Tag Archives: Foodge

Foodge Nearly 60 – Like the Author

06 Sunday Mar 2016

Posted by in Foodge Private Dick, Mark, The Mens

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Hung, off his face after too much Acetic Acid, fish and chips every time...

Hung, off his face after too much Acetic Acid, fish and chips does it every time…

Episode 60 – Story by Mark aka Hung One On

“Bloody hell” says Merv in his usual laconic style, not that Merv understood what laconic actually meant, see he was born laconic, at the Inner Cyberian Hospital, any one born there has to be laconic other wise they are up shit creek without out an outboard, know what I mean. “Hung has done it frigging again, he’s written another fucking episode of Foodge using us, even has an episode number, what is this world coming to.”

“This is true Pigs Arms style we’re none the wiser. This is excellent” says Earnest Moncrieff, the deadly sparrow killer from one of the many other meaningless episodes of Foodge. “Another kayak Merv, and no fly shit this time mate, it upsets me acid” continues Earnest.

“I thought that this episode was really funny, till I read it, then I realised it had a deeper esoteric meaning, I mean line 69 tells you that in one go” says Hung who as usual was propping up the bar trying to remember if the magic mushrooms he had consumed for breakfast were blue meanies or gold tops. Memory wasn’t one of Hung’s assets, lets just say he would be classified as disabled under DSM-V if any one knew what it actually means.

“Please, sir, what’s a kayak of beer?” queries Yvonne, a quiet single lady who regularly sits at the bar sipping her Pink Drinks. Yes, the beautiful, picturesque Yvonne has now been dragged into the story, ever since Hedgie went to jail and all he wants to talk about now is all the anal sex he is getting in jail, Yvonne on the other hand is a much nicer character.

“Kayak refers to a schooner glass 15 ozs in the old money” bores Emmjay, typical scientist, still reckons 1+1=2, dear oh dear, lets face it,  the rest of us know that 1+1 is somewhere between 1.9 and 2.1 but never tell Emmjay that otherwise we will all have to sit through another routine lecture on mathematics he had published in a science journal called the No Idea.

Emmjay continues in his typical monogamous style “In NSW (which didn’t have until recently half pints, but pints (20 ozs) were also used – albeit more rarely). Large glasses are for showing off – more moderate ones are for keeping the beer colder for longer” he lies.

“Why don’t you just shut the fuck up” says Merv, forever the diplomat. “Hung’s trying to write another drug story to make us all laugh and all you can do is talk facts. Haven’t you read line 69 yet?” questions Merv which is truly a rare occurrence.

By this time however, Emmjay was in full teacher mode. As if anyone actually cares. Lets face it, this story is pure fiction and facts are basically useless, similar to members of parliament.

“Deivad Eyland wrote a novel in the 1980s called The Non-Crystalline Amorphous Solid Kayak set in a pub called “The Shit Carters Arms” drones Emmjay. “That pub actually exists, unlike the Pigs Arms, on the corner of Anal Rd and the Rectum Highway near Glenda’s House of Pain. But the pub at the heart of the novel was actually “the Toothless” for a couple of factoids. One, if you survived the night at the pub you will probably come home without your teeth and two, it was a dwelling for plasma” says Emmjay.

“Will someone tell this bloke to shut the fuck up” says hph who had just arrived after a bad trip and a train journey on the overnight flyer which really fucked up his drumming, big time.

“In the Toothless Estate on G-Spot Rd” continues Emmjay, much to the disinterest of the Patrons ah la Pork, ”My dad used to drink there – until he moved in 1956 from Long Bay to Silverwater.”

“Has anyone told Emmjay to shut the fuck up?” says Vivienne DeOliveria, a gourmet chef who helped Granny invent her famous Vegemite and Anchovy sauce to serve with potato wedges. “Anyway, when do we get to the good bit?” asks Viv, as only Viv can.

“The novel, The Non-Crystalline Amorphous Solid Kayak, was and remains the inspiration for the Pig’s Arms. You can buy a copy in any decent second hand bookshop” continues Emmjay and lets face it, by the time this story is finished second hand book stores will be too busy selling SFA due to ennui from the general public but on wee go.

“You can get one for sure online, or offline or at a second hand book store if any still exist” says Gib W, who just suddenly appeared out of nowhere, as all purse carrying nancy boys tend to do in this story.

“Gez, now I have to become illiterate?” replies the gorgeous Yvonne. Now we all know that Gez is Gerard Oosterman, genius and multi millionaire who is married to the delightful Helvi, but he doesn’t turn up till the next chapter disguised as a potato. Again on wee go.

“Nah, just semi-literate, like most of the patrons here at the Pigs Arms” interjects Gib W, wanting a bit more air time seeing that Emmjay has dominated the story so far.

“I take offence to that statement, I’m demi-illerate” says Hung as the mushrooms kick in. Hmm, wedges with Vegemite and anchovy sauce, my favorite, as he heads for the Men’s to practice his regurgitation skills.

“Sorry Sister, didn’t mean to offend the demis.” says Gib W reading the script on his laptop. Gib was more worried about offending GILBET(Gay, Intersex, Lesbian, Bisexual, Extraterrestrial and Transgender) folk especially seeing that Hedgie is now batting for the other team.

“Is that like a movie trailer Gib?” pipes in Earnie as he puts the bong along side his half full kayak then skulls the water from the bong instead of the Trotter’s. Fly shit again he he thinks. Pfft.

“Yes, Earnie” says Gib, “You thought a the trailer was big, wait until you see the demi-trailer” asserts Gib. “But has anyone told Emmjay to shut the fuck up lately?” Says Gib.

“So trailers carry containers and trains carry containers so they must be bigger than a trailer or say a finch. The debate could be about trains or for that matter rhododendrons. We’ve had the train one and anyway Hung hasn’t said anything in ages so at least he got the message to shut the fuck up” says Earnie.

“Oh well, that’s sorted.” mentally groans Viv, kind hearted to the bitter end of this story and waiting for line 69 like the rest of us.

“Has your goat had an orgasm lately?” says Kneeville Coal, who is apparently from North Armenia as he orders a kayak of Trotter’s Ale. North fucking where??

“In a fashion” says Emmjay, “such a typical Pig’s Arms explanation” explains Emmjay on line 69.

“Sorry for the delay, Gib” says Emmjay who appears to be struggling with the concept of shut the fuck up. “I’m still re-configuring MF’s dead, but flat, cat, but this looks like a setup. The Pleece are working better than ever now they and have got the challenge of sifting through 13,000 tabs to find the eleventeen I want to take” says an oblivious Emmjay, high on Trotters Ale and Acetic Acid, his favorite trip. “I hope you liked the sly pic. Don’t you just love a dead machine” says Emmjay adding yet another red herring to the story.

“Loved the pic” says Gib, “I imagine it would be easier to rebuild an Ariel Square Four, than resuscitating a dead but flat cat” continues Gib and seeing that no one on the planet will know what an Ariel Square Four is makes him an expert. Remember, an “ex” is something that was and a spurt is “drip under pressure”, so we can all assume that this statement is truly meaningless.

“Probably died of boredom or dare I say ennui. The squaffer was a classic bit of British engineering design genius which was a first for Britain. Lots of poo being impossible to air cool – bad in a cold, moderate, hot, wet, dry, windy, rainy, cloudy or sunny climate. Disastrous in Australia.” hyphens Emmjay.

“My biological father reckoned you could always fukka venal woman cheep after a night at the Toothless. A great kebab on the way home, lots of emesis overnight  then panadol and sick leave the next day, doesn’t get any better than this don’t it.”

Foodge – The Next Step

28 Sunday Feb 2016

Posted by in Foodge Private Dick, Mark

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The World according to Foodge

The World according to Foodge. Episode Number: Under “On Water Matters” Operational Secret. Written by Mark, well sort of.

Foodge examines his navel, curious as to where it came from, was he really an alien or was it really O’Hoo, he looks like he is from outer space. Anyway,this reads like a “don’t Do loop” nested in another “don’t do loop” a great tale of survival and utter confusion. So for Foodge it did bring back memories of the Willy Willy at Woy Woy. I’m sliding in here thinks Foodge, so wildly ridiculous but he loved good drugs and grog. Like paracetamol and passion pop summer wine, a real avocado.

The Wardsmen are spotty and greasy here, well not like growing up but my younger days and they are nomadic and are not very good at gardening. Who knows what that’s all about, certainly not the authors and in Ward 17 the nurses are purty sweet, with their beards and non shaved underarms, yeah, sweet as.

“Where the fuck are we?” asks O’Hoo in his usual coy manner.

“Dunno, looks like the Crazies ward, lets face mate, you’re in here and you’re crazy” says Foodge.

“Well Foodge old boy, you took the words right out of my mouth except mine were more along lines of who knows” says O’Hoo

“But I haven’t said anything, you know, it’s all that sound over work like on General Hospital. I think the words and the sound over man comes out the speakers, it’s called a script or something” informs Foodge.

Sure thing mate, just relax fella, thinks O’Hoo Now if one could believe a true lie here, O’Hoo’s good ideas are ecliptic or even epileptic, something like that.

“Anyhoo I’d say all the more delicious we’ve read of all the episodes and still don’t know but it’s a story with a bit of a flutter in it.” laments Foodge. As only Foodge can like the day he first met the gorgeous Paris Brown, long legs, blonde and yep you now.

“If I was you, I’d hesitate to join them.” says O’Hoo “ I think we are re-creating the 70s in fact they are forking awful but they still seem to be able to rake it in” as the story flows like defying gravity.

Foodge lets out a deep scythe but it is O’Hoo that always has such lovely sweet thoughts.

“How about a cuppla lemonades” laughed O’Hoo and for that matter Foodge, so much in fact they nearly shat themselves or some how euthanasied themselves, something like that.

“I was thinking they should bring back Hunter Old Ale.” reflected Foodge back to the good old days when beer was beer. That was all ya drunk he reminisces. Poor old Foodge seems to have forgotten that beer was the only drink you could get, hmm.

“There was Tooheys Old and Tooheys Hunter Old. I think they were the same thing though the Hunter Old was brewed in Newcastle. You could drink a skinful of the stuff and never wake up with a hangover. It was nectar when I was growing up.” says O’Hoo

“Bullshit mate, how can anyone not get a hangover after a skin full of beer, un bloody believable you are O’Hoo” cries Foodge.

“As someone who knows beer I can tell you a thing or two young fella, my middle names Beer and the first is More, More Beer everyone, cheers” says the stranger behind us only to reveal himself as Emmjay. Roars of laughter all round but then seriousness descends.

“What are we going to do next?” asks Emmjay.

“Fucked if I know” says O’Hoo “Yous?”

“Nah, me neither” reply Foodge and Emmjay in unison.

“Actually” remarks O’Hoo with rare insight into a world where he is all ones and zeroes “ not even fuck actually knows”.

Foodge Untells the Truth – Once Again

18 Thursday Feb 2016

Posted by in Foodge Private Dick, Mark

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Top Left, Foodge, Merv Bottom Left: O'Hoo, Rouge in Drag and Gip W

Top Left, Foodge, Merv
Bottom Left: O’Hoo, Rouge in Drag and Gib W

Episode 51 and eight thirds

My name sometimes seems to appear on these Foodge thingies, but I’m buggered if I know what’s going on. Oh I see, it says here on my name badge that my name is actually Foodge, crikey, wish I could remember things like my name and even say the plot of this story would be nice. Bloody Emmjay and Rouge have gone to Newcastle, in drag as usual but I’ll leave that to your imagination, s’pose.

“I’ll keep my eye out for the Newcastle Flyer, and pick them up in the Zephyr. I’ll bring the shot gun.” says Earnest, yes the infamous Earnest Moncrieff[1], apparently he once shot a sparrow with a BB gun, someone to avoid, know wat I mean.

“Accidentally caught the flyer last year, right in the fucking face, bastards, coal chunk right on the noggin” says Gib W the person this story is all about a bit. Gib carries on a bit here and if you are really bored don’t read the next  four or five lines. And if you don’t read them, I will never talk to you again, maybe.

“Train was late from Dandruff and just jounced on a Newcastle train, couldn’t work out why nobody was getting off at my stop. It’s hard being alone sometimes. Sent 30 minutes in Woy Woy Woy Woy  Woy Woy Woy Woy Woy Woy Woy Woy Woy Woy Woy Woy Woy Woy Woy Woy just reading the train station sign and then waiting for the gubbermint to build the train track so I could get home. Lovely trip but even LSD didn’t really work.” laments Gib.

“It’s pretty bloody slow!” says Earnest, “Two years can get stretched out to seven  (Oops, wrong story, anyway I’ve paid my debt to society, she told me she was sixteen, honest)! I’ll will pick you up avec shot gun. Are you a Local?”

“Nah I’m from Little Britain” informs Gib “Yeah I know, an uninvited guest one may say, catching their train to Newcastle, how odd”, continues Gib, like sand through the hourglass never realizing that the glass was once sand. Day in and day out, your life turned upside down, must be hell. I struggle to continue, not really but a bit of melodrama never hurts.

“Took a trip at Port Stephens. It was when you could the really good stuff however the train from Port Stephens to Newcastle was like something from out of space man, had the ticket checked twice on the journey. Lucky I was able to fake it both times just like my organisms” says Earnest “A really good trip should work in about an hour or a bit over. But that would mean spending money wouldn’t it.” says Earnest who is tighter than a fishes um, thingy, I think you get the picture.

The Inner Cyberia Pleece Force in the car park after one to many Trotters

The Inner Cyberia Pleece Force in the car park after one to many Trotters

“We thought we flew to Brisbane this week for an overnight stay” says Gib “But  we really had a reefer at Broadmeadow pub and then shipped the drugs to the airport, then on to Port Stephens/Nelson Bay, but I expect that there aren’t to many pollies we can’t  buy off, heavy stuff because it wants shares with Coals or The Good Guys or even worse Country Target, it still sells 50 year old stinky diesel arse wipes like R.M. Williams” thinks out loud poor old Gib.

“In the 70’s to 80’s most of the trips would be pulling us about 150k” reminisces Earnest dreaming about the good old days, when the cops and the crims were at least on the same side.

A pregnant pause why they both think about dinner at Grannies little sisters cousins nephews friend new cafe. Aren’t tight families sweet.

“Lets get an old 38 class Gib” continues Earnest “They’ve been known to have you tripping in just over 2 hours. In fact the fastest trip now is still slower than the 1930’s. I guess the point is the hump deviation therefore changing the profile or maybe it’s just the chemicals. Even the laughing stock is nearly 100 years old in some cases, Truss, Abbott and the Bishop without the great tits. Political dills are everywhere. Instead we have a gubbermint that stinks and remember you can have many different types of stools but you can only use the paper once.”

“Developing on that Earnie,” blurts Gib  “the 80s were still running in the 70s, only to be replaced by the 60’s that were clapped out within ten years.” Let’s try and think this one through shall we.

“Hunter’s heavy man.” informs Earnie, “His arse is big enough for a bicycle and a car that can pass sideways and his BMI is about 400”

“Did you just feel the shops move?” questions Gib

“Nah, Rouge burbed but I must admit a few new roots in Sydney have improved things. But when Emmjay finally runs down George Street naked the whole city will come to a standstill. I’ll be working at Dandruff one day a week fairly soon. If I get the ripe concoctions  it will take me just under an hour to wave at the mountains with my Strapfield  StrapOn” gloats Earnie.

“Mate, look a good little restaurant is opening up called the Holding Cells but few people seem go every day, really strange. Some whingers expect the coppers to take them from door to door like a Mormo” groans Gib.

“Yeah, Sydney is a circle with a few bits missing, sort like a square” informs Earnie.

“So it’s a square then Earnie?” asks Gib.

“Yeah, sort of like a square with a few bits missing like a circle” states Earnie. Hmm, is this a circular reference by any chance that Excel spits at you all the time? Sorry that may be rhetorical which then gets really scary. My neural pathways are returning Error Message 404, Page not found.

“Good luck with Dandruff, Glen 20 mixed with urine is supposed to help” states Gib. “Beats me peeing in a hospital.”

“Anyway, I put $4.52 on the Bears to beat the Steelers and will return $17, makes more sense, well more than this story anyway” surmises Earnie.

“Who were we supposed to shoot again?” asks Gib

“Dunno” says Earnie

“Wanna go down the pub then?”

“Yeah, okay”

Authors Notes

[1] A genius award if you can figure this link out.

[2] The author does not condone the use of drugs.

[3] Written by Big M and Algernon then heavily edited by Mark aka HOO.

Foodge 57.3 – Merv’s Recovery

15 Monday Feb 2016

Posted by in Big M, Foodge Private Dick

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Story by Big M

Merv’s recovery from his coma was a much slower process than the movies would have us believe. He had lost a great deal of weight, due to muscular atrophy, and he found it difficult to chew and swallow food after being tube fed for so long.  It had taken quite some time to learn to sit up without being strapped to a chair, followed by a few tentative steps in a support frame. Now he was ambulating around the rehab ward independently, but still shook his head when he looked down at his wasted calves, thighs and arms.

The mental toll was tremendous. On the one hand he was pleased to have left the Pigs in OKish hands, and that he had been visited by so many friends.  On the other hand, he felt like a time traveller who had stepped into another time; at home, Turnbull was now PM, Morrison, treasurer, Hockey the US ambassador. Overseas, there were refugees all over Europe with more terror attacks, whilst the US elections had been taken over by a comedian with a fox on his head, and an off-sider who sounded like she had escaped from a mental facility. ‘Where will it all end?’ He pondered.

Merv’s reverie was interrupted by a cough, sotto voce, from left stage. It was Mr Foodge, bearing a large take away food container. ‘Gidday, Foodge, watcha got there?’ Merv moved away from the window, which overlooked the grounds.

‘Granny cooked up some brunch for you, Mr Merv.’ Foodge removed the lid with great flourish to reveal bacon, eggs, smoked salmon, button mushrooms, tomatoes and baked beans on sour dough. ‘Your favourites, mate.’

Merv tucked in to the meal with great relish, but was hampered by his slowly rehabilitating oesophagus, which didn’t share much relish. He motioned to Foodge to sit down. ‘How’s the pub?’

Good, err…um, very good.’ Foodge proceeded to outline the repairs that O’Hoo had performed, how the Bowling Ladies had pitched in to do some cleaning, Hedgy and the Hell’s Angles had tidied up the yard, establishing a grassed area for the twins to play on.

‘An’, how are you goin’?’ Merv ignored some errant egg yoke that was trying to bungee jump from the corner of his mouth.

‘I’m, err, um, surprisingly good.’ Foodge looked awkwardly at his black brogues. ‘I’ve actually learned quite a lot, you know, pulling pints, accounting, swapping kegs, and dealing with difficult customers.’

‘Then why are you being so bloody awkward?’

‘It’s being so close to Granny all of the time. I still don’t know where we stand since O’Hoo and I woke up in her bed that morning.’

‘Mate, I wouldn’t get relationship advice from a bloke who’s bin in a coma, but whydoncha talk to her?’ By now Merv was earing some egg and baked beans on his shirt.

Foodge was about to reply, when he was interrupted by shrieking from the distant hall. ’Where’s me boy?’ ‘Where’s me Merv’. The noise grew louder.

‘Oh shit.’ Merv pushed his meal away as the light was taken from the doorway, as if by an eclipse.

‘There’s me lad.’ Something the size and shape of a refrigerator pushed through the doorway. The only outward sign of being a woman was a huge, decrepit, floral hat.

‘Gidday Mum.’ Mumbled Merv.

Merv’s mum removed an old hanky from between her breasts, spat on it, in proceeded to remove the afore mentioned, potentially abseiling, egg yolk.

Merv writhed around like a small boy.

‘oo’s your fat, pasty faced friend?’

“This, mum, is Mr Foodge, bee ay ‘onours, Master of Laws, former  Pleece Prosecutor, the best gumshoe in Inner Western Cyberia, and one of my best mates. He taught me proper spelling, grammar and pronunciation, unlike my own parents!”

‘Don’t get feckin’ cheeky with me, boy. Pleased to make your acquaintance. ‘ave you got a car?’

‘Only the best, a Ford Zephyr, with half race cam, high compression pistons, four barrel Holley, and mandrel bent extractors..’Foodge was cut off.

‘Good, I need a lift to me accommodation.’ Merv’s mum was forcing the yolk-encumbered hanky back down her bra.

‘Where’s that?’ Foodge enquired innocently.

‘The Pigs Arms, a course!’

 

Foodge Tells the Truth – Finally

11 Thursday Feb 2016

Posted by in Foodge Private Dick, Mark

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stock-photo-mugshot-of-a-beautiful-three-sexy-young-woman-323502245

Well, what can one say about Rouge and the boys.

Episode Number: 51 and a bit.

“Hey, for fuck sake” says Foodge in his usual nonchalant manner to the point where sleep seems to be the best option. “You know that dickhead Hung One On, well he predicted what that bloody Ethelbert IronInset[1] bloke and his theory of non-continuity said would happen, no flow, no logic and really no story line. You know  I think Hooster(common alias for Hung One On) is related to our lovable D.G. O’Hoo cause both are usually pissed on Trotter’s most of the  time” he eloquently informs the patrons at the bar, just like an expert. Trouble for poor old Foodge is that an expert knows a whole lot about very little.

“Ya bloody joking” interjects O’Hoo “what’s this most of the time, I’d take umbrage at that if I knew what that meant”

“Look mate, this is reality here at the Pigs Arms and your response was written into the script so shut up an stop using up the word limit. You know that Rouge and Emmjay are bastards if the story goes to on two [sic] long as the customers will be drunk by the time this story finishes, comprehendre?” FFS[2] thinks Foodge

“Well where is dem[sicer] too[sicest] dingoes anyway?” thought bubbles O’Hoo.

“Hey Merv, O’Hoo needs a few more glass canoes” opines Foodge. “Never new[getting sicer] he could even think. They are on their way to Newcastle on the express train run by the gubbermint so they should get there in a couple of weeks or so. They wanna talk to Gib W”

“There on the steam express?” asks O’Hoo.

“Nah mate, drugs probably” laments Foodge as he secretly reminisces about his own dangerous past of drug abuse with paracetamol, thiamine and glucosamine, for what, a stuffed liver and trying to make a living hunting dangerous criminals like fine defaulters or four wheel drive owners, ah well, one can’t have everything in life. Definitely was never the booze, anyhoo read this and weep.

Father O’Way Meets G O’D Part 2

“Fuck”

“Piss”

“Shit”

“So do you want to kill him?” asks O’Hoo as he fiddles with something in his pocket, a gun for sure right.

“Everything is on the table for discussion DG but please never actually ask for answer”

Authors Notes

[1] Hmm, was this quip too easy?

[2] Many thanks to the delightful Annabel Crabb for this one.

[3] I challenge anyone that has read the Foodge series to try and explain what it is really about. I haven’t got a clue.

Foodge # 52 – Merv Makes a Glock of Himself

15 Saturday Nov 2014

Posted by in Big M, Foodge Private Dick

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glocksixincol

Story by Big M

Foodge’s visit to the ‘medic’ had given him pause to think. Think about his relationship with O’Hoo, think about where those dragon tattoos came from, and think about what had happened between him and Granny. He was perched uncomfortably on a bar stool, with the, recently injected, butt cheek, hanging orff for comfort. He tried to stand up, but his leg had fallen asleep so stumbled, his hand thrust forward, spilling a pint of Pigs Arms Pink Drink across the bar. O’Hoo was immediately at his side. “Are you OK there, Foodge, old mate?”

O’Hoo had dragged Foodge back up onto the stool, then started wiping the pink fluid with Merv’s best dirty rag. “Thanks, O’Hoo, just stop that for a minute, er…mate. We’ve been friends for a long time…I…er thought I should apologise.”

O’Hoo cut him off. “It’s me who should apologise, Foodge, I shouldna told the patrons about you ‘n’ Granny, but, I have to admit, I’ve always been a bit jealous of you, with your career, your expensive suits, and shoes, always bin able to pull a bird, then, here you are with Granny…I mean, she’s so hot, and those taught abs…”

“Yes, she’s pretty taught.” Foodge remarked. “Probably self taught!” Foodge was hoping for another Pink Drink, or, perhaps a Trotter’s Best. “Anyway, O’Hoo, how did I end up in her boudoir?”

“You don’t remember? Buying her champagne, slow dancing until midnight, escorting her upstairs after, ‘Time, please gentlemen’?” O’Hoo threw the rag into the sink.

“Not exactly, and, by the way, how did you end up in there?” Foodge took a sip from his replacement Pink Drink that was provided by a very surly Merv.

“Shit, I dunno, had a few schooies, then a coupla Scotches after ‘Time Gentlemen’, then musta stumbled in there!”

Granny’s discordant humming could be heard in close proximity. She had been reading about computer viruses and decided that no one was about to get sick at the Arms, so had begun a virus eradication programme that involved aggressive cleaning of all computers and accessories with alcohol wipes.

Foodge leant forward. “Quick change of subject, mate. Where did we get these tatt….”

“Feckin’ terrorist bastards.” Ejaculated Merv, as he thumped on the bar, suddenly interrupting the tete e tete. He had been reading the Inner Western Cyberia Standard, looking through the funeral notices to make sure that Granny wasn’t dead. “Listen to this, ‘The Church of Isis invites all to our inaugural service to thank the Goddess in the traditional Egyptian manner.’ Feckin’ Gippoes!” He had the ancient Bakelite handset on the bar and had dialled the Pleece. “’allo, pleece, ‘ave you seen the paper, Gippoes under yer noses buildin’ up a terrorist cell…what..no…I’m feckin serious….” “Bastards ‘ung up”

Merv turned his attention to the assembled patrons. “Time to be alarmed, not alerted, boys an’ girls. Terror cells just up the road, an’ Russian ships orff the coast. Time to get some weapons ready. Granny, what have you got?”

Granny pulled a small; snub nosed, 38 from her pocket. “This is all I’ve got since you gave me shotty to the pleece.”

“Manne, you carryin’?”

“Just this little Walther PPK, to frighten raffle thieves.” Which is ironic, as Manne himself used to dip his hand into the raffle winnings.

“Hedgie, anything?”

“Just me snake killin’ shotty.” Hedgie replied. “It’s in the ute.”

“O’Hoo, you must have your pleece pistol?”

O’Hoo pulled a nine millimetre Glock from his shoulder holster, and a 32 from his ankle holster.

“Foodge, I don’t s’pose you’re carryin’?”

“Well Mr Merv, even though the life of a Very Private Dick is a dangerous one, I don’t usually carry a heater,, but today I’ve got these,” Foodge removed a 45 calibre Smith and Wesson from his shoulder holster, a 357 Magnum from the back of his bellt, and a snub nosed 32 from his jacket pocket.

“What’s all this for, Foodge?”

“In case I see that bloody doctor!” Foodge’s face was red with rage. “Oh, and a hunting rifle in the car, with telescopic sight!”

“Merv clapped his hands together with delight. “Alright friends, let’s get ready for war!”

Foodge #51 – Privates on Parade

09 Sunday Nov 2014

Posted by in Big M, Foodge Private Dick

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Roger Livesey The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp (1943)

Battington-Smythe, Colonel, retired.

 Story by Big M

Foodge had been fairly uncomfortable in the wedding tackle department for a few days. He had tried to obtain some confidential advice from Merv, but there were either too many bar flies around, or Merv was caught up with trying to sell-on two hundred bottles of Fijian Sham-Pain, that he’d failed to shift on Cup day.

His usual confident, Uncle Emmjay, had won a motza on the Cup, so had treated himself and FM to a luxury holiday at Port Kembla Caravan Park in their brand new, two berth ‘van.

He was still cranky with O’Hoo, and was giving him the cold shoulder, so asking him for advice about the trouser flute was out of the question.

Granny? Well, no.

Manne? He was probably still a virgin, so, no.

Hedgie? Too caught up with Bowling activities.

Eventually Foodge decided to wander over to Rosie’s House of Depilation and Torture. Unfortunately Rosie was less than impressed with Foodge’s request, and declined to take a look at the offending member, instead referring Foodge to the twenty four hour medical centre that was only open until six in the evening.

Foodge had waited for twelve National Geographics and two Women’s Weekly Giant Crosswords when a neatly dressed, elderly man with a crew cut, and a clipped moustache summoned him into the treatment room. “Battington-Smythe, Colonel, retired.” He motioned for Foodge to take a seat. “Just having a recce at your notes, here, young chap. Previous heart problems, no military service. What brings you here?”

Foodge’s bloated cheeks went red. “It’s…ah…um…” He nodded towards his crutch.

“Oh, that sort of a problem, we’ll have a short arm parade then, lad!” The Colonel started to don some gloves. “Been playing away from home, I suppose some young filly is a lucky girl.”

Foodge sat staring blankly, wondering what the hell a ‘short arm parade’ could be.

“Come on lad, stand up, belt orff, trousers down!!” The Colonel seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time examining Foodge’s privates. “While you’re here we may as well check the prostate, bend over lad”

Foodge was unused to his poop chute having this level of intimacy with another man. “That’s a beautiful tattoo, Mr Foodge, does it have a partner?” The Colonel was removing his gloves and washing his hands.

“Yes, um, my mate O’Hoo has the mirror image”

(One may recall that both O’Hoo and Foodge have dragons tattooed across their cheeks)

“With this sort of problem, one normally does some blood tests, then starts some treatment, but I’m not one for all of that namby-pamby carry on” The Colonel injected a big dose of procaine penicillin into Foodge’s flabby butt cheek. “I mean, in war, one may as well go in with all guns blazing!”

The Colonel sat down to write in the notes. Foodge tried to sit, but the pain was extraordinary. “Here’s a prescription for some antibiotics. Take the full course for fourteen days, and, while we’re about it, no alcohol.” The Colonel leaned forward, sotto voce. “You should let aforementioned filly know about your current status.” The Colonel tapped the side of his nose with his finger.

Foodge was still none the wiser as to his ‘present status’, so thanked the doctor and headed next door to the chemist.

Later that evening, Foodge hobbled into the Gentleman’s Bar, and gingerly propped one cheek onto a stool. “Evening Foodge, looks like you’ve been in the wars.” Merv chimed.

“You don’t know the half of it!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

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!

Foodge #49 – a Night to Remember

03 Monday Nov 2014

Posted by in Emmjay, Foodge Private Dick

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Simulated painting of Granny by Scott Harding

Simulated painting of Granny by Scott Harding

 

Story by Emmjay

It was unlike Foodge to really tie one on. He has a reputation for being a Trotter’s Ale and lemonade kind of person. The reputation is well-earned.

This time, it would be fair to say, Foodge himself was well-oiled.

He rolled over without opening his eyes. Then he realised that a pair of ice cold feet was in contact with his own.

“Geezus, your feet are cold ! They’re sucking the life out of me”.

“What ?” said O’Hoo.

“Your feet ! They’re like blocks of bloody ice”, said Foodge.

“I don’t think so” said O’Hoo.

“They bloody ARE !” said Foodge.

“No, mate, there’s an alternative reality if you care to prise open your version of two cherries floating in a bowl of porridge”, said O’Hoo.

Foodge hesitated.

“I’ll give you a clue” said O’Hoo. “I’m over here and I’ve still got my boots on”.

“Oh no…..”. Foodge wasn’t sure whether he actually voiced this or whether Emmjay had put the message in a thought bubble. Foodge hoped he hadn’t actually said it.

“Good morning, Foodge” said a lilting voice, clearly pleased with herself.

A rush of something like a mix of terror and guilt coursed through Foodge’s brain.

“Good morning, Granny” said Foodge, keenly aware that there was going to be a lot of unexplainable material to put together to make sense of the previous evening’s events.

O’Hoo was in the happy position of being an innocent bystander – although standing he certainly wasn’t. He rolled out of the bed and already fully clothed in his service suit and shod with his regulation steelcaps, he made an unsteady trek towards the door and the bathroom down the hall, muttering something about breakfast.   He closed the door with a ‘click’ that hung in the air like a fart that was released in the misbelief that the perpetrator was alone and the fart was silent. None out of two correct so far.

Foodge chanced a quick peek through an enraged eyelid. Granny was snuggling in with a sheet wrapped around what Foodge correctly guessed was the actual owner of the ice block feet.

The couple presented an awkward picture of self-satisfaction and apprehension.

“You were lovely last night, Foodge” said Granny.

“Was I ? ‘inquired Foodge, with a mix of incredulity and no idea what had happened after the long and inebriated recount of O’Hoo and V.O. Rouge’s disappearance.   Foodge was desperately hoping that Granny was not going to elaborate. She was clearly waiting for some kind of reciprocal affirmation.

“You were lovely too” said Foodge, mustering a sheepish smile and a plausible impression of sincerity in the face of trenchant amnesia”.

“Would you like me to make you some breakfast ?” said Granny. Foodge nodded, despite this being a risky manoeuvre, given the delicate state of his consciousness.

“That would be lovely” said Foodge, finding a freshly minted and not yet overused compliment.

In the interest of discretion, Foodge closed his eyes again and Granny, draped in the sheet made her way to the shared bathroom, relieved to find that O’Hoo had already completed his ablutions and descended into the dining room.

Foodge was pretty sure he himself was naked, and had no recollection how he got that way or why.   He felt around and the bedside table revealed a glass object similar in shape and weight to a mostly empty bottle of London Fog – the Pig’s Arms bathtub house gin. A clue, thought Foodge, master sleuth that he imagined himself to be.

While he was still in imagination mode, Foodge imagined a soft, but self-satisfied grin was tiptoeing across his boat race. And he imagined also that despite the epithet, Granny was a rather nurturing sort with soft hands and a surprisingly taught … Foodge hesitated …… body, he ventured to himself.

It’s not recorded whether Foodge actually had a clear idea about what the phrase “taught body” actually meant. He recalled a certain English teacher from his high school days, who, the more developed boys alleged, was a ‘real goer with a taught body’. Foodge had thought this referred to her profession and it never occurred to him that the other lads were more inclined to be describing her recreational interests.

Foodge wondered what O’Hoo knew that he himself didn’t remember. He opened one eye just enough to fix on the bedside table. He opened the drawer. There was a single book. It was about an inch and a half thick, red bound with a robust cover and a candle circumscribed by a circle in gold. Foodge opened the book. It appeared to be a bible published by the Gideons. There was writing on the frontice piece. It said “To Dear Foodge with love and best wishes from God”. The writing was curiously familiar. It reminded Foodge of the script he’s seen on scraps of paper transmitting delivery instructions from the kitchen to Manne.

At the foot of the bed Foodge’s brogues were neatly aligned with his argyle socks folded and inverted so all he had to do was insert his plates of meat and pull them up. On the chair by the window, his shirt was waiting, draped over the chesterfield’s ample arm. The coat was hung up.

The trousers were …… missing. “O’Hoo, the rat” though Foodge. The knock at the door was followed by the entrance of a radiant woman, perhaps just past her salad days, but clearly not over with the main course.

“I thought you might need these pressed” said Granny.

“Thank you, Ggg….. very much” Foodge corrected himself.

“You’re welcome, Darling Foodge” said Granny, pivoting on her heel and disappearing as suddenly as she had arrived.

Foodge showered and towelled himself up, not for the first time in the last 24 hours. He dressed and combed his still wet hair with his fingers, sighed deeply and descended the stairs into the hall next to the bar. The bar was quiet, save for Merv resurfacing the glassware with a fresh batch of his renowned home made bacteria. Foodge stepped into the bar.

“HEY !!! FOODGIE-boy!” roared the ambushing patrons, whopping and slapping Foodge on the back “Atta Boy !”

O’Hoo was sitting in one of the booths. He had the look of a man redolent with leaked information of a sensitive nature. O’Hoo looked at Foodge. He saw a famed sleuth joining the dots with the kind of fervour one might expect to precede violence. Not actual real violence. More like pantomime violence.

The piano player that the Pig’s Arms sometimes employed to jolly the place up and lend a kind of western barroom ambience was on stress leave, but if he had been there he would have either pulled up his sleeves and started playing a Scott Joplin rag. Or he would have fallen silent – the calm before the storm when somebody, for no fathomable reason would soon throw a chair across the bar and smash the mirror just after Merv had removed the rot gut corn liquor to a safer place under the counter.

Since the piano player was on stress leave, Emmjay chose to write the silent treatment.

Foodge strode slowly towards O’Hoo. There was a feint sound of jingling spurs  Emmjay erasing the spurs line.   The formerly jovial patrons drew back – caution striking a brief victory over mayhem.

Foodge sat in O’Hoo’s booth. He motioned to Merv to pour them both a drink. Steel eyed, He never took his eyes off O’Hoo. A bead of sweat rolled off Merv’s nose. Merv sat two shot glasses on the table between Foodge and O’Hoo, next to O’Hoo’s pint of Trotter’s Ale.

“Make mine a Pimm’s number one Cup” said O’Hoo, dissolving into peels of laughter..

“Cut !” said Emmjay. “For fuck’s sake, HOO” said Emmjay, “Try to take this seriously”.

“Right” said O’Hoo taking a sip of his Trotter’s Ale and blasting it out both nostrils as he completely lost it.

Foodge could see that this was the start of a very long day coming.

Merv mopped up the spilt beer. A wave of unease rolled across the faces of the patrons.

“No, I’ll stay with this glass thanks, said Gez.

 

Foodge #48 – Turkish Delight

21 Tuesday Oct 2014

Posted by in Big M, Foodge Private Dick

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turkshead

Story by Big M

Merv was out of sorts this morning. He had been to the gym for a fairly unrewarding workout, copping an uppercut to the jaw, which landed him on his backside, all due to him being distracted. He’d jogged home to find Foodge asleep at the rear entrance to the pub. When Foodge awoke he pleaded with Merv for ‘a little bit of brekky, after pulling an all-nighter.’

Foodge’s ‘all-nighter’ was spent playing with his new camera, mucking around with various f-stops and shutter settings for low light surveillance. Now Foodge was sat at the bar downing his second Trotter’s Best, and a plate of eggs. In between mouthfuls he reviewed his photos on his iPad. “Beautiful images for such low light, and doesn’t Justice McGerkinsquirter look fit in his undies?”

Granny flittered by with her long handled Turk’s Head, which she’d bought cheap at Aldo’s. Bits of cobweb fluttered down onto the bar. “Why dyathink they’re called Turk’s ‘eads?” Mumbled Merv to no one in particular.

“Well, Mr Merv, I believe it’s because they look like Turk’s heads” Muttered Foodge as he zoomed in and out on the Justice’s Y-fronts.

“Poor feckin’ Turks, no wonder they’re always at war.” Merv flicked a sizable strand of web from his paper. What was really putting him off side was his major assignment for his WEA literacy course. “Hey, Foodge, you’re a wiz with words, how about you have a look at me assignment?”

Foodge sat up straight.” That I am, editing such a manuscript sounds like hungry, thirsty work.” Merv was already pulling another pint, and signalled to Granny for extra wedges.

Granny was humming away, lost in a world of Turks heads and Spanish romance (yes, the Spanish mechanic is still parking his work boots under Granny’s cot). “What’s that, dear?”

“Wedges for Foodge…he’s doin’ me a favour”

Foodge spent a good deal of time reviewing the manuscript, enough for two bowls of wedges, sans sour cream, and another three pints. “Well…er…Mr Merv, nice work, good spelling, well constructed, liked the introductory paragraph, and the conclusion, but…er.” Foodge was flushed.

Merv leant forward across the bar, absent-mindedly polishing a pint glass with his, ever present, dirty rag. “Yes, what’s the verdict?”

Foodge gulped, dry mouthed, taking some courage from the dregs of his Trotters. “Well, um, it’s just that it’s…err…um…quite boring.”

The bar went silent. After two minutes Merv gulped. “Borin’?”

“Ah, err, um.” Foodge had dismounted the bar stool and was walking backwards, clutching his camera and iPod. “Well, when I say boring, I don’t mean boring, I just mean, uninteresting.”

Merv slowly placed the glass and the rag on the bar. “You mean me life’s work, the history of Merv is uninnerestin’?”

“Well, yes, perhaps.” Foodge was almost to the back door when Merv vaulted the bar.

“Borin’, uninnerestin’?” Merv had crossed the gap between them in a couple of strides. “What do you suggest, how can I make me dull feckin’ life innerestin’?”

Foodge lent back, as if to escape the reach of Merv’s enormous hands, and rope-like forearms. “What about your part in O’Hoo’s and DCI Rouge’s escape from the local pleece, given that no one but you knows of what happened, I mean, you had a hand in their escape, I believe, so why not write it down?”

“Yes, of course.” Merv tore up the document in his hand. “ Me old mate, O’Hoo.” He dashed back to the bar for fresh pencil and paper. “Granny, wedges, man at work, ‘ere.” As he started scribbling like a sick man writing a will.

To be continued