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.

 

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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The Dotty Postal Strike

I’ll batter SCABS round the head with my placard if they try to write a post for my blog. DON’T DO IT.

 

I’m on strike.

 

These are my demands –

More pay (I’ve just bought a nice little Munch piece and it set me back a bit) 

Better working conditions for when I write my posts which means I need someone to come and clean my house

More fag breaks

More coffee breaks

A longer Cumberland sausage dinner hour

A BIG BONUS if I get more than 20 Likes on a post

A FUCKING WHOPPING BONUS if I get more than 20 Comments on a post

 

 

I’ve been trying to remember the SCAB CHANT.

I think it goes like this —

SCAB SCAB SCAB SCAB SCAB

DIRTY FUCKING SCAB

FUCK OFF SCAB

YOU SCAB

(repeat many times)

 

 

Why Have Only A Few Of You Added To My New Collection?

 

It’s not fair – WordPress forced me into starting a new collection of Likes on my Notes From A She-Hermit page and only 19 people have contributed to it so far. I don’t care about the other pages and posts, you can never, ever click another Like again if you don’t want, JUST GO AND CLICK THAT ONE.

 

THIS IS A LINK TO THE PAGE I WOULD LIKE YOU TO LIKE, PLEASE 

or I’ll have a MASSIVE panic attack and it’ll be ALL YOUR FAULT

Yes I’m begging – what of it? There’s nothing wrong with begging if begging helps you to COLLECT THINGS.

And now I’m boasting and THANKING YOU FOR LOOKING AT MY BLOG A LOT – it’s just passed 20,000 views.

 

P.S. I’ve solved my elbow problem – I’m wearing protective bike pads and my thick leather motorbike jacket and I’ve got my Shoei crash helmet on in case my elbows get through the pads and the jacket – so now I can go to bed tonight and when I do I’m going to tie a pillow round each elbow to be on the safe side.

 

Dotty Does Some Dreaded F*cking Form Filling

 

I’ve spent today filling in a FORM that should have been filled in weeks ago, a fucking nasty FORM with BIG spaces to write in and little boxes to tick and SHITEY illogical questions to answer.

When it first arrived I opened it, not realising it was a FORM. I read the letter that came with it then I stuffed it all back in the envelope and propped it up on the worktop so I wouldn’t forget about it completely (I couldn’t, it’s important or I’d have binned the thing). And for all these weeks it’s been THERE, waiting for me, whispering ‘fill me in, fill me in,’ watching me when I tried to sneak past it on tiptoe or when I got down on all fours and crawled below it’s line of sight. When I tried to go to sleep at night I could feel the EVIL emanating from it – I AM HERE AND I WON’T GO AWAY UNTIL YOU FILL ME IN – and for the last two days I haven’t been in the kitchen at all and I’m fucking STARVING and the DUE DATE that the form has to be returned by is VERY DUE so this morning I went into my kitchen with a notebook and pen and I grabbed the envelope and opened it and took out the FORM and then I laid the FORM on the table next to the notebook and pen and then I made a MASSIVE pile of Cumberland sausage sandwiches for STRENGTH and ENDURANCE and then I made another cup of coffee and then I went for a wee and then I couldn’t avoid the FORM any more so I sat down and got started on the fucker.

After filling in my name and address and shite, one of the first things it asked me was

‘Do you need an interpreter?’

and I was SO TEMPTED to put

YES

and then when it asked in what language, I wanted to put

IN MY OWN LANGUAGE WHICH IS CALLED DOTTISH

and I wanted to write that if they wouldn’t provide me with a Dottish interpreter I’d SUE THEIR BOLLOCKS OFF because that’s just SHEER, BLATANT DISCRIMINATION.

and so what if there’s only one person in the world who speaks Dottish and I’M that person, PAY ME £70.00 per hour and I’ll translate for myself, you fucking imbeciles.

 

I don’t like FORMS. They’re nasty.

I’ve finished it now though and it’s all ready to post.

Thank fuck.

 

 

 

This Post Is Not A Post, It’s A Tangerine

 

I haven’t done a PROPER post today, I can’t be arsed. I’ve been adding to my new AWARDS COLLECTION page

 

 

and I’ve been making a brand new page to show off the different versions of my own Dotty Headbanger award –

CLICK HERE TO SEE THEM

 

 

and I’ve come to the conclusion, after extensive treks round WordPress, that I won’t be able to disable the Like button on my 

PLAIN & UNORNAMENTED TITLE PAGE 

without all my Likes disappearing from every post so I might as well ask you all to GO AND CLICK THE LIKE BUTTON ON THAT PAGE  (if you DO like it, if you don’t, don’t) because it’s my front page and if there has to be any Likes on it there might as well be A FUCKING GREAT BIG SHITLOAD OF THEM.

 

This is a tangerine with one nail in it.

 

 

This is another tangerine. It has five nails in it.

 

 

I hope you like tangerines. They’re juicy.

 

 

Dead Ex-Simon – The Mental Cruelty He Inflicted On Dotty (Part 3a)

his actions “…reached depths of mental cruelty previously unheard of in this court.” — Judge Hackisnackersoff

 

The above quote is a dead-on description of my dead husband, ex-Simon. He could be a HEARTLESS, VICIOUS, SADISTIC, MONSTEROUS MONSTER when he wanted to be, a SICK, TWISTED APPLIER OF MENTAL CRUELTY to me, your little Dotty. Here’s a list of a few of the things he did – I can’t tell you all of them, we’d be here all week and some things were too horrendously cruel for me to speak about yet, too painful for me to even THINK about without bringing on a series of major panic attacks, for example WHAT HE USED TO DO TO MY CUMBERLAND SAUSAGES.

 

THE TELLY

Ex-Simon was a remote control control freak, if it wasn’t where he put it last he went ballistic and paddied around like a two year old until he found it. He wanted complete control of the telly and that might have been okay if he’d watched PROPER PROGRAMMES like soaps and films and crime things and costume dramas, and proper documentaries about gypsies and dead sovereigns and that  dirty diseases programme with the doctors and the people who’ve had a nasty EMBARRASSING thing wrong with them for years but they’ve been too EMBARRASSED to talk to their own doctor or tell anyone about it so they GO ON TELLY AND SHOW THE NASTY THING TO THE NATION – what’s that all about, eh? 

Anyway, a female can put up with WAR PROGRAMMES for only so long before the violence gets to her and she batters the telly screen in with a hammer. When we went to buy a new one, ex-Simon wanted to get one with Sky or Branson added on but I put my foot down and said NO because I’ve never seen the point in having FIFTY MILLION TELLY CHANNELS when you can only watch one at a time, or with a twin thingy Freeview you can record two channels and watch one but that’s still only THREE CHANNELS at a time – and when do people WATCH IT ALL? Do all these subscribers get 10 extra hours in the day that the rest of us don’t get so they can get their money’s worth of telly? Because it costs a fucking bomb to subscribe to them, I know because they keep sending me shitemail to get me to sign up – BUT I WON’T because I’M BOYCOTTING THEM and the reason I’M BOYCOTTING THEM is because they THIEVE AWAY ALL THE GOOD TELLY PROGRAMMES after we’ve had one or two series’ on ITV or Channel 4 and we’ve got to like them and want to watch the next series but BOSH along comes Sky or Branson with their big bags of dosh and we don’t get to see what happened next —

Dexter

Criminal Minds

The Walking Dead

Medium

are just 4 of the programmes they’ve THIEVED. So I’ll NEVER EVER sign up and give them loads of money, what I do is I WAIT UNTIL THE DVD BOXSET IS CHEAP and then I buy it and KEEP IT and Sky and Branson and whoever else can FUCK OFF.

 

 

BREAD

At the same time as ex-Simon decided to become a MINIMAL, he also decided to become a health freak. He wouldn’t let me buy WHITE BREAD. He wouldn’t even let me buy BROWN BREAD, I had to buy WHOLEMEAL BREAD and not just NORMAL WHOLEMEAL BREAD, I had to buy WHOLEMEAL BREAD WITH ADDED BITS OF SHITE IN IT like sunflower seeds and poppy seeds (not opium poppy seeds) and sawdust chunks and the bits got stuck in my teeth after I’d eaten it and I had to slash-floss like fuck to get them out again because normal flossing just MOVED THE BITS to a different position.

 

 

FEET

Even writing about this is making me cringe and shudder and squirm and feel very, very sick. I HATE  feet, they’re nasty and disgusting and ugly and germy and smelly and diseasey and uuuuuurrrrgggghhhhh, I feel sick

I can’t do this one, I’m gipping too much

he never wore socks in  bed, the evil fucker

AND THERE’S WORSE

no, I can’t do it

I’ll have to go, I need a BIG swig of laudanum to take away the nausea.

Just imagine the absolute worst things to do with feet and that’s what he did.

UUUUURRRGGGGHHHHHHH

Oops, I Did It Again

 

Don’t get too excited, Britney Spears hasn’t hacked into my blog – it’s still me, your little Dotty, but once again I haven’t written a post because nothing’s happened. This is a side effect of Hermititis and People Phobia, most of the time it’s too boring for words and today is one of those times. I can’t think of anything to write about and if I could it would be just as boring as the twaddle I’m writing now, the hackneyed old cliched pile of shite about not having anything to write about.

This is one of the downsides of just sitting down to write and pressing publish when I’ve finished – I never have any back-up posts, in fact the idea of back-up posts hadn’t entered my head until I saw it mentioned in someone’s blog a few weeks ago, then I noticed that lots of people do it – but how can I do back-up posts when I can’t even think of ONE?

 

AAAAAAARRRGGGGHHH!!

No it didn’t work. I thought an idea might fly out with the scream.

 

the cat sat on the mat – the cat sat on the mat (advice from Dodie Smith)

Nope, nothing.

 

Except — my face towel was a bit rough this morning, I’ll have to use more fabric conditioner next time I do the washing.

 

I should have just wrote another absence note.

 

Oh-oh-oh — I did do something, I had a tidy up of my blog pages and put things into lists and made it neater. I did it this morning when I was trying to think of a post. Did anyone notice? No, I didn’t think so.

 

I should just shut up, shouldn’t I?

 

Don’t Die Of Shock Everyone – Dotty Has Accepted An Award

It’s the GOLDEN SHATNER AWARD 

and I’ve accepted it from VICTOR TOOKES

whose blog you can find HERE,

because I like William Shatner, he’s stupid, and all you have to do is give the award

 to four people. But I still can’t choose, there’s LOADS OF YOU I want to give it to.

So TAKE IT

EVERYBODY

I SPECIFICALLY AWARD IT TO ALL OF YOU

not like my own award

The Dotty Headbanger Award For Being Mental & Loving It

which you award to yourself – 

this time I’m specifically choosing to specifically award

EVERYBODY this lovely award and if I could be bothered I’d do

links to all your blogs but I can’t be bothered so I won’t.

 

 

P.S. It has a big, better picture for those of you who can do big pictures without shagging up

your blog (not me, I fuck it all up with pictures) and you’ll find the big picture

at Victor’s blog if you click on the link I put in at the top.

 

P.P.S.  They got me in the end.

 

P.P.P.S.  No more and never again.

 

 

 

Pen Thievery – Dotty Didn’t Do It

 

Have you ever seen a pen so beautiful you just have to have it? I have a penchant for pens. Before I caught Hermititis and People Phobia what would happen is I’d spot a pen and fall in love with it and from the moment I set eyes on it I would be filled with NEED. I really and truly NEEDED those pens, each and every one of them, and if I didn’t get them, if I didn’t HAVE and POSSESS them, I would have DIED. But there were loads of tricky times when the pens I NEEDED belonged to someone else. Actually, every pen I NEEDED was in the possession of someone else and strangely I never NEEDED the pens I saw in the shops, those I could pay for and just OWN, they didn’t interest me.

My collection of pens is huge and vast and if you stood at the coast and lined up all my pens from top to nib they’d be longer than the longest peninsula. I’m not so keen on pencils, they don’t have the same penetratingly gorgeous LURE of pens and the lead always snaps when you press too hard and I can never find a pencil sharpener when I need one. And those fancy, posh pencils you click like a pen and the thin bit of lead comes down – they’re nothing but SHITE, I don’t like them, they’re the stupidest, most wasteful pencils in the world, click too many times and SNAP, don’t click enough times and WHERE THE FUCK IS IT, click some more to make it appear and SNAP — SNAP SNAP SNAP — they should be banned, I bet they cause more distress than any other writing implement except maybe crayons.

I also love bookmarks and other pocketable items of stationery, but pens will always be my favourite. PENS, PENS, PENS, PENS, PENS - blue pens, black pens, red pens, glittery pens, fountain pens, dip pens, ballpoint pens, quill pens, reed pens, rollerball pens, felt-tip pens, marker pens – I love pens.

I LOVE PENS.

I FUCKING LOVE THEM LIKE THEY ARE MY BABIES.

And I think I’m in trouble again because of my love for pens.  I’ve been falsely accused of STEALING A PEN, one of Papa Brontë’s pens, a beautiful, pure white swan feather pen that was just LYING THERE ON THE MANTLEPIECE, all alone and neglected and there was a speck of SOOT on it that I carefully blew off so it wouldn’t MARK and MAR the beautiful, pure white swan feather pen, and I MOVED the beautiful, pure white swan feather pen away from the sooty, dirty mantlepiece to another place that wasn’t sooty or dirty and that place just happened to be MY SUITCASE and now Branwell has been here accusing me of THIEVING the beautiful, pure white swan feather pen and because of his fucking CHEEK I’m not giving it back.

So fuck off, Branwell, you pox-ridden WHELP.

You can stick your accusations up your pure white swan-feathered ARSE.

 

 

A Song To Make You Love Dotty

 

From the most HATED blogger in the whole wide Worldpress to the people who HATE her.

 

Look into my eyes, you will see

What you mean to me

Search your heart, search your posts

And when you find me there

You’ll search no more
Don’t tell me, it’s not worth typin’ for

You can’t tell me, it’s not worth writin’ for

You know it’s true

Everything I do, I do it for you
Look into your heart, you will find

There’s nothin’ there to hide

Take me as I am, take my life

I would give it all, I would sacrifice

 
Don’t tell me it’s not worth typin’ for

I can’t help it, there’s nothin’ I want more

You know it’s true

Everything I do, I do it for you, oh yeah

 

There’s no blog, like my blog 

And no other could give more love

There’s nowhere, unless you’re there

All the time, all the way yeah

 

Look into your heart baby

Oh yeah
Oh, you can’t tell me it’s not worth typin’ for

I can’t help it, there’s nothin’ I want more
Yeah I would type for you

I’d write for you

Blog all night for you

Yeah I’d die for you
You know it’s true

Everything I do, ohh, I do it for you
Everything I do darling 

You should read it through

You should read it through, yeah

Yeah, just look into your heart

You can’t tell me you’ll die for love

 Oh yeah, I’ll be there

I’m writin’ every day, every day 

 

by Bryan Adams & Dotty

 

THREE ANSWERS TO MY COMPETITION? THREE?

 

Why have I only had three answers to my competition? Why have 74 people looked at it and only THREE PEOPLE bothered to do an answer? Why? Why? Why? Do you HATE ME that much? Am I so horrible and nasty to you that you don’t want to be my SUPREME PET FOR THE DAY?

 

These are the people who I LOVE MOST now –

DeeDee — whose answer is a Cumberland sausage wrapped in butcher paper

John (& Victor Tookes) — whose answer is Jean Luc Picard’s underwear

pmao — whose answer is himself (he said ‘me’, but if I wrote ‘me’ you’d think I meant ME)

 

IT’S NOT FAIR.

I even did a nice picture for you to look at.

You’ve all made me sad and upset and I’m crying and I’ve had two panic attacks writing this post and YOU HATE ME, EVERYBODY HATES ME and I need a lie down and a little sleep.

Goodnight, cruel, cruel people.

If blogs had shins you’d all kick the fuck out of mine.

YOU ALL HATE ME.

HATE HATE HATE

HATE.

 

This Post Is Not A Post, It’s A Competition Because I Have Another Thing To Write Today…

 

…but to keep you coming back to my blog so I still get loads of views,

and so I can get to 300 followers before La Popinjay does,

and so you don’t fuck off to some other blogger who talks to you more,

and so I can feel like I’m not ignoring you all (y’all) while I get on with ANOTHER THING

here’s a question —

 

What’s white and flies through the air faster than the speed of light?

 

RULES

There are two correct answers, either one of which I’ll accept.

If more than one of you get a correct answer I’ll do eeny-meeny-miney-mo to decide.

Or I might do ip-dip-dog-shit instead, it depends how I feel.

The winner will be my SUPREME PET FOR THE DAY tomorrow.

 

Here’s a picture to keep you entertained. I know everyone likes pictures and I know if I could put pictures in all my posts my views and my followers would be in the ZABILLIONS by now, but I can’t do it properly, it always goes wrong, I’ll NEVER be good with pictures and one day you’ll all go away to find blogs with pictures and this one of the SHOE-CAR has taken me over an hour of the time I was going to spend on ANOTHER THING so I hope you like it. 

 

 

This is a shoe but it's also a CAR!! Fucking amazing what they can do nowadays.
I want this SHOE-CAR. I want it.

 

 

Dotty Hermit Tip – How To Lie On The Floor Safely

 

Hello, fellow She-Hermits and Hermits. Today we’re going to talk about safety procedures for when you LIE ON THE FLOOR. I wonder if you’ve ever considered the DANGERS associated with lying on the floor, DANGERS that can MAIM or even KILL you, DANGERS that no one else will bother to tell you about because no one else gives two flying fucks about your lying on the floor habits. Well don’t worry, I’m here to help you and I’m writing this especially for YOU because I’m nice and kind like that.

So let’s get started.

 

POSITIONING – DANGERS OF THE FOETAL POSITION

Most floor-lying hermits prefer to lie in the FOETAL POSITION and most floor-lying hermits return again and again to THE SAME SPOT on the floor to lie in the FOETAL POSITION. We’ll discuss lying in THE SAME SPOT later – right now I’m concerned about THE HARM YOU ARE DOING TO YOUR SPINE.

SPINAL INJURY or BEING CRIPPLED FOR LIFE is a real and prevalent DANGER for hermits who choose to lie in the FOETAL POSITION for long periods of time. Your spine is supposed to be a STRAIGHT THING, evolution made the adult human spine straight in order to keep you UPRIGHT AND READY TO RUN AWAY – so how are you going to RUN AWAY if you can’t walk? YOU’RE NOT, you’ll be EATEN by lions or tigers or wolves or bears or hyenas or mad dogs or feral children or whatever else gets a sniff of you lying there, on the floor, in the FOETAL POSITION.

If you’re lucky and manage to escape being EATEN, the next time you lie on the floor in the FOETAL POSITION might be the last time you have a STRAIGHT BACK. The spine isn’t made of steel, it’s made of bone, and contrary to what most people believe about bone being hard and unbendable, BONE IS VERY BENDY and if you persist and persist in bending it into the FOETAL POSITION it will stay there and you’ll develop a pronounced HUMF and being a PEOPLE PHOBIC HERMIT is bad enough without being a PEOPLE PHOBIC HERMIT with a HUMFY-BACK.

Not only can the FOETAL POSITION give you a big HUMF, it can also lead to PARALYSIS OF EVERY PART OF YOUR BODY caused by SEVERED NERVES, so BEWARE and BE AWARE of any NUMBNESS or LOSS OF SENSATION because what might be happening is you are SEVERING YOUR NERVES and BECOMING PARALYSED but you won’t know this is happening until you want to get up to go for a wee or get a drink and you find you CAN’T GET UP BECAUSE YOU HAVE PARALYSED YOURSELF by lying on the floor in the FOETAL POSITION. If your legs are the limbs that become paralysed you should be okay because you’ll be able to use your arms to drag yourself across the floor to the phone, but if your arms are the limbs that become paralysed I’m afraid YOU’RE FUCKED because you won’t be able to drag yourself to the phone and even if you somehow managed to, how would you pick up the phone to ring for help?

Other DANGERS of lying on the floor in the FOETAL POSITION include -

BALD PATCHES  – if no air or light can get to one side of your head because it’s flat on the carpet then you shouldn’t worry about illness or disease when your hair starts to come out in clumps, your baldness is caused by lying on the floor in the FOETAL POSITION.

CARPET BURN – caused by getting down onto the floor or getting up off the floor too quickly. Also caused by writhing around on the floor in the throes of despair. Be careful not to get carpet burn on your knees or people will think things.

DELUSIONS OF DEATH which occur when you’ve been there for so long that when you try to move you don’t know if the stiffness of your body is due to JUST STIFFNESS or if you’re stiff like a plank because RIGOR MORTIS HAS SET IN and this results in you having to deal with DIBBLE and AMBULANCE and SORE JAGS IN THE ARSE when you ring them up to tell them you are DEAD.

 

OTHER DANGERS OF LYING ON THE FLOOR

SPIDERS. BIG HAIRY MEATY SPIDERS and other creepy crawlies. Included in the list of creepy crawlies (I’m not making a list, I can’t be arsed) are the microscopic creepy crawlies that live in your carpet. Fuck knows WHAT they are but it’s guaranteed they carry all types of dirty diseases and THEY WILL WALK ON YOUR FACE AND ENTER THE INSIDE OF YOUR BODY THROUGH YOUR ORIFICES.

DEHYDRATION – keep a bottle of water next to you

STARVATION – if you’ve got your bottle of water you’ll be okay because you can go without food longer than you can without water.

NEEDING A WEE – this one’s easy – GET UP AND GO FOR A WEE, STUPID. You’re not a fucking baby.

BECOMING USED TO ONE PARTICULAR SPOT ON THE FLOOR – we’re going to deal with this next -

 

 

BECOMING USED TO ONE PARTICULAR SPOT ON THE FLOOR

As stated above, most hermits return again and again to the same spot on the floor. This is just a bad habit that can take some time and effort to break but it’s worth it in the end, the benefits you’ll reap will ASTOUND you.

Whether it’s facing your sofa, the underneath of your coffee table, your bookcases, your sideboard or just a blank wall, EVERY hermit has a favourite spot on the floor they like to lie on. But did you know that CHANGING THE SPOT ON THE FLOOR THAT YOU LIE ON can be so beneficial and good for you that it can CURE YOU OF LYING ON THE FLOOR?

Yes, it can. Don’t believe me? Read on -

 

Hermits who lie on the floor do so for one of two reasons —

1  they are in the throes of despair

2  they are too apathetic to do anything else

 

It doesn’t matter WHY you’re still lying on the floor after I’ve taken the time and trouble to spell out all the DANGERS, the fact that you’re still there at all tells me you really, really need TO CHANGE YOUR SPOT.

Before we go any further I know many of you will only have THE ONE SPOT to lie in because your collections have sprawled all over the place or because you’re just a clatty tramp and you don’t clean your house. TIDYING UP will provide NEW SPOTS FOR LYING ON THE FLOOR so get on with it, do it NOW, this minute before you think about it, don’t read another word, go and MAKE SOME NEW SPACES.

Done? Okay.

Whether you’re apathetic or despairing, a NEW SPOT ON THE FLOOR will change your life. You won’t like it to begin with, no one likes CHANGE, but persevere and the benefits will soon become apparent.

Lying on the floor in a NEW SPOT will instantly give you a NEW VIEW and a NEW VIEW is the best thing you can have because it provides a DISTRACTION from the apathy or despair that put you on the floor in the first place. Who can remain in a state of OVERWHELMING APATHY when confronted with a 4 inch CLUMP OF DUST AND WEB under the sideboard that you’ve never noticed before? Who can remain in a state of ALL-CONSUMING DESPAIR whilst staring at the natural beauty of the wooden chair leg? A NEW SPOT will provide MOTIVATION and MENTAL STIMULATION and we’re on the road to BEING CURED.

After a few practices, each time in a NEW SPOT, if you STILL haven’t stopped lying on the floor in the FOETAL POSITION, try lying on the floor FLAT ON YOUR BACK. No hermit does this naturally or without distress because lying on the floor FLAT ON YOUR BACK makes you feel too EXPOSED and one benefit of lying in the FOETAL POSITION is you can’t see what’s coming for you, whether it’s a BIG HAIRY MEATY SPIDER or a BEAR. Also, lying on the floor FLAT ON YOUR BACK and LOOKING UP AT THE CEILING makes your room look MASSIVE LIKE THE WORLD and then you feel even more insignificant than you do already.

But for your own bodily safety, lying on the floor FLAT ON YOUR BACK is the best position to be in if you still insist on lying on the floor because it’s good for your back, it’s good for your posture, and it doesn’t cause HUMFS or PARALYSIS or DEATH BY RIGOR MORTIS.

 

 

I apologise for all the BIG SHOUTY WORDS I’ve used but hermits, you have to listen to me, if you won’t stop lying on the floor at least take PROPER PRECAUTIONS.

I hope these hermit tips help you.

Be safe, my hermits. Be well.

 

For One Night Only – Dotty On The Telly

 

I was on the telly last night for half an hour.

I wanted to know what it felt like to be my telly – sitting there in the corner for the whole of its life, unable to move, people staring at it for hours and hours on end and then it conks out and dies – I felt sorry for it, it must be a sad old life. And I wanted to see what my telly sees from where it’s sitting and I’ll tell you something, it’s given me a whole different view of my living room – it looks nice from up there, I saw my collections from different angles, I saw my bookcases from different angles, I saw my couch and chairs from different angles and I noticed what a good job Lottie and Scotty did when they cleaned everywhere – I actually saw THE CARPET

I had a bit of trouble getting up because of all my butterfly-stitched fork-stabs that are scabbing over nicely, thank you for asking (some of them pulled a bit and came open when the scab ripped off but I washed all the blood off when I got down). My telly is old and fat with a massive back, not one of those slim things that I don’t understand why they made in the first place because where do all the LITTLE TELLY PEOPLE live now? Is this how the telly companies have got rid of some of my favourite programmes, they’ve had a PROGRAMME POGROM and driven away all the LITTLE TELLY PEOPLE like others did in THE HIGHLAND CLEARANCES and THE JEWISH PEOPLE CLEARANCES and all the other ethnic clearances that have taken place. EXCEPT NO ONE HAS SAID ANYTHING ABOUT THE LITTLE TELLY PEOPLE CLEARANCES. Why? WHY NOT? It’s not fair. Just because they’re LITTLE doesn’t mean they don’t have the same rights as everyone else. Just because they live inside our tellys doesn’t mean they’re not entitled to stay in their homes, to live their lives the way they want to with SPACE ENOUGH TO LIVE COMFORTABLY. All these horrible things go on in the world and no one says DICKY-FUCKING-BOO about them.

It made me cry last night when I was on my telly thinking about how they must be living now, so I got down and went to find my BIG FUCK-OFF SCREWDRIVER which was in my cutlery drawer so I got a fork as well and I used them both to prise the back off my telly to see if I could help the LITTLE TELLY PEOPLE but do you know what? THEY WEREN’T ANYWHERE TO BE SEEN. They’ve FUCKING DISAPPEARED and I know WHY they’ve disappeared, they’re so frightened, so HARASSED and PLAGUED and TORMENTED by their  CRUEL PERSECUTORS – and that means YOU, YES YOU WITH THE FUCKING SLIMLINE TELLY – that they’ve run away from my telly, their SANCTUARY, probably the ONLY SAFE PLACE FOR THEM IN BRITAIN.

I’m too upset to write any more. It’s heartbreaking.

I need my laudanum.

And a Cumberland sausage sandwich.

And a lie down.

FUCKING PERSECUTORS.

 

 

 

HA HA HA HA HA HA – Up Your French Canadian Arse, La Popinjay, You Twat

 

I’ve got you sussed, you sad old SCROTE.

You want me to write a post about you so you can steal EVEN MORE OF MY FOLLOWERS and PRETEND THEY WERE YOURS TO START WITH and that’s fine, here I am writing a post about you because I’m nice and kind like that, but really, all you had to do was ask.

So go on everyone, go and join the old goat’s blog, he NEEDS you, he’s DESPERATE, so DESPERATE he copied my 200 FOLLOWERS badge and pretended it was his own because he couldn’t bear to think I’d beat him to 200, just like he copies EVERYTHING of mine. They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery – NO IT’S NOT, IT’S JUST COPYING, YOU NUMPTY so find your own ideas, stop nicking mine.

And he called me a THIEF. Well I’m NOT a convicted thief, Dibble gave me Cautions each time.

Is he hopeless?

Is he useless? 

Is he desperate?

Is the Pope waterproof?

YES to all of the above – but pity La Popinjay, please, my lovelies. Charity is good for the soul.

 

P.S.  You’re probably thinking, ‘Why should I bother going to see a blog written by a BABBLING INGRATE?‘ and you’d be correct in thinking that so to be honest I’d advise you to GO HERE INSTEAD.

 

P.P.S. OY, ARSEWIPE – I don’t live in a flat so GET YOUR FACTS RIGHT. Shows how much you actually READ.

 

Lottie The Drunken Cow

 

I’m sick to death of FICKLE FUCKERS who are laughing and joking one minute, ha ha ha, next minute they’re in a mood about something and throwing a paddy. What’s that all about, eh, the divvy twats? I’ll tell you what it’s about, it’s about BOOZE.

Yep, it’s Lottie again. I never know where I am with her. I’m positive she drinks after she’s put THE BERSERKERS to bed, even moreso now Fat-Fuck has left her. She’s always been a bit of a piss-head, swigging dear dead Daddy’s brandy and whiskey when we were teenagers, sneaking round the back of the rugby team’s changing rooms in the park with a big bottle of gut-rot and ten fags. Twice, Scotty had to carry her home and up to her bed while I distracted meine Mami in the kitchen.

She lets on she’s something she’s not, a hoity-toity wine buff – she’s all ‘Oh yes, I’m getting undertones of wood-smoked sideboard’ and ‘There’s a top-note of old badger’ or whatever, but she never swills and spits, she throws the lot down her neck – and not just wine, I saw her put a bottle of cheap voddy in her trolley when we were shopping the other day. Fucking alky.

I’ve got the blame for THE BERSERKERS being sick. Oh what a surprise. I should have seen it coming, normally I would but with yesterday being happy like it was and with her BEING PART OF THE LAUGH AND THE JOKE it didn’t enter my head that she’d turn round and blame me. But oh yes, it’s all my fault, I shouldn’t have encouraged them, I shouldn’t have been so childish. YOU’RE THEIR FUCKING MOTHER, LOTTIE – you sat there and watched them STUFF THEIR FACES without saying a word, I know what you were thinking, you were thinking if only you weren’t on your diet you could STUFF YOUR FACE TOO and either you were too busy slavvering over the Easter eggs you wouldn’t allow yourself to eat that you didn’t notice how much your OWN KIDS were eating, or you DIDN’T GIVE A SHITE. Which was it? 

Actually, do you know what, I don’t really care which it was, all I’ve got to say is –

Lottie, go and take a good FUCK to yourself.

You’re not blaming me for this one.

 

Victory Is Mine

 

I won the Easter egg eating competition. I said I would.

Lottie didn’t give in, she went home and took THE BERSERKERS with her just because they started projectile vomiting their Easter eggs all over my kitchen walls. I made her clean up before she left.

Scotty has gone, ten minutes ago. I waved to him from my bedroom window. He said he’ll be in touch when he can, but I know what those Middle Eastern lines of communication are like, smack a dry camel three times on its hump and wait for the echo.

So I’m all alone again —

BUT I’M NOT all alone again

because I’ve got YOU – WordPress just gave me a badge for 200 followers except they’re a bit late, I’ve got 206 now.

 

THANK YOU, MY LOVELY ACOLYTES. I LOVE YOU ALL.

Dotty Film Review – Avatar

WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY

I KNOW WHY THE SMURFS AREN’T VISITING ME.

WHO DID IT TO THEM?

WHO?

WHY HAS NO ONE DONE ANYTHING ABOUT IT?

CAMERON

OBAMA

OTHER LEADERS WITH BIG BOMBS

YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED OF YOURSELVES

IT’S AN

ATROCITY

TO ALLOW THIS SORT OF THING TO GO ON IN THIS DAY AND AGE

WHO TORTURED THEM?

WHO PUT THEM ON THE RACKS AND STRETCHED AND STRETCHED AND STRETCHED THEM?

WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT TO THE LITTLE SMURFS?

WHY WOULD YOU MAKE THEM INTO BIG SKINNY THINGS THAT LOOK LIKE THE BFG BUT FLOPPIER AND UGLIER AND BLUER?

WHY?

AND THAT POOR FEMALE SMURF, THEY MADE HER INTO AN ABOMINATION AND SHE HAD TO SHAG THE HUMAN WHO BECAME A SMURF WHO ALSO GOT STRETCHED AND THEY MADE HER INTO AN

AVATART

AVATART

Score – 0 out of 10  because torture and cruelty should never be used as entertainment

Dotty Hid In The Tumble Dryer Until After Midday

 

I had to. I don’t like April Fool’s Day, I’m scared of it and Little Emily can be a sod for practical jokes. It was okay being in the tumble dryer at first, it felt safe and warm because I’d just dried my towels but while I was having the panic attacks it got a bit uncomfortable and my elbows and knees hurt like fuck now, I think I can see the bruises starting to come out.

It’s all YOUR fault I had the panic attacks. And little Emily’s. Last night I was happy because of the 626 views you’ve done on my little blog. Little Emily was happy too, we had a feast of Cumberland sausages which she cooked so I didn’t have to do anything except sit back and eat. And I ate and ate and ate, not until I was SICK like Bonnie Langford who SCREAMED and SCREAMED and SCREAMED until she was sick, just until I FELT sick.

So there I was, sitting on my sofa at one o’clock in the morning, feeling sick, unable to move because my belly was like a big stone, when little Emily said, ‘Dotty, my dear friend, what if this is all a trick?

‘Eh? What?’

‘Your blog guests. They may be playing tricks on you.

‘What’re you on about?’

‘The statistics on your blog. What if they are an illusion, a despicable antic executed to make you THINK you have 626 views when really you do not?’

‘Shut up, idiot. I’ll show you it, it’s still on my stats page.’

‘Yes it is. But what if a secret group of infiltrating bloggers caused it to happen? Strange ne’er-do-wells lurk in Blogland too, my friend.’

‘And why the fuck would they do that? And WHO the fuck would do that? All the people on my blog are nice and kind and I love them.’

‘What about Judith?

‘JUDITH?’

‘She doesn’t like me. She has it in for me.’

‘HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA. If you think Judith would do something like that you’ve LOST IT. Stop being stupid, divvy bitch.’

‘If not Judith, then who?’

‘I don’t know. Nobody.’

‘Someone did it.’

‘Okay then, tell me how.’

‘I have been thinking about it. It is highly possible that they might have paid Wordpress to perform an adjustment.

‘It’d have to be A LOT OF FUCKING MONEY for WordPress to do something like that.’

‘Not if WordPress are almost bankrupt. I heard rumours that bailiffs had been seen clearing out blogs. They were seen stacking furniture onto a cart.

‘Really?’

‘Yes. Would I lie to you, my dear friend? Would I lie to you on this day of all days, the day that follows your 626 views that came about on the last day of March?

‘No, no you wouldn’t. I’m sorry.’

‘Go to bed, dear friend. It’s already tomorrow.

‘Right, yes, I will.’

 

And I did but I couldn’t sleep for worrying – so which of you was it?

WHO FIDDLED MY FUCKING FIGURES?

I can feel another panic attack coming on and my knees and elbows hurt.

I knew it was too good to be true.

626 fucking views my arse.

Well at least little Emily didn’t get a chance to play her April Fool’s Day tricks. She can’t get me now, it’s too late.

I hid in the tumble dryer. It was a bit of a squeeze.

Who Needs Freshly Pressed When Dotty Can Just Swear A Lot?

 

I never post three posts in one day because you all (y’all) will get fed up with me and unfollow me and leave me here all on my todd again if I annoy you with loads of posts, but I’m so amazed at the amount of VIEWS I’ve had today that I had to do another one just to say

 

THANK YOU FOR READING MY LITTLE BLOG EVERYONE

Today has been my busiest day with 626 views (FINAL TOTAL) which is a MASSIVE leap from 361 views which was my previous busiest day total. Now that might not seem like a lot to you big super bloggers who get thousands and thousands of views per day but to me it’s MAGIC! WONDERFUL! ASTOUNDING! Truly, it amazes me.

And it also amazes me how much you all (y’all) like SWEARING.

I LOVE IT!

 

EDIT EDIT EDIT  – FINAL TOTAL 626 views. I AM FUCKING GOBSMACKED.  :-)

Here’s a little present for you – a picture -

 

Here a packet of sweets for you to eat, my present to you for reading my little blog. Thank you and I hope you like them.

Donate To Dotty For A Very Important Cause

 

In my travels around WordPress I’ve come across lots of blogs with DONATE buttons on them. The begging bloggers want people to give them money for many various reasons – they want to travel; they want to buy a house; they want to buy a new Gucci bag; they want to buy food for their children; they want to pay for granny to be put in a home – everyone has a different reason but each and every one of those reasons are STUPID and FRIVOLOUS.

I want a DONATE button for my little blog but MY reason is VERY IMPORTANT – I want to buy a CANNON and some CANNON BALLS. When I get my CANNON I’m going to knock a hole in my bricked-up front door and fit the CANNON BARREL into the hole and then cement round it so NOTHING can get in AND I’LL BE ABLE TO BLAST AWAY ANY FUCKERS WHO COME TO MY FRONT DOOR.

But I don’t know where to get a DONATE button. And if I do find out where to get one and I get one I won’t be able to fit it onto my little blog because I CAN’T EVEN DO PICTURES SO HOW THE FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO DO A DONATE BUTTON?

So what I thought is you all (y’all) could just put the wedge of money you’re going to give me in an envelope (notes only please, Royal Mail will charge me if you put coins in the envelope) and send it to me through the proper post, but for obvious reasons you’re not getting my house address so you’ll have to wait until I’ve set up a Post Office box you can send it to. In the meantime, my lovely generous Followers and Readers, START SAVING YOUR MONEY FOR YOUR DOTTY TO BUY HER CANNON AND SOME CANNON BALLS – £20 notes and $50 notes, please (and the same in whatever currency you use) because you can get more money in the envelope with the higher value notes and it’ll save you money on postage in the long run because an envelope stuffed with higher value notes will cost the same to send as an envelope stuffed with lower value notes, I’ll  just get less.

 

Give me your money and you'll have the satisfaction of knowing your Dotty is safe in her house and no fucker can get through the bricks.

A Dotty Picture Puzzle

 

What’s the answer to the picture puzzle?

Robert de Niro's waiting

It’s easy.

 

 

talking Italian...

 

 

 

First one to get it right can have the pictures if they want.

I’m only doing a picture puzzle to practice doing pictures and making them stick where I put them.

Fingers crossed!

 

Normal Dotty Services Will Soon Be Resumed

 

I haven’t written a post for my blog yet, I didn’t get up till after midday. Not that it’s any of your business, why do you want to know what time I got up? I don’t ask YOU what time YOU get up, do I? It’s just plain nosiness that’s what it is and I’ll ask you to remember whose fucking blog this IS, it’s MY blog, I’m the BOSS OF MY BLOG and I’ll get up whenever I bleeding well WANT to get up, my name’s DOTTY HEADBANGER not fucking ROYAL MAIL or whatever the American or Canadian or Australian or Netherlandian or Colombian or whatever country you are on my list version of ROYAL MAIL is – if you want your post to arrive on time RING THEM UP AND ASK WHY THEY’RE SUCH TARDY BASTARDS.

You’ll get a new post from ME when I’m good and ready so stop nagging me, I’ve been INCAPACITATED you know, didn’t you read THE FUCKING MIGRAINE POEM? What do you think THAT was all about, do you think I wrote it for your ENTERTAINMENT? – no I did NOT write if for your entertainment I wrote it because it’s all I COULD write because nothing else had happened to me while I was lying there IN FUCKING AGONY.

Fucking blog. Can’t a She-Hermit sleep in on a Saturday morning after being INCAPACITATED? nag nag nag nag nag.

 I NEVER sleep in, I’m up between 5.30am and 6.30am every morning, weekends included. AND THE ONE TIME I SLEEP IN BECAUSE I WAS INCAPACITATED THE DAY BEFORE YESTERDAY AND IT’S WHINE WHINE WHINE WHINE WHINE give me a post, I want a post, if you don’t give me a post I’ll just nag and nag and nag, do a post, do a post NOW, do one do one do one.

NO I WON’T DO ONE. So fuck off, I’m going to make my Cumberland sausage sandwiches for my breakfast now, I haven’t had anything to eat for two days – no it’s more like THREE days. Do you want to see me STARVE?

I might be back later with a new post, I might not, it depends if I can be ARSED TO DO ONE. I might have other more interesting things to do like EXAMINE MY ELBOWS.

So there. Stick THAT up your blogging WordPress and swivel on it, fucking nagging fucking BELL-END of a fucking blog.

 

The F***ing Migraine Poem

 

Light, light, light

bright fucking light

bright bright bright

bright bright

fucking light

beautiful

like Sirius in my eye

 

Dread dread dread

overwhelming dread

dread dread dread

dread dread

fucking dread

of what’s about to happen

in my head

 

pins pins pins

tiny stabbing pins

pins pins pins

sticking in

fucking pins

paralyse 

the whole of my right hand side

 

Sick sick sick 

sick vomit sick

sick vomit sick

sick sick

fucking sick

and more sick

and more and more and more sick

 

sharp sharp pain

high piercing pain

pain pain pain

pain pain

fucking pain

white spikes of fire

from my brain

 

still still still

stay fucking still

stay fucking still

still still

fucking still

stay fucking still

stay absolutely fucking still

 

hour hours hours

long fucking hours

long like days days days

fucking hours and hours

and hours

of pain pain pain

pain pain

 

sleep sleep sleep

blessed fucking sleep

sleep sleep sleep

sleep sleep

fucking sleep

and when I woke at dawn

the fucking migraine had gone

 

strange strange strange

very fucking strange

strange strange strange

strange strange

fucking strange

this eerie otherness

that will stay with me for days.

 

 

Dotty’s SECRET PLAN For Retrieving Her New Towels And Her Washing Up Basins From The Back Garden

 

Right, this SECRET PLAN of mine is going to surprise you. Shock you even. It shocked ME when it slammed itself right to the front of my thoughts, knocking all other possible plans that might have been forming back down into the strange and shady pit of my subconscious. It took me a while to get my head round the fact that THE PLAN was really there, shining and magnificent, the ANSWER to a problem I hadn’t had time to think and worry about. A little MIRACLE had happened.

But it wasn’t just the presence of THE PLAN that astounded me – it was THE PLAN itself, what it entailed, what it implied, what it MEANT, not only in relation to the retrieval of my new towels and my basins but, if I could pull it off successfully, FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE.

I won’t tease you by spouting lines and lines and paragraphs and paragraphs of distracting words to keep you in suspense and keep you reading because you might get bored of having to wade through word after word after word, and line after line after line, and paragraph after paragraph after paragraph. We Who Are Mental can have short attention spans and you might lose the thread and just skip down the page to The End to see what happened, or worse still, you might LEAVE THIS PAGE. But if you were to skip down to The End to see what happened, or if you were to LEAVE THIS PAGE you’d miss me

 

 

eeeeeekkk! eeeeeeeeeeekkkkkk!!!! eeeeeeeeeeeekkk!!!

 

 

GOING OUT OF MY HOUSE ALONE

 

 

Yes, yes, you did, you read it correctly. I went out alone. On my own, on my todd, solo-solo-marco-polo. I DID IT.

She-Hermits, He-Hermits, everyone else – I bet you’re gagging to know HOW – well, I’m going to tell you, you’ll just have to hold on a minute while I turn my Cumberland sausages before they burn on one side.

 

♪♬♪ dooby-dooby-doooooooo

dooby-dooby-doooooooo ♬♬♪

 

You can tell how excited I am, can’t you? I NEVER EVER EVER leave my Cumberland sausages to cook by themselves without keeping a supervisory watch over them to stop them spitting at each other and violently rolling into each other’s sides. It’s just not worth it, an unevenly cooked Cumberland sausage can be just as bad as an undercooked Cumberland sausage, but I’ve turned the gas down now so they should be okay.

Okay, how did I do it? How did I GO OUT OF MY HOUSE ALONE? Actually I don’t really know,  I JUST DID IT. I didn’t think about it, instinct or something must have taken over, I didn’t even put any shoes on, I just grabbed a cold Cumberland sausage from the fridge, stuck it half in – half out of my mouth so I wouldn’t scream – in case I dropped it and also to nibble on for sustenance and energy while I was running – then I unlocked the back door and RAN.

And you should have seen me – I was like USAIN BOLT, like the WIND ON LEGS, faster than the speed of light, I was REALLY fucking fast, if anyone was watching they wouldn’t have SEEN ME I was that fast, I’d have been nothing but a SPEEDY LITTLE BLUR before their eyes, THERE and GONE, what WAS that?

RUN, FORREST, RUN!

Four strides to the corner, four strides back. That’s eight strides, eight record-breaking fast-as-fuck STRIDES I DID OUTDOORS.

Waaaaahhhhhhooooooo!

And in between was the swiftiest little pick-up ever. I didn’t even STOP for the pick-up and I had TWO BASINS FULL OF NEW, WET TOWELS to pick up. TWO. It was like a sprinty dance the way I did the turn and the pick-up at the same time while still managing to keep up the flow and the momentum of the run itself – FUCKING FLUID AND BEAUTIFUL, that’s what it was, like Dancing On Ice except it wasn’t dancing it was running and it wasn’t on ice it was on my concrete path – and those TWO BASINS FULL OF NEW WET TOWELS were really heavy, I thought I was definitely going to drop them or snap my hands off at the wrists and I knew how the skaters must have felt during PROP WEEK on Dancing On Ice, it’s bloody well hard you know, you don’t realise HOW HARD it is when you’re watching them on the telly because they make it look SO EASY, and so did I, I made it look like a piece of piss, I’d have been TOP OF THE LEADER-BOARD if Robin Cousins had been in my garden, judging me, and if Jayne and Chris had been there too they’d have FUCKING LOVED IT, they’d have wanted to COACH ME but I’d have said no because I don’t think I’d like ice-skating, I like to keep my feet firmly on the ground, thank you, but I wouldn’t mind having a go at the FLYING ROUND THE RINK thing, that looks like SUBLIME MAGIC and ROMANCE on a safety harness and a sturdy length of steel wire.

I reached the back door again and as I entered the house I let the TWO BASINS FULL OF NEW WET TOWELS drop onto the kitchen floor and I executed a STRIDEY LEAP over them that would have only scored maybe a low four because I was knackered by that time and all the power had gone out of my legs.

My heart was thumping, not panicky thumping, good thumping and I flopped flat over the kitchen table to get my breath back. I was SO PROUD OF MYSELF, SO VERY FUCKING PROUD that I wanted to ring Lottie and tell her what I’d just done, but I couldn’t get up and by the time I did get up to shut and lock the back door the urge to ring her had gone.

This is the SECOND TIME I’ve been out since I started my little blog back in December of last year. But it’s the FIRST TIME I’ve been out ON MY OWN for THREE YEARS.

In the space of a few days I’ve planned the party that wasn’t a party (planning it counts?) and I’ve GONE OUTSIDE MY HOUSE ON MY OWN.

What’s happening to me?

 

 

Cometh The Boilerman, Cometh The Flood – The Book Of Dotty: 10:20 (am)

 

Numpty the boilerman came back this morning with the parts he needed to fix the boiler. I don’t know what they were, I kept myself hidden in my laptop reading through someone’s blog while he did what he had to do. He rang yesterday evening so I knew he was coming and this time I took extra beta-blockers and a big, BIG swig of laudanum to help me cope while he was here. 

I was in the living room to save my ears from imploding and so he couldn’t talk to me and make me even more panicky. The boiler is in the utility room at the back of the house. He’d been here about half an hour when he came to the living room door and tapped on it. ‘S’cuse me, love, have you got some old towels?’

Old towels? Oh for fuck’s sake. ‘How bad is it?’

‘No, it’s not too bad, don’t worry yourself.’

I went to have a look.

WATER, WATER EVERYWHERE, AND NOT A DROP TO DRINK 

Why are people so FUCKING USELESS?

I got him some towels from my airing cupboard, which weren’t old towels they were NEW towels from the collection that fell on me the day Granny Euphemia came to see me. I thought – why am I not in a right tizz, panicky and terrified, but I wasn’t, no, my extra medication must have been just right. I’ll have to write down what and how much I took so I know for the next time something comes up. I took the towels downstairs and waded through the big puddle near the back door.

He pointed at the cooker and said, ‘If you start there you’ll stop it running underneath.’

Me??

ME??

I DON’T THINK SO

So I calmly said –

YOU INCOMPETENT TWAT OF AN ARSEWIPE, YOU CAN FUCK OFF. YOU MOP IT UP OR YOU MIGHT AS WELL WHISTLE FOR YOUR MONEY BECAUSE YOU WON’T GET ANY OF MINE.

and I went back into the living room and carried on reading the blog.

Another hour and a half later he tapped on the door again. ‘I’m finished, love.’

And guess what? He had.

The boiler is working, no leaks, and he did such a good job mopping up that my kitchen floor has PATTERNS IN THE LINO THAT I’D FORGOTTEN ABOUT.

I might ask him if he wants a cleaning job, cash in hand.

So all’s well that ends well.

Amazing.

Except I don’t know what he’s done with the new pack of towels I gave him.

Where are they?

 

 

EDIT EDIT EDIT — I can see the towels but I can’t get them. The bastard’s left them in my two washing up basins OUTSIDE. I can’t reach them because they’re JUST ROUND THE CORNER, I can see about eight inches of towel and about one inch of basin. What will I do, what will I do?

 

 

Why Do I Bother? Eh? Tell Me, Because I Don’t Know

 

Right, to start with I’ve put my newest fascinating collection on display here –

 Dotty’s List Of Collected Countries

 

Next, I want to ask why loads of you have just rudely dismissed the work I put into making YOUR  new page

Dotty’s Pet Blogs 

Have I got MUG written across my forehead? Do I do these things for the good of my health? NO I FUCKING WELL DON’T –  SO, FOLLOWERS, READERS - GO AND ADD YOUR BLOG TO THE LIST and other people will visit you and follow you and we will all be like ONE BIG HAPPY FUCKING FAMILY.

ALL RIGHT?

WELL GO ON THEN, WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?

 

 

I HAVE  850,492,786.5 FOLLOWERS AND ONLY 17 OF YOU HAVE POSTED LINKS TO YOUR BLOGS ON DOTTY’S PET BLOGS. SHAME ON YOU ALL.

 

 

EDIT EDIT EDIT EDIT —- If you’re wondering, the Dotty’s Pet Blog page is working, I’m seeing more clicks than ever before. So I don’t know why you wouldn’t want to add YOURS to the list, unless you don’t want anyone to read it, but in that case MAKE IT PRIVATE.

 

 

Numpty The Boilerman And His Lack Of PARTS

 

He’s been.

Finally.

But guess what, it’s sod’s fucking law he has to come back again next week because I WAS RIGHT and the boiler needs two new PARTS that can’t be ordered until Monday so won’t arrive until Wednesday but he doesn’t know WHEN he will come to fit them. If he had come yesterday when he was supposed to he could… oh, frig it, what’s the point?

He’s been.

And DIDN’T lock him in.

I didn’t hit him.

I wasn’t sick on his shoes.

I didn’t have a panic attack (came close a couple of times).

I didn’t cry in front of him, just a few tears that I managed to blink away.

I don’t THINK he heard my heart battering away, or me whispering my special mantra for peacefulness and calm, taught to me by HIS HOLEY CHEESENESS, THE DAIRY FFARMA (fuckshitebastardfuckshitebastard) but he did keep giving me funny looks so it’s possible he might have noticed.

I did stutter, but for all he knows I might HAVE a stutter and there’s nothing wrong with having a stutter, it’s only if you have a stutter when you’re a TRAMPY SHE-HERMIT that it really bothers people.

I don’t think I was TOO mental.

I did shake slightly.

I made him a cup of tea because he asked for one.

I didn’t shake enough to scald his hand when I handed him the cup of tea he asked for because I didn’t hand him the cup of tea he asked for, I left it on the kitchen worktop for him.

I did scream once but it wasn’t a mental scream it was a METAL scream due to sudden excrutiating HURTY NOISE in my ears when the bastard was trying to get the front of the boiler off and IT SOUNDED LIKE A GIANT METAL AEROPLANE SCRAPING ACROSS MY ROOF BECAUSE I HAVE HYPERACUSIS AND THE FUCKER SHOULD HAVE DONE HIS JOB QUIETLY LIKE I TOLD HIM TO.

I bleached the cup when he’d finished his tea.

And then I bleached my hands that had touched the cup that he had touched with his mouth before it was bleached.

He had stupid hair.

And he was a CHATTY BASTARD. But I know how to deal with CHATTY BASTARDS. I told him I’m deaf, which I’m not I just can’t hear properly, so he shut up and only spoke to me to ask me what he had to ask me which wasn’t much.

I wanted to go away from where he was. I really wanted to.

I couldn’t, for all the reasons that everyone can’t when they have a STRANGER IN THE HOUSE —

they steal your things

they sneak a look in your cupboards and drawers

and your fridge

they eat the food in your fridge (and I had made HEAPS of Cumberland sausages to see me through THE DAY OF WAITING)

they write rude things in the dust

they plant secret hidden mini-miniature cameras all over your house

they look for hiding places so they can sneak back in and hide until you’re asleep (which means you can’t go to sleep again)

they PISS IN YOUR SINK

they drink your beer if you have any beer, which I don’t because I don’t drink beer or any other alcoholic beverage – I am TEETOTAL apart from my morning ABSINTHE & BANANA SMOOTHIE, which doesn’t count because  

1 – Absinthe is made of WORMWOOD which is a plant I grow in my garden, therefore Absinthe is a PLANT EXTRACT like SUNFLOWER OIL.

2 –  My ABSINTHE & BANANA SMOOTHIE is a FRUITYHEALTHY, NUTRITIOUS SMOOTHIE FULL OF VITAMINS AND GLOOPY GOODNESS  

3 – I drink it in the morning and if I were drinking alcohol in the morning I would be an ALKY which I AM NOT.

 

So I survived – but I’m fucking shattered, wiped out from two days of high stress and high anxiety (I watched that once, long ago) and a few panic attacks.

And there are at least five days to go until he comes back.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I Made A New Page For You While I’m Waiting For The Boilerman

 

It’s for you all (y’all) to add your links to your blogs and so you can find other good blogs to read.

SPREAD THE LOVE, MY CHICKADEES, far across the wide, wide, WordPress.

Add your own blog to DOTTY’S PET BLOGS.

And go and visit each other.

But always come back to me.

Because I love you.

You are ALL beautiful.

And sparkly.

No exceptions.

Except one.

 

Dotty Is Slightly Miffed With The Boilerman

 

 

 

 

OY, BOILERMAN – see that writing in the picture? It’s for YOU, you LYING FIBBING SHIRKER.

Just you wait till morning – that’s if you ARRIVE in the morning and you don’t make up another excuse not to come. ILL? yes right, what with? DOUBLE PNEUMONIA? BERI-BERI? E-COLI? THE BUBONIC PLAGUE? ill my fucking granny’s gums, you are NOT ill if you’ve got anything wrong with you it’s MAN FLU, you woosy-arsed whiney fucking WIMP. If you want to see ILL you should have seen me today WAITING FOR YOU TO COME AND FIX MY BOILER but just you wait, tomorrow I’m not taking ANY of my FUCKING PROPANOLOL and tonight I’m not taking my FUCKING MIRTAZAPINE AND MY FUCKING NIGHT BETA-BLOCKERS AND I’M NOT TAKING ANY FUCKING PILLS AT ALL TONIGHT OR TOMORROW SO IN THE MORNING YOU WILL GET THE FULL EFFECTS OF ME NOT TAKING MY FUCKIGN PILLS AND THEN YOU WILL KNOW WHAT BEING ILL IS YOU LYING LITTLE BASTARD AND i WILL LOCK THE FUCKING DOOR SO YOU CAN’T GET OUT AND YOU’LL THNK YOU ARE LOCKED IN WITH A RAVING LOONY AND YES YOU WILL BE LOCKED IN WITH A RAVING LOONY AND THAT FUCKING LOONY WILL BE ME. 

 

Little Bitty Pretty One & Big Hat-Wearing Ugly One (And The Boilerman)

 

LOOK WHAT LITTLE BITTY PRETTY ONE MADE FOR ME!

A VIDEO!!!!

 

BUT

My boiler is leaking and I had to ring A MAN who will be here sometime before 8pm tonight. WHY CAN’T THE FUCKER GIVE ME AN EXACT TIME? Now I have to wait and wait and wait and it’s a long, long wait, it’s been an hour already since I had to use the phone to ring him and in that time I’ve taken three beta-blockers, a big swig of laudanum, and a good sniff of the smelling salts little Emily gave me. I AM STILL PANICKY THOUGH and I feel very, very sick.

HE WILL WANT TO ASK ME ABOUT THE BOILER.

AND I WILL HAVE TO TELL HIM.

WHICH MEANS SPEAKING TO HIM

AND LOOKING AT HIM IN A WAY THAT DOESN’T SEEM TOO MENTAL, SO HE THINKS I’M LOOKING HIM IN THE EYE BUT REALLY I’M NOT LOOKING HIM IN THE EYE, I AM LOOKING THREE INCHES TO THE RIGHT OF HIS EYES.

oh

oh

oh

oh

oh

oh

oh

oh

i feel sick.

 

Dotty Has A Date With Her Pet Policeman

 

Eeeeeeeeekkkkk! Eeeeeeeeeeekkkk! Eeeeeeeeeekkkkk!

I have an OFFICIAL NEW BOYFRIEND who is an OFFICIAL OFFICER OF THE OFFICIAL POLICE WHO UPHOLD THE OFFICIAL BRITISH LAW.

It’s MY PET POLICEMAN, SERGEANT SHERLOCK.

He told me his real name again but it’s something boring so I don’t want to remember it, but he let me give him a sweetheart’s nickname because he’s a big softie. I call him PIGGY-WIG and he calls me MADAME HEADBANGER because I’m not some old slapper of a tart who lets men call her by her first name on THE FIRST DATE.

Yes, we had a DATE. A real one. This afternoon. He came round with PC Plod (his psychic police twin) and Sniffy, their little sniffy dog, on the pretext of giving me a Caution for wasting police time. He came in and pretended to give me the Caution, then he sent PC Plod and Sniffy off on a fake drug hunt round my house so he could get me alone.

‘I know you’ve manipulated the situation to get me alone to tell me nice things, but stand back or I’ll kick your bollocks up through your brain,’ I said. ‘Don’t you know I have Hermititis and People Phobia? That means I’m scared of PEOPLE which also means YOU. Nothing personal though, I still want to be your girlfriend. Piggy-Wig.’

‘Madame Headbanger, I assure you I have no intention of coming near you,’ he said.

I gave him a wink, then another few winks to make sure he noticed the winks because my eye’s still a bit swollen. I winked to let him know I was IN ON IT - our love had to be kept secret from PC Plod who wouldn’t think twice about grassing up Piggy-Wig to the Chief Inspector for romancing when he should have been at work.

‘Do you want a Cumberland sausage sandwich?’

‘I really shouldn’t … ah, go on then.’

I whipped the plate out of the keep-it-warm bit of the oven. ‘Here’s one I prepared earlier. Six I prepared earlier.’

He gobbled them down. And he had good eating manners – he kept his mouth closed and he didn’t make ANY disgusting noises. ‘Great sausages,’ he said when he’d finished. ‘Very nice. Thanks.’

“My dear friend Dotty makes wonderful Cumberland sausage sandwiches.” At the first syllable I turned round, whoosh, and there was little Emily smiling at me, holding out her arms for a big cuddle.

‘Little Emily!’ I ran over to her, and while we were having our big cuddle I heard Sergeant Sherlock’s chair move back from the table.

‘Madame Headbanger! Are you all right?’

‘Yes, yes. I am now. This is my best friend in the world, Miss Brontë. Emily, this is my new boyfriend, Sergeant Sherlock.’

Piggy-Wig looked at me, then at little Emily, then at me again. ‘Madame Headbanger, come and sit down.’

‘No. You’re not one of those controlling men who won’t let me have friends, are you? I won’t put up with that, my dead husband would tell you I won’t. If he wasn’t dead.’

Little Emily tugged my cardigan sleeve and whispered, “Beware! He has the look of a sly fox! He is plotting against you!”

I whispered back, ‘Don’t worry, little Emily, I can handle him.’

Piggy-Wig took his phone out of his pocket. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I have to make a quick phone call.’

‘Okay.’

He went towards the back door. Then he stopped. He stood still for 48 seconds (I counted), and then he started swaying. I went over and guided him back to the chair, singing a little song for him -

♬♪ When Marimba rhythms start to play, dance with me, make me sway.

Like a lazy ocean hugs the shore, hold me close, sway me more. ♬♪♬

Little Emily said, ‘Oh Dotty! Dean Martin! Do you own a recording?’

‘Yep. I’ll dig it out for you later.’

She clapped her hands. ‘Wonderful!’

‘Will you help me with Piggy-Wig, please? He’s slumping and he weighs a ton.’

‘Move to the side. I know just the way to manouevre a man in a fugue. I have plenty of experience.’

In two shakes she had him sitting up straight at the table, then she did something with his head to stop it lolling. His chin was on his chest and he had a stupid grin on his face.

We left him at the table and went into the living room so I could look for my Dean Martin cd. While I was looking we had a little discussion about which Dean Martin song was best, SWAY or MEMORIES ARE MADE OF THIS. We’d just decided that we couldn’t decide between them when we heard stomping across the ceiling.

‘Goodness, Dotty, why did you refrain from mentioning another policeman in the house?’

‘I forgot. There’s a sniffy dog as well. It’s called Sniffy.’

‘What shall we do?’

‘I don’t know. I thought it would just be Piggy-Wig who came to see me. I didn’t know he was going to bring his psychic police twin with him.’

Next minute there was a massive clatter of noise as Sniffy started barking and came galloping down the stairs dragging the shouting PC Plod behind him. They ran right past us and into the kitchen and by the time we got there Sniffy had started going mental, barking his head off at Piggy-Wig and pulling so hard on his lead in his attempts to get to him that PC Plod had to brace himself on the kitchen worktop to stay upright. He got his radio out and told the other end that he needed assistance. Within five minutes there were more policemen in my kitchen than EVER before (and a young policewoman who had her hair scraped back in an unflattering way – she would have looked nicer with a fringe), then two paramedics (I think they were both paramedics, but one might have been just a normal ambulanceman), then just me and little Emily again. We sat for hours listening to Dean Martin, then there was a knock at the door.

The Big Chief Inspector! I hadn’t seen him since the night I killed Simon.

Come to apologise to me for me having to witness ‘…the dastardly doings of a drug-addled police officer.’ – his words, not mine. And who says ‘dastardly’ these days anyway? Well, obviously he does. But who else?

So there it is. I always pick the bad ones. I don’t know why I even thought it would be different this time.

Never mind though, I made myself some Cumberland sausage while I was making Piggy-Wig’s (naturally), and me and little Emily are going to spend the evening with Dean Martin, who looks even better in real life than he does in those old films on the telly.

 

Dotty Wants To Batter Someone But She Can’t So The Police Will Have To Do It For Her

 

Someone just sent me an email and in it they asked me a horrible, insulting stupid question that I think you should all see –

Is Little Emily your go-between drug dealer?

And here’s my answer that I’m writing here instead of in an email so I have evidence for when I SUE YOU FOR ALL YOU HAVE AND FOR ALL YOU WILL EVER EARN –

NO SHE IS NOT MY GO-BETWEEN DRUG DEALER, YOU FUCKING KNOBROT.

For one – little Emily is an AUTHOR

for two – she is DEAD

for three – what gave this stupid tosser the idea that I take drugs? Have I ever mentioned taking drugs? NO. Medication – YES, but drugs – NO I HAVE NOT. AND I DO NOT APPRECIATE THE INFERENCE THAT I HAVE.

I’m ringing the police. I’m ringing 999 and they’ll come straight away and when they do I’ll show them the email and tell them I want the fucker done for SLANDER. And I’m ringing Sergeant Sherlock who is now my PET POLICEMAN AND ALSO MAYBE MY NEW BOYFRIEND BUT WE’LL JUST SEE HOW IT GOES who will make sure the 999 police arrest that person and show them some good old-fashioned police brutality.

HOW CAN THEY SAY SUCH A HORRIBLE THING? HOW CAN THEY?

 

 

Dotty Is Friends With The Police Again (But They’re Coming For You, Clown)

 

The police called round to my house again last night.

It’s been a few weeks since I saw them last, on THAT night – see Dotty In The Darkness (with lots and lots of swearing) – and I must say I’ve missed their sweet little 12 year old bum-fluffed faces that always look so SERIOUS. And I’ve decided to forgive them for THIEVING MY LITTLE HAND-DRILL because after many, many, many hours of rageful thinking about WHY they STOLE MY LITTLE HAND-DRILL, it came to me one day that maybe the policeman who STOLE MY LITTLE HAND-DRILL needed it for himself because being a policeman must be a stressful job sometimes – I wouldn’t want to have to spend my days (or nights if I was on night-shift) climbing trees to rescue stupid cats. Who would? Let the fuckers fall and then maybe they won’t SHIT ALL OVER PEOPLE’S GARDENS, maybe they’d be too frightened to go out in case they fell out of a tree and they’d stay in their own house and shit in there instead. (Or is that Firemen who rescue cats? Same difference).

Two policemen came to see me.

1  Sergeant Sherlock

2  PC Plod

They’re not their real names. I can’t remember their real names so I gave them aliases. They were new policemen, I’d never seen either of them before and I know all the local bobbys.

I didn’t hear them at first because they came to the front door and knocked on that but bricking it up must have provided a layer of sound-proofing so I only knew they were here when I heard them battering on the back door. I panicked a bit at the sound of banging on the back door, I thought it was someone wanting to dump THE BERSERKERS on me again, but I answered it and it was the police and my heart gave a little skip (not a panicky palpitation) because I thought they’d decided to give me my STOLEN LITTLE HAND-DRILL back, but when I said ‘Have you brought my STOLEN LITTLE HAND-DRILL back, the STOLEN LITTLE HAND-DRILL that one of you Keystone fuckers THIEVED FROM ME,’ Sergeant Sherlock said no, they hadn’t, they were here about the noise.

Eh? What noise?

‘Singing,’ he said. ‘Very loud singing.’

‘Oh, that.’ Fucking nosey neighbours AGAIN. ‘It was me and Clown, we were singing duets and rounds. We were bored.’

‘Clown? Clown who?’

CLOWN, you clown.’

‘Surname?’

They’d tried to trick me with that one before, asking for my surname and when I told them it they said no, we mean the other person’s surname. But I was one step ahead of them.

‘Fire’

‘Where?’

‘No, that’s Clown’s surname, you knobhead. His middle name is On, but he doesn’t spell it with a capital O and I’m not sure if that’s because it’s spelt that way on his Birth Certificate or if he’s just minimised the size of the letter to try and look cool.’

‘Is Mr Fire still here?’

‘No, don’t be stupid. How can he be here? He’s at home.’

‘When did he leave?’

They were asking such daft questions I couldn’t help laughing. ‘HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA. He was never here.’

PC Plod piped up, ‘Stop being unhelpful, Miss Headbanger. Mr Fire and yourself were disrupting the peace. We need to speak with him.’

‘It isn’t MISS Headbanger, it’s MADAME Headbanger. I have been married you know.’

PC Plod again, ‘So where is your husband? Is he here?’

‘No. I killed him.’

They didn’t say anything for a long time, they just looked at me. The silence was getting creepy so I said, ‘Don’t worry, he isn’t under the floorboards or anything. It was a long time ago and I was found not guilty.’ Bless their little rubber bullets, they each breathed out a long breath at exactly the same time, like psychic synchronised twins.

‘Where is Mr Fire?’

‘Do you feel each other’s pain?’

‘What?’

‘You know, like when one twin gets battered round the head, the other twin feels EVERY BLOW.’

‘Are you threatening us?’

‘No I’m NOT threatening you. I was just ASKING for fuck’s sake. Hoy, hang on, why are you looking at me like that? It’s police intimidation. I’ll report you.’

The Sergeant coughed. Well, it was more of a throat-clearing harumph. Actually no, it was a timely little bark. ‘Will you tell us where Mr Fire lives, Madame Headbanger?’

‘Yes, he lives in Canada.’

‘So he wasn’t part of the singing that disrupted the peace?’

‘Yes he was.’

‘I think you need to come down to the station with us.’

Oh fuck. I HATE going to the station because of my HERMITITIS AND PEOPLE PHOBIA.

‘Don’t you know I have Hermititis and People Phobia?’

‘What?’

‘Never mind. Do you want a Cumberland sausage?’

Sergeant Sherlock’s eyes lit up. ‘Oh, you’re THAT Dotty Headbanger. The one with the Cumberland sausages. The lads down the station say you make the best ever Cumberland sausage sandwiches.’

‘Yep, that’s me, guv.’

And an hour later they left with their bobby-bellies full of Cumberland sausage sandwiches to go next door to arrest the noisy neighbours who won’t stop banging on my wall.

 

 

 

 

CUMBERLAND SAUSAGES TO THE RESCUE YET AGAIN? IS THERE ANY  FEAT OF SUPER-HERO-NESS THEY’RE NOT CAPABLE OF? NO, NOTHING CAN STOP THEM.

I Am About To Die If I Don’t Eat The Bunny-Wabbit Pie

 

Pies. What do you think of them? Do you eat them? I NEVER eat pies and right now I’m very close to having a vomiting panic attack because little Emily will be here soon and she’s bringing me a pie. She went home this morning to bake it for me. It’s a rabbit pie. Full of rabbits. Cute furry hoppy floppy bunny-wabbits. She TRAPS them up on the moors and WRINGS THEIR NECKS and DECAPITATES and SKINS and GUTS and BONES them and then she CHOPS THE MEAT and puts it inside THE PIE SHE HAS MADE FOR ME.

Oh.

Oooh.

What do I do?

 

I ate the posset she made a few weeks ago and it made me violently sick because what I think of as a posset isn’t a pudding, it’s the term used for BABY SICK. So I was eating the pudding posset, which was white, and trying to batter away thoughts of BABY SICK, which is also white, when I was sick. Terribly sick.

 

NBI’m not apologising for the above paragraph, even if you were scranning your dinner and it put you off, because I WANT YOU TO FEEL MY PAIN AND MY PANIC AND MY QUEASY DISGUST AT THE THOUGHT OF EATING THIS WABBIT PIE that is due to arrive here very, very soon. Any complaints about being put off your dinner should be sent to David Cameron, 10 Downing Street, London, England. Tell him Dotty did it and he’ll have a word with me when we next meet up for one of our regular shin-kicking fights.

(That’s a big lie I’ve just told you because how can I go to shin-kicking fights when I CAN’T GO OUT. Fool. Just write to David and he’ll write me a formidable note telling me not to do it again).

 

If I don’t eat this wabbit pie little Emily will be offended and quite possibly angry. I don’t want to make her angry, not that I think she’d punch me to the floor or use other physical violence on me, she only does that to HELP me (she said), but there’s one important fact I can’t get out of my head and it’s that little Emily is an AUTHOR. And what do authors know about? I’ll tell you what they know about – they know about POISONING. She has a POISONER’S HANDBOOK. I’ve seen it. It’s twice the thickness of my own POISONER’S HANDBOOK (I am not an author (god forbid), I’m a COLLECTOR) and will, I presume, contain poison recipes that use PLANTS TO BE FOUND ON THE MOORS - where little Emily walks every day. And if she fails to find what she wants all she has to do is get Branwell to get it for her. And if Branwell is having one his fugue days she can just dawdle down to the Apothecary and buy it there.

 

 

IF I DON’T EAT THE WABBIT PIE I WILL DIE IN HORRENDOUS WRITHING AGONY, POISONED BY AN AUTHOR WHO KNOWS ALL ABOUT POISONS.

You should know where my will is by now.

JUDITH! GRUMPY! You both know where it is, don’t you?

I’m not exaggerating here, I WILL die if I don’t eat the wabbit pie, no doubt about it.

I need a speedy plan but I can’t think of one.

 

Oh.

 

I need my brick. Where did I put it?

 

 

 

bangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbang

bangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbang

ouch

 

 

 

Right, I can think a bit clearer now.

I need a list -

WAYS TO AVOID EATING THE POISONED WABBIT PIE

1

2

 

 

Oh.

 

I know, I could get her pissed – I’ve still got some Horehound & Wormwood Tonic Beer left from a couple of years ago when I made some to try it (Gypsy Petulengro’s recipe book p26). It was strong then, it’ll be stronger now.

But she doesn’t drink. AAAAHHHH – she’s here!

She’s here and the fucking plate is MASSIVE.

And it STINKS. It smells like — I don’t know what it smells like, I’ve never smelt anything like it before so I can’t think of an appropriate analogy to convey the FUCKING FOUL RANKNESS of it.

 

Pity poor Dotty.

Pity me, please.

 

I Am Dotty, Hear Me Roar

 

RRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRGGGGGHHHHH

 

 

thats it, im knackered now

i tried

i coloured my words in

and i did a comma

and some roaring capitals

but i couldn’t manage to get my little finger to reach the exclamation mark key

so fuck it

fuck it all

im going back to bed

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I Can’t Be Bothered To Think Of A Title

 

 

what day is it i cant be arsed thinking to work it out it doesnt matter anyway all the days are the same hours and hours and hours of nothing except when little emily comes to see me

beyond boredom lies dont give a whistling shit about anything because giving a whistling shit involves too much effort and any effort is too much effort

capital letters are too much effort

punctuation is too much effort

typing with more than two index fingers is too much effort

touching the space bar is too much effort but im forcing myself

putting the colour i like onto the words is too much effort

doing bold shouty letters is too much effort

moving is too much effort

i need a sleep

 

 

i dont care what scotty does any more he can do what he likes he can send messages however he likes he can put me away if he likes whats the point in fighting him he always wins

 

 

this laptop is making a strange noise

and its very very hot

i cant be bothered to turn it off

if my blog is gone when you next try to get into it you know what happened

it blew up

 

boom

 

 

 

 

Dotty’s Shitey Family – An Update

 

I got up this morning. I went for a wee, had a wash, got dressed, went downstairs for a fag and a cup of coffee which tasted very nice indeed, thank you for asking. I’m telling you what I did this morning because since JUDAS left I haven’t done it, not all of it, only the wee, the fag and the cup of coffee that I took back upstairs to bed with me.

My bedroom is a shithole. It’s a mess. I don’t know why because all I usually do is sleep there but it’s become something of a dumping ground for collections I’ve grown bored with, for books I haven’t read yet, for books I have read but haven’t found a place for yet, for clothes I haven’t put away yet (CLEAN CLOTHES – I’M NOT A DIRTY MINGER, I KNOW WHAT A LAUNDRY BASKET IS FOR – see Losing My Biscuit) and for bits and bobs and things I keep but don’t know why I’ve kept them. But like I said, all I usually do is sleep there so I didn’t notice how bad it had got because I never LOOKED at it until I started to spend my days in bed. Well to be honest with you it was little Emily who MADE me start noticing it, she wouldn’t shut up about it until I brought my head up from under the covers and listened to her- “Dotty, my dearest friend, you must LOOKThis room resembles Branwell’s room when he’s had a little too much laudanum and thinks his enemies from Glass Town have come to disembowel him. SEE IT, my friend. KNOW IT. And decide WHAT TO DO ABOUT IT.” We had a little argument and I shouted at her from under the covers IF IT BOTHERS YOU THAT MUCH GO AND TELL QUEEN VICTORIA AND GET ME BEHEADED, YOU MOANING BITCH but she said she couldn’t hear me properly and I didn’t have the energy to repeat myself or to listen to her yakking on and on and on so I looked and I saw and as the days passed I looked and saw more and more of the mess, and I DO know what I have to do about it but I’m not doing it today, I’m waiting for Granny Euphemia to come again and she’ll help me to clean it.

Little Emily is getting on my nerves lately, sweet as she is. She’d look pretty enough with a bit of eyeliner and mascara to bring out her eyes but I don’t think make-up would stop her looking so fucking DEPRESSED all the time, like someone stole her pens or maimed her bible. I think it’s those sisters of hers, they keep telling her Heathcliff will never be famous if she doesn’t give him a flowery cravat and a blue velvet jacket but she doesn’t want to give him those things and I told her bollocks to Charlotte, bollocks to Anne, tell them to go and fuck themselves, Heathcliff is YOUR character, you can dress him how you want. During my days in bed she’d come and sit on the long bookcase and talk to me while I was writing my new book and film review pages for my little blog and you should have HEARD the things she told me about what one of the sisters got up to with the – no, I can’t tell you, juicy gossip isn’t part of this blog. But even when she was gossiping and slagging off her sisters she still looked as miserable as fuck – I put up with it for days until yesterday morning when I (politely) asked if she could go somewhere else because her face was upsetting me. She went and she hasn’t been back since. I hope she wasn’t offended, but I’d had enough of looking at all that GLOOM.

So back to this morning. After I’d had my fifth cup of coffee I made a batch of Cumberland sausages and they tasted like HEAVEN, thank you for asking, and I don’t ever want to go so long without eating them again. They perked me up so much I thought I should open the curtains to let a bit of sunlight in so I went into the living room and opened the living room curtains, I ran upstairs and opened my bedroom curtains, I went into the spare room that JUDAS slept in and opened the spare room that JUDAS slept in curtains, but I didn’t open the little spare room curtains because it’s not a spare room any more it’s an airing cupboard (see Adventures In The Airing Cupboard). I opened the blind in the bathroom and then I went back downstairs into the kitchen and opened the blind in the kitchen — AND THE OUTSIDE HAD DISAPPEARED. Gone. Vanished. No garden, no catshit, no sky, no clouds, no nothing of the outside at all. I screamed and jumped back and banged my arse on the washing mangle (it fucking well hurt, I bet the bruise is going to be the size of a GOLFBALL) and I thought that’s it, Dotty, you’ve lost it completely, no road back from INSANITYLAND now and I had a SUPER-MEGA PANIC ATTACK and all sorts of things were going through my head about COLLIDING UNIVERSES and BIG BLACK HOLES SWALLOWING UP OUR PLANET and KEANU REEVES HAD CHANGED HIS MIND ABOUT DESTROYING US and GODDYJESUS HAD SMITED US BEFORE KEANU REEVES COULD DO IT and then I noticed the writing on the black blackness where the outside had been, four underlined words – dotty open the door – and I knew then that the outside HADN’T disappeared, it was behind the BIG BLACK PAPER THAT MY FUCKING KNOB-ROT OF AN EX-BROTHER JUDAS HAD STUCK ON MY WINDOW.

And I surprised myself then. I laughed. I kept laughing. I laughed and I laughed so much I had to sit down but I sat on my banged arse and it HURT so much it stopped me laughing. I waited for a few seconds but I didn’t feel any tears coming like they always do after laughter, and I realised a weird thing, that the laugh had lifted my spirits (fuck, I’m talking like little Emily, she’s becoming a bad influence) and given me a feeling I thought I remembered but not a whole feeling, it was more the memory of a  long-forgotten feeling, something I knew once upon a time, and all of a sudden it struck me that I was remembering HAPPINESS, pure happiness, pure glee-inspired, carefree, impish CHILDHOOD HAPPINESS and that brought back a whole stream of memories of the summer I was 13 going on 14 when Scotty found a hidden stash of PORNOGRAPHY MAGAZINES in the field next to the woods and every night for weeks afterwards we’d sneak out of the house when it got dark and we’d sellotape a pornographic picture of a lady with HUGE KNOCKERS and LEGS AKIMBO to a neighbour’s window so that when they opened the curtains the next morning they’d get a good eyeful. We did the whole village including our own house so we wouldn’t stand out as the culprits but meine Mami suspected us because she never saw the pornographic picture we stuck on our window, she didn’t even know it had been there.  And it turned out she didn’t see it because dear dead Daddy had opened the curtains that morning and KEPT THE PICTURE and we know this because after dear dead Daddy died and we were going through his things we found the now tatty pornographic picture folded up in one of his scientific journals and we realised he must have KNOWN IT WAS US doing the pornographic pictures on windows and HIDDEN the pornographic picture we stuck on our window in case our fingerprints were on it.

Bless my dear dead Daddy for loving us so much but we got caught anyway. Meine Mami sussed it when she needed to use the sellotape and there was only a little bit left on the roll. But get this – I didn’t get in trouble. Scotty took all the blame, he said I had nothing to do with it. He got battered round the house and was sent to bed every night for a week without any supper (the soft punishment of being grounded wasn’t invented in Britain in those days – we only had a few American programmes on telly, I loved Champion the Wonder Horse – so our punishments were the tried and tested good old violence and starvation which they should BRING BACK to stop the brats of today from being such brats. A swift belt round the head never did me any harm).

But Scotty – he took all the blame. He always stuck up for me at school – he threw one bully-boy in the school dinner slop bin when he called me names. And even though I knew full well that this morning he was trying to manipulate me with the black paper on my kitchen window, I also knew that his trick had worked, I didn’t want to continue with this bad feeling between us, I wanted to sort it all out and have my brother back.

So I rang him. He’s coming round soon.

I’ll let you know what happens.

 

Dotty Film Review – The Woman In Black

 

And today Harry the Plank Potter is wearing facial expression Number One

 

I have only two things to say about this film.

FIRST THING —  THEY’VE COMPLETELY SLAUGHTERED SUSAN HILL’S BOOK

and

SECOND THING —  HARRY POTTER CAN’T ACT – why would he even try to act, why would he want to put himself through the shame and humiliation when he doesn’t need to? HE’S A MAGICIAN, isn’t that good enough for him? He’s like these soap opera people who decide that because their CHARACTER is popular on a soap they’ll leave that soap because they’re too good for it, they want bigger things, better things and what happens after they leave is THEY ARE NEVER SEEN ON MY TELLY AGAIN. They disappear into the whirly voids of obscurity and spend the rest of their lives in deep despond about the GRAVE MISTAKE they made, and they watch their old soap and they see the people they used to work with IN STEADY EMPLOYMENT, ENJOYING THEIR STEADY MODICUM OF FAME and they cry and cry and cry. Sometimes they DO re-appear, like Ricky & Bianca & Mandy & David Wicks & Dennis Tanner and all the other old faces the telly companies hire back because THEY CAN PAY THEM LESS THAN OTHER ACTORS BECAUSE THEY ARE SO DESPERATE TO HAVE THEIR WORN AND TATTERED FACES ON MY TELLY AGAIN. Harry, you don’t need to be like them. A magician’s life is a good one. You can travel, you can have a laugh, you can do MAGIC and best of all YOU CAN BECOME FAMOUS like PAUL DANIELS. If VOLDEMORT could see you now he’d piss his pants laughing at your acting, in particular at your TWO FACIAL EXPRESSIONS (facial expression 1 – wooden / facial expression 2 – is it fear?). But why didn’t you use your magic on yourself? Or your invisible cloak, which actually is a brilliant idea – get them to remake the film with you wearing your invisible cloak over your head FOR THE WHOLE FILM. That would be a right laugh, they could still call it The Woman In Black or they could call it Headless Harry Potter in The Woman In Black Film.

CONFESSION — I haven’t actually seen the whole of The Woman In Black, I saw three clips of it but that was quite enough for me, thank you. From what I gather though, the whole film is nothing but Harry Potter and his TWO FACIAL EXPRESSIONS, some CREEPY LOCAL PEOPLE, a few TENSE MOMENTS, and a lot of bad weather.

 

Score – 4 out of 10 (I’ve marked this up by two points because I’m soft, I still like Harry, he’s young, bless him, and he did TRY).

 

Short Dotty Film Review Of All The Twilight Films

I'm not putting a picture of ugly Pobert on my little blog so you can look at the book instead

 

 

Pobert Rattinson (see Dotty’s Consonant Swap Game) is one of the ugliest fuckers ever to show himself on my telly. His face looks like someone smacked it repeatedly with a gravestone. He resembles Stefan Somerhalder (see Totty On The Telly), my lovely Ian Somerhalder’s ugly brother from THE VAMPIRE DIARIES.

In the films Pobert is a vampire and he has a girlfriend who is human. Ring any bells? Yes, of course it rings bells, a BIG fucking ding-a-ling of bells, because IT’S A COMPLETE RIP-OFF OF THE VAMPIRE DIARIES. And yes, I HAVE read the books, the first three anyway, and putting aside THE VAMPIRE DIARIES rip-off issue the books are a zillion times better than the films for these four reasons –

1.  Pobert’s ugly face isn’t in the books.

2.  Pobert’s ugly face isn’t in the books.

3.  Pobert’s ugly face isn’t in the books.

4.  HALF THE STORY IS MISSING.

So don’t bother watching these films, they’re shite. You should read the books instead - PROPER books with PAPER PAGES.

 

Score  – 0 out of 10

 

Totty On The Telly

 

If you want to give Ian a kiss be careful not to drool on your screen or you'll have to do housework to wash the spit off.

Eeeeeeekkk, eeeeeeeekkkk, eeeeeeeeeeekkkk!

I’m so happy. So, so, so, so happy.

 

My Shopping Person brought me a telly magazine yesterday with next week’s listings and MY LOVELY IAN SOMERHALDER is back on the telly next TUESDAY NIGHT in THE VAMPIRE DIARIES.

He’s back!

 

 

I LOVE HIM.

And he would LOVE ME if that Elena would fuck off and leave him alone. I don’t know why he likes her, it’s not like she’s PERFECT is it? – I’ve noticed she has a VERY UGLY LEFT THUMB. My lovely Ian, can I tell you something? My left thumb is VERY BEAUTIFUL, I don’t expect you’ll have ever seen a left thumb more beautiful. Elena’s left thumb is BENT like a GNARLY OLD TWIG but mine isn’t, MINE is as straight and true as the far horizon on a bright, clear romantic evening. If you take me to a Caribbean island I’ll SHOW you my left thumb as we stand on the beach looking out at our dreams, our future, and you can compare that distant line of FATE with my left thumb and YOU WILL SEE NO DIFFERENCE BETWEEN THEM.

I have to start getting ready for next Tuesday night. I’ll do a list.

 

THINGS TO DO FOR NEXT TUESDAY NIGHT

Cut my hair — I’ve been trying to grow it since last week when I saw a telly programme that said British people want REAL BRITISH HAIR for their extensions and you can get a good bit of cash if you sell your own hair to them, but sod it, my lovely Ian Somerhalder is more important.

Put a bulb in my Muppet lamp — I like to watch my lovely Ian in a soft, smoochy light.

Get my catapult and my catapult ammunition ready —  I need my catapult for when my lovely Ian Somerhalder’s ugly brother, STEFAN SOMERHALDER, appears on the telly. I aim for his squashed nose and my total hits for the last series – 54. I’m a DEAD SHOT with my catapult (see Weaponry For Hermits for how to make your own catapult).

Find my bottle of red food colouring — I dye my Cumberland sausages red so that when my lovely Ian is having his dinner I can have mine too, at the same time. I also dye my Diet Coke which doesn’t work too well, the red doesn’t show up much through the brown, but in the romantic glow of my Muppet lamp you can’t really tell.

5  Give my fangs a wash — To wash your fangs just use toothpaste and a toothbrush. Polish them with a squirt of Pledge and a duster after you’ve washed them and you’ll really feel the difference.

Find my sexy black dress — They’re always having big parties in THE VAMPIRE DIARIES so I need to look my best or I’ll give my lovely Ian a right showing up.

 

I know there’s something else to go on the list but I can’t remember what it is. I need to have a little think so you’ll have to go away now while I do because it’s important I don’t forget something for Tuesday night. Don’t worry, I’m not kicking you out and making you homeless, you can go and sit with my lovely Ian until I remember what it is I can’t remember.

 

Guess What I’m Giving Up For Lent?

 

ANCHOVIES

I'm giving up anchovies for Lent.

Disgusting, foul, nasty anchovies.

Leave them in the sea to live a happy fishy life because they taste rotten.

Conquered – Them, Not Me. Ha!

 

VICTORY IS MINE – COMPLETELY.

I’ve got them all back.

BOSH!

But they still shouldn’t have done it in the first place.

 

 

 

The Tyrant God Of The Internet Smites Little Dotty – Defences Are Up

 

Following last night’s TRAVESTY OF JUSTICE when the self-styled TYRANT GOD OF THE INTERNET spewed his PUTRID WRATH AND STINKING BILE all over me, your poor, helpless little Dotty, it was brought home to me that ATTACKS ON THE INNOCENT can manifest in many various UNEXPECTED, UNJUST, UNFAIR, UNFITTING, UNCALLED FOR, UNPRINCIPLED, UNREASONABLE, UNSPORTING, UNGENTLEMANLY, OPPROBRIOUS, DISHONEST, DISHONOURABLE, DUPLICITIOUS, DISGRACEFUL, DISREPUTABLE, IGNOMINIOUS, PETTY, CORRUPT, CROOKED, INGLORIOUS, JANUS-FACED, SHABBY, SHAMEFUL ways.

My reply to you, you MEALY-MOUTHED AUTHORITARIAN TAG THUG, is a BIG FUCK-OFF ELECTROCUTED FENCE around my little insignificant blog, and a BIG FUCK-OFF MINEFIELD and a BIG FUCK-OFF REINFORCED STEEL WALL INSET WITH BIG FUCK-OFF FLAME-THROWERS and a THOUSAND BIG FUCK-OFF SLINGS ON THE PARAPETS TO HURL BIG FUCK-OFF PILES OF COW SHIT AT YOU and a THOUSAND BIG FUCK-OFF CAULDRONS FILLED WITH GOAT’S PISS AND PIG’S PISS AND SHEEP’S PISS AND HORSE’S PISS AND MICE PISS AND RAT’S PISS AND GERBIL’S PISS AND SPIDER’S PISS AND GRANNY’S PISS and it will ALL BE RAINED DOWN ON YOUR SMUG, STUPID HEAD IF YOU COME ANYWHERE NEAR MY TAGS AGAIN.

 

DON’T MESS WITH DOTTY, ARSEWIPE. YOU WILL NOT WIN.

 

 

 

EDIT EDIT EDIT – ———–  VICTORY IS ALMOST MINE. I’ve got most of them back except Pile of Shite. It’s amazing what a well-worded up-your-arse email can do, isn’t it?

 

 

Dotty Headbanger, Star Of The Dark Satanic Screen

 

Sometimes I feel like I’m in a film of a tragic, desperate character who goes through a lifetime of SHITE only to die a horrible death at the end. Except I can’t act. And I don’t know who’s directing the film, maybe Nurse Ratched who I always thought was NURSE RATCHETT until 2 minutes ago when I checked I was spelling her name properly – unless everyone else is spelling it wrong and I’m right which is more than likely the case; it happened to Galileo, it could easily happen to me.

So NURSE RATCHETT is the Director, I’m Dotty, the unfortunate main character (who we in the acting world like to call the unfortunate MC), the Producer is a CARTESIAN EVIL DEMON named Clive (do you see what I did there with the name?) and the people in the camera crew are THE SPYING, PRYING EYES OF HUMANITY.

The film I’m in isn’t The Truman Show (which, as we all know, is not a film, it’s a documentary). It’s not Lassie – the last time I looked I wasn’t a dog (actually, that’s not true – after 3 nights with no sleep I admit it, I look a right fucking dog at this moment in time). It’s not any of The Matrix films either because okay I might be having psychotic delusions but they don’t include alterations to the laws of gravity and I KNOW Keanu Reeves can’t run up walls and move at speed x 100 because if he could he’d have done it in The Lake House to get to the letter box on time.

The set is grim (it’s grim up north – which reminds me, did you see that t-shirt with THE YORKSHIRE RIPPER on it? VERY BAD TASTE, A HORRIBLE WAY TO MAKE MONEY, YOU VULTURES – I HOPE YOUR BUSINESS GOES BUST AND YOU GO BANKRUPT AND STARVE).

Yes, the set is grim, filled with all things DARK and SATANIC. The camera pans out across the moody moors and lingers on a carrion crow feeding on the carcass of a dead ewe. The crow caws, a sound that chills the soul, viler than the screeches of BANSHEES ON HEAT. Heathcliff strides over and bats the crow away with his hairy, manly fist. He turns and looks at the camera, his broody, lowered eyebrows meeting in the middle. Little Emily runs up behind him, her skirts muddy and wet. In her inky hand she holds a feather – ‘GET BACK IN MY PEN, HEATHCLIFF, OR I’LL KILL YOU OFF ON PAGE ONE’ - and she stabs him in the neck and he disappears. And so do I.

The End.

 

 

3.00 am And Dotty Is Awake AGAIN

 

This is the third night in a row I haven’t slept. If I don’t sleep soon I’ll DIE of awakeness (I wonder how that will work).

 

 

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

 

 

SOMEONE’S SINGING M’LORD, KUM-BAH-YA

SHE’S NOT SLEEPING M’LORD, KUM-BAH-YA

GIVE HER QUININE M’LORD, KUM-BAH-YA

WOOOAAAHH LOOORRD KUM-BAH-YA

 

 

A TOT OF LAUDNUM M’LORD, KUM-BAH-YA

TO MAKE HER SLEEPY M’LORD, KUM-BAH-YA

SHE DRANK THE LAST BIT M’LORD, KUM-BAH-YA

WOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAHHHHHH

LOOOOOOOOOOORRD

KUM-BAH-YA

 

 

Will my eyes drop out soon?

 

 

 

Did Jesus Steal My Followers?

 

I was up all night again last night (that’s two nights in a row – how many more before I DIE?) worrying about my missing followers and trying to fill the gaping, glaring gaps in my house left by THE BINNING OF SOME PRECIOUS COLLECTIONS when I had a thought — what if my missing followers were stolen away by JESUS because I have more followers than he did at the start of his career? He could have kidnapped them due to overwhelming jealousy, or he could have tempted them away with a bit of BREAD and a FISH (if they prefer bread and fish to Cumberland sausages then I leave them to their fate, they are UNSAVEABLE).

Or Jesus might not have pinched them, they might have just been VERY TOUCHY about me mentioning the huge difference in followers. Some people do get VERY TOUCHY about Jesus, like the VERY UNNEIGHBOURLY JEHOVAH’S WITNESSES I lived next door to many years ago who tried to steal my garden the first summer I lived there (they didn’t get it – I went to my local council and REPORTED THEM). During the garden battle I happened to be going through a DECORATING MY WINDOWS phase and I put some decorative signs in one of my kitchen windows, (I had TWO kitchen windows in that house), the window that just happened to face their door. I can’t remember all the signs I put in the window, but I remember that one was a big recruiting advertisement for BLOOD DONORS (very pretty, if I recall rightly), another was a very fancy bumper sticker that said JESUS IS O NEGATIVE and across the top of the window I strung some sparkly fairy lights and a foil MERRY CHRISTMAS decoration that glimmered in the summer sun and twinkled softly at night when the fairy lights were on.

I can’t be certain if it was the garden battle or the Jesus thing but they didn’t speak to me again. I suspect it was the Jesus thing. And the amount of EVIL LOOKS they threw at me forever afterwards – all I have to say to that is professing to be GODLY and GOOD and LOVE THY NEIGHBOURISH doesn’t actually get you people to heaven UNLESS YOU PRACTICE WHAT YOU PREACH.

So if my missing followers DID leave because they were VERY TOUCHY about me having more followers than Jesus in his early days, well I’m sorry but I CAN’T HELP THAT – a fact is a fact and you’ll just have to get over it.

 

Come Back Runaways And All Will Be Forgiven

WHERE THE FUCK HAVE MY TWO ABSCONDING FOLLOWERS GONE?

I got one new one today which should have taken the total to 81 (or 80 if you don’t include me) but TWO OTHERS RAN AWAY FROM ME. Why would they do that? I’m not horrible to you all, am I? I don’t hit you with big sticks, do I? I don’t make you do dances for me (though I have thought of asking), nor do I make you wash the dishes or make my bed or cook my Cumberland sausages. So WHY would TWO OF YOU run away?

Have they eloped? Good luck to them if they have, but COULDN’T THEY HAVE LEFT ME A NOTE? What have I done to make them reject me so publically and so cruelly? Don’t they have hearts? Don’t they know what rejection DOES to a SHE-HERMIT? 

I’ll give them till tonight to come back and BEG FORGIVENESS. If they haven’t returned by 10.oopm that’s it, they’re on their own, I don’t care what trouble they get themselves into – they’ll have made their choice, they’ll have to live with it. And I’ll disinherit them. I’ll cut them out of my will and out of my LIFE. And I’ll give all their clothes to the charity shop. And I’ll write all over their shoes with a BLACK MARKER PEN. And I’ll sell their computers on Ebay and KEEP THE MONEY.

10.pm. That’s your deadline, traitors.

 

 

EDIT EDIT EDIT — A KIND WORD FROM ME TO YOU

You are all like my children, innocent and needy, and I AM AFRAID FOR YOU when you venture out into the big wide WordPress alone. Come back, Child, and other Child, and I’ll make you a nice cup of HOT CHOCOLATE and give you a HOBNOB to dunk in it.

 

ANOTHER EDIT —

PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE COME BACK. I NEED YOU. I MISS YOU. I LOVE YOU. I CAN’T LIVE WITHOUT YOU.

 

 

Dotty’s New Inventions – Wii Brick©™® & Wii Brick Plus©™®

 

I’ve been up all night honing and perfecting the plans and diagrams for my new inventions. I can’t show you them because –

#1 – I can’t get pictures on my blog

#2 – YOU MIGHT STEAL THEM

I’ll give you SOME information though, a taster so you’ll all know what to buy when they come on the market.

 

DOTTY HEADBANGER’S Wii BRICK ©™®

The Wii BRICK ©™® is a genuine, authentic brick. It looks like a brick, it feels like a brick, it hurts like a brick. But the Wii BRICK ©™® is fitted with a sensor, just like a Wii remote, in fact you won’t need a Wii remote when you buy your Wii BRICK ©™® because everything that is possible with a Wii remote will be possible with a Wii BRICK ©™® with the added advantage of being able to play Wii BRICK ©™®.

Within the Wii BRICK ©™® game there will be lots of options and features, such as My Wii BRICK, an area that allows you to keep track of your headbanging, brick-shaping progress, to look back on your failures, and to plan a routine that suits your level of ability with the Wii BRICK ©™®. Your current little Mii thing will represent the real you on the screen and warnings will be slapped all over the game for people who are reality-disadvantaged and can’t seperate themselves from the Mii (the last thing I want is the whole world ringing for ambulances because they think their head is bleeding – it won’t be your REAL HEAD BLEEDING it will be the big head on your Mii, which is NOT REAL).

You’ll also be able to play interactively BUT IF YOUR Mii EVER TOUCHES MY BRICK I WILL KILL IT.

 

 

DOTTY HEADBANGER’S Wii BRICK PLUS ©™®

Wii BRICK PLUS ©™® will be the same as Wii BRICK ©™® but with EXTRA BONUS FEATURES AND ALL THINGS BRILLIANT THAT WILL MAKE YOUR LIFE WONDERFUL AND WORTH LIVING.

Wii BRICK PLUS ©™® will be fitted with Motion Plus sensors that register even the slightest bang of the head (which can’t really be called a BANG now, can it, you wussies, it’s really a tickle – but don’t worry, you’ll soon progress). The Motion Plus sensors will be able to detect EXCESSIVELY SHAKEY ACTIVITY which tells them you are having a panic attack and will switch the machine to standby mode as Wii BRICK PLUS ©™® has been designed with energy saving cost-effectiveness in mind.

A FLUFFY RED TOWEL for mopping your bloody, sweaty brow will be one of the new features and it will have the Wii BRICK PLUS ©™® logo embroidered round the edge. The concept of including a FLUFFY TOWEL is innovative and ground-breaking, and the idea of making it RED is sheer genius.

 

 

The next step will be Wii BRICK PLUS ISLAND ©™® – a whole other world for you to explore. You’ll be able to build your own house (with bricks) and live there forever if you want. There will be shops and builder’s merchants and Cumberland sausage factories and HEADBANGING COMPETITIONS which are not compulsory for hermits and it will be like heaven except it will be Wii BRICK PLUS ISLAND ©™®.

 

 

 

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