Day 18

Dear Diary,

The day began even earlier than anticipated, which meant I was woken out of a sound sleep by Little Missy Perfect Prissy screeching that I should’a feckin been round front hours ago. ‘Course I jumped about a mile with fright and bonked my head on the rafters on the garage, which the skanky brat thought was funnier than anything she’s seen in a month of Sundays. I look forward to running over her in the immediate future. In the mean time, I’m thinking someone might consider scrubbing out her mouth with carbolic. Wouldn’t take but a minute and would improve the quality of life in these parts. I keep thinking about her future husbands and how much Misther Patchouli Da Fanny’ll have to pay ‘em to pump her full of babbies. I say ‘husbands’ on account of no one husband’ll put up with her for more’n half a second. At a guess, I’d said she’ll use up forty or fifty a year.

Anyway, while I was regaining my composure and drinking about a gallon of extra premium grade high-octane petrol (the type they gives race cars to keep ‘em hyper), Finian Da Fabricator, who was still snoring away to beat the band in the back seat, opened his eyes wide enough to pop a coupla toothpicks between the eyelids so he wouldn’a go back to dreamland. For good measure, he yawned real wide and promptly rolled off on to the floor, in the process hitting his head on the barrel of potheen he keeps back there for special occasions (like when he and Myrtleen Da Patootie spends meaningful moments together on Sundays after Mass). He said a few choice words (that is, after yelling ‘ouch’ real loud after one of the toothpicks jabbed him where it hurt). Not to worry, however. He got better the moment he’d poured a pint of his special coffee into the polystyrene container he carries around with him. It’s amazing what special coffee can do for a person. For humans it must be as effective as premium grade high-octane petrol is to us buses.

Just as I was polishing my paintwork and admiring my classical reflection in the mirror Finian Da Fabricator’d bought me at the Bring and Buy yesterday (Missus Milly Da Fardle ordered him to stop or she’d write to the newspapers about him not having a license), Misther Patchouli Da Fanny came into the garage (don’t these people ever knock?) pushing a barrow the size of a small car. Oh No! I said to myself. Don’t tell me he bought one of them square midget cars from countries I’ve never heard of to keep me company in my hour of need! But I needn’t have worried about it being a tiny square car wot’d keep me up all night singing in a strange language. It was even worse, for as soon as Misther Patchouli Da Fanny’d ripped open the box I saw it was a worn out brand new set of tyres. And not any ordinary set of tyres, neither. From what it said on the box (and also according to what I think, what with me being a highly regarded expert on the subject), they were Super Deluxe Heavy Duty All Terrain Field and Road Miracle Traction Tyres as seen on TV. In other words, Monster Truck Tyres.

Now, as I’ve said before a thousand times or more, I am a classic bus, or to be precise, a Daimler CVD6 Burlington 33-seat coach. As nifty as they come. My wheels are Italian, as chic as Roberto Cavalli’s personal shoes. These Monster Truck tyres, on the other hand, are a nightmare, goliaths straight out of Snooter Da Sphincter’s Easy-In-And-Out Trailer Halting Site on the bad end of the island, right next to the cemetery for protestants. They’re nearly as tall as I am and half again as thick. And can’t even talk good or know how to run over a cat. And he’s planning to put them on me!!! I want to die. As they say in Heaven, Oh feck!

Needless to say, I put up a good fight, jumping and bucking like the mechanical bull in Derwood Da Sherbert’s Genuine Country and Western Bar and Clean American-style Comfort Stations, right in back of Thelma O’Leary’s little falling down café. A regular biting and scratching heathen savage I was, showing Misther Patchouli Da Fanny exactly what I thought of him, and (for the Hell of it) giving him some well-placed kicks to make sure he won’t make any more brats like Miss Candee Da Smelley-Fanny. Ruin my day and I’ll ruin yours twice over, that’s what I always say.

As usual, I lost in the end, but buses always do (unless we can throw ‘em off a cliff first). Misther Patchouli Da Fanny ripped off my classic Italian tyres and slapped on the insulting special all-terrain miracle jobbies. I found out later he won ‘em from Fergal Da Fecker in a game of three-card monty, proving once again that not-so-owld Fergal is stupider than a boiled elephant scrotum. ‘Course, Fergal found ‘em in a ‘discard and reject’ pile behind Misther Florian Da Blossom’s Discount Used Tyre Emporium on the other side of the good end of the island, so maybe he’s not so dumb after all. He probably figured nobody’d buy ‘em off him, not even if he paid ‘em, so he found a way to pass ‘em along to Misther Patchouli Da Fanny. And Misther Patchouli Da Fanny, in case you forgot to remember, paid for me with the brand new Italian Liras Floozie da Smelley’d whipped up in her special built arty studio.

When the tyres were being slapped on my wheels and screwed on so tight I farted, I couldn’t help but notice they were worn thin and bubbly along the sides. Furthermore, the whitewalls, which probably looked cheap and flashy to a blind man with no taste (sorta like a Las Vegas hotel suite as seen on TV), appeared to be made of pasted-on shiny paper. I dread what to think’ll happen when we set out for the Special Prized Collectibles Market. I fear the worse. They’re bound to blame me, especially Floozie Da Smelley and little Missy Candee Da Smelley-Fanny, who have it in for me on account of I’m only an old, broken down bus. Sigh. The only good thing is they’ll be travelling separate, in Floozie Da Smelley’s pink and gold hand painted American convertible with the shiny plastic seats.

I feel sorry for the convertible, even though he’s not very smart and is only interested in rock and roll and picking up what he calls ‘chicks’. I keep telling him he’d have better luck if he’d stop being so flashy and talking so loud. All in all, I feel sorta sorry for him, pining away for Route 66 and the open road, when all he’s got is Floozie Da Smelley racing him down the bohereens at ninety miles an hour (being an American he doesn’t know about kilobytes) and scratching his paintwork on furze bushes.

Today he’s gotta carry Floozie Da Smelley’s most special and precious collectibles. She’s kept me from seeing them on account of my being a bus and not good enough. Besides, she knows I’ll laugh and make her look stupid.

Don’t what I’ll be carrying, although I’ve seen several barrows of really ugly furniture sitting by the door. I’ll tell you later, after they finish putting these tyres on me. In the mean time, I’m gonna have a quick nap. It’s better’n listening to Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Finian Da Fabricator discuss what Myrtleen Da Patootie can do with a manure spreader and a jar of pickles.

As I keep saying, so endeth the day, even though it’s more like twenty minutes.