Day 69

Dear Diary,

Last thing I told you was that Miss Parsley Da Onker and Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous were dead and lying all over the road after being shocked to death over the sight of Misther Patchouli stickin’ his nose into The Widow Fartie Da Whistle’s shitter exit and that Constable Humbert Da Elephant and his partner Police Constable Helen Da Barren weren’t able to come on over’n save the day on account of they was tied up doin’ all the dishes and pots and pans over at Thelma O’Leary’s falling down café after eating up all the food. And when I says they was all tied up, that’s exactly wot I mean. According to wot Thelma O’Leary wrote in her personal memorandum (as she calls it), Constable Humbert Da Elephant and his partner Police Constable Helen Da Barren’d tried to pay for their two dozen jumbo American-sized All You Can Eat Breakfasts with credit cards wot they’d found in Misther Patchouli Da Fanny’s wallet when it’d accidentally falled into their hands the night before. They claimed he was bent over double and touching his toes to prove he wasn’t too drunk to drive home from Bump ‘n’ Grind Lap-o-Matic and that his wallet squirted outta his pocket. ‘Course, he hisself couldn’a remember nothing about it, seeing as how he were drunker’n a newt in a bucket of rubbing alcohol. Whatever really happened, his wallet found its way of its own accord into Constable Humbert Da Elephant’s breast pocket, and lo and behold, when he came to pay for the breakfasts they’d ate, Misther Patchouli Da Fanny’s credit card, followed by all his other cards, leapt right out into his hand. By now I don’t hafta tell you that anybody who’d ever knowed the first thing about Misther Patchouli Da Fanny knows all his credit cards and laser cards was homemade, same as all the pretend fake old Italian money wot he prints in the back room of his stapled-together lopsided pink flatpack building. And since both Constable Humbert Da Elephant and his partner Police Constable Helen Da Barren’d been around a long time, they should’a been smarter than to pass off Misther Patchouli Da Fanny’s credit card as the Real McCoy. Steal ‘em from anyone else in the world and you’re safe. But nobody ever said they was smart, did they, on account of if’n they’d been, they’d have got a job somewhere else and at least one promotion along the line. It’s hard to get proper respect when you’re still a constable after fifty years. But I digress and I’m feeling a bit of rudeness coming on from you, Dear Diary, which I don’t appreciate but which I understand under the circumstances. You’ve been waitin’ on me to cut to the chase for longer’n the world’s been born (but then again it’s your fault for being a Dear Diary and depending upon me for your entertainment).

Anyway, seeing as how Police Constable Humbert Da Elephant and his partner Police Constable Helen Da Barren was delayed, all of us back at the topsy-turvy pink flatpack building was left to our own devices. There was The Widow Fartie Da Whistle, who were supposed to be driving the bus (in other words, me), but she were having trouble sitting down proper on her seat seeing as how Misther Patchouli Da Fanny’s nose were stuck in her behind place. And there was all them old biddies, led by Missus Milly Da Fardle, who was all strapped in and ready to go and phoning the call centre to beat the band over how late everything was and how they was about to miss the lunch wot Floozie Da Smelley’d arranged for them special over at the Sacred Scenic Wailing Well of Saint Mary Margaret Da Unfortunate, patron saint of old biddies wot live without hope of the glory to come. They knowed it were going to be a special treat on account of the sandwiches was being done to order by Sister Mary Flatulina of The Weeping Madonna of Naples, who always cuts ‘em in neat octagonals, same as the tower on Father Brady O’ Flanaghan Murnaghan’s Church of The Immaculate Septum on the bottom side of the island. Plus she hardly ever poisons anyone with her patent leather fish paste. As I was saying, the biddies was raising a stink over the fact that we would be late for Sister Mary Flatulina of The Weeping Madonna of Naples’s specially ordered sandwiches, but Floozie Da Smelley told ‘em she’d call and make sure they weren’t throwed out even after the crusts curled up and got harder’n one of her shoes.

I gotta tell you right here and now it were extra nice of Floozie Da Smelley to call Sister Mary Flatulina of The Weeping Madonna of Naples, on account of the botheration she was experiencing over the present location of Misther Patchouli Da Fanny’s nose vis à vis The Widow Fartie Da Whistle’s posterior entrance. In fact, not one second before she told the biddies how she’d take care of them and to shut up and settle down for the first time in their lives, she’d been occupied with hooking up a chain and pulley to Misther Patchouli Da Fanny. He were, after all, her husband, and if’n he was gonna stuff his nose into anybody’s butt hole it was gonna be hers, and she told him so right then and there. He bellowed back, as well as he could, seeing as where his nose was located, that The Widow Fartie Da Whistle must’a had a demon vacuum cleaner inside her, on account of one minute he’d been minding his own business and the next he’d been sucked right in. ‘Course, Floozie Da Smelley didn’t believe a word he spoke, on account of he was always stickin’ things in places where they didn’t belong, and she said so straight out. She also said she was gonna hook the chain up to her tractor and pull him out of where he was and teach him a lesson. Only, at the moment she hadn’t decided wot it were gonna be. “But I promise you, Misther Patchouli Da Fanny, you’re gonna wish you was a pet guppy after I’ve finished up with you.” After this, Misther Patchouli Da Fanny started in whimpering, but she said it wouldn’t make no difference.

By the way, about this time it started in a’raining to beat the band. And it rained and rained until everyone got wetter’n a hound dog wot’s been swimming in the water. There still wasn’t no sign of Police Constable Humbert Da Elephant and his partner Police Constable Helen Da Barren, and it must be said the dead bodies of Miss Parsley Da Onker and Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous, wot were on the road, was starting in to take on a life of their own.

Wot happened next were more exciting and heart-pounding than a bucket of wasps, so wot I’m gonna go is put away my pencil and give myself a few minutes to catch my breath before going on. And before you say I’m always promising to finish up wot I’m telling you, I’m telling you there’s nothing you can do but shut up and wait (I got the idea from wot Floozie Da Smelley said to the old biddies and I think it’s the best thing I’ve heard in ages). So while you’re fussing and fuming and waiting, I’m gonna say, so endeth this part of the story and I’ll be back when I’m fuckin’ good and ready.

Day 68

Dear Diary,

Around about now I can hear you shrieking, “when the feck’re you gonna tell us about your Farewell Tour of the Island?” Well, I’ll get to it, I promise, just as soon as I can, but a whole lot o’shite happened between the time we got all the biddies rounded up and loaded on to the bus (being me) and the time we set off. Patience is a virtue and you’ll be rewarded for it either in Heaven or somewhere else if’n you’re after the better parties. Think of it as a kidney and gizzard pie with a chocolate drop in the middle. You’ve gotta scarf your way through both the kidneys and all them lovely gizzards before you gets your reward, in the off-chance that the chocolate drop’ll still be edible. Or you could say patience is a whole lot like sitting all the way through school so you can graduate and fuck yourself to death during your gap year.

Anyways, so’s you don’t close my diary with a bang and turn to daytime television outta spite, I’ll cut to the chase.

Several things happened at once. First of all, over in Thelma O’Leary’s falling down café with the clogged up toilets, the entire police force (namely Police Constable Humbert Da Elephant and his partner Police Constable Helen Da Barren, wot used to be called a woman policeman back in the days when everyone knew they was lesbians), had done their civic duty by finishing off seventeen platters from the American-style All-You-Can-Eat Super Jumbo Gordo Breakfast menu, even down to eating up the plates and plastic silverware so’s the landfill wouldn’t overflow. ‘Course, they’d had swallow down the last ten buckets of bangers ‘n’ potatoes in a hurry, on account of the emergency call coming in from Missus Drain telling ‘em to get on over to Misther Patchouli Da Fanny’s lopsided flatpack building to investigate the vicious mass-murderer type killings of Miss Parsley Da Onker and Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous. Now, you know and I know and Missus Drain knowed they’d only died from the shock of seeing Misther Patchouli Da Fanny’s nose stuck up The Widow Fartie Da Whistle’s sphincter vice and that Missus Milly Da Fardle’d had nothing to do with it. But, you see, Ol’ Missus Drain had a score to settle with Missus Milly Da Fardle on account of Missus Drain’s three cats’d choked to death on a tin of The Sisters Purdy Flavoured Cat Food that was made by The Gnu-Fanny Deluxe Luxury Premium Fancy-Schmancy Cat Food Company. It seems she’d called in on the Emergency Hot Line Complaints line and instead of the customer service office, she was referred to Missus Milly Da Fardle’s premium rate hot to trot sexy wank line. I can understand how upset she must’a been, wot with her expecting a voice from a cell centre in India or Lithuania or somewhere telling her there was nothing wrong with The Sisters Purdy flavoured Cat Food and to grow up and stop complaining, but instead, she got all locked into the hot to trot sexy wank line and weren’t able to hang up ‘til after she’s had eight hundert orgasms. Given that she’d already done well in that department with the milkman when he’d come over with her night time yoghurt, her head had near exploded and she’d done stuff on her new sheets wot weren’t respectable in a little old biddy concrete bunker bungalow such as hers. Anyway, it’d ticked her off, having to put up with Missus Milly Da Fardle panting and groaning over the phone and having to pay for the privilege, and so she thought accusing her of murder might be a good way of getting even. Personally, I think it’s a good idea, and if I weren’t a bus I might try it on someone, for example on Ol’ Finian Da Fabricator, who up and deserted me for Elmer Da Snog and a suitcase full of ill-gotten gains. But that’s neither here nor there.

What is important for you to know about concerning the start of my farewell tour day was that Constable Humbert Da Elephant and his partner Police Constable Helen Da Barren, wot used to be wot they calls a woman policeman back in the days when they knew how to make tea in pots, overate in Thelma O’Leary’s like a coupl’a hogs in a barrel of used-up fry oil. They’d ate and ate and ate until eventually it were out of the question that they’d fit through the door. Plus the fact that Ol’ Thelma O’Leary’s machine’d rejected both their credit and laser cards and they’d forgot to go to the bank before they come in. This made Thelma O’Leary happy as a dog wallowing in pg shit, on account of she needed someone to wash up all the plates and frying pans, as well as the toilets wot had overflowed all over the floor. “Murder or no murder,” she said to them, holding a rolling pin in her right hand and waving it about to show she meant business, “you two ain’t going nowhere until you’s paid up for all the food you’ve ate.” And since she were fit and narsty and they was fat and wobbling all over the place on account of all the breakfast oozing through their intestines and clogging up their arteries, they had no choice but say back, “Yes, Ma’am, Ms. Thelma O’Leary, Ma’am. Anything you say, Ma’am.” And so they stayed however long it took to clean up the mess and pay off’n their debt, wot was larger than wot some tiny countries owes the big greedy countries in daily compound interest.

Now, Dear Diary, you sees how it is why the entire police force of the island, namely Constable Humbert Da Elephant and his partner Police Constable Helen Da Barren, wot used to be a woman before she joined up, couldn’t rush right over and investigate how Miss Parsley Da Onker and Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous’d been kilt and were lying in the middle of the road and stinking to high Heaven. I’m gonna give you some time to memorise this information so’s you don’t ask me all sorts of stupid questions when I get back to you. When you’re ready for your exam, all you gotta do is say, real polite, so endeth our period of revision, Mr. Bus, and we are ready for you to continue with the lesson.

Day 67

Dear Diary,

I’m back, so you can stop wot you were doing and pay attention for a coupl’a minutes, and if you’ve half a mind to do something else, don’t worry about it. I’m sure life’ll go on if you don’t listen carefully to wot I’m saying, but on the other hand, it might not. It always pays to err on the side of caution and ask for a second opinion when it comes to matters of importance.

Last time I was talking to you, Dear Diary, which was only a coupl’a hours ago at most, Miss Parsley Da Onker and Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous had dropped down dead from the sight of Misther Patchouli Da Fanny’s nose caught up in The Widow Fartie Da Whistle’s down below exit window, which weren’t a pretty sight but it was nothing to commit suicide over. Anyways, after this’d happened, all the other old biddies clambered over the bodies, poking holes in ‘em with their zimmers, and scuttled up on to the bus (being me) so’s no one what had no business being there could steal their favourite seats wot they always sat in. The only one wot didn’t rush aboard, for which she lost her seat to a touron by the name of Noel Sphincter-Cadger, who, it seems’d dreamt his whole life of riding around a vacant-headed island on a community bus, was Ol’ Missus Drain. ‘Course, he was after being a cousin to Snooter Da Sphincter wot owned and operated The Easy-In-And-Out Trailer Halting Site on the bad end of the island, right next to the cemetery for protestants. Anyways, poor Ol’ Missus Drain was being overpowered by these scruples wot attack her on a regular basis and’re always getting in the way of her having a good time. Today, wot do you know but they up and told her she had no choice but to telephone the police and tell ‘em about the rotting bodies of Miss Parsley Da Onker and Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous wot was polluting the right of way. And so she called up the entire police force, namely Police Constable Humbert Da Elephant and his partner Police Constable Helen Da Barren, wot used to be a woman policeman back in the days before sex was invented by the under-twelves, and said they should bring a digger and a crane, on account of the bodies was already inflating full of gas and were in an ugly mood. Well, as you know if you was paying attention, the police force was having their fifth all-you-can-eat American touron fried salmonella breakfast special over at Thelma O’Leary’s falling down café, and if’n they ran off before licking their plate clean as a whistle, Ol’ Thelma’d cancel their free parking validation. It goes without say that, if’n she done that, the police force would find itself parked out front of Thelma O’Leary’s falling down café illegal, which means the first thing Police Constable Humbert Da Elephant and his partner Police Constable Helen Da Barren’d hafta do after breakfast was to clamp their car and drag it off to Misther Florian Da Blossom’s Discount Used Tyre Emporium and Wrecking Yard to be crushed up into an attractive garden ornament.

When Missus Drain called up the police force on her mobile telephone the first thing they said was they’d be around as soon as they was done investigating their currant bun, which left her speechless until one member of the police force said they meant to say ‘current investigation’. Just to be clear about it, I think it were Police Constable Helen Da Barren who jumped in and said they didn’t say nothing about a currant bun and they weren’t eating breakfast at Ol’ Thelma O’Leary’s falling down café in the course of duty, especially not an All You Can Eat Stomach Inflating American Style breakfast. She said (in a pretend panting out-of-breath emergency voice), “we’re tracking down a desperate criminal element.” ‘Course’ between you and me, Dear Diary, the reason I think it were Police Constable Helen Da Barren wot was so quick-thinking and popped out such a terrible lie before most folks’d have time to think, is on account of she spoke in a falsetto and as far as I know, Police Constable Humbert Da Elephant ain’t no castrato. And he’s got a dozen or so kids to prove it, or at least so he says.

Missus Drain, who could spot a lie and mile away on account of having been a teacher for about seven hundert years, said, “Yeh Yeh, Miss Police Constable Helen Da Barren, and the next thing you’re gonna tell me is that the dog ate your homework,” and Police Constable Helen Da Barren fell into the trap and said, “Honest Injun Missus Drain, little Plunky Bean ate it all down, every bit of it, and it gave her the trots and all. Cross My Heart And Hope To Die And Smell.” Well, Ol’ Missus Drain didn’t appreciate being fibbed to, on account of her having scruples, and so she spoke up sharpish and snapped at Police Constable Helen Da Barren, “You come on up here to the front of the class this instant, little Miss Police Constable Helen Da Barren and take down your knickers so’s I can tan your hide good and proper with this here bundle of switches.” Well, of course, Police Constable Helen Da Barren had no choice but to break down in the sort of wet and gloopy sobs wot makes your face all swole and blotchy, and she confessed to Missus Drain straight out that she’d lied like a cow and’d go straight to Hell in a handcart, and that the entire police force, being Police Constable Humbert Da Elephant and herself, had indeed been spending that entire morning stuffing their faces at Thelma O’Leary’s falling down café. And the reason they couldn’t run straight on over to scrape up Miss Parsley Da Onker and Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous’s bloated and smelly corpuscles off of the road was that they was bloated up too fat to get out the door.

Missus Drain, who was too disgusted to speak for a whole three and a half minutes, told Police Constable Helen Da Barren she and Police Constable Humbert Da Elephant had exactly ten minutes to write their homework assignments forty-seven times on the blackboard after class. She wanted to see ‘em sweat and squirm on account of she knew they never looked up anything in their lives and only downloaded shite off’n the Internet wot had no footnotes. Anyway, that’s wot she said and it put Police Constable Humbert Da Elephant and his partner, Police Constable Helen Da Barren, wot used to be a woman before she joined the police force, on the spot, on account of it were true.

Well, Dear Diary, here we have wot we calls another pregnant pause, on account of nothing happened for a good three hours. All the biddies, except Missus Drain, who was standing guard over the dead bodies, were sitting all buckled up in their seats gossiping nasty about everyone who weren’t there and leaking like a dozen or so sieves all over my upholstery and the floor. I can’t say I can wait much longer to leave this island with my new owner, the part Greek Italian Stallion Hunk, and his shiny red Ducati, Benvolio Da Trampolio, on account of my springs is starting to rot from the old biddy pee acid, and it’s startin’ to give me old person rheumatics and infernal rusticles. Oh, well, I guess it’s part of being a bus, even when I’m a classic Daimler CVD6 with custom-made Burlington 33-seater coachwork.

While I’m waiting for the pregnant pause to work itself out, I’m gonna put my pencil away and you’re gonna hafta amuse yourself for a while. As I always say, so endeth our little chat.

Day 66

Dear Diary,

Well, you remember me telling you about Police Constable Humbert Da Elephant and his partner Police Constable Helen Da Barren, who’s what they use to call a ‘woman policeman’ back in the good old days when a woman had to get dinner on the table at half past five sharp or else it was grounds for her to get beat up black and blue? Well, last thing I wrote was about Missus Drain ringing them on her mobile phone and telling ‘em to come over to Misther Patchouli Da Fanny’s falling-down pink flatpack building and collect Miss Parsley Da Onker and Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous, on account of they’d expired and died and everybody was tripping over them and stubbing their toes. She didn’t say nothing about Misther Patchouli Da Fanny’s nose getting stuck in The Widow Fartie Da Whistle’s bottom hole or about how his drool had shorted out the laser illuminations on her Murkin or anything else wot was going on. She knowed both Police Constable Humbert Da Elephant and his partner Police Constable Helen Da Barren from the days when they was little seven year olds in her classroom and was afeared they’d be embarrassed to death hearing those words from her mouth. Better, she thought, to let ‘em find out for themselves. That way they’d think she’d not noticed wot all the botheration was about, on account of her innocent and sweet nature. Little did they know her father and mother’d been the infamous Mad Slashers of Penzance, back in the days when inviting mass murderers to dinner parties and two rubbers of bridge was de rigueur (as they say). She were used to the seamier side of life right from when she had to climb out of her mother’s front bottom all by herself when her mother was otherwise occupied, wot with her being hanged and drawn and quartered and not in the mood for seeing if’n her newest born was a ginger or not. Which, by the way, she weren’t, on account of Missus Drain (or Louisa Bimble Da Slasher as she was knowed before Ol’ Man Drain took mercy on her and married her the following day) were as brown-haired as a sewer rat, only better smelling. Strange to say, Ol’ Missus Drain growed up to be a right cracker, as well as an all round good person, but you’ve probably guessed that by now seeing as how I’ve said it often enough.

Anyway, everybody else was all for leaving Miss Parsley Da Onker and Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous on the road in hopes that a passing lorry’d squish ‘em into the gravel or, alternatively, propping ‘em up on the back seat, back where the delinquents get to sit and also the old men wot’re allergic to taking baths. They figured it were a cool day and in any case the bodies wouldn’t start to bloat or grow black as a crow’s gizzard or stink like a gas pipe for at least a few hours, and by that time the bus (being me) would have delivered everybody else back to their little concrete bunker bungalows. Excepting Missus Milly Da Fardle, who with any luck’d be packed off to the prison farm by then. Missus Drain, however, said they had wot she called a moral obligation to send Miss Parsley Da Onker and Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous to Misther Doctor Bernie Da Gnu’s ‘Wash ‘n’ Wake Funeral Parlour for a Beautiful Goodbye’ so they could be given a beautification by Ol’ Beryl and’d look like two of them waxworks glamour models, complete with pointy standing out tits and luminous murkins of their own. Never mind they’d always looked like death warmed over. That was when they were alive and nobody’d have anything to do with ‘em. When they was dead it was a different story and they had to be treated with respect. Anyway, Missus Drain said ifn’t they weren’t dolled up and made to look like a dead person oughta, when they got to The Gnu-Fanny Deluxe Luxury Fancy-Schmancy Cat Food Company they might not know they was dead and’d send ‘em off back home, or worse yet to The Day Hospital for a Nice Afternoon Out. Since Missus Drain thought that’d be disrespectful and all, she went ahead by herself and telephoned Police Constable Humbert Da Elephant and his partner Police Constable Helen Da Barren and told ‘em to bring a couple’a shovels to scrape the bodies off’n the road, where they’d got all mished from the old biddies walking all over ‘em in the scramble to get to their favourite seats on the bus (being me), and also a coupl’a jumbo-sized black bags and maybe a flatbed truck. “You’d better hurry on over in double-quick time,” she said in the sort of schoolmarm voice she’d used on ‘em back in the days when she liked to scare the shit outta them in her classroom. Then just for the Hell of it, on account of she had wot you could call a great sense of humour, she added, “Miss Parsley Da Onker and Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous’ve been murdered to death or my parents weren’t The Mad Slashers of Penzance.” This, of course, put Police Constable Humbert Da Elephant and his partner Police Constable Helen Da Barren in an awkward position, on account of they’d just ordered their fourth bucket of Thelma O’Leary’s American-style All You Can Eat Breakfast Fixings and they couldn’t just walk out without being rude. So wot they did was tell Missus Drain to tell everybody they was under arrest and to wait for ‘em to come on over. They said they’d be over quick as you please to conduct one of them specious investigations, complete with all the gruelling interrogations you sees on television as well torturing the corpuses delicates until they points the finger at the folks nobody likes. They didn’t come out and accuse Missus Milly Da Fardle out loud, but that’s wot they meant. ‘Course, Missus Drain, who were smarter’n a bucket of eels, knew wot they were intimating but didn’t say a thing. No use getting Missus Milly Da Fardle riled up at a time like this, or she might run away and not get to go to the prison farm with Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Mister Doctor Bernie Da Gnu. Or she might just murder them all in their beds, or in this case, in the bus (being me).

I’m gonna lay my pencil down at this point in time for another of wot they calls a pregnant pause. I’ll count to fifty or sixty, during which you won’t have anything to read, Dear Diary, so you might as well do something else. When I figure I’ve built up enough suspense to make your knickers tingle, I’ll say so endeth my pregnant pause, and’ll continue on with wot I’ve gotta say.

Day 65

Dear Diary,

Last time I wrote to you, Dear Diary, I was telling you about how Ol’ Dumbfeck Misther Patchouli Da Fanny’d got his nose stuck in The Widow Fartie Da Whistle’s thong and how his scrawny body was doing all sorts of things wot aren’t nice in daylight, at least if’n you’re built like Misther Patchouli Da Fanny. ‘Course, this got all the biddies wot was standing in the queue waiting to get on the bus (namely me, just in case you’re not paying attention) all excited and two of them, namely Miss Parsley Da Onker and Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous, even went so far as to up and fall down dead as mice after they’ve been flushed down the toilet. I know you’re wanting to know about who these two biddies are, on account of I’ve never mentioned ‘em before, but when I tell you you’ll end up asking me why I didn’t shut up and mind my own business. Some people are better when you’ve never heard of them, and these two are examples. And to prove my point, let me just say that Miss Parsley Da Onker lived all alone in her little concrete bunker bungalow without a family or even any friends, on account of she’d managed to bore ‘em all to death. ‘Course, you could say that after they all kicked the bucket of their own volition rather’n hafta sit through another day in her company, she did all right by Misther Doctor Bernie Da Gnu’s ‘Wash ‘n’ Wake Funeral Parlour for a Beautiful Goodbye’, as well as (it must be said) The Gnu-Fanny Premium Deluxe Luxury Fancy-Titbits Cat Food Company. At last count, the ones she forced to die rather’n see her again included her mama and papa and all eleven brothers and twenty-seven sisters and all their children, numbering in all eight thousand forty-twelve. Fortunately for her husband and his health, she never actually had one. For that to happen she would’a had to force a man to get down on his knees and carry her over to Father Brady O’ Flanaghan Murnaghan at the Church of The Immaculate Septum in order to make an honest woman of her. What I didn’t say was that she did oblige thirty or thirty-two men to go so far as sinking on to their knees, but thirty of ‘em managed to get up again and run off into the woods before she could put the words “will you marry me” into their mouths. The other two unfortunately died of boredom before they could make their escapes. These two were also carted off to Misther Doctor Bernie Da Gnu’s ‘Wash ‘n’ Wake Funeral Parlour for a Beautiful Goodbye’ and eventually over to The Gnu-Fanny Fancy-Pansy Cat Food Company where they ended up flavouring the ‘Old Salt Fishy Variety’ of economy-sized tins. They was both fishermen, but you probably already guessed it on account of their special seasoning.

Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous were the other one wot died from the sight of Misther Patchouli Da Fanny’s nose getting stuck in the cleavage down at The Widow Fartie Da Whistle’s other end. She had wot they called special sensitivity on top of being even more boring than Miss Parsley Da Onker. She were also Greek, which is a puzzle considering she were born on the island and her mother was the Misses Purdy, or at least one of them. They never knew themselves which one’d spewed her out, but I guess that’s only natural when you is conjoined triples and your left hand don’t know wot your right hand is doing. By the way, you remember, don’t you, Dear Diary, on how they always insisted on being called Siamese Triplets instead of a conjoined trilogy as some folks’d prefer, at least in public. The sisters Purdy themselves didn’t mind being called freaks but they minded more’n you could say being thought of as local yokels and hicks and inbreds. “Better to be Siamese and exotic than feckin’ idiots,” is wot they always said. And I’ve gotta agree with ‘em, I guess, but then I’m a bus and’ll never be called either a freak or a moron. Anyway, as I started to say before I interrupted myself, Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous survived having Siamese triplet mothers and growed up as Greek as a bottle of olive oil and as pretty as you please. ‘Course, seeing as she were a foreigner even though she’d never been off of the island any more’n her ancestors had, she couldn’t get a husband, not with all the sober ones either married off or wanting to marry a ginger. In the end there was nothing for it but to tell everybody she’d up and married a Greek potato farmer wot’d died of the blight on their wedding night. That way she could call herself ‘Missus’ and not hafta worry about all the other shite wot usually goes with the title. ‘Course, she was always afeared someone’d find out she was a liar liar pants on fire, and so she never ever left her house, not even to pick up her milk on her doorstep. That is, until she decided ‘What the Hell’ and accepted the invitation to go on my farewell tour of the island. Guess she thought she was safe after all these years and nobody’d remember wot she looked like. It was just her luck that she had to go and see Misther Patchouli Da Fanny’s nose stuck up The Widow Fartie Da Whistle’s exit hole. Having never seen anything like it in her life, there was nothing she could do but drop down dead. I’m not sure wot flavour cat food her corpus delicious’ll make, but at least it won’t taste used like the other old biddies.

Anyway, when Miss Parsley Da Onker and Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous fell over dead we couldn’t just leave ‘em in the middle of the road and drive off, could we? Well, I suppose we could’ve, and certainly nobody would’a cared much either way, but Missus Drain, who is nothing if not a decent human being (which is why nobody except me says anything nice about her), got on her mobile phone and called up Police Constable Humbert Da Elephant and his partner Police Constable Helen Da Barren, who’s what they use to call a ‘woman policeman’ back in the good old days before douches came in fruit-flavoured multi-packs. ‘Course, the entire police force, being the two I’ve just mentioned, was after having their breakfast over at Thelma O’Leary’s Little Falling Down Café at the time, but they said they’d be with us in a coupl’a hours. After all, it wasn’t as if the two wot died were in a hurry to get anywhere. That made me laugh, but not the biddies, who take death serious.

‘Course this all happened yesterday, but I’m gonna pretend we’re going through it today and in the here and now. That being the case, I’m gonna put away my pencil and pretend to take a nap until the police force arrives to scoop up Miss Parsley Da Onker and Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous off of the pavement and take ‘em away to Misther Doctor Bernie Da Gnu’s ‘Wash ‘n’ Wake Funeral Parlour for a Beautiful Goodbye’. As I always say, so endeth this latest bunch of news, and I’ll be back soon.

Day 64

Dear Diary,

OK, away we go, or should I say ‘away we’ll go one day’ on my farewell tour around the island, me all spit ‘n’ polished and shining in my new classic revival paintwork and The Widow Fartie Da Whistle dolled up in her skin-tight spray-on white lycra leggings, black spingle-spangle see-through illusion thong and a flashing laser Murkin just to let you know there’s a God. She told me she stuck on the last bit of gear on account of it makes some of the men she knows bend over all of a sudden and rush outta the room, which gives her a cheap laugh, and that’s always a good thing in a world so full o’misery. Personally, I think she practiced on Ol’ Misther Patchouli Da Fanny, but that’s hardly fair on account of he’s got only one very small brain wot’s about five inches long and’s got an eye in the middle of its waggly end). She also said ifn’n she went out without the Murkin and as nature’d intended, she might get arrested and the last thing she wants is to be shut up in a cell at the moment, not with the likes of Ol’ Missus Milly Da Fardle headed in that direction. I thought you’d like to know, Dear Diary, that Ol’ Misther Patchouli Da Fanny wasn’t originally planning to go on my farewell tour, on account of he was busy packing a suitcase for his sudden emergency overseas holiday to the other side of Albania where they don’t extradite folks for selling bodies fresh from their funerals to be made into Deluxe Luxury Tasty-Fancy Cat Food. I’m thinking they must do it all the time over there, on account of they didn’t seem too concerned when he told ‘em why he wanted to come and live in their country. Perhaps they’s planning to set him up in business on account of him being wot they calls an International Multinational Expert in the Getting Rid of Bodies Industry. The thing is, most countries has far too many people up and dying on ‘em every day, and as a consequence they’ve hunderts and thousands of extra bodies on their hands and only a coupl’a old-time attractive graveyards to stick ‘em in. As every chamber of commerce’ll tell you, graveyards are only kept around on account of the tourons like to visit ‘em and take pictures of each other in front of the funny headstones and maybe buy coffee in the quaint little coffee shoppes wot are operated in the best crypts (the ones wot’s got the best mummies). The last thing in the world tourons want in their pictures is big holes in the ground where new fresh bodies is being buried. New dead fresh bodies isn’t very attractive and besides they don’t exactly smell nice. So, wot I was thinking and wot I was about to say is that these countries is after hiring Mister Doctor Bernie Da Gnu and Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and, especially, Missus Milly Da Fardle for their expertise is solving their problem on an industrial scale. ’Course, they can only do it where there are lots of cats, otherwise it’d be dumb as a cabbage patch to build a great big old cat food company, wouldn’t it? That might be the reason they don’t set up business where there’s more’n a certain amount of killing each other going on. Not enough cats to eat all the cat food.

By the way, in case you’ve not been following our adventures or you’ve not got much of a mind for storing things in, a touron is wot you gets when you cross a tourist with a moron. You sees a lot of ‘em around, but you don’t need my help to point ‘em out.

Anyways, as I was saying before I had to stop and explain wot was going on, Ol’ Misther Patchouli Da Fanny wasn’t planning on coming on my farewell tour, on account of he was in the middle of shoving his suitcases and extra emergency money belts into the Pink American Convertible for a quick getaway when The Widow Fartie Da Whistle happened to parade in front of him in her special new togs. All I can say is he must have even less going on in the concentration department than I thought, on account of the moment he seen her, he forgot all about going to Albania and followed her right the way to the bus (being me). Only trouble was, he was too close behind her when she sashayed up the steps cuz her black spingle-spangle see-through illusion thong were sharing the same square inch of the ozone layer as his nose. She tripped or something, and one thing led to another and before you knowed it, his nostrils had followed her thong all the way into wot some folks call her bottom pumping station. It promptly got stuck in there tighter’n a size twelve foot in a size four fuck-me pump. ‘Course, that made her fart up his nose, which in turn made his eyes water. He sneezed, and right then and there Misther Patchouli Da Fanny clapped his hands over wot he shouldn’t touch in public, and not even in private, not unless he wants to go blind, and started in a’dancing the sort of jig you sees on television when a lot of Irish folk get together. He squeaked and moaned and squawked to beat the band and said a lot of things wot’re not meant for the ears of parents of small children, and then before you knowed it, he bent right over double (just like The Widow Fartie Da Whistle said he would) and a blast of steam wot’d make a locomotive proud shot out of his ears. While this was going on, his nose, wot had the disadvantage of being shaped like a corkscrew with a hook on the end, was after working itself all the way up into furthest recesses of wot The Widow Fartie Da Whistle keeps inside her bottom cushions and, in the process, it got snarlied up in her thong. No matter how bad he tried to dislodge and pull hisself loose, his nose was there to stay. Not only that, but wot with his a’twitchin’ and drooling and dribbling, the batteries wot’d been keeping The Widow Fartie Da Whistle’s special iridescent laser Murkin a’flashing was short-circuiting. ‘Course, before anybody knowed wot was wot, there was an explosion bigger’n one o’them American atom bombs and The Widow Fartie Da Whistle’s most important fashion accessory got down to sending out sparks and flames until the whole sky was lit up like a whole tonne of fireworks’d been set off. In the meanwhile, wouldn’t you know, there was a whole queue of biddies a mile long trying their best to get on the bus (being me), but when they saw something exciting was going on at the front of the queue they forgot they was suppose to be standing in their assigned places (which is something you never does if’n you’re polite), and rushed up like a bunch of football hoodlums to see wot all the fireworks was about and wot Misther Patchouli Da Fanny’s nose was finding so interesting.

I won’t tell you straight out wot the first thing was The Widow Fartie Da Whistle said after this happened, on account of I don’t know how to spell it. But let’s just say it gave the biddies something bad to talk about for two months of Sundays. It also made for a delay before we could get started on my farewell tour of the island.

I know you’re all dying to know wot happened next, but I’m gonna put my pencil away for a bit. I can only stand so much excitement in a day and I know the same’s for you. I’m gonna take a nap, but in case you’re interested there’s that barrel of potheen Ol’ Finian Da Fabricator’d left in the back of the bus (being me) if you want some to get your blood pressure back down where it should be. As I always say, so endeth another coupl’a hours in stupidville. I’ll be talking to you soon and’ll fill you in on everything else wot’s been going on.

Day 63

Dear Diary,

For all those wot reads this diary entry and wonders how I ever survived the farewell tour I mentioned I was gonna be took on, I want to tell you here and now I not only survived but am at this very moment riding on the back of a shiny black trailer on the other side of the water from the island. In case you can’t read between the lines, this means I escaped. Not only am I living and breathing, but I’m not mangled or savaged into shredded shards o’guts and gore. The only reason I’m writing this prologue is to set your mind at ease. It would’a been unthinkable to give you the wrong impression and allow you to go to bed tonight fretting that I might be dead or dumped in the scrap heap, and sick to death that after so many days together it had to end like one o’them loud Italian operas where the folks with the best voices dies the most horrible deaths. Anyway, like I said, I’m alive and kicking and don’t have even a single bruise or dent to show for my latest adventures. And I’m happy to say that, unless the unthinkable happens and I’m sold back to wot I now thinks of as The Turd in the Northern Seas (‘The Turd’ being the island, in case you’ve not been paying attention), I’ll never hafta meet any of my old inbred friends again. ‘Course, never seeing them again means I can say wot I wants without any danger of wot they calls retribution. And even if any of ‘em wants to sue me for every euro I’ve got tucked under by upholstery, there ain’t no country wot’s got a law for taking a bus to court for slander. Not even if’n it’s a classic Daimler CVD6 with handcrafted Burlinton 33-seater coachwork and a pedigree to prove it. So there! And now that you know I didn’t die or expire or get shredded up into little bits or fall off the cliff or get skewered by the sword of Damicackelees , I can go back and begin this diary entry at the moment I first woked up. And you don’t hafta get all worked up about me or nothing (unless, of course, you feels like it). The only folks wot died you’d wish was dead anyway, and that’s from the first moment you met ‘em.

So here we go! The day started early, or at least it did for me and The Widow Fartie Da Whistle. She got me up, just like Ol’ Finian Da Fabricator’d taught her, with a big ol’ slug of high octane special smooth engine oil of the kind mixed up special by those wot knows how to treat a bus just right. And while I was chugging this down, she helped herself to a handful of espresso beans, just so’s she could keep her eyes open and her brain a’hopping all day. I think it’s a trick showed her by Signore Malvinio Da Flota-Mota, at least that’s wot his Ducati, my new friend Benvolio Da Trampolio, told me. The Widow Fartie Da Whistle’s spending more and more time with Signore Malvinio Da Flota-Mota, in fact perhaps too much of it, on account of this morning she looked like something a dozen cats’d dragged in through a hedge of brambles. Fortunately, after she’d ate about a pound and a half of them espresso beans and smeared wot they calls slap all over her face with a slapper (sorry about that, I really meant to say a trowel), she looked as beautiful as a wot them so-called celebrities look like after they’ve had their pictures took through a foot or two of burlap. She was also bright and cheerful and her eyes was out on stalks, but I suppose it’s an improvement over Ol’ Finian Da Fabricator after he’d drunk a coupl’a gallons of his special morning preparation outta his polystyrene container. I never did find out wot was in it, but, as they says, potheen stinks like potheen and so did his special preparation. My heart still has a lonely hole in it for him and his magic fingers, but he shouldn’a up and betrayed me for a trunkful of money the way he did. The way I sees it now, him and Ol’ Howard Da Fardle and Elmer Da Snog will gets wot they don’t wanna get just as soon as Mister Old Wanger Nose and his confederates catch up with them. Not to mention the ways Missis Milly Da Fardle’ll think up to get even, at least after she gets outta the prison farm for her part in selling off dead people to The Gnu-Fanny Deluxe Luxury Premium Cat Food Company. ‘Course, she ain’t been arrested yet, but between you and me, Dear Diary, we can count the days on a finger’s worth of fingers. From wot I’ve been told, the police were waiting for her at her little concrete bunker bungalow when she got back from my farewell tour through the island. ‘Course, the way I’m writing this down, Dear Diary, this hasn’t happened yet. I shouldn’a said it in the past tense on account of it’ll only spoil your fun and the tingle of anticipation over what’s gonna happen. I’m sorry about that and I’ll try to remember not to spoil the ending for you. Besides, she might been among those wot dies, but you’ll hafta wait and see, won’t you.

So back to first thing this morning. After The Widow Fartie Da Whistle and I finished up with our breakfast, she polished me up like a mirror and put special plastic all over the seats so’s the biddies wouldn’a get my upholstery flooded. I don’t care if the old seats is gonna be ripped out at the end of the day, it’s the chafing wot gets to me when their little old biddy acid pee seeps down between the cushions, and I asked The Widow Fartie Da Whistle to please help me out in this regard. It’s hard enough driving over the potholes and craters wot they calls roads on this island without the chafing in my seat stretchers distracting me and sending me round the bends. Fortunately, The Widow Fartie Da Whistle’s on my side when it comes to intimate discomfort. Whether or not she knows about chafing, she says she’s experienced wot she calls vaginal itch and says it’s enough to drive a man to suicide. I asked her if’n she didn’t mean it was a woman wot was being drove to suicide, on account of that’s wot she is, but she says she got it right the first time. She told me if’n a man misbehaves on her during one of her special bouts of vaginal itch, he’ll wish he was dead. And if’n he’s so drunk he tries it on a second time, she’ll make him commit suicide right then and there. She’s gotta great sense of humour, has The Widow Fartie Da Whistle. I only hope Signore Malvinio Da Flota-Mota knows about this, on account of if’n he has to commit suicide before I’m all paid for, I’ll be sent back to live in the lopsided pink flatpack building with Floozie Da Smelley, and I might have to run her over and push her off a cliff on account of I can’t stand how ugly she is. And then where’d I be? I bet you didn’t notice I left out a mention of Misther Patchouli Da Fanny just then, but I would’a, wouldn’t I, on account of he’s at the prison farm along with Missus Milly Da Fardle and Mister Doctor Bernie Da Gnu. Or at least that’s the way I’m telling it for now. Only you’re not supposed to know it yet. And then again, they might all be dead and turned into cat food by now, but only the cheap stuff no cat’d be caught dead eating and not the Deluxe Luxury Concoction.

Anyways, like I started to say, The Widow Fartie Da Whistle and me finished doing the breakfast thing and the polishing thing and the getting me already to go out thing, after which she put on her special bus driver chauffeuring uniform with the extra tight white lycra trousers wot’re so tight you can see everything wot Signore Malvinio Da Flota-Mota likes to play with and wot Misther Patchouli Da Fanny’d like to get to know, only she won’t let him if’n he wants to live another minute. I made a joke when I sawed her and asked if her white lycra trousers was made special for her vaginal itch, and she laughed and said it were more for blue balls. I didn’t know wot she was talking about, on account of my being a bus, but I laughed anyway. She told me she likes us buses better’n men on account of we don’t try in on with her, so I asked her if that includes Signore Malvinio Da Flota-Mota and she said he was something else. Perhaps one day, when I knows her better, I’ll ask her wot that means. If’n he’s something else, does that mean he’s not a man but some sort of flower or scientific experiment? He’s certainly pretty enough, if you know wot I mean. Human beings is full of mysteries and they’re always liking something wot doesn’t fit right (at least in my opinion). Like Fergal Da Fecker and his duck or Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and his sheep (which is why Floozie Da Smelley mostly makes him sleep in the barn).

Anyway, I’m gonna leave you for a bit, Dear Diary, while you digest everything I’ve wrote down just now. We’ll be getting to the exciting bit any minute and I want your mind to be rested up. When you’re ready, all you gotta do is say to me, “so endeth my rest and recuperation and I’m ready to hear some more.” And if I don’t hear you, you can just whistle. And you know how to whistle, don’t you?

Day 62

Dear Diary,

I am so excited I could simply wet the floor and deny it ever happened! A few minutes ago The Widow Fartie Da Whistle removed the bandages from my headlamps and held up a looking glass for me to see how my new makeover has transformed me. I am simply awestruck and can honestly say I had forgotten what a handsome bus I was. After spending what felt like half a lifetime submerged in the twilight world of Misther Patchouli Da Fanny, Floozie Da Smelley, and their low-life acquaintances, and being kitted out to resemble a pink powder puff on monster doughnuts, I’m ashamed to admit I had (as they say) sunk down to their level. Not that there’s anything wrong with living La Vida Basura (as the song says), Dear Diary, but if you review what I’ve written over the past month or so you’ll see just what a blathering idiot I’ve become. Another week and I’d have turned into a Neanderthal, and for one born a classic Daimler CVD6 with custom-made Burlington 33-seater coachwork, that is about as shameful as you can get. I am dreadfully sorry and more embarrassed than I can say. If I ever ran into any of my builders, I’d hafta hang my head beneath my wheels and hope they were looking in the opposite direction. It’s some sort of miracle that Signore Malvinio Da Flota-Mota recognised my classical beauty beneath what had come to resemble a painted trollop and deigned to give me another chance! Believe me, one of the first things I shall do upon arriving at my new home is apologise to his Ducati, Benvolio Da Trampolio. He may be Italian and, as such, as dazzlingly stylish as the midsummer sun, but he is also a gentleman among gentleman. That I called him ‘Mr. Hot Stuff’ (among other things) is to my eternal discredit.

As you may have gathered, Dear Diary, I have undertaken to shed the abysmal and loathsome speech patterns I acquired as a favour to Floozie Da Smelley’s crass and loud pink American convertible. I will admit to enjoying her company, but having said that, next to my classic Daimler CVD6 handcrafted chassis and custom Burlington 33-seat coachwork, she is, to put it bluntly, nothing if not born and bred trailer trash. When next I’m given a thorough check-up, something The Widow Fartie Da Whistle has promised to attend to the minute I’ve taken up residence in Signore Malvinio Da Flota-Mota’s garage, I’ll need to have my fluids tested for all manner of STDs. And yes, Dear Diary, you don’t hafta be a pissant human being to suck one o’them into your oil pan. I wasn’t as careful as I should’ve been with that little tramp American Convertible, and if I don’t get myself taken care of my head-lamps’ll fall off, if not something even more special I can’t mention in public. By the way, I thought you’d be pleased to know The Widow Fartie Da Whistle is accompanying me to my new home and is to be my official caregiver and chauffeur. Unfortunately, I’m afraid she’s smitten with Signore Malvinio Da Flota-Mota, and visa versa, which could be good or bad depending upon how well they hit it off. I’m not sure who’ll take her place in Misther Patchouli Da Fanny’s falling-down pink flatpack building, but seeing as how I’m being replaced by a fleet of Ford Transit Buses, all painted pink and with no manners whatsoever, I could care less.

Been thinking about the old biddies. In spite of how they treated my upholstery and kicked at my seats, I fear for their lives now that they’ll not have me or Ol’ Finian Da Fabricator to strap ‘em in and get ‘em from here to there and back again without a single mishap. ‘Can’t see the Ford Transits going the extra mile for ‘em, or Misther Patchouli Da Fanny either, come to think of it. And mark my word, he’ll be the one doing the driving, on account of no one else’ll do it for him, not with him paying substandard wages the way he does, as well as paying ‘em in the pretend old Italian lira wot he and Floozie Da Smelley runs up in their pink Jacuzzi. Heh heh, have you noticed, Dear Diary, how when I gets to talking about Ol’ Patchouli Da Fanny, how I starts to write more and more like a turnip again?

I understand I’m to be driven round the island this afternoon on a farewell tour. All my old ‘friends’ will be riding with me, including Mrs. Drain and Missus Milly Da Fardle and Beryl from Beryl’s Hair Parlour for Old Women. Miss Cabbage and Mrs. Emily Da Onion are still in Missus Milly Da Fardle’s bad books and so won’t be allowed on the bus (bring me). It’ll be a kick driving past their little concrete bunker bungalows and see ‘em staring out at us from behind their curtains, all full of shame and seething away to beat the band, and hearing all the little old biddies on board the bus (being me) sneering and pointing their fingers and talkin’ bad about ‘em. However, I’m as pleased as punch to tell you that Fergal Da Fecker’s been found in the ditch he fell into last week during a midnight get-together with Ol’ Marcela Da Splodge from the Fancy-Prancy Club behind the Women’s Institute. I didn’t know they was so well acquainted, but that just goes to show wot I don’t know’d fill a book, don’t it. I’m told he’s been given a special wash and brush-up for our excursion by Arnie Pizzlepod and Maybelline Dorcus O’Brien, both of whom managed to get time off work at Bump ‘n’ Grind Lap-o-Matic. All of ‘em’ll be coming along for the ride, as well, which should liven up the proceedings, especially since Father Brady O’ Flanaghan Murnaghan from the Church of The Immaculate Septum is planning a fitting homily from the best seat up front. By the way, I understand that Missus Milly Da Fardle graciously gave her permission for him to occupy her seat. I’m sure she’s feeling bad at not having a final opportunity to (shall we say) spring a leak on her favourite piece particular upholstery. Speaking of which, according to The Widow Fartie Da Whistle, when I gets to my new home, all my seats are to be take out and burnt and replaced. She mentioned something about tan leather and Milan and Pinafarina, but then said if she said any more it would spoil the surprise.

For some reason Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Floozie Da Smelley aren’t coming along, and neither is Mister Doctor Bernie Da Gnu. Something tells me Signore Malvinio Da Flota-Mota has officially uninvited them. It seems he has dropped a couple of well-placed hints to the wrong people regarding Misther Doctor Bernie Da Gnu’s ‘Wash ‘n’ Wake Funeral Parlour for a Beautiful Goodbye’ and its special relationship with The Gnu-Fanny Deluxe Premium Luxury Cat Food Company with his brother-in-law. I’ve heard the expression up shit’s creek without a paddle mentioned once or twice with connection with their names. Fortunately I won’t be around here when the brown stuff hits the fan (as they say).

I’ve gotta put away the old pencil and prepare for my farewell tour. I’ll let you know how it goes, that is if’n I don’t slip off of the road and over a cliff or something equally exasperating. Until then, all I can say is, so endeth one of my last sessions with you, Dear Diary. You’ve been like a cycletherapist to me, and whatever happens, I’ll never forget you.

Day 61

Dear Diary,


Now, you remember me mentioning Ol’ Jehosephat Da Fardle and how he was married to Missus Milly Da Fardle until he suddenly wasn’t and nobody’d admit to knowing where his body was buried? Well, before we gets to the place where a bag of mystery meat turned up at Ol’ Ma Deirdre Da Durdle’s back door in the dead of night with a note pinned to it wot said “For Your Dogs”, even though she didn’t have no dogs and never’d had none in her life an account of her allergies, there was a gap of a few years wot might need explaining.

Wot you might not know, Dear Diary, on account of the trees wot you were made from weren’t even chopped down yet, which means you weren’t even paper and couldn’t been scrawled on my any pencil, let alone mine, was that before Ol’ Missus Milly Da Fardle was Ol’ Missus Milly Da Fardle she were That Slapper Miss Milly Da Fardle. ‘Course, she were never called that at home or to her old man’s face or she would’a been kicked so far outta the house that she’d a landed all the way over in Lithuania, and that’s more’n a few miles. Therefore, for Her Old Man’s sanity and her own official reputation, the ‘Slapper’ bit were always left out when she was talked about, except down at 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. But that’s neither here nor there as them wot goes down there’s always saying anything about anyone on account of they don’t have wot they calls lives. Anyways, that’s some of wot you should know about Missus Milly Da Fardle way back then before she knowed where the bodies was buried, and it explains a lot wot about why the old bat is such a turd. But wot I haven’t mentioned yet is about Ol’ Jehosephat Da Fardle before he was Ol’ Jehosephat Da Fardle. Back then he were That Feckin’ Whippersnapper Young Jehosephat Da Fardle, and even then he weren’t knowed for anything but for drinking the hot potheen wot he bought by the gallon in secret from Ol’ Fingus Da Flatulator when he was Young Fingus Da Flatulator and hadn’t yet blowed hisself up. ‘Course, that weren’t the whole story, on account of he was also knowed for feckin’ pretty much anything in a skirt wot came within five inches of his wotsit. Six inches away were pretty safe, on account of no matter how much he lied about it and boasted to the ladies, the proof was in the pudding, or in his case, in the sausage.

Well one day, while That Slapper Miss Milly Da Fardle were bending over scrubbing the floor, which was something womenfolk was trained to do a coupl’a times a day so’s the house wouldn’t be an affront to the eyes of The Lord, she stepped on the bar o’lye soap she was using and fell over. As luck would have it (which just goes to show you wot a rare commodity luck is on the island), That Feckin’ Whippersnapper Young Jehosephat Da Fardle had dropped his jug o’hot potheen on the floor and it’d rolled under the one bed wot everybody slept in altogether. Well, he was lying on his back rolling back and forth and reaching for the jug at the moment when The Slapper Miss Milly Da Fardle accidentally toppled over arse to bunkle, and wot to do you but she falls smack dab on top of his sweet spot. ‘Course, falling smack dab on top of his sweet spot meant she was closer’n five inches, and so, as he said afterwards, she got wot was coming to her. At that very moment (proving it were a very busy day in the house), who should walk in but Their Old Man (who, as far as everybody knew was only called that and never had what they’d call a proper name other than Old Man Da Fardle). Right away he called up the priest on the telephone and said his little innocent virgin baby girl had soiled her reputation for good and’d be a falling woman as well as a tramp if’n she didn’t get married that very afternoon. The Priest, who was cultivating the fields of The Lord as well as some of the tenderist buds, and who didn’t have no name other than ‘The Priest’ or ‘Father Mary Mother God’, on account of that was acceptable way back then, asked him then and there wot was the name of the man wot was ploughing The Slapper Miss Milly Da Fardle’s furrow? For your information, this was back before Father Brady O’ Flanaghan Murnaghan was sent to bring glory hallelujah to the Church of The Immaculate Septum and save the lost souls on the bottom end of the island, and as I says before, things was different then. Anyway, Old Man Da Fardle says to Father Mary Mother God, “Father Mary Mother God,” he says, “it be none other than her favourite brother, That Reprobational Fecker Whippersnapper Young Jehosephat Da Fardle wot planted his seed in her furrow.” “Thank your lucky stars for that,” yelled back Father Mary Mother God in the voice he normally saved for jubilation prayer days when more’n two people under ninety-three attended church and actually put one whole banknote in the little jiffy bag wot hung by the front door. “Thank your lucky stars’, he said again, even louder. “Wot you mean by that, Father Mary Mother God?” hollered back Old Man Da Fardle even louder than before and more worrificated. “My honour is at stake. If’n you don’t tell me wot to do I’ll hafta cut off That Feckin’ Whippersnapper Young Jehosephat Da Fardle’s balls and fry ‘em up for breakfast, and then he’ll not be good for nothing no more and there’ll be nothin’ for it but to put him in a dress and sell him to Lithuanian where they likes young men to come that way.” “Hell, no,” yelled back Father Mary Mother God even louder’n ever, in a voice packed full of authority and potatoes, “if’n you do that you’ll have to hire a foreigner or someone to milk your cows and feck your sheep and you’ll hafta pay them, and as it’s something Feckin’ Whippersnapper Young Jehosephat Da Fardle does for free, it’ll lose you money.” And before Old Man Da Fardle could yell back again even louder’n his ears could stand, Father Mary Mother God let him know right then and there that he wouldn’a stand for Old Man Da Fardle losing good money wot could be put into his special fundraising jiffy bag every other Sunday. “Wot you got to do,” he said to Old Man Da Fardle, “is stand on top of them and pin ‘em to the floor, and before you know it I’ll be right over and marry them right up into wot they calls a blessed onion.” And so he did, and so it were that Miss Milly Da Fardle became Missus Milly Da Fardle and spewed out babbies faster’n a greyhound can chase a rabbit, including, of course, Howard Da Fardle, wot recently up and ran away with Elmer Da Snog and my old friend Finian Da Fabricator and a whole trunkful of illegal winnings wot Miss Milly Da Fardle’d blackmailed outta Mister Doctor Bernie Da Gnu. But that’s a long story and I’ve told it all before.

Anyways, Ol’ Jehosephat Da Fardle spent more years’n you can count making Missus Milly Da Fardle as miserable as a lion on a diet o’prunes, and she returns the favour in spades, until eventually it gets out official that he’s run off before she can feed him another one of her special greasy fry-ups. Only no one really knows wot’s went on, you see, on account of he’s disappeared altogether like a puff of smoke. And then, of course, after a few days there’s this business of Ol’ Ma Dierdre Durdle and the bag of mystery meat wot turned up at her back door in the dead of night with a note on it addressed to her dog she never had.

I’ve gotta hide my pencil for now, Dear Diary. The Widow Fartie Da Whistle is after painting me a classic blue and gold colour as a favour to The Greek God part-Italian Stallion Signore Malvinio Da Flota-Mota and Mr. Hot Stuff Benvolio Da Trampolio Ducati, so I don’t look like a pink bordello on wheels any more. I’ll get back to you as soon as she’s finished and my new custom paintwork has dried. ‘Til then, I’ll say, so almost beginneth my first day looking like a classic gentleman’s bus like I did in the beginning!

Day 60

Dear Diary,

First thing this morning, wot do you know but Floozie Da Smelley waltzes in the garage door without so much as a by your leave. I had a suspicion about maybe she had something wot was wrong with her (I’m talking about something more’n usual) when she came straight up to me and embraces me all passionate (like I’m not used to, at least not since Finian Da Fabricator run off with Missus Milly Da Fardle’s luggageful of money along with Howard Da Fardle and Elmer Da Snog). She then plants a big kiss on the middle of my grill and sticks her tongue is as far as it’ll go. Believe me it weren’t altogether as pleasant as I wished it could’a been, and for that I don’t know whether to blame myself or lay it all on to her. I may be talking like a hick on account of that’s wot they asked me for, and after all they’s been paying the bills (albeit with funny money), but I’m still at heart a classic Daimler CVD6 33-seater bus with handcrafted Burlington coachwork and fine leather upholstery wot was made by forty-seven ancient blind men working twenty-nine hour days down in Morocco. Unfortunately as you may have gathered by now, wot with the biddies dancing the incontinental on my seats every time they goes shopping or to bingo or to Beryl’s Hair Parlour for Old Women or to Mass at Father Brady O’ Flanaghan Murnaghan’s Church of The Immaculate Septum on the bottom side of the island where they really don’t belong, not with them not practicing wot he preaches, my upholstery is looking worse then it did when a cow was still wearing it. But, never mind, I have it on good authority that Signore Malvinio Da Flota-Mota, the part-Italian Greek God Hunk Gigolo wots gonna be my new owner has loads of money and likes to spend it on wot he calls his weehicles. Benvolio Da Trampolio, his Ducati, has told me loads about Signore Malvinio Da Flota-Mota on the days when he’s passed the time of day with me with me in my garage. It seems Ol’ Signore Malvinio Da Flota-Mota has the hots for The Widow Fartie Da Whistle and the two have a serious case of passing back and forth wot they calls bodily fluid every chance they gets. Anyway, Benvolio Da Trampolio says I’m not to worry about my future or about the sorry state of my upholstery. Once I’m living in their garage, I’ll be restored completely, and after that no one wot wears Depends’ll get within a mile of my seats. Sounds brutal to me, as well as more’n a little discriminatory, but I’ll smell better for the ladies and that balances the budget, as they says.

But back to Floozie Da Smelley. As I started to say, Dear Diary, she came in this morning before I was properly woked up and got all-intimate with my physical features. Wasn’t nothing personal about it, though, on account of Signore Malvinio Da Flota-Mota’d just come by and paid the balance on wot he owed for purchasing me. And it were in cash too, not to mention the money were in actual banknotes wot are legal in real banks, and not just in The Bank of Old Wanger Nose. Anyway, I guess she’s not used to having wot they calls legal tender, cuz she could now go to shops and boutiques outside of those wot she runs at Floozie Da Smelley’s Junk-By-The-Tonne and buy some decent shite for a change. No wonder the poor slag was in a good mood. I’d like to say I’ll miss her and Ol’ Misther Patchouli Da Fanny when I’m gone, but if I did I’d be lying.

By the way, Ol’ Benvolio Da Trampolio asked me if’n I was all packed up with enough fuel to take me to the other side of the island and on the ferry leading over to wot they calls civilisation. I said something along the lines of “you’d better fucking believe it,” only I put it more polite and off-hand. I wouldn’t want ‘em to feel I’m over-anxious or anything like that. Anyway, I have a feeling they could be driving me away any day now.

I don’t know wot this means, but Benvolio Da Trampolio came to me in a dream last night. He started in telling me something about my new life and in the dream he sorta hinted something about me not hanging on to my past. ‘Course, it were a dream, so I couldn’t very well answer back and ask wot he meant and then expect an answer back. At least in my dreams, if you say you wants a rim job on your tyres you gets a pickle shoved up your tailpipe. Not literally, of course, but you know wot dreams are like. Anyway, I had the feeling he was talking about you, Dear Diary, and that you weren’t gonna be invited along for the ride. I hope that’s not the case, on account of I quite enjoy your company, but to be on the safe side I’ll try to finish up with a few important matters so they won’t get lost for all eternity.

I’m gonna put my pencil away for a while and think about things. Don’t worry, however, Dear Diary, I’ll be back tomorrow and tell you more of wot’s what. As I’m always fond of saying, so endeth another day, or at least a little bit of it.

Day 59

Dear Diary,

I guess I can’t put it off any longer, my telling you about Missus Milly Da Fardle and her conflict of interest. I know you feel the same, Dear Diary, which is why you hid my pencil until I promised I’d get down to it right here and now.

So, here we go, and as they said in an old movie, ‘fasten your seat belts’ on account of the ride’s gonna get bumpier’n a camel’s two front teeth.

I suppose I’ve gotta recap first, or at least a little, on account of a few folks wot’ll end up reading this diary’ll either be drunk or stoned on something I’m not supposed to know about (wot with me being a classic Daimler CVD6 33-seat bus with custom-designed, handcrafted coachwork and not a rock ‘n’ roll singer). On the other hand, if you’re wot we call clean living and remember everything you’ve ever heard and don’t like hearing things over again twice, you might want to go outta the room or play a game of tennis or wash out your toilet for as long as it takes for those wot are sorely gifted in the memory department to catch up on where we were. Right? Right.

Anyway, Missus Milly Da Fardle was in cahoots with Mister Doctor Bernie Da Gnu and Misther Patchouli Da Fanny in selling off bodies wot comes into Misther Doctor Bernie Da Gnu’s ‘Wash ‘n’ Wake Funeral Parlour for a Beautiful Goodbye’. It seems they did a cost analysis and came to the conclusion that it were a waste of good resources simply to puts the corpi deliciousi into the ground and let ‘em rot and spend the rest of their lives looking ugly. And so they decided it’d be more profitable to sell on the bodies to The Gnu-Fanny Premium Deluxe Luxury Car Food Company, a company near and dear to their own hearts, seeing as how they owned it lock, stock and barrel. ‘Course they tried to wait until the funerals was over, in case somebody decided they wanted to have a personal goodbye with the dead person, but that depended on how long the remains had been dead and how much the worms’d already ate. They were nothing if not concerned that the resources should be maximised on account of cats are always hungry and if they don’t get a full tin of cat food they’ll go right on out and eat all the baby birdies they can find.

This all went along fine and dandy and no one ever found out about it, but then one day who should up and die but Missus Milly Da Fardle’s favourite Lithuanian sister-in-law, Bettinka Spalinka Da Fardle, widow of her brother Breezy Barry Da Fardle. When the body was brung into the secret stainless steel body-stuffing laboratory behind Misther Doctor Bernie Da Gnu’s ‘Wash ‘n’ Wake Funeral Parlour for a Beautiful Goodbye’, Missus Milly Da Fardle looked long and hard at it. The first thing she said was, “she’s not as fat as she used to be before she choked in the radish. How much money’ll she fetch?” Mister Doctor Bernie Da Gnu, who knew everything there was to know about money, as well as how many cans of cat food it takes to eat up every size of body, answered back, “give or take a hundert pounds, I’d say in her present condition, Bettinka Spalinka Da Fardle’d bring in two hundert and fifty pounds. And that’s even though the going rate for dead folks from Lithuania is depressed at the moment. Mind you, if’n we wait ‘till after the funeral and Father Brady O’ Flanaghan Murnaghan from the Church of The Immaculate Septum’s done orating to beat the band and has passed the wine around and everybody’s got drunk, her value’ll be down another twenty-five pounds. Plus the fact that her meat will’ve got rancid by then and no good for cats, wot are notoriously fussy about such things. In that case, it’ll have to be sold on to The Smelley-Fanny School Meals Company, and school meals pays a whole lot less.”

Well, Missus Milly Da Fardle took another hard look at her favourite sister-in-law and saw that her colour wasn’t as nice as it was when she was brought in, and that her meat seemed to’ve shrunk away from the bone, and she said, “To Hell with it, Mister Doctor Bernie Da Gnu, sell her on and quick. My house is in need of another conservatory and in any case I’ll not miss her none as soon as she’s outta my sight.”

And so it was that Missus Milly Da Fardle’s conflict of interest was solved and they all made some more money. You might like to know that, at the end of the year, The Island Businessmen’s Association voted Missus Milly Da Fardle ‘Person of The Year’ for wot they called ‘her great sacrifice’.

Now that we’ve finally done with Missus Milly Da Fardle’s conflict of interest, we could talk about things of a similar nature, such as how the bloated corpus delicious of Miss Cabbage’s old mother, Hubbard Cubbard Da Fezziwiggle, exploded outta her coffin right when it was passing Floozie Da Smelley’s Happy Family Petting Zoo and how a pack of hyenas ate it before they could scoop up the mess and get it delivered The Gnu-Fanny Premium Deluxe Luxury Cat Food Company. Or I could tell you about when Ol’ Ma Deirdre Durdle died but forgot to stay dead. But I won’t, at least not until I’ve talked about other stuff wot don’t involve dead people or dead people flavoured cat food. Not that that’ll be easy, on account of nothing much goes on wot doesn’t have to do with people wot are dead. The problem is, they’re more interesting when they’re dead, aren’t they, as well as being a whole lot nicer. I’ll hafta think about it over night.

Wot I really want to talk about, Dear Diary, is Floozie Da Smelley’s Special Away Day for her girlfriends, but I might just amuse you with a tale or two about Ol’ Jehosephat Da Fardle first. You’ll hafta wait and see. In the meantime, I’m gonna take me a nap. As I like to say, I’ll get back to you after I’ve endeth a coupl’a dreams and feel talkative again.

Day 58

Dear Diary,

Hopefully I’ve not got no traumatic occurrences coming my way today, so’s I can getting on with telling you about Missus Milly Da Fardle and her conflict of interest. I know you’re probably sick to death of hearing her name, and believe me I’m sick to death of writing it, but it’ll be worth it in the end, cuz in spite of wot a bargeful o’shite she is, she really is a humdinger! And think of it this way, Dear Diary, if I actually manage to write it down right, she might end up being stuck in Madame Tussaud’s, and with her they wouldn’t even hafta waste any wax on account of she’s already been stuffed and mounted more often than a rabbit’s had babbies. Sorry if I upset your delicate sensibilities, Dear Diary, but she must’a got all her children from somewhere, and if she’s the Immaculate Conception then I’m a stoat’s bunghole.

Thinking about this aspect of Missus Milly Da Fardle and imagining her as the rumpy in rumpypumpy, which don’t do my stomach any good in the visualising, I should bring your attention to a special something about ‘Ol Jehosephat Da Fardle, wot filled ‘Ol Missus Milly Da Fardle full of babbies way back when the world was new and he was knowed for his special way with chickens. One big thing (and from wot I heard you could take this any which way and you’d not be far from the truth) Misther Jehosephat Da Fardle never let a day go by without (as they say) celebrating the beauty of his prized cucumber. I might add that, at the time, ‘Ol Missus Milly Da Fardle (wot was still Miss Milly Da Fardle back then), thought it were the prettiest pumpy squirter she’d ever seen in the whole wide world. And believe me, they was wot you could call a specialty of hers.

I know I told you a while back that Mister Jehosephat Da Fardle eventually up and left her after he knew he’d die if’n he ever ate another one of her breakfast fry-ups. In case you’ve never seen one, they were (and still are) wondrous to behold, that is if you craves stale lakes o’grease wot have islands of burnt unmentionables swimming in the middle, as well as offal leavings you don’t want to know about. Anyways, the urge to purge hisself from matrimonial bliss while his arteries was still breathing took ‘Ol Jehosephat Da Fardle all of a sudden one morning when it was in the middle of winter. ‘Ol Missus Milly Da Fardle was looking under the bed for her shoes and a wind blew up behind her and she’d forgot her underwear on account of she only ever put it on before she got on the bus (being me or others wot came before). Poor ‘Ol Mister Jehosephat may’ve liked to poke his nose into whatever made his winkle tingle, but on seeing’ his beloved wife bending over like that reminded him be’d forgot to drain the swamp for planting. After that he knew he could never eat any of her table scraps again, and on account of he was a man wot lived for his appetites, he left without packing his bags and was never saw again. Or at least that’s wot Missus Milly Da Fardle said, but that were before the business of ‘Ol Ma Dierdre Durdle and the bag of mystery meat wot turned up at her back door. I’ll tell you about that later and you can make up your own mind.

By the way, anyone feeling sorry for Missus Milly Da Fardle on account of ‘Ol Mister Jehosephat Da Fardle’s treachery and desertion, ought’a get a life, and I’m not saying this on account of it just made me laugh. The truth is, it didn’t make a turd o’difference one way or t’other as to how she went about living, and I wouldn’t worry about it if’n I were you. After all, she knows where the bodies is buried and is happier’n a hyena tearing at the bloated corpus delicious of Miss Cabbage’s old mother, Hubbard Cubbard Da Fezziwiggle. I know I haven’t told you about her before, any more’n I have about ‘Ol Ma Dierdre Durdle, but if you promise to be patient with me, I might get around to it some day. But in case I don’t, you might as well know they was both as boring as a pot of noodles without salt and drippings. In fact, as far as Hubbard Cubbard Da Fezziwiggle is concerned, the only thing exciting wot happened to her in her whole life was when she died on her hols in Benidorm and nobody noticed. Apparently, from wot I heard, when she ‘xpired out by the pool after eating a bucket of squid wot’d been sitting around in the sun all day, she sat and bloated and grew blacker’n the inside of a goose’s goiter for three weeks and a half. And it weren’t that no one was sitting beside her special reserved chair, on account of they was. Not only was they there, but they was drinking beer and eating the chips and bacon sarnies wot they brung from Blighty (on account of folks wot goes to Benidorm don’t go in for rubbish wot is cooked up by spics speaking foreign (as someone somewhere said, if’n English was good enough for Jesus Christ it’s good enough for us). Anyway, after sitting by wot was left of Hubbard Cubbard Da Fezziwiggle for a full three days, her neighbours down by the swimming pool remarked on how black she was becoming. The man said to the woman (I never asked their names on account of I don’t hold with bigots and I don’t wanna give you anything to remember ‘em by), “Whooee,” he said, “This here woman’s turned black’n the inside of a bishop’s enema bag.” She answered back something so bad and disrespectful I’ll not waste ink on it, but it had something to do with Hubbard Cubbard Da Fezziwiggle’s looking like one of them illegal asylum aliens and how she must’a never learned how to take a bath or nothing on account of she smelled worse’n a dead rat. It didn’t occur to ‘em that the woman’d been dead and roasting in the sun for three full days and she had a right to smell if’n she wanted to.

I realise none of this has nothing to do with Missus Milly Da Fardle’s conflict of interest or how she came to enter wot they calls a marriage of convenience with Misther Jehosephat Da Fardle, or even wot her name was back when she was still a virgin, if ever. I promise I’ll get around to telling it to you tomorrow, or perhaps in the day after. Right now I’m too pooped to pop on account of Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Floozie Da Smeeley’ve been yelling for a solid two days outside my garage. I’m gonna stick some wads of cotton wot I keeps behind the back seat into my fanlights, which, in case you don’t know by now, is where us buses keeps our ears. Hopefully I’ll then get me some peace and’ll sleep for a bit. Think of me when you says your Woolly Mary’s Fulla Brains. As I always says, even at the best of times, so endeth wot I have to say this afternoon.

Day 57

Dear Diary,

I can’t say I had the most friendliest visit from Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Floozie Da Smelley earlier on this evening. Not that they came into the garage to see me, on account of they didn’t seem to know I was sitting here listening in and wishing they’d go away and drown themselves in the pink flamingo-shaped swimming pool they built in back wot they call their ‘Pink Palace’. Personally and in my opinion, I think (as I’ve said before) the house looks more like a marshmallow wot’s got one side bitten out by a rat that it does a palace, but there’s no accounting for taste, is there? Anyway, from all the recriminations and counter-recriminations wot were zinging back and forth a couple hours ago, I’d say both Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Floozie Da Smelley was a whole lot drunker’n slugs wot’d spent the night in the slurry pit. And as for Floozie Da Smelley, she was meaner’n an adder wot’d got locked up in a cage full of mongooses. It seems she’d caught ‘Ol Misther Patchouli Da Fanny stepping out for a night with her best friend, Maybelline Dorcus O’Brien, wot works the late night shift over at the Bump ‘n’ Grind Lap-o-Matic down on the other side of the island, where all the folks is more worldly and better-spoke than a whole trunkful of Floozie Da Smelleys put together. And that’s even after all them years of her paying good money (funny money, actually, on accounting of it came from the batch she and Misther Patchouli Da Fanny’d whipped up in the lopsided pink flatpack building) for private electric cushion lessons from Professor Rimmel von Hackomaster. From wot everybody said, twice a week she’d sneak down to wot used to be The Secondary Modern School back in the days before down they turned it into a fancy American style cappuccino bar. Professor Rimmel Von Hackomaster’d never caught on it wasn’t a school no more, on account of he’d got locked in the lavatory at the time and never got out. ‘Course being as he was inflicted by wot they calls a vokay-shun, he carried on teaching like nothing’d ever changed and gave his classes through the window. Poor ‘Ol fool didn’t seem to notice that everytime he started in teaching away to beat the band, some waitress or other’d think he was ordering a jumbo mug of fancy American cappuccino and’d ask for payment up in front. ‘Course, Professor Rimmel von Hackomaster never was much in the brains department, which is why he came to the island in the first place. Fortunately for him, Floozie Da Smelley, who was even stupider in the stupid department than he was, thought he were the cat’s pyjamas, on account of his exotic accent and the fact that his teeth clacked when he talked. She was over the moon when he agreed to give her a whole series of electric cushion lesion, two a week forever and a day. Anyway, as I was saying, earlier this evening Floozie Da Smelley was ranting and raving at Misther Patchouli Da Fanny for stepping out on her with Maybelline Dorcus O’Brien, only the funny thing was she didn’t care one way or t’other about wot he was planning to do with ‘Ol Maybelline, only that he was planning to do it while he was wearing one of her favourite pairs of wot she calls her pink ‘n’ gold Shimmy Shoos. Personally, I thought Misther Patchouli Da Fanny would’a looked a whole lot better in something more along the lines of throwed-up green with vegetable chunks, on account of that’s the colour body paint he was smeared over with, but as I’ve said a million times or more, there’s no accounting for taste. And anyone who’s got eyes what’re not stuck in a bucket of mud’ll tell you Misther Patchouli Da Fanny’s got less taste than a plate of broccoli wots died and gone to live in the back of the refrigerator.

Anyway (sorry to use the word so often, Dear Diary, but it’s convenient and I can’t think of a better one), the two of them (Patchouli Da Fanny and Floozie Da Smelley) argued and argued and she eventually got fed up wot with him refusing to take her favourite Shimmy Shoos off his feet before he stunk ‘em up, and she grabbed a barrel of used oil wot The Widow Fartie Da Whistle’d drained outta me last time we had fun together, and dumped it over his head. Unfortunately I laughed and wot they call ‘backfired’ in her face and she went and slashed my mega monster tyres, and now I’m hurting worse than a chicken wots got his head rung off.

‘Ol Patchouli Da Fanny told her right then and there she looked worse’n a bucket of horse manure and her Shimmy Shoos only accentuated the bad bits, making her tits and legs remember him of a monkey’s pecker after it’s been wore out. At his point, they ran outta the garage again, barking and screaming and carrying on and I lost the thread of the conversation. Fortunately for me, they left before they could inflict any more heinous and fatal injuries on the person of my classic Daimler CVD6 chassis.

After they’d stormed out and left me alone, I carried on crying my fuel pump out and moaning and pouting like one of them spoiled brat sports cars, until finally The Widow Fartie Da Whistle poked her head in to see wot had been done unto me. Fortunately, she knowed just how to fix me up and she took off the slashed tyres faster’n a bean can make a fart. She gave my wheels a right good massaging and sang sweet nothings into my fanlights. Then after my wheels was all healed and I was starting to feel frisky again, she put on a new set of tyres wot came from Italy and set my carburettor to thumping, and threw the ugly monster slashed ones into the junk pile. I’m now wot they calls styling and feel hotter’n a cracker. I can’t wait to get back on the road tomorrow and strut my stuff. ‘Course, it’d be funner if I could be stepping out with a coupl’a Ferraris and a Bugatti instead of a passel of biddies, but us buses gotsta go where we’re driven, as they say. Never mind, cuz after I goes to live with The Greek God part-Italian Stallion Signore Malvinio Da Flota-Mota and Mr. Hot Stuff Benvolio Da Trampolio Ducati I might have better luck in the passenger department. Somehow, I don’t see ‘em hanging out with the likes of Milly Da Fardle and her crowd, not if their life depends on it.

I know I didn’t get back to Milly Da Fardle and her predicament, but after wot Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and especially Floozie Da Smelley did to me, I felt I had to talk to you or burst. Hopefully, after I rest up a bit, nothing much’ll happen in the way of traumatic interruptions and I can get on with what I want to talk about. You’ll just have to pray, if you’re so inclined. Anyway (as I love to say), so endeth another one of them days I hope’ll go to someone else in the future.