Dotty The Fickle Fucker

 

Last week I told you I’m back on my blog but obviously I haven’t been writing on it or reading any of your blogs or doing anything at all regarding blogging since I came back, apart from one post and a bit of reading I did on the day after I posted but nothing since then – and I don’t know why. I love blogging, I love my little blog (and the Big Blog, and my new one), I like the fact that I was writing somehting almost every day since last December - because even though all I write is shite it’s better than writing nothing at all. And I love reading blogs too, a blog post is just the right size for an unfocused loony to read without losing focus. I love blogging – so what’s happened to me, why have I lost interest in it? I think I need to remember why I was blogging in the first place and take it from there. I’ll let you know when I’ve figured it out.

 

 

Hello, It’s Me, Dotty.

 

I’m back! Back on my blog, back in my house, back in this world without TOO much damage to my bodily parts.

Where have I been? Well, there are two answers to that question. First answer – I’ve been with Branwell. Second answer – I’ve been in hospital. I don’t believe the second answer though because I KNOW I was with Branwell, I have the scurvy to prove it, and I REMEMBER being with Branwell but I don’t remember being in hospital where Lottie insists I was (not until I woke up on Ward 23 and that was only just over a week ago). It’s more TRICKERY from Lottie – I thought she’d given up trying to drive me mad but nope, here she goes again – she keeps telling me the bouncy period I was in ended with me bouncing out of my bedroom window right into Intensive Care, but she’s lying – when I ACCIDENTALLY FELL out of the window Branwell caught me and took me on a little holiday to the Victorian seaside where we spent the days walking the beaches looking for pretty shells, and eating lovely cakes in the tea shops.

I’m sorry I couldn’t come online to tell you where I was – the Victorian seaside tea shops aren’t wired up for the internet, in fact NOWHERE in Dead World is wired up for the internet. I tried sending a letter to my blog so you’d know where I was but the Victorian post is STUPIDLY slow and if my calculations are right (and they won’t be, I’m shite at Maths) the letter will have reached no further than 1871 (probably May or June) - and it’ll arrive here in 2154 when we’re ALL living in Dead World so you’ll know what it says before it gets here.

I don’t know how they got me out of Dead World and up onto Ward 23. Branwell doesn’t know either, but he says I put up a good fight to stop them taking me. The first thing I remember of Ward 23 is sitting in front of a NEW HEADSHRINKER (not the one in the blackmail shagging photos Scotty took) in a big room that had only two chairs (those we were sitting on) and a little table. She was about 8 years old and had her hair in PIGTAILED PLAITS and her mouth was going YAP, YAP, YAP, YAP, YAP, and then the yapping turned into words and she was saying, ‘You’ll have to do a lot of mindful work to get past this, Dotty,’ and my first thought was, ‘WHY IS THIS FUCKING EMBRYO TELLING ME WHAT TO DO?

They’d been AT me, full frontal lobotomy or something, because my head was wrapped in a big bandage and my arm was in plaster and other bits of me hurt like a bastard. The new headshrinker said she hadn’t done anything to me, the bandages and the plaster cast and the PAIN was from when I bounced out of the window. LIAR. I know what they did. Experiments. Nasty experiments on my brain. And my arm. And the other painful bits. I was so shocked I jumped up out of the chair (slowly – more of a hoik than a jump) and she jumped up too and she said, ‘Violence isn’t the answer, Dotty,’ and I said, ‘Don’t worry, love, I never punch anyone who’s wearing MOTHERCARE,’ and she pressed a button that was dangling from a strap round her neck and two whitecoats came in and took me to a room with a bed in it. That was sometime last week and I didn’t get home until the day before yesterday.  

I’ve got a lot of bloggy catching up to do, but after the experiments they did on me my brain isn’t functioning at its usual level of brilliance so I’ll do what I can and what I can’t do I won’t do. And thank you  very much for the emails (sorry I couldn’t let you know where I was).

 

 

P.S. What have I missed? Any good gossip?

 

 

 

Where Did Lottie Find The Fucker? Under A Bleeding Heart?

 

knock knock

knock knock

 

‘Aha,’ I thought, ‘that’s a BERSERKER knock,’ so I went to the door to play the game I like playing with them.

 

knock knock

WHO’S THERE?‘ (it was me who said that).

but instead of hearing a little voice squeaking, ‘Pothtman Pat!’ I heard a little voice squeak ‘timothy.’

‘FUCK OFF! GO AWAY!’

 

But he wouldn’t go away, he kept knocking his weak little girly knock on my back door –

knock knock …….

knock knock …….

which hurt my ears the more he did it because even though I recognised it as a quiet little knock knock which wouldn’t be loud to others (hyperacusis brain retraining!! and tinnitus brain retraining! It’s amazing what they can do nowadays) to me it still sounded louder than the KNOCK OF THOR -

KNOCK KNOCK

KNOCK KNOCK

so when I reached the point where I couldn’t stand it any more I opened the door and shouted, ‘WHAT?’

‘Hello.’

‘FUCK OFF. WHAT DO YOU WANT?

‘I’ve brought some leaflets to show you.’

‘Eh?’

‘Can I come in? I’d like to show you what they’re all about. They’re very interesting,’ he said, and I was so stunned and confused and boggly-brained that when he stepped forward I automatically stepped back without thinking - and in he came.

‘Wipe your sandals,’ I mumbled.

He went straight over to the kitchen table. He pulled out a chair as he said, ‘May I?’ and even though I didn’t say yay or nay or how’s your father, he sat down.

Then he said, ‘Come and sit with me.’

NO.’ Like fuck I was going to sit next to him – though I don’t know why I bothered standing as close to the open back door as I did, if he’d started attacking me I couldn’t have RUN OUTSIDE, could I?

‘What do you want?’ I asked.

‘A green tea, please.’

Cheeky bastard.

‘What do you WANT?‘ I repeated.

‘Well now. I came to show you these,’ and he started flapping the leaflets at me.

‘Leave them there.’ I pointed at the table. ‘You can go now.’

‘No.’

That was it –

PANIC ATTACK, PANIC ATTACK, PANIC ATTACK, GET OUT, GET OUT, GET OFF ME, GET OFF ME and whatever else I screamed at him, because he came over and TOUCHED MY SHOULDERS and pulled me forward so I was bent in two and he kept saying ‘ Breathe, breathe, breathe, slow, slow,’ and as the PANIC ATTACK started to ease he said ‘You’re fine, you’re fine, it was only a panic attack,’  – and it might ONLY have been a panic attack to him but I think I changed his mind on the ‘only’ when I spewed up all over his nasty sandalled feet – ‘oo! oo! My feet! oo! oo!’ he said, and he shuffled himself out of the door and into the garden and the second he was through the door I slammed it shut and locked it and bolted it and clipped all the padlocks into place, then I ran to the window to see if he’d gone but he hadn’t, he was in my back garden standing on one nasty sandalled foot WITH THE OTHER NASTY SANDALLED FOOT RAISED AND ABOUT TO GO INTO MY FISH POND THAT ISN’T A POND IT’S HALF A WHISKEY BARREL.

‘MY FUCKING FISHES!!!!’ I screamed and I BANG-BANG-BANGED on the window but he ignored me so I ran upstairs to the spare bedroom and opened the window and he was STILL KILLING MY FISHES so I looked round for something to throw at him but I couldn’t see anything throwable, my collections in that room are PRECIOUS, but my sniper rifle was propped up against my elephant’s foot umbrella stand and I knew it was loaded because what’s the point of having a sniper rifle if it isn’t ready to use when you need it?

So I shot him. But I didn’t shoot him in the head, I shot him in the arse-cheek because the way he was balanced, one nasty sandalled foot on the ground, the other KILLING MY FISHES, his arse presented the best target. He fell over, backwards, into my creamy-flowered Potentilla. No scream, they only sound that came out of him was a weird little ‘ooooo.’ But who says ‘ooooo’ when they’ve been shot in the arse? I’ve never known anyone to say ‘ooooo’ when they’ve been shot in the arse, they usually scream blue murder  – I had one bloke (a cold-caller – energy suppliers) who wouldn’t stop screaming, ‘MURDER-MURDER-MURDER-MURDER,’ till the ambulance came and took him away.

I rang the Big Chief Inspector and told him to add timothy to my tally and to tell his 999 operators to ignore any calls from or regarding him – I didn’t want the nuisance of the Armed Dibble Unit and the megaphones again (the brain retraining hasn’t covered police megaphones yet), and nosey neighbours who want to know why they’ve been evacuated off the street. The Big Chief Inspector asked if I was okay and I said, ‘I am now,’ and he said, ‘That’s all right then. Don’t worry yourself any further, Dotty dear, I’ll sort it all out at this end. Go and have a lie down.’

So I did have a lie down. And I had a little sleep. And when I woke up and looked out of the spare bedroom window, timothy was gone and I could see down into the whiskey barrel where my two fishes were swimming around like nothing happened, and when I looked at them through my binoculars they seemed as happy as fishes can be. Bless their little golden fins.

 

 

Lottie Is Going Dotty And Dotty Is Having A Bouncy Week

 

So this last week or so has been UP UP UP UP UP which is why I haven’t been around much and why I haven’t read many of your blogs and why I had FIVE HUNDRED AND EIGHTY EIGHT unopened emails in my inbox this morning, and that’s not counting the post notifications I’ve already opened even though I didn’t visit the blogs to read the rest of the posts, but fuckitty-doo, I’ll get round to sorting them out at some point and I’ll get round to reading your blogs at some point too, probably a month late on the posts by the time I do read them.

Anyway, back to what  I  was saying – I haven’t had a bouncy week for AGES and this week’s been very bouncy, I’ve been online shopping, I’ve been outside shopping, I’ve been making wishlists for when I next go shopping, and I’ve had some parties and I made a new blog, and Branwell asked me to marry him, and THE BERSERKERS did nine little dances for me and the youngest BERSERKER broke her wrist when I got her to do the splits on top of my clothes-horse but I drew a picture of Winnie-the-Shite on her cast so she’s happy as diddly-dum and she can still dance.

Remember how Lottie divorced Fat-Fuck when she found out he was shagging some bewer from work? Well get this – Lottie’s got a new a boyfriend. He’s called timothy. Says it all, doesn’t it? I know people can’t help their names but if I was called timothy I’d shorten it and replace the ‘i’ with an ‘o’ or better still I’d give myself a nickname like MAN or BAD BASTARD or FUCKING NUTTER WHO’LL KNOCK TEN BELLS OUT OF YOU IF YOU EVER CALL ME A WUSS AGAIN.

Lottie calls him timmy and just writing it has nearly made me heave up the Cumberland sausage sandwiches I had for my dinner. When she brought him round I couldn’t help myself, I blurted out, ‘OH MY FUCKING GRANNY’S GUMS, what the fuck are you doing with a plonker like him?’

And she said, ‘Do you know what you are, Dotty? A nasty bitch.’

And I said, ‘Yep, that’s true. And you’ll do well to remember it because if you bring that streak of piss to my house again I’ll BATTER HIM. And I’ll batter YOU for having him as a boyfriend.’

I made him stand outside the back door while we had our APPLE PARTY (I got THE BERSERKERS to pick all my apples before they rot off) because he looks like Nicholas Lyndhurst as Uriah Heep except he was wearing sandals and combat shorts and a t-shirt that said ‘FREE EVERYONE’ and he scares the bejesus out of me. 

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Lottie’s new boyfriend,      timothy the creepy fucker.

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Guess what he does for a job? Go on, guess.

NO, you’re WRONG, he’s not an accountant, he’s a fucking SOCIAL WORKER. To be sociable I asked him ‘So how many kids have you snatched away from their families, then?’ and do you know what the fucker did? He SMILED at me, one of those smirky, patronising LIBERAL smiles that make you want to SAW THE FACE OFF the bastard but because THE BERSERKERS were there I didn’t saw his face off, I just gobbed in his cup of tea (TEA!! when there’s ABSINTHE to drink!!!) and squirted a bit of Mr Muscle Drain Cleaning Foam into the fresh cream in his elephant foot bun.

‘You can’t be serious about him,’ I said to Lottie when he’d skipped off down the garden to help THE BERSERKERS carry the apple basket.

‘Why? Stop being so horrible to him,’ she said.

‘I can’t help it.’

‘He’s done nothing wrong.’

‘Yes he has. He’s got a name that doesn’t deserve a capital letter. And he’s scary. And he’s a social worker. And if you end up marrying him and having his babies he’ll want to give them names like Inigo and Milo and Nimrod and Rupert and Cosmo and Arlo and Jago and Barnaby and if it’s a girl he’ll want to call it Jocasta or Florence or Clarissa or Clementine or Philippa or Cressida or Octavia or… ‘

‘SHUT UP.’

‘Oooooooooooooooo. We’re a bit touchy today, aren’t we? Wedding jitters?’

And she starts yapping on about how she hasn’t been seeing him for long so I shouldn’t even MENTION marriage or I’ll scare him off and she really, really likes him and the girls really, really like him and he’s the best thing that’s happened to her for YEARS, in fact the best thing that’s EVER happened to her, and she thinks she doesn’t just LIKE him, she thinks she LOVES him and she never thought she’d find love again, and if I do anything to spoil it she won’t speak to me for the rest of her life (tempting, that one).

So I promised I’ll be nice to him. And I tried (honest), but when Lottie went upstairs to the loo and I was standing at the back door with my ciggie and I asked him if I could be a bridesmaid because Lottie’s booked the church for next week, he SMILED at me again and he said, ‘Can I just say something, Dotty? Quite a few of my clients have mental health differences. I understand what you’re going through. You’re so brave.’ 

?

?

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Brave?

Understand?

‘UNDERSTAND AND BRAVE THIS, YOU MIDDLE CLASS TOFU-SUCKING ECO-ARSED TWAT,’ and I kicked him in the goolies and hissy-whispered, ‘Now FUCK OFF and don’t come back,’ and he did, he looked up at me from his kicked-in-the-goolies bent double on the ground position like I was the most pitiful thing he’d ever seen, then he got himself up off the ground and he fucked off, not very quickly, he was hobbling and holding his groin. No dignity.

And when Lottie came downstairs and saw he wasn’t there she also looked at me, and she looked at me, and she looked at me, and she looked at me, and then, without saying a word, she went into the garden, got THE BERSERKERS, and they all fucked off too – WITHOUT BRINGING THE REST OF THE APPLES IN so now half my apples are rotting on the tree and I don’t have enough to make all the apple sauce and apple pies I usually make.

I’ll have to go now, I want to write a letter of complaint to Social Services about granola-tim to tell them how he called me a FUCKING PSYCHO and a MENTAL BASTARD and a LOONY and a WINDOW LICKER and SPECIAL. Not that it would bother me if he had, but it’ll bother THEM - when they get my letter they’ll all fall down in a weeping heap, wringing their hands and crying ‘How could he? How could he?’ and he’ll be sacked from his job and all he’ll have to live on are the ten bags of muesli he received as last month’s salary.

Don’t mess with Dotty, timothy. You’ll never win.

 

Shitey Sunday Picture Post – Fluffy Puffy Clouds (and a CLOUDY CAPTION COMPETITION)

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CLOUDY CAPTION COMPETITION

(which disappeared the first time I posted it)

Put a caption on the cloud men picture to win nothing but the pleasure

of knowing you’re the best CLOUDY CAPTION WINNER ever.

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Bish Bash Bosh – I’ve Run Out Of Dosh

 

Guess what I’ve been doing?

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

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

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

YEEE-HAA! 

 

 

RANT RANT RANT RANT RANT RANT RANT – And More RANT

 

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

 Nice Dotty.

Mild Dotty.

TAME Dotty.

 

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

Why Is Life So Cruel To Me? Why? Why? What Have I Done That’s SO Wrong?

 

I’ve got pins and needles in my foot - I was sitting in a funny position and I didn’t feel it going numb, I didn’t know anything was wrong but then I stood up quickly and OUCHFUCKINGHELL—- TIMBER I fell down on the floor and walloped the top of my arm on the coffee table, just above my elbow, and then the PINS AND NEEDLES started and I hopped around the room going AH AH AH AH FUCK AH AH AH but my foot kept touching the floor because I can’t hop, I’m not a fucking RABBIT, so I sat down on the stairs and tried thumping my calf but that didn’t work, so I hopped into the kitchen to get my brick and I sat on the kitchen chair and bent down and slam-slam-slam-slammed my brick on my foot, but that didn’t work either because it’s not a PINS AND NEEDLES IN MY FOOT brick, it’s a HEAD-SHAPED brick for HEADBANGING so I don’t know why I thought it would work in the first place but PINS AND NEEDLES make you DESPERATE and you’ll do anything to get rid of them because do you know what it feels like to have PINS AND NEEDLES? I’ll tell you what it feels like - it feels like you’re being stabbed with JAZILLIONS of mini PINS and NEEDLES, that’s what it feels like, and it’s HORRIBLE so because I couldn’t think of anything else to do I thought ‘Dotty, distract yourself and they’ll go away,’ so I came to do a post about it to distract myself until they go away.

Wait a minute…

 

 

 

Yep, they’ve gone now.

 

 

Guess Who’s Coming To My House This Afternoon?

 

Last night I was bored and lonely again so I got my Ouija board out, hoping for a nice chat with someone interesting. Did I get a nice chat with someone interesting? Did I fuck. I never seem to get anyone interesting – the other night (Sunday, I think), I was talking to a woman from Jarrow, a seamstress who went on and on about sewing and all things to do with sewing – stitches, seams, pleats, materials, threads, needles, thimbles, tape measures, scissors, eyesight, bleeding fingers, the price of candles. NOTHING ELSE. She didn’t even tell me her name. And she began every sentence with “Eeeee, pet,” which is fine when you’re SPEAKING or TYPING it but spelling out each letter of “Eeeee pet,” when the glass has to return to the centre between letters and you haven’t even started your sentence yet is BEYOND BORING for the person at the other end (ME).

I wanted to talk to someone WITH SOMETHING TO SAY. But I always get boring people.

WHY DO I ALWAYS GET BORING PEOPLE?

Where are the FIRST DINOSAUR DIGGER-OUTERS? MARY? GIDEON? RICHARD? What are you doing, why won’t you talk to me?

Where are the people who know my future? MOTHER SHIPTON, COME OUT, COME OUT, WHERE EVER YOU ARE!!

Or a good headshrinker (not Freud)?

Or a maths genius who can work out the winning lottery numbers for next week?

Fuck knows where they are, all I know is THEY’RE NOT ON MY OUIJA BOARD.

So who did I end up talking to out of ALL THE DEAD PEOPLE IN DEAD PEOPLE WORLD?

Little Emily, that’s who. She started fucking about with the glass before I’d placed all the letters out.

D

centre

O

centre

T

centre

T

centre

Y

centre

I

centre

T

centre

S

centre

E

centre

M

centre

I

centre

L

centre

Y

centre

and then she moaned for 40 minutes because she couldn’t find an apostrophe (I lost it one night after a conversation with Barbara Taylor Bradford).

While she was moaning about the missing apostrophe, I was puzzling over WHY she was talking to me through the Ouija board. She only lives up the road, the lazy cow, she could have walked down to see me like she always did before she turned into a TRAITOR and went off with that zombie dog-fuck, Kumblant.  I knew she wasn’t ill again, and I knew she wasn’t dead (well, no more dead than she already is) because Branwell would have told me, so it wasn’t that she was UNABLE to come to my house to talk to me - obviously she didn’t WANT to. So why was she hijacking my Ouija board?

I slapped my hand on the arse of the glass to stop her apostrophe whinge.

WHY ARE YOU HIJACKING MY OUIJA BOARD? I asked.

I WANT TO SPEAK TO YOU.

COME AND SEE ME TOMORROW AFTERNOON. 

WILL I BE WELCOME IN YOUR HOUSE?

NOT REALLY BUT TONIGHT I WANT TO TALK TO SOMEBODY WHO ISNT YOU.

EXPECT ME AT THREE OCLOCK.

ALL RIGHT. FUCK OFF NOW. 

AS YOU WISH. GOODNIGHT DOTTY MY DEAR FRIEND.

DEAR FRIEND? 

But she had gone. AND it was too late to start talking to anyone else so I put the Ouija board away, had a few Cumberland sausages for my supper, went for a wee and a wash, brushed my teeth and went to bed.

 

 

She’ll be here in just over an hour and I don’t know what she wants. I spent the morning trying to stay calm but after I’d had my dinner (Cumberland sausage sandwiches so the smell will linger and she’ll realise what she’s been missing) I had a little panic attack, then another, then another, then another, then another, then another. And I can feel another one coming on now so I’m going to crush up a packet of beta-blockers and stir them into a glass of laudanum then hopefully I’ll be able to cope with her when she arrives.

I’ll let you know what happens.

 

 

Shitey Sunday Picture Post – Inspirational Wordy Posters

 

Today’s Shitey Sunday Picture Post doesn’t have many pictures because I’m too lazy to go looking for proper Shitey Sunday Picture Post pictures today so I thought I’d make a post out of some of the nice little wordy posters I’ve collected. I don’t even have to comment on them because THEY’RE MADE OF WORDS!

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A Shitey Poem For Shitey Saturday – The Stolen Shoes

 

The Stolen Shoes

 

When I escaped from the mental hospital

I stole a pair of shoes,

pretty shoes,

prettier than my own black institutional uglies.

The stolen shoes were white and unworn,

immaculate, clean, soft leather mysteries,

with golden eyelets

threaded through with blue ribbons for laces.

They belonged to Mary, Mother of God,

who slept in the bed next to mine

and woke me in the night with her snoring. 

She was an odd one. 

She wrapped beads round her left thigh, like a bride’s garter,

and draped an old scrap of lace over her head for a veil.

I don’t know why she did this;

she had never been married – she hadn’t even kissed a man –

she was sectioned when she was ten.

At the dinner table she whispered Hail Marys to herself

as her porridge, or her lamb stew, or her custard 

dribbled onto her blouse.

Once, she stole all the pears and hid them in her locker -  

the ward stank but it took days for the nurses to find out

where the smell was coming from.

 

Every Friday morning, before breakfast,  

the stolen shoes were brought out and laid on her bed.

She looked at them for a short while then put them away.

Every Friday morning without fail.  

I don’t think she noticed me looking at them too.

 

The stolen shoes didn’t get me very far;

I put them on before I climbed out of the window  

and ran as fast as I could across the grass, 

but they were too small – or my feet were too big -

the soles split when I reached the wall

and started to climb the ladder I had bribed the gardener to place there for me.

I nearly cried when I had to leave those shoes behind in the rose bed. 

 

 

Hello, My Little Chickadumplings

 

I’m back.

Where have I been? Nowhere.

What have I been doing? I’ve been learning to fly. And I’ve finally mastered it.

I CAN FLY.

Not outside (because I have HERMITITIS and PEOPLE PHOBIA) but round the house from the living room to the bathroom, from the bathroom to the kitchen, from the kitchen back to the living room. Round and round, up and down, back and forward.

WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.

And I did it all by myself. I self-taught myself to FLY and even a BIRD doesn’t teach itself how to fly, its mum or dad teaches it. And I didn’t even use a FLYING MANUAL.

I started in my bedroom – top of the wardrobe to the bed (soft landing except for the big brass balls on each end of the footrail but they’re balls, they only leave bruises). The trick to flying is DO NOT JUMP because jumping is FUTILE, it has nothing to do with flying EXCEPT IF YOU’RE A HARRIER JUMP JET which I’m not. You have to keep in mind that what goes up must come DOWN even faster than when it went UP (this is some sort of science and physics gobbledy-shite to do with GRAVITY that I don’t understand but the SCIENCE BOFFINS can tell you all about it if you really want to know).

No, you mustn’t jump – what you do is you SPRING. From a crouching position on top of the wardrobe you do a little SPRING (from your ankles) and as you spring into the air you flap your arms SLOWLY (this is the mistake everyone makes – they flap-flap-flap like fuckers but FLAPPING LIKE A FUCKER DOESN’T WORK FOR HUMANS) and after the first eight hundred or so times you should start to feel a LIFT into the air instead of feeling a DROP, well not exactly a LIFT but something like a lift, it’s a strange feeling that’s hard to explain to someone who’s never flown before – but don’t worry, if you ever master flying like I have you’ll know what I mean. And then, once you get this LIFT feeling EVERY SINGLE time you spring from the top of the wardrobe to the bed, and once you’ve mastered the correct speed to flap your arms – suddenly, unexpectedly, IT WILL ALL FALL INTO PLACE AND YOU’LL BE FLYING.

Practice, practice, practice – and PERSEVERANCE. That’s why humans aren’t flying all over the place, not because they CAN’T FLY, it’s because they’re TOO LAZY to put in the time required to LEARN HOW TO FLY.

Word of warning – if you’re learning how to fly in your bedroom BE CAREFUL OF YOUR SPEED OR YOU’LL CRASH INTO THE BIG BIT OF WALL ABOVE YOUR BED AND KNOCK YOURSELF OUT AND WAKE UP WITH YOUR PILLOW SOAKED IN BLOOD THAT SPURTED FROM YOUR SPLIT LIP WHEN YOUR TOP FRONT TEETH BIT INTO IT, AND YOUR NOSE WILL HURT LIKE IT’S BROKEN (IT’S NOT, IT’S SWOLLEN BUT STRAIGHT) AND YOU’LL HAVE TWO BIG BLACK EYES BECAUSE YOUR FACE HIT THE WALL FIRST, AND YOU WON’T KNOW IF YOUR LEFT WRIST IS BROKEN OR JUST SPRAINED BUT YOU STILL HAVEN’T GOT AN X-RAY MACHINE OF YOUR OWN YET TO FIND OUT BECAUSE THE DONATIONS HAVE DRIED UP AND NO ONE WILL BUY YOU ONE. AND YOU’LL HAVE A TWISTED KNEE.

But whatever pain you’re in, whatever injuries you sustain, whatever you break, sprain, bruise, cut or twist – IT’S ALL WORTH IT. It’s like childbirth or falling off a horse or a bike – you forget the agony and do it again because what it gives you in the long run is FREEDOM.

(NB – Having a baby doesn’t give you freedom, I just added the childbirth bit to show you how PAINFUL learning to fly can be).

 

 

So now I have to catch up on answering a big pile of comments and reading OVER 600 POST NOTIFICATION EMAILS (oh fuck) because I didn’t come online AT ALL during my learning to fly days because I didn’t want to lose focus but now everyone’s been posting like POSTING FUCKERS - (what happened to the QUIET POSTING PERIOD)? I thought I’d found a way to strap my laptop onto the front of me so that when I’m flying round the house I can still READ YOUR BLOGS and click LIKE and DO A COMMENT - but it doesn’t work because I forgot I NEED MY ARMS TO FLY WITH.

And I forgot to do the Big Blog weekly stats thing before I started learning how to fly – I was keeping up to them too, I was doing them every Monday (almost, I was only a day late last week, I did them on Tuesday). So I’ve fucked that one up good and proper, haven’t I?

Oh well. Never mind.

I CAN FLY.

 

 

 

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

 

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

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

How?

What?

Why?

Where?

When?

 

 

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

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

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

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

 

And all you’re able to think then is -

?

 

?

?

Dotty Has A Revealing Revelation

 

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

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

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

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

What does it all mean?

I don’t fucking know.

 

 

 

101 Handy Useful Household Things To Make With Cornflakes

 

Don’t be daft, why would I do a post about 101 Handy Useful Household Things To Make With Cornflakes when you can’t make ANYTHING useful with cornflakes, they’re too flakey? That’s why they’re called CornFLAKES. If they weren’t too flakey they’d be called CornLUMPS.

I like eating Cornflakes at night. When I tell people I like eating Cornflakes at night they go, “UURR, that’s WRONG – cereal is for BREAKFAST.”

Says who?

Idiots, that’s who. They’re the type of people who have never experienced the delight, the joy, the sheer and utter RAPTURE of emptying a box of Cornflakes out onto the kitchen floor and DANCING IN THEM UNTIL THE CRUNCH HAS STOPPED.

They’re the type of people who would never consider THE HILARIOUS TRICKS you can play with Cornflakes, like stuffing a big handful down the back of your brother’s pants while he’s in the kitchen pouring his new girlfriend a glass of Diet Coke, or stuffing them down your colleague’s carefully sculpted cleavage as she’s running out of the room to make it to her promotion interview. Or putting some in your Granny’s cup of tea so that when she’s tipping her head back to drain the dregs THE SOGGY CORNFLAKES FALL ONTO HER FACE and make her scream and throw the cup at your mother. (When they get wise to the Cornflakes in the tea trick and start hiding the Cornflakes, use a chunk of Steak and Kidney Pie instead- it’s heavier than Cornflakes so it hits the face sooner, usually well before half the tea is drunk so you get to see THE MOUTHFUL OF LUMPY TEA SPLUTTERED ALL OVER THE PLACE and A FUNNY LITTLE DANCE WHEN THE STEAK AND KIDNEY PIE FALLS ONTO THEIR LAP). NB. It might be a good idea to learn how to do the Heimlich manoeuvre or you’ll get all the blame if a choking situation goes wrong. 

They’re the type of people who will never put on a production of CORNFLAKE HEDDA GABLER.

They’re the type of people who have never seen JESUS in a Cornflake.

They’re the type of people who have never seen ABADDON THE DESTROYER, THE ANGEL OF THE BOTTOMLESS PIT in a Cornflake.

They’re the type of people who have never asked a Cornflake ‘HOW ARE YOU FEELING TODAY?’

They’re the type of people who PUT SUGAR ON THEIR CORNFLAKES WHEN THEY EAT THEM IN THE MORNING and also PUT SUGAR ON THEIR PORRIDGE if they have porridge instead of Cornflakes. In the morning.

SUGAR ON PORRIDGE IS DISGUSTING AND NASTY.

SALT goes on porridge. SALT. Nothing else.

They’re the type of people who NEVER have WORDY BLOCK, and if they ever DID have WORDY BLOCK they wouldn’t know how to try and bulldoze their way out of it with a shitey post about CORNFLAKES.

 

465 words. I need to do 500 or I can’t have my Cumberland sausages which are PROPER BREAKFAST FOOD, not SNACK FOOD FOR NIGHT-TIME which is what Cornflakes are.

 

HALLE-FUCKING-LUJAH!

500 WORDS.

BOSH!

 

 

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

Suspicious Things Happening On My Street

 

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

 

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

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

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

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

 

Where’s My Fucking Badge?

 

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

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

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

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

 

*

*

HELLO! CAN ANYBODY HEAR ME?

 

These are the floorboards I’m hiding under.

They’re made of wood.

Wood gives you SKELFS.

*

*

This is one of my suits of armour.

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

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

against not only SKELFS but SPIDERS and OTHER NASTY THINGS

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

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

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

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

maybe I SHOULD have worn chain mail.

Fuck.

Oh well, it’s too late now.

Can someone pass me a Cumberland sausage sandwich, please?

*

*

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

 

 

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

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

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

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

 

When they start every sentence with

“Generally…”

except people mistake it for ‘genuinely’

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

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

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

ARSEWIPES.

 

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

“You’ve earnt…

EARNT?

EARNT?

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

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

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

 

 

I feel much better now.

 

 

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

 

 

 

 

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

FUCKING

MORTIFIED

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

 

 

Happy 5th July To All Americans

 

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

SIMON FUCK-FACE COWELL

 

or GORDON PLASTIC-FACE RAMSAY

 

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

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

Deal??

(you know you want to).

 

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

 

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

WAKE UP BRANWELL!!

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

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

Earplugs.

BANGBANGBANGBANG

fucking hell, these earplugs are shite.

 

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

BRANWELL!!

Nope, nothing.

 

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

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

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

eeeeeeewwwwww! His eyeball looks like a DEAD FISH EYE!

 

Bollocks. What am I going to tell little Emily?

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

Uh-uh, I don’t think so.

 

I know, I’ll sing him a song.

The Lion Sleeps Tonight?

A-WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

A-WEEE, A-WEEE

A-WIMOWEH

Fucking neighbours. STOP BANGING. FUCK OFF.

 

A hymn – that should annoy him. 

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

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

KUM-BAH-YA M’Lord, KUM-BAH-YA

KUM-BAH-YA M’Lord, KUM-BAH-YA

KUM-BAH-YA M’Lord, KUM-BAH-YA

WOOOAAAHH LOOORRD KUM-BAH-YA

 

Aha! That did it, he’s shuddering!

BRANWELL, YOUR DAD’S HERE!

HA HA HA HA HA HA

 

 

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

 

 

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

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

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

Why did he ask me that?

 

 

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

 

The Job – Clean EVERYTHING.

Location – My house.

Hours – As many as you want.

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

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

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

 

 

Dotty Has Been Asleep But Now She Awakens…

 

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

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

 

 

Hi Di Hi Campers!

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.

 

 

 

Thank You – The New Blog Is On A Little Roll, Yee Ha!

 

A big thank you to those of you who’ve followed and posted your links on the new blog. So far the category with the most views is Humour/Satire, closely followed by British (YAY!) and Art/Photography.

This afternoon my internet fucked up for about an hour. I had a panic attack – what will I DO if I can’t get online? How will I survive? Talking about survival I almost died a little while ago – I swallowed a HAIR, I don’t know how the fuck I did it – well I do know, it got into my GLASS OF DIET COKE and I didn’t see it and then I swallowed it – and it WRAPPED AROUND MY TONSILS and nearly strangled them and while I was hacking and coughing trying to get it out I was also gipping and gagging because it was a fucking dirty HAIR in my throat. BLEEEUUUUAAARRGGH!

 

Anyway, who hasn’t been to the new blog yet?

Go and see it. Go on. You can add your link.

 

 

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

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

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Dotty Does It Again – Dibble Defeated

 

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

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

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

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

RESULT

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

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

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

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

BOSH!

DOTTY WINS AGAIN.

NO ONE BEATS DOTTY.

 

 

Dottygeddon – The Aftermath

 

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

Dibble

Fire Brigade

Ambulance

jags in the arse

home

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

 

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

 

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

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

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

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

 

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

 

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

1 – all my windows are intact

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

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

4 – I had a good, long sleep.

 

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

 

 

DOTTYGEDDON

 

Today I am practising POSITIVITY and SELF-CONTROL.

I am controlling myself and I am being positive.

 

 

Yes.

 

I am.

 

 

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

 

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

Today I will be THE MODEL OF SERENITY.

 

 

Yes.

 

 

I did a positive thought to negate some negative thoughts –

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

but

at least I don’t have claustrophobia.

 

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

 

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

 

My brick is my best friend.

My brick is my best friend.

My brick is my best friend.

My brick is my best friend.

My brick is my best friend.

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

My brick is my best friend.

My brick is my best friend.

My brick is my best friend.

My brick is my best friend.

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

My brick is my best friend.

My brick

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

 

 

 

 

My br

 

 

 

*

 

 

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

 

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

 

 

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

 

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

MEAT (the Atkins Diet)

PORRIDGE (the calorie-counting Diet) 

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

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

some MUESLI (the Boring Fuckers Healthy Eating Diet)

some SPECIAL K (the Special K 2 weeks Diet)

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

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

 

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

 

 

I’m Fucking Starving

 

I could eat my legs. Raw.

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

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

I hope I don’t eat my bedroom.

 

A Boring Dotty Update On Boring Dotty

 

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

 

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

1.  I didn’t see Venus, I saw clouds.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

 

Wanky Wednesday One Word Post

 

 

shite

 

 

 

 

A Dotty Analysis Of Hypomania 1:1

 

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

 

HYPOMANIA AND HOW IT CAN MANIFEST ITSELF

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hyporainia — Dancing in the rain.

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

HypotrainiaCHOO CHOO!

Hypodrainia — absolutely fucking knackered.

 

 

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

 

Dotty Was Nearly GASSED And BLOWN TO BITS…

 

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

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

So now I’ve NO GAS.

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

Customer care, my arse. More like Customer MURDER.

 

 

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

 

Shitey Sunday Sausage Picture Post

Cumberland Sausages. Did you know I love them?

I can spell my favourite words with them.

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

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

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

so I applied for this job and got it -

Hip hip hooray

A Cumberland sausage a day

Will keep the mentals away

Oh happy happy day

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

 

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

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

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

 

TACTICAL SKELF SUCKING

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

1.  CLOSE your mouth and pucker your lips

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

FINGERNAILS, TEETH AND TWEEZERS

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

 

 

THE SAFETY PIN METHOD

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

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

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

 

A LEECH

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

 

STANLEY KNIFE

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

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

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

 

 

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

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

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

 

 

Have a nice weekend, everybody.

 

 

Dotty v Blog – Round 1 (DING-DING)

 

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

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

‘Eh? What are on you about?’

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

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

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

‘Are you kidding me?’

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

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

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

‘So you’re blackmailing me?’

‘Yes.’

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

‘Right. Good. You fuck off as well.’

So I did.

 

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

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

PEOPLE OF WALMART

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘PLEASE??

‘Where’s my apology?’

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

 

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

 

Dotty Has A Nice Day Despite The Stinky Bog Smell

 

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

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

‘I stepped in a bog.’

‘Fuck off. You stink!’

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

‘No!’

‘Please?’

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

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

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

Five minutes later her shout nearly split my ears open.

‘DOTTEEEEEEEEE!’

I went to the back door. ‘WHAT?’

‘YOU HAVE GIVEN ME BREECHES!’

‘THEY’RE COMBAT PANTS. PUT THEM ON.’

‘NO! I REFUSE!’

‘WELL YOU’LL HAVE TO GO HOME THEN.’

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

‘Woah, Neddy! Slow down!’

‘Was I seen? Did anyone see me?’

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

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

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

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

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

Kumblant. I’d forgotten he was coming.

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

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

‘Hello, Kumblant,’ I said.

‘Hello.’

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

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

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

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

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

‘Yes.’

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

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

‘May I offer you a bonbon?’

‘What is bonbon?’

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

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

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

And he did.

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

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

 

 

Dotty Had A Visitor This Morning

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hmmmm.

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

 

 

 

Dotty The Mental Bitch – Ignorant Selfish Bastard Bloggers

 

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

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

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

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

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

which leads to –

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

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

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

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

 

AAAAAAARRRRRRGGGGGHHHHH!!

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

 

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

 

 

 

 

Do you?

 

 

 

 

 

 

I know how to.

 

 

 

 

 

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

Do you want me to tell you?

 

 

 

 

Or are you okay as you are?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Have you sorted it out?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Do you always remember to untick the box?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

HA HA

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Okay, enough tormenting.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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

‘MANAGE EMAIL DELIVERY SETTINGS’

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

 

 

Don’t all thank me at once.

 

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

 

 

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

 

The Shitey Sunday Dotty Picture Post – # 1

 

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

What is it about Sundays that makes them so shitey?

Here’s a picture of a pigowl.

He’s lovely, isn’t he?

I don’t like his glasses though.

He should have gone to SpecSaver.

TWIT TWOOOOOOOIINNK
TWIT TWOOOOOOOIINNK

An Unpoetic Woman Unpoetically Scorned

 

Up your arse stick your flowery words

and thorny red roses

in a bunch, up your bum.

I’m no longer your wife, your wench,

your skivvy, your drudge;

twenty three years thrown aside,

cast away – for what?

Some dirty young slut.

 

Your ego, your death-fear,

it’s all about you

YOU YOU YOU

you middle-aged twat;

mourning the grey, the droop, the sag,

and those fucking great bags round your eyes –

they cannot lie.

 

Plead a little more, bastard.

Listening? Me? Not a chance,

not a hope in the belly of Hell.

Crawl, you creep,

beg, whimper, whine,

weep me your vows, your promises -

I’ve heard it all before, remember.

 

Why are you here again,

howling your sorrys?

Didn’t you hear me the first fifteen times?

Get it through your head -

you left me, you lost me, 

you shagged us stone dead.

 

Now – now I am ME, free, 

I’ll do as I please,

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

AHA! That look on your face!

I see it, I do!

Ownership.

Jealousy wants me under you, (lying bored),

but acting isn’t my job any more.

 

Leave me alone, now. 

Fuck off.

Go away and rot.

Stick up your arse all your lies and deceits,

up up up

right the way up through your shrivelled old colon,

all the way up through your gutless old guts,

up up up

till they choke you, you cheat -

as one day they assuredly must.

 

 

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