Day 43

Dear Diary,

Whoopsie doopsie is wot I say, Dear Diary, on account of I’m in danger of forgetting all about Finian Da Fabricator and his wonderful ways with the polishing rag. I don’t know much about The Widow Fartie Da Whistle, on account of we haven’t yet been properly introduced, and she might be a bitch on wheels when she gets up on the wrong wide of bed, but who gives a shit (as they say). Wot she did with her watering hose and polishing rag earlier today wiped not only the dirt of the road clean outta my paintwork, but took care of my pipes like they’ve never been took care of before. Not never ever, and don’t forget I’ve been around since the fifties. I’m in desperate love, Dear Diary, and just when I’ve gotta leave Misther Patchouli Da Fanny’s falling down pink flatpack building and Touron Resort to go live with The Greek God part-Italian Stallion, Signore Malvinio Da Flota-Mota and his 1000cc macho hotcho Ducati, whose name (I’ve just discovered) is Benvolio Da Trampolio, and who’s got a bad reputation in nearly every country he’s visited. I’d ask you wot I should do, Dear Diary, but the nice thing about you is you never answer back and don’t have a brain, only one wot’s smaller’n ‘Ol Fergal Da Fecker’s, and that’s saying something.

While I’m recovering from The Widow Fartie Da Whistle’s ministrations and settling back down my quivering pistons, I’ll distract myself from my tinglings and pinglings by reflecting on wot happened to Missus Milly Da Fardle after she fell under her zimmer and bashed her head open like an exploding watermelon in front of The Bank of Old Wanger Nose the other day. Or was it this morning or yesterday or tomorrow? I don’t really remember anything anymore after wot The Widow Fartie Da Whistle got up to when she tinkered with my carburettor.

One thing I’ve gotta say about Missus Milly Da Fardle is that she puts a cat to shame on account of the number of lives she storing away in her primeval and wizened and not very accommodating body. Of course, with the amount of spare skin she has flapping all over her body, she has room for all the cats in the world, plus an elephant or two. Hah-hah. Anyways, I had to laugh, but never mind. Hah-hah. You’ll be laughing too, on account of no sooner’d Miss Cabbage and Mrs. Emily Da Onion said all them bad things about her, than Missus Milly Da Fardle sat right up, blood streaming down her face from the hole on top her head, and got out her mobile phone from the inside of her cardy sleeve, where it shares space with her wadded-up dirty hankies and her crinkly arm skin. And straight away she rings up the call centre and says, “Good afternoon, Miriam Da Breeze, this is Missus Milly Da Fardle, wot’s your new employer. For your information Miss Cabbage and Mrs. Emily Da Onion’s banned from the community bus from here on in, even after they die.” Miriam Da Breeze, in case you didn’t guess, is Missus Milly Da Fardle’s favourite operator, who always does wot Missus Milly Da Fardle asks her to do. That may be on account of her paying Miriam Da Breeze’s tiny salary wot don’t keep her in tins of baked beans, but on the other hand, Miriam Da Breeze is nicer and more accommodating than a salad ready for dressing (unlike Missus Milly Da Fardle), which means her temperament might have something to do with it.

‘Course, both Miss Cabbage and Mrs. Emily Da Onion were so surprised at this turn of events that their teeth fell out, which made ‘em into laughing stocks with a bunch of school children wot were standing around the bus scrawling graffiti on my embarrassing pink paintwork. One thing I’m counting on when I move to live with Signore Malvinio Da Flota-Mota and his special hand-built Ducati, Benvolio Da Trampolio, is that they’ll re-paint me and make me look less like Crisobel Da Clown. And before you ask, Cristobel Da Clown is wot Floozie Da Smelley dresses up as at her weekly children’s Pink Circus Parties wot she holds for touron kids out behind her Deluxe Luxury Touron Resort and Self-Catering Cabinettes. I’m hoping Signore Malvinio Da Flota-Mota pains me metallic black and silver with art nouveau squiggles, but it’s up to him. I also hope he moves me far enough away so’s I don’t ever hafta take kids to see Floozie Da Smelley’s Pink Circus ever again. I would pray for this if I could do it without kneeling, which is hard for us older classic buses wot don’t have Special Kneeling Hydraulics installed for easy wheelchair access.

Speaking of which, I sometimes wish I had some of that Special Kneeling Hydraulics machinery so’s I could oblige biddies in wheelchairs. But then after watching the likes of Missus Milly Da Fardle and her friends thwacking other passengers with their zimmers so’s they’ll go and sit in the back, all I can say is why make life any easier for biddies when they’re already having such a good time?

But you’re probably wondering, Dear Diary, wot Missus Milly Da Fardle did next after phoning the call centre and banning Miss Cabbage and Mrs. Emily Da Onion for life (and beyond) for talking about her nasty after she split her head open and they thought she was deader’n a dried octopus. Well, while Miss Cabbage and Mrs. Emily Da Onion was standing there with their mouths open and feeling like they wished they’d never been born, especially after being embarrassed like that in public, Missus Milly Da Fardle right away rang Misther Doctor Bernie Da Gnu and told him to ban them from the bingo parlour, as well. He was in two minds about it, on account of he likes their money as much as anyone’s, but when she told him they was so cheap they never bought more’n one card and snuck in their own tea, he agreed they was undesirable and should also be banned from Beryl’s Hair Parlour for Old Woman (and he could do that, on account of Beryl being his first cousin wot owes him money).

By the way, I was curious about how Miss Cabbage and Mrs. Emily Da Onion snuck their own tea into bingo, so’s they wouldn’a have to pay €2.50 for a cup of leftover dish water with a used teabag in it, so I asked around. It turns out they likes to put a fresh teabag down their knickers before they leaves home, and when they incontinences all over it during the bingo (when they come all over excited and accuses each other of cheating), their pee turns to tea. All they has to do then is fish down inside their pants (which nobody else watches on account of its being so disgusting) and draw out the teabag and squirt it into on of the used cups left lying about on the table.

I apologise, Dear Diary, on account of I’ve still not finished telling you about Missus Milly Da Fardle, nor have got to the bit about Finian Da Fabricator and why he’s not with me anymore. However, The Widow Fartie Da Whistle is fast approaching with her glass-polishing rag. I’m afraid that if she does all my windows at the same time, I might do something rude all over the floor, and then she won’t like me anymore. What a life this is turning out to be. I’ll just put away my pencil and say, so endeth another few minutes. Pray for me, if you know how, even though you’re only a Dear Diary, if you know wot I mean.