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Window Dresser's Arms, Pig & Whistle

~ The Home Pub of the Famous Pink Drinks and Trotter's Ale

Window Dresser's Arms, Pig & Whistle

Tag Archives: Emmjay

Foodge Escapes from Buntings

03 Thursday Jun 2021

Posted by Mark in Foodge Private Dick, Mark

≈ 14 Comments

Tags

Algernon, Big M, Emmjay, Foodge, Mark, Nurse Barbara, O'Hoo, Sandshoe, Yvonne

You know, if they told me I was going to appear so much I would have charged more…

Foodge Escapes from Buntings

Written by Mark

Foodge was sitting in the foyer of the court house rolling a durry, well with tobacco and some other funny green stuff. O’Hoo was busy talking to some official over at the counter. Foodge was in deep thought mode, why am I here, why was I born, what is my first name and you know all those things that race through you mind in the middle of the night when you can’t sleep.

“O’Hoo, hoo were you talking two” speaking phonetically so O’Hoo wouldn’t understand, asks Foodge as he deeply inhales on his durry.

“Clark, I think his name was, no Clark Cell, a standard primary cell producing 1.4328 volts at 15 degrees C which consists of a mercury cathode and a zinc amalgam anode both dipping into a saturated solution of zinc sulphate” says O’Hoo.

Oh fuck off thinks Foodge. Never ask a simpleton a question that you don’t know the answer too. “Anyway pass us the scotch”. Foodge is discombobulated now(thanks Gerard, my spell checker doesn’t know it still, after all this time).

Come here lad, have a whiskey…

“Where’s the press throng?” asks Foodge as he inhales deeply on his durry. Oh yes, South Sea Islands Scotch sure does taste good in the morning.

O’Hoo runs out of the foyer onto the front steps of the court house and spy’s a group of school kids passing by on an excursion or just running away from their teachers. O’Hoo approaches them and says “Look kids, I understand that this is a kid friendly web page but can you pretend to be from the media, you know asking questions, pointing microphones and taking pictures when my mate come out from the court?”

“Um, yeah, um, yeah, okay mate! Wot’s in it for us?” says a little smart arse in the front row.

“Sausage sizzle, with fried onions and tomato sauce, all round at Buntings, oh on white bread, nothing healthy” blurts O’Hoo relating to the inner psyche of the modern generation.

“Yep, wheeze in” says the smart arse.

Foodge stumbles out of the court to face the “media throng”.

“Mr Foodge, what have you got to say about the court case?” says the smart arse kid who is getting way too much media attention.

“Well” replies Foodge “ I can’t say anything while the case is in front of the court”

“Well that’s only literally, not metaphorically”. The smart arse kid is really stating to grate and you can fucking well spell that how you want to and I’m the author.

“No more comments from me except to say the chicken schnitzel on Monday night with mushroom gravy is to die for.”

Hmm, Tastes like chicken…

O’Hoo pulls up in the Zephyr. “You drive Foodge. We are being followed. I’ve read the script”

“But I’m pissed and stoned”

“Doesn’t matter we’re fictional and anyway Gordon will get us off any charges.”

Foodge accerlates the Zephyr down the boulevard. O’Hoo jumps into the back seat and smashes out the back window.

“Why did you do that for? Emmjay will be really pissed that we went over budget.”

“I’ll get a better shot this way. Keep speeding, we are being followed by the FBI, the CIA, ASIO and worst of all the CWA” cried O’Hoo as he lets fly a few salvo’s out of the recently renovated rear window.

Foodge dodges and swerves through the back streets of Inner Cyberia as O’Hoo fires indiscriminately out the back window, trying to take care to hit any one at any time.

The FBI and ASIO cars go down when the CIA call O’Hoo on a two way radio that he didn’t know he was carrying up until now.

“Wheeze hungry” says the CIA goon.

Stop, I’m from the CIA, no the CIB, no the CIC, no the CID…

“Take the next left and into the McJacks drive through” says O’Hoo thinking he should have added and extra T and said thought. So many questions so little time.

Everyone is going through the drive through, try saying that after a few drinks but the CWA ladies want a Fillet-O-Fish so wheeze is all held up. Wears the pleece when yous want them. Don’t you just love phonetics.

The race continues but O’Hoo is a bit too sharp for his opposition and quickly takes out the CIA car as they munch on their McJacks. The CWA are a different story. O’Hoo fires another round of high powered tracer bullets into their car from loaded magazines thanks to granny, an eternal pacifist. Don’t you love her. Peace man.

O’Hoo and Foodge drive into the car park at the Pigs Arms with the Zephyr looking in bad shape with bullet holes and smashed windows, however Foodge won’t budge until he has finished his Big McWhopper, fries and slushie. “Let’s get the fuck out of here” screams O’Hoo as he finishes his chicken burger and Coke drink.

Apparently it’s a restaurant

Foodge and O’Hoo run into the bar avoiding eye contact with Emmjay. Big M and Algernon cock there weapons and the three sisters, Yvonne, Barbara and Shoe just keep studying the form guide, totally disinterested in the shenanigans. The CWA drive straight through the front doors and get out of their car opening fire with their weapons. Big M, Algernon and O’Hoo return fire and bullets are flying everywhere.

Meanwhile back in the kitchen granny is really peeved. Emmjay walks through the fire fight into the kitchen and says to granny “Lets have a bake off so we can stop this madness.”

Granny walks into the bar and yells “Stop. Stop now.” Funnily enough everyone stops. “Lets have a scone bake off to sort this out.”

All the cooks head out to the kitchen and start cooking. Scones, cream and jam are served to everyone. Hmm, all taste great. Granny says “Well, what was this agro all about?”

“Dunno” says the lady from the CWA.

“Baby, what baby” cries Foodge.

Daisy – Dead at 101 ?

16 Friday Apr 2021

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Uncategorized

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

Emmjay

Unverified Rumour by Pig’s Arms Cub Reporter Boo-Boo Bear

In a late breaking unverified rumour, allegedly started by Pig’s Arms Cub reporter Boo-Boo Bear, it is said that the Hollywood star Daisy Duck has passed away at the age of 101 due to natural causes (Duck a l’Orange).

There is some dispute that the oft-time paramour of Donald Trump Duck was actually 101 years old (born in 1920)- especially since Donald was born in 1934 – suggesting that DD was dating a pretty old broiler straight out of the hutch.

Birth records were sketchy – especially before colour came into the picture. Some celuloidists claim that she used a former name “Donna” however other experts insist that Donna Duck was the friend of a Mexican waterbird DD was dating for a time.

What IS known is that Daisy had a clutch of relatives and that her unnamed brother was married to triplets “April”, “May” and “June” – one of which is the mother of another brood of triplets more familiar to officianrdos of cartoons and comics – Huey, Louie and Dewey – or if you prefer, Hewey, Dewey and Louie. Louie was killed in a tragic shooting accident on the ironically-named Lake Placid.

The Pig’s Arms tried to contact the previously irascible but now apparently inconsolable Donald, but he was unavailable for comment.

Friends close to Daisy including Daffy Duck were quoted as saying “Psuffering Psuckertash”, Big Bird came out in spots and Foghorn Leghorn said “Ah say,Ah say, Ah say, Boy …”

The family is not expecting Uncle Scrooge to pick up the tab for the funeral despite the cost being described as “chicken feed”.

Wife Admits Error of Judgement

13 Tuesday Apr 2021

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Uncategorized

≈ 21 Comments

Tags

Emmjay

Story by Pig’s Arms Cub Reporter Boo-Boo Bear

Faithful wife of 70+ years admits that it was a mistake to allow her late husband to drive himself to his own funeral.

“I should have known that no good would come of this” she told the Pig’s Arms.

Bystanders reported that the driver, referred to only as a Mr Duke swerved to avoid an allegation that he was an entitled racist bigot, before losing self control and rolling joints several times.

First responders on the scene administered Tenant’s Lager and confiscated all cameras, except that of our PA reporter who was cleverly disguised as a hedge fund manager.

The crack Edinburgh Metropolitan Police specialist VIP traffic accident cover-up team attended and reported that although the man was known to them, whether he in fact was licensed to do anything he wanted was unclear, but pretty likely to be the case and who am I to drop any big wig into the poo and still have a pension in tact said an alleged man dressed in serge.

Mr Duke was whisked away in an unmarked (because he hadn’t driven it) whisk and given the royal treatment by a generously proportioned celebrity chef given to sampling her own creations from the tips of long, sensuous fingers that have never seen a day’s work in their lives beyond the morning struggle with an unruly bra strap.

The Range Rover’s black box flight recorder has been recovered and is undergoing psychiatric analysis.

A Stay at Home

08 Monday Feb 2021

Posted by Mark in Sandshoe

≈ 16 Comments

Tags

Emmjay, Father O'Way, granny, Merv

He said he just wanted to pluck, honest…

(A) Stay At Home

By Sandshoe

“There’s no other way to say it.”

FOW* is mopping the porch. No-one pays him attention. Nobody there.

“I’ll say it anyway.”

Nobody knows what it was. A raucous noise of a band in the Pig’s Arms Sylvia Plath Memorial ballroom sets up. It disappears like a wisp of a fanfare of a concerto.

On the other side of the car park, Merv walking through the Sports Bar is himself in explication with himself.

“She’s not here.”

Where ‘she’ isn’t or wasn’t depends on where in time you want to go with this, let me interrupt and explicate. I’ll do that sometimes. It’s knowing everything that causes everything. Merv was in the cellar of this infamous address, destination of drinkers and jokers all, place of the people, the Window Dresser’s Arms, Pig and Whistle. He’s risen up the cellar stairs to walk through the Sports Bar. FOW is mopping the floor of the entrance hall of the Manse, but not out of mind. Out of frame.

“I know perfectly well she’s not here.”

Merv is confident. Granny had left the building. Merv had watched Granny’s curvaceous arse gyrate and manipulate its way around and between the Sports Bar tables and chairs and it exit.

Emmjay is calling down into the stair well. It’s his pub. He does as he chooses. Merv careens out of reverie.

“Yes? What do you want, Emm?” Merv calls back from the Sports Bar.

“Merv, did you tell the Flamin’ Crows they could practice in the Ballroom this morning?”

“Don’t know anything about that.”

Of course he doesn’t. He didn’t know I was going to write them in. Viewpoint is everything. The soundscape is deafening. The crescendo is only bettered by the rate of debris falling from the rafters. Chook waste. Dried chook excreta. Chook feathers.

Merv and Emmjay step out into the car park for a breath of morning air unadulterated with reminder the rafters were never mucked out after the last chook was despatched to the WDAPW** Sports Bar counter menu. The sun is risen in a blaze of glory. FOW is at the gate of the Manse directly opposite. A Cyberverse taxi driver is at the Manse gate emptying luggage out of the boot of a Cyberverse taxi. The Bish is back in town.

*Father O’Way

**Window Dresser’s Arms, Pig and Whistle

I’m a priest, trust me…

The Boys go to Blat

03 Friday Nov 2017

Posted by Mark in Mark

≈ 12 Comments

Tags

Angler, Emmjay, Gez, Gib, Gordon, Honshades, humour, Hung, Sandy

Off you go boys but I’ll be waiting

 

“Well I think that wheeze boys should have a weekend away for all that male bonding stuff” says Emmjay as he sips his glass canoe.

Oh fuck no, thinks Hung all that pretend bullshit about how great wheeze all were back in jail, oops I mean high school. ”I’m bored” says Hung reading from the script that he wrote. “Can’t we just put on some Dirt Air and Heat and pretend?”

Dirt Air and Heat

“Bloody good idea” says Gib ”Lets go out and shoot some cats, drink lots of piss and cook some critters on the barbeque.”

Cheers all round, well from the boys anyway.

”Not a bad idea” says Angler ”Lets get Gordon, Gez and Sandy and, and go camping.”

”None of that poofter stuff” pipes in Merv, who by the way hasn’t actually been invited, as he has to run the pub and granny wouldn’t let him go anyway seeing

This is the bit before the tzatziki

he is a juvenile delinquent or that he is from Deniliquin.

“An, an, an, how come Foodge and O’Hoo haven’t been invited?” pushes Merv.

“Ewes ain’t invited Merv, ewes have to stay behind and run the pub” replies Emmjay ticking over the dollars.

“And Merv, my young friend, someone has to keep the business fluid, if you get my drift” informs Gordon.

“But Gordon, camping is crap, flies in your caviar, no Macca’s for your hangovers and sleeping can be uncomfortable” pipes in Sandy.

“Not when you travel to a different solar system in the SS He Who Cannot be Named II” replies Gordon. “I have activated the ship and we off the the planet Blat, to kill cats.”

“Count us in” say the boys.

So we do all the science fiction stuff, you know beam up to the ship, fly so fast your

Looks more like snot to me

nose bleeds and then descend to the planet surface in a space pod, fully self sustaining so that no evidence, oops, rubbish is left behind to damage the environment. Wheeze clean, mean and green. Sounds like a slogan for a certain political party.

The pod lands and settles itself gently on a grassy patch next to a pristine river estuary flowing out to sea. Crikey, sounds like Summer Bay.

“What’s for dinner?” asks Geez trying to get his word count up and who has been in absentia (or is that dementia) for the last few stories.

“Ask auto cook” Emmjay contributes being much in the same bracket.

“Auto cook responding. Ask and you shall receive, seek and you shall find, knock and the door shall be opened up to you.”

“Stop, none of that religion bullshit” affirms Hung, smoke absolutely pouring out of his cigarette.

“How about roasted leg of beast with potatoes, carrots served with jus and mulled

Roasted Beast

wine” Gib pontificates “Oh and greens for fun, followed by a peach frangipane with

home made ice cream and raspberry compote covered with crushed almonds and icing sugar.”

“Swap the mulled wine for Shiraz and you got me” says Angler.

Cheers and beers all round.

“Auto cook responding, go the mass has ended, thanks be to Gordon…”

“No, no, no, no religion. I told you Mark, no fucking religion okay!” reinforces Hung.

“Hung, I’m not even in this episode, I’m on holidays at Long Bay but point taken” says Mark.

Seven days later, no one had thought to go outside, shoot cats, discover the

Here kitty

environment, meditate, do yoga, kill cats, look out the window, debate Chaos theory, find an algorithm that actually works but no matter everyone returned to Inner Cyberia in a totally happy mood.

So Honshades approaches the boys on return from space. “So boys, how many cats did you kill?”

“Coupla hundred” lies Gib.

“At least a thousand” lies Angler.

“Tens of thousands, wheeze run out of ammo” lies Gordon.

“Well none actually but wheeze brought one home” says the ever truthful Emmjay.

“Don’t tell Helvi but I’m in love with auto cook” says Gez.

One too many beers I fink…

 

Picture is from left to right, Sandy, Gib, Emmjay (at rear, as usual), Angler, Gordon, Foodge, Neville and Gez. O’Hoo is the stiff.

This is the cat that Emmjay brought back, aw we how cute, now they infest the whole planet, oh well.

How cute, we nick named her Cockroach.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Merv goes Solar

07 Thursday Sep 2017

Posted by Mark in Mark

≈ 19 Comments

Tags

Emmjay, fiction, Gordon O’Donnell, granny, humor, humour, Merv

Merv and the boys having a few Trotters at the front bar

 

Merv goes Solar.

Story by Mark.

Merv is a bit worried at the moment as he has received a power bill for the pub from the WheezeGunnaRipYouOff power company. Apparently the power bill for the Pigs Arms has gone up from $4 a year to $5 dollars a year. And if you take 4 away from 5 you get, um, well a really big number, maybe even binary.

“Granny, get ear” yells Merv, “Somefinks wrong with Bill”.

“Who the hell is Bill, anyway I’m to busy making wedgies with my famous herring and

Granny gets on top

Vegemite sauce” replies Granny in a fit of rage.

“No its electricity Bill, the one that the honest straight up government that never told a lie said it wouldn’t happen” says Merv.

“But days a pack of poofters Merv, days as bent as Alan Jones” gruffs Granny.

“But if you take 4 away from 5 you get an awful increase in our power bills. Wheeze need to talk to the pub owner” implores Merv. “However wheeze don’t know who that is.”

Gordon materialises at the bar. Geez, I wish he wouldn’t do that as he may scare kiddies.

“Gordon, do you own the Pigs Arms?” asks Merv.

“Nah, not me mate I voted Labor. So lets work this through, fictional characters wont, so Granny, Merv, Hedgie, Fern and Foodge are out. Now pass me the phone book. I’ll dial the Pigs Arms and see who answers” says Gordon.

What was that phone number again

Ring, ring, ring ring ring etc., as we all know it would only be woman to answer the fone, the men are too busy scratching their nuts and boasting about how good they was on the footy field. “Hello, The Window Dressers Arms Pig and Whistle, Granny speaking”

“Granny I’d like to speak to Dee Owner” says Gordon using his best British accent.

Granny announces “Phone call for Dee, Dee Owner, phone call for Dee Owner.”

The crew look perplexed and say nothing as Emmjay appears out of the men’s with urine stain intact on the front of his pants, forgot to shake that last drop and takes the call.

“Yes, Emmjay hear, to whom is I speaking” replies the only educated one in the room, well except for the girls.

“My name is Goldenrod Longeron” replies Gordon using his quick wit and a gizmo he got from Spaceworld on special for $9.99 to make him appear godly. “It’s to do with your electricity Bill that has gone up by a $1 per year and your staff are concerned about how this bill will be paid seeing no one pays their extensive bar tabs at your establishment. Are you the owner?”

“Oh no” says Emmjay “ Therese Trouserzoff is the owner you would have to speak to

“Therese!”
“Trouserzoff!”
Lovely to meet you

him or her.”

“Well is he or she there?” asks Gordon.

“Um no, but give me your name, number,  breast size and penis length and I’ll get him or her to call you” dodges Emmjay.

“Okay, my name is Dendron Dongle Rondo and my number is 555-5555 and eyes from the WheezeGunnaRipYouOff company, 44DD and 30 cm ” replies Gordon.

Emmjay is starting to shit himself at this stage and thinks well at least that matches the urine stain on his $500 Levi’s. One front one rear.

Wadda ya think about going renewable?

“Hey, I’ve got an idea” chips in Merv “Lets go solar and piss this wanker off. I remember at skoll learning so la fark tea dough, wadda ya reckon.”

 

 

 

The mind, if you have one, boggles.

 

Americans hate beards…

Merv: Now it’s Stress

15 Thursday Jun 2017

Posted by Mark in Mark

≈ 19 Comments

Tags

Angler, Emmjay, Foodge, Gib W, granny, Hon Shades, humour, Mark, Merv, Nurse Barbara, Sandshoe, Sister Yvonne

I had short back and sides before I read this article…

 

Now it’s Stress.

Story by Mark.

Merv stands behind the bar, erect and proud, [Mark here Hung, steady now] surveying the ambience of the Pigs Arms, you know stale cigarettes, spilt beer, those unique fruity flavours however there was something worrying him.

“Granny, I’m worried and stressed” he cries.

“Oh for fuck sake Merv, what’s wrong now. Are you having another shitbox moment?”

Granny in her PJ’s

For those who failed to read the last highly stimulating, drama packed episode, and you know who you are, yes I see a few hands, you can find out what a shitbox is here.

“Here, have a pill, works for me, just happened to have a sleeeevvveee, hehehe hahaha” crows Sister Yvonne.

“Nah, 50 ml eucalyptus oil, 500 ml normal saline, rubber tube up the arse, works every time and wait till the koalas start humping you” interjects Nurse Barbara as she puffs on a fag, sips a pint, reads the form guide and takes part in conversations. Womanhood, wonderful to watch. “Anyway if enemas aren’t your thing ask Hon, she’s a survivor.”

“Yeah mate” says Hon using Cyberian vernacular “wot’s the problem Merv, car won’t start, fingernail broken, kicked ya toe. I can deal with it mate, been there done that.”

Merv in the PA XI

“Well, I read that I’m going to be replaced by Aut O’Mation, some Irish bloke apparently. And I’m getting pressure from my agent who thinks I signed up for too many episodes at the Pigs Arms.”

“So who’s your agent?” asks Hon.

“Emmjay”

“Hmm…”

“Hmm…”

“So what is the most pressing issue?”

“Well I signed up for 20 episodes per year at the Pigs Arms and I’m finding it way too much work.”

“Hey I only got 10” pipes in Angler.

Yeah, us too, come the calls from the crew. “What about you Hon? How many did ewe

The Crew

getz?” asks Gib W who suddenly appears at the bar. Must let him know that this magic stuff can scare kiddies as you never know they may be watching.

“Er, um, yeah, like, you know, sort of maybe 15…”

Angler calls the crew together. “What do we want?? ” he cries.

“Um, dunno, wot do wheeze want Angler?” says Gib.

“Um, I know EFFALL and we want it now.”

“EFFALL? Nah mate we don’t want eff all, this is for us fellow space travellers, we make a stand together, yeah, another round.”

“No EFFALL(Equally Fair Fiction for All Languishing Linguists).”

So the chant followed four hours after with many a Trotter’s consumed and a happy night had by all. As the crowd faded the chant still echoes.”Wadda we want, eff all, when da we want it, now”, think about it.

Hung and the boys

Breaking News: Gordon has sent Hung to the scene of a meeting between the management of the Pigs Arms and the Fictional Characters Association. Hung can you hear us,

Yes, look, I’m just going to interview some of the key players as they come out of the building here at Cyberia Central, this is quite a revolt, the characters are threatening strike action if their demands aren’t met. Here’s what Merv had to say,

“…bloody terrible, never knowing one day to the next, ever playing the goon…”

then Granny

“… shocking. It’s either me or Sister Yvonne in the black underwear, must give Hung a chubbie…”

and Foodge

“…the matter is before the court therefore I am unable to say anything however it’s a fit up…”

Feelin lucky punk…

Enlightenment Becomes Father O’Way

20 Friday Jun 2014

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Uncategorized

≈ 19 Comments

Tags

58-inch plasma TV, Emmjay, Father O'Way, Men's health, Mitchell Johnson, sex moves, warrior body

photo

Story by Emmjay

A dejected Father O’Way pulled up a stool and waited for Merv to pour him a ‘Szarz n soda’.  Merv was experimenting and climbing on the wave of overpriced cocktails.  He had decided that his signature cocktail was going to be a whimsical butcher-inspired number with three parts Johnny Whacker Red, one part soda and one part crispy bacon rind crackling bits.

Father O’Way looked dubiously at the concoctiontail and sipped as he would if it was a Dubonnet and lemonade.

I despair he said to Merv, dispensing with the quotation marks.

Oh, why is that Father ?  Did the Bish actually put the skids under St Generic Brands ? said Merv, for whom the lack of quotation marks was proving difficult since he wasn’t clear about where he was supposed to come in or whether he was supposed to say “he said”.  He decided to wait until Emmjay came to his sentences and began to put the punctuation marks back in.

“Ok” said Emmjay from the margin.  “Icon take a hint”.

No, said Father O’Way.

“Emmjay, Father O’Way isn’t using punctuation marks again”, said Merv.

“All right.  All right”, said the good father in an exasperated tone. “I’m exasperated by the utter shwistle young people are reading these days.  You remember when Pix magazine used to publish outrageously lurid, but funny articles like “Two-headed pensioner refused second pension – Outrage” ?  he said.

“Yeah, that one really cut me up father.  I mean that sounds pretty unfair on a pensioner.  He did actually have two heads.  I saw the picture” Merv said.

“It was a bodgied-up picture, Merv.  There was no damned two-headed pensioner”, said the good father, self-censoring himself. “Oh yeah,” Merv said, perjuring himself in God’s eyes.

“Well,” continued Father O’Way, look at this tripe” he said, thrusting the latest copy of “Men’s Health” in the general direction of Merv.

Editor’s note:  Astute readers with hi-res screens may be able to detect that it was not actually the latest edition of Men’s Health, but it was the latest one in Amal Gam (the Erko dentist’s) waiting room.  Amal (he called himself Dr Amal, but everyone knows he’s just a dentist) noticed the good father reading the august tome and reluctantly parted with it.  He was reluctant because he thought Mitchell Johnson’s wall-to-wall smile was good advertising.  Not that Mitchell was an habitué of Amal’s ‘You killem and I drillem’ salon de dentine, mind you.

“This is fraud, Merv” said the good father.  “Look at this”, he said pointing to his own well-upholstered midriff.  “Build a warrior body in four weeks! I’ve been building a warrior priest body for forty years and it’s still a work in progress.  And look at this…” he said “Eat pizza, lose weight”.

“What kind of mugs do you think these bozos take us for ?” said Merv, pretending that he had grasped what Father O’Way was on about.  In truth, Merv was considering another eye-catching piece titled “8 sex moves to blow her mind” and he was about to borrow the mag for a closer critical review, but Father O’Way was on a roll and had moved on to “Burn off the Belly”, Psych Out Your Enemies”, “Schmooze the In-laws” and the debatably useless exhortation to “Ride a Stampede Bull”.

“Stampede !” said Father O’Way.

“Surely they meant ‘stampeding'” said Voice, satisfied that she had trumped Emmjay by engineering a single quotation mark inside a double quotation mark.

“And that Mitchell Johnson quote !” said Father O’Way … “You can never think that you’ve made it”.

“Like not even if you’re the spearhead fast bowler who single-handedly demolished England five blot ?” inquired Hung.

“Ah, it’s a total wank,” said the good father, who was picking up Hung’s argot at an alarming rate… without really having a vast understanding of what it meant except that Hung usually said it when he wanted to express a lack of appreciation for something.

“It says ‘the magazine men live by”, said Father O’Way. “Does that explain the depressing state of play ?”

“No, we thrashed the Poms”, said Merv.  “That bit at least is ridgy didge”.

“What about that other headline Merv ?” said Voice. “Never need glasses. “Pour me another plastic canoe of Trotter’s Ale”, she said.

“Very funny”, said Merv, discreetly feeling under his apron to see how his warrior body was coming along”.

“Geeze, a 58-inch  Plasma TV for envy reader !” hooted Hung, thumbing his way to page 82 – the first page some gullible punter in Amal Gam’s waiting room had torn out. “That’s a bit depressing”, he said, handing the mag over to Merv.

“I dunno” said Merv – whose mind had turned to planning an eight part romantic pantomime.

“I wonder what happened to that two-headed pensioner”, said Hung.

Hung One On Whitman

08 Thursday May 2014

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Neville Cole, Poets Corner

≈ 8 Comments

Tags

'Shoe, Algy, Asty, Big M, Emmjay, Gez, Gregor, Helvi, Hung One On, Lehan Winifred Ramsay, Merv, Neville Cole, Vivienne, Voice, Warrigal

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.

 

Foodge 39 – Merv’s Bunniephobia

19 Tuesday Feb 2013

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Big M

≈ 20 Comments

Tags

Emmjay, Foodge, Inspector Rouge, O'Hoo, rabbits, Switzerland

rabbitStory by Big M

Merv had really started to relax. Janet’s new hearing aids had done wonders for his sleep, after the first few nights when she woke up screaming because the twins were crying (she’d never heard them at night, before). Now the little buggers were starting to sleep through. He guessed that they were just crying for their mum all along. Merv and Granny had been back at boxing training. He wasn’t back in top form, but was enjoying himself. He’d even followed Foodge’s advice and enrolled in a course ‘For Old People What Can’t Read Proper’, as Merv liked to say.  Merv ran the cloth across the bar for the umpteenth time that morning, catching a few extra droplets of Trotter’s best, human hair, and the occasional drop of blood from last night.” Can I pour a drink for you, young sir?” Foodge had wandered in for his ‘elevenses’.

“Oh, well…err…. ah, I don’t mind if I do.” replied Foodge, as he wedged a plump cheek on the nearest stool (Foodge hadn’t been training, and the Paleo diet had been taken over by wedges, sour cream, bum nuts on toast and ‘mata’ sauce).  Foodge had been helping Merv with his homework, and had a few good tips, such as, keeping the ‘g’ at the end of ‘ing’ words, and not using ‘youz’ as the plural of’ you’. Merv felt like he was quite ‘plumb in the mouth.’

“Have you managed to visit O’Hoo, yet?” Enquired Merv, as he filled a tiny glass with cold green tea for Foodge.

“He’s in Switzerland, or Norway, or is it Sweden?”

“No, Foodge, he’s in rehab, after his liver transplant, transplant. You were here when Emmjay was telling everyone.” Emmjay had spent an entire day quoting on the provision of WiFi, as Merv had seen this as the missing piece in the Boutique Brewery/Pub he had always envisioned. In the end it was going to cost too much to install, and even more to run, ‘just so a pack of ponces can sit around with their laptops and iPads.’  Of course, the 800-inch plasma TV remained.

“So, Emmjay flew to Switzerland?” Foodge was still convinced that O’Hoo was in some exotic continental sanatorium.

“Yes, mate, that’s right, flew to Switzerland for the arvo.” Merv shook his head. “Anyhoo, excuse the pun.” Merv leant forward to speak sotto voce. “Do you think you might find time to proof read me essay?” Merv surreptitiously slipped an A4 page across the bar.

Foodge was already wearing his black framed reading glasses that he had purchased at a new boutique they called ‘Vinnie’s’. “Oh, this is an unexpected honour…thirsty work, though” A glass canoe instantly appeared at Foodge’s elbow. “Is this a response to a set question?

Merv was even quieter than sotto voce. “We had to write about a childhood fear.”

Foodge burst out laughing. “Rabbits…scared of rabbits!!” As he scanned the page.

“Shh.” A red-faced Merv pounced out from behind the bar. “Sir may feel more comfortable here.” As he manhandled Foodge into an ancient, cracked Chesterfield, in front of the disused fireplace. “If you can just shut up, I’ll get you a day ticket to bloody Switzerland.”

Foodge had no idea of the level of embarrassment that he had caused Merv. His mind had already wandered to Swiss clinics, with Swiss nurses, and Swiss timepieces, and Swiss banks, and, of course, Swiss drinks near Swiss fireplaces after a day of Swiss alpineering. “S’pose I’ll need a new passport.” Merv had already gone back to his station by the bar. “Mr Merv, I suppose there aren’t any leftover wedges, or bacon, or eggs from breakfast?”

“Might be.” Merv knew that there would be because Granny had a soft spot for the occasional private dick, but she never let on. She treated Foodge with the same contempt as most people.

Foodge had taken his proof reading quite seriously, and had noted a couple of spelling and grammatical errors in blue pencil. When he put the paper down, he thought to himself. “Those rabbits really can be quite scary.” His musing was interrupted by a plate of wedges, eggs, bacon, and another glass canoe of Best. “Thanks Merv. This story is rather well constructed. You should receive a good mark.”

Merv quickly took the paper back, with a slight shiver. “Those bloody rabbits.” He thought.

It was Merv’s turn to have musings interrupted. The voice from the giant plasma droned on. “…And our continuing story of pleece corruption, Detective Chief Inspector Rouge is still at large, as we have been reliably informed is disgraced detective O’Hoo. The Pleece Commishnar has just announced a ten thousand dollar reward for information leading to the alleged whereabouts, of either, or both, or one individual of the pair.”

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