Dear Diary,
Around about now I can hear you shrieking, “when the feck’re you gonna tell us about your Farewell Tour of the Island?” Well, I’ll get to it, I promise, just as soon as I can, but a whole lot o’shite happened between the time we got all the biddies rounded up and loaded on to the bus (being me) and the time we set off. Patience is a virtue and you’ll be rewarded for it either in Heaven or somewhere else if’n you’re after the better parties. Think of it as a kidney and gizzard pie with a chocolate drop in the middle. You’ve gotta scarf your way through both the kidneys and all them lovely gizzards before you gets your reward, in the off-chance that the chocolate drop’ll still be edible. Or you could say patience is a whole lot like sitting all the way through school so you can graduate and fuck yourself to death during your gap year.
Anyways, so’s you don’t close my diary with a bang and turn to daytime television outta spite, I’ll cut to the chase.
Several things happened at once. First of all, over in Thelma O’Leary’s falling down café with the clogged up toilets, the entire police force (namely Police Constable Humbert Da Elephant and his partner Police Constable Helen Da Barren, wot used to be called a woman policeman back in the days when everyone knew they was lesbians), had done their civic duty by finishing off seventeen platters from the American-style All-You-Can-Eat Super Jumbo Gordo Breakfast menu, even down to eating up the plates and plastic silverware so’s the landfill wouldn’t overflow. ‘Course, they’d had swallow down the last ten buckets of bangers ‘n’ potatoes in a hurry, on account of the emergency call coming in from Missus Drain telling ‘em to get on over to Misther Patchouli Da Fanny’s lopsided flatpack building to investigate the vicious mass-murderer type killings of Miss Parsley Da Onker and Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous. Now, you know and I know and Missus Drain knowed they’d only died from the shock of seeing Misther Patchouli Da Fanny’s nose stuck up The Widow Fartie Da Whistle’s sphincter vice and that Missus Milly Da Fardle’d had nothing to do with it. But, you see, Ol’ Missus Drain had a score to settle with Missus Milly Da Fardle on account of Missus Drain’s three cats’d choked to death on a tin of The Sisters Purdy Flavoured Cat Food that was made by The Gnu-Fanny Deluxe Luxury Premium Fancy-Schmancy Cat Food Company. It seems she’d called in on the Emergency Hot Line Complaints line and instead of the customer service office, she was referred to Missus Milly Da Fardle’s premium rate hot to trot sexy wank line. I can understand how upset she must’a been, wot with her expecting a voice from a cell centre in India or Lithuania or somewhere telling her there was nothing wrong with The Sisters Purdy flavoured Cat Food and to grow up and stop complaining, but instead, she got all locked into the hot to trot sexy wank line and weren’t able to hang up ‘til after she’s had eight hundert orgasms. Given that she’d already done well in that department with the milkman when he’d come over with her night time yoghurt, her head had near exploded and she’d done stuff on her new sheets wot weren’t respectable in a little old biddy concrete bunker bungalow such as hers. Anyway, it’d ticked her off, having to put up with Missus Milly Da Fardle panting and groaning over the phone and having to pay for the privilege, and so she thought accusing her of murder might be a good way of getting even. Personally, I think it’s a good idea, and if I weren’t a bus I might try it on someone, for example on Ol’ Finian Da Fabricator, who up and deserted me for Elmer Da Snog and a suitcase full of ill-gotten gains. But that’s neither here nor there.
What is important for you to know about concerning the start of my farewell tour day was that Constable Humbert Da Elephant and his partner Police Constable Helen Da Barren, wot used to be wot they calls a woman policeman back in the days when they knew how to make tea in pots, overate in Thelma O’Leary’s like a coupl’a hogs in a barrel of used-up fry oil. They’d ate and ate and ate until eventually it were out of the question that they’d fit through the door. Plus the fact that Ol’ Thelma O’Leary’s machine’d rejected both their credit and laser cards and they’d forgot to go to the bank before they come in. This made Thelma O’Leary happy as a dog wallowing in pg shit, on account of she needed someone to wash up all the plates and frying pans, as well as the toilets wot had overflowed all over the floor. “Murder or no murder,” she said to them, holding a rolling pin in her right hand and waving it about to show she meant business, “you two ain’t going nowhere until you’s paid up for all the food you’ve ate.” And since she were fit and narsty and they was fat and wobbling all over the place on account of all the breakfast oozing through their intestines and clogging up their arteries, they had no choice but say back, “Yes, Ma’am, Ms. Thelma O’Leary, Ma’am. Anything you say, Ma’am.” And so they stayed however long it took to clean up the mess and pay off’n their debt, wot was larger than wot some tiny countries owes the big greedy countries in daily compound interest.
Now, Dear Diary, you sees how it is why the entire police force of the island, namely Constable Humbert Da Elephant and his partner Police Constable Helen Da Barren, wot used to be a woman before she joined up, couldn’t rush right over and investigate how Miss Parsley Da Onker and Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous’d been kilt and were lying in the middle of the road and stinking to high Heaven. I’m gonna give you some time to memorise this information so’s you don’t ask me all sorts of stupid questions when I get back to you. When you’re ready for your exam, all you gotta do is say, real polite, so endeth our period of revision, Mr. Bus, and we are ready for you to continue with the lesson.
Around about now I can hear you shrieking, “when the feck’re you gonna tell us about your Farewell Tour of the Island?” Well, I’ll get to it, I promise, just as soon as I can, but a whole lot o’shite happened between the time we got all the biddies rounded up and loaded on to the bus (being me) and the time we set off. Patience is a virtue and you’ll be rewarded for it either in Heaven or somewhere else if’n you’re after the better parties. Think of it as a kidney and gizzard pie with a chocolate drop in the middle. You’ve gotta scarf your way through both the kidneys and all them lovely gizzards before you gets your reward, in the off-chance that the chocolate drop’ll still be edible. Or you could say patience is a whole lot like sitting all the way through school so you can graduate and fuck yourself to death during your gap year.
Anyways, so’s you don’t close my diary with a bang and turn to daytime television outta spite, I’ll cut to the chase.
Several things happened at once. First of all, over in Thelma O’Leary’s falling down café with the clogged up toilets, the entire police force (namely Police Constable Humbert Da Elephant and his partner Police Constable Helen Da Barren, wot used to be called a woman policeman back in the days when everyone knew they was lesbians), had done their civic duty by finishing off seventeen platters from the American-style All-You-Can-Eat Super Jumbo Gordo Breakfast menu, even down to eating up the plates and plastic silverware so’s the landfill wouldn’t overflow. ‘Course, they’d had swallow down the last ten buckets of bangers ‘n’ potatoes in a hurry, on account of the emergency call coming in from Missus Drain telling ‘em to get on over to Misther Patchouli Da Fanny’s lopsided flatpack building to investigate the vicious mass-murderer type killings of Miss Parsley Da Onker and Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous. Now, you know and I know and Missus Drain knowed they’d only died from the shock of seeing Misther Patchouli Da Fanny’s nose stuck up The Widow Fartie Da Whistle’s sphincter vice and that Missus Milly Da Fardle’d had nothing to do with it. But, you see, Ol’ Missus Drain had a score to settle with Missus Milly Da Fardle on account of Missus Drain’s three cats’d choked to death on a tin of The Sisters Purdy Flavoured Cat Food that was made by The Gnu-Fanny Deluxe Luxury Premium Fancy-Schmancy Cat Food Company. It seems she’d called in on the Emergency Hot Line Complaints line and instead of the customer service office, she was referred to Missus Milly Da Fardle’s premium rate hot to trot sexy wank line. I can understand how upset she must’a been, wot with her expecting a voice from a cell centre in India or Lithuania or somewhere telling her there was nothing wrong with The Sisters Purdy flavoured Cat Food and to grow up and stop complaining, but instead, she got all locked into the hot to trot sexy wank line and weren’t able to hang up ‘til after she’s had eight hundert orgasms. Given that she’d already done well in that department with the milkman when he’d come over with her night time yoghurt, her head had near exploded and she’d done stuff on her new sheets wot weren’t respectable in a little old biddy concrete bunker bungalow such as hers. Anyway, it’d ticked her off, having to put up with Missus Milly Da Fardle panting and groaning over the phone and having to pay for the privilege, and so she thought accusing her of murder might be a good way of getting even. Personally, I think it’s a good idea, and if I weren’t a bus I might try it on someone, for example on Ol’ Finian Da Fabricator, who up and deserted me for Elmer Da Snog and a suitcase full of ill-gotten gains. But that’s neither here nor there.
What is important for you to know about concerning the start of my farewell tour day was that Constable Humbert Da Elephant and his partner Police Constable Helen Da Barren, wot used to be wot they calls a woman policeman back in the days when they knew how to make tea in pots, overate in Thelma O’Leary’s like a coupl’a hogs in a barrel of used-up fry oil. They’d ate and ate and ate until eventually it were out of the question that they’d fit through the door. Plus the fact that Ol’ Thelma O’Leary’s machine’d rejected both their credit and laser cards and they’d forgot to go to the bank before they come in. This made Thelma O’Leary happy as a dog wallowing in pg shit, on account of she needed someone to wash up all the plates and frying pans, as well as the toilets wot had overflowed all over the floor. “Murder or no murder,” she said to them, holding a rolling pin in her right hand and waving it about to show she meant business, “you two ain’t going nowhere until you’s paid up for all the food you’ve ate.” And since she were fit and narsty and they was fat and wobbling all over the place on account of all the breakfast oozing through their intestines and clogging up their arteries, they had no choice but say back, “Yes, Ma’am, Ms. Thelma O’Leary, Ma’am. Anything you say, Ma’am.” And so they stayed however long it took to clean up the mess and pay off’n their debt, wot was larger than wot some tiny countries owes the big greedy countries in daily compound interest.
Now, Dear Diary, you sees how it is why the entire police force of the island, namely Constable Humbert Da Elephant and his partner Police Constable Helen Da Barren, wot used to be a woman before she joined up, couldn’t rush right over and investigate how Miss Parsley Da Onker and Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous’d been kilt and were lying in the middle of the road and stinking to high Heaven. I’m gonna give you some time to memorise this information so’s you don’t ask me all sorts of stupid questions when I get back to you. When you’re ready for your exam, all you gotta do is say, real polite, so endeth our period of revision, Mr. Bus, and we are ready for you to continue with the lesson.
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