Day 167

Dear Diary,

I know one of the last things I said to you yesterday was I was gonna spend the night watchin’ ‘n’ waitin’ ‘n’ preparin’ to pounce on them two eldest Howiepupples, Claude ‘n’ Claude Minus One, the minute they startin’ in doin’ sometin’ nefarious ‘n’ put a stop to it. Fortunately, at least for the time bein’, all their billion minus two brothers ‘n’ sisters is fast asleep ‘n’ snorin’ as only babies can snore. Unfortunately, I think they’d camed down with colds in the head, ‘n’ so the inside of the bus (bein’ me) is a’glop with snot ‘n’ slime. But hell, if there’s one thing I’ve learned from workin’ as a community bus for more years’n Methuselah’s had hot dinners, it’s that snot ‘n’ buggers ‘n’ slime washes off ‘n’ don’t hardly leave a stain.

Anyways, in spite o’the kids comin’ down with colds at an inopportune moment when I was occupied with other matters, such as puttin’ a stop to possibly illegal ‘n’ maybe even sinful activities on the part of their two eldest brothers, it was more’n I could’a axed for that they was sleepin’ ‘n’ out of my hair. In fact, I’d call it a major blessing, ‘n’ I’m so thankful to them that when all this is over I’m gonna take ‘em somewhere nice ‘n’ fun as a special treat. That is, if’n I ever gets me some fuel in my tank. Which I will, by hook or by crook.

Back to Claude ‘n’ Claude Minus One. When I started in a’watchin’ them they was disguised as parcel post delivery men and was printin’ out address labels. These they affixed to the four pink gift boxes containing the four dead body rubber pleasurin’ dolly suits wot used to be occupied by Miss Cabbage ‘n’ Miss Luella Da Bunkle ‘n’ The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser ‘n’ Beryl The Beauty Parlour hair-frizzer. And after they’d completed this task they shoved the addressed gift boxes into their delivery pouches – two in Claude’s ‘n’ two in Claude Minus One’s – and proceeded to march on over to the door. Unfortunately – ‘n’ this made me laugh so hard I actually snorted – neither Claude or his brother was tall enough to reach the door handle, on account of the door handle is about a metre or so off’n the floor ‘n’ neither of them’s more’n a coupl’a millimetres from start to finish.

Well, my laughter, which was more like the hysterics wot attacks you when someone’s suddenly runned over by a car that real laughter, completely overwhelmed me. ‘Course, I know it’s more a case of shock than anything else, and most of us feel really guilty ‘n’ bad about our behaviour afterwards. And even this time, when nobody’d been squished or put outta action ‘n’ it were merely the case of two future ASBO recipients not bein’ tall enough to reach the door handle, I felt ashamed of myself. I guess in spite of my bad language from time to time ‘n’ my tendency to blaspheme when I’m pissed off, I’ve still got a conscience (albeit not a very big one) ‘n’ I doesn’t like to hurt anyone. But in this case, I needn’t’ve worried on account of I don’t think neither Claude nor Claude Minus One even noticed my bad manners. In fact, when I finally settled down ‘n’ wiped the tears from my eyes (or my headlamps if’n you wants me to be accurate), I saw that the two was ignorin’ me as completely as if I’d never been born. Ol’ Claude was busy constructing a stairway outta his little sleepin’ brothers ‘n’ sisters (somethin’ I would’a thought of as baby abuse only it didn’t even seem to wake ‘em up), ‘n’ Claude Minus One was busy sniffin’ his butthole. After the stairways was completed ‘n’ Claude’d runned all the necessary health ‘n’ safety checks, the two of’ em – luggin’ their delivery pouches – climbed their way up to the top.

‘Course, as I could’a told ‘em if’n they’d axed, they still wasn’t tall enough to reach the door handle. As you’d expect, this pissed off Ol’ Claude, ‘n’ to vent his ire he kicked Claude Minus One off’n the stairway. In fact, he kicked him so hard (right in the nose too, on account of that was the part nearest him) he flew across the bus (bein’ me) ‘n’ out through the space where my windscreen used to be before it were blasted out. Claude Minus One sailed about another hundert yards ‘n’ landed with a splat, but being that the ground is soft due to the tonnes o’baby Howiepupple poop coatin’ it from here to eternity, he didn’t seem to be injured in the slightest. In fact, he got right up ‘n’ brushed hisself off ‘n’ stuck out his tongue ‘n’ said “Nya Nya,” and marched away towards the shack which’d been his birthplace ‘n’ home.

As you can imagine, this pissed off Claude even more, ‘n’ he turned bright red ‘n’ stared at me, ‘n’ I swear from the look he gived me if I’d been able to run away you wouldn’t’a seen my dust. “You lookin’ at me?” he axed, ‘n’ unfortunately I had to nod my head on account of that’s the way my headlamps was pointed. And because wot he’d said to me was out of a movie, I automatically returned the favour, ‘n’ outta my mouth popped, “I’d love to kiss you but I’ve just washed my hair.”

Fortunately, that broke the ice ‘n’ both of us traded old movie quotes for a coupl’a hours. He then looked at his watch ‘n’ his hair stood on end ‘n’ he shrieked, “I’m late, I’m late, for a very important date...” And because we’d been havin’ so much fun I continued in the spirit of the occasion ‘n’ finished his sentence, “… no time to say hello goodbye I’m late I’m late I’m late.”

Well, to say Ol’ Claude froze in his tracks would be a understatement. He then shook his head ‘n’ swore under his breath, “dumbfuck shithead no-account do-nothin’ brainless piece pile o’shit bus, can’t you see I needs your help?”

Well, this sort’a caught me by surprise, but for once instead of pullin’ at my forelock ‘n’ sayin’ “Yes Sir, No Sir, three bags full Sir, kick me in the balls, Sir,” I remembered we was all in this mess called life together ‘n’ I was sick ‘n’ tired of everyone’s shenanigans. And so I stood tall ‘n’ looked at Ol’ Claude straight in the eye ‘n’ said, “And why exactly should I be helpin’ you, young man?”

Straight away I could see I’d said the right thing, on account of he looked down at his feet ‘n’ sighed ‘n’ then he sat down. A tear trickled outta his left eye ‘n’ he looked at me again. Only this time he were pleadin’ ‘n’ I could see he was in trouble ‘n’ in over his head ‘n’ runnin’ scared.

“Why don’t you tell me all about it,” I said, “sometimes two heads’re better than one.”

Ol’ Claude thought for a minute ‘n’ sighed again. “Okay,” he said, “Only please put your pencil ‘n’ Dear Diary away. Wot I’ve gotta tell you is for your ears only.”

So you see, Dear Diary, that’s how things stand at the moment. He wants to talk to me confidential-like, ‘n’ since I gotta get down to the bottom of all the strange shit wot’s been happenin’ since the flood, I’m gonna hafta go along. However, seein’ as how he can’t rightly see wot I’m doin, on account of I’m so big ‘n’ he’s so small, I’ll leave your pages open so you can listen in. That way if somethin’ bad happens, you can bear witness later. I’m more’n a little uneasy, Dear Diary, and in case this is the end, I’m kissin’ you on your cover for old time’s sake, ‘n’ I’ll say so endeth whatever’s endethin’ ‘n’ I’m proud to be your friend.

Day 166

Dear Diary,

Well, I’m happy to report the four dead body rubber person erotic pleasure suits is now happily back on the back seat and talkin’ about their adventures in the puddle. And as much as I almost hate to admit it, bein’ around old-fashioned dumbfucks instead of politically correct cans o’worms seems like a breath o’fresh air to me. I guess havin’ lived on the island so long with idiots such as Fergal Da Fecker ‘n’ Finian Da Fabricator ‘n’ Misther Patchouli Da Fanny ‘n’ Floozie Da Smelley has spoiled me for anything smackin’ of worthiness. And if’n that makes me more of a dumbfuck islander than a vintage classic Daimler Burlington CVD6 Bus, well, so be it.

For far I don’t really know wot happened to the dead body rubber suits, either when they got mysteriously put into the bus in the first place or subsequently, when Ol’ Misther Belvedere Tin O’Worms threw ‘em out the back window ‘n’ into the puddle. You see, these particular dead bodies has this bad habit o’screamin’ ‘n’ yellin’ ‘n’ gabberin’ all at the same time, which is sort’a fun to listen to but not very effective in the Conveyin’ of Information Department. And unfortunately for me, on account of I’ve suddenly been placed in the childminder category after their old babysitter, Belvedere Tin O’Worms, served both hisself ‘n’ the billion worms wot was ridin’ around in him, to his charges for breakfast in bed, I ain’t gotta hell of a lot of time to carry out my investigatin’. Now you know I’m sort’a fond o’kids in a impersonal way, as long as they doesn’t kick the back of my seats or slash my tyres or ruin my custom-pimped paintwork, but I’ll be the first to admit they can be wearyin’ at times, and one of them times is now. You recall they’d been singed a lullaby before I went over to collect the dead bodies. Well, that worked a treat, until of course dead Ol’ Miss Cabbage ‘n’ The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser ‘n’ Miss Louella Da Bunkle ‘n’ Beryl The Beautician got all excited ‘n’ their not-so-dulcet eardrum-puncturin’ decibels woked the brats back up again. Only this time the Howiepupples’ve caught on that somethin’ is, as they says, afoot, and no amount of lullabyin’ ‘n’ bribes of chocolate velvet puddings or promises of violent computer games is gonna make ‘em go back to bed. Fuck. As you’ve probably guessed, I had no choice but to let ‘em crowd around me while I does my investigatin’ of the dead bodies. Not ideal, especially considerin’ there’s a billion of ‘em jostlin’ for position, ‘n’ no matter how I tries to keep ‘em in line they still manages to get too close ‘n’ trample all over the evidence.

You may have noticed, Dear Diary, that I’ve failed to mention Ol’ Claude ‘n’ Claude Minus One. I’m gonna be upfront ‘n’ truthful with you ‘n’ admit that the of the reasons for this is that I’d plum forgot all about ‘em, which is wot happens when a roomful of obstreperous kids makes you overlook the two teacher’s pets sittin’ quietly in the corner ‘n’ plottin’ to take over the world or feed rhubarb to your favourite pig. And that’s exactly wot happened here. While I was fully occupied in getting’ the billion minus two Howiepupples sorted out, the other two was not only up to no good, they was bein’ downright dastardly ‘n’ showin’ a remarkable talent for major criminal careers to boot. Let me tell you wot they was doin’.

You rememberate a couple or three or four days ago when out of the blue Miss Cabbage ‘n’ the others showed up outta the blue ‘n’ was hidin’ out on my backseat. And you probably also recall the next time I noticed ‘em they was nothing but empty rubber sex-toy dolly pleasurin’ suits ‘n’ was folded ‘n’ packed up in pink gift cardboard gift boxes. We’ll I couldn’t see how this’d been done ‘n’ I knowed there weren’t no great illusionists in the area performin’ important slights o’hand ‘n’ I doesn’t believe for a minute that Ol’ God’d take His time out from His busy schedule to dabble in wot seems to me to be the dumbfuck ‘n’ inconsequential – unless of course He needs to unwind after a busy day at the office ‘n’ there’s nothin’worth watchin’ on the box. So wot I done was I put the situation down to bein’ just one o’them things. And even though I’ve finally started on my serious investigations now, I wasn’t seein’ no hope of advancin’ any further ‘n’ was about to shrug my shoulders (metaphorically-speakin’, bein’ that I’m a bus ‘n’ ain’t got none) when, not more’n a half a second ago I happened to catch sight of Claude ‘n’ Claude Minus One outta the corner of my eye. And do you know wot they was doin’? For a start, they’d disguised themselves by puttin’ on fake brown deliveryman uniforms, complete with humiliatin’ polyester shorts ‘n’ yellow nametags on the breast pockets of their humiliatin’ polyester short-sleeved shirts. And second of all, they was fillin’ out forms on their hand-held electronic computers wot’re connected to their headquarters. And third of all, they was attachin’ address labels to four o’them brown shippin’ envelopes, ‘n’ coincidentally (or not) these squishy shippin’ envelopes was exactly the same size as the four pink gift boxes wot the four dead bodies’d been packed into. Well, the minute I saw all this I had no choice but to say “fuck me with a shoppin’ trolley ‘n’ stoke me up with eggnog!” So THEY – Claude ‘n’ Ol’ bottom-sniffer, Claude Minus One – was behind this latest round o’strange ‘n’ possibly illegal doings!

There is nothin’ for it, Dear Diary, but for once in my life I’ve simply got to put a stop to bad stuff. I’ve saw the glint in them two eldest Howiepupples’s eyes ‘n’ it don’t exactly spell Altar Boy of the Month. And fuck me if’n this time out I’m not gonna be sneakier’n a kid cheatin’ on his exams. I’m gonna pretend I didn’t see them ‘n’ that I’ve given up on my investigation ‘n’ have decided to devote my life to the bringin’ up of the billion first batch Howiepupples wot’ve been dumped on me like orphan babies under a rhubarb bush (which, I suppose is true, though not literally). But all the time I’m feignin’ cupidity ‘n’ glarin’ dumbfuckness ‘n’ behavin’ like a regular reader of the tabloids, I’m gonna be a’watchin’ and a’waitin’ ‘n’ getting’ myself ready to pounce!

The problem is, Dear Diary, I needs all my wits about me just now, as well as both hands. So wot I’m gonna hafta do is put away my pencil. Forgive me I won’t be tellin’ it to you while it happens, but wot I’m gonna do is leave you open to tomorrow’s page ‘n’ hope you can absorb some o’the excitement through osmosis (or somethin’ like that). Anyways, I’m goin’ on duty now. Hopefully, tomorrow I can say so endeth whatever it is wot is fuckin’ up my head ‘n’ peace of mind ‘n’ so beginneth the next chapter in our lives!

Day 165

Dear Diary,

First thing this mornin’, I had me two urgent tasks to attend to, namely cookin’ ‘n’ servin’ breakfast in bed to the first batch of one billion Howiepupple cute-as-a-button youngsters, and rescuin’ the dead bodies of Miss Cabbage ‘n’ The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser ‘n’ Miss Louella Da Bunkle ‘n’ Beryl The Beautician from the puddle outside wot they’d landed in after’n Ol’ Belvedere Tin O’Worms’d throwed ‘em outta the window. The first wasn’t too onerous or difficult, on account of everybody knows Howiepupple youngsters’ all-time favourite breakfast in bed is mished up worms on toast served up on a tin plate. And Ol’ Belvedere, wot’s nothin’ if not knowledgeable about the carin’ ‘n’ feedin’ ‘n’ bringin’ up of Howiepupples, comed up trumps when the time arrived, ‘n’ he offered a billion of his own personal worms outta his own personal can for the repast ‘n’ also sacrificed part o’his tin self to be made up into tiny, easy to use ‘n’ convenient ‘n’ never-wash ecologically-sound plates, perfectly designed for the Howiepupples to handle. Initially I’d hesitated to ask him if’n he’d mind givin’ of hisself for such a noble cause, but he was the one wot offered to help out. “Hell, Mr. Bus,” he said as I was a’hummin’ ‘n’ a’hawin’ ‘n’ a’wonderin’ how I was goin’ to bring up the subject, “this is wot us cans o’worms does for a livin’.” Well, as you can imagine I was took aback ‘n’ sore amazed by his generosity, ‘n’ I was also feelin’ more’n a little bit guilty about all the bad things I’d said ‘n’ thought about him over the past coupl’a days. And he must’a read my thoughts, on account of he said cans o’worms was used to bein’ misunderstood ‘n’ havin’ their motives misinterpreted, but as far as they was concerned it was all water off’n a duck’s back. “We may not be appreciated all that much, but hell, cans is cans ‘n’ worms is worm. We’re all of us recyclable ‘n’ replaceable, ‘n’ quite frankly, us cans o’worms is as proud as punch to be doin’ wot we does!” All this was so new to me, ‘n’ I was so used to thinkin’ of cans as somethin’ I enjoyed runnin’ over on the street ‘n’ blowin’ up with firecrackers ‘n’ squashin’ flat for the recyclin’ people, that it’d never occurred to me they was alive ‘n’ not only almost human but superior to humans in a shitload of ways wot counted most. “Jeeze Louise, Misther Belvedere,” I reposted back to him, “I quake ‘n’ tremble in admiration ‘n’ I lay myself at your feet in abject worshipfulness.”

“Come, come, Mr. Bus,” he answered back as if he were nothin’ special ‘n’ wot he did he did on a daily basis and it were only normal behaviour. “Me ‘n’ my worms is just one ol’ can o’worms in long line of cans o’worms. We’re born, we live a few hours or even a coupl’a days, ‘n’ then our little worms is used for fishin’ bait or planted in a garden or grounded up for fertiliser, and we ourselves ends up where all good cans go in the end. In a landfill or bein’ recycled into a newborn baby can or a car or endin’ our days thrown by the side or a road or river ‘n’ rustin’ into a derelict home for grubs ‘n’ creepy crawlies.” He stopped for a few moments ‘n’ sucked on his teeth is a way I found particularly irritatin’, ‘n’ then changed the subject. “Do you know wot becomed of Ol’ Everard?” he asked is a grave ‘n’ serious manner wot told me he wasn’t about to spin a yard or tell a dirty joke.

“No,” I replied. “I guess I assumed he was lookin’ at the next three generations of Howiepupples for Crispy Crinkles ‘n’ her mangy no good rabid dog of a husband.”

“Thank God that wasn’t his fate,” sighed Belvedere wistfully, before fallin’ silent ‘n’ then sayin’ “farewell ‘n’ adios ‘n’ I’ll be seein’ you in a better world” to a coupl’a worms wot was about to volunteer for breakfast duty.

I waited for him to talk some more, but instead of continuin’ his dissertation, he bowed low to me ‘n’ without warnin’ cut hisself into a billion tiny tin plates on which his worms, havin’ mished themselves into a pile o’mash when I wasn’t looking, distributed themselves in a billion tidy portions. My mouth fell open, ‘n’ as the Howiepupples beganned gobblin’ up their breakfast ‘n’ usin’ their plates for flyin’ saucers, I blurted out, “but you didn’t tell me wot happened to Everard!”

Well, just before he ceased to exist, the last piece o’him – wot fortunately enough was also the scrap wot had the mouth in it – laughed a ironical chortle ‘n’ said, “I wasn’t gonna tell you, but wot the hell, it don’t really matter none.” But then just as he was gonna let me in on his secret, one of the Howiepupples, the fat one with the biggest appetite, gobbled him down ‘n’ burped.

“Fuck!” I said to myself. “Now I’ll never know.”

So, that was that as far as Misther Belvedere Tin O’Worms was concerned, and here I was, left alone with a billion first batch Howiepupples ‘n’ without a can o’worms to educate ‘em ‘n’ feed ‘em ‘n’ see to their needs, includin’ changin’ their nappies ‘n’ burpin’ them after meals.

“Fuck!” I said again with vigour ‘n’ emphasis.

“Fuck!” I snapped a third time. “Wot the fuck am I gonna do?” “Why?” I wondered, does I always end up on the receivin’ end of a great big old mess. I’m a bus (albeit a vintage classic Daimler Burlington CVD6 with a handcrafted coach ‘n’ bespoke upholstery). All I does is haul folks back ‘n’ forth ‘n’ forth ‘n’ back. I don’t do nobody no harm. I try not to be too crabby, at least when my seats isn’t peed on or when dumbfuck brats don’t kick my tyres or scratch my paintwork. I’m a bus. A fuckin’ bus.

Just then my pitty party rant was interrupted by the yells of the four dead body personal erotic rubber dolly suits callin’ from the mud puddle where they’d been sittin’ for the last coupl’a hours. “Yo Bus,” one of them shouted (‘n’ I recognised the voice as belongin’ to Miss Cabbage). “Come ‘n’ git us or we’ll report you the call centre for passenger abuse ‘n’ you’ll be turn into a garbage can!”

God Bless Ol’ Miss Cabbage. The sound of her voice snapped me outta my blue funk ‘n’ brunged me back to my happy self. Wot I’m gonna do now is rescue ‘em ‘n’ bring ‘em back in ‘n’ lay ‘em out again on my back seat. I don’t think the Howiepupples will mind all that much. In fact, they might like the company of loonies ‘n’ strange dead folks wot’re really made outta rubber. It’ll make a change from goodie two shoes cans o’worms wot’re forever sacrificin’ themselves in the name of doin’ good. As I always say, a little good goes a long way ‘n’ too much of it rots your teeth. And there ain’t nothin’ good about this particular bunch o’dead folks, ‘n’ as far as the Howiepupples is concerned, the change will be as good as a rest. Anyways, I’ve sanged a après petit dejeuner lullaby to the little darlin’ ‘n’ I think they’ll be out cold for at least a half an hour, and that should give me time to bring their new rubber babysitters in from the cold. Please don’t make any noise or rustle your pages ‘n’ wake ‘em up before I return, Dear Diary. I don’t want ‘em to open their tiny eyes ‘n’ think they’re all alone ‘n’ defenceless. Not that I’m worried they’ll be frightened to death. I’m only scared they will take advantage of the situation ‘n’ throw a wild party and destroy my interior even more than it’s been destroyed already.

I’ve just finished the lullaby, ‘n’ so I’ll put away my pencil ‘n’ say so endeth the lullaby ‘n’ I’ll be back with dead ‘n’ rubberised dumbfucks before you can count to ten.

Day 164

Dear Diary,

I decided to take a night off from worrying about wot was goin’ on in my life and instead I invited Misther Belvedere Tin O’Worms ‘n’ Claude ‘n’ Claude Minus One, plus the first batch of a billion Howiepupples, in for tea ‘n’ scones with clotted cream ‘n’ fresh strawberries. ‘Course, there really wasn’t any tea or scones or any of them other goodies I’d like to have served, on account of I’m only a bus stranded on a beach and there ain’t no shops or cute little cafes in sight wot can supply these actual aforementioned victuals. However, since none of us have ever actually ate such edibles we enjoyed lookin’ at some photos ‘n’ imagining wot everything must’a be tastin’ like in places where they really does serve ‘em up. Belvedere, wot appears to be a cousin or somethin’ like that of Ol’ Everard, the original can o’worms, turned out to be a most agreeable ‘n’ entertainin’ individual. He was devoted to the first batch of one billion Howiepupples and couldn’t say enough good things about the eldest two, Claude ‘n’ Claude Minus One. “‘Course, I’d prefer it, aesthetically speakin’, if’n Claude Minus One’d get a new hobby. I can’t say a life o’snortin’ his brother’s backside hole is any guarantee of financial prosperity ‘n’ spiritual tranquillity, but it’s his life ‘n’ if’n that’s wot he wants, then I’ll back him up regardless of wot folks says about him bein’ a preevert ‘n’ a bumboy.” It’s nice to hear a caregiver bein’ supportive about his charges instead of always harpin’ ‘n’ carpin’ ‘n’ talkin’ trash.

I axed Belvedere how Ol’ Everard was ‘n’ he said he was plain tuckered out. Crispy Crinkles, who as you know was Misther Howard Donald Da Fardle before he becomed the mother of the world’s new re-population project, has been extra busy fulfillin’ her maternal obligations, but so far none o’the new batches of a billions Howiepupples have produced responsible citizens. “Wot?” I axed, “Ain’t there no more like Claude ‘n’ Claude Minus One?” “Unfortunately, the answer is no,” replied Belvedere, sighin’ deeply ‘n’ profoundly. “All of the new Howiepupples, and so far they’ve been three more batches of one billion each, plus one smaller accidental batch of fifty-three, have took after their father character-wise, and are nothin’ but mangy rabid curs with attitude problems.” Ol’ Belvedere broke off with a wave of the hand and handed out homework assignments to Claude ‘n’ Claude Minus One to distribute to his other charges. It was only after they’d all settled down to revisin’ whatever it was they was revisin’ that he returned his attention to me ‘n’ our discussion. “Today, it’s long division, in case you’re interested,” he said, indicatin’ the subject matter of the homework. “Don’t they use calculators?” I axed innocently, recallin’ how things was back on the island in the days before the flood when there was schools ‘n’ brats ‘n’ a population wot couldn’t tie their own shoes without electronical assistance ‘n’ textin’ their feet. Belvedere gaved me a strangely old-fashioned look ‘n’ said, “We don’t use such things anymore, on account of children wot doesn’t know their tables grows up to be dumbfucks.” Not havin’ any experience with childrens myself, other than as a school bus on days when the Ford Transit was pretendin’ to be sick ‘n’ I couldn’t get out of it, I kept my counsel ‘n’ didn’t express an opinion one way or t’other. However, havin’ had more’n a few run-ins with dumbfucks, none of whom could add two plus two without equalling seventeen and a half, I secretly jumped up and down ‘n’ said ‘hurray’.

I cogitated a little over the implications of wot Ol’ Belvedere’d told me ‘n’ couldn’t think of anythin’ else to say about the first batch of one billion Howiepupples. They was clearly gearin’ up for success ‘n’ a life of endless possibilities ‘n’ the last thing they probably wanted or needed was some of my bad advice, ‘n’ so I changed the subject. “Is you all still livin’ in the shack on the beach?” I asked in a off-hand sort’a way. “Good God, not on your Auntie Nelly’s fanny,” he replied, a retort wot made the Howiepupples snigger ‘n’ giggles under their breaths. “That would never do, you know,” he continued. “Why?” I axed without thinkin’, “Isn’t that their home? Isn’t that where their mommy ‘n’ daddy live?” “Good God, Mr. Bus!” Belvedere exclaimed in a voice that shook my windows and would’a rattled my teeth if’n I had any. “Haven’t you seen the place? It’s a disgrace! A slum! A den of iniquity if ever there was one! And it’s full of shit! Worse than the East End in The Good Old Days! You can’t raise a family there, not unless your ambition is to cultivate a new generation of crackheads ‘n’ no account scumbags!”

Feelin’ suitably humbled ‘n’ mortified, I blushed ‘n’ apologised. “Where do you live then?”

“Well, right here, of course,” replied Misther Belvedere Tin O’Worms in a resolute manner. “Right here on the bus!”

Right then ‘n’ there, Dear Diary, my heart sank down to the pit o’my stomach. I feared another round of “let’s take advantage o’the bus,” ‘n’ my motor oil runned colder’n a iced vodka martini. But instead of sayin’ “NO, YOU CAN’T STAY HERE” like anyone with a brain’d say, I muttered somethin’ about bein’ awful sorry but there wasn’t enough room on the bus, not with all them dead bodies in the back ‘n’ all the shit on my outside wot was a leftover from the time all the full nappies’d buried me in a pit. And typical of my luck, Belvedere wasn’t listenin’ to a single word or nuance ‘n’ obviously’d had made up his mind that my insides was where he ‘n’ his charges was gonna live. And fuck me, without further ado he ordered all the first batch of one billion Howiepupples to unpack their rucksacks ‘n’ take out their truckle beds ‘n’ clothes horses ‘n’ toothbrushes ‘n’ to make themselves at home. And all I could do was to stammer “Bu…bu…bu” ‘n’ watch helplessly as Claude ‘n’ Claude Minus One supervised the little ones in unpackin’ accordin’ to Ol’ Belvedere’s instructions.

After everything was in its place accordin’ to Misther Belvedere’s way of doin’ things, the Howiepupples put their schoolbooks away in their little desks ‘n’ brushed their teeth ‘n’ washed their tiny faces ‘n’ kneeled down to say their prayers. “God Bless Misther Belvedere,” they sing-songed, “’n’ God Bless Mommy ‘n’ Daddy ‘n’ God Bless Misther Bus for givin’ us a new home and for servin’ us breakfast in bed tomorrow mornin’.” They then tucked themselves into bed with the help of Claude ‘n’ Claude Minus One, after which they blowed out their bedside lamps ‘n’ heaven help us but Ol’ Sandman hisself came ‘n’ read them a story ‘n’ sprinkled sand in their eyes ‘n’ they all went to sleep ‘n’ snored as little kids does.

By this time I was so choked up and blubbin’ so loud on account of the Howiepupples includin’ me in their prayers, that I forgot to keep a eye on Ol’ Belvedere. I think I’d also forgot that, when you gets right down to it, he’s nothin’ but a can o’worms, and a can o’worms is the last thing you wants to open ‘n’ leave to its own devices. And fuck me, the minute I forgot about him, was I sorry. Right now he’s gone on back to the dead bodies ‘n’ is throwin’ ‘em outta the window, and while they may be nothin’ but deflated rubber pleasurin’ dollies made to look like three biddies ‘n’ one fake preacher, they still wasn’t impressed with that sort’a treatment ‘n’ called out to me for help. Fuckin’ fuck fuck, it’s another fine mess I’ve gotten myself in (to borrow a phrase wot can’t be beat). If only I hadn’t offended my little grey cells like I did, I might have a workin’ brain on my side ‘n’ be problem-free! Fuck O’fuckity, Dear Diary, I’m gonna hafta rescue the dead bodies and sort out this mess. Fuck! It’s gonna hafta be so endeth wot’d started out to be a promisin’ day but ended up in the toilet. Keep thinkin’ those good thoughts (a phrase I’d like to thank Ol’Rona Barrett for ‘n’ I hope she’s okay ‘n’ doin’ good). See you in the mornin’.

Day 163

Dear Diary,

You’re gonna be right proud of me on account of FINALLY I went ‘n’ got aggressive last night. I was just so fuckin’ fed-up with all the crap wot was goin’ on and which just kept right on a’happenin’ without no rhyme nor reason or explanafication. First it was one thing and then another and then another. Ad finitum dee tum dee tum. And the last straw wot broke this here particular camel’s back was when I started to hear the squeakin’ sound right in back of my wing mirrors in the sensitive spot where it irritates me the most. And this were compounded a coupl’a million times by a ticklin’ sensation I wasn’t prepared for and for which I hadn’t asked nobody to give me. Hell, I hadn’t even put in a advertisement in the back of a newspaper sayin’ “Erotic ticklin’ wanted by classic vintage Daimler Burlington bus wot’s stuck alone on a beach with his windscreen shot out by a dumbfuck gangster.” And so I went ‘n’ forgot my manners ‘n’ I beeped my hooter for all it was worth, ‘n’ I also set off both my fire alarm ‘n’ my burglar alarm. Fuck, if someone’s gonna fuck with me ‘n’ get up my nose then the least I can do is blow out their eardrums!

Needless to say, whomever it was wot was irritatin’ me stopped wot they was doin’ almost immediately in both the squeakin’ and the ticklin’ departments. And let me tell you somethin’, the silence wot followed was golden. My oil pan ‘n’ fuel line was both refreshed ‘n’ cleansed and to be honest, I felt better’n I have since the flood washed us all away a coupl’a months ago. And so wot I done next was I thought I’d settle the matter of the four dead bodies, plus the blowed-up body o’Missus Milly Da Fardle, ‘n’ get the whole fuckin’ business outta the way so’s I could get on with life. And so I went straight on back to where they was ‘n’ I examined ‘em from head to toe, bein’ extra careful not to miss out on nothing. And wot do you know, but all four o’them bodies had little adhesive labels glued on up by their neck holes, and they all said “Acme Rubber Personal Erotic Companion Dolly Company, Satisfaction Guaranteed.” Wot the fuck? Wot was the dead ‘n’ hollowed-out bodies formerly occupied by The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser ‘n’ Miss Louella Da Bunkle ‘n’ Beryl form Beryl’s Hair Parlour for Old Women ‘n’ Miss Cabbage doin’ with labels like that stuck on the back of their necks? And wot was they doin’ masqueradin’ as rubber personal companion sexual satisfaction dollies when all o’their previous lives they’d been behavin’ like personal dissatisfaction pain-in-the-butt dumbfucks? I wasn’t sure I was ready to get a answer to these particular two questions, on account of I wasn’t sure my stomach was strong enough. So wot I done was rummage around under the seat where they was lyin’ folded up in their pretty pink gift boxes and I dragged out their heads from where they’d fell after rollin’ off’n the bodies a coupl’a days ago. And I tell you one thing, I must need spectaclulos or somethin’ like that, on account of them heads couldn’a be mistook for heads anymore’n a polecat can sing a Mozart aria. In fact, they was nothin’ but four big old watermelons with softboiled eggs for eyes ‘n’ gherkins for noses ‘n’ little American-style donuts for mouths. Fuck me with a burnin’ pyre ‘n’ keep me home from school! I knowed they was heads last time I sawed ‘em! I may not always look where I’m goin’ when I’m drivin’ down the street, but fuck it, even on my blindest days when my driver’s doin’ somethin’ nasty to my gear lever, I can tell a head from a watermelon!

Well, Dear Diary, as you can image I ranted ‘n’ raved ‘n’ expelled a shitload of evil black discharge from my tailpipe, ‘n’ then I settled down and looked at them heads again. And wouldn’t you know it but they may’ve been watermelons, but whoever’d done their makeover’d been one hellova artist in the makeover department. ‘Course, up close ‘n’ personal you could tell they wasn’t the real thing, but when the light was a flatterin’ pinkish peach ‘n’ they was wearin’ a attractive hat ‘n’ veil, even their nearest ‘n’ dearest would’ve mistook ‘em for the genuine article from across a crowded room. Sort’a the same principle as when a human bein’ gets a facelift ‘n’ has a coupl’a gallons o’Botoxification injected into their wrinkly bits. So, I guess I can forgive myself after all for thinkin’ the heads was real. But why pull this switcheroo? Why take away the real heads in the first place? Wot did it all mean? Wot was the significance of puttin’ four rubber personal satisfaction dollies with melon heads on my back seats, ‘n’ why after their head’d fell off, had the bodies been packed into charmin’ pink gift boxes with hand calligraphied name tags? And was the other dead person, namely Missus Milly Da Fardle wot’d blowed up while behavin’ like a balloon, also a rubber personal satisfaction dolly, or was she the real thing? And was her head switched as well? The thing is, if’n she was like the others, where is the post-apocalyptical chunks of exploded melon head brain? And where did her wig go? And for that matter, where did the wigs wot the other melons were wearin’ vanish to? And how about their clothes?

WHY WHY WHY? Wot does this all mean? Someone’s gotta be behind it, but who? And why is they playin such dumbfuck nonsensical head games with me?

I must say, Dear Diary, I was ready to give up ‘n’ surrender myself to never knowin’ wot was goin’ on ‘n’ never caring neither, when I was distracted by a knockin’ on the frame of my shot-out windscreen. You’d better believe I jumped about a mile on account of I thought I’d permanently got rid of “The Tickler” ‘n’ didn’t think anyone else was here with me. And when I jumped, I let off an even worser bad sort’a fart than the one before, and this one quite frankly smelled like it’d come on a main line from a room full o’teenage boys, and I bet it couldn’a been all that pleasant for anyone standin’ directly in back of me. At the same time, just to punctuate my feelings, I beeped my hooter again on impulse and yelled, “Wot the fuck do you want ‘n’ why doesn’t you leave me alone?”

Well, Dear Diary, there was a minute o’silence you could’a cut with a spear of asparagus, ‘n’ then a whole bunch o’ cute little baby voices chirped, “Excuse us, Mr. Bus, but it’s us, the first batch of the Howiepupples, ‘n’ we’d sure like it if’n you’d come out to play.” Well, believe me I was gob smacked, but then I looked at them carefully, one by one, and wouldn ‘t you know it but little Ol’ Claude ‘n’ Claude Minus One was standin’ up in front, and who was they carryin’ but their pappy’s can o’worms. “Well, slap my arse ‘n’ butter my hole!” I exclaimed. “Wot a fuckin’ wonderful surprise!” ‘Course my language set the Howiepupples to smirkin’ ‘n’ gigglin’ ‘n’ blushin’ to beat the band, but I can’t say the can o’worms was overly impressed. In fact, it leapt outta the basket wot was bein’ carried on a sling strung between little Ol’ Claude ‘n’ the much bigger Claude Minus One, ‘n’ he sashayed right on over to me. “May I have a word?” it asked in a formal ‘n’ fairly disapprovin’ tone of voice. “My name is…” ‘Course, here I interrupted him straightaway, after all he ‘n’ me’d been almost bosom buddies a short while back ‘n’ I couldn’t rightly figure out why he was actin’ so proper ‘n’ tight-arsed. “Come come, amigo,” I laughed, tryin’ as hard as I could to break the ice. “I know your name, it’s…”

“Belvedere,” he interjected snappishly. “Belvedere Tin O’Worms. I have the pleasure of being tutor to the first batch of one billion Howiepupples. I have much to say to you, so you can cease writing immediately and put your pencil away forthwith.” And, as they say, that so endethed my conversation with you until he’s finished up his business with me. I’d better close, on account of he’s took a cane outta his satchel ‘n’ is lookin’ a mite perturbed. I’m gonna be whipped. Oh, mama, take me home ‘n’ twiddle with my doddle. And hadn’t I been thinkin’ I was never gonna have me a good time again?