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Window Dresser's Arms, Pig & Whistle

~ The Home Pub of the Famous Pink Drinks and Trotter's Ale

Window Dresser's Arms, Pig & Whistle

Tag Archives: Pigs Arms

Merv meets no Name

12 Saturday Sep 2020

Posted by Mark in Mark, Merv

≈ 12 Comments

Tags

fiction, humour, Mark, Merv, Pigs Arms

Did you say root darling?

Written by Mark

Hello, Merv here or hear, whatever you like. Never been one for correctness. Anyhoo this geeza walks into the bar the other day. This is what happened.

“Gidday mate” replied in my normal friendly but neutral composure.

“Yeah mate, I’m here for the job” says this geeza.

“So what job was that?”

“An exciting new character at the Pigs Arms Hotel. Here, I was sent by the agency, the Fictional Characters Union, all the paper work is here.”

“So, what’s your name then?”  being always on the lookout for a scam.

“Um, dunno. They didn’t tell me”

“So you don’t know your name, your from the agency, hmm, so what can you do that’s exciting and new ?”

Never get between Merv and a pie…

“Well, I can play chess, sort of and the ukulele, sort of , oh yes and I once had a piano lesson.”

Things were starting to go downhill.

I decided to ramp up the atmosphere.

“No skydiving, no rodeos, so how exciting does it get. So if you have no name then the Pigs Arms will have to name you” Merv is now ruining a good story.

[Merv we didn’t want that till later. I frigging hate you sometimes]

“How about Neville or Baxter?” says the man with no name.

“Fuck off, something spicy for the viewers like Gonzales or Geoffrey.” Funny thing was that I hate both of those names.

“So, Merv, what is your last name?” says Gonzales or Geoffrey or Neville or Baxter.

I wished I looked this good…

“I don’t have one” says hypocrite Merv. “Wot’s yours?”

“Smith actually”

“So no first name Smith, lets call you Abba Zoodoo” Merv ponderously states.

“Okay from now on my name is Abba Zoodoo Gonzales Geoffrey Smith Neville  Baxter ” says Abba. “Fuckin’ happy now.” Gez I hate authors.

“ So Abba Zoodoo Gonzales Geoffrey Smith Neville Baxter getting the word count up with you new name is invaluable, but in your view given this is comedy should have I said knew instead of new? And if I had a last name I would call myself …”

Merv meets Dot

01 Sunday Oct 2017

Posted by Mark in Big M

≈ 36 Comments

Tags

Merv, Pigs Arms

 

I fucking hate cats…

Merv was buggered if he could find Dick Smith’s. He was convinced there was a store in town, but where the hell was it? He’d lugged the old dot matrix, in it’s original box on two buses and a ferry (fuck knows why he’d be on a ferry?) into George Street. ‘Well, fuck me’. He thought to himself. ‘All I need is a Yeller pages, so, in fact, all I need is a phone booth!’ Our redoubtable publican carried that old printer up and down George St, to no avail. ‘Fuck me twice.’ He thought.’ No fucking phone booths, and the place is overrun with Asians, not that I dislike Asians, there just weren’t many in Sydney last time I were ‘ere in ’78.’

Merv was getting mighty thirsty, then remembered there was a pub near the cinemas,

Queenslanders…

so lurched back down the road, passed the cinema complex, and into the welcoming arms of The Albion, flopping his arse and his parcel into the nearest seat.

“Bugger me dead if it isn’t the Lewisham Lugger!” Wheezed a voice from the gloom.

Merv instantly recognised his former Sergeant from the uniform days. “If it isn’t Detective Chief Inspector Watson!” Who’s name wasn’t really ‘Watson’, but he was perpetually bamboozled, so was often heard to say, “What’s On, lads?”

“Girly, get the lad a drink, will ya?” Women’s lib had entirely passed by Watson. The young barmaid place a schooner of fourex in front of our thirsty lad, who gratefully skulled it in one swallow. “And another. So what brings you into town?” Wheezed Watson.

“Gettin’ bits for me printer.” Merv nodded towards the cardboard box.

“A dot matrix!” Watson pushed back some long strands of hair that had escaped from his rather long, and desperate comb over. “Haven’t seen one of them in years.”

“Yep, was gonna go to Dick Smith’s, but I can’t find him.” Merv had ordered a third

Biggus Dickus

schooner from the bar.

“Well, old son, Dickie Smith is no longer, don’t youz read the papers in Inner Western Cyberia?”

“Well, yes, we’ve got papers. So where’s Dick then?”

“Dick is at Terry Hills, of course.” Watson took a long draught of the fetid tasting ale.

“Oh, shit, that’s a funny place for a store. It’ll be like four busus and a coupla ferries.”

“Nah, Dick Smith is still alive, and lives at Terry Hills. His stores went arse up. If youz want electronics, youz should go to Bing Ree.”

Merv was wary, not only had Asians taken over Sydney, but they’d taken over electronics! “Where is this Bing Ree?”

Wanker

“Look it up on yer phone.” Watson was gasping for a smoke, so stepped into the doorway and lit up.

“Me phone?” Merv pulled his old Samsung clamshell out of his pocket. “The bastard doesn’t even work these days.

“That’s because it’s only Two Gee!” Watson peered at his new IPhone through a pall of smoke. “Here you go, there’s a Bing Lee just up the road.”

Merv thanked his former boss, and dragged his package up to Bing Lee, where a young Phillipino lass convinced him to give up his dot matrix, and upgrade to a LASER

Laser my arse

printer. “What exactly is the printer for?” She enquired. Merv sat down and told her all about the Pub, and how he was seriously thinking of upgrading the computer to something flash, like a Pentium. With that she took him through to a business consultant, who set him up with a new Computer, modem, business software and electronic till. All with free delivery and installation.

“How will I pay for all of this?” Ventured Merv.

“Pop it on your Visa.” Came the obvious answer.

“Visa? But I aint goin’ overseas!”

“Visa credit card. Look, we’ll hold all of this, and you pop next door to the Commonwealth, and sort out a card.”

‘Christ on a bike.” Thought Merv. “I only come here for a printer cartridge!” With that he was out the door and aboard a bus headed for the safety of the Inner West.

“Where’s yer Opal card, sir?” Asked the driver.

“Will a couple of postage stamps do?” Asked Merv as he shook a couple of moths from his wallet.

我恨猪

Merv worries about Money

03 Monday Apr 2017

Posted by Mark in Mark, The Mens

≈ 7 Comments

Tags

Father O'Way, Gib W, humour, Merv, Pigs Arms

Merv gets ready for the day, nasal hairs clipped.

 

Story by Mark.

 

Merv was feeling pen, pen, pen something as he stood behind the bar, erectile and well dressed. Merv had been taking guitar lessons from Nigel Fargo Evans who apparently taught Jimi Smith and Stevie Ray Jones how to play however it wasn’t rubbing off so to speak.

“A is first followed by B then C” proclaimed Nigel. This was too much for Merv to comprehend so he decided guitar playing was not for him.

Merv was pen, pen, pens.., looked around the bar and noticed that the usual crowd

I’m a quark, I fink

were in chatting away about quarks, astrophysics, shotguns and girls just like any Inner Cyberian pub would.

But Merv was worried about where all the money came from? “Ask Hon, she’ll tell ya” said Hung.

“From me purse Merv, eyes look in it an the money comes out” says Hon.

“Where’s that bloody priest, Sandy get Gordon here” roars Merv.

“Bless you my son, I now pronounce you man and wife, whose soul will thus goeth to hevanus” replies Father O’Way, from the church of St Generic Brand, just to get the word count up.

“Cut the crap Sandy, get him here” demands Merv.

So Sandy rings Gordon and asks him over. “Gordon,you better get here quick, we have a religious uprising”

Bloody Kennards no Pleece boxes

[Sound of the Tardis, Sound of the Tardis, Sound of the Tardis, Sound of the Tardis]

“Hey, who are you, where’s Gordon” cries Merv.

“No. I am a replica of Gordon. I am a programmed cardboard cut out from the planet Aurora and am here to answer any questions about money here at the Pigs Arms. As a cardboard cut out I save the Pigs Arms lots of money in space travel time and I gotta say Emmjay is always telling us that the budget can’t afford these special effects.”

“Well, special effects my evacuation valve but I want to know about money at the Pigs Arms. I make thousands of dollars every night to a sui generis group of people” pushes Merv. Bloody heck, what does that mean? I always wondered about a group of people.

“Sorry, don’t recall, no, don’t remember, no I don’t recall that I can remember,

I fink I just went to the toilet again…

possibly,no, probably not, I wasn’t there, she told me she was sixteen, I can account for everything that I have done but sadly they are subject to FOI(Fuck Off Idiot) Laws” says the cardboard cut out.

“Well Hung gave me a twenty and I had to give him $250 change” goes Merv.

“Sorry, don’t recall, no, don’t remember, no I don’t recall that I can remember, possibly,no, probably not, I wasn’t there, she told me she was sixteen, The vehicle has low kilometres and service history. Finance can be arranged. Test drive sure can, here snort this” says the cardboard cut out.

“And mees and him had a bet on the foottee. I went the Newy Shitkickers and he went the Illawarra Underworld Figures, anyway where’s the bong?” pips in Gib W.

Trust me, I don ‘t need to go to the toilet

“Sorry, don’t recall, no, don’t remember, no I don’t recall that I can remember, possibly,no, probably not, I wasn’t there, she told me she was sixteen, look renovators dream, shag pile carpet and Elvis Presley wall paper, reduced, knock that wall out, rebuild the pergola, add an extra bedroom, new kitchen and bathroom, the roof, insulating and heating, hot water, driveway, garden, mate what are you waiting for…” says the cardboard cut out.

Does this feel familiar?

Jesus fucking Christ, someone give us a fag and where’s the bloody loo.

The Tail of God 3

05 Friday Sep 2014

Posted by Mark in Mark

≈ 5 Comments

Tags

cricket, Father O'Way, Gordon O’Donnell, humour, Pigs Arms, Sandy O'Way, Viv, Warrigal

Pic by Warrigal

Pic by Warrigal

Just a recap, my name is Gordon O’Donnell. I am scientist from another dimension and me and a couple of class mates accidentally created the universe. Our teachers have sent us here to study for our degrees and I am heading for the planet Earth in the galaxy know as the Milky Way. My task so far is to create a monetary system, teach everyone in the galaxy to speak English but more importantly teach them cricket.

“C’mon Gordon” says Viv. Viv is my SNAP (Space Normalisation Adaptation Process) Coordinator, oh, in case you forgot, space an acronyms go hand in hand. Damn. “We are heading up to the bio so I can show you where you will be living till Earth is ready for you” Viv informs.

“What’s a bio Viv?” I ask as I glance around my beautiful cabin, a book list to die for, my own cook and a bar that never runs out.

“With long distance space travel you need to live in a biosphere otherwise you will go mad or in your case, madder” laughs Viv.

“Do you think I’m mad Viv?” I question.

“No, not so far anyway Gordon but you will eventually live in Inner Cyberia at the Rectory of the Church of St. Generic Brand with Bishop Bishop, Father O’Way and Belinda the housekeeper. Most of the time this lot are found drinking at the Window Dressers Arms Pig and Whistle affectionately know as The Pigs Arms. A stoic bunch of drinkers are always there and they are going to test you out. You need to know how to respond to fit in.” says Viv.

I find I cannot speak. Never in my wildest dreams could I have ever imagined such a scenario. We jump in an elevator and after a few minutes the lift door opens and we are in the main street of some sort of village. A mixture of housing surrounds and I can see a hotel, café and a few shops. People are moving around the streets.

“C’mon Gordon, I show you your house” instructs Viv and we walk a very short distance to a beautiful bungalow style house that over looks the beach.

“Wow this is fantastic” I mutter out loud, more really thinking about my surroundings than making any intelligent comment.

“Fair dinkum Gordon, anyone that doesn’t like this is a few kangaroos short in the top paddock” says Viv. Viv reads my face in an instance. “Fair dinkum means is that right and a few kangaroos short in the top paddock means that if you didn’t like this then you must be a mad” Viv informs with that irrepressible smile.

“This bio is the beach side village with fishing harbour, point break for surf and foothills at the rear and cricket oval in the centre of town. There are about 50 droids here who will create the atmosphere so it seems as if you are having a normal existence plus a four team cricket comp. The central computer has set the weather to replicate your birth planet and is fairly similar to Earth, you know day night, summer winter.” Viv states as this is all fairly ordinary.

Me, I’m overwhelmed. This amazing house with wrap round verandas that take in all possible views. A village, here in space, fair dinkum, hey its working, maybe I can settle into Earth after all.

“Come on Gordon, lets hit the pub for a couple of frothy’s, beers, before tea, dinner” says Viv, teaching as she goes along.

We enter the pub. A magnificent low lying building with a grand bar and a dining room to one side. Several droids are sitting at tables talking about the weather and some at the bar like they are propping the place up and watching sport on the screen.

We perch on a couple of stools at the bar and are approached by the barman. “Gerard, this is Gordon” says Viv. We shake hands, a custom I’m not quite used to yet.

“What will it be Gordy, we have Trotters Ale or Trotters Ale” informs Gerard.

“Make that two” says Viv. I’ve been drinking this Trotters Ale since coming on board and I must admit I really like it now although it did take some time. “So for tea Gordon it’s Bat Shit on toast or Kanck’s gizzard sandwiches?” smiles Viv.

My jaw drops and the bar erupts in laughter, hmm, Inner Cyberians, a tricky lot.

We enjoy a few more ales and I’m feeling quite relaxed but there is something that has been puzzling me. “ Viv” I explore, treading carefully, afraid to be thought of as mad “ Look in the last episode someone spoke to me about getting on with it, I thing the name was Hung”

“ Oh, Hung” reveals Viv, full of knowledge “ Hung’s the author of this story. Look see that screen over there, and how you can see a faint image of a person typing at the keyboard, well that’s Hung”

“ Author, story, you mean I’m not real but simply a fictitious character.” I blurt confused as to what’s going on.

“ Of course you are real Gordon. Everyone that reads this story knows you created the universe and this website has over 450,000 hits so mate you are very real” asserts Viv.

“ But he spoke to me” again my anxiety rising.

“ And yeah, you can speak to him any time but it must be inside closed brackets like this []. If you don’t like something or have a suggestion on the story just type you request inside closed brackets and Hung will talk to you” says Viv. “ Here I’ll show you”

[Hey Hung, great gag about the bat shit on toast]
[Thanks Viv. Gordon may need some sedation later till he understands]
[Yeah, he’s a bit wet behind the ears but I think we can work with him, I mean he likes beer for starters]
[Hung, Gordon here, am I real?]
[As real as anything else in this universe. Don’t worry, any concerns just talk to me. My closed brackets are always open to you.]

First published: http://hungsworld.wordpress.com/2014/09/05/the-tail-of-god-3/

Father O’Way in Sri Lanka

08 Thursday Sep 2011

Posted by Mark in Mark

≈ 28 Comments

Tags

Australia, cricket, Father O'Way, fiction, humor, humour, Pigs Arms

Licky licky goo goo

 

Hi, look Father O’Way here. I’m really miffed. The Bish, you know Bishop Bishop of the St Generic Brand Church of Inner Western Cyberia has got the audacity to ring me in the Caribbean on my holidays with the beautiful Belinda to do a job.

 Anyhoo, enough whingeing. I have to go and find out what is going on behind the scenes in the Australian cricket team. Apparently the selectors have been dumped and everyone hates Greg Crapell, I mean, is this the bleeding obvious or what.

So I fly to Sri Lanka, you know the home of the paradise island, tea, coconuts and rocket launchers. Geez, thanks Bish.

Using some suspicious white powder, some green looking dried vegetable and gold bars I work my way into the inner sanctum of Australian cricket, the bar.

As usual all of the players have finished their lines, cocaine usually and are chatting around the bar.

“Did you all hear old chaps that Greg Crapell will be staying on for the tour?” I asked the group of players.

Ah f#@k, s@#t, p@#s, Geez a@#s were some of the more notable replies.

“What do think Greg can add to the team?” Geeps, who are my script writers, I’ll get killed for this.

F@#k all, he’s absolutely s#@t from a alpaca, for f@#k sake burn him at the stake and he doesn’t even eat meat, eeeewwww, were some of the more common answers.

“You have won the first test and would be confident going into the next match. I see that a former groundsman has been capped and did well, what are your thoughts on this?” Man, I’m shitting my self asking this one, I mean these guys are on coke, pissed, rich, ego centric, fit, aggressive, nasty, win at all costs sort of dudes.

F@#king good on ‘im mate, geez them wops are p@#s weak, can’t beat a f@#king groundsman, a@#s lickers mate, again were some of the more notable comments.

“Do you think Greg  Crapell is the sort of guy that attracts lots of # symbols and @ symbols?” I venture rather nervously. This crowd is getting ugly.

F@#king oath, you bet you a@#e and F@#k you uncle, again were more of the notable replies.

Father O’Way here. Signing out, in his lounge room, Nowhere, I hope….

Recessional Redux

22 Friday Apr 2011

Posted by Mark in Pig Psalms, Warrigal Mirriyuula

≈ 21 Comments

Tags

fiction, humor, humour, Pig Psalm, Pig's Psalm, Pigs Arms, Poem, Warrigal

Pictures by Warrigal Mirriyuula

Merve is a proud sponsor of Glenda’s rapid deployment Emergency Makeover Team. Where ever trouble strikes Glenda and her team of expertly trained girls can swing into action and before you know it, Ladies within the evacuation zone can be primped, preened, pampered and presented anew as Princesses and Queens of the devastation.

This weeks special “Fusion Tips”!

Yes girls, hair looking a bit bedraggled after a few months in the Evac Camp? Well don’t worry, Glenda’s new patented “Fusion Tips”, now with extra Caesium for that natural glow, will having you feeling completely ionised in no time at all.

Recessional Redux by Warrigal Mirriyuula

Merve of our hotel, known of old—

Lord of the beer which tastes so fine.

Within whose red brick walls he holds

Dominion over spirit and wine,

Publican host, be with us yet,

Same again mate , lest we forget!

The tumult and the shouting dies

The roadcrew and the bands depart

Still stands Merve with broom in hand,

He sweeps and mumbles, lets go a fart.

Publican host, be with us yet,

Same again mate, lest we forget!

Home called, the punters melt away

The doors are locked, the “useful” paid

And all the beer is pissed away

To empty bladders for another day.

Licensing Sergeant, spare us yet,

Same again mate, lest we forget!

If, drunk with too much Trotters, we loose

Wild tongues that have not Merve in awe

Such bruisings as will turn to puce

Our arses, he’ll kick and say no more.

Publican host, be with us yet,

Same again mate, lest we forget!

Poor battered souls that put their trust

In reeking loo and threadbare carpet

Will all be dust that builds on dust,

So “Staffies” for all Granny, there’s a poppet.

For frantic boasts and foolish words,

Are the staples of life for dear old Merve.

Pig’s Psalm 14 – Unto the Pub A Children are Born

24 Thursday Mar 2011

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Emmjay, Pig Psalms

≈ 14 Comments

Tags

humour, Pigs Arms

Simulated picture of Merv, Janet and the twins Viv and Ian

For it came to pass

In the town of Cyberia that to a publican

A child was born.

To be precise two children

Came into the house of Merv and Janet.

Two wise men from the east followed the GPS

Lately installed in their Zephyr car

And brought with them the gifts of

A yeasty extract and an elusive substance of pink.

And they said unto Merv

Be not afraid for these unto you shall bring

Considerable beverage.

And Merv and Janet looked unto the wise men

And they knew that it was good.

And from the car park came a host of Angles

Obtuse, in general, but some acute

But not as acute as the babies.

And looking down upon the babies and their

Generously endowed Mother, they said unto the

Hostelery  gathering

“Coor, these little buggers aren’t  going to go Hungy.

And a general glee swept o’er the host and

The taps were opened and the beverage was bountiful.

And to the gathering sayeth Merv and Janet as one Voice

Behold into the House of the Arms of the Pig

We welcome the twins, Viv and Ian.

And the attending Angles and the good DRMICK and a host of nurses

Gave thanks and broke wedges

After that they broke wind

And laughed and laughed and laughed.

Praise be to the host of the Pub and the Patrons de Porc.

Psalm No 8 – Totally Meaningless

08 Saturday Jan 2011

Posted by Mark in Pig Psalms

≈ 28 Comments

Tags

humor, humour, Pig Psalm, Pigs Arms

Totally Meaningless Picture by Warrigal

There is a pub called the Pigs Arms

That once ran a competition writing pslams

But when old mother Hubbard

went to the cupboard

She found Merv holding kegs in his zephyr

*Work that one into a limerick, I dare you

 

Foodge 20 – Foodge Has a Narrow Escape

02 Sunday Jan 2011

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Big M, Foodge Private Dick

≈ 16 Comments

Tags

female impersonator, Foodge, Pigs Arms

By Big M

Foodge woke with a start. It was still early, eleven, or eleven thirty, by the way the light slanted through the aluminium Venetian blinds, illuminating dust motes, which seemed to have lives of their own. The groans emanating from the mound of bedclothes on the other side of the bed were a dead give away that he wasn’t alone. ‘Mmm.’ He thought to himself. ‘Must’ve got lucky.’ The mound of blankets started to move, and a blond head emerged. “Hello, big boy.” Foodge sat up in bed, grinning away. He remembered buying Victoria a bottle of ‘champagne’ at the Pigs Arms, and then everything else was a blank.

Victoria sat up. “Lovely room, did you decorate it yourself, dear?”

“Well, no, it, err, kinda decorated itself.”

“Coffee’s the first order of the day.” Victoria stood up, deftly wrapping the sheet around her tall body. She wasn’t beautiful, or even pretty, thought Foodge, but she sure was handsome. She wandered out to the kitchen, where she promptly started opening and closing cupboards. “Where’s the percolator, dear?”

“No percolator, just Blend Forty Three in the cupboard above the kettle.”  Foodge dressed quickly. An experienced PI like himself was never off duty, so, there was no room for a woman in his life. He was going to have to break it to her gently. He went through to the kitchen. “Look, Victoria, I didn’t mean to give you the wrong impression…err… um… didn’t mean it to be a one night stand.”

Victoria laughed. “Stand. One night stand?  There was no stand, dear. There’s a serious lack of ‘stand’, and I suspect the brewer has something to do with your droop!”

Foodge wasn’t used to the cryptic talk of women. “It might be better if you just left.”

Victoria turned on her bare heel and flounced through to the bedroom. “That’s alright, dear, I have a back-waxing appointment, anyway. She dressed quickly then marched out the front door. “Blend Forty Three, indeed!”

‘Gosh, she’s tall in heels.’ Thought Foodge. ‘Women’.

The main bar at the Pigs was open. Foodge thought it wise to walk down and pick up the Zephyr from the parking lot. Merv was drenched in sweat from his morning workout. A glass canoe found its way across the bar. Wes stuck his head around the door. “Uncle Merv, what will I do with these out-of-date cartons of cigarettes?”

“ ‘Ow many?”

“Hundreds.”

“Oh, shit.” Merv had forgotten that he’d allowed Lenny the Lurch use the shed, just before he went to Long Bay, for a long stretch. “Leave ‘em there, use the other shed.” Wes was trying to find a space to lock up his Charlie.

Foodge looked around. The pub was back to normal after Granny’s brews had come back on tap. The place actually looked a lot cleaner. “Had a spring clean, Merv?”

“Nah, Wes’s not paying any board, so he’s doing a bit of bouncing, bit of cleaning, even taps the odd keg if Granny’s busy. Plus, Janet’s been poorly, you know, the doc told ‘er to rest, you know, with twins, ‘an all.”

“How far along?” Foodge had no idea why he asked, as he had no idea about how ‘far along’ a pregnancy should be.

“Eight months, although it feels like eighteen.” Merv smiled at his little joke. “Doc reckons ‘e might need to seduce ‘er closer to the time.”

Foodge nodded knowingly, not entirely sure why a doctor would ‘seduce’ a pregnant lady. He stared into his glass and was about to say something about getting lucky when Wes stuck his head around the door again. “What about that female impersonator, Victoria, pity the bloke he took home!” Wes laughed.

“Oh…ah…female impersonators.” Foodge blushed, inwardly thankful for the brewer who’d induced his droop.

“You looked pretty friendly with her.” Wes gave a knowing wink.

“Oh…err…yes, Victoria’s an old friend…err…aquaintance.used her as a snout.

“They never get the walk right, do they?”

Foodge thought that Wes was being as cryptic as Victoria, earlier this morning. “Err…no. You doing anything tonight, it is New Years Eve?”

“No, I’ll help Uncle Merv and Granny. Big party here, you know, Angles, Bowling Ladies, Male Nurses Union, you know, usual crowd. Oh, shit, get out of that, you bloody useless creature!!” Granny’s goat was chowing down on the high tension lead of Wes’s Charlie.

‘It wasn’t the usual crowd.’ Thought Foodge. JL was MIA, hopefully not in gaol, Manne was supposed to be overseas with Neville, but Neville denied any knowledge, Gez and the Mysterious H were busy in their new place, as were ‘shoe and Asty. Winnie was till in Japan, but, thanks to modern technology, was able to send a telegram now and then. The famous Greek playwright and his missus never turned up. To top it all off, O’Hoo was doing a cricket tour with, soon to be, Superintendent Rouge.  ‘Well. ‘ Thought Foodge. ‘Happy New Years Eve to ‘em all, whether at home, or away!’

Fine Dining at the Pigs Arms

07 Tuesday Dec 2010

Posted by Mark in Mark

≈ 17 Comments

Tags

Australia, fiction, humor, Pigs Arms, Trotters Ale

The Pigs Arms Dining Room

Here is an extract from the Mearld-Hail dated 31st June 2008 after food and wine critic Earl Sandwich and partner Jules Carrot went on a search for the best inner west pub meal. That night, they dined at the Pigs Arms.

Arriving at the hotel is indeed an experience in itself. Tucked away, just of Porcine Ave, the Window Dressers Arms Pig & Whistle, the Pigs Arms to the locals, boasts the most interesting welcome. A sign greets you at the door saying “What lies in front us and what lies behind us are huge irrelevancies to what lies out there…..”, well, what can you say to that Odlaw?

You shuffle via the Ladies Lounge through the bar into the Bistro or as the pink neon light reminds you “The Pigs Arms Bar & Grill” just in case you would forget or in fact if you are ever able to forget.

In the bar a man stares blankly at a wall, humming a tune to himself, so softly in fact that

A version of HOO

no one else could hear it. We find out later on that it was Hung One On, a 70’s rock star who had a one hit wonder with an album that nearly everyone alive brought. “One trip too many” they say.

The waitress introduces herself as Belinda, “Glenda’s little sister”. It would seem Glenda is important. I comment that my sister also has that name but often complains that she is never allowed to sit near a window.  How odd?

We are seated a table that has a picturesque view over the railway yard. Belinda gives us the menus. We order some drinks, Trotters Ale, as it’s a local brew. Served cold, it emitted a strange misty vapor and an aroma that burns imprints on your brain that are difficult to erase. Drinking this ale became a two way process. As I sipped it, it sipped me. Stranger than strange.

The menu was small however eclectic. It contained all the usual villains, prawn cocktail, grapefruits onto pasta, steak, cake and ice cream. The words “Granny’s wedges are a must for all beer drinkers” emblazoned on the front cover however the curious thing was the way the menu was written.

Prawn cocktail was described as “…innocent little Dendrobrachiata, boiled alive , stripped to the nut,  served in a sauce made of the unborn children of Gallus gallus domesticus for some fat git with high cholesterol”, get the picture!

The last know version of Merv

We asked for the wine list. A man approached calling himself “Merv”. A list is produced, listing 34 varieties of Shiraz. “Gez’s” favorite we are told, whoever Gez is. I ask for a merlot, “Mate, this pub is for locals, you know, the unleashed”, absolutely no idea what he means so we pick a bottle and I order another Trotter’s and wait. Jules and I read the menu, Mains. Wow, after the entrées, geeps, I’m afraid to look. Let’s see, Lamb Rack – “The rib of a defenseless young Ovis aries brutally murdered and marinated in the oil of Olea europaea, ascorbic acid, Allium sativum and rubbed in sodium chloride baked in a <>187.7 degree oven. Served with pan fried Solanum tuberosum and steamed piccoli bracci”, Crusted Flathead – “a portion of sample from an ill-fated platycephaliade, obtained by slicing parallel to the spine producing a fillet, pan fried in the oil of Olea europae in a coating of  sodium chloride, Piper nigrum and the dried crumbed remains of baked Triticum spp. . Served with deep fried elongated pieces of Solanum tuberosum and a salad of Lactuca sativa, Solanum lycopersicum and Cucumis sativus”, whoa.

Dessert well lets not go there. By this time the Trotters Ale was staring to have an effect. Someone came past, counting everything, “37: John Howard, 38: The GST….”, I see a Dutch couple in the corner playing euchre and drinking Shiraz and arguing in Flemish about Wagner and his Ring Cycle.

Belinda arrives, we order but to her shock and dismay, we didn’t want any of granny’s

Belinda gets dessert

wedges. The wine comes and a handsome Greek couple enters and sits in the corner reciting poetry and encouraging the DJ to play Stella Konitopoulou. From my days of researching restaurants if the local’s visit then you know it’s going to be good.

A giant orange arrived at the door shouting,  “ Is anyone going to squeeze me?” , the paint on the walls start to peel turning into butterflies, SAS soldiers break through the doors shooting randomly and yelling at everyone to get on the floor, Jules hand mergers with the shiraz bottle and she has snakes coming out of her eyes, a man enters wearing a dinner jacket with monogrammed hankerchief’s, “MJ”, his name is Mike Jones, how I know that I have no idea, Glenda approaches, I hear her say to Belinda “Didn’t order granny’s wedges, what have I told you, if I’ve told you once I’ve told you a thousands times the antidote to Trotters is in granny’s wedges, sheez”, a lion with a black eye walks up and puts his paw on my shoulder and says ”Here mate have some of this”, I look down and see a bowl of wedges, the lion says “The’ wezzes are goo, weawy goo, eat”. I shove wedges in my mouth and chew, I’m sweating, the lion is looking annoyed, a man approaches, its Jayell, “Quick”, he cries, “Get Hung to reprogram him”, I need my nappy changed and where’s  mum  I’m hungry, some one is shaking me “Sir! Sir! Sir!”

A relaxing post prandial Hung

I wake up. I’m in hospital, St Boars. A doctor and nurse are in the cubicle with the curtains around, they tell me this happens all the time to people not used to the mild hallucinogenic effects of Trotters Ale “You need to order some of granny’s wedges, didn’t Belinda tell you” he says, they smile at me in a peculiar way, they call Jules. As we leave St Boars a giant orange is sitting on the side on the road, crying, “Won’t someone squeeze me?”……..

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