Dear Diary,
Well, I’m back, and just in the nick of time on account of I heard a few of you out there was gonna take my Dear Diary back to the library and exchange it for one of them romantic novels wot women read when they’re married to losers. I always wonder about that, being married to losers, I mean, not exchanging my Dear Diary for a book with a picture on the cover of a naked guy who’s got it made in all departments and is thinking of doing stuff to the woman in his arms wot can only be done in books wot are banned in a dozen or more countries. While tossing my Dear Diary away in favour of something wot your mother’d never read on account of she’d never’ve understood it, is understandable under certain circumstances, marrying a loser is not. Get it together, ladies. If being married means you’ll end up looking like a pickled egg and acting like Missus Milly Da Fardle and the rest o’the biddies on the island (with the exception of Missus Drain, wot’s a cracker), and being as miserable as a bucket of worms wot’s destined for a delightful day on the river with a coupl’a drunk anglers, you might want to take the other route. If’n you know wot I mean. And by the way, when I wrote about ‘tossing’ my Dear Diary away, I wasn’t talking in the biblical sense, just in case any of you’ve learned the English language in all its prurient glory. And if you don’t know wot I’m talking about you might want to give it a think. But where was I?
Oh, yes, The Widow Fartie Da Whistle, wot was supposed to be driving the bus (being me) on my farewell tour of the island before I goes to live with the part-Italian Greek God Signore Malvinio Da Flota-Mota and his Ducati, Benvolio Da Trampolio, who is to the motorcycle world wot those naked guys on the covers of certain books is to the world of romantic fiction, happened (through a complicated set of circumstances) to be sitting outside the bus (being me) and halfway up a tree. This, of course, were a good thing or else she might’a drowned like a rat in the flood waters wot was rising and rising higher’n the lighthouse wot was down at the end of the road. In fact, you might not believe this, but the top of the lighthouse had either been moved somewhere else to a prettier spot, or else it’d been swallowed up like a tadpole wot’s got ate by a frog wot weren’t its mother. Wot I’m talking about was we was having some serious rain bucketing down on us from the blackest clouds you’ve ever saw since the colour black was invented, and all you could see for miles around was water and more water. I could’a swore when we started out the day that I was parked outside by Misther Patchouli Da Fanny’s lopsided pink flatpack building and there was all sorts of cars parked here and there belonging to tourons wot were visiting Floozie Da Smelley’s ‘Junk-By-The-Tonne’ Fleamarket, and buying shit wot nobody else’d be caught dead selling. It’s a shame all that junk’s been washed away by now, or at least it’s a shame for that country wot’s gonna have its beaches polluted by it when it comes to land there in a hundert years or so. ‘Course, I probably should feel sorry for Floozie Da Smelley on account of the amount of money she makes selling shit to folks wot are even stupider’n her, but I can’t say as I do. And by the way, somewhere in all the water and swirling mud and animals wot were swimming around to beat the band, were Ol’ Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Floozie Da Smelley paddling away and sinking in the mud, but at the time I can’t say as I gave ‘em much thought, so I won’t talk about ‘em now, except to say they wasn’t drowned, at least not fatally. And while I’m sorta on the subject, no, I’m not gonna miss the lopsided flatpack building at all, but I’ll think about that later, as well. After all, it did sorta cover a coupl’a acres of land and it must’a been washed away somewhere. One has to pray for wherever it ended up, hasn’t one, on account of its being so ugly and cheap-looking its new owners might get turned down for planning permission. But where was I?
Oh, yes. The Widow Fartie Da Whistle was up a tree and looking over at the flood waters and at the bus (being me) and it occurred to her she had to do something fast or I’d go under and take all the biddies with me. She didn’t mind so much about the biddies, on account of there are always new batches of them coming along from every direction. In fact, you could say biddies is one of them unstoppable forces of nature, like earthquakes and tornadoes and large platefuls of potatoes when all you want is greens and healthy steamed fish. But she was worried to death about me, not only because I’m a classic Daimler CVD6 with custom-built Burlington 33-seat coachwork, but because me and she’ve developed wot you might call a delicate condition, plus I’m not exactly as replaceable as a boyfriend or last year’s pair of shoes. So wot The Widow Fartie Da Whistle done was to put on her thinking cap like she was taught in school and make a list of possibles. ‘Course, in her case and under her present circumstance it had to be a mental list, on account of she were up a tree without a piece of paper or pencil and it were bucketing down with rain like there were no tomorrow. In fact, that’s one of the first things she said to herself. “There might be no tomorrow.” And while this was sinking in, wot should come bobbing along but the two corpuses delicates of Miss Parsley Da Onker and Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous. And in between the last time she saw ‘em and now, wot were probably no more about three or four minutes (seeing as how they’d got themselves snagged by the tree and hadn’t gone anywhere), they’d nearly doubled in size. Naturally, not thinking straight and forgetting her manners, she let out a, “Holy Shit Jeeze Louise’n Duck Yer Fuck,” which made Ol’ Missus Milly Da Fardle, wot was in the bus trying not to drown before Miss Drain and Mrs. Emily Da Onion, yell at The Widow Fartie Da Whistle and tell her to wash her mouth out with soap and hope to go to Hell, on account of it were full of folks like her wot would understand her type of easy living.
However, I’ll have to give credit where credit’s due to The Widow Fartie Da Whistle, on account of she weren’t caring a fig about wot Missus Milly Da Fardle was yelling in her direction. And the reason she weren’t is that she were looking at salvation. And by that I don’t mean she was having an intimate mano a mano with The Lord over her future prospects, but that she saw how she was gonna save the bus (being me) and all wot was in me. And at the moment she knew wot she was gonna do it were like a Eppy Fanny, and she got so excited all she could do was let out a “Holy Crap and Fuck Your Grandma’n Hallelujua Hunny Buns!” I’m not gonna tell you wot Missus Milly Da Fardle and the rest o’the old biddies said to that, but it made me laugh so hard I peed all of my petrol out of my tailpipe and I broke my pencil (again). Unfortunately, I’m gonna have to leave you for a few minutes or so, Dear Diary, while I clean myself up. Until I get back you can get out your recorders and tootle a coupl’a tunes. And as soon as I’m ready, I’ll say, So endeth your little concert, so shut the fuck up and listen to how The Widow Fartie Da Whistle saved the world and especially me (being the bus).
Well, I’m back, and just in the nick of time on account of I heard a few of you out there was gonna take my Dear Diary back to the library and exchange it for one of them romantic novels wot women read when they’re married to losers. I always wonder about that, being married to losers, I mean, not exchanging my Dear Diary for a book with a picture on the cover of a naked guy who’s got it made in all departments and is thinking of doing stuff to the woman in his arms wot can only be done in books wot are banned in a dozen or more countries. While tossing my Dear Diary away in favour of something wot your mother’d never read on account of she’d never’ve understood it, is understandable under certain circumstances, marrying a loser is not. Get it together, ladies. If being married means you’ll end up looking like a pickled egg and acting like Missus Milly Da Fardle and the rest o’the biddies on the island (with the exception of Missus Drain, wot’s a cracker), and being as miserable as a bucket of worms wot’s destined for a delightful day on the river with a coupl’a drunk anglers, you might want to take the other route. If’n you know wot I mean. And by the way, when I wrote about ‘tossing’ my Dear Diary away, I wasn’t talking in the biblical sense, just in case any of you’ve learned the English language in all its prurient glory. And if you don’t know wot I’m talking about you might want to give it a think. But where was I?
Oh, yes, The Widow Fartie Da Whistle, wot was supposed to be driving the bus (being me) on my farewell tour of the island before I goes to live with the part-Italian Greek God Signore Malvinio Da Flota-Mota and his Ducati, Benvolio Da Trampolio, who is to the motorcycle world wot those naked guys on the covers of certain books is to the world of romantic fiction, happened (through a complicated set of circumstances) to be sitting outside the bus (being me) and halfway up a tree. This, of course, were a good thing or else she might’a drowned like a rat in the flood waters wot was rising and rising higher’n the lighthouse wot was down at the end of the road. In fact, you might not believe this, but the top of the lighthouse had either been moved somewhere else to a prettier spot, or else it’d been swallowed up like a tadpole wot’s got ate by a frog wot weren’t its mother. Wot I’m talking about was we was having some serious rain bucketing down on us from the blackest clouds you’ve ever saw since the colour black was invented, and all you could see for miles around was water and more water. I could’a swore when we started out the day that I was parked outside by Misther Patchouli Da Fanny’s lopsided pink flatpack building and there was all sorts of cars parked here and there belonging to tourons wot were visiting Floozie Da Smelley’s ‘Junk-By-The-Tonne’ Fleamarket, and buying shit wot nobody else’d be caught dead selling. It’s a shame all that junk’s been washed away by now, or at least it’s a shame for that country wot’s gonna have its beaches polluted by it when it comes to land there in a hundert years or so. ‘Course, I probably should feel sorry for Floozie Da Smelley on account of the amount of money she makes selling shit to folks wot are even stupider’n her, but I can’t say as I do. And by the way, somewhere in all the water and swirling mud and animals wot were swimming around to beat the band, were Ol’ Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Floozie Da Smelley paddling away and sinking in the mud, but at the time I can’t say as I gave ‘em much thought, so I won’t talk about ‘em now, except to say they wasn’t drowned, at least not fatally. And while I’m sorta on the subject, no, I’m not gonna miss the lopsided flatpack building at all, but I’ll think about that later, as well. After all, it did sorta cover a coupl’a acres of land and it must’a been washed away somewhere. One has to pray for wherever it ended up, hasn’t one, on account of its being so ugly and cheap-looking its new owners might get turned down for planning permission. But where was I?
Oh, yes. The Widow Fartie Da Whistle was up a tree and looking over at the flood waters and at the bus (being me) and it occurred to her she had to do something fast or I’d go under and take all the biddies with me. She didn’t mind so much about the biddies, on account of there are always new batches of them coming along from every direction. In fact, you could say biddies is one of them unstoppable forces of nature, like earthquakes and tornadoes and large platefuls of potatoes when all you want is greens and healthy steamed fish. But she was worried to death about me, not only because I’m a classic Daimler CVD6 with custom-built Burlington 33-seat coachwork, but because me and she’ve developed wot you might call a delicate condition, plus I’m not exactly as replaceable as a boyfriend or last year’s pair of shoes. So wot The Widow Fartie Da Whistle done was to put on her thinking cap like she was taught in school and make a list of possibles. ‘Course, in her case and under her present circumstance it had to be a mental list, on account of she were up a tree without a piece of paper or pencil and it were bucketing down with rain like there were no tomorrow. In fact, that’s one of the first things she said to herself. “There might be no tomorrow.” And while this was sinking in, wot should come bobbing along but the two corpuses delicates of Miss Parsley Da Onker and Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous. And in between the last time she saw ‘em and now, wot were probably no more about three or four minutes (seeing as how they’d got themselves snagged by the tree and hadn’t gone anywhere), they’d nearly doubled in size. Naturally, not thinking straight and forgetting her manners, she let out a, “Holy Shit Jeeze Louise’n Duck Yer Fuck,” which made Ol’ Missus Milly Da Fardle, wot was in the bus trying not to drown before Miss Drain and Mrs. Emily Da Onion, yell at The Widow Fartie Da Whistle and tell her to wash her mouth out with soap and hope to go to Hell, on account of it were full of folks like her wot would understand her type of easy living.
However, I’ll have to give credit where credit’s due to The Widow Fartie Da Whistle, on account of she weren’t caring a fig about wot Missus Milly Da Fardle was yelling in her direction. And the reason she weren’t is that she were looking at salvation. And by that I don’t mean she was having an intimate mano a mano with The Lord over her future prospects, but that she saw how she was gonna save the bus (being me) and all wot was in me. And at the moment she knew wot she was gonna do it were like a Eppy Fanny, and she got so excited all she could do was let out a “Holy Crap and Fuck Your Grandma’n Hallelujua Hunny Buns!” I’m not gonna tell you wot Missus Milly Da Fardle and the rest o’the old biddies said to that, but it made me laugh so hard I peed all of my petrol out of my tailpipe and I broke my pencil (again). Unfortunately, I’m gonna have to leave you for a few minutes or so, Dear Diary, while I clean myself up. Until I get back you can get out your recorders and tootle a coupl’a tunes. And as soon as I’m ready, I’ll say, So endeth your little concert, so shut the fuck up and listen to how The Widow Fartie Da Whistle saved the world and especially me (being the bus).
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