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.

 

 

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.

 

 

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.

 

*

*

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!

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.

 

The Dotty Postal Strike

I’ll batter SCABS round the head with my placard if they try to write a post for my blog. DON’T DO IT.

 

I’m on strike.

 

These are my demands –

More pay (I’ve just bought a nice little Munch piece and it set me back a bit) 

Better working conditions for when I write my posts which means I need someone to come and clean my house

More fag breaks

More coffee breaks

A longer Cumberland sausage dinner hour

A BIG BONUS if I get more than 20 Likes on a post

A FUCKING WHOPPING BONUS if I get more than 20 Comments on a post

 

 

I’ve been trying to remember the SCAB CHANT.

I think it goes like this —

SCAB SCAB SCAB SCAB SCAB

DIRTY FUCKING SCAB

FUCK OFF SCAB

YOU SCAB

(repeat many times)

 

 

Why Have Only A Few Of You Added To My New Collection?

 

It’s not fair – WordPress forced me into starting a new collection of Likes on my Notes From A She-Hermit page and only 19 people have contributed to it so far. I don’t care about the other pages and posts, you can never, ever click another Like again if you don’t want, JUST GO AND CLICK THAT ONE.

 

THIS IS A LINK TO THE PAGE I WOULD LIKE YOU TO LIKE, PLEASE 

or I’ll have a MASSIVE panic attack and it’ll be ALL YOUR FAULT

Yes I’m begging – what of it? There’s nothing wrong with begging if begging helps you to COLLECT THINGS.

And now I’m boasting and THANKING YOU FOR LOOKING AT MY BLOG A LOT – it’s just passed 20,000 views.

 

P.S. I’ve solved my elbow problem – I’m wearing protective bike pads and my thick leather motorbike jacket and I’ve got my Shoei crash helmet on in case my elbows get through the pads and the jacket – so now I can go to bed tonight and when I do I’m going to tie a pillow round each elbow to be on the safe side.

 

Look, No Hands – A Post Written By My Elbows

 

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

 

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

 

Nope, elbows don’t work.

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

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

then one of them brought up my Favourites list

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

then I gave up.

 

 

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

ufat8

a message from my elbows

the first ever known message from elbows

like the first communication from aliens

this is a sign.

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

 

ufat8

 

u = me

fat = fat

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

 

oh

 

 

OH

 

 

MY ELBOWS ARE BULLYING ME

THEY HATE ME

THEY WANT TO KILL ME

THE POINTY FUCKERS ARE PLOTTING

 

what are they plotting?

 

what?

 

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

i cut my eyelashes off

can i cut my elbows off?

how?

i can’t cut them off, can i?

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

 

 

 

what do i do, what do i do?

 

 

 

i know

 

i’m going to strap them to my knees

my knees are my friends

they’ve NEVER tried to kill me

they’ve never bullied me

they’ve never called me names

they’ve never tried to poke my eyes out

or strangle me

or suffocate me

or anything

my knees will SAVE ME

 

right, i’m going to strap them now

 

 

 

 

haha   elbows

try an kill me now bastards

you can;t can you

 

 

i have to go its hard to type

 

 

Oops, I Did It Again

 

Don’t get too excited, Britney Spears hasn’t hacked into my blog - it’s still me, your little Dotty, but once again I haven’t written a post because nothing’s happened. This is a side effect of Hermititis and People Phobia, most of the time it’s too boring for words and today is one of those times. I can’t think of anything to write about and if I could it would be just as boring as the twaddle I’m writing now, the hackneyed old cliched pile of shite about not having anything to write about.

This is one of the downsides of just sitting down to write and pressing publish when I’ve finished – I never have any back-up posts, in fact the idea of back-up posts hadn’t entered my head until I saw it mentioned in someone’s blog a few weeks ago, then I noticed that lots of people do it – but how can I do back-up posts when I can’t even think of ONE?

 

AAAAAAARRRGGGGHHH!!

No it didn’t work. I thought an idea might fly out with the scream.

 

the cat sat on the mat – the cat sat on the mat (advice from Dodie Smith)

Nope, nothing.

 

Except — my face towel was a bit rough this morning, I’ll have to use more fabric conditioner next time I do the washing.

 

I should have just wrote another absence note.

 

Oh-oh-oh – I did do something, I had a tidy up of my blog pages and put things into lists and made it neater. I did it this morning when I was trying to think of a post. Did anyone notice? No, I didn’t think so.

 

I should just shut up, shouldn’t I?

 

A Very Lovely Picture And A Joke / 2nd Attempt At The Sodding Thing

Oy, you smug baaastard, I'm talking to you!

 

Sorry about that, I’m not trying to be a spammy sod in your email but I’ve had to do it again – I had it all lined up nicely in the centre, and I had two big headers but then it all fucked up and the joke and my nice headings disappeared. Fucking shaggy pictures.

 

 

Here’s the joke.

 

A pair of zombie twins start fighting at the dinner table.

‘Stop it!’ shouts Mummy zombie.

‘He started it!’

‘No, he started it – he wouldn’t let me dip my bread in his neck.’

 

Don’t Die Of Shock Everyone – Dotty Has Accepted An Award

It’s the GOLDEN SHATNER AWARD 

and I’ve accepted it from VICTOR TOOKES

whose blog you can find HERE,

because I like William Shatner, he’s stupid, and all you have to do is give the award

 to four people. But I still can’t choose, there’s LOADS OF YOU I want to give it to.

So TAKE IT

EVERYBODY

I SPECIFICALLY AWARD IT TO ALL OF YOU

not like my own award

The Dotty Headbanger Award For Being Mental & Loving It

which you award to yourself - 

this time I’m specifically choosing to specifically award

EVERYBODY this lovely award and if I could be bothered I’d do

links to all your blogs but I can’t be bothered so I won’t.

 

 

P.S. It has a big, better picture for those of you who can do big pictures without shagging up

your blog (not me, I fuck it all up with pictures) and you’ll find the big picture

at Victor’s blog if you click on the link I put in at the top.

 

P.P.S.  They got me in the end.

 

P.P.P.S.  No more and never again.

 

 

 

Pen Thievery – Dotty Didn’t Do It

 

Have you ever seen a pen so beautiful you just have to have it? I have a penchant for pens. Before I caught Hermititis and People Phobia what would happen is I’d spot a pen and fall in love with it and from the moment I set eyes on it I would be filled with NEED. I really and truly NEEDED those pens, each and every one of them, and if I didn’t get them, if I didn’t HAVE and POSSESS them, I would have DIED. But there were loads of tricky times when the pens I NEEDED belonged to someone else. Actually, every pen I NEEDED was in the possession of someone else and strangely I never NEEDED the pens I saw in the shops, those I could pay for and just OWN, they didn’t interest me.

My collection of pens is huge and vast and if you stood at the coast and lined up all my pens from top to nib they’d be longer than the longest peninsula. I’m not so keen on pencils, they don’t have the same penetratingly gorgeous LURE of pens and the lead always snaps when you press too hard and I can never find a pencil sharpener when I need one. And those fancy, posh pencils you click like a pen and the thin bit of lead comes down – they’re nothing but SHITE, I don’t like them, they’re the stupidest, most wasteful pencils in the world, click too many times and SNAP, don’t click enough times and WHERE THE FUCK IS IT, click some more to make it appear and SNAP — SNAP SNAP SNAP — they should be banned, I bet they cause more distress than any other writing implement except maybe crayons.

I also love bookmarks and other pocketable items of stationery, but pens will always be my favourite. PENS, PENS, PENS, PENS, PENS - blue pens, black pens, red pens, glittery pens, fountain pens, dip pens, ballpoint pens, quill pens, reed pens, rollerball pens, felt-tip pens, marker pens – I love pens.

I LOVE PENS.

I FUCKING LOVE THEM LIKE THEY ARE MY BABIES.

And I think I’m in trouble again because of my love for pens.  I’ve been falsely accused of STEALING A PEN, one of Papa Brontë’s pens, a beautiful, pure white swan feather pen that was just LYING THERE ON THE MANTLEPIECE, all alone and neglected and there was a speck of SOOT on it that I carefully blew off so it wouldn’t MARK and MAR the beautiful, pure white swan feather pen, and I MOVED the beautiful, pure white swan feather pen away from the sooty, dirty mantlepiece to another place that wasn’t sooty or dirty and that place just happened to be MY SUITCASE and now Branwell has been here accusing me of THIEVING the beautiful, pure white swan feather pen and because of his fucking CHEEK I’m not giving it back.

So fuck off, Branwell, you pox-ridden WHELP.

You can stick your accusations up your pure white swan-feathered ARSE.

 

 

Dotty Returns From Playing Nursey

 

I’m back. Sorry I couldn’t leave an absence note, I didn’t have time. Little Emily was taken ill and it was all a bit of a rush, Branwell came to get me in his carriage and I only had a few minutes to pack my case. Charlotte and Anne were away visiting which only left me and my debatable skills but I must have done something right, she’s much better now.

Panic attacks – I had many. Meltdown – I almost had one but I didn’t, I raided Branwell’s laudanum cupboard instead (he didn’t mind).

You wouldn’t think so but the worse thing was that the Victorians are noisy sods, they love banging and clanging their metal in the mills and the forges, even the kids play with big metal hoops – and those fucking horseshoes on the cobbles – my ears are driving me loopy after all that, I need a lot of quiet so if anyone comes in can you please keep the volume down. Thank you.

 

 

A Song To Make You Love Dotty

 

From the most HATED blogger in the whole wide Worldpress to the people who HATE her.

 

Look into my eyes, you will see

What you mean to me

Search your heart, search your posts

And when you find me there

You’ll search no more
Don’t tell me, it’s not worth typin’ for

You can’t tell me, it’s not worth writin’ for

You know it’s true

Everything I do, I do it for you
Look into your heart, you will find

There’s nothin’ there to hide

Take me as I am, take my life

I would give it all, I would sacrifice

 
Don’t tell me it’s not worth typin’ for

I can’t help it, there’s nothin’ I want more

You know it’s true

Everything I do, I do it for you, oh yeah

 

There’s no blog, like my blog 

And no other could give more love

There’s nowhere, unless you’re there

All the time, all the way yeah

 

Look into your heart baby

Oh yeah
Oh, you can’t tell me it’s not worth typin’ for

I can’t help it, there’s nothin’ I want more
Yeah I would type for you

I’d write for you

Blog all night for you

Yeah I’d die for you
You know it’s true

Everything I do, ohh, I do it for you
Everything I do darling 

You should read it through

You should read it through, yeah

Yeah, just look into your heart

You can’t tell me you’ll die for love

 Oh yeah, I’ll be there

I’m writin’ every day, every day 

 

by Bryan Adams & Dotty

 

This Post Is Not A Post, It’s A Competition Because I Have Another Thing To Write Today…

 

…but to keep you coming back to my blog so I still get loads of views,

and so I can get to 300 followers before La Popinjay does,

and so you don’t fuck off to some other blogger who talks to you more,

and so I can feel like I’m not ignoring you all (y’all) while I get on with ANOTHER THING

here’s a question —

 

What’s white and flies through the air faster than the speed of light?

 

RULES

There are two correct answers, either one of which I’ll accept.

If more than one of you get a correct answer I’ll do eeny-meeny-miney-mo to decide.

Or I might do ip-dip-dog-shit instead, it depends how I feel.

The winner will be my SUPREME PET FOR THE DAY tomorrow.

 

Here’s a picture to keep you entertained. I know everyone likes pictures and I know if I could put pictures in all my posts my views and my followers would be in the ZABILLIONS by now, but I can’t do it properly, it always goes wrong, I’ll NEVER be good with pictures and one day you’ll all go away to find blogs with pictures and this one of the SHOE-CAR has taken me over an hour of the time I was going to spend on ANOTHER THING so I hope you like it. 

 

 

This is a shoe but it's also a CAR!! Fucking amazing what they can do nowadays.
I want this SHOE-CAR. I want it.

 

 

Dotty Hermit Tip – How To Lie On The Floor Safely

 

Hello, fellow She-Hermits and Hermits. Today we’re going to talk about safety procedures for when you LIE ON THE FLOOR. I wonder if you’ve ever considered the DANGERS associated with lying on the floor, DANGERS that can MAIM or even KILL you, DANGERS that no one else will bother to tell you about because no one else gives two flying fucks about your lying on the floor habits. Well don’t worry, I’m here to help you and I’m writing this especially for YOU because I’m nice and kind like that.

So let’s get started.

 

POSITIONING – DANGERS OF THE FOETAL POSITION

Most floor-lying hermits prefer to lie in the FOETAL POSITION and most floor-lying hermits return again and again to THE SAME SPOT on the floor to lie in the FOETAL POSITION. We’ll discuss lying in THE SAME SPOT later - right now I’m concerned about THE HARM YOU ARE DOING TO YOUR SPINE.

SPINAL INJURY or BEING CRIPPLED FOR LIFE is a real and prevalent DANGER for hermits who choose to lie in the FOETAL POSITION for long periods of time. Your spine is supposed to be a STRAIGHT THING, evolution made the adult human spine straight in order to keep you UPRIGHT AND READY TO RUN AWAY - so how are you going to RUN AWAY if you can’t walk? YOU’RE NOT, you’ll be EATEN by lions or tigers or wolves or bears or hyenas or mad dogs or feral children or whatever else gets a sniff of you lying there, on the floor, in the FOETAL POSITION.

If you’re lucky and manage to escape being EATEN, the next time you lie on the floor in the FOETAL POSITION might be the last time you have a STRAIGHT BACK. The spine isn’t made of steel, it’s made of bone, and contrary to what most people believe about bone being hard and unbendable, BONE IS VERY BENDY and if you persist and persist in bending it into the FOETAL POSITION it will stay there and you’ll develop a pronounced HUMF and being a PEOPLE PHOBIC HERMIT is bad enough without being a PEOPLE PHOBIC HERMIT with a HUMFY-BACK.

Not only can the FOETAL POSITION give you a big HUMF, it can also lead to PARALYSIS OF EVERY PART OF YOUR BODY caused by SEVERED NERVES, so BEWARE and BE AWARE of any NUMBNESS or LOSS OF SENSATION because what might be happening is you are SEVERING YOUR NERVES and BECOMING PARALYSED but you won’t know this is happening until you want to get up to go for a wee or get a drink and you find you CAN’T GET UP BECAUSE YOU HAVE PARALYSED YOURSELF by lying on the floor in the FOETAL POSITION. If your legs are the limbs that become paralysed you should be okay because you’ll be able to use your arms to drag yourself across the floor to the phone, but if your arms are the limbs that become paralysed I’m afraid YOU’RE FUCKED because you won’t be able to drag yourself to the phone and even if you somehow managed to, how would you pick up the phone to ring for help?

Other DANGERS of lying on the floor in the FOETAL POSITION include -

BALD PATCHES  – if no air or light can get to one side of your head because it’s flat on the carpet then you shouldn’t worry about illness or disease when your hair starts to come out in clumps, your baldness is caused by lying on the floor in the FOETAL POSITION.

CARPET BURN – caused by getting down onto the floor or getting up off the floor too quickly. Also caused by writhing around on the floor in the throes of despair. Be careful not to get carpet burn on your knees or people will think things.

DELUSIONS OF DEATH which occur when you’ve been there for so long that when you try to move you don’t know if the stiffness of your body is due to JUST STIFFNESS or if you’re stiff like a plank because RIGOR MORTIS HAS SET IN and this results in you having to deal with DIBBLE and AMBULANCE and SORE JAGS IN THE ARSE when you ring them up to tell them you are DEAD.

 

OTHER DANGERS OF LYING ON THE FLOOR

SPIDERS. BIG HAIRY MEATY SPIDERS and other creepy crawlies. Included in the list of creepy crawlies (I’m not making a list, I can’t be arsed) are the microscopic creepy crawlies that live in your carpet. Fuck knows WHAT they are but it’s guaranteed they carry all types of dirty diseases and THEY WILL WALK ON YOUR FACE AND ENTER THE INSIDE OF YOUR BODY THROUGH YOUR ORIFICES.

DEHYDRATION – keep a bottle of water next to you

STARVATION – if you’ve got your bottle of water you’ll be okay because you can go without food longer than you can without water.

NEEDING A WEE – this one’s easy - GET UP AND GO FOR A WEE, STUPID. You’re not a fucking baby.

BECOMING USED TO ONE PARTICULAR SPOT ON THE FLOOR – we’re going to deal with this next -

 

 

BECOMING USED TO ONE PARTICULAR SPOT ON THE FLOOR

As stated above, most hermits return again and again to the same spot on the floor. This is just a bad habit that can take some time and effort to break but it’s worth it in the end, the benefits you’ll reap will ASTOUND you.

Whether it’s facing your sofa, the underneath of your coffee table, your bookcases, your sideboard or just a blank wall, EVERY hermit has a favourite spot on the floor they like to lie on. But did you know that CHANGING THE SPOT ON THE FLOOR THAT YOU LIE ON can be so beneficial and good for you that it can CURE YOU OF LYING ON THE FLOOR?

Yes, it can. Don’t believe me? Read on -

 

Hermits who lie on the floor do so for one of two reasons —

1  they are in the throes of despair

2  they are too apathetic to do anything else

 

It doesn’t matter WHY you’re still lying on the floor after I’ve taken the time and trouble to spell out all the DANGERS, the fact that you’re still there at all tells me you really, really need TO CHANGE YOUR SPOT.

Before we go any further I know many of you will only have THE ONE SPOT to lie in because your collections have sprawled all over the place or because you’re just a clatty tramp and you don’t clean your house. TIDYING UP will provide NEW SPOTS FOR LYING ON THE FLOOR so get on with it, do it NOW, this minute before you think about it, don’t read another word, go and MAKE SOME NEW SPACES.

Done? Okay.

Whether you’re apathetic or despairing, a NEW SPOT ON THE FLOOR will change your life. You won’t like it to begin with, no one likes CHANGE, but persevere and the benefits will soon become apparent.

Lying on the floor in a NEW SPOT will instantly give you a NEW VIEW and a NEW VIEW is the best thing you can have because it provides a DISTRACTION from the apathy or despair that put you on the floor in the first place. Who can remain in a state of OVERWHELMING APATHY when confronted with a 4 inch CLUMP OF DUST AND WEB under the sideboard that you’ve never noticed before? Who can remain in a state of ALL-CONSUMING DESPAIR whilst staring at the natural beauty of the wooden chair leg? A NEW SPOT will provide MOTIVATION and MENTAL STIMULATION and we’re on the road to BEING CURED.

After a few practices, each time in a NEW SPOT, if you STILL haven’t stopped lying on the floor in the FOETAL POSITION, try lying on the floor FLAT ON YOUR BACK. No hermit does this naturally or without distress because lying on the floor FLAT ON YOUR BACK makes you feel too EXPOSED and one benefit of lying in the FOETAL POSITION is you can’t see what’s coming for you, whether it’s a BIG HAIRY MEATY SPIDER or a BEAR. Also, lying on the floor FLAT ON YOUR BACK and LOOKING UP AT THE CEILING makes your room look MASSIVE LIKE THE WORLD and then you feel even more insignificant than you do already.

But for your own bodily safety, lying on the floor FLAT ON YOUR BACK is the best position to be in if you still insist on lying on the floor because it’s good for your back, it’s good for your posture, and it doesn’t cause HUMFS or PARALYSIS or DEATH BY RIGOR MORTIS.

 

 

I apologise for all the BIG SHOUTY WORDS I’ve used but hermits, you have to listen to me, if you won’t stop lying on the floor at least take PROPER PRECAUTIONS.

I hope these hermit tips help you.

Be safe, my hermits. Be well.

 

HA HA HA HA HA HA – Up Your French Canadian Arse, La Popinjay, You Twat

 

I’ve got you sussed, you sad old SCROTE.

You want me to write a post about you so you can steal EVEN MORE OF MY FOLLOWERS and PRETEND THEY WERE YOURS TO START WITH and that’s fine, here I am writing a post about you because I’m nice and kind like that, but really, all you had to do was ask.

So go on everyone, go and join the old goat’s blog, he NEEDS you, he’s DESPERATE, so DESPERATE he copied my 200 FOLLOWERS badge and pretended it was his own because he couldn’t bear to think I’d beat him to 200, just like he copies EVERYTHING of mine. They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery – NO IT’S NOT, IT’S JUST COPYING, YOU NUMPTY so find your own ideas, stop nicking mine.

And he called me a THIEF. Well I’m NOT a convicted thief, Dibble gave me Cautions each time.

Is he hopeless?

Is he useless? 

Is he desperate?

Is the Pope waterproof?

YES to all of the above - but pity La Popinjay, please, my lovelies. Charity is good for the soul.

 

P.S.  You’re probably thinking, ‘Why should I bother going to see a blog written by a BABBLING INGRATE?‘ and you’d be correct in thinking that so to be honest I’d advise you to GO HERE INSTEAD.

 

P.P.S. OY, ARSEWIPE – I don’t live in a flat so GET YOUR FACTS RIGHT. Shows how much you actually READ.

 

Lottie The Drunken Cow

 

I’m sick to death of FICKLE FUCKERS who are laughing and joking one minute, ha ha ha, next minute they’re in a mood about something and throwing a paddy. What’s that all about, eh, the divvy twats? I’ll tell you what it’s about, it’s about BOOZE.

Yep, it’s Lottie again. I never know where I am with her. I’m positive she drinks after she’s put THE BERSERKERS to bed, even moreso now Fat-Fuck has left her. She’s always been a bit of a piss-head, swigging dear dead Daddy’s brandy and whiskey when we were teenagers, sneaking round the back of the rugby team’s changing rooms in the park with a big bottle of gut-rot and ten fags. Twice, Scotty had to carry her home and up to her bed while I distracted meine Mami in the kitchen.

She lets on she’s something she’s not, a hoity-toity wine buff – she’s all ‘Oh yes, I’m getting undertones of wood-smoked sideboard’ and ‘There’s a top-note of old badger’ or whatever, but she never swills and spits, she throws the lot down her neck – and not just wine, I saw her put a bottle of cheap voddy in her trolley when we were shopping the other day. Fucking alky.

I’ve got the blame for THE BERSERKERS being sick. Oh what a surprise. I should have seen it coming, normally I would but with yesterday being happy like it was and with her BEING PART OF THE LAUGH AND THE JOKE it didn’t enter my head that she’d turn round and blame me. But oh yes, it’s all my fault, I shouldn’t have encouraged them, I shouldn’t have been so childish. YOU’RE THEIR FUCKING MOTHER, LOTTIE – you sat there and watched them STUFF THEIR FACES without saying a word, I know what you were thinking, you were thinking if only you weren’t on your diet you could STUFF YOUR FACE TOO and either you were too busy slavvering over the Easter eggs you wouldn’t allow yourself to eat that you didn’t notice how much your OWN KIDS were eating, or you DIDN’T GIVE A SHITE. Which was it? 

Actually, do you know what, I don’t really care which it was, all I’ve got to say is –

Lottie, go and take a good FUCK to yourself.

You’re not blaming me for this one.

 

Victory Is Mine

 

I won the Easter egg eating competition. I said I would.

Lottie didn’t give in, she went home and took THE BERSERKERS with her just because they started projectile vomiting their Easter eggs all over my kitchen walls. I made her clean up before she left.

Scotty has gone, ten minutes ago. I waved to him from my bedroom window. He said he’ll be in touch when he can, but I know what those Middle Eastern lines of communication are like, smack a dry camel three times on its hump and wait for the echo.

So I’m all alone again —

BUT I’M NOT all alone again

because I’ve got YOU – WordPress just gave me a badge for 200 followers except they’re a bit late, I’ve got 206 now.

 

THANK YOU, MY LOVELY ACOLYTES. I LOVE YOU ALL.

Absence Note

 

Dear Bloggy People,

Please excuse Dotty from writing a post today. The dog ate her laptop.

Signed

Mrs Headbanger

 

Dotty Film Review – Avatar

WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY

I KNOW WHY THE SMURFS AREN’T VISITING ME.

WHO DID IT TO THEM?

WHO?

WHY HAS NO ONE DONE ANYTHING ABOUT IT?

CAMERON

OBAMA

OTHER LEADERS WITH BIG BOMBS

YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED OF YOURSELVES

IT’S AN

ATROCITY

TO ALLOW THIS SORT OF THING TO GO ON IN THIS DAY AND AGE

WHO TORTURED THEM?

WHO PUT THEM ON THE RACKS AND STRETCHED AND STRETCHED AND STRETCHED THEM?

WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT TO THE LITTLE SMURFS?

WHY WOULD YOU MAKE THEM INTO BIG SKINNY THINGS THAT LOOK LIKE THE BFG BUT FLOPPIER AND UGLIER AND BLUER?

WHY?

AND THAT POOR FEMALE SMURF, THEY MADE HER INTO AN ABOMINATION AND SHE HAD TO SHAG THE HUMAN WHO BECAME A SMURF WHO ALSO GOT STRETCHED AND THEY MADE HER INTO AN

AVATART

AVATART

Score - 0 out of 10  because torture and cruelty should never be used as entertainment

Who Needs Freshly Pressed When Dotty Can Just Swear A Lot?

 

I never post three posts in one day because you all (y’all) will get fed up with me and unfollow me and leave me here all on my todd again if I annoy you with loads of posts, but I’m so amazed at the amount of VIEWS I’ve had today that I had to do another one just to say

 

THANK YOU FOR READING MY LITTLE BLOG EVERYONE

Today has been my busiest day with 626 views (FINAL TOTAL) which is a MASSIVE leap from 361 views which was my previous busiest day total. Now that might not seem like a lot to you big super bloggers who get thousands and thousands of views per day but to me it’s MAGIC! WONDERFUL! ASTOUNDING! Truly, it amazes me.

And it also amazes me how much you all (y’all) like SWEARING.

I LOVE IT!

 

EDIT EDIT EDIT  – FINAL TOTAL 626 views. I AM FUCKING GOBSMACKED.  :-)

Here’s a little present for you – a picture -

 

Here a packet of sweets for you to eat, my present to you for reading my little blog. Thank you and I hope you like them.

A New Dotty Collection

 

I’ve started a new collection. 

Hellosailor sparked the idea.

It’s going to be FUCKING BRILLIANT.

 

GO HERE TO SEE WHAT IT IS

 

I want EVERYONE TO CONTRIBUTE TO MY COLLECTION.

Thank you.

 

A Dotty Picture Puzzle

 

What’s the answer to the picture puzzle?

Robert de Niro's waiting

It’s easy.

 

 

talking Italian...

 

 

 

First one to get it right can have the pictures if they want.

I’m only doing a picture puzzle to practice doing pictures and making them stick where I put them.

Fingers crossed!

 

Dotty Had A Lovely Day Yesterday But Today Might Be Shitey Because Of My Leg

 

I had a LOVELY day yesterday and no one spoilt it. Little Emily arrived with a big beautiful bunch of wildflowers for me that she gathered on her walk down to my house and she brought us an apple and gooseberry pie – when I first glimpsed the pie my innards flipped in disgust, I thought it was another Wabbit pie, but no, it was an apple and gooseberry pie and very yummy it was too. We ate it after we ate the Cumberland sausages and before we ate the plain Victoria Sponge Sandwich Cake (sorry, Judith, little Emily snaffled the last quarter that I’d saved for you) and everything we ate was scrummy and yummy and we stuffed our faces like the little greedy gannets we are.

After our feast we were too full to do anything so we sat and talked for a while. Then we got bored with talking so we decided to play a game – Scrabble, which is one of little Emily’s favourites of the games I’ve introduced her to (another favourite is Cluedo and another is Crazy Taxis – ‘Ram his arse, Dotty, ram it hard!’). I don’t really like playing Scrabble with little Emily, not because she always wins but because she’s so fucking SLOW to put a word down, her little hand goes back and forth from her letter holder to the board, from the board to her letter holder, and she umms and aahhhs and bites her lip and screws up her eyes and you’d think she was contemplating THE ORIGINS OF EVERYTHING not just whether ‘bat’ will give her more points than ‘cat’. But I was doing my best to be a good friend because I don’t mind telling you I’ve missed her and I don’t want to scare her away like I have with all my other friends. Sometimes I miss them too, but not often, they were all a set of bitches, the lot of them — except Kathryn, she was nice. I didn’t scare Kathryn off, she moved away and by the time I started answering my phone again she’d been gone for over two years and she’d stopped leaving messages on my answerphone. She’d given up on me, the cow.

Anyway, to cut a long happy day short, little Emily and I had a long happy day ending with little Emily deciding to stay the night. She made us a nice cup of hot chocolate to take up to bed and that’s when my leg got scalded, the dozy bint spilt hers down my shin and jesus christ and his nails it hurt like fuck, I let out a scream that should have shattered the windows but it didn’t, they’re all still intact. Little Emily ran for some water and came back with it in my TOOTHBRUSH MUG with my toothbrush still in it, I said ‘what the fuck do you want me to do with THAT, brush my teeth while MY LEG IS BUBBLING UP WITH BLISTERS?’ She ran downstairs and she was gone for AGES and when she came back she had a bowl with EGG WHITES in it, (she took so long because she’d been trying to separate the eggs and couldn’t do it without a bit of yolk going in it) and then she poured the EGG WHITES on the sore bit and said I had to sit still until the EGG WHITES dried, so I did, I sat as still as a fucking meringue.

I didn’t sleep much, as you’ll have probably guessed. And if I couldn’t sleep I was fucked if I was letting her have a good, restful night in the land of Noddy. No, I made her stay up with me and run round after me and feel guilty for CRIPPLING ME and BURNING A BIG HOLE IN MY LEG, THE SAME LEG THAT WILL SOON BE AMPUTATED BECAUSE GANGRENE WILL SET IN UNLESS I’M PROVIDED WITH A CONSTANT SUPPLY OF THE SPECIAL PROTEIN THAT’S FOUND ONLY IN CUMBERLAND SAUSAGES. It’s amazing what a Victorian will believe, you can tell them anything - as long as you say it’s been PROVED BY SCIENCE they’ll lap it up like scabby, starving kittens at their milk. 

So off she went this morning to buy some more eggs from the farm they get their eggs from and I hope she remembers to bring me something nice to eat, I told her I need chocolate (Lindt, lots of it) it’s a proven fact that chocolate is good for the circulation and I need to keep my blood going round or my leg won’t heal and necrosis will set in and eat my leg and it’ll turn black and drop off. And ice-cream (Ben and Jerry’s Phish Food, 4 tubs) to help unthicken the chocolate as it works its way through my veins. And those little cheesecakes you get in packs of four, toffee ones (2 packs) because something in the process of putting cheese in a cheesecake results in essential nutrients being fast-tracked to the skin, ensuring rapid healing and the forming of good, healthy scar tissue.

I’m going to watch the first series of Dexter again with my leg up – it’s the best series of Dexter even though I know his brother did it – and wait for little Emily to come back with my goodies. Then she can make our dinner – Cumberland sausage sandwiches. And I’ll have a little cheesecake or two for my pudding. And then a bit of chocolate. And then a bit of ice cream. And then I’ll probably need a little sleep, but little Emily will be here to watch over me.

I love my little best friend.

 

 

Normal Dotty Services Will Soon Be Resumed

 

I haven’t written a post for my blog yet, I didn’t get up till after midday. Not that it’s any of your business, why do you want to know what time I got up? I don’t ask YOU what time YOU get up, do I? It’s just plain nosiness that’s what it is and I’ll ask you to remember whose fucking blog this IS, it’s MY blog, I’m the BOSS OF MY BLOG and I’ll get up whenever I bleeding well WANT to get up, my name’s DOTTY HEADBANGER not fucking ROYAL MAIL or whatever the American or Canadian or Australian or Netherlandian or Colombian or whatever country you are on my list version of ROYAL MAIL is – if you want your post to arrive on time RING THEM UP AND ASK WHY THEY’RE SUCH TARDY BASTARDS.

You’ll get a new post from ME when I’m good and ready so stop nagging me, I’ve been INCAPACITATED you know, didn’t you read THE FUCKING MIGRAINE POEM? What do you think THAT was all about, do you think I wrote it for your ENTERTAINMENT? – no I did NOT write if for your entertainment I wrote it because it’s all I COULD write because nothing else had happened to me while I was lying there IN FUCKING AGONY.

Fucking blog. Can’t a She-Hermit sleep in on a Saturday morning after being INCAPACITATED? nag nag nag nag nag.

 I NEVER sleep in, I’m up between 5.30am and 6.30am every morning, weekends included. AND THE ONE TIME I SLEEP IN BECAUSE I WAS INCAPACITATED THE DAY BEFORE YESTERDAY AND IT’S WHINE WHINE WHINE WHINE WHINE give me a post, I want a post, if you don’t give me a post I’ll just nag and nag and nag, do a post, do a post NOW, do one do one do one.

NO I WON’T DO ONE. So fuck off, I’m going to make my Cumberland sausage sandwiches for my breakfast now, I haven’t had anything to eat for two days – no it’s more like THREE days. Do you want to see me STARVE?

I might be back later with a new post, I might not, it depends if I can be ARSED TO DO ONE. I might have other more interesting things to do like EXAMINE MY ELBOWS.

So there. Stick THAT up your blogging WordPress and swivel on it, fucking nagging fucking BELL-END of a fucking blog.

 

The F***ing Migraine Poem

 

Light, light, light

bright fucking light

bright bright bright

bright bright

fucking light

beautiful

like Sirius in my eye

 

Dread dread dread

overwhelming dread

dread dread dread

dread dread

fucking dread

of what’s about to happen

in my head

 

pins pins pins

tiny stabbing pins

pins pins pins

sticking in

fucking pins

paralyse 

the whole of my right hand side

 

Sick sick sick 

sick vomit sick

sick vomit sick

sick sick

fucking sick

and more sick

and more and more and more sick

 

sharp sharp pain

high piercing pain

pain pain pain

pain pain

fucking pain

white spikes of fire

from my brain

 

still still still

stay fucking still

stay fucking still

still still

fucking still

stay fucking still

stay absolutely fucking still

 

hour hours hours

long fucking hours

long like days days days

fucking hours and hours

and hours

of pain pain pain

pain pain

 

sleep sleep sleep

blessed fucking sleep

sleep sleep sleep

sleep sleep

fucking sleep

and when I woke at dawn

the fucking migraine had gone

 

strange strange strange

very fucking strange

strange strange strange

strange strange

fucking strange

this eerie otherness

that will stay with me for days.

 

 

Stinking Stillness – (What To Do)?

 

the towels stink

i stare at them and stare at them and stare at them

but they still stink

 

Dotty’s SECRET PLAN For Retrieving Her New Towels And Her Washing Up Basins From The Back Garden

 

Right, this SECRET PLAN of mine is going to surprise you. Shock you even. It shocked ME when it slammed itself right to the front of my thoughts, knocking all other possible plans that might have been forming back down into the strange and shady pit of my subconscious. It took me a while to get my head round the fact that THE PLAN was really there, shining and magnificent, the ANSWER to a problem I hadn’t had time to think and worry about. A little MIRACLE had happened.

But it wasn’t just the presence of THE PLAN that astounded me – it was THE PLAN itself, what it entailed, what it implied, what it MEANT, not only in relation to the retrieval of my new towels and my basins but, if I could pull it off successfully, FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE.

I won’t tease you by spouting lines and lines and paragraphs and paragraphs of distracting words to keep you in suspense and keep you reading because you might get bored of having to wade through word after word after word, and line after line after line, and paragraph after paragraph after paragraph. We Who Are Mental can have short attention spans and you might lose the thread and just skip down the page to The End to see what happened, or worse still, you might LEAVE THIS PAGE. But if you were to skip down to The End to see what happened, or if you were to LEAVE THIS PAGE you’d miss me

 

 

eeeeeekkk! eeeeeeeeeeekkkkkk!!!! eeeeeeeeeeeekkk!!!

 

 

GOING OUT OF MY HOUSE ALONE

 

 

Yes, yes, you did, you read it correctly. I went out alone. On my own, on my todd, solo-solo-marco-polo. I DID IT.

She-Hermits, He-Hermits, everyone else – I bet you’re gagging to know HOW – well, I’m going to tell you, you’ll just have to hold on a minute while I turn my Cumberland sausages before they burn on one side.

 

♪♬♪ dooby-dooby-doooooooo

dooby-dooby-doooooooo ♬♬♪

 

You can tell how excited I am, can’t you? I NEVER EVER EVER leave my Cumberland sausages to cook by themselves without keeping a supervisory watch over them to stop them spitting at each other and violently rolling into each other’s sides. It’s just not worth it, an unevenly cooked Cumberland sausage can be just as bad as an undercooked Cumberland sausage, but I’ve turned the gas down now so they should be okay.

Okay, how did I do it? How did I GO OUT OF MY HOUSE ALONE? Actually I don’t really know,  I JUST DID IT. I didn’t think about it, instinct or something must have taken over, I didn’t even put any shoes on, I just grabbed a cold Cumberland sausage from the fridge, stuck it half in - half out of my mouth so I wouldn’t scream - in case I dropped it and also to nibble on for sustenance and energy while I was running – then I unlocked the back door and RAN.

And you should have seen me - I was like USAIN BOLT, like the WIND ON LEGS, faster than the speed of light, I was REALLY fucking fast, if anyone was watching they wouldn’t have SEEN ME I was that fast, I’d have been nothing but a SPEEDY LITTLE BLUR before their eyes, THERE and GONE, what WAS that?

RUN, FORREST, RUN!

Four strides to the corner, four strides back. That’s eight strides, eight record-breaking fast-as-fuck STRIDES I DID OUTDOORS.

Waaaaahhhhhhooooooo!

And in between was the swiftiest little pick-up ever. I didn’t even STOP for the pick-up and I had TWO BASINS FULL OF NEW, WET TOWELS to pick up. TWO. It was like a sprinty dance the way I did the turn and the pick-up at the same time while still managing to keep up the flow and the momentum of the run itself – FUCKING FLUID AND BEAUTIFUL, that’s what it was, like Dancing On Ice except it wasn’t dancing it was running and it wasn’t on ice it was on my concrete path – and those TWO BASINS FULL OF NEW WET TOWELS were really heavy, I thought I was definitely going to drop them or snap my hands off at the wrists and I knew how the skaters must have felt during PROP WEEK on Dancing On Ice, it’s bloody well hard you know, you don’t realise HOW HARD it is when you’re watching them on the telly because they make it look SO EASY, and so did I, I made it look like a piece of piss, I’d have been TOP OF THE LEADER-BOARD if Robin Cousins had been in my garden, judging me, and if Jayne and Chris had been there too they’d have FUCKING LOVED IT, they’d have wanted to COACH ME but I’d have said no because I don’t think I’d like ice-skating, I like to keep my feet firmly on the ground, thank you, but I wouldn’t mind having a go at the FLYING ROUND THE RINK thing, that looks like SUBLIME MAGIC and ROMANCE on a safety harness and a sturdy length of steel wire.

I reached the back door again and as I entered the house I let the TWO BASINS FULL OF NEW WET TOWELS drop onto the kitchen floor and I executed a STRIDEY LEAP over them that would have only scored maybe a low four because I was knackered by that time and all the power had gone out of my legs.

My heart was thumping, not panicky thumping, good thumping and I flopped flat over the kitchen table to get my breath back. I was SO PROUD OF MYSELF, SO VERY FUCKING PROUD that I wanted to ring Lottie and tell her what I’d just done, but I couldn’t get up and by the time I did get up to shut and lock the back door the urge to ring her had gone.

This is the SECOND TIME I’ve been out since I started my little blog back in December of last year. But it’s the FIRST TIME I’ve been out ON MY OWN for THREE YEARS.

In the space of a few days I’ve planned the party that wasn’t a party (planning it counts?) and I’ve GONE OUTSIDE MY HOUSE ON MY OWN.

What’s happening to me?

 

 

Cometh The Boilerman, Cometh The Flood – The Book Of Dotty: 10:20 (am)

 

Numpty the boilerman came back this morning with the parts he needed to fix the boiler. I don’t know what they were, I kept myself hidden in my laptop reading through someone’s blog while he did what he had to do. He rang yesterday evening so I knew he was coming and this time I took extra beta-blockers and a big, BIG swig of laudanum to help me cope while he was here. 

I was in the living room to save my ears from imploding and so he couldn’t talk to me and make me even more panicky. The boiler is in the utility room at the back of the house. He’d been here about half an hour when he came to the living room door and tapped on it. ‘S’cuse me, love, have you got some old towels?’

Old towels? Oh for fuck’s sake. ‘How bad is it?’

‘No, it’s not too bad, don’t worry yourself.’

I went to have a look.

WATER, WATER EVERYWHERE, AND NOT A DROP TO DRINK 

Why are people so FUCKING USELESS?

I got him some towels from my airing cupboard, which weren’t old towels they were NEW towels from the collection that fell on me the day Granny Euphemia came to see me. I thought - why am I not in a right tizz, panicky and terrified, but I wasn’t, no, my extra medication must have been just right. I’ll have to write down what and how much I took so I know for the next time something comes up. I took the towels downstairs and waded through the big puddle near the back door.

He pointed at the cooker and said, ‘If you start there you’ll stop it running underneath.’

Me??

ME??

I DON’T THINK SO

So I calmly said –

YOU INCOMPETENT TWAT OF AN ARSEWIPE, YOU CAN FUCK OFF. YOU MOP IT UP OR YOU MIGHT AS WELL WHISTLE FOR YOUR MONEY BECAUSE YOU WON’T GET ANY OF MINE.

and I went back into the living room and carried on reading the blog.

Another hour and a half later he tapped on the door again. ‘I’m finished, love.’

And guess what? He had.

The boiler is working, no leaks, and he did such a good job mopping up that my kitchen floor has PATTERNS IN THE LINO THAT I’D FORGOTTEN ABOUT.

I might ask him if he wants a cleaning job, cash in hand.

So all’s well that ends well.

Amazing.

Except I don’t know what he’s done with the new pack of towels I gave him.

Where are they?

 

 

EDIT EDIT EDIT — I can see the towels but I can’t get them. The bastard’s left them in my two washing up basins OUTSIDE. I can’t reach them because they’re JUST ROUND THE CORNER, I can see about eight inches of towel and about one inch of basin. What will I do, what will I do?

 

 

Why Do I Bother? Eh? Tell Me, Because I Don’t Know

 

Right, to start with I’ve put my newest fascinating collection on display here –

 Dotty’s List Of Collected Countries

 

Next, I want to ask why loads of you have just rudely dismissed the work I put into making YOUR  new page

Dotty’s Pet Blogs 

Have I got MUG written across my forehead? Do I do these things for the good of my health? NO I FUCKING WELL DON’T –  SO, FOLLOWERS, READERS - GO AND ADD YOUR BLOG TO THE LIST and other people will visit you and follow you and we will all be like ONE BIG HAPPY FUCKING FAMILY.

ALL RIGHT?

WELL GO ON THEN, WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?

 

 

I HAVE  850,492,786.5 FOLLOWERS AND ONLY 17 OF YOU HAVE POSTED LINKS TO YOUR BLOGS ON DOTTY’S PET BLOGS. SHAME ON YOU ALL.

 

 

EDIT EDIT EDIT EDIT —- If you’re wondering, the Dotty’s Pet Blog page is working, I’m seeing more clicks than ever before. So I don’t know why you wouldn’t want to add YOURS to the list, unless you don’t want anyone to read it, but in that case MAKE IT PRIVATE.

 

 

Happy Mother’s Day, Meine Mami – Here’s A Brilliant Rhyme For You

This is a Happy Mother's Day flower for meine Mami. I can't give her a real flower because I don't know where she is.

 

 

 

If anyone got a post in their email that isn’t here now it’s because it was a PICTURE POST that I made for meine Mami for HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY with some lovely pictures and captions and it was lovely and it was FUCKING BRILLIANT – but it SHAGGED MY LITTLE BLOG RIGHT UP because I can’t do pictures. So I’ve made a little rhyme instead –

 

 

 

 

 

A HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY RHYME FOR MEINE MAMI

 

Where have you gone, meine Mami?

It’s been years since we last had a hug,

since then my brain has gone gammy -

it’s all manky and skanky with fug.

I miss your old legs, meine Mami,

and the fun and the laughs of our games

with the butter and mayo and jammy

that we spread on your varicose veins;

and your laugh, like a crying old donkey

with its tail trapped in somebody’s door;

and your eyes, even though they are wonky

and as grey as the dust on my floor.

Please, please come home, meine Mami,

your absence is harder than stone

and it hits with a quadruple whammy

each hour when I’m sitting alone.

Meine Mami, I miss and I love you

so much that it makes me feel sick;

when you want to come home I’ll be waiting

with a Cumberland sausage sandwich and a plate of McCain’s Chippy Chips and a packet of Hobnobs and a BRAND NEW BRICK.

 

 

 

HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY, MEINE MAMI

 

 

 

 

Yet Another Dotty Gloomy Shitey Poemy Shitey Pile Of Shite (Sorry)

 

Wraith

 

like some ancient, lost ethereal thing

on and on I stumble

 

down springs, autumns, winters, summers,

into the slows and sloughs of remembered other days

 

where I sift through piles of sighs

green with lichen and moss,

 

harvest memories of a kiss,

a smile, a touch, an eyeflash

 

 

there are no flowers…

just memories, like raptors, gather

 

 

another dawn breaks

and I wake

crying in colours and mad, mad sparks,

trying to suck the screams back into my heart

as the sun

my beautiful sun

slides from the throat

of the beast

 

 

I Cooked And Baked And Blew Up Balloons But There Won’t Be A Party, It Was All For Nothing, No One Is Coming

 

It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to.

Does anyone want a Milk Chocolate Cumberland Sausage bun? I have 24. I made two batches this morning. And I made two batches of Dark Chocolate Cumberland Sausage buns too (80% cocoa solids), in case little Emily and Lottie felt they were too old for Milk Chocolate Cumberland Sausage buns. They’re nice, I put Cadbury’s Chocolate Buttons on top.

I also made a Cumberland Sausage trifle (like a traditional sponge trifle but without the sponge – I used Cumberland sausages instead). And I made a cake that DOESN’T have Cumberland sausages in it, it’s an Opium & Laudanum Sandwich cake that I made for Branwell because when little Emily told him about the party he got excited and said he wanted to come, and that’s what I’m going to eat all by myself, I’m going to scran the whole fucking lot of it, my Opium & Laudanum Sandwich cake with FRESH CREAM AND JAM.

Tonight, Matthew, I’m going to be THOMAS DE QUINCEY.

They all said they wanted to come. I expected Lottie to decline but she surprised me and said yes.

I surprised myself by even considering having a jolly-up, by even allowing the idea inside my head when Judith put it there. What type of She-Hermit has a PARTY?

A RECOVERING type of She-Hermit has a party and that’s what I went to bed thinking, maybe this is the first step on the road to recovery for me, maybe this party is the start of getting my life back again.

I should have known though, shouldn’t I? Fool, fool, fool. Fucking stupid simple gullible fucking fool.

 

You’re too late for a bun. I smashed them up with my brick during my shaping session. You can lick the chocolate buttercream out of my hair if you want to though, before it dries up.

 

I don’t know what to do with all these balloons. They’ll hurt my ears if I pop them. I can’t open the back door to set them free in case little Emily and Branwell are still outside, waiting for a chance to get in. She’s mad at me, foaming. Raging.

 

The phone won’t shut up either. Ring fucking ring fucking ring fucking ring, as soon as it stops it starts again, RING RING RING RING RING RING RING  

 

LEAVE ME ALONE, LOTTIE

LEAVE ME ALONE

LEAVE ME ALONE LEAVE ME ALONE LEAVE ME ALONE LEAVE ME ALONE LEAVE ME ALONE LEAVE ME ALONE LEAVE ME ALONE LEAVE ME ALONE

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I can’t stop crying

but it’s MY party

and I’ll cry if I want to.

 

 

Numpty The Boilerman And His Lack Of PARTS

 

He’s been.

Finally.

But guess what, it’s sod’s fucking law he has to come back again next week because I WAS RIGHT and the boiler needs two new PARTS that can’t be ordered until Monday so won’t arrive until Wednesday but he doesn’t know WHEN he will come to fit them. If he had come yesterday when he was supposed to he could… oh, frig it, what’s the point?

He’s been.

And DIDN’T lock him in.

I didn’t hit him.

I wasn’t sick on his shoes.

I didn’t have a panic attack (came close a couple of times).

I didn’t cry in front of him, just a few tears that I managed to blink away.

I don’t THINK he heard my heart battering away, or me whispering my special mantra for peacefulness and calm, taught to me by HIS HOLEY CHEESENESS, THE DAIRY FFARMA (fuckshitebastardfuckshitebastard) but he did keep giving me funny looks so it’s possible he might have noticed.

I did stutter, but for all he knows I might HAVE a stutter and there’s nothing wrong with having a stutter, it’s only if you have a stutter when you’re a TRAMPY SHE-HERMIT that it really bothers people.

I don’t think I was TOO mental.

I did shake slightly.

I made him a cup of tea because he asked for one.

I didn’t shake enough to scald his hand when I handed him the cup of tea he asked for because I didn’t hand him the cup of tea he asked for, I left it on the kitchen worktop for him.

I did scream once but it wasn’t a mental scream it was a METAL scream due to sudden excrutiating HURTY NOISE in my ears when the bastard was trying to get the front of the boiler off and IT SOUNDED LIKE A GIANT METAL AEROPLANE SCRAPING ACROSS MY ROOF BECAUSE I HAVE HYPERACUSIS AND THE FUCKER SHOULD HAVE DONE HIS JOB QUIETLY LIKE I TOLD HIM TO.

I bleached the cup when he’d finished his tea.

And then I bleached my hands that had touched the cup that he had touched with his mouth before it was bleached.

He had stupid hair.

And he was a CHATTY BASTARD. But I know how to deal with CHATTY BASTARDS. I told him I’m deaf, which I’m not I just can’t hear properly, so he shut up and only spoke to me to ask me what he had to ask me which wasn’t much.

I wanted to go away from where he was. I really wanted to.

I couldn’t, for all the reasons that everyone can’t when they have a STRANGER IN THE HOUSE —

they steal your things

they sneak a look in your cupboards and drawers

and your fridge

they eat the food in your fridge (and I had made HEAPS of Cumberland sausages to see me through THE DAY OF WAITING)

they write rude things in the dust

they plant secret hidden mini-miniature cameras all over your house

they look for hiding places so they can sneak back in and hide until you’re asleep (which means you can’t go to sleep again)

they PISS IN YOUR SINK

they drink your beer if you have any beer, which I don’t because I don’t drink beer or any other alcoholic beverage - I am TEETOTAL apart from my morning ABSINTHE & BANANA SMOOTHIE, which doesn’t count because  

1 – Absinthe is made of WORMWOOD which is a plant I grow in my garden, therefore Absinthe is a PLANT EXTRACT like SUNFLOWER OIL.

2 -  My ABSINTHE & BANANA SMOOTHIE is a FRUITYHEALTHY, NUTRITIOUS SMOOTHIE FULL OF VITAMINS AND GLOOPY GOODNESS  

3 – I drink it in the morning and if I were drinking alcohol in the morning I would be an ALKY which I AM NOT.

 

So I survived - but I’m fucking shattered, wiped out from two days of high stress and high anxiety (I watched that once, long ago) and a few panic attacks.

And there are at least five days to go until he comes back.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I Made A New Page For You While I’m Waiting For The Boilerman

 

It’s for you all (y’all) to add your links to your blogs and so you can find other good blogs to read.

SPREAD THE LOVE, MY CHICKADEES, far across the wide, wide, WordPress.

Add your own blog to DOTTY’S PET BLOGS.

And go and visit each other.

But always come back to me.

Because I love you.

You are ALL beautiful.

And sparkly.

No exceptions.

Except one.

 

Dotty Is Slightly Miffed With The Boilerman

 

 

 

 

OY, BOILERMAN – see that writing in the picture? It’s for YOU, you LYING FIBBING SHIRKER.

Just you wait till morning - that’s if you ARRIVE in the morning and you don’t make up another excuse not to come. ILL? yes right, what with? DOUBLE PNEUMONIA? BERI-BERI? E-COLI? THE BUBONIC PLAGUE? ill my fucking granny’s gums, you are NOT ill if you’ve got anything wrong with you it’s MAN FLU, you woosy-arsed whiney fucking WIMP. If you want to see ILL you should have seen me today WAITING FOR YOU TO COME AND FIX MY BOILER but just you wait, tomorrow I’m not taking ANY of my FUCKING PROPANOLOL and tonight I’m not taking my FUCKING MIRTAZAPINE AND MY FUCKING NIGHT BETA-BLOCKERS AND I’M NOT TAKING ANY FUCKING PILLS AT ALL TONIGHT OR TOMORROW SO IN THE MORNING YOU WILL GET THE FULL EFFECTS OF ME NOT TAKING MY FUCKIGN PILLS AND THEN YOU WILL KNOW WHAT BEING ILL IS YOU LYING LITTLE BASTARD AND i WILL LOCK THE FUCKING DOOR SO YOU CAN’T GET OUT AND YOU’LL THNK YOU ARE LOCKED IN WITH A RAVING LOONY AND YES YOU WILL BE LOCKED IN WITH A RAVING LOONY AND THAT FUCKING LOONY WILL BE ME. 

 

Little Bitty Pretty One & Big Hat-Wearing Ugly One (And The Boilerman)

 

LOOK WHAT LITTLE BITTY PRETTY ONE MADE FOR ME!

A VIDEO!!!!

 

BUT

My boiler is leaking and I had to ring A MAN who will be here sometime before 8pm tonight. WHY CAN’T THE FUCKER GIVE ME AN EXACT TIME? Now I have to wait and wait and wait and it’s a long, long wait, it’s been an hour already since I had to use the phone to ring him and in that time I’ve taken three beta-blockers, a big swig of laudanum, and a good sniff of the smelling salts little Emily gave me. I AM STILL PANICKY THOUGH and I feel very, very sick.

HE WILL WANT TO ASK ME ABOUT THE BOILER.

AND I WILL HAVE TO TELL HIM.

WHICH MEANS SPEAKING TO HIM

AND LOOKING AT HIM IN A WAY THAT DOESN’T SEEM TOO MENTAL, SO HE THINKS I’M LOOKING HIM IN THE EYE BUT REALLY I’M NOT LOOKING HIM IN THE EYE, I AM LOOKING THREE INCHES TO THE RIGHT OF HIS EYES.

oh

oh

oh

oh

oh

oh

oh

oh

i feel sick.

 

I Said Oops Up Side Your Head, I Said Oops Up Side Your Head

 

I used to like this song (the one in the title) when I was young but I spent hours and hours and hours and hours trying to work out the meaning of the title. I still don’t know what it means and little Emily is just as puzzled as I am. It’s stupid. It’s a good song, but it’s stupid.

 

We’ve been going through some of my records.

 

Where’s Adam Ant? I loved Adam Ant with his stripey face and flamboyant movements of his arms. 

STAAAAAAND AND DELIVER,

YOUR MONEY OR YOUR LIFE

 

 

And little Jimmy Somerville. WHERE IS LITTLE JIMMY SOMERVILLE? Bronski Beat. Yeah.

 

And that group, what’s-their-name, who sang

RED, RED, WINE

STAY CLOSE TO ME

ALL I CAN DO I’VE DONE

DI DI DA DA DA

 

Why can’t I remember their name?

I KNOW IT.

I’ve always known it.

Kingston Town.

Cherry-O-Baby.

ALI CAMPBELL was the singer.

Oh for fuck’s sake.

IT’S ANNOYING ME.

 

TELL ME IT SOMEBODY

PLEASE

NOW

THANK YOU

 

 

Dotty’s 100th Blog Post (And It’s F***ing Brilliant) …

 

… or it would have been if I could have been bothered writing a post. But I can’t be bothered, I’m knackered after all the commotions and shite so I’m going back to bed and this is all you’re getting today.

Anyone have a problem with that?

 

EDIT EDIT EDIT — I came back because I forgot to tell you what I did. LOOK HERE  

 

I AM A HACKER

AND IT IS GOOD

BECAUSE CLOWN’S ARSE IS ON FIRE

AND HE’S IN A BAD MOOD

 

 

HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA

 

GOTCHA, BOZO.

 

Dotty Has A Date With Her Pet Policeman

 

Eeeeeeeeekkkkk! Eeeeeeeeeeekkkk! Eeeeeeeeeekkkkk!

I have an OFFICIAL NEW BOYFRIEND who is an OFFICIAL OFFICER OF THE OFFICIAL POLICE WHO UPHOLD THE OFFICIAL BRITISH LAW.

It’s MY PET POLICEMAN, SERGEANT SHERLOCK.

He told me his real name again but it’s something boring so I don’t want to remember it, but he let me give him a sweetheart’s nickname because he’s a big softie. I call him PIGGY-WIG and he calls me MADAME HEADBANGER because I’m not some old slapper of a tart who lets men call her by her first name on THE FIRST DATE.

Yes, we had a DATE. A real one. This afternoon. He came round with PC Plod (his psychic police twin) and Sniffy, their little sniffy dog, on the pretext of giving me a Caution for wasting police time. He came in and pretended to give me the Caution, then he sent PC Plod and Sniffy off on a fake drug hunt round my house so he could get me alone.

‘I know you’ve manipulated the situation to get me alone to tell me nice things, but stand back or I’ll kick your bollocks up through your brain,’ I said. ‘Don’t you know I have Hermititis and People Phobia? That means I’m scared of PEOPLE which also means YOU. Nothing personal though, I still want to be your girlfriend. Piggy-Wig.’

‘Madame Headbanger, I assure you I have no intention of coming near you,’ he said.

I gave him a wink, then another few winks to make sure he noticed the winks because my eye’s still a bit swollen. I winked to let him know I was IN ON IT - our love had to be kept secret from PC Plod who wouldn’t think twice about grassing up Piggy-Wig to the Chief Inspector for romancing when he should have been at work.

‘Do you want a Cumberland sausage sandwich?’

‘I really shouldn’t … ah, go on then.’

I whipped the plate out of the keep-it-warm bit of the oven. ‘Here’s one I prepared earlier. Six I prepared earlier.’

He gobbled them down. And he had good eating manners - he kept his mouth closed and he didn’t make ANY disgusting noises. ‘Great sausages,’ he said when he’d finished. ‘Very nice. Thanks.’

“My dear friend Dotty makes wonderful Cumberland sausage sandwiches.” At the first syllable I turned round, whoosh, and there was little Emily smiling at me, holding out her arms for a big cuddle.

‘Little Emily!’ I ran over to her, and while we were having our big cuddle I heard Sergeant Sherlock’s chair move back from the table.

‘Madame Headbanger! Are you all right?’

‘Yes, yes. I am now. This is my best friend in the world, Miss Brontë. Emily, this is my new boyfriend, Sergeant Sherlock.’

Piggy-Wig looked at me, then at little Emily, then at me again. ‘Madame Headbanger, come and sit down.’

‘No. You’re not one of those controlling men who won’t let me have friends, are you? I won’t put up with that, my dead husband would tell you I won’t. If he wasn’t dead.’

Little Emily tugged my cardigan sleeve and whispered, “Beware! He has the look of a sly fox! He is plotting against you!”

I whispered back, ‘Don’t worry, little Emily, I can handle him.’

Piggy-Wig took his phone out of his pocket. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I have to make a quick phone call.’

‘Okay.’

He went towards the back door. Then he stopped. He stood still for 48 seconds (I counted), and then he started swaying. I went over and guided him back to the chair, singing a little song for him -

♬♪ When Marimba rhythms start to play, dance with me, make me sway.

Like a lazy ocean hugs the shore, hold me close, sway me more. ♬♪♬

Little Emily said, ‘Oh Dotty! Dean Martin! Do you own a recording?’

‘Yep. I’ll dig it out for you later.’

She clapped her hands. ‘Wonderful!’

‘Will you help me with Piggy-Wig, please? He’s slumping and he weighs a ton.’

‘Move to the side. I know just the way to manouevre a man in a fugue. I have plenty of experience.’

In two shakes she had him sitting up straight at the table, then she did something with his head to stop it lolling. His chin was on his chest and he had a stupid grin on his face.

We left him at the table and went into the living room so I could look for my Dean Martin cd. While I was looking we had a little discussion about which Dean Martin song was best, SWAY or MEMORIES ARE MADE OF THIS. We’d just decided that we couldn’t decide between them when we heard stomping across the ceiling.

‘Goodness, Dotty, why did you refrain from mentioning another policeman in the house?’

‘I forgot. There’s a sniffy dog as well. It’s called Sniffy.’

‘What shall we do?’

‘I don’t know. I thought it would just be Piggy-Wig who came to see me. I didn’t know he was going to bring his psychic police twin with him.’

Next minute there was a massive clatter of noise as Sniffy started barking and came galloping down the stairs dragging the shouting PC Plod behind him. They ran right past us and into the kitchen and by the time we got there Sniffy had started going mental, barking his head off at Piggy-Wig and pulling so hard on his lead in his attempts to get to him that PC Plod had to brace himself on the kitchen worktop to stay upright. He got his radio out and told the other end that he needed assistance. Within five minutes there were more policemen in my kitchen than EVER before (and a young policewoman who had her hair scraped back in an unflattering way – she would have looked nicer with a fringe), then two paramedics (I think they were both paramedics, but one might have been just a normal ambulanceman), then just me and little Emily again. We sat for hours listening to Dean Martin, then there was a knock at the door.

The Big Chief Inspector! I hadn’t seen him since the night I killed Simon.

Come to apologise to me for me having to witness ‘…the dastardly doings of a drug-addled police officer.’ – his words, not mine. And who says ‘dastardly’ these days anyway? Well, obviously he does. But who else?

So there it is. I always pick the bad ones. I don’t know why I even thought it would be different this time.

Never mind though, I made myself some Cumberland sausage while I was making Piggy-Wig’s (naturally), and me and little Emily are going to spend the evening with Dean Martin, who looks even better in real life than he does in those old films on the telly.

 

Dotty Wants To Batter Someone But She Can’t So The Police Will Have To Do It For Her

 

Someone just sent me an email and in it they asked me a horrible, insulting stupid question that I think you should all see –

Is Little Emily your go-between drug dealer?

And here’s my answer that I’m writing here instead of in an email so I have evidence for when I SUE YOU FOR ALL YOU HAVE AND FOR ALL YOU WILL EVER EARN –

NO SHE IS NOT MY GO-BETWEEN DRUG DEALER, YOU FUCKING KNOBROT.

For one - little Emily is an AUTHOR

for two – she is DEAD

for three – what gave this stupid tosser the idea that I take drugs? Have I ever mentioned taking drugs? NO. Medication - YES, but drugs – NO I HAVE NOT. AND I DO NOT APPRECIATE THE INFERENCE THAT I HAVE.

I’m ringing the police. I’m ringing 999 and they’ll come straight away and when they do I’ll show them the email and tell them I want the fucker done for SLANDER. And I’m ringing Sergeant Sherlock who is now my PET POLICEMAN AND ALSO MAYBE MY NEW BOYFRIEND BUT WE’LL JUST SEE HOW IT GOES who will make sure the 999 police arrest that person and show them some good old-fashioned police brutality.

HOW CAN THEY SAY SUCH A HORRIBLE THING? HOW CAN THEY?

 

 

Dotty Is Friends With The Police Again (But They’re Coming For You, Clown)

 

The police called round to my house again last night.

It’s been a few weeks since I saw them last, on THAT night – see Dotty In The Darkness (with lots and lots of swearing) - and I must say I’ve missed their sweet little 12 year old bum-fluffed faces that always look so SERIOUS. And I’ve decided to forgive them for THIEVING MY LITTLE HAND-DRILL because after many, many, many hours of rageful thinking about WHY they STOLE MY LITTLE HAND-DRILL, it came to me one day that maybe the policeman who STOLE MY LITTLE HAND-DRILL needed it for himself because being a policeman must be a stressful job sometimes – I wouldn’t want to have to spend my days (or nights if I was on night-shift) climbing trees to rescue stupid cats. Who would? Let the fuckers fall and then maybe they won’t SHIT ALL OVER PEOPLE’S GARDENS, maybe they’d be too frightened to go out in case they fell out of a tree and they’d stay in their own house and shit in there instead. (Or is that Firemen who rescue cats? Same difference).

Two policemen came to see me.

1  Sergeant Sherlock

2  PC Plod

They’re not their real names. I can’t remember their real names so I gave them aliases. They were new policemen, I’d never seen either of them before and I know all the local bobbys.

I didn’t hear them at first because they came to the front door and knocked on that but bricking it up must have provided a layer of sound-proofing so I only knew they were here when I heard them battering on the back door. I panicked a bit at the sound of banging on the back door, I thought it was someone wanting to dump THE BERSERKERS on me again, but I answered it and it was the police and my heart gave a little skip (not a panicky palpitation) because I thought they’d decided to give me my STOLEN LITTLE HAND-DRILL back, but when I said ‘Have you brought my STOLEN LITTLE HAND-DRILL back, the STOLEN LITTLE HAND-DRILL that one of you Keystone fuckers THIEVED FROM ME,’ Sergeant Sherlock said no, they hadn’t, they were here about the noise.

Eh? What noise?

‘Singing,’ he said. ‘Very loud singing.’

‘Oh, that.’ Fucking nosey neighbours AGAIN. ‘It was me and Clown, we were singing duets and rounds. We were bored.’

‘Clown? Clown who?’

CLOWN, you clown.’

‘Surname?’

They’d tried to trick me with that one before, asking for my surname and when I told them it they said no, we mean the other person’s surname. But I was one step ahead of them.

‘Fire’

‘Where?’

‘No, that’s Clown’s surname, you knobhead. His middle name is On, but he doesn’t spell it with a capital O and I’m not sure if that’s because it’s spelt that way on his Birth Certificate or if he’s just minimised the size of the letter to try and look cool.’

‘Is Mr Fire still here?’

‘No, don’t be stupid. How can he be here? He’s at home.’

‘When did he leave?’

They were asking such daft questions I couldn’t help laughing. ‘HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA. He was never here.’

PC Plod piped up, ‘Stop being unhelpful, Miss Headbanger. Mr Fire and yourself were disrupting the peace. We need to speak with him.’

‘It isn’t MISS Headbanger, it’s MADAME Headbanger. I have been married you know.’

PC Plod again, ‘So where is your husband? Is he here?’

‘No. I killed him.’

They didn’t say anything for a long time, they just looked at me. The silence was getting creepy so I said, ‘Don’t worry, he isn’t under the floorboards or anything. It was a long time ago and I was found not guilty.’ Bless their little rubber bullets, they each breathed out a long breath at exactly the same time, like psychic synchronised twins.

‘Where is Mr Fire?’

‘Do you feel each other’s pain?’

‘What?’

‘You know, like when one twin gets battered round the head, the other twin feels EVERY BLOW.’

‘Are you threatening us?’

‘No I’m NOT threatening you. I was just ASKING for fuck’s sake. Hoy, hang on, why are you looking at me like that? It’s police intimidation. I’ll report you.’

The Sergeant coughed. Well, it was more of a throat-clearing harumph. Actually no, it was a timely little bark. ‘Will you tell us where Mr Fire lives, Madame Headbanger?’

‘Yes, he lives in Canada.’

‘So he wasn’t part of the singing that disrupted the peace?’

‘Yes he was.’

‘I think you need to come down to the station with us.’

Oh fuck. I HATE going to the station because of my HERMITITIS AND PEOPLE PHOBIA.

‘Don’t you know I have Hermititis and People Phobia?’

‘What?’

‘Never mind. Do you want a Cumberland sausage?’

Sergeant Sherlock’s eyes lit up. ‘Oh, you’re THAT Dotty Headbanger. The one with the Cumberland sausages. The lads down the station say you make the best ever Cumberland sausage sandwiches.’

‘Yep, that’s me, guv.’

And an hour later they left with their bobby-bellies full of Cumberland sausage sandwiches to go next door to arrest the noisy neighbours who won’t stop banging on my wall.

 

 

 

 

CUMBERLAND SAUSAGES TO THE RESCUE YET AGAIN? IS THERE ANY  FEAT OF SUPER-HERO-NESS THEY’RE NOT CAPABLE OF? NO, NOTHING CAN STOP THEM.

Where Are You All Coming From?

 

Where are you all coming from?

From Smurfland where we belong…

 

BUT YOU’RE NOT, ARE YOU?

Because I don’t have any visitors from Smurfland on my new Stats Map thingy.

I don’t even have a MAP, I only get a LIST.

Is it cos I is British?

Is that why I don’t have a map?

Or any visitors from Smurfland?

Is it?

 

Ah, fuck it, I’m going to bed.

Goodnight, Finland. You’re the closest I have on my list to Smurfland because your name ends in ‘land’.

So goodnight.

 

 

 

Dotty Sundays Are Very Very Boring

 

I’ve eaten a lot of Cumberland sausages today because I’ve been bored out of my skull and my eye still hurts. I don’t know WHY Sundays are so boring, they’re just the same as every other day for me, here in my house, because I CAN’T GO OUT, but there’s a boring Sunday feeling to Sundays that I don’t get on the other days.

tO RELIEVE SOME OF THIS shitey boredom, i’M WRITING THIS SENTENCE WITH THE CAPS LOCK BUTTON SWITCHED ON, but i’M ALSO USING THE SHIFT BUTTON IN TWO WAYS, FIRSTLY i’M USING IT JUST AS i WOULD IF THE CAPS LOCK BUTTON WASN’T SWITCHED ON, AND SECONDLY i’M USING IT AS A shouty tool EXCEPT IT DOESN’T look to be working because this part looks more like a whisper than a shout. wHAT DO YOU THINK?

i’M GOING TO MAKE SOME MORE cUMBERLAND SAUSAGES. i MIGHT AS WELL STUFF MYSELF UNTIL i can’t fucking move.

I AM SOOOOO FUUUUUCKING BORED. BORED BORED BORED BORED BORED BORED BORED BORED

 

Where’s my brick?

 

 

 

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

 

It’s a bastard when you get an eyelash in your eye and you can’t get it out and no one else is there to get it out for you. I had one this morning, I felt it stab my eyeball at 8.22 am and I’ve only just managed to get it out. And now my eye’s all red and gungy and it’s almost swollen closed - I can only see half of this box I’m writing in, I keep having to move my head along to follow the words so I don’t make any mistakes.

Here’s a sequential list of the tactics I used in my attempts to get the eyelash out.

MY FINGERS – I started with the index finger on my right hand (because I’m right-handed) but that finger hasn’t got much of a nail to catch the eyelash with and if you don’t catch it when you first feel it you’re fucked because what happens is you start PRODDING AROUND YOUR EYE with your finger which irritates the eyeball so then your eye starts watering and the eyelash becomes MOBILE, like a little beached log on a rising river, and when the water reaches the eyelash - away it floats and the chase is on.

2  I lost the eyelash for a while and I thought yes, it must have come out with the water, but no it didn’t because when I was drinking my coffee I felt it stab again, this time under my top eyelid - the most annoying place it could have migrated to. So the next thing I tried was EYEBALL ROTATIONS with closed eyes, which can, if you’re lucky, dislodge the eyelash (you should alternate between rapidly rotating your eyeball and doing it very slowly for the best chance of success with this tactic). But this time the EYEBALL ROTATIONS didn’t work, the eyelash remained stuck up there, somewhere near the outside corner.

3  PULLING THE TOP EYELID DOWN OVER THE BOTTOM ONE AND CONTINUING WITH THE EYEBALL ROTATIONS WHILST HOLDING THE TOP EYELID IN PLACE was the obvious thing for me to do next, but I didn’t do that because the eyelash had moved down a bit towards the pupil and I thought if I looked in a mirror I’d be able to see it and hook it out with a FINGERNAIL. The only problem was I don’t have any mirrors in the house so I had to go round the house looking for a reflective thing. I didn’t find one for two reasons – 1 – dust – and 2 – I kept having to blink so if there is a reflective thing in my house I blinked and I missed it.

PULLING THE TOP EYELID DOWN OVER THE BOTTOM ONE AND CONTINUING WITH THE EYEBALL ROTATIONS whilst holding the top eyelid in place. I tried it. It didn’t work.

FOLDING THE TOP EYELID BACK OVER ON ITSELF so you look like you’re half zombie. This is an awkward but often beneficial tactic if you have a mirror or a reflective surface to look in because sometimes you can catch a glimpse of the eyelash sitting on the eyeball or on the lid itself. But, as I said, I don’t have those things so I had to do it blind and just hope the manouevre itself was enough to dislodge the fucker. It didn’t.

RUBBING AND POKING - I’d been trying to avoid RUBBING AND POKING because this tactic can become very aggressive but there comes a point when you just have to because by then you’d do ANYTHING to get the fucking twatting bastarding thing OUT OF YOUR EYE.

 

THE RESOLUTION

A COLD CUMBERLAND SAUSAGE – Why didn’t I think of this in the first place? Idiot. CUMBERLAND SAUSAGES solve EVERYTHING. What I did was I got a COLD CUMBERLAND SAUSAGE from the fridge, cut an end off and popped it in my mouth to eat, and then I held the remaining big bit of COLD CUMBERLAND SAUSAGE in my hand for an hour in order to heat the flat end of  the COLD CUMBERLAND SAUSAGE to body temperature. Try to avoid RUBBING AND POKING while you’re waiting (I couldn’t avoid it). Once the COLD CUMBERLAND SAUSAGE was warm enough I manipulated the flat warm end into my eye, very carefully, and when it was in and the eyelids were holding it firmly in place, I left it there and I made another cup of coffee and just went about my normal daily life. After a couple of hours I removed the BODY TEMPERATURE CUMBERLAND SAUSAGE and examined it under my magnifying glass – AND THE EYELASH WAS ON THE END OF MY BODY-TEMPERATURE CUMBERLAND SAUSAGE.

BOSH! I WON – I GOT THE LITTLE FUCKER!  – and my eye should heal up in three or four days.

 

 

P.S. And before you ask, yes I DID give the WONDERFUL VICTORIOUS CUMBERLAND SAUSAGE a good wash before I ate it. What do you think I am, a TRAMPY GANNET?

P.P.S.  It tasted FUCKING LOVELY.

 

 

 

Little Emily’s Book Reviews by Ellis Bell

 

I’m sick and tired of little Emily nagging at me to let her write a post on my little blog. Who wants to read her posts? She should get her own fucking blog if she’s that desperate instead of trying to write on mine. I’ve resisted and resisted her but this morning she turned up at my house with a final draft of her FIRST novel which is unpublished as yet because she’s been busy writing the one with Heathcliff in it and she hasn’t bothered sending this first one off yet. And, bless her big white cotton bloomers, you’ll never guess what she’s been doing these last couple of days? Copying out the whole novel BY HAND – yes, bloggy people (and COF) writers used DECIPHERABLE HANDWRITING to write before typing was invented – and she did it ALL FOR ME. So the least I can do in return is compromise – I can’t let her have a whole post to herself but I asked if she wanted to do some book reviews and she (quite grudgingly, for some strange reason) said yes, she would like to do book reviews. I made it very clear that she isn’t TAKING OVER the book reviews, she’s got this post and that’s her lot so she’d better make a good job of it, no shoddy writing or spelling mistakes or bad grammar or thoughtless punctuation because you won’t find any of those things anywhere else on my little blog and I won’t stand for it on this post either. And no ink blobs either (her hands are stained to fuck).

So, I’ll hand you over to little Emily who’s sitting next to me waiting for me to turn the laptop round to face her.

 

(hurry up, idiot, they’re waiting)

 

 

Dear Reader,

Good afternoon. My name is Ellis Bell and I am a man. I am a man for whom a good book is an essential requirement for a content and happy day. I am a man (I am a man) with a life-long, deep-held appreciation for words. I am a literary man of literature and letters. I am a man of books.

 A book review is, ideally, a delicate examination of the inner workings of the author’s craft, and of the outer manifestations of the author’s ability to execute said craft. I am a man with a delicate eye with which to see. I am a man with a delicate hand with which to underline. I am a man with a delicate tongue with which to critic and praise. I am not a fierce man. I am not a harsh man. I am a fair and subtle man. I am a generous man. I am a gentle man.

I shall commence with the first book which has been selected for review by Mme D. Headbanger…

 

Tess of the D’Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy

(The girl, Tess, hails from a place in the southern counties. I managed to determine her unfortunate origins by hearing her speak for a short time. Her accent is dreadfully thick, excrutiatingly so; it is such that I can not elicit one single, legible sentence from her. I refuse to waste the little space and time allocated to my reviews in the arduous task of translating her words. We shall continue to the next on the list).

The Moonstone – Wilkie Collins

(I do not wish to review this book. My brother provides a generous and ample supply of laudanum-fuelled writings for my sisters and I to peruse. Besides, the author is a wicked, immoral cad).

Great Expectations by Charles Dickens

(My dear, dear friend! Please, I beg of you, do not force me to go in there. Dotty, I implore you! Miss Havisham has fleas!)

The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde

(The pretty face of Dorian Gray is undeniably enticing, however, I am forbidden to venture into the realms of this works by my dear father, a pious man of God, who has read of the author’s imprisonment and refuses to allow his daughter son to associate with ne’er-do-wells and lags).

The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka

(What is this? What is it?)

 

I have had quite enough of this foolishness. The books listed for review are not of my choosing; I deeply regret that I did not stand firm and insist upon the choices I myself made. I have squandered my one and only opportunity to become a far-famed blog author, lauded and esteemed, praised and admired throughout the Empire. If only my choices had been acceptable to Mme D. Headbanger, but what possible use are ‘if onlys’, now, at the summit of my shame?

Disgrace is upon me. I must hasten home.

Yours, in spasms of mortified ignominy,

Ellis Bell

 

 

Oh, for fuck’s sake, don’t feel sorry for her, you should have seen HER list – actually, I’ll show you it or it’ll be me who ends up being the bad one in this –

 

Confessions of a Shop-a-holic

Bridget Jones’s Diary

Bridget Jones: The Edge Of Reason

Mills & Boon – a  Doctor & Nurse romance

A book by Barbara Cartland

 

 

That’s what she had on her list.

Fucking stupid Victorian. Why do I bother?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Wind That Blows Between Their Ears

 

 

Oh, but they are stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. STUPID. When I tell you who I’m talking about you’ll agree with me and if you don’t, if you’ve ever said this thing that they say, which I’m about to tell you – well – well I don’t know what I’ll say to you if you have ever said it except DON’T EVER SAY IT AGAIN because it’s one of the most stupid things you could ever say. Saying it makes you look stupid, and I know you’re not stupid or you wouldn’t be reading my little blog.

Imagine you’re watching a game show. It doesn’t matter which one, just make it one that has a quizmaster, a contestant and a question.

The contestant is in his twenties. He’s answered most of his (or her) previous questions, he’s been to university, he’s got a good job. He doesn’t SEEM stupid –

UNTIL

the quizmaster asks the next question and the  next question is something like one of these questions —

 

In which year did England win the world cup?

In which year did Elvis Presley die?

How long did Queen Victoria reign?

Who was the first man on the moon?

How many Number One songs did the Beatles have?

 

 

 

And the contestant’s answer is 

 

‘I DON’T KNOW, I WASN’T BORN THEN.

 

 

On how many levels of STUPID does this contestant live? ALL OF THEM, that’s how many. I was going to do a long post about EACH LEVEL OF STUPIDITY but I decided not to because if you don’t know how STUPID this answer is then have a little think about it and if you still don’t know – DON’T ASK ME because all I will say is YOU ARE VERY, VERY STUPID AND YOUR STUPIDNESS WILL ONLY BECOME MORE STUPID AS YOU GET OLDER, YOU STUPID,STUPID PERSON.

 

 

 

 

P.S. Did anyone notice the absence of swear words in this post? Did you notice how well I did? Not even ONE swear word. I deserve a treat for that and I’m going to have one. Now.

 

 

Dotty and Lottie (But Not For Long)

 

 

Morning (barely) and I was woken up AGAIN by banging at the back door. I’d fallen asleep at the kitchen table sometime in the early hours, I can’t remember when. I think the last time I looked at the clock it was 3.42 am but it might not have been, I don’t know.

This time it was Lottie. She barged past me the second I had the door opened, storming into my kitchen shouting ‘WHERE ARE THEY? WHERE ARE MY GIRLS?’

‘Hold your horses, will you. They…’

‘TELL ME WHERE THEY ARE!’

‘I fucking ATE them, where do you think they are?’

She made towards the door that leads to the stairs, ‘PRISCILLA! CECILIA!’

‘Shut up, you silly cow, they’re sleeping.’

She turned round. ‘Are they all right? Were they upset?’

‘What do you think? He dragged them here in their pyjamas, they were crying their eyes out.’

‘Oh God.’ She sat down at the table. ‘I nearly died when I went into their rooms and they weren’t there. You could have rung me, you know, why didn’t you?’

Cheeky bitch! ‘Because I was SETTLING YOUR KIDS – that’s why. Anyway you’re a bit late to notice they’re gone, aren’t you? They’ve been here since half nine last night.’

‘He didn’t tell me. I got up this morning and… ‘ Then she BURST INTO TEARS.

Lottie did. 

She BURST INTO TEARS (sorry I just had to say it again, I couldn’t resist, I haven’t seen her in tears since we were little). She BURST INTO TEARS and sat there crying for a bit.

I watched her. She doesn’t cry like normal people, she makes a strange HAHURR, HAHURR, HAHURR noise in amongst all the snivelling. I think there was a moan or two in there as well but I couldn’t swear on it because of my tinnitus being so bad. I hate people who moan when they cry, they do it for attention - just CRY for fuck’s sake, don’t make a big show of it, no one gives a toss.

After a couple of minutes I put the kettle on to make a drink. ‘Tea or coffee?’ I asked.

I think she said tea so I made her tea. I had coffee - I don’t like tea, it tastes like soggy washing. I wanted to make some Cumberland sausages for my breakfast but I thought it might look a bit heartless if I put the frying pan on while she was still crying, but then I thought no it won’t because I’ll say I’m making Cumberland sausages for THE BERSERKERS’ breakfast.

‘I’m making Cumberland sausages for THE… girls’ breakfast. Do you want some?’

‘No.’

Fair enough. Wait till she got a whiff of them cooking, she’d want some then.

‘Do you want toast instead?’

‘I don’t want anything.’

Fine. I got on with making my breakfast. Two Cumberland sausages each for THE BERSERKERS, six little beauties for me. I was starving.

My Cumberland sausages were quarter-cooked when she said, ‘Did they get to sleep all right?’

‘Yep.’

‘What about Cecilia? She won’t go to sleep if she doesn’t have her teddy.’

‘She didn’t mention a teddy.’

‘Oh.’

Silence again except for the sound of the Cumberland sausages cooking. Hiss, hiss, pfff, pfff. And an occasional sniff from Lottie. I got the bread and butter out, and the plates, and a couple of cups for THE BERSERKERS’ milk. 

‘Wayne’s seeing someone else.’

WHAT? FAT-FUCK? SHAGGING AROUND?! HA HA HA HA HA!

‘He’s leaving me. That’s where I went last night, why I left the girls with Scotty. I followed him to her house.’

I turned the gas down so my Cumberland sausages wouldn’t burn. I didn’t know what to say to her. What CAN you say? So I said, ‘I can’t believe it.’

‘No, me neither, I thought we were happy, everything was fine. I can’t believe he’d do this, he always says the girls and I mean the world to him.’

‘No, I mean I can’t believe someone else would want him.’

Oops.

‘What do you mean?’

In for a penny, in for a pound – ‘Come on, Lottie, he’s a fat wanker – he’s a waste of good eyesight. You’ll be well rid of him.’

That did it.

‘WHAT DID YOU SAY ABOUT MY HUSBAND? HE IS NOT A FAT WANKER, HE’S WELL BUILT AND HE’S A PROPER MAN, NOT LIKE THE WIMP YOU MARRIED AND WHERE IS HE? OH LOOK, HE’S DEAD BECAUSE YOU MADE SUCH A GOOD CHOICE OF MAN YOU HAD TO KILL HIM.’

‘That’s a bit below the belt. And who said I HAD to kill him?’

She got up fast, scraping my chair across the lino.

‘Don’t do that, it hurts my ears.’

‘Fuck off, Dotty.’

Woohhooooo! She IS human. Off she went to get THE BERSERKERS and I let her, I could see it would all end in more tears if I didn’t (ha, she BURST INTO TEARS). I went back to cooking my Cumberland sausages which were almost done. A couple of minutes later I heard the toilet flush, then again, then they all came into the kitchen.

‘Cumberland sausages for breakfast!’ I said.

‘We’re going.’

‘No mummy,’

‘Yes!’

‘I’ve made their breakfast.’

She ignored me and handed THE BERSERKERS their coats. ‘Put them on.’

‘Want to thtay here.’

‘PUT YOUR COAT ON.’

And twenty seconds later they were gone and it was like they had never been. Except I had ten lovely Cumberland sausages for breakfast instead of six.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dotty Settles The Berserkers And Tells Them A Story (A Good One)

 

After Useless Judas stormed out of my house I locked and bolted the back door then I shouted to THE BERSERKERS to come back into the kitchen because Uncle Scotty had gone. When they appeared in the doorway they looked like little war orphans and I could have cried at how pitiful they were but I didn’t, I got them a cup of milk and a cold Cumberland sausage each from the fridge and I got myself a glass of Diet Coke and four cold Cumberland sausages from the fridge and I said come on, let’s take these up to bed.

I carried my glass of Diet coke and the two cups of milk (any pedantic wisearses reading this - before you say it, no I don’t have three hands – the cups have HANDLES). THE BERSERKERS carried all six of the cold Cumberland sausages between them in their pudgy little GERMY hands and normally after they’d touched them I’d have had to give my cold Cumberland sausages a good scrub under the cold tap before I ate them but that was before I had little Emily’s WABBIT PIE. No food can faze me now.

At the door to the spare room Prissy, the eldest, said, ‘Can we sleep in with you, Auntie Dotty?’ I didn’t get chance to say no, they were off like a pair of muggers into my bedroom, on top of my bed.

OY, mind the Cumberland sausages. Don’t get bed on them!’ I didn’t have the heart to kick them into the spare room even though I knew I was in for another night of no sleep if I let them stay (have I ever told you I’m nice and kind like that?) so I put their cups of milk and my glass of Diet coke on my bedside table (which was, to my surprise, surprisingly collection-free - little Emily must have had a tidy up) and I got onto the bed with them.

‘You two, give me my Cumberland sausages.’

‘Can we eat ours?’

‘Yep. Erm, why are mine damp? Have they been licked?’

The GLANCE OF NAUGHTINESS that usually passed between THE BERSERKERS when they were up to something didn’t happen so I knew my Cumberland sausages were spit-free. Poor little things, they’d been traumatised by Useless Judas shouting at them. I knew I had to ask them THE question, whether or not he’d smacked them, but I was nervous of the answer they’d give because he’d been so wound up he could easily have lost it with them, and if he had there’d be no way he’d admit it to me. I had to do it with subtleness though.

‘Did Uncle Scotty smack either of you?’ I said in the very slow high voice people use when they’re asking kids a delicate question.

Neither of them answered. Oh-oh.

‘Did Uncle Scotty hurt you? You have to tell me if he did.’

Prissy shook her head. ‘We hurt HIM. She bit his sore finger and I hit him in the front bum with the Wii remote.’

HA HA HA HA HA HA HA – I managed not to laugh out loud, I turned away and got my glass of Diet Coke so they wouldn’t see me trying to hold my face straight. ‘That was very naughty, girls. You shouldn’t hit people.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Thorry.’

‘Right, finish your Cumberland sausages and drink your milk so we can go to sleep.’ I wanted to ask them where Lottie and Fat-Fuck had gone and why Useless Judas had been left to babysit at all – he’s the last person I would have expected Lottie to leave her kids with – but that could wait till morning, I had to get them to sleep before the four beta-blockers I’d taken ran out of power.

We got under the covers, me in the middle because they wanted me there but I couldn’t do with being in the middle, it was too much like being trapped between two bald monkeys so I had to get Prissy to climb over to the other side of Cissy. After the scramble I said, ‘Lie down now and go to sleep.’

‘Tell me a thtory. Winnie-the-Pooh.’

‘I want Cinderella.’

Fuck. I can’t remember stories.

‘Please.’

‘Pleathe.’

‘Howsabout I make up a story?’

‘Yeth. Make up Winnie-the-Pooh.’

‘Okay let me think for a minute. Right, erm, once upon a time there was a bear who lived in the woods. He SL… ‘

‘That’s Winnie-the-Pooh. I don’t want a baby story.’

‘Yay, Winnie!’

‘Shut up and listen. He SLEPT in the woods, he ATE HIS DINNER in the woods, he PLAYED in the woods, but the one thing he DIDN’T DO in the woods was SHIT IN THE WOODS. His name …’

‘You thweared, you thweared!!’

‘… his name was WINNIE-THE-SHITE… ‘

gaspy screams of shocked laughter, hands clamped to their mouths as though they’d said the word themselves – EXACTLY the reaction I’d hoped for to cheer them up a bit (see, I DO know what to do with kids, I bet you thought I wouldn’t have a clue, didn’t you?) except now I had to think of more story.. ‘so one day Winnie-the-Shite had been for a shit in the nearby town and was trying to get back to his home in the woods when he got lost. He wandered round and round the trees but all the trees looked the same and he couldn’t find a tree he knew. He wandered all day and just as it started to get dark and he started to get scared he saw a pretty little cottage with smoke coming out of the chimney and Winnie-the-Shite thought to himself, ‘I wonder if anyone’s in?’ So he went and knocked on the door but there was no answer so he tried the door and it wasn’t locked so he opened the door and he looked inside. Everything was like it is in The Three Bears story —- do you know The Three Bears?’

They both nodded.

‘Goldiwockth’

…. ‘and Winnie-the-Shite thought to himself, ‘I think I’m in The Three Bears Story, I’d better get out of here before they come back and think I’ve eaten their porridge.’ But the porridge smelled lovely and when he went over to the cooker and lifted the lid on the porridge pot, and looked in the porridge pot, the porridge LOOKED lovely ..’

‘No, Winnie-the-Thite, don’t eat it!’

… ‘and he picked up the big wooden stirring spoon and dunked it in the porridge and he got a BIG gloop of porridge and he ate it. And it tasted nice but it needed a bit of salt to make it taste LOVELY so Winnie-the Shite looked round the kitchen for the salt but he couldn’t see any, so he started opening the cupboard doors and looking inside the cupboards but he couldn’t find it in any of the cupboards. He wondered if The Three Bears kept their salt in the bedroom so he opened the door to what he THOUGHT was the bedroom and ‘OH MY GIDDYGODDYJESUS,’ said Winnie-the-Shite when he saw what was in the room…’

‘What? What?’

‘It was a TOILET. But Winnie-the-Shite had never seen a toilet before and he didn’t know what it was, so he tiptoed across the floor to it and bent down and did what bears do to things when they don’t know what they are – he SNIFFED it!’

‘YEEEUUURRGGGHHHHH!’

‘EEEEEWWWWWWWWW!

‘And the PONG made him jump back in disgust. He ran back to the kitchen but the door he opened wasn’t the kitchen door it was the bedroom door and on Baby Bear’s small bed he saw a sleeping girl with thick, golden curly hair, just like Cissy’s hair, and he knew it was Goldilocks so he ran over and shook her awake and said ‘Come on, Goldilocks, we have to get out of here, The Three Bears will be back in a minute and THEY ARE DIRTY MINGING BEARS WHO SHIT IN THEIR OWN HOUSE, come on, come on, hurry up!’

‘Come on, come on!’

‘So Winnie-the-Shite and Goldilocks ran out of the bedroom and found their way back to the kitchen where Goldilocks stopped and refused to move until she had some porridge, but Winnie-the-Shite knew The Three Bears were on their way home so he said, ‘Let’s nick the WHOLE pot of porridge and we’ll eat it when we’re safe,’ so they each took a handle of the porridge pot and they ran out of the house and into the woods.

They ran and ran and ran, far into the woods, and when they stopped for a little rest Winnie-the-Shite said, ‘Hang on, I KNOW that tree.’ So he asked the tree, ‘Do I know you?’ and the tree said, ‘Yes, I’m Piney the Prickly Pine Tree,’ and Winnie-the-Shite said, ‘I THOUGHT I recognised you. Can you show me the way home, please?’ And Piney the Prickly Pine Tree swayed his branches in the direction of Winnie-the-Shite’s home and said ‘That way,’ and Winnie-the-Shite said ‘Thank you,’ and he set off with Goldilocks and the porridge pot and soon he was in his own cottage with the porridge pot on the kitchen table and a BIG bowl of salt, and BIG spoons and a new friend and they all lived happily ever after. Amen.’

Quietness. Stillness. Little breaths.

I waited five minutes until I was sure they were asleep then I shuffled round, carefully, and slid one leg out from under the covers. They didn’t stir so I slowly got out of bed and went downstairs. Little Emily was sitting at the kitchen table, writing.

She looked up from her page, ‘Oh, Dotty, those poor, poor little mites. But never fear - I will assist you, my dear friend. You are not alone.’

And she got up and made me a cup of coffee and brought me a packet of Hobnobs to dunk. I don’t know what I’d do without her.

 

 

 

 

 

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 572 other followers

%d bloggers like this: