Dotty’s New Novel – Part 2 – This Is Not A Love Story

 

Before I get started, here’s the link to the first post I did about my novel in case you’ve forgotten I was writing one or you’re a recent follower who hasn’t seen the post.

 

DOTTY’S FIRST NOVEL – BUY IT, BUY IT, BUY IT EVERYBODY 

 

It’s been a while since I last posted about my novel and progress has been GOOD. I’ve decided (a decision!!) that my novel will NOT be a love story (you might have already spotted that bit in the title), it’s going to be a HATE story because there are far too many love stories in the world and NOT NEARLY ENOUGH hate stories - NONE that I can think of, but I might be wrong. And why is that, you might ask?

It’s because of the RAMPANT and SICKENING hatred people have for hate. THE HATRED OF HATE is WRONG. Hating hate is HATEFUL and DETESTABLE and it needs to STOP. Hate should be allowed the same rights as any other emotion. Aren’t we supposed to be striving for a world of EQUALITY and TOLERANCE? A world in which all are fairly treated and everyone is given the same respect and dues as everyone else? But no it isn’t like that, is it? The world is full of BIGOTRY and DISCRIMINATION. Those who hate hate are nothing but hatists, which, by the way, is pronounced hate-ist not hat-ist so really it should be spelt hateist but then people would pronounce it like atheist, hate-eist and there’s no such word. Oh, wait, hang on a minute — on second thoughts YES IT CAN BE HATEIST because AGEIST has kept the E and no one pronounces it ag-eist (rhyming with raggiest), do they?

So don’t be a hateful hateist full of hatred for HATE. It’s not nice. GIVE HATE A CHANCE.

 

 

So now you know the main theme for my novel (hate). And you also know, from what I’ve just said, that my novel will incorporate many elements of my campaign for equality for hate, that within the complex and refined layers and depths of my novel the crusade for fairness will always prevail, transmitting its honour and rightness directly to the hearts of my readers via subliminal messages intertwined throughout my carefully chosen words, sentences, paragraphs and chapters.

 

 

Which leads me to the reason for this post. I want to give you the privilege of being the first people to see MY SECOND WORD OF MY FIRST NOVEL. I’ll also give you a demonstration of how my subliminal messages work.

 

My first word is –

The

my second word is —

threat 

 

Can you see what I’ve done? Can you?

my first word is THE

my second word is THREAT

my second word includes ALL THE LETTERS THAT MAKE UP MY FIRST WORD with the remaining letters spelling RAT and what is THE RAT if it isn’t a THREAT?

AND

THE RAT is an ANAGRAM of THREAT.

Also, I’ve very cleverly used the word THREAT because it includes my theme word HATE and the remaining letters when you take out the word HATE are the letters T and R which, when put together and repeated fast enough, sound like the word TEAR and what happens when you see a RAT that you HATE and it’s a THREAT? You cry a little TEAR, don’t you? And, if you haven’t already noticed, the word TEAR is also included within the word THREAT. So is the word EAT (what the RAT will do to you) and the word ATE (what the RAT did to someone else).

AND – the word HEART is within the word THREAT.

ART is there too.

So is HEAT.

 

 

Fucking brilliant, isn’t it? I doubt whether Kafka or Stendhal or Hemingway could have come up with such LITERARY EXCELLENCE in such a short space of time. In fact, I’m doing so well with this, my first novel, I’m writing so speedily and with such depth, that I’m thinking of making a WHOLE NEW BLOG for my novel in order to show all you wannabes out there HOW IT’S DONE.

 

Thank you and goodnight.

 

 

 

 

N.B. — It’s not night, it’s morning. But night sounds better.

 

Fifty Shades Of SHITEY DROSS

 

Lottie had a copy of this SHITE in her bag. I nicked it when she went to the loo, not to READ it (you can all shoot me if I ever get THAT desperate), I wanted to take the piss out of it. But I can’t take the piss out of it, it’s too SHITEY. It’s TOO BAD TO MOCK. The horrendous writing makes me SHRIVEL IN DISMAY.

This is the first sentence —

I scowl with frustration at myself in the mirror.”

 

This is the last sentence —

I curl up, desperately clutching the flat foil balloon and Taylor’s handkerchief, and surrender myself to my grief.”

 

This is the first paragraph I saw when I opened the book randomly —

“”I want to bite this lip,” he murmurs against my mouth, and carefully he tugs at it with his teeth. I moan, he smiles.”

How does he smile with her lip in his teeth? And how does she see him smile? Is she bog-eyed?

 

Oh go on then, heres another random sentence —

I wake early to a gray Sunday morning after a surprisingly refreshing night’s sleep and lie awake staring at my crates.”

I’ve never heard them called that before.

 

That’s it, I’ve had enough.

IT’S SHITE.

 

Dotty Has A Revealing Revelation

 

I’m back. I’m sorry I missed doing the Shitey Sunday Picture Post, I had a little trip out on Saturday afternoon. Ward 7 has had a coat of paint since I was last there (a few weeks ago) but it still smells of rotten eggs. I won’t bore you with the gory details but I got out with the help of Scotty’s blackmail photos again (I’ve had them printed off and laminated and I keep them in my bra so I’ll never be without them).

The REVEALING REVELATION happened on Saturday afternoon, before my little trip. For the first time EVER I realised I was losing it so I phoned Lottie and I said, ‘Lottie, I’m losing it,’ and she came round and saw the physical results of me losing it and phoned the ambulance. NO DIBBLE. NO FIRE BRIGADE. NO FIGHTS (well, not proper fights). That’s never happened before.

I’m trying to work out HOW and WHY I had this REVEALING REVELATION and also why the REVEALING REVELATION revealed itself even sooner than I thought it had – which it MUST have done otherwise why would I have UNCLICKED THE BOX THAT ALLOWS COMMENTS TO GO STRAIGHT THROUGH when I’ve NEVER allowed comments to go straight through because I’m a control freak and because you never know what fucking nutter is going to wander by and write something NASTY on my blog. I can’t REMEMBER unclicking the little box but the comments HAVE gone straight through and the box WAS unclicked when I checked it (I’ve clicked it again) and no one else can get into the workings of my blog so IT MUST HAVE BEEN ME.

I have a lot of questions I’m trying to figure out. Is my brain fixing itself? Is it starting to recognise when it’s going to BLOW A FUSE? Why did it unclick the box WITHOUT ME KNOWING IT WAS UNCLICKING THE BOX? What if it isn’t my brain that gave me the REVEALING REVELATION and UNCLICKED THE BOX, what if it’s SOMETHING ELSE that POSSESSED MY BRAIN, what if the SOMETHING ELSE is LIVING IN MY HEAD and PLANNING LOTS OF MENTAL THINGS, THINGS EVEN MORE MENTAL THAN THE THINGS MY OWN BRAIN SECRETLY PLANS?

What does it all mean?

I don’t fucking know.

 

 

 

I’m In A Bad Mood

 

I’m fucking foaming.

I want to batter someone.

THE BASTARD HITLER CAMERON, that’s who I want to batter.

With a metal bar, a big heavy rusty diseasy METAL BAR.

And all his TORY CABINET DEMONS, I want to batter them.

And all the FUCKING SANCTIMONIOUS MIDDLE-CLASS BASTARDS who voted THE CUNT into power.

Because that’s what he is, a CUNT.

I hate that word.

I never use it.

You won’t find it ANYWHERE in the posts or comments I’ve made, it’s the foulest, nastiest word in the English language but it’s the only appropriate word for him because he’s the FOULEST NASTIEST FUCKER in the country.

CAMERON THE CUNT.

If karma does exist and if it’s true that what goes around comes around, he’s in for it, BIG time. If the additional suffering he’s causing to people is added up and given back to him HE WILL SCREAM FOR ALL ETERNITY.

Roll on eternity.

CUNT.

 

 

KUMBLANT ZOZEECH YOU SNEAKY LITTLE SHITE!!

 

The wanky little git has conned his way into the Olympic Opening Ceremony! I’m watching him NOW.

 

Yorkshire 2012 Olympickles

I thought I’d make a nice picture for tonight’s

OPENING CEREMONY of the OLYMPICKLES.

I’ll be ignoring the rest of it.

*

*

*

*

You’ve Given Me The Fame, Now Give Me The Fortune

 

I don’t know whether or not you’ve noticed that on my sidebar I have a little note giving instructions to the Press and the paparazzi. The little note has been there for a long time but if today is anything to go by I think I’ll soon need to make it more prominent at the top of the sidebar.

Because I AM FAMOUS.

ME.

LITTLE DOTTY.

LITTLE DOTTY HEADBANGER WHO NEVER COMES OUT OF HER HOUSE.

FAMOUS.

LIKE A FILM STAR!

 

Today, there have been not one, not two, but THREE WHOLE POSTS dedicated to ME AND MY BLOGS.

THREE!

Can you believe it? I can’t.

 

First, lovely Lisa did this lovely post  –

LISA’S POST 

 

Then lovely Chris did this lovely reblog –

CHRIS’S REBLOG

 

And lovely Lisa’s friend, lovely Miss1sue did this lovely post after she joined the Big Blog –

MISS1SUE’S POST

 

AND THAT’S NOT ALL –

Lovely Dorothy did something with her Facebook

THIS IS A LINK TO HER BLOG, NOT HER FACEBOOK 

 

And lovely Rachel did a pingback on her excellent lovely post about how she beat WORDY BLOCK.

RACHEL’S POST ABOUT HOW SHE BEAT WORDY BLOCK

 

I’ve never had so many lovely things in one day.

FAMOUS.

ME!

Just call me DOTTY JOLIE.

Or MISS JOLIE if you don’t know me well.

 

 

Could I, Should I, Would I? Decisions, Decisions, Decisions.

 

Could I? – Yes / No

Should I? – The grey area. 

Would I? –  I don’t know. It’s difficult. I can’t decide because I don’t know the outcome.

 

Okay, I know what you’re thinking – ‘Is she going to tell us WHAT DECISION SHE HAS TO MAKE?’ Well, no I’m not because there isn’t a decision to be made. Mental She-Hermits don’t have many decisions to make and if one happens to come along we don’t recognise that it WAS a decision until after the fact - decisions are made on INSTINCTIVE MOODY AUTOPILOT which isn’t a good way to make ALL decisions so I’ve decided (WAY-HAY!) to ask myself these three questions AT ALL TIMES in order to determine which decisions are IMPORTANT enough to require CONSCIOUS THOUGHT.

 

Here’s a decision I have to make EVERY MORNING. Usually I just go with my gut instinct but from tomorrow morning I’m going to THINK ABOUT IT. Actually, no, bollocks to waiting for tomorrow – I’LL DO IT NOW. I’LL MAKE A DECISION. NOW.

 

THE QUESTION

Should I have six Cumberland sausage sandwiches for my breakfast?

 

THE DECISION MAKING PROCESS

Could I? – Yes, easily.

Should I? – The grey area – If I DO I might not be hungry enough to eat the eight Cumberland sausage sandwiches I’ve planned to eat at 12.00pm for my dinner. If I DON’T I might be TOO hungry before dinnertime and end up eating the packet of Hobnobs I was saving for this afternoon BEFORE I HAVE MY DINNER.

Would I? – Fuck, yes. But ‘Would I?’ is negated by thoughts that arise from ‘Should I?’ and those thoughts make me feel BAD ABOUT EATING SIX CUMBERLAND SAUSAGE SANDWICHES FOR MY BREAKFAST. Why do they make me feel bad? Because they’re loaded with GUILTY FEELINGS. Why are they loaded with guilty feelings? Because they make me FACE THE FACT that if I DO eat six Cumberland sausage sandwiches for my breakfast and then eat EIGHT Cumberland sausage sandwiches for my dinner I’ll have eaten FOURTEEN CUMBERLAND SAUSAGE SANDWICHES in total and that’s a lot of Cumberland sausage sandwiches, even for me, and eating FOURTEEN CUMBERLAND SAUSAGE SANDWICHES makes me seem like a GREEDY GANNET, which I am but I don’t want people to THINK I am. And the GUILTY FEELINGS make me FACE THE FACT that if I DON’T eat six Cumberland sausage sandwiches for my breakfast, (let’s say I eat FOUR instead), at about 11.00am I’ll eat the packet of Hobnobs I was saving for this afternoon AND THEN I’LL EAT THE EIGHT CUMBERLAND SAUSAGE SANDWICHES FOR MY DINNER which means I’ll have eaten TWELVE CUMBERLAND SAUSAGE SANDWICHES AND A PACKET OF HOBNOBS which is STILL a lot so I’ll STILL seem like a GREEDY GANNET.  

I can’t win either way. It’s not fair.

 

RESULT OF DECISION MAKING PROCESS

I started my decision at 7.58 am. It’s now 10.55am

TOO LATE TO HAVE MY BREAKFAST.

 

 

So fuck that, I’m not doing decisions any more, they’re too hard and too brutal. I’ll stick to my old floaty ways.

MMMMMM, HOBNOBS! COME TO DOTTY!

 

101 Handy Useful Household Things To Make With Cornflakes

 

Don’t be daft, why would I do a post about 101 Handy Useful Household Things To Make With Cornflakes when you can’t make ANYTHING useful with cornflakes, they’re too flakey? That’s why they’re called CornFLAKES. If they weren’t too flakey they’d be called CornLUMPS.

I like eating Cornflakes at night. When I tell people I like eating Cornflakes at night they go, “UURR, that’s WRONG – cereal is for BREAKFAST.”

Says who?

Idiots, that’s who. They’re the type of people who have never experienced the delight, the joy, the sheer and utter RAPTURE of emptying a box of Cornflakes out onto the kitchen floor and DANCING IN THEM UNTIL THE CRUNCH HAS STOPPED.

They’re the type of people who would never consider THE HILARIOUS TRICKS you can play with Cornflakes, like stuffing a big handful down the back of your brother’s pants while he’s in the kitchen pouring his new girlfriend a glass of Diet Coke, or stuffing them down your colleague’s carefully sculpted cleavage as she’s running out of the room to make it to her promotion interview. Or putting some in your Granny’s cup of tea so that when she’s tipping her head back to drain the dregs THE SOGGY CORNFLAKES FALL ONTO HER FACE and make her scream and throw the cup at your mother. (When they get wise to the Cornflakes in the tea trick and start hiding the Cornflakes, use a chunk of Steak and Kidney Pie instead- it’s heavier than Cornflakes so it hits the face sooner, usually well before half the tea is drunk so you get to see THE MOUTHFUL OF LUMPY TEA SPLUTTERED ALL OVER THE PLACE and A FUNNY LITTLE DANCE WHEN THE STEAK AND KIDNEY PIE FALLS ONTO THEIR LAP). NB. It might be a good idea to learn how to do the Heimlich manoeuvre or you’ll get all the blame if a choking situation goes wrong. 

They’re the type of people who will never put on a production of CORNFLAKE HEDDA GABLER.

They’re the type of people who have never seen JESUS in a Cornflake.

They’re the type of people who have never seen ABADDON THE DESTROYER, THE ANGEL OF THE BOTTOMLESS PIT in a Cornflake.

They’re the type of people who have never asked a Cornflake ‘HOW ARE YOU FEELING TODAY?’

They’re the type of people who PUT SUGAR ON THEIR CORNFLAKES WHEN THEY EAT THEM IN THE MORNING and also PUT SUGAR ON THEIR PORRIDGE if they have porridge instead of Cornflakes. In the morning.

SUGAR ON PORRIDGE IS DISGUSTING AND NASTY.

SALT goes on porridge. SALT. Nothing else.

They’re the type of people who NEVER have WORDY BLOCK, and if they ever DID have WORDY BLOCK they wouldn’t know how to try and bulldoze their way out of it with a shitey post about CORNFLAKES.

 

465 words. I need to do 500 or I can’t have my Cumberland sausages which are PROPER BREAKFAST FOOD, not SNACK FOOD FOR NIGHT-TIME which is what Cornflakes are.

 

HALLE-FUCKING-LUJAH!

500 WORDS.

BOSH!

 

 

Wordy Block Lurgy – Have You Caught It Too?

 

Over the last few days, as I’ve been skipping my way round the blogs making a few inroads into the massive pile of post notifications in my email, I’ve encountered a VERY STRANGE THING - I’m not the only one with WORDY BLOCK. An exceptional amount of bloggers have it. Bloggers who are normally prolific and reliable are struggling for words. They can’t think of what to write. Their mojo has turned into noflo.

WHY?

What’s going on?

Is it a nasty lurgy? A WORDY BLOCK flu?

Are we all infecting each other?

YES WE ARE!

The blogging atmosphere is RIFE WITH WORDY BLOCK GERMS.

Doesn’t anyone own a HANDKERCHIEF? It’s basic HYGIENE when a lurgy is doing the rounds – YOU DON’T SNEEZE YOUR GERMS INTO THE AIR FOR EVERYONE ELSE TO CATCH. YOU USE A HANKY. OR A TISSUE. OR A BIT OF LOO ROLL IF YOU HAVEN’T GOT A HANKY OR A TISSUE.

 

 

Who started it? Who was THE FIRST TO BE INFECTED?

It wasn’t me.

I use PALMOLIVE ANTIBACTERIAL HANDWASH that kills 99.9% of BACTERIA (the blue stuff – it’s good).

And I use tissues. KLEENEX BALSAM TISSUES.

So it definitely wasn’t me.

Was it YOU?

 

And what if it turns into WORDY BLOCK PNEUMONIA?

What if we all DIE OF WORDY BLOCK?

You’ll wish you’d washed your hands then, won’t you, you FIRST-INFECTED SPREAD-THE-LURGY FUCKER? Because you’ll be left with NOTHING TO READ when we ALL DIE.

And you’ll wish you’d used a hanky. FUCKING SKANK.

And when you’ve killed us all off I hope WordPress sues the arse off you and you have to declare yourself BANKRUPT.

BASTARD.

FILTHY GERM-RIDDEN PIG.

DIRTY, DISEASY TRAMP.

 

If I could be bothered opening up Photoshop I’d make you a sign to hang round your neck to let people know WHAT YOU ARE.

*

UNCLEAN

UNCLEAN

UNCLEAN

*

 

 

Fucker.

 

 

The World According To Dotty (An Illuminating View Of EVERYTHING)

*

*

*

*

Mental Music ——- Vitas – Opera # 2

This is Vitas, an award winning Russian singer/songwriter with one of the best high falsetto voices ever. He’s mega famous not only in Russia and Poland and a load of other countries but in China and all over Asia, (in China he’s called the Prince of Dolphins, or the Dolphin Boy). This is him performing his most famous hit, Opera #2 (which he wrote himself).

*
*

And this is the video – watch it, it’s good.
He has gills.
And I don’t know what he wants with all the little fishes.
He’s mental.
The video is mental.
The song is mental.
I LOVE IT.

*
*

Shitey Sunday Picture Post

 

Just one picture today. Yes I know it’s a piss poor Shitey Sunday Picture Post but it’s all you’re getting this week – and it made ME laugh. But I’m going to do a video post later so that’s a bonus. And I might even do a writing post if a miracle happens. You’ll be so sick of me by the end of today you’ll wish I’d never come back. (EVIL LAUGH GOES HERE BUT I’M NOT WRITING IT BECAUSE IT LOOKS STUPID AND I CAN’T REMEMBER HOW TO SPELL IT ANYWAY – MWWUUHAHA?? MUWHAHA?  MOOOOHAAHAA?)

*

*

Well, I Tried To Stay Away But I Can’t

 

I managed one whole day and one whole morning, which almost equals two days but it doesn’t really. I thought having a break would be good, give me some perspective on why the wordy block is returning, but I didn’t take into account the REASON I’ve been blogging every day which is to give me something to focus on that helps in the battle with the doomy-gloomies. And to get my brain into some sort of working order again. And to help me ignore the hyperacusis and tinnitus (which are getting worse so I think that might have something to do with the wordy block).

Plus, do you know how long a hour can feel like to a bell-head She-Hermit who can’t keep two thoughts straight in her head? A LONG FUCKING TIME, that’s how long. A LONG, LONG, LONG, FUCKING TIME.

So I’ll continue to ramble and rant for now and see what happens.

 

 

I’m Going On My Summer Holiday With Escher And Engleby

 

I’m taking a break for a while - I’m going on holiday to my spare bedroom. On the wall facing the bed I’ve put up a massive poster advertising the Escher exhibition that took place at one of our local big houses a few years ago. I nicked the poster and kept it rolled up until I needed it – which is NOW. It’s one of his stairs pictures, Relativity. It’s fucking HUGE, there almost isn’t enough wall for it to go on. I could look at it for hours – and I will be looking at it for hours because that’s what you do on holiday, isn’t it -except everyone else looks at the sea and I’ll be looking at Escher’s stairs where my bedroom wall used to be.

This is the picture. You can’t get the full impact of it unless you can look at one as big as the one I’ll be looking at.

I’m taking Engleby with me – Sebastian Faulks is sick of him, he said he’s too mental and whiney for his own good. I think Sebastian’s trying to play Cupid, but Engleby isn’t my type. Unless he brings me absinthe and laudanum cocktails with little multi-coloured umbrellas and a bit of fruit in them, if he does that without drinking them en route to ME I might have a rethink about his suitability as one of my suitors.

See that little cafe on the right of the picture? It said in the brochure it has internet access so if I get the chance I’ll come online to read some blogs, but I think my holiday will be so action-packed I won’t have time to write. But you never know.

Adieu, auf wiedersehen, au revoir, bon voyage, toodle pip, tatty-bye.

 

A Song From Nowhere Boy

This song is BRILLIANT, the best version of it I’ve ever heard. It’s from Nowhere Boy, a film about John Lennon’s boyhood, and it’s sung by the actor who plays Lennon, Aaron Johnson. The video is a clip from the film. I won’t say anything about why but if you watch the film (and you should), when this song comes on you’ll be all teary (maybe not the men – but I might be wrong, the men might blub harder than the women).

 

Wordy Block Is Returning And I’m Fucking Useless So This Post Is A Big Moaning Whingey Whine-Fest About NOTHING. Ignore It – I Would.

 

I don’t know what to write. It’s been happening more and more in the last few weeks, hence the NOTHING post and the real nothing yesterday (apart from the Big Blog Stats on the other blog but that’s just copying and pasting) and all the shite and pictures and more shite (which is nothing new because THIS WHOLE BLOG is made up of shite, but at least I used to be able to fill up a page with it). Little Emily has deserted me, Kumblant dog-fuck has disappeared to where ever he’s disappeared to, and NOTHING HAPPENS IN THIS FUCKING HOUSE FOR ME TO WRITE ABOUT. I eat Cumberland sausages, I spend HOURS of quality time with my brick, I see Branwell a couple of times a week - AND THAT’S IT. And I’ve told you those things UMPTEEN TIMES and I’m bored of telling you, and if I’M bored then you must be fucking comatose by now.

I joined Pinterest the other day to make some pretty picture boards thinking that if I had something else to piss around with it might distract me from not knowing what to write and guess what? I CAN’T WORK THE FUCKING THING. How hard can it be? Everyone does it. It’s linked to stupid Facebook and it took me AN HOUR AND A HALF to change the profile picture on Facebook BUT IT WON’T CHANGE ON PINTEREST. And I can’t upload any pictures to pin on the fucking boards, I click Browse, choose a picture, press select, and – NOTHING. So I thought, right, go back to Facebook and make the Notes From A She-Hermit page into something, it’s been sitting there for fuck knows how long - AND I COULDN’T DO A PICTURE ON THERE EITHER and if I HAD been able to do a picture I wouldn’t have been able to do anything else BECAUSE IT’S TOO FUCKING COMPLICATED.

I give up. I can’t write, I can’t do pictures, I can’t even keep up with everyone’s posts – I turn up days late to read people’s blogs but I never seem to catch up. If everyone stopped posting for a week I might have a chance BUT YOU WON’T STOP WRITING, all you bloggers who don’t have wordy block, all you do is WRITE WRITE WRITE. STOP IT. Stop writing for a week and let me catch up. Go on holiday or something, clean your house, do your garden, do some overtime at work, see if you can chew your fingernails into perfect copies of the MONA LISA, do anything but WRITE.

I daren’t take a break because I’m scared I won’t come back and I LOVE this blog but I know what I’m like, I give up on EVERYTHING eventually and if I give up on this I’ll be fucked, they might as well cart me away now, save them the bother when I lose it completely because if I don’t have the blog and all the bloggy stuff that goes with it to distract me from BEING MENTAL and from the NOISES IN MY FUCKING HEAD THAT ARE GETTING LOUDER AND LOUDER AND WORSE AND WORSE I’ll go even more mental than I am already.

 

 

Okay, rant over for today. There might be another one tomorrow but don’t bother reading it, it’s just my way of keeping me writing and blogging – at least I’ve written SOMETHING. Sorry.

 

Shitey Sunday Picture Post – Help Me Choose A New Pair Of Shoes

 

I need some new shoes. I haven’t bought any for over three years (what’s the point?) but I’m sick of the ones I’ve got so I’ve decided to get some more. My problem is I didn’t realise how the fashions have changed since I contracted Hermititis and People Phobia – there are some FUCKING BEAUTIFUL shoes around and I WANT THEM ALL. But I can’t afford them all so I’ve narrowed the selection down to my absolute favourites, sensible shoes for walking the moors (when I get out of this house again), for shopping, and for general everyday wear.

Help me choose which to buy, please – trying to make a decision for myself only results in multiple panic attacks.

 

*

WHEELIE SHOES

I LOVE the wheelie shoes so much I couldn’t make up my mind between these

and these.

*

*

WHIRLY SHOES

On second thoughts I could probably make a pair of

these for myself by melting and remoulding a section

of my washing machine.

*

*

APOCALYPSE SHOES

Since humans began to wear shoes we’ve lost  the ability to run vast distances in our bare feet.

Our feet have become SOFT and WUSSIFIED, pampered plates of tenderised meat that will be

an EXCRUTIATINGLY PAINFUL HINDRANCE to us when the APOCALYPSE comes and shoes

no longer exist. I like these because they’ll prepare us for that time.

*

*

SHOES WITHOUT HEELS SHOES

Hmm, perhaps not. I have enough trouble staying upright as it is.

*

*

BALLOONY SPORTS SHOES

 Now I do like these, very much. I could BOUNCE

my way round 24 hour Tesco!!

*

*

KILLER HEELS

A good file would sharpen the ends of these heels to a fine point

and I’d have SHOE WEAPONS.

*

*

PLASTICINE SHOES

Nah, I can make these as long as I don’t get the strips of plasticine

mixed up in a brown lump (why does it always go BROWN?)

*

*

MANGLED FOOT SHOES

??????

*

and some more MANGLED FOOT SHOES

Would I have to have my toes chopped off to be

able to walk in these? I NEED my toes.

*

*

SATYR SHOES

My favourites. I don’t need to explain why, they’re

FUCKING LOVELY.

*

*

MAGGOTY SHOES

 Comfortable and cushiony.

*

*

FOOD SHOES

No, you can’t eat it, silly. Not that you’d want to,

they’ve been a bit mean with the gravy.

*

Mmm, tasty.

*

Where’s the custard?

*

*

So now you see my problem – they’re all so GORGEOUS.

And they’d all suit me.

Which ones should I get?

 

 

No Post Today Because I Can’t Be Arsed. I Can’t Do A One Word Post Because I’ve Already Done One, I Can’t Do A Picture Because It Isn’t Sunday, So You’ll Have To Make Do With NOTHING

Dismal Dotty

 

Sorry I didn’t do a post yesterday, I was counting my hair.

147245 – twenty three fewer hairs than last month.

I’m going bald.

And I’m scared of WIGS.

I have a WIG PHOBIA.

WIGS freak me out completely.

I don’t want to wear a WIG.

I don’t want to.

 

Suspicious Things Happening On My Street

 

It’s pissing it down outside. AGAIN. I don’t mind that it’s cool but WHERE’S THE FUCKING SUN? And what happened to GLOBAL WARMING? Where did that go?

 

Yesterday afternoon I was having a peep out of my window to see if the white van that keeps parking across the road, three houses down, had come back (it had, and it’s still there). I was watching it intently when I happened to spy, out of the corner of my third eye, a scratty, scrawny, soggy-skirted, basket-carrying little woman standing in the rain, all the way up the street on the other side of the road, staring at my house. It was HER. Little Emily. The pygmy dog-man wasn’t with her, not that I could see anyway – he might have been hiding behind the privet hedge of the nearest garden but I don’t think so, there were no signs of her talking to anyone.

I wanted a closer look but in the seconds it took me to reach across to the bookcase for my binoculars, take the caps off and move back the curtain again, she had gone.

What did she want? Why didn’t she come to the door? And what was in the basket?

Branwell is due this afternoon, I’m going to make him tell me what’s going on. If he won’t fess up I’ll kneecap him with dead ex-Simon’s cricket bat.

 

Dotty Days

 

SATURDAY

Sat on my saturnine arse reading The Rings Of Saturn.

Sat-nav — why the fuck have I got one? O, TomTom, Lord of the Wrong Turn, guide me out of this fucking house.

 

SUNDAY

Sun? There is no sun. It’s trapped behind the big, brown melancholy clouds. O, TomTom, Lord of the Turn Right In 300 Yards, guide the sun from behind the big, brown melancholy clouds.

 

MONDAY

Moon day.

Moan day.

I Don’t Like Mondays. BOOM. Shoot the moon. Fuck off, TomTom, you’re doing my skull in.

 

TUESDAY

Chew chew chew a Cumberland sausage in a sugary Mars Bar sandwich.

Choo-choo! Do trains have sat-navs? O, TomTom, Lord of the Straight Ahead, guide the trains along their tracks, up the coast roads and back – please don’t make them fall off again.

 

WEDNESDAY

Woe day? Wedding day? No, I got married on a Friday. I got married at Halloween and I married in silken black (this is a TRUE FACT), but I couldn’t help looking back. Ring o’ ring 0′ rosies, a pocket full of posies. O, TomTom, Lord of At The Roundabout Take The First Exit, guide dead ex-Simon to a nice place of cleanliness and peace and an abundance of stamps for his collection.

 

THURSDAY

I LOVE THOR, HEAR ME ROOOOOAAAAAARRRRR. (Months ago I roared in a post. It made me feel better at the time so now I have a little roar every Thursday morning before I make my Cumberland sausage sandwiches for my breakfast). O, TomTom, Lord of Leave The Motorway, guide the big Cumberland sausage lorries safely to my Tesco.

 

FRIDAY

Friday is now the only day I fry (burn) my Cumberland sausages.

Empty-headed no brain, fried brain, sizzle-pop. Skullduggery?

Freya, Freya, lend me your cloak so I can fly above the bald sea to see what I can see. O, TomTom, Lord of You Have Reached Your Destination, guide us not into temptation, or negation, or consternation. Forever and ever, amen.

*

Albrecht Dürer, self-portrait, 1500

look at the eyes

*

*

 

OY, WORDPRESS, I WANT MY STATS PAGE BACK ON MY DASHBOARD

 

My Stats pages (on both blogs) have disappeared, all I get when I click on them are mangled pages but no stats. It’s either a punishment aimed solely at me for calling WordPress a pile of shite and a set of tossers this morning, or they’ve finally done what they’ve been saying for ages they were going to do and moved the Stats to that stupid separate page along with the Freshly Pressed shite and the shitey Readers that don’t work and the fucked-up Topics thing that doesn’t work either.

I don’t understand why they’ve done it. Why move the stats away from the Dashboard? It’s the same as taking the mileometer from a car’s dashboard and putting it in the boot, forcing the driver to get out and walk round the back of the car whenever he wants to see how fast he’s going. IT’S FUCKING STUPID. It’s the stupidest idea the stupid ideas people have had since they had the stupid idea of shagging up the Topics.

I am not amused.

 

Where’s My Fucking Badge?

 

WordPress, you’re a pile of shite. Where’s my 400 followers badge? I’m waiting for it, checking every morning, looking forward to seeing it BUT IT ISN’T THERE and now I’m up to 416 followers and it still hasn’t arrived in the little drop-down notification fuck-box at the top of the page. WHY CAN’T I HAVE IT? Why won’t you give it to me so I can do my 400 followers showing-off post? I can’t do my 400 followers showing-off post without it in case everyone thinks I’m telling fibs when I’m NOT.

Is it because you think that when a blog reaches 400 followers the blog writer doesn’t give a shite about getting a badge? Well we DO give a shite about getting a badge, just the same as when we reach 100 followers – a badge is a badge AND I WANT MINE.

You’re a set of tossers who don’t know how to do your jobs properly. How do you think BLUE PETER survived all these years? BY GIVING OUT THEIR BLUE PETER BADGE, that’s how. And what about the Queen? If a hero gets a badge for saving lives, and then he goes on to save MORE LIVES she doesn’t NOT give him a badge, does she, she gives him ANOTHER BADGE.

I’ve made my own fucking badge. Stick that up your WordPress and smoke it.

 

*

*

Shitey Sunday Picture Post – This Is Very Funny If I Do Say So Myself And You Should Look At It And Laugh And Laugh And Laugh

 

I know it’s Saturday, not Sunday, but tomorrow I’ll be watching the Final so I’m doing the Shitey Sunday post today instead. It’s about ANDY MURRAY. Have you heard of him?

*

*

*

THIS IS ANDY A SPLIT SECOND BEFORE HE SWALLOWED A TENNIS BALL 

*

*

CLOSE YOUR MOUTH, ANDY! CLOSE IT!

DON’T LET IT IN!

*

*

GULP!

GULP!

NO, IT’S STUCK.

*

*

AND THEN IT WENT DOWN A BIT – BUT IT GOT STUCK

IN HIS THROAT AND HE HAD TO  SPEND AN HOUR

COMMUNICATING WITH THE COSMOS

TO GET IT TO SLIDE ALL THE WAY DOWN

*

*

IT’S A MIRACLE!

THE UNIVERSE ANSWERED HIS PLEAS

AND MADE THE TENNIS BALL PLUMMET STRAIGHT

THROUGH HIS BODY ALL THE WAY DOWN TO HIS CROTCH

AND HE WAS ABLE TO PLAY AGAIN!

*

*

ABRACADABRA!

ALAKAZAM!

HOW THE FUCK DID HE DO THAT???

*

*

“FUCK OFF, I’M NOT TELLING YOU HOW I DID IT!

STOP ASKING ME!

YES, TWAT, I DO HAVE A SPHINCTER.

YOU’RE MENTAL, THE LOT OF YOU.

FUCK OFF AND LET ME CONCENTRATE ON MY GAME

OR I’LL PLAY LIKE SHITE AND THEN I’LL TAKE MY BAT HOME

AND YOU CAN ALL FUCK OFF.”

*

*

GOOD LUCK, ANDY!

WE LOVE YOU!

*

*

Watch Your Balls, Federer – Andy Is A Crack Shot

 

This is what he did to Tsonga today.

Sorry for all the posts, but I had to show you.

He belted the ball back at him, right into his bollocks.

A few seconds later and Tsonga was down.

Someone in the crowd shouted ‘New balls, please!’

And John  McEnroe wanted Hawkeye to judge where the ball had hit.

Good shot, Andy!

In revenge, Tsonga CHALLENGED Andy’s winning shot.

And I’m 100% certain that, during the match when Tsonga was dillying a bit over some balls (not his own), Andy called him a TWAT (my lip-reading skills are fantastic).

 

 

WIMBLEDON, WIMBLEDON, WIMBLEDON – I LOVE ANDY

 

HE’S THROUGH TO THE FINAL!!!!

 

GO ON, ANDY!!

 

DO YOUR COSMIC ORDERING A LITTLE BIT MORE AND YOU’LL WIN!!!

 

 

AND ON SUNDAY MAKE SURE YOU SMASH A SHOT AT FEDERER’S BOLLOCKS

LIKE YOU DID TO TSONGA TODAY!!! HA HA HA HA HA ! THAT WAS FUNNY -

ESPECIALLY WHEN HE WAS CURLED UP ON THE GROUND AND SOMEONE

IN THE CROWD SHOUTED ‘NEW BALLS PLEASE!!’

 

 

 

 

 

HELLO! CAN ANYBODY HEAR ME?

 

These are the floorboards I’m hiding under.

They’re made of wood.

Wood gives you SKELFS.

*

*

This is one of my suits of armour.

I’m wearing it to solve the problem of SKELFS.

It’s not my NICEST suit of armour, but it offers the most protection

against not only SKELFS but SPIDERS and OTHER NASTY THINGS

that live under floorboards. And the matching sword has a FINE slice to it.

I haven’t bothered putting on the chain mail, I don’t need it today,

I’ve worn my WORDY ERROR HAIR-SHIRT instead.

Unless there’s a particularly BIG SKELF waiting for me -

maybe I SHOULD have worn chain mail.

Fuck.

Oh well, it’s too late now.

Can someone pass me a Cumberland sausage sandwich, please?

*

*

Dotty In A Wordy Wind Up – Like A Coyle (THIS IS A FUNNY TITLE, I MADE MYSELF LAUGH)

 

 

Don’t get the joke in my title? You will in a minute.

I read Robin’s new post a short while ago, Annoying Phrases That Need “Just Chill” (go and read it)

I did a reply, then I remembered something else I wanted to add so I did another reply, then I remembered something else and got ANOTHER reply box up and started typing and typing and then I stopped and thought, oops, I better not fill up Robin’s comments with shite, plus I REALLY NEEDED TO SWEAR because these phrases ANNOY THE FUCK OUT OF ME, THEY’RE SO FUCKING STUPID. aaaahhh, that’s better. SHITEY FUCKING FUCK FUCK.

So anyway, here’s what I was going to put in the third reply box – words that people FUCK UP BADLY -

 

When they start every sentence with

“Generally…”

except people mistake it for ‘genuinely’

and it comes out as “Genually” (I’ve even heard this said by presenters on telly)

and they also use “genually” instead of ‘genuinely’ —

‘Genually, when I see poor people, I genually feel sorry for them.’

ARSEWIPES.

 

 
another one I’ve heard on telly LOADS OF FUCKING TIMES is

“You’ve earnt…

EARNT?

EARNT?

There’s no such word as EARNT, you dim TWATS.

DALE WANKY WINSTON ON THE LOTTERY PROGRAMME – DO NOT SAY IT AGAIN, YOU ILLITERATE ORANGE GIT.

BBC – WHY HAVE YOU NOT NOTICED DALE WANKY WINSTON SAYING IT, YOU MONEY-GRABBING ILLITERATE GITS?

 

 

I feel much better now.

 

 

 
EDIT EDIT EDIT EDIT EDIT — I think his name is Dale Wanky WINTON not Dale Wanky WINSTON. Oh well.

 

 

 

 

EDIT EDIT EDIT EDIT EDIT EDIT – THE ABOVE  SHITE ABOUT ‘EARNT’ IS AN EXAMPLE OF MY OWN STUPIDITY AND AN EXAMPLE OF TYPOMANIA BUT MY EXCUSE IS THAT IT ISN’T IN THE DICTIONARY. BUT IT IS AN ARCHAIC WORD AND I AM

FUCKING

MORTIFIED

AND NOW I’M GOING TO HIDE UNDER MY FLOORBOARDS AND NEVER COME OUT.

 

 

Happy 5th July To All Americans

 

Okay, you’ve had long enough with this Independence shite to realise it’s time to come home to Mummy. We’ll have you back under our rule on one condition – you never, ever, ever allow

SIMON FUCK-FACE COWELL

 

or GORDON PLASTIC-FACE RAMSAY

 

to come back to Britain. You can do what you want with them.

In return, we’ll allow you to give us all your money, land, property and apple pie recipes.

Deal??

(you know you want to).

 

The Morning After Ex-Simon’s Birthday Party And I Think I’ve Killed Branwell

 

He isn’t breathing. His face is white and he hasn’t got a pulse. We played Dare last night and I won. 

WAKE UP BRANWELL!!

I can’t do the hammer-on-the-knees reflex test because he’s lying on the kitchen floor with his legs in the cupboard under the sink and he’s knocked over all the cleaning products – his pant legs are soaked in Fairy Liquid (Lemon flavour, I don’t like the others, they stink).

I’ll try banging my ladle on the arse end of my big stew pot, next to his ear.

Earplugs.

BANGBANGBANGBANG

fucking hell, these earplugs are shite.

 

WAKE UP BRANWELL, YOUR DINNER’S READY. It isn’t really but he loves his food.

BRANWELL!!

Nope, nothing.

 

I’ll put an onion in his eye! Hang on while I slice a bit off.

He’s got crusty bits of sleep on his eyelashes -

- I’ll open the lids with my teabag squeezer—

eeeeeeewwwwww! His eyeball looks like a DEAD FISH EYE!

 

Bollocks. What am I going to tell little Emily?

‘Sorry, little Emily, I’ve accidentally killed your brother.’

Uh-uh, I don’t think so.

 

I know, I’ll sing him a song.

The Lion Sleeps Tonight?

A-WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

A-WEEE, A-WEEE

A-WIMOWEH

Fucking neighbours. STOP BANGING. FUCK OFF.

 

A hymn – that should annoy him. 

I only know one hymn and I’ve sung it before on my blog.

Ah, fuck it, everyone does reblogs of their own stuff, don’t they?

KUM-BAH-YA M’Lord, KUM-BAH-YA

KUM-BAH-YA M’Lord, KUM-BAH-YA

KUM-BAH-YA M’Lord, KUM-BAH-YA

WOOOAAAHH LOOORRD KUM-BAH-YA

 

Aha! That did it, he’s shuddering!

BRANWELL, YOUR DAD’S HERE!

HA HA HA HA HA HA

 

 

***************

 

 

He’s gone home now and he’s not dead – well, he IS dead but you know what I mean. He’s got a VERY BAD HANGOVER, which I don’t have because I don’t drink alcohol as I’ve already said many times before – I stuck to drinking Absinthe but Branwell also necked the rum and the gin he keeps in his hipflasks.

We had a fine old time of it last night, it’s the best party I’ve been to for years (it’s the only one, but so what, it’s still the best). I might do it again for MY birthday which is in a couple of weeks or so - just to let you know, I’m accepting all cards and presents from NOW.

Oh, before I go – I spoke to Branwell about little Emily. He’s going to bring her to see me this afternoon. He said nothing about why she’s stayed away for such a long time so I dont’ know if she’s in a neck-wringer of a mood with me or what’s up with her, but I suppose I’ll find out soon enough. One thing he said has been puzzling me though – he said ‘Do you truly wish to see her again? Truly, Dotty?’

Why did he ask me that?

 

 

Dead Husband Ex-Simon – Happy Birthday To You, Happy Birthday To You, Happy Birthday Dead Ex-Simon, Happy Birthday To You – Part 4

 

I spent yesterday afternoon in a bit of a tizz, wondering why I was SO bothered about the state of my house that I felt the need to advertise for a cleaner. I don’t usually notice how manky it is – it’s a good couple of months since I was last aware of it. And then I remembered – today would have been my dead husband ex-Simon’s birthday and I was missing his marvellous house-cleaning skills! If there was one thing he was good at, it was cleaning. I’m not buying him a card though, he’s dead, it’d be a waste of money and anyway I don’t think they make cards that say ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO THE ONE I LOVED UNTIL HE TURNED INTO A TWAT AND I HAD TO KILL HIM,‘ do they? Actually, they probably do, they make cards for everything nowadays.

Thinking back, I should have had our horoscopes done when I met him, to suss out our levels of compatability. Two Cancerians? Nah, no chance, it was DOOMED in the stars – CRAB FIGHT ALERT, CRAB FIGHT ALERT - written there for all to see and all I had to do was LOOK – but I didn’t. Idiot. He was a sulky git (have I told you that in Parts 1, 2 or 3a? I might have, I don’t know). He could sulk for days if he had a mind to – he was sulking on the day I shot him because I didn’t like the present he gave me (a reminder of what it was in case you can’t be bothered to go back and read the other posts - a fucking HOOVER for my Valentine’s Day present). It wouldn’t surprise me if he’s STILL sulking about that day – GET OVER IT, EX-SIMON, WE ALL HAVE TO DIE SOME TIME, IN SOME WAY.

Whatever age he would have been today – and I’m not telling you so don’t ask me – his mind would have been around 98 going on 150. Talk about OLD BEFORE HIS TIME – think of a cross between Edward Norton (looks), a young Robert De Niro (looks) and Victor Meldrew, Patrick the Astronomy bloke whose surname I can’t remember, and EVERY OTHER WHINGEING OLD MOANING BASTARD YOU’VE EVER KNOWN (personality) and that was ex-Simon. I did him a favour – fuck knows what he’d have been like if I’d let him live to 35.

So anyway, I’m having a little birthday party for him tonight. My guests will be ME and BRANWELL, who called round this morning for his breakfast. I don’t know where the fuck little Emily is, she’s probably eloped with the stinking pygmy dog-man, but I’ll get it out of Branwell tonight when he’s pissed and in a fugue. He thinks he’s being clever and cagey when he avoids my questions about her but I’m not STUPID, I once did a MENSA test and got all the questions RIGHT (except maths) and it only took me 3 months to complete so my IQ is fucking SKY HIGH, it’s out of the ATMOSPHERE, it’s zooming towards PLUTO (the planet, not the dog).

I did have a fleeting feeling that it might be WRONG of me to have a birthday party for ex-Simon, but Branwell said No, birthday parties are NEVER wrong, so that put my mind at rest and I’ve started cooking already. Here’s what’s on the party grub list -

 

Cumberlaudanum Sausage sandwiches (a HUGE pile of them)

An opium birthday cake

Another opium cake with chocolate chips

Laudanum fairy cakes with buttercream (Branwell’s favourite)

Absinthe

More Absinthe

Opium

Laudanum

A strawberry jelly (with laudanum)

A packet of Texas BBQ Pringles (left over from Christmas)

A home-made opium, laudanum, absinthe, Hellman’s Extra Light Mayonnaise DIP for us to dip the Pringles in

 

And I have no fear that this party will end up like the other one (that was a BAD party) because Branwell is nice and kind and won’t laugh at me when I do the AGADOO-DOO-DOO dance because I TAUGHT HIM IT and he LOVES IT.

 

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, EX-SIMON, where ever you are.

 

I Need A Free Cleaner – All OCD People With Good Cleaning Skills Apply Here

 

The Job – Clean EVERYTHING.

Location – My house.

Hours – As many as you want.

Qualifications – You should know what to do with a bottle of Flash Spray With Bleach and a scourer.

Experience – Well, I’m presuming you’ll be VERY experienced.

Rate of Pay – As many Cumberland sausage sandwiches as you can eat (after you’ve given the cooker a good scrub).

 

 

Shitey Sunday Picture Post – Andy Again

After last night’s BRILLIANT match, here’s Andy Murray again. Just one picture this time, and a link to the

Shitey Sunday Picture Post he starred in a few weeks ago when I got him ready for Wimbledon.

Here’s the link  — ANDY MURRAY  —-

and here’s the picture –

*

 

 

*

*

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 572 other followers

%d bloggers like this: