Tag Archives: Foodge

Foodge 30 – Foodge Gets Real and Goes Hard

18 Sunday Mar 2012

Posted by in Emmjay, Foodge Private Dick

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See the worst of Perth for yourselves .....http://theworstofperth.com/

Foodge removed his Fedora and slumped at a table in the naughty corner of the public bar of the Pig’s Arms.

Merv took his cue and poured Foodge a double Pink with no umbrella – delivered with a silent flourish.  Merv knew from the look on Foodge’s face that things were delicate and starting a conversation was a risky business unless Foodge gave him a lead in.

“I’m in a spot of bother, Mr Merv” he said.  Merv let the news settle, cool a little and allowed a skin to form on the top of it. “What’s the grief, old friend” asked Merv.

“I’m completely out of work” said Foodge.  “Pipeline ?” Merv inquired. “We are without immediate prospects, Mr Merv” said Foodge.

“Marketing ?” asked Merv.

“Marketing ?” echoed Foodge – suggesting that this was a concept that had not wandered through Foodge’s consciousness so  far. “You know – stuff to drum up a bit of business !” said Merv.  “Foodge took  a pull on his pink and rolled the idea around in his mind for a while. “Drum up business” he mumbled.

“Like do a bit of crime and solve it ?” Foodge did not actually say these words but Merv was reading Foodge’s thought bubble.

“No, mate, let’s go back to Business 101.  Have you got a business plan ?” “No – whatever that might be I do not have” said Foodge. “Marketing and Sales Plan ?” “No, not those either” said Foodge.

“OK, lets start from the top” said Merv.  First he poured himself a pint of Trotter’s Ale and then sat down next to Foodge.  “Branding.  Now how about your business name” said Merv.

“The Foodge Investigations and Detection Office”.

“FIDO” said Merv.  “Dogs – lost and found”.  Foodge livened up.

“Actually we do do lost dogs, Merv” enthused Foodge.

“There you go again” said Merv “Doggie do do”.

Foodge look defeated.  Downcast.

“Let’s go for something more catchy.  More recognisable” said Merv.

“Foodge Breakthrough Investigations” said Merv.

“FBI” said Foodge, lifting more and starting to feel his creative juices flow.

“People think the FBI are the best in the business” said Foodge.

“Fuckin’ Best Investigators” said Merv.

“Now, have you got a specialty – a line of business you are famous for ?” inquired Merv.

Foodge fell silent, thoughtful and took a pull on his pink drink.  “Perhaps, you do a nice line in missing persons or fraud or embezzlement or blackmail, gambling, drugs, standover ?” offered Merv.

“Sandover?” Foodge made his quizzical face again.  “Standover there, Foodge and take your hands out of your pockets”.  Merv had to grab Foodge’s arm to prevent an overly-literal response from the Foodge.  “Just kidding” said Merv.

“Let’s take another tack”.  “No man is an island” said Merv, pausing for just a moment to draw breath and start his sermon on the merits of teamwork. “ I think you mean no man comes from Ireland” said Foodge – keen to assist.

Merv could see that giving Foodge a shake was likely to make Merv himself feel better, but a shake would merely go over Foodge’s head – just like his hat.

“No listen, Foodge, correct me if I’m wrong, but you’re a private dick, right and that means you probably need some assistance – you know – defence lawyers who generate work for you”.  “I’m a lawyer too” said Foodge. “OK, so how much work is Foodge the lawyer generating for Foodge the private dick ?” wondered Merv aloud – in something like the thinking equivalent  of a stage whisper.  “Let’s consider some advertising”.  “I hate advertising, Mr Merv.  It’s boasting isn’t it ?  I get embarrassed” said Foodge.

“That graffiti in the men’s isn’t really advertising, Foodge.  ‘For a good crime call Foodge’ and ‘Foodge does it with dogs’ might at a stretch be technically correct but it’s hardly driving hoards of clients to your door, is it ?” said Merv. “I don’t have a door, Mr Merv” said  Foodge.  “Well, sorry, I should have said ‘driving whores of clients to your three-sided doorless office” said Merv.

“No, what I had in mind by way of advertising was an advertisement placed where people who might, by an incredible twist of fate, find themselves in a situation of dire need for the services of your incisive detective / legal eagle mind.  I’m thinking two column inches in Lambretta Monthly, same in Geometry News and maybe a regular guest appearance on Long Bay community TV’s “Inside Today”.

Foodge sipped his pink and the clouds in his crystal ball parted, revealing him tanned and with the wind in his hair, driving top down in a brand new Zephyr Elite on the way to a luncheon engagement with a TV personality curiously reminiscent of Kerry Anne Kennel.

Foodge’s reverie was interrupted by the sudden entrance of Hedgie. He looked agitated, which, for a man given to an over fondness for the quality control side of his horticulture business, was telling.  Hedgie pointed to the Trotter’s Ale tap and Merv made a foam call.

“It’s serious, Foodge.  I don’t reckon  you’ll get out of this one”.

“What is it Mr Hedge ?” said Foodge.

“You’ve left your lights on”.

Foodge 29 – Here’s a Toast for George

18 Wednesday Jan 2012

Posted by in Emmjay, Foodge Private Dick

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Simulated George Cat

OK, it was a mistake to think that using the paddles of life was a good idea on a cat having a heart attack.

Well, it was an honest mistake.  Foodge really did think he was having a heart attack. No, I mean BEFORE Foodge applied the paddles of life.

How was the private dick to know that cats go all dramatic when they’re trying to cough up a fur ball.  It wasn’t his fault.  He was only trying to help.

“What’s that smell downstairs, dear” ?

“It’s nothing”

“It smells like something’s burning”

“I think it’s a moth in the halogen light”.

“No, I mean it really stinks – kind of like burnt fish – no wait, a seal caught crossing a hotplate”.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about”.

Descending the stair, curiosity was about to kill the attempted saviour of the cat.  “WTF !!!”  she said.

“Uuhhm, I think George is looking a bit off his Snappy Tom”.   “A BIT !!!  A BIT !! He’s fuckin’ toast.  WHAT HAPPENED ?

“Well, I noticed that he was lying there doing these little jump and jive impressions.  I thought he was having a heart attack……. and …….”  “And so you went and got the jumper leads and clamped them on his chest……. ”  ” And WHAMMER-JAMMER”  “The thing is, he didn’t start, did he ?  Nope, he zipped and zapped and ……

“Look, let’s put a positive spin on this.  No more spraying in the house !  That’s a good thing “!  You could have cut the silence with a stone axe.  We were not amused.  Well, I was secretly a little amused but thought it wise to not display such callous disregard for the sanctity of feline life.  And the impending extinction of a minor blip on the private eye radar.

Foodge thought it wise to remove the evidence from line of sight.  While it was true that George was a major pain in the arse, it was also true that he was FM’s cat for a bit over a decade and although I had never quite warmed to the way he’d bring home his mousy / ratty nocturnal safari trophies – or maybe just a kidney or the back half of a torso, it was clear to me that FM HAD warmed to George’s little peccadilloes.  Foodge used an old towel to wrap this toasty little corpse and withdrew the former George from the back verandah.  And he discretely stowed the offending electronics.

By the back fence rested a row of greenish grey plastic yard chairs, bleached by years of exposure to the scorching rays of the inner west cyberian solar system.  Foodge placed G on the middle chair and withdrew to the house to take his abuse.

It was some hours before Foodge faced the daunting task of disposing of the corpse.  There was a choice between a private burial in the yard (not advised since Kali the dog had a reputation for Austro-Sino excavations in pursuit of subterranean protein), casual laying to rest in a back lane equivalent of a Tibetan sky burial – where the roles of vultures were acted by the local council collectors, or an extended procession to the skip in the Seven Eleven car park.

But lo, as Foodge approached the row of chairs, the body was nowhere to be seen.  It was a miracle.  Foodge made customary inquiries with the Dog.  She was coolly nonchalant and acted like she had no information.  Foodge checked the back lane.  The usual refuse and one junkie shooting up – but no George.  Foodge managed only a cursory peek into the Seven Eleven skip.  After all, it was not a useful addition to a private dick’s CV to be seen scouting for accommodation before dusk.

Curious.  Foodge pictured an exchange with the local vet.  “After I attached the jumper leads …… “.  No, that wasn’t going to work.  There was only one option.  To go back and try to appease the by now explosive FM.

“I’m very sorry, Aunty FM”.  “I know you are, dear.”  FM had resigned herself to the extinction of the in-house sprayer and was warming to the notion that no more of her curtains would spend more time in the dry cleaners than on the lounge room curtain rods.  There was some other small compensation – the accident had also put an end to the payments FM and Emmjay made on the Vet’s yacht.

One day passed.

As was his wont, Foodge rose at the crack of a quarter past ten and went straight to the front porch to collect his copy of Private Dick Daily, resplendent as usual on the Welcome mat.  “Meow” said the murraya in the concrete urn by the fence.

“It’s a miracle”, shouted Foodge.  Aunty FM, Aunty FM, it’s George !  I guess he’s down to 8 lives !  It’s George !  Back from the dead.  Foodge was convinced that George had some celestial recuperative experience and that there would be pilgrims any minute to witness the miracle of the Inner West.

George was non-plussed.  He jumped out of the concrete urn, turned on his heel, strolled across the hearth, down the hall, up to the drapes, reversed and raised his tail, did the shimmy and headed for the kitchen, secure in his remarkable territory and certain of a hearty breakfast of hard and wet  foods.

Foodge 28 – A Hot Foodge Sunday

26 Monday Dec 2011

Posted by in Big M, Foodge Private Dick

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Punting - for folks with just a couple of Oxford scholars

Story by Big Magnum

Merv had been pacing the floor behind the bar all morning. Two problems, one was the bloody Christmas decorations. He’d finally found two, foot high, tinsel trees and a red and green banner with the words ‘Merry Christmas’ emblazoned across it, then spent ten minutes sticking the damned thing up. Problem two was Granny keeping a shotgun in the hotel, so had decided that it would be best to get rid of it. The Pleece had an armistice for illegal, or unregistered, weapons, but that was now over. The miserly part of him knew that the Purdy was worth a few Oxford Scholars, so, rather than simply letting the piece go, Merv had started to think about ways to get rid of the gun and, get some easy readies. His ruminations were disturbed, not so much by a presence, but more by an aroma, Foodge had just staggered in, resplendent in his new track-suit and running shoes.

“Jeez, Foodge, it’s thirty five degrees out there, yer gunna die of heat exhaustion!” Exclaimed Merv, as he hefted another tray of glasses into the rack under the bar.

“Well, Merv, as you are fully aware, I missed our morning’s training session so I’m trying to make it up.” Foodge had been on surveillance all night, only managing to take a couple of murky photos of a man behind the wheel of the senator’s car. Later, the man in question would prove to be the hotel valet who was moving the car to the forecourt. “Anyway, thought I could procure some rehydration therapy here.” Foodge had an enthusiastic gleam in his eye.”

“Too right you can, Foodge, here’s a glass a water, on the house.” Merv pushed a glass canoe of cold water across the bar. “I’m not sellin’ you beer in that state!”

Foodge reluctantly took the glass, knowing that Merv was probably right. “Well then, Merv, what’s on the luncheon menu today?”

“Same as it’s bin for thirty three years, but, for you, Granny will knock up a salad.” Granny had been ‘knocking up’ a salad for Foodge for the last eight weeks, which, with reduced alcohol intake, and some training, had brought about a quantum improvement in his overall health. “While yer waitin’, yer can give me a hand.”

“Oh, um…er” Foodge, in spite of his improved fitness, was still averse to any kind of physical labour.

Merv motioned, with his index finger, for Foodge to lean in closer. “What do you know about guns?”

Foodge breathed a sigh of relief. “Sorry, don’t do shooters.” He’d heard Phillip Marlow say this in a film.

“No, not to shoot someone, I’ve got to get rid of Granny’s Purdy, so, thought I might try and sell it.”

Foodge’s pupils dilated. “Did you say a Purdy?? What sort of condition?”

“Sixty years old, and as good as the day it was made.”

“Mmm, let’s see.” Foodge had whipped out his iPhone, and started pushing keys. “Here you are.” He held up the device for Merv to examine. “Nineteen Thirty One model, under and over, sold at auction in the states for thirty one big ones.”

Purdy

Merv went weak at the knees, grabbing the bar to steady himself. “I thought we’d get a few hundred bucks for it, not thousands.”

“Yes, indeed, what you need to find is a high end gun dealer who’s willing to give you a fair price. The other thing you should do is do a Google search and find out what prices people are prepared to pay.”

Merv thought that Foodge was talking gobbly gook with the google business, so nodded and smiled. “Well, thanks Foodge, you’ve earned your keep today.”

“No worries, any Googling needs, I’m your man!” This wasn’t strictly true, as it had taken Emmjay the best part of two weeks to teach Foodge how to use the iPhone. Foodge was hoping that this would be another traditional Christmas spent sucking down Trotter’s Ale, imbibing wedges and regaling the assembled piglets with tales of derring-do, only to wake up on the floor of the Gent’s on Boxing Day. He was surprised to see the place filling up. Gerard and the Mysterious ‘H’ were the first in (he hadn’t seen young Viv pop in through the kitchen to start on the evening meal), followed by Emmjay and his First Mate, both dressed like Bogart and Bacall on a date.

A small band, composed of O’Hoo on the bass, Asty on the guitar, Dr Mick on the euphonium and DCI Rouge playing percussion, had started playing some new fangled pop music. ‘Steely Dan’, or some such thing. Sandshoe and Lehan Ramsay had started to dance, and were quickly joined by Atomou and his missus. The music was suddenly drowned out by the deep throated roar of un-silenced Charlies. Algy’s group had arrived! The party was in full swing, the music occasionally stopping for an oration by J.G Cole, Atomou and even O’Hoo.

Foodge was gob-smacked. It looked like becoming the family Christmas that he’d missed for so many years. “Merv, I think it’s time I shouted the bar, Trotter’s Ale all round!” Merv couldn’t help but notice a film of tears in Foodge’s eyes, but was polite enough to ignore it and started pouring.

“Yes, Foodge, Merry Christmas to us all”

Foodge – Merv Snap

02 Wednesday Nov 2011

Posted by in Big M, Foodge Private Dick

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Old Man Sitting in a Rocking Chair By: Marc Desimpelaere (simulated Merv)

Story by Big M.

It was mid-afternoon as Merv sat in his old rocking chair in the midst of the cellar. Merv had that sense of weariness that goes with being a man satisfied with his lot in life. He often slipped down to the cellar to ‘catch up on some paperwork’, which, invariable, resulted in him being woken by his own snoring. The cellar was a comforting place, redolent with scent of roasting barley, from Granny’s oast, as well as that rich, beery smell, that only a publican can love.

It had been quite a productive day, Merv reflected. An early morning boxing session saw Foodge give Wes a clip around the ear, for the first time, plus Merv felt like he was back to his young body building days as he’d dead-lifted close to half a metric ton. Mid-morning he’d driven Janet and the twins to the station to catch the train to her hometown of Lithgow to visit her parents. Hopefully not for too long, as a stay in Lithgow placed one at great risk for exogenous depression.

There’d been a roaring trade at lunchtime. Algernon had brought his mycologist mates from the uni for a beer tasting, which was only terminated by Merv and Wes carrying them out to the Vice-Chancellor’s car, to be driven to the university for some ‘special’ tests.

Merv put his head back, and was just listening to his own regular breathing when he heard a voice from above. “Get outta here you drug pushin’ bastards!” Merv leapt to his feet and bound up the steps three at a time. He rounded the corner to the Gentlemen’s bar to be greeted by the sight of Wes pushing two fat, tattooed, baldy headed bikers through the front door, whilst Hedgie, former NSW Aikido champion, had a third bikie in a painful wrist lock, constantly yelling. “Bloody steroid pushin’ bloody bastards.”

Merv pushed in hard behind Wes to help eject the pair of miscreants, then quickly locked the door before turning to Hedgie. “Mate, you better let go before you end up on assault charges.”

“Assault charges!! Fecking assault charges! I’ll give this baldy headed grub some assault charges.” Hedgie almost effortlessly leaned further into the wristlock, which had the appropriate effect. The bikie screamed, then started whimpering, and then bent at the knees to take the pressure off his wrist. Wes unbolted the door as Hedgie tossed the hapless fellow through the opening whilst taking a loud slap at the bald head.

The three men were trying to take stock of the situation when Merv heard a mechanical ‘click’ from somewhere upstairs. It took him some seconds to register the sound, and then turned, yelling. “No, Granny!!” He lunged up the stairs behind the Gentlemen’s Bar, dashed passed the Nathan Rees Memorial Ballroom, rounded the corner at the Kristina Keneally Memorial Powder room, then out onto the shaky balcony above the Ladies’ Bar.

“Noooo!”

“Bam!”

“Bam!” Granny expertly cracked open the breech of the weapon, ejecting the cartridges onto the floor, and reloading, all the while keeping her eyes on the retreating bikies.

Purdy Impressive

Merv pulled the Purdy from Granny’s gnarled fingers, and unloaded the weapon before stowing it under the ancient park bench that had sat on the balcony for ever (actually, it was only since 1957 when the Angles got onto some ‘special stuff’ purchased from a bloke in a dunny at a pub, all hallucinated, moved a builders scaffold to the front of the Pig’s and placed the park bench in it’s current location). Granny slumped onto the bench, shoulders hunched, bony elbows balanced on knobbly knees, her drawn, wrinkled brown face covered by those long, gnarled fingers.  Merv flopped down next to her.  “Granny, it’s just passed three, there’ll be kiddies comin’ outta school!”

Granny’s bony shoulders started heaving up and down a long time before the sobs came. Then there were tears. Merv was bewildered, as he’d never seen Granny cry, even after a thump to the nose during some over enthusiastic sparing, which left her beak blue, and then green. He put his arm around her. “What’s wrong, love?”

Granny just shook her head like a petulant child, pausing to wipe her eyes on the back of her forearm.

Merv was stumped now, I mean, crying sheilas and all that. The bright sunny balcony suddenly darkened, as if in the umbra of some strange moon. Merv looked up to find Young Wes standing over him, who motioned for Merv to step away. Merv wanted to shake his head and stay, but everything inside him wanted him to get away from crying Granny, or, more to the point, for her to stop crying. Merv nodded weakly. “I’ll…err…go an check the Gentlemen’s Bar.” He quickly extricated himself from the park bench, stooping to pick up the shotty.

Merv had sowed the gun in a locked cupboard upstairs, then went to the bar, pouring himself a double ‘Southern Seas Cognac’ (an oxymoron, surely) and downing it in one gulp, the acrid fluid burning his palate and oesophagus, then giving his stomach an accurate impression of an ulcer. He looked around at the Bowling Ladies, all of them looking a little pale. “Sorry ladies, a sherry or brandy, just to bring some colour back to the gills?”

“Don’t worry about our gills, thanks Merv!” Retorted Beryl. “What about Granny, we can hear the sobs from the Ladies’ Lounge, and you’re down here drinking?”

“Err…ah…um.” Merv rubbed his huge paw over his bristly scalp. “Wes is up there, you know, he’s the one who’s usta workin’ with sheilas.”

Beryl was about to launch into a tirade about Merv’s responsibilities, and what a bastard he was, and leaving a young lad like that to do a grown man’s work, when Granny and Wes appeared at the bottom of the stairs, a box of cartridges in Wes’ hand.  All of the Bowling Ladies rushed to her like a flock of seagulls to a discarded chip (and, yes, like seagulls, some of them only have one leg!). They gathered around her, and then magically whisked her into the Lounge, with Beryl at the rear, still glaring at Merv.  The tension was broken by the arrival of both Detective Inspector O’Hoo, and his partner in crime, I mean, detection, Foodge.  Both men were visibly thinner, tanned and more sprightly. “‘Allo Gents, pints all round?” Stammered Merv nervously. “Business or social call, Detective Inspector?”

“O’Hoo tilted his trilby back, rubbing his face with a handkerchief. “ A mixture of both, really, there’s rumours round the station of shots fired in the main drag. My response was that no one would be silly enough to own a firearm, much less discharge one, round these parts, so I thought I’d come ‘n’ ‘ave a gander.” O’Hoo took a long pull from his glass.

“Foodge nodded sagely.” There were some big Charlies in the street, I reckon a couple backfired. Bad fuel, you know?” To no one in particular.

Charlie

The Bowling Ladies had gone quiet. Beryl piped up. Granny, can you just write in the minutes that the meeting ended…” She paused to look at her watch. “Three twenty seven?” Granny nodded as she scribbled on a sheaf of papers.

O’Hoo looked around. “I reckon you’re right, Foodge, backfirin’ motorbikes.” He was disturbed by the sound of The Muppet’s theme tune. He fished a swish looking mobile out of his pocket. “O’Hoo…yes…yes…bikies…yes…no…OK…thanks.”  Then hung up. “Five blokes on big Charlies were arrested by uniformed pleece, for speeding. Their bikes were searched and all were carrying illegal hannabolic steroids, speed, coke and great wads of cash. They were blabbing on about being beaten up and shot at, silly buggers!” He looked at the bottom of the empty glass. “Anymore beer in that tap?

Foodge 26 – Friday Night Happy Hour

10 Friday Jun 2011

Posted by in Big M

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By Big M

Foodge sat alone in the Nathan Rees memorial Cinema, located in the second floor of the Pigs Arms. He was dressed in his usual, or, rather, unusual clobber, grey stripped three button suit, crisp, white, bespoke business shirt with French cuffs, held together with silver cuff links bearing his family crest; a goose passant, rampant on a blue lake with daffodil embellishments, College of Laws tie, in a Windsor knot, light grey braces, black brogues by Loake of London, all topped by a black Fedora which sat on the table, brim side up so as to not alter the shape of the brim. He was waiting for young Wes to report on the goings on at the Cronulla Sharks surf gang, which, Foodge hoped, he’d infiltrated without pissing oodles of Foodge’s client’s hard earned cash against the proverbial masonry.

Foodge liked the cinema. It was cool and dark, which allowed one to sit and meditate over a refreshing beverage, and it was rarely used, unless Merv had managed to scrape up a ‘fillum’ that fitted into the ancient projector which hid behind the back wall, Its lens was always just visible to those inquisitive enough to be looking at the back wall. There was little risk of being disturbed on a Wednesday. No Bowling Ladies around (they always played an ‘away game’ on Wednesdays, in fact, they always played an away game, as they had no green of their own). The Hell’s Angles, those motorcycling geometricians, held a meeting twice a month to discuss such arcane subjects as; slide rule maintenance, Poiseuille’s law and it’s relationship to boundaries between laminar and turbulent flow, and so on.  Foodge could hear Merv’s monotonous voice from the Main Bar droning on about liquor licences, tax and ‘owsa man supposta make a livin’ sellin’ beer’?

The sound of the side door opening made Foodge look up. “Wes, good to see you…” Wes wasn’t there. In his place stood someone who looked vaguely familiar. It was Warwick, or Warren or… Waz, that’s right, thought Foodge, this is the bloke that helped me with the photos in the MP case. “Gooday Waz, how’s it hangin’?” Foodge occasionally tried to add a tradesmen like quality to his banter.

“Sorry mate, I’m looking for Merv.” The chap had a couple of those expensive laptop bags, which he struggled to carry. “He’s got trouble with his jukebox, and I’ve got some upgrades which may sort it.”

Foodge wondered how this master of digital imagery could sort out a jukebox. “ Merv’s downstairs, whinging, as usual.” Foodge thought this to be rather witty. “That jolly jukebox has been stuck on Cliff Richard’s ‘Summer Holiday’ for weeks, which I don’t mind, but, I funded a small party last week. “ Foodge blushed at the memory, although, he’d been so inebriated that the memories were reconstructions from Emmjay, Merv and Fern. “Couldn’t dance, no Cha Cha music!”  He liked to think of himself as a South American lady-killer.

Editors clarification: not actually a killer of South American ladies.

Waz couldn’t help but notice that Foodge had been sitting in the dark with his iPhone and beer. “What are you up to, sitting here all by yourself?” Waz had cocked one eyebrow, but didn’t look like he was going to fire it.

The facial expression was completely lost on Foodge, who was basically an ingénue. “Err…ah… meditating.”

“OK mate, I’ll let you keep on ‘meditating’. Waz started to back out of the doorway, hoping that Merv might happen along and save him from this deviant. “See you mate!!” Waz turned and ran.

Foodge was none the wiser, as he pressed the red button under his armrest, which signalled Merv to return with, yet another, pint of Trotter’s Best! Foodge looked up, once again, to the sound of the door. “Thanks for ‘trotting up’, Merv.” Foodge thought this particularly witty, and was recording it on his new iPhone. He looked up to see that it wasn’t Merv, but young Wes, wearing a ‘Male Nurse’s United’ T-shirt, tracksuit pants and slippers. “Oh…err…young Wes, what the hell are you doing in your pyjamas?”

“I worked at the nursing home last night, which is, in fact, my real job, and just woke up!” Wes settled his considerable frame into the seat next to Foodge. “Have you just rung for service?”

“Yes, I have.” Foodge thought it rather luxuriant being able to ‘ring for service.’

“I’ll run down and get it.” Wes disappeared then emerged through the door about five minutes later with a Trotter’s Ale and a long black. “OK, Foodge, why the urgent meeting?” As he placed the pint on a coaster so that it wouldn’t damage Foodge’s hat.

“Feedback, lad, how’s the case going?” Foodge had his iPhone out ready to jot down points of interest. Foodge, just quietly, was becoming a pain in the arse with that bloody iPhone!

“There’s little to feed back.” Wes sipped on his coffee, frowning slightly, as he’d forgotten to put a dash of cold water in the cup. “They’re all good blokes, hard workin’, respectful of women…you know?”

“I had them pegged as a pack of hooligans, ne’er do wells and dole bludgers.” Foodge seemed to hold fairly strong opinions on surfers. “What about the girl?”

“Imogen? She’s a lovely young lady.” Wes seemed a bit defensive.

“Young lady, she’s a teenager, and we’ve been hired to look after her.”

“No, Foodge, she’s twenty two years old, not a teenager, and, no, doesn’t need looking after. “ Wes wearily replied, as the sound of a bass guitar and drums cut through the stale air. “Ah, the party’s started.”

“What party, no-one told me?” Foodge was indignant.

“The Friday night Pigs Arms party, you know? Warrigal loads up the jukebox with new toons, and we, well, rock on.

The pair made their way down to the main bar where Angles, Lambrettists, and Bowling Ladies were already dancing. Emmjay and First Mate, who couldn’t help themselves, were dressed in evening wear that Emmjay had ‘borrowed’ from the ABC wardrobe – not worn since Jim Dibble retired – and probably not missed either, O’Hoo and Vinh had a romantic table in the corner, whilst Gerard and the mysterious H were, unsuccessfully trying to teach the dancers the samba. Atomou was in a corner lounge trying to convince Lehan, ‘Shoe, Asty and Algy the health benefits of ouzo. Even Janet had brought the twins downstairs to expose them to, what she regarded as, classical music. Julian was upstairs packing for his ‘Isle if Wight trip’.

Merv pushed a pint towards Waz, who sat at the bar, taking it all in. “On the ‘ouse, mate, you don’t know what your Fridee night music mixes mean to us at the Pigs.”

Foodge 25 – Foodge Goes Under Cover

01 Wednesday Jun 2011

Posted by in Big M, Foodge Private Dick

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By Big M

Merv stood behind the Main Bar absent-mindedly drying glasses with a tea towel, and that’s when it occurred to him that he hadn’t seen Foodge for, not one, but two days. Foodge annoyed Merv much of the time, but, now in his absence Merv realised that he missed the goofy ‘private detective’. Merv hadn’t had much time, until now, to think about Foodge. Two coach loads of tourists had been in yesterday seeking the authentic ‘Inner West Pub Experience’, whatever that was supposed to be, but nevertheless a big money spinner, plus Bowling Ladies this morning, which stretched to ‘luncheon’, with ‘drinky poos’.  Janet had been at him to mind the twins during the day so that she could get some rest, as she’d only had nine hours sleep the night before. Poor Merv couldn’t get away from the bar, so Granny seized the opportunity to take the babies for a stroll to the park.

Merv tried to pour himself a lemon-lime ‘n’ bitters, but, all he got from the bar gun was cold, flat water, so, stuck his head under the bar to hook up a new cylinder of carbon dioxide. This went surprisingly smoothly for Merv, with only two scraped knuckles and a couple of curses. He emerged from under the bar to be greeted by the strangest sight; Foodge clad in Hawaiian shirt, Bermuda shorts, short brown socks and brown brogues. The outfit was completed with a pair of wrap around sunglasses. “Ah, Foodge!” Blurted Merv, struggling to suppress a belly laugh.

“Not Foodge.’ Winked Foodge. “Undercover…big case…surf gang.” As he tapped the side of his nose with his finger. “Buddy ‘n’ Coke thanks, bartender.”

“Sure you don’t want a pint?”

“No, young people drink buddy.”

“I think you’ll find that’s ‘Bundy’ Foodge…sorry…sir.” Merv topped up the glass from the bar gun, only it wasn’t real Coke, or Pepsi, it was based on a syrup based on trial and error, more error, in fact, but, nevertheless generated a carbonated fluid that looked like coke, but had a flavour that was neither pleasant or sweet.

Foodge sat at the bar, and thirstily tugged at the straw. “So, bartender, any surfers in here today?”

“Well, given that we’re an hour and a half from the nearest beach by Sydney’s excellent public transport, well…no.” Merv applied a couple of bandaids to his skinned knuckles.

“Righto, thanks for the heads up. I’ll broaden my enquiries to some locale closer to the beach.

“Foodge, mate, I’ve got to tell you, you look like an English school teacher on ‘olidee’ in Ibiza. Has it occurred to you that infiltrating a surf gang may not be the easiest thing for a man of your age, pallor and sartorial taste?” Merv had started to pour another Bundy ‘n’ Coke, unasked.

“Could have a point” Reflected Foodge, remembering back to his last day at the beach when his swimming trunks had been torn off as he was dumped by a wave, and he had to wait for a lifesaver to swim out with a towel so he could maintain some semblance of dignity, much to the chagrin of the lifesavers on patrol.  That was the last time he would ever borrow a pair of yellow crocheted speedos from Emmjay.

“You’re right, I need to employ someone else, Fern, maybe?

“No, mate, fingernails.” Merv held up his bid, disfigured hand, wiggling his fingers.

“Emmjay?” Foodge raised his eyebrows in askance.

“He’s fit, he bodysurfs, but he’s no ‘surfer’.”

“I know, O’Hoo!” Foodge’s face lit up.

“You can’t employ a copper to do PI work.” Merv retorted as the area behind the bar darkened, as if subject to some local eclipse of the sun. Young Wes stepped through the doorway, and started to make himself a long black on the coffee machine. “Young Wes.” Merv nodded. “Djagetsum sleep?”

“Yeah, Uncle Merv. Fancy dress, Foodge.” Wes looked over the coffee machine at the comic figure before him.

“No, undercover.” Foodge shook his head and removed the sunglasses. “Make it a pint of best, this time, Merv. What are you doing sleeping during the day?”

“Assistant in Nursing at the Rissole (RSL) Nursing Home, doing two nights a week…love it!” Wes added a little cold water to his steaming mug. “Had a long term patient die last night, a bit upsetting, but he was ready to go.” Wes took a sip.

“Oh…err…what do you, err…do…” Foodge was uncomfortable talking about death, which seemed odd for a PI.

“Oh, just make them comfortable, hold their hand, if there are no relos around. Captain Rawlings’ daughter stayed until the end.” Wes was very respectful towards his patients, always calling them ‘mister’, or ‘sir’, unless they wanted to be named by rank.

Foodge thought it paradoxical that Wes, who was built like a brick outhouse, and had bested bikies, former boxers, and various unsavoury characters in his capacity as Pigs Arms bouncer, could be so gentle. “Well, I’m looking for someone to do some casual work, for me, as a PI, you interested?”

“Mid-semester break is coming up.” Wes stared into his mug. “ I was planning to take the bike for a run to visit mum.”

“I can make it worth your while, two ‘C’ notes a day, plus expenses.” Foodge tended to lapse into 1940’s Private Dick-speak, every now and then.

“What do I have to do?” Wes was warming to the idea of being a private dick for a week.

“Infiltrate the surf gang known as the Cronulla Sharks and warn them off this.” Foodge fished an iPhone out of his pocket, and expertly navigated to a photo of a tall, pretty blond teenager, who would likely fill out to become a tall, blond, beautiful model.

Both Merv and Wes were aghast that Foodge, not only owned a mobile, but that he could actually use the damned thing! “Who’s the chick?”  Wes was very interested.

“Imogen Stapleton, heiress to the Stapleton Mining fortune, who, incidentally, is underage.” Foodge glared at Wes. “Has been hanging around these surfers. I’ve been employed by the family’s solicitor to warn them off. By the way, Wes, can you surf?”

“Shortboard, Mal, boogyboard, bodysurf, anything really.” Wes shrugged his shoulders. “When do I start?”

Foodge held up his glass. ”How about right now?”

Foodge 24 – Foodge’s Hangover

11 Wednesday May 2011

Posted by in Big M, Foodge Private Dick

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Not just any old gloom, but tenebrous gloom

Foodge woke surrounded by tenebrous gloom. His initial impression was that he had been buried alive! Two facts argued against that; One, he was face down, and Two he could smell leather, sweat and a faint scent of lavender. The sound of a high-speed electric motor cut through the silence. He was now quite sure that he wasn’t underground, as he was pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to hear much underground. He tried to move, but the crick in his neck and pins and needles in his arms prevented any activity. He tried to call out, but his dry throat, and the fact that his face was pushed into the surface on which he lay, prevented more than a plaintive. “elp….ay…agh!” The stomp of heavy footsteps had Foodge’s highly trained musculature ready for action. He was suddenly blinded by sunlight as a heavy blanket was jerked back from his face. Foodge clenched his eyes shut, ready for whatever torture his abductor had prepared.

“What the f$*&.” Merv exclaimed, sweat running down his face (he had just returned from his morning gym session). “I thought that Fern and Emmjay took you home!” Merv was assisted by young Wes to slowly get the hapless detective up from the chesterfield, onto his feet and gently ambulate him out of the Ladies Lounge, and into the Main Bar.

“Someone must’ve slipped me a Mickey Finn.” Foodge surmised, based on his amnesia and throbbing headache.

“Mickey Finn!” Merv laughed.” How about eight bottles of our best Porphyry Pearl between you, Fern, Emmjay an’ Effemm?” A bowl of Granny’s wedges appeared on the bar next to a pint of Trotter’s Best. “Get these into yer guts, son, that’ll fix you up!”

Foodge was onto his third pint before he started to feel human. Merv went about his publican duties, which seemed to involve a lot of restocking, straightening of bar stools and disposing of broken glasses. It all started to come back to him. He had, in promise to his solicitor decided to sack Fern, but, lacking the guts to do so by himself, brought Emmjay and his First Mate to provide support over a couple of drinks.

The sacking had been a disaster. As sackings go, the only worst sacking in history was the sacking of Gough Whitlam. Fern had reacted badly to the news, and fled to the Ladies, knocking over two pints of Trotter’s Best and a bowl of wedges in the process. Foodge sat there dumbly hoping that Effemm would leap into the fray, or, rather the Ladies, and provide succour to the young woman. She didn’t move. Nor did Emmjay, except for an almost imperceptible sideways movement of his eyes, which Foodge took to mean that it was his responsibility to comfort Fern.

Foodge had never been to the Ladies, and was surprised to learn that it was a fairly spacious, clean and well appointed and maintained area. It wasn’t hard to work out which cubicle held young Fern, the sobs could be heard out in the bar.  Meanwhile, Emmjay and Effemm were laying bets as to how many minutes it would take Fern to wheedle her way back into Foodge’s employ.  Effemm won: seven minutes had elapsed before the pair returned and Foodge announced that, whilst it was true that Fern had been dismissed as secretary, she had been re-employed as Office Manager. He also announced that there was a new phase in Foodge’s operations, which would involve computers, mobile phones, digital cameras, and so on. Emmjay, who was a fairly canny fellow and couldn’t let the opportunity go by, offered his services as I.T. Consultant and Network Engineer (whatever those jobs entailed).

This, of course, meant that the ‘afternoon drinks/sacking’ had become a party to mark two new positions in Foodge’s company. Foodge called for ‘bubbly’ and Merv obliged with Porphyry Pearl. Foodge demanded food, and Granny cooked wedges, with sour cream and sweet chilli sauce. Foodge wanted music, and, unfortunately the jukebox was stuck on ‘A Summer Holiday’, which repeated over and over. I guess you can’t have ‘em all.

“Well”. Foodge thought out loud. “Here’s to the Pigs Arms and all those who imbibe in her. May her Best Bitter stay bitter, and her Pink Drinks stay sickly sweet!”

“What was that, Foodge.” Merv’s bulbous head popped up from behind the bar. “Wannanuther drink?”

“Nothing, Merv. Yes, why not?” Foodge grinned as he tipped his Fedora back from his forehead.

Hell Hospital, Episode 13

12 Tuesday Apr 2011

Posted by in Astyages, Hell Hospital

≈ 13 Comments

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By theseustoo

Dave struggled to free himself from the warm fuzziness which seemed to weigh him down like a leaden blanket… as he gradually emerged into semi-consciousness, he realised that someone was shaking him. “Where am I?” he asked, thoroughly bemused. An unknown voice answered him from underneath a broad-rimmed fedora, “You’re in hospital… Psych ward…”

“What?!” Dave now sat bolt upright, “What he hell am I doing here? I’m not crazy!”

The stranger with the fedora grasped hold of him and, quickly shushing him, laid him back down on his pillow. The attendant nurse, who was sitting at the desk at the other end of the ward, briefly looked up, just as the fedora slipped below the level of Dave’s bed. Satisfied that all was as normal as might reasonably be expected in a psychiatric ward, she returned to her perusal of the new roster she was trying to organise, peeved at having to be the one to do it, and knowing that no matter what she did, just about everyone would be unhappy with the shifts she allocated them.

The fedora emerged from below the bed and, with a finger to his lips, said, “Shhhh! We know you’re not crazy… you’ve been brought here for a reason…”

Now Dave was beginning to think he may be crazy after all… who was this stranger and what did he know about the situation… which Dave was only just beginning to understand anyway; last thing he knew he’d been about to punch out some quack who’d handled his previously shattered and now de-calcified foot too roughly, and then the security guards had grabbed him and then…. Oh, yes… the injection…

He looked up again at the face under the fedora and said, “Yeah… I tried to punch a quack!”

The face underneath the fedora looked puzzled for a moment, and then, still talking in whispers, said, “No… I mean… well, that may have given them the excuse they needed, but you’d have been brought here anyway…”

This was beginning to sound dafter and dafter, thought Dave, but then he thought to himself, what else should I expect in the psych ward? Then he realised what had been said and felt somehow insulted, “Hey! What do you mean, I’d’a’ been brought here anyway… I told you I’m not nuts; just a bit hot-tempered, is all… Anyway who the hell are you and what do you know about me and why I’m in here? You’re just a patient in here yourself! For all I know, you’re the one that’s nuts!”

“That’d be what they’d want you to think,” said the face under the fedora, still trying to maintain as low a profile as possible, “but don’t you be taken in by it for a second!” Then, offering his hand to Dave to shake, added, “Name’s Foodge… I’m a private dick working under cover on a case for Inspector Vinh Ordinaire Rouge; I expect you’ll have heard of her?”

“No…” Dave replied simply, then asked the obvious, “What case?”

But just then the ward’s large, swing doors were pushed aside as the doctor entered the ward to do the rounds, noisily followed by a gaggle of interns and med students learning the trade.

“Can’t talk now…” Foodge whispered urgently,”Later… my bed’s the one with the poster over it…” And with that he turned to try to get back to his bed unnoticed, but it was too late; the nurse, as soon as she’d heard the doctor enter the ward, had done a quick reconnaissance tour of the ward and had just noticed the fedora beside the new patient’s bed. With the impatience of which only nurses whose orders have been disobeyed are capable, she ejaculated, “MISTER JONES! What ARE you doing out of bed? Now get back into it this instant before you get us both into trouble!”

Aha, thought Dave to himself, as he heard the fedora-wearer’s real name… I was right… just another loony! He was even more convinced of this fact when he looked up at the poster above the beds further down the ward into which the fedora’s wearer was now slipping: the poster depicted the star of the movie, ‘Babe’ in one of its happier scenes.  Yep! he thought again, this guy’s definitely one snag short of a barbie…

And with that comforting thought, he set himself to the task of trying to think of what would be the best way to get out of here… Should he just insist on his sanity; surely they would see he was normal? Or would they see that as a sure sign of mental instability, this insistence on normality? Perhaps it would be wiser to play the game for a while and then gradually ‘return’ to normality? It was a most difficult decision to make, but he would have to make his mind up on a strategy soon, as the doctor was now only a couple of beds away from his and he knew with dreadful certainty that the doctor would want to interview this new patient… and that the result of that interview would determine his fate.

***** ******** *****

The Dark One inside Elaine’s mind felt a wave of satisfaction flood its pleasure centers; everything was going according to plan; the coven had two members already and a third was being prepared for recruitment even as more potential recruits were being gathered. When the coven was complete, the Rite could begin… the ritual that would bring the ‘Others’! Until then, the Dark One knew, he must remain unknown and unobserved to the rest of this far-too-pleasant little planet…

***** ******** *****

Foodge 22: Fern

03 Sunday Apr 2011

Posted by in Big M

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Story by Big M

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

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

Foodge 21: Foodge’s Financial Crisis

01 Friday Apr 2011

Posted by in Big M, Foodge Private Dick

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Gumshoe hoofs it.

Story by Big M.

Foodge was completely discombobulated. Two events had shaken him to the core. One was the realisation that he was broke. Stony broke. Great Depression, jump from the thirteenth floor broke. The second was that, for the first time Foodge could remember, Pigs Arms was closed.

Foodge was, as these things go, the last to realise that his financial situation was untenable. The story had started to unfold on the previous day. The office telephone had been cut off. Foodge pressed the button on the office intercom to raise Fern’s awareness that her employer had some task for her to attended, but the was no answer. Foodge went to the outer office to find Fern’s desk empty, except for a note, ‘Won’t come back to work til ALL wages paid, Fern.’  Next to it were overdue notices for accounts unpaid; telephone, electricity, rent, dry-cleaning, and so on.

Foodge had, initially, refused to fall into depression. He picked up his passbook and Fedora, and marched down to the bank to sort things out. There was no sorting out at all. His bank balance was $2.71, which was about to be consumed by this month’s account keeping fees. Foodge thanked the teller very kindly for her help, donned his hat, and then walked two doors down to that other potential source of income, his accountant.

The accountant’s secretary apologised profusely, that Mr Swan was at a meeting and would Mr Foodge care to make an appointment?  Foodge declined, stating that he might happen to run into Mr Swan while he was out and about. Foodge did indeed run into Mr Swan, at the Swindler’s Arms, a small tavern frequented by the accounting and banking fraternity. Mr Swan was quick to point out that, whilst Foodge’s tax return may generate a refund, the fines from seven late BAS statements would probably leave Foodge with a net loss. Foodge thanked Swanee, then shuffled out into the street, only to wander back to office. How long he’d be able to use the term ‘my office’ was an unknown, not as complex as a Donald Rumsfeld unknown, but an unknown none the less!

Foodge sat at his desk enjoying a cup of Nescafe Gold when he hit upon a brilliant idea. There must be some accounts payable to him. He began to go through Fern’s account keeping, which, whilst unconventional, was easy to follow. One biscuit tin contained all accounts, which had been paid for this financial year. Previous year’s accounts were stored in other tins. Unpaid accounts occupied another tin. Foodge picked out the accounts with the largest balances, and then proceeded to telephone his debtors. This brought him full circle to the event that initiated today’s activities. He decided to deliver the Final Notices by hand, but soon realised that the Zephyr was almost completely devoid of fuel, and that Foodge couldn’t afford to fill her. Foodge decided that a fit, young, healthy person such as himself, could easily walk to most of the addresses on his list, so grabbed the ‘Gregor’s’ from the glove compartment and, with his detective’s pencil, charted the most efficient walking route.

Foodge’s journey was seriously hampered by the fact that his 1968 edition of Gregor’s included roads that had been turned into cul-de-sacs, pedestrian paths that no longer existed; in fact, there were almost entire suburbs that Mr Gregor had failed to foresee. On the plus side, there were plenty of bicycle paths, which, once Foodge learned to stay on the left, and not stagger all over the place, became pleasant, and reasonably direct routes. He’d even spied Emmjay (the former ABC Wardrobe Manager) in the distance, clad in lime green and black, peddling at a furious pace. Foodge wondered quietly to himself about the role of Lyra and bright colours in cycling. He couldn’t figure it out, but, then again, he’d never quite mastered the concept of bicycle riding himself.

Foodge had, surprisingly, completed his deliveries by the close of business, and had even collected a couple of hundred dollars from one lady who thanked him for the photos, and told him to ‘piss off.’ The two ‘c’ notes burnt a hole in Foodge’s wallet, so he, rather wisely, invested them at a TAB. Surprisingly, ‘Carntkeepup’ came in at 42 to one.

First thing, the next day, the cheque was immediately deposited into Foodge’s bank. This should have made Foodge happy, but he was so far in debt that this would only pay for the outstanding rent utilities and Fern’s wages, once the cheque cleared, in five working days. Foodge decided that he would throw himself at Merv’s mercy, and that, in spite of Merv’s threat to refuse Foodge service until the tab was paid in full, he would present himself at the Gentleman’s Bar of the Window Dresser’s Arms, Pig and Whistle, show Merv the balance on his bank book, and hope for some compassion.

Foodge walked, or rather, shuffled from the bank to the Pigs Arms. His gait had altered since yesterday’s long sojourn, as he had a shin splint on his left leg, and had been up half the night with cramps in some muscle he was sure that even the great anatomist Andreas Vesalius had not discovered (it was Peroneus Longus, but we’ll let Foodge have his fantasy).  He rounded the corner where the old tannery stood, vacant and decaying, and couldn’t believe his eyes. The hotel was shut, blinds down, and a piece of paper fluttering from the front door:

Congratulations to Janet and Merv, Viv & Ian (not identical) were born last evening at the Royal Inner Western Cyberian Maternity Hospital and Public Library.  Mother and babies all well. Merv is now responding to the treatment.

Foodge was gob smacked. The Pigs Arms was closed. He had no money. Where in the hell would he be able to get a drink? Oh, and Merv and Janet were parents. He stood there, rooted to the footpath, staring at the doors, almost willing them to open. Then the miracle happened. One door swung open, then the other. The space was almost entirely filled by a dark shadow. Then the shadow stepped forward. “Gooday, Foodge, wanna pint, it’s on the house?” Young Wes ushered him in. Foodge never felt safer, nor more at home, than just at that moment.