Dear Diary,
One thing I bet you didn’t know about Howard Donald Da Fardle is that the first thing he’d saw on bein’ squirted outta Ol’ Missus Milly Da Fardle’s womb was a stonkin’ great white delivery van wot’d pulled up outside the Da Fardle concrete bunker bungalow with the monkey cage wot’d been delivered special for the occasion. Now one might’a thunk the first thought in Ol’ Howard Donald’s head would’a been that he was Tarzan of the Apes and’d been birthed on the island in mistake rather’n to the sound of jungle drums, but he weren’t that lucky and he weren’t that smart. No, it were the big white delivery van itself wot caught his attention and imagination and were etched indelibly onto his brainpan. Right at the very second his afterbirth placental slime ‘n’ gore was bein’ wiped off’n his fat round babby carcass with Missus Milly Da Fardle’s catbox cleanin’ rag by Ol’ Sheelah the Goatherd (the midwife bein’ otherwise occupied makin’ wot they calls “animal by-product cheese” down at the local abattoir), little bouncy babby Howard Donald was imaginin’ hisself in a dark blue polyester discount uniform- store uniform and sittin’ in a traffic jam in his white van, eatin’ a bacon buttie, a’swiggin’ stale tea out of a polystyrene cup, listening to farm reports on the local radio and admirin’ the way his name’d been embroidered upside down over his left manboob tit. Such a life, he figured, was as close to heaven as he’d ever want to get. ‘Course, I can’t rightly say little Ol’ babby Howard Donald Da Fardle got off to a good start career-wise, on account of he had a certain amount o’trouble tellin’ his mammy wot he really wanted out of his life. Not that she were much interested in listen to anythin’ he had to say. Poor little fat ‘n’ smelly fat ‘n’ round beachball babby, the only thing Missus Milly Da Fardle ever said to him whenever she sawed his fat little mouth open and his tobacco-stained ‘n’ broken teeth flashin’ out at her was, “Shut the fuck up Howard Donald Da Fardle and get your fat arse back to the pigshed where you belongs!” But little Ol’ fat round babby Howard Donald was wot you’d call a fuckin’ amiable little cheesecake of a blubber ball, and he never paid her no mind and never held it against her. Besides, no one’d ever cleaned the afterbirth gunk outta his ears, which made him more or less deaf and impervious to anything his mean ‘n’ crabfaced mammy’s had to say to him.
Anyways, one day about a coupl’a years after he’d fell outta his mammy and into the gooseberry bush, which weren’t so much a gooseberry bush as the manure pile out in back of the house, little fat round babby Howard Donald Da Fardle accidentally stucked a parsnip in his ear when he was aimin’ it at his mouth. The vegetable in question, wot was sorta hard ‘n’ woody on account of it’d been dug up a coupl’a years before and kept special for him as his favourite toy, shoved all the slime ‘n’ gunk ‘n’ built-up earwax from one ear out the other side and on to the floor, where it kilt him mammy’s miniature Chihuahua dog. And Presto Bingo! The little fucker was able to hear for the first time in his life, just as though he actually had ears ‘n’ not cauliflowers. And almost as soon as all them waves of sound and his mammy’s screechin’ and screamin’ came shriekin’ through his fat round little head, than the power of speech come to him miraculously. And about a minute after that it occurred to him he could talk. And talk he did and he’s never shut the fuck up since, but I sorta believe the reason for that is he’s afeard that the second he closes his round donut mouth, his mother’ll start in carpin’ at him again. Anyways, after he’d understood wot the power of speech meant, and it only took him about a year to figure it out, the very first words came out outta his mouth. And understandably they was to repeat the only words he’d ever heard spoke to him, namely, “Shut the fuck up Howard Donald Da Fardle and git your arse back to the pigshed,” but then he had wot they calls a epiphania and he come out with “I’m Howard Donald The White Van Man.” And weren’t his mammy as mad as a foot wot’s got its blister stomped on when she heard that, on account of she wanted him to be a road repair engineer and wear one of them shiny yellow vests. Actually, wot she really wanted was for him to move in with the neighbours wot had so many children they didn’t know wot to do and wouldn’t notice another brat sittin’ round their kitchen table and eatin’ up all of their slop.
Well, Dear Diary, now you know a bit about Howard Donald Da Fardle. I realise none of this explains why he eventually runned off with Finian Da Fabricator ‘n’ Elmer Da Snog ‘n’ all them ill-got bingo winnings his mammy was lockin away inside The Bank of Old Wanger Nose, and I’m not exactly sure wot it has to do with his present predicament or why he’s been chose as the mother of the billion Howiepupples. As they says, wonders never ceases. And who knows, perhaps his havin’ the Original Mammy from Hell might work out good for everyone. Anyways, in spite of wot I always says about him, I wouldn’a put it past Ol’ Howard Donald to give the scruffy little pupplecrawdad critters the good mother he never had.
I just smelled me a bad smell, so I’m gonna put away my pencil and investigate. So endeth my little chat about Howard Donald Da Fardle and I’m sorry I forgot to tell you about his white van and why it was such a mad idea. However, I can’t remember everything and you wouldn’t remember it even if’ I did. See you tomorrow.
One thing I bet you didn’t know about Howard Donald Da Fardle is that the first thing he’d saw on bein’ squirted outta Ol’ Missus Milly Da Fardle’s womb was a stonkin’ great white delivery van wot’d pulled up outside the Da Fardle concrete bunker bungalow with the monkey cage wot’d been delivered special for the occasion. Now one might’a thunk the first thought in Ol’ Howard Donald’s head would’a been that he was Tarzan of the Apes and’d been birthed on the island in mistake rather’n to the sound of jungle drums, but he weren’t that lucky and he weren’t that smart. No, it were the big white delivery van itself wot caught his attention and imagination and were etched indelibly onto his brainpan. Right at the very second his afterbirth placental slime ‘n’ gore was bein’ wiped off’n his fat round babby carcass with Missus Milly Da Fardle’s catbox cleanin’ rag by Ol’ Sheelah the Goatherd (the midwife bein’ otherwise occupied makin’ wot they calls “animal by-product cheese” down at the local abattoir), little bouncy babby Howard Donald was imaginin’ hisself in a dark blue polyester discount uniform- store uniform and sittin’ in a traffic jam in his white van, eatin’ a bacon buttie, a’swiggin’ stale tea out of a polystyrene cup, listening to farm reports on the local radio and admirin’ the way his name’d been embroidered upside down over his left manboob tit. Such a life, he figured, was as close to heaven as he’d ever want to get. ‘Course, I can’t rightly say little Ol’ babby Howard Donald Da Fardle got off to a good start career-wise, on account of he had a certain amount o’trouble tellin’ his mammy wot he really wanted out of his life. Not that she were much interested in listen to anythin’ he had to say. Poor little fat ‘n’ smelly fat ‘n’ round beachball babby, the only thing Missus Milly Da Fardle ever said to him whenever she sawed his fat little mouth open and his tobacco-stained ‘n’ broken teeth flashin’ out at her was, “Shut the fuck up Howard Donald Da Fardle and get your fat arse back to the pigshed where you belongs!” But little Ol’ fat round babby Howard Donald was wot you’d call a fuckin’ amiable little cheesecake of a blubber ball, and he never paid her no mind and never held it against her. Besides, no one’d ever cleaned the afterbirth gunk outta his ears, which made him more or less deaf and impervious to anything his mean ‘n’ crabfaced mammy’s had to say to him.
Anyways, one day about a coupl’a years after he’d fell outta his mammy and into the gooseberry bush, which weren’t so much a gooseberry bush as the manure pile out in back of the house, little fat round babby Howard Donald Da Fardle accidentally stucked a parsnip in his ear when he was aimin’ it at his mouth. The vegetable in question, wot was sorta hard ‘n’ woody on account of it’d been dug up a coupl’a years before and kept special for him as his favourite toy, shoved all the slime ‘n’ gunk ‘n’ built-up earwax from one ear out the other side and on to the floor, where it kilt him mammy’s miniature Chihuahua dog. And Presto Bingo! The little fucker was able to hear for the first time in his life, just as though he actually had ears ‘n’ not cauliflowers. And almost as soon as all them waves of sound and his mammy’s screechin’ and screamin’ came shriekin’ through his fat round little head, than the power of speech come to him miraculously. And about a minute after that it occurred to him he could talk. And talk he did and he’s never shut the fuck up since, but I sorta believe the reason for that is he’s afeard that the second he closes his round donut mouth, his mother’ll start in carpin’ at him again. Anyways, after he’d understood wot the power of speech meant, and it only took him about a year to figure it out, the very first words came out outta his mouth. And understandably they was to repeat the only words he’d ever heard spoke to him, namely, “Shut the fuck up Howard Donald Da Fardle and git your arse back to the pigshed,” but then he had wot they calls a epiphania and he come out with “I’m Howard Donald The White Van Man.” And weren’t his mammy as mad as a foot wot’s got its blister stomped on when she heard that, on account of she wanted him to be a road repair engineer and wear one of them shiny yellow vests. Actually, wot she really wanted was for him to move in with the neighbours wot had so many children they didn’t know wot to do and wouldn’t notice another brat sittin’ round their kitchen table and eatin’ up all of their slop.
Well, Dear Diary, now you know a bit about Howard Donald Da Fardle. I realise none of this explains why he eventually runned off with Finian Da Fabricator ‘n’ Elmer Da Snog ‘n’ all them ill-got bingo winnings his mammy was lockin away inside The Bank of Old Wanger Nose, and I’m not exactly sure wot it has to do with his present predicament or why he’s been chose as the mother of the billion Howiepupples. As they says, wonders never ceases. And who knows, perhaps his havin’ the Original Mammy from Hell might work out good for everyone. Anyways, in spite of wot I always says about him, I wouldn’a put it past Ol’ Howard Donald to give the scruffy little pupplecrawdad critters the good mother he never had.
I just smelled me a bad smell, so I’m gonna put away my pencil and investigate. So endeth my little chat about Howard Donald Da Fardle and I’m sorry I forgot to tell you about his white van and why it was such a mad idea. However, I can’t remember everything and you wouldn’t remember it even if’ I did. See you tomorrow.
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