Dear Diary,
I can barely write wot with my hand trembling so bad from the squeegeeing The Widow Fartie Da Whistle gave me. Whooo-eee, is wot I say. Whooo-eee and Feckalooee Patooee! I got so carried away screaming and groaning I forgot wot I was doing and introduced myself to her. And wot do you know but she up and acted like humans always do when they’re done being intimate. She got all cool and icy on me, as well as professional and moody. I’m afraid of wot she’ll be like when she drives me tomorrow, when we pick up some of Floozie Da Smelley’s “girlfriends” and transport ‘em to wot they calls an ‘Away Day’ at Floozie Da Smelley’s Luxuriant Possibles Day Spa, down at the other end of the island. Not, of course, that particular other end where folks don’t wipe their noses on their sleeves and know how to converse without mentioning the weather or who died or who was in an accident. Not that those things aren’t important, especially in pissant community such as this where nothing much goes on, but you know wot I mean. Never mind, I promised myself I wouldn’t be catty, on account of I’m a classic Daimler CVD6 with custom-built Burlington 33-seat coachwork. As such, I am supposed to be full of grace and above all the gossiping and bad things wot everybody else gets up to on this end of the island. Not that the good end is much better, not if you compare it to any other place in the world.
By the way, you’ll have noticed I put a bunch of quotation marks around the word ‘girlfriends’ just now. That’s on account of she’s not met most’a them, at least not so she’d recognise ‘em face to face, not unless they emailed her an up-to-date photo of themselves along with their booking and credit card payment. It seems there’s this worldwide hunger for ‘Away Day’ spa experiences on islands wot’s never knowed civilisation. You know, Fiji, The Seychelles, The Maldives, this particular island where I’m standing right now on my six monster truck tyres. When you get right down to it, all them other places I mentioned had ancient civilisations long before Miss Milly Da Fardle and her family (and let’s face it, everyone here is first cousin to everybody else) clawed their way outta the ooze. Anyway, as I was saying before I started in ranting, (which is something wot comes over me oftener and oftener the longer I’m owned by Misther Patchouli Da Fanny), wot with this worldwide craze for ‘Away Day’ Spa Rip-offs, and wot with the international reputation of this island as the birthplace of the original moron (wot was the common antecedent to everybody, but I’ve already told you that more times than a passing seagull’ll poop on your washing), rich women from everywhere wots sophisticated are flocking here at the rate of ten-thousand per day. And since Floozie Da Smelley has made sure she owns the one and only Rejuvenating Destination Resort (as they calls ‘em), she’s raking it in almost as fast as little old biddy dead people’re being shipped off to The Gnu-Fanny Exclusively Deluxe Cat Food Company to be made into their Premium Gold Label Selections.
I just read through wot I wrote (which I know seems unlikely, but it’s true) and I caught myself being all carried away with bad feelings and using the term ‘rip-off’ instead of ‘experience’, as I’d planned. Call it a Fraudian Slip, if you want, and in case some know-it-all anal-retentive type writes in and corrects my spelling, let me say good and clear I know the difference between Freud and Fraud. The former was a little bearded man wot invented talking about folks wanting to be dingle-dangles, and the latter is the folks from around here wot charges money to sell you their dingle-dangles they talk about over the Internet, only they sends you an old cucumber instead. At least I assume they are cucumbers, on account of it they’re not, we’re all in more trouble than we think.
Sorry about that, I got to writing about dingle-dangles and that set my mind to thinking about not-so-owld Fergal Da Fecker and wot he gets up to with his dingle-dangle whenever he gets a chance. And after wot I heard went on in The Bank of Old Wanger Nose yesterday, I’m thinking Finian Da Fabricator has got even more to be ashamed about. Or perhaps less. I wouldn’t know personally, on account of I’m a classic Daimler CVD6 with custom-built Burlington 33-seat coachwork, and me and my siblings was brought up never to look at dingle-dangles, no matter how many times they was offered to us on a plate or flashed in our direction.
Please forgive me, Dear Diary, if I don’t write more explicit stuff about Floozie Da Smelley’s ‘girlfriends’, wot we’re transporting to Floozie Da Smelley’s Luxuriant Possibles Day Spa tomorrow. It’s no good talking about ‘em now on account of I’ve not had ‘em sitting in my custom-designed and newly upholstered innards yet. They might be quite nice and agreeable, in which case I promise to be kind to ‘em. On the other hand, any ‘girlfriends’ wot are so stupid as to send good money to the likes of Floozie Da Smelley for an Away Day rip-off, is asking for it. So far, I’m keeping an open mind, and I hope you are too.
As you can see, my life is becoming complicateder and complicateder. So much is happening, I don’t know if I’m coming or going. I was meaning to finish talking about Finian Da Fabricator confronting Elmer Da Snog about returning Missus Milly Da Fardle’s second-hand discount luggage full of her blackmailed bingo winnings. In an ideal world he woulda accomplished his task in a flash and brought back the luggage a few minutes later, after which we’d all be happy and Missus Milly Da Fardle’s would’a been thrilled to bits and offered to buy us all a cuppa tea made from a teabag wot’d only been used once. Unfortunately, this ain’t an ideal world, which meant that, instead of grabbing the luggage and running back to the bus (being me), Finian Da Fabricator was confronted by a naked as a jaybird Elmer Da Snog and Howard De Fardle perfecting the Morris Dance. Needless to say, Missus Milly Da Fardle wasn’t so thrilled and didn’t treat us to no tea, but we’ve got a long way to go in the telling before we get to that bit.
I’m washed out and exhausted and I see The Widow Fartie Da Whistle approaching with a tin of chrome polish. I tell you, the woman is voracious, and I don’t know how much more of her ministrations I can take. I’m gonna pretend to be asleep and see if that works. So, I always say, so endeth the day and hopefully she’ll let me sleep.
I can barely write wot with my hand trembling so bad from the squeegeeing The Widow Fartie Da Whistle gave me. Whooo-eee, is wot I say. Whooo-eee and Feckalooee Patooee! I got so carried away screaming and groaning I forgot wot I was doing and introduced myself to her. And wot do you know but she up and acted like humans always do when they’re done being intimate. She got all cool and icy on me, as well as professional and moody. I’m afraid of wot she’ll be like when she drives me tomorrow, when we pick up some of Floozie Da Smelley’s “girlfriends” and transport ‘em to wot they calls an ‘Away Day’ at Floozie Da Smelley’s Luxuriant Possibles Day Spa, down at the other end of the island. Not, of course, that particular other end where folks don’t wipe their noses on their sleeves and know how to converse without mentioning the weather or who died or who was in an accident. Not that those things aren’t important, especially in pissant community such as this where nothing much goes on, but you know wot I mean. Never mind, I promised myself I wouldn’t be catty, on account of I’m a classic Daimler CVD6 with custom-built Burlington 33-seat coachwork. As such, I am supposed to be full of grace and above all the gossiping and bad things wot everybody else gets up to on this end of the island. Not that the good end is much better, not if you compare it to any other place in the world.
By the way, you’ll have noticed I put a bunch of quotation marks around the word ‘girlfriends’ just now. That’s on account of she’s not met most’a them, at least not so she’d recognise ‘em face to face, not unless they emailed her an up-to-date photo of themselves along with their booking and credit card payment. It seems there’s this worldwide hunger for ‘Away Day’ spa experiences on islands wot’s never knowed civilisation. You know, Fiji, The Seychelles, The Maldives, this particular island where I’m standing right now on my six monster truck tyres. When you get right down to it, all them other places I mentioned had ancient civilisations long before Miss Milly Da Fardle and her family (and let’s face it, everyone here is first cousin to everybody else) clawed their way outta the ooze. Anyway, as I was saying before I started in ranting, (which is something wot comes over me oftener and oftener the longer I’m owned by Misther Patchouli Da Fanny), wot with this worldwide craze for ‘Away Day’ Spa Rip-offs, and wot with the international reputation of this island as the birthplace of the original moron (wot was the common antecedent to everybody, but I’ve already told you that more times than a passing seagull’ll poop on your washing), rich women from everywhere wots sophisticated are flocking here at the rate of ten-thousand per day. And since Floozie Da Smelley has made sure she owns the one and only Rejuvenating Destination Resort (as they calls ‘em), she’s raking it in almost as fast as little old biddy dead people’re being shipped off to The Gnu-Fanny Exclusively Deluxe Cat Food Company to be made into their Premium Gold Label Selections.
I just read through wot I wrote (which I know seems unlikely, but it’s true) and I caught myself being all carried away with bad feelings and using the term ‘rip-off’ instead of ‘experience’, as I’d planned. Call it a Fraudian Slip, if you want, and in case some know-it-all anal-retentive type writes in and corrects my spelling, let me say good and clear I know the difference between Freud and Fraud. The former was a little bearded man wot invented talking about folks wanting to be dingle-dangles, and the latter is the folks from around here wot charges money to sell you their dingle-dangles they talk about over the Internet, only they sends you an old cucumber instead. At least I assume they are cucumbers, on account of it they’re not, we’re all in more trouble than we think.
Sorry about that, I got to writing about dingle-dangles and that set my mind to thinking about not-so-owld Fergal Da Fecker and wot he gets up to with his dingle-dangle whenever he gets a chance. And after wot I heard went on in The Bank of Old Wanger Nose yesterday, I’m thinking Finian Da Fabricator has got even more to be ashamed about. Or perhaps less. I wouldn’t know personally, on account of I’m a classic Daimler CVD6 with custom-built Burlington 33-seat coachwork, and me and my siblings was brought up never to look at dingle-dangles, no matter how many times they was offered to us on a plate or flashed in our direction.
Please forgive me, Dear Diary, if I don’t write more explicit stuff about Floozie Da Smelley’s ‘girlfriends’, wot we’re transporting to Floozie Da Smelley’s Luxuriant Possibles Day Spa tomorrow. It’s no good talking about ‘em now on account of I’ve not had ‘em sitting in my custom-designed and newly upholstered innards yet. They might be quite nice and agreeable, in which case I promise to be kind to ‘em. On the other hand, any ‘girlfriends’ wot are so stupid as to send good money to the likes of Floozie Da Smelley for an Away Day rip-off, is asking for it. So far, I’m keeping an open mind, and I hope you are too.
As you can see, my life is becoming complicateder and complicateder. So much is happening, I don’t know if I’m coming or going. I was meaning to finish talking about Finian Da Fabricator confronting Elmer Da Snog about returning Missus Milly Da Fardle’s second-hand discount luggage full of her blackmailed bingo winnings. In an ideal world he woulda accomplished his task in a flash and brought back the luggage a few minutes later, after which we’d all be happy and Missus Milly Da Fardle’s would’a been thrilled to bits and offered to buy us all a cuppa tea made from a teabag wot’d only been used once. Unfortunately, this ain’t an ideal world, which meant that, instead of grabbing the luggage and running back to the bus (being me), Finian Da Fabricator was confronted by a naked as a jaybird Elmer Da Snog and Howard De Fardle perfecting the Morris Dance. Needless to say, Missus Milly Da Fardle wasn’t so thrilled and didn’t treat us to no tea, but we’ve got a long way to go in the telling before we get to that bit.
I’m washed out and exhausted and I see The Widow Fartie Da Whistle approaching with a tin of chrome polish. I tell you, the woman is voracious, and I don’t know how much more of her ministrations I can take. I’m gonna pretend to be asleep and see if that works. So, I always say, so endeth the day and hopefully she’ll let me sleep.
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