Men’s to take a long overdue look at his tattoo.  He ran a finger along the outline of the Gemini twin, but his tail had gone cold.

Foodge returned to the bar with a mere trace of shirt tail protruding from his fly.  The regulars could work out what he’d been up to for themselves.  They awaited, smirking only slightly, for his rejoinder.  “Do the police have a donkey to pin this on ?” said Foodge.

“Do YOU have an alibi ?” said Hedgie.  “ Yes,” said Foodge “ I have a suit on lay-by at Reuben F Shawl’s”.  Merv produced a Trotter’s Ale fountain from his nostrils.

“I think I’ll swing by Rosie’s Tattoo Emporium and House of Pain and make a few inquiries” said Foodge, although the questions he was planning to ask had not crystallised just yet.  He patted his pocket for the Zephyr keys.  Merv, mopping up his beer fountain, reached for the Effhook near the kitchen speaking tube and handed Foodge the keys – prejudging him to be no worse at piloting the Zephyr than usual.

As Foodge’s silhouette shrunk its way through the passage and out into the carpark, Hedgie’s fat finger rolled a number into the Bakelite wall phone. “On his way” he said and hung up before the reply that didn’t come didn’t come.

Foodge 30 – Foodge Gets Real and Goes Hard

18 Sunday Mar 2012

Posted by in Emmjay, Foodge Private Dick

≈ 13 Comments

Tags

See the worst of Perth for yourselves .....http://theworstofperth.com/

Foodge removed his Fedora and slumped at a table in the naughty corner of the public bar of the Pig’s Arms.

Merv took his cue and poured Foodge a double Pink with no umbrella – delivered with a silent flourish.  Merv knew from the look on Foodge’s face that things were delicate and starting a conversation was a risky business unless Foodge gave him a lead in.

“I’m in a spot of bother, Mr Merv” he said.  Merv let the news settle, cool a little and allowed a skin to form on the top of it. “What’s the grief, old friend” asked Merv.

“I’m completely out of work” said Foodge.  “Pipeline ?” Merv inquired. “We are without immediate prospects, Mr Merv” said Foodge.

“Marketing ?” asked Merv.

“Marketing ?” echoed Foodge – suggesting that this was a concept that had not wandered through Foodge’s consciousness so  far. “You know – stuff to drum up a bit of business !” said Merv.  “Foodge took  a pull on his pink and rolled the idea around in his mind for a while. “Drum up business” he mumbled.

“Like do a bit of crime and solve it ?” Foodge did not actually say these words but Merv was reading Foodge’s thought bubble.

“No, mate, let’s go back to Business 101.  Have you got a business plan ?” “No – whatever that might be I do not have” said Foodge. “Marketing and Sales Plan ?” “No, not those either” said Foodge.

“OK, lets start from the top” said Merv.  First he poured himself a pint of Trotter’s Ale and then sat down next to Foodge.  “Branding.  Now how about your business name” said Merv.

“The Foodge Investigations and Detection Office”.

“FIDO” said Merv.  “Dogs – lost and found”.  Foodge livened up.

“Actually we do do lost dogs, Merv” enthused Foodge.

“There you go again” said Merv “Doggie do do”.

Foodge look defeated.  Downcast.

“Let’s go for something more catchy.  More recognisable” said Merv.

“Foodge Breakthrough Investigations” said Merv.

“FBI” said Foodge, lifting more and starting to feel his creative juices flow.

“People think the FBI are the best in the business” said Foodge.

“Fuckin’ Best Investigators” said Merv.

“Now, have you got a specialty – a line of business you are famous for ?” inquired Merv.

Foodge fell silent, thoughtful and took a pull on his pink drink.  “Perhaps, you do a nice line in missing persons or fraud or embezzlement or blackmail, gambling, drugs, standover ?” offered Merv.

“Sandover?” Foodge made his quizzical face again.  “Standover there, Foodge and take your hands out of your pockets”.  Merv had to grab Foodge’s arm to prevent an overly-literal response from the Foodge.  “Just kidding” said Merv.

“Let’s take another tack”.  “No man is an island” said Merv, pausing for just a moment to draw breath and start his sermon on the merits of teamwork. “ I think you mean no man comes from Ireland” said Foodge – keen to assist.

Merv could see that giving Foodge a shake was likely to make Merv himself feel better, but a shake would merely go over Foodge’s head – just like his hat.

“No listen, Foodge, correct me if I’m wrong, but you’re a private dick, right and that means you probably need some assistance – you know – defence lawyers who generate work for you”.  “I’m a lawyer too” said Foodge. “OK, so how much work is Foodge the lawyer generating for Foodge the private dick ?” wondered Merv aloud – in something like the thinking equivalent  of a stage whisper.  “Let’s consider some advertising”.  “I hate advertising, Mr Merv.  It’s boasting isn’t it ?  I get embarrassed” said Foodge.

“That graffiti in the men’s isn’t really advertising, Foodge.  ‘For a good crime call Foodge’ and ‘Foodge does it with dogs’ might at a stretch be technically correct but it’s hardly driving hoards of clients to your door, is it ?” said Merv. “I don’t have a door, Mr Merv” said  Foodge.  “Well, sorry, I should have said ‘driving whores of clients to your three-sided doorless office” said Merv.

“No, what I had in mind by way of advertising was an advertisement placed where people who might, by an incredible twist of fate, find themselves in a situation of dire need for the services of your incisive detective / legal eagle mind.  I’m thinking two column inches in Lambretta Monthly, same in Geometry News and maybe a regular guest appearance on Long Bay community TV’s “Inside Today”.

Foodge sipped his pink and the clouds in his crystal ball parted, revealing him tanned and with the wind in his hair, driving top down in a brand new Zephyr Elite on the way to a luncheon engagement with a TV personality curiously reminiscent of Kerry Anne Kennel.

Foodge’s reverie was interrupted by the sudden entrance of Hedgie. He looked agitated, which, for a man given to an over fondness for the quality control side of his horticulture business, was telling.  Hedgie pointed to the Trotter’s Ale tap and Merv made a foam call.

“It’s serious, Foodge.  I don’t reckon  you’ll get out of this one”.

“What is it Mr Hedge ?” said Foodge.

“You’ve left your lights on”.

Clive of Australia

15 Thursday Mar 2012

Posted by in Emmjay, Politics in the Pig's Arms

≈ 19 Comments

Tags

, , ,

Sue me baby, sue me.... photo taken through the wrong end of the Parkes telescope with extra wide angle .

Australia has many blessing; many things for which we should be grateful.

The biggest one is Clive of Australia.  Without Clive, there would be no balance in our lives.

For Clive, you see, sues on our behalf the loonies and destroyers of his our vision for a great society.  We left it to Clive to sue the soccer people for some reason.  Possibly the reason was Frank Lowey, although details are sketchy.

But the big one, the elephant in the outback – and for this we need to be deeply thankful – is that he’s taking on the government.  This time it’s by taking the government to the High Court and challenging the carbon tax as being unconstitutional.  The fact that an elected government should raise a tax on pollution is unconscionable – as any fair minded mining magnate would see in an instant. (Can I have another big Mac please ? )

Rumour has it that Clive’s top shelf lawyers are also about to open another litigation front for Clive – on gravity.  Clive is pretty sure that gravity is not only unconstitutional, but also unscientifical.  Clive is alleged to have said  “if CSIRO thinks gravity works, it’s bollocks.  What I dig up, stays up !”

Lawyers for Clive – or more accurately Clive’s body – are reportedly suing the NH&MRC for funding research into obesity saying that the NH&MRC should get its “tinny little ferret arse in order before attacking the more substantial pillows of our community”.

In other breaking news, Porsche Australia, The LearJet Corporation and Beneteau boats reported record sales to members of the legal fraternity.  The president of the Law Society, Ivan Ormous-House, said that India had it’s Clive, now it’s Australia’s turn – or more particularly Australian lawyers’ turn, pass me the Beluga and don’t spare the Kurg.  Clive’s lawyers hate to see this injustice (that is, Gina’s lawyers making shirtloads with intra- familial litigation) and now it’s time to share the lard love.

Sauces near to Mr Palmoil were too busy with the second course to comment….mrrphmmmph ah that feels better.

When the Generals Talk

09 Friday Mar 2012

Posted by in Emmjay, Politics in the Pig's Arms

≈ 11 Comments

Military Madness

Reflecting on our senior brass
Oh Dear, Oh My, Oh Me,
If you’ve a taste for bullying
It’s just the place to be –
Abusing power left and right
With a touch of sodomy.

We’ll serve the Queen !
Salute the flag
There’s nought we do that’s sinister.
So take your girlie fishnet tights
And f*ck the Defence Minister.

We’ll take him down
We’ll dack this clown
For speaking out of turn
We’ll snooker him and pot the brown
Until his eyeballs burn.

We’re sworn to do as her Majesty asks
To defend this fine country
And with the exception of the junior ranks
To keep ourselves fancy free.

To do this best as well, we must
Live by laws of our wide brown land
And explain our tactics to the troops
With stern words and back of hand.

But in truth there’s just one law for us
On land, in the air, on sea;
We’ll do whatever we f*ckin’ like
It’s the rule of 303.