Dear Diary,
I must tell you the mystery over the disappearance of Old Wanger Nose and his unaccountable behaviour prior to that continues to deepen. All I know, which is wot I saw with my own two headlamps and not gossip from the biddies sitting strapped-in on their seats and leaking all over my upholstery, is that one moment Old Wanger Nose was running from The Bank of Wanger Nose, his knickers all in a twist with a mishmash of turbulent emotions. And the next he was climbing into one of his big black cars wot has shiny black windows, and wot had a driver I affectionately call Big Brick Shithouse, on account of that’s the way he’s built. This car, followed by a bunch of other identical cars which I presumed at the time were full of hatchet men wielding wot they calls Tommy Guns over in Chicago where Old Wanger Nose hangs out from time to time. I still haven’t found out wot it is he does over there, but judging by the number of cars he has following him around, as well as all the money he’s got stashed in The Bank of Old Wanger Nose, he had a lot more fun doing to unto others than wot they had being done unto by him. If you get my meaning.
By the way, I’m only going back and refreshing your memory about Old Wanger Nose on account of I might mention him later when I gets around to dishing more dirt about Finian Da Fabricator, and I won’t want you to get confused or feel I’ve withheld information you might have enjoyed.
Anyway, as you might remember, no sooner’d Old Wanger Nose’s car driven off in a cloud of dust that it got stuck in a traffic jam of tractors. At the time I feared there might have been something ominous about the tractor-jam, on account of only one car was hedged in, and that was the one driven by ‘Ol Brick Shithouse and containing Old Wanger Nose, who was sitting in the back and fretting and fuming and saying not very nice words. However, I thought you’d like to know it were only one of them coincidences wot you hope only happens to other people and not to you. And then there were all them sirens blaring in the distance. Remember the ones I’m talking about, Dear Diary? The ones wot never got any closer and I thought might be in police cars trapped on the ferry coming over to the island, or something like that? Well, it seems the sirens weren’t sirens at all, more the pity, on account of I’ve never seen a shoot-‘em-up between mobsters with Tommy Guns and Armed Anti-Terrorist Operatives, which is wot the local police department like to call themselves these days, on account of they can ask for more money to combat the enemy and also to buy better toilet paper. ‘Armed Anti-Terrorist Operatives’ makes the only two constables wot are in the police department feel more important than when someone calls a spade a spade and not a bloody shovel, in other words, when some kid’ll tells ‘em they’re really only PC Humbert Da Elephant and his partner PC Helen Da Barren, who’s what they use to call a ‘woman policeman’ back in the good old days when men didn’t bathe but once a month, and then only on a Saturday night when there wasn’t nothing else going on’. But back to the sirens. It turns out they were nothing but a billion useless car burglar alarms, which now that I think about it, makes me laugh. From wot I heard later from Floozie Da Smelley’s Pink American Convertible (when she was talking to me again), Misther Patchouli Da Fanny went to one of them Eastern European Countries we keep hearing about and bought all the burglar alarms wot are sold by The Badly Made Burglar Alarm Company of Lithuania, but which are actually made in sweatshops in countries wot don’t even got names, but wot know wot Fair Trade means when it’s at home. Anyway, Misther Patchouli Da Fanny bought the whole lot, about sixteen billion in all, even though they’d not been wired up and the expired batteries were not included. ‘Course, I don’t feel too bad for him, on account of he paid for ‘em with the pretend old Italian Liras wot he makes in the falling down pink flatpack building, and wot Floozie Da Smalley calls ‘exotic Tibetan prayer flags’ when they’re hanging from the washing line out back and drying in wot passes for sun on the island.
Anyway, it appears ‘Ol Misther Patchouli Da Fanny set up wot they calls a joint venture with Misther Florian Da Blossom’s Discount Used Tyre Emporium, wot is located round back of Snooter Da Sphincter’s Easy-In-And-Out Trailer Halting Site. They persuaded Mister Doctor Bernie Da Gnu, who knows a good deal when he sees one, to fork over a bit of cash (which means he’ll keep most of the profits for hisself). They calls the new enterprise Blossom & Sphincter Never-Fail Genuine Car Burglar Alarms, and they hired Floozie Da Smelley to decorate the new flatpack showroom wot they put up between Snooter Da Sphincter’s Easy-In-And-Out Trailer Halting Site and Bump ‘n’ Grind Lap-o-Matic, which is just down the road and in the parking lot of Father Brady O’ Flanaghan Murnaghan’s Church of The Immaculate Septum. I wish I could say Blosson & Sphincter Never-Fail Genuine Car Burglar Alarms is located on the end of the island where they knows wot books are for, but since it’s down at the bottom end where all the fun’s at, I won’t.
Anyway, about the alarms ringing and sirening so loud they set off all the old biddies’ hearing aids on the island. It seems that an old motorcycle, wot was going real slow and wobbly on account of its rider, Missus Bernoose Da Splodge-Patterson, who’s the mother of Marcela Da Splodge, owner of The Fancy-Prancy Club located behind the Women’s Institute, was drunker’n she usually is that time of the afternoon and drove into the flatpack showrooms of Blossom & Sphincter Never-Fail Genuine Car Burglar Alarms. ‘Course, being that the building was put up personally by Misther Patchouli Da Fanny, with only a little help from Misther Florian Da Blossom, who’s not the most coordinated man you’ve ever saw, it wasted no time in falling down. Naturally, even though all the car burglar alarms for sale inside was too cheap to have any ringers built into them, they was upset about being squashed by a cheap cardboard building and decided to ring after all. And, as you heard, they rang and sirened to beat the band and didn’t shut up ‘til after nine that night, when someone’s blowed ‘em up. I’m still not sure if that’s the truth, but that’s wot I’ve been told and therefore I’ll believe it until it makes me out to be an idiot.
Oops, Dear Diary, I hear someone coming and it sounds like Misther Patchouli Da Fanny. Since Finian Da Fabricator never came back, I’m always afraid Misther Patchouli Da Fanny’s gonna drive me, on account of he sometimes runs into things. Perhaps he’s related to Missus Bernoose Da Wiffle-Splodge (which of course, he is, on account of them being first cousins to each other several times over). I’m gonna pretend my motor won’t start up. I’ll let you know how it goes. As I always say, so endeth my few moments of peaceful reflection.
I must tell you the mystery over the disappearance of Old Wanger Nose and his unaccountable behaviour prior to that continues to deepen. All I know, which is wot I saw with my own two headlamps and not gossip from the biddies sitting strapped-in on their seats and leaking all over my upholstery, is that one moment Old Wanger Nose was running from The Bank of Wanger Nose, his knickers all in a twist with a mishmash of turbulent emotions. And the next he was climbing into one of his big black cars wot has shiny black windows, and wot had a driver I affectionately call Big Brick Shithouse, on account of that’s the way he’s built. This car, followed by a bunch of other identical cars which I presumed at the time were full of hatchet men wielding wot they calls Tommy Guns over in Chicago where Old Wanger Nose hangs out from time to time. I still haven’t found out wot it is he does over there, but judging by the number of cars he has following him around, as well as all the money he’s got stashed in The Bank of Old Wanger Nose, he had a lot more fun doing to unto others than wot they had being done unto by him. If you get my meaning.
By the way, I’m only going back and refreshing your memory about Old Wanger Nose on account of I might mention him later when I gets around to dishing more dirt about Finian Da Fabricator, and I won’t want you to get confused or feel I’ve withheld information you might have enjoyed.
Anyway, as you might remember, no sooner’d Old Wanger Nose’s car driven off in a cloud of dust that it got stuck in a traffic jam of tractors. At the time I feared there might have been something ominous about the tractor-jam, on account of only one car was hedged in, and that was the one driven by ‘Ol Brick Shithouse and containing Old Wanger Nose, who was sitting in the back and fretting and fuming and saying not very nice words. However, I thought you’d like to know it were only one of them coincidences wot you hope only happens to other people and not to you. And then there were all them sirens blaring in the distance. Remember the ones I’m talking about, Dear Diary? The ones wot never got any closer and I thought might be in police cars trapped on the ferry coming over to the island, or something like that? Well, it seems the sirens weren’t sirens at all, more the pity, on account of I’ve never seen a shoot-‘em-up between mobsters with Tommy Guns and Armed Anti-Terrorist Operatives, which is wot the local police department like to call themselves these days, on account of they can ask for more money to combat the enemy and also to buy better toilet paper. ‘Armed Anti-Terrorist Operatives’ makes the only two constables wot are in the police department feel more important than when someone calls a spade a spade and not a bloody shovel, in other words, when some kid’ll tells ‘em they’re really only PC Humbert Da Elephant and his partner PC Helen Da Barren, who’s what they use to call a ‘woman policeman’ back in the good old days when men didn’t bathe but once a month, and then only on a Saturday night when there wasn’t nothing else going on’. But back to the sirens. It turns out they were nothing but a billion useless car burglar alarms, which now that I think about it, makes me laugh. From wot I heard later from Floozie Da Smelley’s Pink American Convertible (when she was talking to me again), Misther Patchouli Da Fanny went to one of them Eastern European Countries we keep hearing about and bought all the burglar alarms wot are sold by The Badly Made Burglar Alarm Company of Lithuania, but which are actually made in sweatshops in countries wot don’t even got names, but wot know wot Fair Trade means when it’s at home. Anyway, Misther Patchouli Da Fanny bought the whole lot, about sixteen billion in all, even though they’d not been wired up and the expired batteries were not included. ‘Course, I don’t feel too bad for him, on account of he paid for ‘em with the pretend old Italian Liras wot he makes in the falling down pink flatpack building, and wot Floozie Da Smalley calls ‘exotic Tibetan prayer flags’ when they’re hanging from the washing line out back and drying in wot passes for sun on the island.
Anyway, it appears ‘Ol Misther Patchouli Da Fanny set up wot they calls a joint venture with Misther Florian Da Blossom’s Discount Used Tyre Emporium, wot is located round back of Snooter Da Sphincter’s Easy-In-And-Out Trailer Halting Site. They persuaded Mister Doctor Bernie Da Gnu, who knows a good deal when he sees one, to fork over a bit of cash (which means he’ll keep most of the profits for hisself). They calls the new enterprise Blossom & Sphincter Never-Fail Genuine Car Burglar Alarms, and they hired Floozie Da Smelley to decorate the new flatpack showroom wot they put up between Snooter Da Sphincter’s Easy-In-And-Out Trailer Halting Site and Bump ‘n’ Grind Lap-o-Matic, which is just down the road and in the parking lot of Father Brady O’ Flanaghan Murnaghan’s Church of The Immaculate Septum. I wish I could say Blosson & Sphincter Never-Fail Genuine Car Burglar Alarms is located on the end of the island where they knows wot books are for, but since it’s down at the bottom end where all the fun’s at, I won’t.
Anyway, about the alarms ringing and sirening so loud they set off all the old biddies’ hearing aids on the island. It seems that an old motorcycle, wot was going real slow and wobbly on account of its rider, Missus Bernoose Da Splodge-Patterson, who’s the mother of Marcela Da Splodge, owner of The Fancy-Prancy Club located behind the Women’s Institute, was drunker’n she usually is that time of the afternoon and drove into the flatpack showrooms of Blossom & Sphincter Never-Fail Genuine Car Burglar Alarms. ‘Course, being that the building was put up personally by Misther Patchouli Da Fanny, with only a little help from Misther Florian Da Blossom, who’s not the most coordinated man you’ve ever saw, it wasted no time in falling down. Naturally, even though all the car burglar alarms for sale inside was too cheap to have any ringers built into them, they was upset about being squashed by a cheap cardboard building and decided to ring after all. And, as you heard, they rang and sirened to beat the band and didn’t shut up ‘til after nine that night, when someone’s blowed ‘em up. I’m still not sure if that’s the truth, but that’s wot I’ve been told and therefore I’ll believe it until it makes me out to be an idiot.
Oops, Dear Diary, I hear someone coming and it sounds like Misther Patchouli Da Fanny. Since Finian Da Fabricator never came back, I’m always afraid Misther Patchouli Da Fanny’s gonna drive me, on account of he sometimes runs into things. Perhaps he’s related to Missus Bernoose Da Wiffle-Splodge (which of course, he is, on account of them being first cousins to each other several times over). I’m gonna pretend my motor won’t start up. I’ll let you know how it goes. As I always say, so endeth my few moments of peaceful reflection.
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