Dotty The Fickle Fucker

 

Last week I told you I’m back on my blog but obviously I haven’t been writing on it or reading any of your blogs or doing anything at all regarding blogging since I came back, apart from one post and a bit of reading I did on the day after I posted but nothing since then – and I don’t know why. I love blogging, I love my little blog (and the Big Blog, and my new one), I like the fact that I was writing somehting almost every day since last December – because even though all I write is shite it’s better than writing nothing at all. And I love reading blogs too, a blog post is just the right size for an unfocused loony to read without losing focus. I love blogging – so what’s happened to me, why have I lost interest in it? I think I need to remember why I was blogging in the first place and take it from there. I’ll let you know when I’ve figured it out.

 

 

Another New Dotty Blog

 

I’ve made a new blog. It’s becoming a habit when I get too antsy and mental. Blog, blog, blog.

 

This is it, if you’re interested –

COMMON SENSE IS DEAD 

 

 

 

 

 

September, September – The Month Of Giving, And The Month Of Nine Months Of Blogging For Dotty, And It’s Nearly Christmas

 

It’s September. I’ve just noticed. Why does time go by so quickly in years and months but the minutes and hours and days just drag and drag and drag?

Anyway, hello September. It’s nice to see you again. I like your colours and your coolness and your promise of longer nights and shorter days and CHRISTMAS – I love Christmas when I’ve got the energy and the give-a-fuck (and the money) to love it and to do it all properly which I haven’t done for the last couple of years because of BEING MENTAL. I hope I’m not too mental for it this year.

September, September, September – I’ve been doing this blog for just short of nine months, the same amount of time it takes to grow a baby human. Is it a boy or a girl? Don’t be stupid, it’s not a BABY it’s a BLOG – so don’t rush out and start buying bonnets and bibs because THEY WON’T FIT, you’ll be wasting your money, you should spend it on presents for ME instead. But take note – I don’t want any of your PLASTIC TAT or NASTY PERFUMES, you should get me RUBIES, DIAMONDS, EMERALDS, PEARLS, SAPPHIRES (not OPALS, they’re unlucky), and BIG BOTTLES of COCO CHANEL (the only perfume I wear), or a new LAPTOP, or a new HOUSE, or you could just send me the money and I’ll choose my own presents so you don’t have to go to the bother of returning them when I open them up and shout “WHAT’S THIS FUCKING CHEAPCRACK SHITE SO-AND-SO HAS SENT ME?” and then I parcel it up again and send it back to you WITH NO STAMP ON IT.

And don’t be a meanie, don’t think I’ll be embarrassed by your generosity – yes I WILL be embarrassed but I’ll get over it, I have to learn to deal with negative emotions so the more generous you are the more you’ll be HELPING A MENTAL IN HER RECOVERY FROM HER MENTALNESS and if you’ve ANY COMPASSION IN YOU your reward will be a nice, warm, charitable glow in your benevolent little heart.

And it’ll be good practice for when Christmas comes and you have to GET ME MORE PRESENTS.

I like September.

 

 

Ghosty Spirity Spooky Spectrey FOLLOWERS

 

Okay, so today I came online and discovered I had passed 500 followers – 502 (thank you!) and today another two people have clicked follow (thank you!). So just now I thought okay, I’ll go to my widget thingy and click ‘Show Followers’ on the Join thingy on my sidebar and I did that and it says I have 536 followers!!! That’s THIRTY TWO GHOST FOLLOWERS WHO DON’T APPEAR IN MY STATS. Look —

This is on my stats page —

 

Site Stats » My Followers (504)

  • WordPress.com Followers (496) |
  • Email Followers (8)

 

and this is on my email sign up thing where you can show how many followers you have –

 

THE CULT OF DOTTY WELCOMES YOU INTO THE FOLD. LEAVE ALL YOUR CASH IN THE BOX ON THE WALL. I NEED IT TO FEED YOU AND TO BUY THINGS FOR ME.

Join 536 other followers

 

 

 

WHO ARE THE 32?

HAVE THEY COME THROUGH MY OUIJA BOARD?

WILL THEY EAT ME?

I’M SCARED. 

 

 

 

 

EDIT EDIT EDIT — I know who THE 32 are – they’re from FACEBOOK! They’re counted in the WIDGET but they’re not counted in the STATS! Fucking stupid.

I found out because I had a look on the support forum and this is what it says –

 

Show total number of followers – When checked, the widget will display the total number of followers, which is the sum of:

  • WordPress.com users following your blog
  • Any followers from connected Publicize services (Facebook and Twitter)

Note: This doesn’t include blog post (comment) followers.

 

 

I’m still scared.

I rarely go on Facebook, I don’t like it.

What does it WANT?

 

 

 

 

 

Useless Dotty Strikes Again

 

Shitey Sunday Picture Post – NO

Post about the other day when little Emily came to see me – NO

Up to date with reading your blogs and answering emails – FUCK NO 

WHY? Because I’m USELESS. Not just ordinary useless, FUCKING USELESS.

FUCKING USELESS WITH BELLS ON.

BEING MENTAL  – the gift that never stops giving.

 

Hello, My Little Chickadumplings

 

I’m back.

Where have I been? Nowhere.

What have I been doing? I’ve been learning to fly. And I’ve finally mastered it.

I CAN FLY.

Not outside (because I have HERMITITIS and PEOPLE PHOBIA) but round the house from the living room to the bathroom, from the bathroom to the kitchen, from the kitchen back to the living room. Round and round, up and down, back and forward.

WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.

And I did it all by myself. I self-taught myself to FLY and even a BIRD doesn’t teach itself how to fly, its mum or dad teaches it. And I didn’t even use a FLYING MANUAL.

I started in my bedroom – top of the wardrobe to the bed (soft landing except for the big brass balls on each end of the footrail but they’re balls, they only leave bruises). The trick to flying is DO NOT JUMP because jumping is FUTILE, it has nothing to do with flying EXCEPT IF YOU’RE A HARRIER JUMP JET which I’m not. You have to keep in mind that what goes up must come DOWN even faster than when it went UP (this is some sort of science and physics gobbledy-shite to do with GRAVITY that I don’t understand but the SCIENCE BOFFINS can tell you all about it if you really want to know).

No, you mustn’t jump – what you do is you SPRING. From a crouching position on top of the wardrobe you do a little SPRING (from your ankles) and as you spring into the air you flap your arms SLOWLY (this is the mistake everyone makes – they flap-flap-flap like fuckers but FLAPPING LIKE A FUCKER DOESN’T WORK FOR HUMANS) and after the first eight hundred or so times you should start to feel a LIFT into the air instead of feeling a DROP, well not exactly a LIFT but something like a lift, it’s a strange feeling that’s hard to explain to someone who’s never flown before – but don’t worry, if you ever master flying like I have you’ll know what I mean. And then, once you get this LIFT feeling EVERY SINGLE time you spring from the top of the wardrobe to the bed, and once you’ve mastered the correct speed to flap your arms – suddenly, unexpectedly, IT WILL ALL FALL INTO PLACE AND YOU’LL BE FLYING.

Practice, practice, practice – and PERSEVERANCE. That’s why humans aren’t flying all over the place, not because they CAN’T FLY, it’s because they’re TOO LAZY to put in the time required to LEARN HOW TO FLY.

Word of warning – if you’re learning how to fly in your bedroom BE CAREFUL OF YOUR SPEED OR YOU’LL CRASH INTO THE BIG BIT OF WALL ABOVE YOUR BED AND KNOCK YOURSELF OUT AND WAKE UP WITH YOUR PILLOW SOAKED IN BLOOD THAT SPURTED FROM YOUR SPLIT LIP WHEN YOUR TOP FRONT TEETH BIT INTO IT, AND YOUR NOSE WILL HURT LIKE IT’S BROKEN (IT’S NOT, IT’S SWOLLEN BUT STRAIGHT) AND YOU’LL HAVE TWO BIG BLACK EYES BECAUSE YOUR FACE HIT THE WALL FIRST, AND YOU WON’T KNOW IF YOUR LEFT WRIST IS BROKEN OR JUST SPRAINED BUT YOU STILL HAVEN’T GOT AN X-RAY MACHINE OF YOUR OWN YET TO FIND OUT BECAUSE THE DONATIONS HAVE DRIED UP AND NO ONE WILL BUY YOU ONE. AND YOU’LL HAVE A TWISTED KNEE.

But whatever pain you’re in, whatever injuries you sustain, whatever you break, sprain, bruise, cut or twist – IT’S ALL WORTH IT. It’s like childbirth or falling off a horse or a bike – you forget the agony and do it again because what it gives you in the long run is FREEDOM.

(NB – Having a baby doesn’t give you freedom, I just added the childbirth bit to show you how PAINFUL learning to fly can be).

 

 

So now I have to catch up on answering a big pile of comments and reading OVER 600 POST NOTIFICATION EMAILS (oh fuck) because I didn’t come online AT ALL during my learning to fly days because I didn’t want to lose focus but now everyone’s been posting like POSTING FUCKERS – (what happened to the QUIET POSTING PERIOD)? I thought I’d found a way to strap my laptop onto the front of me so that when I’m flying round the house I can still READ YOUR BLOGS and click LIKE and DO A COMMENT - but it doesn’t work because I forgot I NEED MY ARMS TO FLY WITH.

And I forgot to do the Big Blog weekly stats thing before I started learning how to fly – I was keeping up to them too, I was doing them every Monday (almost, I was only a day late last week, I did them on Tuesday). So I’ve fucked that one up good and proper, haven’t I?

Oh well. Never mind.

I CAN FLY.

 

 

 

The Big Blog Collection – Dotty’s Choice

 

I’ve just done a new Dotty’s Choice post on the Big Blog. It gives links to my three favourite Humour/Satire blogs. :-)

 

DOTTY’S CHOICE POST

It’s All In The Eyes – What NOT To Do With A Character’s Eyes If You Don’t Want Your Readers To Piss Themselves Laughing

 

As a reader, I’m going to give you some examples of what NOT to do with your character’s eyes because I’M SICK OF SEEING THIS SORT OF SHITE – if I’m reading a book, or a short story, or a fictional blog post, and you’ve drawn me into the story and I like your characters and I’m reading on because I want to know what happens next, I DON’T WANT TO END UP LAUGHING AT YOU BECAUSE YOU DID SOMETHING STUPID WITH YOUR CHARACTER’S EYES. And that’s what I DO, I laugh at you – then I get MAD and I throw your book/story at the bin after I’ve jumped on it a few times, or I shut down the window that has your blog in it WITH A VERY HARD CLICK OF THE BUTTON. And why do I do that?  BECAUSE YOU’VE TURNED YOUR STORY INTO BOLLOCKS WITH YOUR BAD WRITING. And then I go away and I NEVER read anything of yours EVER, EVER AGAIN.

 

So what do I mean by “what NOT to do with your character’s eyes”?

THIS is what I mean –

“… she rolled her eyes at him.” — We all know this one, it’s a standing joke. You should NEVER roll your character’s eyes because the immediate response of the reader is to laugh and think ‘HE ROLLED THEM BACK.’  — AND THE READER STOPS READING BECAUSE THEY THINK THE REST OF YOUR STORY WILL BE A LOAD OF WANK EVEN IF THEY’VE ENJOYED IT UP TO THAT POINT.

 

More examples (with the additional info of what the reader thinks) –

 

“She fell into his deep blue eyes” — never to be seen again, even after the MISSING posters went up around town and the police got 3 phone calls on the first day.

“Her eyes fell to the mess on the floor” — never to be seen again because without her eyes she couldn’t see to clean up.  

“Her eyes danced around the room” — The Waltz? The Lambada? The Funky Chicken?

“His eyes burned into her” — FIRE! FIRE! HELP!

“Her eyes widened” — Get yourself to Casualty, pet, that sounds serious.

“She ran her eyes across his chest” — Brrmm, brrmm.

“Her eyes were deep pools of fresh, clear water” — Do you need a fishing licence? I’ve heard tales of a MASSIVE KILLER PIKE in there.

“Her eyes pierced into him” — her miraculous stabby eyes.

“Her eyes darted round the room.” — Come here, you little fuckers!!

“He pinned her to the bed with his eyes” — He’d have been better off using a Black & Decker Nail Gun, £39.99 at B&Q

“Her eyes landed on his face” — Aaarrggh, get them off, get them off!!!

“He felt her eyes on his back” — I told you, get them off me! Stop it, you sick bitch!!

“She cast her eyes to the floor” — Ooops, you’ve lost them now – they’ve rolled under the fridge. 

 

And there are LOADS more but I can’t be bothered thinking of them right now. 

 

 

Oh, and another couple of things that make me SEETHE AND WANT TO BATTER YOU TO DEATH WITH YOUR BOOK even though they have nothing to do with eyes –

 

“She subsided onto the floor/chair/bed” – It might be TECHNICALLY CORRECT regarding definition of the word ‘subside’ but it sounds FUCKING STUPID. Don’t do it.

 

AND

 

“He fell onto the plate of chicken and ate it all within seconds.” — written when a character is overly hungry and someone presents him with a plate of chicken. NO HE DIDN’T FALL ONTO THE PLATE OF CHICKEN or the second part of the sentence would read something like “…and ended up with four stitches on his chin and a wing jammed up his left nostril.”

 

 

Eliminate all the SHITE from your work. It’s not creative, it’s not a clever use of language, it’s SHITE. Plain and simple SHITE.

STOP IT.

 

 

KUMBLANT ZOZEECH YOU SNEAKY LITTLE SHITE!!

 

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

 

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.

 

 

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.

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UNCLEAN

UNCLEAN

UNCLEAN

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Fucker.

 

 

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.

 

 

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.

 

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

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.

 

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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).

 

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).

 

 

Hi Di Hi Campers!

I don’t know why I said Hi Di Hi Campers, it’s been going through my head since I got up. Sue Pollard, go away.

I’ve been piddling around on the new blog this morning, making a new front page and doing a post that gives the BLOG STATS of the blog.

‘What?’ I hear you say. ‘But BLOG STATS are secret, never to be seen by eyes that don’t belong to the blog owner!! What trick is this? Why is Dotty displaying her UNMENTIONABLES to all and sundry? Is she mental?’

No, I’m not mental. Well, yes I AM mental, but not in that way. I’m being pro-active in getting YOU to be pro-active – if the stats are a load of shite it means you won’t be getting any clicks to your blog. Simple. And if you can SEE that the stats are a load of shite you might want to help get them up – wheeeeeeeeee – ding-a-ling!

I need a little swig of laudanum.

 

 

 

If You’ve Forgotten To Press Follow On The New Blog, Please Do It

 

If you’ve posted your blog links but forgotten to press the Follow button on the new blog – please will you do it? I know I sound like I’m moaning, and yes, I am moaning, but for a reason – people tend to gravitate towards blogs with more followers and the whole point of this new one is to attract more links from a whole shedload of other blogs we don’t know yet.

Thank you. :-)

 

 

Thank You – The New Blog Is On A Little Roll, Yee Ha!

 

A big thank you to those of you who’ve followed and posted your links on the new blog. So far the category with the most views is Humour/Satire, closely followed by British (YAY!) and Art/Photography.

This afternoon my internet fucked up for about an hour. I had a panic attack – what will I DO if I can’t get online? How will I survive? Talking about survival I almost died a little while ago – I swallowed a HAIR, I don’t know how the fuck I did it – well I do know, it got into my GLASS OF DIET COKE and I didn’t see it and then I swallowed it – and it WRAPPED AROUND MY TONSILS and nearly strangled them and while I was hacking and coughing trying to get it out I was also gipping and gagging because it was a fucking dirty HAIR in my throat. BLEEEUUUUAAARRGGH!

 

Anyway, who hasn’t been to the new blog yet?

Go and see it. Go on. You can add your link.

 

 

Dotty’s New Blog – The Big Blog Collection

 

I’ve made a new blog. This is why I haven’t even LOOKED at my emails to see how many post notifications have backed up, and why I haven’t visited anyone’s blog or done a post for today. I’ve been doing the new one.

I decided I need a new collection of blogs. A BIG one. So this new blog (if anyone goes there) is going to be mainly a blog catalogue where you can add your blog to two of the categories (if you’re British you can add it to the British one too, so you get three categories).

What got me thinking about it was the fact that WordPress have fucked about with the Topics and it’s hard to find new blogs now – I used to like browsing through the Topics but I can’t browse through the Reader in the same way, it’s shite to be honest, so I thought, right, if I can’t go to the blogs, I’ll try and get them to come to ME.

I’ll also be doing a Feature Post every now and again, called Dotty’s Choice – a post about a blog I love or like. No bribes (except HUGE MONETARY ONES will be considered).  But I won’t be posting there every day, this is my blog, and I won’t be commenting on the lists either when (if) the blog gets going, I don’t want it to be TOO time consuming.

It’s not quite finished yet, I’ve still to make a proper front page and piss around with a few other things, but the categories are  done and they’re ready and waiting for people to add their blog links to them.

So who wants to be the first follower?

 

Oops, it’d help if I did a link!!

 

THE BIG BLOG COLLECTION

 

Dotty Does It Again – Dibble Defeated

 

I have a secret to tell you. I wasn’t allowed to say anything before but now I can BECAUSE NO ONE CAN DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT.

The secret is that after the horrendous way Sergeant Sherlock treated me (REMEMBER HIM?), the Big Chief Inspector and I had an agreement – when a complaint is made about me he sends his underlings round to my house to take a statement, all official-like, then, before the statement can be filed, he makes it go away and he makes the complaint go away and if he HAS to he makes the complainants go away too. In return, I don’t tell the newspapers about his druggy Sergeant who tried to take advantage of a poor, vulnerable, mentally-different She-Hermit (ME!).

The agreement worked well when everything went to plan, but in a situation like the one that happened yesterday afternoon when everything DIDN’T go to plan, it can all go tits up.

It started with the underling Dibbles being late. It’s a stipulation of our agreement that I NEVER have to wait for them, EVER, and the resulting panic attacks left me unable to answer the door when the fuckers DID decide to turn up. So what did they do? They BROKE THE DOOR DOWN, picked me up off the floor and arrested me, then they radioed for the Black Maria, threw me inside it and took me to the station where they PUT ME IN A CELL AND LEFT ME THERE TO ROT. All I could do was have panic attack after panic attack and vomit my innards into their nasty metal toilet. A doctor came after fuck knows how long and calmed me down enough for me to ask to see the Big Chief Inspector who didn’t come downstairs to my cell until about three months later.

RESULT

I now have COMPLETE IMMUNITY FROM THE POLICE AND INSTANT DOUBLE DIBBLE PROTECTION IF I EVER FEEL I’M BEING GOT AT. Like a diplomat. Like the Queen. Like Prince William. Like Prince Harry. Like Princess Kathy. Like Prince Charles (who we should never almost forget because he IS the first in line).

I also received a profuse and exorbitant and extremely satisfying apology from the Big Chief Inspector.

I was also awarded a very nice, very shiny QUEEN’S POLICE MEDAL which I spotted in the display cabinet in the Big Chief Inspector’s office – it was originally awarded to the Big Chief Inspector for saving the lives of twenty-four people in something or other, I don’t know what, I wasn’t really listening until he said I deserved it more than he did. Very true.

I was also given the promise (a written promise, naturally) of transport to and from where ever I want to go when I’m ready and able to leave my house – which means that when I’m cured of Hermititis and People Phobia, I’ll NEVER HAVE TO PAY FOR A TAXI FROM TESCO EVER AGAIN.

BOSH!

DOTTY WINS AGAIN.

NO ONE BEATS DOTTY.

 

 

DOTTYGEDDON

 

Today I am practising POSITIVITY and SELF-CONTROL.

I am controlling myself and I am being positive.

 

 

Yes.

 

I am.

 

 

I woke up in a bad mood, not a seething, sawing limbs off slowly bad mood (not my own limbs, some other fucker’s), a RAVING bad mood, a MURDEROUS bad mood, a DOTTYGEDDON bad mood.

 

BUT I have decided to fight it and instead of going off on one I will be a composed ME, a calm ME.

Today I will be THE MODEL OF SERENITY.

 

 

Yes.

 

 

I did a positive thought to negate some negative thoughts –

I CAN’T GO OUT, I HATE THIS FUCKING HERMITITIS, HATE IT, HATE IT, HATE IT, HATE IT, HATE IT, HATE IT, HATE IT, HATE IT, HATE IT, HATE IT

but

at least I don’t have claustrophobia.

 

See, I can do it. I CAN get through this bad mood day without being arrested.

 

And I have a new trick to use when I am in session with my brick. I have a MANTRA to use and now I am going to use it –

 

My brick is my best friend.

My brick is my best friend.

My brick is my best friend.

My brick is my best friend.

My brick is my best friend.

Little Emily is not my best friend, she’s a FUCKING TRAITOROUS BITCH.

My brick is my best friend.

My brick is my best friend.

My brick is my best friend.

My brick is my best friend.

BITCH BITCH BITCH BITCH BITCH I’M GOING TO RIP HER FUCKING HEAD OFF AND FEED IT TO THE HOUND OF THE FUCKING BASKERVILLES.

My brick is my best friend.

My brick

AND THAT SMELLY LITTLE FREAK KUMBLANT, I’LL KICK HIM ALL THE WAY BACK TO SMELLYVANIA OR WHERE EVER IT IS HE COMES FROM BUT FIRST I’LL STAKE THE BASTARD WITH HIS OWN STAKING STICK, I’LL RAM IT AND TWIST IT AND TWIST IT AND TWIST IT RIGHT THROUGH HIS STINKING ROTTEN HEART AND I’LL MAKE HIS FUCKING MOOR-WALKING GIRLFRIEND WATCH IT ALL AND I’LL

 

 

 

 

My br

 

 

 

*

 

 

A Funny Video

 

Well, it made me laugh.

 

*

A Boring Dotty Update On Boring Dotty

 

Here I am, boring old me on my boring old lonesome in my boring old house doing boring fuck all. Why am I even writing this boring blog? To see how many people I can bore on a daily basis?

 

This is what’s been happening in my boring life.

1.  I didn’t see Venus, I saw clouds.

2.  Little Emily and Kumblant are revolting, they’re plotting against me, I don’t know what they’re up to. When Branwell brought my laudanum he told me they’ve been talking to each other and KUMBLANT HAS BEEN TO THEIR HOUSE FOR TEA. Fucking traitors. Off with their heads. Good job I’ve got Branwell to spy on them.

3.  The gas men ARE laying a fucking great big pipe up the street, the bendy yellow one must have been something else, and the noise they’ve been making digging up THE WHOLE PAVEMENT is driving me MENTAL. I called the boss of the gas men a dickwad the other day. He didn’t like it but so fucking what, I don’t like his NOISE.

4.  When I can concentrate on anything at all I’ve been playing with Photoshop, trying to make a nice picture.

5.  I hate the word CREVICE. If I hear anyone say it I want to punch them in the throat. It’s a vile word spoken slowly on a sea of spittle by smelly, toothless old men in raincoats – CRRREVISSSSS. And they rub their hands together when they say it. And they leer. STEPTOE, YOU DIRTY, DIRTY MAN, DON’T SAY THAT NASTY WORD EVER AGAIN.

6.  I’ve spent a lot of quality time with my brick.

7.  When the NOISE from outside is too much I’ve been taking the opportunity to practice screaming.

8.  My screaming practice sessions have resulted in me being back on good terms with Dibble. They’ve been to see me twice and both times, like the good, law-abiding citizen I am, I’ve pointed out the gas vehicles illegally parked up and down the street, and also pointed out the fact that Dibble had to WALK a long way from where they had to park their car to my house. I also asked after my ex-boyfriend, Sergeant Sherlock the Druggy (Piggy-Wig), who somehow scoffed a HUGE pile of my Cumberlaudanum sausage sandwiches the last time I saw him, and they told me he’s still on suspension. Good. No one fucks with Dotty and gets away with it.

 

That’s it. Boring. Well, I did warn you.

 

Wanky Wednesday One Word Post

 

 

shite

 

 

 

 

Will Some Kind Soul Help Dotty, Please?

 

The noisy fuckers are here. They were here at half seven this morning, but they haven’t turned the gas off yet. In case it gets too bad and I can’t write a post today I thought I’d ask some things I’ve been wanting to know how to do for ages so if anyone knows the answers I’ll be very grateful if you’ll tell me (I know some of you do because I see you do what I want to know how to do). Please.

1.  How do you put a Youtube video in a post?

2.  How do you put a Youtube video in a reply?

3.  How do you make a pingback thingy? Sometimes I do a link to someone’s blog and it makes a pingback, other times it doesn’t.

Thank you.

 

Dotty’s 200th Post (Don’t Get Excited, It’s Fucking Boring)

 

Here I am! I’m not dead, the gas board haven’t blown me up yet but two days of NOISE was too much. This is the third day and it hasn’t been as bad this afternoon but yesterday they were making a MASSIVE HOLE on the pavement right outside my front garden so they had a BIG DIGGER and a LITTLE DIGGER and a GREAT BIG DRILL and altogether it sounded like they were drilling through my skull (not in a good, trepanning way) to dig a hole in my brain. I had to hide in my tumble dryer. I took my earplugs but I could still hear it all and I took my laptop but I couldn’t concentrate enough to respond to your comments with the intelligent, insightful, deep and meaningful comment replies I always give and I didn’t want to skimp on my usually soaring standards of intellectual conversation with you all (y’all) or I’d have lowered the tone of the whole blog and you’d have had to go elsewhere for your daily dose of profundity and high thinking.

So anyway, this is my 200th post. For someone with wordy block that’s good going, isn’t it? Except it isn’t, really, because I can’t plan anything yet, it’s like wordy block has morphed into WORDY BOGGLE – if I think any further ahead than the post I’m sitting down to write everything in my head goes to SHITE and any attempt to form a cohesive, ordered plan for a story/poem/Great Novel That Will Change The World only serves to dam up ALL the words. The creative bit seems to be coming back IF I DON’T INTERFERE WITH IT but it’s acting like an unrestrained, separated flock of wild, shaggy sheep running free on the moors, galloping from here to there to everywhere with no discipline or purpose to where they go or what they do. A sheepdog is needed to round them up and pen them in but WHERE DO I FIND MY SHEEPDOG? WHERE IS MY SHEP?

Fuck it, that’s me done for now. I’m going to cook another big pile of Cumberland sausages because the gas has to be turned off again all day tomorrow so they can shove their big pipe up the street – no remarks, please, that’s what they’re going to do, I don’t know how else to word it because the twatting big drill’s started up again and I need to SCREEEEAAAMMM!!!

 

Dotty Was Nearly GASSED And BLOWN TO BITS…

 

… and it WASN’T MY FAULT this time. The gas board have been replacing all the pipes on the street and they had to dig a hole in my garden path right next to the house – NOISY NOISY NOISY even with earplugs. A while after they’d finished I thought I could smell gas but I thought, ‘Nah, Dotty, you’re having yourself on, you’re imagining it because the gas board are outside.’

A bit later I started with a little headache so I went to the back door for some fresh air and a ciggie. When I went back into the hallway IT STANK OF GAS, really strong, so I rang Lottie who came round and asked a gasman what was happening and guess what the fucker said? He said ‘Oh yeah, there’s a big leak. The drill hit the pipe. Someone’s coming to cap it off.’

So now I’ve NO GAS.

And the FUCKING FUCKERS NEARLY KILLED ME and they didn’t even have the decency to knock and tell me I was going to die.

Customer care, my arse. More like Customer MURDER.

 

 

(I wouldn’t have answered if they HAD knocked, but that’s not the point).

 

Shitey Sunday Sausage Picture Post

Cumberland Sausages. Did you know I love them?

I can spell my favourite words with them.

I can watch them live free in the wild fields of Cumberland.

and seeing as it’s Sunday, I can appreciate their spiritual beliefs.

I love my Cumberland sausages. I want them to be perfect

so I applied for this job and got it -

Hip hip hooray

A Cumberland sausage a day

Will keep the mentals away

Oh happy happy day

Dotty Hermit Tip – How To Get A Skelf Out Of Your Finger When It’s In Too Deep For Tweezers

 

I had a skelf this morning on the inside of my right index finger. How the fuck did it get there? I don’t know. I don’t know WHEN it got there either, I only noticed it because I felt a sting and when I looked it was going red but inside the red was the bit of brown and I thought that’s a skelf, Dotty, and it’s become infected. That’s the thing about skelfs though, they’re sly little fuckers that worm their way under your skin like my dead husband ex-Simon did when I first met him.

So how do you get them out? Tricky. It can be a long and arduous process, causing stress and anxiety and panic attacks and post-traumatic stress thingy and a crick in your neck if it’s in an awkward place like mine was and you have to twist to see it. Little skelfs can be much worse than big ones – a big thick one usually comes out easily, get a good grip between your fingernails/tweezers and PULL, slowly but firmly, and out it comes. Mine was a little slivver of a skelf, long and thin and liable to snap if I was too rough with it, leaving a bit of wood in my finger that would infect, infect, infect and slowly poison my blood with nasty infecty germs and if I couldn’t get my finger amputated in time it would very swiftly KILL ME.

I’ll take you through what I did to get it out, step by step.

 

TACTICAL SKELF SUCKING

The first thing I did is the first thing everyone does when they spot a skelf in their finger – I sucked it. This is the correct thing to do. There’s a knack to sucking a skelf out, and sometimes, if you do it properly and the skelf isn’t in too deep, it works. What you have to do is NOT suck your finger like you would a lollipop, you have to use TACTICAL SUCKING or you’ve no chance.

1.  CLOSE your mouth and pucker your lips

2.  Clamp your puckered lips round the skelf area, sealing it in whilst leaving as small a gap as possible through which to suck.

3.  Poke the tip of your tongue through the little gap and put some saliva on the skelf area (keeping the area wet is IMPORTANT because it softens the skin making extraction easier and more likely).

4.  Suck. Alternate between hard, rapid little sucks and long, long sucks that use maximum suction and make the blood rush to your head.

5.  Keep checking the skelf area with the tip of your tongue to see if it’s popped out through the skin. If you feel the skelf, stop sucking and have a look, you might be able to pull it out with your teeth or your fingernails or some eyebrow tweezers.

If sucking alone doesn’t work, (it usually doesn’t), move on to the next step.

TAKE NOTE, TACTICAL SUCKING MUST BE EMPLOYED THROUGHOUT THE FOLLOWING, MORE INVASIVE PROCEDURES.

 

FINGERNAILS, TEETH AND TWEEZERS

We don’t need to discuss teeth or tweezers very much, they’re useful for nipping out a skelf if the end is showing, or if it’s thick, but the most important tool of the three is your fingernails because they’re not only used for extraction, they’re used for SQUEEZING and MANIPULATION OF THE SKELF. Be careful though, most people drive the skelf in deeper when they use their fingernails, they don’t have the fine motor skills required and would be better off using the next method —

 

 

THE SAFETY PIN METHOD

The safety pin method is, unarguably, the most successful way of getting a skelf out, particularly if the skelf has been there for a couple of days and the skin has grown back over it. Take your safety pin, open it, bend it back so the big side becomes a little handle. Wipe the pointy tip with an antibacterial wipe or squirt a drop of antibacterial handwash on it and give it a wash before you stick it in your finger.

What you’re aiming to do with the safety pin is make a hole in the skin big enough for the top of the skelf to be exposed with enough of it showing for you to get a grip and pull it out. To do this, dig carefully at your skin with the safety pin, lifting one thin layer of skin at a time or it’ll hurt, (KEEP SUCKING AT REGULAR INTERVALS) and layer by layer the skin will move back and make a little hole. Don’t use your teeth for pulling the skelf out or it might snap, fingernails are best because of the precise control they allow; failing that, use tweezers.

If the skelf is thin and long and deep, like mine was, you’ll have to dig a little tunnel in your skin instead of merely digging a hole because the skelf has no chance of coming out without snapping and leaving a bit inside your finger so it’ll have to be lifted out with the safety pin. Open your skin using the method laid out in the above paragraph, folding the skin back as you go. Remember to use TACTICAL SKELF SUCKING to keep the area soft and free of blood. After a while, the whole skelf should be exposed and you can gently lift it out with the safety pin, or suck gently and see if comes out that way. When it’s out, fold the skin back over the wound and it’ll all knit back together in no time.

 

A LEECH

Do leeches suck skelfs out? I don’t know, I’ve never owned a leech. I’ll have to ring the pet shop and get some, they’d have saved me a load of pissing about this morning if I could’ve just took a little leech out of its tank or its cage or whatever they live in, stuck it on my skelf and hey presto, no skelf. 

 

STANLEY KNIFE

Some men like to use a Stanley knife to get their skelves out. They slice the skin in the place where they think the skelf is lying and sometimes they get it right and the skelf floats out on the blood, but mostly they miss (no surprise there when they can’t even aim into a toilet bowl) and end up trying again and again and then they have to sit in casualty for hours waiting for stitches. No, unless you’re skilled with the Stanley knife (like me) DO NOT USE IT ON YOUR SKELF.

I used it, after the other methods didn’t work. One neat slice, a few squeezes, a lot of blood, and BOSH, got the fucker. No more skelf.

AND I DIDN’T HAVE TO USE A CUMBERLAND SAUSAGE!

 

 

N.B. The success of one of my other Hermit Tips – 

How To Get An Eyelash Out Of Your Eye When There’s No One Around To Get It Out For You

has been astonishing – it has loads of views because someone searches for it at least once a day – is it you, you stalker of MY CREEPY & FREAKY BUT TRUE search terms page? Which reminds me, I haven’t updated it for ages, I’ll have to do it this week.

 

 

Have a nice weekend, everybody.

 

 

Dotty v Blog – Round 1 (DING-DING)

 

The day before yesterday me and Blog had a big argument. Blog started it by accusing me of feeding it with junk food – Cumberland sausages, McCain Chippy Chips, Hobnobs etc etc – and making it FAT.

‘I want healthy food. Skinny blog food,’ it said. ‘If you don’t feed me properly I’ll grow too big to move and then I’ll POP.’

‘Eh? What are on you about?’

‘What you’re doing to me is abuse. You’re abusing me – you’re a FEEDER, one of those nasty sadists who spend their day shovelling junk food into the mouths of the obese to make them even more obese.’

‘Shut up. I write posts for you, I thought that’s what you wanted me to do.’

‘You write SHITE – piles and piles of greasy, gristly, fatty SHITE and you force it down my throat EVERY SINGLE DAY. Sometimes TWICE a day. It makes me SICK. Literally. I want a gastric bypass.’

‘Are you kidding me?’

‘In future, two out of three posts go in the Trash instead of being Published. Do it or I’ll tick all the Comments boxes again. And I’ll make Spam out of your Follower’s comments.’

‘You just said you don’t want to eat junk food.’

‘Spam isn’t junk food, it’s a nourishing staple of all blogs.’

‘So you’re blackmailing me?’

‘Yes.’

‘WELL FUCK OFF AND STARVE THEN. I won’t write anything at all.’

‘Right. Good. You fuck off as well.’

So I did.

 

I didn’t write anything. I stayed away, I didn’t even log in. If that’s how Blog felt about me, accusing me of being a FEEDER, saying I’m abusing it – well, it could go and take a flying fuck to itself. I was upset, heartbroken – it’s not nice being accused of terrible things when all you’ve tried to do is your best. So I looked at other things on the internet instead but I was like one of those little floating dots you get in your eye when you’ve been looking at the sun too long, drifty, wandering, pointless. I cried a bit (a lot).

When I turned my laptop on this morning I had no intention of going anywhere near Blog. I was going to go back to

PEOPLE OF WALMART

to look at more of their photos of nice Americans, but then I thought I might spot LISA buying her water, and I realised I was missing you all (y’all).

So I logged in. Blog was crying. Sobbing. ‘Dotty, I’m hungry,’ it said. ‘Feed me.’

‘No. I haven’t come to see you, I’ve come to see the people.’

‘Please, please, I’m starving, my belly’s in spasm, I’m wasting away, I’ll die if you don’t feed me. You want me to die, don’t you, you don’t love me any more! WAAAAAGGHHH!’

‘If I wanted you to die I could kill you with one click.’

‘Please, please, please, please, please.’

‘Stop begging, it’s undignified. And wipe your nose.’

‘PLEASE??

‘Where’s my apology?’

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’ll never do it again. I don’t care how fat I get, I just want you to FEED ME!’

 

So here it is, Blog – your fucking dinner. I’m still in two minds as to whether I want it to fill you up and keep you going till next time, or whether I want you to choke on it and die.

 

Dotty Has A Nice Day Despite The Stinky Bog Smell

 

Little Emily walked down to see me straight from her yomp across the moors yesterday morning. She knocked at the back door, I opened it, and there she stood – and stood – and stood – not even a hello. She just stood there looking at me, sad-eyed and droopy-mouthed, holding out a pretty little cloth bag tied at the top with a blue ribbon. I asked her what what was wrong and she looked down, slowly, and so did I and the hems of her skirts were BOGGING with BOG. She handed me the little cloth bag then raised her skirts a bit to show me her little boots but I could hardly SEE her little boots because they were covered in BOG. WET, CLUMPY, STINKY STINKING BOG.

‘Go away! You’re not coming in here like that!’

‘I stepped in a bog.’

‘Fuck off. You stink!’

‘Please, Dotty! If I return with another frock ruined Charlotte will die of apoplexy. Help me!’

‘No!’

‘Please?’

‘Oh for fuck’s sake. Wait there. Don’t move ONE INCH.’

I didn’t want her to stay wet in case she got ill again and died so I ran upstairs and grabbed some clothes and a pair of trainers from my wardrobe, then ran back downstairs. She was still at the back door.

‘Here,’ I said. ‘Go and get changed in the shed and I’ll put your clothes in the washer.’ I gave her the bundle of clothes and the trainers and off she went down the garden.

Five minutes later her shout nearly split my ears open.

‘DOTTEEEEEEEEE!’

I went to the back door. ‘WHAT?’

‘YOU HAVE GIVEN ME BREECHES!’

‘THEY’RE COMBAT PANTS. PUT THEM ON.’

‘NO! I REFUSE!’

‘WELL YOU’LL HAVE TO GO HOME THEN.’

Silence. I went back in to move my collection of Persil Non-Bio Washing Powder Tablets boxes from where they live in front of the washer, then I went to the back door again to shout on her to hurry up, our Cumberland sausages were getting cold. She came out of the shed, ran up the garden as quick as you like, dropped her boggy little boots on the path, and shoved me out of the way to get into the house.

‘Woah, Neddy! Slow down!’

‘Was I seen? Did anyone see me?’

‘No. Give me your clothes and I’ll steep them in the sink. They’re not going in the washer like that. You can handwash them first, when we’ve had our breakfast.’

‘I will do it now. This – attire – is unseemly. Vulgar and unbecoming.’

‘They suit you. They go with your blouse.’ And they did, she looked nice in them.

I sat at the kitchen table and scoffed my Cumberland sausage sandwiches down my neck at double speed because I was ALMOST put off by the disgusting BOG STINK that got worse and worse the more she scrubbed at her skirt hems. I finished in record time.

Watching her wring out the skirts with her little hands made me shudder – if she could squeeze that much water out of a skirt imagine what she could do to a neck. The skirts were cotton but I wasn’t going to chance them on a hot wash in case they shrank or the dye in the top skirt ran into the white underskirts. I’m not stupid, I know how to do a washing. So I bunged them in and turned on the washer while little Emily sat and had her breakfast (2 more sandwiches than her last total), and we were talking (well, she was) about how fashions have become horrendous since her day, when there were four quiet knocks at the back door.

Kumblant. I’d forgotten he was coming.

Little Emily just looked at me (she was doing a lot of looking at me yesterday) and carried on eating her breakfast. She knows I don’t answer the door if I don’t know who it is. I looked at the back door. I couldn’t leave him there, he’d come for his breakfast and if he didn’t have his Cumberland sausages to fill him up, god knows who he might eat.

I ran to the door and opened it before little Emily had chance to run off and hide. She squealed and a spray of chewed-up Cumberland sausage sandwich flew out of her mouth.

‘Hello, Kumblant,’ I said.

‘Hello.’

‘Come in. This is little Emily. LITTLE EMILY! This is Kumblant.’

She might be a lot of things but she isn’t rude or bad mannered, in fact manners are EVERYTHING to her. She wiped the corners of her mouth with her little hanky, took a deep breath to compose herself, and stood up. I could see she was mortified by being caught wearing trousers and I did feel a bit sorry for her because I suppose to her it was like standing naked in front of a stranger. But she wasn’t naked, she was wearing my good combat pants, and she’d plastered on a nice smile for Kumblant so when they’d finished their introductory pleasantries I told them both to sit down while I got Kumblant’s breakfast ready.

Kumblant has lovely manners too. He waited for little Emily to sit before he climbed up onto his own chair. Then he said to me, ‘I clean stink boots before knock. You go out?’

‘No, they’re not mine, they’re little Emily’s.’

She looked at him (look, look, look) and said, ‘You have cleaned my boots?’

‘Yes.’

‘Thank you, Kumblant, you have my eternal gratitude; I did not relish the thought of the task. Dotty, where is the bag I gave you?’

Eh? Oh yes, the pretty little cloth bag. I got it from on top of the bread bin where I’d put it and gave it to her. She untied the blue ribbon and held the bag out to Kumblant.

‘May I offer you a bonbon?’

‘What is bonbon?’

‘A confection, sweet and delicious. I, myself, made them.’

He took one. He put it in his mouth and closed his eyes and chomped away. When he’d finished he opened his eyes and said,’ Is like Angel smile in Kumblant’s mouth.’

Little Emily’s eyes lit up and she beamed a great big smile at him. ‘Have another,’ she said.

And he did.

When he’d had his breakfast, Kumblant gave me a massive box of workman’s earplugs he had in his road cleaning cart outside, and the next part of his story for me to post. And that was that, we had a very nice morning and when they’d gone I had a nice afternoon reading my book because little Emily’s dress was fine and unshrunk and she went off home in clean clothes and clean boots, and Kumblant went off to work in the knowledge that he wasn’t going to eat anyone because he’d not only had his Cumberland sausage sandwiches, he had a bag of bonbons to keep him going if he got peckish. And little Emily is going to make him some more.

 

I like it when my friends get along with each other. I might have another go at doing a little party one day.

 

A Very, Very Short Post That Isn’t Really A Post

 

I’m not doing a post today. I’m reading a book — for the first time in fuck knows how long I can concentrate on reading something longer than a blog post because this morning Kumblant brought me some squishy workman’s earplugs that block out all outside noises and leave me with just the noises in my head to listen to – oh, and my heart beat has moved up to my brain, bdum, bdum, bdum, so at least I know I’m not dead. 

The book’s called ‘The Wilding’ and it’s by Maria McCann and it was longlisted for the Orange Prize and it was the top book on one of the stacks in my collection of books to read because I stack them as I get them so the most recent acquisition goes on top. Up to now it’s fair to middling and I haven’t thrown it out of the window in disgust although in my opinion the MC sounds just the slightest bit too girly for a 26 year old man (I thought he WAS a girl in the first few sentences of the book) although he isn’t girly, but he isn’t exactly a stud either. Normally something like that would bother me enough for me not to continue (so many books, so little time) but it’s not a heavy read by any stretch so I’m just enjoying it for what it is (good story, nice suspense build up, gentle humour etc etc).

So, sorry and all that, but no post today – unless I get sick of the tinnitus and being reminded I’m alive by the bdum.

 

 

Who Invented Maths? And Why Did They Do It? And Why Has No One Hunted Them Down?

 

I don’t like maths. Adding, subtracting, multiplying, dividing and whatever other shite you do to numbers sends my brain all SKEWE-WHIFF. If I ever have to do a sum I use my fingers which automatically shows me up for what I am – A MATHS DUNCE. How anyone could LIKE maths is beyond me, it’s difficult, it’s boring and it’s NEVER ENDING. It goes on and on FOREVER, beyond the infinite, on and on and on. 

Two and two make four – yes, I get that bit, but WHY does it make four?

And why does two minus four make minus two? You can’t have minus two, when you get to zero THAT’S IT, there’s nothing beyond NOTHING.

 

FRACTIONS – huh?

PERCENTAGES – eh?

ALGEBRA – biggleboggle-flummityfuck

GEOMETRY – I think my stomach’s rumbling

TRIGONOMETRY – Sorry, was I snoring?

 

People spend their WHOLE LIVES trying to solve one maths problem and then they die before they can find the answer, smothered by the tons of paper they’ve scribbled their mind-boggling shite onto. BUY A CALCULATOR, NUMPTY – not one of those solar powered ones though, get a good battery calculator, it’ll save you years of work.

And why is everyone who likes maths called GRAHAM?

And why can’t any of the Grahams SPELL PROPERLY? It’s GOOGLE not GOOGOL, you PLANCKS.

 

 

I’m going to count my Cumberland sausages. If I have twelve and I eat fourteen does that mean I’ll still have two left?

 

 

Shitey Sunday Picture Post – Andy Murray

 

I can’t wait for Wimbledon to start. I don’t watch any sports on telly, they’re all shite, but I like tennis when Andy Murray plays. And when Rafael Nadal plays. I like Andy because he’s OURS and I like Rafa because he’s FIT. Well, Andy can be a BIT FIT sometimes and I think when he gets his jaw problem sorted out he’ll be MORE FIT. I’m going to try and help him –

Look at his nice teeth.

 

 

Here’s a side view of his nice teeth.

 

 

 

We can’t see your full set of nice teeth, Andy!

 

 

 

It’s becoming painful, isn’t it? I’m going to help you close your mouth now –

 

 

 

BOP!

 

Oops! Was that too hard? Sorry!

 

 

Oh well, you’ve got to be cruel to be kind. I might not have made him any FITTER but at least his jaws will be ready for Wimbledon.

 

 

 

Dotty Had A Visitor This Morning

 

Guess who my visitor was? LITTLE EMILY! She’s back, she’s recovered from her illness, she’s writing again, she’s going for her morning walks again, she’s cooking again (she brought me some sort of porridgey slop that looked like wallpaper paste and tasted like mouldy bread). She still looks a bit peaky and thin but I’ll soon fatten her up – she ate four Cumberland sausage sandwiches this morning, not bad but nowhere near the amount she usually scoffs. It won’t take long to train her up again though, I told her to imagine she’s entered a trencherman’s competition and she has to beat a line-up of big fat farmers who can eat for England and probably the rest of the world except when I mention the rest of the world and the countries in it she doesn’t know half the names because they’ve changed since her day, for instance Ceylon is now Sri Lanka, Siam is now Thailand, Persia is now Iran and none of the new names sound half as romantic as the old ones did so she doesn’t like them.

She didn’t have much news to tell me seeing as she’s been laid up, but she did tell me Branwell’s in trouble again with debt collectors – the other day one came to the house, a big ugly arm-snapper who kicked Branwell round the garden and told him he’d better pay up or he’ll come back and kill him. Poor Branwell, I wondered why he hadn’t called in for a natter since his last delivery of laudanum. I told little Emily to tell him he can stay here for a few days if he needs somewhere to hide but she said he’s paid the debt, he stole Papa Brontë’s spare pocket watch (he hasn’t noticed it’s gone yet) and pawned it.

I started to tell her about my day out with Branwell but he’d already told her all about it so I told her about my trip to the hospital with Lottie instead. She said she wishes she’d known about it, she’d have come with me, so next time I have to go she’s going to come too! She wants to see the machines – they have such a great fascination for machines, these Victorians, I wish they’d left well alone and maybe we’d be living in a different, quieter world today – ah, but then I might not be writing my little blog, or be able to cook my Cumberland sausages so nicely, or watch my lovely Ian Somerhalder on telly (Tuesday is the last episode of this series — what am I going to do???) so I suppose there are some good sides.

I told her all about meeting Kumblant. She got a bit stroppy when I said I was allowing him to tell his story on my blog, she stamped her foot and said SHE was promised her own post and why had I let someone else go first? I got round her moodiness by reminding her of how ill she’d been and how long it is since she’s visited, and then I told her some of the hardships Kumblant has had to face and when I’d finished she said she pitied him and he sounds nice and she’s okay about him going first with the posts if it’ll help him slay more monsters.

So that’s it really, we had a little catch-up, we had some breakfast, we’ve made plans for her to come back again tomorrow, and now I’m going to cook some more Cumberland sausages for my tea tonight.

And I’ve just noticed something — there isn’t ONE swear word in this post. I wonder why? There’s something not quite right about a post without a swear word. Should I do one now?

Hmmmm.

No, I won’t. I’ll leave it swearless even though when I hover the mouse over Publish it feels like I’m going out without my skirt on.

 

 

 

Dotty The Mental Bitch – Ignorant Selfish Bastard Bloggers

 

I’ve just been in to my Comments to do my replies and I’ve had a Comment from someone, I won’t say who it was but it WASN’T someone from the mental health blogging community, nor was it someone who’s been a long time follower on here, in fact this person has only ever Liked a few things, I can’t remember them making a comment before. It was on the post where I said I was dreading going to hospital, in reply to the comment that I made to everyone after I approved the comments. Basically this person said why did I post that post because they read my blog for entertainment.

WELL WHO THE FUCK SAID IT’S ONLY AN ENTERTAINMENT BLOG – THE CLUE IS IN THE TITLE, DON’T THE WORDS ‘BEING MENTAL’ MEAN ANYTHING TO YOU, YOU IGNORANT FUCKING PLEB? And what’s it got to do with you anyway? If you didn’t like the post you could have just clicked away from it. At the time I dithered over whether or not I should post it, but I DID post it, and no one else had any complaints, everyone was lovely.

Coincidentally, something similar was posted the other day by a blogger I follow regarding the nature of their blog being compromised and I’ll say the same thing here as I did there – IT’S MY FUCKING BLOG, I’LL DO WAHT I WANT WITH IT. Next time you want to complain about what a blogger has posted on their own blog READ THE BLOG MORE THOROUGHLY TO SEE WHAT IT’S ABOUT BEFORE YOU SPOUT YOUR INANE COMMENTS. TWAT.

This PERSON has annoyed me. I’ll admit, yesterday wasn’t a good day and I’ve been ready to blow all day,and maybe I’m taking it out on them so to be fair I’m going to take it out on ALL SELFISH BASTARD BLOGGERS AND YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE.

The ones who don’t credit other bloggers by posting where they found something, or which blogger they got information from.  BAD MANNERS, FUCKERS.

which leads to –

The ones who COPY YOUR IDEAS BLATANTLY. FUCK OFF, THINK OF YOUR OWN STUFF.

The PLAYERS who follow and comment and are all nicey nicey until they’ve got what they want (a load more followers on their own blog) AND THEN THEY FUCK OFF. What’s that all about? PLUNDER AND PILLAGE. Think you’re a big Viking?

The ones who Follow you, then as soon as you Follow them back they UNFOLLOW you but they’re too stupid to wait for a week or so until they move further down the list, so you can see straight away it’s them.

This post is going to lose me a SHEDLOAD of followers, but so fucking what, I’m posting it anyway because I’m MENTAL, I’m supposed to say things that ‘normal’ people are too polite (HA!) to say and if what I say pisses you off enough to make you want to unfollow me then that’s because I’VE HIT A BIG FUCKING NERVE and you’re GUILTY OF SOMETHING I SAID. And if you don’t believe what I say is TRUE, think of poor Carrie in Homeland – SHE KNOWS THE TRUTH. Paranoia comes in very handy sometimes, it’s like having second sight but instead of I SEE DEAD THINGS it’s I SEE TRUE THINGS.

 

AAAAAAARRRRRRGGGGGHHHHH!!

I KNOW HOW TO STOP GETTING COMMENTS EMAILS WITHOUT UNTICKING THE BOX

 

Do you want to know how to stop getting all those emails when you forget to untick the box on blogs that haven’t had the thingy disabled?

 

 

 

 

Do you?

 

 

 

 

 

 

I know how to.

 

 

 

 

 

I did some investigating while I can’t concentrate enough to write a post.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Do you want me to tell you?

 

 

 

 

Or are you okay as you are?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Have you sorted it out?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Do you always remember to untick the box?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

HA HA

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Okay, enough tormenting.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Go to Reader — Blogs I Follow and at the bottom of the left hand column you’ll see, in small faded letters –

‘MANAGE EMAIL DELIVERY SETTINGS’

click on it, and down the list you’ll see a ‘FOLLOW COMMENTS’ box – untick it, and VOILA, no more emails.

 

 

Don’t all thank me at once.

 

The Shitey Sunday Dotty Picture Post – # 1

 

La la la la la. Bored, bored, bored. Nothing to write, AGAIN.

What is it about Sundays that makes them so shitey?

Here’s a picture of a pigowl.

He’s lovely, isn’t he?

I don’t like his glasses though.

He should have gone to SpecSaver.

TWIT TWOOOOOOOIINNK
TWIT TWOOOOOOOIINNK

Dotty In A Bloggy Dither – Help!

 

I need to catch up with reading blogs but I’ve followed so many good blogs I’m becoming overwhelmed by it all. I’ve got a big pile of emails of posts to go through, and I’ve got my favourites that I love to go and read two or three posts at a time, and I’ve got the blogs I look at on the WordPress Reader, and I’ve got the new blogs I’ve followed and want to read more of because I like the look of them, and I’ve got the blogs of people who’ve followed me to check out.

I FEEL SO FUCKING GUILTY that I’m not being a good bloggy friend when you’re all so nice to me and keep coming back. And I feel guilty because I might miss you out and then you’ll think I don’t like your blog, or you’ll think I’m being an ignorant cow when I’m not deliberately ignoring you I’m just finding it really, really hard to keep up – to the point where I didn’t want to come online this morning because I knew all the posts I missed on my day off yesterday were waiting for me, and those from the day before that I hadn’t got round to, and the day before that, and the day before that. And I know myself too well, if something I love doing starts to become a chore I jack it in, drop it, bye bye hard thing to do, and that’s it, I never go back to it – but I don’t want to stop doing this, I love everything about blogging (except WordPress giving me a new personality).

How do you manage to keep up without spending every minute of every day online? And without feeling guilty and horrible for not visiting everyone’s blogs?

 

I Am Not Amy, I Am Not Amy, I Am Not Amy

 

No one else seems to be Amy, just me.

I appear as Amy when I comment on a post using the comment box, even on this, my own blog where I have to MODERATE the comment, but when I reply in the Comments section of the Dashboard, I’m Dotty again.

My gravatar picture still appears as Dotty.

I can still Like things as Dotty.

So if I comment on your blog I might come through as Amy.

I think it’s a glitch. Or I’ve gone completely mental.

I know which one I’d bet on.

 

 

What The Fuck Have They Done To The Comments Now???????

 

I can’t comment on anyone’s blog without it coming up with a STUPID NEW THING that posts my comment as AMY!

And a log in box.

WHO THE FUCK IS GOING TO LOG IN EVERY TIME THEY WANT TO COMMENT??

NO ONE, THAT’S WHO.

 

FUCKING IDIOT FUCKARSES

 

 

An Unpoetic Woman Unpoetically Scorned

 

Up your arse stick your flowery words

and thorny red roses

in a bunch, up your bum.

I’m no longer your wife, your wench,

your skivvy, your drudge;

twenty three years thrown aside,

cast away – for what?

Some dirty young slut.

 

Your ego, your death-fear,

it’s all about you

YOU YOU YOU

you middle-aged twat;

mourning the grey, the droop, the sag,

and those fucking great bags round your eyes –

they cannot lie.

 

Plead a little more, bastard.

Listening? Me? Not a chance,

not a hope in the belly of Hell.

Crawl, you creep,

beg, whimper, whine,

weep me your vows, your promises -

I’ve heard it all before, remember.

 

Why are you here again,

howling your sorrys?

Didn’t you hear me the first fifteen times?

Get it through your head -

you left me, you lost me, 

you shagged us stone dead.

 

Now – now I am ME, free, 

I’ll do as I please,

stay in, stay out, shag about if I choose.

AHA! That look on your face!

I see it, I do!

Ownership.

Jealousy wants me under you, (lying bored),

but acting isn’t my job any more.

 

Leave me alone, now. 

Fuck off.

Go away and rot.

Stick up your arse all your lies and deceits,

up up up

right the way up through your shrivelled old colon,

all the way up through your gutless old guts,

up up up

till they choke you, you cheat -

as one day they assuredly must.

 

 

Dotty The Mental Mystic – Horoscopical Characteristics Of Your Star Sign

 

I thought it’s about time I revealed my mystical talents to you all (y’all) so today’s post is going to be about the characteristics of your star sign.

I’ll begin with Cancer the Crab because I’m Cancer the Crab and I want to start with ME.

 

 

CANCER THE CRAB

4th sign of the zodiac

Element – Water

Ruling planet – The mOOn

Cancer the Crab is the star sign of the true She-Hermit / Hermit. Ruled completely by our ruling planet the Moon, it’s in our nature to retreat, to hide from the big, scary world in the cosy confinement of our shells. Cancer the Crabs are perfectionists, introverts, thinkers, sensitive to the extreme. We’re instinctive and cautious, secretive and sentimental. We’re deeply complex which is why nobody else can understand us and also why We Who Are Mental are more than likely to have been born under the sign of Cancer the Crab than any other sign (lunatic/lunar – it’s all connected). Also, Cancer the Crab is the most caring sign, the most intelligent sign, the most creative sign, the most charismatic sign – I could go on and on, but I wouldn’t want to give anyone anyone an inferiority complex. We can’t help it if we are blessed.

If we could just overcome our shyness we could RULE THE WORLD and believe me, the world would be a kinder place if it was ruled by Cancer the Crabs.

 

 

LEO THE LION

5th sign of the zodiac

Element – Fire

Ruling planet – The Sun

I’m scared of Leo the Lions. They’re growly, they have big teeth and long fingernails, and they also have a LOT of hair on their heads, usually golden blonde. Growly, blonde, claw-fingered Leo the Lions are TERRIFYING, a mixture of unpredictable aggressiveness and (not that I’m hairist or anything) worrying stupidity. They’re proud, arrogant, bossy, vain flashy show-offs, and they eat zebras and big game hunters.

Hairdressers and cannibalistic psycho rippers are born under the sign of Leo the Lion.

 

 

VIRGO THE VIRGIN

6th sign of the zodiac

Element – Earth

Ruling planet – Mercury

Virgo the Virgins are not virgins, it’s all a trick to make everyone else believe they’re sweet and innocent. I used to know a Virgo the Virgin, she was a right slag, she had more men than the Grand Old Duke of York —

hang on a minute, I need a little sing -

 

♬ ♪♪ Ohhhh, the Grand Old Duke of York,

He had ten thousand men,

He marched them up to the top of the hill

And he marched them down again.

And when they were up they were up,

And when they were down they were down,

And when they were only half way up

They were neither up nor down. ♪♪♬

 

That’s better.

Prostitutes (male and female) and porn people are Virgo the Virgins.

 

 

LIBRA THE SCALES

7th sign of the zodiac

Element – Air

Ruling planet – Venus

I like Libra the Scales. It’s a nice sign. If you need someone to play mediator find a Libra the Scales and they’ll sort it all out in two ticks. Those born under the sign of Libra the Scales are charming, graceful, civilised, well-balanced, sophisticated, elegant, level-headed and full of justice. They’re also good with numbers.

Diplomats, judges, tax fiddlers and boxing referees are all Libra the Scales.

 

 

SCORPIO THE SCORPION

8th sign of the zodiac

Element – Water

Ruling planet – Pluto

Once a Scorpio the Scorpion gets its pincers into you it’ll NEVER let you go. Jealous and possessive, Scorpio the Scorpion is relentless, broody, intense, determined and while they will often be loyal to their loved ones, mostly they’ll want to control them – try to escape and you’ll feel their STING.

All stalkers are Scorpio the Scorpions. And that nutter in Sleeping With The Enemy, he was a Scorpio the Scorpion. And the bunny boiler in Fatal Attraction, she was a Scorpio the Scorpion. BEWARE OF SCORPIO THE SCORPIONS.

 

 

SAGITTARIUS THE ARCHER

9th sign of the zodiac

Element – Fire

Ruling planet – Jupiter

My brother Scotty is a Sagittarius the Archer. He’s an excellent dead-shot with all weapons, BAM and you’re gone. If you’ve read my posts about him you’ll know he’s an adventurous, optimistic extrovert. He’s also generous, spirited and straight forward. But he can be unstoppable if there’s something he wants to know, or to do and that doesn’t always go well for Cancer the Crabs.

Assassins and Mercenaries (Scotty!!) are born under the sign of Sagittarius the Archer.

 

 

CAPRICORN THE GOAT

10th sign of the zodiac

Element – Earth

Ruling planet – Saturn

Meine Mami is Capricorn the Goat. Bleat, bleat, bleat. She is stubborn and reserved and conventional, but she can also be impulsive, like when she fucked off around the world without telling anyone.

Capricorn the Goats are organised and efficient, classy and materialistic. They are also persevering and patient in the way that Satan patiently perseveres as he waits for souls. Speaking of Satan, he’s often represented as a goat which means he must be a Capricorn the Goat.

Satyrs and devils are born under the sign of Capricorn the Goat. So are goats.

 

 

AQUARIUS THE WATER BEARER

11th sign of the zodaic

Element – Air

Ruling planet – Uranus

Aquarius the Water Bearer is an Air sign so why are they carrying water around with them when the water could be put to better use by a Fire sign like Sagittarius the Archer which, logically, should be an Air sign because their arrows whizz through Air not Fire? I think there’s been a mix-up.

Aquarius the Water Bearers have lots of embarrassing bladder problems. They are the main purchasers of wee-wee pads (Mori poll says 99.9% of Tena Lady customers are born under the sign of Aquarius the Water Bearer). They also enjoy their alcohol a bit more than the other signs do.

All camels are Aquarius the Water Bearers.

N.B. Aquarius the Water Bearers who are Southerners are BANNED FROM COMING UP NORTH while they’re under the hosepipe ban.

 

 

PISCES THE FISH

12th sign of the zodiac

Element – Water

Ruling planet – Neptune

HELLO FISHY-FISHY! Pisces the Fish are nice. They’re sensitive and dreamy and they’re wonderful swimmers but all that messing about in water can make their skin a bit peely and scaley which means they should always use a decent moisturiser. Pisces the Fish have odd lips – some call it a trout pout but ‘trout pout’ isn’t really an accurate description of the lips of ALL Pisces the Fish, some have a STICKLEBACK POUT, or a GUPPY POUT or any number of other pouts – for all the different species of fish there is a different type of pout so try not to label someone’s pout as a trout pout before you know for sure that it IS a trout pout or you could cause offence.

Deep sea divers, swimming instructors etc etc are all Pisces the Fish.

N.B. Never give a Pisces the Fish a fish finger sandwich.

 

 

ARIES THE RAM

1st sign of the zodiac

Element – Fire

Ruling planet – Mars

Aries the Ram is the fiery sheep of Hell. My sister Lottie is an Aries the Ram but it’s possible she was born on the cusp of some other sign because she was never any good at our headbutting competitions (she still isn’t, I always win). Behind her nice woolly exterior she’s argumentative and aggressive and she’s got those starey ‘I’m going to eat you’ sheep eyes that follow you everywhere you go even when she isn’t looking at you. Aries the Rams are highly active – if one of them ever starts chasing you, run like the wind because they’re agile fuckers and won’t stop until they catch and eat you.

All sheepdogs are born under the sign of Aries the Ram.

 

 

TAURUS THE BULL

2nd sign of the zodiac

Element – Earth

Ruling planet – Venus

This is another sign I like. Taurus the Bull can be a bit gung-ho in what they do, a bit bull-headed and stubborn, a bit clumsy and uncoordinated. They crash their way through life like… (no, I refuse to write the cliche). But they’re also loyal and down to earth, practical and reliable. I know a Taurus the Bull soldier who is kind and generous and loyal. One thing to remember about Taurus the Bulls is they have a RED PHOBIA – if they see anything red they will GORE IT. Also, Taurus the Bulls don’t suit red so never ask them to wear it, it looks awful on them.

Soldiers and rugby players are Taurus the Bulls.

 

 

GEMINI THE TWINS

3rd sign of the zodiac

Element – Air

Ruling planet – Mercury

I’ve saved the worst till last. Listen to me, Gemini  the Twins – the clue is in your name – TWINS – but not all of you ARE twins, I’ve known a few Gemini the Twins who haven’t got a twin. Why? What did you do to them?

I don’t like Gemini the Twins, they’re two-faced fuckers who’ll stab you in the back before you can say ‘shared placenta.’ They have the gift of the gab, they can talk their way out of ANYTHING. My dead husband, ex-Simon was a Gemini the Twins. Enough said.

All politicians are Gemini the Twins. So are my neighbour’s cats.

 

Dotty Headbanger – Namer Of Babies

 

I  am touched and honoured. I am close to tears of happiness and joy. I have been blessed.

 

I have named a baby.

 

A beautiful little one year old baby who has just had his 1st birthday party.

 

THE NAME I HAVE GIVEN HIM IS…

 

SAUSAGE

 

and in a minute I can go to bed happy and maybe get some sleep and think about how I can get his mother to change his surname to CUMBERLAND.

 

CLICK HERE TO GO TO KATHY’S BLOG TO SEE HOW IT HAPPENED

 

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SAUSAGE, YOU LITTLE LOVELY.

A birthday gift for Sausage.

 

Bank Holiday Sunshine Should Be Banned

 

It’s Bank Holiday Monday and it’s raining as it always does on a Bank Holiday, if it didn’t rain on a Bank Holiday the sky would cave in and we’d all die. But this morning it wasn’t raining, it was sunny and bright and the sun must have done something to my brain because suddenly I SAW THE TRUE STATE OF MY HOUSE – the carpets and lino need hoovered/washed/swept; the cupboards, the cooker, the washer, the dryer, the fridge, the freezer, the doors, the skirtings need washed down; EVERYTHING needs dusted; the bathroom needs a scrub – the WHOLE HOUSE needs a clean, it’s fucking bogging, it’s like A DIRTY TRAMP’S HOUSE. Most years I’ll have already spring-cleaned everything by this time but sometimes, like this year, I don’t notice how manky it’s become even though I’m here all the time until BAM – a little light goes on in my head and I see it all.

Not that I don’t occasionally notice it building up. If I’m walking from the living room to the kitchen I’ll sometimes see the dust at the edges of the hallway carpet and (detachedly and fleetingly) think to myself ‘Ooooo, that’s disgusting, someone should clean that,’ but the second I stop looking at it, poof, any thought of it’s gone from my head, disappeared like it’s never been, and I forget all about it until next time I happen to notice it.

I should be gearing myself up to do a spring clean but I can’t – there’s SO MUCH TO DO. I tried reading my own advice on housework (see Dotty Does Her Housework) to see if I made any sense, and yes I do make sense, prioritising is what you should do if it’s all a bit too overwhelming and you don’t know where to start – but how do I prioritise what needs to go on the PRIORITY LIST? And where do I find the motivation to do a list in the first place? And where have I put the notepad I use for lists, the long one with different coloured pages? Because if I can’t find it I can’t write a list because LISTS HAVE TO BE WRITTEN IN THE LIST NOTEPAD. And how do I remember why the fuck I was looking for my list notepad to begin with?

And that’s before I get started on the intolerable noise level of the Dyson and the fact that it’ll be PURE AND UTTER TORTURE for me to use it for the time it would take to clean the carpets.

 

 

And look at the state of the garden!!!!

 

 

It’s all too complicated, too, too complicated.

 

 

I’m glad it’s raining like it should on a Bank Holiday – the world is nice and dull again.

 

 

What was I writing about?

 

♬ ♪ Just Another Shitey Sunday ♬ ♪

 

Yes, yes, yes, I know – I’ve written a post about boring shitey Sundays before – but so what, I’m doing another one and if no one likes it they’ll just have to lump it because I can’t think of anything else to write. All I can do is give you a mental update on the soaps if you want (I watched them all this afternoon) -

 

EMMERDALE – Zak Dingle is going mental (he gets sectioned next week)

CORONATION STREET – Tyrone’s girlfriend, Kirsty, is going mental (she belted him round the face with a ladle)

EASTENDERS – Ben Mitchell IS mental (and ugly – I liked the other, cuter Ben, he would have been sweetly evil)

 

 

Will that do for a post? I don’t see why it shouldn’t, what I’ve written amounts to 3 reviews which is 3 times more than I normally do. It also helps any Brits who might have missed the soaps this week, and it gives a snapshot of our week of telly watching to people in foreign climes.  And it’s got a tune in the title. So all in all it’s turned out to be a WHOPPER of a post, condensed into less than 200 words. I should do this every day.

 

 

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