Day 79
Dear Diary,
Well, Dear Diary, let me just say I’m feeling a whole lot better today. I think I’d been fed some o’that cheap fuel by Misther Patchouli Da Fanny, who’d rather pluck his own eyes out rather’n spend a penny on anything, even if’n it’s saving a life. However, from her place on the tree The Widow Fartie Da Whistle could see how upset and overwrought I was becoming and so she risked herself and climbed on in through my open windscreen and switched off my motor. She promised she’d take care of me and make everything right again as soon as she gets us rescued from the flood, and in the meantime I’m supposed to rest and not move any gears or even think too much about wot’s happening back on my upholstery now that the biddies haven’t been to the pot for hours and hours. Anyway, as I was saying, I’m feeling a whole lot better, though not yet a hundert percent, and so I’ve decided to forgive everyone wot called me a pillock and get back to writing in you, Dear Diary.
Before everything went wrong yesterday and I got wot they calls bumptious, I was praising The Widow Fartie Da Whistle for not wanting us to sink down to the bottom of the sea where the biddies’d probably drown and corrode the water with their crumbly bits and leavings. She’d already thought faster’n a whip can snap by snagging the bloaty corpuscles delectables of Miss Parsley Da Onker and Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous, wot were floating around and getting ready to burst and kill off about another acre or two of the ozone layer with their special ripe effluvium. And on account of she’s smarter than the smartest smart human being I’ve ever saw before, The Widow Fartie Da Whistle knowed that not even ten ten-tonne lorries could sink with those two dead gassy gasbags lashed to their sides, and so wot she did was strap ‘em real tight to the sides of this here bus (being me). Right away, of course, that stopped me from sinking into the bottom of the flood waters, on account of The Widow Fartie Da Whistle was right about them two dead ladies’d got more flotation gas in ‘em than Benidorm’s got English tourons, and so I started in bobbing about more like a rubber ducky than a classic Daimler CVD6 bus with custom-designed Burlington 33-seat coachwork. And right then and there I knew there were nothing more to worry about, at least not at the moment, and I started in a’laughing and singing and carrying on and having more fun than I’ve had since the day I runned Ol’ MacTavish Da Snurg off the cliff after he’d said something rude to Marcela Da Splodge of The Fancy-Prancy Club, wot is located down behind the Women’s Institute. But that were a long time ago and I can’t say if’n she’d deserved the remarks she got from him or not. ‘Course nobody liked her much, not even before she were born, but that’s okay as far as I’m concerned, on account of she seems to get along just fine and dandy. Anyway, back to where my future’d just been saved and I was swimming around happy as two clams in a bowl of soup. To give her credit, The Widow Fartie Da Whistle was watching me paddling around in the flood waters, and the minute she knew I could float better’n any boat and wasn’t gonna drown the biddies wot was sitting inside me complaining and carrying on, she took out the chainsaw wot she keeps in the emergency rucksack wot never leaves her side, not even when she’s showering herself off or rolling around on the floor with Signore Malvinio Da Flota-Mota and his hot to trot Ducati, Benvolio Da Trampolio. And before I could ask wot she was gonna cut in two and I hoped it wasn’t me, on account of I’ve gotten sort of attached to wot I got, she sliced off a coupl’a branches from the tree wot she’d been sitting in ever since the flood started, and faster’n you can say ‘bibble’ she carved ‘em into the largest oars I’ve ever saw in my whole life, and I’ve been around since the fifties and am older’n the oldest shit in the bottom of Missus Milly Da Fardle’s thing wot she keeps under her bed. One of these oars The Widow Fartie Da Whistle stuck out my side window by where the driver sits, and the other one she poked through the little window on top of the door wot is directly opposite.
As soon as she’d arranged the oars just so, she sat down on the driver’s seat and yelled to the biddies all cheerful like, “OK you biddies, hold tight and don’t spill none of your drinks, for we’re gonna go on a boating trip and I’m gonna steer us all the way down to Argentina.” And wouldn’t you know it, but just as soon as she’d said that, the flood waters lifted us up about a million feet and we was swept down wot had been the road and past wot had been Flooze Da Smelley’s Cheap ‘n’ Cheerful Junk-by-the-Tonne and her Luxurious Summer Rental Cottages, the ones wot’d been portable toilets in their former lives, and over the cliff and into the sea. ‘Course, being a bus I’d never rode on one of them theme park rides before, but if’n they’re anything like wot we went through, I’ll tell you here and now I’d turn right around and stand in the queue for an additional twelve hours and pay €50 for another ticket. Our ride over the cliff were just about that good. Mind you, the biddies weren’t impressed, in fact most of them, especially Missus Milly Da Fardle and Miss Cabbage and Ol’ Mrs. Emily Da Onion were on their little phones yelling at the call centre about how we was suppose to be touring the island as part of my farewell party and instead we was headed for Argentina or someplace where they has greasy food and no potatoes.
I’m gonna put my pencil away for a short while and rest myself, on account of the story just gets more and more exciting and I don’t want to bust a gusset when I’m telling it to you. Before I do, I just want to tell you that yes, I know, I’d told you about Missus Milly Da Fardle’d arranged to have Miss Cabbage and Mrs. Emily Da Onion banned from riding the bus (being me) for life, and had even banned ‘em from dying when their time comes on account of dying was too good for them. However, as you can see, they’s all back together, and as soon as I figures out why, I’ll let you know. In the mean time, so endeth our wild amusement park ride and I hope to go on a million more of them.
Dear Diary,
Well, Dear Diary, let me just say I’m feeling a whole lot better today. I think I’d been fed some o’that cheap fuel by Misther Patchouli Da Fanny, who’d rather pluck his own eyes out rather’n spend a penny on anything, even if’n it’s saving a life. However, from her place on the tree The Widow Fartie Da Whistle could see how upset and overwrought I was becoming and so she risked herself and climbed on in through my open windscreen and switched off my motor. She promised she’d take care of me and make everything right again as soon as she gets us rescued from the flood, and in the meantime I’m supposed to rest and not move any gears or even think too much about wot’s happening back on my upholstery now that the biddies haven’t been to the pot for hours and hours. Anyway, as I was saying, I’m feeling a whole lot better, though not yet a hundert percent, and so I’ve decided to forgive everyone wot called me a pillock and get back to writing in you, Dear Diary.
Before everything went wrong yesterday and I got wot they calls bumptious, I was praising The Widow Fartie Da Whistle for not wanting us to sink down to the bottom of the sea where the biddies’d probably drown and corrode the water with their crumbly bits and leavings. She’d already thought faster’n a whip can snap by snagging the bloaty corpuscles delectables of Miss Parsley Da Onker and Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous, wot were floating around and getting ready to burst and kill off about another acre or two of the ozone layer with their special ripe effluvium. And on account of she’s smarter than the smartest smart human being I’ve ever saw before, The Widow Fartie Da Whistle knowed that not even ten ten-tonne lorries could sink with those two dead gassy gasbags lashed to their sides, and so wot she did was strap ‘em real tight to the sides of this here bus (being me). Right away, of course, that stopped me from sinking into the bottom of the flood waters, on account of The Widow Fartie Da Whistle was right about them two dead ladies’d got more flotation gas in ‘em than Benidorm’s got English tourons, and so I started in bobbing about more like a rubber ducky than a classic Daimler CVD6 bus with custom-designed Burlington 33-seat coachwork. And right then and there I knew there were nothing more to worry about, at least not at the moment, and I started in a’laughing and singing and carrying on and having more fun than I’ve had since the day I runned Ol’ MacTavish Da Snurg off the cliff after he’d said something rude to Marcela Da Splodge of The Fancy-Prancy Club, wot is located down behind the Women’s Institute. But that were a long time ago and I can’t say if’n she’d deserved the remarks she got from him or not. ‘Course nobody liked her much, not even before she were born, but that’s okay as far as I’m concerned, on account of she seems to get along just fine and dandy. Anyway, back to where my future’d just been saved and I was swimming around happy as two clams in a bowl of soup. To give her credit, The Widow Fartie Da Whistle was watching me paddling around in the flood waters, and the minute she knew I could float better’n any boat and wasn’t gonna drown the biddies wot was sitting inside me complaining and carrying on, she took out the chainsaw wot she keeps in the emergency rucksack wot never leaves her side, not even when she’s showering herself off or rolling around on the floor with Signore Malvinio Da Flota-Mota and his hot to trot Ducati, Benvolio Da Trampolio. And before I could ask wot she was gonna cut in two and I hoped it wasn’t me, on account of I’ve gotten sort of attached to wot I got, she sliced off a coupl’a branches from the tree wot she’d been sitting in ever since the flood started, and faster’n you can say ‘bibble’ she carved ‘em into the largest oars I’ve ever saw in my whole life, and I’ve been around since the fifties and am older’n the oldest shit in the bottom of Missus Milly Da Fardle’s thing wot she keeps under her bed. One of these oars The Widow Fartie Da Whistle stuck out my side window by where the driver sits, and the other one she poked through the little window on top of the door wot is directly opposite.
As soon as she’d arranged the oars just so, she sat down on the driver’s seat and yelled to the biddies all cheerful like, “OK you biddies, hold tight and don’t spill none of your drinks, for we’re gonna go on a boating trip and I’m gonna steer us all the way down to Argentina.” And wouldn’t you know it, but just as soon as she’d said that, the flood waters lifted us up about a million feet and we was swept down wot had been the road and past wot had been Flooze Da Smelley’s Cheap ‘n’ Cheerful Junk-by-the-Tonne and her Luxurious Summer Rental Cottages, the ones wot’d been portable toilets in their former lives, and over the cliff and into the sea. ‘Course, being a bus I’d never rode on one of them theme park rides before, but if’n they’re anything like wot we went through, I’ll tell you here and now I’d turn right around and stand in the queue for an additional twelve hours and pay €50 for another ticket. Our ride over the cliff were just about that good. Mind you, the biddies weren’t impressed, in fact most of them, especially Missus Milly Da Fardle and Miss Cabbage and Ol’ Mrs. Emily Da Onion were on their little phones yelling at the call centre about how we was suppose to be touring the island as part of my farewell party and instead we was headed for Argentina or someplace where they has greasy food and no potatoes.
I’m gonna put my pencil away for a short while and rest myself, on account of the story just gets more and more exciting and I don’t want to bust a gusset when I’m telling it to you. Before I do, I just want to tell you that yes, I know, I’d told you about Missus Milly Da Fardle’d arranged to have Miss Cabbage and Mrs. Emily Da Onion banned from riding the bus (being me) for life, and had even banned ‘em from dying when their time comes on account of dying was too good for them. However, as you can see, they’s all back together, and as soon as I figures out why, I’ll let you know. In the mean time, so endeth our wild amusement park ride and I hope to go on a million more of them.
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