Tag Archives: Foodge

Foodge #46 Granny Gets Back on the Bike

09 Wednesday Oct 2013

Posted by in Big M, Foodge Private Dick

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08-Bultaco-Metralla-Kit-America

Story by Big M

Granny had been having a rough week. It all started with an experimental batch of Pilsener that just didn’t work. The beer was bland and tasteless, probably due to the stale hops that she had bought on the internet, rather than her brewing skills, but it was still over a hundred litres of beer that went down the drain.

Then Granny missed two mornings of boxing training because she couldn’t get out of bed, instead, leaving Merv to, not only train by himself, but also cook the pub breakfast. Things finally came to a head when Granny tried to start the pub’s ancient Victa, ‘just to give the yard a quick tidy up.’ She pulled the mower cord until she had a cramp in her side, then tried to pick it up and throw it in the skip, but just didn’t have the energy, so she dropped it on it’s side, which resulted in petrol pouring onto the grass. Granny sat down next to the mower, cradled her face in her brown, calloused hands, and sobbed.

victa

Granny would have sat there all afternoon, had not Merv come looking for her to discuss this week’s fruit and vegetable order. Quick as a flash, Merv realised that something was wrong. “What’s wrong Granny, are you hurt?” He enquired as righted the stricken mower.

“Nothin’, just chuck that old, worn out heap of shit in the skip for me!” Granny wouldn’t look up, and wouldn’t stop crying.

“I’m not chuckin’ this good mower out, probably just needs a service!’ Merv was mentally calculating the cost of a new mower, hoping it wouldn’t come to that.

“Its old and worn out like me, just get rid of it!” Granny finally got to her feet.

Merv wasn’t a psychologist, but he knew that there was probably more to this than just a buggered mower. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll drop this round to old Fernando, and see if he can get it running, I mean, there’s no sense in chuckin’ something’ out just because it’s old!” Merv placed the mower in the back of his ute. “Come on old love, I’ll make you a cuppa.” Granny reluctantly allowed herself to be guided back into the kitchen.

A week passed, and Granny remained out of sorts. Merv didn’t mind, it meant he could go to boxing training in the mornings, and be left in peace! In fact he slackened right off, and just did some low intensity aerobic work. He received the call to say that the mower was ready, so asked Hedgie to watch the bar (and Foodge, of course!), then casually asked granny if she wanted to go for a drive. “Might as well” She replied as she wiped her hands on a dirty rag. “Not getting anywhere with this.” A small pump lay dismantled on the cellar floor. Granny didn’t have much to say on the way, which, Merv reflected, was just how he liked his women!

The mower shop was in a back lane, but the presentation was anything but back lane. The name, ‘Fernando’s Small Engine Repairs’ was emblazoned across the top of the front window which held, not a bunch of dirty old mowers, but a pristine, black and silver, Bultaco Metralla, suspended from the ceiling on stainless steel wires. Granny let out a gasp. “That is just immaculate!”

bultaco_metralla

“So, you like my bike? Mr Merv, you brought your sister to my dirty workshop. This is no place for a lady!”

“Um, err…Granny, this is Fernando, the proprietor and worker of two stroke magic, umm…Fernando, this is Granny.” Fernando shook Granny’s hand enthusiastically.

“Mr Merv, this young lady can’t be somebody’s ‘abuela’? Fernando shook his head, only now revealing his grey hair pulled back into a ponytail.

“Nah, mate, we all call her Granny!” Merv was still looking at the bike wondering how the hell those little drum brakes could pull it up at a hundred miles per hour. He remembered trying to chase one when he was a highway patrolman. He didn’t fail to notice that Granny was looking at the floor, and shuffling her feet. “Anyhoo, mate, how didja get on with the mower?”

“Come in, come in…here she is, almost like new.” Fernando wheeled out the old Victa, that had been repainted, received a new muffler and air cleaner, and started like rugby league player on steroids, which he briefly demonstrated (the starting of the mower, not the football player, OR the steroids).

“Jeez, mate, she’ll go another fifty years!” Merv and Fernando huddled together to discuss money. It seemed he didn’t want to charge for any labour. Eventually Merv slipped him another fifty, whilst he wasn’t looking.

“That’s a nice little motor you’ve got there, Granny!” Fernando enthused.

“Oh.” Granny blushed.” It’s only an old Victa!”

“I wasn’t talking about the motor-mower, Senora!” Fernando winked as Merv busied himself with the mower. “How about sharing a meal with me?”

“Oh, I don’t know, I have nothing to wear!”

“Yes, you do.” Yelled Merv, from outside. “For gawd’s sake, just say ‘yes’!”

Granny was more animated on the trip home.” I think you set me up, you bugger!”

“Maybe.”

“You know that I really don’t have a thing to wear, and my hair needs cutting, and a bit of makeup wouldn’t go astray!” Granny was pretty anxious.

“It’s all sorted. I’ll drop you ‘ome, so you can ‘ave a showr, or whatever.” Merv swerved to miss a skateboarder. “Then you slip over to Rosie’s, for an ‘airdo, nail somethin’ or other, special make-up, and Rosie’s sister’s got some leftover material, an’ can knock up a dress this arvo.”

Seven o’clock rolled around, and Granny was still nowhere to be seen. Fernando had arrived, all decked out in his newest dinner suit, purchased in 1981. His corsage, however, was brand new, fit for a debutante.

Suddenly the bar went quiet, as a vision of loveliness seemed to drift though, hovering just above the floor. Granny’s grey hair, which was usually tied back, or in a tight chignon, was cascading down her back, which, by the way was bare. The backless, silk dress in jade was perfectly complemented with a string of pearls, and matching earrings. Her make-up was subtle, but it was the sparkle in her eyes, not the eye shadow, that made everyone stare. Fernando stepped forward, kissed her hand then offered his arm, which Granny took eagerly. “Don’t wait up, boys!”

dress

Only Foodge spoke. “Who was that young lady, Merv?”

Foodge 44 – Granny’s Cure

19 Sunday May 2013

Posted by in Big M, Foodge Private Dick

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Simulated picture of Foodge's recent problem - Man Boobs

Simulated picture of Foodge’s recent problem – Man Boobs

Story by Big M

It had somehow fallen on Foodge to take Granny to the doctor. When he thought about it, Merv was busy with the pub, Merv’s missus (Foodge never remembered Janet’s name) was busy with the twins, young Wes was busy studying, and working at the Sisters of the Emphaticocordiae Nursing Home, Manne was…oh shit, he thought, Manne was still staked out in front of the Edelweiss Double Billing Clinic. Anyway, they had been to the local doctor, who must have just been told a really funny joke, because he kept laughing and shaking his head, and then directed them to see a Professor of Gynaecology at Sidney Uni.

Granny went in to see the Professor. She was initially a bit cranky, as he had examined her, and then asked her for her real name and age, which she begrudgingly gave, then sat down and perused some pathology results.

“Do you take any medicines?’

“No.” Granny replied.

“Any herbs or vitamins?”

“Not exactly.”

“What do you mean, ‘not exactly’?” The Prof cocked a bushy eyebrow in a very John Howard sort of way.

“I take a sort of herb.”

“What, a green herb that one doesn’t get from the chemist?”

“Yes, but I have to, I’m under so much stress.” Granny suddenly gushed. “There’s these dreadful friends of Merv’s who make up the most horrible stories about me ‘n’ Mr Foodge, an’ Rouge an’ O’Hoo?” Granny was on the edge of her seat.

“Who are these fellows?”

“There’s a mate of Merv’s called Emmjay, but the worst is some hanger onner named Big M, full of talk, and gulpin’ down free drinks.”

“Clearly that sort of herb may be of some benefit, but I suggest that you and this Merv fellow need to distance yourselves from these characters. Any other non prescribed medicines?”

“Well, I did buy a performance enhancer from a bloke in the Gents, you know, for me weight trainin’ an’ so on.”

“Did you happen to bring any of these performance enhancers?”

“Of course.” Granny handed over a small brown bottle.

The Prof scanned the label, and then laughed. “Granny, these are a type of anabolic steroid. Anabolic, in that, they will enhance one’s feminine attributes. These are pure oestrogen!”

“What, like pregnant lady, menstrual cycle type oestrogens?”

“Certainly!”

“Oh, poor Mr Foodge.” All of the colour had drained from Granny’s face.

“Don’t tell me you gave them to a man?”

Granny could only nod and point to the waiting room. The professor went out in search of this Mr Foodge. All he could find was a plump fellow of indeterminate age, wearing a dark grey suit, Fedora pushed back on his head, asleep with a copy of Raymond Chandler’s, ‘The Big Sleep’ on his lap. Foodge seemed to rouse, as if he knew he was wanted. “I’m a shamus…I’ll try to be taller…the flesh of orchids are like the flesh of men…” Foodge mumbled.

“Mr Foodge, could you come into the office, please?” The Professor held out a hand to guide out hapless detective through the doorway.

“Now, Mr Foodge, it seems that…” Granny interrupted the Prof.

“Let me tell him. I’m sorry Foodge, I was trying to build you up…give you a little pep…. Oh, God, I knew they were steroids. “She sobbed into a hanky.

The Prof took over.” Mr Foodge, have you had any feminine type symptoms…gynaecomastia?

“I think that’s for me and my solicitor!” Foodge was covering his confusion with fake opprobrium.

“Any galactorrhoea?”

“Now we’ll have to involve my barrister!”

“Mr Foodge, we won’t need to involve the legal profession, it seems that you have been exposed to high doses of female hormones for some time. I guess it explains the strange adiposity.” As he nodded towards Foodge’s  recently expanded derrier.

“Alright…. the treatment is the same for both of you. I was going to prescribe a powerful oestrogen antagonist, but I think a placebo may be better.”

“A powerful placebo?” Enquired Foodge.

“Yes, quite powerful.” Acknowledged the Prof.

 

 

Foodge 43 – Foodge Sleep

10 Friday May 2013

Posted by in Big M

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big m old-greyhound-bus-terminal-julie-dant

THIS PHOTOGRAPH WAS PUBLISHED WITH THE KIND AND GENEROUS PERMISSION OF THE PHOTOGRAPHER

JULIE DANT

Story by Big M

Foodge was tired, in fact, overtired, not that the surveillance had been difficult; staying awake had been the challenge. He had photographed three cats and a garbage truck, and, the young pair having a swift knee trembler up against the front doors of the Pigs (disrespectful). His mind was racing, not the least because of Granny’s get-up and behaviour.  He lay on the fresh sheets, in freshly laundered pyjamas (this was a new experience) and stared at the flaking, high, ornate, plaster ceiling. The Pigs Arm must have been quite a grand hotel in it’s time, he thought. Then he got to wondering about Granny in her younger days. Surely she hadn’t always had long grey hair, spindly brown legs and a permanent frown?

Then he started to think about O’Hoo, suddenly realising that it had been some days since he and Manne reappearanced. Where was he holed up? Merv had quickly spirited him away to some sort of safe house, but where. What of O’Hoo? Was he guilty of some sort of malfeasance? Had he gone native whilst undercover? Did he still love Ordinaire Rouge? Where was Rouge? Was she similarly guilty? Was Santa real? His racing mind was suddenly interrupted by a knock at the door. “Mr Foodge, you’re needed urgently downstairs” hissed Granny.

Foodge leapt out of bed, hastily trying to grab a dressing gown to cover, what he regarded, as semi-nakedness (our Foodge is a very private dick). “What time is it?” He stammered, hoping she wouldn’t burst in, whilst he desperately tried to re-arrange the gaping hole in front of his privates that the pyjama manufacturers jokingly call a ‘fly’.

His worst fears were realised as the, almost paint-less door swung open, and Granny stepped in wearing so much make-up, and a short white dress, that revealed far to much varicosity than he ever dared imagine that a pair of legs could bear. ‘Christ.” He thought. ‘She almost looks like an ancient Egyptian charioteer, kohled up against the sun and sand.’

“Ah, good you’re up.” She said, looking him up and down, daring to linger at the afore mentioned Private Area. “Merv remembered the message. Ordinaire Rouge is to meet you in our car park at five, and, it’s five!” She made a point of looking at her watch. “Do you need a hand there?”

“Um…no…err….thanks.” Foodge held his gaping fly together with one hand, and motioned Granny out the door, closing it behind her. He quickly donned his tracksuit, socks and shoes, slicked his hair back, then burst through the door, stumbling straight into Granny, which resulted in them collapsing onto the floor, his head coming to rest on her exposed décolletage.

“Oh, Mr Foodge.” She already had her bony, brown fingers around the back of his head.

Foodge shook himself free and had already broken into a sprint towards the staircase. “Not now, Granny!” He shouted, as he dove down the stairs.

Foodge found himself in the car park at the back of the pub. There, parked right next to his Zephyr was Fern’s battered Corolla, with Fern sitting behind the wheel. He waddled over. “Where’s Rouge?’ He asked, leaning against the driver’s door. If he had some sort of investigative skills he may have noticed that Fern was trembling, with tears rolling down her cheeks. She gesticulated towards the back seat with a shake of her head. “Are you having some sort of spasm? You need a doctor.”

Vinh Ordinaire Rouge stepped out of the back of the car, slamming the door into Foodge’s knee. “The silly girl thinks that I’m going to shoot her…gawd knows why.”

Foodge was now hopping up and down on one leg, with his own tears blinding him to what was going on. Wham !Granny crash tackled Rouge to the ground. “How dare you attack Mr Foodge, who has been awake all night looking for you, so that you and O’Hoo could be reunited!” Granny was already sitting astride Rouge, fists cocked, ready to fight.

“What! So you know the wherabouts of O’Hoo?” Rouge managed to wiggle out from under Granny’s skinny frame.

“Yes, we do!” Merv was already marching across the bitumen with O’Hoo in tow.  “Now, you two better work out what you’re doin’, because the wallopers ‘ll be on their way.” O’Hoo and Rouge fell into each other’s arms.

It was Granny’s turn. “What I’d suggest is that you two get the hell out of here, I mean, you’re the most wanted criminals in NSW, why don’t youz go interstate?” Granny had managed to sidle up next to Foodge, and started rubbing his knee.

With that, O’Hoo and Rouge were in the back of the Corolla. “Drive on, Fern, We need to see a man about a dog.  A greyhound !”

The trio was gone with almost squeal of Corolla tyres. Merv wandered back into the bar, to give Granny and Foodge some time.  He decided to rewind the getaway and then fast forward it so the Corolla tyres produced a tinny, but audible squeal like a real getaway.

“Granny.”

“Yes, Foodge.”

“It’s just that…”

Yes, Foodge.” Granny’s eyes were bright with romance.

“Let’s go inside for a drink.” Foodge made a great display of offering his arm, which Granny gleefully accepted.

Foodge 42 – Steak Out – Medium Rare

05 Sunday May 2013

Posted by in Big M

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John Howard Tracksuit

Thanks to First Dog at Crikey.com.au

Story by Big M

Foodge leaned back against the smudged, stained wall behind him. He had been awake for over a day and a half, watching the ‘medical practice’ across the road from the Pig’s Arms. He was, a self confessed, master of disguise and had been through over twelve changes of clobber during the shift. He was now wearing his green and gold tracksuit that he had kept from his tilt at the disabled Olympics, but the tan leather brogues and white tennis socks had let the entire outfit down. He locked himself into a Bishopesque fixed stare with the small, tanned face across the round, laminex table. “Manne, thanks for taking over. No reports of malfeasance, and, more importantly, no sight of the target.” The target being Vinh Ordinaire Rouge, missing pleece inspector.

Foodge reached out to shake hands, but caught his sleeve on a stray screw sticking out of the aluminium edging on the table. Table, coffees and half a pie ‘n’ sauce ended up in Manne’s lap. “Err…sorry, old chum…must dash.” Foodge made good his egress through the multiple strips across the entrance to ‘Con’s café’, and hotfooted it to the Pigs.

It was, literally, a few minutes before sparra’s fart, and the sky had the slightest hint of colour, but the stars and the moon still shone brightly. The façade of the pub was dark, except for a narrow beam that escaped the crack between the doors of the Main Bar. Foodge sprinted (wandered) across the road, pulled back one of the heavy timber and glass doors, and let himself in. Unfortunately the door closer was so powerful it knocked him halfway into the Gentleman’s Bar, where a weary Merv stood, absent-mindedly polishing pint glasses with a dirty rag.  “Ah, Merv, my good man, there wouldn’t be a pint of Best there for your old mate?”

Merv shook himself from his reverie. “Granny, ‘e’s here!” As he slopped a canoe across the timber bar.

Granny appeared out of nowhere, and Foodge, being a great student of human behaviour, thought there was something wrong. Was she sick? No. There was something about her face. Had she been bitten? A rash, perhaps? No. Granny didn’t wander over and slap a plate of bacon, eggs and wedges in front of him. She seemed to just loiter in the doorway. Foodge squinted over the top of his glass. ‘Oh, shit.’ He thought. ‘She wearing a dress, and worse, she’s wearing lipstick…why the…’

“How’s our favourite crime fighter?” Granny seemed to wiggle her hips a little, as she spoke. “How about Granny rustles up some breakfast?” With that she disappeared into the kitchen.

“Merv, what the hells going on with Granny?” Foodge was so gob smacked that his pint hadn’t been touched.

“Uh, another pint?”

“No, what’s wrong with Granny?”

Merv shook his head. “Granny, there’s nothin’ wrong with Granny, in fact she looks mighty fine.” A broad grin creased his lumpy face. “It must be you!”

‘Me…what” Foodge was getting worried.

“Don’t worry, Granny gets a sort of romantic fixation on some younger bloke…let’s face it, we’re all younger blokes.” Merv laughed. “She tarts herself up, makes eyes, at her intended, then, just like that.” Merv clicked his fingers. “She’s back to her ole self.”

Their conversation was interrupted by Granny sashaying in with a plate of eggs, bacon, sausages, mushrooms, tomato, and toast made from Turkish bread. “Here you are young man, a crime fighter’s breakfast.” She paused to lay out the cutlery on the bar, complete with a real paper napkin. “Now Foodge, you are not driving home in that state, there’s a bed made up for you upstairs, where you will be undisturbed,” With that she sashayed off.

Merv was still grinning as he poured a second pint for our Foodge. “Fern rang last night.”

“Oh, good, was there a message?”

“Not sure…something about ‘making contact’…I dunno, guess she’ll catch up later.” Merv clicked the remote to the mega-plasma to watch the start of the Mourning Show.

“Pleece still have no idea about the whereabouts of Detectives ordinaire Rouge and O’Hoo…” the anchorwoman droned on.

Foodge had finished his breakfast and skulled his second pint, placing the glass down on the bar with great aplomb. “Well, Merv, looks like I’m off to bed, nighty night.”

Will Merv remember the message?

Will Foodge meet DCI Ordinaire Rouge in the car park of the Pigs Arms at five p.m?

More importantly, will Granny continue her crush on our favourite Private Dick?

Foodge 39 – Merv’s Bunniephobia

19 Tuesday Feb 2013

Posted by in Big M

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rabbitStory by Big M

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Foodge 38 – O’Hoo Gets Crossed Up

08 Friday Feb 2013

Posted by in Emmjay

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swiss-alps-girl-costume-zoom

Story by Emmjay

O’Hoo had been recuperating in a Swiss clinic for months on end.  There had been problems with the liver transplant.  It was a curious turn of events. Apparently the liver had rejected O’Hoo and had gone back to the hospital after first stopping off at its lawyer to start litigation against the surgeon.

It was a mismatch made in surgery.

The clear mountain air and the abundance of full cream milk chocolate, discreet banking arrangements, a propensity to break into yodelling and precision watch shops agreed with O’Hoo, who agreed with his lawyer that a settlement of a cool million was fair compensation for the lawyer and a tepid half a mill plus recuperative expenses for O’Hoo was sufficient to remove the ordure from his old liver.  O’Hoo and his old liver had agreed to give it another try and O’Hoo was slowly metabolising the formaldehyde, enjoying the occasional trip as he did.  It was a welcome change from the Pink Drinks.

Although O’Hoo was still enjoying perving on the buxom gingham-clad maidens with the blue eyes, blonde plaits, aprons, long socks and sensible shoes, he was missing the cut and thrust of crime fighting and the challenge of a second bowl of grannie’s wedges.  Congratulations to all readers who successfully parsed the last sentence – all 61 words, he thought.  It was an heroic effort in the time of the interweb tubes.  He was almost moved to LOL.  The fact that O’Hoo’s maidens were, in the main going out with merchant bankers didn’t seem to faze him, although he was an accomplished fazee and by all accounts he should have been well fazed.

O’Hoo sat up in his sun lounge, put down his shiny aluminium sun reflector, his tired arms winning the argument with his half-done tan and he was about to rest his eyes for a moment when a stout wards man with a flushed face bore down on him at a fair clip.  He was waving a telephone. O’Hoo had a hunch this was good news.  His lederhosen futures had bottomed out and had started riding up.  He slapped himself on the knee and was about to do a Frank Ifield when a familiar voice on the line brought him back to reality.  She said she was going to dispense with the pleasantries but O’Hoo missed the “with” and quickly prepared his recovering ego for a damned good stroking.

“Listen, I’m in a spot of trouble, mate.  I could use somewhere to go doggo for a while” she said.

“What did you have in mind ? An intimate holiday for two in a Swiss clinic ?”

“Jesus H, O’Hoo, you’re not on that crap again, are you ?  You’ve mistaken the Red Cross narc rehab Hostel for Switzerland again.  For fuck’s sake, O’Hoo, Switzerland has a white cross on a red background.  How many times  is that now ?”

O’Hoo thought the correct answer was four, but something told him that it was a rhetorical question,  so he let that one go through to the keeper.

Just when he needed an Aspro badly the wardsman had disappeared and left him holding not a lovely Bakelite handset but something remarkably like a pawnshop mobile phone with an empty prepaid SIM card.

“Is that you, Mum ?” he said.

Three simultaneous rabbits started running in Vinh Rouge’s head.  First a deep sympathy for Mrs O’Hoo senior.  Second, serious doubt about the wisdom of calling O’Hoo, who was renown as a barnacle on the ship of progress and the last man you would want to help out in a crisis, and third, the realisation that he actually was her last option.

“Listen carefully, O’Hoo”.

“I am listening”

“I said ‘carefully'”

“OK, carefully!”  he said.  He knew it was serious.  They had started talking in italics.

“I have a contract out on me”

“You’re a contractor now.  Good for you !”

“Somebody is fucking trying to kill me, FFS.  I have no doubt that it’s Nopper.”

“Why not ?”

“Why not ?”

“Why not what ?” She said.

“Have a doubt !” said O’Hoo, ” That way you’d have two chances of surviving – yours and Buckley’s”.

Foodge 37 Foodge – Lost in Thought

31 Thursday Jan 2013

Posted by in Emmjay, Foodge Private Dick

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The_Thinker_Musee_Rodin

Story by Emmjay

Foodge sat at his desk.  There was no assignment on his plate.  This was not unusual but this time seemed to trouble half a dozen loosely-connected cells in the front of his brain.  They spoke to some of their friends in the facial muscles area who arranged to successfully organise a glum look.

“To successfully organise”.  Foodge resolved to have a word with Emmjay about splitting infinitives, but the resolution was narrowly defeated along party lines.  The caucus supported Emmjay’s contention that it is OK to split an infinitive along the lines of common usage and making it a more effective approach to aid reading.

Foodge had a deepening sense of ennui.  This was a recent development.  It was a new ennui.  The news was empty of anything that was actually new.  As usual, The UN was debating and resolving without making any tangible difference.  But Foodge felt that it was a more productive waste of money than war, for example.

News from the wars was bad.  Not surprising because all war news is bad for somebody, if not for everybody.  Foodge resolved to stop worrying about the wars and focus on his own priorities, which were, um, ah, oh yes, becoming gainfully employed. Or even ungainfully employed if there was at least a bowl of wedges and a glass canoe of Trotter’s Ale on the counter at the end of the day.

Being the kind of proactive sleuth that he sincerely believe he was, Foodge resolved to reopen the case of the morning paper and begin his research on the latest exploits of the Leichhardt Wanderers as they tilted towards another wooden spoon.  Granny said that they had more fuckin wooden spoons that that fuckin TV chef who always swears all the fuckin time.

Foodge remembered that he was supposed to be hunting for work and turned to the police courts reports.  The press was full of the great dry ice heist, but the case didn’t interest Foodge.  It left him cold.  Cold was his normal state and Foodge was determined to spend his next cheque on buying that fourth wall that his office was crying out for.  And maybe a door with his name etched in the frosted glass.  He wondered where etched glass came from and promised himself that he would find out one day but his eyes glazed over and he returned to the police reports.

A quick perusal of the police reports would reveal whose posterior was up against the wall, who the likely brief was going to be and if there was the whiff of police stitch-up, where the services of a master private eye would be most in demand.  Or even a private dick of modest proportions not unlike Foodge himself.

Foodge read that Detective Inspector Vinh Rouge had finally nailed Hedgie for over enthusiastic herb providoring in the car park of the Pig’s Arms and that she had been promoted to Inspector on the strength that the Commissioner had the smell of toasted narc czar in his nostrils.  Foodge new that Hedgie was just a humble bushie at the rough end of the long lawn running up to the Calabrian mansion of Caesar Nopportunity.  He was the target, but Foodge knew that Noppo had his friends in high places and that nobody, least of all Rouge was going to fang the black moriah up that crushed marble driveway and say “You’re nicked”.

Foodge was tired from concentrating for several consecutive minutes.  A thought crept into his mind, turned around three times, lay down and started to lick its wedding tackle.  Foodge sat back in his chair and waited to see what might happen next.

The thought got up and walked out into the street.  Foodge decided to follow.  After all, this was grist for the mill for a private dick.

Lacking a fourth wall to his office, Foodge didn’t have to worry about locking the door that he also didn’t have.

The thought was heading towards the Pig’s Arms.  Another thought joined it.  Foodge recognized the glass canoe full of foamy amber delight.  Foodge named this thought Trotter’s Ale.  Foodge always tried to stay with the play and drew the keys of his Zephyr from his pocket.  He was determined to get ahead of himself and be waiting there when his first thought wandered in.

Merv’s amnesia worked to Foodge’s advantage and he poured Foodge a schooner of Trotters without remembering that Foodge’s tab was close to the gross domestic product of Tasmania.  And the prospect of Foodge ever paying it off was as slim as America’s chance of clearing her mortgage to China.

“What’s on your mind?” asked Merv.

“I’ll know in a minute” said Foodge, anticipating the arrival of his earlier contemplation. Several glass canoes floated by and the prospects of the first thought ever returning to its owner cuddled up to Merv’s misplaced debt recovery aspirations.

Foodge’s staring into the middle distance was starting to unnerve Merv and so the publican turned on the pub’s new 800” flat screen TV – that was just a tad too large for the pub wall and several contestants on “So you want to be a Millionaire? were sitting in the Pig’s Arms Car park.  The giant screen successfully captured Foodge’s attention and he was fascinated with the possibility of massive wealth coming to some goose through the picking of a 1:4 short-priced favourite answer for a question so obscure that Barry Jones would be scratching his head – after a series of questions so inane that another Jones would find them personally challenging but an affront to all right thinking Australians.

“We are sorry to interrupt this program” said the faceless voice, “However, local Police are deeply concerned over the disappearance of Inspector Vinh Rouge, who failed to turn up to work today.  Police visited her home this morning and found the contents in disarray and a police spokesperson said that there was unmistakeable evidence of violence and they are deeply concerned over her welfare.  Viewers with any information were encouraged to contact Crimestoppers.”

Foodge wondered whether there was any connection between Vinh Rouge’s disappearance and that of his missing (and presumed lost) thought, and he ordered another Trotter’s Ale on the strength of his own concerns.

Foodge 34: Ask a Mate if He’s OK!

27 Thursday Sep 2012

Posted by in Big M, Foodge Private Dick

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

Story by Big M

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’d help.” Foodge quietly smiled.

“You, how could you help?”

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

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

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

Foodge 33 – The Interview

22 Thursday Mar 2012

Posted by in Big M, Foodge Private Dick

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But in the Pig's Arms, the gloves are off.

Story as told to Big M by Foodge

Editor’s note:  When I visited the Continuity Department, there was a note on the door.  It read “The Continuity Department will be closed yesterday due to an upcoming death in the family.  In the event that readers have difficulty following the thread, tell them that this is a flash – back, forward or sideways.  We’ll get back to you – unless we already have.”

Merv stood at his usual post behind the chipped and stained timber bar, absent mindedly polishing a glass canoe with a dirty rag. He had given up struggling to open his left eye against the bruised eyelids, and, he’d realised would have gone cross-eyed looking over the plaster on his nose. He wore a self-satisfied grin, in spite of the obvious discomfort. Foodge sat opposite, his Fedora sitting brim side up on the bar, a pair of aluminium crutches at his side, and a pint of Trotter’s Best at his elbow.  He couldn’t stop grinning. The silence was broken by main door slamming shut, and the bounding steps of one of the fattest men in Cyberia. Both men were shocked to see  the shapeless figure of  ‘Little’ Jack  Stanley, Senior (and only) Sports Editor for the Inner Western Cyberian Bugle, resplendent in his battered grey Fedora with ‘Press’ pass stuck in the hatband. “Gidday, dyouz mind if I interview youz fur the Bugle?”

Merv’s self satisfied grin disappeared, and he shook his head, almost imperceptibly, as any more vigorous movement set the bell ringers to work in the back of his scone. Foodge, however, tried to snap to attention, forgetting the cast on his left leg, which caught the bottom of the stool sending him reeling forward, into Jack’s arms. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes’, Mr Foodge?” Jack struggled to push Foodge back into his natural position on the barstool.

Foodge took a few moments to settle back into the barstool, took a long swig at his glass canoe, then gestured to Merv for another. Merv complied then mumbled something about kegs ‘n’ pipes, then disappeared into the cellar. “You know why’m ‘ere, son, you got the inside dirt on Mauler v. Merv, aintcha?”

Foodge nodded enthusiastically. “Well, I must say at the outset that I was the catalyst for the match, you see, I had put myself forward as the light-heavy contender for the Police vs PI’s, that is short for Private Eye, or Investigator, one of which I am, currently, and, I’m not ashamed, quite successfully.” Jack was taking all of this down in shorthand with a stubby pencil, the tip of which he seemed to lick more than seemed necessary. “Unfortunately, I drew The Mauler as my opponent for the first match. This seemed to coincide with a sprain…I mean, crushate ligament, necessitating the urgent application of plaster to said leg..I mean knee.’ Foodge took a moment to nod at the affected leg, as if Jack hadn’t noticed the plaster cast and accompanying crutches. “Mr Merv heard about my plight, and, being a card carrying member of the PI fraternity, offered to step in.”

“ ‘ang on mate, I thought Merv was expleece?” Jack interjected. Merv had re-appeared, happy that Foodge had taken over the telling of the tale. He pushed a canoe across the bar to Little Jack.

A Little Jack goes a long way ...

“Yes, indeed, Mr Merv IS ex-police, and, that is where the enmity with the Mauler…I mean Senior Constable Frank Malleson began. You see, Mr Merv, in spite of his size and pugilistic prowess is a gentlemen. Senior Constable Malleson, on the other hand is a brute, who regularly seems to manage to extract a confession from suspects just before they are transferred from holding cell to Emergency Department. Anyhoo, Mr Merv left the police service some years back and, for a while, toyed with the idea of Private Detection, hence the PI licence. Anyway, I’m sure your readers don’t need to know the history of Mr Merv, except that he was a contender for the aforementioned boxing contest. Foodge stopped to take a long pull at his canoe, realised it was empty, and motioned Merv for a refill.

“ So Merv was subbed in only five weeks out from the match?” Jack pushed his Fedora all the way back on his noggin, pausing to scratch his bald pate. Merv couldn’t help noticing some particles of food had lodged in the creases between chins.

“Yes, I’d suffered a sprain, I mean subluxation of the..er…anterior…crushate… anyway. Mr Merv threw his hat into the ring, and, with myself as Manager, and Granny as trainer…” Foodge was interrupted by Little Jack.

“ ‘ang on mate, ‘oo’s Granny, an’ wots ‘er real name?” Jack paused to inspect the tip of his pencil.

Foodge looked at Merv, and Merv looked at Foodge. “Granny.” Retorted Foodge. “Everyone knows Granny!”

“Not everybody in the readership knows Granny, besides, this could go viral, you know, David and Goliath story, readers world wide will want to know the facts!”  Jack was sweating profusely, and the old Fedora was now tipped beyond forty-five degrees.

“Facts never seem to be a problem for you journalistic types, but, if ya  just cool yer ‘eals there for a minute I’ll slip upstairs ‘an arx ‘er, she’s mindin’ the twins while me missus gets ‘er eyebrow waxed.” This wasn’t all she was getting waxed, but, Merv, ever the gentleman didn’t want to broadcast Janet’s level of hirsuitism across the country. Merv bolted up the steps, past the Nathan Rees Memorial Ballroom/Cinema Compex, past the Kristina Keneally Memorial Powder Room, up another flight of stairs to his apartment above.

Foodge had taken on board some of Merv’s suggestions for promoting his business, so, after a couple of awkward minutes, cleared his throat. “I suppose you report on subjects aside from sport?”

“Nup.” Jack had loosened his antique tie, and was sipping at the iced water that Merv had thoughtfully shoved in front of him, in response to his apparent diaphoresis.

“So, some of your colleagues must have an interest in crime and detecting?” Foodge was already struggling.

“Yep, but they get all they can write about from the courts and the Plee..” Jack’s sentence was interrupted by screams.

“After all I’ve done for you, you ungrateful bastard, picked you up, dried you out, given you a job, and you repay me by tryna publish me name in all the papers” There was a thump, then a door slammed, followed by the creaking of stairs.

“Listen, Foodge, old mate, I’ve just remembered an appointment, ‘ow about I drop back ‘ere tomorra, when things have quietened down?” With that Little jack was gone

To be continued.

Foodge 31 – The Custard Thickens

19 Monday Mar 2012

Posted by in Emmjay, Foodge Private Dick

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Hedgie pulled a tattered Instamatic photograph out of his pocket. “No shit, Foodge.  Do you know this guy ?”

“No, but yes, but no” said Foodge. “I have some vague recollection, Mr Hedge”

“The top to toe tattoos on this chap jog no memory cells?” said Hedgie.

“But this is a photograph of a kid, Mr Hedge”. “Sorry, it’s not recent but it’s the only one I have” said Hedgie.

The word “tattoo” has a special significance in the Foodge lexicon and Foodge involuntarily put a hand in the hip pocket of his Anthony Squares bag of fruit (a Salvos find if ever there was one).  The half Gemini tattoo that Foodge woke up and discovered on his right bum cheek (in Episode 1 since you’re probably wondering) was an unsolved mystery – apparently returning to Foodge’s in-tray.

“Why are you showing me this, Mr Hedge? ” asked Foodge.

“Word has it that this was the dude who parked that ink on O’Hoo and your bums”.  Foodge reddened, hoping that the word hadn’t spread to FM or Mrs M.

“Because this punter is cooling his sorry arse in a lay-down chiller at her Majesty’s pleasure” said Hedge. “Dead ?”  “I strongly suspect so.  Of course he’s fuckin’ dead.  And O’Hoo’s people are using descriptions of you two like ‘persons of interest’.  Time to start watching your arse again, Foodgie boy” said Hedgie.

On the one hand, Foodge was chuffed at being thought of as ‘interesting’, but something told him that this time it wasn’t the kind of interest that might cover his tab at the Pig’s Arms.

“Word has it that the coppers are going to pin this one on the Hell’s Angles and then rope in the Lambrettistas” said Hedgie.  “And how does that worry you, Mr Hedge ?” said Foodge.

“I would say” said Hedgie, pausing for a plunge into his Trotter’s Ale, “That could, ah, disrupt a major component of my distribution channel, Foodge.  And that could impact my donations to charity – my FBT – you know, Free Benefit Tokes”.  Foodge nodded sagely, or something like sage – possibly basil or oregano –  herbally knew it was a spicy situation, but not why it was.

“Who was he ?  asked Merv. “Who was who ?” replied Hedgie. “The deceased tattooist” said Merv.

“He was one of Trotsky’s illegitimate Mexican children – Pancho Headin.  Rumour has it that he was a hard man for the Lambrettistas, but you didn’t hear it from me” said Hedgie.

“Complicated” said Foodge.  “Isn’t Trotsky a chapter commander for the Hell’s Angles ?”  Foodge could sense some deep involvement of O’Hoo and retired to the Men’s to take a long overdue look at his tattoo.  He ran a finger along the outline of the Gemini twin, but his tail had gone cold.

Foodge returned to the bar with a mere trace of shirt tail protruding from his fly.  The regulars could work out what he’d been up to for themselves.  They awaited, smirking only slightly, for his rejoinder.  “Do the police have a donkey to pin this on ?” said Foodge.

“Do YOU have an alibi ?” said Hedgie.  “ Yes,” said Foodge “ I have a suit on lay-by at Reuben F Shawl’s”.  Merv produced a Trotter’s Ale fountain from his nostrils.

“I think I’ll swing by Rosie’s Tattoo Emporium and House of Pain and make a few inquiries” said Foodge, although the questions he was planning to ask had not crystallised just yet.  He patted his pocket for the Zephyr keys.  Merv, mopping up his beer fountain, reached for the Effhook near the kitchen speaking tube and handed Foodge the keys – prejudging him to be no worse at piloting the Zephyr than usual.

As Foodge’s silhouette shrunk its way through the passage and out into the carpark, Hedgie’s fat finger rolled a number into the Bakelite wall phone. “On his way” he said and hung up before the reply that didn’t come didn’t come.