Category Archives: Foodge Private Dick

Foodge #46 Granny Gets Back on the Bike

09 Wednesday Oct 2013

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08-Bultaco-Metralla-Kit-America

Story by Big M

Granny had been having a rough week. It all started with an experimental batch of Pilsener that just didn’t work. The beer was bland and tasteless, probably due to the stale hops that she had bought on the internet, rather than her brewing skills, but it was still over a hundred litres of beer that went down the drain.

Then Granny missed two mornings of boxing training because she couldn’t get out of bed, instead, leaving Merv to, not only train by himself, but also cook the pub breakfast. Things finally came to a head when Granny tried to start the pub’s ancient Victa, ‘just to give the yard a quick tidy up.’ She pulled the mower cord until she had a cramp in her side, then tried to pick it up and throw it in the skip, but just didn’t have the energy, so she dropped it on it’s side, which resulted in petrol pouring onto the grass. Granny sat down next to the mower, cradled her face in her brown, calloused hands, and sobbed.

victa

Granny would have sat there all afternoon, had not Merv come looking for her to discuss this week’s fruit and vegetable order. Quick as a flash, Merv realised that something was wrong. “What’s wrong Granny, are you hurt?” He enquired as righted the stricken mower.

“Nothin’, just chuck that old, worn out heap of shit in the skip for me!” Granny wouldn’t look up, and wouldn’t stop crying.

“I’m not chuckin’ this good mower out, probably just needs a service!’ Merv was mentally calculating the cost of a new mower, hoping it wouldn’t come to that.

“Its old and worn out like me, just get rid of it!” Granny finally got to her feet.

Merv wasn’t a psychologist, but he knew that there was probably more to this than just a buggered mower. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll drop this round to old Fernando, and see if he can get it running, I mean, there’s no sense in chuckin’ something’ out just because it’s old!” Merv placed the mower in the back of his ute. “Come on old love, I’ll make you a cuppa.” Granny reluctantly allowed herself to be guided back into the kitchen.

A week passed, and Granny remained out of sorts. Merv didn’t mind, it meant he could go to boxing training in the mornings, and be left in peace! In fact he slackened right off, and just did some low intensity aerobic work. He received the call to say that the mower was ready, so asked Hedgie to watch the bar (and Foodge, of course!), then casually asked granny if she wanted to go for a drive. “Might as well” She replied as she wiped her hands on a dirty rag. “Not getting anywhere with this.” A small pump lay dismantled on the cellar floor. Granny didn’t have much to say on the way, which, Merv reflected, was just how he liked his women!

The mower shop was in a back lane, but the presentation was anything but back lane. The name, ‘Fernando’s Small Engine Repairs’ was emblazoned across the top of the front window which held, not a bunch of dirty old mowers, but a pristine, black and silver, Bultaco Metralla, suspended from the ceiling on stainless steel wires. Granny let out a gasp. “That is just immaculate!”

bultaco_metralla

“So, you like my bike? Mr Merv, you brought your sister to my dirty workshop. This is no place for a lady!”

“Um, err…Granny, this is Fernando, the proprietor and worker of two stroke magic, umm…Fernando, this is Granny.” Fernando shook Granny’s hand enthusiastically.

“Mr Merv, this young lady can’t be somebody’s ‘abuela’? Fernando shook his head, only now revealing his grey hair pulled back into a ponytail.

“Nah, mate, we all call her Granny!” Merv was still looking at the bike wondering how the hell those little drum brakes could pull it up at a hundred miles per hour. He remembered trying to chase one when he was a highway patrolman. He didn’t fail to notice that Granny was looking at the floor, and shuffling her feet. “Anyhoo, mate, how didja get on with the mower?”

“Come in, come in…here she is, almost like new.” Fernando wheeled out the old Victa, that had been repainted, received a new muffler and air cleaner, and started like rugby league player on steroids, which he briefly demonstrated (the starting of the mower, not the football player, OR the steroids).

“Jeez, mate, she’ll go another fifty years!” Merv and Fernando huddled together to discuss money. It seemed he didn’t want to charge for any labour. Eventually Merv slipped him another fifty, whilst he wasn’t looking.

“That’s a nice little motor you’ve got there, Granny!” Fernando enthused.

“Oh.” Granny blushed.” It’s only an old Victa!”

“I wasn’t talking about the motor-mower, Senora!” Fernando winked as Merv busied himself with the mower. “How about sharing a meal with me?”

“Oh, I don’t know, I have nothing to wear!”

“Yes, you do.” Yelled Merv, from outside. “For gawd’s sake, just say ‘yes’!”

Granny was more animated on the trip home.” I think you set me up, you bugger!”

“Maybe.”

“You know that I really don’t have a thing to wear, and my hair needs cutting, and a bit of makeup wouldn’t go astray!” Granny was pretty anxious.

“It’s all sorted. I’ll drop you ‘ome, so you can ‘ave a showr, or whatever.” Merv swerved to miss a skateboarder. “Then you slip over to Rosie’s, for an ‘airdo, nail somethin’ or other, special make-up, and Rosie’s sister’s got some leftover material, an’ can knock up a dress this arvo.”

Seven o’clock rolled around, and Granny was still nowhere to be seen. Fernando had arrived, all decked out in his newest dinner suit, purchased in 1981. His corsage, however, was brand new, fit for a debutante.

Suddenly the bar went quiet, as a vision of loveliness seemed to drift though, hovering just above the floor. Granny’s grey hair, which was usually tied back, or in a tight chignon, was cascading down her back, which, by the way was bare. The backless, silk dress in jade was perfectly complemented with a string of pearls, and matching earrings. Her make-up was subtle, but it was the sparkle in her eyes, not the eye shadow, that made everyone stare. Fernando stepped forward, kissed her hand then offered his arm, which Granny took eagerly. “Don’t wait up, boys!”

dress

Only Foodge spoke. “Who was that young lady, Merv?”

Foodge # 45 – O’Hoo and Rouge on the Run

04 Friday Oct 2013

Posted by in Big M, Foodge Private Dick

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Map of Tasmania

Map of Tasmania

Story by Big M

Foodge sat at the Gentleman’s Bar, staring at his iPhone, willing it to ring. He was expecting a call from an official within the Australian Electoral Commission. He had already finished a breakfast of bacon, eggs (from Granny’s chooks), tomato, beans and wedges, sans sour cream.

Granny still had that soft spot for our sleuth, but had put away any ideas about romance, instead pursuing a more ‘plutonic’ (sic) relationship. It was now two weeks after the federal election, where Foodge had fielded as a candidate for the LIBNATs (Liberation of Itinerate Barristers National Australian Tribunal), earning twenty-nine votes. He was demanding a recount and had been on the receiving end of some clerical running around. Australia was, after all, a democracy, he reasoned.

Merv stood in his usual place, absent-mindedly polishing glasses with a dirty rag. The previous night had been busy, and he had copped an elbow to the right eye while ejecting a couple of rowdy patrons. This morning he had taken a long, hard look in the mirror, and didn’t like what he saw, long hairs growing out of his ears. He had ruminated over it all morning.

Finally he placed the glass back in the rack. “Foodge, can you watch the bar for ten minutes?” He thought this would be reasonably safe, as it was only ten, and the rest of the pub was empty.

“Why, err, yes, it would be an honour.” Foodge moved to the other side of the bar, taking up the roll of glass polisher, as opposed to seat polisher.

Rosie’s House of Pain had just opened, but the waiting room was almost full. She was short staffed, so Rosie herself was at the reception desk. “Ah, Missa Merv, you come to avail yourself of our many services.” Rosie maintained the archetypal Asian accent, in spite of being born and educated in Australia. He took Merv by the elbow into the last cubicle. “What’s wrong, Merv, everything OK, Janet, the twins?”

“Nah, the family’s OK.”

“Granny?” Rosie was well aware of Granny’s recent descent into the world of body building steroids.

“No, she alright, better than ever, although she still has a soft spot for a Very Private Dick.”

“Well, what’s wrong, then?” Rosie blurted out.

“It’s me, Rosie, I didn’t know who to turn to.” Merv pointed to his hairy ears. Rosie laughed, not a comical laugh, more an emotional release kind of laugh.

“I can fix that in two minutes!” Rosie pasted some hot wax on Merv’s offending earlobes.  “Now, watch this.” As she expertly applied some cloth strips, removing wax, and offending hair. “Anything else Mr Merv, facial, bikini line? Only joking, but, anymore extraneous hair issues, and you come to me, OK?” Merv blushed all the way to the tops of his cauliflower ears.

Merv was as happy as a dolphin as he re-entered the bar to find Foodge polishing the old hardwood surface, with one hand, and talking on the phone with the other. “Got your call from the AEC?” Merv enquired.

Foodge shook his head. “No, it’s O’Hoo, him and DCI Rouge have emigrated to Tasmania!”

Merv shook his head. “Can I have a word in his pink, shell like?” Merv was grinned at the irony of his little joke.

“No, he’s on the phone!” Foodge pointed to his iPhone.

“I’ll talk to him on the phone, then.” Merv shook his head, as Foodge handed over his most prized (aside from his Zephyr) possession. “So, you’ve ‘emigrated’, then?” This was followed by plenty of nodding, and then head shaking. “You DO realise that your pleece issue phone had GPS, don’t you? So callin’ Foodge on your pleece issue phone is like switchin’ on a beacon. The cops will be all over you like a fat kid on a smarty. Hang up, pull the battery outta the phone, chuck ‘em both in the Derwent, and get down to Dicky Smith’s an’ buy a coupla of ‘payasyougo’ phones…bye”

“They both sounded well.” Mumbled Foodge, as he took possession of his phone.

Foodge 44 – Granny’s Cure

19 Sunday May 2013

Posted by in Big M, Foodge Private Dick

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Simulated picture of Foodge's recent problem - Man Boobs

Simulated picture of Foodge’s recent problem – Man Boobs

Story by Big M

It had somehow fallen on Foodge to take Granny to the doctor. When he thought about it, Merv was busy with the pub, Merv’s missus (Foodge never remembered Janet’s name) was busy with the twins, young Wes was busy studying, and working at the Sisters of the Emphaticocordiae Nursing Home, Manne was…oh shit, he thought, Manne was still staked out in front of the Edelweiss Double Billing Clinic. Anyway, they had been to the local doctor, who must have just been told a really funny joke, because he kept laughing and shaking his head, and then directed them to see a Professor of Gynaecology at Sidney Uni.

Granny went in to see the Professor. She was initially a bit cranky, as he had examined her, and then asked her for her real name and age, which she begrudgingly gave, then sat down and perused some pathology results.

“Do you take any medicines?’

“No.” Granny replied.

“Any herbs or vitamins?”

“Not exactly.”

“What do you mean, ‘not exactly’?” The Prof cocked a bushy eyebrow in a very John Howard sort of way.

“I take a sort of herb.”

“What, a green herb that one doesn’t get from the chemist?”

“Yes, but I have to, I’m under so much stress.” Granny suddenly gushed. “There’s these dreadful friends of Merv’s who make up the most horrible stories about me ‘n’ Mr Foodge, an’ Rouge an’ O’Hoo?” Granny was on the edge of her seat.

“Who are these fellows?”

“There’s a mate of Merv’s called Emmjay, but the worst is some hanger onner named Big M, full of talk, and gulpin’ down free drinks.”

“Clearly that sort of herb may be of some benefit, but I suggest that you and this Merv fellow need to distance yourselves from these characters. Any other non prescribed medicines?”

“Well, I did buy a performance enhancer from a bloke in the Gents, you know, for me weight trainin’ an’ so on.”

“Did you happen to bring any of these performance enhancers?”

“Of course.” Granny handed over a small brown bottle.

The Prof scanned the label, and then laughed. “Granny, these are a type of anabolic steroid. Anabolic, in that, they will enhance one’s feminine attributes. These are pure oestrogen!”

“What, like pregnant lady, menstrual cycle type oestrogens?”

“Certainly!”

“Oh, poor Mr Foodge.” All of the colour had drained from Granny’s face.

“Don’t tell me you gave them to a man?”

Granny could only nod and point to the waiting room. The professor went out in search of this Mr Foodge. All he could find was a plump fellow of indeterminate age, wearing a dark grey suit, Fedora pushed back on his head, asleep with a copy of Raymond Chandler’s, ‘The Big Sleep’ on his lap. Foodge seemed to rouse, as if he knew he was wanted. “I’m a shamus…I’ll try to be taller…the flesh of orchids are like the flesh of men…” Foodge mumbled.

“Mr Foodge, could you come into the office, please?” The Professor held out a hand to guide out hapless detective through the doorway.

“Now, Mr Foodge, it seems that…” Granny interrupted the Prof.

“Let me tell him. I’m sorry Foodge, I was trying to build you up…give you a little pep…. Oh, God, I knew they were steroids. “She sobbed into a hanky.

The Prof took over.” Mr Foodge, have you had any feminine type symptoms…gynaecomastia?

“I think that’s for me and my solicitor!” Foodge was covering his confusion with fake opprobrium.

“Any galactorrhoea?”

“Now we’ll have to involve my barrister!”

“Mr Foodge, we won’t need to involve the legal profession, it seems that you have been exposed to high doses of female hormones for some time. I guess it explains the strange adiposity.” As he nodded towards Foodge’s  recently expanded derrier.

“Alright…. the treatment is the same for both of you. I was going to prescribe a powerful oestrogen antagonist, but I think a placebo may be better.”

“A powerful placebo?” Enquired Foodge.

“Yes, quite powerful.” Acknowledged the Prof.

 

 

Foodge 41 – Vinh -V- Fern – Half Time Score Nil All.

26 Tuesday Feb 2013

Posted by in Emmjay, Foodge Private Dick

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Mickey Dolenz Braddock as "Corky" Circus Boy, 1958.

Mickey Dolenz Braddock as “Corky” Circus Boy, 1958.

Story by Emmjay

Vinh Ordinaire Rouge was generally a level-headed detective, careful and with a rat-like cunning that had been sharpened over two decades of rubbing shoulders – and sometimes other bits, with criminal elephants and lesser pachyderms. She had given birth to a cub reporter after a fleeting affair with a lion tamer who had stretched the truth by telling her that he was a chairman and a crack shot.  But it was rumored that he had a way with whips and looked impressive in jodhpurs and leather riding boots.

Vinh was a natural mother and raised the boy as her own son – which was handy, considering he actually was her son. However life took a turn for the worse when the boy was still unfurred.  His Dad encountered a technical difficulty in a work-related OH&S dispute that ended with a decision that gave him paws to consider.

Things had gone right off the rails when the young cub ran off with the circus.  But the police arrested him for impersonating a ring master and loitering within tent and returned him, marked “not at this address”.

Doubtless, Vinh was shocked when they started using whips and chairs at the cubs for discipline.  And when school kicked off for the day with a starting pistol, rather than a bell and the strains of “God Save Our grey shoe Squeen”, Vinh Rouge thought it was time for veterinary intervention.

A miss-dialled number to Veteran’s Affairs was all it took to remove five degrees of separation and in next to no time, the call was answered.  “This is the FBI, Foodge Bureau of Investigations, Fern speaking”.

“Investigation?” said Vinh Rouge. “Yes”, said Fern.

“I’m a bloody police inspector, why would I want to call Foodge ?” said VOR. ” I want to speak with Veterinary Affairs”. “Beats me” said Fern, “OK, I give in, why would you want to speak with a vet ? ”

A perceptive receptionist would have heard the faint sound of VOR rolling her eyes and also would have steeled herself for the inevitable “DER!”, but Fern heard only the pregnant  paws. “Speak up, what’s the matter ?  Cat got your tongue ?” she said.

“Put me though to Foodge”.

“You said …”

“I know what I effing said” said VOR.  “I changed my mind”.

“It’s a woman’s pejorative to change her mind”, said Fern, helpfully.

“Look, for Pete’s sake….”

“Just a moment, I’ll see if Mr Foodge is available” said Fern.  This was Fern’s little joke to herself, since the office was barely large enough to hold two desks, two chairs, a chesterfield lounge for clients which sometimes doubled as Foodge’s overnight accommodation,a filing cabinet, a fan and a venetian blind to cast the kind of shadows that gave a texture to the sunlight in the daytime and let the annoying red glare of the neon sign across the road that flashed “Rosie’s Tattoo Emporium and House of Pain, after dark.  While Fern was doing the asset reconciliation in her head, VOR’s fuse was rapidly running out”.

“I’m sorry, he’s not available just now” said Fern. “Would you like to leave a message ?”

“Thank you, yes.  Can you please tell Mr Foodge how sad I am to hear that his receptionist was killed in that drive-by shooting from a stolen unmarked police car ?”

“Really ?!” Said Fern.  “Ok.  No, wait a minute, I’m  his receptionist.  That’s not true !”

“It will be by the time he gets the effing message”, said Rouge, pausing to let Fern catch up.  “Please tell Mr Foodge that Inspector Rouge will meet him at 5:00 at the Pig’s Arms.  Tell him, I’ll be waiting for him in the car park in the unmarked stolen police car with the bullet riddled carcass of a halfwit receptionist in the boot”.

Foodge 40 – VOR’s Disguise

19 Tuesday Feb 2013

Posted by in Emmjay, Foodge Private Dick

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Story by Manne

Manne rushed in through the side door of the pub.  He was breathless.  From exercise and other things.

“Mr Merv.  Mr Merv” he gasped.  It was unlike Manne to get excited about anything and Merv was going to exhort him to calm down, but since Merv had no clues as to the process of exhortation, he motioned for Manne to sit down next to Foodge at the bar and he poured Manne a limp Pink Drink and acknowledging Foodge’s “I’m parched” pantomine, Merv filled a Glass Canoe to capacity and placed it with some delicacy on the unfamiliar coaster that had appeared on the bar.

Catching his breath in his right hand and extinguishing his thirst with the contents of his umbrella-adorned Pink, Manne went on to demolish the fruit and keep his tendency to vitamin deficiency at bay.

“Ahem” said Merv.  “Now that we’ve kept scurvy away for a week or two, my Manne, Why the fuss ?”

“You know the Pink Merc that’s appeared across the road next to Miss Rosie’s Tattoo Emporium and House of Pain ?”

“Yes, I have noticed that”

“Well, behind the Merc is a new shop front”.  “Yes, and what would that be ?”

“It’s a doctors surgery”

“Is it now ?”

“But not just any doctor’s surgery”.

“No, well then WHICH doctor might be practicing his craft there ?

“No, not a witch doctor”, said Manne, who had clearly not read the script for the day.

Merv took out the stub of an HB pencil, turned over the new beer coaster and drew breath.  Manne looked puzzled.  Merv wrote “What is the name of the doctor, Manne ?”.

Manne read the note – just like the rest of us.  “Oh, I see what you mean.  Godfrey Adelsteen or something like that”, said Manne. “Here, I decided to take a peek inside to see what kind of doctor he is and I picked up a complimentary beer coaster from his secretary.  My goodness, she’s a handsome woman”, said Manne. “And quite a good penist, Mr Merv.  She was tickling the good doctor’s ivories when I looked in”.  Merv withheld judgment pending a report from the video referee.

Merv turned the coaster over and read the argument “Geoffrey Endelstein”, cosmetologist to the stars.  Bring me your tired bodies and I’ll take a look and see what I can do to for you”.

Word got around the front bar of the Pig’s Arms at an astounding rate, possibly due to the conga line of attractive but modestly endowed ladies snaking past the surgery and Rosie’s Tattoo Emporium and House of Pain.

Word managed to get through to Jail, who was known to do a bit of birdwatching – which was why, Foodge said, Jail hadn’t been around much since O’Hoo’s failed liver transplant.  Merv had trouble joining the dots and gave Emmjay the kind of look that suggested he thought Foodge was having a pixie excursion again.  But closer inspection of Jail might have revealed that he was nursing a certain secret pertaining to the mysterious disappearance of Inspector Rouge and his deeper than usual lack of conversation reflected the imminent hatching of a plan.

“So, this doctor across the road is some kind of plastic surgeon ?” inquired Jail.

“No, nothing to do with plastic or recycling or anything”, said Manne.  “He works on people. Women mostly with small, you know, um, ah… ” “Front verandahs” Merv assisted.

“That’s right”, said Manne. “Oh, I see”, said Jail, finishing off his “Trotter’s Ale” with a flourish and “Shit, look at the time !  Got to go.”

Merv and Emmjay exchanged meaningful looks.  They both new that Jail wouldn’t normally break into a run even if he had cholera.

” I have a friend who might be able to, ah, benefit from Dr Edelberg’s wonderful surgical skill”, said Jail to the receptionist, handing her a photograph of a rather well-endowed woman in police uniform.

“How might that be?” inquired the receptionist.

“Well, she’s very keen to enhance her appearance and I’m sure that the good doctor has the hands to create an even greater  vision of loveliness”, said Jail.

“A friend of yours?” she said, cocking an eyebrow. “A rather good friend”, said Jail. “I’ll bet”, said the receptionist.  “They’re probably both good friends of yours”.

She scribbled a figure on the back of another beer coaster.  It was a round number, which was appropriate under the circumstances.  Jail glanced at the number and said “When can she have the procedure?”.  “For that many clams, whenever she likes”, said the receptionist, suddenly breaking into Foodge’s pulp fiction channel. “In half an hour?” suggested Jail.

“She’ll have to fast for six hours”, said the receptionist, beginning to push Jail over the mental touch line ready for a 20 metre drop out.  “Oh, she’s fast alright”, said Jail.  “Tomorrow at 8:00”, said the receptionist. “And the deposit?”.  Jail drew a wad of crisp new fifties out of his coat pocket, peeled two dozen off and not waiting for the receipt or to check whether Dr Steenedell had  any qualifications or a Medicare provider number, he sloped to the door and in passing said “See ya tomorrow… at 8:00”.

“I don’t know” said Inspector Rouge.  “It looks a bit over the top”.

“Nah, it’s a perfect disguise”, said Jail.  “Nobody’s going to clock that it’s you.  It’s the last thing that anyone would expect from a Chief Inspector”.  “No way will anyone notice you then”, said Jail.  “I’m just not sure”, said Vinh Rouge.  “Show me the ‘after’ picture again

Jail took out the glossy promotional brochure with Rouge’s new computer simulated ‘after’ picture.”

“See, discreet and no likeness at all”, he said.

BetterThanBeer

It was true, Vinh Rouge was taking breast enhancement to a new level.  For some reason she started thinking about triplets.

Foodge 37 Foodge – Lost in Thought

31 Thursday Jan 2013

Posted by in Emmjay, Foodge Private Dick

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The_Thinker_Musee_Rodin

Story by Emmjay

Foodge sat at his desk.  There was no assignment on his plate.  This was not unusual but this time seemed to trouble half a dozen loosely-connected cells in the front of his brain.  They spoke to some of their friends in the facial muscles area who arranged to successfully organise a glum look.

“To successfully organise”.  Foodge resolved to have a word with Emmjay about splitting infinitives, but the resolution was narrowly defeated along party lines.  The caucus supported Emmjay’s contention that it is OK to split an infinitive along the lines of common usage and making it a more effective approach to aid reading.

Foodge had a deepening sense of ennui.  This was a recent development.  It was a new ennui.  The news was empty of anything that was actually new.  As usual, The UN was debating and resolving without making any tangible difference.  But Foodge felt that it was a more productive waste of money than war, for example.

News from the wars was bad.  Not surprising because all war news is bad for somebody, if not for everybody.  Foodge resolved to stop worrying about the wars and focus on his own priorities, which were, um, ah, oh yes, becoming gainfully employed. Or even ungainfully employed if there was at least a bowl of wedges and a glass canoe of Trotter’s Ale on the counter at the end of the day.

Being the kind of proactive sleuth that he sincerely believe he was, Foodge resolved to reopen the case of the morning paper and begin his research on the latest exploits of the Leichhardt Wanderers as they tilted towards another wooden spoon.  Granny said that they had more fuckin wooden spoons that that fuckin TV chef who always swears all the fuckin time.

Foodge remembered that he was supposed to be hunting for work and turned to the police courts reports.  The press was full of the great dry ice heist, but the case didn’t interest Foodge.  It left him cold.  Cold was his normal state and Foodge was determined to spend his next cheque on buying that fourth wall that his office was crying out for.  And maybe a door with his name etched in the frosted glass.  He wondered where etched glass came from and promised himself that he would find out one day but his eyes glazed over and he returned to the police reports.

A quick perusal of the police reports would reveal whose posterior was up against the wall, who the likely brief was going to be and if there was the whiff of police stitch-up, where the services of a master private eye would be most in demand.  Or even a private dick of modest proportions not unlike Foodge himself.

Foodge read that Detective Inspector Vinh Rouge had finally nailed Hedgie for over enthusiastic herb providoring in the car park of the Pig’s Arms and that she had been promoted to Inspector on the strength that the Commissioner had the smell of toasted narc czar in his nostrils.  Foodge new that Hedgie was just a humble bushie at the rough end of the long lawn running up to the Calabrian mansion of Caesar Nopportunity.  He was the target, but Foodge knew that Noppo had his friends in high places and that nobody, least of all Rouge was going to fang the black moriah up that crushed marble driveway and say “You’re nicked”.

Foodge was tired from concentrating for several consecutive minutes.  A thought crept into his mind, turned around three times, lay down and started to lick its wedding tackle.  Foodge sat back in his chair and waited to see what might happen next.

The thought got up and walked out into the street.  Foodge decided to follow.  After all, this was grist for the mill for a private dick.

Lacking a fourth wall to his office, Foodge didn’t have to worry about locking the door that he also didn’t have.

The thought was heading towards the Pig’s Arms.  Another thought joined it.  Foodge recognized the glass canoe full of foamy amber delight.  Foodge named this thought Trotter’s Ale.  Foodge always tried to stay with the play and drew the keys of his Zephyr from his pocket.  He was determined to get ahead of himself and be waiting there when his first thought wandered in.

Merv’s amnesia worked to Foodge’s advantage and he poured Foodge a schooner of Trotters without remembering that Foodge’s tab was close to the gross domestic product of Tasmania.  And the prospect of Foodge ever paying it off was as slim as America’s chance of clearing her mortgage to China.

“What’s on your mind?” asked Merv.

“I’ll know in a minute” said Foodge, anticipating the arrival of his earlier contemplation. Several glass canoes floated by and the prospects of the first thought ever returning to its owner cuddled up to Merv’s misplaced debt recovery aspirations.

Foodge’s staring into the middle distance was starting to unnerve Merv and so the publican turned on the pub’s new 800” flat screen TV – that was just a tad too large for the pub wall and several contestants on “So you want to be a Millionaire? were sitting in the Pig’s Arms Car park.  The giant screen successfully captured Foodge’s attention and he was fascinated with the possibility of massive wealth coming to some goose through the picking of a 1:4 short-priced favourite answer for a question so obscure that Barry Jones would be scratching his head – after a series of questions so inane that another Jones would find them personally challenging but an affront to all right thinking Australians.

“We are sorry to interrupt this program” said the faceless voice, “However, local Police are deeply concerned over the disappearance of Inspector Vinh Rouge, who failed to turn up to work today.  Police visited her home this morning and found the contents in disarray and a police spokesperson said that there was unmistakeable evidence of violence and they are deeply concerned over her welfare.  Viewers with any information were encouraged to contact Crimestoppers.”

Foodge wondered whether there was any connection between Vinh Rouge’s disappearance and that of his missing (and presumed lost) thought, and he ordered another Trotter’s Ale on the strength of his own concerns.

Foodge 35 – Rosie’s Advice

17 Monday Dec 2012

Posted by in Big M, Foodge Private Dick

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keeltyindisguise (2)

APF Simulapic of O’Foo and “Friend”

Story by Big M

Merv was out of sorts all day. He had to wait for the lunch time crowd to disperse, then, of course the Bowling Ladies lingered on for a ‘spin round the bar’ with ‘Our Mr Merv’, which Merv usually didn’t mind, but he was anxious to get over to see Rosie, at her tattoo emporium and house of pain. He was so distracted that he managed to step on Beryl’s right foot, twice. The first time he mumbled an apology. The second he felt compelled to compensate her with a glass of ‘South Sea Island’ gin and Aldo’s tonic.

He finally bid farewell to the Bowling Ladies, packed up the old urn and Blend Forty-three, then headed over to Rosie’s. He was surprised to find the waiting room empty, but the strangest noises emanated from beyond the beaded curtain that concealed the view of the inner sanctum. Merv sat and busied himself with the puzzles in ‘That’s Life’. The sounds stopped, then a red faced, and rather well known Local Member emerged, ducking his head and mumbling something about the union credit card.

Rosie herself came out to greet him, clad in a very short silk robe, black silk stockings (you know, the one’s I like with the seam at the back, and the butterfly on the ankle) and stilettos. “Missa Merv, Losie been expecting you!” She beckoned him with her right index finger.

Merv was transfixed. He dropped his pencil, and magazine. Merv had never shared this with anyone, but he had quite a penchant for petite women, particularly Asians, and, more particularly, Rosie. “Err…um…ah…Rosie…I …”

“Losie know all about bad dream!”  Rosie walked over and picked up Merv’s drooping jaw that was about to leave a stain on her carpet. “Losie know all about babies that cry at night.” Rosie spoke perfect English at home, but liked to bung on an accent for the punters. “Losie rike to help Missa Merv.” Rosie took Merv by the hand, and guided him into the inner sanctum, which was in fact, her tattoo studio (of Foodge’s tattooed arse fame). “Sit, and tell Losie all about dleam!”

Merv sat uncomfortably in the tattoo chair, which was like a dentists chair, but had more levels of adjustment, and an array of armrests, and so on. He looked at the range of inks, and the disposable needles. ‘A hell of a lot different to when I got me tattoo’, he thought. Merv also remembered having to get a Hepatitis B injection after his first, and, hence, only tattoo! Rosie had placed her stilettoed foot on the low coffee table between them, revealing a little more thigh than Merv felt comfortable seeing.

“Come on, Merv, let’s cut the bullshit.” Rosie suddenly dropped the accent.  “What the hell’s going on?

Merv was flabbergasted. “Pfft…what…err?

“OK Joe’ I go back to funny Chinee accent” Rosie stood, with her hands on her hips, letting them sway ever so slightly. “I’ll tell you an old Chinese story about man who work twenty hours a day, lun business, rook after famirry, up all hours of the night…then, one day…he have heart attack…die a painful death…you wan that, Missa Merv?”

“Um…err…you can go back to ordinary English…um, but, who else is goin’ to do all a the things that I do?”

“You have a wife, get her to look after the twins.” Rosie had sat down on a stool, and, had decided to drop the ‘Chinee’ accent.

“But, she never ‘ears ‘em cry.” Merv implored, with both hands outstretched.

“She needs new hearing aids, or, needs to leave them turned on!”

“What bloody ‘earin’ aids?” Merv was flabbergasted, again!

“You mean she doesn’t know she’s deaf?” It was Rosie’s turn to be flabbergasted. Everybody knew that Janet was deaf. “Take her to see my cousin, he’s an audiologist. I just happen to have one of his cards. You say ‘Losie’ sent you, he’ll give you discount.”

Merv was astounded. This could be the answer. He thanked Rosie, and hurried out, insistent that he didn’t need a special massage, or a wax, or even an eyebrow tint. He got back behind the bar in the Main Lounge in time for the evening rush. Granny was already sick of pouring pints, tore off her apron, mumbling something about pressure lines in the cellar, then disappeared.

Foodge was back in his usual spot, only slightly worse for wear with his tie half mast, his Fedora tilted back at a ridiculous angle, and his old packet of camels in his hand. “So, how did you get on with our fair Rosie?” He asked, rather too loudly for Merv’s comfort.

“Orright, mate, settle down, ‘ave another pint.” Merv pushed another canoe across the ancient bar. He was interrupted by an insistent screech.

“Merv…you down there?” Janet was in fine form.

“Yes, my love.” He yelled back.

“Merv…Merv…you there?”

“Yes, of course I am, my angel!” Merv was getting quite loud.

Janet’s red face suddenly emerged from the gloom of the staircase that went up to their private rooms. “Merv, you’ve been here all along…why didn’t you answer me?”

The entire bar put down their drinks in unison, and retorted. “He bloody did!!”

Merv was also red faced, and had a small tear in his eye, as he took Janet aside. “Janet, my love, this just confirms something that I’ve been suspecting…you’re going deaf.”

Janet must have been losing her hearing for a while, because she subconsciously lip-read, and understood. “I can’t be going deaf, not at forty four!” Yes, she was young to be a new mum. It was her turn to tear up.

Merv suddenly caught something out of the side of his eye. The Mexican hat, Hawaiian shirt, Bermuda shorts, and dense moustache couldn’t disguise the features of a man old before his time. “O’Hoo”. He shouted. “What the bloody hell are you doin’ ‘ere?” As he dropped Janet’s hands, and grabbed O’Hoo in a bear hug.

O’Hoo looked around furtively. The only danger was Foodge stumbling towards him with a canoe that was about to capsize all over O’Hoo’s Hawaiian shirt. “Um…under cover…need to know basis…Oh, Christ, can you hide me Merv??”

Quick as a flash Merv grabbed hold of Janet, O’Hoo and Foodge, quickly righting the aforementioned canoe. “Upstairs, the lot of yuz, we’ve all got things to sort out.” As he dragged them up to the Nathan Tinkler Memorial Sitting Room.

To be continued.

Foodge 34: Ask a Mate if He’s OK!

27 Thursday Sep 2012

Posted by in Big M, Foodge Private Dick

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Box Step Fox Trot , Tango Echo, Roger X-ray

Story by Big M

Merv had been standing behind the bar, absent-mindedly polishing the same glass, for about twenty minutes. Foodge was starting to get a little worried, as Merv had shown no interest in his plans to enter the 2016 Disabled Olympics as a caber tosser, nor had Merv even commented on Foodge’s new ‘Green ‘n’ Gold Oh-Limpic Tracksuit, which he now wore, as part of his tilt towards 2016. Foodge was loath to discuss another bloke’s feelings, but had an excellent opener for these sorts of discussions. “So…how are you feeling, mate?” Foodge enquired, as he struggled to balance a lump of egg white on top of an over-crispy fork full of bacon.

Merv continued to stare straight ahead, whilst the cloth in his hand risked wearing through the wall of the pint glass. He suddenly realised that someone was speaking, and jerked his head around to face Foodge. “Sorry, mate, a thousands miles away…another pint?” As he swept the empty glass away from the bar, and started to fill another, all in one deft movement.

“Mmmm…yes…ah.” Foodge had already forgotten what he was asking, as men often do where feelings are concerned. He was concentrating on the last mushroom that seemed to manage to evade being spiked onto his fork. “No, are there any more eggs? You see, this caveman diet is absolutely terrific, no bread, grains, eat as much as you like…goes with the training.” Foodge flexed a bicep.

“You won’t be needin’ this, then.” As Merv took back the freshly poured pint of Trotter’s Best, slopping a little onto the old, hardwood bar. “I don’t think cavemen drank much beer, do you? Besides, I’ll bet they didn’t sit around inside eatin’ bacon ‘n’ eggs, an’ drinkin’ pints!”

Foodge was suddenly desperate for a conversation change, and then remembered his previous question. “Sorry, Merv, I was asking before, how do you feel?”

Merv sat the pint back down in front of Foodge, who eagerly picked it up, and skulled half of its contents. “How do I feel? I’m glad someone asked. A little bit empty, at the moment, Foodge. Not depressed, or nothin’, but, as I get older I just wonder what the heck I’ve done with me life. I know, you may look at me, and think, ‘there’s a man with everything’, and you’re right, I’ve got the pub, Granny’s like a mum to me, and I’m clearly punching above me weight with Janet, she’s bloody gorgeous, and much easier to live with now that she’s topped screamin’ all of the time, and the twins are great, an’ I don’t mind the three hourly feeds, every night, no, you’d be right to envy me, mate.”

Foodge shifted uncomfortably on the timber bar stool, painfully aware that there was still room in his caveman-like digestive tract for a couple more eggs and bacon, but not for any of those little mushrooms. “Empty plates here, Merv.” As he nodded towards the plate. “Wouldn’t be a bit more bacon, and a couple of eggs left in the kitchen?”

“Sorry, mate.” Merv took up the plate, and cutlery, slipped them into the dum waiter behind the bar, and wrote out a chit for another round of bacon and eggs  ‘for our Olympian’. Foodge’s latest craze hadn’t gone un-noticed by Granny, who’d laughed until she was hoarse when she’d heard of Foodge’s plans to become a caber tosser. She reckoned he couldn’t throw a walking stick, let a lone a great lump of wood. Merv turned back to the bar to continue his monologue. “I just can’t help thinkin’ that I coulda done something big, you know, like if I’d stayed with the coppers, I’d probably be a DCI by now.” Merv rarely mentioned the pleece, as he’d left in disgrace.

“Or, perhaps I shoulda kept me boxin’ career goin’, you know, turned professional, and all that?” Merv had failed to remember that he’d left boxing after being cheated out of more that a few victories. “I used to be a bloody good ballroom dancer!” Merv’s eyes lit up, as he stepped out from behind the bar to waltz elegantly around the room, expertly navigating his way around a couple of Bowling ladies, who’d wandered into the Main Bar to ask Merv if he could put the urn on, and get the sachets of International Gold Roast, and little packets of sugar out from behind the bar. “Certainly, ladies.”  Merv grabbed Beryl and took her for a quick spin.

Merv returned to the Main Bar, having filled the urn, put out the coffee cups, and associated bits and pieces. Foodge was just finishing his third plate of bacon and eggs, and once again, had an empty glass in front of him. Merv filled another pint, and took away the plate and cutlery. “Ah. Yes. Dancing lightens the heart.” Merv missed his ballroom dancing, and really wished that Janet would give it another try. He’d never really worked out why she fell over every time she tried to dance. Was it her left eye, that unsettled her whilst it continued to ‘do it’s own thing’, seemingly disconnected from the right?

Merv sighed, as he ran a cloth over the bar, more out of habit, than need. “Pity I never ‘ad the edjacashun, you know, ‘avin’ to leave school when I was fifteen, an’ all that.” Merv had always been painfully aware of his lack of formal education, in spite of the fact that, as a weight lifter, he knew every bone and muscle in the human body, and had a natural gift for mathematics, eschewing modern cash registers, ‘because I can work it out in me noggin’’.

“You know it’s not to late.” Foodge took a sip from his fourth Trotter’s, grateful that Merv seemed to have forgotten to limit his intake of alcohol during his discourse.

“Too late for what?” Merv was surprised to be interrupted, as he had taken centre stage all through lunch.

“Education.” Foodge retorted. “You could do something through TAFE, or a Community College, or Open Foundation at one of the unis.”

“Nah.” Merv shook his head, and took up a pint glass, which he began to rhythmically polish. “That’s for kids, not for us old blokes.

“Well, I was just reading on the weekend about a ninety year old who has just completed his second Master’s degree. He didn’t start any formal learning until he was sixty five!”

Merv suddenly felt like he was standing on a high diving board, both exhilarated and frightened at the same time. “I’d need some ‘elp, you know, me spellin’s no good…”

“I’d help.” Foodge quietly smiled.

“You, how could you help?”

“Merv, you seem to forget that I wasn’t always a shamus, I had to do a couple of degrees to get to be the Deputy Director of Public Prosecution. Yes, humble reader, Foodge’s fall from grace has been quite spectacular. “I could help with English, and essay writing, used to be pretty good.” Foodge took a long pull on his fifth pint. ”Ended up doing an honours degree in English Literature, even got invited to do a doctorate, but, you know, the pull of the law, public office and all of that.”

They were suddenly interrupted by a slightly red faced Beryl. “Oh…err… Mr Merv, the Ladies and I were just wondering, if…you know…. well, you’re so light on your feet…”

Merv took up the challenge, kicked the jukebox into gear and started foxtrotting with Beryl around the bar; whilst the other Bowling Ladies lined up, ready to ‘cut in’. Merv had a grin from ear to ear. Foodge shifted himself around on the barstool so he could watch the spectacle, but managed to miss the footrest, and found himself in a crumpled mess on the floor, again!

Foodge 33 – The Interview

22 Thursday Mar 2012

Posted by in Big M, Foodge Private Dick

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But in the Pig's Arms, the gloves are off.

Story as told to Big M by Foodge

Editor’s note:  When I visited the Continuity Department, there was a note on the door.  It read “The Continuity Department will be closed yesterday due to an upcoming death in the family.  In the event that readers have difficulty following the thread, tell them that this is a flash – back, forward or sideways.  We’ll get back to you – unless we already have.”

Merv stood at his usual post behind the chipped and stained timber bar, absent mindedly polishing a glass canoe with a dirty rag. He had given up struggling to open his left eye against the bruised eyelids, and, he’d realised would have gone cross-eyed looking over the plaster on his nose. He wore a self-satisfied grin, in spite of the obvious discomfort. Foodge sat opposite, his Fedora sitting brim side up on the bar, a pair of aluminium crutches at his side, and a pint of Trotter’s Best at his elbow.  He couldn’t stop grinning. The silence was broken by main door slamming shut, and the bounding steps of one of the fattest men in Cyberia. Both men were shocked to see  the shapeless figure of  ‘Little’ Jack  Stanley, Senior (and only) Sports Editor for the Inner Western Cyberian Bugle, resplendent in his battered grey Fedora with ‘Press’ pass stuck in the hatband. “Gidday, dyouz mind if I interview youz fur the Bugle?”

Merv’s self satisfied grin disappeared, and he shook his head, almost imperceptibly, as any more vigorous movement set the bell ringers to work in the back of his scone. Foodge, however, tried to snap to attention, forgetting the cast on his left leg, which caught the bottom of the stool sending him reeling forward, into Jack’s arms. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes’, Mr Foodge?” Jack struggled to push Foodge back into his natural position on the barstool.

Foodge took a few moments to settle back into the barstool, took a long swig at his glass canoe, then gestured to Merv for another. Merv complied then mumbled something about kegs ‘n’ pipes, then disappeared into the cellar. “You know why’m ‘ere, son, you got the inside dirt on Mauler v. Merv, aintcha?”

Foodge nodded enthusiastically. “Well, I must say at the outset that I was the catalyst for the match, you see, I had put myself forward as the light-heavy contender for the Police vs PI’s, that is short for Private Eye, or Investigator, one of which I am, currently, and, I’m not ashamed, quite successfully.” Jack was taking all of this down in shorthand with a stubby pencil, the tip of which he seemed to lick more than seemed necessary. “Unfortunately, I drew The Mauler as my opponent for the first match. This seemed to coincide with a sprain…I mean, crushate ligament, necessitating the urgent application of plaster to said leg..I mean knee.’ Foodge took a moment to nod at the affected leg, as if Jack hadn’t noticed the plaster cast and accompanying crutches. “Mr Merv heard about my plight, and, being a card carrying member of the PI fraternity, offered to step in.”

“ ‘ang on mate, I thought Merv was expleece?” Jack interjected. Merv had re-appeared, happy that Foodge had taken over the telling of the tale. He pushed a canoe across the bar to Little Jack.

A Little Jack goes a long way ...

“Yes, indeed, Mr Merv IS ex-police, and, that is where the enmity with the Mauler…I mean Senior Constable Frank Malleson began. You see, Mr Merv, in spite of his size and pugilistic prowess is a gentlemen. Senior Constable Malleson, on the other hand is a brute, who regularly seems to manage to extract a confession from suspects just before they are transferred from holding cell to Emergency Department. Anyhoo, Mr Merv left the police service some years back and, for a while, toyed with the idea of Private Detection, hence the PI licence. Anyway, I’m sure your readers don’t need to know the history of Mr Merv, except that he was a contender for the aforementioned boxing contest. Foodge stopped to take a long pull at his canoe, realised it was empty, and motioned Merv for a refill.

“ So Merv was subbed in only five weeks out from the match?” Jack pushed his Fedora all the way back on his noggin, pausing to scratch his bald pate. Merv couldn’t help noticing some particles of food had lodged in the creases between chins.

“Yes, I’d suffered a sprain, I mean subluxation of the..er…anterior…crushate… anyway. Mr Merv threw his hat into the ring, and, with myself as Manager, and Granny as trainer…” Foodge was interrupted by Little Jack.

“ ‘ang on mate, ‘oo’s Granny, an’ wots ‘er real name?” Jack paused to inspect the tip of his pencil.

Foodge looked at Merv, and Merv looked at Foodge. “Granny.” Retorted Foodge. “Everyone knows Granny!”

“Not everybody in the readership knows Granny, besides, this could go viral, you know, David and Goliath story, readers world wide will want to know the facts!”  Jack was sweating profusely, and the old Fedora was now tipped beyond forty-five degrees.

“Facts never seem to be a problem for you journalistic types, but, if ya  just cool yer ‘eals there for a minute I’ll slip upstairs ‘an arx ‘er, she’s mindin’ the twins while me missus gets ‘er eyebrow waxed.” This wasn’t all she was getting waxed, but, Merv, ever the gentleman didn’t want to broadcast Janet’s level of hirsuitism across the country. Merv bolted up the steps, past the Nathan Rees Memorial Ballroom/Cinema Compex, past the Kristina Keneally Memorial Powder Room, up another flight of stairs to his apartment above.

Foodge had taken on board some of Merv’s suggestions for promoting his business, so, after a couple of awkward minutes, cleared his throat. “I suppose you report on subjects aside from sport?”

“Nup.” Jack had loosened his antique tie, and was sipping at the iced water that Merv had thoughtfully shoved in front of him, in response to his apparent diaphoresis.

“So, some of your colleagues must have an interest in crime and detecting?” Foodge was already struggling.

“Yep, but they get all they can write about from the courts and the Plee..” Jack’s sentence was interrupted by screams.

“After all I’ve done for you, you ungrateful bastard, picked you up, dried you out, given you a job, and you repay me by tryna publish me name in all the papers” There was a thump, then a door slammed, followed by the creaking of stairs.

“Listen, Foodge, old mate, I’ve just remembered an appointment, ‘ow about I drop back ‘ere tomorra, when things have quietened down?” With that Little jack was gone

To be continued.

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

21 Wednesday Mar 2012

Posted by in Emmjay, Foodge Private Dick

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

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

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

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

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

Ed:  Don’t provoke me, Emmjay.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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