Tag Archives: Fern

Episode 84.999 Recurring – Foodge feels the Heat

25 Wednesday Jan 2017

Posted by in Big M, Foodge Private Dick

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Foodge limbers up...

Foodge limbers up…

Story by Big M.

 

It was mid-morning and Foodge was already overheated and confused. He had lost the deposit on his legal ‘Chambers’, and had to pay Fern severance pay plus annual leave. This, and a hefty bar tab, left him skint. His finances were in a mess, but, he was intending to avail himself of a universal panacea. “Mr Merv, couldn’t bother you for some succour in my time of need?”

“Succulents, yes ideal for these long hot summers.” Merv slid a canoe across the bar, and then deftly poured one for himself. “Bloody hot summers, Mr Foodge!”

“Where does it all come from?” Foodge wiped away a foam moustache with a monogrammed handkerchief.

“Kegs, mainly, although we stock bottles.” Merv nodded towards the glass fronted

Merv in the middle

Merv in the middle

refrigerator, with its flickering, yellow fluorescent tubes.

“No, the heat!” Foodge was already regretting, not wearing his new white Bermuda shorts. “It’s insufferable.” As he waved his Fedora in front of his face.

“That’s because it’s fuckin’ ‘ot outside, Mr Foodge”. Merv nodded sagely as he poured another couple of Best.

“Isn’t there some sort of cooling mechanism?” Foodge could feel the ale finding its way to his liver.

“Well, there is the aircon.” Merv gave the glass door of the fridge a wipe with a

Unkle Pervy

Unkle Pervy

dirty rag, squinting at the brown bottles inside. “Fiji Gold, sounds like a cracker!” Merv had a habit of buying ‘South Seas’ brands. “I could turn the aircon on if you like?”

“Anything!”

Merv flicked the switch marked ‘Honeywell’. There was a rumble from the rear wall of the pub. Then a bang. Something seemed to be whirring away behind the bar. Puffs of dust fluttered down from the discoloured plastic vents that dotted the ceiling. Then…nothing. Merv gave the thermostat a whack. Another bang from the back of the pub, then…cool, clean air. “That OK son?”

“Ah, now I can think!” Foodge motioned towards his empty glass. “Whatever happened to those nice, young nurses?”

“All on overtime, they’ll be ‘ere soon.” Merv flicked some dust from his pink singlet.

“Some of them are quite attractive.” It was Foodge’s turn to knowingly tap the side of his nose.

“Yep, and the others are blokes!” Merv roared with laughter. “The others are blokes!”

“Who are blokes?” Asked Yvonne. “While you’re thinking I’ll have three reds, three

Yvonne

Yvonne

pints of pale ale, all with ouzo chasers.”

“Male nurses. They’re all blokes.” Sniggered Merv.

“Mr Merv, I don’t mean to be rude, but do you take drugs?” Yvonne reached over for a tray.

“Well, I’m on a hefty dose of paracetamol for me knees.” Merv was considering the drinks being on the house, after all, the tequila was from Fiji. “Why do you ask?”

Yvonne gathered the glasses together on the tray. “You have the demeanour of someone who’s touched in the head.” As she hurried off towards the Ladies Lounge.

“Thanks for the compliment, Sister Yvonne!” Merv knew she wasn’t a Sister in the biblical, or even, nunnery sense, but called them all ‘sister’ to razz them up.

Granny

Granny

There was a screech from the back of the pub. “ Merv, Merv, MERV, did you turn that fucking aircon on?” Granny appeared at the foot of the Obama Memorial Staircase. “You know we can’t afford to run aircon!”

“I popped it on for Foodge, ‘e was a bit ‘ot!” Merv was trembling, as he hadn’t seen Granny this angry since she found the brown mullet in the spa.

“Foodge, Foodge, is he alright?” Granny crossed the distance from the foot of the staircase to Foodge’s side like a wraith. “My Darling, are you feeling the heat?” She walked our poor, dear boy to an aging, cracked Chesterfield, of indeterminate shade. “Merv, more fluids!!”

“’e’s ‘ad three pints of Best!” Merv protested, as he poured another.

“He doesn’t need Best, or Bitter, he needs a proper Strong Ale, Granny’s Special

Fuck nose

Fuck nose

Ale!”

Merv set the pint aside for ‘Ron’, then accessed the secret tap behind the bar, pouring a litre of Granny’s Spesh, carrying it to the sweaty couple with shaking hands.

“Just sip it, my love, it’s the Elixir of Life!”

Foodge sipped from a huge glass he’d never seen before, and instantly felt better, in fact, he wasn’t that bad to start with, given that the aircon had cooled him down pretty quickly. He looked up at the concerned faces of post night shift nurses. “No mouth to mouth needed here, girls!”

“If there’s any mouth to mouth needed, it’ll be me givin’ it!” As Granny clamped her lips around Foodge’s. “Merv, give me a hand to get him into the lift.”

“We have a lift?” Merv was anything but observant.

A gentleman

A gentleman

“Yes, he’s coming up to my room for some special therapy!” Granny winked.

Neither were seen for the rest of the day.

Those long, hot summer days.

I fink I just went to the toilet...

I fink I just went to the toilet…

Foodge 41 – Vinh -V- Fern – Half Time Score Nil All.

26 Tuesday Feb 2013

Posted by in Emmjay, Foodge Private Dick

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Mickey Dolenz Braddock as "Corky" Circus Boy, 1958.

Mickey Dolenz Braddock as “Corky” Circus Boy, 1958.

Story by Emmjay

Vinh Ordinaire Rouge was generally a level-headed detective, careful and with a rat-like cunning that had been sharpened over two decades of rubbing shoulders – and sometimes other bits, with criminal elephants and lesser pachyderms. She had given birth to a cub reporter after a fleeting affair with a lion tamer who had stretched the truth by telling her that he was a chairman and a crack shot.  But it was rumored that he had a way with whips and looked impressive in jodhpurs and leather riding boots.

Vinh was a natural mother and raised the boy as her own son – which was handy, considering he actually was her son. However life took a turn for the worse when the boy was still unfurred.  His Dad encountered a technical difficulty in a work-related OH&S dispute that ended with a decision that gave him paws to consider.

Things had gone right off the rails when the young cub ran off with the circus.  But the police arrested him for impersonating a ring master and loitering within tent and returned him, marked “not at this address”.

Doubtless, Vinh was shocked when they started using whips and chairs at the cubs for discipline.  And when school kicked off for the day with a starting pistol, rather than a bell and the strains of “God Save Our grey shoe Squeen”, Vinh Rouge thought it was time for veterinary intervention.

A miss-dialled number to Veteran’s Affairs was all it took to remove five degrees of separation and in next to no time, the call was answered.  “This is the FBI, Foodge Bureau of Investigations, Fern speaking”.

“Investigation?” said Vinh Rouge. “Yes”, said Fern.

“I’m a bloody police inspector, why would I want to call Foodge ?” said VOR. ” I want to speak with Veterinary Affairs”. “Beats me” said Fern, “OK, I give in, why would you want to speak with a vet ? ”

A perceptive receptionist would have heard the faint sound of VOR rolling her eyes and also would have steeled herself for the inevitable “DER!”, but Fern heard only the pregnant  paws. “Speak up, what’s the matter ?  Cat got your tongue ?” she said.

“Put me though to Foodge”.

“You said …”

“I know what I effing said” said VOR.  “I changed my mind”.

“It’s a woman’s pejorative to change her mind”, said Fern, helpfully.

“Look, for Pete’s sake….”

“Just a moment, I’ll see if Mr Foodge is available” said Fern.  This was Fern’s little joke to herself, since the office was barely large enough to hold two desks, two chairs, a chesterfield lounge for clients which sometimes doubled as Foodge’s overnight accommodation,a filing cabinet, a fan and a venetian blind to cast the kind of shadows that gave a texture to the sunlight in the daytime and let the annoying red glare of the neon sign across the road that flashed “Rosie’s Tattoo Emporium and House of Pain, after dark.  While Fern was doing the asset reconciliation in her head, VOR’s fuse was rapidly running out”.

“I’m sorry, he’s not available just now” said Fern. “Would you like to leave a message ?”

“Thank you, yes.  Can you please tell Mr Foodge how sad I am to hear that his receptionist was killed in that drive-by shooting from a stolen unmarked police car ?”

“Really ?!” Said Fern.  “Ok.  No, wait a minute, I’m  his receptionist.  That’s not true !”

“It will be by the time he gets the effing message”, said Rouge, pausing to let Fern catch up.  “Please tell Mr Foodge that Inspector Rouge will meet him at 5:00 at the Pig’s Arms.  Tell him, I’ll be waiting for him in the car park in the unmarked stolen police car with the bullet riddled carcass of a halfwit receptionist in the boot”.

Foodge 22: Fern

03 Sunday Apr 2011

Posted by in Big M

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Story by Big M

Fern looked down at, not one, but three broken nails and cried. Not ‘trying to get my own way’ sort of crying, but the crying that comes from genuine hurt. She couldn’t afford to have her acrylic nails repaired; in fact, she could barely afford to eat. It was only that her sister, Acacia, still had an income that they weren’t pushing their belongings in Coleses trolleys, and wearing all of their coats at once, and searching the gutters for old stogies. This wasn’t entirely true, as their mother, none other than, One-Armed Amber, owned their spacious three-bedroom apartment in Lewisham Heights. Legend had it that she had lost her arm in a gun battle. The truth was that she was a victim to Thalidomide. Be that as it may, Amber was still pretty high up in the underworld, and still carried a Charter Arms Pink Lady .38 Special, because she liked the pink frame, as well as the stopping power of a .38.

Fern was furious with Foodge. The bastard owed her nine week’s pay, plus annual leave, plus over five month’s worth of unpaid superannuation. She’d been a damned good secretary. She could type at twenty words per minute. She kept his BAS statements less than two years behind. She had developed an advanced accounting system for the firm. She’d even gone to technical college to learn about the internet, and was capable of catching up with her favourite television shows at work. She could even send an email with an attachment. God knows where Foodge would find someone to replace her. Certainly not hanging around that stinking ‘Pigs Arms’.  Foodge used to come back to the office smelling of stale beer, cheap tomato sauce and that malodorous block of stuff from men’s urinals. No, he’d go a long way before he’d find someone to replace her. That’s why she was prepared to wait.

How long she could wait was a different question. She was a high maintenance lady. There was, of course, the nails, then the hair appointments, you know, streaks, cuts, placement of extensions, removal of extensions, spray tans, make-up, Zumba classes, going out Friday night, going out Saturday night, going out mid-week, shoes, and, of course, stockings, dresses, and, occasionally, a hat, or two.

 

Then there was poor Acacia, heartbroken by that bastard Dr James. She’d gone to work at the hospital with good intentions; to snare, sorry, marry a doctor, and ended up with a weak, spineless male nurse with a doctorate in nursing. Who’d ever heard of a doctor of nursing?  That generated more expenses; lunching out, ‘just to talk’, dinners out, to look for a new man, piccolos of champers or cocktails. The costs just kept adding up. Thank God for the Viza card!

Fern realised that it was getting late, and that; it was her turn to cook dinner. She began to rifle through the freezer looking at the titles of frozen ‘weight loss’ meals, before she settled on Pad Thai for two.  Was there no end to life’s demands?

 

Acacia had endured a difficult day, which was part of a difficult month. She’d asked to be moved from the position of Dr James’ secretary, to any other position in the hospital, so had been moved to the medical ward, to work as the relieving Ward Clerk. It was all go. The doctors and nurses demanded that she notify the Admissions Department of patient transfers within minutes of the event. She was expected to answer telephone enquiries, to go to Patient Records to collect old notes, and, to top it all off, she had to deal with patients!

Acacia decided it was time to plan for a miracle. She’d heard rumours that Fern’s boss, Foodge, was, in spite of his shambolic appearance, the recipient of a family trust, and that particular family was pretty well off. She started to surreptitiously search the patient database. Foodge’s record was pretty easy to find, and pretty unremarkable: one admission with a broken leg when he was seven years old. There were links to Foodge’s parents, and their medical records, which weren’t available, as they preceded the creation of the database, but, interestingly, it gave their address, which she quickly scribbled down on a ‘post-it-note’. A cunning plan started to foment. She couldn’t wait to get home to tell Fern.