Day 57

Dear Diary,

I can’t say I had the most friendliest visit from Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Floozie Da Smelley earlier on this evening. Not that they came into the garage to see me, on account of they didn’t seem to know I was sitting here listening in and wishing they’d go away and drown themselves in the pink flamingo-shaped swimming pool they built in back wot they call their ‘Pink Palace’. Personally and in my opinion, I think (as I’ve said before) the house looks more like a marshmallow wot’s got one side bitten out by a rat that it does a palace, but there’s no accounting for taste, is there? Anyway, from all the recriminations and counter-recriminations wot were zinging back and forth a couple hours ago, I’d say both Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Floozie Da Smelley was a whole lot drunker’n slugs wot’d spent the night in the slurry pit. And as for Floozie Da Smelley, she was meaner’n an adder wot’d got locked up in a cage full of mongooses. It seems she’d caught ‘Ol Misther Patchouli Da Fanny stepping out for a night with her best friend, Maybelline Dorcus O’Brien, wot works the late night shift over at the Bump ‘n’ Grind Lap-o-Matic down on the other side of the island, where all the folks is more worldly and better-spoke than a whole trunkful of Floozie Da Smelleys put together. And that’s even after all them years of her paying good money (funny money, actually, on accounting of it came from the batch she and Misther Patchouli Da Fanny’d whipped up in the lopsided pink flatpack building) for private electric cushion lessons from Professor Rimmel von Hackomaster. From wot everybody said, twice a week she’d sneak down to wot used to be The Secondary Modern School back in the days before down they turned it into a fancy American style cappuccino bar. Professor Rimmel Von Hackomaster’d never caught on it wasn’t a school no more, on account of he’d got locked in the lavatory at the time and never got out. ‘Course being as he was inflicted by wot they calls a vokay-shun, he carried on teaching like nothing’d ever changed and gave his classes through the window. Poor ‘Ol fool didn’t seem to notice that everytime he started in teaching away to beat the band, some waitress or other’d think he was ordering a jumbo mug of fancy American cappuccino and’d ask for payment up in front. ‘Course, Professor Rimmel von Hackomaster never was much in the brains department, which is why he came to the island in the first place. Fortunately for him, Floozie Da Smelley, who was even stupider in the stupid department than he was, thought he were the cat’s pyjamas, on account of his exotic accent and the fact that his teeth clacked when he talked. She was over the moon when he agreed to give her a whole series of electric cushion lesion, two a week forever and a day. Anyway, as I was saying, earlier this evening Floozie Da Smelley was ranting and raving at Misther Patchouli Da Fanny for stepping out on her with Maybelline Dorcus O’Brien, only the funny thing was she didn’t care one way or t’other about wot he was planning to do with ‘Ol Maybelline, only that he was planning to do it while he was wearing one of her favourite pairs of wot she calls her pink ‘n’ gold Shimmy Shoos. Personally, I thought Misther Patchouli Da Fanny would’a looked a whole lot better in something more along the lines of throwed-up green with vegetable chunks, on account of that’s the colour body paint he was smeared over with, but as I’ve said a million times or more, there’s no accounting for taste. And anyone who’s got eyes what’re not stuck in a bucket of mud’ll tell you Misther Patchouli Da Fanny’s got less taste than a plate of broccoli wots died and gone to live in the back of the refrigerator.

Anyway (sorry to use the word so often, Dear Diary, but it’s convenient and I can’t think of a better one), the two of them (Patchouli Da Fanny and Floozie Da Smelley) argued and argued and she eventually got fed up wot with him refusing to take her favourite Shimmy Shoos off his feet before he stunk ‘em up, and she grabbed a barrel of used oil wot The Widow Fartie Da Whistle’d drained outta me last time we had fun together, and dumped it over his head. Unfortunately I laughed and wot they call ‘backfired’ in her face and she went and slashed my mega monster tyres, and now I’m hurting worse than a chicken wots got his head rung off.

‘Ol Patchouli Da Fanny told her right then and there she looked worse’n a bucket of horse manure and her Shimmy Shoos only accentuated the bad bits, making her tits and legs remember him of a monkey’s pecker after it’s been wore out. At his point, they ran outta the garage again, barking and screaming and carrying on and I lost the thread of the conversation. Fortunately for me, they left before they could inflict any more heinous and fatal injuries on the person of my classic Daimler CVD6 chassis.

After they’d stormed out and left me alone, I carried on crying my fuel pump out and moaning and pouting like one of them spoiled brat sports cars, until finally The Widow Fartie Da Whistle poked her head in to see wot had been done unto me. Fortunately, she knowed just how to fix me up and she took off the slashed tyres faster’n a bean can make a fart. She gave my wheels a right good massaging and sang sweet nothings into my fanlights. Then after my wheels was all healed and I was starting to feel frisky again, she put on a new set of tyres wot came from Italy and set my carburettor to thumping, and threw the ugly monster slashed ones into the junk pile. I’m now wot they calls styling and feel hotter’n a cracker. I can’t wait to get back on the road tomorrow and strut my stuff. ‘Course, it’d be funner if I could be stepping out with a coupl’a Ferraris and a Bugatti instead of a passel of biddies, but us buses gotsta go where we’re driven, as they say. Never mind, cuz after I goes to live with The Greek God part-Italian Stallion Signore Malvinio Da Flota-Mota and Mr. Hot Stuff Benvolio Da Trampolio Ducati I might have better luck in the passenger department. Somehow, I don’t see ‘em hanging out with the likes of Milly Da Fardle and her crowd, not if their life depends on it.

I know I didn’t get back to Milly Da Fardle and her predicament, but after wot Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and especially Floozie Da Smelley did to me, I felt I had to talk to you or burst. Hopefully, after I rest up a bit, nothing much’ll happen in the way of traumatic interruptions and I can get on with what I want to talk about. You’ll just have to pray, if you’re so inclined. Anyway (as I love to say), so endeth another one of them days I hope’ll go to someone else in the future.