Tag Archives: humour

Merv goes to the Bank

15 Sunday Oct 2017

Posted by in Big M

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Going to the bank. Look left, then right and then, look theft again.

 

Story by Big M.

Merv was discombobulated. He still hadn’t recovered from the loss of the Pigs Arms dot matrix, and had just made it home before the ticket, or now known, as the Opal Card Inspector got on the bus. The driver had laughed at Merv’s effort to exchange postage stamps for travel, and had told that half the commuters didn’t have a card anyway.

It had really started this morning. He had asked a delivery driver to take back six kegs that were off. The driver agreed that they were all from a batch that had been recalled, and didn’t Merv get the email, or see it on our website? Merv thought he was talking gobbledegook, so cut to the chase and asked for a cheque. “A what, mate? A

It’s real for sure, it says so here

cheque, medieval thinking man, the boss will just do a bank transfer, if we’ve got yer BSB ‘n’ account number on file.” Merv had always been happy to get a cheque, so went inside to ring the manager of the brewery, who was friendly, but insisted that he go through the website, or email to him. Merv ended up ringing the bank to find out his BSB and account number, only to find that they had just stopped issuing passbooks, and could he email all of his details to the bank. It all sounded like something for Emmjay to sort out, but could he wait for Emmjay’s next visit?

Then lunchtime. Some young blokes wanted to pay for their meal and beers on ‘paywave’. Merv reckoned that as long as they paid, he’d wave at them. “No silly, on our cards!”’ Well, fuck me.’ Thought Merv.’Wavin’ credit cards to pay for stuff.’ He had eventually got one of them to go and get some cash for the payment.

I swear, eyes was a boy when eyes woke up

Meanwhile he was walking from kitchen to Gentlemen’s Bar when he caught one of the young lads going into the Ladies Toilets. “’ang on there, young feller!” Merv had him by the collar.

“Unhand me, I’m a lady, or, at least I am today.” Squirmed the little bloke.

“You look like a bloke to me!” Merv was ready to throw him into the carpark.

“Well, I’m Gender Fluid, I felt like a boy this morning, so dressed accordingly, but now, after a few drinks, I feel like a girl.” The prisoner had managed to wiggle out of Merv’s massive hands. “Besides, it’s you fault for not having Trans Bathrooms!” Merv just let him/her go.

Then, back at the bar, Merv asked some of the bar flies about ‘Gender fluid’. Of course the nurses didn’t bat an eyelid, or many lids, they had seen too much of it, whilst Angler and Gib reckoned they’d read about it but never seen it. Mark claimed it was

I think that toilet is overflowing Merv.

something to do with sitting down to take a piss. Shoe reckoned she’d seen it, and read and written about it, and, if Merv bothered to read what’s on his own website, may have learned all about it! “We have a website?” Sputtered Merv, still none the wiser.

Foodge wanted to pay for his beer on his Visa (again, what’s with the travel references?), and get a cash advance. “You want to pay on what? And get cash too?” Merv was aghast. Clearly he’d missed something crucial in the world of business, so put Granny in charge of the bar and took off for the bank.

The Assistant Manager looked about fifteen, but, as The Pigs Arms was such a valued customer, spent ages talking about internet banking, paying and receiving payments

The Bank Manager

online, how to set up a new credit system called ‘Visa’, and what other credit cards ‘Visa’ recognised, and where the money goes once the vendor processes a ‘Visa’ payment, and how ‘paywave’ is part of ‘Visa’, and no, when the customer gets a cash advance it’s not from the vendor’s account. When the young bloke was finished he asked Merv what sort of operating system he had. “Well, mate, we were just about to update to a Pentium!” Merv could barely conceal his glee.

“Well, Mr Merv, I think you should go a few steps beyond a Pentium. I’ll tell you what, you can purchase a complete commercial set up that links into all of our ‘Visa’ machines. I think they’ve got them on sale at Bing Lee’s!”

Merv went pale, then feinted, to find Granny standing over him. “Wake, up Merv, I need a hand!”

‘Thank the Lord, it was only a nightmare!’ Thought Merv.

“Them Transgender dunnies are blocked again, can you get in there an’ shift it?”

Ain’t life a bitch…

 

 

Episode 95 – Foodge Granny Reminisces

08 Friday Sep 2017

Posted by in Big M, Foodge Private Dick

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Manne brings his battery to the bar

Granny Reminisces (the other bit)

Story by Big M

MR Foodge appeared at the bar. “What’s wrong, my young, mentally challenged, chap?” Foodge always thought that ‘mentally challenged’ was a sort of compliment.

“Oh, ah, me phone.” Manne proffered the dead instrument to Foodge.

“Ah, yes, no battery…hold on.” Foodge rummaged through his Dressing Gown pockets,

Call Emmjay now for a good time on 1800-Big-One

and came up with three bobby pins, many tissues (yike), paper clips, a photo of Granny, and a iPhone lead. He looked around eagerly for a charger.

“Here, mate.” Angler, who didn’t seem to be part of the story, passed along one of those fancy backup battery, thingummies. “Never leave home without it.”

“Fabulous.” Foodge put it all together. “Now, let’s all see what our young friend is on about?”

YOUR IOS DEVICE IS INFECTED WITH SEVEN VIRUSES, WHICH WERE FROM PORN SITES. OUR ANTIVIRUS CAN ERRADISHCAKE THEM FOR ONLY $129.99.

Nurse Intensive Care

Foodge raised a baristerial eyebrow, then passed it to Angler, who nearly fell orff his barstool laughing, who passed it to Gib who nearly choked on his ale, before passing it to Hung who sniggered before passing it to the night duty nurses, who all laughed uproariously, before giving it to Emmjay, who, being a serious, fatherly sort of a cove, shrugged his shoulders. “It’s just a scam, Manne, there won’t really be porno driven viruses in your phone!”

“Porno, porno, yer watchin’ porno?” Granny snatched the phone from Emmjay for a good look. “You’ve got three tabs open, fulla nudies!” Granny smacked him a couple of times around the back of the head.

“Now, Granny, calm yourself.” Foodge managed to hold her back preventing her from unleashing another salvo of slaps. “You know he’s got a soft head, which won’t take much abuse!”

“Well, I won’t have a pervert under my roof, back yer bags, and yer titty magazines, or whatever yerve got!”

Bambi does Dallas

“Now, Granny, Dear.” Started Foodge. “This may be a symptom of something much deeper…”

“Yes, a deep perve!” Granny slammed the phone down on the bar, cracking the glass.

“No, er, well. Yes, but not perve, um, I mean perversion.” Foodge tried to clean up the glass. “I suspect that our Manne is, well, lonely.”

He’ll be fuckin’ lonely..” Granny was red faced, with beads of sweat forming on her forehead.

“No, well, that’s what I’m trying to say, our faithful retainer, young Manne, needs a woman in his life.”

Folk struggling with sexuality

“A woman, thought he was gay, or Mormon, or something!” Granny was trying to mop the sweat from her face with some of those recycled serviettes, you all know, the brown ones that doing everything except absorb fluid.

“I’m not gay, or Mormon, or Callithumpian!” Manne had at last found his voice. “While we’re at it, do I owe some phone people $129.99 Mr Emmjay?”

“No, son.” Resonated Emmjay’s kindly voice. ”But your phone’s fucked!” With that he left.

“So, yer on the level then, Foodge?” Granny seemed to be calmed by Foodge’s presence.

“Of course, my Dear!” Foodge blushed to be calling Granny ‘Dear’ in front of the patrons. “The question is, where would we find a girl for Mann?”

Foodge and Granny

Merv goes Solar

07 Thursday Sep 2017

Posted by in Mark

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Merv and the boys having a few Trotters at the front bar

 

Merv goes Solar.

Story by Mark.

Merv is a bit worried at the moment as he has received a power bill for the pub from the WheezeGunnaRipYouOff power company. Apparently the power bill for the Pigs Arms has gone up from $4 a year to $5 dollars a year. And if you take 4 away from 5 you get, um, well a really big number, maybe even binary.

“Granny, get ear” yells Merv, “Somefinks wrong with Bill”.

“Who the hell is Bill, anyway I’m to busy making wedgies with my famous herring and

Granny gets on top

Vegemite sauce” replies Granny in a fit of rage.

“No its electricity Bill, the one that the honest straight up government that never told a lie said it wouldn’t happen” says Merv.

“But days a pack of poofters Merv, days as bent as Alan Jones” gruffs Granny.

“But if you take 4 away from 5 you get an awful increase in our power bills. Wheeze need to talk to the pub owner” implores Merv. “However wheeze don’t know who that is.”

Gordon materialises at the bar. Geez, I wish he wouldn’t do that as he may scare kiddies.

“Gordon, do you own the Pigs Arms?” asks Merv.

“Nah, not me mate I voted Labor. So lets work this through, fictional characters wont, so Granny, Merv, Hedgie, Fern and Foodge are out. Now pass me the phone book. I’ll dial the Pigs Arms and see who answers” says Gordon.

What was that phone number again

Ring, ring, ring ring ring etc., as we all know it would only be woman to answer the fone, the men are too busy scratching their nuts and boasting about how good they was on the footy field. “Hello, The Window Dressers Arms Pig and Whistle, Granny speaking”

“Granny I’d like to speak to Dee Owner” says Gordon using his best British accent.

Granny announces “Phone call for Dee, Dee Owner, phone call for Dee Owner.”

The crew look perplexed and say nothing as Emmjay appears out of the men’s with urine stain intact on the front of his pants, forgot to shake that last drop and takes the call.

“Yes, Emmjay hear, to whom is I speaking” replies the only educated one in the room, well except for the girls.

“My name is Goldenrod Longeron” replies Gordon using his quick wit and a gizmo he got from Spaceworld on special for $9.99 to make him appear godly. “It’s to do with your electricity Bill that has gone up by a $1 per year and your staff are concerned about how this bill will be paid seeing no one pays their extensive bar tabs at your establishment. Are you the owner?”

“Oh no” says Emmjay “ Therese Trouserzoff is the owner you would have to speak to

“Therese!”
“Trouserzoff!”
Lovely to meet you

him or her.”

“Well is he or she there?” asks Gordon.

“Um no, but give me your name, number,  breast size and penis length and I’ll get him or her to call you” dodges Emmjay.

“Okay, my name is Dendron Dongle Rondo and my number is 555-5555 and eyes from the WheezeGunnaRipYouOff company, 44DD and 30 cm ” replies Gordon.

Emmjay is starting to shit himself at this stage and thinks well at least that matches the urine stain on his $500 Levi’s. One front one rear.

Wadda ya think about going renewable?

“Hey, I’ve got an idea” chips in Merv “Lets go solar and piss this wanker off. I remember at skoll learning so la fark tea dough, wadda ya reckon.”

 

 

 

The mind, if you have one, boggles.

 

Americans hate beards…

Episode 92 – Foodge hits the road.

21 Friday Jul 2017

Posted by in Foodge Private Dick, Mark

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Won’t someone think of the children

Story by Mark.

You know, the one thing that is certain is that nothing is certain. Don’t you just hate pithy sayings like that, that make sense. Now you’re okay with me getting things off my chest, nothing like a long bow, the other one that bugs me is this verse of a song who I have no idea who wrote it,

All men, all men are liars their words ain’t worth no more that worn out tyres

Hey girls, bring rusty pliers, to pull this tooth all men are liars and that’s the truth*

Said by a man making it a lie. Need I go on.

I’m in the flyer on my way to Newie, first class overnight, the Bish knows how to treat his favourite barista.

[Stop Hung, it’s barrister. Cannot I, Foodge, not perform on the stage, true to my character? Am I not a person with needs and wants, a light in a window breaks and a butterfly flays it’s wings half way round the planet so prepare for a hurricane. Those are things that make me fight for truth and justice for my client and heaps of Cyberian dollars your Honor. Objection over ruled Foodge.]

Okay then well, seen it’s being nice to me week, barrister and especially after me and the Bish had this conversation.

“Look Foodge, it’s like this. Gordon has rung me and said you should get out of town for a few days, you know just till things settle down.”

“What things?” replies Foodge, stiff upper lip and all that.

All aBout Cyberians

“Oh c’mon Foodge, it’s in the press, the Cyberograph, even the ABC(All aBout Cyberians).

“Well, Bish I have no idea about what you are talking about. Tell me what episode number are you up to?”

“Um, 94, you?”

“Er, 92, look, wheeze is both in the wrong episode, easy fixed, see ya then, been great catching up, say hello to Bronwyn, is the overnight to Newie all on Gordon still okay?”

“Well, yes, due to all the confusion we’ll catch up later.”

“Um, what am I about to do in the next exciting episode?” inquires Foodge.

“Piss off.”

Interval

Pie tasters wanted, apply online or call Alan now on 555 5555…

 

Gib and Angler pick me up at the station in the modified Zephyr. They both have shotguns stuffed down heir pants and bragged how the girls like a big member. I thought yes, some times spotting dicks is a talent. I should now, I’ve been a dick for so long it’s become second nature. I’ve been a proud dick and times and I’ve flopped

A modified Zephyr

for various reasons however I am now convinced that once you are a dick you will always be a dick and I’d even go as far to say that I was born a dick and just like all those other dicks around me.

[Oh, spare us please, I’ll interject on behalf of everyone and I’m writing this. Get on with it.]

“Fantastic car, how much modification did you need to do?” asks Foodge.

“Nah, not much, well a bit, sort of a fair bit that turned into a lot. Once we could get the door handles and window winders working we were set. Then there was the motor however this story has a word limit” says Gib.

“Wadda ya doing in Newie?” asks Angler “Hope you don’t want us to kill no one. Good game of footy this weekend and to be frank one of the two give me indigestion.”

“Nah, Gordon and the Bish sent me here to get ready for episode 94. Apparently I’m in the shit”

“Nothings changed then” chorus the lads.

 

*Nick Lowe

“What’s that in your pocket?”

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

≈ 14 Comments

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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)