Day 61

Dear Diary,


Now, you remember me mentioning Ol’ Jehosephat Da Fardle and how he was married to Missus Milly Da Fardle until he suddenly wasn’t and nobody’d admit to knowing where his body was buried? Well, before we gets to the place where a bag of mystery meat turned up at Ol’ Ma Deirdre Da Durdle’s back door in the dead of night with a note pinned to it wot said “For Your Dogs”, even though she didn’t have no dogs and never’d had none in her life an account of her allergies, there was a gap of a few years wot might need explaining.

Wot you might not know, Dear Diary, on account of the trees wot you were made from weren’t even chopped down yet, which means you weren’t even paper and couldn’t been scrawled on my any pencil, let alone mine, was that before Ol’ Missus Milly Da Fardle was Ol’ Missus Milly Da Fardle she were That Slapper Miss Milly Da Fardle. ‘Course, she were never called that at home or to her old man’s face or she would’a been kicked so far outta the house that she’d a landed all the way over in Lithuania, and that’s more’n a few miles. Therefore, for Her Old Man’s sanity and her own official reputation, the ‘Slapper’ bit were always left out when she was talked about, except down at Snooter Da Sphincter’s Easy-In-And-Out Trailer Halting Site on the bad end of the island, right next to the cemetery for protestants. But that’s neither here nor there as them wot goes down there’s always saying anything about anyone on account of they don’t have wot they calls lives. Anyways, that’s some of wot you should know about Missus Milly Da Fardle way back then before she knowed where the bodies was buried, and it explains a lot wot about why the old bat is such a turd. But wot I haven’t mentioned yet is about Ol’ Jehosephat Da Fardle before he was Ol’ Jehosephat Da Fardle. Back then he were That Feckin’ Whippersnapper Young Jehosephat Da Fardle, and even then he weren’t knowed for anything but for drinking the hot potheen wot he bought by the gallon in secret from Ol’ Fingus Da Flatulator when he was Young Fingus Da Flatulator and hadn’t yet blowed hisself up. ‘Course, that weren’t the whole story, on account of he was also knowed for feckin’ pretty much anything in a skirt wot came within five inches of his wotsit. Six inches away were pretty safe, on account of no matter how much he lied about it and boasted to the ladies, the proof was in the pudding, or in his case, in the sausage.

Well one day, while That Slapper Miss Milly Da Fardle were bending over scrubbing the floor, which was something womenfolk was trained to do a coupl’a times a day so’s the house wouldn’t be an affront to the eyes of The Lord, she stepped on the bar o’lye soap she was using and fell over. As luck would have it (which just goes to show you wot a rare commodity luck is on the island), That Feckin’ Whippersnapper Young Jehosephat Da Fardle had dropped his jug o’hot potheen on the floor and it’d rolled under the one bed wot everybody slept in altogether. Well, he was lying on his back rolling back and forth and reaching for the jug at the moment when The Slapper Miss Milly Da Fardle accidentally toppled over arse to bunkle, and wot to do you but she falls smack dab on top of his sweet spot. ‘Course, falling smack dab on top of his sweet spot meant she was closer’n five inches, and so, as he said afterwards, she got wot was coming to her. At that very moment (proving it were a very busy day in the house), who should walk in but Their Old Man (who, as far as everybody knew was only called that and never had what they’d call a proper name other than Old Man Da Fardle). Right away he called up the priest on the telephone and said his little innocent virgin baby girl had soiled her reputation for good and’d be a falling woman as well as a tramp if’n she didn’t get married that very afternoon. The Priest, who was cultivating the fields of The Lord as well as some of the tenderist buds, and who didn’t have no name other than ‘The Priest’ or ‘Father Mary Mother God’, on account of that was acceptable way back then, asked him then and there wot was the name of the man wot was ploughing The Slapper Miss Milly Da Fardle’s furrow? For your information, this was back before Father Brady O’ Flanaghan Murnaghan was sent to bring glory hallelujah to the Church of The Immaculate Septum and save the lost souls on the bottom end of the island, and as I says before, things was different then. Anyway, Old Man Da Fardle says to Father Mary Mother God, “Father Mary Mother God,” he says, “it be none other than her favourite brother, That Reprobational Fecker Whippersnapper Young Jehosephat Da Fardle wot planted his seed in her furrow.” “Thank your lucky stars for that,” yelled back Father Mary Mother God in the voice he normally saved for jubilation prayer days when more’n two people under ninety-three attended church and actually put one whole banknote in the little jiffy bag wot hung by the front door. “Thank your lucky stars’, he said again, even louder. “Wot you mean by that, Father Mary Mother God?” hollered back Old Man Da Fardle even louder than before and more worrificated. “My honour is at stake. If’n you don’t tell me wot to do I’ll hafta cut off That Feckin’ Whippersnapper Young Jehosephat Da Fardle’s balls and fry ‘em up for breakfast, and then he’ll not be good for nothing no more and there’ll be nothin’ for it but to put him in a dress and sell him to Lithuanian where they likes young men to come that way.” “Hell, no,” yelled back Father Mary Mother God even louder’n ever, in a voice packed full of authority and potatoes, “if’n you do that you’ll have to hire a foreigner or someone to milk your cows and feck your sheep and you’ll hafta pay them, and as it’s something Feckin’ Whippersnapper Young Jehosephat Da Fardle does for free, it’ll lose you money.” And before Old Man Da Fardle could yell back again even louder’n his ears could stand, Father Mary Mother God let him know right then and there that he wouldn’a stand for Old Man Da Fardle losing good money wot could be put into his special fundraising jiffy bag every other Sunday. “Wot you got to do,” he said to Old Man Da Fardle, “is stand on top of them and pin ‘em to the floor, and before you know it I’ll be right over and marry them right up into wot they calls a blessed onion.” And so he did, and so it were that Miss Milly Da Fardle became Missus Milly Da Fardle and spewed out babbies faster’n a greyhound can chase a rabbit, including, of course, Howard Da Fardle, wot recently up and ran away with Elmer Da Snog and my old friend Finian Da Fabricator and a whole trunkful of illegal winnings wot Miss Milly Da Fardle’d blackmailed outta Mister Doctor Bernie Da Gnu. But that’s a long story and I’ve told it all before.

Anyways, Ol’ Jehosephat Da Fardle spent more years’n you can count making Missus Milly Da Fardle as miserable as a lion on a diet o’prunes, and she returns the favour in spades, until eventually it gets out official that he’s run off before she can feed him another one of her special greasy fry-ups. Only no one really knows wot’s went on, you see, on account of he’s disappeared altogether like a puff of smoke. And then, of course, after a few days there’s this business of Ol’ Ma Dierdre Durdle and the bag of mystery meat wot turned up at her back door in the dead of night with a note on it addressed to her dog she never had.

I’ve gotta hide my pencil for now, Dear Diary. The Widow Fartie Da Whistle is after painting me a classic blue and gold colour as a favour to The Greek God part-Italian Stallion Signore Malvinio Da Flota-Mota and Mr. Hot Stuff Benvolio Da Trampolio Ducati, so I don’t look like a pink bordello on wheels any more. I’ll get back to you as soon as she’s finished and my new custom paintwork has dried. ‘Til then, I’ll say, so almost beginneth my first day looking like a classic gentleman’s bus like I did in the beginning!