A Very Lovely Picture And A Joke / 2nd Attempt At The Sodding Thing

Oy, you smug baaastard, I'm talking to you!

 

Sorry about that, I’m not trying to be a spammy sod in your email but I’ve had to do it again – I had it all lined up nicely in the centre, and I had two big headers but then it all fucked up and the joke and my nice headings disappeared. Fucking shaggy pictures.

 

 

Here’s the joke.

 

A pair of zombie twins start fighting at the dinner table.

‘Stop it!’ shouts Mummy zombie.

‘He started it!’

‘No, he started it – he wouldn’t let me dip my bread in his neck.’

 

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.

 

 

 

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!

 

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?

 

 

Yet Another Dotty Gloomy Shitey Poemy Shitey Pile Of Shite (Sorry)

 

Wraith

 

like some ancient, lost ethereal thing

on and on I stumble

 

down springs, autumns, winters, summers,

into the slows and sloughs of remembered other days

 

where I sift through piles of sighs

green with lichen and moss,

 

harvest memories of a kiss,

a smile, a touch, an eyeflash

 

 

there are no flowers…

just memories, like raptors, gather

 

 

another dawn breaks

and I wake

crying in colours and mad, mad sparks,

trying to suck the screams back into my heart

as the sun

my beautiful sun

slides from the throat

of the beast

 

 

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 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.

 

The Wind That Blows Between Their Ears

 

 

Oh, but they are stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. STUPID. When I tell you who I’m talking about you’ll agree with me and if you don’t, if you’ve ever said this thing that they say, which I’m about to tell you – well – well I don’t know what I’ll say to you if you have ever said it except DON’T EVER SAY IT AGAIN because it’s one of the most stupid things you could ever say. Saying it makes you look stupid, and I know you’re not stupid or you wouldn’t be reading my little blog.

Imagine you’re watching a game show. It doesn’t matter which one, just make it one that has a quizmaster, a contestant and a question.

The contestant is in his twenties. He’s answered most of his (or her) previous questions, he’s been to university, he’s got a good job. He doesn’t SEEM stupid –

UNTIL

the quizmaster asks the next question and the  next question is something like one of these questions —

 

In which year did England win the world cup?

In which year did Elvis Presley die?

How long did Queen Victoria reign?

Who was the first man on the moon?

How many Number One songs did the Beatles have?

 

 

 

And the contestant’s answer is 

 

‘I DON’T KNOW, I WASN’T BORN THEN.

 

 

On how many levels of STUPID does this contestant live? ALL OF THEM, that’s how many. I was going to do a long post about EACH LEVEL OF STUPIDITY but I decided not to because if you don’t know how STUPID this answer is then have a little think about it and if you still don’t know – DON’T ASK ME because all I will say is YOU ARE VERY, VERY STUPID AND YOUR STUPIDNESS WILL ONLY BECOME MORE STUPID AS YOU GET OLDER, YOU STUPID,STUPID PERSON.

 

 

 

 

P.S. Did anyone notice the absence of swear words in this post? Did you notice how well I did? Not even ONE swear word. I deserve a treat for that and I’m going to have one. Now.

 

 

Little Emily – A Withering Shite (And Then Not)

 

 

Very hurtful remarks have been made to me by someone who shall remain nameless but she’s little, she wears long dresses and tiny boots, and her brother very kindly sorts out my Laudanum requirements.

I don’t want to tell you what she called me. It’s humiliating. I’ve always said she has a way with words but to use them in such a snidey, bitchy manner towards ME  -  HER SO-CALLED BEST FRIEND –  is like using a JCB to dig up a dandelion - FUCKING UNNECESSARY.

And I couldn’t fight back. I was glued to the bed by a big beige glob of apathy, not listening to her at first, not caring what she said.

UNTIL she called me a —

 

 

 

 

 

No.

I can’t say it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Oh, go on then, I’ll tell you. I’ve humiliated myself enough in this blog as it is, once more won’t make any difference.

 

 

 

She called me a SUFFERING CLUCK.

And then she shouted at me –

“You there, woman in the bed. You perceive me to be limp and timid, of no use to you but as a passive listener and maker of hot drinks. You have no concept of what I can offer you as a token of our friendship. Think of it, woman, think of what I DO – I create monsters, I bring forth maniacs, I write of pitiful atrocities, gargantuan brutalities and the cruelty and harshness of human fate. I am NOT a nodding drip. I DESTROY BOOKS IN MY BOOK.”

Her eyes looked like big black shiny marbles.

‘Just fuck off, little Emily. Go away.’

No. This acedia you meekly surrender to will wreck your soul if I allow it further hold on you. Up you get. Up, I say.”

And she PUNCHED ME IN THE BACK.

And it fucking well hurt, right between my shoulder blades, she’s got a right wallop on her. I jumped out of the bed before she could do it again. ‘WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO THAT FOR, YOU SKANKY BITCH?’ I screamed.

She smiled at me and took something out of the pocket of her dress. “I’ve brought a gift. They’re from the sock drawer at home.”

‘How did you get them?’

I mingled nonchalantly with a group of braying Oxford students; I slipped the socks inside my pocket when the Curator turned her back. They are mine, I have a right to take my own clothes. But they’re yours now. Put them on.”

So I did. They’re nice. I’ll have to find something to hold them up though – they’re long, they go up past my knees and when I wear them for more than two seconds they fall down and I’m more like Nora Batty than Victorian Sock Lady. We went downstairs and little Emily made me a cup of coffee and gave me another present, a nice big vial of laudanum that Branwell sent for me. I love little Emily. Look how she’s revived me – she’s even got me using semi-colons.

 

I’m going to make her a Cumberland sausage sandwich for her supper. She deserves one.

 

 

 

 

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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).

 

I Know I Said I Didn’t Want Pobert Rattinson’s Face On My Blog But ….

I COULDN'T HAVE SAID IT BETTER MYSELF.

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.

 

 

 

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.

 

 

The Best Ever Pretend Christmas Day

 

After I SAVED THE WORLD this morning things went downhill in the food department and we didn’t get to have our Pretend Christmas dinner, it all went tits up (burnt bits, frozen bits in the middle, and a strange taste of Maxwell House coffee granules that I have no idea about) and we had to have Cumberland sausages, McCain’s Chippy Chips and fried eggs which were lovely but I think Scotty would have liked some turkey. But he was pleased with the present I gave him – it was a wallet (he uses lots of wallets for all his identities) and I really should have remembered that because it’s what I buy for him EVERY year, but hey-ho, we can’t remember everything can we?

But guess what? It turned out to be a lovely, lovely day, the best day I’ve ever had in my whole sorry life including my wedding day and the day I offed my husband and the day I got out of prison for offing him - this day beats them ALL (it doesn’t beat the days of my children but that’s different). And in what way, you might ask, was it such a good day? I’ll tell you —

 

MY PRETEND CHRISTMAS PRESENT FROM SCOTTY IS A HOUSE IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE.

 

 

It’s a proper house in proper NOWHERE, all you can see for miles around are fields and hills and moors and NO HOUSES which means NO PEOPLE which means I can start trying to go out alone without worrying I’ll make a tit of myself if I have a panic attack because there aren’t even any SHEEP to watch me, and NO EYES MEANS NO SPIES so I might soon be able to GO FOR WALKS ON MY OWN in the lovely countryside without fear of MEETING SOMEONE WHO WANTS TO TALK TO ME or PASSING SOMEONE WHO LOOKS AT ME.

Can you imagine it? I can’t, not fully, not yet, it’s too much of a miracle to actually HAVE what I’ve always dreamt of, a lovely little house of my own that I can live in for always, a garden I can plant trees in and know I’ll see them grow, acres and acres of beautifulness to look at every day AND NO ONE CAN EVER TAKE IT AWAY FROM ME, EVER. Is it too good to be true? – Scotty laughed when I asked him that and then he switched on my laptop and went on the internet and showed me pictures and I AM IN LOVE WITH IT, ALL OF IT. It’s beyond perfection, it’s THE idyllic ideal and my house has a NAME not a number like every other house I’ve ever lived in, it has a real NAME and it has a PORCH and it has a CONSERVATORY but not a new plastic conservatory, an old wooden one that runs the length of the back of the house, and it has cute little SASH WINDOWS that I want to KISS they are so gorgeous and it has EVERYTHING I EVER WANTED AND MORE and I can’t wait to go and see it.

I’ll NEVER be able to thank my lovely generous brother enough for what he’s given me. I was worried about the cost but he said he’s been paid VERY, VERY WELL INDEED for his last two jobs and all that time spent trying to get out of LIBYA was billed at TIME AND A HALF plus he got a BIG BONUS for infiltrating the NLA and doing what he did, so he ended up with more money than he could ever spend on himself (I WAS going to bring up the subject of CHILD SUPPORT but it was such a happy day I didn’t want to spoil it with an argument about him shirking his responsibilities so I left it for now – but I WILL bring it up before he leaves).

This is like a dream. Good things never happen to me, just one miserable thing after another, and NEVER has anything so wonderful come out of the blue like this.

I never thought I’d say this again but here goes –

I AM HAPPY.

 

Ssshhh, This Is A Secret

 

 

Oh my giddygoddyjesus, I’m as happy as a pig in shit. I can’t stop squealing, eeek, eeek, eeek, not Psycho-stabby eeek, eeek, eeek, not tonight anyway, I’m doing happy eeeks and I can’t stop. Do you know why?

MY BROTHER IS COMING TO STAY WITH ME TONIGHT !!!!!

and I didn’t find out until now because you know when you buy a box of plasters and you get those little round ones that no one uses? I use them. They’re the perfect size for sticking on your electronic things over suspect lights that are really hidden cameras. I’ve got one plaster on a strange light on my laptop (Lottie said it isn’t a camera, it’s a microphone, but who believes HER the spying bitch?), one on my telly, one on my digi-telly-box, one on my DVD recorder, one on my microwave, one on my digi alarm clock, two on my Wii thing, in fact anything that has a red light (or any coloured light, they do blue and green ones nowadays), has a little round plaster on it and this includes my telephone answering machine so I didn’t see the message Scotty left me this morning to say he’s coming (he leaves a coded message, usually a song or a nursery rhyme to outfox Interpol) but I didn’t know the little light was flashing until I accidentally knocked the whole phone off the wall with my hod-carrier a few minutes ago (I’m still on with bricking up the front door, I seem to have missed a few hours somewhere since yesterday, but it doesn’t matter now, Scotty will finish the job for me).

I have to go and start cooking him some sausages. He’ll be starving when he gets here.

OH! AND HE’S BRINGING ME A PRESENT!!!! I know because he sang Baa Baa black sheep, have you any wool, yes sir, yes sir, three bags full, one for the master and one for the dame, and one for the little dot who lives down the lane. And that’s me! The little dot is me. Yippeeee! haaaappy talkin talkin happy talk, talk about things you like tooooo doooooo. if you don’t have a dreeeeeam you’ve got to have a dreeeeeeam or how you gonna make a dream come troooooo.

eeek, eeeek, eeeeek.

 

IMPORTANT EDIT THAT I FORGOT TO SAY —

DON’T TELL ANYONE HE’S COMING.

And I’m so excited I forgot to say CUMBERLAND sausages, I just said sausages. Hahahahahahahahahaha I’m such a divvy bitch, aren’t I?

 

 

Dotty In The Doldrums (with very little swearing)

 

It’s funny how thinking about one thing always leads to thinking about another. Except when you’re comatose, no one knows what your thoughts do then and there are no memories to show you afterwards. My little foray into thinking got me thinking a bit more today, not much, just one question that kept repeating itself over and over and still won’t go away –

What is Dotty?

No answers come. There are no answers. To have answers you first need truths and all my truths went out of the window years ago. One truth that everyone on this planet thinks they are certain of is BEING BORN. I’ve never been certain of it. How do I know I was born? I only have meine Mami’s word for it and that’s not really proof, is it, it’s hearsay. I don’t remember ANYTHING about my alleged birth and you’d think I would seeing as it’s up there with DEATH in the list of major life events.

 Some of us trudging this planet might not even be homo sapiens, we might be another, different, cousin species of the first apes to stand up, homo doomigloomius, homo slittywrists, homo whythefuckamIevenhere. Because most of the time I don’t feel human and human behaviour confounds and baffles me and I think, Dotty they are just like you without the fuckupiness, but no, they’re NOT, they’re SO different that I can only conclude I’m right about not being completely human, or either I’M not completely human or THEY’RE not, it depends who and what the original namer of the species was -  if he was a happy chappy then THEY became humans, if it was a miserable fuck then We Who Are Mental did.

But if we ARE all one species then it all becomes truly tragic and hopeless (which is the way WE see it now – which, I suppose, is a TRUTH after all). If we are all one species then NORMAL people are merely posturing their way through life in the hope that others will believe they too are NORMAL. Scratch down a bit and We Who Are Mental  would see them for what they really are, reflections of ourselves, because it can’t work the other way round, scratch OUR surfaces and all you’d find is more of the same. And worse.

Which is why, one species or not, WE will always be the not-quite-human humans (if we are human at all), made to feel like an alien species, unborns, mental abominations, fucking loose-minded loonies who need locking away. But it isn’t US they really fear even though they think it is - it’s what they see in us, the dark reflection, it’s what they hear in us, their own echo, it’s what they know when they think of us – that IT lives somewhere within themselves too. And it truly terrifies them. As it should.

 

 

 

 

Help, I’m Following Myself

 

What do I do? What do I do? I am following myself. I clicked my own ‘Follow’ button to see what happened and now I can’t make it stop no matter how many times I press ‘Unfollow’. I’m frightened. I won’t be able to get a bath or a shower and I’ll have to buy a screen to get dressed behind. And I won’t be able to leave half my sandwich on the plate for later because the me who is following me will eat it. I don’t like it. I just caught myself reading over my shoulder. I need to ask Google all about stalking laws and find out if I can get an injunction out on me.  What if I can’t? How will I get rid of me? Shoot behind me and hope I hit myself? I can’t, they took my guns away after I shot Simon.

Oh, goddyjesus, help me, I don’t know what to do. I wish I would go away.

 

Dotty’s Profound Blinking Blog

 

I love to blink. Blinking is fun. I blink, therefore I am.

Mother Nature gave us eyelids with little hairs poking out so we can blink to our heart’s content. I would like to share with my fellow blinkers some quotes and cultural information that I have gathered about that most pleasurable of actions. They are so strikingly true and revealing that as you read you will feel the greatest desire to blink. Do not suppress that desire. As Confucius said, “Be not ashamed of blinks and thus make them crimes.”

 

More Confucius

When we see men of worth, we should think of equalling them; when we see men of a contrary character, we should turn inwards and blink.

Blinking without thought is labour lost; thought without blinking is perilous.

Forget injuries, never forget to blink.

The people may be made to follow a path of blinking, but they may not be made to understand it.

Blinking is more to man than either water or fire. I have seen men die from treading on water and fire, but I have never seen a man die from blinking.

The superior man is modest in his speech, but exceeds in his blinking.

The cautious seldom blink.

Is blinking a thing remote? I wish to blink, and lo! Blinking is at hand.

 

Aristotle

In all things of blinking there is something of the marvellous.

To be conscious that we are blinking or thinking is to be conscious of our own existence.

It is possible to fail in many ways, while to blink is possible only in one way.

 

Sigmund Freud

America is a blink, a giant blink.

 

Biblical

And now these three remain; faith, hope and blinking. But the greatest of these is blinking.

Corinthians 13:13

 

“You of little blinks,” he said, “why do you doubt?”

Matthew 14:31

 
Books – Fiction

The Unbearable Lightness Of Blinking – Milan Blinkera

Lord Of The Blinks – J.R.R. Blinkien

Blinkamorphosis & Other Stories – Franz Blinka

Around The World In Eighty Blinks – Jules Blink

War And Blinks – Leo Blinkoy

Veronika Decides To Blink – Paulo Blinkelho

The Blinks of Wrath – John Blinkbeck

Wuthering Blinks – Emily Blinke

 

Books – Non Fiction

How To Make Blinks And Influence People – Dale Carblinkie

The Origin Of Blinking – Charles Blinkwin

The Voyage Of The Blink – Charles Blinkwin

How To Be A Blinkestic Goddess - Nigella Blinkon

Films

Casablinka

Blink Hawk Down

It’s A Wonderful Blink

The Godblinker, Parts I, II and III

Roboblink

Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Blink

The Silence of the Blinks

O, Blinker, Where Art Thou

To Kill A Mockingblink

The Blinkblank Redemption

 

Each and every one of us is guilty of taking blinking for granted. Breathing is a revered necessity and blinking has always fallen behind, in its shadow. But if we could not blink our eyes would shrivel up and fall out and then where would we be? Blinking is not a boring, inane function as many would have you believe; blinking must be acknowledged as a prime requirement of the human body. As we have seen, Confucius recognised the superiority of blinking, so I shall leave the last word to him…

“He who will not blink will have two agoneyes.”

 

Dealing With Cold-Callers

 

Dealing With Cold-Callers

As you begin to recover you will start to answer the door, but try not to be puzzled when the cold-callers begin their spiel with, “Don’t look so worried, I’m only here to …..”, because cold-callers are compassionate people who feel your pain and will do all they can to alleviate the distress they see on your fear-stricken face. But you still have to speak to them. Don’t fret, it’s easy. All you have to do is, as soon as they say, “Don’t look so worried, I’m only here to ….”, shout NO and slam the door shut.

After a while, (weeks, months, years, who knows?), you might want to think about how you are portraying yourself to these people. Madness is no excuse for bad manners. Next time you have a cold-caller on your step, shout NOTHANKYOU before you slam the door shut. It’s still only one word, just a little longer and much more polite. You can practice the extra syllables before  attempting to use them if you wish.

It might happen that one day you don’t manage to get the word out in time and you become rooted to the spot, temporarily paralysed by fright as you peep round the door you are clinging to at a cold-caller who won’t stop moving his mouth up and down like a happy fish. In this situation the word can be dragged from your clamped lips with actions. It will take courage, but you can do it. Here’s how – with a rapid fling of the arms let go of the door at the same time as you do a little jump to the side. Bring your arms forward to chest height while stiffening your hands into a karate chop position. Let rip a feral scream followed by NOTHANKYOU then kick the door shut, hard. Voila, success. WARNING: when using this method some hermits find they are unable to stop shouting. NOTHANKYOU becomes NOTHANKYOUNOTHANKYOUNOTHANKYOUNOTHANKYOU on and on ad infinitum. If this happens to you, run to the kitchen and find a banana (see Healthy Recipes For Hermits). Peel the banana and stuff it into your mouth. This will work.

 

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