Day 10

Dear Diary,

In spite of myself, I’ve been feeling very chuffed all day. Not that I don’t still fear the worst for the future, but at least for now I can honestly say I’m as happy as a fruitcake full of brandy.

My estimation of Finian Da Fabricator has gone up. Not only did he open my door very gently and politely, but he wiped off his boots before entering. He also spread a sheet of plastic (fairly new and not pink) on my seat before he sat down, which is something that hasn’t happened since owld Fingus Da Flatulator used to take me joyriding before he blew hisself up. As I said before, owld Fingus used to be very considerate of my feelings. Not only did he never kick my tyres, but even when he was drunk as a lord he hardly every threw up on my steering wheel, which I appreciated. Wherever he is now, I hope he’s happy and has plenty of potheen and can still visit Marcela Da Splodge very other month to get his pipes cleaned.

Anyway, after Finian Da Fabricator started me up (he’s got very soft hands and when he turned the key in the ignition, it gave a cheap thrill), he drive me round the back of the Misther Patchouli Da Fanny’s cheapo-built pink building, about which the less said the better, and into a small garage. I knew right away it was where Finian Da Fabricator worked, on account of it was scrubbed shiny and clean and didn’t smell like a stoat. He parked me carefully, right in the middle so I could see what was going on all sides and even behind me, and didn’t even run into the doors on the way in. Not like not-so-owld Fergal The Fecker, who was always driving into things and giving me a bloody nose (so to speak).

The first thing he did was rinse me off real nice with warm water, just the right temperature so it hit all the right spots. He then got me all sudsy and cleaned away all the mud and grit and dead insects and small birds, and even scrubbed a squashed cat from my left hand front tyre and got rid of about forty tonnes of cow stuff from within my treads. The latter musta been packed inside my tyres for ever such a long time, what with there being the three cows (Bernice, Milegarde and Lottie in case you forgot) and so many others forever tramping up and down the road looking to get home before milking, a situation they’d never got in in the first place were it not for them always running away. Don’t know why cows are always forgetting to go to the toilet before leaving home, but I’d probably do it was well if I was a cow. Anyway, I know for a fact the not-so-owld Fergal Da Fecker never once even looked at my tyres, not even when he kicked them, and owld Fingus Da Flatulator was usually so drunk he probably forgot. Not that he forgot on purpose, unlike not-so-owld Fergal The Fecker, who was more concerned about trying to visit Marcela Da Splodge to have his pipes cleaned. Which he did, only she threw him out. Afterwards, he got uppity and called her a whoooer, which is something owld Fingus Da Flatulator never callt her, and wasn’t very mice. I’m only mentioning this last episode on account of it having slipped my mind before. Remind me to tell you about it later. It’ll make you laugh. I know it did me.

Anyway, after Finian Da Fabricator soaped me over real good, and had rinsed me and soaped me a second time just to make sure he’d not missed any dirt (and there was plenty, believe me), he rinse me again and then dried me with an engine thing I’d not seen when he’d parked me. Of course, I immediately apologised to it for appearing rude, but said it was on account of my being worried he was going to run into the door. The engine said not to fret, that I’d every reason to panic, seeing as how if Misther Patchouli Da Smelley’d been driving I’d have probably lost at least one headlamp.

This engine I was telling you about had a dirty great hose attached to it and it blasted me all over with hot air. I admired the hose and the engine said it was nice, but not so nice as the ones fire engines get to wear.

Anyway, after Finian Da Flatulator dried me all over, he took a soft cloth and wiped me in places I’d forgot about. Again I thought of how soft his hands were. If he were a small truck I’d want him to have my babies.

One interesting thing. He didn’t wax or polish me. I was about to resent this and was even thinking about calling his attention to it by gently (very gently) judging his toes with my front wheels, but then I saw him take some containers of paint from one of the cupboards at the back. And I went all numb and nearly fainted. He’s gonna paint me! I’m ecstatic. I’ve not had a new coat of paint since I don’t know when. I know I was bright and shiny when I was in regular service in South Devon, and I recall being painted a different colour after I was retired and I transported old people around and around Europe. But since then? Nothing, or not so I remember. Of course, I’ve had loads of sticky signs plastered all over me. Advertising and the like. But this is like being new again. I feel like owld Fingus Da Flatulator getting all dressed up bright and shiny to have his pipes cleaned by Marcela Da Splodge, way back before he blew hisself up.

I’m gonna put my notebook away and try to get some shut-eye. I’ve a feeling tomorrow’s gonna be a busy day. So, once again, here endeth another day.

Day 9

Dear Diary,

If someone, I think it was Finian Da Fabricator, hadn’t wedged a dirty great stone underneath my front tyre, I swear I woulda rolled down the hill and over a cliff and finished myself off once and for all. And that’s a fact.

Would you believe it, they didn’t even bother to park me proper last night. All they did was roll me off the trailer and leave me right there, with my right buttock sticking out in the road. I’m lucky that Fergal Da Fecker didn’t go out joyriding like he does sometimes, cuz I’d a’been bashed to bits. And then, with the way my luck’s been going lately, it woulda been straight to the knacker’s yard.

I’ll tell you here and now that Misther Patchouli Da Fanny is not as nice as he was when I thought of him as the large, well-dressed man. For that matter, even when I got honest with myself and called him a fat whale, he seemed a decent sort. Somehow the charm has worn off. This morning, for example, he spoke to me very sharpish, and for no reason at all, at least none I could think of. It happened after he tried to start me cold (without even warming his hands). Of course, I’m not used to such treatment and refused to do anything but cough politely – hoping, quite naturally, that he would get the message. “Stick your hands between your legs first, or at least blow on them!” But no, he called me a ‘feckin’ piece of shit!” Right then and there, without so much as a by your leave. He then got out and jerked open my bonnet, practically yanking off my lovely chrome handle in the process, just as though I was one of those modern plastic transit vans wot don’t care how they’re treated as long as they’re retired after the first six months and sold to organic vegetable farmers. However, I’m a classic and deserve better, and if I don’t get an apology I’m gonna run over his toes and grind ‘em into the pavement. And that’s a promise.

Anyway, I finally let him start me, and as a reward he ground my gears around for a bit, until my eyes watered. So I stalled a couple of times to make him feel incompetent (especially as I did it when a bunch of old lady customers of the junk market were watching and laughing at him behind his back). In the end, I got tired of the game and let him drive me over to a paddock on the other side of Floozie Da Smelley’s Junk By The Tonne. Of course, it was fenced in pink (there must have been a sale at Asbos). I’m thinking they musta bought all the fencing in flat packs, on account of it being sorta boring and cheap-looking, as well as all the same. Anyway, as I was about to say, Misther Patchouli Da Fanny parked me in a special place he made for me, which had a sign painted especially for me. Yes, it was in gold, but at least it was mine and not for some car.

Reserved for Community Bus

It said, only the writing was sloppier and there were a coupla smudges where he’d tried to correct mistakes and spilt his beer down the front.

After I’d admired the sign for a moment or two, my eyes were drawn to the paddock. And who met my gaze (though they were trying very hard to avoid me, on account of them being so embarrassed and all) but the ewes Misther Patchouli Da Fanny had bought from not-so-owld Fergal Da Fecker with money he’d made hisself in the back room on the giant pink flat pack building (and not a German one either, but one built by hisself and Finian Da Fabricator, which is why it was lopsided and falling down on one side).

At first, of course, I didn’t recognise the sheep, and not because I’ve a bad memory for sheep faces either (although they all look the same). They’d been painted pink and their hair had been put in sausagey curls. Don’t blame ‘em for being mortified. I mean, sheep might not be much to write home about, not like an ocean liner, but they don’t deserve to be made to look like poodles in the front window of a brothel. I asked ‘em what happened and how they came to look like that, and they sighed real heavy like and pointed to the front gate of their paddock, to a spectacle I hadn’t seen before. There, sitting on an elaborate pink and gold throney chair, all decorated in the taste of Floozie Da Smelley, was the horrible little girl I’d seen before with Misther Patchouli Da Fanny. In front of her was a gaudy gilt and pink table, a roll of tickets and a gold sign.

Candee Da Smelley-Fanny’s
Petting Zoo. €3.00.
Bags of feed: €1.50

The first thing I thought (this was before I could take it all in) was that €1.50 was an awful lot of money for a handful of grass, especially since it looked to be yanked from the neighbour’s prized lawn, and still had its roots attached.

After I got over being offended by what she was charging for the (free) grass, it struck me that someone musta really had it in for her, what with naming her Candee Da Smelley-Fanny and dressing her in pink and winding up her hair like they did in great sausagey curls all down her back. However, to be honest, I might have felt more sorry for her if she’d have been nicer, but she looked a right bloated toad, she did. And her nose dripped. And she screamed at me for staring at her and then came right over and kicked my tyres. If only because someone might take it out on the ewes (who’d been through enough humiliation as it was), I’d have run her over there and then. As it was, I turned the other cheek. However, all was not lost, on account of she scuffed her pink shoe something terrible and I hope it’s ruint.

Oh, oh. Finian Da Fabricator is heading in my direction, with the keys dangling from his right hand. From his expression, it looks like he’s gonna take me joyriding. I’ll hide my diary and pencil so he doesn’t see what I’m up to. Unless we have an accident, I’ll be back tomorrow. As I like to say, so endeth the day.

Day 8

Dear Diary,

My mind is still spinning from yesterday’s happenings. I was tempted to write ‘yesterday’s outrage’ but thought I’d let the dust settle and give everyone a second chance. Needless to say, it was one of those days I’d rather’ve been a pickle than a bus. At least a pickle has the option of choking someone, whereas all a bus can do is run them over, which is not always that easy, especially when they refuse to stand in your way.

I suppose I should start from the beginning, Dear Diary, so you’ll know what I’m going on about.

When last I wrote, which was yesterday afternoon, I’d just spied a large pink, brightly lit building lying just off the road a short way ahead, and guessed we were headed in that direction. Unfortunately, I was correct, for when he pulled up in front of it I saw it was even uglier than I’d feared. It was all horribly pink with little shiny seashells pasted all over the front. God only knows how many cockles and winkles and mussels they’d massacred to get the effect they’d wanted. A coupla trillion I’d guess. Around the front of the building were hundreds of plastic plants, off all shapes and sizes from palms to daisies, as well as cute little benches and tables interspersed right where they shouldn’t have been. I’ll tell you here and now, I was shamed to be seen there, and wished again I was back with owld Fingus Da Flatulator, before he went and blew hisself up.

To one side was a vacant lot surrounded by a pink picket fence. Each fencepost had been forced to wear a pink plastic saguaro cactus wearing a sombrero. Made me want to cry, it did. Right in the centre of the fence was a large pink sign with gold letters:

Floosie Da Smelley’s
Cheap n’ Cheerful
Junk-By-The-Tonne
Fish n’ Chips
Fried chocobars
We will Not Be Undersold

Only with sloppier handwriting. I can tell you, the minute I saw the sign I felt sick. But then I realised I hadn’t read the last line, so continued on. Right away I saw stars dancing before my eyes and wished (for the fourth or fifth time in so many minutes) I could find a cliff to roll over:

Misther Patchouli Da Fanny’s
Discount Community Bus Service
And Private Hire.

I read the sign again, in the off chance my eyes’d misfired. But no such luck. I am, for the first time in my life, utterly without words. My life is over. I’m gonna do some deep breathing for a half-hour or so, cuz right now I’m too upset to think.

Now, before someone gets upset and thinks I’m snobby and have something against second-hand markets, I don’t. In fact, there’s nothing like a proper car boot or bring-and-buy to make me feel all comfy and sentimental. You see, a couple of years before owld Fingus Da Flatulator won he in a crooked card game, I was owned by a couple wot went to flea markets for a living. Some of the stuff they bought and sold was even nice and one could keep it in a back room without feeling too ashamed to live. Spadella Da Strumpet was her name, and her ‘husband’, he was called Mort Da Piffle. Nice people. Ate a bit too much fatty food and liked to bend an elbow every coupla minutes, but, hey, they treated me with respect, they did. Kept me polished and shiny and made sure my oil was clean and without great chunks of road floating about in it. Every day they used to pack me up with old furniture and sellable uglies and a couple of dogs (Mort and Smirna-Lumpy) and off we would go. Everyday it’d be to a different sale. Sometimes indoors in a large barn, in which case I’d usually hafta wait in the parking lot (unless, of course, the door was wide and there weren’t no steps for me to climb). And at the end of each day, they’d pack me up all neat and nice and we’d go home. I get all mushy and bleary-eyed just thinking of the lovely garage they’d built for me. Squeaky clean and comfy as anything, and with no cars in it to get up my snoot and make me want to bully them or run them into a ditch. There was a small and fairly ancient scooter, but she was ever so sweet and polite and, if I may say, deferential, which is a characteristic not often found in smaller vehicles. One other thing she had going for her was her sense of style and accent. Nothing like an Italian Vespa to make a bloke’s heart go boingy boing.

Unfortunately, I wish something good could be said for this ghastly pink monstrosity they’ve brought me too. The junk they sells in the market is enough to make a cow’s milk churn and sour at the same time. I’m just hoping I don’t have to carry none of it when we go to other sales.

Ah, but you are probably asking why the Community Bus sign got me so upset. I’m not really sure. Just a feeling. Misther Patchouli Da Fanny, which is what the large, well-dressed man is called when he is home, certainly seems to be a pleasant enough man, if you overlook the funny money he likes to carry around. And he’s certainly been good to me. At least so far. However, I intend to keep my eyes and ears open every single minute. And I’m telling you in advance, the first time he kicks my tyres, I’m gonna run over him and squash him like a big fat bug.

By the way, it turns out the truck and trailer wot brung me here gossip terribly where Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Floozie Da Smelley are concerned. Turns out they told everyone they were married, on account of them not wanting school kids to call their daughter (who, in case you forgot, is the little girl with the horrible sausagey curls all down her back) “bastard bastard pants a’ fire.” Personally, I don’t know why that would bother her none, and I can’t even figure out why anyone would want to call her that. It’s not as though it’s clever or even very original. If you’re gonna insult someone, at least put some thought behind it. I mean, I could understand what all the fuss was all about if they called her ‘sneezy slimy pants are grimy.” At least that rhymes and has a certain je ne çe qua (whatever that means).

Anyway, it turns out the big wedding ceremony they held in the pink building was for show. Didn’t mean nothing at all. Even the vicar they’d found, The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser, wasn’t even a proper vicar, more like an out of work fancy dancer from the other end of the island, where everyone’s more sophisticated and open minded. Of course, everyone was so plastered during the ceremony he was the only one who realised he was reading recipes from Little Aunty Mary’s Victorian Book of Delightful Punishments, which he’d found on one of the tables in Floozie Da Smelley’s junk market. But such is life, and I’m only an old bus what’s been saved from the knacker’s yard more times than a dog’s had diarrhoea.

I still can figure out why I have such a bad feeling about this place. I mean, bad taste is one thing, but one can be tasteless and still be a nice person. I’ll hafta think about it until tomorrow. By that time I’ll know what my bedroom looks like and if they are gonna bathe me and if anyone says goodnight.

As I like to say, so endeth another day.

Day 7

Dear Diary,

Remind me to tell you more about Pergulla Da Splatta’s authentically quaint peasanty all-you-can-eat restaurant. If you don’t, I might forget, cuz no end of things have happened since yesterday, and I’m not entirely sure where to begin. Not that it matters, cuz even if anybody ever reads this thing they won’t have a clue what I’m talking about. However, who knows? It might be important and hold the clue to world peace or bombing people we don’t like or something, and in any case it’ll make me feel better when I’ve got it off my chest.

We finally left Thelma O’Leary’s café, but our departure took more time than I’d anticipated on account of Thelma deciding at the last minute to burn some breakfast for the large, well-dressed man and Finian Da Fabricator. She needed at least an hour and forty minutes to ruin it just the way she wanted, after which she shovelled it all into a plastic bag, along with a couple of pints of tea. She’d run out of lids for the take-out containers, but never mind. All the tea slopping around in the bag probably softened the burnt toast and black pudding and kidneys and made them more alluring. At times like that I’m glad I don’t have a nose.

We’ve now been driving for a good hour or two, during which time we’ve passed some lovely scenery and some that wasn’t so nice and some more that would have looked better blown up. Most of the time the weather’s been okay, in an islandish sort of way, which means the sun’s been weebly and we’ve driven through two gales and a blizzard. All in all, I wish I’d brought a sweater, but I am thankful the sun has gone somewhere else for the day, what with me being sunburnt since owld Fingus Da Flatulator blew hisself up and hasn’t waxed or polished me.

During the drive through all that boring scenery and with no one else to talk to, I let my mind wander back to Pergulla Da Splatta and her authentic, peasanty, all-you-can-eat restaurant, and it occurred to me she looked just like Thelma O’Leary. I wonder if they’re sisters or something. They certainly run their restaurants the same way. I remember way back, during my days with The Golden Twilight Years Old-People’s Tours, how much I’d admired Pergulla Da Splatta’s practice of never clearing the tables or cleaning up the mess until the last customer had either left or died from poisoning or’d fallen into the toilet during the act of recycling his lunch. Made it easier on her corns, she always maintained, but I personally thought it was so she wouldn’t have to pay decent wages to a waitress, and could pay herself for doing nothing instead. She also served everyone the same thing, only calling it something else and disguising leftovers with sprinkly bits she’d made from the dried, ground up dregs from the bottom of her vegetable drawer, which Parvl Da Snood, her illegal Lithuanian chef, dyed in vats of green and blue and orange and gold in the dead of night when nobody was looking over his shoulder.

I suspect Thelma O’Leary did much the same thing, judging by the look of her greasy, burnt food, only not as well on account of her not having Parvl Da Snood to help her out.

Talking about Parvl Da Snood, he used to call me names and throw dirty water at my windows. Said I was uglier than his grandmother’s pututy and the only reason he didn’t want to get old was so he wouldn’t hafta forced to ride around The Continent in me. The first time he said it I thought it was funny and laughed. The second I rolled over his foot. The third time I ran over him, after which he didn’t say much of anything.

After that, we never went back to Pergulla Da Splatta’s authentically quaint, peasanty all-you-can-eat restaurant. From what I heard, once she didn’t have Parvl Da Snood working wonders with greasy leavings in her kitchen, the place went downhill. Such is life.

I’m thinking the large, well-dressed man and Finian Da Fabricator are going to pull up next to the bright pink building up ahead. I’m ever so excited, and will close for now so I don’t break my pencil.

As we say, so endeth another day.

Day 6

Dear Diary,

I’m having an anxiety attack. We’ve been at the café for hours and hours and it is now the next morning. For some reason, the large, not so well-dressed gentleman and Finian Da Fabricator left with Thelma O’Leary when she closed up and followed her home (which was just next door). Unfortunately, they’d parked the lorry and trailer (with me on it) where I can’t properly spy on the house. As a consequence I couldn’t rightly see what they got up to. Mind you, I doubt it was anything worth watching, what with the large, used-to-be well-dressed gentleman being so abnormally round and Finian Da Fabricator mouthing off all the time and Thelma O’Leary resembling a skanky toad. Now, if Fergal Da Fecker had been among them, it would’ve been different. Shouting and yelling and moaning and groaning and huffing and puffing and sweating and bringing the roof down. All in all, I suppose it’s just as well he stayed at The Petrol Station, where he can’t offend anyone. Except, perhaps, customers, but the sane ones hardly ever go there.

When night came and the cold came in off the sea I was reminded how sunburned and roasted I’d got during the hours and hours I’d sat in front of the café waiting for the large, not so well-dressed gentleman and Finian Da Fabricator to remember I was waiting for them. Owld Fingus Da Flatulator, before he blew hisself up, used to wax and polish me every other day or so. But, of course, Fergal Da Fecker is a feckin’ lazy sod, and besides he couldn’t have cared a boiled parsnip about me, which meant I’ve dried out completely. After a full day under the hot sun, I’m afraid my paint will peel dreadfully and they’ll send me to the scrap yard. In spite of me being a ‘classic’ and all.

I’ve decided the large gentleman is not so much large as he’s a great giant fat blubbery twelve tonne whale slug. I know it’s not polite to talk like that, at least not any more or where anyone can hear you, but I spent a large part of yesterday watching the large gentleman shovelling food into his mouth worse than a pig at a trough (with apologies to the pig). He’s fat. Obese. Gross. A Great Greasy Wobblebottom. I don’t know whether he was born with fat genes, but he sure has ‘em now. I wonder what his wife has to say about it.

You can tell I’m in a foul mood, can’t you. But they left me here all day while they ate and ate, and then went next door with Thelma O’Leary, where they carried on all night and forgot all about me. The first thing I’ll do when I get down from this trailer is run them over.

While watching the large, formerly well-dressed whale-like gentleman and Finian Da Fabricator gorge themselves on Thelma O’Leary’s greasy, burnt offerings, and having nothing better to do than reminisce, I was put in mind of better years and cafes a whole lot more appealing than this one. One in particular, back in the days when I was chartered by Golden Twilight Years Tours, transporting amazingly old people (I know I not supposed to call them old, but they were) round and round The Continent. Except for my upholstery, which I really felt sorry for, it was an easy gig. Never had to drive to far or to too many out of way places, on account of none of the passengers remembering where they’d just been. The tour guide and owner, Pergulla Da Splatta, who turned out to be owld Fingus Da Flatulator’s twin sister (which had something to do with him winning the bus by cheating at cards, but that’s another story for another day), used to tell the chauffeur, who was her idiot son, Mingus Da Pingus, to drive ahead for about a mile and a half, or until the next toilet. After they’d disembarked everyone and emptied them all out (this was before nappies were sold to amazingly old people, which is why my upholstery got ruint over and over again every night and morning), they’d turn the bus around and head back to where they were before, namely The Golden Twilight Years All-You-Can-Eat Restaurant, owned (you guessed it) by Pergulla Da Splatta. Of course, all the amazingly old people immediately enthused over the original quaint and peasanty features of the joint, and asked if they could stop and eat there, on account of it being so old-fashioned and all. ‘Course, they all wanted to take hundred of photos of themselves being served by the local peasants (mostly Pergulla Da Splatta and Mingus Da Pingus in disguise), and Pergulla always said, “Sure, sweety, and would you like a to buy a new camera for the pictures’ll be extra nice?” Naturally, what with the amazingly old people being politer than a cat after it’s dead, were more than happy to oblige, little knowing that the cameras being sold them didn’t have a lick of film between them. Wouldn’t have done much for Pergulla Da Splatta’s reputation if it got out that they weren’t actually taking the amazingly old people around Europe like they’d promised to.

Anyway, what I remember best about The Golden Twilight Years All-You-Can-Eat Restaurant, besides the full toilets, which were of the quaint, earth closet variety to make ‘em seem more authentic, was the manner of the service. But that’ll have to wait until tomorrow for me to write about. I’ve just seen the large, well-dressed gentleman (who must’ve had a shower after doing whatever he did, cuz he looks almost respectable again) and Finian Da Fabricator come out of Thelma O’Leary’s house, and they are heading in my direction. And just when I was starting to worry they’d forgot all about me!

They’re climbing into the cab of the truck, or at least Finian Da Fabricator is; the large well-dressed gentleman is more like hauling hisself in and making rude grunting noises. But such is life.

We’re off!!!!! I’ll put my notebook and pencil away, so they don’t get broke going over potholes or blown away in the wind. So, it’s time to say, “so endeth another day.”

Day 5

Dear Diary,

What a fecking horrible start to the day, I had. At three ayem, three ayem, I was awakened by the most God-awful clattering and roaring and banging, a din which was accompanied by the brightest lights I have ever seen shining directly into my eyes and blinding me. At three ayem!

Well, being out of practice when it comes to getting up early - something I haven’t undertaken since I was young and, as part of my route, was forced to collect screaming brats and drop them off as roughly as possible at various really tacky council schools - I was slow to react. So slow, in fact, that I will still standing there with my bonnet open when than a system of chains and pulleys clamped itself to my hindquarters. Almost immediately, I heard the dreaded roar of an engine and a screeching of gears and, before I knew it, I was being hauled arse backwards up on ramp and onto a very large trailer. One of those posh ones usually reserved to transporting hot cars and nymphomaniacs.

When they’d fastened me in place so I couldn’t run away, the lights were switched off and so was the engine. It was then I was able to look around to see who was in back of this horrible kidnapping. Sure enough – as I suspected – not-so-owld-Fergal Da Fecker was in the thick of it, standing all filthy and drunk and looking every bit the cat what’s ate the baby chickie. Which, of course, means he thought he’d pulled a fast one on some idiot (which he never did since the dumbest idiot in the world made him look like sheep dip). Just about then, the large, well-dressed gentleman (only now we wasn’t so well-dressed and looked for all intents and purposes like a navvy) walked out of the shadows, peeling off a couple more (phoney) banknotes from his wad. These he rolled up so they looked like a cigar. Without saying a word he shoved the money (which, come to think of it looked like old Italian Liras, and you know what they were worth) into Fergal’s breast pocket. I bet he had to wash his hands and deodorise hisself afterwards.

Just then, yet another man joined them. And what do you know, it was none other than Finian Da Fabricator, so named for his ability to make a new car out of ten stolen ones and because he could invent a lie faster than you can fart downwind after a bowl of cabbage. He was also owld Fingus Da Flatulator’s older brother and, to my mind, an all-round good sort, meaning he never failed to say ‘hello’ to me and never once kicked my tyres. I don’t care how big a crook a man is as long as he’s polite and doesn’t suck petrol from my pipe.

I noticed Finian Da Fabricator didn’t say a word to not-so-owld Fergal Da Fecker, except to order him about and tell him what a prat he was. However, he never took his eyes of him, not for a minute, on account of he knew he was a crook who’d steel your mother-in-law’s dentures the minute she opened her mouth to take a bite out of a potato. He also double-checked the chains to make sure not-so-owld Fergal Da Fecker hadn’t accidentally on purpose forgot to fasten them correctly. Which made me laugh, in spite of my precarious position on top of the trailer.

It weren’t but five minutes later when, after declining not-so-owld Fergal Da Fecker’s offer of a pint o’ potheen, that the large, now not so well-dressed gentleman and Finian Da Fabricator climbed in to the cab of the lorry and started the engine (which, I couldn’t help but notice, started right up and ran smooth as best butter). And off we went, spattering mud and cow shite all over not-so-owld Fergal Da Fecker, as he stood like a gormless idiot watching us leave. I suppose, Dear Diary, I should have got all weepy and teary-eyed, what with the prospects of not ever seeing him again, but what the Hell. Not a day passed when he didn’t curse me or kick my tyres or suck petrol from my pipes. Which proves that once a Fecker, always a Fecker. I’d sooner weep for that snobby, hippy lady who I ran over twenty years ago after she ran into me with her bicycle during a Ban Fossil Fuels rally in South Devon. But such is life.

We drove off, the large, not so well-dressed man, Finian Da Fabricator and Me, as smart as you please, and must have travelled a good twenty minutes (with me enjoying the lovely scenery and admiring my reflection in passing windows, which are, as everybody knows, shined up like brass pennies by farm women, who don’t seem to have anything else to do) when we suddenly pulled into a café. I knew right away it was a café, even though I hadn’t been to this particular one before, on account of the tacky sign in front, saying:

Thelma O’Leary’s Café

To be honest, I hadn’t a clue who Thelma O’ Leary was, but I have a feeling she might have something to do with Driscoll Da Dribbler, whose last name was O’Leary (only he wasn’t really ‘O’Leary’, just more of a ‘Leary’). I heard her mentioned once by a car, which parked itself one day in the field by me when its owner stopped for a pint or two of potheen with owld Fingus Da Flatulator before he blew hisself up. Anyway, the car dropped her name (and some cars are terrible name-droppers) as someone he thought I ought to know but probably didn’t. Said she was famous for the quality of her stale, burned, seed brak and her dried out boiled mutton. This, of course, was back in the days when the ewes still lived in the field, and I could tell right away how upset they were. I told the car off in no uncertain terms (in spite of him being a guest), but it didn’t do any good, what with him not knowing the relationship between dried out boiled mutton and ewes.

Anyway, the large, not so well-dressed gentleman and Finian Da Fabricator went off into the café, and I was left on my lonesome, wondering what was what and thinking about the ewes and wondering if, perhaps, they’d been taken off to the abattoir after all. I then must have dosed off, and when I awoke I could see the not so well-dressed gentleman and Finian Da Fabricator sitting inside the café at a window table (which is why I could see them). A very crank-looking biddy, probably Thelma O’Leary, was yakking at them and scribbling something on a notepad. A few minutes later she brought them several plates piled with greasy, burnt-out food, which for some reason made them very happy.

There is no account for the ways of humans. Anyway, I hope before we leave they’ll remember I haven’t eaten, but probably they’ll not think of me at all.

I have a feeling we’ll be here at the café for hours and hours and nothing’ll happen worth writing about. So I’ll close now and save my pencil.

So endeth another day.

Day 4

Dear Diary,

Another horrible night’s sleep, dreaming that the large, well-dressed man was cutting me into strips with a blunt tin opener, boiling them up in a tank of potheen and feeding the scraps to the cows. Only, the scraps of metal (my flesh, mind you) had turned to slurry. I don’t know what that says about my opinion of the cows, but there they were, slurping away, chugging gallons and gallons of the fragrant brown. Oh dear, it really was most upsetting.

As a result of my dream, I awoke this morning with a ghastly headache and an upset stomach. I’m also standing in a pool of liquid – a horrible state of affairs for a bus – which means I developed some sort of oil leak or petrol leak, or both. It is not a good start to the rest of my life!

Not-so-owld Fergal Da Fecker is behaving in a most suspicious manner, and I’m not sure what to think. I am trusting him less and less and wish he’d either go away completely or develop an interest in vegetable marrows. At the moment, he is spending rather a lot of time talking into his mobile phone, which is to my mind extremely rude, especially since he hasn’t as much as said ‘hello’ to me all day. He’s also carrying a clipboard and is making rude scratches on a dirty piece of paper. I call them ‘rude scratches’ because you couldn’t really call ‘em writing, not after having caught glimpses of owl Fingus Da Flatulator’s elegant script. Oh, dear, I do wish he hadn’t gone and blown himself up!

Not-so-owld Fergal Da Fecker annoyed me so much at one point that I had no alternative but to hold my breath and fart through my tailpipe, which startled him and made him drop his phone into a cowpat. He said a lot a bad words, including several I’d never heard before, and then kicked me in the backside, possibly denting my elegant, chrome bumper. He then yelled at me some more and wished all sorts of bad things on my mother, which isn’t a bit nice considering she’d never done him any harm and he’d never met her. He really is a most objectionable person, and that’s saying something.

I don’t think he’s noticed that the cow’s have gone.

Anyway, after yelling at me and wiping his phone on his trousers, he disappeared into The Petrol Station, presumably to attend to personal matters of an offensive nature. I can’t hardly bring myself to write what he did in front of me the night he arrived. That was when I decided to revive the ancient art of farting through my exhaust. Since then, he’s spent most of his private time where I can’t watch.

After he went back into The Petrol Station (following the incident with his phone), it went all quiet in the field. Not a bird singing or nothing. I really do miss the ewes and cows dreadfully! It’s horrible having no one to talk to, especially since I spent most of my life in towns where there were plenty of cars and motorbikes and dogs to bully, as well as cats to squash. But such is life. I guess we all gotta learn to adapt or go mad or roll over a cliff. Anyway, as I was saying, I daydreamed for a couple of hours (or something like that), after which I got terribly bored and distracted myself by blowing raspberries and farting through the whole of “Rule Britannia”, something I’d learned to do when I carried American tourists around historic sites in Windsor. That was way back before the tour operator went belly-up after investing in a racehorse and sold me to the man who lost me in a card game to owld Fingus Da Flatulator.

After “Rule Britannia” I tried as best I could to remember the dramatic bits of “Il Trovatore”, which had been a favourite of one of my drivers on a trip to Rome a very long time ago, even before doing the rounds of historic sites in Windsor. In fact, if I remember correctly, I went to Rome just after being retired from a regular route in deepest Devon. A doddle that job was. Beautiful scenery, fun, winding roads, and plenty of cars and motorbikes and dogs to bully (as well as thousands of cats to squash), especially in the summer. But enough of that.

I eventually gave up on “Il Trovatore” and was thinking about the advantages of being a cow, who could at least escape from a field without persuading some human to start its engine, when low and behold, the very large car with the large, well-dressed gentleman pulled up in from of The Petrol Station. The car beeped its hooter in a snobbish manner (how I’d like to bully him), and sooner or later not-so-owld Fergal Da Fecker staggered to the door of the shop carrying a tankard of potheen in one hand, and with a disgracefully smarmy grin on his face. He walked over to the car and leaned in through the window (if I’d been a car and he’d behave in such a fashion, I’d have rolled the window up and cut his scrawny neck in two).

The car, however, obviously has better manners than I, and pretended he didn’t even notice the drunken state of not-so-owld Fergal Da Fecker, which is just as well because after a few minutes the very large, well-dressed gentleman got out and shook Fergal’s hand (without even wiping it off first).

After that things started happening. Things involving me! The large, well-dressed gentleman and not-so-owld Fergal Da Fecker, talking in low voices (obviously so I couldn’t overhear), came straight round in back of The Petrol Station to where I was standing minding my own business.

The two men stopped to admire me for five or ten minutes, extolling my virtues, which was okay in a way but also irritated me because they hadn’t bothered to say ‘hello’ first. They then walked round and round me a dozen or so times, touching me with their fingers in sensitive places and stroking my paintwork in what I thought was an over-familiar manner. And then – just as I was about to let out a really awesome blast from my exhaust – not-so-owld Fergal had the nervy to open my door. The two climbed in, without so much as a by-your-leave, and proceeded to bounce up and down on each one of my seats in turn.

And then, without even throwing a sly compliment in my direction, the large, well-dressed gentleman rose to his feet, farting tenderly into my driver’s seat - which almost made me laugh out loud - and climbed down from my innards. Not-so-owld Fergal Da Fecker then took the opportunity of staring around my insides and sniffing rudely, before he followed. One of them, I presume Fergal, slammed the door and locked it with a key. And then, in front of my eyes, the large, well-dressed gentleman extracted a large roll of (obviously dicey) banknotes from his pocket and counted a reasonable number into not-so-owld Fergal Da Fecker’s outstretched hand. I say a ‘reasonable’ number, but actually – considering the fact that it concerned me – it was a most paltry sum. An insulting sum. A sum which got me so angry that then and there I let off the blast I’d always dreamt about.

And did it do any good? Not on your effing nelly. Made ‘em laugh even louder than I was laughing. I took it as a lucky sign, at which point not-so-owld Fergal Da Fecker embraced the large, well-dressed gentleman enthusiastically and walked him to his large, slightly pompous car.

And now, Dear Diary, I don’t know what to think. I’ve got no one to talk to and am really afraid for my future. What if the large, well-dressed gentleman took to ewes to the abattoir after all. And what if he’ll do even worse to me.

Oh, well. If I’m still alive and in one piece tomorrow, I’ll let you know what’s happened.

And so endeth another day (hopefully not my last).

Day 3

Dear Diary,

It was all go last night, believe me! Shortly after bedtime, not-so-owld Fergal Da Fecker emerged once again from The Petrol Station, shouting and raging and carrying on. And after about thirty minutes of this, during which he swung a very large hammer over his head and threatened to “kill da fecker wot cheated me,” I quite regretted the passing of owld Fingus Da Flatulator. He may not have amounted to much, did owld Fingus, but at least he was never violent. He certainly never went on the sort of rampages his son seems to favour (I am only assuming that Fergal was his son, but one never knows). In fact, when he was soused, which was every afternoon, he mostly went to sleep and made soft mewling noises. What’s more, owld Fingus never threatened to send his sheep to the abattoir. If he had, they might not have spent the evenings with him inside The Petrol Station, but that is another story for another time.

What I want to write about, dear diary, are the happenings of last night, or at least those about which I have some personal knowledge. I am, of course, at a disadvantage, for I slept unusually soundly and missed most of what went on. However, I expect I’ll get it all sorted out in my mind sooner or later.

In the meantime, we should probably start where we started before (before I went of on a tangent), with not-so-owld Fergal Da Fecker waving his hammer and threatening to kill (I presume) the man in the large car who bought the sheep with (allegedly) spurious currency. As I wrote, this went on for about thirty minutes, after which he flailed away at various objects that got in his way, his victims including the sign in front of The Petrol Station, a section of fence, several windows, an old chair and several bales of silage, all of which were happily minding their own business and doing nothing offensive whatsoever. I felt quite bad about the chair, being it was the one owld Fingus Da Flatulator liked to sit in of an afternoon when it wasn’t raining too hard.

After the thirty minutes had passed, leaving those of us who remained standing nervous wrecks, not-so-owld Fergal Da Fecker siphoned a pint of potheen from the petrol tank and went back inside. Almost immediately he was asleep, or at least if his snoring was anything to go by. And if it wasn’t snoring then the poor crayture suffers from the most dreadful catarrh.

Anyway, almost at once I could see the cows were upset about something and were packing their bags.

“We’re sorry to leave you alone,” they said to me (or at least the larger one – Milegarde - did). “But we’re not hanging about to be done in, and that’s a fact.” And with that they were off through the hole in the fence, the one they always used when the grass looked greener on the other side. Mind you, I suspected this time they weren’t just being greedy and were up to something. In the past, they never packed their belongings, and in the past owld Fingus Da Flatulator simply went out first thing in the morning and brought them back. This time, I had a feeling they were going to continue down the road to the other end of the island, and possibly beyond, that’s how many changes of clothing they’d packed into their udders. They didn’t want to be brought back, at least not by not-so-owld Fergal Da Fecker, whom they didn’t trust further than they could kick him in a gale.

I figured their chances were pretty good, what with him not knowing where to look for them and being unfamiliar with the usual hiding places on the island. I also figured he was so drunk he might not remember them at all. He’d probably think they were figments of his imagination. But such is life.

As I’d suspected, he didn’t miss the cows at all this morning. In fact, I don’t think he even knew where he was. He sort of held his head and swayed back and forth and sat down in owld Fingus Da Flatulator’s chair (the one he’d attacked with the hammer), only to have it break into bits underneath his scrawny arse. That made me laugh, it did, in spite of it being rude to laugh at someone else’s misfortune.

He spent some time on the ground, thrashing about like a mule what’s got stung by a bee. In fact, he might have remained where he was all afternoon, hadn’t a very large car pulled up and stopped in front of The Petrol Station. Right away, I wished I could have escaped with the cows, for I knew it was the same large car with the same large, well-dressed man who’d bought (with allegedly funny money) the ewes. However, either had not-so-owld Fergal Da Fecker forgiven him, or he had forgotten all about the affair, for no sooner had he laid eyed on the well-dressed gent than he broke out all smiles. I swear he would have touched his forelock if he’d been able to manage it without falling flat.

Anyway, the large, well-dressed gentleman pretended not to notice him (other than to wish him a very good day to you, my good man) and strolled around the back of The Petrol Station, directly to where I was sitting, minding my own business. He stood there for the longest time, eyeing me up and down and looking ever so critical, at which point I suddenly saw my life pass by my eyes, just as if I’d been drowning, and felt faint. I asked myself once again why I hadn’t I run away when I’d had the chance? But of course, the question had a certain rhetorical ring to it, didn’t it, seeing as how I can’t go anywhere without someone starting my engine, but we all live in hope, don’t we?

The large well-dressed man continued staring at me until my oil ran cold and then walked all the way around me, which was most upsetting, seeing as how I’ve not got eyes in back of my head. But then, just as quickly as he had come, he left. He walked directly to his large car, and drove off. Didn’t say a word or nothing, not even a quick ‘hello’ to not-so-owld Fergal Da Fecker. Not that Fergal would have heard anything anyway, what with him being so busy snoring on the spoilt chair.

I stayed up watching and waiting for a couple of hours, feeling almost like one of those sentries in front of a palace. However, in the end, not-so-owld Fergal Da Fecker got to his knees and crawled back into The Petrol Station. And I was alone.

And so, Dear Diary, I’m going to get some sleep. Not very much, of course. Without the sheep yakking away all night and keeping watch, my nerves are all a’jangle. If I survive, I’ll let you know what tomorrow brings.

And so endeth another day.

Day 2

Dear Diary,

It is with a certain self-directed annoyance that I admit to sleeping late this morning, and in so doing missing out on a great many activities. Activities I should have found most helpful when it came to writing this journal. But such is life.

The reason, which is not to be confused with an excuse, for my late awakening has much to do with the sheep, or rather with my decision last night to listen to their discussions regarding their imminent removal to an abattoir. They got increasingly upset, not to say all hot and bothered (as is usual for their kind), their bleating growing louder and more hysterical by the minute until, at long last, a small vixen, growling angrily, trotted into their midst and told them that, unless they stopped behaving like chickens and started using their common sense, she would bite them about the ankles. “My kits are trying to sleep,” she said. “Unlike you, they’ve got school tomorrow.”

The ewes sighed deeply and forlornly and said they would, if only they knew how. Could she possibly teach them? It wasn’t their intention to disturb the fox pups’ sleep or to make them fail their exams, but they were at their wit’s end.

“Oh, very well,” replied the little fox, “anything to make you shut up, only start from the beginning and don’t leave anything out.”

The ewes talked amongst themselves for a few minutes, speaking low and in annoying whispers, before appointing the eldest, Murgatroyd-Louise, to be their spokessheep.

“It all began,” she said, again sighing deeply and with a hopelessly forlorn look in her rheumy eyes, “with the arrival of not-so-owld Fergal Da Fecker the day before yesterday.” And with that she recounted the woeful events of the preceding day, ending with the unexpected sentences of death and exile passed on the sheep by this selfsame Fecker. “And it’s not as though we’d even become acquainted,” she said in closing, batting a sprinkling of tears from her left eye.

“Humph,” replied the fox. “I understand your predicament.”

“I’m not sure you do,” interjected Murgatroyd-Louise, “at least not from a sheep’s point of view.”

“Ah,” said the fox, “you may be slow and helpless and blindingly stupid, but I’ve got guns to worry about, not to mention hounds and terriers.”

“We know all there is to know about dogs,” said Murgatroyd-Louise crossly. “Nasty smelly things, always biting at our bits and ordering us about, forcing us to go this way and that for no reason whatsoever.”

“That’s not the same thing,” replied the little fox. “Your dogs don’t rip you apart, not like mine.”

“Well they would if they weren’t being watched by the farmer,” pouted the old ewe.

“Have your own way,” said the fox, at which point she turned on her hind legs and walked away.

“Wait!” called Murgatroyd-Louise. “Where are you going? I thought you were going to help us.”

“I’ve changed my mind,” huffed the fox over her shoulder. “I’ve decided you’re even more stupid than I thought and the world might be a better place if you were sent to the abattoir.”

Everyone fell silent (and I, myself, even stopped breathing). After a moment, a dozen of the ewes ran to the fox and begged her to change her mind. “We promise we won’t interrupt,” said one of the younger ones (I’m not sure which ones, but they all do look rather alike, don’t they).

The vixen thought for a minute, and then sighed. “Oh, very well. Give me a few minutes to run home and pack school lunches for my pups, after which I shall explain my plan.”

“Please hurry, Mrs. Fox,” begged Murgatroyd-Louise, “for not-so-owld Fergal Da Fecker is wanting to kill us off today.”

“Never you mind about him,” said the fox as she trotted off. “I know for a fact he’s too drunk to wake up, much less kill you. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.”

The vixen disappeared into the tall grass at the edge of the field, leaving the ewes to fret amongst themselves, talking much louder than they should have, given the circumstances. I pointed out their yelling might just awaken not-so-owld Fergal Da Fecker, but, as usual, they paid me no mind. I am a bus, after all, and sheep have little regard for my kind. In fact, you might say that as far as they’re concerned, we hardly exist. Even sheds – hardly the most prepossessing of creatures – get more respect.

That being the case, I examined my own plight and decided there was very little I could do about my situation in any case, so I might as well forget about the sheep, write in my diary and contemplate a possible future as a box of spare parts. I then considered what that might entail. Mightn’t bits and pieces of me end up in a jet aeroplane? Or in a shiny red sports car with a soft top driven by a nymphomaniac?

I then remembered a proud moment after I was retired from service, when a smartly-attired man pointed a camera at me and declared that I was a classic, if ever he’d seen one. Of course, that was before my owner lost me in a game of cards to owld Fingus Da Flatulator, and I was dumped in this field.

At this point, my ruminations were interrupted by the return of the little fox, who was bounding across the field and carrying a large piece of cardboard and a pen in her mouth. The sheep stopped complaining and gossiping and formed a large, anxious circle around her. “What are you going to do with that cardboard and pen?” asked Murgatroyd-Louise. She was, of course, trying to sound sensible, but it really was a very stupid thing to ask.

“If you’ll be patient, I’ll show you,” said the fox.

And with that, the vixen wrote a number of very large letters on the cardboard, something which looked very much like this:

For Sale

To a good home, lovely sheep cheap.
Special price today only.
First come, first serve.
Ideal pets for little girls.
Very clean and don’t use bad language.

When the fox showed her handiwork to the sheep, they ‘oohed’ and ‘ahed’ for a few minutes, until one of them had the presence of mind to ask what it meant.

“It is,” explained the fox proudly, “a For Sale sign, designed especially to attract nice people and little girls who might want to take you home as pets.”

Needless to say, the sheep found many objectionable things to say about the fox’s plan, but she ignored them and went ahead anyway. The upshot, of course, was that within three or four minutes a very large car (pulling a very large trailer) pulled up in front of The Petrol Station. A very large, well-dressed man, accompanied by a little girl with shining blond sausage curls, got out of the car, routed the sleeping Fergal Da Fecker from his bed and paid him a very large amount of money for the sheep, which were duly loaded into the trailer.

The large, well-dressed man and the little girl with the shining blond sausage curls got back into the car (I noticed she sat up front, not in the back in a proper little girl car seat, but such is life) and drove off. Fergal Da Fecker went back to bed and I was left in a field bereft of sheep and with only the cows for company. It was very quiet indeed.

Okay, I made up the bit about it being a very large amount of money. He had a few notes in his money clip. Probably not very much, but not-so-owld Fergal Da Fecker would have been happy with a quid (he was that drunk).

I’m not sure what tomorrow will bring. The cows, I know, are worried and Fergal Da Fecker seemed to be in a very bad mood when he woke up again about an hour later. I heard him yell something about ‘The Bastard’ and the money not being worth a pound o’ shite. We’ll hafta wait and see, won’t we.

Anyway, I’m off to sleep, and as I wrote yesterday, here endeth the day.

Day 1

Day 1

Dear Diary,

I know you’re asking yourself why on earth an old bus like me would suddenly get the urge to write a daily journal. I know that’s what I’d ask myself if I was in your shoes. So here goes.

Up until last week, or perhaps last month (buses never were much good when it comes to remembering things of that nature), I was just one more old, retired bus, passing the time in a field in back of the one petrol station on the island. Now it weren’t much of a petrol station, not when compared to anything you might find in a proper town or suburb or city, but it had stood at the edge of the field for as long as there’d been cars or tractors (or buses) stinking up the place with blue smoke and dribbling greasy oil spots onto the roads.

The Petrol Station (such as it was) is now owned, along with the small, fairly useless shop-cum-bed sit off to one side, as well the field beyond, by one Fergal Da Fecker. Not that he amounts to much either, for he’s no more important to the events of my life than the twenty-four ewes and three cows keeping the grass mowed and keeping me awake with their infernal gossiping.

Fergal Da Fecker only came into the picture recently, when his Da, Owld Fingus Da Flatulator, breathed his last and expired after mistaking a tank of cheap, watered-down pretend unleaded petrol for his beloved Potheen. Weren’t the smartest thing he ever did, and believe me he hadn’t as much sense as God gave a small parsnip (nothing against parsnips, but they aren’t much to write home about in the wit department). Now, I hear you asking, how did Owld Fingus Da Flatulator mix up a tank of cheap, watered-down pretend unleaded petrol with a tank of rotgut Potheen? Well, from what the sheep told me (and what they don’t know about Fingus Da Flatulator isn’t worth mentioning) there were only two ancient petrol tanks in front of The Petrol Station. One contained cheap, watered-down pretend unleaded petrol, and the other rotgut, brain-exploding Potheen. Apparently one morning Owld Fingus got out of bed on the wrong side, and put his shoes on back to front, and walked to the wrong tank by mistake.

He then lit a cigarette. Too bad he missed the third tank. The Diesel. But that’s life innit.

After they put out the fire and all the island’s biddies talked amongst themselves for forever and a day and discussed everything that had ever been wrong with Owld Fingus Da Flatulator, they were astonished to find that the son they never knew he had, not-so-owld Fergal Da Fecker, had arrived at The Petrol Station in the dead of night with a rucksack full of ladies knickers (according to the biddies who keep track of comings and goings and are dedicated to the truth), a portable television set (for watching the footie, of which he was smitten, a can of bilious green paint and a sack of potatoes.

Not-so-owld Fergal Da Fecker wasted no time at all in surveying his new domain. He poked his nose into all the nooks and crannies, sniffed here and there, and decided there was money to be made. Fergal Da Fecker loved money, he did (not that he’d never known any personally), and after thinking things through carefully (before and after the cup final, in which his team lost) he extracted a shiny new notebook from his rucksack and a pencil. On the first page, well centred and near the top and bracketed by pointy stars, he wrote the word Prospects. Directly underneath he wrote a large number 1, which he both encircled and underlined two or three times for emphasis.

An hour or so later, having both discovered the tank of potheen and tested its beneficial curative powers, and coming to the conclusion that his cricketty back was feeling ever so much more limber, decided that he’d done enough planning for the day. There was, or so he thought – not having much experience to draw upon – enough pretend unleaded petrol and diesel to service the needs of local farmers and biddies for at least a month. He, therefore, put his notebook into the top drawer of his late father’s bureau, set a pan of potatoes on the hob to boil, and set off to tour his newly acquired empire.

“Oh dear oh dear,” he thought to hisself after examining the ewes living round the back of the little petrol station. “I don’t like the look of them at all.” He sucked a great deal of air between his teeth – a habit of which he was particularly fond – rocked back and forth on his heals, and picked out three especially fat ewes as having the best prospects, culinary-wise. “You’ll be going to the abattoir, my little beauties, no doubt about that.” The rest he would sell for a fat profit. “Cost me nowt, but’ll cost me owt tae feed. Can’t be having none o’that,” he said to hisself in his newly cultivated rustic accents, borrowed from various football commentators from various counties and countries and mixing them nicely together.

Not-so-owld Fergal Da Fecker then inspected the cows and they inspected him. Neither liked what they saw. From Fergal’s point of view (not that he’d had much experience to draw upon), they looked to be the oldest, barronest and skankiest cows he’d ever saw. From what they saw, the not-so-owl, scrawny and not very clean Fergal looked like trouble. “As bad as the last one,” they said to each other, “and even worse.” Adding, “wouldn’t trust him further than we could kick him on a rainy day.” The cows, whose names were (and still are, as far as I know), Bernice, Milegarde and Lottie, gazed into their future as it would be under the ownership of Fergal Da Fecker, and saw that there was none.

“Nothing for it,” they said to each other, “but to kill him or run away.”

“Nothing for it,” said not-so-owld Fergal Da Fecker, at one and the dame time, “but tae kill ‘em and biyl ‘em up in stew.”

Fergal then, having made up his mind regards his newly-inherited livestock, turned on his heals and returned to his tiny, tawdry so-cum-bed sit beside the petrol station. The potatoes would be biyled tae perfecshun by now (in fact, having forgot to add water to the pot, they had burnt blacker than the inside of a dog) and there was bound to be another match on the telly. He could deal with his future and the fate of his troublesome animals on the morrow.

No sooner had he gone than the cows and sheep came over to me, worried faces upon their long heads. “Oh dear,” they said in unison. “It was bound to happen sooner or later.”

“He hasn’t even noticed me, yet,” I said in reply, sighing deeply. “I expect I’m in for the chop, as well.”

“Well at least you can’t be boiled up in a stew,” said one of the cows (Milegarde it was).

“That’s very true,” I concurred, “but I suspect he’ll be wanting to chop me up and sell me for scrap.”

We all sighed deeply, the ewes and cows and I, and decided we’d keep our eyes open. “If he’s anything like Owld Fingus Da Flatulator,” I said, “he’ll be drunk as a newt (with apologies to the newt) and he’ll have forgotten all about us in the morning. Nevertheless, be on your guards.”

We all bade each other goodnight.

It was after they had gone to sleep that I thought I should write a journal of sorts. No that anything will come of it, especially if I’m chopped up and sold for scrap, you never know.

And so, Dear Diary, I shall keep alert and make note of everything I see and hear, and hopefully I shall rejoin you tomorrow evening.

So endeth the first day.