All posts tagged family
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
Posted by Dotty Headbanger on July 14, 2012
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)
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.
Posted by Dotty Headbanger on July 3, 2012
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).
Posted by Dotty Headbanger on July 2, 2012
I don’t know why I said Hi Di Hi Campers, it’s been going through my head since I got up. Sue Pollard, go away.
I’ve been piddling around on the new blog this morning, making a new front page and doing a post that gives the BLOG STATS of the blog.
‘What?’ I hear you say. ‘But BLOG STATS are secret, never to be seen by eyes that don’t belong to the blog owner!! What trick is this? Why is Dotty displaying her UNMENTIONABLES to all and sundry? Is she mental?’
No, I’m not mental. Well, yes I AM mental, but not in that way. I’m being pro-active in getting YOU to be pro-active – if the stats are a load of shite it means you won’t be getting any clicks to your blog. Simple. And if you can SEE that the stats are a load of shite you might want to help get them up – wheeeeeeeeee – ding-a-ling!
I need a little swig of laudanum.
Posted by Dotty Headbanger on June 25, 2012
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.
Posted by Dotty Headbanger on June 22, 2012
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.
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.
DOTTY WINS AGAIN.
NO ONE BEATS DOTTY.
Posted by Dotty Headbanger on June 21, 2012
… 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).
Posted by Dotty Headbanger on May 29, 2012
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?
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?
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.
Posted by Dotty Headbanger on May 17, 2012
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?
Posted by Dotty Headbanger on May 12, 2012
I can’t comment on anyone’s blog without it coming up with a STUPID NEW THING that posts my comment as AMY!
And a log in box.
WHO THE FUCK IS GOING TO LOG IN EVERY TIME THEY WANT TO COMMENT??
NO ONE, THAT’S WHO.
FUCKING IDIOT FUCKARSES
Posted by Dotty Headbanger on May 10, 2012
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!
Jealousy wants me under you, (lying bored),
but acting isn’t my job any more.
Leave me alone, now.
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.
Posted by Dotty Headbanger on May 9, 2012
I am touched and honoured. I am close to tears of happiness and joy. I have been blessed.
I have named a baby.
A beautiful little one year old baby who has just had his 1st birthday party.
THE NAME I HAVE GIVEN HIM IS…
and in a minute I can go to bed happy and maybe get some sleep and think about how I can get his mother to change his surname to CUMBERLAND.
CLICK HERE TO GO TO KATHY’S BLOG TO SEE HOW IT HAPPENED
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SAUSAGE, YOU LITTLE LOVELY.
Posted by Dotty Headbanger on May 7, 2012
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?
Posted by Dotty Headbanger on May 7, 2012
… 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.
Posted by Dotty Headbanger on May 6, 2012
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.
Posted by Dotty Headbanger on May 2, 2012
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.
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.
“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.”
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!”
“Mutton, sir. Broth.”
“Two plates, then. And bread, but only if it is warm. I want none of your mould at my table.”
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.”
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)
Posted by Dotty Headbanger on May 1, 2012
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
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.
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.
PRETTY PLEASE WITH SUGAR ON IT?
PRETTY PLEASE WITH SUGAR ON IT AND A CHERRY ON TOP?
Posted by Dotty Headbanger on April 30, 2012
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.
Posted by Dotty Headbanger on April 28, 2012
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?
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.
Posted by Dotty Headbanger on April 28, 2012
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.
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.
Posted by Dotty Headbanger on April 27, 2012
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 -
love at first sight
buying, buying, buying, buying
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.
Posted by Dotty Headbanger on April 26, 2012
I’ve spent today filling in a FORM that should have been filled in weeks ago, a fucking nasty FORM with BIG spaces to write in and little boxes to tick and SHITEY illogical questions to answer.
When it first arrived I opened it, not realising it was a FORM. I read the letter that came with it then I stuffed it all back in the envelope and propped it up on the worktop so I wouldn’t forget about it completely (I couldn’t, it’s important or I’d have binned the thing). And for all these weeks it’s been THERE, waiting for me, whispering ‘fill me in, fill me in,’ watching me when I tried to sneak past it on tiptoe or when I got down on all fours and crawled below it’s line of sight. When I tried to go to sleep at night I could feel the EVIL emanating from it – I AM HERE AND I WON’T GO AWAY UNTIL YOU FILL ME IN - and for the last two days I haven’t been in the kitchen at all and I’m fucking STARVING and the DUE DATE that the form has to be returned by is VERY DUE so this morning I went into my kitchen with a notebook and pen and I grabbed the envelope and opened it and took out the FORM and then I laid the FORM on the table next to the notebook and pen and then I made a MASSIVE pile of Cumberland sausage sandwiches for STRENGTH and ENDURANCE and then I made another cup of coffee and then I went for a wee and then I couldn’t avoid the FORM any more so I sat down and got started on the fucker.
After filling in my name and address and shite, one of the first things it asked me was
‘Do you need an interpreter?’
and I was SO TEMPTED to put
and then when it asked in what language, I wanted to put
IN MY OWN LANGUAGE WHICH IS CALLED DOTTISH
and I wanted to write that if they wouldn’t provide me with a Dottish interpreter I’d SUE THEIR BOLLOCKS OFF because that’s just SHEER, BLATANT DISCRIMINATION.
and so what if there’s only one person in the world who speaks Dottish and I’M that person, PAY ME £70.00 per hour and I’ll translate for myself, you fucking imbeciles.
I don’t like FORMS. They’re nasty.
I’ve finished it now though and it’s all ready to post.
Posted by Dotty Headbanger on April 25, 2012
I haven’t done a PROPER post today, I can’t be arsed. I’ve been adding to my new AWARDS COLLECTION page
and I’ve been making a brand new page to show off the different versions of my own Dotty Headbanger award –
and I’ve come to the conclusion, after extensive treks round WordPress, that I won’t be able to disable the Like button on my
without all my Likes disappearing from every post so I might as well ask you all to GO AND CLICK THE LIKE BUTTON ON THAT PAGE (if you DO like it, if you don’t, don’t) because it’s my front page and if there has to be any Likes on it there might as well be A FUCKING GREAT BIG SHITLOAD OF THEM.
This is a tangerine with one nail in it.
This is another tangerine. It has five nails in it.
I hope you like tangerines. They’re juicy.
Posted by Dotty Headbanger on April 24, 2012
I’ve never had a Like button on my pages and no one else has either and I probably wouldn’t have noticed WordPress have added one if I hadn’t seen in my notifications that someone pressed Like on my title page which is called
**************** (and a few more)
A Like button on my pages is fine, it doesn’t bother me, EXCEPT on my title page – I disabled comments and shares on that page to keep it as a clean title page so does anyone know how to disable Likes on just the ONE page without disabling them altogether, please? I can’t find an option for it in the editing thingy.
Posted by Dotty Headbanger on April 24, 2012
his actions “…reached depths of mental cruelty previously unheard of in this court.” — Judge Hackisnackersoff
The above quote is a dead-on description of my dead husband, ex-Simon. He could be a HEARTLESS, VICIOUS, SADISTIC, MONSTEROUS MONSTER when he wanted to be, a SICK, TWISTED APPLIER OF MENTAL CRUELTY to me, your little Dotty. Here’s a list of a few of the things he did – I can’t tell you all of them, we’d be here all week and some things were too horrendously cruel for me to speak about yet, too painful for me to even THINK about without bringing on a series of major panic attacks, for example WHAT HE USED TO DO TO MY CUMBERLAND SAUSAGES.
Ex-Simon was a remote control control freak, if it wasn’t where he put it last he went ballistic and paddied around like a two year old until he found it. He wanted complete control of the telly and that might have been okay if he’d watched PROPER PROGRAMMES like soaps and films and crime things and costume dramas, and proper documentaries about gypsies and dead sovereigns and that dirty diseases programme with the doctors and the people who’ve had a nasty EMBARRASSING thing wrong with them for years but they’ve been too EMBARRASSED to talk to their own doctor or tell anyone about it so they GO ON TELLY AND SHOW THE NASTY THING TO THE NATION – what’s that all about, eh?
Anyway, a female can put up with WAR PROGRAMMES for only so long before the violence gets to her and she batters the telly screen in with a hammer. When we went to buy a new one, ex-Simon wanted to get one with Sky or Branson added on but I put my foot down and said NO because I’ve never seen the point in having FIFTY MILLION TELLY CHANNELS when you can only watch one at a time, or with a twin thingy Freeview you can record two channels and watch one but that’s still only THREE CHANNELS at a time – and when do people WATCH IT ALL? Do all these subscribers get 10 extra hours in the day that the rest of us don’t get so they can get their money’s worth of telly? Because it costs a fucking bomb to subscribe to them, I know because they keep sending me shitemail to get me to sign up – BUT I WON’T because I’M BOYCOTTING THEM and the reason I’M BOYCOTTING THEM is because they THIEVE AWAY ALL THE GOOD TELLY PROGRAMMES after we’ve had one or two series’ on ITV or Channel 4 and we’ve got to like them and want to watch the next series but BOSH along comes Sky or Branson with their big bags of dosh and we don’t get to see what happened next —
The Walking Dead
are just 4 of the programmes they’ve THIEVED. So I’ll NEVER EVER sign up and give them loads of money, what I do is I WAIT UNTIL THE DVD BOXSET IS CHEAP and then I buy it and KEEP IT and Sky and Branson and whoever else can FUCK OFF.
At the same time as ex-Simon decided to become a MINIMAL, he also decided to become a health freak. He wouldn’t let me buy WHITE BREAD. He wouldn’t even let me buy BROWN BREAD, I had to buy WHOLEMEAL BREAD and not just NORMAL WHOLEMEAL BREAD, I had to buy WHOLEMEAL BREAD WITH ADDED BITS OF SHITE IN IT like sunflower seeds and poppy seeds (not opium poppy seeds) and sawdust chunks and the bits got stuck in my teeth after I’d eaten it and I had to slash-floss like fuck to get them out again because normal flossing just MOVED THE BITS to a different position.
Even writing about this is making me cringe and shudder and squirm and feel very, very sick. I HATE feet, they’re nasty and disgusting and ugly and germy and smelly and diseasey and uuuuuurrrrgggghhhhh, I feel sick
I can’t do this one, I’m gipping too much
he never wore socks in bed, the evil fucker
AND THERE’S WORSE
no, I can’t do it
I’ll have to go, I need a BIG swig of laudanum to take away the nausea.
Just imagine the absolute worst things to do with feet and that’s what he did.
Posted by Dotty Headbanger on April 23, 2012
I’ve made a new page for funny awards that people HAVE MADE BY THEMSELVES.
Why not have a go at making one? If I can do it, anyone can.
Posted by Dotty Headbanger on April 22, 2012
This blogging lark is quite cathartic, isn’t it? Writing about the shite I can’t talk to anyone else about is having a good effect on me, it’s making me reflect and it’s changing how I feel about certain things. For example, remorse.
Before I say anything else, I’m going to copy and paste a paragraph from the post I wrote on Valentine’s Day to save you the bother of having to click on a link (which you wouldn’t do anyway, so really I’m just making you read the bit I want you to read). This is the paragraph –
So today is the 3rd anniversary of THE DAY I KILLED SIMON. You might be wondering why I’m not banged up in the clinky (I know all the prison jargon, I watch LAW & ORDER UK). Well I DID go to prison but only while I was waiting for the trial and my prison wasn’t a general prison it was a sort of prison for the criminally insane. But I AM NOT CRIMINALLY INSANE and that was proved when JUDGE HACKISNACKERSOFF threw the case out on the very first day when she heard how Simon bought me A HOOVER for Valentine’s Day. NO card, NO chocolates, NO flowers – in her speech Judge Hackisnackersoff said his actions “reached depths of mental cruelty previously unheard of in this court.” She also said “The deceased deserved everything he got.” So here I am, and it’s all thanks to Judge Hackisnackersoff that I have my darling little blog at all.
So now you’ve read that bit you know I was acquitted of all charges by the lovely Judge Hackisnackersoff. But what I DIDN’T mention in that paragraph is the question she asked me JUST BEFORE she acquitted me – she said
“Are you remorseful?”
And I said ‘Yes, Judge Hackisnackersoff, I AM remorseful.’
And she believed me - because I was TELLING THE TRUTH.
Yes, I WAS remorseful about killing ex-Simon. Here’s a list of why –
1 — My nice curtains got ruined with blood stains and I had to throw them away.
2 — My nice cushion covers got ruined with blood stains and I had to throw them away (but luckily my sofa didn’t, it’s a leather oxblood Chesterfield and all it needed was a wash and a wipe).
3 — My good carpet got ruined with blood stains and I haven’t been able to afford to replace it.
4 — Dibble took all my guns away - (I’m okay now, Scotty gave me his old sniper rifle and another little present and I’m building an impressive collection of other protective weapons — oh, that reminds me, WHY HAVE YOU STOPPED DONATING TO MY CANNON FUND?)
5 — Errmm. Hmmm. Nope, I can’t remember the fifth reason.
So yes, I WAS full of remorse for what I did, how could I not be, if I didn’t feel remorse I’d be a heartless psychopath, something I’ve always wished to be because heartless psychopaths don’t give two diddly fucks about ANYTHING. But what I’ve now realised is the remorse I was full of was the WRONG REMORSE, I was remorseful for the WRONG REASONS, I was remorseful about the WRONG THINGS. My reasons were selfish, ALL ABOUT ME, not about ex-Simon who should have been taken into account because he was the one who got killed.
So I’ve thought about it a lot and I’ve revised my reasons for being remorseful to include ex-Simon. Here’s a list of THE NEW REASONS WHY I AM REMORSEFUL -
1 — Cleaning. NO ONE cleaned the house like ex-Simon did, NO ONE, and it’s starting to get manky again – Scotty and Lottie obviously didn’t do it properly last week, the clatty fuckers.
2 — The way ex-Simon died. If I hadn’t acted on impulse, if I’d just taken a few minutes to stop and think about it, I could have been more INVENTIVE IN MY METHOD of killing him – there are SO many other ways I could have done it that would have been less BASIC and CRUDE than shooting him in the face, cleverer, more thoughtful ways. Yes, I think this is what I’m MOST remorseful about. Poor ex-Simon, even though he deserved to die (as Judge Hackisnackersoff said) I’m now thinking he deserved a BETTER way to die.
Hang on, was that PITY FOR EX-SIMON I just felt?
No, never mind, it’s gone, I don’t know what it was.
Perhaps it WAS pity. That’s a new one, if it was.
So there you have it, writing my blog is changing me for the better.
Oh, if you want to know what happened on the day I killed him you can read the statement I gave to Dibble by clicking on this link –
Posted by Dotty Headbanger on April 22, 2012
Seeing as I’m still having trouble thinking of what to write because nothing happens to me because I CAN’T GO OUT, and seeing as little Emily is still recovering from the Sickness so she hasn’t been able to come and see me, and seeing as Branwell talks a load of shite when he does stay to talk to me, and seeing as Lottie is too busy, busy, busy to talk to me in the first place, and seeing as THE BERSERKERS have been told to stop ringing me up for bedtime stories because Lottie’s been whingeing about the phone bill, and seeing as there’s only SO many times I can stick a poem up and pretend to myself I’ve written a proper post, I thought that today I’ll write about something I’ve been avoiding writing about – my dead husband, ex-Simon.
I’ll apologise in advance for how BORING this post will be – it can’t be anything BUT boring because ex-Simon was boring, he was VERY VERY boring, he was the most boringest bastard ever to have been boring, he could have made every boring bastard in every boring chapter of THE BORING CLUB OF BORING BASTARDS die of boredom.
He didn’t SEEM boring for the first couple of years of knowing him. Yes, he liked CLEANING but any woman with any sense in her head would skip down the aisle to marry a man who liked cleaning, wouldn’t they – I didn’t have to lift a finger, he cleaned ALL THE HOUSE, everything, he kept the place LOVELY and SPARKLY and HYGIENIC which was brilliant for the most part except when he tried to ban me from smoking in the house because he said I was turning the ceiling and walls beige and making all my books yellow and why didn’t I GET RID OF SOME OF MY BOOKS?
You can imagine what I said to that. See, another problem with ex-Simon was he decided, after 2 years of marriage, to become a MINIMALIST – actually, being a MINIMALIST isn’t another problem, it’s the SAME problem as being a BORING BASTARD because who in their right mind wants to live in NOTHING? I’ve never understood MINIMALISM – human beings are ANIMALS not MINIMALS and how do animals live? They live in cosy little nests and burrows and dens and holes and hollows and other snug places, don’t they? Except fish (and other water creatures) who don’t have the bricks or the fingers to build themselves a proper home so they only have vast amounts of open water to live in – BUT THEY DON’T ONLY HAVE VAST AMOUNTS OF OPEN WATER TO LIVE IN, they have the BOTTOM OF THE WATER to live in and that’s what they do, they sleep in a bed of cosy grit and silt and pebbles with little (or BIG) rocks for walls to keep the BIG FISH and other BIG WATER CREATURES away from them because if they went to sleep in their vast amounts of open water they’d soon be EATEN by the BIG FISH and the other BIG WATER CREATURES. And it’s the same for human beings, we need THINGS AROUND US for protection because if you’re a MINIMAL and your house has fuck all in it, WHERE DO YOU HIDE WHEN THE PSYCHO COMES TO GET YOU?
Wanting to become a MINIMALIST was the first real indication of how much of a boring bastard ex-Simon would become before I finally sent him to sleep with the fishes (SLEEP WITH THE FISHES!! HA HA HA HA – get it?) I did try to compromise with him (I told him he could keep the little downstairs toilet collection-free) because I still loved him then (though, on reflection, him telling me to get rid of my books is what started the slow swing from love to HATE). I couldn’t understand why he wanted me to get rid of my books when he had a COLLECTION OF STAMPS that he was meticulous about. Yes, stamps are the boringest item to collect but the fact that he was a COLLECTOR wasn’t boring even though the thing he collected was. But (again, on reflection) maybe at the beginning I shouldn’t have been blinded by him BEING A COLLECTOR, I should have focused more on the boringness of WHAT he collected. Ah, Hindsight, you fucker, why are you never there when I need you?
I’ll tell you a bit more about ex-Simon later, the thought of having to get rid of my books is bringing on a panic attack and I need my beta-blockers and a little swig of laudanum.
Posted by Dotty Headbanger on April 21, 2012
Don’t get too excited, Britney Spears hasn’t hacked into my blog - it’s still me, your little Dotty, but once again I haven’t written a post because nothing’s happened. This is a side effect of Hermititis and People Phobia, most of the time it’s too boring for words and today is one of those times. I can’t think of anything to write about and if I could it would be just as boring as the twaddle I’m writing now, the hackneyed old cliched pile of shite about not having anything to write about.
This is one of the downsides of just sitting down to write and pressing publish when I’ve finished – I never have any back-up posts, in fact the idea of back-up posts hadn’t entered my head until I saw it mentioned in someone’s blog a few weeks ago, then I noticed that lots of people do it – but how can I do back-up posts when I can’t even think of ONE?
No it didn’t work. I thought an idea might fly out with the scream.
the cat sat on the mat – the cat sat on the mat (advice from Dodie Smith)
Except — my face towel was a bit rough this morning, I’ll have to use more fabric conditioner next time I do the washing.
I should have just wrote another absence note.
Oh-oh-oh – I did do something, I had a tidy up of my blog pages and put things into lists and made it neater. I did it this morning when I was trying to think of a post. Did anyone notice? No, I didn’t think so.
I should just shut up, shouldn’t I?
Posted by Dotty Headbanger on April 19, 2012
Rain, rain, rain, rain, rain
and rain again.
Rain is a fucking pain.
Not that I go out in the rain, I don’t, because I CAN’T GO OUT but the rain makes too much NOISE battering on my windows. And there’s no sunshine or blueness, there’s only a BIG GLOOMY SKY FILLED WITH RAINCLOUDS.
But I suppose I should be grateful because at least our Northern rain is PROPER RAIN, it comes down fast and hard in bucket-loads, not like Southern rain which is SOFT and PIDDLY and PISSY just like the Southerners it falls on. And don’t any of you Southerners start moaning at me, because I know what you’re all up to, I know YOU WANT TO STEAL OUR RAIN.
You want to STEAL OUR RAIN because YOU HAVEN’T GOT ANY OF YOUR OWN. You want to STEAL OUR RAIN and have it piped all the way down the country into your big soft houses so you can water your big soft lawns and wash your big posh cars and leave US without any to drink. Well you can PISS OFF, it’s OUR RAIN, haven’t you got enough of everything else down there – you’ve got all the jobs, all the money, all the EVERYTHING and all we have is OUR RAIN, the same rain you LAUGH AT and COMPLAIN ABOUT if you’re ever forced into coming UP NORTH.
So no, you CAN’T HAVE IT.
Why don’t you ask your daytrip chunnel pals, France, if you can have some of their rain? I bet I know what they’ll say – NON with some French swear words to follow but I don’t know any French swear words apart from ‘casse toi’ which might be appropriate but just as likely it’s not. Oh, I also know ‘merde’ so they might say NON, CASSE TOI, TU TÊTE DE MERDE (that sounds good).
It’s raining, it’s pouring, the old man is snoring.
There’s so much rain coming down, rain-rain, gallons and gallons of it, and the grass looks so GREEN and LUSH.
In fact we have so MUCH rain that we might just have to throw some of it away, into the NORTH SEA, because we wouldn’t want to spill a drop or two and have it roll DOWN SOUTH.
I might stick the hosepipe out of the window to water my flowers just in case the rain stops for a second or two and they get thirsty.
Rain, rain, happy rain.
And it’s going to rain ALL WEEK.
I’m off to have a bath. And a shower.
Posted by Dotty Headbanger on April 18, 2012
It’s the GOLDEN SHATNER AWARD
and I’ve accepted it from VICTOR TOOKES
whose blog you can find HERE,
because I like William Shatner, he’s stupid, and all you have to do is give the award
to four people. But I still can’t choose, there’s LOADS OF YOU I want to give it to.
So TAKE IT
I SPECIFICALLY AWARD IT TO ALL OF YOU
not like my own award
which you award to yourself -
this time I’m specifically choosing to specifically award
EVERYBODY this lovely award and if I could be bothered I’d do
links to all your blogs but I can’t be bothered so I won’t.
P.S. It has a big, better picture for those of you who can do big pictures without shagging up
your blog (not me, I fuck it all up with pictures) and you’ll find the big picture
at Victor’s blog if you click on the link I put in at the top.
P.P.S. They got me in the end.
P.P.P.S. No more and never again.
Posted by Dotty Headbanger on April 17, 2012
I’ve resolved the pen problem to the mutual satisfaction of both parties and I get to keep the beautiful, pure white swan feather pen.
What happened is I had a bright idea so I sent Papa Brontë a BALLPOINT pen, to be precise it was a Papermate Flexigrip ultra pen (black) but three hours later Branwell came back and I had to give him ANOTHER Papermate Flexigrip ultra pen because his father’s first instinct when he realised the Papermate Flexigrip ultra pen didn’t have to be dipped in his inkwell was to throw it on the fire and scream
‘WHAT IS THIS DEVILRY ? WHY DO YOU BRING TO MY GOD-FEARING HOUSE THIS VILE, UNHOLY STICK FILLED WITH THE PUTRID, BLACK SALIVA OF SATAN? BEGONE, CHANGELING, YOU ARE NO SON OF MINE – EVILDOER, DEFILER, OFFENDER OF CHRIST. BEGONE, I SAY!’
Little Emily managed to calm him down while Branwell went outside for a smoke and a sip of laudanum. She showed him her own Bic pens (I gave her two packs of three) and convinced him that if he allowed Branwell to get another Papermate Flexigrip ultra pen from me it could be made holy with a full exorcism before use. Now he likes it so much he’s sent me a note requesting more, in different colours.
So that’s all sorted, but what isn’t sorted is the fact that MY TELLY IS FUCKED. It won’t switch on. It’s a FUCKED BOX OF SHITE and I don’t know why. Last night it was working fine, no problems, then when I switched it on this morning (I don’t watch it, I just like having the little telly people in the room with me), NOTHING not a flicker, not a bleep, not a fizzle. I’ve wiggled the wires, I’ve smacked the fucker hard, I’ve given it a shake, NOTHING.
I’ve got another telly, a little one, in the spare room where Scotty sleeps when he stays BUT I DON’T KNOW HOW TO WIRE IT UP TO MY TELLY-BOX and if I try to do it by myself I’ll fuck that up as well.
I need Lottie. I’m going to ring her now.
Posted by Dotty Headbanger on April 17, 2012
Have you ever seen a pen so beautiful you just have to have it? I have a penchant for pens. Before I caught Hermititis and People Phobia what would happen is I’d spot a pen and fall in love with it and from the moment I set eyes on it I would be filled with NEED. I really and truly NEEDED those pens, each and every one of them, and if I didn’t get them, if I didn’t HAVE and POSSESS them, I would have DIED. But there were loads of tricky times when the pens I NEEDED belonged to someone else. Actually, every pen I NEEDED was in the possession of someone else and strangely I never NEEDED the pens I saw in the shops, those I could pay for and just OWN, they didn’t interest me.
My collection of pens is huge and vast and if you stood at the coast and lined up all my pens from top to nib they’d be longer than the longest peninsula. I’m not so keen on pencils, they don’t have the same penetratingly gorgeous LURE of pens and the lead always snaps when you press too hard and I can never find a pencil sharpener when I need one. And those fancy, posh pencils you click like a pen and the thin bit of lead comes down – they’re nothing but SHITE, I don’t like them, they’re the stupidest, most wasteful pencils in the world, click too many times and SNAP, don’t click enough times and WHERE THE FUCK IS IT, click some more to make it appear and SNAP — SNAP SNAP SNAP — they should be banned, I bet they cause more distress than any other writing implement except maybe crayons.
I also love bookmarks and other pocketable items of stationery, but pens will always be my favourite. PENS, PENS, PENS, PENS, PENS - blue pens, black pens, red pens, glittery pens, fountain pens, dip pens, ballpoint pens, quill pens, reed pens, rollerball pens, felt-tip pens, marker pens – I love pens.
I LOVE PENS.
I FUCKING LOVE THEM LIKE THEY ARE MY BABIES.
And I think I’m in trouble again because of my love for pens. I’ve been falsely accused of STEALING A PEN, one of Papa Brontë’s pens, a beautiful, pure white swan feather pen that was just LYING THERE ON THE MANTLEPIECE, all alone and neglected and there was a speck of SOOT on it that I carefully blew off so it wouldn’t MARK and MAR the beautiful, pure white swan feather pen, and I MOVED the beautiful, pure white swan feather pen away from the sooty, dirty mantlepiece to another place that wasn’t sooty or dirty and that place just happened to be MY SUITCASE and now Branwell has been here accusing me of THIEVING the beautiful, pure white swan feather pen and because of his fucking CHEEK I’m not giving it back.
So fuck off, Branwell, you pox-ridden WHELP.
You can stick your accusations up your pure white swan-feathered ARSE.
Posted by Dotty Headbanger on April 15, 2012
I’m back. Sorry I couldn’t leave an absence note, I didn’t have time. Little Emily was taken ill and it was all a bit of a rush, Branwell came to get me in his carriage and I only had a few minutes to pack my case. Charlotte and Anne were away visiting which only left me and my debatable skills but I must have done something right, she’s much better now.
Panic attacks – I had many. Meltdown – I almost had one but I didn’t, I raided Branwell’s laudanum cupboard instead (he didn’t mind).
You wouldn’t think so but the worse thing was that the Victorians are noisy sods, they love banging and clanging their metal in the mills and the forges, even the kids play with big metal hoops – and those fucking horseshoes on the cobbles – my ears are driving me loopy after all that, I need a lot of quiet so if anyone comes in can you please keep the volume down. Thank you.
Posted by Dotty Headbanger on April 14, 2012
From the most HATED blogger in the whole wide Worldpress to the people who HATE her.
Look into my eyes, you will see
What you mean to me
Search your heart, search your posts
And when you find me there
You’ll search no more
Don’t tell me, it’s not worth typin’ for
You can’t tell me, it’s not worth writin’ for
You know it’s true
Everything I do, I do it for you
Look into your heart, you will find
There’s nothin’ there to hide
Take me as I am, take my life
I would give it all, I would sacrifice
Don’t tell me it’s not worth typin’ for
I can’t help it, there’s nothin’ I want more
You know it’s true
Everything I do, I do it for you, oh yeah
There’s no blog, like my blog
And no other could give more love
There’s nowhere, unless you’re there
All the time, all the way yeah
Look into your heart baby
Oh, you can’t tell me it’s not worth typin’ for
I can’t help it, there’s nothin’ I want more
Yeah I would type for you
I’d write for you
Blog all night for you
Yeah I’d die for you
You know it’s true
Everything I do, ohh, I do it for you
Everything I do darling
You should read it through
You should read it through, yeah
Yeah, just look into your heart
You can’t tell me you’ll die for love
Oh yeah, I’ll be there
I’m writin’ every day, every day
by Bryan Adams & Dotty
Posted by Dotty Headbanger on April 11, 2012
Why have I only had three answers to my competition? Why have 74 people looked at it and only THREE PEOPLE bothered to do an answer? Why? Why? Why? Do you HATE ME that much? Am I so horrible and nasty to you that you don’t want to be my SUPREME PET FOR THE DAY?
These are the people who I LOVE MOST now –
DeeDee — whose answer is a Cumberland sausage wrapped in butcher paper
John (& Victor Tookes) — whose answer is Jean Luc Picard’s underwear
pmao — whose answer is himself (he said ‘me’, but if I wrote ‘me’ you’d think I meant ME)
IT’S NOT FAIR.
I even did a nice picture for you to look at.
You’ve all made me sad and upset and I’m crying and I’ve had two panic attacks writing this post and YOU HATE ME, EVERYBODY HATES ME and I need a lie down and a little sleep.
Goodnight, cruel, cruel people.
If blogs had shins you’d all kick the fuck out of mine.
YOU ALL HATE ME.
HATE HATE HATE
Posted by Dotty Headbanger on April 11, 2012
…but to keep you coming back to my blog so I still get loads of views,
and so I can get to 300 followers before La Popinjay does,
and so you don’t fuck off to some other blogger who talks to you more,
and so I can feel like I’m not ignoring you all (y’all) while I get on with ANOTHER THING
here’s a question —
What’s white and flies through the air faster than the speed of light?
There are two correct answers, either one of which I’ll accept.
If more than one of you get a correct answer I’ll do eeny-meeny-miney-mo to decide.
Or I might do ip-dip-dog-shit instead, it depends how I feel.
The winner will be my SUPREME PET FOR THE DAY tomorrow.
Here’s a picture to keep you entertained. I know everyone likes pictures and I know if I could put pictures in all my posts my views and my followers would be in the ZABILLIONS by now, but I can’t do it properly, it always goes wrong, I’ll NEVER be good with pictures and one day you’ll all go away to find blogs with pictures and this one of the SHOE-CAR has taken me over an hour of the time I was going to spend on ANOTHER THING so I hope you like it.
Posted by Dotty Headbanger on April 11, 2012
Hello, fellow She-Hermits and Hermits. Today we’re going to talk about safety procedures for when you LIE ON THE FLOOR. I wonder if you’ve ever considered the DANGERS associated with lying on the floor, DANGERS that can MAIM or even KILL you, DANGERS that no one else will bother to tell you about because no one else gives two flying fucks about your lying on the floor habits. Well don’t worry, I’m here to help you and I’m writing this especially for YOU because I’m nice and kind like that.
So let’s get started.
POSITIONING – DANGERS OF THE FOETAL POSITION
Most floor-lying hermits prefer to lie in the FOETAL POSITION and most floor-lying hermits return again and again to THE SAME SPOT on the floor to lie in the FOETAL POSITION. We’ll discuss lying in THE SAME SPOT later - right now I’m concerned about THE HARM YOU ARE DOING TO YOUR SPINE.
SPINAL INJURY or BEING CRIPPLED FOR LIFE is a real and prevalent DANGER for hermits who choose to lie in the FOETAL POSITION for long periods of time. Your spine is supposed to be a STRAIGHT THING, evolution made the adult human spine straight in order to keep you UPRIGHT AND READY TO RUN AWAY - so how are you going to RUN AWAY if you can’t walk? YOU’RE NOT, you’ll be EATEN by lions or tigers or wolves or bears or hyenas or mad dogs or feral children or whatever else gets a sniff of you lying there, on the floor, in the FOETAL POSITION.
If you’re lucky and manage to escape being EATEN, the next time you lie on the floor in the FOETAL POSITION might be the last time you have a STRAIGHT BACK. The spine isn’t made of steel, it’s made of bone, and contrary to what most people believe about bone being hard and unbendable, BONE IS VERY BENDY and if you persist and persist in bending it into the FOETAL POSITION it will stay there and you’ll develop a pronounced HUMF and being a PEOPLE PHOBIC HERMIT is bad enough without being a PEOPLE PHOBIC HERMIT with a HUMFY-BACK.
Not only can the FOETAL POSITION give you a big HUMF, it can also lead to PARALYSIS OF EVERY PART OF YOUR BODY caused by SEVERED NERVES, so BEWARE and BE AWARE of any NUMBNESS or LOSS OF SENSATION because what might be happening is you are SEVERING YOUR NERVES and BECOMING PARALYSED but you won’t know this is happening until you want to get up to go for a wee or get a drink and you find you CAN’T GET UP BECAUSE YOU HAVE PARALYSED YOURSELF by lying on the floor in the FOETAL POSITION. If your legs are the limbs that become paralysed you should be okay because you’ll be able to use your arms to drag yourself across the floor to the phone, but if your arms are the limbs that become paralysed I’m afraid YOU’RE FUCKED because you won’t be able to drag yourself to the phone and even if you somehow managed to, how would you pick up the phone to ring for help?
Other DANGERS of lying on the floor in the FOETAL POSITION include -
BALD PATCHES – if no air or light can get to one side of your head because it’s flat on the carpet then you shouldn’t worry about illness or disease when your hair starts to come out in clumps, your baldness is caused by lying on the floor in the FOETAL POSITION.
CARPET BURN – caused by getting down onto the floor or getting up off the floor too quickly. Also caused by writhing around on the floor in the throes of despair. Be careful not to get carpet burn on your knees or people will think things.
DELUSIONS OF DEATH which occur when you’ve been there for so long that when you try to move you don’t know if the stiffness of your body is due to JUST STIFFNESS or if you’re stiff like a plank because RIGOR MORTIS HAS SET IN and this results in you having to deal with DIBBLE and AMBULANCE and SORE JAGS IN THE ARSE when you ring them up to tell them you are DEAD.
OTHER DANGERS OF LYING ON THE FLOOR
SPIDERS. BIG HAIRY MEATY SPIDERS and other creepy crawlies. Included in the list of creepy crawlies (I’m not making a list, I can’t be arsed) are the microscopic creepy crawlies that live in your carpet. Fuck knows WHAT they are but it’s guaranteed they carry all types of dirty diseases and THEY WILL WALK ON YOUR FACE AND ENTER THE INSIDE OF YOUR BODY THROUGH YOUR ORIFICES.
DEHYDRATION – keep a bottle of water next to you
STARVATION – if you’ve got your bottle of water you’ll be okay because you can go without food longer than you can without water.
NEEDING A WEE – this one’s easy - GET UP AND GO FOR A WEE, STUPID. You’re not a fucking baby.
BECOMING USED TO ONE PARTICULAR SPOT ON THE FLOOR – we’re going to deal with this next -
BECOMING USED TO ONE PARTICULAR SPOT ON THE FLOOR
As stated above, most hermits return again and again to the same spot on the floor. This is just a bad habit that can take some time and effort to break but it’s worth it in the end, the benefits you’ll reap will ASTOUND you.
Whether it’s facing your sofa, the underneath of your coffee table, your bookcases, your sideboard or just a blank wall, EVERY hermit has a favourite spot on the floor they like to lie on. But did you know that CHANGING THE SPOT ON THE FLOOR THAT YOU LIE ON can be so beneficial and good for you that it can CURE YOU OF LYING ON THE FLOOR?
Yes, it can. Don’t believe me? Read on -
Hermits who lie on the floor do so for one of two reasons —
1 they are in the throes of despair
2 they are too apathetic to do anything else
It doesn’t matter WHY you’re still lying on the floor after I’ve taken the time and trouble to spell out all the DANGERS, the fact that you’re still there at all tells me you really, really need TO CHANGE YOUR SPOT.
Before we go any further I know many of you will only have THE ONE SPOT to lie in because your collections have sprawled all over the place or because you’re just a clatty tramp and you don’t clean your house. TIDYING UP will provide NEW SPOTS FOR LYING ON THE FLOOR so get on with it, do it NOW, this minute before you think about it, don’t read another word, go and MAKE SOME NEW SPACES.
Whether you’re apathetic or despairing, a NEW SPOT ON THE FLOOR will change your life. You won’t like it to begin with, no one likes CHANGE, but persevere and the benefits will soon become apparent.
Lying on the floor in a NEW SPOT will instantly give you a NEW VIEW and a NEW VIEW is the best thing you can have because it provides a DISTRACTION from the apathy or despair that put you on the floor in the first place. Who can remain in a state of OVERWHELMING APATHY when confronted with a 4 inch CLUMP OF DUST AND WEB under the sideboard that you’ve never noticed before? Who can remain in a state of ALL-CONSUMING DESPAIR whilst staring at the natural beauty of the wooden chair leg? A NEW SPOT will provide MOTIVATION and MENTAL STIMULATION and we’re on the road to BEING CURED.
After a few practices, each time in a NEW SPOT, if you STILL haven’t stopped lying on the floor in the FOETAL POSITION, try lying on the floor FLAT ON YOUR BACK. No hermit does this naturally or without distress because lying on the floor FLAT ON YOUR BACK makes you feel too EXPOSED and one benefit of lying in the FOETAL POSITION is you can’t see what’s coming for you, whether it’s a BIG HAIRY MEATY SPIDER or a BEAR. Also, lying on the floor FLAT ON YOUR BACK and LOOKING UP AT THE CEILING makes your room look MASSIVE LIKE THE WORLD and then you feel even more insignificant than you do already.
But for your own bodily safety, lying on the floor FLAT ON YOUR BACK is the best position to be in if you still insist on lying on the floor because it’s good for your back, it’s good for your posture, and it doesn’t cause HUMFS or PARALYSIS or DEATH BY RIGOR MORTIS.
I apologise for all the BIG SHOUTY WORDS I’ve used but hermits, you have to listen to me, if you won’t stop lying on the floor at least take PROPER PRECAUTIONS.
I hope these hermit tips help you.
Be safe, my hermits. Be well.
Posted by Dotty Headbanger on April 10, 2012
I was on the telly last night for half an hour.
I wanted to know what it felt like to be my telly - sitting there in the corner for the whole of its life, unable to move, people staring at it for hours and hours on end and then it conks out and dies – I felt sorry for it, it must be a sad old life. And I wanted to see what my telly sees from where it’s sitting and I’ll tell you something, it’s given me a whole different view of my living room - it looks nice from up there, I saw my collections from different angles, I saw my bookcases from different angles, I saw my couch and chairs from different angles and I noticed what a good job Lottie and Scotty did when they cleaned everywhere – I actually saw THE CARPET.
I had a bit of trouble getting up because of all my butterfly-stitched fork-stabs that are scabbing over nicely, thank you for asking (some of them pulled a bit and came open when the scab ripped off but I washed all the blood off when I got down). My telly is old and fat with a massive back, not one of those slim things that I don’t understand why they made in the first place because where do all the LITTLE TELLY PEOPLE live now? Is this how the telly companies have got rid of some of my favourite programmes, they’ve had a PROGRAMME POGROM and driven away all the LITTLE TELLY PEOPLE like others did in THE HIGHLAND CLEARANCES and THE JEWISH PEOPLE CLEARANCES and all the other ethnic clearances that have taken place. EXCEPT NO ONE HAS SAID ANYTHING ABOUT THE LITTLE TELLY PEOPLE CLEARANCES. Why? WHY NOT? It’s not fair. Just because they’re LITTLE doesn’t mean they don’t have the same rights as everyone else. Just because they live inside our tellys doesn’t mean they’re not entitled to stay in their homes, to live their lives the way they want to with SPACE ENOUGH TO LIVE COMFORTABLY. All these horrible things go on in the world and no one says DICKY-FUCKING-BOO about them.
It made me cry last night when I was on my telly thinking about how they must be living now, so I got down and went to find my BIG FUCK-OFF SCREWDRIVER which was in my cutlery drawer so I got a fork as well and I used them both to prise the back off my telly to see if I could help the LITTLE TELLY PEOPLE but do you know what? THEY WEREN’T ANYWHERE TO BE SEEN. They’ve FUCKING DISAPPEARED and I know WHY they’ve disappeared, they’re so frightened, so HARASSED and PLAGUED and TORMENTED by their CRUEL PERSECUTORS – and that means YOU, YES YOU WITH THE FUCKING SLIMLINE TELLY – that they’ve run away from my telly, their SANCTUARY, probably the ONLY SAFE PLACE FOR THEM IN BRITAIN.
I’m too upset to write any more. It’s heartbreaking.
I need my laudanum.
And a Cumberland sausage sandwich.
And a lie down.
Posted by Dotty Headbanger on April 9, 2012
I’ve got you sussed, you sad old SCROTE.
You want me to write a post about you so you can steal EVEN MORE OF MY FOLLOWERS and PRETEND THEY WERE YOURS TO START WITH and that’s fine, here I am writing a post about you because I’m nice and kind like that, but really, all you had to do was ask.
So go on everyone, go and join the old goat’s blog, he NEEDS you, he’s DESPERATE, so DESPERATE he copied my 200 FOLLOWERS badge and pretended it was his own because he couldn’t bear to think I’d beat him to 200, just like he copies EVERYTHING of mine. They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery – NO IT’S NOT, IT’S JUST COPYING, YOU NUMPTY so find your own ideas, stop nicking mine.
And he called me a THIEF. Well I’m NOT a convicted thief, Dibble gave me Cautions each time.
Is he hopeless?
Is he useless?
Is he desperate?
Is the Pope waterproof?
YES to all of the above - but pity La Popinjay, please, my lovelies. Charity is good for the soul.
P.S. You’re probably thinking, ‘Why should I bother going to see a blog written by a BABBLING INGRATE?‘ and you’d be correct in thinking that so to be honest I’d advise you to GO HERE INSTEAD.
P.P.S. OY, ARSEWIPE – I don’t live in a flat so GET YOUR FACTS RIGHT. Shows how much you actually READ.
Posted by Dotty Headbanger on April 9, 2012
I’m sick to death of FICKLE FUCKERS who are laughing and joking one minute, ha ha ha, next minute they’re in a mood about something and throwing a paddy. What’s that all about, eh, the divvy twats? I’ll tell you what it’s about, it’s about BOOZE.
Yep, it’s Lottie again. I never know where I am with her. I’m positive she drinks after she’s put THE BERSERKERS to bed, even moreso now Fat-Fuck has left her. She’s always been a bit of a piss-head, swigging dear dead Daddy’s brandy and whiskey when we were teenagers, sneaking round the back of the rugby team’s changing rooms in the park with a big bottle of gut-rot and ten fags. Twice, Scotty had to carry her home and up to her bed while I distracted meine Mami in the kitchen.
She lets on she’s something she’s not, a hoity-toity wine buff – she’s all ‘Oh yes, I’m getting undertones of wood-smoked sideboard’ and ‘There’s a top-note of old badger’ or whatever, but she never swills and spits, she throws the lot down her neck – and not just wine, I saw her put a bottle of cheap voddy in her trolley when we were shopping the other day. Fucking alky.
I’ve got the blame for THE BERSERKERS being sick. Oh what a surprise. I should have seen it coming, normally I would but with yesterday being happy like it was and with her BEING PART OF THE LAUGH AND THE JOKE it didn’t enter my head that she’d turn round and blame me. But oh yes, it’s all my fault, I shouldn’t have encouraged them, I shouldn’t have been so childish. YOU’RE THEIR FUCKING MOTHER, LOTTIE – you sat there and watched them STUFF THEIR FACES without saying a word, I know what you were thinking, you were thinking if only you weren’t on your diet you could STUFF YOUR FACE TOO and either you were too busy slavvering over the Easter eggs you wouldn’t allow yourself to eat that you didn’t notice how much your OWN KIDS were eating, or you DIDN’T GIVE A SHITE. Which was it?
Actually, do you know what, I don’t really care which it was, all I’ve got to say is –
Lottie, go and take a good FUCK to yourself.
You’re not blaming me for this one.
Posted by Dotty Headbanger on April 8, 2012
I won the Easter egg eating competition. I said I would.
Lottie didn’t give in, she went home and took THE BERSERKERS with her just because they started projectile vomiting their Easter eggs all over my kitchen walls. I made her clean up before she left.
Scotty has gone, ten minutes ago. I waved to him from my bedroom window. He said he’ll be in touch when he can, but I know what those Middle Eastern lines of communication are like, smack a dry camel three times on its hump and wait for the echo.
So I’m all alone again —
BUT I’M NOT all alone again
because I’ve got YOU – WordPress just gave me a badge for 200 followers except they’re a bit late, I’ve got 206 now.
Posted by Dotty Headbanger on April 7, 2012
This is a very big Easter egg. I wonder if it’s hollow. I’ve been eating Easter eggs all day. Easter eggs have NEVER made me sick, no matter how many I scran. They’re fucking lovely. THE BERSERKERS can’t keep up with me. Nobody can.
I’ve sent Scotty out to buy some more – yesterday he DID return from his meeting with MI5 or whoever he met (I didn’t think he’d be able to come back) and he has to leave tonight on a mission to fuck knows where so that’s why we’re having Easter today and not tomorrow.
Lottie isn’t joining in because she’s on a diet but I can see by her face that she wants an Easter egg, she REALLY REALLY wants an Easter egg, it’s like a battle going on inside her - NO NO NO EASTER EGG, YES YES YES EASTER EGG – but she hasn’t given in yet. I’ll give her another hour before she cracks (HA HA HA HA – did you see what I did there?) We always had Easter egg eating competitions when we were kids and Lottie always won, even Scotty couldn’t beat her, even dear dead Daddy couldn’t beat her, and alongside the lure of the Easter eggs themselves is the call of the FIGHT – if her stomach doesn’t make her crack (HA HA) her competitive streak will.
Scotty isn’t very well, he caught Man-Flu the other day when he was up the ladder in the blizzard so it’s his own fault he has it, and THE BERSERKERS have little girl stomachs so I’m winning so far with a grand total of 12 (2 Cadbury’s Creme Eggs, 3 Cadbury’s Caramel, 3 of those Lindt Bunny Rabbits, and 4 Cadbury’s Flake). I don’t know what kind of Easter eggs Scotty’s going to bring back but they better not be those cheap ones that clag to the top of your mouth, I don’t like them.
I might be back later to tell you who won.
It’ll be ME.
Posted by Dotty Headbanger on April 7, 2012
Hello everybody. Sorry I couldn’t do a post yesterday, I was too knackered to write one. Why was I too knackered? Because I went OUT.
O-U-T spells OUT.
OUT is the opposite of IN.
That’s what I did, I went OUT.
For the second time this year.
I’m a social butterfly with butterfly stitches. I bought butter. And I saw a fly, a big fucker that must have got IN the car when we were getting OUT of the car but luckily Lottie spotted it before we got back IN the car and she opened the door and the fly flew OUT.
And fuck-diddly-fuck, wouldn’t you just know it, 24 hour Tesco had Cumberland sausages on offer – buy one get one free – so I bought fucking loads and loads and got the same again for nothing.
It all happened IN a similar way to when I went OUT last time (see Dotty And Scotty Go Shopping) except this time Lottie came with us so I wasn’t left alone when Scotty did his recce of the aisles. And we went to 24 hour Tesco later than we did last time, yesterday we set off at 5.00 am which would have been impossible if I hadn’t dosed up on double beta-blockers, double anti-depressives, two vials of laudanum and a swig of Diet Coke to wash it all down. And THE BERSERKERS came too and they proved to be a great distraction for me and a great help when Lottie went off to the toilet – when a person happened to be IN the aisle I wanted to go down what they did is they walked up to the person who was looking at whatever they were looking at on the shelf, stood right up close to them, very still and very straight, and THE BERSERKERS looked up at them and kept looking up at them, and kept looking up at them, and kept looking up at them with their big wide starey little-girl eyes until the person got freaked out and ran away.
I’m loving THE BERSERKERS so much more than I ever thought I would.
So we got all the shopping and sent Scotty off to pay for it while Lottie and me and THE BERSERKERS had a wander round the non-food aisles. And that’s when I saw it – the perfect thing, the absolutely perfect thing that I have always wanted – the bench – THE BENCH that is made of solid dark wood and has little carvings of love hearts on the back, the bench that is BEAUTIFUL and LOVELY and COMFORTABLE with thick slats for your bum to sit nicely on, the bench that was advertised as a garden bench but I didn’t buy it for my garden, I bought it so I could screw my MEMORIAL PLAQUE onto it and put it on the HIGH SPOT ON THE MOORS that I used to love walking to, the spot that has a view to die for, the spot that I want my ashes scattered on when I am DEAD. So I bought it.
My MEMORIAL BENCH was too big to fit IN the car because of all the shopping and US even though the car is a big posh one, so Scotty took us and the shopping home and then he went back to collect my MEMORIAL BENCH. While he was gone Lottie put all the shopping away while I looked for my MEMORIAL PLAQUE which was where I thought it was, IN the top drawer of my desk. This is what my MEMORIAL PLAQUE says —
This bench belongs to
19?? – 20??
If you write on Dotty’s bench
she will haunt you
for the rest of your pitiful life.
When Scotty came back with my MEMORIAL BENCH he asked where I wanted him to put it.
‘Put it? I’m not putting it anywhere, it’s going up to its SPOT ON THE MOORS. Now. When I’ve eaten my Cumberland sausage sandwich.’
He looked at Lottie and I could see by the way they looked at each other that they didn’t think I could go OUT twice IN the one day so I tried to reassure them – ‘It’s okay, I’ll take more medication’.
They looked at each other again. Lottie said, ‘Have you got something planned, Dotty?’
‘Yes, I’ve got it all planned – Scotty can screw my MEMORIAL PLAQUE onto my MEMORIAL BENCH then me and Scotty can go IN his car with my MEMORIAL BENCH and you and the girls can go IN yours.’
‘What else have you got planned?’
‘Oh. I didn’t think of anything else - should we take a picnic?’
‘I meant…’ she looked at Scotty again, ‘I meant have you got plans to… you know?’
Scotty looked at ME instead of at Lottie. ‘Fucking ‘ell, Dotty, are you going to top yourself?’
‘HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA – is that what you think? Well no I’m not, not today you divvy sods - I’ve just spent ninety quid on shopping. And a hundred and fifty on my bench.’
‘But memorial benches are for dead people. Their families buy them as a MEMORIAL and put them in a place their dead one loved. You’re not dead.’
I just laughed at them again and went for a wee before we set off. No I’m not dead – and that’s why I’ve been planning for years to buy my own MEMORIAL BENCH – why should a seat appear for me WHEN I CAN’T USE IT BECAUSE I’M DEAD? Why shouldn’t I have somewhere nice to sit when I’ve just slogged my way up a big fucking hill to look at the view? And ALSO – when everything’s back to normal and Scotty and Lottie and THE BERSERKERS have gone home and it’s just me and little Emily again, if I have my MEMORIAL BENCH to visit it might make me GET OUT OF THIS FUCKING HOUSE THAT I CAN’T GET OUT OF.
So we took my MEMORIAL BENCH up to the HIGH SPOT ON THE MOORS and set it in place (Scotty brought my shovel with him and I made him stop off on the way to buy a bag of ready-mixed concrete). The wind wasn’t too bad for March and the ground wasn’t boggy either because it’s been freezing these last few days so me and THE BERSERKERS had a wild old time racing up the hill (they beat me, I ran like a lame old donkey because of my butterfly stitched places). I asked Lottie and Scotty to take THE BERSERKERS for a walk so I could be OUTSIDE on my own for a while. Lottie made sure I had my Nokia Hard Bastard with me to ring her if I needed to and off they went.
I can’t describe how I felt when they’d disappeared out of sight, it was too lovely for words, but the BIG SKY was beautiful, I sat on my bench for ages and ages looking for faces in the clouds. I saw King George III, Muhammed Ali, Van Gogh, Jimmy Krankie, Britney Spears and I think it was Julius Caesar or more likely it was Caligula.
It wasn’t as quiet as I thought it would be, but it was a BETTER sort of noisy, no FUCKING MACHINERY, just birds and breeze and the odd baa from a sheep. It was the closest to silence I’ll ever get until I’m dead and I want to go there again soon. I WILL go there again soon because now I’ve got my MEMORIAL BENCH up there to park my arse on for a rest.
When we got home I went upstairs to rewrite my will — what they have to do is get me a basket coffin (basket case when living, basket case when dead), carry me up to the HIGH SPOT ON THE MOORS, make a big bonfire, chuck me and my basket coffin INTO the fire, eat a few Cumberland sausages and sing a little song but I don’t know what song yet, it’s a toss up between I’ll Fly Away by Alison Krauss & Gillian Welch and Bat Out Of Hell by Meatloaf.
Perhaps I’ll make them sing both.
Posted by Dotty Headbanger on April 6, 2012
Dear Bloggy People,
Please excuse Dotty from writing a post today. The dog ate her laptop.
Posted by Dotty Headbanger on April 5, 2012
SNOW – lots of it
WIND – blowing a hooley round my house
= WILD FUCKING BLIZZARD
It hasn’t let up all morning.
And I’m snowed in. Not downstairs, that’s okay, but if I need to get out of one of the two upstairs windows that face the BLIZZARD I can’t because they’re CAKED IN SNOW, I can’t see out of them it’s piled so high up the windowsills. I had a panic attack when I realised I’m snowed in so Lottie told Scotty to get the big ladder out of the shed and go and clear it off. He said ‘But she doesn’t go out,’ so I said ‘THAT’S NOT THE FUCKING POINT.’ He’s doing it now. I’m sitting on my bed watching him and he’s swearing like fuck - the wind’s too strong for me to hear but so far I’ve managed to lipread FUCKING ‘ELL – SHIT – FOR FUCK’S SAKE – BASTARDING FREEZING SOMETHING SOMETHING WANKER. And he’s just said BOLLOCKS.
They all stayed here last night, Scotty, Lottie, and THE BERSERKERS. Scotty slept on the couch, Lottie and THE BERSERKERS slept in my bed and I slept in the spare room which was nice, I’ll have to do it again sometime, it was like going on holiday and waking up and not knowing where you are and realising oh, I’m on holiday, except I went oh, I’m in my spare room.
Last night was lovely. I didn’t have to do anything, I vegged on the couch with a plate of Cumberland sausages, a packet of Hobnobs, and continuous refills of nice cold Diet Coke. And THE BERSERKERS who I thought at first would start slapping me on my bandages or something, but they didn’t, were KIND TO ME. We watched a film (Cinderella? I don’t know, I must have dozed off) then when it was time for THE BERSERKERS to go to bed they told Lottie they wanted ME to take them up and tell them a story and, bless their little cotton socks, so Lottie wouldn’t hear, they didn’t tell me it was WINNIE-THE-SHITE they wanted till we were up in the room – they’ve got their heads screwed on the right way, those two. I thought they’d have forgotten WINNIE-THE-SHITE by now, I almost had but they put me right if I got a bit wrong.
When they were asleep I went back downstairs. Lottie and Scotty were in the kitchen, doing the washing up.
‘Did they get off all right?’ Lottie said.
‘What story did you tell them?’
‘One about a bear.’
‘HOW THE FUCK DID YOU KNOW?’
And she LAUGHED!!! Lottie!!!! And she threw some Fairy Liquid bubbles at me and then she threw some at Scotty and we ended up having the best laugh we’ve had together since we were little.
I’ll have to go, Scotty’s getting down off the ladder and he looks like a YETI. I’ll get him a towel, one of my new bathsheets from my collection in the airing cupboard. And I’ll make him a cup of tea for when I ask him to go back out and clear the gutters – he might as well do it now seeing as the ladder’s already out.
Posted by Dotty Headbanger on April 4, 2012
I’m living in my tumble dryer. Don’t worry, it’s only till Scotty and Lottie have got rid of all the MEAN THINGS in my house. I’ve taken all my beta-blockers so I won’t have a panic attack and disturb all my neat bandages or make my elbows and knees more sore than they already are from April Fool’s Day, and I’ve got my bottle of laudanum with me, and I’ve sneaked in my mini hand-drill in case I really need it, and the hospital gave me TWO jags in the arse last night - some whizzy floaty stuff that’s still working and some superwhoppy painkiller - and that’s how I’m able to tell you all about it.
It’s quite comfortable in here. I’m sitting with my legs crossed and my laptop on my lap (is it still a lap if your legs are crossed or is it a clap or a crap or a clop or a crop) and I can see everything that’s going on in my kitchen through my round window (I always chose the round window in Playschool – HAMBEL! BIG TED! LITTLE TED! JEMIMA! – oh, I’ve got a Jemima, she’s sitting on the sidebar) and I can hear everything that’s going on too and they can hear me but the metal echo hurts my ears a lot when I shout.
Have you ever seen a crack assassin wield a feather duster? Scotty is so PRECISE and EXACT. He’s like MERCENARY MARY POPPINS except he’s bigger and he can’t sing. And he’s scared of children. I thought he’d try and use dusting as an excuse to get rid of more of my collections but – get this! - LOTTIE won’t let him, she said all he’s allowed to do is move something to DUST IT AND DUST WHERE IT LIVES and then PUT IT BACK IN ITS PLACE.
Do you want to know why they’re here? Shall I tell you what happened?
No, I don’t think I will.
‘LOTTIE! THE FUCKING DRYER JUST BEEPED!’
‘It didn’t, I’ve switched it off at the wall.’
‘Oh. Right you are then.’
I was only kidding – of course I’ll tell you it. Why wouldn’t I? I love you all (y’all).
It was Anette’s fault - she scared me last night when she told me there are MEAN THINGS in my house. After the first four panic attacks, when the laudanum and the beta blockers started to kick in, I did what she said and got all my cutlery out and laid it round me on my bed, then I wrapped myself in tin foil but I didn’t have enough to cover all of me, I managed to cover everywhere except from my left knee down AND THAT’S WHERE THEY GOT IN. I felt them slithering up my leg (I had my short-leg pyjama bottoms on) and then they started biting me but it wasn’t really biting it was more like suck-biting, like vampire leeches and then they were all over me inside the tin foil slithering suck-biting slithering suck-biting and I was screaming and I grabbed some forks and tried to kill them, legs STAB arms STAB belly STAB neck STAB face STAB head STAB STAB STAB STAB STAB everywhere all over me and I couldn’t kill them, they wouldn’t get off me I killed one and twenty more slithered onto me I screamed and screamed and STABBED and STABBED and they kept coming and coming and then BIG ONES came ROARING ROARING ROARING my name and they grabbed my arms and I knew they’d eat me if I didn’t fight back so I STABBED and KICKED and BIT and NUTTED them but MORE BIG ONES grabbed my legs and my head and my middle and pinned me down and I thought that’s it, I’m for it now but I wasn’t, they ripped the tinfoil off my face and they weren’t BIG MEAN THINGS they were DIBBLE and AMBULANCE and they were all swearing and shouting and one was holding his blood-spurty nose and another was bent double holding his balls and that’s all I remember until I woke up in hospital and Scotty and Lottie were there.
I’ve got 78 butterfly stitches. It sounds a lot but they’re spread all over me in twos and threes with one big one on my neck that needed seven butterly stitches. It doesn’t hurt but I think it will later on when the super-whoppy painkiller wears off.
So Scotty and Lottie – Dibble went for them and took them to where I was, in hospital, and they told me that when they arrived I was out for the count so they waited for me to wake up. While they were waiting Lottie went to get some drinks and that’s when a FEMALE HEADSHRINKER came down from upstairs to do her voodoo on me but Scotty used all his charm and wiles and (Scotty told me this bit later, Lottie doesn’t know) he took her in a toilet cubicle and SHAGGED THE SENSE OUT OF HER, love at first sight, beautiful, marry you, my darling, my only one, four kids, I LOVE LOVE LOVE YOU, and when I woke up they brought me home and the first thing I did when we got home is pretend I needed a wee so I could go upstairs for my laudanum and my mini hand-drill and then I ran (hobbled) downstairs and grabbed my laptop and got inside the tumble dryer. The first thing Scotty did when we got home was ring THE BIG CHIEF INSPECTOR and as a result of his phone call they’re not coming to charge me with GRIEVOUS BODILY HARM any more. The first thing Lottie did when we got home is make us a pile of Cumberland sausage sandwiches.
Both of them sat on the kitchen floor, outside the tumble dryer, to eat their Cumberland sausage sandwiches at the same time as I was eating mine. Lottie made me tell her about the MEAN THINGS and after I’d finished telling her she said
‘That’s it, Scotty’s moving back in with you.’
Scotty’s mouth was stuffed with sandwich so he did some big nods.
‘We’ll get you sorted out - NO, Dotty, no arguments. We’ll start by getting rid of the mean things. That woman Anette doesn’t know anything, it isn’t shiny things they’re afraid of - it’s FLASH SPRAY WITH BLEACH.’
So they’ve been cleaning EVERYWHERE AND EVERYTHING in my house and Lottie isn’t letting Scotty slack off at all, she’s bossing him round like a Sergeant Major. And they keep bringing me drinks of Diet Coke and the odd Cumberland sausage when I want one and about half an hour ago little Emily popped her head round the back door and her eyes were as big as saucers when she saw me in the tumble dryer but a second later when she noticed Scotty dusting a shelf her eyes became HUGE, like glittery frisbees, and I thought ‘Dear jesus, no, please don’t let it happen,’ but it was too late, I couldn’t stop it – THE THUNDERBOLT and she hasn’t taken her eyes off him since.
Bits of me are starting to sting.
Come on, Lottie and Scotty - hurry up with cleaning out the MEAN THINGS, I need a wee and I need a sleep.
I’m going to try and have a sleep in here, my eyes keep shutting and I can’t stand that stupid look on little Emily’s face.
God love her and save her.
Posted by Dotty Headbanger on April 3, 2012
There’s something strange afoot in Dottyworld. Mischief is being made somewhere, somehow and I need to get it sorted before something unfixable happens. As you should know by now I don’t have any mirrors in my house, nor do I have any shiny surfaces. It’s hard to catch a glimpse of myself ANYWHERE and that’s how I like it, if I wanted mirrors I wouldn’t have smashed them all. But this afternoon, when the sun shone bright through the window and hit the lid of my frying pan, I DID catch a glimpse of myself (more than a glimpse – about 7 seconds worth of glimpse before I jumped back, which doesn’t sound long but you try looking at something for 7 seconds and it’s longer than you think it should be).
I say I caught a glimpse of myself – well that’s not quite true because although I SHOULD have caught a glimpse of myself I didn’t, I caught a long 7 second glimpse of LITTLE EMILY. Except little Emily went home early this morning to make sure Charlotte isn’t taking the piss out of Anne again by getting her to do all the cleaning. And she hasn’t been back since, and she isn’t due back till tomorrow.
So how did I see her in the frying pan lid?
Little Emily is dead – I’ve seen her grave many times over the years, I know she’s in there but obviously SHE isn’t in there, and anyway it’s not a secret that I SEE DEAD PEOPLE, lots of people see dead people, they even make telly programmes about people who see dead people so it’s nothing to be ashamed of. But seeing dead people when it should be ME I’m seeing is a bit eerie.
At first I thought maybe it’s because we’ve become such good friends and I see her face much more than I see my own and the facial recognition part of my brain has forgotten what MY face looks like so it slapped little Emily’s face onto the frying pan lid instead.
Then I thought I wonder if it’s me, I wonder if I’ve finally lost it, but then I thought ‘No, Dotty, don’t be daft, you’re mental but you’re not fucking MENTAL‘.
Then I thought it must be something to do with little Emily’s ectoplasm, maybe it’s fucked up because she’s doing something she shouldn’t be doing like eating too many of my Cumberland sausages, or trying to follow Rah Rah Rasputin on Just Dance 2 (or 3? I can’t remember, she puts it on herself, I don’t like it), or killing wabbits for her wabbit pies, or looking after Branwell when he’s in a fugue, or arguing with Charlotte, or too much writing writing writing, or any number of things she does that I don’t even know about, who knows what she gets up to on that fucking moor every morning, there are more dead people roaming around up there than soft Mick, she could be doing anyTHING with anyONE of them.
All or none of these things could be the cause of what happened earlier and that’s what I need help with - knowledge of ghosts. If any of you know anything at all about ghosts will you tell me please so I can try and work out what’s wrong with little Emily and why she appeared on my face? I don’t want to lose her, she’s the best friend I’ve ever had.
Posted by Dotty Headbanger on April 2, 2012
I KNOW WHY THE SMURFS AREN’T VISITING ME.
WHO DID IT TO THEM?
WHY HAS NO ONE DONE ANYTHING ABOUT IT?
OTHER LEADERS WITH BIG BOMBS
YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED OF YOURSELVES
TO ALLOW THIS SORT OF THING TO GO ON IN THIS DAY AND AGE
WHO TORTURED THEM?
WHO PUT THEM ON THE RACKS AND STRETCHED AND STRETCHED AND STRETCHED THEM?
WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT TO THE LITTLE SMURFS?
WHY WOULD YOU MAKE THEM INTO BIG SKINNY THINGS THAT LOOK LIKE THE BFG BUT FLOPPIER AND UGLIER AND BLUER?
AND THAT POOR FEMALE SMURF, THEY MADE HER INTO AN ABOMINATION AND SHE HAD TO SHAG THE HUMAN WHO BECAME A SMURF WHO ALSO GOT STRETCHED AND THEY MADE HER INTO AN
Score - 0 out of 10 because torture and cruelty should never be used as entertainment
Posted by Dotty Headbanger on April 2, 2012
I had to. I don’t like April Fool’s Day, I’m scared of it and Little Emily can be a sod for practical jokes. It was okay being in the tumble dryer at first, it felt safe and warm because I’d just dried my towels but while I was having the panic attacks it got a bit uncomfortable and my elbows and knees hurt like fuck now, I think I can see the bruises starting to come out.
It’s all YOUR fault I had the panic attacks. And little Emily’s. Last night I was happy because of the 626 views you’ve done on my little blog. Little Emily was happy too, we had a feast of Cumberland sausages which she cooked so I didn’t have to do anything except sit back and eat. And I ate and ate and ate, not until I was SICK like Bonnie Langford who SCREAMED and SCREAMED and SCREAMED until she was sick, just until I FELT sick.
So there I was, sitting on my sofa at one o’clock in the morning, feeling sick, unable to move because my belly was like a big stone, when little Emily said, ‘Dotty, my dear friend, what if this is all a trick?‘
‘Your blog guests. They may be playing tricks on you.‘
‘What’re you on about?’
‘The statistics on your blog. What if they are an illusion, a despicable antic executed to make you THINK you have 626 views when really you do not?’
‘Shut up, idiot. I’ll show you it, it’s still on my stats page.’
‘Yes it is. But what if a secret group of infiltrating bloggers caused it to happen? Strange ne’er-do-wells lurk in Blogland too, my friend.’
‘And why the fuck would they do that? And WHO the fuck would do that? All the people on my blog are nice and kind and I love them.’
‘What about Judith?‘
‘She doesn’t like me. She has it in for me.’
‘HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA. If you think Judith would do something like that you’ve LOST IT. Stop being stupid, divvy bitch.’
‘If not Judith, then who?’
‘I don’t know. Nobody.’
‘Someone did it.’
‘Okay then, tell me how.’
‘I have been thinking about it. It is highly possible that they might have paid Wordpress to perform an adjustment.‘
‘It’d have to be A LOT OF FUCKING MONEY for WordPress to do something like that.’
‘Not if WordPress are almost bankrupt. I heard rumours that bailiffs had been seen clearing out blogs. They were seen stacking furniture onto a cart.‘
‘Yes. Would I lie to you, my dear friend? Would I lie to you on this day of all days, the day that follows your 626 views that came about on the last day of March?‘
‘No, no you wouldn’t. I’m sorry.’
‘Go to bed, dear friend. It’s already tomorrow.‘
‘Right, yes, I will.’
And I did but I couldn’t sleep for worrying – so which of you was it?
WHO FIDDLED MY FUCKING FIGURES?
I can feel another panic attack coming on and my knees and elbows hurt.
I knew it was too good to be true.
626 fucking views my arse.
Well at least little Emily didn’t get a chance to play her April Fool’s Day tricks. She can’t get me now, it’s too late.
Posted by Dotty Headbanger on April 1, 2012
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