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.
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.
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