Category Archives: Foodge Private Dick

A Psalm for Foodge

11 Tuesday Jan 2011

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.... for gourd's sake

By Lehan Winifred Ramsay

1 What advantage then hath the Publican? or what profit (is there) of circumcision?

2 Much every way: chiefly, because that until the stirring of the Oracles the drinkers were commited.

3 For what if some should not continue their drinking? shall their women sunder the faith without effect?

4 God forbid: yea, let the Gourd be true, and every man a drinker; as it is written, That though mightest be absolved in thy Tab, and mightest overcome The Stirring when thou art served.

5 But if our unrighteous commend the righteousness of Forsaking the Gourd before it Closeth, what shall we say? And Is She who taketh our man Foodge from the Gourd a vain Gent? (I speak as a man)

Foodge 20 – Foodge Has a Narrow Escape

02 Sunday Jan 2011

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By Big M

Foodge woke with a start. It was still early, eleven, or eleven thirty, by the way the light slanted through the aluminium Venetian blinds, illuminating dust motes, which seemed to have lives of their own. The groans emanating from the mound of bedclothes on the other side of the bed were a dead give away that he wasn’t alone. ‘Mmm.’ He thought to himself. ‘Must’ve got lucky.’ The mound of blankets started to move, and a blond head emerged. “Hello, big boy.” Foodge sat up in bed, grinning away. He remembered buying Victoria a bottle of ‘champagne’ at the Pigs Arms, and then everything else was a blank.

Victoria sat up. “Lovely room, did you decorate it yourself, dear?”

“Well, no, it, err, kinda decorated itself.”

“Coffee’s the first order of the day.” Victoria stood up, deftly wrapping the sheet around her tall body. She wasn’t beautiful, or even pretty, thought Foodge, but she sure was handsome. She wandered out to the kitchen, where she promptly started opening and closing cupboards. “Where’s the percolator, dear?”

“No percolator, just Blend Forty Three in the cupboard above the kettle.”  Foodge dressed quickly. An experienced PI like himself was never off duty, so, there was no room for a woman in his life. He was going to have to break it to her gently. He went through to the kitchen. “Look, Victoria, I didn’t mean to give you the wrong impression…err… um… didn’t mean it to be a one night stand.”

Victoria laughed. “Stand. One night stand?  There was no stand, dear. There’s a serious lack of ‘stand’, and I suspect the brewer has something to do with your droop!”

Foodge wasn’t used to the cryptic talk of women. “It might be better if you just left.”

Victoria turned on her bare heel and flounced through to the bedroom. “That’s alright, dear, I have a back-waxing appointment, anyway. She dressed quickly then marched out the front door. “Blend Forty Three, indeed!”

‘Gosh, she’s tall in heels.’ Thought Foodge. ‘Women’.

The main bar at the Pigs was open. Foodge thought it wise to walk down and pick up the Zephyr from the parking lot. Merv was drenched in sweat from his morning workout. A glass canoe found its way across the bar. Wes stuck his head around the door. “Uncle Merv, what will I do with these out-of-date cartons of cigarettes?”

“ ‘Ow many?”

“Hundreds.”

“Oh, shit.” Merv had forgotten that he’d allowed Lenny the Lurch use the shed, just before he went to Long Bay, for a long stretch. “Leave ‘em there, use the other shed.” Wes was trying to find a space to lock up his Charlie.

Foodge looked around. The pub was back to normal after Granny’s brews had come back on tap. The place actually looked a lot cleaner. “Had a spring clean, Merv?”

“Nah, Wes’s not paying any board, so he’s doing a bit of bouncing, bit of cleaning, even taps the odd keg if Granny’s busy. Plus, Janet’s been poorly, you know, the doc told ‘er to rest, you know, with twins, ‘an all.”

“How far along?” Foodge had no idea why he asked, as he had no idea about how ‘far along’ a pregnancy should be.

“Eight months, although it feels like eighteen.” Merv smiled at his little joke. “Doc reckons ‘e might need to seduce ‘er closer to the time.”

Foodge nodded knowingly, not entirely sure why a doctor would ‘seduce’ a pregnant lady. He stared into his glass and was about to say something about getting lucky when Wes stuck his head around the door again. “What about that female impersonator, Victoria, pity the bloke he took home!” Wes laughed.

“Oh…ah…female impersonators.” Foodge blushed, inwardly thankful for the brewer who’d induced his droop.

“You looked pretty friendly with her.” Wes gave a knowing wink.

“Oh…err…yes, Victoria’s an old friend…err…aquaintance.used her as a snout.

“They never get the walk right, do they?”

Foodge thought that Wes was being as cryptic as Victoria, earlier this morning. “Err…no. You doing anything tonight, it is New Years Eve?”

“No, I’ll help Uncle Merv and Granny. Big party here, you know, Angles, Bowling Ladies, Male Nurses Union, you know, usual crowd. Oh, shit, get out of that, you bloody useless creature!!” Granny’s goat was chowing down on the high tension lead of Wes’s Charlie.

‘It wasn’t the usual crowd.’ Thought Foodge. JL was MIA, hopefully not in gaol, Manne was supposed to be overseas with Neville, but Neville denied any knowledge, Gez and the Mysterious H were busy in their new place, as were ‘shoe and Asty. Winnie was till in Japan, but, thanks to modern technology, was able to send a telegram now and then. The famous Greek playwright and his missus never turned up. To top it all off, O’Hoo was doing a cricket tour with, soon to be, Superintendent Rouge.  ‘Well. ‘ Thought Foodge. ‘Happy New Years Eve to ‘em all, whether at home, or away!’

Foodge 19 – Trotter’s Best Saved

28 Sunday Nov 2010

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By Big M

Foodge and O’Hoo sat in the main bar trying to enjoy a couple of  ‘Mugs of Chino’, as Merv liked to call a mug of tarry coffee with burnt, slightly frothy milk. They’d been hard at it since dawn, which, was around ten. It was now eleven. The Pigs Arms was abuzz with noise. Gez and the mysterious H were still helping Vivienne clean up the kitchen. Eschewing modern dishwashers (which didn’t work anyway) they’d fallen into a fascinating rhythm of washing, drying, stacking and sorting. O’Hoo, in the absence of his lover, was already onto his second, day-old sausage roll, smeared with sauce from the ever present sauce bottle. Merv refused to sell sauce in little plastic packs and continued to dodge fines from the Health Inspector by claiming that his sauce was for ‘personal use’, all twenty seven hundred litres of it.

The sound of Brkon and Dermot’s stertorous breathing resonated from the cellar. Last night they had started tasting the remnants of Trotter’s Ale, Bitter and Best to determine where the beers had gone wrong. They’d put in a sterling effort, generated copious tasting notes, and then slept it off.

The sound of footsteps on threadbare carpet broke through from above, not literally, of course, but this was quite on the cards. Last night, whilst sober, Brkon had called a mate in, Algy the mycologist, who had arrived early, and asked Granny to show him around. She was still enthusiastically showing him every aspect of the pub, highlighting nuances in her brewing technique. He’d taken bacterial and fungal swabs and plates from everywhere, which he labelled and placed into a backpack. Granny giggled like a young girl every time she was complimented on some little innovation of hers. She was quite a clever brewer!

Merv was dressed in his pink shorts and tank top. Rivulets of sweat trailed down his face and chest which he absent-mindedly wiped with a bar towel. He’d been for his ritual morning run to the boxing gym. This was ‘Merv time’, and he reckoned there was nothing like ‘punchin’ the livin’ shit outta sumpthin’ for relieving stress. He quickly gave the bar a wipe then focussed his attention on some new bottles of ouzo, which he placed on the shelves behind the bar, replacing the ‘Seven Seas Scotch’, which had been imported from Fiji at very little cost, back in 1949.

“What’s the ouzo in aid of?” O’Hoo thought himself rather clever in knowing the name of the imported liquor, then embarrassed himself by inhaling some pastry, which initiated a coughing fit.

“Greek stuff, for the Greek.” Mumbled Merv, with his back to the bar, showing off slightly more ars crack than was legal in these parts

“What Greek?” Foodge’s interest was piqued.

“The famous playwright, comin’ up from Melbourne to oversee one of his famous plays. ‘im and ‘is Missus will be stayin’ in the Bridal Suite.”

“But you don’t have a Bridal Suite.”

“He doesn’t know that”. Merv smiled to himself.

Granny and Algy appeared at the bar. “Lovely system you had here, Granny.” Granny blushed again. “It’s a great pity someone had to ruin it.” Said Algy, as he glared at Merv. “I’m sure the fungal swabs will confirm my suspicions” Merv had converted the attic into a play room for the twins by moving Granny’s lauter tun from the attic down to the basement, then lining the room with gyprock which he got from ‘some bloke’.

Merv poured another round of ‘chinos’ for the lads, and a double shot of ‘Seven Seas’ for Granny, who couldn’t drink beer, unless it was her own. They sat in silence until they were disturbed by the sound of a big Charlie, sans mufflers, followed by a loud bang from the front doors, followed by another bang, then the door swung open and the door frame was filled by an enormous shape. The shape took a couple of steps forward to reveal a young man, of enormous proportions. He looked a little bit like Merv, with shaven head, smaller eyes and ears, and a Pigs Arms T-shirt. A huge pair of leather saddlebags were slung over his shoulder, and a black, open-faced helmet was under his huge arm. “Uncle Merv, Granny, remember me!”

Granny rushed forward. “Little Wesley, your Mum rang to say you were coming. When do you start uni? Have you had breakfast? Sit yourself down. Here, I’ll get you a cappuccino. Have you met Foodge, O’Hoo and Algy? They’re helping with the brew.” Before he knew it Wesley was sat down at the bar with a coffee in hand. Granny had disappeared to cook up her trademark breakfast wedges, bacon and eggs.

“So, what are you doin’ at uni?” Foodge enquired, looking up from his coffee with a moustache of burnt milk.

I’m doing my nursing degree. Sick of working in the abattoir. The only other work at Tumbarumba is the new winery, put in an application to the uni, so, here I am, and that’s if Uncle Merv will put up with me?”

Merv looked concerned. “There’s always a bed here for me sister’s boy, that’s if we’ve still got a pub, eh, Algy?”

“You’ll still have a pub if you follow my recommendations. These swabs have only been taken to confirm my suspicions. The nascent beer that had been sitting in the lauter tun in the attic was being naturally inoculated with wild yeast that was resident in the attic timbers, in the same manner as a Belgian Lambic. Covering the timbers and removing the tun has prevented this. There is no commercial yeast that matches your naturally occurring yeast, so, what I’m about to do is isolate the yeasts, using culture media, as well as yeast genomic PCR, then generate a culture which Granny should be able to keep going for years to come. This may take some weeks but, all of Granny’s ales will be back.”  Algy smiled at Merv, for the first time.

“’ow much will this all cost?” Merv still looked downcast.

“Thirty two swabs at eighty seven dollars each, plus two or three runs in the PCR machine at nine hundred and thirty a run…”

Merv’s face fell further.

… but, for Granny, I’ll do this for free.” Algy got up and left, eager to get into the lab.

Granny had re-appeared with a huge plate of wedges, eggs, bacon, and toast. She’d overheard Algy and Merv’s conversation. “This calls for a toast, let’s try some of that ouzo!”

Merv poured a round of ouzo in middy glasses (he had no idea about anything other than beer and scotch). “Here’s to Algy, and here’s to me favourite nephew, Wesley,”

“Yes, here’s to Algy, and here’s to Sister Wesley.” Foodge enthused as he downed the ouzo.

The room went quiet. O’Hoo looked at him, shaking his head ever so slightly. Granny put a restraining hand on Wesley’s chest. Wesley’s face was flushed, but he remained seated. “You’re quite the comedian, Mr Foodge, but, I hope you’re not implying that I’m some sort of purse carrying, Nancy boy, petticoat wearing, gay Mardi gras marching sheila, or you’ll find yourself coming off second best!”

Foodge went pale, clutched at his abdomen, steadied himself at the bar, then gasped out an apology. Wesley was already at his side. “You alright, mate?”

Foodge had tears streaming down his face. ”Ouzo’s meant to be sipped, not skulled. I’ll be alright when Trotter’s Best is back on tap.”

Merv shook his head, placed the bottle back on the highest shelf, where it would remain until its appointment with the visiting playwright.

Foodge 18 – A Dry Argument – Part 2

14 Thursday Oct 2010

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.... I think he said..... Boo Yeah, Bazza

 

By Big M

Foodge steered the big Zephyr, down the main drag. He was a few minutes early, in spite of waiting for Emmjay and First Mate to dress. Foodge thought that the white dinner jacket, and black silk dress were overkill, but, he thought, can take the wardrobe manager out of the wardrobe, et cetera. There wasn’t a parking space to be had. The entire street was lined with Charlies, ancient Austin A-sevens and Morris Minors, a couple of Pleece cars, and a clutch of motor scooters. Foodge left the car with the nose in a clearway. He made sure that his “Private Investigator’ card was on the dash, although this was unlikely to impress a parking inspector. They crossed the road; ignoring the crossing that was only metres away, inciting angry horn blasts from motorists.

The Pigs Arms was full, but this was no party. Lambrettists and Angles were talking in hushed tones. A very distraught Granny was surrounded by Bowling Ladies, who were in crisis mode, that is, they were making acrid tea, ham and tomato sandwiches on day old Tipp-Topp with thick linings of margarine. The really disturbing thing was, not the absence of the hum of conversation, but the absence of beer. The Professor was carrying a tray of teacups, whilst Hedgie was topping them up with the battered old enamel teapot. Merv had changed out of his morning attire of pink shorts and fluoro yellow tank top, into his good suit, and sat with a more dazed expression than usual. Janet had abandoned the afternoon TV game shows to sit and support him, all the while rubbing her gravid abdomen.

There was the most unusual aroma coming from the kitchen. Foodge couldn’t place it, but Emmjay couldn’t help himself. “Curry, Foodge, they must have a new cook!” The trio wandered over to O’Hoo, who was sharing a bottle of Shiraz with his paramour, using real wine glasses, for a change.

“Cheers Foodge”. Both DCI Rouge and O’Hoo raised their glasses, as the pub became deathly quiet.

“What the hells going on.” Whispered Foodge.

“They’ve all decided to pitch in and help solve the Great Pig’s Arms Brewing Mystery, at least, that’s what we’ve named it.” Grinned O’Hoo. “Take a seat.” O’Hoo poured three more glasses of Shiraz, whilst various patrons presented themselves, shaking hands, or patting Foodge on the shoulder, pledging their assistance.

“Dinner’s ready.” Roared Gez, from the kitchen. The Bowling Ladies had already converted the billiard table into a dining table, and had gathered an eclectic mixture of crockery and ‘good silver’. Gez brought in a huge steaming tureen of something he called ‘booyabays’, but everyone thought it tasted like seafood soup. The new chef, ‘Vivienne’ who carried a matching pot of curried prawns, followed him.

Everyone tucked in. It was even better than the Chinese at the Rissole Club. Merv served a round of Pink Drinks, then, after the meal was over, all eyes were on Foodge and O’Hoo, the Pig’s own detectives (plus DCI Rouge, but, Foodge and O’Hoo really grew up here). Foodge stood up. “I’d like to, ah, thank you all, for, ah, putting in with this meal. Err, ah, I have been putting some thought into the problems of our brews.” Foodge nodded to Granny, who burst into tears, again. He looked away, slightly embarrassed, but could feel dozens of pairs of eyes boring into him. “While there may be some natural explanation for this phenomenon, and we’ll be calling on our scientific friends for advice.” Foodge nodded to the Professor, who bowed his head slightly in response. “There may also be malfeasance at play here.” Everyone in the room gasped. “There’s no need for alarm, if the Pigs Arms, or, Granny herself have an enemy, then ruining our brews is the full extent of the damage. No one here is at risk of death or injury.” His oratory was interrupted by a gasp from Beryl, who clutched at her chest. Hedgie was at her side, in an instant, whilst a dozen wrinkled old hands foraged in a dozen wrinkled old handbags then proffered a dozen Anginine tablets. Simultaneously a couple of Angles disappeared through the front door.

DCI Rouge, ever the voice of reason, stood next to Foodge, placing her hand on his shoulder. “Ladies, there is nothing to fear, Mr Foodge is simply outlining the various possibilities, like any good sleuth.” She paused to wink at O’Hoo, who missed the gesture, as he was busily mopping Burmese curry from his new silk tie. “I would like to add that, if this brewing failure is due to malice on the part of any individual, or, indeed, any group, then they will experience the legal consequences of their actions. The Pleece take a dim view…”

The entrance of Brkon and Andy, two of the Angles longest serving members, interrupted DCI Rouge’s address. “We have nitroush oxshide bottle. It is excellent nitric oxide doner! One shniff and der heart feel better.” Brkon brandished a small blue bottle, which he’d wrenched from his beloved 1967 super charged, Munch Mammoth. “Dis make big bike feel better, too!”

Hedgie stepped forward, with a small tear in his eye, as Brkon’s action was just like a mother taking food from her child. “It’s OK, mate, the Anginine’s already done the trick.” Beryl nodded, returning Hedgie’s little smile. “Look, I dunno, everyone’s upset, and emotional. We know we’ve got the best team in the world on this. I vote we should let’em get on with it.”

There was a rousing cheer, followed by toasts with teacups and a few wine glasses. A handful of Angles started to clear the table, whilst the Bowling Ladies hovered, trying to ensure that none of the ‘good china’ was damaged. Andy and Brkon made sure that Beryl couldn’t benefit from some ‘nitroush’, then went out to re-attach the bottle to the bike. A very nervous Merv and Granny approached the detectives, with faces like mourners at a funeral. “So, where are youz gunna start?”

Foodge was ready to launch into another long-winded explanation, when Rouge cut him off. “Foodge and my little Gerald.” She paused to look over at O’Hoo who had given up on the tie, as he had spread curry stains over his new white shirt. “Will examine this hotel from attic to basement, from front door to that stinking outhouse.” Her nose wrinkled at the thought. “I’d suggest that we co-opt Brkon and Andy. We can use their skills in microbiology and chemistry. Meanwhile I will personally search every person, or group, in the pleece database looking for any clue. We’re pulling out all stops on this one.” Rouge gave Granny a hug, pecked O’Hoo on the cheek, turned on her stiletto, and left.

Merv went around the back of the bar mumbling about. “Something special.” He re-appeared with a dusty bottle in one hand, and a clutch of whisky glasses in the other. He poured the amber liquid, handed around the glasses, and then raised his. “To Foodge and O’Hoo.” Then downed his in a single gulp. They all followed. Foodge took a second to examine the bottle, which was nothing less than Merv’s favourite tipple, ‘The Famous Grouch’, seventeen-month-old scotch.

Foodge shook hands with Merv and Granny. “Thanks for your confidence, we won’t let you down. Come on, O’Hoo, to the outhouse. No…hold on…we’ll start in the kitchen. No…Emmjay and First Mate are still wiping the dishes…to the attic.” Merv and Granny sat back to let the two detectives start detecting.

Foodge 17 – Foodge and Uncle Big

25 Saturday Sep 2010

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The Newcastle Flyer leaving Stanmore Station

By Big M

I’ve written this short note by way of an apology to the patrons of the Window Dresser’s Arms, Pig and Whistle. The stories about Foodge, are simple transcripts from Foodge’s ‘dictations’. It’s probably best to try to explain just how our relationship came about.

Mrs M had offered to provide respite care for kids with disabilities. After much paperwork, and vetting by the Federal Police, we were rewarded with a message stating that we were to look after a young lad named ‘Foodge’, to give his Uncle Emmjay and Aunty FM a break. He was to be sent to Newcastle on the train. It was an exciting day as we waited on the platform of the Newcastle station, me looking only slightly more foolish than usual with a large A3 piece of cardboard with ‘Welcome Foodge’ scrawled across its front. We were eagerly examining the faces of the kiddies as they poured from the carriage doors when an enormous fellow in a brown suit, white shirt, RSL club tie and battered Fedora parked his ‘steamer’ next to me and stretched out his hand. “Big M, I presume.”

“Oh, hi.” I tried to peer around the shoulders of the gentleman standing in front of me. “Where’s the kid, I mean, Foodge?”

“I’m Foodge, there is no kid.” He pulled a box of ‘Dairy Milks’ out from behind his back, handing them to Mrs M. “Now, you must have a conveyance of some sort – A Ford Zephyr perhaps.” He started dragging his luggage along the platform towards the exit.

I quickly telephoned the contact number for Foodge’s foster parent. Emmjay answered, laughing at the misunderstanding. “Don’t worry Big M, he’s a sweet guy, you’ll love him!”

That was a few months ago. Foodge has been back to see his uncle and aunt, but seems happy in Newcastle for the moment. What can I say about him? He’s a big bloke, of indeterminate age, fit, reasonably muscular, although we never see him do any exercise. He’s polite, well spoken, likes to contribute to the household. He’s sober, never drinking more than a ‘half pint’ at the pub. He does have a Bachelor of Laws but has never practiced. He also has a battered Commercial and Private Enquiry Agent’s Licence, which has expired. Foodge’s name does not appear on the electoral roll. He’s never had a car licence, and has never owned a car. He has a bank account and credit cards, and is never short of funds.

I believe that Foodge has modelled himself on the famous pulp fiction writer Raymond Chandler’s character, ‘Philip Marlowe”, with his old-fashioned suits, narrow ties and Fedora. He refuses to own a pair of jeans, and won’t be seen wearing shorts outside the yard.  He does take it a bit far, at times, calling barmaids ‘doll-face’, or ‘toots’.  He has a penchant for out-dated uniforms. He joined the local bowling club, which he enjoys tremendously, going for a ‘roll-up’ in full bowling regalia. Emmjay tells me that he had no end of trouble trying to keep him from joining the Scouts.

Foodge makes the most outlandish claims, such as, “I’m thinking of having the Zephyr rebored”, “I invented the automatic garage door”, or, “my research proves that satellite navigation causes brain cancer”, and “the prime minister is not a real red-head,” or, “Mr Cole is making a film about my life.” Yet, he seems to have an encyclopaedic knowledge of astronomy and physics. He’s had a thesis on Aboriginal archeo-astronomy published, although is quite self-deprecating about this achievement (I don’t think it fits in with the whole 1940’s shamus persona).  He uses his own laptop computer, at home, yet struggles with the mobile phone, preferring to make a ‘trunk call’ from the home phone.

As for personal relationships he’s provided no information about his parents or extended family. He seems to have adopted Emmjay and FM, treating them as his own. He claims that a good friend of ours is his girlfriend. When we point out that she is gay, he replies. “Yes, she is, rather.”

Foodge insists on dictating these stories about his life as a ‘shamus’. Emmjay had originally started to do this on the advice of a psychologist as a way of allowing Foodge to express himself. I have tried to continue this, but it can be quite frustrating at times. “No, write it all down, no, not like that, do it the way Uncle Emmjay does it.” These stories are often extreme, revolving around his superior detecting skills, drinking ability, and sexual prowess. He seems to build up his own sense of self worth by casting others in lesser roles, for example, Emmjay is often portrayed as the wardrobe manager, O’Hoo is the fumbling copper who only gets results through Foodge’s efforts, and so on.

Mrs M and I don’t know how long Foodge will stay. We are determined to make the most of it, but will let him go back to Emmjay’s whenever. With your kind permission, I will continue to write down his stories and pin them up on the pub’s notice board, you know, in the Ladies Lounge behind that bench where the Bowling Ladies serve the tea. I hope you enjoy them and don’t find them too outré!

Foodge 16 – A Dry Argument

21 Tuesday Sep 2010

Posted by in Big M, Foodge Private Dick

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Make Mine Expresso

By Big M

The Zephyr ground to a halt across the road from the Pigs Arms. Foodge had to park across the road, as a beer truck proudly displaying the sign ‘Wretches Pilsener’, was disgorging it’s load of kegs straight down through the steel doors in the footpath. Granny was supervising, hopping up onto the truck, then diving down into the cellar to man (or woman) handle the heavy aluminium kegs into some sense of order.  She was leaping, chimpanzee-like back onto the flat bed of the truck when she spied him. “Up early, son?”

“Home late, stake-out.” Foodge nodded to the aging Pentax, SLR in his hand. Stake out was a slight expansion of the truth, it was more like, trying to get the dirt on a stray husband at the Leichardt Ridges Hotel. The pristine Zephyr was hardly an inconspicuous observation post. “Grill on?”

“I’ll be five minutes, if this goat can pull his finger out. Already dropped one keg, for which I refuse to pay!” Granny glared at the driver.

Foodge ambled through the main doors, to find himself inside, what could only be described as a sauna. “Hello, anyone home?”

“In the back bar.” Roared the voice of Merv. “Tryin’ to make one of them ‘Cups-of-Chino!”

Granny bustled past Foodge, nearly knocking him off his feet. “I told you to leave the bloody thing until we’d read the instructions.” Shrieked Granny, as she flung the doors and windows open, to vent the steam, then tore through to disconnect the new coffee machine before any more aging wallpaper was threatened by the steam.

Merv looked helpless. “Tryin’ to go more upmarket.” He shrugged.

Foodge smiled the insipid, simpering smile of the night worker. “Breakfast?” He settled onto a stool as far from the coffee machine as possible, then flicked open ‘Barrister’s Weekly’, vigorously attacking into the Word-finder.  Merv pushed a glass canoe of Wretches Pilsener across the bar. Foodge knew by the absence of scent (smell would be a better word) and paleness that it wasn’t Trotter’s Best. “What’s this?”

“Best and Bitter are off.” Explained Merv. “Yeast died. Probably for the best.”

“For the best, for the bloody best?” Foodge was standing. “Best beer in the bloody world, and it’s extinction’s for the best!”

“Keep your voice down mate, Janet’s bin poorly.”

“Sorry.” Foodge had forgotten Janet’s delicate state, what with being in the pudding club, and grieving now that ‘Master Cook’ was finished. He leaned toward Merv, his tie draping itself through runny egg yolk and beans. “This is a disaster.” He whispered. “I can’t drink any other beer.”

“There’ll be no more PA beers until we can get new yeast, then there’ll be a trial period.” Granny had her back to them, trying to vent the excess pressure in the ‘Cup-of-Chino’ machine into a safe place, such as the sink. There was a great thump, followed by a second thump, which, inturn, was followed by the sound of the doors opening, which was accompanied by a  tuneless whistle, then, through the mist emerged the most distorted face Foodge had ever seen.

“Gidday, mates. Nice sauna” O’Hoo enthusiastically shook everyone’s hand, wrinkling his nose. “Breakfast?” Granny dashed off to the cellar for more beans and eggs. “Wizeyoo up so early?”

“Surveillance” Foodge bent his head forward and pushed his battered fedora back.

“Me, too.” O’Hoo grinned. “Big drug bust. Some bad bastards have been illegally making paracetamol, selling ‘em to old people, cheap. Very dangerous. By the way, why doesn’t it smell in here, I mean, aside from us fixing the dunnies?” This wasn’t entirely true, as O’Hoo himself carried a distinctive odour, but, like a sewage worker was completely inured to it.

“Tannery shut down, makin’ leather in Chine.” Merv shook his head, as sad at the loss of local jobs as he was for the loss of local drinkers.

“Bad news, O’Hoo.” Foodge struggled to keep a tear from rolling down his cheek. “Bitter ‘n’ Best are off!”

“No, tell me it isn’t true.” O’Hoo had Merv by the lapels, which was a pretty dangerous thing to do, what with his size and disposition. Merv expertly removed O’Hoo’s hands.

“Settle down, son, no-one’s died, it’s only beer” Merv stated, fairly unconvincingly. He started absent-mindedly fiddling with the ‘Best’ tap, looking about to make sure that Granny was out of earshot. “Look, yuz two are the cornerstone of this place, so I’ll level with yuz. It’s not so much the yeast, it’s Granny.  I know, she’s still sprightly, in and out, up and down, and she’s been happy as a dolphin since yuz two fixed the Gents, which, by the way, we’re all bloody grateful, but, ‘er arts not in brewin’.  I’m buggered, dunno what to do with ‘er.”

“But she won that award, for Granny’s Boutique Bitter, you remember, with the yeast from the underpants?” O’Hoo, avered. “What the hell is wrong with her?”

“That’s what I’m sayin’, I dunno. Thought she waz tired so offered her an all expenses paid ‘olidie to me cousin’s place in Woy Woy, but, no, wouldn’t go. Truth is she ‘ad a cuppla dud batches of  Best, then one of Bitter, then she said she’d never brew again. I think she’s lost it, she’s already made space in the cellar for Vee Bee an’ Toolies Old!”

The three screwed up their faces at the thought. Foodge thoughtfully let an eructation escape his lips, which took a bit of pressure off the ulcer. “Well lads, we all need to take it gently, you know, ‘touchy, touchy, feely, monkey’, as they say.” His head was bowed forward with his right index finger tapping the side of his nose. “My current case is a dead end, your’s is closed, O’Hoo?” O’Hoo nodded. “We both need sleep. Shall we reconvene at, say, seventeen hundred o’clock?

“You mean seventeen hours?” O’Hoo was jiggy with military time.

“No, what about five, then?

“Yep, we’ll make it five!”

The two men rose, collected their equipment, and left, leaving their glass canoes untouched. It was a sad day for Merv, his shoulders slumped as he tossed the amber fluid down the sink.

Foodge 15 – Foodge Puts one in for the Boys

02 Thursday Sep 2010

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A Useful plumber locator - if you live in South Bend Indiana

By Big M

Foodge was feeling relaxed. It was early spring. The air was redolent with the perfume of flowers, which was a contrast to the odours of  ‘McLeod’s, Tanners and Fine Leather makers to the Queen.’ There was no mention of which queen, and of which country. Foodge had good reason to feel relaxed. He’d been away for two weeks in the Southern Tablelands on an intensive watercolour camp that was run by Gez and his mysterious ‘H’.  He’d produced dozen of works of art, which were of surprising quality, but Foodge was still shy about showing them to his fellow patrons. Added to this was the pleasure of driving the rebuilt Zephyr on country roads, plus the five big ones from the previous ‘case’.

“Dja read about the Local Member in the paper?” Enquired Merv, as he pushed another glass canoe across the deeply stained timber of the bar.

“No, I’ve been incontinentia, I mean, incognito, these last few weeks.  Foodge replied, absent-mindedly looking at ‘The Law Review’, which was nowhere near as informative as ‘Barrister’s Weekly’, as there was no Word Finder, very few photographs, and lot’s of long winded articles.

“Incognito doesn’t mean out of touch.” Retorted Merv, as he struggled, in vain, to remove what looked like blood stains from the bar top.

“I think you’ll find it does.” Foodge took a long pull from his canoe, looking only slightly ridiculous with foam from his ‘Trotters Best’ forming a soap like moustache.

“What’s ‘e lost his seat?”

“Lost ‘is seat, an’ gone to gaol.” Merv’s brows were knitted as he scrubbed at the stain. “Got busted importin’ gerbils.”

“Didn’t know it was illegal to import gerbils.” Mused Foodge as he tried to decipher some of the Latin terms in the Review.

“It’s not so much importin’ ‘em, it’s what he did to ‘em once ‘e took delivery.” Merv gave up on the stain, becoming fixated by the carcasses of flies in the display case. His reverie was disturbed by a string of expletives from the Gents.

“Bloody dirty bastards, can’t piss straight when they’re sober, let alone with a skin full.” Granny emerged from the dunnies with bucket and mop in hand. “I’ve had a gutful, I’m a Master Brewer, not a cleaner!” She dropped the mop and bucket and marched off to the cellar.

“She has a point.” Observed Foodge, as the stench from the Gents overpowered all the aromas of spring, plus the tannery, which was saying something.

“I thought the new standuppery, plus the new tiles would get rid of that smell!” groaned Merv.

“Clearly we have a dilemma. How do we get the male patrons of the Pigs to micturate in a tidy and accurate manner?” Foodge thought himself clever for using a medical word (he’d read it in a Woman’s Weakly, but, wouldn’t admit it!).

“Buggered if I know.” Grumbled Merv. “Can’t piss straight meself.”

Foodge went into a meditative state, which lasted almost twenty seconds. “Perhaps there’s more to this odour than just urine on the floor, I mean, everything’s new in there, get’s mopped out daily, well, until today. There must be something else happening in there.”

“All of the facilities in the Gents are top notch, I should know, paid for ‘em meself, and installed them all meself, well, with the help of the Mondrian Brothers and some of the Angles, I mean, they had all the tools.”  Merv’s shoulders were now covered in fine, white flakes as he stood scratching his head.

Foodge felt compelled to ask the question. “Are the Mondrian Brothers or any of the Angles licensed plumbers?”

Merv looked uncomfortable. “Well, how hard can it be, I mean, you only need to know that shit doesn’t roll up hill?”

“So, I take that as an answer in the negative.” Foodge was on his stride, like his old days as a barrister.

Merv’s eyes glistened. “Will I lose the pub?”

“No, of course not, all we need to do is find a plumber who’s happy to overlook the shoddy workmanship.”  Foodge looked quite pleased with himself. “Come to think of it, O’Hoo comes from a long line of plumbers. He’s the black sheep of the family, couldn’t get into plumbing college, too much maths, so, became a copper instead!” Foodge had his mobile out, and was already dialling. “O’Hoo, old son, how the hell are you? Terrific, good, yes, yes, yes, yes, no, no, she didn’t. Well, can you meet me for a drink, yes, yes? Pigs Arms, yes, soon.” Foodge pocketed the phone just as O’Hoo crept up behind him.

“Guess who?” O’Hoo ejaculated.

“O’Hoo, of course, I’d recognise that droning voice anywhere.”

O’Hoo thought that this was the height of comedic wit, so, laughed until he was hoarse. Merv pushed a canoe across the bar. Foodge gave the lad time to drain his glass, stuff a day old sausage roll into his gaping pie hole and then reiterated the morning’s conversation.

“Mawder lork” mumbled O’Hoo, the second sausage roll sticking to his hard palate, which he rapidly dislodged with a half pint of Trotters Best. Odour Lock, did you install an odour lock?”

“What the f..” Mumbled Merv. “Odour Lock, what’s an odour lock?”

“It’s a valve that lets fluid through one way, but doesn’t allow gas, or fluid for that matter back out.” O’Hoo was eyeing off a third sausage roll. Clearly his intima, DCI Rouge was struggling to keep him on a diet. “It’s illegal to install a urinal without one. Used hep me Dad install ‘em when I was a kid.”

“Dja remember how to install ‘em” Pleaded Merv.

“Remember?” O’Hoo had decided against the third roll, instead was sinking a third schooner. “Easy peasy, piece of piss. Ha Ha Ha.” More wit from O’Hoo. “I’ll do it now.”  O’Hoo marched straight out of the bar, and walked a couple of blocks to Bunny’s Hardware, returning a few minutes later.

O’Hoo was able to access the offending pipes from the cellar, and install the valve using some of Granny’s kitchen tools. Twenty minutes later, the Gents was ready for its first stench free micturition, which, surprising to everyone, except O’Hoo was a success. In fact, O’Hoo now thought of himself as being flushed with success!

Foodge 14 Private Dick Photoshopping

29 Tuesday Jun 2010

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.... Foodge had grown accustomed to the Daily Terrorgraph's sensationalist headlines

By Big M

Tuesday afternoon saw very little progress in the Local Member case. Foodge had started a file, which consisted of, the photos, and Mrs FitzPatrick’s business card, which Merv had managed to secure the previous morning. Foodge struggled to get comfortable, as the patrons had all been moved to the Ladies Lounge while Granny and Manne pressure cleaned “The Gents’. Evidently Merv had come across a full, automatic Fouler Wear stainless steel standuppery for an undisclosed amount. Granny was adamant that the entire room should be cleaned and repainted before installation.

Foodge had the photos fanned out like playing cards on the bar. He still struggled to make sense of the angle of the dangle, turning his head this way, and then that. He was sitting, wondering what the hell photoshopped meant when Merv piped up. “Well done, aren’t they?”

“Yes, lovely photos.”

“No, the photoshopping, beautifully blended, colour matches nicely, shadows fall the same way.”

Foodge suddenly realised that ‘photshopping’ had nothing to do with buying photos, but something to do with altering photos. “That’s if they are, indeed, photoshopped!” He retorted, thinking that he may have left the legal fraternity a little too early in life.

“Fair cop, you should get’em analysed. Waz is pretty good at this sorta thing.” Merv pushed another canoe across the bar. “I’ll point ‘im out next time he’s in.”

They both braced themselves for Janet’s ritual afternoon screaming session, but it never came. She was still in the grip of morning sickness, which lasted all day. Instead the pub was overwhelmed by the sound of big Vee twins. It was the Hell’s Angles, on their Charlies. Both Merv and Foodge visibly relaxed. The Angles started to wander in. Foodge was surprised to see Emmjay and FM, as they’d always rubbished American bikes. The last to enter the Ladies Lounge was The Professor, accompanied by Detective Chief Inspector Rouge, as well as Detective Inspector O’Hoo, who, thanks to Rouge’s influence, was still maintaining some semblance to a human

“Having a meeting, are we?”  Foodge was still a little hurt that his efforts in the de Sastri case had been overlooked.

“No, Foodge, not a meeting, a presentation.” The Professor intoned. “For services to the Hell’s Angles Motor Cycle Club, we hereby invite you to become an Associate, that is, non-geometric, member.” The Professor stepped forward and pinned a badge to Foodge’s lapel, shaking him vigorously by the hand. Each club member stepped forward, some shaking his hand, others embracing him, weeping openly.

DCI Rouge then took the floor. “I have been asked by the New South Wales Pleece Commishnar to thank you for you efforts in the aforementioned case, and am empowered to appoint you as a Special Deputy to the Pleece Force.” Rouge stepped forward, shook Foodge’s hand, and then hugged him tightly, whispering. “Thanks for looking after my little Gerald.” She had tears in her eyes. O’Hoo hugged him, grinning away. “There’s a big surprise.” O’Hoo, was, after all, a big child.

The Professor grabbed Foodge by the arm, taking him to the car park, the gang followed. “We’ve managed to find an old friend.”

There, parked in her usual spot, was Foodge’s Zephyr, idling as smoothly as when she came off the production line. Now it was his turn for tears. ”How…when…err.” He stammered.

“Surprisingly enough, Foodge, some of our members are mechanical engineers, and damned good mechanics.” Beamed the Professor. “Now, I think it’s time to party. Foodge was led back inside to the sounds of the Burnside Refugees, with guest bass player O’Hoo, and Emmjay on lead guitar. Merv had moved the pie warmer to the Ladies Lounge, and had stocked it with Fresh, Country Baked frozen pies and sausage rolls. Granny had hung up the water blaster for the day, and was busy cutting potatoes for her wedges. The Bowling Ladies had arrived with ham and tomato sandwiches, with thick margarine, on day old white bread, and had started to brew their trademark acrid tea.

Janet waddled down the stairs, convinced that this was the way a future mother of twins was supposed walk in the ninth week of pregnancy. DCI Rouge danced seductively in front of the bass player, whilst Emmjay’s First Mate attempted to teach the bongo player some musical concepts regarding cadence and rhythm. Merv was flat out behind the bar pulling pints of Trotters and Granny’s Best, whilst Granny was working her magic on the wedges. Even Manne was trying to be useful, by working as the bar useful.

The Pigs Arms was rocking. Angles danced with Bowling Ladies, whilst beer, wedges, pastries and sangers were consumed at a frenetic pace. Foodge was overwhelmed with the constant pats on the back, shouts of Trotters and smiles from well-wishers. Unfortunately, this just wasn’t his scene, and, ever the professional, he found his way up to the Nathan Rees Memorial Cinema, where, for the umpteenth time this week, he spread out the photos, staring whilst sipping a cleansing ale. The scruffiest, most unkempt fellow he’d ever seen soon joined him. “Gidday, I’m Waz.” As the newcomer thrust out a hand. “Believe you’ve got some photos need analysing?”

‘Waz’ set up a laptop, and his fingers were soon flurrying across the keyboard.  “So, you’re going to scan the photos into the computer to analyse them?” Foodge queried.

“No, I’m checking the comments on my various graphics and articles that I publish on-line.” Waz sneered at some of the text that flashed across the scree. “I only need to eyeball the photos.” He stopped typing, and looked at each photo. “Not photoshopped, mate.”

“So, they’re real?” Foodge was quick on the uptake.

Waz already had the laptop folded away. “Yep, see you.” Then wandered off.

Foodge sat and wondered how he’d break the news to Mrs FitzPatrick that the photos of the Local Member really were of his member.  Janet waddled into the cinema, supporting her non-bulging belly with two hands. Pregnancy suited her, Foodge reflected, even her crazy wandering eye seemed to make some effort to work in concert with the good one.

“You must be tempted.” Janet winked.

“Oh…er…um…a mate’s wife ‘n’ pregnant ‘n’ all.” Foodge’s cheeks coloured.

“No, you dill.” It was Janet’s turn to be embarrassed. “The photos. You could flog ‘em to one of the better papers, say, The Terrorgraph or Lewisham Bugle, for thousands. It’s a pity the Mirror’s gone. They’d pay tens of thousands.”

This had never crossed Foodge’s mind, not because he was a dill, no, he was honest, another personality trait that prevented him from re-entering The Law. “I’ve never thought about it. Thousands you reckon?”

“Yep, knew you wouldna thorduvvit, that’s why I suggested it.” Janet winked again, then waddled off in the direction of the flat over the pub. Pregnancy was really taking it out of her, besides ‘Mastercook’ was about to start.

Foodge realised that Janet was trying to give him a clue, but try as he might, he just couldn’t get it. Slowly, like dawn light filtering in through the high window of The Gents, where he’d woken many a fine morning, it dawned on him. Big Red had set him up to sell the photos to a paper. Foodge had been taken for a stooge.

photo borrowed from http://www.wtfoodge.com – a parallel universe – I suspect they borrowed it too……

Foodge 13 Foodge – Very Private Dick

13 Sunday Jun 2010

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.... Manne was about to replace the sign on the disabled toilet with something more pressing....

By Big M

It was a fairly low-key morning, for a Monday. The Pigs Arms had been part of the Lewisham-Leichhardt Food and Wine Weekend, which was uncharacteristic of Merv to allow. The Bowling Ladies had served Devonshire Teas in the front bar, in an attempt to proselytise new members. This had been completely unsuccessful, as they still had no green. Granny had brewed up a nice keg of her Cellar Floor Underpants beer, which she tried to market as an Indian Pale Ale, but hers was far too high in alcohol, and far too bitter for this category, so was simply sold as ‘Granny’s Boutique Bitter.’

The surrounding community had got into the swing of things. Gez and the mysterious, and beautiful, ‘H’ had set up a small art gallery with the profits going into purchasing materials for the local school. The Hell’s Angles opened the clubhouse and entertained the local children with the ‘Cosine Clowns’ and the ‘Arc-Sine Acrobats’, as well as ‘Tangent Tombola’ with their proceedings going into texts on geometry for the high school.

The bar was fairly quiet. The Bowling ladies had already cleaned the front bar, and gone off for a ‘roll up’ at a rival green. Emmjay and First Mate were firmly ensconced on the old, battered chesterfield, commiserating. Both had lost their jobs in the ABC wardrobe department, and were drowning their sorrows in Trotters ale. The occasional bang or grunt came from the cellar. Granny was spring-cleaning as the goat had got in and, well, done what goats do, eat inedible things, and then excrete them from their alimentary tract.

Foodge was  out of sorts. The cops had taken all of the glory for the de Sastri case, plus all of the associated misdemeanours committed by the Lambrettists. O’Hoo was otherwise occupied, whilst most regulars had spent the last fortnight preparing for the Weekend. He sat at the bar sipping on Granny’s, which, by the way, was a great throat elixir and expectorant.

Janet was alone behind the bar, looking a tad pale. She’d excused herself a couple of times to run to the ladies. Merv had left early to go into town. He wanted to buy a suit and managed to find out the name of  Clive Palmer’s and Joe Hockey’s tailor; Messrs Lowes and Elliot, who catered for the man of larger stature.  The third time she disappeared Granny intercepted and helped her to the flat upstairs. Granny returned to look after the bar, as most of the cellar was clean. Foodge looked at her quizzically.

“Pudding Club.” She replied.

“Ugh.” Foodge looked more quizzical.

“Up the duff.”

“Err.” Foodge shrugged his shoulders.

“She’s preggers.”

“O.K. Granny.” Foodge’s brows were knitted like a mad woman had done them.  Dropped stitches gave them a kind of triangularity – which pleased the Hell’s Angles.  “No need to be so cryptic!”

“She’s having a baby.” Granny shook her head. Brilliant powers of deduction.” Just don’t mention anything to Merv, he’s still a bit raw.”

“Oh…err…right.” Foodge concentrated hard on his mail that he’d brought to read. Bills, bills and more bills. Quote for the Zephyr, unmentionable, although, he thought, should be a tax dod…deduction. Fern had even slipped in a couple of acrylic nail repairs, as they were broken on the job. There was also a bill for her on-line short hand course. This really wasn’t money well spent, as she didn’t know how to use the internet. He shoved the mass of paper roughly into his coat pocket. Foodge silently pushed his glass canoe across the bar, which Granny dutifully refilled. He settled in to read Barrister’s Weekly. This week it was full of glossy colour action shots, with not much text, which suited Foodge. His concentration was disturbed by the sound of the door slamming, and a leggy redhead cha chai-ng towards him. “Sorry, love, don’t do divorces or missing persons.” As he turned back to his ‘journal’. This wasn’t entirely true, but he’d heard Phillip Marlowe say it, and thought it cool.

The redhead flopped onto the barstool next to his, put her elbows on the bar then buried her face in her hands. “It’s neither.” She sobbed. “It’s this.” She pulled a packet of colour snaps out of her handbag.

Foodge looked through them with his head on one side, then the other, trying to determine the camera angle, or, some other angle. “Somebody’s got a big pe…err…smile.” He almost chuckled to himself, forgetting the gravity of the situation. “Shown these to the cops?”

Big Red shook her head as Granny proffered a box of tissues. “I can’t, he’s my husband, the Local Member.”

“Yes, I can see his member.” Foodge could be obtuse.

“No, he’s the Local Member.” She sobbed.

“So, I think I’ve got it. He’s local and is memorable ?”

“Foodge, he’s the bloody Local Member, MP, Member for Lewisham!” Granny growled as she tried to comfort the poor woman.

“Oh, the Local Member, you should’ve said.” Foodge grinned at his cleverness. “So, you want me to find Cecil Bee Dermill and give a him tune up?”

“No, they’re obviously photoshopped, but could be damaging if they find their way into a paper. I want you to find him, stop him, take the files, and give them to me.

“What, find your husband, I don’t do lost and found.” Foodge was umbraged.

“ No, find the photographer and stop him. Here’s five thousand to get started, there’ll be five more when you finish. Do we have a deal?” She held out her hand.

“OK, but what’s his name?

“I don’t know his name. That’s why I’ve hired you.”

What, you don’t know your husband’s name? Foodge was befuddled.

“Yes, he’s the Local Member. Don’t tell me you don’t know the name of the Local Member?” Big Red was getting exasperated.

“Well, no.”

“Patrick Fitzpatrick.!”

“Patrick certainly fits something.” Foodge muttered to himself. “Leave it with me, the five big, I mean. I’ll get started straight away. Foodge took the wad of cash, turned on his heel and marched into the putrid stench known as ‘The Men’s.”’ He then realised that he had no details, such as, her name, address, phone number, method of delivery of said photos, and so on. Minor details. Rather than lose face, he waited amongst the fetid odour, hid his five large in his secret pocket, and siphoned of some bladder contents. He returned to find Merv behind the bar, resplendent in his new suit.

“Ah, you’ll look great at the christening.” Granny suddenly slopped grey water from the mop over his shoes, sock s and lower trousers.

“Oh, dear, I am sorry.” Granny manoeuvred Foodge  back towards ‘The Gents’. “Say nothing, and keep walking.” She hissed.

Granny had been in a bad mood all day!

Foodge 12 – Foodge’s War Part V

24 Monday May 2010

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By Big M.

Foodge looked at the ancient Cuckoo clock over the bar. The clock always said half past eleven but just now that meant that it was about four p.m. Janet had done her ritual screaming at the local kids. One mum had turned up, giving Janet an earful. She’d come back inside, downcast. Her one good eye following the carpet in front of her feet, the other swinging wildly, as if trying to take in everything. Merv filled another canoe with Granny’s new Pale Ale. Granny was intending to try to keep this new cellar-floor underpants yeast alive. It had really invigorated her brewing.

Foodge took a long pull at the canoe, then settled back to Barrister’s Weekly. He’d always tried to maintain his knowledge of legal matters. He loved the Barrister’s Word Finder, most of all, except, it had him stumped, which wasn’t unusual.

Last night had been a disaster. Instead of meeting Ms Thropy for a midnight tryst, he found himself negotiating towing fees with young Nic Stavros of ‘Stavros & Stavros Towing Services’, then, half the morning discussing engine rebuild options with Fern’s brother, Reg, who was keen to drop a 427 Chev motor into the chassis, as, this was cheaper than a full rebuild.

The usual barflys hung around. Rosie and BB had been in to collect their guns. Rosie continued to wink at him every time she saw him and mumbled something about the strength of the dragon. The bowling ladies had been back, except Beryl, to ensure that the urn and teapot had been stored away properly, then left.

The main door opened. O’Hoo stepped aside to let DI Rouge in, then stepped through, allowing the door to slam on the young plain clothes copper, on secondment from uniform.  “Gerald, your manners should extend to our young friend”. Rouge simpered, obviously still in love’s thrall. “Ah, Foodge, questions for you.” Vinh’s speech had taken on a weird, lilting, poetic quality. “You must excuse me, Mr Foodge, for, I am in Love!: she exhaled.

O’Hoo looked bashful, but, better for being in ‘Love’. He’d already had a shave and haircut, with streaks! He was wearing a clean suit and shirt, and carried a new Mont Blanc pen in his pocket.

Well, O’Hoo, you look like you’ve got beaver fever.” Said Foodge, as straight a face as he’d ever pulled, although he was bursting with laughter on the inside. O’Hoo, dud root extraordinaire, with bloody trouser wearing Rouge. Still, he thought, O’Hoo looked better for it, in spite of the love bites up his neck.

“Mr Foodge, we meet again.” Rouge’s small fingers were interlaced with O’Hoo’s sausage-like equivalents. “I have a few questions for you.”

“Am I under arrest, or, just a police caution?” Foodge was applying some legal jargon in the hope of throwing Rouge off the scent. There was a scent, the scent, or, rather stench of the blocked urinal in the men’s intermingled with burnt sausage roll and goat-shit.

The mixture of sights and smells, plus, a night of wild love-making left O’Hoo’s stomach complaining. He nodded at Merv who scratched his skinny arse with the tongs, then tossed a couple of sausage rolls onto a plate. O’Hoo was in heaven, side by side with his love, his best mate next to them and a fist-full of oily sausage roll and sauce. MMMMMM..extra crunchy!!!

“Dyouahvanalibiforlastnite?”

“Sorry?” Foodge shook his head a couple of times like an epileptic.

“Alibi, you, last night” Rouge was clearly jiggy with the young people-speak.

“Dwineedwun?” Foodge replied, he’d watched ‘Countdown’, before.

“Yep.” Sounded more like the way he was used to speaking. “de Sastri’s been shot, with your 0.38. Grinned Rouge. “Prima facie case.

Foodge was confused. He assumed de Sastri was till on the Southern Tablelands, plus, the only latin he knew was  ‘cunni lingus,’ the Irish airline. “Ugh?”

“Sorry mate, we’ve got the head with a bullet from your snub nosed 38, and, your gun at Thropy’s place. Looks like you’ve hooked up with her, been discovered, shot the bugger, then chopped him, and his scooter up, then chucked it in wheelie bins throughout Leichardt.” Explained O’Hoo.

“Foodge aint the ‘Wheelie Bin Killer!” exclaimed Merv. “Been here mosuv the night!” The body of de Sastri had been discovered by a garbo, who, counter to the garbo creed, had got out of his truck to reposition a wheelie bin, then made the discovery of a severed arm with the tattoo ‘Lambrettas forever’, plus a scooter motor. This had shut down garbage collection for most of Leichardt whilst the Coronor’s lads combed through the remaining wheelie bins. There hadn’t been much left in the compactor, as bits of de Sastri mixed with bits of motor scooter, mixed with refuse.

Rouge put her hand up.”I agree, Merv, Foodge aint, or, isn’t the ‘Wheelie Bin Killer’. Why, you may ask? One, We know he was here last night, as he was still under police surveillance, two, he’s a good friend and mentor to my beautiful Gerald, and three, I believe he was framed!”

“Commiserations on the Zephyr.” Chimed in O’Hoo, looking around desperately for a napkin or tissue to wipe his greasy fingers.” Merv refused to provide napkins on the premise that, if he did so, people would use them.

“Looks like a big end bearing came apart, tearing open the crankcase.” Foodge was upset, not only because of the damage to his favourite car, but it was going to cost so much to fix. “Anyway, why d’you think I’m being framed?”

Rouge was wiping O’Hoos’s face with a tissue she’d found in her Louis Vitton handbag. “Your finger prints weren’t on the gun, as you have a pathological fear of guns. Thropy had retained you, as a PI in order to access your weapon and, at the same time assessed security in your office, which is never locked properly as your secretary can’t manipulate keys properly with those acrylic nails.”

“Why would she want to murder her ex-husband? She was shot of him, and managed to get more than half of his substantial property.” Foodge was bewildered.

“I believe I can answer that!” In strode Gez, who had obviously just ridden down on his Charlie, his long fingers still stained with paint. He nodded to Merv who poured a glass of shiraz, while Janet, who had recovered from her bollocking, went down to the cellar to get a jar of pickled herrings. Merv and Janet enjoyed having a famous painter as a patron, so, uncharacteristically, tried to look after him.

Gez settled onto a stool next to Foodge. “But first, how is your painting, my friend?”

“Haven’t had much time, been…ah…busy…er…sorry.” Foodge was embarrassed to talk about his artistic exploits. Keen to change the subject. “ What motive did Anne have for murdering Rocky?”

“Cast your mind back, how did this start?” Gez sounded slightly mystical.

“The tattooed arse, no, the Professor’s thesis rejected, no…”  Rouge prevented Merv from giving O’Hoo another clip around the ear.

Foodge’s brow furrowed. “It was Lou, started the vendetta, and…” Foodge struggled for something at the back of his brain. No. The more he struggled to remember, the more confused he became. He may as well try to remember Poiseuille’s Equation, or the capital of Brazil.

“Rocky divorced Anne, because she had an affair with his brother Lou. This affair has continued. They both wanted to take over the Lambrettists. The vendetta was a trial to see to whom the members were loyal. When the vendetta was called off so easily then Rocky was killed. Simple!” Said Gez, as he ate the last of his herring, followed by the rest of the shiraz.

Rouge was already dragging O’Hoo through the doors, she was thinking SWAT teams, big arrest, perhaps even tip off the press. Gez gave Merv a generous tip, then left, promising to take Foodge out to the country for some painting, mumbling something about the quality of the light, the colours, the textures.

Foodge was once again alone with Merv, who filled another canoe and handed it to Foodge, “On the house, son.”

The Pigs Arms was finally back to the way it was.