Dear Diary,
Before we get underway with wot I’m about to tell you, I should let you know that when that radio news program come out with all that stuff about that ex-axe murderer and gigolo, the part-Italian Greek God Signore Malvinio Da Flota-Mota and about his brother Rigotoni Luigi, the exotic dancer wot paraded his stuff as a red Ducati by the name of Benvolio Da Trampolio, I felt an arrow pierce me plum through my heart and I wished I’ve never been built by them Daimler folks way back in the fifties. I cried and sobbed near to death and then I swore vengeance on the radio news presenter wot had broke my heart in twain by blabbing all this unwelcome information so sudden and unexpected. After all, when last I heard, my supposedly beloved soon-to-be owner, the part-Italian Greek God Signore Malvinio Da Flota-Mota, had escaped the flood wot had swamped the island, and was living on the Riviera and waiting on me and The Widow Fartie Da Whistle to come and live in his garage. And as for him having such a thing as a brother called Rigotoni Luigi who’s been going around disguised as a fuckin’ hotstuff Ducati named Benvolio Da Trampolio and pulling the wool over my eyes, how could I get so stupid as to be took in like that. I wanted to die right then and there. I started in screaming and yelling and swore I’d yank open all my windows and doors so’s the steaming biddy gas’d gush out and all the sea water’d gush in and we’d all be dead and soggy before the hour was through. I bawled and squawked and wouldn’t hear wot anybody, least of all The Widow Fartie Da Whistle, was trying to tell me. I guess I just assumed she was sobbing along with me and was joining in with my grand design and suicide pact. At the time, the last thing I wanted to get stuck in my ear, or in my case my side mirrors on account of that’s where us buses hear from, was the gentle voice of The Widow Fartie Da Whistle whispering goodbye and farewell and promising she’d dream about me all the way up there in Heaven. Heaven? How could she even talk about them pearly gates at a time like this, when even the stupidest fool in the world, Ol’ Fergal Da Fecker, would’a figured out we was gonna get sent down below to get ate up by the fishes and slugs and snails and creepy-crawlies. ‘Course, me putting myself in mind of Fergal Da Fecker made me cry even harder’n ever, on account of he may’ve been dumber’n shit, but he treated me nice and I had such a good life in his field with his cows and sheep, at least until all the animals up and moved to The Faroe Islands to get away from the folks on the island. I fuckin’ miss the little turd and of all the folks wot probably drowned in the flood, I hope Fergal Da Fecker’s happy as a clam wherever folks like him goes when they’re dead, and that he’s spending all his time making that explosive potheen wot he sells out of his petrol pump. Where was I?
Oh, yes, I was a’crying and a’bawling and a’wishing I was deader’n a plastic bucket, when it occurred to me something was a’banging on my head to beat the band and shouting in my side mirrors. Well, one can only take so much banging on the head before it gets your attention, and so eventually I had to let up on wot I was doing and say “what the fuck do you want?” to whoever it was who was doing the banging. Well, whoever it was who was banging on me banged me four hundert more times for good measure, just so I’d get the message and leave off the hysterical screeching for a minute or so, at which point I said “OK I got your message now tell me wot you want. Can’t you see I’ve got things to do and places to go and I can only give you two seconds of my valuable time?” Well, it turns out it were my faithful friend The Widow Fartie Da Whistle, and when I seen it was her I said, “Didn’t I tell you to leave me alone so’s I can kill me and you and all them biddies wot the Ol’ world can do without?”
Well, right then and there, The Widow Fartie Da Whistle crossed her arms over her chest in a way wot reminded me of something, then the penny dropped and I remembered I’d seen the biddies to the very same thing when they was after getting the last word on the subject. That made me sad and more depressed than a frog wot’s just seen his legs in a stew, on account of I realised The Widow Fartie Da Whistle was gonna grow up to be a biddy whether she wanted to or not. And so I said to myself, “I’d better listen to wot she’s gotta say or she’ll be after boxing my ears.”
Well, Dear Diary, I followed my own advice and listened to wot she had to say, and most of it were about the Radio Daimler Bus News Broadcast wot’d upset me so much. The Widow Fartie Da Whistle told me straight out I should’a had my ears washed out with soap and maybe a new brain put in, on account of that there news flash I’d been listening to weren’t no real news broadcast at all, and I’d a’knowed it if’n I’d just shut up and thought about things. Well I asked her wot she meant about there being no real news broadcast. I said I’d been listening in real careful on account of the presenter’d sounded just like her and I’ve always liked the sound of her voice.
Well, The Widow Fartie Da Whistle banged me on the head once more just for the hell of it, but this time with affection and a certain playfulness, sorta like a lover does when he confuses hisself with a bull. “You sweet idiot moron,” she said, tickling me in a place I’d forgot I had, “the reason it sounded like me was that it was me.” ‘Course, this surprised me more’n anything I’d heard in a long time, and I raised one of my eyebrows and said straight out, “when did you start working for the radio? You didn’t tell me. Wasn’t you getting paid enough as my personal bus driver and masseuse?”
Well, I’m not sure wot it was I said wot was so wrong, but right then and there The Widow Fartie Da Whsitle blowed her top and turned redder’n a beetroot, which was another indication that she’ll be entering her biddihood sometime soon, perhaps even before the end of the day. I decided perhaps I shouldn’t say anything more for the time being, so I’m gonna put away my pencil and wait ‘til she cools off. When things return to normal and we can get back to drowning ourselves in the ocean, I’ll say so endeth The Widow Fartie Da Whistle’s king-sized pout and maybe we can all start acting like adults instead of politicians.
Before we get underway with wot I’m about to tell you, I should let you know that when that radio news program come out with all that stuff about that ex-axe murderer and gigolo, the part-Italian Greek God Signore Malvinio Da Flota-Mota and about his brother Rigotoni Luigi, the exotic dancer wot paraded his stuff as a red Ducati by the name of Benvolio Da Trampolio, I felt an arrow pierce me plum through my heart and I wished I’ve never been built by them Daimler folks way back in the fifties. I cried and sobbed near to death and then I swore vengeance on the radio news presenter wot had broke my heart in twain by blabbing all this unwelcome information so sudden and unexpected. After all, when last I heard, my supposedly beloved soon-to-be owner, the part-Italian Greek God Signore Malvinio Da Flota-Mota, had escaped the flood wot had swamped the island, and was living on the Riviera and waiting on me and The Widow Fartie Da Whistle to come and live in his garage. And as for him having such a thing as a brother called Rigotoni Luigi who’s been going around disguised as a fuckin’ hotstuff Ducati named Benvolio Da Trampolio and pulling the wool over my eyes, how could I get so stupid as to be took in like that. I wanted to die right then and there. I started in screaming and yelling and swore I’d yank open all my windows and doors so’s the steaming biddy gas’d gush out and all the sea water’d gush in and we’d all be dead and soggy before the hour was through. I bawled and squawked and wouldn’t hear wot anybody, least of all The Widow Fartie Da Whistle, was trying to tell me. I guess I just assumed she was sobbing along with me and was joining in with my grand design and suicide pact. At the time, the last thing I wanted to get stuck in my ear, or in my case my side mirrors on account of that’s where us buses hear from, was the gentle voice of The Widow Fartie Da Whistle whispering goodbye and farewell and promising she’d dream about me all the way up there in Heaven. Heaven? How could she even talk about them pearly gates at a time like this, when even the stupidest fool in the world, Ol’ Fergal Da Fecker, would’a figured out we was gonna get sent down below to get ate up by the fishes and slugs and snails and creepy-crawlies. ‘Course, me putting myself in mind of Fergal Da Fecker made me cry even harder’n ever, on account of he may’ve been dumber’n shit, but he treated me nice and I had such a good life in his field with his cows and sheep, at least until all the animals up and moved to The Faroe Islands to get away from the folks on the island. I fuckin’ miss the little turd and of all the folks wot probably drowned in the flood, I hope Fergal Da Fecker’s happy as a clam wherever folks like him goes when they’re dead, and that he’s spending all his time making that explosive potheen wot he sells out of his petrol pump. Where was I?
Oh, yes, I was a’crying and a’bawling and a’wishing I was deader’n a plastic bucket, when it occurred to me something was a’banging on my head to beat the band and shouting in my side mirrors. Well, one can only take so much banging on the head before it gets your attention, and so eventually I had to let up on wot I was doing and say “what the fuck do you want?” to whoever it was who was doing the banging. Well, whoever it was who was banging on me banged me four hundert more times for good measure, just so I’d get the message and leave off the hysterical screeching for a minute or so, at which point I said “OK I got your message now tell me wot you want. Can’t you see I’ve got things to do and places to go and I can only give you two seconds of my valuable time?” Well, it turns out it were my faithful friend The Widow Fartie Da Whistle, and when I seen it was her I said, “Didn’t I tell you to leave me alone so’s I can kill me and you and all them biddies wot the Ol’ world can do without?”
Well, right then and there, The Widow Fartie Da Whistle crossed her arms over her chest in a way wot reminded me of something, then the penny dropped and I remembered I’d seen the biddies to the very same thing when they was after getting the last word on the subject. That made me sad and more depressed than a frog wot’s just seen his legs in a stew, on account of I realised The Widow Fartie Da Whistle was gonna grow up to be a biddy whether she wanted to or not. And so I said to myself, “I’d better listen to wot she’s gotta say or she’ll be after boxing my ears.”
Well, Dear Diary, I followed my own advice and listened to wot she had to say, and most of it were about the Radio Daimler Bus News Broadcast wot’d upset me so much. The Widow Fartie Da Whistle told me straight out I should’a had my ears washed out with soap and maybe a new brain put in, on account of that there news flash I’d been listening to weren’t no real news broadcast at all, and I’d a’knowed it if’n I’d just shut up and thought about things. Well I asked her wot she meant about there being no real news broadcast. I said I’d been listening in real careful on account of the presenter’d sounded just like her and I’ve always liked the sound of her voice.
Well, The Widow Fartie Da Whistle banged me on the head once more just for the hell of it, but this time with affection and a certain playfulness, sorta like a lover does when he confuses hisself with a bull. “You sweet idiot moron,” she said, tickling me in a place I’d forgot I had, “the reason it sounded like me was that it was me.” ‘Course, this surprised me more’n anything I’d heard in a long time, and I raised one of my eyebrows and said straight out, “when did you start working for the radio? You didn’t tell me. Wasn’t you getting paid enough as my personal bus driver and masseuse?”
Well, I’m not sure wot it was I said wot was so wrong, but right then and there The Widow Fartie Da Whsitle blowed her top and turned redder’n a beetroot, which was another indication that she’ll be entering her biddihood sometime soon, perhaps even before the end of the day. I decided perhaps I shouldn’t say anything more for the time being, so I’m gonna put away my pencil and wait ‘til she cools off. When things return to normal and we can get back to drowning ourselves in the ocean, I’ll say so endeth The Widow Fartie Da Whistle’s king-sized pout and maybe we can all start acting like adults instead of politicians.
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