Category Archives: Foodge Private Dick

Foodge Tells the Truth – Finally

11 Thursday Feb 2016

Posted by in Foodge Private Dick, Mark

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Well, what can one say about Rouge and the boys.

Episode Number: 51 and a bit.

“Hey, for fuck sake” says Foodge in his usual nonchalant manner to the point where sleep seems to be the best option. “You know that dickhead Hung One On, well he predicted what that bloody Ethelbert IronInset[1] bloke and his theory of non-continuity said would happen, no flow, no logic and really no story line. You know  I think Hooster(common alias for Hung One On) is related to our lovable D.G. O’Hoo cause both are usually pissed on Trotter’s most of the  time” he eloquently informs the patrons at the bar, just like an expert. Trouble for poor old Foodge is that an expert knows a whole lot about very little.

“Ya bloody joking” interjects O’Hoo “what’s this most of the time, I’d take umbrage at that if I knew what that meant”

“Look mate, this is reality here at the Pigs Arms and your response was written into the script so shut up an stop using up the word limit. You know that Rouge and Emmjay are bastards if the story goes to on two [sic] long as the customers will be drunk by the time this story finishes, comprehendre?” FFS[2] thinks Foodge

“Well where is dem[sicer] too[sicest] dingoes anyway?” thought bubbles O’Hoo.

“Hey Merv, O’Hoo needs a few more glass canoes” opines Foodge. “Never new[getting sicer] he could even think. They are on their way to Newcastle on the express train run by the gubbermint so they should get there in a couple of weeks or so. They wanna talk to Gib W”

“There on the steam express?” asks O’Hoo.

“Nah mate, drugs probably” laments Foodge as he secretly reminisces about his own dangerous past of drug abuse with paracetamol, thiamine and glucosamine, for what, a stuffed liver and trying to make a living hunting dangerous criminals like fine defaulters or four wheel drive owners, ah well, one can’t have everything in life. Definitely was never the booze, anyhoo read this and weep.

Father O’Way Meets G O’D Part 2

“Fuck”

“Piss”

“Shit”

“So do you want to kill him?” asks O’Hoo as he fiddles with something in his pocket, a gun for sure right.

“Everything is on the table for discussion DG but please never actually ask for answer”

Authors Notes

[1] Hmm, was this quip too easy?

[2] Many thanks to the delightful Annabel Crabb for this one.

[3] I challenge anyone that has read the Foodge series to try and explain what it is really about. I haven’t got a clue.

Foodge 50-something… Bugger All Continuity

17 Sunday Jan 2016

Posted by in Big M, Foodge Private Dick

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cracked-coffee-cup

Story by Big M

The Pigs Arms had been in great, good OKish hands during Merv’s hospitalisation.

Granny had, of course, gone into overdrive, cooking breakfasts, cleaning, brewing beer, swapping out kegs, and so on. Janet (Mrs Merv) managed to visit Merv every day with the twins in tow, and either read to him, or told him about the goings on at the pub. Rosie went once a week to wax his ears.  Even our intrepid Foodge had put his Very Important Business on the back burner, and worked as bartender, cleaner and counsellor to the bereft and weak minded. Everyone was grateful that Merv had recovered from his coma, and had been moved to the rehabilitation wing of the hospital.

It was mid morning, and Foodge was doing his best impression of Merv polishing a glass whilst staring into space. O’Hoo plonked his no longer bulbous arse on a creaky bar stool and waited for Foodge to finish his ritual before ordering his double ‘expresso’. Foodge carefully placed the glass on the shelf behind the bar then busied himself with the various knobs and valves on the coffee machine. ‘O’Hoo, you’ve become rather industrious since Mr Merv’s admission to hospital.’ Then placed the mug on a coaster in front of O’Hoo.

“Why, are you implying I’m normally bloody lazy?’ O’Hoo took a sip of the steaming, thick, black liquid. ‘Bloody good coffee, though!’

‘No, no, no, as if I would infer that a gentleman of your standing was lazy, No!’ Foodge gave the timber bar another wipe. ‘No, it’s just that, since Mr Merv has been ill you have taken time off work, moved into the pub and single-handedly renovated all of the plumbing, painted rooms, regrouted tiles, replaced window glass, and so on.’

O’Hoo took another gulp from the old cracked mug. ‘Quite frankly, I owe Merv.  You might remember that DCI Rouge and I had some trouble with the pleece. There was an APB on us and the local uniformed lads were closing in on the pub, when Merv smuggled us out the back door and Fern, who had been sacked in a previous episode, drove us at high speed away from the world of The Window Dressers Arms, Pig and Whistle.’

They were interrupted by Granny who was holding two plates of eggs, sausages, bacon, wedges, tomatoes and mushrooms. ‘For my hardworking boys.’ Granny still had that twinkle in her eye since that morning she’d woken up with this pair.

Anyhoo, Merv had shoved an envelope in my hand which contained a note and ten thousand bucks. The note had the address of Lenny De Loupe, document forger to the mob, and the words, ‘GET THE FUCK OUTTA NSW!’  So, what did we do? We went straight round to Lenny’s, who refused to see us, until he read the note from Merv. That was the Golden Ticket. His first recommendation was to send us to Vinnie’s, where we picked up a musty old three-piece suit  ‘n’ hat for me, a ladies’ suit for Rouge, and a wheel chair.’

‘A wheel chair?’ Interjected Foodge, who had made a second ‘expresso’ for O’Hoo.

‘Yep, he reckoned the best disguise was some sort of disability or injury, so he got me in the suit, with an old black Homburg and old fashioned sun glasses, sat me in the wheel chair, and told me that I was now Professor Lambert, retired neurologist, who, ironically, suffered from some rare nervous disorder, so couldn’t speak or walk. Rouge became Mrs Lambert, R.N and carer. He booked us tickets on the Sydney-Melbourne train, and berths on the Spirit of Tasmania. Lenny claimed that security was so lax on trains and boats, that just about anyone could go anywhere in Australia, as long as they didn’t fly. We had a pretty unremarkable trip from Central Station to Devonport. Once we were back on land I ditched to chair and the hat, then we hitched to Hobart. The rest is history. ‘ O’Hoo stood up, as if to go.

‘Hold on O’Hoo, none of US know this history, you just re-appeared half way though a chapter.’ Foodge blustered.

‘Does it matter? There’s bugger all continuity in this story!’ O’Hoo sat back down. ‘Besides, I might not want to talk about it, or haven’t you noticed that I came back by myself?’

‘Well, err…um.ah’ Foodge tried to cover his embarrassment by sliding a glass canoe across the bar.

“Now you’re talking, son.’ OHoo took a long pull on his pint. ‘Ah, that’s bloody good, well, we stumbled into a little pub in West Hobart, not unlike this one, in that the plumbing was shit, most rooms needed repainting, but, best of all, they were short a bar maid. We received a roof over our heads, food and drink for our labour, no questions asked, while we waited for things to cool off.’

‘Go on, go on.’ Foodge pushed another frothy chop across the bar.

‘Things went on swimmingly until I was caught with my finger in the till. Rouge was horrified, and took off without a word.’

‘Well, stealing from your boss is a low act.’ Foodge reached forward to retrieve the pint, but half of it was already down O’Hoo’s neck.

‘I tried to explain; I literally had my finger stuck in the till. I had sold a couple of packets of chips to a bloke. They had to call the fire brigade and the paramedics. While I was waiting, in great pain, something came up on the news about the NSW Pleece having concerns for our welfare, because they were searching for us to give us an award!’

Foodge’s face visibly relaxed. ‘So where is Rouge?’

‘Dunno, that’s the great mystery. I searched for her for a cuppla months. Very few leads. One took me to Bruny, another to Strachan, then St Helens. I zig zagged the island a cuppla times, but always just missed her.’ O’Hoo skulled the last of his pint, then exchanged it for a fresh canoe. ‘I ended up going to the Pleece. Of course, I was the prime suspect, so was held for questioning, which is what I woulda done, so just wore it. They searched everywhere, checked plane and ferry departures, put out an APB, the whole bit. In the end I just came home.’

‘So where is this award?’ Foodge wanted the entire story.

‘I had to go and see the Commishnar of Pleece, partly to explain my absence, and to accept the award. I asked if I could defer it until Rouge was able to stand next to me, and receive hers.’ O’Hoo shook his head, then finished his pint.

Foodge wiped a little tear from his eye, then stared off into the distance, absent-mindedly polishing a glass.

 

 

 

Pig’s Arms Bumper Christmas 2015 – Merv Wakes Up

26 Saturday Dec 2015

Posted by in Big M, Foodge Private Dick

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Nurse Betty is Convinced Merv is in here somewhere

Story by Big M

Nurse Betty was convinced of the bowel-brain connection, that the entire alimentary canal was essentially an extension of the nervous system. If one was dysfunctional, then the other suffered. With this in view she had taken a rather unorthodox approach to the coma patients in her care. Naturally they were all being fed a commercial mixture of water, glucose polymers, medium chain triglycerides, fats, proteins, vitamins and minerals via nasogastric tubes.

Nurse Betty had started to add in her own concoction of probiotics, herbs and extra vitamins. She had taken particular interest in the big fellow in bed three, and had just administered an old fashioned enema: ‘high, hot and a hell of a lot’.

Mr Merv had started to groan.

“Dr Lancet, the patient in bed three is waking up!” Cried Nurse Betty.

Lancet leapt to his feet, messily dropping his cross stitch under the nurses’ station. “Sir, do you know where you are?” He yelled into Merv’s ear whilst trying to shine a torch into his eyes.

“Hospital, I guess.”

“Yes, yes, now, who is the prime minister?”  Lancet was banging Merv’s patella tendon with a reflex hammer.

“Mmm…Abbott.”

“OK, who’s the treasurer?”  Lancet was trying to elicit a Babinski reflex from Merv’s foot.

“’ockey. Can you stop all of the hammerin’ an’ scrapin’?”

“The minister for agriculture?”

“Look, fecked if I know.” Merv retreated under the bed sheet. “Where’s Granny?”

“Big man wants his Granny! This man has severe brain damage. We need an urgent CT, MRI, MRA, MRV, then a psych consult.” Lancet was now transcribing his findings into Merv’s notes.

“Doctor, I think you have the bull by the horns, or perhaps the tits. He’s given the correct answers for when he went into the coma, and, Granny is the name of the woman who comes in with the dilapidated gentleman with the Fedora, old suit and brogues!”  Nurse Betty was trying to sit Merv up so that he could take a sip of water.

Merv looked down at his withered muscles. “’ow long ‘ave I been out?”

“Since the last episode of ‘Foodge’.” Nurse Betty had never had one of her coma patients survive, so was quite excited. “Can you sit up a bit?” As she flicked on the telly.

‘Prime Minister Bullturner, and Treasurer Morrison refused to answer questions from the press club…’

“Christ, what ‘appened?”

“Coup. There’s been a string of shark attacks, so the Libs have been encouraging Abbortt to go surfing every day, and Hockey’s going to be the US Ambassador.” Betty expertly removed the nasogastric tube from Merv’s proboscis.

“’e’s got the physique for it….hey, look who it is!”

Granny was at the door to the private room, with Janet and the twins, who noisily leapt onto the bed. “Daddy!!” Merv was in tears, as were Janet and Granny.

“I thought I’d lost yer, yer great lump.” Bawled Janet.

Granny simply kissed Merv on the forehead. “Me boy’s back…ah knew you would.”

Betty shooed them all out for a few minutes whilst she changed his PJs and combed his hair. Soon the twins were snuggled up in Dad’s great hairy arms, whilst Janet sat in a chair, crying. “So what’s the news?”

“We’ve kept the pub going, everyone has put in, making meals, cleaning, tapping kegs, you name it, nearly everyone has done it, except Foodge, who is the self-appointed manager.”

“What about them terrorists?”

“There have been some more attacks.”

“Bloody Church of Isis!”  Merv grumbled.

“Not them, Merv, don’t you remember, they were exonerated.

“Well Merry Feckin’ Christmas, then!”

 

Foodge 53 – Barristers Unite !

10 Friday Jul 2015

Posted by in Big M, Foodge Private Dick

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Simulated Photograph of Lawyers with Client

Story by Big M

Merv had been pretty depressed, since the Church of ISIS incident. He’d placed the entire Pig’s Arms on a war footing, after repeatedly contacting the NSW Pleece, the Feds, and then Crime Stoppers.

Manne and that Fijian bloke with the van had been stockpiling everything from apples to apple cider and beer to bananas. O’Hoo had been declared the Sergeant of Arms/armourer, and had amassed enough ordnance to blow up Inner, and Outer Western Cyberia. Hedgie had become the self appointed protector of the Bowling Ladies, escorting them to every meeting and game, even having a quick roll himself, on occasion!

The Hell’s Angles had set up a waste vegetable oil run generator in the cellar, capable of powering the entire building for two or more weeks. Granny and Foodge were at the sharp end, initially ‘surveilling’ the potential terrorist cell, then attempting to infiltrate. Granny had finally attended the church fete, only to find that it really was the Church of Isis, the Egyptian goddess, and not some gang of plastique wielding, disenfranchised youth. She even managed to flog off some jars of lemon curd.

Merv was now faced with the task of offloading half a ton of over ripe bananas and apples. He had already sold six cases of ‘South Sea Island Semillon’ to an unsuspecting restaurant owner with a new liquor licence. “O’Hoo, you’d know a few green grocers?” Merv ventured.

“Mate, you’ve already tried to get me to flog those bloody bananas, besides, I’ve got me own problems trying to offload three dozen world war two grenades!” O’Hoo skulled the last of his pint, then started off. “Might be able to get some pensioners up in Bowral to take ‘em…wonder what old Ooster-fella is doin’?”

“Another pint, Foodge?” Merv pushed a fresh canoe across the worn timber counter. Merv still felt somewhat beholden to Foodge for getting him through his WEA Literacy and Not Sounding Like a Fuckwit course. “You’re not tight with any green grocers?” Merv tried to sound nonchalant.

“Thanks Mr Merv.” As he took a pull from a pint, leaving a ‘milk moustache’ like a little kid. “The only person I’m ‘tight’ with is Granny.” Nodding towards his intended as she busied herself vacuuming up some fly shit, pretending not to listen.

Foodge had managed to flog down that pint, when he realised that a tall, grey haired gentleman was at his right elbow. “Publican, two more pints of whatever he’s having.” The voice was steady and clear, kind of commanding.

“Thank you kind stranger.” They clinked glasses.

Here’s to the law, and those who keep us rich by breaking it.”

Foodge wasn’t arguing, two free pints in as many minutes.

“I’ll cut straight to the chase.” The stranger nodded to Merv for another pair of canoes. “I’m looking for the finest legal mind in Sydney.”

Foodge looked around. There was no one else there, except for Granny.

“You, Mr Foodge, I need someone like you for a big case.”

“How big?” Foodge was no stranger to negotiation.

“Real big.”

“Mmmm…how big is that?” Foodge’s glass was becoming perilously close to being empty.

“Steak for lunch, and as much Shiraz as your liver can metabolise!”

“I know you!” Merv interjected. “ You’re that bloody Chris Murffy, the bloody criminal defendin’ barrister!”

“Yes, I am thanks, big man, just keep the beer flowing, and stop interjecting!” Murffy had stood up, trying to intimidate Merv, but found himself staring at Merv’s Adam’s apple, so sat down.

“Mr Foodge, this is a huge case, a local church, a church full of innocent folk, who’s only aim is to do good works and support the community, have been accused of being an ISIS terror cell by some Islamophobe, who has launched an attack by falsely reporting them to the local and Federal police, even Crime Stoppers.”

Merv had gone pale, then clutched at his chest, then collapsed.

“Quick, someone call an ambulance!”

 

 

Foodge # 52 – Merv Makes a Glock of Himself

15 Saturday Nov 2014

Posted by in Big M, Foodge Private Dick

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glocksixincol

Story by Big M

Foodge’s visit to the ‘medic’ had given him pause to think. Think about his relationship with O’Hoo, think about where those dragon tattoos came from, and think about what had happened between him and Granny. He was perched uncomfortably on a bar stool, with the, recently injected, butt cheek, hanging orff for comfort. He tried to stand up, but his leg had fallen asleep so stumbled, his hand thrust forward, spilling a pint of Pigs Arms Pink Drink across the bar. O’Hoo was immediately at his side. “Are you OK there, Foodge, old mate?”

O’Hoo had dragged Foodge back up onto the stool, then started wiping the pink fluid with Merv’s best dirty rag. “Thanks, O’Hoo, just stop that for a minute, er…mate. We’ve been friends for a long time…I…er thought I should apologise.”

O’Hoo cut him off. “It’s me who should apologise, Foodge, I shouldna told the patrons about you ‘n’ Granny, but, I have to admit, I’ve always been a bit jealous of you, with your career, your expensive suits, and shoes, always bin able to pull a bird, then, here you are with Granny…I mean, she’s so hot, and those taught abs…”

“Yes, she’s pretty taught.” Foodge remarked. “Probably self taught!” Foodge was hoping for another Pink Drink, or, perhaps a Trotter’s Best. “Anyway, O’Hoo, how did I end up in her boudoir?”

“You don’t remember? Buying her champagne, slow dancing until midnight, escorting her upstairs after, ‘Time, please gentlemen’?” O’Hoo threw the rag into the sink.

“Not exactly, and, by the way, how did you end up in there?” Foodge took a sip from his replacement Pink Drink that was provided by a very surly Merv.

“Shit, I dunno, had a few schooies, then a coupla Scotches after ‘Time Gentlemen’, then musta stumbled in there!”

Granny’s discordant humming could be heard in close proximity. She had been reading about computer viruses and decided that no one was about to get sick at the Arms, so had begun a virus eradication programme that involved aggressive cleaning of all computers and accessories with alcohol wipes.

Foodge leant forward. “Quick change of subject, mate. Where did we get these tatt….”

“Feckin’ terrorist bastards.” Ejaculated Merv, as he thumped on the bar, suddenly interrupting the tete e tete. He had been reading the Inner Western Cyberia Standard, looking through the funeral notices to make sure that Granny wasn’t dead. “Listen to this, ‘The Church of Isis invites all to our inaugural service to thank the Goddess in the traditional Egyptian manner.’ Feckin’ Gippoes!” He had the ancient Bakelite handset on the bar and had dialled the Pleece. “’allo, pleece, ‘ave you seen the paper, Gippoes under yer noses buildin’ up a terrorist cell…what..no…I’m feckin serious….” “Bastards ‘ung up”

Merv turned his attention to the assembled patrons. “Time to be alarmed, not alerted, boys an’ girls. Terror cells just up the road, an’ Russian ships orff the coast. Time to get some weapons ready. Granny, what have you got?”

Granny pulled a small; snub nosed, 38 from her pocket. “This is all I’ve got since you gave me shotty to the pleece.”

“Manne, you carryin’?”

“Just this little Walther PPK, to frighten raffle thieves.” Which is ironic, as Manne himself used to dip his hand into the raffle winnings.

“Hedgie, anything?”

“Just me snake killin’ shotty.” Hedgie replied. “It’s in the ute.”

“O’Hoo, you must have your pleece pistol?”

O’Hoo pulled a nine millimetre Glock from his shoulder holster, and a 32 from his ankle holster.

“Foodge, I don’t s’pose you’re carryin’?”

“Well Mr Merv, even though the life of a Very Private Dick is a dangerous one, I don’t usually carry a heater,, but today I’ve got these,” Foodge removed a 45 calibre Smith and Wesson from his shoulder holster, a 357 Magnum from the back of his bellt, and a snub nosed 32 from his jacket pocket.

“What’s all this for, Foodge?”

“In case I see that bloody doctor!” Foodge’s face was red with rage. “Oh, and a hunting rifle in the car, with telescopic sight!”

“Merv clapped his hands together with delight. “Alright friends, let’s get ready for war!”

Foodge #51 – Privates on Parade

09 Sunday Nov 2014

Posted by in Big M, Foodge Private Dick

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Roger Livesey The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp (1943)

Battington-Smythe, Colonel, retired.

 Story by Big M

Foodge had been fairly uncomfortable in the wedding tackle department for a few days. He had tried to obtain some confidential advice from Merv, but there were either too many bar flies around, or Merv was caught up with trying to sell-on two hundred bottles of Fijian Sham-Pain, that he’d failed to shift on Cup day.

His usual confident, Uncle Emmjay, had won a motza on the Cup, so had treated himself and FM to a luxury holiday at Port Kembla Caravan Park in their brand new, two berth ‘van.

He was still cranky with O’Hoo, and was giving him the cold shoulder, so asking him for advice about the trouser flute was out of the question.

Granny? Well, no.

Manne? He was probably still a virgin, so, no.

Hedgie? Too caught up with Bowling activities.

Eventually Foodge decided to wander over to Rosie’s House of Depilation and Torture. Unfortunately Rosie was less than impressed with Foodge’s request, and declined to take a look at the offending member, instead referring Foodge to the twenty four hour medical centre that was only open until six in the evening.

Foodge had waited for twelve National Geographics and two Women’s Weekly Giant Crosswords when a neatly dressed, elderly man with a crew cut, and a clipped moustache summoned him into the treatment room. “Battington-Smythe, Colonel, retired.” He motioned for Foodge to take a seat. “Just having a recce at your notes, here, young chap. Previous heart problems, no military service. What brings you here?”

Foodge’s bloated cheeks went red. “It’s…ah…um…” He nodded towards his crutch.

“Oh, that sort of a problem, we’ll have a short arm parade then, lad!” The Colonel started to don some gloves. “Been playing away from home, I suppose some young filly is a lucky girl.”

Foodge sat staring blankly, wondering what the hell a ‘short arm parade’ could be.

“Come on lad, stand up, belt orff, trousers down!!” The Colonel seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time examining Foodge’s privates. “While you’re here we may as well check the prostate, bend over lad”

Foodge was unused to his poop chute having this level of intimacy with another man. “That’s a beautiful tattoo, Mr Foodge, does it have a partner?” The Colonel was removing his gloves and washing his hands.

“Yes, um, my mate O’Hoo has the mirror image”

(One may recall that both O’Hoo and Foodge have dragons tattooed across their cheeks)

“With this sort of problem, one normally does some blood tests, then starts some treatment, but I’m not one for all of that namby-pamby carry on” The Colonel injected a big dose of procaine penicillin into Foodge’s flabby butt cheek. “I mean, in war, one may as well go in with all guns blazing!”

The Colonel sat down to write in the notes. Foodge tried to sit, but the pain was extraordinary. “Here’s a prescription for some antibiotics. Take the full course for fourteen days, and, while we’re about it, no alcohol.” The Colonel leaned forward, sotto voce. “You should let aforementioned filly know about your current status.” The Colonel tapped the side of his nose with his finger.

Foodge was still none the wiser as to his ‘present status’, so thanked the doctor and headed next door to the chemist.

Later that evening, Foodge hobbled into the Gentleman’s Bar, and gingerly propped one cheek onto a stool. “Evening Foodge, looks like you’ve been in the wars.” Merv chimed.

“You don’t know the half of it!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Foodge #49 – a Night to Remember

03 Monday Nov 2014

Posted by in Emmjay, Foodge Private Dick

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Simulated painting of Granny by Scott Harding

Simulated painting of Granny by Scott Harding

 

Story by Emmjay

It was unlike Foodge to really tie one on. He has a reputation for being a Trotter’s Ale and lemonade kind of person. The reputation is well-earned.

This time, it would be fair to say, Foodge himself was well-oiled.

He rolled over without opening his eyes. Then he realised that a pair of ice cold feet was in contact with his own.

“Geezus, your feet are cold ! They’re sucking the life out of me”.

“What ?” said O’Hoo.

“Your feet ! They’re like blocks of bloody ice”, said Foodge.

“I don’t think so” said O’Hoo.

“They bloody ARE !” said Foodge.

“No, mate, there’s an alternative reality if you care to prise open your version of two cherries floating in a bowl of porridge”, said O’Hoo.

Foodge hesitated.

“I’ll give you a clue” said O’Hoo. “I’m over here and I’ve still got my boots on”.

“Oh no…..”. Foodge wasn’t sure whether he actually voiced this or whether Emmjay had put the message in a thought bubble. Foodge hoped he hadn’t actually said it.

“Good morning, Foodge” said a lilting voice, clearly pleased with herself.

A rush of something like a mix of terror and guilt coursed through Foodge’s brain.

“Good morning, Granny” said Foodge, keenly aware that there was going to be a lot of unexplainable material to put together to make sense of the previous evening’s events.

O’Hoo was in the happy position of being an innocent bystander – although standing he certainly wasn’t. He rolled out of the bed and already fully clothed in his service suit and shod with his regulation steelcaps, he made an unsteady trek towards the door and the bathroom down the hall, muttering something about breakfast.   He closed the door with a ‘click’ that hung in the air like a fart that was released in the misbelief that the perpetrator was alone and the fart was silent. None out of two correct so far.

Foodge chanced a quick peek through an enraged eyelid. Granny was snuggling in with a sheet wrapped around what Foodge correctly guessed was the actual owner of the ice block feet.

The couple presented an awkward picture of self-satisfaction and apprehension.

“You were lovely last night, Foodge” said Granny.

“Was I ? ‘inquired Foodge, with a mix of incredulity and no idea what had happened after the long and inebriated recount of O’Hoo and V.O. Rouge’s disappearance.   Foodge was desperately hoping that Granny was not going to elaborate. She was clearly waiting for some kind of reciprocal affirmation.

“You were lovely too” said Foodge, mustering a sheepish smile and a plausible impression of sincerity in the face of trenchant amnesia”.

“Would you like me to make you some breakfast ?” said Granny. Foodge nodded, despite this being a risky manoeuvre, given the delicate state of his consciousness.

“That would be lovely” said Foodge, finding a freshly minted and not yet overused compliment.

In the interest of discretion, Foodge closed his eyes again and Granny, draped in the sheet made her way to the shared bathroom, relieved to find that O’Hoo had already completed his ablutions and descended into the dining room.

Foodge was pretty sure he himself was naked, and had no recollection how he got that way or why.   He felt around and the bedside table revealed a glass object similar in shape and weight to a mostly empty bottle of London Fog – the Pig’s Arms bathtub house gin. A clue, thought Foodge, master sleuth that he imagined himself to be.

While he was still in imagination mode, Foodge imagined a soft, but self-satisfied grin was tiptoeing across his boat race. And he imagined also that despite the epithet, Granny was a rather nurturing sort with soft hands and a surprisingly taught … Foodge hesitated …… body, he ventured to himself.

It’s not recorded whether Foodge actually had a clear idea about what the phrase “taught body” actually meant. He recalled a certain English teacher from his high school days, who, the more developed boys alleged, was a ‘real goer with a taught body’. Foodge had thought this referred to her profession and it never occurred to him that the other lads were more inclined to be describing her recreational interests.

Foodge wondered what O’Hoo knew that he himself didn’t remember. He opened one eye just enough to fix on the bedside table. He opened the drawer. There was a single book. It was about an inch and a half thick, red bound with a robust cover and a candle circumscribed by a circle in gold. Foodge opened the book. It appeared to be a bible published by the Gideons. There was writing on the frontice piece. It said “To Dear Foodge with love and best wishes from God”. The writing was curiously familiar. It reminded Foodge of the script he’s seen on scraps of paper transmitting delivery instructions from the kitchen to Manne.

At the foot of the bed Foodge’s brogues were neatly aligned with his argyle socks folded and inverted so all he had to do was insert his plates of meat and pull them up. On the chair by the window, his shirt was waiting, draped over the chesterfield’s ample arm. The coat was hung up.

The trousers were …… missing. “O’Hoo, the rat” though Foodge. The knock at the door was followed by the entrance of a radiant woman, perhaps just past her salad days, but clearly not over with the main course.

“I thought you might need these pressed” said Granny.

“Thank you, Ggg….. very much” Foodge corrected himself.

“You’re welcome, Darling Foodge” said Granny, pivoting on her heel and disappearing as suddenly as she had arrived.

Foodge showered and towelled himself up, not for the first time in the last 24 hours. He dressed and combed his still wet hair with his fingers, sighed deeply and descended the stairs into the hall next to the bar. The bar was quiet, save for Merv resurfacing the glassware with a fresh batch of his renowned home made bacteria. Foodge stepped into the bar.

“HEY !!! FOODGIE-boy!” roared the ambushing patrons, whopping and slapping Foodge on the back “Atta Boy !”

O’Hoo was sitting in one of the booths. He had the look of a man redolent with leaked information of a sensitive nature. O’Hoo looked at Foodge. He saw a famed sleuth joining the dots with the kind of fervour one might expect to precede violence. Not actual real violence. More like pantomime violence.

The piano player that the Pig’s Arms sometimes employed to jolly the place up and lend a kind of western barroom ambience was on stress leave, but if he had been there he would have either pulled up his sleeves and started playing a Scott Joplin rag. Or he would have fallen silent – the calm before the storm when somebody, for no fathomable reason would soon throw a chair across the bar and smash the mirror just after Merv had removed the rot gut corn liquor to a safer place under the counter.

Since the piano player was on stress leave, Emmjay chose to write the silent treatment.

Foodge strode slowly towards O’Hoo. There was a feint sound of jingling spurs  Emmjay erasing the spurs line.   The formerly jovial patrons drew back – caution striking a brief victory over mayhem.

Foodge sat in O’Hoo’s booth. He motioned to Merv to pour them both a drink. Steel eyed, He never took his eyes off O’Hoo. A bead of sweat rolled off Merv’s nose. Merv sat two shot glasses on the table between Foodge and O’Hoo, next to O’Hoo’s pint of Trotter’s Ale.

“Make mine a Pimm’s number one Cup” said O’Hoo, dissolving into peels of laughter..

“Cut !” said Emmjay. “For fuck’s sake, HOO” said Emmjay, “Try to take this seriously”.

“Right” said O’Hoo taking a sip of his Trotter’s Ale and blasting it out both nostrils as he completely lost it.

Foodge could see that this was the start of a very long day coming.

Merv mopped up the spilt beer. A wave of unease rolled across the faces of the patrons.

“No, I’ll stay with this glass thanks, said Gez.

 

Foodge #48 – Turkish Delight

21 Tuesday Oct 2014

Posted by in Big M, Foodge Private Dick

≈ 11 Comments

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turkshead

Story by Big M

Merv was out of sorts this morning. He had been to the gym for a fairly unrewarding workout, copping an uppercut to the jaw, which landed him on his backside, all due to him being distracted. He’d jogged home to find Foodge asleep at the rear entrance to the pub. When Foodge awoke he pleaded with Merv for ‘a little bit of brekky, after pulling an all-nighter.’

Foodge’s ‘all-nighter’ was spent playing with his new camera, mucking around with various f-stops and shutter settings for low light surveillance. Now Foodge was sat at the bar downing his second Trotter’s Best, and a plate of eggs. In between mouthfuls he reviewed his photos on his iPad. “Beautiful images for such low light, and doesn’t Justice McGerkinsquirter look fit in his undies?”

Granny flittered by with her long handled Turk’s Head, which she’d bought cheap at Aldo’s. Bits of cobweb fluttered down onto the bar. “Why dyathink they’re called Turk’s ‘eads?” Mumbled Merv to no one in particular.

“Well, Mr Merv, I believe it’s because they look like Turk’s heads” Muttered Foodge as he zoomed in and out on the Justice’s Y-fronts.

“Poor feckin’ Turks, no wonder they’re always at war.” Merv flicked a sizable strand of web from his paper. What was really putting him off side was his major assignment for his WEA literacy course. “Hey, Foodge, you’re a wiz with words, how about you have a look at me assignment?”

Foodge sat up straight.” That I am, editing such a manuscript sounds like hungry, thirsty work.” Merv was already pulling another pint, and signalled to Granny for extra wedges.

Granny was humming away, lost in a world of Turks heads and Spanish romance (yes, the Spanish mechanic is still parking his work boots under Granny’s cot). “What’s that, dear?”

“Wedges for Foodge…he’s doin’ me a favour”

Foodge spent a good deal of time reviewing the manuscript, enough for two bowls of wedges, sans sour cream, and another three pints. “Well…er…Mr Merv, nice work, good spelling, well constructed, liked the introductory paragraph, and the conclusion, but…er.” Foodge was flushed.

Merv leant forward across the bar, absent-mindedly polishing a pint glass with his, ever present, dirty rag. “Yes, what’s the verdict?”

Foodge gulped, dry mouthed, taking some courage from the dregs of his Trotters. “Well, um, it’s just that it’s…err…um…quite boring.”

The bar went silent. After two minutes Merv gulped. “Borin’?”

“Ah, err, um.” Foodge had dismounted the bar stool and was walking backwards, clutching his camera and iPod. “Well, when I say boring, I don’t mean boring, I just mean, uninteresting.”

Merv slowly placed the glass and the rag on the bar. “You mean me life’s work, the history of Merv is uninnerestin’?”

“Well, yes, perhaps.” Foodge was almost to the back door when Merv vaulted the bar.

“Borin’, uninnerestin’?” Merv had crossed the gap between them in a couple of strides. “What do you suggest, how can I make me dull feckin’ life innerestin’?”

Foodge lent back, as if to escape the reach of Merv’s enormous hands, and rope-like forearms. “What about your part in O’Hoo’s and DCI Rouge’s escape from the local pleece, given that no one but you knows of what happened, I mean, you had a hand in their escape, I believe, so why not write it down?”

“Yes, of course.” Merv tore up the document in his hand. “ Me old mate, O’Hoo.” He dashed back to the bar for fresh pencil and paper. “Granny, wedges, man at work, ‘ere.” As he started scribbling like a sick man writing a will.

To be continued

Paris, Cherchez La Femme

13 Friday Jun 2014

Posted by in Emmjay, Foodge Private Dick

≈ 9 Comments

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Building-the-Eiffel-Tower

Story by Emmjay

O’Hoo looked phased. It was a single phase, not drawing much current. He was unshaven, gaunt. Not exactly fully gaunt; it wasn’t that bad. He was more gauntlet than gaunt.

“You look …” paused Merv.

O’Hoo frowned.

“Drawn” Merv said. “Not exactly ‘drawn’, more ‘sketchy’ than ‘drawn’” he said, pouring the detective a glass canoe of Trotter’s Old, named after Hung’s horse. It was a former pacer (the horse not the beer) and had successfully adapted to Hung’s milieu of fast women and slow ponies.

“Have you seen Foodge ?” O’Hoo asked to no-one in particular, but if he was more particular, he would have admitted he was talking to Merv, particularly since the bar was empty save for the two of them.

“He’s been adopting a low profile. Well, not exactly ‘adopting’…” said Merv, “more like fostering”. He paused. “Not the beer, O’Hoo, you know the thing where you mind other people’s kids for a while so the parents can get stoned more and the kids can nick your stuff and pawn it to buy the parents more drugs”.

“The Dickens” said O’Hoo. “Like Fagin in Oliver Twist ?”

“I’d say he was being more like a nancy boy, O’Hoo” said Merv.

“More pork or chalk a lager yaya” said O’Hoo, inadvertently joining in with Labelle’s ‘Lady Marmalade’ – playing on the Wurlitzer.

Merv ordered up a schnitzel and poured O’Hoo another beer – a Trotter’s Ale this time.

“Wise Foodge laying low ? said O’Hoo.

“Yeah he is” said Merv.

“No, it was a question” said O’Hoo.

“Well how come Emmjay wrote ‘wise’ ?” asked Merv.

“I think he’s doing the chemical enhancement thing,” said O’Hoo. “That or he’s off on a pun spree again”.

“How did you know it was a question ?” asked Merv.

“Are you reading the script right ?” said O’Hoo.

“Are we working off a script ?” asked Merv. “Unusual for Emmjay”.

“True” said O’Hoo. “Now where was I ?”

“You were asking me some pointless thing about Foodge” said Merv.

“Oh yeah. I was wondering why he’s lying low” said O’Hoo.

“Who ?” asked Merv.

“Foodge, said “O’Hoo.

“Oh, Foodge !” said Merv. “Is he lying low”?

“YOU TOLD ME HE’S LYING LOW” said an unusually phased O’Hoo.

“Oh, yeah, I did, ” said Merv. “Why is he lying low ?”

“Yeah”, said O’Hoo.

“Dunno,” said Merv.

O’Hoo’s schnitzel arrived with a generous pile of Granny’s wedges, sour cream and sweet chilli sauce. O’Hoo warmed to the prospect of savouring the wedgie goodness.

“Hmmm” said O’Hoo.

“Hmmm” said Merv, ordering himself a chaser.

“Hmmm” said Foodge.

“Shit !” said Merv and O’Hoo in two part harmony. “Where the fuck did you come from ?”

“I’ve been laying low” said Foodge.

“We’re past that bit,” said O’Hoo. “Merv cocked it up on the last page”

“Are we working off a script ?” said Foodge.

“We’re past that bit too” said Merv.

“What’s my line then ?” asked Foodge.

“I think we’re up to the bit where you tell us why you’ve been laying low” said O’Hoo.

“Oh, righto” said Foodge. “Ready ?”

“Yeah, we’re ready” said Merv.

“Roger” said Foodge.

(pause)

(pause)

“Well ?” said Merv.

“It’s complicated” said Foodge.

It was looking like a long afternoon coming, so Merv poured another round and drew up a chair. Not satisfied with the comfort, he rubbed out the first attempt and drew one with more padding.

“We have all day” said O’Hoo.

“Really ?” said Foodge.

“No, not really” said O’Hoo who, visibly, was losing the will to live.

“Her name is Paris” said Foodge.

“Aha ! Cherchez la femme !” said Emmjay who had dropped in to see how things were going with the script.

“Is this really credible ?” O’Hoo wanted to know.

“What Foodge going to ground over Paris ?” said Emmjay.

“No, the whole script !” said O’Hoo.

“What script ?” said Merv, who clearly wasn’t on the same page – which was not surprising since the script had taken on a life of its own and was pouring itself a glass canoe of Trotters, waiting for Merv to find his place behind the bar.

“I think it works… in a fashion” said Emmjay.

“I’m a work in progress” said the script, downing the last of his Trotter’s Ale.

“Well, fucking do it yourself” said O’Hoo to the script.

Emmjay took out an eraser and deleted O’Hoo from the remainder of the scene and scribbled “Directions Off” in the margin.

This was not the first time Emmjay had marginalised O’Hoo and something told O’Hoo that it probably wouldn’t be the last. The script looked at the fresh wound on its abdomen, sighed and poured another drink.

“Paris, France ?” asked Merv, suddenly lurching into real time.

“No, Paris Brown” said Foodge.

“You mean the lady of dubious repute working at Rosie’s Tattoo Emporium and House of Pain ?” said Merv.

“Yeah” said Foodge, “The one who was Eddie O’Bad’s favourite”.

“You’ve been seeing Paris Brown ?” said Merv with a mixture of incredulity and admiration for Foodge’s hidden talent. “In a professional capacity, Foodge ?”

“Kind of” said Foodge.

“Your profession or hers?” said Merv.

“It’s complex” said Foodge.

 

 

 

 

Foodge #47 – The Secret in the Carpark

22 Tuesday Oct 2013

Posted by in Emmjay, Foodge Private Dick

≈ 46 Comments

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 PMG

Story by Emmjay

Merv ?

Yes, Foodge.

Did you see that show on TV last night where they dug up Henry the Eighth in a carpark ?

It was Richard the third.

A round of snickering swept through the pub – “Richard the Third” being slang for “turd”, but owing to the extreme laziness of the Pig’s Arms patrons, it was usually Shortened ( Billed) to “R3” as in “Manne, go outside and clean that doggy R3 off your shoe, please mate, ta”.

“Richard the Third”, Foodge corrected himself. (Snigger, wave 2).

Yeah.

I was just thinking”, said Foodge.

“Pop” a thought bubble visible to everyone except Foodge appeared beside Merv’s head.  It read “Oh, struth, here we go !”

“You know that shiela who reckoned he was buried under the “R” in the carpark ?” asked Foodge.

Yeah, I thought she was havin’ herself on.  You know “R” for “Reserved” said Merv.

“Yeah, but no.  She was right, Merv.”

“Yeah, I know, but it was a fuckin huge fluke, Foodge.”

“I don’t think so”, said Foodge. “I think she was claw footed”

“Clairvoyant”, Merv offered.

“Yeah, what you said”, said Foodge.  I think there was something in the message in the carpark that that shiela picked up on”, said Foodge.

“Where’s this going Foodge ?” Merv wondered.  This time his lips gave an audible update on the thought bubble.

“I was just thinking…”, repeated Foodge, “I think Harold Holt is buried in the Pig’s Arms car park”, and he opened up the sluice gates for another Trotter’s Ale.

“What makes you think that ?” Merv said, preparing for a long run of leg pulling.

“You know that metal plaque in the car park next to The Pig’s Legs Waxing and and Beauty Parlour’s drums of discarded eyebrows ?” said Foodge.

“What metal plaque ?” said Merv.

“The one marked ‘PMG’ ”, said Foodge. “I reckon that stands for ‘Prime Minister’s grave”.

“Do you, now ?” said Merv.

“Nah”, said Manne. “People notice when a PM goes missing.”

“For some reason, I am given to recall that Harold Holt went missing”, said Hung warming to the task of setting Foodge up nicely – with an added faint smile of approval at the remembrance of Harold Holt getting his snorkel in a twist.

“Nah” said Merv. “If it was Harold Holt down there, the plaque would say ‘PMH’”.

“Nah”, said Granny. “That’s a kind of condiment sauce thing in a square bottle.”

“I think you’re thinking of ‘Worcestershire”, said Merv.

“Nah, that’s HP sauce”, said Hung.

“I was thinking that it could be Harold Holt buried in the car park of the Pig’s Arms”, said Foodge dragging the wild speculation back onto the rails. “

“I think you’re on to something, Foodge”, said Merv. “I’ll call up Terry and see if some of his mates from the University can give us a hand and check this out properly”.

Righto”, said Foodge. “I’ll park the Zephyr over the plaque for protection.  This could be a Libnat Party sacred site.

“Merv doesn’t know anyone in the University”, Granny whispered to Hung.

“Course he doesn’t” said Hung.

Merv’s thought bubble evaporated in the shape of a Cheshire cat.

to be continued …..