Dotty Weekly News

 

Hello. It’s me. I haven’t been online since last week. Nope, I don’t know why – just the thought of turning on my laptop gives me a big dready feeling but I’ve been so bored today I thought ‘Right, Dotty, just TURN THE FUCKING THING ON,‘ so here I am with it turned on (for how long, I don’t know).

 

This is what’s happened in my week –

The death of an unliked relative.

The funeral of the aforementioned unliked relative. I didn’t go – I’m a people phobic she-hermit, I don’t do funerals. And I’m also not a HYPOCRITE.

A urinary tract infection that fucking hurts. A lot. And it’s made me so tired I keep sleeping – like Sleeping Beauty without the Beauty. I’m on my second lot of antibiotics, the first week’s worth were SHITE, they didn’t work.

I made a thing to eat that wasn’t Cumberland sausages. It had roasted BUTTERNUT SQUASH and SWEET POTATOES, and boiled PASTA (the pretty bows), and dry-fried lean MINCE, and DOLMIO LOW FAT BOLOGNESE SAUCE, and an ONION, and I baked it all together in the oven with some cheese on top. It tasted very nice.

I’ve been trying to find some books to give to the charity shop (because I have to clear a room) but I CAN’T FIND ANY BOOKS THAT I CAN PART WITH. I’ve been through the bookcases in my living room, the bookcases in my hallway, the bookcase on my landing, the bookcases in my bedroom, and the bookcases in my spare room, and I’ve looked through some of the stacks. But I haven’t started on the boxes yet so I might find one there.

 

Okay, I’ve had enough now. If you don’t see me beforehand, I’ll come back next week.

 

 

P.S. Last week I changed the comment thingy to allow your comments to go straight through because I’m such an ignorant cow I knew I wouldn’t be back online to approve and answer them. Sorry.

 

 

 

 

Bish Bash Bosh – I’ve Run Out Of Dosh

 

Guess what I’ve been doing?

SHOP SHOP SHOP SHOP SHOPPING. Proper shopping, not online shopping. Lottie took me to 24 hr Tesco on Thursday morning, not my usual 24 hr Tesco, we drove a bit further and went to 24 hr MEGA TESCO and I bought LOADS OF GOOD STUFF, too much to list but my cupboards and my fridge and my freezer are overflowing and I’ve got some new clothes and eight pairs of FUCKING BEAUTIFUL shoes and boots, and three new ladles, and a new set of pans with COPPER BOTTOMS so I can’t easily burn the arse off them, and BOOKS – loads and loads of new books, and a little hand blender, and a tin with a picture of cakes on it, and flowers, I bought some flowers, and some silver pins for my noticeboard, and a SPINNING CAKE PLATE, I’ve never seen them before – you put your cake on it and SPIN THE PLATE so people can cut their own slice or you can cut it easily without having to pick up the plate, and a banana holder, and six MULTI-COLOURED MOOD CANDLES that give off different coloured lights – how do they DO THAT? And a new little telly, not a dear one, I don’t see the point in paying a load of money for a TELLY or buying those big fuck-off tellies that show Christian Bale’s wrinkles, I want to see him WITHOUT WRINKLES but nowadays with the pictures being so clear you can only see him without wrinkles on a little telly so that’s waht I bought. And NOTEBOOKS. I had a stock-up on notebooks, black A5 spiral bound notebooks, and I bought some pens and folders and a new red hole-punch because I don’t know where my old blue one is, the last time I saw it it was on my desk but some fucker must have nicked it because it hasn’t been there since the last time I saw it.

And on Thursday night I had a little tea-party with Lottie and THE BERSERKERS and they stayed over and on Friday we had a BALLOON PARTY to use up all the balloons I bought, and they stayed over again last night and this morning they went home.

Now I’m skint and I owe Lottie four hundred quid so I can’t do any more live shopping and I promised Lottie I wouldn’t buy anything else, but hey-ho I’M ON THE INTERNET and so is AMAZON

YEEE-HAA! 

 

 

RANT RANT RANT RANT RANT RANT RANT – And More RANT

 

I’ve been calm lately, haven’t I? Calm like a calm thing, all sweetness and light and peace and serenity like a zen buddha’s comfortable old ARSE. Politeness personified.

 Nice Dotty.

Mild Dotty.

TAME Dotty.

 

And then yesterday some IGNORANT FUCKER OF A SO-CALLED PROFESSIONAL HAS TO GO AND SPOIL IT ALL. AND INSTEAD OF BATTERING THE BASTARD WHO NEEDED BATTERING, I ENDED UP BATTERING THE FUCK OUT OF MY LITTLE TELLY TO MAKE THAT SMUG DIRTY BASTARD DER FUHRER CAMERON’S FACE (SPIT SPIT SPIT) GO AWAY.

Yesterday I waited THREE AND A HALF HOURS for a phone call – can you imagine what state I was in by the time the phone finally rang? I’ll tell you, NOT A FUCKING GOOD ONE – panic attacks BEFORE the due time of the call, panic attacks WHEN THE CALL DIDN’T COME, panic attacks in the THREE AND A HALF HOURS until the call DID come. And in between the panic attacks was the VOMITING and the FRUSTRATION – a nasty, pacey, shouty frustration that turned into A MURDEROUS FUCKING RAGE but no one was here for me to murder so when I saw that BASTARD OF A NAZI WANNABE (SPIT SPIT SPIT) on the news I SNAPPED and I picked up the first thing to hand (my brass candlestick) and I MURDERED MY LITTLE TELLY and I HALF MURDERED MY NICE CHAIR and I KICKED THE FUCK OUT OF MY NICE SETTEE and I BROKE THE GLASS CABINET my stuffed owl, Bartholomew, lived in and DIBBLE came banging on the door but the wankers couldn’t TOUCH ME because I have IMMUNITY FROM THE POLICE (I can’t be arsed doing a link so you’ll have to do a search for DIBBLE in my search box if you want to know how I got IMMUNITY FROM THE POLICE). Dibble fucked off sharpish after I’d put in a HARASSMENT COMPLAINT against the NOSEY TWATTING ARSEWIPES NEXT DOOR who’d reported me – AGAIN. Don’t fuck with Dotty, NEIGHBOURS, or you’ll come off worse, everyone does.

I’m sick of it. SICK SICK SICK SICK SICK SICK SICK of it. No wonder this country’s going to SHITE.

Why do PROFESSIONALS always make people wait? Why do they have no concept of PUNCTUALITY? Why do they TREAT PEOPLE LIKE TWATS? It doesn’t matter what profession they’re in, they’re all the same – FUCKING RUDE, DISCOURTEOUS, BAD-MANNERED SKANKS who think their time is more important than anything else. And when they’ve made you wait they expect you to be GRATEFUL they deigned to deal with you at all.

I’m not happy today. Not happy at all.

 

 

Branwell To The Rescue – Manglebrain Is Back In The Sideboard

 

Branwell has saved me – AGAIN. He nicked some Holy Water from Papa Brontë’s drinking jug, brought it down to my house where he found me hovering over the kitchen table (not flying – floating!) singing Kylie’s ‘I Can’t Get You Out Of My Head’, got my trusty trepanning kit out of the drawer it lives in, dipped the end of the drill in the Holy Water and TREPANNED MANGLEBRAIN OUT OF MY HEAD AND BACK UPSTAIRS TO THE LOFT.

I love Branwell. People can say what they like about him, he’s my BEST FRIEND IN THE WHOLE WORLD. Fuck little Emily, she’s a flaky, flighty bint, more concerned with her stupid WRITING than with saving her so-called friend (me!) from being possessed by a DEMON – when it comes to the crunch Branwell always rides in at the crucial crux to save me. He’s like a knight on a white charger except he’s not a knight and he doesn’t like riding old Bessie because he can’t stay upright on her back for long, and Bessie isn’t white, she’s dark brown with light brown patches and a dull creamy-coloured streak on her head. He’s reliable, trustworthy and honest, and he’s NEVER stingy with the laudanum or the opium or his special brew of Absinthe that he makes himself in an abandoned shepherd’s hut up on the moor.

I’m going to make him some Cumberlaudanum sausage sandwiches and a cake.

 

 

 

Dotty Is Being Beaten And Eaten By The Demon And I Don’t Know What To Do

 

I can’t think today. I couldn’t think yesterday either because Manglebrain is doing his demonic thing. He’s chewing my frontal lobes and all I can hear are slurps and smacks and chomps and crunches. He has NO MANNERS. I’ve tried giving him PROPER Cumberland sausages, not the fake Linda ones, but it isn’t working, he prefers brain.

He wants to make a pact with me but I won’t listen, and I also won’t read what he’s written which is difficult because he’s scrawled ALL OVER EVERYTHING in my house, he’s even written something in the dust on the screen of my laptop (this laptop) and I’ll have to DUST IT OFF with my little pink laptop duster that I can’t find because I haven’t used it for ages.

I’m tired. He keeps me awake most nights, whispering his shite – 

 

MANGLEBRAIN REX, CALUMNIATOR, CRIMINATORE, ACCUSER, SCOURGE, NOISOME BREATH OF ASTAROTH, WIND OF CHANGE AM I.

I AM CENTRE, I AM CIRCUMFERENCE, SWIFT IN MOTION WITHOUT FEET.

I EAT.

I EAT.

 

and all sorts of complete bollocks like that, on and on and on.  

I don’t know what to do.

 

Hidey-Holes For Hermits

 

I need a new hidey-hole. Why? Because I want one.

Here’s a list of the hidey-holes I already have —

 

under my bed – a normal place to hide

under the bed in the spare room – another normal place to hide

in the cupboard under the stairs – normal

in my kitchen cupboards – also normal except I can’t hide there any more because that’s where my collections of Heinz Salad Cream squeezy bottles, Colman’s Horseradish Sauce jars, Carnation Caramel tins, and Suma Tomato Puree tubes live. Oh, and my Atora Suet boxes live there too.

in my airing cupboard- I’ve already told you about my airing cupboard.

in my tumble dryer – I’ve already told you about my tumble dryer (a few times).

in my washing machine – I haven’t told you about my washing machine because the general consensus is that people who hide in their washing machines are EVEN MORE MENTAL than people who don’t hide in their washing machines but might still hide in their tumble dryers. I don’t really see the difference, they’re both used for laundry.

in my wardrobe – a small part of my collection of self-help books lives there. The other parts of my self-help book collection live in the stacks on the stairs. My clothes are in – hang on, where ARE my clothes? I know where some of them are, who moved the rest of them?

on top of my wardrobe – I can’t hide there any more because in order to do my flying I had to demolish the structure I’d built to enclose the space between the top of my wardrobe and the ceiling, and I need to keep it demolished or I won’t have anywhere to take off from.

in my air raid shelter that I built under my kitchen – what’s down there? I can’t remember. I think I put some collections down there but fuck knows which ones. I’ll have a look later when I can be arsed.

in the new wheelie bin I conned the council into giving me – I told them someone had nicked my second wheelie bin so they’d bring me a brand new one when really I’ve never had two wheelie bins, I’ve only ever had ONE. And no, I haven’t made a going-outside breakthrough, my brand new wheelie bin is in my kitchen next to my cooker where it’s nice and warm.

in my loft – I don’t like going up there for three reasons - SPIDERS and MOTHS and THE TRAMP WHO MIGHT BE SECRETLY LIVING UP THERE and sneaking in and out when I’m not looking, and stealing my CLOTHES (YES! that’s where they are!!!!!!!) and stealing my Cumberland sausages when I’ve cooked a big batch and put some in the fridge but when I go to eat them the next day they’re NOT THERE because the FUCKING THIEVING RONKER IN MY LOFT HAS STOLEN THEM AND SCOFFED THE LOT and he’s stolen my Asda Toffee Cheesecakes too because I had FOUR in the fridge yesterday and now I don’t have ANY because he must have crept down in the night and ATE THEM and put the empty tubs OUTSIDE IN THE BIN because he knows I don’t go outside so I won’t see the evidence. My Asda Toffee Cheesecakes that I was saving for after my tea tonight. BASTARD. When I catch him I’ll Asda HIS fucking price.

 

Where’s my AXE?

 

 

If I Didn’t Have People Phobia I Could Have Run Outside And Kicked His Head In

 

I had a big whiney day yesterday – feeling sorry for myself because everything was so LOUD I couldn’t concentrate enough to do a post. I gave my fridge a good kick in the side because it sounded like the River Aire, the River Wharfe, and the River Calder having a FIGHT, and also because I couldn’t kick the FUCKER across the road who was cutting his grass with a STRIMMER. And the reason I couldn’t kick the fucker across the road who was cutting his grass with a STRIMMER is because I’M TOO MENTAL TO GO OUTSIDE. If I could have gone outside I’d have run across the road with a big bottle of water, run into his house, unplugged the strimmer, run outside, kicked him in the bollocks, then POURED MY BIG BOTTLE OF WATER OVER HIS FUCKING NASTY BUZZY STRIMMER. So I had to have my windows and doors closed ON A HOT SUNNY DAY and that’s not good for all the obvious reasons but it’s also not good because when you have HERMITITIS the only way you’re able to have a bit of the HOT SUNNY DAY is to fling open all your doors and windows to let the HOT SUNNY DAY come inside.

 

 

Is it any wonder I have PEOPLE PHOBIA when EVERYBODY IN THE WORLD IS A JUDGEMENTAL ARSEWIPE? I tend to write about the HERMITITIS more than the PEOPLE PHOBIA – why? I don’t know, probably because I’ve successfully got rid off most of the people I used to know so I don’t have enough people left in my life to write about.

PEOPLE, PEOPLE, PEOPLE.

Say it out loud.

What does it sound like?

It sounds like PEEPHOLE.

PEOPLE – PEEPHOLE, PEOPLE – PEEPHOLE.

And why does PEOPLE sound like PEEPHOLE?

Because that’s exactly what people try to do to each other, they use love and friendship and trust to drill PEEPHOLES into each other’s lives to SPY on what you’ve done, what you’re doing, what you INTEND to do, what you’re saying, who you’re saying it about, who you’re saying it TO, who you’ve shagged, who you’re shagging, who you’ll shag next – they want to know EVERYTHING, all your secrets, all the gory details.

I SPY WITH MY FERRETY EYES.  

And why do they do want to know all this? They want to know it all so they can sit as JUDGE, JURY AND EXECUTIONER and find you to be LESS THAN THEY ARE, so they can prove to themselves and the people they GOSSIP TO that they are  RICHER, MORE INTELLIGENT, NICER LOOKING, FINER HUMAN BEINGS than you, so they can keep fooling themselves that they are better than you, so they can keep justifying to themselves the fact that deep down they are all, every single one of them, PRETENDING THEIR WAY THROUGH LIFE.

JUDGEMENTAL – there’s a clue in the word.

And if you SEE THROUGH all this and recognise human beings for what they REALLY ARE, and what they WANT and the lengths they’ll go to to get it, and if your mind can’t cope with all the SHITE of human interaction because you can see THE TRUTH OF WHAT IT’S ALL ABOUT AND WHAT MOTIVATIONS LIE BEHIND THE INTERACTIONS, and if you’re unable to play the game any more because you know it’s all a BIG DISHONEST PILE OF SHITE you’re labelled as being PEOPLE PHOBIC and MENTAL.

In a comment he made the other day on the Dotty Talking Therapy post, MEL said it’s about HONESTY. And I’ve thought and thought and thought about what he wrote while I couldn’t do anything else because of the NOISE, and the more I think about it the more I know he’s 100% right both within the context he said it and also in the context of this post. I’m not clever enough to go into all the theories behind what causes PEOPLE PHOBIA – is it a physical blip in the brain? Is it the bastard child of CHRONIC DEPRESSION? Is it one or more of all the theories proposed by EXPERT BOFFINS? Or is it merely a RECOGNITION of a disheartening, clarifying existential truth?

EXISTENTIAL TRUTH????????  - fucking hell it’s only quarter to eleven, I’m going to make my breakfast before my brain erupts. Cumberland sausage sandwiches. AND I’M GOING TO CHOP A TOMATO TO PUT ON THE TOP.

 

 

Useless Dotty Strikes Again

 

Shitey Sunday Picture Post – NO

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

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

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

FUCKING USELESS WITH BELLS ON.

BEING MENTAL  – the gift that never stops giving.

 

Dotty Talking Therapy © – The Cure For Being Mental

 

I’ve found it! The cure for being mental!

Talking Therapy isn’t a LOAD OF WANK after all! All those gobshite headshrinkers who believe WE WHO ARE MENTAL can talk away the crazy – THEY’RE RIGHT! We can!

But they’re WRONG in their belief that it takes TIME – months and years of appointments and sessions and tears and tick boxes – it DOESN’T TAKE TIME, all it takes is COMMITMENT!

Commit yourself to the belief in what I’m about to tell you in DOTTY TALKING THERAPY© and YOU WILL BE CURED! FOREVER! Yes. FOREVER!

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I’ve hidden my cure down here to trick the SO-CALLED NORMALS who’ll be coming to STEAL IT and GET RID OF IT when they find out that I KNOW WHAT THEY’VE DONE.

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DOTTY TALKING THERAPY ©

 

It consists of one sentence and one sentence only. The sentence should be SAID to (or SHOUTED at if they don’t hear you the first time) EVERYONE YOU COME INTO CONTACT WITH – family, friends, neighbours, colleagues, bosses, doctors, nurses, shopkeepers, children in the street etc etc etc – EVERYONE.

The sentence is –

 

I’M NOT FUCKING MENTAL – YOU ARE.

 

Because it’s TRUE, they ARE. They’re the mental ones, not us. DOTTY TALKING THERAPY©  is based on the theory that EVERY SINGLE ONE of the so-called ‘normal’ people in society have plotted and conspired down the years to make WE WHO THEY SAY ARE MENTAL think we are mental when really THEY’RE THE MENTAL ONES.

And the worse thing about what they’ve done is they’ve MADE US BELIEVE IT. We BELIEVE we’re the mental ones, we BELIEVE we have to have the crazy taken away from us, we BELIEVE we need to be CURED OF BEING MENTAL.

 

EVIDENCE

Would we start wars?

NO WE WOULD NOT.

Would we leave whole countries of people to STARVE when we could do something about it?

NO WE WOULD NOT.

Would we allow homelessness to continue?

NO WE WOULD NOT.

Would we allow people with potentially terminal illnesses to NOT BE TREATED WITH DRUGS THAT COULD CURE THEM, BECAUSE THE COST OF THE DRUGS IS HIGH?

NO WE WOULD NOT.

Would we allow ALL THE WRONG THINGS THE SO-CALLED NORMALS DO to continue?

NO WE WOULD NOT.

MURDERERS – How many murderers are found to be insane? VERY FEW compared to the ones who are deemed to be SANE. I never understood that until I invented DOTTY TALKING THERAPY© — they’re ALL fucking mental, as are the JUDGE and the JURY and the SOLICITORS and the BARRISTERS and all the so-called normal people who’ve decided that a MURDERER is SANE but someone who can’t come out of their house, or sings in the street, or has a panic attack in the bank, or can’t get their thoughts straight etc etc is MENTAL. Where’s the logic in that? THERE ISN’T ANY.

 

And that’s just for starters. There are countless examples, from the highest echelons of society to the lowest.

And also –

Would WE zap electrical currents into THEIR brains?

Would WE cut into THEIR brains to perform lobotomies?

Would WE immerse THEM in ice cold baths for hours and hours?

Would WE force nasty drugs into THEM?

 

They use WE WHO THEY SAY ARE MENTAL to entertain them. How many books and poems and paintings and sculptures and music and songs and photographs and films and plays and comedies and theories etc etc etc etc would NOT EXIST if they weren’t created by WE WHO THEY SAY ARE MENTAL? And inventions. And discoveries. And science. And buildings. HOW DIFFERENT WOULD THE WORLD BE IF WE WHO THEY SAY ARE MENTAL WEREN’T IN IT?

 

 

 

WHY have they done this? WHY have they turned it all around and made WE WHO THEY SAY ARE MENTAL BELIEVE WE ARE MENTAL?

I don’t know. Because they can. Because we LET them. Because they’re the MAJORITY. Because we’re not as CRUEL as them, we don’t understand their DUPLICITIES and their CORRUPT MOTIVES and their INHERENT SAVAGENESS that dictates all their thoughts and actions.

 

So here’s the cure for being mental. Tell them, each and every one of them –

 

I’M NOT FUCKING MENTAL – YOU ARE.

 

AND BELIEVE WHAT YOU’RE SAYING.

Because it’s TRUE.

 

 

DOtty’s FavOurite Letter Of The Alphabet

 

My favOurite letter Of the alphabet is O.

O is a nice letter, rOund and lOOpy.

Where dOes O begin?

Where dOes it end?

NObOdy knOws.

It begins wherever yOu want it tO begin.

It ends wherever yOu want it tO end.

 

 

YOu can make pretty patterns with it –

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

 

 

It lOOks like a dOt.

It lOOks dOtty.

And spOtty.

And blOtty.

 

 

It’s full Of expressiOn –

O - is an expressiOn Of a sudden surprise – bOO

Or a sOmewhat disappOinting surprise

Or a questiOn (if a questiOn mark immediately fOllOws it)

 

Or -

oooooo - is an expressiOn Of a cOmpassiOnate wince

Or a juicy tempation like a lOvelyCumberland sausage sandwich I’m abOut tO eat

Or a lOvely Cumberland sausage sandwich I’ve just eaten

 

 

 

Because it’s a gOOd letter, O dOesn’t appear in the impOrtant basic swear wOrds I like tO use -

FUCK

SHITE

BASTARD

ARSE

TWAT

 

 

O is the neatest letter Of the alphabet. Even the scruffiest, sprawliest handwriting can’t fuck it up.

O has nO sharp cOrners.

O is perfect.

 

 

O is the shape Of a ring.

O is the shape Of a circle.

O is the shape Of Our planet when yOu lOOk at a picture Of Our planet.

And all the Other planets. 

 O is the shape Of O.

O is the shape Of everything.

O is what we’re made Of.

 

 

 

Questions, Questions, Questions – How To Successfully Torture A People Phobic She-Hermit

 

I don’t like questions, do you? Why do people ask them? Haven’t they anything better to do?

Most of the questions I’m asked are STUPID questions asked by STUPID people with STUPID motives. They make about as much sense as the ? post I did yesterday. And these STUPID people who ask their STUPID questions aren’t even interested in the answers I finally manage to give them, they’re only interested in answers that tell them WHAT THEY WANT TO HEAR. They pick and choose certain key words and manipulate them into answers I DID NOT MEAN. And I’m too STUPID and too PEOPLE PHOBIC to correct them.

How?

What?

Why?

Where?

When?

 

 

Having PEOPLE PHOBIA is SHITE at the best of times but when you’re sitting in front of a pair of STUPID LASER EYES THAT CAN SEE RIGHT INSIDE YOUR STUPID HEAD, and the STUPID LASER EYES are attached to a STUPID BRAIN THAT IS JUDGING YOU AND FINDING YOU TO BE THE WORST HUMAN BEING IN THE HISTORY OF HUMAN BEINGS, coherence and clarity are impossible. THINKING is impossible. A STUPID question is asked and when you try to answer the STUPID question what comes out of your mouth (if anything) is a rambling babble of words that either has no relation to what you really want to say or over-says what you really want to say – and the crucial point is LOST IN ALL THE SHITE YOU’RE SPOUTING. But the STUPID people asking the questions are too STUPID to consider the fact that PEOPLE PHOBIA makes you hide things and gloss over things and fail to mention relevant things that you WANT THEM TO KNOW but CAN’T TELL THEM because they are PEOPLE and the fact that you have SEVERE PEOPLE PHOBIA means you’re SO TERRIFIED OF PEOPLE you can’t talk to them in any way that makes sense.

And you’re such hard work they get annoyed even though they’d never ADMIT they’re annoyed. And who’s fault is it they get annoyed? IT’S YOUR FAULT. Naturally. And because it’s YOUR FAULT you babble even more in order to mollify them, you try to justify yourself to them, you try to tell them WHAT THEY WANT TO HEAR. You try to STOP THEM BEING ANNOYED because you BELIEVE IT’S YOUR FAULT they’re annoyed in the first place. But there’s still a tiny part of you that KNOWS it isn’t your fault, a small part of you that wants to scream IT’S PEOPLE LIKE YOU WHO MADE ME LIKE THIS, YOU CONDESCENDING PATRONISING BASTARD. SHUT YOUR YAPPING FACE AND LISTEN TO WHAT I’M TRYING TO TELL YOU.

Add to this the fact that you have to keep asking and asking them to repeat themselves because you can’t hear what they’re saying BECAUSE THEY WON’T SWITCH THEIR COMPUTER OFF even when you’ve explained the difficulties of Hyperacusis – and they’re too STUPID or too IGNORANT to remember to raise their voice when they speak so you ask and ask and ask. And all through this FUCKING TORTURE you’re desperate to get home, or to die, or to vanish in a puff of smoke, anything to get away from the STUPID LASER EYES and the STUPID questions and the PRYING and the JUDGING and the SNEERING and the LAUGHING that are all going on behind the STUPID LASER EYES. You want to be at home with the doors shut and locked, the curtains closed, the phone off the hook, nobody there but you because the HERMITITIS has shackled your brain to the walls of the house you’ve had to leave, so although you’re physically present in the place you’ve had to go to, mentally you’re desperately trying to crawl home again. 

By the time you do finally get home your head is on the verge of imploding; you’re so tired all you want to do is sleep but the second you put your head on the pillow you’re MORTIFIED WITH SHAME at the STUPID things you said and the IMPORTANT things you didn’t say. The shame doesn’t lessen with each replay, it grows and grows and grows and THERE’S NOTHING YOU CAN DO TO CHANGE IT.

 

And all you’re able to think then is -

?

 

Dotty Has A Revealing Revelation

 

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

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

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

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

What does it all mean?

I don’t fucking know.

 

 

 

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

 

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

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

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

 

 

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

Suspicious Things Happening On My Street

 

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

 

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

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

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

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

 

HELLO! CAN ANYBODY HEAR ME?

 

These are the floorboards I’m hiding under.

They’re made of wood.

Wood gives you SKELFS.

*

*

This is one of my suits of armour.

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

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

against not only SKELFS but SPIDERS and OTHER NASTY THINGS

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

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

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

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

maybe I SHOULD have worn chain mail.

Fuck.

Oh well, it’s too late now.

Can someone pass me a Cumberland sausage sandwich, please?

*

*

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

 

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

WAKE UP BRANWELL!!

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

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

Earplugs.

BANGBANGBANGBANG

fucking hell, these earplugs are shite.

 

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

BRANWELL!!

Nope, nothing.

 

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

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

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

eeeeeeewwwwww! His eyeball looks like a DEAD FISH EYE!

 

Bollocks. What am I going to tell little Emily?

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

Uh-uh, I don’t think so.

 

I know, I’ll sing him a song.

The Lion Sleeps Tonight?

A-WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

A-WEEE, A-WEEE

A-WIMOWEH

Fucking neighbours. STOP BANGING. FUCK OFF.

 

A hymn – that should annoy him. 

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

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

KUM-BAH-YA M’Lord, KUM-BAH-YA

KUM-BAH-YA M’Lord, KUM-BAH-YA

KUM-BAH-YA M’Lord, KUM-BAH-YA

WOOOAAAHH LOOORRD KUM-BAH-YA

 

Aha! That did it, he’s shuddering!

BRANWELL, YOUR DAD’S HERE!

HA HA HA HA HA HA

 

 

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

 

 

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

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

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

Why did he ask me that?

 

 

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

 

The Job – Clean EVERYTHING.

Location – My house.

Hours – As many as you want.

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

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

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

 

 

Blah Blah Blah – Boring Shite In The Boring Mental Mind Of A BORED MENTAL In Her Boring Kitchen

 

How does a She-Hermit run away from home when she CAN’T GET OUT OF THE FUCKING HOUSE? How? HOW?

Big men in small cars. What’s that all about?

 

 

I wish, I wish I

was a fish, a fishy-fish

in a fishy dish.

 

 

Who invented madness? Does it go with chips?

Jack LaLanne’s Power Juicer.

How much is too much?

 

 

Yorkshire Gravy, A rich savoury gravy inspired by a taste of the region.

That’s what it says on my tub of Yorkshire Gravy.

WHO WROTE THIS, AND HOW DO THEY KNOW WHAT YORKSHIRE TASTES LIKE? WHY ARE THEY EATING MY COUNTY?

What is the meaning of BLEEP?

 

HEBETUDE

Should the green mung beans in my green mung bean jar be brown?

 

Why hasn’t someone invented a SILENT FRIDGE?

 

 

My tablecloth is dark blue with pale blue and white flowers. It’s nice. I remember getting it. It was discontinued from BHS and I got it for ONE OF OUR ENGLISH POUNDS when it should have been a lot more, I can’t remember how much more but it was A LOT more. Fifteen times more. Or twenty. I’ll have to give it a wash.

 

 

Why have I started having panic attacks if I’m in the same room as LETTUCE?

 

 

 

FUCK – A LAWNMOWER. Why? A bit of sunshine and out comes all the FUCKING NOISY GARDEN ELECTRICAL SHITE.

Fuckers.

 

 

NIGELLA LAWSON – How To Eat (well DUH Nigella!!!) – Nigella Bites (perv) – How To Be A Domestic Goddess (LIES, ALL LIES – IT DOESN’T WORK).

 

 

DINNER TIME!

Dotty Has Been Asleep But Now She Awakens…

 

… but not with a kiss from a prince, more like a need for a Cumberland sausage sandwich. I’ve been asleep for two days, almost solidly, after I had a first appointment with a HEADSHRINKER on Tuesday afternoon but the big stressy build up for the few days beforehand (and the two long, long hours of the appointment itself) left me brain-fucked so I wasn’t able to do anything but sleep on Wednesday or yesterday. I’m awake now, still in a bit of a stressy-mental because I have to wait for a week to find out a load of shite so if I go missing again I’m not REALLY missing, I’m just here in my house with my head up my arse, waiting to KNOW THINGS.

I’ll try to catch up on posts (there’s a LOT of notification emails to go through). I’m sorry if I miss some of your posts, I might just go to the most recent ones.

 

 

Dotty Does It Again – Dibble Defeated

 

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

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

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

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

RESULT

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

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

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

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

BOSH!

DOTTY WINS AGAIN.

NO ONE BEATS DOTTY.

 

 

DOTTYGEDDON

 

Today I am practising POSITIVITY and SELF-CONTROL.

I am controlling myself and I am being positive.

 

 

Yes.

 

I am.

 

 

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

 

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

Today I will be THE MODEL OF SERENITY.

 

 

Yes.

 

 

I did a positive thought to negate some negative thoughts –

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

but

at least I don’t have claustrophobia.

 

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

 

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

 

My brick is my best friend.

My brick is my best friend.

My brick is my best friend.

My brick is my best friend.

My brick is my best friend.

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

My brick is my best friend.

My brick is my best friend.

My brick is my best friend.

My brick is my best friend.

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

My brick is my best friend.

My brick

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

 

 

 

 

My br

 

 

 

*

 

 

A Boring Dotty Update On Boring Dotty

 

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

 

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

1.  I didn’t see Venus, I saw clouds.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

 

A Dotty Analysis Of Hypomania 1:1

 

Nowadays the different ways depression can affect you are widely documented and anyone can easily find the information they need. But what about hypomania? It’s not as easy to find information about this – there are little lists of symptoms but anything of substance is buried in all the shite that no one can be arsed wading through. So here’s my own, more descriptive, little list of the different faces of hypomania and how it can manifest itself.

 

HYPOMANIA AND HOW IT CAN MANIFEST ITSELF

 

Typomania — when the words flow and flow and flow so fast that you make a SPELLING MISTAKE.

Wipe-omania — cleaning the whole house after months and months of not cleaning ANY of the house.

Tripe-omania — yatter yatter yatter yatter yatter yak yak yak yak blah blah blah blah blah – talking too much SHITE.

Snipe-omania — when irritating irritants make you irritable and you can’t help sniping at them.

Gripe-omania — constantly complaining to a non-irritating non-irritant about the irritating irritants who make you irritable.

Swipe-omania —  1.  OOOOO LOOK – IT’S BEAUTIFUL — I HAVE TO HAVE IT — IT’S ALL I’VE EVER DREAMED OF — NO, I DON’T WANT THE BLUE ONE, I WANT THAT RED ONE — I NEED IT — IT’S MINE — GIVE IT TO ME OR I’LL SWIPE IT AND RUN AWAY!  2. Credit cards – enough said.

Hyposprainia — your ankle when you trip over all the SHITE on the floor when you’ve emptied your kitchen cupboards and started cleaning eight of them at once.

Hyporainia — Dancing in the rain.

Hypobrainia — write write write write write write BANANA bake bake bake bake bake bake SCISSORS snip snip snip snip snip snip (oh shite, I cut a chunk!) snip snip snip snip WALLPAPER scrape scrape scrape scrape BLOG write write write write write write write write write FLOOR mop mop mop mop mop mop mop mop ZUMBA dance dance dance dance dance dance dance dance dance SAUSAGES cook cook cook cook cook cook cook cook CARPETS hoover hoover hoover hoover hoover hoover hoover BLOG write write write write write write write write WINDOWS wash wash wash wash wash wash wash wash WONKY FRINGE snip snip snip snip snip snip snip – and so on and so on.

HypotrainiaCHOO CHOO!

Hypodrainia — absolutely fucking knackered.

 

 

If I’ve missed anything out, feel free to tell me and I’ll include it in A Dotty Analysis Of Hypomania 1:2

 

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

 

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

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

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

 

Dotty Was Nearly GASSED And BLOWN TO BITS…

 

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

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

So now I’ve NO GAS.

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

Customer care, my arse. More like Customer MURDER.

 

 

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

 

Dotty v Blog – Round 1 (DING-DING)

 

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

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

‘Eh? What are on you about?’

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

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

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

‘Are you kidding me?’

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

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

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

‘So you’re blackmailing me?’

‘Yes.’

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

‘Right. Good. You fuck off as well.’

So I did.

 

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

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

PEOPLE OF WALMART

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘PLEASE??

‘Where’s my apology?’

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

 

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

 

Dotty Has A Nice Day Despite The Stinky Bog Smell

 

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

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

‘I stepped in a bog.’

‘Fuck off. You stink!’

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

‘No!’

‘Please?’

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

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

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

Five minutes later her shout nearly split my ears open.

‘DOTTEEEEEEEEE!’

I went to the back door. ‘WHAT?’

‘YOU HAVE GIVEN ME BREECHES!’

‘THEY’RE COMBAT PANTS. PUT THEM ON.’

‘NO! I REFUSE!’

‘WELL YOU’LL HAVE TO GO HOME THEN.’

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

‘Woah, Neddy! Slow down!’

‘Was I seen? Did anyone see me?’

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

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

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

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

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

Kumblant. I’d forgotten he was coming.

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

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

‘Hello, Kumblant,’ I said.

‘Hello.’

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

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

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

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

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

‘Yes.’

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

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

‘May I offer you a bonbon?’

‘What is bonbon?’

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

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

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

And he did.

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

 

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

 

Dotty Had A Visitor This Morning

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hmmmm.

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

 

 

 

Dotty The Mental Bitch – Ignorant Selfish Bastard Bloggers

 

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

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

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

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

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

which leads to –

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

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

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

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

 

AAAAAAARRRRRRGGGGGHHHHH!!

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

 

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

 

 

 

 

Do you?

 

 

 

 

 

 

I know how to.

 

 

 

 

 

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

Do you want me to tell you?

 

 

 

 

Or are you okay as you are?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Have you sorted it out?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Do you always remember to untick the box?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

HA HA

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Okay, enough tormenting.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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

‘MANAGE EMAIL DELIVERY SETTINGS’

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

 

 

Don’t all thank me at once.

 

The Shitey Sunday Dotty Picture Post – # 1

 

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

What is it about Sundays that makes them so shitey?

Here’s a picture of a pigowl.

He’s lovely, isn’t he?

I don’t like his glasses though.

He should have gone to SpecSaver.

TWIT TWOOOOOOOIINNK
TWIT TWOOOOOOOIINNK

Dotty In A Bloggy Dither – Help!

 

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

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

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

 

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

 

No one else seems to be Amy, just me.

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

My gravatar picture still appears as Dotty.

I can still Like things as Dotty.

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

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

I know which one I’d bet on.

 

 

An Unpoetic Woman Unpoetically Scorned

 

Up your arse stick your flowery words

and thorny red roses

in a bunch, up your bum.

I’m no longer your wife, your wench,

your skivvy, your drudge;

twenty three years thrown aside,

cast away – for what?

Some dirty young slut.

 

Your ego, your death-fear,

it’s all about you

YOU YOU YOU

you middle-aged twat;

mourning the grey, the droop, the sag,

and those fucking great bags round your eyes –

they cannot lie.

 

Plead a little more, bastard.

Listening? Me? Not a chance,

not a hope in the belly of Hell.

Crawl, you creep,

beg, whimper, whine,

weep me your vows, your promises -

I’ve heard it all before, remember.

 

Why are you here again,

howling your sorrys?

Didn’t you hear me the first fifteen times?

Get it through your head -

you left me, you lost me, 

you shagged us stone dead.

 

Now – now I am ME, free, 

I’ll do as I please,

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

AHA! That look on your face!

I see it, I do!

Ownership.

Jealousy wants me under you, (lying bored),

but acting isn’t my job any more.

 

Leave me alone, now. 

Fuck off.

Go away and rot.

Stick up your arse all your lies and deceits,

up up up

right the way up through your shrivelled old colon,

all the way up through your gutless old guts,

up up up

till they choke you, you cheat -

as one day they assuredly must.

 

 

Dotty The Mental Mystic – Horoscopical Characteristics Of Your Star Sign

 

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

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

 

 

CANCER THE CRAB

4th sign of the zodiac

Element – Water

Ruling planet – The mOOn

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

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

 

 

LEO THE LION

5th sign of the zodiac

Element – Fire

Ruling planet – The Sun

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

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

 

 

VIRGO THE VIRGIN

6th sign of the zodiac

Element – Earth

Ruling planet – Mercury

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

hang on a minute, I need a little sing -

 

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

He had ten thousand men,

He marched them up to the top of the hill

And he marched them down again.

And when they were up they were up,

And when they were down they were down,

And when they were only half way up

They were neither up nor down. ♪♪♬

 

That’s better.

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

 

 

LIBRA THE SCALES

7th sign of the zodiac

Element – Air

Ruling planet – Venus

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

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

 

 

SCORPIO THE SCORPION

8th sign of the zodiac

Element – Water

Ruling planet – Pluto

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

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

 

 

SAGITTARIUS THE ARCHER

9th sign of the zodiac

Element – Fire

Ruling planet – Jupiter

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

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

 

 

CAPRICORN THE GOAT

10th sign of the zodiac

Element – Earth

Ruling planet – Saturn

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

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

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

 

 

AQUARIUS THE WATER BEARER

11th sign of the zodaic

Element – Air

Ruling planet – Uranus

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

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

All camels are Aquarius the Water Bearers.

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

 

 

PISCES THE FISH

12th sign of the zodiac

Element – Water

Ruling planet – Neptune

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

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

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

 

 

ARIES THE RAM

1st sign of the zodiac

Element – Fire

Ruling planet – Mars

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

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

 

 

TAURUS THE BULL

2nd sign of the zodiac

Element – Earth

Ruling planet – Venus

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

Soldiers and rugby players are Taurus the Bulls.

 

 

GEMINI THE TWINS

3rd sign of the zodiac

Element – Air

Ruling planet – Mercury

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

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

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

 

Bank Holiday Sunshine Should Be Banned

 

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

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

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

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

 

 

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

 

 

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

 

 

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

 

 

What was I writing about?

 

If You’ve Been Getting Loads Of Commenty Emails…

 

… click on the link to Roly’s blog and he’ll tell you how to stop getting them. All the emails I was getting were doing my napper in before I read this.

Sarchasm2

 

 

 

 

A Zen Dotty Haik-Sen-Blogu

 

Dotty Headbanger

has three hundred followers.

Can you believe it?

 

Actually, wait -

I have three hundred and one -

I’M FUCKING GOBSMACKED!!!

 

Dotty Film Review – Coraline

NASTY, NASTY FILM

What a nasty, creepy little film this is. I like creepy animated films – Tim Burton is brilliant – but this film is not only nasty and creepy, it’s nastily creepy and creepily nasty – it’s fucking HORRIBLE and I don’t mean a good horrible like a good horrible horror film can be, I mean HORRIBLE HORRIBLE like something a psycho sicked up and left to fester.

And it’s for CHILDREN. It’s meant for CHILDREN.

Unbelievable.

DON’T LET YOUR KIDS WATCH IT, MOTHERS or they’ll end up severely traumatised and disturbed and THEY WILL HATE AND FEAR AND MISTRUST YOU FOR THE REST OF THEIR LIVES.

I can’t see the point of the film – there IS no point unless it’s a sadistic one aimed at fucking up the minds of children (and adults). It looks to me like whoever made it is a MOTHER-HATING, CHILD-HATING MISOGYNISTIC SICK FUCK.

HORRIBLE, HORRIBLE HORRIBLE.

French and Saunders – shame on you.

 

Score  –   minus 500 out of 10

 

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)

 

 

The Unbearable Shiteness Of Being Mental

 

In the old days of Magnus Magnusson being quizmaster on Mastermind he used to say ‘I’ve started so I’ll finish,’ if the buzzer interrupted his delivery of a question. Well good for you, Magnus, and everyone else who can see things through to completion because I fucking well can’t.

It goes like this –

I’ve started so I’ll finish.

I’ve started and there’s a slight possibility I won’t finish when I want to finish.

I’ve started and I’ll finish tomorrow.

I’ve started and I’ve got a quarter of the way through but I don’t know what to do next.

I’ve started and the complications are coming in thick and fast.

I’ve started and I’ve ballsed it right up somewhere along the line but I don’t know where.

I’ve started and I’M TRYING MY FUCKING BEST, WHAT MORE DO YOU WANT?

I’ve started and waffle, waffle, waffle, blah, blah, blah.

I’ve started and I’ve lost all interest in it, it’s boring me.

I’ve started and I’ll file it away till my brain starts working again.

I’ve started and I’ll NEVER, EVER finish because I NEVER FINISH ANYTHING I’VE STARTED.

 

Why do I even bother?

 

EDIT EDIT EDIT – I forgot to add this one –

I’ve started and I’ve deleted it.

 

 

 

 

A Dotty Day Out – Adventures With Branwell (Part 1)

 

Yesterday morning I was in a strange double mood, good because the weather was Spring-like, bad because I wanted to go to my MEMORIAL BENCH. I posted a post asking if someone would please lend me their TELEPORTER and I was so grateful and surprised by all the positive replies that I found my little going-out rucksack and filled it with the things I need for going out – Cumberland sausages, 5 bottles of laudanum, 4 packs of beta-blockers, bottle of Diet Coke, bottle of water, hairbrush, purse, Nokia Hard Bastard, and the little present that Scotty bought me. Then I opened the back door and sat down on the lino, as close to the outside as I could get, and I waited. I waited for a long, long time. A long, long, long, long time.

Nobody came.

 

 

I don’t know what time it was when I heard footsteps coming round the side of the house. I jumped up and nearly fell back down again – my right leg gave way, it must have gone to sleep because of how I’d been sitting (cross-legged like a Yogi). It was only Branwell though, happy for a change, so happy the smile almost skipped off his face.

“Dotty, sweet Dotty! What brings you such sadness on this glorious day of splendiferous sunshine?”

I burst into tears and told him.

“No, no, no, come along. Weep not, my chickling, for here am I, Branwell the Magnificent, come to your rescue, sans white charger but with love and friendship uncurbed. Off we go, off we go.”

And he took my keys out of the door, grabbed my hand and pulled me OUTSIDE before I realised what was happening, then he locked the door, took my hand again, and away we went.

 

 

The street was heaving with PEOPLE, shouting bickering squabbling laughing braying PEOPLE, a polarised muddle of the wealthy middle classes posturing and preening their way round the shops, and the dirty, thin and stinking poor. I couldn’t take it all in, there was too much bustle and noise – beggars called out for pennies; women argued with stall-holders, trying for a bargain that wouldn’t happen; scrappy, raggy children ran to and fro, ducking and dodging; a wool-worker coughed and hawked up a great glob of blackness from his lungs and spat it out right in front of me; barrows and carts clattered on the cobbles; horses whinnied and snorted; dogs barked; a handbell clanged and clanged – and Branwell whisked me through it all in seconds, the stench of sewage and sickness and cooked meat and rotten fruit and unwashed bodies so strong I could taste it.

“Hang on, where are we going?” I asked when we’d slowed to a trot and the sounds of the street weren’t so loud.

“Refreshments!”

“Eh?”

“A jar of cheering sweetness, my dear. Your face resembles the sad arse of a sow due for the slaughterhouse. O wretched maid of long torment, your smile would set my heart content. But woe is you and woe is me, diddly dum and fiddly fee. Ha ha ha ha ha.”

“Shut up, div. Tell me where we’re going.”

“There!”

And he pointed to the inn a few steps ahead of us.

“I’m not going in.” My heart was thumping.

“Yes, you are!”

And he pulled me to the door, kicked it open and dragged me inside.

It was so dull and smokey in there I had to blink loads of times before I could see. The room was small and dingy; brown walls, thick sawdust on the floor. A man with massive, black mutton chop whiskers stood behind the bar. Just two other people were there, an old man sitting in one corner of the bench seat that ran across the back wall and down one side of the room, and a boy collecting glasses from the tables.

“Dawson! Two jars!” Branwell shouted, though we couldn’t have been six feet away from the bar. He led me to a table next to the only window in the room but the panes of  glass were so thick I couldn’t see out.

“Sit, sit!” Branwell gestured at the bench with a grand sweep of his arm. He sat down next to me, took his little box of snuff from his coat pocket, opened it and offered it to me.

I shook my head, “Eeew, no thanks.”

He took a big pinch and sniffed it up one nostril then the other. Quick as you like, he whipped out his hanky and started sneezing into it. “That’s better,” he said, his eyes gleaming.

“That’s fucking disgusting.”

He laughed. “No worse than many things.”

The boy brought the drinks to us on a tray, two great tankards of beer. It tasted so strong I had to sip it. Branwell downed half of his in one go.

“What are we doing here, Branwell?”

“Being merry! Sup your porter and cheer up. Have you eaten yet? I am ravenous, starved, I could eat a scabby dog. Dawson!”

“Aye, sir?”

“What’s cooking?”

“Mutton, sir. Broth.”

“Two plates, then. And bread, but only if it is warm. I want none of your mould at my table.”

“Aye, sir.”

The broth was lovely, full of big chunks of fresh meat and veg. The bread was even lovelier, soft and springy and warm. I sneaked a handful of Cumberland sausages out of my rucksack and passed a couple to Branwell. I put mine in a slice of bread and had the best Cumberland sausage sandwiches I’ve ever tasted.

“How’s little Emily today?” I asked when we’d finished eating.

“Still weak. Although your medicine appears to have done the trick. She was up and about this morning, at her desk rummaging through papers. Charlotte scolded her.” He rolled his eyes, sucked in his cheeks, jumped out of his seat and stood in front of the table, his hands clasped together in front of him – “Sister, sister, what ARE you thinking? Shoo, shoo, back to bed!”

I couldn’t stop laughing. He sounded just like her. “She’s not that bad, is she?”

He sat down. “At times she is a terrible harridan, Dotty. Terrible. There are certain particulars that should be kept within the family but quite honestly, I am at my wits end with her antics.”

“Why, what has she done?”

“She burnt many of my writings. Onto the fire, cast into the flames as though they were words infernal, penned by the Devil himself.”

What could I say to that? I knew she’d done some burning – after little Emily died she burnt loads of her poems and edited loads of others (little Emily told me), but I didn’t know she’d burnt Branwell’s stuff too. Before I could think what to say he said,

“They take me for a fool. The Great Published Brotherhood of Whispering Bells. They think I am blind to their secret.”

“What secret?”

He picked up his tankard but he’d emptied it. He banged it down on the table. “Published! They are published and yet they lie to me that they are not, and they continue in their lies day after day. I am not to be told their news for fear it will send me far into a mad wretchedness of mental agonies from which I shall not return.”

I stayed silent. So did he, after he’d shouted for the boy to bring him a refill. I took my Nokia Hard Bastard out to see what time it was but it wouldn’t turn on properly, no signal.

After a while he let out a big sigh. He sat up straight and turned to me.

“Accept my heartfelt apologies, Dotty, my friend. I am a ranting dolt, an angered berk who should know better. I promise I shall not allow our day to be further marred by talk or thoughts of my own grievances when my intentions are to bring a smidge of light and happiness to us both. We, the soul-sick, mired in woe…”

“Shut up, you rhyming twat.” I gave him a punch on the arm.

“Are you ready to move on to the next stage of our adventure?” he asked.

“What is it?”

He smiled, a great big beamy smile, and then he tapped me on the nose with his finger. “Wait and see. Wait and see.”

 

 

(TO BE CONTINUED)

 

Moody Monday – Can I Borrow Your Teleporter, Please?

 

After a wild weekend of pelting rainy rain and cold windy wind, the sun is shining, the temperature is up a bit and this morning feels like Spring. And I want to go and see my MEMORIAL BENCH

(CLICK HERE FOR MEMORIAL BENCH POST)

but I can’t because there’s no one to take me.

What I need, more than anyone in the history of the world has ever ever needed anything, is a TELEPORTER. Do any of you have one I can borrow? Please? It doesn’t have to be a fancy one with loads of dials and knobs and bells and whistles, all I want it to do is WHOOOOSH me up to my MEMORIAL BENCH and take me back home again when I get cold.

I WANT TO GO OUT

but to go out means PEOPLE and to go out with the aim of getting to my MEMORIAL BENCH where there are NO PEOPLE I’d have to encounter LOTS OF PEOPLE and I can’t do that because I have PEOPLE PHOBIA and then I’d have to get home again from my MEMORIAL BENCH where there are NO PEOPLE which means encountering LOTS OF PEOPLE once again, so it’s not just ONCE I’d have to encounter LOTS OF PEOPLE, it’s TWICE.

TELEPORTER.

Can I borrow it?

Or an INVISIBILITY CLOAK?

Like I’ve said before, the only person I know with an INVISIBILITY CLOAK is Harry Potter and I’m STILL writing and writing to the SCROOGEY LITTLE SCROTE but he won’t reply to my emails. WHY? He doesn’t NEED his INVISIBILITY CLOAK any more, why won’t he let me have it? That’s what being a fucking child celebrity brat has done for him, gone straight to his HEAD and given him DELUSIONS OF GRANDEUR like he’s the GODKING OF ALL FILMS AND OF THE WHOLE FUCKING WORLD when really he couldn’t act his way out of a soggy paper bag. DICKHEAD.

So can I borrow your TELEPORTER, please?

I won’t break it. I’ll look after it.

I’ll make you a HEAP of Cumberland sausage sandwiches.

And I’ll let you have ANYTHING YOU WANT FROM ANY OF MY COLLECTIONS (except my books).

AND you’ll be the FIRST and ONLY person in Bloggyland to SEE WHAT I LOOK LIKE and to COME INSIDE MY HOUSE where you can wait for me to come back and if you get bored you could have a little flick round with the duster to keep you occupied.

PLEASE?

PRETTY PLEASE?

PRETTY PLEASE WITH SUGAR ON IT?

PRETTY PLEASE WITH SUGAR ON IT AND A CHERRY ON TOP?

 

The Three Red Bins Of Blogging Award (The Best Award I’ve Made Today)

 

I’ve been bored out of my skull today waiting for the universe to die so I’ve made a new award AND IT’S A NICE AWARD because I thought I’d better be nice for a change in case there IS a god.

This is my new award

 

See how nice I’ve been? I think I’ve been EXCEPTIONALLY NICE, nice enough to get me into HEAVEN if there IS a god.

There are two requirements to having this award -

1 — You have to CLICK ON THIS LINK AND THEN PRESS LIKE

2 — You have to CLICK ON THIS LINK AND ADD YOUR BLOG

 

If you’ve already done these two things you are BRILLIANT and I award you my new award which is a very, very classy award, if I do say so myself. If you haven’t already done these two things GO AND DO THEM.

When (notice I’m not saying ‘if’) you put it on your own site, you can set your own conditions to manipulate your readers into doing what you want them to do.  

Go forth, my acolytes, and continue being brilliant.

 

Little Emily Is Dying And Dotty Might Have Destroyed The Universe (If I Have – Sorry Everyone)

 

She’s had a relapse, a bad one. Branwell came last night, but they don’t need me to go up there because Charlotte and Anne are home again. I’m so worried about her I’ve done something I probably shouldn’t have done – I gave Branwell my emergency course of antibiotics that I keep for emergencies and I told him to sneak them to her at the correct times. Like I said, I probably shouldn’t have given them to him but I can’t stand the thought of her being so ill when the very medicine that could make her better is sitting in my medicine cupboard doing nothing. 

But the big question I’ve been asking myself since is – might I be fucking about with TIME and FATE and HISTORY? Might the universe POP or IMPLODE or TURN UPSIDE DOWN or FLOAT AWAY or something just as devastating if little Emily doesn’t stay ill and die when she’s supposed to? Who knows – I don’t know and you don’t know either, the only people who profess to know are the UNIVERSE BOFFINS and all they know is how to talk a load of SCIENTIFIC WORDY SHITE about their THEORIES. But really they don’t know any more than we do – they’re just GUESSING in their SCIENTIFIC UNIVERSE BOFFIN ways of guessing and getting paid a fucking great shedload of money to do so.

Why are there no UNIVERSE BOFFINS who specialise in COMMON SENSE? For instance, when they prattle on about the BALLOON THEORY – I’ve never heard one of them ask ‘What’s on the OUTSIDE of the balloon?’ because common sense says the balloon has to expand into SOMETHING. And what colour is the balloon? (I hope it isn’t yellow, I don’t like yellow balloons, they make me feel sick.) And why isn’t the balloon DEFLATING like old balloons do if they’ve hidden themselves behind the sofa for a week?

And WHO BLEW THE BALLOON UP IN THE FIRST PLACE?

And did who ever blew it up use one of those BALLOON BLOWING PUMPS or did they blow it up with their lips and their breath?

And WHY did they blow it up?

A birthday? A wedding?

And is there any writing on the balloon?

9 TODAY?

HAPPY 18TH BIRTHDAY?

CONGRATULATIONS (with a little picture of two horseshoes).

It’s all too complicated for my little addled brain to think about. But I’ve affected SOMETHING because WEIRD UNIVERSE TRICKS have already started –

TWO OF MY PENS RAN OUT OF INK THIS MORNING

What are the odds of that happening, eh?

TWO pens, the two pens I use – but I didn’t start using them at the same time, one was older than the other. I’ve left them both sitting on my kitchen worktop so I can try them again later to see if the INK HAS COME BACK because if it DOES come back it means TIME HAS REVERSED ITSELF and I’ll have to prepare myself for my front door de-bricking itself.

 

I’m going to have some Cumberland sausage sandwiches (my last?) and then a big swig of laudanum (my last?) and wait for Branwell to come and tell me how little Emily is doing. IF he comes.

Goodbye, my bloggy friends. It’s been nice knowing you.

 

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.

 

Look, No Hands – A Post Written By My Elbows

 

I’m going to type today’s post with my elbows because my fingers don’t have anything to say.

 

vria,g aas  is rjugkdouw8jgt476js9yusnm lk s   v awimfqp ufat8u44q90JINIO8Y6RR4EWEFCD  GJN [P[P;LLOI MUO

 

Nope, elbows don’t work.

My laptop doesn’t like it – it won’t stop shouting at me in it’s pingy little laptop voice.

Right elbow knocked me back a page and I had to try again

then one of them brought up my Favourites list

then a big sound options box thing came up and I don’t know what the fuck it was but it looked complicated

then I gave up.

 

 

Ah — wait a minute – look, look – it worked, my elbows wrote something.

ufat8

a message from my elbows

the first ever known message from elbows

like the first communication from aliens

this is a sign.

I don’t know what it’s a sign OF but it’s a sign.

 

ufat8

 

u = me

fat = fat

8 = a picture of what my elbows think I look like

 

oh

 

 

OH

 

 

MY ELBOWS ARE BULLYING ME

THEY HATE ME

THEY WANT TO KILL ME

THE POINTY FUCKERS ARE PLOTTING

 

what are they plotting?

 

what?

 

i don’t know but i bet if they could reach my eyes they’d poke and poke at them and try to poke them out like my eyelashes do when they’re trying to kill me

i cut my eyelashes off

can i cut my elbows off?

how?

i can’t cut them off, can i?

i could do ONE but if i did ONE i’d leave myself defenceless against THE OTHER ONE.

 

 

 

what do i do, what do i do?

 

 

 

i know

 

i’m going to strap them to my knees

my knees are my friends

they’ve NEVER tried to kill me

they’ve never bullied me

they’ve never called me names

they’ve never tried to poke my eyes out

or strangle me

or suffocate me

or anything

my knees will SAVE ME

 

right, i’m going to strap them now

 

 

 

 

haha   elbows

try an kill me now bastards

you can;t can you

 

 

i have to go its hard to type

 

 

Down In My Air Raid Shelter, Then Back Up Again, Now I’m Going Back Down

 

Last night I was down in my Air Raid shelter all night with my brick, thinking about the busy human world above me and everything that goes on in it – 

births

marriages

deaths

celebrations

business

arguments

accidents

love at first sight

kisses

slaps

singing

dancing

beatings

murders

new love

old love

celebrity

poverty

crime

shagging

house buying

clothes buying

food buying

buying, buying, buying, buying

illnesses

gods

wars 

starvation

tears

neglect

destruction

school life

work life

family life

traffic on roads and motorways and seas and skies, cars, lorries, bikes, boats, planes, the rich and the not-so-rich speeding to where they want to be to get what they want to get while the poor endure or die

and I thought it’s all a load of shite, isn’t it? A big shitey web of shite.

 

I came back upstairs early this morning and opened the back door and the world STINKS, it stinks of the shite being spread on the fields down the road, the stinking fat farmer spreading his stinking SHITE and for what? To feed the greedy, more, more, more, me, me, me.

 

 

I want to be a tree.

A tree is a tree is a tree.

It doesn’t pretend to be anything else.

 

 

 

 

 

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