Branwell To The Rescue – Manglebrain Is Back In The Sideboard

 

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

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

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

 

 

 

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

 

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

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

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

 

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

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

I EAT.

I EAT.

 

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

I don’t know what to do.

 

Dotty Talking Therapy © – The Cure For Being Mental

 

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

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

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

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

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

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DOTTY TALKING THERAPY ©

 

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

The sentence is –

 

I’M NOT FUCKING MENTAL – YOU ARE.

 

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

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

 

EVIDENCE

Would we start wars?

NO WE WOULD NOT.

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

NO WE WOULD NOT.

Would we allow homelessness to continue?

NO WE WOULD NOT.

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

NO WE WOULD NOT.

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

NO WE WOULD NOT.

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

 

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

And also –

Would WE zap electrical currents into THEIR brains?

Would WE cut into THEIR brains to perform lobotomies?

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

Would WE force nasty drugs into THEM?

 

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

 

 

 

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

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

 

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

 

I’M NOT FUCKING MENTAL – YOU ARE.

 

AND BELIEVE WHAT YOU’RE SAYING.

Because it’s TRUE.

 

 

Dotty Has Been Asleep But Now She Awakens…

 

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

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

 

 

A Dotty Ode To Love

 

O Sausage of Cumberland,

Thou art beauty in pork,

thy fizzle, sizzle on my grill

when I prick thee

with my fork.

 

O how I love thee,

thy juicy, meaty blob;

thine chewy lumps taste heavenly

when I shove thee

in my gob.

 

If I were handed

the golden sun above,

I would decline, O Sausage of Cumberland,

and ask for thee, 

my one and only love.

 

A Boring Dotty Update On Boring Dotty

 

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

 

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

1.  I didn’t see Venus, I saw clouds.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

 

A Dotty Analysis Of Hypomania 1:1

 

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

 

HYPOMANIA AND HOW IT CAN MANIFEST ITSELF

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hyporainia — Dancing in the rain.

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

HypotrainiaCHOO CHOO!

Hypodrainia — absolutely fucking knackered.

 

 

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

 

Dotty Was Nearly GASSED And BLOWN TO BITS…

 

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

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

So now I’ve NO GAS.

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

Customer care, my arse. More like Customer MURDER.

 

 

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

 

Dotty v Blog – Round 1 (DING-DING)

 

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

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

‘Eh? What are on you about?’

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

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

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

‘Are you kidding me?’

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

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

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

‘So you’re blackmailing me?’

‘Yes.’

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

‘Right. Good. You fuck off as well.’

So I did.

 

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

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

PEOPLE OF WALMART

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘PLEASE??

‘Where’s my apology?’

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

 

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

 

Dotty Had A Visitor This Morning

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hmmmm.

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

 

 

 

Dotty The Mental Bitch – Ignorant Selfish Bastard Bloggers

 

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

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

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

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

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

which leads to –

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

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

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

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

 

AAAAAAARRRRRRGGGGGHHHHH!!

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

 

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

 

 

 

 

Do you?

 

 

 

 

 

 

I know how to.

 

 

 

 

 

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

Do you want me to tell you?

 

 

 

 

Or are you okay as you are?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Have you sorted it out?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Do you always remember to untick the box?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

HA HA

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Okay, enough tormenting.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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

‘MANAGE EMAIL DELIVERY SETTINGS’

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

 

 

Don’t all thank me at once.

 

An Unpoetic Woman Unpoetically Scorned

 

Up your arse stick your flowery words

and thorny red roses

in a bunch, up your bum.

I’m no longer your wife, your wench,

your skivvy, your drudge;

twenty three years thrown aside,

cast away – for what?

Some dirty young slut.

 

Your ego, your death-fear,

it’s all about you

YOU YOU YOU

you middle-aged twat;

mourning the grey, the droop, the sag,

and those fucking great bags round your eyes –

they cannot lie.

 

Plead a little more, bastard.

Listening? Me? Not a chance,

not a hope in the belly of Hell.

Crawl, you creep,

beg, whimper, whine,

weep me your vows, your promises -

I’ve heard it all before, remember.

 

Why are you here again,

howling your sorrys?

Didn’t you hear me the first fifteen times?

Get it through your head -

you left me, you lost me, 

you shagged us stone dead.

 

Now – now I am ME, free, 

I’ll do as I please,

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

AHA! That look on your face!

I see it, I do!

Ownership.

Jealousy wants me under you, (lying bored),

but acting isn’t my job any more.

 

Leave me alone, now. 

Fuck off.

Go away and rot.

Stick up your arse all your lies and deceits,

up up up

right the way up through your shrivelled old colon,

all the way up through your gutless old guts,

up up up

till they choke you, you cheat -

as one day they assuredly must.

 

 

Bank Holiday Sunshine Should Be Banned

 

It’s Bank Holiday Monday and it’s raining as it always does on a Bank Holiday, if it didn’t rain on a Bank Holiday the sky would cave in and we’d all die. But this morning it wasn’t raining, it was sunny and bright and the sun must have done something to my brain because suddenly I SAW THE TRUE STATE OF MY HOUSE – the carpets and lino need hoovered/washed/swept; the cupboards, the cooker, the washer, the dryer, the fridge, the freezer, the doors, the skirtings need washed down; EVERYTHING needs dusted; the bathroom needs a scrub – the WHOLE HOUSE needs a clean, it’s fucking bogging, it’s like A DIRTY TRAMP’S HOUSE. Most years I’ll have already spring-cleaned everything by this time but sometimes, like this year, I don’t notice how manky it’s become even though I’m here all the time until BAM – a little light goes on in my head and I see it all.

Not that I don’t occasionally notice it building up. If I’m walking from the living room to the kitchen I’ll sometimes see the dust at the edges of the hallway carpet and (detachedly and fleetingly) think to myself ‘Ooooo, that’s disgusting, someone should clean that,’ but the second I stop looking at it, poof, any thought of it’s gone from my head, disappeared like it’s never been, and I forget all about it until next time I happen to notice it.

I should be gearing myself up to do a spring clean but I can’t – there’s SO MUCH TO DO. I tried reading my own advice on housework (see Dotty Does Her Housework) to see if I made any sense, and yes I do make sense, prioritising is what you should do if it’s all a bit too overwhelming and you don’t know where to start – but how do I prioritise what needs to go on the PRIORITY LIST? And where do I find the motivation to do a list in the first place? And where have I put the notepad I use for lists, the long one with different coloured pages? Because if I can’t find it I can’t write a list because LISTS HAVE TO BE WRITTEN IN THE LIST NOTEPAD. And how do I remember why the fuck I was looking for my list notepad to begin with?

And that’s before I get started on the intolerable noise level of the Dyson and the fact that it’ll be PURE AND UTTER TORTURE for me to use it for the time it would take to clean the carpets.

 

 

And look at the state of the garden!!!!

 

 

It’s all too complicated, too, too complicated.

 

 

I’m glad it’s raining like it should on a Bank Holiday – the world is nice and dull again.

 

 

What was I writing about?

 

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)

 

 

The Unbearable Shiteness Of Being Mental

 

In the old days of Magnus Magnusson being quizmaster on Mastermind he used to say ‘I’ve started so I’ll finish,’ if the buzzer interrupted his delivery of a question. Well good for you, Magnus, and everyone else who can see things through to completion because I fucking well can’t.

It goes like this –

I’ve started so I’ll finish.

I’ve started and there’s a slight possibility I won’t finish when I want to finish.

I’ve started and I’ll finish tomorrow.

I’ve started and I’ve got a quarter of the way through but I don’t know what to do next.

I’ve started and the complications are coming in thick and fast.

I’ve started and I’ve ballsed it right up somewhere along the line but I don’t know where.

I’ve started and I’M TRYING MY FUCKING BEST, WHAT MORE DO YOU WANT?

I’ve started and waffle, waffle, waffle, blah, blah, blah.

I’ve started and I’ve lost all interest in it, it’s boring me.

I’ve started and I’ll file it away till my brain starts working again.

I’ve started and I’ll NEVER, EVER finish because I NEVER FINISH ANYTHING I’VE STARTED.

 

Why do I even bother?

 

EDIT EDIT EDIT – I forgot to add this one –

I’ve started and I’ve deleted it.

 

 

 

 

A Dotty Day Out – Adventures With Branwell (Part 1)

 

Yesterday morning I was in a strange double mood, good because the weather was Spring-like, bad because I wanted to go to my MEMORIAL BENCH. I posted a post asking if someone would please lend me their TELEPORTER and I was so grateful and surprised by all the positive replies that I found my little going-out rucksack and filled it with the things I need for going out – Cumberland sausages, 5 bottles of laudanum, 4 packs of beta-blockers, bottle of Diet Coke, bottle of water, hairbrush, purse, Nokia Hard Bastard, and the little present that Scotty bought me. Then I opened the back door and sat down on the lino, as close to the outside as I could get, and I waited. I waited for a long, long time. A long, long, long, long time.

Nobody came.

 

 

I don’t know what time it was when I heard footsteps coming round the side of the house. I jumped up and nearly fell back down again – my right leg gave way, it must have gone to sleep because of how I’d been sitting (cross-legged like a Yogi). It was only Branwell though, happy for a change, so happy the smile almost skipped off his face.

“Dotty, sweet Dotty! What brings you such sadness on this glorious day of splendiferous sunshine?”

I burst into tears and told him.

“No, no, no, come along. Weep not, my chickling, for here am I, Branwell the Magnificent, come to your rescue, sans white charger but with love and friendship uncurbed. Off we go, off we go.”

And he took my keys out of the door, grabbed my hand and pulled me OUTSIDE before I realised what was happening, then he locked the door, took my hand again, and away we went.

 

 

The street was heaving with PEOPLE, shouting bickering squabbling laughing braying PEOPLE, a polarised muddle of the wealthy middle classes posturing and preening their way round the shops, and the dirty, thin and stinking poor. I couldn’t take it all in, there was too much bustle and noise – beggars called out for pennies; women argued with stall-holders, trying for a bargain that wouldn’t happen; scrappy, raggy children ran to and fro, ducking and dodging; a wool-worker coughed and hawked up a great glob of blackness from his lungs and spat it out right in front of me; barrows and carts clattered on the cobbles; horses whinnied and snorted; dogs barked; a handbell clanged and clanged – and Branwell whisked me through it all in seconds, the stench of sewage and sickness and cooked meat and rotten fruit and unwashed bodies so strong I could taste it.

“Hang on, where are we going?” I asked when we’d slowed to a trot and the sounds of the street weren’t so loud.

“Refreshments!”

“Eh?”

“A jar of cheering sweetness, my dear. Your face resembles the sad arse of a sow due for the slaughterhouse. O wretched maid of long torment, your smile would set my heart content. But woe is you and woe is me, diddly dum and fiddly fee. Ha ha ha ha ha.”

“Shut up, div. Tell me where we’re going.”

“There!”

And he pointed to the inn a few steps ahead of us.

“I’m not going in.” My heart was thumping.

“Yes, you are!”

And he pulled me to the door, kicked it open and dragged me inside.

It was so dull and smokey in there I had to blink loads of times before I could see. The room was small and dingy; brown walls, thick sawdust on the floor. A man with massive, black mutton chop whiskers stood behind the bar. Just two other people were there, an old man sitting in one corner of the bench seat that ran across the back wall and down one side of the room, and a boy collecting glasses from the tables.

“Dawson! Two jars!” Branwell shouted, though we couldn’t have been six feet away from the bar. He led me to a table next to the only window in the room but the panes of  glass were so thick I couldn’t see out.

“Sit, sit!” Branwell gestured at the bench with a grand sweep of his arm. He sat down next to me, took his little box of snuff from his coat pocket, opened it and offered it to me.

I shook my head, “Eeew, no thanks.”

He took a big pinch and sniffed it up one nostril then the other. Quick as you like, he whipped out his hanky and started sneezing into it. “That’s better,” he said, his eyes gleaming.

“That’s fucking disgusting.”

He laughed. “No worse than many things.”

The boy brought the drinks to us on a tray, two great tankards of beer. It tasted so strong I had to sip it. Branwell downed half of his in one go.

“What are we doing here, Branwell?”

“Being merry! Sup your porter and cheer up. Have you eaten yet? I am ravenous, starved, I could eat a scabby dog. Dawson!”

“Aye, sir?”

“What’s cooking?”

“Mutton, sir. Broth.”

“Two plates, then. And bread, but only if it is warm. I want none of your mould at my table.”

“Aye, sir.”

The broth was lovely, full of big chunks of fresh meat and veg. The bread was even lovelier, soft and springy and warm. I sneaked a handful of Cumberland sausages out of my rucksack and passed a couple to Branwell. I put mine in a slice of bread and had the best Cumberland sausage sandwiches I’ve ever tasted.

“How’s little Emily today?” I asked when we’d finished eating.

“Still weak. Although your medicine appears to have done the trick. She was up and about this morning, at her desk rummaging through papers. Charlotte scolded her.” He rolled his eyes, sucked in his cheeks, jumped out of his seat and stood in front of the table, his hands clasped together in front of him – “Sister, sister, what ARE you thinking? Shoo, shoo, back to bed!”

I couldn’t stop laughing. He sounded just like her. “She’s not that bad, is she?”

He sat down. “At times she is a terrible harridan, Dotty. Terrible. There are certain particulars that should be kept within the family but quite honestly, I am at my wits end with her antics.”

“Why, what has she done?”

“She burnt many of my writings. Onto the fire, cast into the flames as though they were words infernal, penned by the Devil himself.”

What could I say to that? I knew she’d done some burning – after little Emily died she burnt loads of her poems and edited loads of others (little Emily told me), but I didn’t know she’d burnt Branwell’s stuff too. Before I could think what to say he said,

“They take me for a fool. The Great Published Brotherhood of Whispering Bells. They think I am blind to their secret.”

“What secret?”

He picked up his tankard but he’d emptied it. He banged it down on the table. “Published! They are published and yet they lie to me that they are not, and they continue in their lies day after day. I am not to be told their news for fear it will send me far into a mad wretchedness of mental agonies from which I shall not return.”

I stayed silent. So did he, after he’d shouted for the boy to bring him a refill. I took my Nokia Hard Bastard out to see what time it was but it wouldn’t turn on properly, no signal.

After a while he let out a big sigh. He sat up straight and turned to me.

“Accept my heartfelt apologies, Dotty, my friend. I am a ranting dolt, an angered berk who should know better. I promise I shall not allow our day to be further marred by talk or thoughts of my own grievances when my intentions are to bring a smidge of light and happiness to us both. We, the soul-sick, mired in woe…”

“Shut up, you rhyming twat.” I gave him a punch on the arm.

“Are you ready to move on to the next stage of our adventure?” he asked.

“What is it?”

He smiled, a great big beamy smile, and then he tapped me on the nose with his finger. “Wait and see. Wait and see.”

 

 

(TO BE CONTINUED)

 

Moody Monday – Can I Borrow Your Teleporter, Please?

 

After a wild weekend of pelting rainy rain and cold windy wind, the sun is shining, the temperature is up a bit and this morning feels like Spring. And I want to go and see my MEMORIAL BENCH

(CLICK HERE FOR MEMORIAL BENCH POST)

but I can’t because there’s no one to take me.

What I need, more than anyone in the history of the world has ever ever needed anything, is a TELEPORTER. Do any of you have one I can borrow? Please? It doesn’t have to be a fancy one with loads of dials and knobs and bells and whistles, all I want it to do is WHOOOOSH me up to my MEMORIAL BENCH and take me back home again when I get cold.

I WANT TO GO OUT

but to go out means PEOPLE and to go out with the aim of getting to my MEMORIAL BENCH where there are NO PEOPLE I’d have to encounter LOTS OF PEOPLE and I can’t do that because I have PEOPLE PHOBIA and then I’d have to get home again from my MEMORIAL BENCH where there are NO PEOPLE which means encountering LOTS OF PEOPLE once again, so it’s not just ONCE I’d have to encounter LOTS OF PEOPLE, it’s TWICE.

TELEPORTER.

Can I borrow it?

Or an INVISIBILITY CLOAK?

Like I’ve said before, the only person I know with an INVISIBILITY CLOAK is Harry Potter and I’m STILL writing and writing to the SCROOGEY LITTLE SCROTE but he won’t reply to my emails. WHY? He doesn’t NEED his INVISIBILITY CLOAK any more, why won’t he let me have it? That’s what being a fucking child celebrity brat has done for him, gone straight to his HEAD and given him DELUSIONS OF GRANDEUR like he’s the GODKING OF ALL FILMS AND OF THE WHOLE FUCKING WORLD when really he couldn’t act his way out of a soggy paper bag. DICKHEAD.

So can I borrow your TELEPORTER, please?

I won’t break it. I’ll look after it.

I’ll make you a HEAP of Cumberland sausage sandwiches.

And I’ll let you have ANYTHING YOU WANT FROM ANY OF MY COLLECTIONS (except my books).

AND you’ll be the FIRST and ONLY person in Bloggyland to SEE WHAT I LOOK LIKE and to COME INSIDE MY HOUSE where you can wait for me to come back and if you get bored you could have a little flick round with the duster to keep you occupied.

PLEASE?

PRETTY PLEASE?

PRETTY PLEASE WITH SUGAR ON IT?

PRETTY PLEASE WITH SUGAR ON IT AND A CHERRY ON TOP?

 

The Three Red Bins Of Blogging Award (The Best Award I’ve Made Today)

 

I’ve been bored out of my skull today waiting for the universe to die so I’ve made a new award AND IT’S A NICE AWARD because I thought I’d better be nice for a change in case there IS a god.

This is my new award

 

See how nice I’ve been? I think I’ve been EXCEPTIONALLY NICE, nice enough to get me into HEAVEN if there IS a god.

There are two requirements to having this award -

1 — You have to CLICK ON THIS LINK AND THEN PRESS LIKE

2 — You have to CLICK ON THIS LINK AND ADD YOUR BLOG

 

If you’ve already done these two things you are BRILLIANT and I award you my new award which is a very, very classy award, if I do say so myself. If you haven’t already done these two things GO AND DO THEM.

When (notice I’m not saying ‘if’) you put it on your own site, you can set your own conditions to manipulate your readers into doing what you want them to do.  

Go forth, my acolytes, and continue being brilliant.

 

Little Emily Is Dying And Dotty Might Have Destroyed The Universe (If I Have – Sorry Everyone)

 

She’s had a relapse, a bad one. Branwell came last night, but they don’t need me to go up there because Charlotte and Anne are home again. I’m so worried about her I’ve done something I probably shouldn’t have done – I gave Branwell my emergency course of antibiotics that I keep for emergencies and I told him to sneak them to her at the correct times. Like I said, I probably shouldn’t have given them to him but I can’t stand the thought of her being so ill when the very medicine that could make her better is sitting in my medicine cupboard doing nothing. 

But the big question I’ve been asking myself since is – might I be fucking about with TIME and FATE and HISTORY? Might the universe POP or IMPLODE or TURN UPSIDE DOWN or FLOAT AWAY or something just as devastating if little Emily doesn’t stay ill and die when she’s supposed to? Who knows – I don’t know and you don’t know either, the only people who profess to know are the UNIVERSE BOFFINS and all they know is how to talk a load of SCIENTIFIC WORDY SHITE about their THEORIES. But really they don’t know any more than we do – they’re just GUESSING in their SCIENTIFIC UNIVERSE BOFFIN ways of guessing and getting paid a fucking great shedload of money to do so.

Why are there no UNIVERSE BOFFINS who specialise in COMMON SENSE? For instance, when they prattle on about the BALLOON THEORY – I’ve never heard one of them ask ‘What’s on the OUTSIDE of the balloon?’ because common sense says the balloon has to expand into SOMETHING. And what colour is the balloon? (I hope it isn’t yellow, I don’t like yellow balloons, they make me feel sick.) And why isn’t the balloon DEFLATING like old balloons do if they’ve hidden themselves behind the sofa for a week?

And WHO BLEW THE BALLOON UP IN THE FIRST PLACE?

And did who ever blew it up use one of those BALLOON BLOWING PUMPS or did they blow it up with their lips and their breath?

And WHY did they blow it up?

A birthday? A wedding?

And is there any writing on the balloon?

9 TODAY?

HAPPY 18TH BIRTHDAY?

CONGRATULATIONS (with a little picture of two horseshoes).

It’s all too complicated for my little addled brain to think about. But I’ve affected SOMETHING because WEIRD UNIVERSE TRICKS have already started –

TWO OF MY PENS RAN OUT OF INK THIS MORNING

What are the odds of that happening, eh?

TWO pens, the two pens I use – but I didn’t start using them at the same time, one was older than the other. I’ve left them both sitting on my kitchen worktop so I can try them again later to see if the INK HAS COME BACK because if it DOES come back it means TIME HAS REVERSED ITSELF and I’ll have to prepare myself for my front door de-bricking itself.

 

I’m going to have some Cumberland sausage sandwiches (my last?) and then a big swig of laudanum (my last?) and wait for Branwell to come and tell me how little Emily is doing. IF he comes.

Goodbye, my bloggy friends. It’s been nice knowing you.

 

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

 

 

Dotty Does Some Dreaded F*cking Form Filling

 

I’ve spent today filling in a FORM that should have been filled in weeks ago, a fucking nasty FORM with BIG spaces to write in and little boxes to tick and SHITEY illogical questions to answer.

When it first arrived I opened it, not realising it was a FORM. I read the letter that came with it then I stuffed it all back in the envelope and propped it up on the worktop so I wouldn’t forget about it completely (I couldn’t, it’s important or I’d have binned the thing). And for all these weeks it’s been THERE, waiting for me, whispering ‘fill me in, fill me in,’ watching me when I tried to sneak past it on tiptoe or when I got down on all fours and crawled below it’s line of sight. When I tried to go to sleep at night I could feel the EVIL emanating from it – I AM HERE AND I WON’T GO AWAY UNTIL YOU FILL ME IN – and for the last two days I haven’t been in the kitchen at all and I’m fucking STARVING and the DUE DATE that the form has to be returned by is VERY DUE so this morning I went into my kitchen with a notebook and pen and I grabbed the envelope and opened it and took out the FORM and then I laid the FORM on the table next to the notebook and pen and then I made a MASSIVE pile of Cumberland sausage sandwiches for STRENGTH and ENDURANCE and then I made another cup of coffee and then I went for a wee and then I couldn’t avoid the FORM any more so I sat down and got started on the fucker.

After filling in my name and address and shite, one of the first things it asked me was

‘Do you need an interpreter?’

and I was SO TEMPTED to put

YES

and then when it asked in what language, I wanted to put

IN MY OWN LANGUAGE WHICH IS CALLED DOTTISH

and I wanted to write that if they wouldn’t provide me with a Dottish interpreter I’d SUE THEIR BOLLOCKS OFF because that’s just SHEER, BLATANT DISCRIMINATION.

and so what if there’s only one person in the world who speaks Dottish and I’M that person, PAY ME £70.00 per hour and I’ll translate for myself, you fucking imbeciles.

 

I don’t like FORMS. They’re nasty.

I’ve finished it now though and it’s all ready to post.

Thank fuck.

 

 

 

This Post Is Not A Post, It’s A Tangerine

 

I haven’t done a PROPER post today, I can’t be arsed. I’ve been adding to my new AWARDS COLLECTION page

 

 

and I’ve been making a brand new page to show off the different versions of my own Dotty Headbanger award –

CLICK HERE TO SEE THEM

 

 

and I’ve come to the conclusion, after extensive treks round WordPress, that I won’t be able to disable the Like button on my 

PLAIN & UNORNAMENTED TITLE PAGE 

without all my Likes disappearing from every post so I might as well ask you all to GO AND CLICK THE LIKE BUTTON ON THAT PAGE  (if you DO like it, if you don’t, don’t) because it’s my front page and if there has to be any Likes on it there might as well be A FUCKING GREAT BIG SHITLOAD OF THEM.

 

This is a tangerine with one nail in it.

 

 

This is another tangerine. It has five nails in it.

 

 

I hope you like tangerines. They’re juicy.

 

 

Dead Ex-Simon – The Mental Cruelty He Inflicted On Dotty (Part 3a)

his actions “…reached depths of mental cruelty previously unheard of in this court.” — Judge Hackisnackersoff

 

The above quote is a dead-on description of my dead husband, ex-Simon. He could be a HEARTLESS, VICIOUS, SADISTIC, MONSTEROUS MONSTER when he wanted to be, a SICK, TWISTED APPLIER OF MENTAL CRUELTY to me, your little Dotty. Here’s a list of a few of the things he did – I can’t tell you all of them, we’d be here all week and some things were too horrendously cruel for me to speak about yet, too painful for me to even THINK about without bringing on a series of major panic attacks, for example WHAT HE USED TO DO TO MY CUMBERLAND SAUSAGES.

 

THE TELLY

Ex-Simon was a remote control control freak, if it wasn’t where he put it last he went ballistic and paddied around like a two year old until he found it. He wanted complete control of the telly and that might have been okay if he’d watched PROPER PROGRAMMES like soaps and films and crime things and costume dramas, and proper documentaries about gypsies and dead sovereigns and that  dirty diseases programme with the doctors and the people who’ve had a nasty EMBARRASSING thing wrong with them for years but they’ve been too EMBARRASSED to talk to their own doctor or tell anyone about it so they GO ON TELLY AND SHOW THE NASTY THING TO THE NATION – what’s that all about, eh? 

Anyway, a female can put up with WAR PROGRAMMES for only so long before the violence gets to her and she batters the telly screen in with a hammer. When we went to buy a new one, ex-Simon wanted to get one with Sky or Branson added on but I put my foot down and said NO because I’ve never seen the point in having FIFTY MILLION TELLY CHANNELS when you can only watch one at a time, or with a twin thingy Freeview you can record two channels and watch one but that’s still only THREE CHANNELS at a time – and when do people WATCH IT ALL? Do all these subscribers get 10 extra hours in the day that the rest of us don’t get so they can get their money’s worth of telly? Because it costs a fucking bomb to subscribe to them, I know because they keep sending me shitemail to get me to sign up – BUT I WON’T because I’M BOYCOTTING THEM and the reason I’M BOYCOTTING THEM is because they THIEVE AWAY ALL THE GOOD TELLY PROGRAMMES after we’ve had one or two series’ on ITV or Channel 4 and we’ve got to like them and want to watch the next series but BOSH along comes Sky or Branson with their big bags of dosh and we don’t get to see what happened next —

Dexter

Criminal Minds

The Walking Dead

Medium

are just 4 of the programmes they’ve THIEVED. So I’ll NEVER EVER sign up and give them loads of money, what I do is I WAIT UNTIL THE DVD BOXSET IS CHEAP and then I buy it and KEEP IT and Sky and Branson and whoever else can FUCK OFF.

 

 

BREAD

At the same time as ex-Simon decided to become a MINIMAL, he also decided to become a health freak. He wouldn’t let me buy WHITE BREAD. He wouldn’t even let me buy BROWN BREAD, I had to buy WHOLEMEAL BREAD and not just NORMAL WHOLEMEAL BREAD, I had to buy WHOLEMEAL BREAD WITH ADDED BITS OF SHITE IN IT like sunflower seeds and poppy seeds (not opium poppy seeds) and sawdust chunks and the bits got stuck in my teeth after I’d eaten it and I had to slash-floss like fuck to get them out again because normal flossing just MOVED THE BITS to a different position.

 

 

FEET

Even writing about this is making me cringe and shudder and squirm and feel very, very sick. I HATE  feet, they’re nasty and disgusting and ugly and germy and smelly and diseasey and uuuuuurrrrgggghhhhh, I feel sick

I can’t do this one, I’m gipping too much

he never wore socks in  bed, the evil fucker

AND THERE’S WORSE

no, I can’t do it

I’ll have to go, I need a BIG swig of laudanum to take away the nausea.

Just imagine the absolute worst things to do with feet and that’s what he did.

UUUUURRRGGGGHHHHHHH

Make Your Own Funny Award And I’ll Have It, I’m An Award Slut Now

 

I’ve made a new page for funny awards that people HAVE MADE BY THEMSELVES.

Why not have a go at making one? If I can do it, anyone can.

DOTTY AWARDS

 

Dead Husband Ex-Simon Garottey (Part 2)

 

This blogging lark is quite cathartic, isn’t it? Writing about the shite I can’t talk to anyone else about is having a good effect on me, it’s making me reflect and it’s changing how I feel about certain things. For example, remorse.

Before I say anything else, I’m going to copy and paste a paragraph from the post I wrote on Valentine’s Day to save you the bother of having to click on a link (which you wouldn’t do anyway, so really I’m just making you read the bit I want you to read). This is the paragraph –

 

So today is the 3rd anniversary of THE DAY I KILLED SIMON. You might be wondering why I’m not banged up in the clinky (I know all the prison jargon, I watch LAW & ORDER UK). Well I DID go to prison but only while I was waiting for the trial and my prison wasn’t a general prison it was a sort of prison for the criminally insane. But I AM NOT CRIMINALLY INSANE and that was proved when JUDGE HACKISNACKERSOFF threw the case out on the very first day when she heard how Simon bought me A HOOVER for Valentine’s Day. NO card, NO chocolates, NO flowers – in her speech Judge Hackisnackersoff said his actions “reached depths of mental cruelty previously unheard of in this court.” She also said “The deceased deserved everything he got.” So here I am, and it’s all thanks to Judge Hackisnackersoff that I have my darling little blog at all.

 

So now you’ve read that bit you know I was acquitted of all charges by the lovely Judge Hackisnackersoff. But what I DIDN’T mention in that paragraph is the question she asked me JUST BEFORE she acquitted me – she said

“Are you remorseful?”

And I said ‘Yes, Judge Hackisnackersoff, I AM remorseful.’

And she believed me – because I was TELLING THE TRUTH.

Yes, I WAS remorseful about killing ex-Simon. Here’s a list of why –

 

1 — My nice curtains got ruined with blood stains and I had to throw them away.

2 — My nice cushion covers got ruined with blood stains and I had to throw them away (but luckily my sofa didn’t, it’s a leather oxblood Chesterfield and all it needed was a wash and a wipe).

3 — My good carpet got ruined with blood stains and I haven’t been able to afford to replace it.

4 — Dibble took all my guns away – (I’m okay now, Scotty gave me his old sniper rifle and another little present and I’m building an impressive collection of other protective weapons — oh, that reminds me, WHY HAVE YOU STOPPED DONATING TO MY CANNON FUND?)

5 — Errmm. Hmmm. Nope, I can’t remember the fifth reason.

 

So yes, I WAS full of remorse for what I did, how could I not be, if I didn’t feel remorse I’d be a heartless psychopath, something I’ve always wished to be because heartless psychopaths don’t give two diddly fucks about ANYTHING. But what I’ve now realised is the remorse I was full of was the WRONG REMORSE, I was remorseful for the WRONG REASONS, I was remorseful about the WRONG THINGS. My reasons were selfish, ALL ABOUT ME, not about ex-Simon who should have been taken into account because he was the one who got killed.

So I’ve thought about it a lot and I’ve revised my reasons for being remorseful to include ex-Simon. Here’s a list of THE NEW REASONS WHY I AM REMORSEFUL -

 

1 — Cleaning. NO ONE cleaned the house like ex-Simon did, NO ONE, and it’s starting to get manky again – Scotty and Lottie obviously didn’t do it properly last week, the clatty fuckers.

2 — The way ex-Simon died. If I hadn’t acted on impulse, if I’d just taken a few minutes to stop and think about it, I could have been more INVENTIVE IN MY METHOD of killing him – there are SO many other ways I could have done it that would have been less BASIC and CRUDE than shooting him in the face, cleverer, more thoughtful ways. Yes, I think this is what I’m MOST remorseful about. Poor ex-Simon, even though he deserved to die (as Judge Hackisnackersoff said) I’m now thinking he deserved a BETTER way to die.

Hang on, was that PITY FOR EX-SIMON I just felt?

No, never mind, it’s gone, I don’t know what it was.

Perhaps it WAS pity. That’s a new one, if it was.

 

So there you have it, writing my blog is changing me for the better.

Oh, if you want to know what happened  on the day I killed him you can read the statement I gave to Dibble by clicking on this link –

A Statement From The Accused

 

 

A Boring Post About My Boring Dead Husband, Boring Ex-Simon Garottey (Part 1)

 

Seeing as I’m still having trouble thinking of what to write because nothing happens to me because I CAN’T GO OUT, and seeing as little Emily is still recovering from the Sickness so she hasn’t been able to come and see me, and seeing as Branwell talks a load of shite when he does stay to talk to me, and seeing as Lottie is too busy, busy, busy to talk to me in the first place, and seeing as THE BERSERKERS have been told to stop ringing me up for bedtime stories because Lottie’s been whingeing about the phone bill, and seeing as there’s only SO many times I can stick a poem up and pretend to myself I’ve written a proper post, I thought that today I’ll write about something I’ve been avoiding writing about – my dead husband, ex-Simon.

I’ll apologise in advance for how BORING this post will be – it can’t be anything BUT boring because ex-Simon was boring, he was VERY VERY boring, he was the most boringest bastard ever to have been boring, he could have made every boring bastard in every boring chapter of THE BORING CLUB OF BORING BASTARDS die of boredom.

He didn’t SEEM boring for the first couple of years of knowing him. Yes, he liked CLEANING but any woman with any sense in her head would skip down the aisle to marry a man who liked cleaning, wouldn’t they – I didn’t have to lift a finger, he cleaned ALL THE HOUSE, everything, he kept the place LOVELY and SPARKLY and HYGIENIC which was brilliant for the most part except when he tried to ban me from smoking in the house because he said I was turning the ceiling and walls beige and making all my books yellow and why didn’t I GET RID OF SOME OF MY BOOKS?

You can imagine what I said to that. See, another problem with ex-Simon was he decided, after 2 years of marriage, to become a MINIMALIST – actually, being a MINIMALIST isn’t another problem, it’s the SAME problem as being a BORING BASTARD because who in their right mind wants to live in NOTHING? I’ve never understood MINIMALISM – human beings are ANIMALS not MINIMALS and how do animals live? They live in cosy little nests and burrows and dens and holes and hollows and other snug places, don’t they? Except fish (and other water creatures) who don’t have the bricks or the fingers to build themselves a proper home so they only have vast amounts of open water to live in – BUT THEY DON’T ONLY HAVE VAST AMOUNTS OF OPEN WATER TO LIVE IN, they have the BOTTOM OF THE WATER to live in and that’s what they do, they sleep in a bed of cosy grit and silt and pebbles with little (or BIG) rocks for walls to keep the BIG FISH and other BIG WATER CREATURES away from them because if they went to sleep in their vast amounts of open water they’d soon be EATEN by the BIG FISH and the other BIG WATER CREATURES. And it’s the same for human beings, we need THINGS AROUND US for protection because if you’re a MINIMAL and your house has fuck all in it, WHERE DO YOU HIDE WHEN THE PSYCHO COMES TO GET YOU? 

Wanting to become a MINIMALIST was the first real indication of how much of a boring bastard ex-Simon would become before I finally sent him to sleep with the fishes (SLEEP WITH THE FISHES!! HA HA HA HA – get it?) I did try to compromise with him (I told him he could keep the little downstairs toilet collection-free) because I still loved him then (though, on reflection, him telling me to get rid of my books is what started the slow swing from love to HATE). I couldn’t understand why he wanted me to get rid of my books when he had a COLLECTION OF STAMPS that he was meticulous about. Yes, stamps are the boringest item to collect but the fact that he was a COLLECTOR wasn’t boring even though the thing he collected was. But (again, on reflection) maybe at the beginning I shouldn’t have been blinded by him BEING A COLLECTOR, I should have focused more on the boringness of WHAT he collected. Ah, Hindsight, you fucker, why are you never there when I need you?

 

I’ll tell you a bit more about ex-Simon later, the thought of having to get rid of my books is bringing on a panic attack and I need my beta-blockers and a little swig of  laudanum.

 

 

 

A Poemy Thing For My Fellow She-Hermits & She-Mentals

 

sisters of ice

 

many are the sisters of ice

who crave the warmth of a dark, solitary cave,

hidden deep in the heart of a far-away mountain

swathed in the plushest, lushest greens.

but all that surrounds them is white,

everywhere white, and clarity blinds to a haze,

rendering useless the attempts of whatever sight,

whatever far-reaching gaze they might once have known.

 

out in the cruellest elements they do not survive. 

there are no directions, no guides to show the way, 

no place to hide themselves for just one restful, longed-for day.

their cries unite to pierce the frozen air

and skim the distance with an easy, lazy grace,

a grace so beautiful it flickers on the eye of the soul,

shining diamond-like in this sad, mad world of silhouetted woes.

 

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?

 

The Weather Forecast For The North Of Dottyland

 

Rain, rain, rain, rain, rain

and rain again.

Rain is a fucking pain.

Not that I go out in the rain, I don’t, because I CAN’T GO OUT but the rain makes too much NOISE battering on my windows. And there’s no sunshine or blueness, there’s only a BIG GLOOMY SKY FILLED WITH RAINCLOUDS.

But I suppose I should be grateful because at least our Northern rain is PROPER RAIN, it comes down fast and hard in bucket-loads, not like Southern rain which is SOFT and PIDDLY and PISSY just like the Southerners it falls on. And don’t any of you Southerners start moaning at me, because I know what you’re all up to, I know YOU WANT TO STEAL OUR RAIN.

You want to STEAL OUR RAIN because YOU HAVEN’T GOT ANY OF YOUR OWN. You want to STEAL OUR RAIN and have it piped all the way down the country into your big soft houses so you can water your big soft lawns and wash your big posh cars and leave US without any to drink. Well you can PISS OFF, it’s OUR RAIN, haven’t you got enough of everything else down there – you’ve got all the jobs, all the money, all the EVERYTHING and all we have is OUR RAIN, the same rain you LAUGH AT and COMPLAIN ABOUT if you’re ever forced into coming UP NORTH.

So no, you CAN’T HAVE IT.

Why don’t you ask your daytrip chunnel pals, France, if you can have some of their rain? I bet I know what they’ll say – NON with some French swear words to follow but I don’t know any French swear words apart from ‘casse toi’ which might be appropriate but just as likely it’s not. Oh, I also know ‘merde’ so they might say NON, CASSE TOI, TU TÊTE DE MERDE (that sounds good).

It’s raining, it’s pouring, the old man is snoring.

There’s so much rain coming down, rain-rain, gallons and gallons of it, and the grass looks so GREEN and LUSH.  

In fact we have so MUCH rain that we might just have to throw some of it away, into the NORTH SEA, because we wouldn’t want to spill a drop or two and have it roll DOWN SOUTH.

I might stick the hosepipe out of the window to water my flowers just in case the rain stops for a second or two and they get thirsty.

Rain, rain, happy rain.

And it’s going to rain ALL WEEK.

I’m off to have a bath. And a shower.

 

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.

 

 

 

Dotty Update On Pengate And Some Bad, Bad News

 

I’ve resolved the pen problem to the mutual satisfaction of both parties and I get to keep the beautiful, pure white swan feather pen. 

What happened is I had a bright idea so I sent Papa Brontë a BALLPOINT pen, to be precise it was a Papermate Flexigrip ultra pen (black) but three hours later Branwell came back and I had to give him ANOTHER Papermate Flexigrip ultra pen because his father’s first instinct when he realised the Papermate Flexigrip ultra pen didn’t have to be dipped in his inkwell was to throw it on the fire and scream

‘WHAT IS THIS DEVILRY ? WHY DO YOU BRING TO MY GOD-FEARING HOUSE THIS VILE, UNHOLY STICK FILLED WITH THE PUTRID, BLACK SALIVA OF SATAN? BEGONE, CHANGELING, YOU ARE NO SON OF MINE – EVILDOER, DEFILER, OFFENDER OF CHRIST. BEGONE, I SAY!’

Little Emily managed to calm him down while Branwell went outside for a smoke and a sip of laudanum. She showed him her own Bic pens (I gave her two packs of three) and convinced him that if he allowed Branwell to get another Papermate Flexigrip ultra pen from me it could be made holy with a full exorcism before use. Now he likes it so much he’s sent me a note requesting more, in different colours.

 

 

So that’s all sorted, but what isn’t sorted is the fact that MY TELLY IS FUCKED. It won’t switch on. It’s a FUCKED BOX OF SHITE and I don’t know why. Last night it was working fine, no problems, then when I switched it on this morning (I don’t watch it, I just like having the little telly people in the room with me), NOTHING not a flicker, not a bleep, not a fizzle. I’ve wiggled the wires, I’ve smacked the fucker hard, I’ve given it a shake, NOTHING.

IT’S FUCKED.

I’ve got another telly, a little one, in the spare room where Scotty sleeps when he stays BUT I DON’T KNOW HOW TO WIRE IT UP TO MY TELLY-BOX and if I try to do it by myself I’ll fuck that up as well.  

I need Lottie. I’m going to ring her now.

 

Doomdotty In D Major

 

Dismal dame of doom and despair,

Dotty am I

and dotty I am;

daily, dutifully, dumbly

I drip my mundane dross into the ether

as each new day drags itself forth

into drab dawns,

indisputably, undelightfully drear.

 

I died, didn’t I?

Death dragged me to his dominions

and dumped me here

to deadhead his daisies,

damned me for days unending

to his dire displays of despicable

and indescribable woes.

 

The view from here is foul,

designed to devastate –

our war-dogs lie dead in deserts

their bodies dust-dried in the heat,

driven there by the dupery

of our dictators and despots

determined to decimate and destroy.

 

Down in dystopia, devils drink

from the dire ditch of disdain

while demons and damsels

with dirty diseases,

dank and heartsick,

drown in deprivation and despond,

decaying docilely

to the booming, beating din

of Death’s deafening drum.

 

The dead and the done for,

the sick and the starved,

devoured, disconsolate,

disparaged, doomed to damnation

by devious, demented

denouncements of decency.

 

I dream of a deity,

undreadful, undeterred,

worthy of devotion,

disciplined, driven, deft,

disposed to disarm and deny tyrants

their delusions of demigod status;

a divinity who deigns to descend

from his detachment

to lay his indebted, duteous hand on mankind.

 

But the damage is done,

(was done, long ago),

and it will devastate

with doubt, dismay, distrust,

and floods of blood

for all generations to come.

 

I died, didn’t I?

Didn’t we all?

 

 

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

 

THREE ANSWERS TO MY COMPETITION? THREE?

 

Why have I only had three answers to my competition? Why have 74 people looked at it and only THREE PEOPLE bothered to do an answer? Why? Why? Why? Do you HATE ME that much? Am I so horrible and nasty to you that you don’t want to be my SUPREME PET FOR THE DAY?

 

These are the people who I LOVE MOST now –

DeeDee — whose answer is a Cumberland sausage wrapped in butcher paper

John (& Victor Tookes) — whose answer is Jean Luc Picard’s underwear

pmao — whose answer is himself (he said ‘me’, but if I wrote ‘me’ you’d think I meant ME)

 

IT’S NOT FAIR.

I even did a nice picture for you to look at.

You’ve all made me sad and upset and I’m crying and I’ve had two panic attacks writing this post and YOU HATE ME, EVERYBODY HATES ME and I need a lie down and a little sleep.

Goodnight, cruel, cruel people.

If blogs had shins you’d all kick the fuck out of mine.

YOU ALL HATE ME.

HATE HATE HATE

HATE.

 

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.

 

For One Night Only – Dotty On The Telly

 

I was on the telly last night for half an hour.

I wanted to know what it felt like to be my telly – sitting there in the corner for the whole of its life, unable to move, people staring at it for hours and hours on end and then it conks out and dies – I felt sorry for it, it must be a sad old life. And I wanted to see what my telly sees from where it’s sitting and I’ll tell you something, it’s given me a whole different view of my living room – it looks nice from up there, I saw my collections from different angles, I saw my bookcases from different angles, I saw my couch and chairs from different angles and I noticed what a good job Lottie and Scotty did when they cleaned everywhere – I actually saw THE CARPET

I had a bit of trouble getting up because of all my butterfly-stitched fork-stabs that are scabbing over nicely, thank you for asking (some of them pulled a bit and came open when the scab ripped off but I washed all the blood off when I got down). My telly is old and fat with a massive back, not one of those slim things that I don’t understand why they made in the first place because where do all the LITTLE TELLY PEOPLE live now? Is this how the telly companies have got rid of some of my favourite programmes, they’ve had a PROGRAMME POGROM and driven away all the LITTLE TELLY PEOPLE like others did in THE HIGHLAND CLEARANCES and THE JEWISH PEOPLE CLEARANCES and all the other ethnic clearances that have taken place. EXCEPT NO ONE HAS SAID ANYTHING ABOUT THE LITTLE TELLY PEOPLE CLEARANCES. Why? WHY NOT? It’s not fair. Just because they’re LITTLE doesn’t mean they don’t have the same rights as everyone else. Just because they live inside our tellys doesn’t mean they’re not entitled to stay in their homes, to live their lives the way they want to with SPACE ENOUGH TO LIVE COMFORTABLY. All these horrible things go on in the world and no one says DICKY-FUCKING-BOO about them.

It made me cry last night when I was on my telly thinking about how they must be living now, so I got down and went to find my BIG FUCK-OFF SCREWDRIVER which was in my cutlery drawer so I got a fork as well and I used them both to prise the back off my telly to see if I could help the LITTLE TELLY PEOPLE but do you know what? THEY WEREN’T ANYWHERE TO BE SEEN. They’ve FUCKING DISAPPEARED and I know WHY they’ve disappeared, they’re so frightened, so HARASSED and PLAGUED and TORMENTED by their  CRUEL PERSECUTORS – and that means YOU, YES YOU WITH THE FUCKING SLIMLINE TELLY – that they’ve run away from my telly, their SANCTUARY, probably the ONLY SAFE PLACE FOR THEM IN BRITAIN.

I’m too upset to write any more. It’s heartbreaking.

I need my laudanum.

And a Cumberland sausage sandwich.

And a lie down.

FUCKING PERSECUTORS.

 

 

 

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.

Easter Eggs Are Yummy And Dotty Has Eaten A LOAD Even Though It Isn’t Easter Until Tomorrow

I've eaten about this much worth of Easter eggs so far and I'm going to eat MORE.

 

This is a very big Easter egg. I wonder if it’s hollow.  I’ve been eating Easter eggs all day. Easter eggs have NEVER made me sick, no matter how many I scran. They’re fucking lovely. THE BERSERKERS can’t keep up with me. Nobody can.

 

I’ve sent Scotty out to buy some more – yesterday he DID return from his meeting with MI5 or whoever he met  (I didn’t think he’d be able to come back) and he has to leave tonight on a mission to fuck knows where so that’s why we’re having Easter today and not tomorrow.

 

Lottie isn’t joining in because she’s on a diet but I can see by her face that she wants an Easter egg, she REALLY REALLY wants an Easter egg, it’s like a battle going on inside her – NO NO NO EASTER EGG, YES YES YES EASTER EGG – but she hasn’t given in yet. I’ll give her another hour before she cracks (HA HA HA HA – did you see what I did there?) We always had Easter egg eating competitions when we were kids and Lottie always won, even Scotty couldn’t beat her, even dear dead Daddy couldn’t beat her, and alongside the lure of the Easter eggs themselves is the call of the FIGHT – if her stomach doesn’t make her crack (HA HA) her competitive streak will.

 

Scotty isn’t very well, he caught Man-Flu the other day when he was up the ladder in the blizzard so it’s his own fault he has it, and THE BERSERKERS have little girl stomachs so I’m winning so far with a grand total of 12 (2 Cadbury’s Creme Eggs, 3 Cadbury’s Caramel, 3 of those Lindt Bunny Rabbits, and 4 Cadbury’s Flake). I don’t know what kind of Easter eggs Scotty’s going to bring back but they better not be those cheap ones that clag to the top of your mouth, I don’t like them.

 

I might be back later to tell you who won.

 

It’ll be ME.

Dotty Day Out

 

Hello everybody. Sorry I couldn’t do a post yesterday, I was too knackered to write one. Why was I too knackered? Because I went OUT.

O-U-T spells OUT.

OUT is the opposite of IN.

That’s what I did, I went OUT.

For the second time this year. 

I’m a social butterfly with butterfly stitches. I bought butter. And I saw a fly, a big fucker that must have got IN the car when we were getting OUT of the car but luckily Lottie spotted it before we got back IN the car and she opened the door and the fly flew OUT.

And fuck-diddly-fuck, wouldn’t you just know it, 24 hour Tesco had Cumberland sausages on offer – buy one get one free – so I bought fucking loads and loads and got the same again for nothing.

It all happened IN a similar way to when I went OUT last time (see Dotty And Scotty Go Shopping) except this time Lottie came with us so I wasn’t left alone when Scotty did his recce of the aisles. And we went to 24 hour Tesco later than we did last time, yesterday we set off at 5.00 am which would have been impossible if I hadn’t dosed up on double beta-blockers, double anti-depressives, two vials of laudanum and a swig of Diet Coke to wash it all down. And THE BERSERKERS came too and they proved to be a great distraction for me and a great help when Lottie went off to the toilet – when a person happened to be IN the aisle I wanted to go down what they did is they walked up to the person who was looking at whatever they were looking at on the shelf, stood right up close to them, very still and very straight, and THE BERSERKERS looked up at them and kept looking up at them, and kept looking up at them, and kept looking up at them with their big wide starey little-girl eyes until the person got freaked out and ran away.

I’m loving THE BERSERKERS so much more than I ever thought I would.

So we got all the shopping and sent Scotty off to pay for it while Lottie and me and THE BERSERKERS had a wander round the non-food aisles. And that’s when I saw it – the perfect thing, the absolutely perfect thing that I have always wanted – the bench – THE BENCH that is made of solid dark wood and has little carvings of love hearts on the back, the bench that is BEAUTIFUL and LOVELY and COMFORTABLE with thick slats for your bum to sit nicely on, the bench that was advertised as a garden bench but I didn’t buy it for my garden, I bought it so I could screw my MEMORIAL PLAQUE onto it and put it on the HIGH SPOT ON THE MOORS that I used to love walking to, the spot that has a view to die for, the spot that I want my ashes scattered on when I am DEAD. So I bought it.

My MEMORIAL BENCH was too big to fit IN the car because of all the shopping and US even though the car is a big posh one, so Scotty took us and the shopping home and then he went back to collect my MEMORIAL BENCH. While he was gone Lottie put all the shopping away while I looked for my MEMORIAL PLAQUE which was where I thought it was, IN the top drawer of my desk. This is what my MEMORIAL PLAQUE says —

 

 This bench belongs to

DOTTY HEADBANGER

19?? – 20??

If you write on Dotty’s bench

she will haunt you

for the rest of your pitiful life.

 

When Scotty came back with my MEMORIAL BENCH he asked where I wanted him to put it. 

‘Put it? I’m not putting it anywhere, it’s going up to its SPOT ON THE MOORS. Now. When I’ve eaten my Cumberland sausage sandwich.’

He looked at Lottie and I could see by the way they looked at each other that they didn’t think I could go OUT twice IN the one day so I tried to reassure them – ‘It’s okay, I’ll take more medication’.

They looked at each other again. Lottie said, ‘Have you got something planned, Dotty?’

‘Yes, I’ve got it all planned – Scotty can screw my MEMORIAL PLAQUE onto my MEMORIAL BENCH then me and Scotty can go IN his car with my MEMORIAL BENCH and you and the girls can go IN yours.’

‘What else have you got planned?’

‘Oh. I didn’t think of anything else – should we take a picnic?’

‘I meant…’ she looked at Scotty again, ‘I meant have you got plans to… you know?’

‘What?’

Scotty looked at ME instead of at Lottie. ‘Fucking ‘ell, Dotty, are you going to top yourself?’

‘HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA — is that what you think? Well no I’m not, not today you divvy sods – I’ve just spent ninety quid on shopping. And a hundred and fifty on my bench.’

‘But memorial benches are for dead people. Their families buy them as a MEMORIAL and put them in a place their dead one loved. You’re not dead.’

I just laughed at them again and went for a wee before we set off. No I’m not dead – and that’s why I’ve been planning for years to buy my own MEMORIAL BENCH – why should a seat appear for me WHEN I CAN’T USE IT BECAUSE I’M DEAD? Why shouldn’t I have somewhere nice to sit when I’ve just slogged my way up a big fucking hill to look at the view? And ALSO – when everything’s back to normal and Scotty and Lottie and THE BERSERKERS have gone home and it’s just me and little Emily again, if I have my MEMORIAL BENCH to visit it might make me GET OUT OF THIS FUCKING HOUSE THAT I CAN’T GET OUT OF.

So we took my MEMORIAL BENCH up to the HIGH SPOT ON THE MOORS and set it in place (Scotty brought my shovel with him and I made him stop off on the way to buy a bag of ready-mixed concrete). The wind wasn’t too bad for March and the ground wasn’t boggy either because it’s been freezing these last few days so me and THE BERSERKERS had a wild old time racing up the hill (they beat me, I ran like a lame old donkey because of my butterfly stitched places). I asked Lottie and Scotty to take THE BERSERKERS for a walk so I could be OUTSIDE on my own for a while. Lottie made sure I had my Nokia Hard Bastard with me to ring her if I needed to and off they went.

I can’t describe how I felt when they’d disappeared out of sight, it was too lovely for words, but the BIG SKY was beautiful, I sat on my bench for ages and ages looking for faces in the clouds. I saw King George III, Muhammed Ali, Van Gogh, Jimmy Krankie, Britney Spears and I think it was Julius Caesar or more likely it was Caligula.

It wasn’t as quiet as I thought it would be, but it was a BETTER sort of noisy, no FUCKING MACHINERY, just birds and breeze and the odd baa from a sheep. It was the closest to silence I’ll ever get until I’m dead and I want to go there again soon. I WILL go there again soon because now I’ve got my MEMORIAL BENCH up there to park my arse on for a rest.

When we got home I went upstairs to rewrite my will — what they have to do is get me a basket coffin (basket case when living, basket case when dead), carry me up to the HIGH SPOT ON THE MOORS, make a big bonfire, chuck me and my basket coffin INTO the fire, eat a few Cumberland sausages and sing a little song but I don’t know what song yet, it’s a toss up between I’ll Fly Away by Alison Krauss & Gillian Welch and Bat Out Of Hell by Meatloaf.

Perhaps I’ll make them sing both.

 

 

Absence Note

 

Dear Bloggy People,

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

Signed

Mrs Headbanger

 

Happy Headbanger Family (We’re Like The F***ing Waltons)

 

SNOW – lots of it

WIND – blowing a hooley round my house

= WILD FUCKING BLIZZARD

It hasn’t let up all morning.

 

And I’m snowed in. Not downstairs, that’s okay, but if I need to get out of one of the two upstairs windows that face the BLIZZARD I can’t because they’re CAKED IN SNOW, I can’t see out of them it’s piled so high up the windowsills. I had a panic attack when I realised I’m snowed in so Lottie told Scotty to get the big ladder out of the shed and go and clear it off. He said ‘But she doesn’t go out,’ so I said ‘THAT’S NOT THE FUCKING POINT.’ He’s doing it now. I’m sitting on my bed watching him and he’s swearing like fuck – the wind’s too strong for me to hear but so far I’ve managed to lipread FUCKING ‘ELL — SHIT — FOR FUCK’S SAKE — BASTARDING FREEZING SOMETHING SOMETHING WANKER. And he’s just said BOLLOCKS.

They all stayed here last night, Scotty, Lottie, and THE BERSERKERS. Scotty slept on the couch, Lottie and THE BERSERKERS slept in my bed and I slept in the spare room which was nice, I’ll have to do it again sometime, it was like going on holiday and waking up and not knowing where you are and realising oh, I’m on holiday, except I went oh, I’m in my spare room.

Last night was lovely. I didn’t have to do anything, I vegged on the couch with a plate of Cumberland sausages, a packet of Hobnobs, and continuous refills of nice cold Diet Coke. And THE BERSERKERS who I thought at first would start slapping me on my bandages or something, but they didn’t, were KIND TO ME. We watched a film (Cinderella? I don’t know, I must have dozed off) then when it was time for THE BERSERKERS to go to bed they told Lottie they wanted ME to take them up and tell them a story and, bless their little cotton socks, so Lottie wouldn’t hear, they didn’t tell me it was WINNIE-THE-SHITE they wanted till we were up in the room – they’ve got their heads screwed on the right way, those two. I thought they’d have forgotten WINNIE-THE-SHITE by now, I almost had but they put me right if I got a bit wrong.

When they were asleep I went back downstairs. Lottie and Scotty were in the kitchen, doing the washing up.

‘Did they get off all right?’ Lottie said.

‘Yep. Fine.’

‘What story did you tell them?’

‘One about a bear.’

‘Winnie-the-Shite?’

‘HOW THE FUCK DID YOU KNOW?’

And she LAUGHED!!! Lottie!!!! And she threw some Fairy Liquid bubbles at me and then she threw some at Scotty and we ended up having the best laugh we’ve had together since we were little.

 

I’ll have to go, Scotty’s getting down off the ladder and he looks like a YETI. I’ll get him a towel, one of my new bathsheets from my collection in the airing cupboard. And I’ll make him a cup of tea for when I ask him to go back out and clear the gutters – he might as well do it now seeing as the ladder’s already out.

 

Dotty Nearly Died Last Night But Dibble Saved Her From The Mean Things

 

I’m living in my tumble dryer. Don’t worry, it’s only till Scotty and Lottie have got rid of all the MEAN THINGS in my house. I’ve taken all my beta-blockers so I won’t have a panic attack and disturb all my neat bandages or make my elbows and knees more sore than they already are from April Fool’s Day, and I’ve got my bottle of laudanum with me, and I’ve sneaked in my mini hand-drill in case I really need it, and the hospital gave me TWO jags in the arse last night – some whizzy floaty stuff that’s still working and some superwhoppy painkiller – and that’s how I’m able to tell you all about it.

It’s quite comfortable in here. I’m sitting with my legs crossed and my laptop on my lap (is it still a lap if your legs are crossed or is it a clap or a crap or a clop or a crop) and I can see everything that’s going on in my kitchen through my round window (I always chose the round window in Playschool – HAMBEL! BIG TED! LITTLE TED! JEMIMA! – oh, I’ve got a Jemima, she’s sitting on the sidebar) and I can hear everything that’s going on too and they can hear me but the metal echo hurts my ears a lot when I shout.

Have you ever seen a crack assassin wield a feather duster? Scotty is so PRECISE and EXACT. He’s like MERCENARY MARY POPPINS except he’s bigger and he can’t sing. And he’s scared of children. I thought he’d try and use dusting as an excuse to get rid of more of my collections but – get this! - LOTTIE won’t let him, she said all he’s allowed to do is move something to DUST IT AND DUST WHERE IT LIVES and then PUT IT BACK IN ITS PLACE.

wOw

Do you want to know why they’re here? Shall I tell you what happened?

No, I don’t think I will.

 

 

 

 

beep

‘LOTTIE! THE FUCKING DRYER JUST BEEPED!’

‘It didn’t, I’ve switched it off at the wall.’

‘Oh. Right you are then.’

 

 

 

 

 

I was only kidding – of course I’ll tell you it. Why wouldn’t I? I love you all (y’all).

It was Anette’s fault – she scared me last night when she told me there are MEAN THINGS in my house. After the first four panic attacks, when the laudanum and the beta blockers started to kick in, I did what she said and got all my cutlery out and laid it round me on my bed, then I wrapped myself in tin foil but I didn’t have enough to cover all of me, I managed to cover everywhere except from my left knee down AND THAT’S WHERE THEY GOT IN. I felt them slithering up my leg (I had my short-leg pyjama bottoms on) and then they started biting me but it wasn’t really biting it was more like suck-biting, like vampire leeches and then they were all over me inside the tin foil slithering suck-biting slithering suck-biting and I was screaming and I grabbed some forks and tried to kill them, legs STAB arms STAB belly STAB neck STAB face STAB head STAB STAB STAB STAB STAB everywhere all over me and I couldn’t kill them, they wouldn’t get off me I killed one and twenty more slithered onto me I screamed and screamed and STABBED and STABBED and they kept coming and coming and then BIG ONES came ROARING ROARING ROARING my name and they grabbed my arms and I knew they’d eat me if I didn’t fight back so I STABBED and KICKED and BIT and NUTTED them but MORE BIG ONES grabbed my legs and my head and my middle and pinned me down and I thought that’s it, I’m for it now but I wasn’t, they ripped the tinfoil off my face and they weren’t BIG MEAN THINGS they were DIBBLE and AMBULANCE and they were all swearing and shouting and one was holding his blood-spurty nose and another was bent double holding his balls and that’s all I remember until I woke up in hospital and Scotty and Lottie were there.

I’ve got 78 butterfly stitches. It sounds a lot but they’re spread all over me in twos and threes with one big one on my neck that needed seven butterly stitches. It doesn’t hurt but I think it will later on when the super-whoppy painkiller wears off.

So Scotty and Lottie – Dibble went for them and took them to where I was, in hospital, and they told me that when they arrived I was out for the count so they waited for me to wake up. While they were waiting Lottie went to get some drinks and that’s when a FEMALE HEADSHRINKER came down from upstairs to do her voodoo on me but Scotty used all his charm and wiles and (Scotty told me this bit later, Lottie doesn’t know) he took her in a toilet cubicle and SHAGGED THE SENSE OUT OF HER, love at first sight, beautiful, marry you, my darling, my only one, four kids, I LOVE LOVE LOVE YOU, and when I woke up they brought me home and the first thing I did when we got home is pretend I needed a wee so I could go upstairs for my laudanum and my mini hand-drill and then I ran (hobbled) downstairs and grabbed my laptop and got inside the tumble dryer. The first thing Scotty did when we got home was ring THE BIG CHIEF INSPECTOR and as a result of his phone call they’re not coming to charge me with GRIEVOUS BODILY HARM any more. The first thing Lottie did when we got home is make us a pile of Cumberland sausage sandwiches.

Both of them sat on the kitchen floor, outside the tumble dryer, to eat their Cumberland sausage sandwiches at the same time as I was eating mine. Lottie made me tell her about the MEAN THINGS and after I’d finished telling her she said

‘That’s it, Scotty’s moving back in with you.’

Scotty’s mouth was stuffed with sandwich so he did some big nods.

‘We’ll get you sorted out – NO, Dotty, no arguments. We’ll start by getting rid of the mean things. That woman Anette doesn’t know anything, it isn’t shiny things they’re afraid of – it’s FLASH SPRAY WITH BLEACH.’

So they’ve been cleaning EVERYWHERE AND EVERYTHING in my house and Lottie isn’t letting Scotty slack off at all, she’s bossing him round like a Sergeant Major. And they keep bringing me drinks of Diet Coke and the odd Cumberland sausage when I want one and about half an hour ago little Emily popped her head round the back door and her eyes were as big as saucers when she saw me in the tumble dryer but a second later when she noticed Scotty dusting a shelf her eyes became HUGE, like glittery frisbees, and I thought ‘Dear jesus, no, please don’t let it happen,’ but it was too late, I couldn’t stop it – THE THUNDERBOLT and she hasn’t taken her eyes off him since.

Bits of me are starting to sting.

Come on, Lottie and Scotty – hurry up with cleaning out the MEAN THINGS, I need a wee and I need a sleep.

I’m going to try and have a sleep in here, my eyes keep shutting and I can’t stand that stupid look on little Emily’s face.

God love her and save her.

 

 

Dotty Needs A Bit Of Help Please

 

There’s something strange afoot in Dottyworld. Mischief is being made somewhere, somehow and I need to get it sorted before something unfixable happens. As you should know by now I don’t have any mirrors in my house, nor do I have any shiny surfaces. It’s hard to catch a glimpse of myself ANYWHERE and that’s how I like it, if I wanted mirrors I wouldn’t have smashed them all. But this afternoon, when the sun shone bright through the window and hit the lid of my frying pan, I DID catch a glimpse of myself (more than a glimpse – about 7 seconds worth of glimpse before I jumped back, which doesn’t sound long but you try looking at something for 7 seconds and it’s longer than you think it should be).

I say I caught a glimpse of myself – well that’s not quite true because although I SHOULD have caught a glimpse of myself I didn’t, I caught a long 7 second glimpse of LITTLE EMILY. Except little Emily went home early this morning to make sure Charlotte isn’t taking the piss out of Anne again by getting her to do all the cleaning. And she hasn’t been back since, and she isn’t due back till tomorrow.

So how did I see her in the frying pan lid?

Little Emily is dead – I’ve seen her grave many times over the years, I know she’s in there but obviously SHE isn’t in there, and anyway it’s not a secret that I SEE DEAD PEOPLE, lots of people see dead people, they even make telly programmes about people who see dead people so it’s nothing to be ashamed of. But seeing dead people when it should be ME I’m seeing is a bit eerie.

At first I thought maybe it’s because we’ve become such good friends and I see her face much more than I see my own and the facial recognition part of my brain has forgotten what MY face looks like so it slapped little Emily’s face onto the frying pan lid instead.

Then I thought I wonder if it’s me, I wonder if I’ve finally lost it, but then I thought ‘No, Dotty, don’t be daft, you’re mental but you’re not fucking MENTAL‘.

Then I thought it must be something to do with little Emily’s ectoplasm, maybe it’s fucked up because she’s doing something she shouldn’t be doing like eating too many of my Cumberland sausages, or trying to follow Rah Rah Rasputin on Just Dance 2 (or 3? I can’t remember, she puts it on herself, I don’t like it), or killing wabbits for her wabbit pies, or looking after Branwell when he’s in a fugue, or arguing with Charlotte, or too much writing writing writing, or any number of things she does that I don’t even know about, who knows what she gets up to on that fucking moor every morning, there are more dead people roaming around up there than soft Mick, she could be doing anyTHING with anyONE of them.

All or none of these things could be the cause of what happened earlier and that’s what I need help with – knowledge of ghosts. If any of you know anything at all about ghosts will you tell me please so I can try and work out what’s wrong with little Emily and why she appeared on my face? I don’t want to lose her, she’s the best friend I’ve ever had.

Thank you.

 

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