Tag Archives: Big M

Foodge 58:  –  Things Get a Bit Sticky

26 Friday Feb 2016

Posted by in Emmjay, Foodge Private Dick

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Mars-murrie_5

Story by Emmjay

Merv’s Mum soon acquired the nickname “M&M” – named after her favourite post-Maccas snack.

It startled Big M to see her in the garden tearing up and eating his prized radishes.  For some reason the image of a horse floated around the back of Big M’s eyes and projected a startling image of Big M’s barbied steak sans condiments.  It was clearly the end of his supply of horse radish.

M&M was certainly a sticky proposition and he could well understand the B&B “no-Vacancy” signs hastily put up by the lady bowlers, Hedgie’s missus and even Hedgie’s brother “Clipper” who, at the time was delivering to the la Salle de Porc patrons our favourite herbal remedy.

Mrs M, while vaguely remembering her own gran’s predilection for ironing the sheets, demonstrated in the flesh that sheet-ironing had poor heritability and could reasonably be judged to have no post-dilection.  She (Mrs M) was surprised that M&M did not actually wash the sheets and dry them before ironing.  Which, one supposes was why things became a bit sticky.

But the real point – as Hung would say – was not to start a discussion on the state of Family M linen.  So it’s time to go back to M&M…… ah da~n !  I’ve run out of …… the letter….  just after “L” in the alphabet and to the right of “N” on the keyboard.  You’ll have to apply some i~agination and bring your own ~s to the story.

Big ~ became very distressed when ~&~ nanaged to wedge herself in the hallway.  The very hallway that Big ~ had renovated in Episode 34.  Don’t go and look it up, I just used that as a placeholder and I’~ going to forget to replace it with the proper reference, because I’~ sloppy like that when I get busy {Editor’s note}.

Where was I ?  Oh yes, I left ~&~ stuck in Big ~’s hallway.

Big ~ thought hard.  With no inspiration forthco~ing, he tried thinking soft.  “We need some butter”, he said.

~&~ frowned, re~e~bering the scene from “Last Tango in Paris” where ~arlon Brando used butter to get in the back door of ~aria Schneider’s house.  But ~&~ was blocking access to the kitchen.  “Go around the back !” shouted ~rs ~. “But I haven’t got any butter” replied Big ~.  “There’s a hole in the bucket” sang ~rs ~.  “What bucket ?” said Big ~, who by this time had gotten tired of the “exhausted M supply” joke. “Forget it, Big” she said. “I don’t think we’ll be able to shift the horse” she added, returning to the joke in the second paragraph.  “We’re going to have to pull the whole house down”.

Big frowned – a big frown.  “I’ve got a better idea.  Why don’t we put her on a diet of water and fresh air for a while ?”  Mrs M smiled. “I’ll ring up Foodge and see whether we can borrow one of George’s kitty litter trays.”

M&M frowned a much bigger frown than Big – who was contemplating how he was going to get to the kitchen.  … nothing …..  – who was contemplating whether he would light up some of Hedgie’s herbal remedy …. and remembered that this was a short-term alternative that would inevitably lead him back to the kitchen access problem.

“While you’re on the line, can you ask Foodge to organise a shipment of Granny’s wedges, please.  I’m feeling peckish.  I think I’ll go and have a lie down on those freshly-ironied sheets”.

Foodge #50 – Suppurating Wound Out of Careless Hygiene

04 Tuesday Nov 2014

Posted by in Big M

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Emirates Melbourne Cup Day

Story by Big M

Foodge had gone home to change into his best suit, freshly polished brogues, white socks, and the black Fedora that Sandshoe had sent him. He always wore white socks with black shoes, because he thought it made him look like a jazz musician, since he’d seen Dave Brubeck in a movie, but, everyone at the Arms reckoned he just looked like a dickhead. He’d propped himself on a stool at the Gentleman’s Bar, with the form guide from the Lewisham Gazette. He was hoping to make a motza on the Big Race. “Hey, Mr Merv, what exactly is a ‘scratching’?”

Merv was flat out, he’d bought a palette of South Sea Islands Sham-Pain from his Fijian contact, and now he was struggling to get them cold. “Not, now, mate, ask someone else, I’m as busy as a Catholic priest at a Sunday school picnic.”

Foodge looked around. O’Hoo was still in the same Chesterfield from this morning, with form guide and mobile phone in hand. Didn’t want to ask him. Granny was giving the new Turk’s head a last flick around. Didn’t want to stir anything else up with her. Hedgie and the Bowling Ladies were in the Ladies Lounge watching the lead up to the Cup on a portable Black and White telly that Merv had borrowed from next door. Just then the back door opened and Big M strolled in. “Ah, Big M, what brings you here?”

“The train.”

“What train?” Foodge had to ask.

“I caught the Sleeper from Newcastle, bound for Melbourne, but woke up here.” Big M looked like he’d been asleep, but he usually did. “Mr Merv.”

Merv slid a glass canoe across the filthy bar. “Small matter of a tab, M!”

“Oh, yes, next visit.”

“You on leave, Big M?” The question seemed to come out of nowhere, but could have been the narrator.

“No, I’ve been suspended for hanging around with shady characters.” Big M looked squarely at Foodge. This wasn’t entirely true, Big M had been seen urinating on someone’s prize roses, so had been charged with exposing himself.

“How is you dear lady wife?” Foodge suddenly remembered to enquire after one of his many guardians.

“Still struggling to get those stains outta the towels.”

Foodge went white. To change the subject. “What do you know about horse races?”

“A little bloke sits on a horse and flogs him with a whip, aside from that f*&^all.” Big M had knocked back a canoe, and motioned for another. Why, what’s going on?”

“You know, the Big Race.” Foodge mumbled as crammed a complementary ‘race day’ sausage roll into his gaping maw. “Need help with placing a bet.”

“Ask Mr Merv.” Big M nodded to Merv.

“Too feckin’ busy mate.” Merv tipped another bag of ice over a tub full of bottles.

“What about O’Hoo, he’s a veteran gambler.”

The place went completely quiet, except for O’Hoo yelling down the phone. “Scratched like a syphilitic cock…bastards!” Big M is usually pretty ignorant, but picked up that there’d been a falling out between the two best mates.

“What about Granny?” There was a low titter of laughter. Big M looked around. “What the hell have you done, Foodge?”

“Well…er…um, Mr O’Hoo severely breached a confidence.”

“A confidence about what?” Big M glanced across to Hedgie who, almost imperceptibly, shook his head.

“Um…er.” Foodge motioned towards Granny.

“You are bloody joking, not in a Green Moon.  That’s me, I’ve had it with you! I’ve gotta go, train to catch.” Big M crammed a couple of sausage rolls in his jacket pocket and took off through the back door.

Foodge suddenly felt very uncomfortable in the region of the wedding flute. He had also suffered from a late scratching!

Hung One On Whitman

08 Thursday May 2014

Posted by in Neville Cole, Poets Corner

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poets_pub

Story by Neville Cole

I’ll admit it. I tied one on with Hung One On down the Pub last night. As I recall, it all started amicably enough. All the locals were there celebrating the 5th Anniversary. Viv’s spread was a real treat. Gregor took to the mic early on and told some raunchy jokes. Big M was singing Karaoke. I had a grand old time catching up with Algy, Shoe, Voice, Asty, Lehan, Gerard, Helvi, Warrigal and, of course Emmjay. But, much, much later, as closing time drew nigh, things got a little…well, strange. Hung grew increasingly introspective, almost wistful, as the night went on and we began to talk – as we often do when we get this way – about life, about love, and about…poetry.

“Some day, Mate,” he says to me, “I’m gonna go walkabout. I gonna drop this…” he paused for a moment to choose just the right word, than added: “façade…and start living.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” I replied, appropriately emphasizing exactly in exactly the right way as I downed my last Trotters.

“I think you do. I think you do. I know you do!” Hung said with a sudden smile. “You and I aren’t the types to be penned in by… by rules…and, and rules. We are the truth tellers. We are the rebel alliance. We are poets, man…and we should be out there poeting our guts out.”

“We are poets,” I agreed with him. “When I look at you that’s exactly what I see.” I was at this time somewhat fixed on the word exactly as you might have already guessed. But I continued nevertheless: “You, for sure, are a fucking poet, Hung. Walt Whitman’s got nothing on you, brother.”

“Walt Whitman!” Hung leapt to his feet like a sleeping dog woken by a noisy cat. “That’s it!” Hung cried climbing his stool to reach the bar.

“Hey, hey,” Merv sang out. “Closing time, Hung. You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.”

“Hear him out, Merv,” I said quietly. “He’s on a roll.”

“Warrigal kept to himself. Quietly sketching away in the corner; but I saw a wry smile break across his face as Hung began to recite a poem in a loud, clear voice.

“Song of MY self,” Hung announced to the almost empty bar. “By Hung One On Whitman.

And what followed, I recorded exactly as it poured from his soul…’cause no one would believe it if I didn’t write it down.

 

Song of my self

 

Come breathe the musk of morning
sit silent at the desert dawn;
Listen for my breath
Here me cry the empty sky
into being
Bathe in the light
I am not lost
nor hidden in rock
I am not dead
you are not dreaming
we are Life eternal.

Throw off your shoes
Did toes in solid earth
Draw kindred souls into your veins
There is not end in sight
no apocalypse is nigh
there is not one of us will die
we all are Life eternal
we are the one supernal
I take you in as you do I
Give yourself to the forests and the seas
We are all what feeds the other
There is no turning back
This is a never ending track that leads back to an open door
no floor
no ceiling to block the light
you are in my sight
no need to fear the night
Feel my warmth on you skin
Let me in
Turn your face to me
Give me a smile for today
You are Life eternal.

Look to the sky
Not a cloud to block the blue
This is my gift to you
This blue sky
that greenish-yellow leaf
the purple pinkness of the flowers
the richness and ceaseless variety
you are wrapped in a multitude of color
all for you this glorious display
I paint the world this way
To make each day your canvas
Take it in
Hold it with you to look upon
During the hours of grey and black
Remember my gift
Seek it out
The new day is just beyond the horizon
It will not be slowed or stopped
It will not hold back from you
Even if you doubt or despair
Even if you curse and cry
Even if you lose your way
Even if you forget
A new day is coming
Every moment
a hundred million every second
all across the Earth
a billion others like you and I
feeling with us
We are Life eternal.

Hung stopped for a moment, then a moment more, then paused, then graceful as a dancer, he bowed deeply and humbly. Emmjay and I cheered. Even Warrigal rose to his feet in applause.

I don’t remember much that happened after that. It’s a bit of a blur. I remember watching the sun come up a few hours later and replaying Hung’s poem in my head; but that’s about it. Still, it was a top notch 5th Birthday bash and I can’t wait till next year’s party.

 

Father O’Way Meets O’Bad – Part 2

02 Friday May 2014

Posted by in Mark

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O'Way counsels the Sinister Demons to pray

O’Way counsels the Sinister Demons to pray

Story by Hung One On

Geeps with all the excitement going on someone asked where exactly is Missen?

Missen is a planet found in the galaxy that we call Andromeda. As part of my space adventure, I played in the one day cricket final on Flong at the Foval with Big M. This was important to Gordon as he needed to prove that there was a relationship between one day cricket scores and the average number of beans in a 440 gram can of Baked Beans in Tomato Sauce. Hey, you think space and the universe is complicated, well think again.

Big M has become part of my team on the Unnameable II space ship which is currently hiding on the dark side of the moon so not to upset NASA.

After getting the call from God, Big M went back to Missen to pick up Shoe so they could help me with my deep and revealing interview with Eddie O’Bad. However I have just learnt that Eddie has an old mate with him, Arthursin O’Dinos. Now I’m starting to worry, Gordon O’Donnell, Sandy O’Way, Barty O’Farty, Eddie O’Bad and Authursin O’Dinos, hmm. Any one else see a trend developing.?

I ring the Bish. “Hey Bish” I lead “A bit of a problem with names beginning with O”

“Don’t know what you mean Sandy anyway that call girl said she was 16” barks the Bish.

Hmm. Anyway we get to the gates of the O’Bad Ponderosa. A couple of guards approach the car.

“Hey, Sandy here, from the church of St Generic Brand, want to interview the Big O” I say but really not knowing what really to say.

“Well Father, you better turn around and keep going cause Eddie don’t wanna talk to you” says the guard, smiling and laughing to his offsider.

“Well heck guys, but I have the Duckhunt champion from Missen sitting right here that can take you apart within a few seconds” I reply not knowing really what I am saying. Hey, where’s the rum.

Just as that thought crossed my mind, Big M and Shoe were out of the car and after a few shots and screams had the guards under control.

“Big M, what are you doing?” I ask.

“Easy Sandy” he replies “This is a taping technique I learnt in NICU, tape their hands with the gun pointed to their abdomen, one false move, they pull the trigger, he he he he, etc” laughs Big M.

Gut wrenching laughter from Shoe “Me like” grins Shoe.

Geez, do you really know what you’ve been missing?

“Hey Sandy, how bout this” says Big M as the car accelerates and spins in a circle.

“Sandy, we is doing a donut” cries Big M

“Lets shoot some guards” says Shoe.

Bish, what have you done to me.

We travel into the O’Bad Ponderosa and arrive at the main door.

“Eddie, mate” I yell “Just wanna talk, okay”

Meanwhile Big M takes out seven guards and Shoe shoots out six windows on the second floor.

“Wadda ya want to talk about?” screams Eddie. Eddie’s eyes flash from side to side.

“Did ya do it?” I ask. May as well get to the point.

“Do what?” Eddie replies.

“It?” I reaffirm.

“Nah” says Edie

“What about you Artuursin?”

“I don’t remember”

“Did you go to McDonalds” I press.

“Yes” says Eddie, “I like a pickle with a meat patty”

This is unfortunately a true story, well sort of..

 

 

 

 

 

 

Foodge 34: Ask a Mate if He’s OK!

27 Thursday Sep 2012

Posted by in Big M, Foodge Private Dick

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

Story by Big M

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’d help.” Foodge quietly smiled.

“You, how could you help?”

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

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

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