Hello, Hello, Hellooooooooo…

 

 

This is Planet Dotty calling Planet Blog. Come in, Blog! It’s me, Dotty!!!!

Does anyone remember me? How long have I been gone? A long, long, long, long time. Many moons. Many suns. Many Cumberland sausages.

Where have I been? What have I been doing? You can make your selection from the following options …

 

 

OPTIONS

1. I’ve been without internet. Wireless-less because I couldn’t afford the bill and the phone fuckers cut me off until I paid up.

 

2. My ears got so bad that I REALLY REALLY couldn’t stand the noise of my laptop so I jumped on it and jumped on it until it was properly dead and I didn’t buy a new one until my lovely, lovely Audiologist sorted me out with gadgets and gizmos that are starting to make an IMPROVEMENT.

 

3. I fell into a catatonic comma – , – which was roomier than a full stop – . – but not as spacious as a question mark – ? – .

 

4. My brain collapsed and my head fell off.

 

5. I finished my novel, got myself an agent, got myself a publisher, went on a book launch tour and subsequently made a HUGE wodge of dosh that I invested in Cumberland sausages and now I’m living the high life and never have to worry about money EVER AGAIN and I’ve come back to my blog to BRAG ABOUT IT TO Y’ALL.

 

6.  I married Branwell.

 

7. I was abducted by aliens who identified me as the most intelligent life form on Earth. They were correct.

 

8.  I’ve become SANE (and if you believe that, you’ll believe anything).

 

9. I did a little murder.

 

10.  I was trapped in my tumble dryer (again).

 

11.  The MOST HOLY AND BLESSED CHURCH OF THE MOST HOLY AND BLESSED CUMBERLAND SAUSAGE made me its POPE and now I’m responsible for the spiritual and sausagal guidance of MILLIONS of people.

 

12.  I’ve become an animal lover and opened up my home to abandoned and homeless furry fucks.

 

13.  I’ve been learning to play Eine Kleine Nachtmusik with my forehead.

 

14. I’ve been helping with the BABY who has come to live with me, (don’t worry, he’s not mine – his mum lives here too but more about that later).

 

15. One of the above.

 

16.  Some of the above.

 

17. All of the above.

 

18.  None of the above.

 

 

Answers on a postcard, please.

 

 

 

 

 

Dotty Weekly News

 

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

 

This is what’s happened in my week –

The death of an unliked relative.

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

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

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

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

 

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

 

 

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

 

 

 

 

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. 

*

Lottie’s new boyfriend,      timothy the creepy fucker.

*

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.’ 

?

?

?

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.

 

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! 

 

 

Ariel Washing Machine Tablets, I Love You, You Are Beautiful

 

Have you ever been suddenly stricken and over-awed by a thing that is TOO beautiful? A flower, a picture of the Universe, a book, a painting – something so intricate with colour and detail you almost can’t bear to look at it but do you DO look at it, you stare and stare and stare at it, out of time, out of reality, you want to EAT it, gobble it up, stuff yourself with it but you can only take so much, it’s like trying to wolf down three bars of the richest, silkiest chocolate, it’s TOO rich, you want to eat it all, you NEED to eat it all, but you can’t.

I didn’t eat my Ariel Washing Machine Tablets, I was just trying to give you an idea of what happened when I took them out of the packet to put in the washing machine this morning – I’ve never seen them looking so lovely, so perfectly formed, so FINE, with the little blue bits SHINING OUT OF THE WHITE like sapphires in snow – the blue bits glistened when I held one up to the light, mesmerising, like all the love in the world packed into a little tablet-shaped glory, a tiny universe of soap. I don’t know how they made something so beautiful out of POWDERS. I didn’t put them in the washing machine drawer, I couldn’t destroy them, the thought of them breaking into millions of pieces made me cry so I thought ‘What to do, what to do, I don’t want to be a MINGER,‘ so I squirted a bit of Fairy Washing Up Liquid in the washing machine drawer instead and added extra Lenor Conditioner (with Febreeze) so my clothes won’t smell like plates.

 

 

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.

 

 

Another Dotty Senryu – A Mental Writer’s Mental Lament

 

A Mental Writer’s Mental Lament

 

Being literate

is hard. Often, all I can

write is FUCK SHITE TWAT.

 

 

September, September – The Month Of Giving, And The Month Of Nine Months Of Blogging For Dotty, And It’s Nearly Christmas

 

It’s September. I’ve just noticed. Why does time go by so quickly in years and months but the minutes and hours and days just drag and drag and drag?

Anyway, hello September. It’s nice to see you again. I like your colours and your coolness and your promise of longer nights and shorter days and CHRISTMAS – I love Christmas when I’ve got the energy and the give-a-fuck (and the money) to love it and to do it all properly which I haven’t done for the last couple of years because of BEING MENTAL. I hope I’m not too mental for it this year.

September, September, September – I’ve been doing this blog for just short of nine months, the same amount of time it takes to grow a baby human. Is it a boy or a girl? Don’t be stupid, it’s not a BABY it’s a BLOG – so don’t rush out and start buying bonnets and bibs because THEY WON’T FIT, you’ll be wasting your money, you should spend it on presents for ME instead. But take note – I don’t want any of your PLASTIC TAT or NASTY PERFUMES, you should get me RUBIES, DIAMONDS, EMERALDS, PEARLS, SAPPHIRES (not OPALS, they’re unlucky), and BIG BOTTLES of COCO CHANEL (the only perfume I wear), or a new LAPTOP, or a new HOUSE, or you could just send me the money and I’ll choose my own presents so you don’t have to go to the bother of returning them when I open them up and shout “WHAT’S THIS FUCKING CHEAPCRACK SHITE SO-AND-SO HAS SENT ME?” and then I parcel it up again and send it back to you WITH NO STAMP ON IT.

And don’t be a meanie, don’t think I’ll be embarrassed by your generosity – yes I WILL be embarrassed but I’ll get over it, I have to learn to deal with negative emotions so the more generous you are the more you’ll be HELPING A MENTAL IN HER RECOVERY FROM HER MENTALNESS and if you’ve ANY COMPASSION IN YOU your reward will be a nice, warm, charitable glow in your benevolent little heart.

And it’ll be good practice for when Christmas comes and you have to GET ME MORE PRESENTS.

I like September.

 

 

Branwell To The Rescue – Manglebrain Is Back In The Sideboard

 

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

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

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

 

 

 

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

 

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

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

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

 

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

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

I EAT.

I EAT.

 

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

I don’t know what to do.

 

Trying To Trap The Demon In Dotty’s Attic (It Isn’t An Attic, It’s A LOFT But Attic Sounds Better)

 

Last night I set some traps to try and catch the DEMON in my loft, but before I set the traps I had to find the correct protective clothing to protect me, namely -

MY GAS MASK — to prevent me from INHALING THE DEMON

MY PROTECTIVE ALL-IN-ONE SUIT THAT FORENSIC BOFFINS AND CHEMICAL DISASTER BODS WEAR — to prevent me from ABSORBING THE DEMON

MY GOOD, STURDY HIKING BOOTS THAT I HAVEN’T WORN FOR YEARS — to STOMP ON THE DEMON or to KICK THE DEMON if the need arose.

 

So, suitably dressed, I set about laying my traps –

First, I substituted all my Cumberland sausages for the LINDA McCARTNEY VEGETARIAN SHITE SAUSAGES I’d cleverly and cunningly ordered from the online 24 hr Tesco (that is one BIG Tesco – the shop must be the size of Ireland!) and that I had delivered yesterday afternoon (Branwell answered the door).

Next, I substituted all my Hobnobs for ROUND RYVITAS (HA HA HA HA) that were also delivered from online 24 hr Tesco.

Then, I went upstairs and sat on the floor directly below the LOFT HATCH. I crossed my legs like a proper YOGI, stretched my arms into the air and touched the tips of my fingers together to make myself into a TRIANGLE and I sat there all night EXUDING GOODNESS. I exuded such great amounts of GOODNESS the house nearly floated away. I couldn’t believe I had that much GOODNESS in me, (it isn’t there now, it’s gone, I exuded it all out), SHEDLOADS of GOODNESS that I aimed up into the air, through the loft hatch and INTO THE DEMON.

It didn’t work. At least it didn’t bring the DEMON out of the loft - BUT, while I was being a TRIANGLE, exuding GOODNESS, the DEMON started singing. It sang –

 

“I’m just a poor boy, nobody loves me.

HE’S JUST A POOR BOY, FROM A POOR FAMILY,

SPARE HIM HIS LIFE FROM THESE QUORN SAUSAGES.

Easy come, easy go, will you let me go?

BISMILLAH! NO! WE WILL NOT LET YOU GO!

Let me go!

BISMILLAH! WE WILL NOT LET YOU GO!

Let me go!

BISMILLAH! WE WILL NOT LET YOU GO!

Let me go!

WILL NOT LET YOU GO!

Let me go!

NOT LET YOU GO!

Let me go-0-0-0-0-0-!

NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO!

Oh mama mia, mama mia, mama mia let me go!

Beelzebub has a devil in the sideboard – me! – poor me – poor meeeeeeee…”

 

Now, I need to tell you something about HOW he was singing – he was singing in TONGUES and one of the tongues (the red bits) was MINE – and what I want to know is HOW THE FUCK DID HE DO THAT? It sounded like Demon Duelling Banjos with words, him-me-him-me-him-me but my mouth didn’t move AT ALL, it stayed WIDE OPEN all the time I was there (to exude GOODNESS) and anyway I was wearing my GAS MASK and the way I’d put it on over my WIDE OPEN MOUTH meant there was no way on this earth that I COULD have closed my mouth, it was STUCK OPEN and no one can sing with a STUCK OPEN WIDE OPEN MOUTH unless they’re some sort of genius ventriloquist and there aren’t any genius ventriloquists, you can ALWAYS see movement. 

But last night wasn’t a COMPLETE waste – he’s given away his EXACT LOCATION in my loft. He’s living in the old sideboard that belonged to Granny Euphemia and when Granny Euphemia died she left it to my dear dead Daddy and when my dear dead Daddy died he left it to me but I don’t like it, it’s fuck ugly and riddled with woodworm (HA! I just wrote WORMWOOD instead of WOODWORM because I’m so used to writing WORMWOOD. I changed it). Also, it looks as if maybe I’m starting to get to him a bit, disconcert the little fucker. But he’s a stubborn one. This morning I’ve been back to online 24 hr Tesco to order more AMMO. Here’s a list of the ammo I’ve ordered —

more LINDA McCARTNEY VEGETARIAN QUORN CARDBOARD SAUSAGES

more ROUND RYVITAS

mothballs

rat poison

6 bottles of Domestos – kills all known germs. DEAD

caustic soda

some apples (they worked on Eve)

a fishing net

12 bottles of Harrogate Spring Water (online 24 hr Tesco don’t sell Holy Water)

And I was thinking of ordering a copy of Fifty Shades of Shite so the DEMON would get the impression I’ve read it, but nope, I couldn’t do it, a little voice in my head kept arguing with itself -

DEMON?/Shadey Shite? 

DEMON?/Shadey Shite?

DEMON?/Shadey Shite?

and the DEMON won.

 

So now it’s a waiting game. A battle of wills. Dark versus light, good versus bad (erm, which side am I on?), saintliness versus evil. Dotty versus Demon.  

BRING IT ON, FUCKER. NO ONE BEATS DOTTY. NO ONE AND NO THING. NOTHING.

 

 

 

 

N.B. — In case it’s gone unnoticed, you should take note that I’ve used the word ‘versus’ and not the abbreviation of the word ‘versus’ which should be a small ‘v’ but is now usually shown as a capital letter when, for example, a football match is being advertised –

LIVERPOOL V EVERTON

Not only is the word ‘versus’ abbreviated to an incorrect capital ‘v’, it’s also SPOKEN as the letter ‘v’ (vee) by STUPID ILLITERATE SLOPEY-BROWS ON THE TELLY —

LIVERPOOL VEE EVERTON

Ah, fuck it – I might just keep the DEMON and get him to spew some vile bile and brimstone over ALL THE STUPID PEOPLE.

 

 

Dotty Was Dying Of Double Pneumonia But I’m All Right Now

 

I haven’t been able to come online much in the last few days because I’ve had Summer Double Pneumonia and I felt like SHITE. I lost my voice too so there wasn’t much point trying to write a post because you wouldn’t have been able to hear me, my voice was so FUCKED I thought I’d turned into THE CUMBERLAND SAUSAGE WHISPERER every time I tried to coax my Cumberland sausages to hop up onto the grill and cook themselves so I could have something to eat.

You don’t know what it took for me to do the Shitey Sunday Picture Post yesterday – the SHEER AND ABSOLUTE SUFFERING involved, the BRAVERY and the SELFLESS PUBLIC-SPIRITEDNESS (is that a word?? spiritness?? spiritidness?? – see how ill I am?). I crawled from my bed, crawled down the stairs, pulled myself up onto the chair and DID A POST, all while I was DYING. Now that’s what I call DEDICATION. Too fucking right it is.

Guess what? I’ve passed the 500 followers mark. 502 to be precise BUT NO FUCKING BADGE FROM WORDPRESS – AGAIN!! Also, since the week before last, they’re not putting my posts in the TOPICS or TAGS or CATEGORIES or whatever the fuck they call them. They don’t like me. They HATE me. They wish I had DIED OF DOUBLE PNEUMONIA so they could have their nicey-nicey Blog World back again without ME in it to spoil everything. It’s DISCRIMINATION AGAINST MENTALS. Actually, that’s true because I’ve just had a thought – HOW MANY MENTAL BLOGS HAVE BEEN FRESHLY PRESSED? None, that I know of (correct me if I’m wrong). I don’t mean ME, (that’ll never happen, I’m too much of a gobshite), I mean the GOOD mental blogs, the serious ones. Hmmm.

I’m going to lie down again. I’m still dizzy.

 

 

 

P.S. If you hear a croaky sound when you’re reading this don’t think it’s your computer that’s about to blow up, it’s only my voice starting to come back.

DISCLAIMER – If your computer DOES blow up after you ignored any odd sounds IT’S NOT MY FAULT so fuck off with your solicitors and your ‘I’ll sue Dotty,’ and your ‘I’ll be rich for the rest of my life,’ – IT WILL NEVER HAPPEN, YOU FUCKING NUMPTY – the courts will end up giving ME all of YOUR money because you’re STUPID.

 

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

 

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

 

 

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

PEOPLE, PEOPLE, PEOPLE.

Say it out loud.

What does it sound like?

It sounds like PEEPHOLE.

PEOPLE – PEEPHOLE, PEOPLE – PEEPHOLE.

And why does PEOPLE sound like PEEPHOLE?

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

I SPY WITH MY FERRETY EYES.  

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

JUDGEMENTAL – there’s a clue in the word.

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

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

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

 

 

Useless Dotty Strikes Again

 

Shitey Sunday Picture Post – NO

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

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

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

FUCKING USELESS WITH BELLS ON.

BEING MENTAL  – the gift that never stops giving.

 

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.

 

 

Dotty Talking Therapy © – The Cure For Being Mental

 

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

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

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

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

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

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DOTTY TALKING THERAPY ©

 

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

The sentence is –

 

I’M NOT FUCKING MENTAL – YOU ARE.

 

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

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

 

EVIDENCE

Would we start wars?

NO WE WOULD NOT.

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

NO WE WOULD NOT.

Would we allow homelessness to continue?

NO WE WOULD NOT.

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

NO WE WOULD NOT.

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

NO WE WOULD NOT.

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

 

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

And also –

Would WE zap electrical currents into THEIR brains?

Would WE cut into THEIR brains to perform lobotomies?

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

Would WE force nasty drugs into THEM?

 

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

 

 

 

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

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

 

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

 

I’M NOT FUCKING MENTAL – YOU ARE.

 

AND BELIEVE WHAT YOU’RE SAYING.

Because it’s TRUE.

 

 

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.

 

 

 

Two Pints Of Laudanum And A Packet Of Crisps, Please!

 

This post has nothing to do with two pints of laudanum and a packet of crisps, please – I just couldn’t think of another title because thinking of titles is hard and I don’t usually bother thinking of them (because it’s hard) – I just bang something stupid into the title box so the post doesn’t appear in your email as a number. I AM NOT A NUMBER. I AM A DALEK (no I’m not a dalek, don’t believe everything you read).

Here’s a little haiku I’ve just made up —

 

WALKIES – the cruellest

word ever to be heard by

a dog with no legs

 

 

Here’s a little song I’ve just made up —

 

 

Chorus

 

 

 

 

Verse

 

 

 

 

Chorus

 

 

 

 

 

Second Verse

 

 

 

 

Chorus

 

 

 

 

 

Repeat Chorus

 

 

 

 

It’s a silent song. For people who want to sing a song but they can’t stand the sound of their own voice. Have you ever listened to yourself recorded? HORRIBLE. UNBEARABLE. I sound like a high-pitched chain-smoking faerie with throat polyps.

 

I might not be around much for the next day or so – things to do, people to see, you know how it is when you’re a busy-busy social DYNAMO — which I’m not, I’m lying, I don’t have ANY PEOPLE TO SEE and I’m not a SOCIAL DYNAMO but I do have something I have to do so I’ll be back posting and reading when I’ve done it – unless I need a little rant in the meantime (in an hour or so, knowing me).

 

 

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.

 

 

 

I’m In A Bad Mood

 

I’m fucking foaming.

I want to batter someone.

THE BASTARD HITLER CAMERON, that’s who I want to batter.

With a metal bar, a big heavy rusty diseasy METAL BAR.

And all his TORY CABINET DEMONS, I want to batter them.

And all the FUCKING SANCTIMONIOUS MIDDLE-CLASS BASTARDS who voted THE CUNT into power.

Because that’s what he is, a CUNT.

I hate that word.

I never use it.

You won’t find it ANYWHERE in the posts or comments I’ve made, it’s the foulest, nastiest word in the English language but it’s the only appropriate word for him because he’s the FOULEST NASTIEST FUCKER in the country.

CAMERON THE CUNT.

If karma does exist and if it’s true that what goes around comes around, he’s in for it, BIG time. If the additional suffering he’s causing to people is added up and given back to him HE WILL SCREAM FOR ALL ETERNITY.

Roll on eternity.

CUNT.

 

 

Could I, Should I, Would I? Decisions, Decisions, Decisions.

 

Could I? – Yes / No

Should I? – The grey area. 

Would I? –  I don’t know. It’s difficult. I can’t decide because I don’t know the outcome.

 

Okay, I know what you’re thinking – ‘Is she going to tell us WHAT DECISION SHE HAS TO MAKE?’ Well, no I’m not because there isn’t a decision to be made. Mental She-Hermits don’t have many decisions to make and if one happens to come along we don’t recognise that it WAS a decision until after the fact – decisions are made on INSTINCTIVE MOODY AUTOPILOT which isn’t a good way to make ALL decisions so I’ve decided (WAY-HAY!) to ask myself these three questions AT ALL TIMES in order to determine which decisions are IMPORTANT enough to require CONSCIOUS THOUGHT.

 

Here’s a decision I have to make EVERY MORNING. Usually I just go with my gut instinct but from tomorrow morning I’m going to THINK ABOUT IT. Actually, no, bollocks to waiting for tomorrow – I’LL DO IT NOW. I’LL MAKE A DECISION. NOW.

 

THE QUESTION

Should I have six Cumberland sausage sandwiches for my breakfast?

 

THE DECISION MAKING PROCESS

Could I? – Yes, easily.

Should I? – The grey area – If I DO I might not be hungry enough to eat the eight Cumberland sausage sandwiches I’ve planned to eat at 12.00pm for my dinner. If I DON’T I might be TOO hungry before dinnertime and end up eating the packet of Hobnobs I was saving for this afternoon BEFORE I HAVE MY DINNER.

Would I? – Fuck, yes. But ‘Would I?’ is negated by thoughts that arise from ‘Should I?’ and those thoughts make me feel BAD ABOUT EATING SIX CUMBERLAND SAUSAGE SANDWICHES FOR MY BREAKFAST. Why do they make me feel bad? Because they’re loaded with GUILTY FEELINGS. Why are they loaded with guilty feelings? Because they make me FACE THE FACT that if I DO eat six Cumberland sausage sandwiches for my breakfast and then eat EIGHT Cumberland sausage sandwiches for my dinner I’ll have eaten FOURTEEN CUMBERLAND SAUSAGE SANDWICHES in total and that’s a lot of Cumberland sausage sandwiches, even for me, and eating FOURTEEN CUMBERLAND SAUSAGE SANDWICHES makes me seem like a GREEDY GANNET, which I am but I don’t want people to THINK I am. And the GUILTY FEELINGS make me FACE THE FACT that if I DON’T eat six Cumberland sausage sandwiches for my breakfast, (let’s say I eat FOUR instead), at about 11.00am I’ll eat the packet of Hobnobs I was saving for this afternoon AND THEN I’LL EAT THE EIGHT CUMBERLAND SAUSAGE SANDWICHES FOR MY DINNER which means I’ll have eaten TWELVE CUMBERLAND SAUSAGE SANDWICHES AND A PACKET OF HOBNOBS which is STILL a lot so I’ll STILL seem like a GREEDY GANNET.  

I can’t win either way. It’s not fair.

 

RESULT OF DECISION MAKING PROCESS

I started my decision at 7.58 am. It’s now 10.55am

TOO LATE TO HAVE MY BREAKFAST.

 

 

So fuck that, I’m not doing decisions any more, they’re too hard and too brutal. I’ll stick to my old floaty ways.

MMMMMM, HOBNOBS! COME TO DOTTY!

 

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

 

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

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

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

 

 

Wordy Block Is Returning And I’m Fucking Useless So This Post Is A Big Moaning Whingey Whine-Fest About NOTHING. Ignore It – I Would.

 

I don’t know what to write. It’s been happening more and more in the last few weeks, hence the NOTHING post and the real nothing yesterday (apart from the Big Blog Stats on the other blog but that’s just copying and pasting) and all the shite and pictures and more shite (which is nothing new because THIS WHOLE BLOG is made up of shite, but at least I used to be able to fill up a page with it). Little Emily has deserted me, Kumblant dog-fuck has disappeared to where ever he’s disappeared to, and NOTHING HAPPENS IN THIS FUCKING HOUSE FOR ME TO WRITE ABOUT. I eat Cumberland sausages, I spend HOURS of quality time with my brick, I see Branwell a couple of times a week – AND THAT’S IT. And I’ve told you those things UMPTEEN TIMES and I’m bored of telling you, and if I’M bored then you must be fucking comatose by now.

I joined Pinterest the other day to make some pretty picture boards thinking that if I had something else to piss around with it might distract me from not knowing what to write and guess what? I CAN’T WORK THE FUCKING THING. How hard can it be? Everyone does it. It’s linked to stupid Facebook and it took me AN HOUR AND A HALF to change the profile picture on Facebook BUT IT WON’T CHANGE ON PINTEREST. And I can’t upload any pictures to pin on the fucking boards, I click Browse, choose a picture, press select, and — NOTHING. So I thought, right, go back to Facebook and make the Notes From A She-Hermit page into something, it’s been sitting there for fuck knows how long – AND I COULDN’T DO A PICTURE ON THERE EITHER and if I HAD been able to do a picture I wouldn’t have been able to do anything else BECAUSE IT’S TOO FUCKING COMPLICATED.

I give up. I can’t write, I can’t do pictures, I can’t even keep up with everyone’s posts – I turn up days late to read people’s blogs but I never seem to catch up. If everyone stopped posting for a week I might have a chance BUT YOU WON’T STOP WRITING, all you bloggers who don’t have wordy block, all you do is WRITE WRITE WRITE. STOP IT. Stop writing for a week and let me catch up. Go on holiday or something, clean your house, do your garden, do some overtime at work, see if you can chew your fingernails into perfect copies of the MONA LISA, do anything but WRITE.

I daren’t take a break because I’m scared I won’t come back and I LOVE this blog but I know what I’m like, I give up on EVERYTHING eventually and if I give up on this I’ll be fucked, they might as well cart me away now, save them the bother when I lose it completely because if I don’t have the blog and all the bloggy stuff that goes with it to distract me from BEING MENTAL and from the NOISES IN MY FUCKING HEAD THAT ARE GETTING LOUDER AND LOUDER AND WORSE AND WORSE I’ll go even more mental than I am already.

 

 

Okay, rant over for today. There might be another one tomorrow but don’t bother reading it, it’s just my way of keeping me writing and blogging – at least I’ve written SOMETHING. Sorry.

 

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

Dismal Dotty

 

Sorry I didn’t do a post yesterday, I was counting my hair.

147245 – twenty three fewer hairs than last month.

I’m going bald.

And I’m scared of WIGS.

I have a WIG PHOBIA.

WIGS freak me out completely.

I don’t want to wear a WIG.

I don’t want to.

 

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.

 

Dotty Days

 

SATURDAY

Sat on my saturnine arse reading The Rings Of Saturn.

Sat-nav — why the fuck have I got one? O, TomTom, Lord of the Wrong Turn, guide me out of this fucking house.

 

SUNDAY

Sun? There is no sun. It’s trapped behind the big, brown melancholy clouds. O, TomTom, Lord of the Turn Right In 300 Yards, guide the sun from behind the big, brown melancholy clouds.

 

MONDAY

Moon day.

Moan day.

I Don’t Like Mondays. BOOM. Shoot the moon. Fuck off, TomTom, you’re doing my skull in.

 

TUESDAY

Chew chew chew a Cumberland sausage in a sugary Mars Bar sandwich.

Choo-choo! Do trains have sat-navs? O, TomTom, Lord of the Straight Ahead, guide the trains along their tracks, up the coast roads and back – please don’t make them fall off again.

 

WEDNESDAY

Woe day? Wedding day? No, I got married on a Friday. I got married at Halloween and I married in silken black (this is a TRUE FACT), but I couldn’t help looking back. Ring o’ ring 0′ rosies, a pocket full of posies. O, TomTom, Lord of At The Roundabout Take The First Exit, guide dead ex-Simon to a nice place of cleanliness and peace and an abundance of stamps for his collection.

 

THURSDAY

I LOVE THOR, HEAR ME ROOOOOAAAAAARRRRR. (Months ago I roared in a post. It made me feel better at the time so now I have a little roar every Thursday morning before I make my Cumberland sausage sandwiches for my breakfast). O, TomTom, Lord of Leave The Motorway, guide the big Cumberland sausage lorries safely to my Tesco.

 

FRIDAY

Friday is now the only day I fry (burn) my Cumberland sausages.

Empty-headed no brain, fried brain, sizzle-pop. Skullduggery?

Freya, Freya, lend me your cloak so I can fly above the bald sea to see what I can see. O, TomTom, Lord of You Have Reached Your Destination, guide us not into temptation, or negation, or consternation. Forever and ever, amen.

*

Albrecht Dürer, self-portrait, 1500

look at the eyes

*

*

 

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?

*

*

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?

 

 

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

 

Cumberlaudanum Sausage sandwiches (a HUGE pile of them)

An opium birthday cake

Another opium cake with chocolate chips

Laudanum fairy cakes with buttercream (Branwell’s favourite)

Absinthe

More Absinthe

Opium

Laudanum

A strawberry jelly (with laudanum)

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

The Job – Clean EVERYTHING.

Location – My house.

Hours – As many as you want.

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

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

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

 

 

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

 

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

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

 

 

I wish, I wish I

was a fish, a fishy-fish

in a fishy dish.

 

 

Who invented madness? Does it go with chips?

Jack LaLanne’s Power Juicer.

How much is too much?

 

 

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

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

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

What is the meaning of BLEEP?

 

HEBETUDE

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

 

Why hasn’t someone invented a SILENT FRIDGE?

 

 

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

 

 

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

 

 

 

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

Fuckers.

 

 

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

 

 

DINNER TIME!

Dotty Has Been Asleep But Now She Awakens…

 

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

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

 

 

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.

 

 

 

Dotty Does It Again – Dibble Defeated

 

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

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

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

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

RESULT

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

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

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

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

BOSH!

DOTTY WINS AGAIN.

NO ONE BEATS DOTTY.

 

 

Dottygeddon – The Aftermath

 

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

Dibble

Fire Brigade

Ambulance

jags in the arse

home

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

 

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

 

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

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

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

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

 

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

 

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

1 – all my windows are intact

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

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

4 – I had a good, long sleep.

 

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

 

 

DOTTYGEDDON

 

Today I am practising POSITIVITY and SELF-CONTROL.

I am controlling myself and I am being positive.

 

 

Yes.

 

I am.

 

 

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

 

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

Today I will be THE MODEL OF SERENITY.

 

 

Yes.

 

 

I did a positive thought to negate some negative thoughts –

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

but

at least I don’t have claustrophobia.

 

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

 

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

 

My brick is my best friend.

My brick is my best friend.

My brick is my best friend.

My brick is my best friend.

My brick is my best friend.

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

My brick is my best friend.

My brick is my best friend.

My brick is my best friend.

My brick is my best friend.

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

My brick is my best friend.

My brick

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

 

 

 

 

My br

 

 

 

*

 

 

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

 

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

 

 

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

 

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

MEAT (the Atkins Diet)

PORRIDGE (the calorie-counting Diet) 

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

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

some MUESLI (the Boring Fuckers Healthy Eating Diet)

some SPECIAL K (the Special K 2 weeks Diet)

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

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

 

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

 

 

I’m Fucking Starving

 

I could eat my legs. Raw.

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

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

I hope I don’t eat my bedroom.

 

Dotty Diet Day One

 

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

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

lettuce

rocket

some other leafy shite

tomatoes (I like baby plums)

beetroot (not pickled – bleaarggh!)

radish

a good squirt of extra-light mayonnaise

AND THAT’S IT.

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

 

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

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

 

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

 

Enjoy your dinner.

 

The Hidden Horrific Horror Of Hermititis

 

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

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

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

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

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

This is my diet (below)

 

DOTTY’S FUCKING FAT ARSE DIET.

No more McCain’s Chippy Chips

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

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

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

 

I think that’s it.

 

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

 

I’ll let you know how it goes.

 

 

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.

 

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