Day 88

Dear Diary,

The last time I wrote in you, Dear Diary, so much was ravelling, not to say unravelling, that even now, a few hours later, my head’s still a’jumbling and a’jingling and trying to sort itself out. You might not know it to look at us when we’re asleep in the garage, but buses, especially those of us who is classic Daimler CVD6 custom-designed Burlington models, is better’n most when it comes to multi-tasking. And if you’ve ever saw one of us speeding down the motorway with all cylinders firing and our lights flashing and loudspeakers blaring, you’ve witnessed a tiny fraction of wot I’m talking about. In other words, us Daimlers got talent with a capital ‘D’, and then some. ‘Course, even someone who’s actually seen a real bus in action, a bus that is with a capital ‘B’, - and here I’m not talking about no Ford Transits on account of they’s put together by wot they calls robots and costs all of twenty-five cents to build - has only seen half the goodies. There’s a lot more to buses than meets the eye, especially when it’s passengers wot’s doing the spectating. Unfortunately for all of us, for various reasons, those wot rides in us is usually examining us through their bottoms at the same time as they’re polluting our custom-designed and embroidered upholstery and either yelling at the person in the next seat or blabbing over their mobile phone. But never mind about that. Passengers are wot we call necessary evils, some would even say our ‘raisin d’eat’. But never you mind. When it comes down to it, passengers are really not all that interesting, so let’s get back to us buses, wot is. As I was saying, buses are masters of the multi-task and’ve got more going on in their heads and workings than a mere human being can comprehend, even if he’s got a higher education in intelligent subjects. In fact, wot with so much activity activating inside, starting from wot they calls ‘customer care’ to making sure the drivers is as harmless as possible. We learned a long time ago, even way back when we was pulled by horses and had to deal with horseshit on our wheels, that it’s better if the passengers not left to their own devices. In fact, between you and me, we like it best when they’ve been fed a few of them Prozac tablets in with their complimentary snacks, after which we turns on the little television sets in front of them and sends ‘em straight to la-la land. Minds wot is numbed deader’n doorknobs makes for happy and contented buses. And I’ll tell you here and now custom care’s a regular practice, so keep it in mind before you book your next holiday.

As I said before, there’s a list a mile long of complicated technical shit and instruments wot we interfaces with every time our engines get revved up and we pushes the pedal to the metal (as the say). Intricate feats of engineering you wouldn’t rightly believe, such as keeping the steering wheel amused so’s it don’t act up at the wrong time and steer us of a cliff when we don’t want to go there. Oh yes, and there’s also loads of diplomatic malarkey to attend to, and not all of it involves the passengers and their anti-social tendencies. But enough about buses and the exciting lives we lead, Dear Diary. You’re only a book and as dumb as a ox wot’s been hit over the head by a axe, at least until I fills you up with wot they calls good interesting and intelligent inspirational content. Now, let’s get back to where we was before you deliberately distracted me just to annoy those folks wot want to get down to business.

Oh, yes, when I left off yesterday, we was occupied with Problem Number Three. This, of course, had to do with me and all the biddies and The Widow Fartie Da Whistle sinking to the bottom of the sea and getting kilt by the Ol’ seabed when it decides to rise up to bonk into us and take us down the road to kingdom come. As you probably recollect, we might’ve eluded this problem altogether if’n our flotation devices, namely Miss Parsley Da Onker and Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous of blessed memory, hadn’t suddenly up and deflated themselves when something better came along, and left us to our doom and gloom. I know I told you they was bursted by sea creatures wot’d tore of bits o’their skin for the Hell of it, but the fact is, this instant deflating on their part only dawned on them when they learnt it were Missus Milly Da Fardle and Miss Cabbage and Mrs. Emily Da Onion wot they was keeping alive and kicking and afloating on the tide. All the other ancient, decrepit biddies was merely innocent bystanders and their accidentally on purpose demises would be put down to wot military intelligence calls collateral damage. In other words, fuck ‘em all and they won’t be missed and their beds back at the old folks home have already been boiled and sterilised and rented out to folks wot’ll pay double and don’t ask for money-back guarantees. And a Hallelujah and an Amen Coroner I say to that, on account of we all likes to hear about folks making loads of profit with no investment required. Now wot was I gibbering on about, I hears you ask? Well, let me tell you, Dear Diary, wot I’s gibbering about is that Miss Parsley Da Onker and Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous (of blessed memory) was actually secret agents in disguise, and everybody knows secret agents don’t pay no mind to them collaterals, on account of they’s not important to anybody either in the story or at home. In fact, they wouldn’t even get a look in to get kilt off for no reason, excepting authors need ‘em to fill up space wot otherwise they’d hafta spend time and energy on and come up with something intelligent to talk about. Personally, I like to fill in the time chewing on espresso beans. But where was I?

Oh, yes, I was talking about Miss Parsley Da Onker and Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous (of blessed memory) being special secret agents. But wot I didn’t tell you was they was on the trail of a dastardly ‘n’ greedy criminal terror cabal wot was after torturing and bleeding dry every new generation of potential bingo players down to the seventh generation, and turning ‘em into zombies wot are as useful to society as pigs on a tightrope. Now, I know you’re gonna try to interrupt me here and now and object and ask wot the fuck do I think I’m up to, inserting a made-up conspiracy theory into an otherwise exciting and inspirational adventure story. But let me assure you, after you read these words wot I’m writing in this here true to life account, you’re gonna say “well fuck me with a noodle and call me parsley sauce,” on account of this is wot really happened and it ain’t no phoney conspiracy theory and you can stick me with a drain-o-rooter if you catch me in a fib.

Now that we’ve got this settled and I’ve grabbed you by the balls and got your attention where I wants it, I’m gonna tell you something you didn’t know about Miss Parsley Da Onker and Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous (of blessed memory), and why this is important to this here story. But first I’m about to be attacked by a fit of sneezing and am gonna put away my pencil so’s it don’t get splattered with nose glopper. Hang on tight and why don’t you fix yourselves a cup o’coffee with artificial sweetener. I’ll even give you a handful of espresso beans so’s it tastes as good as it should. I’ll be back in a moment, and if I’m not you can fix yourself a second cup as well, and maybe eat some pineapple upside-down cake with it. And about the time you’ve endethed eating yourself into a big fat hippo, I’ll be back telling you more about wot you need to know to survive in this big old cruel world.