Hung, off his face after too much Acetic Acid, fish and chips does it every time…
Episode 60 – Story by Mark aka Hung One On
“Bloody hell” says Merv in his usual laconic style, not that Merv understood what laconic actually meant, see he was born laconic, at the Inner Cyberian Hospital, any one born there has to be laconic other wise they are up shit creek without out an outboard, know what I mean. “Hung has done it frigging again, he’s written another fucking episode of Foodge using us, even has an episode number, what is this world coming to.”
“This is true Pigs Arms style we’re none the wiser. This is excellent” says Earnest Moncrieff, the deadly sparrow killer from one of the many other meaningless episodes of Foodge. “Another kayak Merv, and no fly shit this time mate, it upsets me acid” continues Earnest.
“I thought that this episode was really funny, till I read it, then I realised it had a deeper esoteric meaning, I mean line 69 tells you that in one go” says Hung who as usual was propping up the bar trying to remember if the magic mushrooms he had consumed for breakfast were blue meanies or gold tops. Memory wasn’t one of Hung’s assets, lets just say he would be classified as disabled under DSM-V if any one knew what it actually means.
“Please, sir, what’s a kayak of beer?” queries Yvonne, a quiet single lady who regularly sits at the bar sipping her Pink Drinks. Yes, the beautiful, picturesque Yvonne has now been dragged into the story, ever since Hedgie went to jail and all he wants to talk about now is all the anal sex he is getting in jail, Yvonne on the other hand is a much nicer character.
“Kayak refers to a schooner glass 15 ozs in the old money” bores Emmjay, typical scientist, still reckons 1+1=2, dear oh dear, lets face it, the rest of us know that 1+1 is somewhere between 1.9 and 2.1 but never tell Emmjay that otherwise we will all have to sit through another routine lecture on mathematics he had published in a science journal called the No Idea.
Emmjay continues in his typical monogamous style “In NSW (which didn’t have until recently half pints, but pints (20 ozs) were also used – albeit more rarely). Large glasses are for showing off – more moderate ones are for keeping the beer colder for longer” he lies.
“Why don’t you just shut the fuck up” says Merv, forever the diplomat. “Hung’s trying to write another drug story to make us all laugh and all you can do is talk facts. Haven’t you read line 69 yet?” questions Merv which is truly a rare occurrence.
By this time however, Emmjay was in full teacher mode. As if anyone actually cares. Lets face it, this story is pure fiction and facts are basically useless, similar to members of parliament.
“Deivad Eyland wrote a novel in the 1980s called The Non-Crystalline Amorphous Solid Kayak set in a pub called “The Shit Carters Arms” drones Emmjay. “That pub actually exists, unlike the Pigs Arms, on the corner of Anal Rd and the Rectum Highway near Glenda’s House of Pain. But the pub at the heart of the novel was actually “the Toothless” for a couple of factoids. One, if you survived the night at the pub you will probably come home without your teeth and two, it was a dwelling for plasma” says Emmjay.
“Will someone tell this bloke to shut the fuck up” says hph who had just arrived after a bad trip and a train journey on the overnight flyer which really fucked up his drumming, big time.
“In the Toothless Estate on G-Spot Rd” continues Emmjay, much to the disinterest of the Patrons ah la Pork, ”My dad used to drink there – until he moved in 1956 from Long Bay to Silverwater.”
“Has anyone told Emmjay to shut the fuck up?” says Vivienne DeOliveria, a gourmet chef who helped Granny invent her famous Vegemite and Anchovy sauce to serve with potato wedges. “Anyway, when do we get to the good bit?” asks Viv, as only Viv can.
“The novel, The Non-Crystalline Amorphous Solid Kayak, was and remains the inspiration for the Pig’s Arms. You can buy a copy in any decent second hand bookshop” continues Emmjay and lets face it, by the time this story is finished second hand book stores will be too busy selling SFA due to ennui from the general public but on wee go.
“You can get one for sure online, or offline or at a second hand book store if any still exist” says Gib W, who just suddenly appeared out of nowhere, as all purse carrying nancy boys tend to do in this story.
“Gez, now I have to become illiterate?” replies the gorgeous Yvonne. Now we all know that Gez is Gerard Oosterman, genius and multi millionaire who is married to the delightful Helvi, but he doesn’t turn up till the next chapter disguised as a potato. Again on wee go.
“Nah, just semi-literate, like most of the patrons here at the Pigs Arms” interjects Gib W, wanting a bit more air time seeing that Emmjay has dominated the story so far.
“I take offence to that statement, I’m demi-illerate” says Hung as the mushrooms kick in. Hmm, wedges with Vegemite and anchovy sauce, my favorite, as he heads for the Men’s to practice his regurgitation skills.
“Sorry Sister, didn’t mean to offend the demis.” says Gib W reading the script on his laptop. Gib was more worried about offending GILBET(Gay, Intersex, Lesbian, Bisexual, Extraterrestrial and Transgender) folk especially seeing that Hedgie is now batting for the other team.
“Is that like a movie trailer Gib?” pipes in Earnie as he puts the bong along side his half full kayak then skulls the water from the bong instead of the Trotter’s. Fly shit again he he thinks. Pfft.
“Yes, Earnie” says Gib, “You thought a the trailer was big, wait until you see the demi-trailer” asserts Gib. “But has anyone told Emmjay to shut the fuck up lately?” Says Gib.
“So trailers carry containers and trains carry containers so they must be bigger than a trailer or say a finch. The debate could be about trains or for that matter rhododendrons. We’ve had the train one and anyway Hung hasn’t said anything in ages so at least he got the message to shut the fuck up” says Earnie.
“Oh well, that’s sorted.” mentally groans Viv, kind hearted to the bitter end of this story and waiting for line 69 like the rest of us.
“Has your goat had an orgasm lately?” says Kneeville Coal, who is apparently from North Armenia as he orders a kayak of Trotter’s Ale. North fucking where??
“In a fashion” says Emmjay, “such a typical Pig’s Arms explanation” explains Emmjay on line 69.
“Sorry for the delay, Gib” says Emmjay who appears to be struggling with the concept of shut the fuck up. “I’m still re-configuring MF’s dead, but flat, cat, but this looks like a setup. The Pleece are working better than ever now they and have got the challenge of sifting through 13,000 tabs to find the eleventeen I want to take” says an oblivious Emmjay, high on Trotters Ale and Acetic Acid, his favorite trip. “I hope you liked the sly pic. Don’t you just love a dead machine” says Emmjay adding yet another red herring to the story.
“Loved the pic” says Gib, “I imagine it would be easier to rebuild an Ariel Square Four, than resuscitating a dead but flat cat” continues Gib and seeing that no one on the planet will know what an Ariel Square Four is makes him an expert. Remember, an “ex” is something that was and a spurt is “drip under pressure”, so we can all assume that this statement is truly meaningless.
“Probably died of boredom or dare I say ennui. The squaffer was a classic bit of British engineering design genius which was a first for Britain. Lots of poo being impossible to air cool – bad in a cold, moderate, hot, wet, dry, windy, rainy, cloudy or sunny climate. Disastrous in Australia.” hyphens Emmjay.
“My biological father reckoned you could always fukka venal woman cheep after a night at the Toothless. A great kebab on the way home, lots of emesis overnight then panadol and sick leave the next day, doesn’t get any better than this don’t it.”
Foodge was about to mention something about fare evasion being as bad as fax evasion when there was a hush in the room. Everyone turned to the main stairs where, a pair of black stilettoes emerged, followed by a pair of shapely ankles, clad in silk stockings, with perfectly straight seams down the back, terminating in little bows (Big M let out a small groan), then the calves, then, you guessed it, the knees, then a very short black dress. The figure was petite, yet had all of the curves in the right places, the face that followed was our own Granny. Not old, fiddle with the kegs, cook some eggs, brew up some more ale Granny, but a younger, softer Granny. The silence was interrupted by a voice. ‘Christ, I’d do her!’
happen, but, Pink Drinks and Pale Ale flowed, wedges were fried, sour cream dolloped, eggs scrambled, and so on. At the end of it al, when Merv and the family had gone to bed, the inebriates ejected and the pub locked up, Foodge sat on the back step with Granny. Her head conveniently leaned against his shoulder. ‘Another night, Love?’
Window Dresser's Arms, Pig & Whistle 
Top Left, Foodge, Merv
Bottom Left: O’Hoo, Rouge in Drag and Gib W
Episode 51 and eight thirds
My name sometimes seems to appear on these Foodge thingies, but I’m buggered if I know what’s going on. Oh I see, it says here on my name badge that my name is actually Foodge, crikey, wish I could remember things like my name and even say the plot of this story would be nice. Bloody Emmjay and Rouge have gone to Newcastle, in drag as usual but I’ll leave that to your imagination, s’pose.
“I’ll keep my eye out for the Newcastle Flyer, and pick them up in the Zephyr. I’ll bring the shot gun.” says Earnest, yes the infamous Earnest Moncrieff[1], apparently he once shot a sparrow with a BB gun, someone to avoid, know wat I mean.
“Accidentally caught the flyer last year, right in the fucking face, bastards, coal chunk right on the noggin” says Gib W the person this story is all about a bit. Gib carries on a bit here and if you are really bored don’t read the next four or five lines. And if you don’t read them, I will never talk to you again, maybe.
“Train was late from Dandruff and just jounced on a Newcastle train, couldn’t work out why nobody was getting off at my stop. It’s hard being alone sometimes. Sent 30 minutes in Woy Woy Woy Woy Woy Woy Woy Woy Woy Woy Woy Woy Woy Woy Woy Woy Woy Woy Woy Woy just reading the train station sign and then waiting for the gubbermint to build the train track so I could get home. Lovely trip but even LSD didn’t really work.” laments Gib.
“It’s pretty bloody slow!” says Earnest, “Two years can get stretched out to seven (Oops, wrong story, anyway I’ve paid my debt to society, she told me she was sixteen, honest)! I’ll will pick you up avec shot gun. Are you a Local?”
“Nah I’m from Little Britain” informs Gib “Yeah I know, an uninvited guest one may say, catching their train to Newcastle, how odd”, continues Gib, like sand through the hourglass never realizing that the glass was once sand. Day in and day out, your life turned upside down, must be hell. I struggle to continue, not really but a bit of melodrama never hurts.
“Took a trip at Port Stephens. It was when you could the really good stuff however the train from Port Stephens to Newcastle was like something from out of space man, had the ticket checked twice on the journey. Lucky I was able to fake it both times just like my organisms” says Earnest “A really good trip should work in about an hour or a bit over. But that would mean spending money wouldn’t it.” says Earnest who is tighter than a fishes um, thingy, I think you get the picture.
The Inner Cyberia Pleece Force in the car park after one to many Trotters
“We thought we flew to Brisbane this week for an overnight stay” says Gib “But we really had a reefer at Broadmeadow pub and then shipped the drugs to the airport, then on to Port Stephens/Nelson Bay, but I expect that there aren’t to many pollies we can’t buy off, heavy stuff because it wants shares with Coals or The Good Guys or even worse Country Target, it still sells 50 year old stinky diesel arse wipes like R.M. Williams” thinks out loud poor old Gib.