Tag Archives: Big M

Foodge – A Much Bigger Number in the Key of Royal Minor

26 Wednesday Dec 2018

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Simulated Foodge Blood Sample
(actual size)

Story by Big M

Big M awoke in a narrow little bed that seemed to be in a tiny room. There was a tremendous knocking. ‘Oh, Christ’. He thought.’ Not Foodge and Granny again?’ The knocking seemed to continue, and, this time wasn’t associated with cries of pain, or ecstasy, that seemed to emanate throughout the upstairs rooms of the pub at intervals through the night. He suddenly realised it was coming from the door. “Please come in and stop that infernal knocking.”

A very ebullient Manne bounced into the room. “Have yer worked out a plan?”

“What, to get rid of this headache?” Big M had probably imbibed a little too much IPA, and had had very little sleep.

“Well, with a head like that, why wouldn’t it ache?” Manne cheerily replied. He didn’t really know what it meant, but his father used to say it to him when he was a kid.

“What time is it?” Big M shovelled a couple of panadol into his mouth.

“Sparra’s fart”Manne grinned.

“Why so fucking early?” Big M was searching his toiletry bag for some Zantac.

“Early, no I’ve been doin’ some jobs for Mr Merv, getting’ the kitchen ready for Granny.” Manne absent mindedly picked at a dirty fingernail. “Anyhoo, I reckon we need to get some sheila, I mean, lady to impersonate a Lady in Waiting on Foodge’s phone. You know, to explain the blood test.”

“Fiendishly clever, Mr Manne, he would see straight through a letter, but a phone call would instantly appeal to his Royalist tilt. He’ll probably think he’ll be getting a knighthood!”  Just then their conversation was interrupted by a tremendous knocking, each knock accompanied by cries of….you get what I mean. “Oh shit, let’s go and have some breakfast.

A couple of hours later Big M sat back in his chair, having consumed multiple cups of black coffee, a Thai omelette , wedges with sweet chilli sauce, and Atlantic salmon. “Manne, when did the menu become so, um, er, international?”

“Well, Granny needed a break, so I’ve been doin’ some of the cookin’  You know that I grew up in Thailand, and me Dad was a chef?  Manne cleared the table. “Do you think you may appreciate the hair of the dog? I mean, you look a bit peaky.”

“I was about to say that I didn’t realise you had grown up, let alone in Thailand. Excellent idea, young Manne, I mean about the beer, and the cooking.” Big M had loosened off his belt a tad, but left his button done up. ‘I mean, Christ.’ He thought. ‘Yer not on the Newcastle train now!’

Manne appeared with a pint of Granny’s Best as Foodge seemed to emanate out of nowhere. “Ah, Foodge, good to see you, Old Son!” Big M enthused as he struggled to his feet to shake our Dear Boy’s hand. “How the hell are ya’?”

“Fabulous Uncle M. You look well, how is Aunty M?” Foodge sat opposite Big M and motioned Manne to pour a second canoe. “Manne, would you be kind enough to prepare a six egg white omelette on sourdough, mushrooms, tomatoes and a side of chipolatas?”

“So, the usual Mr Foodge?” Manne shuffled off to the kitchen.

“Big day today, M.” Foodge eagerly drank the first half of his pint. “Off to the cordwainer.” Foodge motioned to the shopping bag on the floor. “Might have a poke around the Queen Victoria Building while I’m there.”

“Cordwainer, what’s a bloody cordwainer?” Big M shouldn’t be surprised at Foodge’s outlandish pronouncements.

“A cordwainer is a shoe maker. These brogues aren’t going to resole themselves!” Foodge skulled the last of his pint, and was already eagerly looking around for someone to proffer another.

“Oh, so you mean a cobbler?” Big M was also looking for another pint.

“No, I mean a cordwainer. A cobbler is simply a shoe repairman.” Thankfully Manne had placed two pints of Granny’s Pale Ale in front of them. “Besides, I think my left foot may be changing shape, so may need to have my last adjusted, or even remade.”

“Last, what fucking last?” Big was lost in the discussion.

“You know, when the cordwainer makes a shoe he makes a wooden model of your foot called a last. What does your cordwainer do?” A plate of eggs and mushrooms had appeared at his elbow. “Ah, eggsellent!” Foodge never tired of this little joke.

“I don’t have a cordwainer. I can’t afford custom made shoes.” Big M was growing exasperated, but his headache had settled.

“Don’t have a cordwainer? Next you will tell me you don’t have a tailor! Although you do have that off the shelf look about you” Foodge was searching the table for some Tabasco sauce. “Ah.” It was right there with the salt and pepper. Just then Foodge’s phone rang. “Hello, yes, Foodge here. Yes. Lady in Waiting to whom? …You want to what? ….Family tree? ….What?… Present from my pals at the Pigs Arms? …You want to what? …Blood taken?” Foodge was suddenly sitting up very straight. “I could be a Minor Royal? …Yes, of course, I’ll get the blood taken…Thank you, Your Majesty. No, Oh, thank you, your Lady…I’ll get it done today..” Foodge put the iPhone away. “Big M, you’ll never guess…”

Big M already had a syringe and needle in his hand. “Which arm. Foodge?”

Merv goes to the Bank

15 Sunday Oct 2017

Posted by in Big M

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Going to the bank. Look left, then right and then, look theft again.

 

Story by Big M.

Merv was discombobulated. He still hadn’t recovered from the loss of the Pigs Arms dot matrix, and had just made it home before the ticket, or now known, as the Opal Card Inspector got on the bus. The driver had laughed at Merv’s effort to exchange postage stamps for travel, and had told that half the commuters didn’t have a card anyway.

It had really started this morning. He had asked a delivery driver to take back six kegs that were off. The driver agreed that they were all from a batch that had been recalled, and didn’t Merv get the email, or see it on our website? Merv thought he was talking gobbledegook, so cut to the chase and asked for a cheque. “A what, mate? A

It’s real for sure, it says so here

cheque, medieval thinking man, the boss will just do a bank transfer, if we’ve got yer BSB ‘n’ account number on file.” Merv had always been happy to get a cheque, so went inside to ring the manager of the brewery, who was friendly, but insisted that he go through the website, or email to him. Merv ended up ringing the bank to find out his BSB and account number, only to find that they had just stopped issuing passbooks, and could he email all of his details to the bank. It all sounded like something for Emmjay to sort out, but could he wait for Emmjay’s next visit?

Then lunchtime. Some young blokes wanted to pay for their meal and beers on ‘paywave’. Merv reckoned that as long as they paid, he’d wave at them. “No silly, on our cards!”’ Well, fuck me.’ Thought Merv.’Wavin’ credit cards to pay for stuff.’ He had eventually got one of them to go and get some cash for the payment.

I swear, eyes was a boy when eyes woke up

Meanwhile he was walking from kitchen to Gentlemen’s Bar when he caught one of the young lads going into the Ladies Toilets. “’ang on there, young feller!” Merv had him by the collar.

“Unhand me, I’m a lady, or, at least I am today.” Squirmed the little bloke.

“You look like a bloke to me!” Merv was ready to throw him into the carpark.

“Well, I’m Gender Fluid, I felt like a boy this morning, so dressed accordingly, but now, after a few drinks, I feel like a girl.” The prisoner had managed to wiggle out of Merv’s massive hands. “Besides, it’s you fault for not having Trans Bathrooms!” Merv just let him/her go.

Then, back at the bar, Merv asked some of the bar flies about ‘Gender fluid’. Of course the nurses didn’t bat an eyelid, or many lids, they had seen too much of it, whilst Angler and Gib reckoned they’d read about it but never seen it. Mark claimed it was

I think that toilet is overflowing Merv.

something to do with sitting down to take a piss. Shoe reckoned she’d seen it, and read and written about it, and, if Merv bothered to read what’s on his own website, may have learned all about it! “We have a website?” Sputtered Merv, still none the wiser.

Foodge wanted to pay for his beer on his Visa (again, what’s with the travel references?), and get a cash advance. “You want to pay on what? And get cash too?” Merv was aghast. Clearly he’d missed something crucial in the world of business, so put Granny in charge of the bar and took off for the bank.

The Assistant Manager looked about fifteen, but, as The Pigs Arms was such a valued customer, spent ages talking about internet banking, paying and receiving payments

The Bank Manager

online, how to set up a new credit system called ‘Visa’, and what other credit cards ‘Visa’ recognised, and where the money goes once the vendor processes a ‘Visa’ payment, and how ‘paywave’ is part of ‘Visa’, and no, when the customer gets a cash advance it’s not from the vendor’s account. When the young bloke was finished he asked Merv what sort of operating system he had. “Well, mate, we were just about to update to a Pentium!” Merv could barely conceal his glee.

“Well, Mr Merv, I think you should go a few steps beyond a Pentium. I’ll tell you what, you can purchase a complete commercial set up that links into all of our ‘Visa’ machines. I think they’ve got them on sale at Bing Lee’s!”

Merv went pale, then feinted, to find Granny standing over him. “Wake, up Merv, I need a hand!”

‘Thank the Lord, it was only a nightmare!’ Thought Merv.

“Them Transgender dunnies are blocked again, can you get in there an’ shift it?”

Ain’t life a bitch…

 

 

Episode 95 – Foodge Granny Reminisces

08 Friday Sep 2017

Posted by in Big M, Foodge Private Dick

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Manne brings his battery to the bar

Granny Reminisces (the other bit)

Story by Big M

MR Foodge appeared at the bar. “What’s wrong, my young, mentally challenged, chap?” Foodge always thought that ‘mentally challenged’ was a sort of compliment.

“Oh, ah, me phone.” Manne proffered the dead instrument to Foodge.

“Ah, yes, no battery…hold on.” Foodge rummaged through his Dressing Gown pockets,

Call Emmjay now for a good time on 1800-Big-One

and came up with three bobby pins, many tissues (yike), paper clips, a photo of Granny, and a iPhone lead. He looked around eagerly for a charger.

“Here, mate.” Angler, who didn’t seem to be part of the story, passed along one of those fancy backup battery, thingummies. “Never leave home without it.”

“Fabulous.” Foodge put it all together. “Now, let’s all see what our young friend is on about?”

YOUR IOS DEVICE IS INFECTED WITH SEVEN VIRUSES, WHICH WERE FROM PORN SITES. OUR ANTIVIRUS CAN ERRADISHCAKE THEM FOR ONLY $129.99.

Nurse Intensive Care

Foodge raised a baristerial eyebrow, then passed it to Angler, who nearly fell orff his barstool laughing, who passed it to Gib who nearly choked on his ale, before passing it to Hung who sniggered before passing it to the night duty nurses, who all laughed uproariously, before giving it to Emmjay, who, being a serious, fatherly sort of a cove, shrugged his shoulders. “It’s just a scam, Manne, there won’t really be porno driven viruses in your phone!”

“Porno, porno, yer watchin’ porno?” Granny snatched the phone from Emmjay for a good look. “You’ve got three tabs open, fulla nudies!” Granny smacked him a couple of times around the back of the head.

“Now, Granny, calm yourself.” Foodge managed to hold her back preventing her from unleashing another salvo of slaps. “You know he’s got a soft head, which won’t take much abuse!”

“Well, I won’t have a pervert under my roof, back yer bags, and yer titty magazines, or whatever yerve got!”

Bambi does Dallas

“Now, Granny, Dear.” Started Foodge. “This may be a symptom of something much deeper…”

“Yes, a deep perve!” Granny slammed the phone down on the bar, cracking the glass.

“No, er, well. Yes, but not perve, um, I mean perversion.” Foodge tried to clean up the glass. “I suspect that our Manne is, well, lonely.”

He’ll be fuckin’ lonely..” Granny was red faced, with beads of sweat forming on her forehead.

“No, well, that’s what I’m trying to say, our faithful retainer, young Manne, needs a woman in his life.”

Folk struggling with sexuality

“A woman, thought he was gay, or Mormon, or something!” Granny was trying to mop the sweat from her face with some of those recycled serviettes, you all know, the brown ones that doing everything except absorb fluid.

“I’m not gay, or Mormon, or Callithumpian!” Manne had at last found his voice. “While we’re at it, do I owe some phone people $129.99 Mr Emmjay?”

“No, son.” Resonated Emmjay’s kindly voice. ”But your phone’s fucked!” With that he left.

“So, yer on the level then, Foodge?” Granny seemed to be calmed by Foodge’s presence.

“Of course, my Dear!” Foodge blushed to be calling Granny ‘Dear’ in front of the patrons. “The question is, where would we find a girl for Mann?”

Foodge and Granny

Episode 91B – Foodge steps up to the Plate

07 Friday Jul 2017

Posted by in Foodge Private Dick, Mark

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Foodge likes to set his hair before court

 

It was midnight. It had to be midnight, it was dark and Foodge slivered underneath the covers to keep warm and doze back off into dream land. You know the one, where money is plentiful and the girls are, well endowed. No matter how hard Foodge tried and yes it got really really hard at times, the banging at the door would not go away. Oh I get it, you thought…

“Foodge-o-rama, get the fuck up, you have an episode at the Pigs Arms to appear in, Big M has put you in it” cries O’Hoo, standing at the door of the baristas apartment.

O’Hoo just has this way about him

“No one wants to write it so Hung is going to do it. I’m off for a few glass canoes, I’ll meet you downstairs.”

“Who’s Big M?” says Foodge.

“Gib W, now hurry up. Granny has been reminiscing and you know what happens when granny gets emotional and has access to a shotgun.”

Hmm, yes, I do, thinks Foodge and if only granny could see him as her real soul mate and lover. He imagined walks along the riverbank on sunny days, picnics, good coffee, absorbing the suns rays and then intimacy, touching, feeling, lovingly man to woman [Okay cut, Mark here we get the picture].

Granny had contacted O’Hoo after Manne had handed her his mobile phone. “Get Foodge, Manne needs help.”

Manne, temporarily caught up

The bar is now buzzing with activity, no not the insect kind but everyone came in to try and help Manne.

“[Theme from Rocky as Foodge makes a grand entrance] Yes everyone, it is eye, Foodge, come to avert this horrible crisis. Show me Granny, this offensive phone message that our poor intellectually challenged Manne had to cope with.”

Granny hands Foodge the phone. Foodge diligently, like all legal folk, reads everything in the message very carefully. He pauses for a few moments,

“Hmm, battery is low, shit, now even technology has depression.”

Ewe fink dats funny, wait till Episode 92

Foodge Episode 91 or thereabouts Granny Reminisces

28 Wednesday Jun 2017

Posted by in Big M, Foodge Private Dick

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I use Granny in my kitchen, wipe on, wipe off

Granny Reminisces

Story by Big M.

Granny was a tad busy, what with Merv having gone off into town to look for ink for his antique dot matrix printer. He had asked all of the patrons about it, and they were split between getting a new inkjet versus a new LASER printer. They were united in thinking that the dot matrix was done.

Anyhoo, Granny was busy washing and cutting up rough looking, dirty Robertson potatoes, frying eggs, and making her own brand of salsa, as well as listening out for the bar. At least the Bowling Ladies were pretty self sufficient, and, if they weren’t, Hedgie has dropped in to fill the urn, make tea, and pour glasses (many glasses!) of Sherry.

 

 

Manne was nowhere to be seen, as usual. He was supposed to be the acting cellarman, but was frequently anywhere but in the cellar. He had developed quite a

Manne, ewe in dare

penchant for watching Redtube on his iPhone, a habit that was decidedly antisocial!

Janet had dropped the twins at preschool, then gone on the Hearing Clinic to get her hearing aids tuned up, which may explain all of the shouting for the last couple of days.

It was far too early for Foodge, Barrister at Large, to be anywhere outside Granny’s boudoir, particularly mid-winter. Besides, he had been up late working on a case (of South Seas Islands Scotch).

The nurses hadn’t finished night shift, yet, so the place was relatively quiet. Granny didn’t mind being alone. It gave her a chance to ruminate, in fact, yesterday’s spice jar mix up reminded her of a fat, slow moving little boy who had come into her life quite by chance. She was a young woman, just given up her career as a professional

Julian's Pigs

Call this a hotel…

boxer, and had taken over the licence of one of the most beautiful, in her mind, buildings in Sydney, the Window Dressers Arms, Pig and Whistle. She loved every aspect of the place, from its tiled façade to its tall, proud chimney pots, and everything in between. Anyway, there was this pudgy little kid used to hang around the car park, waiting for his mum to finish drinking, or philandering, or usually, both. One afternoon said kid turned up with blood running down his shirt, and a rapidly evolving black eye. Granny rushed him into the kitchen, applied ice, gave him a pink drink, and asked him what had happened.

Well, the reader knows the story, the kid’s name was Merv, and he was bullied at school, and his mum didn’t care, and he knew that Granny had been a boxer, and could she teach him to fight? Of course she did, but it entailed training with Granny, which meant meeting her at sparra’s fart, running to the gym, where they lifted weights, threw medicine balls, skipped and boxed. There were mornings when she didn’t pay him much heed, but coached other boxers, but the kid kept his ears open, and was amazed at how much he learned.

The gentle reader knows the rest, how the bullies got beaten up, and how the fat kid hit puberty and suddenly grew muscle and lost fat, continued to train, becoming a professional boxer himself. Unfortunately Merv’s mum never spent much time with him,

Merv’s room

so when she announced that she was marrying a ‘rich cow cocky’ and moving to the country, the teenage boy didn’t mind, instead asking Granny for a room at the pub. Merv never looked back.

Granny’s reverie was interrupted by the sound of a banging at the front door, the beer truck. “Manne, Manne, where are you?”

No response, so she marched through the cellar, to fling open the cellar doors nearly knocking over an unwitting pedestrian, then lining up an old wooden ramp to guide the kegs in. “Where’s Manne?” Asked the driver, who was already positioned to deliver the first keg?

“Buggered if I know!” Retorted Granny through gritted teeth, as she rolled the first keg of Wretched Pilsener into place. “Probably watchin’ nudies on his phone.”

The driver let out a hearty laugh. “Fuckin’ wanker!” He grinned.

The cellar was quickly filled with full kegs; the empties were already out the back,

Granny’s Best

waiting to be picked up. “Still brewin’ yer own beer?” The driver had been instructed to find out, in case Granny was buying from a rival brewer.

“Yep.” Granny nodded to rows of old kegs. “Still do me own Best, Bitter, plus some seasonal IPAs an’ such.”

“Hello, looks like some patrons.” The driver nodded to the nurses as he helped Granny close the cellar doors.

Granny soon found herself in the Main Bar surrounded by cheery nurses who all enjoyed a post night shift beverage with bum nuts, wedges and salsa, whilst the Bowling Ladies had finished their planning meeting, and had sent Beryl in with a breakfast order. “No rush, dear, whenever.”

There was a sudden hush as everyone turned to see a visibly pale Manne standing behind the bar, his mouth moving, but nothing sensible coming out. He pushed his iPhone into Granny’s hands, her eyes widening as she stared into the screen.

To be continued…

In which year did Australia win the 1947 Ashes series?(For your citizenship exam)

 

Nurse Barbara for President

26 Monday Jun 2017

Posted by in Sandshoe

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Nurse Barbara…One small step for Piglets, one giant [static……] for the Pigs Arms

 

Nurse Barbara For Social Club Pres.

By Hon Shades aka Sandshoe

“Ya plant garlic on the shortest day of the year. Ya dig it up on the longest.”

Merv was holding court to a bar of gardeners who had been bussed to the pub by the organisers of the 2017 International No Dig Gardeners Convention. They looked like a conference of hippies in an assortment of rubber boots and khakis draped over with camel hair ponchos. Some individuals appeared to have been yarn bombed.

Others carried bundles of plastic raincoats and everyone had an ID card around their neck on a lanyard as you do.

“Good on ya, Merv. That’s our friend,” a voice rang out. Merv looked over at the nurses’ table no mistaking Big M’s voice. A cheerful Big M

Starring Big M as Joyce*, book now

was standing on a chair on one leg. The next sight Merv had of him was Big M and the chair toppling sideways.

A loud caterwauling and cheering went up out of the crowd of inebriated newcomers at the bar.

No harm to Big M in the re-enactment of this classic scene of a chair falling over and a man with it who was in fact standing on one leg on the chair however previous to the moment Merv or anyone else looked in the direction.

“The chair was definitely on one leg,” Merv said when the insurance assessor from Cyberian United Assurance came knocking.

Hung One Over chimed in, “That’s crook for a chair.”

“Mr Merv and Mr HOO, I’m only here to check the detail of Mr Merv’s witness statement,” the assessor insisted. She adjusted her frilly black

I love research

bra  straps with teensy weensy naked breasts on them of every colour showing from under the low cut neckline of a classic Inner Cyberia corporate wear pinafore. The uniform for staff was made of a watermark design silk shantung in pretty chartreuse and with layers of frills in the same fabric edging the overlapping wrap-around skirt front and skirt hem.

“Big M was all over the shop. That’s all I saw,” Hon Shades said at the bar later.

“He must of near transpired from the unexpected shock. I was painting.” Foodge was ordering a drink. He was dressed in paint splattered overalls and in one hand he was swinging a 4 litre paint can. He lowered carefully down onto the towel bar runner his barrister’s wig he was carrying in his other hand.

“That’s not true truth,” he said when Sister Yvonne told him the insurance assessor marked him down as pub lawyer and a witness.

“Been painting when I’m not in court. Can’t purge myself.” Foodge was worried.

“Mate, we each said on our damages claims you’re our lawyer and you

Threesa Throuseroff

were here,” Therese chimed in. “You’re not going to go all ipso facto and all that, are ya. Done deal almost. We’ll get a new chair out of it.”

The customers at the bar as one turned round. They looked at the sea of dangling springs that had fallen out of the upholstery of most of the chair seats and dangling strings of jute thread and decayed jute strapping. Rips gaped open in the vinyl upholstery of unoccupied chair seats and a scatter of unoccupied bar stools that displayed grey compressed padding.

The chrome surrounds of the seats of the bar stools and their legs were pocked with rust damage. The rubber tips on the legs of the bar stools had perished.

The pub fell quiet other than for the slurping noise of patrons turning their attention back to contemplation and refreshment. The chooks in the rafters set up a flustering sound of soft clucking.

Nurse Barbara…do you want fires with that punk?

Nurse Barbara was one to speak up.

“Merv,” she said, “this bar needs an entire set of new chairs and new bar stools. With the seats covered in that same clear plastic you’ve had the new carpet and the surface of the bar and the tops of the new tables covered with. If nothing else, it’s O and it’s H and it’s S, Merv.”

 

*Joyce the Musical – coming to a reputable theatre near you. Follow the story of a well hung but disconnected suburban youth growing up on the Northern beaches of Kidney(named as it stinks like piss) who at a tender age throws away his burgeoning career as a lawn star, Lidcombe Bowls Champion 1902 or thereabouts, and becomes a purse carrying nancy boy, no good poofter male nurse that has never had a hard days work in his life. Book at www.joycethemusical.con/bookings

 

Buy one, get one free, Mono-pedals only, must purchase pair, free shoe at $89.99, monochromes more than welcome(while stocks last)

Foodge Episode 90 The Queens Birthday

22 Thursday Jun 2017

Posted by in Big M, Foodge Private Dick

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Foodge in new attire

 

The Queens Birthday.

Story by Big M.

“’oo mixed up me spice labels?” Thundered a voice from the bowels of the pub.

“Dunno, Granny, maybe you did!” Replied Merv, chuckling quietly to himself, as he emptied the new glass washer.

“Are you sure?”

“Yep, pretty sure!” Which wasn’t entirely true, as Merv was unsure of most things.

“Ahem.” Foodge cleared his throat, hoping to alert Merv to a customer in need of refreshment, vis a vis, himself.

Merv looked up to find Foodge sat on a bar stool, resplendent in a brand new three

Get ya clothes on Merv

piecer, with a new black Fedora perched at a rakish angle, young Frank Sinatra style. “Ah, Foodge, what can I do you for?”

“Sir Foodge.” Replied Foodge, sotto voce.

“Stir who?” Merv was missing the point.

“You know, our Monarch’s impending birthday celebrations, regal awards and such.” Foodge was mentally willing Merv to place a canoe under a tap, and decant some amber ale.

“Oh, the Queen’s birthdee.” Merv heaved the last tray of steaming glasses onto the bar. “She’s a great old girl, isn’t she?”

“’oo are youz calling an old girl?” Granny appeared at Merv’s elbow with a bowl of wedges. “Oh, Foodge, aren’t you a picture of sartorial excellence?” She swooned, then recovered and headed straight back to the kitchen.

“Is Granny OK?”

“Yeah, you know, that time of the month.”

Granny and Foodge, lovely couple

“June is a lovely time of the year, but getting a bit crisp.” Foodge straightened his tie that was covered in tiny scales of justice.

“Nah, the minstrel cycle.” Merv started to pour a pint, but the keg was clearly empty, as froth sprayed across the bar. “Manne” He roared. “Empty keg!”

“Yes, she used to be a keen cyclist.” Foodge had managed to avoid the spray of stale beer.

Merv gave up on the biology lesson. “What’s all of this ‘sir’ business?”

“Ah, glad you asked.” Foodge instantly warmed to the subject. “A little birdy told me that someone…someone local was in line for a knighthood for services to The Law.”

Merv was more unsure than ever.” ‘oo would that be?” As he pushed a canoe of Porcine Pale Ale across the decaying well covered with patina bar.

It was Foodge’s turn to tap the side of his nose, knowingly. “You know, a well known barrister, a servant of everyone from lowly bar flies, to representatives of Her Majesty herself.”

“That boat mighta sailed, old son.” Merv pouring liters of frothy spume from the aforementioned tap. “Manne, is that keg on, yet?”

“No, I don’t think she gets around in in the QE II anymore, Mr Merv.” Mumbled Foodge

And now on ABC24 kitty meets truck

through bits of potato wedge.

“No, the knighthood.” Merv now had a sink full of foam, and it was still coming. “Manne, purge the pipe properly, will ya?”

“What, there’s a knighthood boat?” Foodge pushed the empty glass back across the bar, hoping for a refill.

“No, as in, we don’t have knighthoods, and the Queen’s Birthday has been and gone, and, they only give awards out for actresses who live overseas, failed CEOs, and already, highly successful businessmen.” Merv grinned as ale started to replace foam coming from the tap. “Why is replacing a keg like rocket science for Manne?”

Our boy was crestfallen, and eagerly accepted another pint.” I’ll tell yer what, Foodge, you’ll always be Sir Foodge to me!”

Where oh where, where is Manne?

Merv is Spaced Out

02 Friday Jun 2017

Posted by in Mark

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…

Merv is Spaced Out

Story by Mark.

Sandy was sitting at the bar fiddling with his drink, Trotter’s Ale of course, what else, when Merv approached and in his usual affable way thought he would engage in some jaunty repertoire about space.

“Hey Space priest, how the devil are you? What’s it really like, you know, out there?”

Sandy

Merv loved calling Sandy a priest because he knew he hated it, a bit of ribbing I guess, well not until the next punch up anyway. Merv points to the sky and scowls his face and growls lowly as if space is really spooky. Well, to be honest and that’s copiously rare, actually space is really spooky.

“Bless you my son for asking” replies Sandy.

“I’m not your son!”

“Yes, I know but that’s how us parish priests talk, bless you my son, go the farce has ended, thanks be to Gordon, you know, that kinda shit.”

“But I’m still not your son” persists Merv.

“Look, it’s zarking metaphorical”

“What’s that mean?”

“Dunno, I’m just reading the back of this coaster.”

[Sister Yvonne here. Jesus wept Hung, don’t you know what a metaphor is? Not happy

Sister Yvonne

Hung, now I have to read this and contribute at the same time.

Hung: So what is a metaphor then, I dunno?

Sister Yvonne: It’s a noun.

Hung: Thank you Sister. I’m glad that’s cleared up.

Sister Yvonne: It’s always left to us nurses to save everything…dot dot dot and it could even become DOT DOT DOT now that I’m in charge of the keyboard, hahaha.]

“Well, now that you ask space is sort of spacey” continues Sandy “you know big and spacey.”

[Big M here. For fucks sake Hung saying space is big and spacey is akin to saying water is wet and grass is green. Do you want me to take over writing this bit?

Hung: Well, no, not really but space is big and spacey. I guess there is a lot of black and stars and shit but there is a lotta room out there.

Big M: Here’s a new concept for you Hung, think about it.]

Merv

“Yeah, I like that” says Merv “big and spacey, sounds great. When I was young I was taught that water was wet, grass was green and now space is big and spacey, wow, perfect man. I guess there would be a lot of black and stars and shit but the sounds like a lotta room out there to me.”

“Yep, big and spacey for sure.”

“Bullshit” says Angler. “More space in back of Zephyr even with shotgun and dogs”

“Crikey! Where did that Yorkshire accent come from Angler?”

Angler gets hungry

asks Nurse Barbara who had been listening to everything while reading the form guide. Now is that multi tasking or what.

“I did a bit of rehearsing before the gig but anyway I reckon it’s all Gordon’s magic” smirks Angler hardly able to believe the most outrageous lie he has ever had to tell.

“Nah, it’s rocks, gotta have rocks” pipes in Shoe.

“Hey shoe, you forgot to scramble your name to Hon Shades.”

“Oh, shit. Nah, it’s rocks, gotta have rocks” pipes in Hon Shades.

Oh, well, if they only knew the truth which is…

Baiame Redraws the Map of Mirriyuula’s Heart

Gordon’s Cat

01 Saturday Apr 2017

Posted by in Big M

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Cat and chips, hmm…

Story by Big M

Mark and Algernon were perched at the bar, having enjoyed a lovely morning tea of Granny’s best IPA (Impressive Pig’s A…, I mean, Ale), and were sipping on banana daiquiri chasers. The doors burst open to reveal Big M, wearing his best socks and sandals, Bermuda shorts, and a long sleave shirt, a picture of sartorial excellence.

“Hello Brother, Sister.” Chirped Mark. “Didja come down on the 3801?”

Big M was still brushing dust from his shirt. “Nah, the Flyer’s electric, now. They only

Big M gets ready for work

get the 38 out for spesh. How are you pair? Another round?” Our intrepid bar flies nodded eagerly, with daiquiri forming little yellow moustaches.

“Well, there’s been some concern.” Proffered Algernon. “We think the Bish is dead, or paralysed, or worse, and Gordon’s bin arrested!”

“Feckin’ stupid heap of shite!” Roared Merv from behind the bar. “Oy, Mark, you’re a plumber, aren’t you?”

“Nope”

“But you’ve got an interest in plumbin’?” Merv was red faced.

“Well, sort of.” Mark swallowed the last of his cocktail, placing the glass on the bar, and nodding enthusiastically towards the empty glass. “I do know that Thomas Crapper and Sons were the finest dunny makers in the Old Dart.”

Merv assiduously ignored the empty glass and the nods. “Well, can any of youz fix

Mark

a busted glass washer?” Merv was desperate to avoid washing anything by hand.

“We need to get to the most important matter at hand.” Algernon took control, of the floor, and the cocktails. “Gordon’s cat is missing, feared dead!”

“What, like Schrodinger’s cat?” Mark sounded excited.

“Well, yes and no. Schrodinger’s cat may have been dead, or may be alive.”

“Well, which is it?” Big M raised his a butt cheek off the stool to let out an enormous fart, or was it a shart?

“No, it was Schrodinger’s famous thought experiment, where he put a cat in a steel box..”

“A dead cat?” Mark had taken control of the cocktails, but not the floor, or the conversation.

“No, alive, anyway, it goes into a steel box with a Geiger counter, which feeds into a relay which can crack open a bottle of cyanide. I think Einstein wanted to add explosives, but that’s beside the point. If one single atom inside the box undergoes

Algernon thinks about it

nuclear decay, the Geiger counter detects it, the relay cracks the cyanide bottle, and the cat dies.” Algernon wasn’t sure they were following. “You don’t know if the cat’s dead or alive until you open the box. So in the meantime, the cat could be in two states, alive, or dead. It’s all quantum physics.”

“So can this bloody Schrodinger fix my bloody glass washer?” Merv was about to throw the machine into the yard.

“No!” The trio yelled.

“So Gordon’s cat is in a steel box?” Big M looked self-satisfied.

“No, Schrodinger’s dead cat is.” Laughed Mark, picturing a dead cat in a box.

“No, it’s either, or both, dead and alive!” Yelled an exasperated Algernon.

Yum

 

“So where’s Gordon’s cat?” Chimed in Christina, as she reached between them to grab some coasters.

“How the f#@$ would we know, it’s your story, ‘shoe!”

 

 

 

I’ve had a bad day, don’t ask…

 

Foodge 60.7 – Reflects

28 Monday Mar 2016

Posted by in Big M, Foodge Private Dick

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Granny3

Story by Big M

It was the eve of Easter Sunday, or Easter Saturday night, if you like. Foodge had tossed and tossed then turned for hours, so it seemed. It felt like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders and wondered if tossing was such a good thing after all. He was usually (always) ignorant of world events, but even Foodge couldn’t escape the images of the Brussels Sprouts attacks, cramps, IBS etc,. He wondered if something similar could happen here, then remembered something about the Lindt Chocolate Café siege.

Foodge tried to shift his mind from violence and terror, but kept slipping back to that night he was told his parents had died. The Pleece Constable seemed like a nice bloke who had brought a lady constable to soften the blow, but it didn’t seem to help.

Life was never the same for Foodge, he became withdrawn, preferring to stay inside and read. Some teachers tried to get him labelled as ADD(Attention Deficient something, er, um, sorry lost my train of thought) or autistic, or worse MINUS(Mentality Insecure Neurotic User Syndrome) or acoustic,  whilst the more cluey ones realised that he was just a sad little kid with a big penis. It worked to his advantage, though, he read so much that he excelled at English and History, which enabled him to go to university, well to the car park anyhoo. PM material for shore.

Then there was the blossoming relationship between him and Granny. In spite of being HIV, MRSA, VRE and LGQBTI positive, it created a great deal of anxiety in Foodge, who had never had sex, sorry, never had a long-term girlfriend. ‘What were her expectations of him?’ He pondered.

Foodge remembered reading something about insomnia. Emmjay and Big M had Ford Zephyr4written that nothing really works. Viv reckoned it got worse as you got older, while Algernon swore by having a head job, nose only of course, just in case kiddies are watching, cured it. Perhaps he should follow O’Hoo’s advice. ‘Get stoned, pissed, and then laid.’ Well, he could probably do just one of them.

With that he wandered down to the Gentleman’s Bar, and poured a double South Sea Islands Imitation Scotch, and sat in one of the aging Chesterfields. Everything was quiet, but there was still some low-level background noise in the Pigs Arms. It gave Foodge a sense that the place was alive, but it was probably just the sound of refrigeration compressors.

[Editors note: It was really just Hedgie trying to tunnel out of AgH2O after meeting one to many Alfie’s, think about it before any correspondence is entered in to]

A veri private dick

A veri private dick

Foodge had managed to drift off, after a second Imitation Scotch. He awoke with a start (they don’t call him Foodge, Very Private Dick for no reason). There was the slightest movement just out of the corner of his eye. He looked around to see a pink figure with a basket full of eggs, which the figure was distributing around the pub. He let out a small gasp, as he had never managed to catch the Easter Bunny in the act. The ‘Easter Bunny’ turned around to reveal Granny, in her best pink chenille dressing gown,Granny4 and her hair up in a bun. ‘Can’t sleep dear?’ As she continued to hide Cadbury’s eggs around the place. ‘We’ll fix that.’ With that she hid her last egg, then led Foodge upstairs to her room.

Two out of three isn’t bad! Cluck, cluck.