Tag Archives: Merv

The plot thickens – just like cheese sauce

10 Monday Apr 2023

Posted by in Foodge Private Dick, Mark

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Not wanting to upset the court or AAP here is an artist’s impression of Foodge and God entering the court.

Merv leans into the bar. He’s got his elbows on the bar holding his head up and he’s in deep thought. He’s quite concerned about recent incidents. And he’s starting to wonder, what is this really all about? Let’s just say that God may be fictitious, and this character that’s turned up on the doorstep might be fictional just like he is. He doesn’t know but thinks that he is acutely aware of the fact that he wants to save on inverted commas, sometimes it’s better to be fictitious and save on inverted commas than to be real because then you don’t have to face all of those really serious problems like saving on inverted commas or eating, drinking, sleeping and overall reducing the number of inverted commas to help save the planet. Have you all got the inverted commas message yet?

Foodge stumbles into the bar and sits at the far end wanting to stay out of popular view and signals to Merv for his usual pint and 13 nips of whisky. Yes, South Seas Island Blue, a man of real class.

The bar is pretty quiet now, so Merv moves over and fills Foodge’s order.

“Hi Foodge,” says Merv blatantly wasting inverted commas. “I think we’re in for a bit of a tussle here. I mean, what if God is fictitious? And how are we going to prove that he’s real? This could be the trial of the century.”

Foodge ponders what has been said. This trial could be totally catastrophic. However, if he wins, he would become an international superstar of the legal fraternity. Tempting, hmm. I guess it all boils down to the fact that is God real?

So the question is, is God real? And is he more real than us? Characters in a fictional story posted on the internet web page, the Pigs Arms, are a poor guide as some are real and some are fictitious. Maybe God is a member of the fictional characters Union. You know the F*** you. Satan says God isn’t real. That argument needs to be tested in the highest court of law. The Small Claims Tribunal.

[Mark here, the author, thanks, Foodge, for doing an excellent job of thinking rather than speaking, which is a significant saving on inverted commas.]

Merv is concerned at the moment because he’s not sure what’s going to happen. He tells Foodge. “You know, I looked up is God real on A Eye? You know the television set with the typewriter at the bottom. I asked it if God was real. Anyway, it spits out about 27 pages worth of information, so I had to stop it and ask again and say can you give me a brief statement as to whether God is real?

After a while, it came back and said no, God isn’t real. Then about 10 seconds later it come back and said, oh hang on, I’ve had a bit more of a think about it and my new answer is probably not. So I then asked A Eye is Satan real? The answer came back 10 seconds later as, see the answer to God.”

Foodge ponders this news. So some piece of electronics thinks that neither God nor Satan are actually real. Foodge needs to figure out why. How can he win this case? God being real has become irrelevant. Foodge just wants to win. And if Satan is real, he could give a s***.

God comes into the bar and Foodge beckons him over to a table so that they can have a meal together. Belinda brings out some wombat stew with dumplings and a nice bottle of wine. Foodge says. “Look, so that I can get the information that I need, I’m going to put on a tape recorder so that later I can make notes. . Is that OK with you?”

“Go ahead,” says God not realising the need to cut down on inverted commas.

“Look, so are you real?” says Foodge with inverted commas flying everywhere. I mean, doesn’t he believe in climate change. The climate is changing primarily due to the overuse of inverted commas. When will the penny drop, FFS.

God answers definitively. “Of course I’m real. But what’s worrying me at the moment is that we haven’t mentioned Hank Williams.”

“Who?” says Foodge?

“Hank Williams. Yes, Hank Williams. Look, there it goes again, Hank Williams.

“Thankfully, no one said Jesus”, says Foodge. Frugal use of inverted commas has gone out the window.

“Jesus, there it goes again. Jesus. I mean Jesus. How many times are we gonna say, Jesus?” Six lines and we got in 4 Hank Williams and 5 Jesus. Hank Williams and Jesus have nothing to do with the story but hey, we have mentioned Hank Williams and Jesus quite a lot; amazing.

“So God, there’s not a lot of evidence that says that you’re actually real. However, there’s a lot of evidence that says that people believe that you are real. So proving this at the Small Claims Tribunal might be difficult.”

“Well, I’m real,” says God “and am paying you several fivers to prove that I am so that I can win the defamation case against Satan.”

“OK, OK, keep your long hair and your sandals on. I’ll prepare a brief for the court that will stake out the claim and we should win. Look, just a question, Satan says to wait until God pulls the horse race trick. Can you explain what happened here yesterday?”

“Foodge, you never explain all of your secrets do you, I mean you are an excellent bullshit artist, aren’t you? Do you expose everything?”

One of the first times Foodge was unable to answer.

There’s a Stranger at the Bar

04 Tuesday Apr 2023

Posted by in Foodge Private Dick, Mark

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God presents in many forms. This may or may not be one of them.

Merv was standing behind the bar. He looked immaculate in his beautiful white shirt and black trousers and polished black shoes. He looked up and noticed a stranger walking into the bar.

Merv said. “Hey mate. Would you like a beer?”

The stranger looked at Merv and said. “You know. The main reason I’m here on Earth is to drink beer.”

“Well, you’ve come to the right place”, says Merv. “The Pigs Arms has the best beer on Earth. But we don’t play Hank Williams.”

“I’ll have Trotter’s Ale”, says the stranger and he is privately relieved that there are no Hank Williams tunes going to be played.

The stranger goes to pay for the beer. Merv tells the stranger that no one pays here at the Pigs Arms. It’s all paid for by Gordon, the creator of the universe.

“So what’s your name, mate?” asks Merv.

“Well, most people call me God but I prefer mate.”

Merv is Shocked. Shocked, I tell ya. Thinking to himself, not another one of these fruitcakes that think they’re actually God but actually hates Hank Williams. “So, what sort of God are you?” Merv asks.

“Well”, says the stranger. “I guess you could call me the common garden variety type God.”

Merv is in a quandary. We already have Gordon. Who created the universe. Now we have a stranger in the pub that’s telling us that he is God however, thankfully he doesn’t like Hank Williams.

“So God, did you create the universe Or did Gordon? “

“Well, think of it like this, Gordon created this universe,” said God. “But I created Gordon.”

“So God, just to clarify the issue, who created you? “

“Me, mum and Dad,” says God.

Well, Merv doesn’t know what to do now. He’s in a real state. Fancy someone saying that they created Gordon after all this time? When everybody here knew that Gordon was the creator of the universe yet he hates Hank Williams.

Merv attempts to break the ice. “So God, what actually brings you to these parts anyway, besides the beer?”

“Well. Now you asked. I’m actually looking for a sharp barrister to present me in the Supreme Court in a defamation case against Satan”

Merv ponders the statement. “Well, God, we do have a barrister here by the name of Foodge”

Foodge is sitting at the other side of the bar with a pint and 13 shots of whisky in front of him while studying the racing guide.

Merv walks over to Foodge. “Hey, Foodge, That guy over there says he’s God and, thankfully hates Hank Williams, says he wants you to represent him in the Supreme Court.”

“Tell him to f*** o**” says Foodge. Feel free to count the asterisks.

“He says there’s a fiver in it, mate.”

Suddenly, Foodge takes an interest, a fiver. Well, maybe we can even negotiate a bigger fee. Foodge understands that a fiver could be really helpful at this point in time. I mean, he’s only got 13 scotches left, but with a fiver, he could probably buy a few more. Well, let’s see what happens.

“OK then,” says Foodge. “that’s alright with me as long as isn’t fine defaulters. “Is he a shirt lifter? asks Foodge.

“Nah,” says Merv “just a control freak.”

Foodge walks over to God and introduces himself. “The name is Foodge. Highly qualified barrister at law. More than happy to represent you in the court but please, no Hank Williams” Foodge cuts straight to the chase. “I believe there might be a fiver in it for me.”

“Several fivers,” replies God. Foodge is becoming more and more interesting in this case as it goes along, and he doesn’t even know yet what it’s about, but he doesn’t care as long as there are some fivers in it for him.

“So what’s the issue?” Says Foodge He personally couldn’t give a s**t. He was just in for the fivers and no Hank Williams. Basically just like all barristers.

“Satan. Well, Satan. says I’m not real, yet here I am, standing in front of you, living proof. Here’s an article from the Inner Cyberian Times that shows just exactly what he said about me” replies God.

Foodge studies the article. He skips through it with little interest. The case itself couldn’t care less. Just wants the money. Just like all barristers that don’t like Hank Williams, well, sort of.

“So how can we tell that you really are God?” asks Foodge.

God looks over to where Foodge was sitting at the bar and sees a racing guide. He points at the guide and makes it come to him just like magic. He scrolls through the list of races. And says. OK. It’s the 5th day of the 5th month. Race 5 Number 5. Race time is 5pm. Is paying $55. I’ll guarantee it will win.

God asks Merv. “Do you have a phone around here? I need to make a quick phone call..’ Merv points to the mobile phone in the carpark for the public.

It wins. The patrons are ecstatic. Everyone has lots of cash in their pockets. God is real. Three cheers for God. Hip hip Hooray, Hip hip, Hooray. Hip, hip, Hooray.

This is the phone booth God used

Some authors notes, This has taken me a long time to write. I’m not sure if it’s really funny but I hope you like it. My aim with all of my stories was to give the reader a 10 minute break from life to have some fun. The horse race gag is about the phone number 555-5555, When I was a kid and watched TV shows, the prefix phone number always started with 555. Algernon and I have joked about it since. Me, now traveling the best I have ever been in 20 years. Anyone that has taken offence at me in the past, I’m sorry. I now have great mental health. The correct diagnosis and medication has turned my life around. I will have at least 2 more episodes coming. Hope you read and enjoy them all. Even I am amazed at the outcome following my research.

Foodge and Merv investigate

25 Friday Jun 2021

Posted by in Big M, Foodge Private Dick, Merv

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Written by Big M

I don’t like this but then again…

The laminex desk was completely obscured by files, form guides, stained coffee cups and an overflowing ashtray. There was evidence of a previous avalanche of files onto the floor next to the grey, metal bin, which no one had bothered to tidy up. The black, Bakelite phone jangled impatiently, before a gnarled, nicotine stained hand grabbed up the handset. “Detective Chief Inspector Acker Rogerson speakin’. I’d recognise that voice anywhere…Mervette!” Hysterical laughter was followed by a coughing fit, which subsided with two puffs of Ventolin and a Marlborough Red. Two minutes elapsed before Inspector Rogerson rasped. “Just jokin’, Merv, how are ya?”

Merv didn’t appreciate the joke, so pressed on. “I’m well, but I’ve got a MisPer for you.”

“Why not get the Missing Persons Bureau to chase it up?”

“It’s a cold case. Pole dancer from the nineties. Had a sprog with Foodge. Went the whole nine yards, married, expensive honeymoon, shacked up in Darlo, then she pissed off with the kid. It seems she had joined some cult.” Merv summarised.

“Yeah, I remember. There was a heap of missing sheilas with similar backgrounds. We assumed they’d all fucked off somewhere and drank the communal Kool-Aid on the way to joining Halle’s comet, or some such thing. Why has Foodge developed a sudden interest? Has there been contact from the Mother Ship?”

“Dunno, somehow came up in conversation.” Merv didn’t really want to discuss Foodge’s penchant for the Scouts. “You know he’s shacked up here with Granny who knows nothing about this?”

“It’s common knowledge, old son. I wouldn’t wanna be in his skin if she finds out. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll go through the old files and cross-reference the with other states, Feds and Foreign Affairs. I’ll get back to youz.”

“Thanks, mate.” Merv went back to his pint of Granny’s IPA.

Rogerson dropped the handset back onto its cradle. “Fuck, fuck, fucketty, fuck. Prepare for the shit storm, lads.”

I’m a fuckwit brought to you by Maccas

……………………..

Meanwhile, Foodge had returned to the apartment in Darlinghurst. He found absolutely nothing, mainly because the owner had slammed the door in his face. He went around all of the strip clubs but everyone refused to talk. Bear in mind he was widely regarded as a defector. He then tried check on their joint bank account but couldn’t find the Bank of NSW. Eventually he stumbled into Westpac where the teller couldn’t work out what to do with his Passbook. He eventually initiated an inquiry into a ‘no longer active account’, which could take weeks or months.

……………………

Meanwhile at a private member’s room in an exclusive ‘Gentleman’s Club.

“Boss, didja see that Foodge has started sniffing around the clubs?”

“Yep.”

“Howdja know?”

“Just received a call from a well known, or, should I say, well paid copper.”

“Oh, right, well, woddle we do?”

“About one tenth of fuck all.”

“Why, won’t Foodge be onto us?”

“Foodge is the least successful Pee Eye in Sydney, and an even worse barrister. In the entire history of the Pigs Arms he’s photographed an MP climbing out his boyfriend’s window, and got that dimwit Manne orff an exposure charge. Threat level zero.”

I’m a priest, trust me…except if I have something to say, which I don’t unless my legal team says so

Foodge’s Secret Life

01 Tuesday Jun 2021

Posted by in Big M, Foodge Private Dick, Merv

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Foodge finishes his barista course…

Written by Big M

Merv wandered into the back of the Pigs Arms still shaking his head. He’d gone on a long run, in lieu of his usual boxing workout. He had been happily running down a side street when a woman slowed her car, wound the passenger window down and yelled. “Where’s yer mask?”

“There’s no mask mandate here!” Merv retorted.

“Well there bloody well should be for blokes with faces like yours!” As she roared off, leaving Merv with no right of reply.

As Merv stepped into the rear hallway he caught sight of a shadowy figure in, what appeared to be, an old Boys Scout’s uniform. “Can I help you there, Mr Baden Powell?” Merv chuckled to himself.

“What, no, I can’t even play the guitar.” Laughed Foodge.

“Not Baden Powell the Brazilian guitarist, Baden Powell the founder of the Boy Scouts.”

“Oh, um, I see.” Foodge didn’t see at all, but went along with it.

“What are you dressed up as?”

“Oh, well, obviously a boy scout. I’m hoping to try out as a Boy Scout Master.”

No not this Baden Powell, this one doesn’t add up…

“Have you thought this through?”

“Well, no, but I don’t usually think things through.” Foodge wrinkled his nostrils against the stench emanating from Merv’s armpits.

“For one, it’s no longer the Boy Scouts, its just Scouts, so that uniform must be about fifty years old. I’m surprised it still exists.”

“An old bloke gave it to me. Something about it being no use in prison.” Foodge nervously adjusted his woggle.

“That leads to the second problem…the optics. It doesn’t look good for an old bloke like you who isn’t married and doesn’t have any kids to suddenly join the scouts. You know, kiddy fiddlers and all that!”

“Well, I was married and I do have a child, if that helps.” Foodge had given up on the recalcitrant woggle and too short scarf.

“What? Who? When?” Merv’s face nearly exploded.

“Well actually, it’s not really anyone’s business.”

“Yer shacked up with Granny and living under my roof, so I reckon it is someone’s business.”

“How about we move into the Gentlemen’s Bar and I’ll tell you over a few drinks?”

Merv looked at his watch. “It is after eight so I could go a couple of frothy chops for breakfast.”

Merv’s breakfast, has it every morning whether needed or not

Foodge was onto his third pint of bitter before he launched into his story. “Mr Merv, you may not believe this, but there was a time when I wasn’t the squeaky clean, sophisticated lawyer you see before you. I was a different man, desperate to make his mark in the world, and more desperate to become rich, not only rich, but powerful. I became a criminal barrister, on the side of criminals who, not only paid me well to keep them out of jail, but heeded my advice. I oversaw property acquisitions, take-overs of clubs, bars, casinos and even brothels.”

“Go on.” Nodded Merv eagerly as he pushed another glass canoe across the bar.

“That’s how I met her. She was a pole dancer in a strip club I was purchasing for the mob. She was beautiful and, as they say, it was love at first sight. We eloped within weeks of our first kiss. We honeymooned in Dapto, just a stones throw from Lake Illawarra, the Venice of Australia. They were beautiful times, Mr Merv.” Foodge had a little tear in his eye as he reminisced.

Merv was getting emotional so decided they needed something stronger. He poured a couple of glasses of South Sea Islands Scotch. “Where is she now?”

“Things went swimmingly, for a while. We moved into an apartment in Darlinghurst. She stopped working, well, she had to, she got pregnant on the honeymoon and we had a son who we named Foodge Junior, of course. Anyhoo, she became more and more unhappy with my life of crime. She tried to get me to leave the mob, but I wouldn’t. I was addicted to money and power. She eventually joined a cult and tried to persuade me to join, but they were complete nutters.”

As I said, nutters…

“Don’t tell me she drank the Kool-Aid?” Merv refreshed their glasses.

“No, why Kool-Aid?” Foodge can be quite obtuse! “No, I came home one evening to find a note saying that they, and other cult members, were going on a great trip and that I’d never see her or the baby ever again. I raced down to the old cinema where they held their meetings but it was boarded up. I contacted the police but they just added their names to a long list of people who had suddenly disappeared. I retained a private eye for a couple of years but there wasn’t a single clue to chase down. Eventually I gave up, but not until I left the mob and went straight.”

“You know what we should do!” Merv was now slurring his words. “We should look for ‘em.”

“How, I mean, after all these years?”

“Well it doesn’t sound like the cops took much interest and yer PI sounds a bit incompetent. Now we’ve got the Internet and some pleece owe me some favours.”

To be continued.

Well, that was a good read…

Mrs O’Way is Aggro

30 Tuesday Mar 2021

Posted by in Mark

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Mrs O’Way, the most beautiful girl in the universe

“I’ve had enough of this shit” roars Mrs O’Way, whose first name is Belinda by the way. Belinda is the the little sister of Glenda from Glenda’s Pain and Torture Clinic, just down the road and around the corner from the Pigs Arms. “The Fictional Characters Union has just amalgamated with the Characters Fictional Union to become the FUCU(Fictional Union of Characters United) and we’ve become the laughing stock as now everyone is referring to us as fuck you.”

“Merv, pour me a double South Sea Island Blue Label and are you fictional or real?” she demands.

“I think I’m real, no hang on a minute, that’s right I’m fictional but a union member of FUCU” replies Merv.

“So fuck you” says Mrs O’Way.

The rest is real or maybe…

“ Hello, look author here. I’m not into this swearing stuff so please close your eyes when you are reading some rude words. Anyway kiddies may be watching.” says Mark from the commentary box.

“So hands up, who here is real?” demands Mrs O’Way. A limp response is recorded. “What about fictional?” same sort of reply.

“Are there any cats here we can shoot?” asks Algernon.

“Hope so” replies Big M. “Anyone seen Mother O’Way?”

“STFU Big, do you want Gordon to zap our brains out?” cries Algernon.

“What brains would that be?” Big M replies. Good point thinks Algernon.

“Look I used to be real till I came across the Pigs Arms” says Sister Yvonne.

#Metoo say the girls, oh boy, I can see a movement happening.

“Now, now, lets just all keep this in Perspex” says janowrite out of left field.

“Drinks on the house” says Merv trying to avoid a disaster, “did you mean perspective jano?”

“Probably but a South Seas Blue Label will do me” janowrite struggles at this point to attempt to see what’s happening in this story but you are in it now, bad stinking luck, just ask Sister Yvonne.

“Where’s my Sandy” cries Mrs O’Way, oops I mean Belinda.

“Well sorry love but he’s down at the dress shop”

“You’re not allowed to say that Merv otherwise Gordon will zap our brains out, hey there’s a cat” says Algernon in a timely fashion as only he can do.

Big M and Algernon open fire with their shotguns and unfortunately after open heart surgery the cat dies. Snigger, snigger. Oh well, that’s how it goes, snigger, snigger.

Mrs O’Way, oops, sorry, Belinda, belts the boys around the head with an umbrella.

“Where did that come from Belinda?”

“Out of the props section, they have lots of things in there, even dildos”

“Yeah I can see a #catkiller movement starting as well, lucky I’m smart” says someone unnamed form the FUCU. Is that you Hung?

“Not me, I’d never say something rude or smart, I’m a nurse you know and us nurses never are rude or swear or are smart aren’t we.”

Trust me, I’m a nurse, my name is Mark…

A Holy Visitation

30 Tuesday Mar 2021

Posted by in Big M

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Written by Big M

Mother O’Way

Foodge’s nightmares continued unabated. Every night, between three and four Granny would be woken by his thrashing and groaning. It was always the same dream; Foodge’s disembodied head in a box. Every time Granny gleaned little bits of additional information before Foodge slipped back to a slumber punctuated by snores, coughs, obstructive episodes and loud farts. Sometimes Foodge replied in Spanish. Occasionally he’d stand up and try to micturate behind the tall boy. One time he was as randy as all hell, but every time he had no memory the next morning. Granny spent the hours between Foodge’s dream and dawn pondering the meaning of these dreams.

……………………………………………….

Foodge has a dream…

Foodge has experienced a reasonable day, that is, until Father O’Way arrived in a pretty summer dress with his hair tumbling over his shoulders and his old navy tattoos on display for all to see. “Call me Mother O’Way!” He gushed.

“Mother O’Way!” Merv erupted. “Mother Fucking O’Way…how about Get Outta the Fucking Way?”

“When did this change occur?” Ventured Foodge.

“Yesterday’s episode.” O’Way was coquettishly twirling his longish grey hair between her fingers.

“Christ, talk about one dimensional characters, what about Mrs O’Way?” Merv quickly poured a second glass of Crème de Menthe.

“It’s over, she’s an extreme heterosexual, a homophobe of the highest degree!”

“So she’s available?” Merv rubbed his hands together.

“I don’t care what happens to her.” O’Way sounded quite melodramatic.

“What is the Church’s position on all of this?” Foodge had managed to pry his eyes away from the train wreck known as Mother O’Way, and pour himself a South Seas Island rum.

“The Bishop is way cool with this.” O’Way had located a compact in his purse and was busily caking powder on her nose. “He thinks this turn of events to be rather modern.

“What about Gordon O’Donnell?”

“What about Gordon O’Donnell?” Everyone turned to behold Gordon’s wonderful visage (actually he looked like an old derro).

“Oh, well, your majesty, ah, I mean your honour, um, what are your thoughts on Father O’Way becoming Mother O’Way?’ Foodge stammered.

“I’m the sort of chap who wouldn’t care one way or another, but, when he’s got such a beautiful looking sheila, and, bear in mind, that it took me months to get this pair together, and, the fact that he’s only doing this for dramatic effect…I don’t approve!”

O’Way was crestfallen. “What do I do now?”

Gordon put a comforting arm around the Father’s broad shoulders. “The missus hasn’t seen you like this?”

O’Way shook his head.

“Let’s keep it our little secret. Perhaps you can frock up when she’s on a weekend away?” Gordon looked around the bar. “It is our little secret! Know what I mean.”

Merv and Foodge nodded enthusiastically, not wanting a bolt of lightning through their skulls.

“I’ll have a word with the Bishop, if he’ll listen to me.” Gordon had a twinkle in his eye.

I’m in this episode, finally…

Big M receives a visit from Hung One On.

16 Tuesday Mar 2021

Posted by in Big M

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I’m not in this episode

Written by Big M

Hung. “I thought you were writing another episode?”

Big. “Err, yep, suppose so.”

Hung. “ You know, you mentioned Foodge’s head in a box.”

Big. “Yeah, I did mention that.”

Hung. “Well, get going!”

Foodge was at his usual place behind the coffee machine busily bringing her up to a full head of steam in readiness for the anticipated influx of customers.

Hung. “Hang on. You’ve started nearly every episode in the last few months with Foodge at the coffee machine.”

Big. “Well, so what, it makes the writing easier.”

Hung. “You know that I’ve been in strife with the Fictional Union of Characters!”

Big. “Wasn’t that the Union of Fictional Characters?”

Hung. “Yes, but they renamed themselves to get a better acronym.”

Big. “Well, FUC certainly has a ring to it.”

Hung. “There are regulations around the use of two dimensional characters in stories. You’re running a risk of only using a two dimensional character in a one-dimensional plot thereby undermining said character’s dimensions. In effect they can simply disappear.”

Big. “I’ll try again.”

Spot the dummy…

Granny was woken in the middle of the night by Foodge’s groans and flailing limbs.

Hung. “That’s better already.”

“Come on, darling, you’re having a nightmare.” Granny soothed.

Foodge managed to pull the pillow from his face. “I dreamed that my head was stuck inside a box.”

“What, like a disembodied head kept alive by a mad scientist, as in the movie, The Brain That Wouldn’t Die, or like someone had smashed your head into a box?”

“Dunno, I could still feel my limbs.”

“That could be phantom sensations.” Granny pondered.

“Does it matter now?” Foodge turned over to try to get back to sleep.

“It sort of does. Could you hear anything?”

“Yes, there was a humming sound behind my head, you know, pumps and so forth.” Foodge pulled up the duvet, even though it wasn’t particularly cool.

“Any voices?”

“Yes, umm, those two fellows that pop in occasionally, um, Hung and Big M.”

“What did they say?’ Granny was becoming anxious.

“Something about two dimensional characters and one dimensional plot lines.” Foodge suddenly started snoring loudly.

Granny didn’t get back to sleep, but sat up wondering what all this meant.

Granny wondering how she got into this mess…

Foodge was back at his usual station behind the bar. Merv slipped a middy along the bar. “Get that into you, it’ll put lead in yer pencil.”

“Love a stout, especially first thing in the morning.” Foodge skulled the dark liquid.

“It’s Granny’s new Porter.”

“What’s a Porter?”

“It’s essentially a type of stout.”

“Right.” Foodge pushed the empty glass along the bar, which Merv quickly refilled (the glass, not the bar).

Foodge raised the glass to his lips but his eyes were transfixed by the most beautiful face he’d seen in his life. She really was a long cool woman in a black dress (as the song goes). She was tall, slender, slightly athletic, with black hair, emerald eyes and pale, almost alabaster skin. “Morning!” He blustered, with the glass still in front of his face.

Merv was just as enchanted, but somehow, maintained some composure. “Good morning, madam, can I be of assistance?”

“What a darling man.” She enthused. “I’m hoping that you can help me.”

“Yes, yes.” Foodge and Merv leaned forward.

“I’ve lost my husband.”

A flicker of hope flared in Merv’s heart. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“No, he’s not dead, he really is lost. I haven’t seen my Alexander for months. He said he was coming to the Pig’s Arms to help out for a week or so and hasn’t been back.”

Merv was slightly crestfallen. “Alexander you reckon? Never ‘eard of him.”

“You may know of him as Sandy?”

“Doesn’t ring a bell.” Both Foodge and Merv shook their heads.

“He sometimes dresses as a priest and claims to be from the Generic Brand Church.”

“Oh, of course, Father O’Way, or FOW as we sometimes call him.” Foodge motioned to the coffee machine.

“Thank goodness, no, I won’t have a coffee, I wouldn’t mind something stronger…perhaps from the top shelf.”

Merv picked up on the hint and decanted from the South Sea Islands Blue Label.

Merv in shock…

“You know that he’s not really a priest, he just dresses that way to avoid the risk of becoming a one dimensional character. The problem is that we all run that risk in the Fictional Character Industry.”

Foodge nodded carefully, as it took his brain a little while to catch up. “You don’t think we’re all characters in some sort of fiction?”

“That’s like Descartes’ Brain in a vat idea, where some evil demon has placed a brain in a vat of nutrients and connected the nerves to various inputs to make the person think they are still alive.” Merv postulated while pouring Mrs O’Way a second drink.

“Yes, I was dreaming about this only last night, that I was a brain in a box.” Foodge motioned for a third Porter. Merv quickly obliged.

“We can’t be just fictional characters, because we’re here all of the time, talking, moving, eating and drinking. I can’t see how someone could make all of that up?” Merv wrinkled an already much troubled brow.

“Do you ever have people who seem to wander in for what seems to be minutes? They often have outlandish descriptions of themselves or their experiences.” Mrs O’Way sounded like she was on to something.

“Yes, we do.” Foodge looked slightly comical with a beery moustache. “Big M and Hung would be the primary candidates. Hung seems to appear and disappear at will while Big M always claims to have travelled by steam train.”

“That’s exactly the sort of character I’m talking about. Almost like ghosts trying to manipulate the living.” Mrs O’Way was interrupted by a tall man, who planted a kiss on her cheek.

“I hope you aren’t telling tales out of school, darling!” Grinned O’Way.

FOW with that cheeky grin

A Stay at Home

08 Monday Feb 2021

Posted by in Sandshoe

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He said he just wanted to pluck, honest…

(A) Stay At Home

By Sandshoe

“There’s no other way to say it.”

FOW* is mopping the porch. No-one pays him attention. Nobody there.

“I’ll say it anyway.”

Nobody knows what it was. A raucous noise of a band in the Pig’s Arms Sylvia Plath Memorial ballroom sets up. It disappears like a wisp of a fanfare of a concerto.

On the other side of the car park, Merv walking through the Sports Bar is himself in explication with himself.

“She’s not here.”

Where ‘she’ isn’t or wasn’t depends on where in time you want to go with this, let me interrupt and explicate. I’ll do that sometimes. It’s knowing everything that causes everything. Merv was in the cellar of this infamous address, destination of drinkers and jokers all, place of the people, the Window Dresser’s Arms, Pig and Whistle. He’s risen up the cellar stairs to walk through the Sports Bar. FOW is mopping the floor of the entrance hall of the Manse, but not out of mind. Out of frame.

“I know perfectly well she’s not here.”

Merv is confident. Granny had left the building. Merv had watched Granny’s curvaceous arse gyrate and manipulate its way around and between the Sports Bar tables and chairs and it exit.

Emmjay is calling down into the stair well. It’s his pub. He does as he chooses. Merv careens out of reverie.

“Yes? What do you want, Emm?” Merv calls back from the Sports Bar.

“Merv, did you tell the Flamin’ Crows they could practice in the Ballroom this morning?”

“Don’t know anything about that.”

Of course he doesn’t. He didn’t know I was going to write them in. Viewpoint is everything. The soundscape is deafening. The crescendo is only bettered by the rate of debris falling from the rafters. Chook waste. Dried chook excreta. Chook feathers.

Merv and Emmjay step out into the car park for a breath of morning air unadulterated with reminder the rafters were never mucked out after the last chook was despatched to the WDAPW** Sports Bar counter menu. The sun is risen in a blaze of glory. FOW is at the gate of the Manse directly opposite. A Cyberverse taxi driver is at the Manse gate emptying luggage out of the boot of a Cyberverse taxi. The Bish is back in town.

*Father O’Way

**Window Dresser’s Arms, Pig and Whistle

I’m a priest, trust me…

Merv breaks Out

04 Monday Jan 2021

Posted by in Big M

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Ugg boots is good boots

Written by Big M.

Foodge’s deep slumber was interrupted by an urgent need to micturate (no, not through the railing). He was interrupted mid-stream by a tap at the window. He struggled to ignore it but came a second and a third tap. He gave his local member a good shake and opened the window, just in time for the fourth tap, actually a small stone, to hit him in the forehead.

Foodge looked down at the Pigs Arms car park, which was barely lit by a single incandescent bulb. It was sufficient to illuminate a tall figure, obviously male, clad only in a ‘too small’ white hospital gown with no ties and, unfortunately, no underwear. “Mr Merv, watcha doin’ out there?”

“What am I doin’? I’m escaping”” Merv replied sotto voce. “You know what they wanted to do?”

“An orchidectomy.”

“D’you know what that is?” Merv was squirming.

“Nope.”

“They wanted to chop me nuts off.”

They’re going’ to chop my nuts off…you must be farking joking

“Well that doesn’t sound right.” Foodge turned to go back to bed.

“Can you let me in?”

“Oh, of course.”

It seemed like an eternity to Merv, but Foodge eventually appeared at the car park exit. “Come on in, old chap.”

Merv nervously looked around then darted through the door. “Quick, turn that light off, I think the cops are already onto me.”

“Why would the Pleece be after you? You weren’t admitted under an order, you were a voluntary patient.” Foodge did seem to know something about the law.

A previous FOW which has nothing to do with this story…

“Why was I manacled to the bed then?” Merv thought he’d won the argument.

“I think that Nurse Mervette may be responsible for that.”

I’m having a re bore, I recommend it to everyone…

Merv started crying again. “Don’t mention that name.”

“Come on Mr Merv, I’ll make you a cup of chino.”

“Let’s get something stronger.” Merv was already behind the bar pouring two Double IPAs.

Of course, all of this activity had woken the household. Granny, Manne and O’Hoo suddenly appeared. “Yay, Mr Merv’s home, yelled O’Hoo. Let’s have a party!”

“I’ll put the wedges on.” Yelled Manne.

“Where’s the good Scotch?” Granny was ebullient.

“Sit down Mr Merv, I’ll take over.”

“No you won’t, O’Hoo, you’d be the worst bar tender in Australia.” Granny pushed Merv out of the way and started pouring.

“Come on you lot, the cops will take me liquor licence if we get caught.” Merv remonstrated.

“Actually, Mr Merv, you are entitled, under the Liquor Act of 2007 to have a private party.” Foodge was just showing off, now.

Foodge fights for buds…

“Oh, yeah, of course, I used to go to a lot of ‘private parties’ in my youth.” Merv finished his beer and reached out for a second.

“There is one thing for which Pleece do take a particularly dim view.”

“What’s that, mate?”

Foodge looked down at the gap between the hem of the gown and Merv’s Private Region. “Wedding tackle on display, with, or without orchids!”

Merv’s Brain Biopsy

03 Sunday Jan 2021

Posted by in Big M

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Enema day Merv…

Written by Big M

Foodge had tried his best. He’d contacted Janet with the offer of acting as mediator between her and Merv. She seemed fixated on the word ‘mediate’. “Mediate, mediate, you couldn’t mediate at a piss up.” Foodge had absolutely no idea what this meant. He was under the gun, coffee wise, so went back to brewing.

FOW had been listening in between pouring glass canoes and operating the EFTPOS. “Sounds like it’s over, but she may be happy to speak to a man of the cloth.”

“What cloth?” Foodge was as sharp as a bowling ball.

“You know, a minister, such as myself.” FOW pushed the bottle of South Sea Islands Irish whiskey along the bar for Foodge’s Famous Irish Coffee, which had become popular amongst the Night Duty Nurses.

“Oh, I don’t know, I think she’s a Callithumpian.”

“You know there’s no such religion as Callithumpian?” They were interrupted by Big M asking for a tray for the Irish Coffees.

“Youz aren’t Callithumpian, are you? We’ve had no end of trouble with back home.” Big M interjected.

“No, mate, just chatting.” FOW replied, as he replaced the whiskey bottle on the top shelf.

Foodge grinned. “See there is such a thing!”

South Sea Islands, real class…

“Whatever.” This wasn’t a battle worth fighting over. “Are you going to take Granny to see Merv?” Granny had responded to her favourite nostrum and was in fine form brewing a batch of Granny’s Pale Ale.

“Yes, indeed. I was hoping to give Merv some good news regarding Janet, but I think I’ll be hooking him up with a Family Solicitor.”

“Can’t you handle stuff like that?” FOW was wiping and stacking a bunch of trays.

“I’ve never handled a divorce, all criminal law, me!” Foodge hasn’t appeared in a court for three years, which may be more of a reason. “Oh, here’s the lady herself. How’s the brewing going , Granny?”

“The wort has been boiled, cooled and pumped into a fermentation tank. It just needs to cool down by a cuppla degrees then I’ll toss in some yeast. I heard youz talkin’ ‘bout Merv and Janet. Any hope?” Granny nodded to FOW who slid a canoe across the bar.

“Well, she doesn’t want to talk to me. Father wants to talk to her, but I don’t think it will help.”

“No, them Callithumpians keep to themselves. Very intolerant of other faiths.. I wouldn’t bother.” Granny skulled her drink and nodded for a second, which followed the first one quick smart.” I’m going upstairs for a shower, are you still happy to take me to see Merv?”

“Yes, O’Hoo will take over while I’m gone.”

………………………………………………………..

The van arrives for Merv…

The hospital visit went as hospital visits usually go. Twenty minutes of driving around looking for an overpriced parking spot. Then ten minutes of trying to find the ward. At least that gave one time to try to acclimatise to the smell of disinfectant, which failed to disguise the smell of urine. Eventually they found the ward where they were pleased to see that Merv was no longer manacled to the bed.

Merv had assumed that MRI-Brain was some sort of brain biopsy so had been getting worked up over the idea of a big needle, or blade, going into his brain. The nurse had allayed his fears by telling him that it was a brain scan using big magnets and shit. The scan, according to a verbal report, was unremarkable, which is medical speak for normal. He’d eagerly conveyed all of this to his visitors.

“So, what’s the next step, son?” Granny was stoic, but in reality was pretty worried.

“Well, they’re considering an orchidectomy, which seems odd, because we don’t grow any flowers!” Merv exclaimed.

“No, well that sounds good, love, we’ll push off, I’ve still got wort that needs my attention.”

As they wandered through the maze of hallways and tunnels Foodge whispered to Granny. “Why do they want Merv’s orchids?”

“I suspect it’s just some medical thing.” Granny replied, nodding knowingly.