Day 58

Dear Diary,

Hopefully I’ve not got no traumatic occurrences coming my way today, so’s I can getting on with telling you about Missus Milly Da Fardle and her conflict of interest. I know you’re probably sick to death of hearing her name, and believe me I’m sick to death of writing it, but it’ll be worth it in the end, cuz in spite of wot a bargeful o’shite she is, she really is a humdinger! And think of it this way, Dear Diary, if I actually manage to write it down right, she might end up being stuck in Madame Tussaud’s, and with her they wouldn’t even hafta waste any wax on account of she’s already been stuffed and mounted more often than a rabbit’s had babbies. Sorry if I upset your delicate sensibilities, Dear Diary, but she must’a got all her children from somewhere, and if she’s the Immaculate Conception then I’m a stoat’s bunghole.

Thinking about this aspect of Missus Milly Da Fardle and imagining her as the rumpy in rumpypumpy, which don’t do my stomach any good in the visualising, I should bring your attention to a special something about ‘Ol Jehosephat Da Fardle, wot filled ‘Ol Missus Milly Da Fardle full of babbies way back when the world was new and he was knowed for his special way with chickens. One big thing (and from wot I heard you could take this any which way and you’d not be far from the truth) Misther Jehosephat Da Fardle never let a day go by without (as they say) celebrating the beauty of his prized cucumber. I might add that, at the time, ‘Ol Missus Milly Da Fardle (wot was still Miss Milly Da Fardle back then), thought it were the prettiest pumpy squirter she’d ever seen in the whole wide world. And believe me, they was wot you could call a specialty of hers.

I know I told you a while back that Mister Jehosephat Da Fardle eventually up and left her after he knew he’d die if’n he ever ate another one of her breakfast fry-ups. In case you’ve never seen one, they were (and still are) wondrous to behold, that is if you craves stale lakes o’grease wot have islands of burnt unmentionables swimming in the middle, as well as offal leavings you don’t want to know about. Anyways, the urge to purge hisself from matrimonial bliss while his arteries was still breathing took ‘Ol Jehosephat Da Fardle all of a sudden one morning when it was in the middle of winter. ‘Ol Missus Milly Da Fardle was looking under the bed for her shoes and a wind blew up behind her and she’d forgot her underwear on account of she only ever put it on before she got on the bus (being me or others wot came before). Poor ‘Ol Mister Jehosephat may’ve liked to poke his nose into whatever made his winkle tingle, but on seeing’ his beloved wife bending over like that reminded him be’d forgot to drain the swamp for planting. After that he knew he could never eat any of her table scraps again, and on account of he was a man wot lived for his appetites, he left without packing his bags and was never saw again. Or at least that’s wot Missus Milly Da Fardle said, but that were before the business of ‘Ol Ma Dierdre Durdle and the bag of mystery meat wot turned up at her back door. I’ll tell you about that later and you can make up your own mind.

By the way, anyone feeling sorry for Missus Milly Da Fardle on account of ‘Ol Mister Jehosephat Da Fardle’s treachery and desertion, ought’a get a life, and I’m not saying this on account of it just made me laugh. The truth is, it didn’t make a turd o’difference one way or t’other as to how she went about living, and I wouldn’t worry about it if’n I were you. After all, she knows where the bodies is buried and is happier’n a hyena tearing at the bloated corpus delicious of Miss Cabbage’s old mother, Hubbard Cubbard Da Fezziwiggle. I know I haven’t told you about her before, any more’n I have about ‘Ol Ma Dierdre Durdle, but if you promise to be patient with me, I might get around to it some day. But in case I don’t, you might as well know they was both as boring as a pot of noodles without salt and drippings. In fact, as far as Hubbard Cubbard Da Fezziwiggle is concerned, the only thing exciting wot happened to her in her whole life was when she died on her hols in Benidorm and nobody noticed. Apparently, from wot I heard, when she ‘xpired out by the pool after eating a bucket of squid wot’d been sitting around in the sun all day, she sat and bloated and grew blacker’n the inside of a goose’s goiter for three weeks and a half. And it weren’t that no one was sitting beside her special reserved chair, on account of they was. Not only was they there, but they was drinking beer and eating the chips and bacon sarnies wot they brung from Blighty (on account of folks wot goes to Benidorm don’t go in for rubbish wot is cooked up by spics speaking foreign (as someone somewhere said, if’n English was good enough for Jesus Christ it’s good enough for us). Anyway, after sitting by wot was left of Hubbard Cubbard Da Fezziwiggle for a full three days, her neighbours down by the swimming pool remarked on how black she was becoming. The man said to the woman (I never asked their names on account of I don’t hold with bigots and I don’t wanna give you anything to remember ‘em by), “Whooee,” he said, “This here woman’s turned black’n the inside of a bishop’s enema bag.” She answered back something so bad and disrespectful I’ll not waste ink on it, but it had something to do with Hubbard Cubbard Da Fezziwiggle’s looking like one of them illegal asylum aliens and how she must’a never learned how to take a bath or nothing on account of she smelled worse’n a dead rat. It didn’t occur to ‘em that the woman’d been dead and roasting in the sun for three full days and she had a right to smell if’n she wanted to.

I realise none of this has nothing to do with Missus Milly Da Fardle’s conflict of interest or how she came to enter wot they calls a marriage of convenience with Misther Jehosephat Da Fardle, or even wot her name was back when she was still a virgin, if ever. I promise I’ll get around to telling it to you tomorrow, or perhaps in the day after. Right now I’m too pooped to pop on account of Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Floozie Da Smeeley’ve been yelling for a solid two days outside my garage. I’m gonna stick some wads of cotton wot I keeps behind the back seat into my fanlights, which, in case you don’t know by now, is where us buses keeps our ears. Hopefully I’ll then get me some peace and’ll sleep for a bit. Think of me when you says your Woolly Mary’s Fulla Brains. As I always says, even at the best of times, so endeth wot I have to say this afternoon.