Day 157

Dear Diary,

Well, I spent all last night searchin’ for where Missus Milly Da Fardle’d shot me full o’holes with her knock-off replica Uzi, and since I didn’t find nothin’ wrong nowhere, I’m happy to report that her aim’s so bad all the bullets went into my windscreen wot ain’t there no more. Ain’t life wonderful? I might’a never sawed another day if’n Misther Old Wanger Nose hadn’t blasted a hole in the glass some days ago, ‘n’ thanks to him, all Missus Milly Da Fardle did was shoot a bunch o’holes through empty space. Not that her assassination attempt on me didn’t do some good, on account of them bullets must’a been mighty powerful. When they ploughed into the tonnes of Howiepupple shit wot was buryin’ the front of me, whatever was in ‘em reacted chemically – or somethin’ like that – with the excrementables, ‘n’ everythin’ all sort’a transmogrified into the nastiest syrupy pasty gloopy glop I’ve ever did saw. PEEEYYUUUUU, and that’s puttin’ it mildly, and if’n I’m sayin’ PEEEYYUUUUU it must be bad, because if’n you remember buses like me ain’t got no noses wot can smell stinky vomit-makin’ pooper drippies.

Anyways, as things stand now the cosmic Howiepupple shit-slop’s sort’a dissolved itself into puke, and this is good for me on account of I can now see daylight ‘n’ the sun and I’m no longer buried up past my eyeballs. However, I can’t say as though the beach is exactly jumpin’ up ‘n’ down with joy. As far as the eye can see it’s coated with brown slime you wouldn’t want your children to be paradin’ back ‘n’ forth on, not even if’n they was someone else’s ‘n’ was wearin’ ASBOs on their hoodies. Mind you, in the distance I sees a group o’folks I doesn’t recognise lyin’ out ‘n’ sunbathin’. I know they’s not from the island as it was before and I know none of them’s survivors from Misther Patchouli Da Fanny ‘n’ Floozie Da Smelley’s two hundert pink ‘n’ gold portable toilet holiday home houseboat conversions, on account of any of them would be from Texas and’d have big old hair ‘n’ they’d smoke cigarettes by the hunderts ‘n’ wear polyester and I’d recognise them straight off even in a black hole with no lights on. I’d like to be a smarty mouth ‘n’ say this new lot wot’s sunbathin’ on this beach wot’s swathed in shite, must’a hailed from a coupl’a places I doesn’t like all that much, but that wouldn’t be fair on them other beaches – because beaches, after all, can’t really choose who does wot on them, meanin’ they’re nothin’ but innocent bystanders. For this reason, and because beaches’re so dumb ‘n’ their brains’re so full o’sand they can’t rightly defend themselves, I ain’t gonna say no more on the subject.

Anyways, I’m getting’ off’n the fuckin’ track again, just like always. As I was startin’ to say, Missus Milly Da Fardle’d discharged her fake plastic Uzi wot she got from the Internet, but instead of the bullets hittin’ me ‘n’ causin’ wot could’a been irreparable damage, they went straight through the hole in my windscreen. On account of that aforementioned chemical reaction I doesn’t rightly understand, they melted down every last ounce of the million billion tonnes of shite wot’d entombed me ‘n’ wot was threatenin’ to harden into permanent everlastin’ never-degradable concrete. After the meltdown, wot I was left with was my custom-designed ‘n’ painted bodywork covered in drippin’ slimy stinky brown, but at least I was standin’ in the light of day ‘n’ under the blazin’ sun. I won’t say too much about the shredded nappy confetti wot’s stuck all over to my paintwork, but let’s just say I’m hopin’ about a foot o’that refreshin’ cleansin’ rain’ll be dumped on me before my special detailin’s been ate away by poop-acid. Whether the rain gets to me in time is anybody’s guess, but I’ll bet you anything it will. Rescues always come in the nick of time, right when you’re about to jump off’n the cliff.

You would’a thunked I would’a been so elated at bein’ wot they calls disinterred that I would’a been jumpin’ up ‘n’ down with joy. However, when the good news was shouted in my ear ‘n’ the poop was meltin’ off’n my sensitive bits, I was too busy bein’ otherwise occupied elsewhere. Such is fuckin’ life. But never mind, wot was happenin’ was I was witnessin’ goings on wot was stranger than anything I’ve ever sawed before, and if’n you’ve been keepin’ up with events on a daily basis, you’d be all excitepated too, and you might even be standin’ up ‘n’ yellin’, “Jeezus fuckin’ Louise, tell me you want some more or kick me in the keester!”

I don’t quite know how to describe wot I was lookin’ at, but I’ll try, and if’n I don’t get it right I’ll try again tomorrow (I’m only tellin’ you this now so’s you won’t forget to tune in). As I was sayin’ before, I was starin’ back at the back seat when Missus Milly Da Fardle got out her Uzi ‘n’ started blastin’ away at my windscreen. Well, when she pulled the trigger, somethin’ must’a gone wrong with her nervous system – at least that’s wot I thunked at the time – because her finger froze around it ‘n’ then there was a loud CRACK like if’n lightnin’ had struck her head. Her eyes started flashin’ red ‘n’ yellow emergency haywire lights, her voice went into squealin’ overdrive like wot a old-fashioned tape recorder does when it’s rewindin’ outta control, flames shot outta her ears ‘n’ her head started muscle-spasmin’ ‘n’ spinnin’ round ‘n’ round until it spun off’n her scrawny neck ‘n’ whizzed round the inside o’my coach like a flamin’ frizzbee trailin’ strings o’spaghetti ‘n’ meatballs. I was froze there solider’n a hunk o’quartz ‘n’ my mind went blank ‘n’ all my mouth could think of to say was “Well, will you look at that, Auntie Ethel.” The funny thing was her head continued to do the funky chicken long after it’d been yanked off’n her neck, ‘n’ I can’t hardly describe the smell wot followed it round the room, nor have I ever sawed smoke that black, just like it’d came straight outta hell itself ‘n’ was made of brimstone. Meanwhile, her body went on sittin’ in its place on the back seat and her finger kept on shoot that Uzi until all fifty thousand rounds was used up and the floor was piled high with their spent cartridges.

And there was one other funny thing wot was goin’ on. You remember me tellin’ you that Miss Cabbage ‘n’ The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser ‘n’ his Miss Louella Da Bunkle outer garment ‘n’ Beryl from Beryl’s Hair Parlour for Old Women was sittin’ beside her? Well, no sooner’d Ol’ Milly’s head started spinnin’ round inside o’the bus (which is me), than their heads sort’a plopped off’n their bodies ‘n’ on to their laps. As they says, “Fuckit to ya, should I go ‘n’ sue ya!”

At the moment, Dear Diary, the head o’Missus Milly Da Fardle’s still spinnin’ round ‘n’ round, with eyes flashin’ ‘n’ strange voices coming outta its mouth ‘n’ smoke blacker’n a witch’s patootie spewin’ outta where it was yanked off’n her neck, and it’s not showin’ any signs of getting’ tired. And because it’s sort’a impossible to investigate things when they doesn’t stand still and because I doesn’t want to get hurt, I’m gonna sit here ‘n’ watch ‘n’ try not to laugh too loud. It may be haunted or possessed ‘n’ I don’t want it to turn on me and rip me into shreddies. Anyways, I’ve gotta say it’s the best show in town ‘n’ bless Ol’ Milly for never lettin’ me down when it comes to givin’ the goodest bang for the buck! When things finally slows down I’ll whisper so endeth the best X-Factor performance of the year, and just maybe we can find out how she done it.

And then we can chat some more.