Category Archives: Foodge Private Dick

Foodge is Muted

26 Tuesday Sep 2023

Posted by in Big M, Foodge Private Dick

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“Some things are best left unsaid” says the Bish therefore defeating his own argument.

Written by Big M

“Christ!” Foodge thought as he wandered out of the Small Claims Tribunal. Judge Bored had confounded the whole ‘Does God exist?” question with a whole bunch of too and fro, in and out and up and down legal buggery.

“You called?” Said a gentle voice inside Foodge’s noggin.

“Who’s that?” Thought Foodge.

“Jesus, you did call out my name.”

“I’ve yelled out ‘Jesus’ quite a few times, but He’s never answered.” Thought Foodge.

“You’ve never been struck mute during a metaphysical crisis, before. This is a battle of Good versus Evil, God against Satan, Holden versus Ford, AFL against Rugby League!” Said Jesus.

Foodge was discombobulated. He had planned to go back to the Pigs with Gordon O’Donnell, listen to some Hanks Williams and get shit-faced drunk, just like every other day. “Fuck.” He thought. It was bad enough being a one dimensional fictional character but, being caught up in a metaphysical crisis whilst being struck mute sounded distinctly unpleasant. Foodge wasn’t looking where he was going and stumbled into the Clerk of the Court. “Mmmm, oooh, mmmm, ahh.” He mumbled. “Shit.” He thought. “When he said mute, I thought he meant metaphorically, not literally, or metaphysically!”

The clerk quickly excused himself, likely assuming that Foodge had already had a skin full. Foodge stumbled down the old stone steps, nearly running into a nun. “Oh, mmmm.” He mumbled while gesturing towards the taxi rank.

“Oh you poor fellow!” Exclaimed the nun. “Where’s your carer?”

Foodge gesticulated towards the taxi rank.

“The bastards taken off in a taxi.” Sister Philomena of the Immaculate Lactation was one of those stout, bosomy capable sort of nuns. She grabbed Foodge by the hand and hailed down a taxi. “Where d’you live, love?” She enthused.

Foodge suddenly realised that absolutely no one could understand him. He scribbled an address on a piece of paper and shoved it in the sister’s free hand. Soon they were spending towards the Pigs. Of course, Jesus was still in his head trying to get him on the side of God, goodness and love in the fight against Satan, evil and hatred. “The good Sister will guide you onto the path of Righteousness.” Whispered Jesus. Foodge wasn’t paying much attention, he was busily trying to picture Sister Philomena sans habit.

They pulled up in front of the pub. Foodge managed to pay the taxi with his card, then found himself being dragged into the Gentleman’s Bar. “Poor bugger.” Philomena exclaimed. “All the poor bugger can afford is a room in a run-down pub! The way we treat the disabled in this country.”

Merv barely looked up from polishing schooner glasses with a dirty rag. “Pint of Trotters, Foodge?”

Foodge nodded, struggling to break the Good Sister’s grip. “Oooh, ahhh.”

Merv looked up. “Looks like you’ve pulled….a drink for the sheila?”

I’m not a sheila, I’m a nun, and I could murder a pint of something dark and mysterious!”

Merv pulled a pint of Granny’s Porter. “Shit, a nun, I thought you were a stripper!”

“That was in a former life, dear. Now I’m in the service of the Lord.” The good sister downed the pint, placed it on the bar and nodded towards the tap. Merv obliged, pushing another glass canoe across the sticky surface of the bar. “This poor disabled chap seems to think that he lives here. Is that correct?”

“Foodge, disabled?” Laughed Merv. “He’s the finest legal mind this side of the Supreme Court, although he does come off as a buffoon.”

“What about his speech impediment?”

“What speech impediment?” Merv hadn’t yet noticed Foodge’s Umming and oohing.

“He’s mute.” Philomena hadn’t witnessed such disregard for a fellow human’s condition.

“Oh, shit. That’s probably something to do with Gordon O’Donnell. He’s probably a mission from GOD.” Merv thought he sounded like a Blues Brother as he said it.

“Do you chaps know Gordon O’Donnell?” The good sister grew pale.

“She yeah, he drinks here most Sundays. Used to come in with a bloke named Father O’Way and sometimes the Bish.”

Philomena crossed herself and gave the Rosary beads a quick spin. She muttered something about the most based vessels containing the finest wine. “There are cases where the Lord has afflicted a believer with some malady in order to enhance his or her ability to carry out the Lord’s work. This young man must be under the direction of the Lord. We need to find out what the task is and how we can best assist him.” She motioned for a pen and pad. “Now, Foodge, write down exactly what you think that GOD wants you to do.”

The Trial

17 Monday Apr 2023

Posted by in Foodge Private Dick, Mark

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Image created by Dalle – E

Story by some bloke on a laptop, i.e. Mark

So today is the day when the trial begins, to see if God really exist? Alternatively, we can also ask is Satan real? Does anybody care? Well, I don’t. And I’m the author.

Foodge was sitting in the foyer. Glancing around at the crowd, pondering. Why are people coming here to see this particular trial?

Foodge started to feel for his hip flask. Then it occurred to him it was probably in his hip pocket. But it wasn’t. It was in his inside suit pocket. So he’s wondering, why don’t they call that an inside suit pocket flask? He took a surreptitious slurp. Just a steady the nerves, you know, he thought to himself. Keeping in mind that he didn’t want to use too many inverted commas.

Out of thin air, God appears. This doesn’t phase Foodge anymore. He’s seen it so many times with Gordon. You know, Gordon, the creator of the universe.

“How you doing?” God says.

“I’ve submitted our deposition and some good character statements from Mother Mary McKillop and Pope John Paul. How are Jesus and Ha… “

“Let’s be kind to them Foodge, and not go there.”

People enter the courtroom and take up their positions. The judge enters the Chamber. Everyone nods to the crown. The judge introduces himself as Lord Bored. At least we can see here that we have another campaigner against inverted commas. And look, don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against inverted commas. Well, sort of.

“The case has come to the Small Claims Tribunal because the plaintiff is actually only asking for $1. So I want to remind you all that in this court, it’s my decision as the judge as to what actually happens. Now there are appellant courts that you can go to, but you won’t succeed. Let’s just be honest.” Crikey, a judge being honest.

“Each legal representative has deposited statements, references and the initial newspaper article in the Inner Cyberian Tribune. Representing God is Mr Foodge, and representing Satan is Mr Clancy Fancy-Pants. You are hereby right now told to stay quiet. I will now direct the Court in this process of legal defamation.” Foodge and Fancy-Pants look at each other with a distinct sense of amazement.

“But,” says Foodge and Fancy-Pants, “My Lord, surely, Hank… Jesus…”

“Stick with me and I must remind you that you have both just wasted some inverted commas. I will take that into consideration at the end of the trial” says Lord Bored, oblivious to the fact he has just used some inverted commas.

“So in my role is the overriding judge. I now call God to the witness box.”

The clerk approaches, “God, please place your hand on this book and tell us that you will tell the truth the whole truth and nothing but the truth. So help you, Gordon.” God looks at the book. And it’s Gordon’s book “Good Luck with That” that he’s now promoting. By the way, it is on sale at all good bookstores. “I do,” says God.

Judge Bored now gets into interrogation mode. “So God. How old are you?”

“I have no idea.”

“Where do you live?”

“ Above the clouds”.

“What’s your mum and dad’s name?”

“Oh, I don’t know.”

“Thank you. You may now be seated.” Crikey, how many inverted fucking commas was that.

Satan is sent into the witness box.

The clerk approaches, “Satan, please place your hand on this book and tell us that you will tell the truth the whole truth and nothing but the truth. So help you, Gordon.” Satan looks at the book. And it’s Gordon’s book “Good Luck with That” that he’s now promoting. By the way, it is on sale at all good bookstores. “I do,” says Satan.

Judge Bored now gets into interrogation mode. “So Satan. How old are you?

“I have no idea.”

“Where do you live?” “In a hole in the ground.” “ What’s your mum and dad’s name?” “ Oh, I don’t know.”

“Thank you.”

Wow. Lots of inverted commas and so far no Jesus and Han…

Judge Bored retires to the inner chamber to think about his decision. He later returns.

“OK, so this is my decision. God or Satan. No one has ever been able to prove either of you actually is real, whilst you’re deeply rooted in mythology your actual existence is factually, debatable.

Evidence is that neither of you exists and therefore is non-existent. Under section 37 of the Defamation and Other Evil Little Acts 1937, it says that unless you can prove that you are real, then you don’t actually have a case of defamation. I have decided to rule that this is a null and void case.

We’re facing a paradox. God and Satan cannot be proven to exist. But without each other, neither exists. There is a symbiotic relationship between these two that cannot be proved in this court. You cannot have God and deny Satan, and conversely, you cannot have Satan and deny God. The ultimate proof is unavailable or inconsistent or non-existent, therefore nobody now owes anybody anything. and the case is now over.”

Foodge is reflective outside the court. The decision was actually, very powerful. God decided that he was gonna pay Foodge anyway, but the money wasn’t important. It was the outcome. Good versus evil, God versus Satan. Manly versus anybody else. So it was just a really important case.

Gordon arrives at the court. Everybody else is gone, but Gordon goes up the Foodge and says, “Hey, Foodge, look, here’s my new book, “Good Luck with That”. It’s a book about space travel. And how incredibly boring that actually really is. Anyway, Emmjay has given me a lend of the Zephyr so let’s go to the Pigs Arms for a few post games ale. So how’s Hank Williams going?”

The plot thickens – just like cheese sauce

10 Monday Apr 2023

Posted by in Foodge Private Dick, Mark

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Not wanting to upset the court or AAP here is an artist’s impression of Foodge and God entering the court.

Merv leans into the bar. He’s got his elbows on the bar holding his head up and he’s in deep thought. He’s quite concerned about recent incidents. And he’s starting to wonder, what is this really all about? Let’s just say that God may be fictitious, and this character that’s turned up on the doorstep might be fictional just like he is. He doesn’t know but thinks that he is acutely aware of the fact that he wants to save on inverted commas, sometimes it’s better to be fictitious and save on inverted commas than to be real because then you don’t have to face all of those really serious problems like saving on inverted commas or eating, drinking, sleeping and overall reducing the number of inverted commas to help save the planet. Have you all got the inverted commas message yet?

Foodge stumbles into the bar and sits at the far end wanting to stay out of popular view and signals to Merv for his usual pint and 13 nips of whisky. Yes, South Seas Island Blue, a man of real class.

The bar is pretty quiet now, so Merv moves over and fills Foodge’s order.

“Hi Foodge,” says Merv blatantly wasting inverted commas. “I think we’re in for a bit of a tussle here. I mean, what if God is fictitious? And how are we going to prove that he’s real? This could be the trial of the century.”

Foodge ponders what has been said. This trial could be totally catastrophic. However, if he wins, he would become an international superstar of the legal fraternity. Tempting, hmm. I guess it all boils down to the fact that is God real?

So the question is, is God real? And is he more real than us? Characters in a fictional story posted on the internet web page, the Pigs Arms, are a poor guide as some are real and some are fictitious. Maybe God is a member of the fictional characters Union. You know the F*** you. Satan says God isn’t real. That argument needs to be tested in the highest court of law. The Small Claims Tribunal.

[Mark here, the author, thanks, Foodge, for doing an excellent job of thinking rather than speaking, which is a significant saving on inverted commas.]

Merv is concerned at the moment because he’s not sure what’s going to happen. He tells Foodge. “You know, I looked up is God real on A Eye? You know the television set with the typewriter at the bottom. I asked it if God was real. Anyway, it spits out about 27 pages worth of information, so I had to stop it and ask again and say can you give me a brief statement as to whether God is real?

After a while, it came back and said no, God isn’t real. Then about 10 seconds later it come back and said, oh hang on, I’ve had a bit more of a think about it and my new answer is probably not. So I then asked A Eye is Satan real? The answer came back 10 seconds later as, see the answer to God.”

Foodge ponders this news. So some piece of electronics thinks that neither God nor Satan are actually real. Foodge needs to figure out why. How can he win this case? God being real has become irrelevant. Foodge just wants to win. And if Satan is real, he could give a s***.

God comes into the bar and Foodge beckons him over to a table so that they can have a meal together. Belinda brings out some wombat stew with dumplings and a nice bottle of wine. Foodge says. “Look, so that I can get the information that I need, I’m going to put on a tape recorder so that later I can make notes. . Is that OK with you?”

“Go ahead,” says God not realising the need to cut down on inverted commas.

“Look, so are you real?” says Foodge with inverted commas flying everywhere. I mean, doesn’t he believe in climate change. The climate is changing primarily due to the overuse of inverted commas. When will the penny drop, FFS.

God answers definitively. “Of course I’m real. But what’s worrying me at the moment is that we haven’t mentioned Hank Williams.”

“Who?” says Foodge?

“Hank Williams. Yes, Hank Williams. Look, there it goes again, Hank Williams.

“Thankfully, no one said Jesus”, says Foodge. Frugal use of inverted commas has gone out the window.

“Jesus, there it goes again. Jesus. I mean Jesus. How many times are we gonna say, Jesus?” Six lines and we got in 4 Hank Williams and 5 Jesus. Hank Williams and Jesus have nothing to do with the story but hey, we have mentioned Hank Williams and Jesus quite a lot; amazing.

“So God, there’s not a lot of evidence that says that you’re actually real. However, there’s a lot of evidence that says that people believe that you are real. So proving this at the Small Claims Tribunal might be difficult.”

“Well, I’m real,” says God “and am paying you several fivers to prove that I am so that I can win the defamation case against Satan.”

“OK, OK, keep your long hair and your sandals on. I’ll prepare a brief for the court that will stake out the claim and we should win. Look, just a question, Satan says to wait until God pulls the horse race trick. Can you explain what happened here yesterday?”

“Foodge, you never explain all of your secrets do you, I mean you are an excellent bullshit artist, aren’t you? Do you expose everything?”

One of the first times Foodge was unable to answer.

There’s a Stranger at the Bar

04 Tuesday Apr 2023

Posted by in Foodge Private Dick, Mark

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God presents in many forms. This may or may not be one of them.

Merv was standing behind the bar. He looked immaculate in his beautiful white shirt and black trousers and polished black shoes. He looked up and noticed a stranger walking into the bar.

Merv said. “Hey mate. Would you like a beer?”

The stranger looked at Merv and said. “You know. The main reason I’m here on Earth is to drink beer.”

“Well, you’ve come to the right place”, says Merv. “The Pigs Arms has the best beer on Earth. But we don’t play Hank Williams.”

“I’ll have Trotter’s Ale”, says the stranger and he is privately relieved that there are no Hank Williams tunes going to be played.

The stranger goes to pay for the beer. Merv tells the stranger that no one pays here at the Pigs Arms. It’s all paid for by Gordon, the creator of the universe.

“So what’s your name, mate?” asks Merv.

“Well, most people call me God but I prefer mate.”

Merv is Shocked. Shocked, I tell ya. Thinking to himself, not another one of these fruitcakes that think they’re actually God but actually hates Hank Williams. “So, what sort of God are you?” Merv asks.

“Well”, says the stranger. “I guess you could call me the common garden variety type God.”

Merv is in a quandary. We already have Gordon. Who created the universe. Now we have a stranger in the pub that’s telling us that he is God however, thankfully he doesn’t like Hank Williams.

“So God, did you create the universe Or did Gordon? “

“Well, think of it like this, Gordon created this universe,” said God. “But I created Gordon.”

“So God, just to clarify the issue, who created you? “

“Me, mum and Dad,” says God.

Well, Merv doesn’t know what to do now. He’s in a real state. Fancy someone saying that they created Gordon after all this time? When everybody here knew that Gordon was the creator of the universe yet he hates Hank Williams.

Merv attempts to break the ice. “So God, what actually brings you to these parts anyway, besides the beer?”

“Well. Now you asked. I’m actually looking for a sharp barrister to present me in the Supreme Court in a defamation case against Satan”

Merv ponders the statement. “Well, God, we do have a barrister here by the name of Foodge”

Foodge is sitting at the other side of the bar with a pint and 13 shots of whisky in front of him while studying the racing guide.

Merv walks over to Foodge. “Hey, Foodge, That guy over there says he’s God and, thankfully hates Hank Williams, says he wants you to represent him in the Supreme Court.”

“Tell him to f*** o**” says Foodge. Feel free to count the asterisks.

“He says there’s a fiver in it, mate.”

Suddenly, Foodge takes an interest, a fiver. Well, maybe we can even negotiate a bigger fee. Foodge understands that a fiver could be really helpful at this point in time. I mean, he’s only got 13 scotches left, but with a fiver, he could probably buy a few more. Well, let’s see what happens.

“OK then,” says Foodge. “that’s alright with me as long as isn’t fine defaulters. “Is he a shirt lifter? asks Foodge.

“Nah,” says Merv “just a control freak.”

Foodge walks over to God and introduces himself. “The name is Foodge. Highly qualified barrister at law. More than happy to represent you in the court but please, no Hank Williams” Foodge cuts straight to the chase. “I believe there might be a fiver in it for me.”

“Several fivers,” replies God. Foodge is becoming more and more interesting in this case as it goes along, and he doesn’t even know yet what it’s about, but he doesn’t care as long as there are some fivers in it for him.

“So what’s the issue?” Says Foodge He personally couldn’t give a s**t. He was just in for the fivers and no Hank Williams. Basically just like all barristers.

“Satan. Well, Satan. says I’m not real, yet here I am, standing in front of you, living proof. Here’s an article from the Inner Cyberian Times that shows just exactly what he said about me” replies God.

Foodge studies the article. He skips through it with little interest. The case itself couldn’t care less. Just wants the money. Just like all barristers that don’t like Hank Williams, well, sort of.

“So how can we tell that you really are God?” asks Foodge.

God looks over to where Foodge was sitting at the bar and sees a racing guide. He points at the guide and makes it come to him just like magic. He scrolls through the list of races. And says. OK. It’s the 5th day of the 5th month. Race 5 Number 5. Race time is 5pm. Is paying $55. I’ll guarantee it will win.

God asks Merv. “Do you have a phone around here? I need to make a quick phone call..’ Merv points to the mobile phone in the carpark for the public.

It wins. The patrons are ecstatic. Everyone has lots of cash in their pockets. God is real. Three cheers for God. Hip hip Hooray, Hip hip, Hooray. Hip, hip, Hooray.

This is the phone booth God used

Some authors notes, This has taken me a long time to write. I’m not sure if it’s really funny but I hope you like it. My aim with all of my stories was to give the reader a 10 minute break from life to have some fun. The horse race gag is about the phone number 555-5555, When I was a kid and watched TV shows, the prefix phone number always started with 555. Algernon and I have joked about it since. Me, now traveling the best I have ever been in 20 years. Anyone that has taken offence at me in the past, I’m sorry. I now have great mental health. The correct diagnosis and medication has turned my life around. I will have at least 2 more episodes coming. Hope you read and enjoy them all. Even I am amazed at the outcome following my research.

Foodge and Merv investigate

25 Friday Jun 2021

Posted by in Big M, Foodge Private Dick, Merv

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Written by Big M

I don’t like this but then again…

The laminex desk was completely obscured by files, form guides, stained coffee cups and an overflowing ashtray. There was evidence of a previous avalanche of files onto the floor next to the grey, metal bin, which no one had bothered to tidy up. The black, Bakelite phone jangled impatiently, before a gnarled, nicotine stained hand grabbed up the handset. “Detective Chief Inspector Acker Rogerson speakin’. I’d recognise that voice anywhere…Mervette!” Hysterical laughter was followed by a coughing fit, which subsided with two puffs of Ventolin and a Marlborough Red. Two minutes elapsed before Inspector Rogerson rasped. “Just jokin’, Merv, how are ya?”

Merv didn’t appreciate the joke, so pressed on. “I’m well, but I’ve got a MisPer for you.”

“Why not get the Missing Persons Bureau to chase it up?”

“It’s a cold case. Pole dancer from the nineties. Had a sprog with Foodge. Went the whole nine yards, married, expensive honeymoon, shacked up in Darlo, then she pissed off with the kid. It seems she had joined some cult.” Merv summarised.

“Yeah, I remember. There was a heap of missing sheilas with similar backgrounds. We assumed they’d all fucked off somewhere and drank the communal Kool-Aid on the way to joining Halle’s comet, or some such thing. Why has Foodge developed a sudden interest? Has there been contact from the Mother Ship?”

“Dunno, somehow came up in conversation.” Merv didn’t really want to discuss Foodge’s penchant for the Scouts. “You know he’s shacked up here with Granny who knows nothing about this?”

“It’s common knowledge, old son. I wouldn’t wanna be in his skin if she finds out. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll go through the old files and cross-reference the with other states, Feds and Foreign Affairs. I’ll get back to youz.”

“Thanks, mate.” Merv went back to his pint of Granny’s IPA.

Rogerson dropped the handset back onto its cradle. “Fuck, fuck, fucketty, fuck. Prepare for the shit storm, lads.”

I’m a fuckwit brought to you by Maccas

……………………..

Meanwhile, Foodge had returned to the apartment in Darlinghurst. He found absolutely nothing, mainly because the owner had slammed the door in his face. He went around all of the strip clubs but everyone refused to talk. Bear in mind he was widely regarded as a defector. He then tried check on their joint bank account but couldn’t find the Bank of NSW. Eventually he stumbled into Westpac where the teller couldn’t work out what to do with his Passbook. He eventually initiated an inquiry into a ‘no longer active account’, which could take weeks or months.

……………………

Meanwhile at a private member’s room in an exclusive ‘Gentleman’s Club.

“Boss, didja see that Foodge has started sniffing around the clubs?”

“Yep.”

“Howdja know?”

“Just received a call from a well known, or, should I say, well paid copper.”

“Oh, right, well, woddle we do?”

“About one tenth of fuck all.”

“Why, won’t Foodge be onto us?”

“Foodge is the least successful Pee Eye in Sydney, and an even worse barrister. In the entire history of the Pigs Arms he’s photographed an MP climbing out his boyfriend’s window, and got that dimwit Manne orff an exposure charge. Threat level zero.”

I’m a priest, trust me…except if I have something to say, which I don’t unless my legal team says so

Foodge Escapes from Buntings

03 Thursday Jun 2021

Posted by in Foodge Private Dick, Mark

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You know, if they told me I was going to appear so much I would have charged more…

Foodge Escapes from Buntings

Written by Mark

Foodge was sitting in the foyer of the court house rolling a durry, well with tobacco and some other funny green stuff. O’Hoo was busy talking to some official over at the counter. Foodge was in deep thought mode, why am I here, why was I born, what is my first name and you know all those things that race through you mind in the middle of the night when you can’t sleep.

“O’Hoo, hoo were you talking two” speaking phonetically so O’Hoo wouldn’t understand, asks Foodge as he deeply inhales on his durry.

“Clark, I think his name was, no Clark Cell, a standard primary cell producing 1.4328 volts at 15 degrees C which consists of a mercury cathode and a zinc amalgam anode both dipping into a saturated solution of zinc sulphate” says O’Hoo.

Oh fuck off thinks Foodge. Never ask a simpleton a question that you don’t know the answer too. “Anyway pass us the scotch”. Foodge is discombobulated now(thanks Gerard, my spell checker doesn’t know it still, after all this time).

Come here lad, have a whiskey…

“Where’s the press throng?” asks Foodge as he inhales deeply on his durry. Oh yes, South Sea Islands Scotch sure does taste good in the morning.

O’Hoo runs out of the foyer onto the front steps of the court house and spy’s a group of school kids passing by on an excursion or just running away from their teachers. O’Hoo approaches them and says “Look kids, I understand that this is a kid friendly web page but can you pretend to be from the media, you know asking questions, pointing microphones and taking pictures when my mate come out from the court?”

“Um, yeah, um, yeah, okay mate! Wot’s in it for us?” says a little smart arse in the front row.

“Sausage sizzle, with fried onions and tomato sauce, all round at Buntings, oh on white bread, nothing healthy” blurts O’Hoo relating to the inner psyche of the modern generation.

“Yep, wheeze in” says the smart arse.

Foodge stumbles out of the court to face the “media throng”.

“Mr Foodge, what have you got to say about the court case?” says the smart arse kid who is getting way too much media attention.

“Well” replies Foodge “ I can’t say anything while the case is in front of the court”

“Well that’s only literally, not metaphorically”. The smart arse kid is really stating to grate and you can fucking well spell that how you want to and I’m the author.

“No more comments from me except to say the chicken schnitzel on Monday night with mushroom gravy is to die for.”

Hmm, Tastes like chicken…

O’Hoo pulls up in the Zephyr. “You drive Foodge. We are being followed. I’ve read the script”

“But I’m pissed and stoned”

“Doesn’t matter we’re fictional and anyway Gordon will get us off any charges.”

Foodge accerlates the Zephyr down the boulevard. O’Hoo jumps into the back seat and smashes out the back window.

“Why did you do that for? Emmjay will be really pissed that we went over budget.”

“I’ll get a better shot this way. Keep speeding, we are being followed by the FBI, the CIA, ASIO and worst of all the CWA” cried O’Hoo as he lets fly a few salvo’s out of the recently renovated rear window.

Foodge dodges and swerves through the back streets of Inner Cyberia as O’Hoo fires indiscriminately out the back window, trying to take care to hit any one at any time.

The FBI and ASIO cars go down when the CIA call O’Hoo on a two way radio that he didn’t know he was carrying up until now.

“Wheeze hungry” says the CIA goon.

Stop, I’m from the CIA, no the CIB, no the CIC, no the CID…

“Take the next left and into the McJacks drive through” says O’Hoo thinking he should have added and extra T and said thought. So many questions so little time.

Everyone is going through the drive through, try saying that after a few drinks but the CWA ladies want a Fillet-O-Fish so wheeze is all held up. Wears the pleece when yous want them. Don’t you just love phonetics.

The race continues but O’Hoo is a bit too sharp for his opposition and quickly takes out the CIA car as they munch on their McJacks. The CWA are a different story. O’Hoo fires another round of high powered tracer bullets into their car from loaded magazines thanks to granny, an eternal pacifist. Don’t you love her. Peace man.

O’Hoo and Foodge drive into the car park at the Pigs Arms with the Zephyr looking in bad shape with bullet holes and smashed windows, however Foodge won’t budge until he has finished his Big McWhopper, fries and slushie. “Let’s get the fuck out of here” screams O’Hoo as he finishes his chicken burger and Coke drink.

Apparently it’s a restaurant

Foodge and O’Hoo run into the bar avoiding eye contact with Emmjay. Big M and Algernon cock there weapons and the three sisters, Yvonne, Barbara and Shoe just keep studying the form guide, totally disinterested in the shenanigans. The CWA drive straight through the front doors and get out of their car opening fire with their weapons. Big M, Algernon and O’Hoo return fire and bullets are flying everywhere.

Meanwhile back in the kitchen granny is really peeved. Emmjay walks through the fire fight into the kitchen and says to granny “Lets have a bake off so we can stop this madness.”

Granny walks into the bar and yells “Stop. Stop now.” Funnily enough everyone stops. “Lets have a scone bake off to sort this out.”

All the cooks head out to the kitchen and start cooking. Scones, cream and jam are served to everyone. Hmm, all taste great. Granny says “Well, what was this agro all about?”

“Dunno” says the lady from the CWA.

“Baby, what baby” cries Foodge.

Foodge’s Secret Life

01 Tuesday Jun 2021

Posted by in Big M, Foodge Private Dick, Merv

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Foodge finishes his barista course…

Written by Big M

Merv wandered into the back of the Pigs Arms still shaking his head. He’d gone on a long run, in lieu of his usual boxing workout. He had been happily running down a side street when a woman slowed her car, wound the passenger window down and yelled. “Where’s yer mask?”

“There’s no mask mandate here!” Merv retorted.

“Well there bloody well should be for blokes with faces like yours!” As she roared off, leaving Merv with no right of reply.

As Merv stepped into the rear hallway he caught sight of a shadowy figure in, what appeared to be, an old Boys Scout’s uniform. “Can I help you there, Mr Baden Powell?” Merv chuckled to himself.

“What, no, I can’t even play the guitar.” Laughed Foodge.

“Not Baden Powell the Brazilian guitarist, Baden Powell the founder of the Boy Scouts.”

“Oh, um, I see.” Foodge didn’t see at all, but went along with it.

“What are you dressed up as?”

“Oh, well, obviously a boy scout. I’m hoping to try out as a Boy Scout Master.”

No not this Baden Powell, this one doesn’t add up…

“Have you thought this through?”

“Well, no, but I don’t usually think things through.” Foodge wrinkled his nostrils against the stench emanating from Merv’s armpits.

“For one, it’s no longer the Boy Scouts, its just Scouts, so that uniform must be about fifty years old. I’m surprised it still exists.”

“An old bloke gave it to me. Something about it being no use in prison.” Foodge nervously adjusted his woggle.

“That leads to the second problem…the optics. It doesn’t look good for an old bloke like you who isn’t married and doesn’t have any kids to suddenly join the scouts. You know, kiddy fiddlers and all that!”

“Well, I was married and I do have a child, if that helps.” Foodge had given up on the recalcitrant woggle and too short scarf.

“What? Who? When?” Merv’s face nearly exploded.

“Well actually, it’s not really anyone’s business.”

“Yer shacked up with Granny and living under my roof, so I reckon it is someone’s business.”

“How about we move into the Gentlemen’s Bar and I’ll tell you over a few drinks?”

Merv looked at his watch. “It is after eight so I could go a couple of frothy chops for breakfast.”

Merv’s breakfast, has it every morning whether needed or not

Foodge was onto his third pint of bitter before he launched into his story. “Mr Merv, you may not believe this, but there was a time when I wasn’t the squeaky clean, sophisticated lawyer you see before you. I was a different man, desperate to make his mark in the world, and more desperate to become rich, not only rich, but powerful. I became a criminal barrister, on the side of criminals who, not only paid me well to keep them out of jail, but heeded my advice. I oversaw property acquisitions, take-overs of clubs, bars, casinos and even brothels.”

“Go on.” Nodded Merv eagerly as he pushed another glass canoe across the bar.

“That’s how I met her. She was a pole dancer in a strip club I was purchasing for the mob. She was beautiful and, as they say, it was love at first sight. We eloped within weeks of our first kiss. We honeymooned in Dapto, just a stones throw from Lake Illawarra, the Venice of Australia. They were beautiful times, Mr Merv.” Foodge had a little tear in his eye as he reminisced.

Merv was getting emotional so decided they needed something stronger. He poured a couple of glasses of South Sea Islands Scotch. “Where is she now?”

“Things went swimmingly, for a while. We moved into an apartment in Darlinghurst. She stopped working, well, she had to, she got pregnant on the honeymoon and we had a son who we named Foodge Junior, of course. Anyhoo, she became more and more unhappy with my life of crime. She tried to get me to leave the mob, but I wouldn’t. I was addicted to money and power. She eventually joined a cult and tried to persuade me to join, but they were complete nutters.”

As I said, nutters…

“Don’t tell me she drank the Kool-Aid?” Merv refreshed their glasses.

“No, why Kool-Aid?” Foodge can be quite obtuse! “No, I came home one evening to find a note saying that they, and other cult members, were going on a great trip and that I’d never see her or the baby ever again. I raced down to the old cinema where they held their meetings but it was boarded up. I contacted the police but they just added their names to a long list of people who had suddenly disappeared. I retained a private eye for a couple of years but there wasn’t a single clue to chase down. Eventually I gave up, but not until I left the mob and went straight.”

“You know what we should do!” Merv was now slurring his words. “We should look for ‘em.”

“How, I mean, after all these years?”

“Well it doesn’t sound like the cops took much interest and yer PI sounds a bit incompetent. Now we’ve got the Internet and some pleece owe me some favours.”

To be continued.

Well, that was a good read…

Foodge versus Buntings

24 Saturday Apr 2021

Posted by in Foodge Private Dick, Mark

≈ 16 Comments

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Foodge and whiskey go hand in hand…

Written by Mark

Foodge was feeling pensive, no apprehensive, no nervous and a little ill as he had just taken a long swig from a pocket flask with South Seas Blue Label scotch that O’Hoo just happened to have in his jacket pocket. This was his day in court after being kicked out of Buntings for wearing his pant bulger.

“I rang the clerk of the court last night to find out who the Judge is” says O’Hoo “ It’s genitalia”

“Genitalia is your private parts, you know your dingle dongle” replies Foodge.

“Here look, I writ in down”

“That’s Jenny Taylor not genitalia. You have a one track mind O’Hoo and Judge Jenny has her own television show, you know, on one of those channels that no one watches.”

“Here, drink this” as O’Hoo passes the flask as he steers the Zephyr down the main boulevard to the court house “and granny has put a couple of semi-automatic rifles plus extra ammo in the back seat just in case we need a fast get away. Isn’t she a sweetie.”

Hmm, thinks Foodge, neatly doing away with the need for apostrophes saving the author extra typing. What have I got myself into. Well if anything at least it makes a good story. Gee this South Seas Island Blue Label tastes great as the scotch kicks in.

“Park here” cries Foodge.

“It says no parking and we wouldn’t want to encourage kiddies to break the law now would we.” replies O’Hoo desperate to get more screen time.

Hmm, thinks Foodge, since when has O’Hoo developed a conscience. At least Judge Jenny will give us a fair trial and with the extra whiskey Foodge’s confidence is growing.

Judge Jenny addresses the court “Ladies and Gentleman we are gathered here today to join this loving couple in matrimony, oops, that was the last case, anyway we are gathered here today to hear the case of Foodge versus Buntings for personal and professional damages. Mr Foodge a poor downtrodden man who not only has lifted himself off the floor of the Pigs Arms to prop up the baa to being appointed to the baa of the legal profession. Versus Buntings, a mutlibillion dollar international conglomerate that steps on anyone to get their own way. The poor downtrodden Mr Foodge is naturally representing himself and for Buntings Mr Blah Blah.” The groans are palpable, this guy can talk under water with a mouth full of pebbles.

Mr Blah Blah kicks off “Well ma’am, blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah. I refer you to your book of documents ma’am 1 A, B and C. A being the story written by Big M with B and C being statements from the sales attendants. We plead not guilty.”

Foodge gets thrown out of Buntings https://pigsarms.com.au/2021/03/31/foodge-gets-thrown-out-of-buntings/

Foodge replies “No dispute from me ma’am however I do have a witness who was standing behind me in the queue. I call Private Road.”

Private Road takes the stand and swears and oath “I swear to tell the whole truth nothing but truth so help me Gordon O’Donnell, oh and maybe a few porkies, just kidding.”

Judge Jenny points the pointer, now now…

Judge Jenny intervenes “Are you in the Army?”

“No ma’am”

“So what is your first name?”

“Well it’s private ma’am”

Hmm, thinks Judge Jenny “Well yes when my husband and I go for a weekend drive in the country we can see you are very popular.”

“Ma’am, I would like to question my witness, with you leave.” interjects Foodge as he senses this episode is getting away from him. “Can you tell the court what you witnessed on that day being the 31st June 1904?”

“Well yes. Big M’s story and the attendant statements are all true however Mr Foodge here wasn’t doing anything wrong, he simply had his pant bulger in place. I was standing behind him with two of the same. You see ma’am I have Micropenile encephalopathy, colloquially called small dick brain however the medical fraternity refer to it as MP’s. I had two pant bulgers in my hand when security guards pounced on Mr Foodge and threw him out and he didn’t even get a sausage from the sausage sizzle.”

“Yes well, Mr Foodge, what are you seeking in damages?” asks Judge Jenny.

“Well ma’am ten million Inner Cyberia Dollars and free sausage sizzle on white bread with onions and tomato sauce for the rest of my days.” replies Foodge.

“Order granted, case upheld. All damages accepted. Court costs to be paid by Buntings seeing you sell pant bulgers. Just one last question Mr Foodge, what does a pant bulger do?”

“Well it makes you appear more attractive to the opposite sex, not that I would ever tell granny that, by giving the impression that you are well endowed ma’am.”

The packed gallery went wild.

Hooray yippee, the excitement is overwhelming

Foodge gets thrown out of Buntings

31 Wednesday Mar 2021

Posted by in Big M, Foodge Private Dick

≈ 12 Comments

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Foodge, pure as the driven snow

Written by Big M.

Foodge had been along every aisle in Buntings. Eventually he found his way to the help desk. Foodge couldn’t help thinking how Buntings rhymed with something, never mind. The assistant suggested he went to the toilet as he was so fidgety as he hadn’t had any alcohol or cigarettes. “Yes I can see them young lady but I have Korsakoff psychosis and am really difficult to manage” replied Foodge.

He had quite a long list, so handed it to the assistant who smiled and handed it to her off sider. “I think you’ll struggle a bit here mate. Skyhook? Do you really need two? We had one in stock but an acrobat bought it this morning.

Five Fallopian tubes. We don’t stock them ‘ere, but ‘arrison’s Prosthetics may have some sort of substitute but I reckon they sell ‘em in pairs.

Left ‘anded ‘ammers have gone outta style, what with carpenters gradually adapting to the more traditional right-handed tool.

Blinker fluid…don’t stock it anymore, try Repco, it will be one aisle over from the Elbow Grease.

As for the Heavy Duty Clutch Belt, that’s not normally a DIY job unless you have your own Heavy Duty Clutch Belt Buckle, but they’re bloody dangerous.

Repco should stock sparks for spark plugs. We used to stock boxes of Inertia, but never seemed to shift ‘em.

Make Up Air sounds like a specialist air conditioning item, or perhaps a beauty aid.” The assistant grinned.

“We can’t sell a new Hydraulic Automatic Nanode valve, but we can recondition an old one, if you can bring it in, undamaged.”

“I suppose I need a special Hydraulic Automatic Nanode Valve Puller or Extractor?” Foodge was exasperated.

“Of course, they’ll have a couple under the counter in Tool Hire. Just ask them for a HANd Job.”

Foodge considered a HANd job but he thought she said a MANdjob and now that she was a born again O’Donnellist he thought that may be a bit rude even though it gave him a chubby. The more things change the more they stay the same.

“I think you better leave Sir. There is something bulging in your pants”

“That’s just my pant bulger, I brought it from here” cries Foodge

“511 to security, we have a problem…”

Poor old Foodge, didn’t even get a sausage from the sausage sizzle…

Granny likes her Seamen

19 Monday Oct 2020

Posted by in Big M, Foodge Private Dick

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” …if not for the courage of the fearless crew the Nimmow would be lost…”

Written by Big M.

Granny was getting concerned, perhaps discombobulated. No one had heard from Foodge, Wes and O’Way since Foodge had sent that stupid Carrow Wack inspired Stream of Urine. Micturating over the handrail indeed. Merv was lazily wiping horizontal surfaces with a dirty rag to ensure COVID compliance. “Merv, are you busy?”

“Flat out like a lizard drinkin’?” Merv laughed quietly to himself. “Why?”

“Have you heard from the Boys?”

“What Boys?” Merv had lost interest in his work so stood there wondering what to do with the rag.

“Foodge, Wes and Father.”

“They’re hardly Boys (with or without capitalisation).”

“The Hardy Boys?” Granny is a touch deaf.

The Hardy Boys (sorry Ace, couldn’t resist)

“Oo?”

“Anyhoo, ‘ave you ‘eard from Foodge ‘n’ Co?”

“Not since the ‘Stream of Unconsciousness’ thingy. Why?” Merv hadn’t bothered to read Foodge’s Kerouac Inspired whatsaname because it sounded like shit.

“I’m worried about them.” Granny had poured herself a Lady’s Waist of Trotter’s Best.

“I’m not.” Merv tossed the rag behind the bar.

“Why not?” Granny skulled the dirt brown concoction then poured a second.

“I’m tracking ‘em, or, more to the point, tracking Foodge.”

“How, I mean, why?” Granny had moved on to a pint of IPA.

“I placed a tracker in his toiletries bag.” Merv had already anticipated the next question so fired up his laptop and placed his reading glasses on the end of his nose. “Let’s see, now, it only switches on twice a day, to conserve power, ah….okay, it gave a position a couple of hours ago. They’re in Cadiz, which is odd. They should be somewhere way further south. Either the ship’s got mechanical trouble or they’ve been thrown orff.” Merv suspected the latter but went checked on the whereabouts of MV Wasted Seamen, which, it turns out had already rounded the Cape. “It looks like the wasted Seaman has left them behind!”

Foodge’s toiletry bag

“Wasted Seamen??” Granny was slightly intoxicated. “What would sailors be doing wasting…”

“Did you want to send a message?” Merv had adopted the attitude of a parent with a small child, which was Granny to a Tee when she was on the sauce. “Seeing as we know where they are, or, at least where Foodge’s toiletries are.”

“Oh, yes…I dunno, I just want him back.” Granny dissolved in tears.

“You want him back? I can organise that.”

“Can you really get him back?”

“I can probably get them home by the end of the week.” Merv was already typing an email to an old mate in Spain.

“So you could have got them back earlier, I’m guessing!” Granny had taken an accusatory tone.

“Of course.” Merv didn’t look up from the laptop.

“Why diddencha??”

“No one asked, besides, I thought they were enjoying the thrill of the journey. Hold on, I’ve got a reply. An old copper mate lives in Spain. He’ll track ‘em down easy enough and pop them on a freight plane. They’ll be in Inner Western Cyberia by Thursdee arvo.” Merv slammed the laptop shut. “Another pint, dear?”