Tag Archives: Father O’Way

A Holy Visitation

30 Tuesday Mar 2021

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Written by Big M

Mother O’Way

Foodge’s nightmares continued unabated. Every night, between three and four Granny would be woken by his thrashing and groaning. It was always the same dream; Foodge’s disembodied head in a box. Every time Granny gleaned little bits of additional information before Foodge slipped back to a slumber punctuated by snores, coughs, obstructive episodes and loud farts. Sometimes Foodge replied in Spanish. Occasionally he’d stand up and try to micturate behind the tall boy. One time he was as randy as all hell, but every time he had no memory the next morning. Granny spent the hours between Foodge’s dream and dawn pondering the meaning of these dreams.

……………………………………………….

Foodge has a dream…

Foodge has experienced a reasonable day, that is, until Father O’Way arrived in a pretty summer dress with his hair tumbling over his shoulders and his old navy tattoos on display for all to see. “Call me Mother O’Way!” He gushed.

“Mother O’Way!” Merv erupted. “Mother Fucking O’Way…how about Get Outta the Fucking Way?”

“When did this change occur?” Ventured Foodge.

“Yesterday’s episode.” O’Way was coquettishly twirling his longish grey hair between her fingers.

“Christ, talk about one dimensional characters, what about Mrs O’Way?” Merv quickly poured a second glass of Crème de Menthe.

“It’s over, she’s an extreme heterosexual, a homophobe of the highest degree!”

“So she’s available?” Merv rubbed his hands together.

“I don’t care what happens to her.” O’Way sounded quite melodramatic.

“What is the Church’s position on all of this?” Foodge had managed to pry his eyes away from the train wreck known as Mother O’Way, and pour himself a South Seas Island rum.

“The Bishop is way cool with this.” O’Way had located a compact in his purse and was busily caking powder on her nose. “He thinks this turn of events to be rather modern.

“What about Gordon O’Donnell?”

“What about Gordon O’Donnell?” Everyone turned to behold Gordon’s wonderful visage (actually he looked like an old derro).

“Oh, well, your majesty, ah, I mean your honour, um, what are your thoughts on Father O’Way becoming Mother O’Way?’ Foodge stammered.

“I’m the sort of chap who wouldn’t care one way or another, but, when he’s got such a beautiful looking sheila, and, bear in mind, that it took me months to get this pair together, and, the fact that he’s only doing this for dramatic effect…I don’t approve!”

O’Way was crestfallen. “What do I do now?”

Gordon put a comforting arm around the Father’s broad shoulders. “The missus hasn’t seen you like this?”

O’Way shook his head.

“Let’s keep it our little secret. Perhaps you can frock up when she’s on a weekend away?” Gordon looked around the bar. “It is our little secret! Know what I mean.”

Merv and Foodge nodded enthusiastically, not wanting a bolt of lightning through their skulls.

“I’ll have a word with the Bishop, if he’ll listen to me.” Gordon had a twinkle in his eye.

I’m in this episode, finally…

The Bish Packs It In.

28 Sunday Mar 2021

Posted by in Sandshoe

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Jesus and God

The Bish Packs It In.

Written by Sandshoe

The Bish arrived with attitude. The good Bish (there are some very bad Bishes) had been a supplicant for a semester at a mind re-training boot camp conducted in the Southern Highlands by the Society for the Restoration of All Bishops of Any Sin. FOW*, still. after all these years resident in the Manse over the road from the Pig’s Arms** carpark had some advantages as a host of his, or her, re-emergence. More important to the Bish than anything was no longer being of a fixed mindset about his, or her, personal gender or about anything at all. If anything, FOW was the perfect host. He was laid back.

The Bish greeted his friend, Sandy O’Way with gushing warmth.

“Mother O’Way, away wit’ y’ lookin’ so bonny.”

Sandy, or as we like to address him on formal occasions, FOW, hesitated.

“I’ll need to put down the suitcases, Bish.’

The suitcases dispensed with at the bottom of the staircase, FOW waited for the onrush of shock into his consciousness to subside. Being seized and hugged in an instant by the Bish was unexpected, nay unaccustomed. He picked up the suitcases again, his two hands firmly gripped on them as if on reality. The Bish filled him in as they walked up the staircase to the upper storey side by side

The Bish had seen where inconsistencies in the mortal and moral fabric tethered him, or her to the old ways in entire indifference to caring. In bondage, the Bish explicated. He waved his hands free of imagined shackles.

“We’re all good then.”

FOW wanted it to be inferred he would be Mother O’Way, MOW if necessary were it required of him. What’s in a name.

“Never been better,” the Bish punched with his fists into the very air.

“I’ll check your prescriptions. Seen Gordy*** lately?”

“Don’t forget Gord, Sandy.” Tears of beatitude and plenitude, rectitude I suspect, gratitude rolled down the face of the Bish. They splashed onto the gold heraldic design on the carpet on the staircase.

*Father O’Way

**Window Dresser’s Arms, Pig and Whistle

***Gordy O’Donnell, nuclear and unplugged physicist of all things indeterminable in the Cyberverse.

The Bish Unpacks

13 Saturday Mar 2021

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The Bishop bats on

The Bish Unpacks

By Sandshoe

The Bish is excited. The Bish is having an episode. The good Father O’Way is excited. The staff at Glenda’s Waxing are excited. The Bish has not attended one of FOW’s At Homes for a good while so we are all excited his Uber turned up at the Manse front gate. One of FOW’s specialties is a rousing ‘At Home’.

FOW’s not above inviting a good dance troupe to perform either on the Manse lawn. He has asked the PA’s Morris Dancers. They have showed good form over the years.

Myself I have never heard of any of them. When I suggest I think they have danced off and away to Morris Dancers’ Dance Heaven in the sky (perhaps that is a bit long winded ha! ha! ha! hiccup!), the Bish scoffs.

“Bollocks, Christina!”

I am of a mind to write him out of this one. I keep a cap on it. I see the juxtaposition as well of the sweary word and my name, my real name, sounds with unexpected resonance.

“This is an opportunity sent from…”

“Shut up,” the Bish demands, interrupts says it mildly, “Shut up.”

He’s not happy I think the Morris Dancers are no more.

Someone dropped their hanky

“No more, the derry-o,” I sing to keep things on the up and up, cheerful.

“We never know who anybody really is,” the Bish opines.

*Father O’Way

**Window Dresser’s Arms, Pig and Whistle

A Stay at Home

08 Monday Feb 2021

Posted by in Sandshoe

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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…

Advanced Hair. Yeah! Yeah!

13 Sunday Dec 2020

Posted by in Big M, Merv

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Written by Big M

Wot? Me worry…

Foodge was stood at his station behind the coffee machine. He was in a pensive mood (No he wasn’t, he was just plain embarrassed). Sorry, (Thanks Mark) he was just plain embarrassed after having to piss in the sluice behind the bar. Of course, Foodge’s idea if micturating in the sluice involved piss going everywhere, especially with an over-distended bladder. “Thanks, Father O’Way, for cleaning up yesterday.”

“No worries, I suppose you mentally lapsed back to those days of micturating through the ship’s railing.” FOW, as he liked to be called, was struggling with a leaking tap. It seemed like a cellarman’s job. “O’Hoo, are you there?”

“Yeah.” Came a muffled voice from the cellar.

“Leaking tap on Bitter, can you have a look?”

“Yep.” O’Hoo was trying to keep a low profile in view of the mad rooting in the store room incident.

“What ship?” Foodge had some vague idea about being on a ship but somehow his brain was stopping him from remembering. “Not the Wasted Seamen?”

“Where did you hear that name?” It was FOW’s turn to be pensive, or was it wary?

“It went down last week with three passengers missing, three Australian blokes.”

FOW realised that he had said too much. “Perhaps I heard it on the news. How about a pint?” FOW pushed a canoe in Foodge’s direction.

………………………………..

Merv needs to get dressed…

Merv realised that he had slept in. He tried to get up but his balls ached and his arm seemed to be trapped. He was spooning the most delightful creature he’d ever seen. Like a fitness model she had delts like boulders, traps like the hind leg of an ox and muscular striations that Mr Schwarzenegger would die for. He gently nuzzled her ear. “Mon Cheri.”

…………………………….

Janet puts on the death stare…

Foodge heard the back door slam. Looking around he was face to face with Merv’s ex, Janet. Where is he?” She spluttered.

“Who would that be?” Foodge answered.

“Who dya think!”

FOW stepped in. “Now there’s no need to get excited dear.” In his most ministerial voice.

“Shuddup Padre. Where is he?”

FOW and O’Hoo avoided looking at her. Foodge couldn’t help himself and nervously glanced up at the ceiling.

“Still in bed, the lazy great oaf.” Janet sprinted up the Memorial Kristina Kennealy staircase.

Foodge tried to ring Merv, suddenly realising that Merv didn’t own a mobile. It was too late; the sound of thumping on Merv’s bedroom door resonated through the building.

Janet burst through the door. “Get up you lazy…what, I’ve been gone five days and you’re already playing hide the salami…whoozat?”

Mervette awkwardly tried to cover all of her bits. “Merv, you told me you were well and truly divorced. Five days? Separated five days. That’s barely a holiday!”

“So, who’s this, Merv, yer twin sister?” Janet was shaking with anger.

“No, wait…why…we’re nothing alike.” Now Merv was discombobulated.

“She looks like you with a sex change.” Granny, Foodge, FOW and O’Hoo all nodded in agreement. Gordon only knows what they were all doing in there.

Mervette spoke up. “I think I can explain it. Merv, did you ever donate tissue for cloning experiments?”

“Well, Advanced Hair paid me a thousand bucks for some hair follicles to clone for baldy headed blokes, but that was over thirty years ago.”

“What do you think happened to that tissue?”

“I assumed they made hair out of it!”

“Well, they did, but they also made me.”

“Hang on, if they made a human, why didn’t they publish, or sell the technology to make human organs and medical treatments.” Big M interjected. He’d been sleeping in the bar since the last episode.

“Shut up, Big M.” Yelled Mark. How he got into the story, no one knows. “Let ‘em tell the story.

“You’re female, you can’t be a clone!” Merv’s head hurt.

“They developed a technique to convert the cells into female cells by substituting X for Y, because women are less likely to become bald. They left some cells dividing and they became me. I am your female clone!”

“So you’ve been having an affair with yourself. I’ve heard of dedicated Onanists, but you absolutely take the cake” Janet seemed to make sense. “I’ll tell you what, why don’t you go and fuck yourself?”

A couple of onanists…

GOD rescues the Pigs Arms

30 Monday Nov 2020

Posted by in Big M, Merv

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Gordon comes to the rescue…

Written by Big M

It had been a busy morning, what with the Night Nurses enjoying their first post lock down get together. It all went swimmingly until Big M knocked over a bottle of Shiraz, which managed to contaminate everybody’s uniforms. He had no excuse for the sudden lack of balance; he was only five pints in. Mark managed to steer him towards the door. “It’s orright, I’m ketchin’ the 3801” Big M slurred.

“That’s right, buddy, just wait for that big steam engine to pull up, then you’ll be on yer way.” Mark soothed as he dumped Big M onto the bus stop seat.

Foodge had been at the coffee machine all morning. He was desperate for a piss, I mean, micturition, so turned to ask Merv or Mervette to man the coffees. He suddenly realised he was alone, with a group of thirsty concreters bearing down on the bar. “Manne, Granny, O’Hoo, anybody??”

“O’Hoo popped his head around the corner. “What’s all of the yelling about?”

“Mate, I’ve been abandoned with a phalanx of thirsty tradesmen bearing down on me.”

“Well, you know that I can’t pull a pint!” O’Hoo tried to stand his ground but the concreters had made it to the bar. “Oh, fuck.” O’Hoo started pulling Trotters Best, all half beer and half foam.

A fresh beer Merv and make it snappy as a crocodile sandwich!

“We aint payin’ for this shit.”

“All on the house.” Mumbled O’Hoo.

Thankfully Granny arrived on the scene. “What in the name of Gordon O’Donnell are you doing?”

“Tryin’ to help.” Muttered O’Hoo as he passed another half arsed pint across the bar.

Granny slipped behind the bar to expertly pour a couple of pints. “Okay youz blokes, happy hour is over so there’s no more free piss.” She quickly checked each tap. “O’Hoo, IPA and Stout need to be replaced, oh, and by the way, thanks for stepping in.”

O’Hoo raced to the cellar, where he was most at home. Foodge tugged on Granny’s sleave. “I’m desperate for a wee wee.”

“Hold onto yer water works for a minute. Where the bloody hell is that barmaid I’m payin’”

“Well, um, you can probably hear her.” Foodge was either going to have to hold onto his knob or micturated in the sluice.”

From the back of the pub. “Merv!”

“Merv!”

“Merv!”

“Merv!”

“Merv!”

“Merv!”

“Merv!”

“Merv!”

Granny located the source of the noise and tore open the storeroom door. She was horrified by the sight of a shaved, four legged, gorilla. She suddenly realised it was Merv and Mervette butt naked enjoying a conjugal visit. She was so angry she could barely speak. “Pull yer fuckin’ pants up and get outta my sight!”

Granny wandered back to the bar. “Are you still desperate for a Jimmy Riddle, Darling?” The sight of her lover had calmed her somewhat.

“Not now.” Foodge answered guiltily.

“Oh, Gordon O’Donnell help me.” Pleaded Granny.

“What can I do, dear?” Gordon appeared in the doorway of the Gents, busily trying to pull up his fly.

Wanking is fun…I’m a big wanker

Granny’s eyes misted over as she tried to put her arms around Gordon, but finding nothing but air. “Now, Granny, you know that us supernatural beings don’t like to be touched. I’m aware of the problem and I’ve summoned my best man for the job.

Father O’Way suddenly appeared. “Where shall I start Granny, oh, perhaps I should deal with the smell of piss behind the bar?”

Foodge’s Kerouac ‘Stream of Consciousness’ inspired Container Ship Travel Blog.

28 Monday Sep 2020

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They went that way…

By Big M

Foodge’s Kerouac ‘Stream of Consciousness’ inspired Container Ship Travel Blog.

05:37 Awoken by distended bladder. Tripped over doorstep and hit head simultaneously. Disorientated so micturated through railing into Mother Ocean. Managed to urinate over dressing gown hem. Returned to bed.

07:00 Ship’s horn announces change of shift. O’Way, Wes and myself tumble out of our bunks, ready for a hearty seamen’s breakfast. We hang back a bit to allow the night shift to eat first.

07:48 The ship’s cook invites us to clear the tables and help with the washing up. These chaps are wonderfully generous with sharing the workload.

08:12 Us three perambulate around the passenger deck. The feel of the ship rolling over the swell is marvellous, especially now that I’ve stopped vomiting!

08:28 Met some other passengers. All colourful characters, replete with tattoos. One even has an eye patch. I asked him if he was a pirate, to which he replied. “Do you want me to cut you?” Such wit, such humour.

10:12 Wandered down to the galley for morning tea. A little disappointed that there was just an urn with tea bags, instant coffee, sugar and no milk!

Some of the crew…

10:37 As we walked back to our cabin we noticed that a smaller ship was quite close, perhaps half a nautical mile away (yes, it’s all nautical miles, knots and fathoms here). A small boat had been lowered into the water and sped towards us. A sailor dropped a rope and the fellows in the small boat tied a large package to it, and sped off. It must have been a surprise for the Captain because the sailor quickly hauled it up and stowed it in a lifeboat. These chaps are full of shenanigans.

11:03 O’Way tells us that he has a migraine and needs to lie down in a darkened room for a few hours. I offered to sit with him, but he claims that my constant talking is causing the headache. Ungrateful!

12:37 Just finished lunch, and again the kitchen team were keen for us to help clean

Turn left, no right…

up. Wes was allowed to use the dish washing machine, while I scoured pots and pans. The Filipino cook kept calling me ‘tulala’, which I take to be a term of affection. He didn’t look very happy when I started calling him tulala!

13:04 Wes and I managed to find the recreation room. The library shelves have very few books in English and the video library seems to be full of romantic comedies, such as, ‘Dallas does Debbie’ and ‘Two Girls, One Cup’. Such silly titles.

14:05 Wes and I were confronted by the same sailor who we had watched stow the package in the lifeboat. He was very excited and shouted in some sort of foreign language. Must have been hard of hearing so I shouted back. “Don’t worry, we won’t say anything about the Captain’s surprise!” He turned and took off towards the prow, or bow, or whatever the sharp end is called. Foreigners do seem to understand much better when one shouts.

16:23 O’Way staggered back out onto the deck. He seemed to look better and put this down to a visit from Gordon O’Donnell, who had blessed him. Wes suggested that if Gordon was such a great bloke, why doesn’t he get us home. “He is! Was the short answer from O’Way.

20:35 After another meal and the galley, and another session of me being called ‘tulala’, we’d decided to take to our bunks early doing crossword and the like until lights out.

Day Two

05:43 Awoken by distended bladder. Tripped over doorstep and hit head simultaneously. Disorientated so micturated through railing into Mother Ocean. Managed to urinate over dressing gown hem. Returned to bed….

You didn’t see a boat go by by any chance…

Wes’s First Report

14 Monday Sep 2020

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The local hotel where Wes is staying

Written by Big M and his fingers on the keyboard.

“So, Wes, how are you settlin’ into the Old Dart?” Merv drained the glass and motioned to Manne for a refill. “This bloody knee’s still givin’ me curry.”

“Well, I think I’m settling in OK. Walked straight into a job in paediatrics at the local NHS. Of course, havin’ a Federal Pleece paedo check on file didn’t hurt.” Wes polished off the rest of his Yorkshire Pudd, while a very buxom barmaid pushed another pint across the bar.

“Paedo check? If the Federal Pleece can check to see if you’re a paedo, then why don’t they do it for everyone, then round up the paedos and shoot ‘em?” Merv had never heard of such a thing.

The AFP…

“Nah, they just check to see if you’re on any state or Federal pleece data base for anything related to kiddy fiddling. All health care workers, ambos, teachers, volunteers and such forth have to get one.” Wes was wondering what sort of technology was being used to retain so much barmaid bosom in so little blouse.

“Orright, clear as mud.” Merv was thinking that in his day they’d take ‘em out to the bush and shoot ‘em, not put ‘em in a database. “Excellent thinking regarding the paediatric job. I guess that’s where they’d target. Have you had any dealings with Foodge?”

“No, Foodge thought he was onto a paedo ring, so went to Belgium to infiltrate the European Paediatric Society meeting. I think he’s getting paediatricians and paedophiles mixed up.” Wes was getting some promising signals from the buxom one.

“I’ve bloody well explained the differences to ‘im a ‘undred times”. Whoda thought Foodge had been to uni? Merv was propped up on some pillows on the battered old Chesterfield in the Gentleman’s bar. “Any more wedges, Manne?” Manne nodded and disappeared into the kitchen. “What about O’Way?

“O’Way has taken to it like a real private eye. He’s diarised every meeting, catalogued

O’way grows in stature

information, surveillance photos pinned up everywhere, computer logs of recordings. He’s actually having dinner with some high up tyke, a bishop or cardinal or summit.” Now the buxom one was pushing a note across the bar. “How’s everything else going?”

“An agency sent a bloke around because they’d heard that we needed a new character. Dunno his name. Viv reckons Wilma, Hung One On sort of agrees and Big M thought Wilmer sounded more masculine, not that anyone would presume anyone’s gender in this modern world. Granny is pining for Foodge and worried that he might root some European sheila. Manne and O’Hoo are the only one’s workin’, but it’s worrying having a serial masticater or like,  Manne in both the kitchen and bar. It’s put me off havin’ sour cream with me wedges.”

Wes couldn’t believe what was in the note. “Ah, oh, we’re breakin’ up…losing the satellite link, feckin’ mobile phone…”

Episode 103.5 Merv gets a call

09 Wednesday Sep 2020

Posted by in Big M, Foodge Private Dick, Merv

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Microscopic surgery for sure…

Written by Big M. 

Merv had endured a torrid time with his ‘blown out’ knee. He’d been to the GP, orthopaedic surgeon, MRI, and then physio. He’d hoped that a quick arthroscopy of the knee would fix it, but, no, now it’s all knee brace and physio exercises. Maybe he’d have an arthroscopy when all this fails, he pondered. Just then the phone rang. “Hello Mr Merv.”

“Ah, Foodge, we’re all wondering ‘ow you an’ O’Way were getting’ on in the Old Dart?” Merv bent down to adjust the Velcro on his knee brace.

“Well, it’s all plain sailing over here. I doubt they’ve ever had a paedo here in England, well, except Jimmy Saville and Rolf Harris, and Eric Gill, but he was a famous artist so doesn’t count.” Foodge enthused. “How’s the knee?”

“Painful and tedious. Can’t run or lift. Have to wear a kneebrace and do stupid feckin’

I see the problem with your knee…

exercises. How’s O’Way settling in?” Merv sat heavily into the old Chesterfield.

“I’ll put him on.”

“It’s O’Way here. Can’t talk. Too much going on. Have managed to infiltrate the tykes. They’re a tight bunch. Can’t get a word out of them. Foodge has joined a Gentleman’s Club. He’s hopeless. He’s lapped up all of the usual guff because they have free Scotch and cigars for new members. I’ll pop him back on.”

“Did you hear that? Free Scotch and cigars. How could these folk be harbouring paedos?” Foodge took a drag on a stogie.

“Mate, you don’t think they’re trying to bribe you with cheap booze and tobacco?” Merv took a sip of South Sea Islands Scotch (it seemed to enhance the pain killers).

“No, no-one escapes eagle eyed Foodge. O’Way wants to say something.”

“Merv, O’Way here, Foodge has no idea of what he’s doing. Way out of his depth.The

Oh, book him Danno…

only thing protecting him is his complete ignorance and ineptitude. I think I’m pretty safe, because I haven’t really managed to get anywhere, but Foodge wanders around talking about paedos at the top of his voice. I’m not sure, but I think we’ve been followed a couple of times.” O’Way was nervously twitching the Venetians. “We either need to withdraw or get backup.”

“There’s no-one here we can send.” Merv was secretly pleased that his knee prevented him from helping. “Hey, what about me nephew Wes? He’s built like a brick shit-house, he can fight like a threshing machine, and hasn’t even had a cameo in an episode for years.”

O’Way ruminated for a few minutes. “Yes, Wes, I met him once. Unforgettable. He’s a nurse, isn’t he?”

“Yes, male nurse, can drive just about any vehicle. Used to work in an abattoir, so he’s good with a knife. He’s been to Bali, once, so he’s an international traveller.”

Okay then…

“He sounds like he possesses useful skills, plus we can get him to snoop around some of these London hospitals. Merv, so you feel comfortable with recruitment? Usual deal, Leer jet from Sydney to London. Five thousand pounds a week, plus board. We also provide a very generous hosiery allowance!”

“Merv gulped. “Five thousand? I’ll call ‘im now!”

Episode 102 Merv and Unexpected Travel

08 Tuesday Sep 2020

Posted by in Big M, Foodge Private Dick

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Granny and Father O’Way talk politics…

 

Written by Big M.

 

“Granny won’t be what?” Granny (obviously) roared from the landing of the Mary McKillop Memorial Staircase (somehow the naming of things has gone all Catholic).

Foodge looked up and started wringing his plump little hands.” Err, um, ah, um…happy?” Which was hardly a revelation as Granny was rarely happy.

“It was rhetorical!” Granny waved a bony finger at our hero. “Why won’t I be happy?”

“Oh, Christ, I mean, God, I mean Crikey, I’m going to vomit.” Foodge lurched forward, managing to spray his entire stomach contents into the fireplace, which didn’t really help. It’s not like you can burn the stuff.

This time Father O’Way spoke up. “The London trip is being financed by the Vatican, highly sensitive, and they specifically require a single male for the job. When the personal characteristics of the agent were forwarded to me I immediately thought of Foodge. I mean, he’s highly educated, has an encyclopaedic knowledge of criminal law with detective skills that put Holmes to shame. This comes from the Pope himself, with Extreme Unction.” O’Way had no idea what unction was, ordinary or extreme, but thought it added gravitas when working for the tykes.

By this stage Granny had descended the stairs, and stood in front of the Good Father. “So yer sayin’ that this is gonna be a priestly type of excursion, vow a chastity and all that?”

You are kidding me right!

“Err, yep, that kinda sums it up.” O’Way mopped his brow with a linen hanky that the Pope had given him. “We need someone with intelligence and decorum. Someone who can rub shoulders with the common man, chat about current affairs in a Gentleman’s Club, then enjoy theological discussions with the Bishop.” O’Way felt like he was losing his way. For all he knew Foodge could be a Freemason.

“So what youz are sayin’ is that I’m not goin’, but neither are any other sheilas?”

“Absolutely!” O’Way almost heaved a sigh of relief. “No sheilas, I mean birds, I mean ladies at all.”

“So who’s goin’ with him, Merv?”

“I just ruptured an anterio-posterior crucio-menisceal ligament.” Merv gestured for someone, anyone to get another bag of ice.

Granny nodded to Foodge who ambled off sullenly to the ice machine. “Well, we couldn’t send Manne, on the basis of him being a sexual deviant.”

“It was only internet porn, Granny!” A voice came from the kitchen.

“What about O’Hoo, he’s always lookin’ for extra work, unlike the rest of youz, plus he really is a detective.” Granny’s face lit up. “That way youz can try and work out where yer dragon tattoos come from.”

This was an excellent idea, as Big M had forgotten about the tattoos, and, for that matter, O’Hoo!

“The problem with O’Hoo is that he isn’t allowed into England, or, should I say, back into England.” Foodge piped up.

“That’s true, Granny, I can never set foot in England ever again.” O’Hoo was pulling a Piglet Pale Ale. “Well, not since the incident.”

Big M was uncomfortable with the way this episode was heading. Well, more of a

Big M seems upset…

collection of paragraphs, than an episode. Anyhoo.

“What incident?” Granny gasped.

O’Hoo tapped the side of his nose. “Need to know basis.” Enough said.

“Enough said.” Replied Granny, suddenly experiencing déjà vu, or whatever they say in France. “What about you, O’Way?”

“Well, agh, err, um, look there’s a dwarf!” O’Way tried to sprint towards the exit, only to find himself face down on the putrid carpet, thanks to Granny’s almost imperceptible foot work.

“Ah, the jokes on you O’Way, because there’s no such thing as a dwarf!” Granny looked triumphant.

“Actually there is, and plenty of different types; achondroplastic, hypochondroplastic, Laron, Hypophophataemic rickets, there’s a long list…” Merv was warming to his favourite topic.

Anyone for cricket…

O’Way hadn’t realised that Merv had a penchant for dwarfs, or had chosen to forget. Regardless, he’d been hoisted by his own petard, so to speak (Actually he hadn’t but Big M like to get this into conversations, along with ‘damp squib’, and ‘chance would be a fine thing’, which he didn’t understand, either). Petard or not, O’Way sat there rubbing his shin. “I couldn’t go, I’ve got Church business to attend.”

“I thought that this was a mission for, and on behalf of the Pope, hence the Mother Church Herself.” Granny smiled. “No, that’s it, yer goin’”

O’Way sat there nodding miserably.