Dear Diary,
Well, as I was saying last time I wrote in your pages, it had started in raining and everyone, including me, wot is the bus, was getting wetter’n the inside of an old biddy’s bladder. Since then it’s only got worse. The rain’s turned into a monsoon and the sky is darker’n night, and the pathetic thing is, a coupl’a days ago it were not only the summer solstice and the first day of summer, but the longest day of the year to boot. What business has it of switching off the lights on this of all weeks? I don’t know, but I suspect it has something to do with the local tradition which says summer starts in May or April or something like that. If’n you figure it out like that, I guess it places the twenty-first of June somewhere in the middle of December. Makes me want to write ‘sigh’ and expel a lot of gas outta both ends at the same time.
Anyway, back to where I was at. There we was, each and every one of us getting’ all wet and mouldy and the biddies boasting as to how they was all gonna come down with the worst colds since the winter of 1927, and there was also the corpus deliciouses of Miss Parsley Da Onker and Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous rolling around in the road and looking by now like a coupl’a elephant seals and starting in with the misbehaving. Looking at them objective-like, it goes to show how much extra skin a biddy’s got when she gets ancient, on account of these two had enough left over flapping about so’s they could blow up bigger’n a coupl’a dirigibles. ‘Course, I know for a fact both of these biddies, back before they dropped down dead from the sight of Misther Patchouli Da Fanny’s nose stuck up The Widow Fartie Da Whistle’s exhaust pipe, had ate a fried breakfast of cabbage and onions and beans, washed down by a gallon or so of stout, and this could account for their having enough gas to inflate their baggy skins to their present proportions. But of course, both Miss Parsley Da Onker and Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous was windbags of the first order to begin with, but seeing as how they are dead one shouldn’t say nasty shit about ‘em for some reason I can’t figure out. I mean, if’n they was nasty bitches when they was alive, don’t it stand to reason they’d be the same afterwards or even worse, on account of all the extra practise they was getting in after reaching the other dimension? ‘Course, now that they’ve gone and shat the bed we don’t have to put up with their nastiness, and since human’s can’t remember anything past last Tuesday, the minute a person dies and isn’t around to remind them, they forgets all about how much they’d been wanting to kill ‘em. Or something like that. Which may be one reason why they’s suddenly all so nice and says ‘God Bless ‘em’ every two minutes. Being a bus, myself, and not prone to dying, I always wonder about how those on the ‘other side’ (as they calls it) react to yet another nasty piss-eyed old biddy appearing at their front door without telephoning first or waiting for an invitation, especially on account of about a million billion of ‘em die off every time they’s got nothing else to do. Don’t those folks over there ever feel like sticking a fork in the latecomers’ eyes and ordering ‘em to get back down where they was and to mind their manners? Perhaps that’s wot Heaven and Hell are all about. Both places can only put up with biddies for so long and then send ‘em up or down to the other place every so often so’s they can take a holiday. And by ‘they’, in this case, I’m talking about the folks in Heaven and hell wot are in charge.
Come to think of it, if this is how things work, it might explain why the first elevators was invented. ‘Course now, what with so many millions kicking the bucket from this island alone, they’ll be needing king-sized motorways to keep the biddy traffic moving back and forth and up and down. Perhaps even autobahns, so’s they can do away with the speed limits.
I don’t know wot got me started on this subject, but I feel better now it’s off’n my chest. Not that I have a chest, being a bus and all, but you know wot I mean.
Where the fuck was I? Oh, yes, I was about to tell you how the rain was bucketing down and getting heavier by the second. Regular cats and dogs it was, with a few toads and cows throwed in for good measure. To be honest, I’d never seed such rain, not in my entire life, and I’ve been around since the fifties. I was sitting there, not seeing so much as an inch in front or in back of me, whilst inside me poor Ol’ Widow Fartie Da Whistle was desperately trying to wriggle free of Misther Patchouli Da Fanny nose, wot was wedged in the place she’s a rather’ve been sitting on. And there was also Floozie Da Smelley, half in and half out and soaking wet through and through and sinking into the mud, and looking like she was after being drowned in less than a second flat. And all the time she was pulling on the legs of Ol’ Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and trying to get him pried away from where his nose should’na got. And inside the bus (being me), wasn’t there a whole passel of biddies cheering ‘em on and taking bets as to who was gonna win and who was gonna have his nose yanked off and wot it must’a smelled like after so many hours inside The Widow Fartie Da Whistle’s coal hole? And there was my custom built Burlington 33-seater coachwork getting its fresh new classical black and silver paint all ruint in the rain. And there was my windows all steamed up from all the excitement. And didn’t I, who’s been born a classic Daimler CVD6 with custom-crafted Burlington 33-seat coachwork, wish I’d never been built?
While all this was going on, wasn’t the floodwaters rising a mile a minute while I started to wonder if’n I was gonna be washed away, biddies and Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and the Widow Fartie Da Whistle and all? And the question I asked myself was had Ol’ Noah ever worked for Daimler Bus Company and, if so, had he been there when I was churned out? And while I was asking myself this, wot I had failed to see in front of me, on account of I was busy asking myself important questions and, in any case, the rain was coming down too heavy for me to see anything at all, was the two corpus delectables of Miss Parsley Da Onker and Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous had blowed up to the size of houses and were bobbing around back and forth in the tide.
About now, I’m ashamed to say, the pressure got the better of me and I must’a passed out for a minute or two. I didn’t exactly see wot happened next, so wot I’m gonna do now is put my pencil aside and try to reconstruct the events for your benefit. As soon as I know wot went on, I’ll get back to you, and when I do, I’ll say, Hello, Dear Diary, so endeth my time of reconstructing everything wot went on while I was busy fainting dead away.
Well, as I was saying last time I wrote in your pages, it had started in raining and everyone, including me, wot is the bus, was getting wetter’n the inside of an old biddy’s bladder. Since then it’s only got worse. The rain’s turned into a monsoon and the sky is darker’n night, and the pathetic thing is, a coupl’a days ago it were not only the summer solstice and the first day of summer, but the longest day of the year to boot. What business has it of switching off the lights on this of all weeks? I don’t know, but I suspect it has something to do with the local tradition which says summer starts in May or April or something like that. If’n you figure it out like that, I guess it places the twenty-first of June somewhere in the middle of December. Makes me want to write ‘sigh’ and expel a lot of gas outta both ends at the same time.
Anyway, back to where I was at. There we was, each and every one of us getting’ all wet and mouldy and the biddies boasting as to how they was all gonna come down with the worst colds since the winter of 1927, and there was also the corpus deliciouses of Miss Parsley Da Onker and Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous rolling around in the road and looking by now like a coupl’a elephant seals and starting in with the misbehaving. Looking at them objective-like, it goes to show how much extra skin a biddy’s got when she gets ancient, on account of these two had enough left over flapping about so’s they could blow up bigger’n a coupl’a dirigibles. ‘Course, I know for a fact both of these biddies, back before they dropped down dead from the sight of Misther Patchouli Da Fanny’s nose stuck up The Widow Fartie Da Whistle’s exhaust pipe, had ate a fried breakfast of cabbage and onions and beans, washed down by a gallon or so of stout, and this could account for their having enough gas to inflate their baggy skins to their present proportions. But of course, both Miss Parsley Da Onker and Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous was windbags of the first order to begin with, but seeing as how they are dead one shouldn’t say nasty shit about ‘em for some reason I can’t figure out. I mean, if’n they was nasty bitches when they was alive, don’t it stand to reason they’d be the same afterwards or even worse, on account of all the extra practise they was getting in after reaching the other dimension? ‘Course, now that they’ve gone and shat the bed we don’t have to put up with their nastiness, and since human’s can’t remember anything past last Tuesday, the minute a person dies and isn’t around to remind them, they forgets all about how much they’d been wanting to kill ‘em. Or something like that. Which may be one reason why they’s suddenly all so nice and says ‘God Bless ‘em’ every two minutes. Being a bus, myself, and not prone to dying, I always wonder about how those on the ‘other side’ (as they calls it) react to yet another nasty piss-eyed old biddy appearing at their front door without telephoning first or waiting for an invitation, especially on account of about a million billion of ‘em die off every time they’s got nothing else to do. Don’t those folks over there ever feel like sticking a fork in the latecomers’ eyes and ordering ‘em to get back down where they was and to mind their manners? Perhaps that’s wot Heaven and Hell are all about. Both places can only put up with biddies for so long and then send ‘em up or down to the other place every so often so’s they can take a holiday. And by ‘they’, in this case, I’m talking about the folks in Heaven and hell wot are in charge.
Come to think of it, if this is how things work, it might explain why the first elevators was invented. ‘Course now, what with so many millions kicking the bucket from this island alone, they’ll be needing king-sized motorways to keep the biddy traffic moving back and forth and up and down. Perhaps even autobahns, so’s they can do away with the speed limits.
I don’t know wot got me started on this subject, but I feel better now it’s off’n my chest. Not that I have a chest, being a bus and all, but you know wot I mean.
Where the fuck was I? Oh, yes, I was about to tell you how the rain was bucketing down and getting heavier by the second. Regular cats and dogs it was, with a few toads and cows throwed in for good measure. To be honest, I’d never seed such rain, not in my entire life, and I’ve been around since the fifties. I was sitting there, not seeing so much as an inch in front or in back of me, whilst inside me poor Ol’ Widow Fartie Da Whistle was desperately trying to wriggle free of Misther Patchouli Da Fanny nose, wot was wedged in the place she’s a rather’ve been sitting on. And there was also Floozie Da Smelley, half in and half out and soaking wet through and through and sinking into the mud, and looking like she was after being drowned in less than a second flat. And all the time she was pulling on the legs of Ol’ Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and trying to get him pried away from where his nose should’na got. And inside the bus (being me), wasn’t there a whole passel of biddies cheering ‘em on and taking bets as to who was gonna win and who was gonna have his nose yanked off and wot it must’a smelled like after so many hours inside The Widow Fartie Da Whistle’s coal hole? And there was my custom built Burlington 33-seater coachwork getting its fresh new classical black and silver paint all ruint in the rain. And there was my windows all steamed up from all the excitement. And didn’t I, who’s been born a classic Daimler CVD6 with custom-crafted Burlington 33-seat coachwork, wish I’d never been built?
While all this was going on, wasn’t the floodwaters rising a mile a minute while I started to wonder if’n I was gonna be washed away, biddies and Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and the Widow Fartie Da Whistle and all? And the question I asked myself was had Ol’ Noah ever worked for Daimler Bus Company and, if so, had he been there when I was churned out? And while I was asking myself this, wot I had failed to see in front of me, on account of I was busy asking myself important questions and, in any case, the rain was coming down too heavy for me to see anything at all, was the two corpus delectables of Miss Parsley Da Onker and Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous had blowed up to the size of houses and were bobbing around back and forth in the tide.
About now, I’m ashamed to say, the pressure got the better of me and I must’a passed out for a minute or two. I didn’t exactly see wot happened next, so wot I’m gonna do now is put my pencil aside and try to reconstruct the events for your benefit. As soon as I know wot went on, I’ll get back to you, and when I do, I’ll say, Hello, Dear Diary, so endeth my time of reconstructing everything wot went on while I was busy fainting dead away.
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