Day 50

Dear Diary,

I’ve been thinking morning, noon and night about poor little Dweezee Da Minnie-Fardle, and hafta get her off my chest before I up and explode. I still can’t believe how anyone could be as unlucky as her in her choice of where she ended up. ‘Course, it could be she has one of them mental problems you read about, where a person is compelled to finish on the losing side or get beat up by her husband or wear yellow when they’ve got Irish colouring. However, on account of I like her practically better’n anybody I ever met, I’m going to give her the benefit of doubt. Unlike ‘Ol Finian Da Fabricator, who I got along with just fine and put up with his ministrations (which, looking back on ‘em, weren’t so whoopty-doopty as all that, considering the amount of practicing he puts in). Then, of course, then he went and deserted and betrayed me with the first two fat men to dazzle his eyes, wot with their dancing naked and their trunk full of money. As far as I know, Dweezee Da Minnie-Fardle never betrayed nobody. And she never went after no fat dancing men, not ever. It just goes to show wot a grim and unbearable life this can be when you’ve got a hopeful heart.

I’ve been asking round about Dweezee Da Minnie-Fardle, and one thing’s for certain. Given that she was a member in good standing of the Women’s Institute proves that she comes from a respectable family and always led a good and blameless life, some would say even wholesome (though I hope not, on account of that’s about as boring a curse as one could wish on anybody). Mind you, one could say a coupl’a bad things about the okra jelly doughnuts she makes from time to time for the ‘Bring ‘n’ Buys’ outside the social centre of Father Brady O’ Flanaghan Murnaghan’s Church of The Immaculate Septum on the bottom side of the island, or even about the Marmite, devilled-egg and blueberry pasties wot she sells for €1.25 each from a stall at Mister Doctor Bernie Da Gnu’s Special Prized Collectables Market every third Saturday of the month, but none of us can be perfect all the time, can we? Especially if you’re a human being, you seem guaranteed to feck up most of everything that’s good. Pathetic, really, when you thinks about it. And wot a contrast to us buses, especially those of us lucky enough to be classic Daimler CVD6s with handcrafted Burlington 33-seat coachwork. The only way we can be imperfect and fatally flawed feckups is when the humans wot put us together mess up. As they do, from time to time, whenever they gets a chance. For your information, I was gonna use a different word, if only for the benefit of those wot have delicate sensibilities or might be protestants. But, in the end, I have to talk plain. A feckup is a feckup and not a ‘oh, never mind, he’ll get it right next year’. Same as a spade wot needs to be called a spade isn’t no sugar sifter. And if all the biddies wot reads this want to write in and complain, I’ll tell you right here and now where you can mail your letter. Besides, if’n you were smart enough to read a dictionary instead of sticking your nose in your neighbours’ knickers just to see what’s there, you’d know that a feckup is a combination Fecker and hiccough, and not wot you through. On the other hand, if you don’t know wot a Fecker is, you must be spending too much time with The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser. He says he don’t know and he don’t want others to know either. Strange how he’s got all them children running all over the place in back of his trailer. I always did love a good mystery.

I don’t know why I got upset when I was only talking about Dweezee Da Minnie-Fardle and how respectable her family was. Didn’t even feel a rant coming on ‘til it got the better of me! Must have something to do with the new biodegradable oil wot Misther Patchouli Da Fanny is pouring down my gullet. They say it’s made from boiled garbanzo beans and used fat from the big old chip pans from Floozie Da Smelley’s catering kitchen. Whatever it is, it makes me fart worse than a pickle, and I wish they wouldn’t try to save money on me. Puts me in a sour mood. A couple more days of this and I’ll roll over their toes just because I can. It’s an example of how a human feckups like Misther Patchouli Da Fanny can spoil my perfect disposition. Only he’s not so much a feckup as a fuckup, if you know wot I mean.

Sorry about that. And to think I was talking about respectable folks! It’s just like Misther Patchouli Da Fanny to worm his way into my conversation again and again, especially when I’m trying my best to say something good about someone else for a change.

I think I’ll start again on wot I was gonna tell you, only I’m so upset thinking about human feckups wot are really fuckups that I’ve gotta take a long nap first. I wish The Widow Fartie Da Whistle would appear just about now with her softer than soft polishing rag and her sweet silky smile, but I guess she’s got someone else in her life at the moment. I don’t know where humans get it into their heads they can sweet talk us buses and build up our viscosity with their twinkling fingers, and then go somewhere else without so much as a ‘see ya tomorrow’ and forget we ever lived. Sometimes it sucks being a bus, even a classic Daimler CVD6 with custom-made Burlington 33-seat coachwork. Anyway, so endeth another fucking awful day, and I hope your shite comes out the wrong end and you think it’s a chocolate milkshake.