Day 78
Dear Diary,
Well, here I am again, Dear Diary, and I’m about to tell you how The Widow Fartie Da Whistle’s quick thinking kept all the old biddies wot nobody wants around anymore from drowning and being washed out to sea and being ate by fishies and crawdads and worms and wot educated folks calls organisms. Not that no fishies I’ve ever met would’a been caught dead eating the likes of Missus Milly Da Fardle or Mrs. Emily Da Onion or Miss Cabbage, on account of they wouldn’t, not in a million billion years. Fishies and squids and stuff got taste, whereas I bet the aforementioned Ol’ biddies gotta taste worse than wot they smells like, and the kindest expression your can use to describe that is ‘rancider’n a goat’s cheese wots been left out in the sun for a month. And that’s an understatement. But anyways, The Widow Fartie Da Whistle’s wot you might call a ferny-mentlist, which means she don’t hold with the ocean getting all smellified by rotten Ol’ biddies wot all the fish’d refused to serve up for a meal and instead left ‘em about polluting the seabed. ‘Course, one thing you gotta take into account, and this is no small thing, is that fishies don’t have no hands no fingers or hands or shovels, by which I’m implying that they don’t have wot you’d call the physical capacity for throwing the remains of dead biddies into their wheelie bins so’s they can be picked up every other Thursday by the sanitation engineers. However, and I shouldn’t be saying this on account of it’s mocking the stupid, but most fishies I’ve met don’t have no mental capacity either, or at least not so’s you’d notice. And forget about a respect for nature. Why, in all the visits I made to the seaside in my capacity as tour bus transporting ancients round and round the continent back in the days when I was gainfully employed by Golden Twilight Years, I never once saw a single fishie pick up a piece o’litter and dump it into a receptacle wot was put there for that purpose. And as for them sanitation engineer fishes wot they got down in the middle of the ocean, some of ‘em do wot they can, but being that they’re lobsters and crabs and shrimps and stuff, they’re mostly being ate or going on holiday and spending time in fish tanks at glamorous restaurants instead of attending to their civic duties. But enough about them. Where was I?
Ah, yes, I was talking about The Widow Fartie Da Whistle saving me and the biddies from being washed out to sea by the rampaging floodwaters and why didn’t you tell me to shut up when I got distracted? I’m always getting off the track, Dear Diary, on account of I’m a bus, albeit a classic Daimler CVD6 with custom-built and as such don’t have no better powers of concentration than a toads wot’s been runned over my a lorry. Wot I’m saying is that I needs you to set me straight from time to time. Otherwise we’ll be on this story for another year and a half and I don’t think that none of us could stand that and not go crazy. Talking of which, did I ever tell you about wot happened to Ol’ Finian Da Fabricator after’n he and Howard Da Fardle and Emler Da Snog stole Missus Milly Da Fardle’s luggage full o’illgot bingo winnings wot she wanted put into safekeeping at The Bank of Old Wanger Nose and run away and disappeared off’n the island? Well, from wot I heard from the ferry boat, wot is a good friend of mine and texts me all the time about who’s travelling back and forth between the island and the mainland and who throws up their dinner overboard when they gets too drunk and who falls off and forgets to swim, no sooner’d Finian Da Fabricator and Elmer Da Snog and Howard Da Fardle run off with the money, than they headed on over to my old friend Fergal Da Fecker’s petrol station for a refill of his special potheen wot he sells from one of his petrol pumps. And by the way, if’n you go there, you gotta remember it’s in the left hand pump and not the other one, and if’n you gets confused you’ll end up like Ol’ Fingus Da Flatulator wot drank down a coupl’a pints from the right hand pump and then lit up a cigarette. If’n you recall, he blewed hisself up and there wasn’t so much as a greasy spot left to be scraped up for his funeral or for his corpus delicious to be sold off illegal to The Gnu-Fanny Precious Deluxe Luxurious Snobby Cat Food Company for tasty feline nibble nobs. But, of course, he were long gone before Finian Da Fabricator and Howard Da Fardle and Elmer Da Snog run off with Missus Milly Da Fardle’s luggage, and so they had to buy their potheen from Fergal Da Fecker, which is a shame on account of his stories weren’t as good as Ol’ Finian’s’d been and kept wandering all over the place.
And in case you’re in mind of mocking me about my storytelling, yes, I did learn most everything I know from Ol’ Fergal Da Fecker, but there are worse things in life. You could’a been born in wot they call the Abscess of Weevils and be bombed to death to make it a better world for murkins, but instead you’re here with me listening to wot I’ve gotta say about all sorts of interesting topics of conversation. So think about that the next time you’re in the mood to mock ‘n’ criticise and’re tempted to call me more boring than your Ol’ Uncle Burt wot’s not piles and gas and watches the twenty-four hour news channel and yells at the television.
There you see, you calling me a whinger and ignorant fucker and pillock’s got me all riled up and I’m gonna hafta put away my pencil for a bit and sulk and think up way to get even with you, Dear Diary. Don’t be surprised if’n I don’t act more like a journalist in the future and, as they says, stick to the facts and just the facts and no more’n the facts. You’ll hafta wait and see, won’t we. And while you’re waiting on me, I’ll say so endeth the pleasure of my company and you’ll miss me when I’m gone, on account of the Ford Transit buses wot’re gonna work here in the future don’t know how to talk, much less write in a diary, which is just as well on account of they’re pig ignorant and’ve got no sense of humour to boot.
Oh, yes, I forgot to tell you about how Ol’ Finian Da Fabricator and Howard Da Fardle and Elmer Da Snog went crazy, but I’ve also not told you yet about how The Widow Fartie Da Whistle saved me and the world, but like I said, maybe I will and maybe I won’t. ‘Course, it’d help if’n you asked me nice, but it’d also be nice if’n pigs could sing like Pavarotti. Innit.
Dear Diary,
Well, here I am again, Dear Diary, and I’m about to tell you how The Widow Fartie Da Whistle’s quick thinking kept all the old biddies wot nobody wants around anymore from drowning and being washed out to sea and being ate by fishies and crawdads and worms and wot educated folks calls organisms. Not that no fishies I’ve ever met would’a been caught dead eating the likes of Missus Milly Da Fardle or Mrs. Emily Da Onion or Miss Cabbage, on account of they wouldn’t, not in a million billion years. Fishies and squids and stuff got taste, whereas I bet the aforementioned Ol’ biddies gotta taste worse than wot they smells like, and the kindest expression your can use to describe that is ‘rancider’n a goat’s cheese wots been left out in the sun for a month. And that’s an understatement. But anyways, The Widow Fartie Da Whistle’s wot you might call a ferny-mentlist, which means she don’t hold with the ocean getting all smellified by rotten Ol’ biddies wot all the fish’d refused to serve up for a meal and instead left ‘em about polluting the seabed. ‘Course, one thing you gotta take into account, and this is no small thing, is that fishies don’t have no hands no fingers or hands or shovels, by which I’m implying that they don’t have wot you’d call the physical capacity for throwing the remains of dead biddies into their wheelie bins so’s they can be picked up every other Thursday by the sanitation engineers. However, and I shouldn’t be saying this on account of it’s mocking the stupid, but most fishies I’ve met don’t have no mental capacity either, or at least not so’s you’d notice. And forget about a respect for nature. Why, in all the visits I made to the seaside in my capacity as tour bus transporting ancients round and round the continent back in the days when I was gainfully employed by Golden Twilight Years, I never once saw a single fishie pick up a piece o’litter and dump it into a receptacle wot was put there for that purpose. And as for them sanitation engineer fishes wot they got down in the middle of the ocean, some of ‘em do wot they can, but being that they’re lobsters and crabs and shrimps and stuff, they’re mostly being ate or going on holiday and spending time in fish tanks at glamorous restaurants instead of attending to their civic duties. But enough about them. Where was I?
Ah, yes, I was talking about The Widow Fartie Da Whistle saving me and the biddies from being washed out to sea by the rampaging floodwaters and why didn’t you tell me to shut up when I got distracted? I’m always getting off the track, Dear Diary, on account of I’m a bus, albeit a classic Daimler CVD6 with custom-built and as such don’t have no better powers of concentration than a toads wot’s been runned over my a lorry. Wot I’m saying is that I needs you to set me straight from time to time. Otherwise we’ll be on this story for another year and a half and I don’t think that none of us could stand that and not go crazy. Talking of which, did I ever tell you about wot happened to Ol’ Finian Da Fabricator after’n he and Howard Da Fardle and Emler Da Snog stole Missus Milly Da Fardle’s luggage full o’illgot bingo winnings wot she wanted put into safekeeping at The Bank of Old Wanger Nose and run away and disappeared off’n the island? Well, from wot I heard from the ferry boat, wot is a good friend of mine and texts me all the time about who’s travelling back and forth between the island and the mainland and who throws up their dinner overboard when they gets too drunk and who falls off and forgets to swim, no sooner’d Finian Da Fabricator and Elmer Da Snog and Howard Da Fardle run off with the money, than they headed on over to my old friend Fergal Da Fecker’s petrol station for a refill of his special potheen wot he sells from one of his petrol pumps. And by the way, if’n you go there, you gotta remember it’s in the left hand pump and not the other one, and if’n you gets confused you’ll end up like Ol’ Fingus Da Flatulator wot drank down a coupl’a pints from the right hand pump and then lit up a cigarette. If’n you recall, he blewed hisself up and there wasn’t so much as a greasy spot left to be scraped up for his funeral or for his corpus delicious to be sold off illegal to The Gnu-Fanny Precious Deluxe Luxurious Snobby Cat Food Company for tasty feline nibble nobs. But, of course, he were long gone before Finian Da Fabricator and Howard Da Fardle and Elmer Da Snog run off with Missus Milly Da Fardle’s luggage, and so they had to buy their potheen from Fergal Da Fecker, which is a shame on account of his stories weren’t as good as Ol’ Finian’s’d been and kept wandering all over the place.
And in case you’re in mind of mocking me about my storytelling, yes, I did learn most everything I know from Ol’ Fergal Da Fecker, but there are worse things in life. You could’a been born in wot they call the Abscess of Weevils and be bombed to death to make it a better world for murkins, but instead you’re here with me listening to wot I’ve gotta say about all sorts of interesting topics of conversation. So think about that the next time you’re in the mood to mock ‘n’ criticise and’re tempted to call me more boring than your Ol’ Uncle Burt wot’s not piles and gas and watches the twenty-four hour news channel and yells at the television.
There you see, you calling me a whinger and ignorant fucker and pillock’s got me all riled up and I’m gonna hafta put away my pencil for a bit and sulk and think up way to get even with you, Dear Diary. Don’t be surprised if’n I don’t act more like a journalist in the future and, as they says, stick to the facts and just the facts and no more’n the facts. You’ll hafta wait and see, won’t we. And while you’re waiting on me, I’ll say so endeth the pleasure of my company and you’ll miss me when I’m gone, on account of the Ford Transit buses wot’re gonna work here in the future don’t know how to talk, much less write in a diary, which is just as well on account of they’re pig ignorant and’ve got no sense of humour to boot.
Oh, yes, I forgot to tell you about how Ol’ Finian Da Fabricator and Howard Da Fardle and Elmer Da Snog went crazy, but I’ve also not told you yet about how The Widow Fartie Da Whistle saved me and the world, but like I said, maybe I will and maybe I won’t. ‘Course, it’d help if’n you asked me nice, but it’d also be nice if’n pigs could sing like Pavarotti. Innit.
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