Tag Archives: humour

Gordon and the Bish take leave – the holiday ends yet begins – Part 3

13 Thursday Jul 2017

Posted by in Sandshoe

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Gordon and the Bish get back to work

Gordon and The Bish Go On Holiday: Part Three

by Shoe

Continued…

“Seems an important scientific fact, Bish. The longer a toad like Toad settles in one district, the less likely are its chances in its lifetime of pulling in big crowds, I reckon. See, toads travel and further and faster than a toad’s predecessors.”

“Gord, Toad was doomed on his own whatever way I look at it!”

Look there’s one

“Bish, Toad likely had a bad back too. Toad was in no shape to be on racing. Toads get spinal arthritis. Because they walk further faster. Not a word of not trew truth.”

Gordon and the Bish are both sobered.

“A population dwindles and individuals like Toad head out in a random pattern called toad dispersal. They mate with other dispersing toads. They breed more offspring than their predecessors and even faster toads that can travel even further again.”

‘Awesome,” the Bish says. “How do you know all that, Gord?”

“Shoe told me, Bish. She read it on Ogle.”

Shoe, in a former role

“Shoe’s awesome. Gord, we’re going in the wrong direction. I’m staying at Sandy’s. Remember? He’s in the manse across from the car park? Behind the Pig’s Arms?”

“Bit of a walk. What were we thinking. I had better go back with you to the good Father O’Ways, Bish. We can have a night cap. Better not tell him in the confessional. About Space World. The toad never happened either.”

The Bish muses as he and Gordon struggle to keep the pavement steady to turn around.

“Int’resting though, Gord. I like a toad story with an int’resting ending. Shoe is so awesome. Shoe wrote the frog joke, eh.”

“Yes, she did.” Gord lets out a tiny sigh. “You know when she says she did to people who like it and on tell it, she would like to make new friends or she wouldn’t say. You know it’s been in other people’s books and voted best joke

I thought you said a dog joke!

and on television and someone clever made a funny film about how much they don’t want to hear it again. The people don’t talk to her when she tells them. Shoe’s lonely.”

“Shoe? Lonely? IS she?”

“Of course she is. People running in the opposite direction.”

“We’re friends. We’re all friends. Shoe’s a friend. Wonder if she’ll write another frog joke.”

“Nah. Unlikely, Bish. She misses the frog too much. Ought to ask her if she’ll write a toad joke and cheer us up.”

“Great idea, Gord. How about we ask her will she make it a good long story with some joking around in it about a toad. The frog joke isn’t really a read, is it.”

“Here we are at the manse already, Bish.”

The home of Father O’Way

Gordon and the Bish walk in the dark with care past the mail box swinging on its hinges from the old gate post. They can just make out the familiar brass lettering of the name ‘FATHER O’WAY’ and the front path littered with debris. The garden is a mess.

When his mates clatter and clang the brass knocker on his front door to get him up off the sofa where he sits in the late evenings reading Pigs Arms porkies and laughing, Sandy O’Way is slow to stir. He gets up on thinking on it. He remembers the Bish is in town.

It’ll be a night.

The End

I’m sure there was a door here this morning

Written by Christina Binning Wilson 2017

Gordon and the Bish take leave – in much frothinesses – Part 2

12 Wednesday Jul 2017

Posted by in Sandshoe

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Yes, I know, ee eagle Emm sea dared. Bloody dentures…

Gordon and The Bish Go On Holiday: Part Two

by Shoe

Continued…

“Zarks and Constantine,” the Bish says. “It’s Algernon.”

“More than that. It’s Emm and Big M and Mark. It’s… Shoe and Viv and Yvonne and Helvi. Nev and Manne, Merv. I can see Gregor, Ricardo, Gez, Rosemary… Our mates. On an excursion. Didn’t ask us.”

Photo of the crew arriving at Space World. From Back L to R: 1,2,3,4,5
Front row:6,7,8

Gordon O’Donnell feels indignity as rough as a pineapple. The tequila is fuel to a fire lit by a surround of carousing patrons du porc. “How did you get here,” Gordon demands to know.

“I came straight off the Flyer,” says Algernon as cheerful as a bird singing in a tree top.

“I caught the bus home. The Zephyr’s in for mechanicin’.”. It’s Foodge.

He’s fucked Merv, Trotters all round fanks

Others’ voices add ‘walked’, caught the bus’, ‘the other half dropped me off’, ‘me too’ and such like.

“Granny’s latest batch of Trotters,” whispers the Bish to Gordon. Words are a hurdle. “Don’t say anything about Space World, Gordy.”

“No fear,” Gordon whispers back. He is in the same quadrant on their dial. “Don’t mention the toad, Bish, I think.”

“What if he wakes up?” the Bish whispers, nervous, glances at the Pig’s Arms Sports Bar pedal bin.

Warning: Some viewers may be offended as the following contains laptopothansia

“Goose!” Gordon answers in a snapped whisper at the Bish, “He won’t wake up. He can’t. He’s not real. Deny we know him anyway. We’ve done it once. We can do it again.”

“Why?” the Bish whispers back.

“Frogs are popular. Toads bring … opprobrium. They’re … a menace. We’ll get the blame. Anyway, if the toad is in the bin he’ll expire in Trotters’ slops.”

“Leave sleeping toads lie,” the Bish whispers as a cant.

“Good scheme. Say he’s a liar if he wakes up, escapes and says anything,” Gordon commands.

“Don’t mention the toad in the room,” the Bish cants.

“Someone’s got to get you blokes tucked up in your cots,” Merv announces. He slides a tray of freshly washed and polished new knives and forks the length of the new stainless steel serving bench and walks to its other end.

Merv and Foodge stare each other down

“Foodge?” He beckons. “Can you walk these blokes home?”

“Uncle Merv,” says Foodge, “Don’t want to. They should … should be made to pay their slate getting the way they are.”

“We spent all the coin we too… ” Gordon applies a hurtful kick to the Bish’s dangling shins. “Nexsht week, we promise,” the pair says half in unison as they slide unsteadily onto their feet off the new bar stools covered in shining new clear plastic.

“See, Uncle Merv. They’re all good for that.” Foodge is his ever trusting sheltered self and he relents. “We’re scootin’. Gettin’ on the frog and toad now.” Foodge nudges Gordon whose face has gone from pale to deathly white. “Come on, Gordon O’Donnell. Fresh air do you some good” he says, playful. “Come on, Bish. Uncle Merv, I’ll empty the pedal bin on our way out.”

Unashamedly yours

“Good work. Place smells like a dead toad,” Big M gives a thumbs up. Merv feels a glow of Uncle pride to see Foodge recognised for domestic initiative after all these years.

The patrons du porc cheer.

“Be careful with that pedal bin,” Viv warns as Foodge grasps it, nonchalant, naïve of the skill it takes to empty a pedal bin holus bolus without liquid content dribbling at best off the rim of the bucket and around the lid hinge down his arm.

Gordon and the Bish stagger back and veer towards the door in a half run between them as Foodge throws the bin onto one shoulder. The patrons du porc gasp. The weight of the sliding bucket jams the lid of the pedal bin open. Rotting Trotters’ slops propel an arc in the air of liquid silage dotted with discernible strands of coleslaw and mayo.

Nev gets the message

“Surreal,” Nev says. Nev writes restaurant reviews and scores the pub with a 10 on a scale of 1 to 10 where 10 is the best.

“I think that’s him,” whines the Bish to Gordon and points to a crumpled black mass of oozing slime on the plastic cover of a table near the door.

“Don’t point!” orders Gordon from somewhere on high, “It’s Schticky Date Pudding.”

The Bish doubles over puking a splendid Inner Cyberian chunder on a new hessian and rag coiled rug at the door. “Lesh get out of here.”

“Where’zh our luggage, Gord,” the Bish asks as they step into night. The air is freezing. They walk along the pavement arm-in-arm to steady themselves

Look, a suppository

and for warmth. They have on Hawaiian shirts that smell bad and knee length shorts with plastic sandals.

“Dunno, I dunno,” says Gordon in reflection apparently on their luggage. His pondering might be on cold.

“Gord, I’m f’r shewer not shewer how much of our shtory’s true this time.” Gordon can see by a glimmer of a lone roadside lamp the Bish looks deep in thought.

“Bish, the toad’s closhest to trew truth.”

“That no-hoper, Gord. Couldn’t walk a straight line if he tried.”

I’m shitting bricks and farting pebbles waiting for the next exciting episode, brought to you by Red Donkey.

To be continued…

Written by Christina Binning Wilson 2017

Gordon and the Bish take leave – of their senses – Part 1

11 Tuesday Jul 2017

Posted by in Sandshoe

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Gordon and the Bish in holiday mode

 

Gordon and The Bish Go On Holiday: Part One

by Shoe

Never has the Inner Cyberian World Viewpoint looked more beautiful. Everything is coming up roses in public park gardens and out of the way places rose gardens take form. Rose bushes in planter boxes the full length of city streets droop roses in full bloom. In suburban Inner Cyberians’ front, side and back yard gardens roses bloom widdershins.

Gordon O’Donnell and the Bish are getting away from it all for a few days. They are going to Space World in the Outer Cyberian galaxy. They have a Cyberian Ogle Map.

“Should be a blast” the Bish says. The Bish is talking a holiday.

“Who’s got the tickets,” Gordon huffs and puffs. The Bish has a way of getting Gordon to carry the luggage and yes, yes, yes Gordon has talked the Bish into an old fashioned trip in a rocket space ship. Checkpoint Charlina pats them down.

Charlina is such a nice bird

Each is wearing underpants three pair deep on the outside of their shared economy travel rocket space ship suit.

“Going for just a few days then?” Checkpoint Charlina asks and chortles “No room for anything more in your travel cases. All the Hawaiian shirts.” She consults a check list. “Gordon O’Donnell. Institute of Pigs Arms Higher Thought. Physicist? The Bish? You sure?”

Gordon and the Bish vigorously bob the head of their rocket space ship suit.

“Get out of here,”

“One thing, Gordy,” the Bish remarks “is perhaps a few too many Trotters’ Ales before we left.” They are waddling across the rocket space ship station tarmac towards the base of a vertical ladder up the side of a rocket space ship.

Advertisement: Go to the Moon With A Mate. Save Space.

Try our new improved space rocket

The lurid plastic clown floating above the ticket gate behind them beckons on one hand, ‘Come this way’ elongated plastic arms flailing and ‘See you’ on the other.

Gordon and the Bish remember and turn and wave. Having worked up enough volition to walk forwards instead of both toppling backwards, negotiating between themselves a complete turn and a half reverse spin to wave seems an irrational response to a plastic promotion floatie.

They reposition themselves (it’s a struggle) and climb the ladder.

“Are we there yet,” the Bish asks as they tumble into the rocket space ship. They find the modular cot allocated to them.

“Yes,” says Gordon, “We’ve arrived. Like the brochure says. In one piece.”

The face of the Bish is a picture. Gordon takes a close up.

They scrabble out of their modular cot and waddle backwards to exit. They are a tight fit stepping out through the door onto the top rung of the descent ladder.

Business class first

Below them at the base of the ladder Business Class is emptying of Business Class travellers. Once, after a perilous climb down I must say, they are on the tarmac of the Space World Rocket Space Ship Station they follow a squiggly black felt pen outlined arrow trail.

A stowaway toad in racing colours sprints past them with a scrap of muddy stretch knit cotton tee held high as a freedom flag.

“Takes no time.” The Bish is all admiration.

“Fast toad,” Gordon comments.

“No. Us, Gord. We’ve only been gone a minute.”

“The travel advisor said it would only take a minute, Bish.”

“Thought she meant the paper work. The paper work took such a long time.”

Gordon says with a smile, “We have been uploaded, Bish, at the rate of 1,000 cyberbits per second.”

No time for the Bish to raise improbability as a subject with an atomic scientist who is not yet connected to the NBN. Gordon raises the importance to them both he has urgent need of a rest room.

They do find a rest room and change into cazh. They use the conveniences and discard their rocket space ship suit. Gordon smoothes his Hawaiian shirt front. He

Gordy and the Bish suit up

scrutinises the Bish. “How do I look?”he asks. “You’ll pass,” the Bish assures Gordon.

The main lane gambling saloons and alleyways of Space World entice with flashing neon moons.

GUARANTEED TO WIN!

So Gordon and the Bish being strapped for cash throw cyber coin at machines throwing cyber coin into space on a screen on the machine. They ride the Big Zipper up and down and up and down. The Bish barfs. Gordon wears some of the Bish’s barf. They buy Spinning Space Sugar on sticks and lick and pick off with their fingers dollops of Spin and eat Space Dogs on sticks. Gordon barfs. They find the Science Academy by following the crowds and see the new movie Climate Science Denial And The Great Big Federal Government Loud Gas Bag Who Is. They have a cup of Space World covfefe after the movie and find a rest room.

WIN WIN!

Then it happens. They see a pub. No word of a lie Gordon and the Bish decide to seek the solace of a pub.

The already boozed toad is calling loudly for immunity at the bar. He sings,

Humans are redicilious

although badly: ‘O, my old man’s a dustman, I knowww becos he wears a dustman’s hat.’

“Not a toad!” exclaims the Bish.

“You don’t recognise him? It’s the toad, Bish. Might not be any others in Outer Cyberia. Let’s be optimistic. Where will we sit?”

As luck would have it, two empty bar stools alongside the only toad leastwise on a bar stool they have ever seen is their option or stand. The place is packed.

“Never shaw my old man again after that,” the toad says, doleful. He rolls his eyes, “He disappeared. Everyone’s ignoring me.”

“No more for you.” The bar tender rolls her eyes. She turns to the newcomers and asks the embarrassing question, ‘You blokes know this toad? Sez he knows you’.

“No.” Gordon and the Bish order a bottle of House tequila the same as at home by any name with salt and lemon. They start knocking shots back straight.

“Youse never bought me a drink,” the toad slurs and his eyes roll. He sings in his fashion, ‘I know a dark secluded place’. He crumples headfirst onto the bar and falls asleep. The bar tender has had her eye on him. She briskly strides from the other end of the bar and picks the toad up. The toad is unperturbed. He snores loudly. The bar tender steps on the pedal of a stainless steel pedal dustbin she has handy and drops the toad in. She releases the pedal and the dustbin lid clangs shut.

“Done and dusted,” a group of patrons chorus.

Over on ABC News 24, Brian Toldme explains the Universe in 60 seconds.

To be continued…

Written by Christina Binning Wilson 2017

Episode 91B – Foodge steps up to the Plate

07 Friday Jul 2017

Posted by in Foodge Private Dick, Mark

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Foodge likes to set his hair before court

 

It was midnight. It had to be midnight, it was dark and Foodge slivered underneath the covers to keep warm and doze back off into dream land. You know the one, where money is plentiful and the girls are, well endowed. No matter how hard Foodge tried and yes it got really really hard at times, the banging at the door would not go away. Oh I get it, you thought…

“Foodge-o-rama, get the fuck up, you have an episode at the Pigs Arms to appear in, Big M has put you in it” cries O’Hoo, standing at the door of the baristas apartment.

O’Hoo just has this way about him

“No one wants to write it so Hung is going to do it. I’m off for a few glass canoes, I’ll meet you downstairs.”

“Who’s Big M?” says Foodge.

“Gib W, now hurry up. Granny has been reminiscing and you know what happens when granny gets emotional and has access to a shotgun.”

Hmm, yes, I do, thinks Foodge and if only granny could see him as her real soul mate and lover. He imagined walks along the riverbank on sunny days, picnics, good coffee, absorbing the suns rays and then intimacy, touching, feeling, lovingly man to woman [Okay cut, Mark here we get the picture].

Granny had contacted O’Hoo after Manne had handed her his mobile phone. “Get Foodge, Manne needs help.”

Manne, temporarily caught up

The bar is now buzzing with activity, no not the insect kind but everyone came in to try and help Manne.

“[Theme from Rocky as Foodge makes a grand entrance] Yes everyone, it is eye, Foodge, come to avert this horrible crisis. Show me Granny, this offensive phone message that our poor intellectually challenged Manne had to cope with.”

Granny hands Foodge the phone. Foodge diligently, like all legal folk, reads everything in the message very carefully. He pauses for a few moments,

“Hmm, battery is low, shit, now even technology has depression.”

Ewe fink dats funny, wait till Episode 92

Foodge Episode 91 or thereabouts Granny Reminisces

28 Wednesday Jun 2017

Posted by in Big M, Foodge Private Dick

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I use Granny in my kitchen, wipe on, wipe off

Granny Reminisces

Story by Big M.

Granny was a tad busy, what with Merv having gone off into town to look for ink for his antique dot matrix printer. He had asked all of the patrons about it, and they were split between getting a new inkjet versus a new LASER printer. They were united in thinking that the dot matrix was done.

Anyhoo, Granny was busy washing and cutting up rough looking, dirty Robertson potatoes, frying eggs, and making her own brand of salsa, as well as listening out for the bar. At least the Bowling Ladies were pretty self sufficient, and, if they weren’t, Hedgie has dropped in to fill the urn, make tea, and pour glasses (many glasses!) of Sherry.

 

 

Manne was nowhere to be seen, as usual. He was supposed to be the acting cellarman, but was frequently anywhere but in the cellar. He had developed quite a

Manne, ewe in dare

penchant for watching Redtube on his iPhone, a habit that was decidedly antisocial!

Janet had dropped the twins at preschool, then gone on the Hearing Clinic to get her hearing aids tuned up, which may explain all of the shouting for the last couple of days.

It was far too early for Foodge, Barrister at Large, to be anywhere outside Granny’s boudoir, particularly mid-winter. Besides, he had been up late working on a case (of South Seas Islands Scotch).

The nurses hadn’t finished night shift, yet, so the place was relatively quiet. Granny didn’t mind being alone. It gave her a chance to ruminate, in fact, yesterday’s spice jar mix up reminded her of a fat, slow moving little boy who had come into her life quite by chance. She was a young woman, just given up her career as a professional

Julian's Pigs

Call this a hotel…

boxer, and had taken over the licence of one of the most beautiful, in her mind, buildings in Sydney, the Window Dressers Arms, Pig and Whistle. She loved every aspect of the place, from its tiled façade to its tall, proud chimney pots, and everything in between. Anyway, there was this pudgy little kid used to hang around the car park, waiting for his mum to finish drinking, or philandering, or usually, both. One afternoon said kid turned up with blood running down his shirt, and a rapidly evolving black eye. Granny rushed him into the kitchen, applied ice, gave him a pink drink, and asked him what had happened.

Well, the reader knows the story, the kid’s name was Merv, and he was bullied at school, and his mum didn’t care, and he knew that Granny had been a boxer, and could she teach him to fight? Of course she did, but it entailed training with Granny, which meant meeting her at sparra’s fart, running to the gym, where they lifted weights, threw medicine balls, skipped and boxed. There were mornings when she didn’t pay him much heed, but coached other boxers, but the kid kept his ears open, and was amazed at how much he learned.

The gentle reader knows the rest, how the bullies got beaten up, and how the fat kid hit puberty and suddenly grew muscle and lost fat, continued to train, becoming a professional boxer himself. Unfortunately Merv’s mum never spent much time with him,

Merv’s room

so when she announced that she was marrying a ‘rich cow cocky’ and moving to the country, the teenage boy didn’t mind, instead asking Granny for a room at the pub. Merv never looked back.

Granny’s reverie was interrupted by the sound of a banging at the front door, the beer truck. “Manne, Manne, where are you?”

No response, so she marched through the cellar, to fling open the cellar doors nearly knocking over an unwitting pedestrian, then lining up an old wooden ramp to guide the kegs in. “Where’s Manne?” Asked the driver, who was already positioned to deliver the first keg?

“Buggered if I know!” Retorted Granny through gritted teeth, as she rolled the first keg of Wretched Pilsener into place. “Probably watchin’ nudies on his phone.”

The driver let out a hearty laugh. “Fuckin’ wanker!” He grinned.

The cellar was quickly filled with full kegs; the empties were already out the back,

Granny’s Best

waiting to be picked up. “Still brewin’ yer own beer?” The driver had been instructed to find out, in case Granny was buying from a rival brewer.

“Yep.” Granny nodded to rows of old kegs. “Still do me own Best, Bitter, plus some seasonal IPAs an’ such.”

“Hello, looks like some patrons.” The driver nodded to the nurses as he helped Granny close the cellar doors.

Granny soon found herself in the Main Bar surrounded by cheery nurses who all enjoyed a post night shift beverage with bum nuts, wedges and salsa, whilst the Bowling Ladies had finished their planning meeting, and had sent Beryl in with a breakfast order. “No rush, dear, whenever.”

There was a sudden hush as everyone turned to see a visibly pale Manne standing behind the bar, his mouth moving, but nothing sensible coming out. He pushed his iPhone into Granny’s hands, her eyes widening as she stared into the screen.

To be continued…

In which year did Australia win the 1947 Ashes series?(For your citizenship exam)

 

Nurse Barbara for President

26 Monday Jun 2017

Posted by in Sandshoe

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Nurse Barbara…One small step for Piglets, one giant [static……] for the Pigs Arms

Nurse Barbara For Social Club Pres.

By Hon Shades aka Sandshoe

“Ya plant garlic on the shortest day of the year. Ya dig it up on the longest.”

Merv was holding court to a bar of gardeners who had been bussed to the pub by the organisers of the 2017 International No Dig Gardeners Convention. They looked like a conference of hippies in an assortment of rubber boots and khakis draped over with camel hair ponchos. Some individuals appeared to have been yarn bombed.

Others carried bundles of plastic raincoats and everyone had an ID card around their neck on a lanyard as you do.

“Good on ya, Merv. That’s our friend,” a voice rang out. Merv looked over at the nurses’ table no mistaking Big M’s voice. A cheerful Big M

Starring Big M as Joyce*, book now

was standing on a chair on one leg. The next sight Merv had of him was Big M and the chair toppling sideways.

A loud caterwauling and cheering went up out of the crowd of inebriated newcomers at the bar.

No harm to Big M in the re-enactment of this classic scene of a chair falling over and a man with it who was in fact standing on one leg on the chair however previous to the moment Merv or anyone else looked in the direction.

“The chair was definitely on one leg,” Merv said when the insurance assessor from Cyberian United Assurance came knocking.

Hung One Over chimed in, “That’s crook for a chair.”

“Mr Merv and Mr HOO, I’m only here to check the detail of Mr Merv’s witness statement,” the assessor insisted. She adjusted her frilly black

I love research

bra  straps with teensy weensy naked breasts on them of every colour showing from under the low cut neckline of a classic Inner Cyberia corporate wear pinafore. The uniform for staff was made of a watermark design silk shantung in pretty chartreuse and with layers of frills in the same fabric edging the overlapping wrap-around skirt front and skirt hem.

“Big M was all over the shop. That’s all I saw,” Hon Shades said at the bar later.

“He must of near transpired from the unexpected shock. I was painting.” Foodge was ordering a drink. He was dressed in paint splattered overalls and in one hand he was swinging a 4 litre paint can. He lowered carefully down onto the towel bar runner his barrister’s wig he was carrying in his other hand.

“That’s not true truth,” he said when Sister Yvonne told him the insurance assessor marked him down as pub lawyer and a witness.

“Been painting when I’m not in court. Can’t purge myself.” Foodge was worried.

“Mate, we each said on our damages claims you’re our lawyer and you

Threesa Throuseroff

were here,” Therese chimed in. “You’re not going to go all ipso facto and all that, are ya. Done deal almost. We’ll get a new chair out of it.”

The customers at the bar as one turned round. They looked at the sea of dangling springs that had fallen out of the upholstery of most of the chair seats and dangling strings of jute thread and decayed jute strapping. Rips gaped open in the vinyl upholstery of unoccupied chair seats and a scatter of unoccupied bar stools that displayed grey compressed padding.

The chrome surrounds of the seats of the bar stools and their legs were pocked with rust damage. The rubber tips on the legs of the bar stools had perished.

The pub fell quiet other than for the slurping noise of patrons turning their attention back to contemplation and refreshment. The chooks in the rafters set up a flustering sound of soft clucking.

Nurse Barbara…do you want fires with that punk?

Nurse Barbara was one to speak up.

“Merv,” she said, “this bar needs an entire set of new chairs and new bar stools. With the seats covered in that same clear plastic you’ve had the new carpet and the surface of the bar and the tops of the new tables covered with. If nothing else, it’s O and it’s H and it’s S, Merv.”

 

*Joyce the Musical – coming to a reputable theatre near you. Follow the story of a well hung but disconnected suburban youth growing up on the Northern beaches of Kidney(named as it stinks like piss) who at a tender age throws away his burgeoning career as a lawn star, Lidcombe Bowls Champion 1902 or thereabouts, and becomes a purse carrying nancy boy, no good poofter male nurse that has never had a hard days work in his life. Book at www.joycethemusical.con/bookings

 

Buy one, get one free, Mono-pedals only, must purchase pair, free shoe at $89.99, monochromes more than welcome(while stocks last)

Foodge Episode 90 The Queens Birthday

22 Thursday Jun 2017

Posted by in Big M, Foodge Private Dick

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Foodge in new attire

 

The Queens Birthday.

Story by Big M.

“’oo mixed up me spice labels?” Thundered a voice from the bowels of the pub.

“Dunno, Granny, maybe you did!” Replied Merv, chuckling quietly to himself, as he emptied the new glass washer.

“Are you sure?”

“Yep, pretty sure!” Which wasn’t entirely true, as Merv was unsure of most things.

“Ahem.” Foodge cleared his throat, hoping to alert Merv to a customer in need of refreshment, vis a vis, himself.

Merv looked up to find Foodge sat on a bar stool, resplendent in a brand new three

Get ya clothes on Merv

piecer, with a new black Fedora perched at a rakish angle, young Frank Sinatra style. “Ah, Foodge, what can I do you for?”

“Sir Foodge.” Replied Foodge, sotto voce.

“Stir who?” Merv was missing the point.

“You know, our Monarch’s impending birthday celebrations, regal awards and such.” Foodge was mentally willing Merv to place a canoe under a tap, and decant some amber ale.

“Oh, the Queen’s birthdee.” Merv heaved the last tray of steaming glasses onto the bar. “She’s a great old girl, isn’t she?”

“’oo are youz calling an old girl?” Granny appeared at Merv’s elbow with a bowl of wedges. “Oh, Foodge, aren’t you a picture of sartorial excellence?” She swooned, then recovered and headed straight back to the kitchen.

“Is Granny OK?”

“Yeah, you know, that time of the month.”

Granny and Foodge, lovely couple

“June is a lovely time of the year, but getting a bit crisp.” Foodge straightened his tie that was covered in tiny scales of justice.

“Nah, the minstrel cycle.” Merv started to pour a pint, but the keg was clearly empty, as froth sprayed across the bar. “Manne” He roared. “Empty keg!”

“Yes, she used to be a keen cyclist.” Foodge had managed to avoid the spray of stale beer.

Merv gave up on the biology lesson. “What’s all of this ‘sir’ business?”

“Ah, glad you asked.” Foodge instantly warmed to the subject. “A little birdy told me that someone…someone local was in line for a knighthood for services to The Law.”

Merv was more unsure than ever.” ‘oo would that be?” As he pushed a canoe of Porcine Pale Ale across the decaying well covered with patina bar.

It was Foodge’s turn to tap the side of his nose, knowingly. “You know, a well known barrister, a servant of everyone from lowly bar flies, to representatives of Her Majesty herself.”

“That boat mighta sailed, old son.” Merv pouring liters of frothy spume from the aforementioned tap. “Manne, is that keg on, yet?”

“No, I don’t think she gets around in in the QE II anymore, Mr Merv.” Mumbled Foodge

And now on ABC24 kitty meets truck

through bits of potato wedge.

“No, the knighthood.” Merv now had a sink full of foam, and it was still coming. “Manne, purge the pipe properly, will ya?”

“What, there’s a knighthood boat?” Foodge pushed the empty glass back across the bar, hoping for a refill.

“No, as in, we don’t have knighthoods, and the Queen’s Birthday has been and gone, and, they only give awards out for actresses who live overseas, failed CEOs, and already, highly successful businessmen.” Merv grinned as ale started to replace foam coming from the tap. “Why is replacing a keg like rocket science for Manne?”

Our boy was crestfallen, and eagerly accepted another pint.” I’ll tell yer what, Foodge, you’ll always be Sir Foodge to me!”

Where oh where, where is Manne?

A Reveal.

18 Sunday Jun 2017

Posted by in Sandshoe

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An old snap: ‘My altered ego Shoe c 1960.

 

A Reveal

By Hon Shades

Yep, G’day eh I’m Hon Shades. I was Sandshoe. Dinkum.

Awesome enough.

I saw Merv by the way pushing a brand spanking new lawnmower in through the front door of the pub. Make of that what you will and he’s now got his name up in big lettering on the facade of the Pig’s Arms Two-Up School out back.

Merv readies the bar for business

“Two. Two naming rights,” Merv over a drinkie winkie retorted to a journalist from the Pigs Herald daily [advertisement. Pigs-Fly-Buys. Claim Them Now. Only 4 Million left.*] “not one you know and two in the hand. Just from wheelin’ and dealin’.”

Merv looked as if he’d come into a bit of money.

M E R V

About who I am in my no-names on buildings insignificance eh, what happened when I commented at the pub as Sandshoe was the pub bounce let me in no worries. No gravatar ever popped up but. No mug shot’s a concerning thing when you’re seeking fame.

WordPress wouldn’t have a bar of me lol.

True. I couldn’t crack into my WordPress account to get my old gravatar up. No amount of money.

Least work begging scenario, I needed to open a new account. I had to have a new name.

Good fortune. Mark a.k.a Hung One On nick-named me Hon Shades.

Hung and family

Great name.

I’ve taken the name I hope graciously and these words from the bish. The bish himself over a drinkie winkie or two tells Gordon he did, even the greatest physicist in Cyberia, the fame is only a name. It’s not everywhere either fame, Gord. Be glad of a great name.

Youse know the pub’s a blog right eh. The pub’s an imaginative construct assembled by a crowd of people over a number of years. It’s not real even if it does seem real to the gifted.

The Management Team from the PA”S from left Emmjay, Hung, Gez.

Merv: Now it’s Stress

15 Thursday Jun 2017

Posted by in Mark

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I had short back and sides before I read this article…

 

Now it’s Stress.

Story by Mark.

Merv stands behind the bar, erect and proud, [Mark here Hung, steady now] surveying the ambience of the Pigs Arms, you know stale cigarettes, spilt beer, those unique fruity flavours however there was something worrying him.

“Granny, I’m worried and stressed” he cries.

“Oh for fuck sake Merv, what’s wrong now. Are you having another shitbox moment?”

Granny in her PJ’s

For those who failed to read the last highly stimulating, drama packed episode, and you know who you are, yes I see a few hands, you can find out what a shitbox is here.

“Here, have a pill, works for me, just happened to have a sleeeevvveee, hehehe hahaha” crows Sister Yvonne.

“Nah, 50 ml eucalyptus oil, 500 ml normal saline, rubber tube up the arse, works every time and wait till the koalas start humping you” interjects Nurse Barbara as she puffs on a fag, sips a pint, reads the form guide and takes part in conversations. Womanhood, wonderful to watch. “Anyway if enemas aren’t your thing ask Hon, she’s a survivor.”

“Yeah mate” says Hon using Cyberian vernacular “wot’s the problem Merv, car won’t start, fingernail broken, kicked ya toe. I can deal with it mate, been there done that.”

Merv in the PA XI

“Well, I read that I’m going to be replaced by Aut O’Mation, some Irish bloke apparently. And I’m getting pressure from my agent who thinks I signed up for too many episodes at the Pigs Arms.”

“So who’s your agent?” asks Hon.

“Emmjay”

“Hmm…”

“Hmm…”

“So what is the most pressing issue?”

“Well I signed up for 20 episodes per year at the Pigs Arms and I’m finding it way too much work.”

“Hey I only got 10” pipes in Angler.

Yeah, us too, come the calls from the crew. “What about you Hon? How many did ewe

The Crew

getz?” asks Gib W who suddenly appears at the bar. Must let him know that this magic stuff can scare kiddies as you never know they may be watching.

“Er, um, yeah, like, you know, sort of maybe 15…”

Angler calls the crew together. “What do we want?? ” he cries.

“Um, dunno, wot do wheeze want Angler?” says Gib.

“Um, I know EFFALL and we want it now.”

“EFFALL? Nah mate we don’t want eff all, this is for us fellow space travellers, we make a stand together, yeah, another round.”

“No EFFALL(Equally Fair Fiction for All Languishing Linguists).”

So the chant followed four hours after with many a Trotter’s consumed and a happy night had by all. As the crowd faded the chant still echoes.”Wadda we want, eff all, when da we want it, now”, think about it.

Hung and the boys

Breaking News: Gordon has sent Hung to the scene of a meeting between the management of the Pigs Arms and the Fictional Characters Association. Hung can you hear us,

Yes, look, I’m just going to interview some of the key players as they come out of the building here at Cyberia Central, this is quite a revolt, the characters are threatening strike action if their demands aren’t met. Here’s what Merv had to say,

“…bloody terrible, never knowing one day to the next, ever playing the goon…”

then Granny

“… shocking. It’s either me or Sister Yvonne in the black underwear, must give Hung a chubbie…”

and Foodge

“…the matter is before the court therefore I am unable to say anything however it’s a fit up…”

Feelin lucky punk…

Merv is Spaced Out

02 Friday Jun 2017

Posted by in Mark

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…

Merv is Spaced Out

Story by Mark.

Sandy was sitting at the bar fiddling with his drink, Trotter’s Ale of course, what else, when Merv approached and in his usual affable way thought he would engage in some jaunty repertoire about space.

“Hey Space priest, how the devil are you? What’s it really like, you know, out there?”

Sandy

Merv loved calling Sandy a priest because he knew he hated it, a bit of ribbing I guess, well not until the next punch up anyway. Merv points to the sky and scowls his face and growls lowly as if space is really spooky. Well, to be honest and that’s copiously rare, actually space is really spooky.

“Bless you my son for asking” replies Sandy.

“I’m not your son!”

“Yes, I know but that’s how us parish priests talk, bless you my son, go the farce has ended, thanks be to Gordon, you know, that kinda shit.”

“But I’m still not your son” persists Merv.

“Look, it’s zarking metaphorical”

“What’s that mean?”

“Dunno, I’m just reading the back of this coaster.”

[Sister Yvonne here. Jesus wept Hung, don’t you know what a metaphor is? Not happy

Sister Yvonne

Hung, now I have to read this and contribute at the same time.

Hung: So what is a metaphor then, I dunno?

Sister Yvonne: It’s a noun.

Hung: Thank you Sister. I’m glad that’s cleared up.

Sister Yvonne: It’s always left to us nurses to save everything…dot dot dot and it could even become DOT DOT DOT now that I’m in charge of the keyboard, hahaha.]

“Well, now that you ask space is sort of spacey” continues Sandy “you know big and spacey.”

[Big M here. For fucks sake Hung saying space is big and spacey is akin to saying water is wet and grass is green. Do you want me to take over writing this bit?

Hung: Well, no, not really but space is big and spacey. I guess there is a lot of black and stars and shit but there is a lotta room out there.

Big M: Here’s a new concept for you Hung, think about it.]

Merv

“Yeah, I like that” says Merv “big and spacey, sounds great. When I was young I was taught that water was wet, grass was green and now space is big and spacey, wow, perfect man. I guess there would be a lot of black and stars and shit but the sounds like a lotta room out there to me.”

“Yep, big and spacey for sure.”

“Bullshit” says Angler. “More space in back of Zephyr even with shotgun and dogs”

“Crikey! Where did that Yorkshire accent come from Angler?”

Angler gets hungry

asks Nurse Barbara who had been listening to everything while reading the form guide. Now is that multi tasking or what.

“I did a bit of rehearsing before the gig but anyway I reckon it’s all Gordon’s magic” smirks Angler hardly able to believe the most outrageous lie he has ever had to tell.

“Nah, it’s rocks, gotta have rocks” pipes in Shoe.

“Hey shoe, you forgot to scramble your name to Hon Shades.”

“Oh, shit. Nah, it’s rocks, gotta have rocks” pipes in Hon Shades.

Oh, well, if they only knew the truth which is…

Baiame Redraws the Map of Mirriyuula’s Heart