How A Baby Whose Name Isn’t Jesus Came To Live With Dotty

 

So, I’m back on my blog and eager to start annoying y’all again but I won’t be annoying y’all as much as I used to annoy y’all because, unbelievable as it might sound, I’m helping to look after the BABY who lives here, and babies (even good babies like the one who lives here) are demanding little fuckers who take up a LOT OF TIME.

How did I end up with a baby in my house? This is how…

 

 

It was almost midnight on Christmas Eve. I was sitting on my sofa watching Christmas shite on the telly when I heard a tap-tap-tap on the back door. Who could it be? Lottie and THE BERSERKERS? Nope, I know what their knocks sound like. Branwell? Nope, he’d be hiding under a pew at midnight mass necking down the Christmas wine. Little Emily? Kumblant? No, it wasn’t them. I’d never heard a tap-tap-tap like it – it scared me. But then suddenly I wasn’t scared because it dawned on me that the only other person who’d be knocking on my door at almost midnight on Christmas Eve was SANTA CLAUS so I jumped up off the sofa and ran to the back door to let him in and to give him his glass of milk and Cumberland sausage sandwich (which he never usually TOUCHES, the ungrateful twat), and to see how many CHRISTMAS PRESENTS he had for me in his sack, and to see if the jingle bells I’d been hearing all week were REAL jingle bells, but when I flung open the door all I saw was a BIG BELLY and a SAD FACE, neither of which belonged to Santa. I know this because —

1. The BIG BELLY was BIGGER than Santa’s big belly.

2. The SAD FACE didn’t have a big bushy white beard at the bottom of it.

3.  Whoever the BIG BELLY and the SAD FACE belonged to wasn’t dressed in RED (it was a sort of manky beige).

4. Between the BIG BELLY and the SAD FACE sat a HUGE pair of BAZONKAS that definitely didn’t belong to Santa (unless there’s something he isn’t telling us). The presence of the HUGE BAZONKAS suggested to me that the person standing in front of me was a woman.

She said, ‘Are you Dotty? Dotty Headbanger?’

‘I might be.’

‘Oh God, Dotty, I’ve been looking for you all day, I’ve been up and down the streets trying to find your house but no one knows who you are or where you live so I had to knock on every single door to find you and I need a wee and I haven’t had a cup of tea or anything to eat for hours. I know you don’t know me but pleasepleaseplease will you let me go for a wee and give me a bed for the night?’

‘Are you pregnant?’

‘Seven and a half months. And I need a wee. Please. And a bed. I’ll sleep on the floor if you don’t have anything else, I’m just so tired and I need to get warm.’

Why do I attract all the nutters in the area, even at Christmas? I was just about to say, ‘Go away. Do I look like a stable?’ when I heard the first chime of my grandfather clock and I thought, fucking hell it’s Christmas, I can’t turn her away on Christmas Day or Santa will find out and he won’t leave me any presents at all. So I let her in and she’s been here ever since.

 

 

Because she turned up looking for a bed on Christmas Eve you’d think her name would be Mary. Her name isn’t Mary. Well, yes it IS Mary, but she’s only half a Mary. She’s called Mary-Mona, the poor cow. Mary-Mona Onken. And the baby’s name isn’t Jesus and he wasn’t born at Christmas, (he arrived at the beginning of February, which makes him, to date, almost 4 months old). And the baby, whose name isn’t Jesus, is NOT the son of God, he’s the son of my feckless fucker of a brother, Scotty.

The baby’s name is BUSTER. Buster Onken-Headbanger. Hyphenated because when it came to registering his birth I told Mary-Mona I’d throw them out on the streets if she didn’t give him the Headbanger name, even if she does want to kill Scotty (she’ll have to get to him before I do or she’ll have lost her chance, I’m going to FUCKING SLAUGHTER him when I see him). I insisted on Headbanger, she wanted Onken (for fuck’s sake) so we compromised and added the hyphen.

So here they are and here they stay and, surprisingly, I haven’t (yet) drop-kicked the baby into the bin or shoved a foul nappy into Mary-Mona’s mouth to shut her up. I’m patient and caring and kind to them because with the baby’s arrival I’ve discovered something new about myself –

I am a BABY LOVER.

Dotty the BABY LOVER.

Who’d have ever thunk it?

 

 

Yorkshire 2012 Olympickles

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

OPENING CEREMONY of the OLYMPICKLES.

I’ll be ignoring the rest of it.

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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.

 

 

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.

 

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

 

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

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

I am not amused.

 

Where’s My Fucking Badge?

 

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

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

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

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

 

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Watch Your Balls, Federer – Andy Is A Crack Shot

 

This is what he did to Tsonga today.

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

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

A few seconds later and Tsonga was down.

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

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

Good shot, Andy!

In revenge, Tsonga CHALLENGED Andy’s winning shot.

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

 

 

WIMBLEDON, WIMBLEDON, WIMBLEDON – I LOVE ANDY

 

HE’S THROUGH TO THE FINAL!!!!

 

GO ON, ANDY!!

 

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

 

 

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

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

ESPECIALLY WHEN HE WAS CURLED UP ON THE GROUND AND SOMEONE

IN THE CROWD SHOUTED ‘NEW BALLS PLEASE!!’

 

 

 

 

 

HELLO! CAN ANYBODY HEAR ME?

 

These are the floorboards I’m hiding under.

They’re made of wood.

Wood gives you SKELFS.

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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?

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

 

 

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

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

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

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

 

When they start every sentence with

“Generally…”

except people mistake it for ‘genuinely’

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

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

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

ARSEWIPES.

 

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

“You’ve earnt…

EARNT?

EARNT?

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

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

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

 

 

I feel much better now.

 

 

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

 

 

 

 

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

FUCKING

MORTIFIED

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

 

 

Happy 5th July To All Americans

 

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

SIMON FUCK-FACE COWELL

 

or GORDON PLASTIC-FACE RAMSAY

 

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

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

Deal??

(you know you want to).

 

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

 

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

WAKE UP BRANWELL!!

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

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

Earplugs.

BANGBANGBANGBANG

fucking hell, these earplugs are shite.

 

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

BRANWELL!!

Nope, nothing.

 

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

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

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

eeeeeeewwwwww! His eyeball looks like a DEAD FISH EYE!

 

Bollocks. What am I going to tell little Emily?

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

Uh-uh, I don’t think so.

 

I know, I’ll sing him a song.

The Lion Sleeps Tonight?

A-WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

A-WEEE, A-WEEE

A-WIMOWEH

Fucking neighbours. STOP BANGING. FUCK OFF.

 

A hymn – that should annoy him. 

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

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

KUM-BAH-YA M’Lord, KUM-BAH-YA

KUM-BAH-YA M’Lord, KUM-BAH-YA

KUM-BAH-YA M’Lord, KUM-BAH-YA

WOOOAAAHH LOOORRD KUM-BAH-YA

 

Aha! That did it, he’s shuddering!

BRANWELL, YOUR DAD’S HERE!

HA HA HA HA HA HA

 

 

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

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

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

Why did he ask me that?

 

 

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

 

Cumberlaudanum Sausage sandwiches (a HUGE pile of them)

An opium birthday cake

Another opium cake with chocolate chips

Laudanum fairy cakes with buttercream (Branwell’s favourite)

Absinthe

More Absinthe

Opium

Laudanum

A strawberry jelly (with laudanum)

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

The Job – Clean EVERYTHING.

Location – My house.

Hours – As many as you want.

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

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

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

 

 

A Song Sung To Dotty On Her Mammy’s Knee, Ally Bally Bee

I’m posting this because I don’t have a post for today – I’ve been doing something else. And I’m behind with visiting blogs again, so I’M VERY VERY SORRY.

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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 – The Aftermath

 

Well, I suppose you know the routine by now. This time it went -

Dibble

Fire Brigade

Ambulance

jags in the arse

home

They tried to keep me in (Section blah-blah-fuckitty-fuck) and this time Scotty wasn’t there to shag the FEMALE HEADSHRINKER into compliance so for a while it looked like you wouldn’t be seeing me again for however long UNTIL I remembered I had my mobile phone in my pocket and on my mobile phone are the photos Scotty took when he was in the toilet cubicle with her so I let her have a little look at them and she signed me out, no problem. Before you judge me and accuse me of BLACKMAIL, no I’m not a BLACKMAILER, I’m a SHE-HERMIT and She-Hermits don’t DO hospital stays.

 

I’m vague about what went on before they came and carted me off (Lottie filled me in later), but the bits I do remember include –

 

 me standing at my bedroom window frisbeeing my cds at the gasmen (I hope I didn’t use my Doo Wop!!!!)

me lighting a little bonfire in my kitchen – I don’t know who built the bonfire, it might have been me.

something smashy happening with my lump hammer, I don’t know what but when I got home my cooker was missing.

And that’s all I remember until I woke up.

 

Bits of me are stitched, other bits are bruised and I’ve been wondering if the bruises were caused by little Emily giving me a good kicking but Branwell swears she was at home the other night so it couldn’t have been her. The bit of me with the most stitches is my forehead, six, seven or eight (it’s hard to tell the exact amount without a mirror) in a continuous line so it’s definitely a brick slice, not the trepanning. It doesn’t hurt though, the painkillers she sent me home with are GOOD.

 

On the POSITIVE SIDE (yes, I’m still being positive) –

1 – all my windows are intact

2 – Lottie said the surgeons managed to extract the CD from the digger-driver’s neck AND IT ISN’T A DOO WOP CD. It’s a bootleg copy of Bat Out Of Hell II which I’m not that bothered about because I bought the proper one a couple of years ago. It did cost me a fiver at the time though but I don’t suppose the NHS will reimburse me even though I bet the surgeons took so long to get it out because they didn’t want to snap it or affect its playability.

3 – No one else was injured apart from me and the digger-driver. Lottie disagrees, she includes the boss of the gasmen in the count but I wouldn’t class being scalped as being INJURED, would you? He had a bit of receeding going on at the front anyway. If I could go out I’d nip out the front and have a little look for it, it’d make a nice trophy, I could hang it next to Jolyon, my mounted boar’s head. Lottie’s being a bitch again, she won’t go and find it for me.

4 – I had a good, long sleep.

 

So that’s me. I’m not hiding ANYTHING from you, I’m being as truthful and honest as whatever is the most truthful and honest thing in the world, which might be a newborn baby but it might not because who knows what newborn babies aren’t telling us? I’m expecting a visit from Dibble later so I’m off to make some nice Cumberlaudanum sausage sandwiches in case I need to feed them.

 

 

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

 

 

 

*

 

 

Dieting Is Shite And I’m Not Doing It Any More And It Doesn’t Work Anyway

 

I haven’t been on the laptop to do today’s post until now because after my breakfast I COULDN’T FUCKING MOVE because of all the food I had to eat. And I COULDN’T FUCKING MOVE last night either to do the comments – that’s two nights in a row I haven’t answered comments because of THESE STUPID FUCKING DIETS. And I’ve put on FOUR POUNDS in a day and a half. And I can’t afford all the food for the twelve diets I was on – THEY’RE A FUCKING RIP-OFF – so I’m going back to eating what I normally eat, I’ll just cut it in half. But not today, today I’m not eating ANYTHING ELSE.

 

 

I Did It! I Survived The Night And I’m Still On My Eight Diets!

 

I got to sleep with a double-double dose of laudanum and a few glasses of absinthe and a handful of beta-blockers that I pretended were red Smarties. I was still starving when I woke up this morning but I had a good breakfast of –

MEAT (the Atkins Diet)

PORRIDGE (the calorie-counting Diet) 

a BERRY (the Paleo Diet. Did cavemen eat Strawberry Cornettos?)

a SLIM-FAST CHOCOLATE MILKSHAKE (the Slim-Fast Diet)

some MUESLI (the Boring Fuckers Healthy Eating Diet)

some SPECIAL K (the Special K 2 weeks Diet)

and my CUMBERLAND SAUSAGE SANDWICHES (Dotty’s Fucking Fat Arse Diet). 

I was still a bit peckish so I sneaked in an item from the allowed foods on the Toast Diet list and I made a bit of toast (the Toast Diet).

 

It’s SO HARD, this dieting shite. How do all these skinny celebs manage to keep it up for always, especially when they have all that money to buy nice things to eat? They must be FUCKING MENTAL.

 

 

I’m Fucking Starving

 

I could eat my legs. Raw.

Sorry I haven’t done the comments tonight, my fingers are wasting away and if I type too much they’ll snap off.

I’m going to bed. Hungry. Like the wolf (not Kumblant, the  disloyal little fucker).

I hope I don’t eat my bedroom.

 

Dotty Diet Day One

 

It’s Day One of my new diet and I’m reporting in, like I said I would. I’m doing BRILLIANTLY so far. I’ve just had my breakfast, Cumberland sausage sandwiches, and there’s no fatty shite left in the house because I ate it all last night – well, I do live in Yorkshire and I am three quarters Scottish, what did you expect me to do, throw it away and waste all that money? As if.

Here’s what I’ll be having for my dinner -

lettuce

rocket

some other leafy shite

tomatoes (I like baby plums)

beetroot (not pickled – bleaarggh!)

radish

a good squirt of extra-light mayonnaise

AND THAT’S IT.

I wanted to grate some Double Gloucester over it all but I can’t because THIS PERSON put me off it for life. I’m going to miss my cheesey treat but the thought of eating it makes me feel SICK now. Thank you very much.

 

Salad requires a lot of EATING doesn’t it? On average a gobful of mixed salad takes around 32 chews whereas a big bite of Cumberland sausage sandwich takes 15 until it’s masticated enough to swallow without choking yourself. I don’t think I’ve invented this theory, I think it was discovered by an Edwardian who used it as the philosophical basis of THE 32 CHEWS DIET, a diet that says you can eat ANYTHING as long as you chew it 32 times. So now I’m on TWO diets, DOTTY’S FUCKING FAT ARSE DIET and THE 32 CHEWS DIET. Brownie points to ME!

There are other diets I’m considering. That one where you eat lots of meat – THE GREAT PILE OF MEAT ON YOUR PLATE DIET, I can’t remember its real name, it might begin with D. Or the caveman diet (again, I can’t remember the name, fucking STIG OF THE DUMP DIET or something), where all you eat is what cavemen would have eaten, and that’s all good and well because they must have had a healthy diet or we all wouldn’t be here now but what I want to know is if we have to eat what cavemen ate, is this BEFORE or AFTER fire was invented? It makes a big difference – I don’t mind the odd raw Cumberland sausage if I’m too desperate to wait for them to cook, but RAW RATS and RAW INSECTS with a side-dish of BERRIES don’t really appeal to me that much. And what about FAT? During summertime cavemen ate ALL THE FAT THEY COULD GET and stored it on their arses so that in the depths of winter they had a warm cushion between their arses and the cold stone floors of their caves. I might be a She-Hermit, but I don’t live in a cave. Hmmmm.

 

So that’s four diets I’m on if THE STIG OF THE DUMP DIET is intended for AFTER FIRE WAS INVENTED, if it isn’t then I’m only on three. I’m off to look for others – common sense dictates that the more diets I’m on, the more fat I’ll lose. I’ll be swinging my skinny arse round the house in no time.

 

Enjoy your dinner.

 

The Hidden Horrific Horror Of Hermititis

 

There are some things in this world a woman should never have to see and her own fat arse is one of them. I saw mine. In a mirror, two mirrors to be precise – not because my arse NEEDS two mirrors to be seen (it’s fat but not THAT fat) but because with two mirrors you can do that looking-back thing to see what everyone else sees and I wanted to see what my new combat pants look like (the internet sent them) so I rang Lottie to tell her to bring round the mirrors.

Eight panic attacks (severe enough for two heart attack scares) later and I realised I should have just stayed curious.

Listen to me, She-Hermits – Hermititis is BAD FOR THE ARSE. Very bad. If you’re in the early stages and you’re still able to go out of the house, GET IT SORTED OUT NOW before it gets any worse or your arse will spread like a fucking HUGE blancmange and after a few years it will SUFFOCATE YOU IN YOUR SLEEP. I’m about a year away from having to have scaffolding erected to hold the fucker up when I walk.

And that’s what’s done it, not WALKING. I used to walk all over the place, I loved walking, but now I can only walk round the house so many times before I’m LITERALLY bouncing off the walls with boredom – walk, walk, walk, walk, BOING, walk, walk, walk, walk, BOING, walk, walk, walk, walk, BOING.

So I’ve made a decision (HALLELUJAH!) and what I’ve decided is that from tomorrow I’m putting my arse ON A DIET.

This is my diet (below)

 

DOTTY’S FUCKING FAT ARSE DIET.

No more McCain’s Chippy Chips

No more Hobnobs (when I’ve scranned the two packets in the cupboard)

No more Double Gloucester cheese (which is FUCKING LOVELY when grated over a plateful of McCains’s Chippy Chips and thick Bisto gravy (beefy).

No more Goodfella’s Thin And Crispy Twelve Cheeses Pizza (AHA! Betcha didn’t expect me to eat Italian cuisine – I do have SOME secrets I don’t tell you all (y’all)).

 

I think that’s it.

 

As for exercise, I haven’t been able to do my own invention exercise (which you can find HERE – CLICK IT CLICK IT) because I can’t hear the Jaws music properly so I can’t tell when Jaws is circling close to my table. So I looked up arse exercises on the internet and found some that I’ll have a go at, but one I WON’T BE DOING is the one where you have to get down on all fours and cock your leg like a dog pissing on a lamp post. I might have a fat arse but I still have my DIGNITY.

 

I’ll let you know how it goes.

 

 

Dotty’s First Novel – Buy It – Buy It – Buy It Everybody!

 

Not yet though. I haven’t finished writing it but when I do, and when it’s been published by Penguin or Random House or whoever bids the highest amount, you’ll be able to buy it and tell all your friends and family and followers to buy it too.

Here’s an exclusive preview of what I’ve written so far –

 

The

 

It’s BRILLIANT, isn’t it? The Man Booker Prize will be MINE – eat your heart out, hoity-toity literary fuckers, here comes DOTTY HEADBANGER to blow you out of the wordy-water with the best novel ever written in the history of novel-writing.

It’s about THE… something. Or someone. A woman or a man. Or it could be a child – yes, a child would work, people like children. Something bad happens to the child, then something worse happens, then something miraculous happens which brings about a change for the better, then the lesson is learnt and the child lives happily ever after.

Shite, I’ve just told you the ending – I can’t do the child now, I’ve spoilt it by blabbling.

THE man…? THE woman…? THE dog…? THE antelope…? THE house…?

Oh yes, I need to put in a PLOT WITH SOME ACTION IN IT, don’t I? And some CHARACTERISATION. And DIALOGUE (that’s easy, it’s just ‘he said, she said’ – note to self – don’t use anything but ‘said’), and a few nicely layered, grand THEMES - life, death, love, hate, etc etc. A VOICE and some LANGUAGE have to go in too, some ORIGINALITY, some PACE, RHYTHM and FLOW. And an UNFORGETTABLE FUCKING WHAMMY OF AN ENDING.

Hey, it’s like a big pot of soup, isn’t it? In go the carrots, onions, leeks, lentils, flavouring and all the rest of the shite you throw in your soup.

Okay, what else? SUSPENSE – I’ve already got that, you want to know what happens next, don’t you? Because do you see what I did there with my OPENING WORD, the one I carefully and painstakingly selected after weeks of thought? I chose this particular OPENING WORD because it immediately pulls you, the Reader, into the fictive dream I’ve created for you, it transports you to THE WORLD INSIDE MY NOVEL. There’s no AUTHOR INTRUSION, no FLOWERY PROSE, there’s just PURE DRAMATIC FICTION right from the start. BOSH.

 

The

 

I’m working on my SECOND WORD right now but I don’t know whether or not I’ll post it here in case some fucker plagiarises me. You can’t be too careful, authors are thieves and liars by nature (not me!), and I wouldn’t trust an author as far as I could throw it. Hmmm. What to do? I don’t know, I’ll decide when I’ve written my SECOND WORD and let you know, but be prepared, you’ll probably have to wait until the book is launched to read it WHEN YOU HAVE BOUGHT A COPY (hardback).

 

The Egg Is Nowhere To Be Found But I’ve Never Reblogged My Own Stuff (Or Anyone Else’s)…

 

… and I’m not going to start now even though I have nothing to say. Wordy block is back, big time, but it’s not MY fault, it’s little Emily’s fault and Kumblant’s fault and whatever they are plotting’s fault and the gasmen’s fault and Lottie’s fault and Photoshop’s fault and my Cumberland sausages’ fault and the egg that rolled out of the egg carton under the cabinet’s fault (I CAN’T FIND THE FUCKING EGG, WHERE IS IT? AN EGG CAN’T JUST DISAPPEAR, CAN IT?) and the grey day’s fault and something else’s fault that I can’t remember right now but whatever it is it’s to blame.

And why is there only ONE programme on telly for the whole of the week? Fucking FOOTBALL. Not just British football, but foreign EUROPEAN football. AND THEY’VE TAKEN THE SOAPS OFF TO SHOW IT. Even if you don’t like the soaps you have to agree with the fact that soaps are the bread and butter of the telly companies, they attract regular loyal viewers, but when it comes to showing SHITEY SPORT they treat their regular loyal viewers with disdain and contempt. And there’s no excuse for it now everything is on digital tellY, they could each get their own FREEVIEW SPORTS CHANNEL to show all the shitey sport they want to show. If you want to see how much fucking football is on telly this week go and look at my guide. FUCKING WANKING TELLY BASTARDS.

Will the egg hatch under my kitchen cabinet? I’m scared of chickens, they give me the creeps if I see them in any form other than just roasted.

And why is it so cold?

OY, WEATHER, WE’RE IN JUNE, YOU STUPID TWAT. GET WARM.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

HERE, CHICKY-CHICKY-CHICKY, COME TO DOTTY!

 

 

A Dotty Ode To Love

 

O Sausage of Cumberland,

Thou art beauty in pork,

thy fizzle, sizzle on my grill

when I prick thee

with my fork.

 

O how I love thee,

thy juicy, meaty blob;

thine chewy lumps taste heavenly

when I shove thee

in my gob.

 

If I were handed

the golden sun above,

I would decline, O Sausage of Cumberland,

and ask for thee, 

my one and only love.

 

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

 

One More (Patrick Street – Irish Folk Band)

I can’t help it. I think I’m in a hypomusic phase – it’ll wear off soon.

I went to a Patrick Street concert years ago when they played here. Our concert hall is only little so it was brilliant – great view of the stage, aisle seat for me (so I could escape if I had to), lovely acoustics – it was FANTASTIC. The thing I remember most about it was hearing Music For A Found Harmonium for the first time and watching little JACKIE DALY sitting on the stage playing it on his accordion. I bought the cd after the concert – until last year when the ear thingy started I played this tune almost every day.

 

 

 

 

.

Dotty The Annoying Git Is Here Again…

 

… sorry! But I haven’t really been away, I’ve been doing my new pages and getting lost in YouTube (thank you, Missus Tribble and John the Aussie).

This is my new page, it’s up at the top of the blog – there’s a drop down list of the other pages when you hover over the writing.

 

Dotty’s Doo-Wop Collection

 

I’ll be adding more. It’s an acquired taste, a lot of people don’t like doo-wop – INFIDELS! – but if you listen to it, it’ll grow on you and you’ll LOVE IT.

The reason I was able to look for music was the gas board were QUIET when they were putting the pipes in – it was a bendy yellow pipe on a big reel, not the huge metal pipe I thought it would be – I thought they’d have to lift it with a big machine.

I’m sorry I haven’t visited anyone today either. I was so pleased I could listen to music – it’s probably because what I’ve been listening to is in mono on a harsh and tinny laptop, not a smooth stereo sound. It’s been ages since I’ve played any.

I won’t bother you again today – I’ve never posted four times in one day before so I hope you’ll let me off this time.

Oh, and I wasn’t gassed!

 

ha ha, gas board fuckers – you tried your best but you didn’t get ME!

 

Will Some Kind Soul Help Dotty, Please?

 

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

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

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

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

Thank you.

 

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

 

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

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

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

 

Dotty Was Nearly GASSED And BLOWN TO BITS…

 

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

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

So now I’ve NO GAS.

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

Customer care, my arse. More like Customer MURDER.

 

 

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

 

Kumblant Zozeech – Very Sad Journal Of Very Sad Pygmy Were-Zompire – Three Part

 

Noise of ROAAAAARRGGGHHHH from Frydeg’s hut. Then noise of silence, loud as ROAAAARRRGGGHHH. My head has picture of Frydeg, Frydeg’s family, all dead. I lie on floor of look-hut for tiny time then I jump up – must ring bell! Why I not do it when Tostidteekayk come? Bad boy, stupid! I clang bell with hard strength, DONG DONG DONG and it seem take for always till first man run from hut. Is Soopanoodl, field-man. He run to look-hut, ‘What? What?’ he shout. ‘Shooosh!’ I say. I tell him what and as I tell him what, all village mens come, my father, my brother, all mens. Unyunbaaji, head village man, take charge when he hear what I say.

He think for minute then whisper loud orders, ‘You – animals. You – turnip bed. You – potato bed. You – cabbage bed. YOU, YOU, YOU, YOU, YOU (and more YOUs) – all huts.’

Village mens run where he say. My brother run to my hut, father to fields. Four mens remain, Unyunbaaji say, ‘We go there.’ He point to Frydeg’s hut.

I say, ‘What I can do?’

‘Shine torch,’ he say.

I shine torch in Frydeg’s door. I watch. Unyunbaaji, his four mens, run in. Silence. Silence. SHOUTS and BANGS and SHOUTS! One man come out, bring Frydeg’s mother, not dead, Frydeg’s sister, not dead. Where Frydeg? I see backs of two mens come slow through door, bend, arse first. They bend in two, I think they hurt even but they move. Then I know what they do – they drag! They drag a thing! They drag it out, then out come other village man, Unyunbaaji, Frydeg – not dead!

I see Frydeg not dead, I think I want shine torch on thing they drag out. Is Tostidteekayk? I want look, even but I no want look. I have fear I see a horrible fright I not ever unsee.

Village mens are all come, village womens, children. All stand back from big thing, circle round, silent, watch three mens poke it, two mens with forks, one man with hoe.

I want better look so I shine torch quick before I am chicken out. Thing is big, size of hairy forest wild pig. I look close – no, I am wrong, is bigger than hairy forest wild pig, big as half a cow. No move, even but mens poke it – I think is dead. I travel torch up to head – ay-ay-ay – is face like old baldy dog, snout, teeth, eyes, all dog, even but is pink, no hair. Yuurkkhh, it remember me of baby rabbit just born. I travel torch down, I see clothes, torn, soak in blood, same clothes Tostidteekayk wear. I unbelieve it, even but I see through my eyes. Yes, is Tostidteeykayk. My God, what is happen to him?

Unyunbaaji walk over to Tostidteekayk. He say something to the mens who poke him. I not hear. Before I have time to move torch shine, one of the mens, Meetpasti the hut-maker, lift up his fork and DIG it through Tostidteekayk’s head, hard, and I hear crunch and squish and my belly heaves and I turn and be sick on look-hut floor, all in few seconds of time. When I look down again, I see Meetpasti walk away. He leave it there, fork, stand up in Tostidteekayk’s head.

 

Shitey Sunday Sausage Picture Post

Cumberland Sausages. Did you know I love them?

I can spell my favourite words with them.

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

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

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

so I applied for this job and got it -

Hip hip hooray

A Cumberland sausage a day

Will keep the mentals away

Oh happy happy day

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

 

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

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

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

 

TACTICAL SKELF SUCKING

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

1.  CLOSE your mouth and pucker your lips

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

FINGERNAILS, TEETH AND TWEEZERS

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

 

 

THE SAFETY PIN METHOD

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

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

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

 

A LEECH

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

 

STANLEY KNIFE

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

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

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

 

 

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

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

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

 

 

Have a nice weekend, everybody.

 

 

Dotty v Blog – Round 1 (DING-DING)

 

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

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

‘Eh? What are on you about?’

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

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

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

‘Are you kidding me?’

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

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

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

‘So you’re blackmailing me?’

‘Yes.’

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

‘Right. Good. You fuck off as well.’

So I did.

 

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

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

PEOPLE OF WALMART

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘PLEASE??

‘Where’s my apology?’

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

 

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

 

Dotty Has A Nice Day Despite The Stinky Bog Smell

 

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

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

‘I stepped in a bog.’

‘Fuck off. You stink!’

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

‘No!’

‘Please?’

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

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

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

Five minutes later her shout nearly split my ears open.

‘DOTTEEEEEEEEE!’

I went to the back door. ‘WHAT?’

‘YOU HAVE GIVEN ME BREECHES!’

‘THEY’RE COMBAT PANTS. PUT THEM ON.’

‘NO! I REFUSE!’

‘WELL YOU’LL HAVE TO GO HOME THEN.’

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

‘Woah, Neddy! Slow down!’

‘Was I seen? Did anyone see me?’

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

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

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

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

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

Kumblant. I’d forgotten he was coming.

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

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

‘Hello, Kumblant,’ I said.

‘Hello.’

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

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

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

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

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

‘Yes.’

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

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

‘May I offer you a bonbon?’

‘What is bonbon?’

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

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

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

And he did.

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

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

 

 

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

 

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

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

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

 

FRACTIONS – huh?

PERCENTAGES – eh?

ALGEBRA – biggleboggle-flummityfuck

GEOMETRY – I think my stomach’s rumbling

TRIGONOMETRY – Sorry, was I snoring?

 

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

And why is everyone who likes maths called GRAHAM?

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

 

 

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

 

 

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.

 

 

 

Kumblant Zozeech – Very Sad Journal Of Very Sad Pygmy Were-Zompire – Two Part

 

One night in winter comes, dark but for milky shine of fat moon. I am in look-hut, cold even but I am snuggle in guard-blanket stitched by Grandmother Zozeech in time she not blind. This night I listen for owls in forest, hoot-hoot. I hear no hoot even but is perfect night for hunt mouse or vole. All shoosh, no wind.

I am at end of night guard, soon to bed. I wait for Frydeg arrive, do his guard. Frydeg is good friend of me. Most friend. We two are borned together, same day, me first. We grow together, do boy things together. We are like brother to brother, even but I have family brother. Now we are of thirteen years, come to be men, good men we two will be, Kumblant and Frydeg.

I watch for him. Sudden from forest come crashing of bush and crunch of leaf under foots. I take torch, shine down. ‘Frydeg, where you been?’ I say.

Yet but what I see is Tostidteekayk run from forest. Is pig-man of village. He run to foot of look-hut, wave up to me.

‘Kumblant, bring torch. Come,’ he say.

‘No. I am night-guard. What you want?’

‘Pigs are dead. All dead.’

I am not believe. I am suspect a thing not right – Tostidteekayk come from forest, yet but pigs live in small field, not forest. ‘Why you in forest?’ I say.

‘I chase. I wake to noise of kill pigs, I run from bed. See wolf. I chase in forest.’

‘I see no wolf. I hear no kill.’ I move shine of torch bright into face of Tostidteekayk. He seem to be more – more big, more hair, more ears, more eyes, more teeth. I say, ‘What you want, Tostidteekayk?’

He no speak. I keep torch shine at him, he keep stand there, one minute, two minute, three minute. I not move my eyes from look at him. Four minute, five minute, then -

RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINNGG!

O no – my clock! I have set to midnight, for end my time of night guard. It make me fright. I jump, and torch jump. I put torch shine back on Tostidteekayk. He is gone.

Where he go? I shine, shine all over, I walk slow round look-hut, shine every place down below. No Tostidteekayk.

Also no Frydeg – is time for end my night guard, Frydeg not here do his. I shine torch to door of Frydeg’s hut – is open. I lean out of look-hut, try see in Frydeg’s hut, shine torch in open door – I hear noise inside. I see nothing, yet but I hear noise like scratch, scratch, scratch.

Is Tostidteekayk?

I am very afright. Frydeg, his family. I lean more from look-hut, move torch shine slow to look hard in open door – no, I not see. And not hear. Is quiet, no scratch, no noise, no nothing. I wait. I am not move, I am like dead boy, my breath is stopped, my heart is not beat.

When it come, I fall back on floor of look-hut, terrifright. It is noise of ROAAAARRRRRGGGGHHHHHH. It is come from Frydeg’s hut.

 

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.

 

Dotty Is Dreading Tomorrow And I Might Not Be Here For A Few Days

 

I have to go out tomorrow, for a first hospital appointment with an ENT consultant. I’ve been dreading it but trying to ignore the dread by concentrating on other things like giving Kumblant an opportunity to tell his story (I’ll do a post about how I got to know him soon), and hoping the hospital will do something to take away these never-ending noises in my head, (a child’s high-pitched, eternal scream, a distant choir, and a little chirruping bird I’ve named Spuggy) and do something to stop the Hyperacusis that is FUCKING HORRIBLE HORRIBLE HORRIBLE, but now the day is almost here and it’s TOMORROW AFTERNOON and no amount of laudanum or beta-blockers is stopping the mentals from setting in. So I won’t be here tomorrow and I might not be here on Thursday and I might not be here on Friday because it’s been a long, long, long time since I’ve been to a place FULL OF PEOPLE AND MRSA GERMS and I know when it’s all over and done with I’ll be in post-panic mode, absolutely fucking knackered – sleep, sleep, sleep, empty head full of NOTHING BUT NOISE when I AM awake. 

I can’t plan it. I can’t do walk-throughs in my head like I do for the 24 hour Tesco. And at the 24 hour Tesco at 6 o’clock in the morning nobody SPEAKS TO ME but I’m going to have to speak to a strange doctor tomorrow and fuck knows who else. And THE WAITING AREA. I don’t know what it looks like now, it’s years since I’ve been there and they’ve remodelled it all – the last time I was in the broken bones part of the hospital they’d arranged the seats FACING EACH OTHER and I bet they’ve done that in ENT too, and it’ll be PACKED FULL because those places always are and I’ll have to sit in a chair across from SOME STARING FUCKERS and try to stop myself looking mental if I can’t control the panic. Or should I just let my mental come out and it might scare them away? And what if Lottie can’t sit next to me? And what if my voice won’t work and I can’t speak to the doctor? And what if I start CRYING – oh god, god, god.

I don’t want to go, I’d do anything NOT to go – but I NEED to go because all these noises are giving me a NEW KIND OF MENTAL on top of the mentals I already have and I don’t know how much longer I can cope with them. My fridge sounds like a waterfall in my kitchen, the central heating sounds like a motorway running through my house, if I wanted to use the vacuum cleaner I couldn’t, it’s like cleaning the carpet with a helicopter. I can’t get in the shower any more, I have to use the bath. I can’t open my windows when it’s nice because of lawn mowers and strimmers. I can only watch telly for an hour maximum. I could be the fucking machine whisperer, I can hear things machines say that no one else can hear. I HOPE they tell me tomorrow that I’m losing my hearing because to be honest I’d rather hear NOTHING than EVERYTHING AT BEYOND MAXIMUM VOLUME.

I’m going to start getting ready now because tomorrow I’ll forget the things they said I have to take with me (medication, appointment letter).

I’ll be back posting when I’m over the going out shite, but I might come on to catch up on reading your blogs.

 

 

 

 

Should I just delete this? No, fuck it, I’ll post it.

 

Kumblant Zozeech – Very Sad Journal Of Very Sad Pygmy Were-Zompire – One Part

 

Hello. My names are Kumblant Zozeech. I am pygmy were-zompire in England in west part in Yorkshire. Here in journal I begin tell sad story of me. It very sad. It make you cry.

I come to England in west part in Yorkshire for work. I am good workman, strong like green Hulk. I am Road Clean Man, all day I clean road with broom, I sweep your dirt, your dust, your ends of cigarettes. I spike with spike-stick your packets from crisps, chocolate, lollipop, cigarette. It is good job for good workman like me.

I was previous in high profession of Vampire Killer in own country of birth, my country I miss in heart like I miss woman I love and family I love. In my country I had father, mother, sisters, brother, old Grandmother Zozeech who is wise magic witch in pygmy village. I was happy boy, play in forest from sun till set with brother and boys in pygmy village. We run, we fight, we make huts in trees. We fish for fishes, we trap rabbit and kill with stones. We ride hairy forest wild pig. We race – always I win even but I am runt boy of pygmy village.

My country is great, my village is shit. Two cows for milk, two goats for milk, three pigs for pig. Cabbage, beetroot, turnip, potato in field. My village animals lived precious by all, we keep animal we have food. But forest hides creatures dark and wicked, many creatures we know, many creatures we not see yet but we know they hide up tree, in bush, under pile of leaves. We sleep, they run out, steal girls in village, steal babies in village, steal food. This is good reason for guard our village with eyes like hawk. 

When I was boy I was night guard, nine to midnight, in high look-hut in village square. Raiders come, I ring bell – village run from huts, fight raiders with fork, shovel, knife, stick, try stop raiders steal what they come for. We win, they win. On very bad night when I am seven, a thing steal my baby sister, Beefibisto. Mama cries all day, all night. Papa shout ‘Shoosh, shoosh,’ at her always, he say many village men have loss inside huts but many village men have peace and quiet, no wails from woman.

Now, nobody there to wail. My pygmy village, all dead. My family, all dead. I tell you how they are all dead when I next time write. Goodbye.

 

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.

 

 

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