Day 45

Dear Diary,

I know last time I wrote wot was going on, Dear Diary, I was having scruples about spilling dirt all over Finian Da Fabricator and his reputation (such as it was). I mean, up ‘til yesterday he was my best friend in the world and took care of me like no one ever has before, at least not since the days when I was transporting ancient old folks around the continent for Golden Twilight Years Tours. Ol’ Pergulla Da Splata, wot (as you know) was the owner/operator, may not’ve knowed much about old folks wot you could talk about without her being hauled up by the social services, but her heart was a big as a circus tent and she gave ‘em wot was probably the last best time of their lives. ‘Course, she was also owld Fingus Da Flatulator’s twin sister, and he had a king-sized heart as well, or at least he had until he blowed it up along with hisself. I can’t say her idiot son, Mingus Da Pingus (whose heart was not as large but, on the other hand, not as small and mingey as some wot’re here on the island) was the best of ‘chauffeurs’. Ha-ha, being that Golden Twilight Years Tours was a deluxe touring company wot charged an arm and a leg for its services and wot had been awarded Five Golden Zimmers from the Ancient Old People’s Protection Association, Pergulla Da Splata wouldn’t let him call hisself a ‘driver’ like he wanted to, and he also had to wear a black cap wot was too large for his head and it kept slipping over his bald patch and down over his ears. That being said, he was good to me and made sure I was always in tip-tip condition with my innards working hunky-dory and smooth as chocolate sauce. He also kept me polished shinier’n Missus Milly Da Fardle’s glass eye. I know I promised not to speak about the old bat for a day or two, but I couldn’t help it. You could say the Divil made me do it, on account of I don’t feel guilty about breaking my promise.

As I was saying, Mingus Da Pingus kept me polished and slippery-shiny, but being a lazy prat wot knowed wot was wot, he always got someone else to do the polishing, usually a cousin or brother or something of Parvl Da Snood, who was Pergulla Da Splata’s illegal Lithuanian chef, in case you forgot.

But back to Finian Da Fabricator. As I was saying, before my brain was hijacked and went up the garden path (as they say), I was thinking twice about writing anything not so nice or even downright dirty about him. However, it occurred to me he up and run off without saying so much as ‘by your leave’ or ‘goodbye’ or ‘I may be going away but I’ll love you ‘til I die’. He stranded me with the nastiest biddies wot were whelped since the beginning of time and let me take the consequences. In fact, I sat there in front of The Bank of Old Wanger Nose not knowing wot to do ‘til, finally, I was saved from the death of anxiety by the town’s two village idiot constables, Humbert Da Elephant and his partner Helen Da Barren, the one wot used to be called a ‘woman policeman’ back when men were men and women wore wot they called girdles and squeaked instead of farted when they had the windies. ‘Course, if I’d had any say in the matter, it would’a been someone else wot came along and rescued me, but beggars can’t be choosers. Nevertheless, I wasn’t all that thrilled when it turned out to be them, on account of these two clowns wasn’t so much interested in saving me as in plastering a parking ticket on my windscreen. Wouldn’a minded too much, on account of it’s an indignity we suffers a lot when our drivers are doing their thinking with the part of their anatomy wot most women wish they didn’a have. Yes, Dear Diary, it pains me to say that drivers (mostly the male variety) are easily distracted whenever they sees a skirt with two legs protruding outta the bottom, at which point they forgets where they’ve put us poor buses. But as I was saying, parking tickets are something buses hafta put up with on a daily basis, sort of a punishment inflicted on us for something we’d never do wrong if it was up to us. Now, I’m certainly more’n willing to turn the other cheek as a rule, only when it comes to constables Humbert Da Elephant and his partner, Helen Da Barren, it’s another matter, on account of they feels compelled to stick on the parking tickets with globs of saliva. And when I’m talking saliva, I’m talking about Humbert Da Elephant’s mouth dribble slime. Strictly between you and me, Dear Diary, I’ll bet one of Misther Patchouli Da Fanny’s fake five-euro banknotes that it’s been a month of Sundays since constable Humbert Da Elephant (wot does the actually sticking on account of him having a higher rank) last swirled something sweeter that day-old beer in his mouth. No wonder his wife left him. Claimed living with him and watching him eat with his mouth flapping was cruel and unusual punishment, and then some. Constable Humbert Da Elephant’s partner, Helen Da Barren, just stood there watching and holding her nose while he slobbered all over the ticket. Didn’a say a thing, which means he’s gotta be holding something over her.

I forgot wot I was saying, and am gonna hafta flip back a coupl’a pages to find out where I was. (flip flip flip)… Ah, yes, with Ol’ Finian Da Fabricator storming into the bank after Missus Milly Da Fardle’s money and disappearing outta my life. That’s where I was.

You’ll remember that after Finian Da Fabricator charged into the bank and yelled at Elmer Da Snog to return Missus Milly Da Fardle’s ill-gotten bingo winnings, he was rooted to the spot at the sight of Ol’ Elmer popping out from behind a screen and dancing naked and adorned only in his own pink and perky and bouncy skin, wot hadn’t seen the light of day since the day he was born and whacked on the bottom, and the sight’s not got more appetising with the passing years. It seems Ol’ Elmer Da Fardle had been waiting for Finian Da Fabricator and had greased hisself all over with Aunt Bertha Mae Louise Drindle’s Patented Shiny Organic Mushroom Fragrant Blossom Liquid Hand-Washing Soap, wot they keeps in the executive lavatory. Dunno how Elmer Da Snog got hold of it, on account of he’s only got the key to the Junior Vice President’s toilet, wot’s a grade below a lavatory and barely has water in the sink, much less soap. Old Wanger Nose is very particular about who pees where in his bank.

Anyway, Dear Diary, Elmer Da Snog was shinier and slickrier than a newt wot’s been dragged through the grease trap under the kitchen sink, and poor Ol’ Finian Da Fabricator was all gob smacked and mesmerised. He’d never seen nothing like it, not even when he stands in front of the mirror naked and talks dirty every night. I’m glad I wasn’t there in the bank, on account of the sight of Elmer Da Snog hypnotising Finian Da Fabricator that way might’a made me cry my headlamps off. Such is life, but my heart is smarting and I’ll continue slandering Finian Da Fabricator (wot deserted me and done me wrong) until he apologises. However, for now, The Widow Fartie Da Whistle is approaching with tyre blacking, so Finian Da Fabricator can go and examine his own rear end, for all I care. It don’t make no difference that we haven’t been introduced, I wanna have Fartie Da Whistle’s babies. ‘Til later. So endeth my love affair with Finian Da Fabricator.