Baby, Baby, Baby, Baby, Baby. And More Baby.

 

It’s me again. I’ve finally got some free time to write a new post. Contrary to what I thought would happen since I’ve been able to come back online, I’ve had no time to sit down and write and very little time to catch up on blog reading. Why? Because of THE BABY. Everything revolves around THE BABY. He’s four months old now - surely that’s old enough for him to look after himself but NO, he still needs feeding and changing and bathing and playing with, and in between the feeds and the changes and the baths and the playtimes his bottles have to be washed and sterilised, his clothes have to be washed and dried and sorted - ( SCRATCH MITTENS! Tiny little fiddly fucking things that are worse than SOCKS for losing their pairs. I HATE WASHING SCRATCH MITTENS but there has to be a constant supply of them or Buster would gouge chunks out of his face – and yes, his nails are regularly trimmed but have you ever tried making a baby’s fingernails completely UNPOINTY? Not going to happen)and a thousand million other baby-related things that have to be done. It never ends. And that’s before I start cleaning up after Mary-Mona (which merits a whole new post of its own that I’ll do another day when I HAVE THE TIME).

Moaning aside, I love baby Buster more than ANYTHING IN THE WORLD. He’s a happy little chappy, smiley and gurgly and good as gold, and so laid back he falls over when I try to get him to stand at the cooker to cook my Cumberland sausages. Actually, he’s not much use round the house AT ALL but I’m in the process of rectifying that with the new inventions I’m inventing, such as THE DOTTY DRAINING BOARD BABY BOUNCER©, a baby-bouncing seat carefully adapted to fit on a draining board, allowing the baby to sit safely whilst peeling potatoes and other vegetables of your choice - and they can do the washing up, though I’m having a bit of a problem working out where the draining rack will go. Also I have in the pipeline THE DOTTY MOTORISED BABY-WALKING VACUUM CLEANER©, THE DOTTY WINDOW CLEANING BABY SWING©, and THE DOTTY UPSIDE DOWN BABY HARNESS© (with roof attachments that enable the baby to clean your floors and baths).

People will buy my inventions because babies have an inbuilt BABY PRODUCT & CLOTHES MAGNET that works by controlling the minds of all the adult females around them so that when the adult females go shopping and spy baby products or baby clothes, we go ‘OOOO, LOOK, BABY STUFF!!!‘ and we buy and we buy and we buy, and we come out of the shop laden up with unnecessary SHITE and no money left to spend on ourselves. (My favourite, favourite baby product is a brand of colic drops called INFACOL. Infacol is my favourite product because it contains SECRET SWEARING in its name – INFACOLINFUCKALL. Now that’s class). Cot, Moses basket, bouncy chair, bath, toys, steriliser, wardrobe, pram, etc etc etc, and all the toiletries and bum-changing stuff that comes with a baby - give me the days when you swaddled it in a blanket, stuffed it in a drawer or a shoe box, gave it a stick and a stone to play with, and cut up a few raggy clouts for its arse. Babies have too many things. Baby Buster has so many clothes he could open his own baby clothes shop (that’s if he was able to raise the capital by discussing a business loan with his bank manager, but seeing as his bank manager doesn’t speak Baby, it’s not possible yet). It’s NOT NECESSARY. Babies grow out of their clothes before they’ve worn them 3 times and they’re happier playing with a teething ring and a pair of singing sock glove-puppets (I do the singing – socks can’t really sing), than with their expensive brightly-coloured jingly-jangly toys. But still we buy ALL THE BABY THINGS WE THINK WE MUST HAVE.

So, yes, my inventions will FLY off the shelves and make me a fortune and then Mary-Mona and I can BUY A NANNY to look after baby Buster, freeing up our time to do other, less boring things like SLEEP because although I’m not as tired as I used to be before baby Buster started to sleep through the night (Mary-Mona had him sleeping through BEFORE HE WAS 2 MONTHS OLD and all the other mothers she’s met are as jealous as fuck), I’m still trying to catch up on my sleep.

Baby sleepless nights are different from normal sleepless nights because at any given second during a baby sleepless night I’d be perfectly capable of falling asleep if it wasn’t for THE BABY. Why do they need to be fed at night? Why do they need so many feeds in the first place? It would make more sense to give them one BIG feed to last 24 hours and then I could just GO TO SLEEP and set my alarm clock for 23 hours later. Also, one BIG feed would be a better indicator of when a baby is hungry – after the BIG feed their belly would inflate and they’d look like a little SPACE HOPPER and then over the hours it would slowly DEFLATE until it was back to empty – and what does empty equal? Hungry, that’s what.

One BIG feed would also solve the problem of having to regularly change baby’s nappy because having to change a baby’s nappy umpteen times a day should be included in the TORTURER’S HANDBOOK as number one on the torture list. Hideous things come out of babies. Horrific, ghastly things. Things poor Dotty (ME!) should never have to see or smell or touch, or get on my hands or in my hair (POO!) or down my cleavage (SICK!) or on my clothes (BOTH!). What vileness can match a baby’s full nappy or a bout of projectile vomiting? NONE. And the noises that come out of them – baby Buster does MAN-BURPS that a big fat BIKER would be proud of, and after he does a MAN-BURP he LAUGHS. And he farts like ten machine guns going off in unison – pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu. And he thinks it’s funny to kick his way through every nappy change, especially the horrible ones. And he likes to sneeze in my face when he’s having his baby porridge for breakfast. And he’s recently discovered he can spit – properly spit, not just his usual dribble – so avoiding an eye full of Calpol when he needs some medicine has become an art in itself in this house. Oh, and he’s started teething, so when he needs to chew on something and the closest something happens to be my FACE he becomes an ATTACK BABY, kicking and punching and repeatedly shouting ‘AAAAHHH‘ while he tries with all his might to gum me.

 

Oops, I’ve just noticed how long this post is. Oh well, it’ll make up for the posts I won’t be able to do until next time I get a free afternoon.

 

P.S. To all the depressy people reading this – if you haven’t got one, borrow a baby who smiles a lot to brighten your day, but only if it’s a beautiful cute baby with a beautiful cute smile that lights up the world and makes your heart dazzle. Ugly babies won’t help you with their ugly twisted little smiles, all you’ll feel is pity and sadness. And before anyone starts moaning about every baby being beautiful – NO THEY ARE NOT. To their mothers they might be, but anyone else with eyes in their heads can see an ugly baby for what it is – A FUCKING UGLY BABY.

 

 

 

 

EGGS

 

To prevent me from writing every single one of my new posts about baby Buster I need to find other things to write about, but before I went on my 8 month long absence I wrote about EVERY subject and now I have very little to write about that I haven’t written about before. One subject I don’t think I wrote about back then was the exploitation of old-age workers in third world countries, so this post is about EGGS.

 

 

SOME DOTTY THOUGHTS ABOUT EGGS

Eggs are little miracles of life and nature. Oval, ovoid, ovum. Eggy-eggy-egg. I wonder if anyone has ever seen Jesus in an egg? I once saw Jesus in my ice cream scoop but he disappeared with the sun when it passed the corner of my house.

Eggs are good for you. Eat an egg for breakfast and you’ll be all proteined up for the morning because eggs are full of white and yellow protein and other white and yellow things your body needs. Eggs taste nice. Fried eggs taste nicest but only if they’re cooked in old bacon-flavoured beef fat with bits of bacon still floating through it. Yum. Poached eggs – I’ve never eaten them. They’re slimey. Boiled eggs have very complicated cooking instructions - I don’t make them. I DO like them if someone else makes them for me though. I like scrambled eggs too. But I don’t like ANY eggs if they’re cooked with little slivers of shell. Fresh eggs, straight from the arse of the hen? NO NO. I like my eggs clean, who wants to eat feathers and hen shite for breakfast? Eggs with tiny globs of blood or tissue in them – YUK! Double yolks – YUM!

I’ve never seen an oddly shaped egg. All eggs are EGG shaped. They come in different colours too, all sorts of colours, so many colours you could make an egg rainbow out of all the different colours and still have enough egg colours left over to make a generous quilt for those cold winter nights.

Did you know that eggs can be eaten MONTHS after their sell-by date if they’ve been kept in the fridge and if you test to see if they’ve gone rotten before you open them? The best way of testing them is to use the FLOATING METHOD – put the eggs in a bowl full of water – if the eggs float, they’re fine to eat, if they sink they’re off. Or is it the other way round? I forget.

Eggs are excellent missiles for all occasions. Raw eggs can be thrown at people or objects (WINDOWS! CARS!) when there’s no urgent need to hurt or damage the target but you have a desperate urge to make a mess and cause a little upset. Throwing a raw egg at someone or something makes a statement. It says, ‘I like you. You deserve an EGG!’

Hard boiled eggs, although they could never replace my favourite missiles (BRICKS!) in my affections, can be quite handy during a siege when you find yourself without other, more traditional weapons (BRICKS!) and you need something hard to throw. Hard boiled eggs are small enough to fit in the hand and they’re hard enough to do a fairly adequate amount of damage if aimed correctly (even if they don’t have corners), but the best thing about using hard boiled eggs as weapons is that Dibble can’t arrest you afterwards if you tell them you’re a people-phobic she-hermit who can’t leave the house so the only way you can contribute to society is by feeding the hungry and the only way you’re able to feed the hungry is by dropping food to them gently from your bedroom window – it isn’t YOUR fault they can’t catch, (saying this DOES work – Mother Teresa never got banged up for assault with a deadly weapon, did she?)

 

 

I hope you found this egg post informative and interesting. Treasure it. It might be the last post I ever write on anything but THE BABY.

 

 

 

 

 

How A Baby Whose Name Isn’t Jesus Came To Live With Dotty

 

So, I’m back on my blog and eager to start annoying y’all again but I won’t be annoying y’all as much as I used to annoy y’all because, unbelievable as it might sound, I’m helping to look after the BABY who lives here, and babies (even good babies like the one who lives here) are demanding little fuckers who take up a LOT OF TIME.

How did I end up with a baby in my house? This is how…

 

 

It was almost midnight on Christmas Eve. I was sitting on my sofa watching Christmas shite on the telly when I heard a tap-tap-tap on the back door. Who could it be? Lottie and THE BERSERKERS? Nope, I know what their knocks sound like. Branwell? Nope, he’d be hiding under a pew at midnight mass necking down the Christmas wine. Little Emily? Kumblant? No, it wasn’t them. I’d never heard a tap-tap-tap like it – it scared me. But then suddenly I wasn’t scared because it dawned on me that the only other person who’d be knocking on my door at almost midnight on Christmas Eve was SANTA CLAUS so I jumped up off the sofa and ran to the back door to let him in and to give him his glass of milk and Cumberland sausage sandwich (which he never usually TOUCHES, the ungrateful twat), and to see how many CHRISTMAS PRESENTS he had for me in his sack, and to see if the jingle bells I’d been hearing all week were REAL jingle bells, but when I flung open the door all I saw was a BIG BELLY and a SAD FACE, neither of which belonged to Santa. I know this because —

1. The BIG BELLY was BIGGER than Santa’s big belly.

2. The SAD FACE didn’t have a big bushy white beard at the bottom of it.

3.  Whoever the BIG BELLY and the SAD FACE belonged to wasn’t dressed in RED (it was a sort of manky beige).

4. Between the BIG BELLY and the SAD FACE sat a HUGE pair of BAZONKAS that definitely didn’t belong to Santa (unless there’s something he isn’t telling us). The presence of the HUGE BAZONKAS suggested to me that the person standing in front of me was a woman.

She said, ‘Are you Dotty? Dotty Headbanger?’

‘I might be.’

‘Oh God, Dotty, I’ve been looking for you all day, I’ve been up and down the streets trying to find your house but no one knows who you are or where you live so I had to knock on every single door to find you and I need a wee and I haven’t had a cup of tea or anything to eat for hours. I know you don’t know me but pleasepleaseplease will you let me go for a wee and give me a bed for the night?’

‘Are you pregnant?’

‘Seven and a half months. And I need a wee. Please. And a bed. I’ll sleep on the floor if you don’t have anything else, I’m just so tired and I need to get warm.’

Why do I attract all the nutters in the area, even at Christmas? I was just about to say, ‘Go away. Do I look like a stable?’ when I heard the first chime of my grandfather clock and I thought, fucking hell it’s Christmas, I can’t turn her away on Christmas Day or Santa will find out and he won’t leave me any presents at all. So I let her in and she’s been here ever since.

 

 

Because she turned up looking for a bed on Christmas Eve you’d think her name would be Mary. Her name isn’t Mary. Well, yes it IS Mary, but she’s only half a Mary. She’s called Mary-Mona, the poor cow. Mary-Mona Onken. And the baby’s name isn’t Jesus and he wasn’t born at Christmas, (he arrived at the beginning of February, which makes him, to date, almost 4 months old). And the baby, whose name isn’t Jesus, is NOT the son of God, he’s the son of my feckless fucker of a brother, Scotty.

The baby’s name is BUSTER. Buster Onken-Headbanger. Hyphenated because when it came to registering his birth I told Mary-Mona I’d throw them out on the streets if she didn’t give him the Headbanger name, even if she does want to kill Scotty (she’ll have to get to him before I do or she’ll have lost her chance, I’m going to FUCKING SLAUGHTER him when I see him). I insisted on Headbanger, she wanted Onken (for fuck’s sake) so we compromised and added the hyphen.

So here they are and here they stay and, surprisingly, I haven’t (yet) drop-kicked the baby into the bin or shoved a foul nappy into Mary-Mona’s mouth to shut her up. I’m patient and caring and kind to them because with the baby’s arrival I’ve discovered something new about myself –

I am a BABY LOVER.

Dotty the BABY LOVER.

Who’d have ever thunk it?

 

 

Hello, Hello, Hellooooooooo…

 

 

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

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

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

 

 

OPTIONS

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

 

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

 

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

 

4. My brain collapsed and my head fell off.

 

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

 

6.  I married Branwell.

 

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

 

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

 

9. I did a little murder.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

15. One of the above.

 

16.  Some of the above.

 

17. All of the above.

 

18.  None of the above.

 

 

Answers on a postcard, please.

 

 

 

 

 

Dotty Weekly News

 

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

 

This is what’s happened in my week –

The death of an unliked relative.

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

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

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

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

 

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

 

 

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

 

 

 

 

Hello, It’s Me, Dotty.

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

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

 

 

 

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

 

knock knock

knock knock

 

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

 

knock knock

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

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

‘FUCK OFF! GO AWAY!’

 

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

knock knock …….

knock knock …….

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

KNOCK KNOCK

KNOCK KNOCK

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

‘Hello.’

‘FUCK OFF. WHAT DO YOU WANT?

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

‘Eh?’

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

‘Wipe your sandals,’ I mumbled.

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

Then he said, ‘Come and sit with me.’

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

‘What do you want?’ I asked.

‘A green tea, please.’

Cheeky bastard.

‘What do you WANT?‘ I repeated.

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

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

‘No.’

That was it –

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

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

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CLOUDY CAPTION COMPETITION

(which disappeared the first time I posted it)

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

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

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Bish Bash Bosh – I’ve Run Out Of Dosh

 

Guess what I’ve been doing?

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

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

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

YEEE-HAA! 

 

 

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

 

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

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

 

 

Another New Dotty Blog

 

I’ve made a new blog. It’s becoming a habit when I get too antsy and mental. Blog, blog, blog.

 

This is it, if you’re interested –

COMMON SENSE IS DEAD 

 

 

 

 

 

RANT RANT RANT RANT RANT RANT RANT – And More RANT

 

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

 Nice Dotty.

Mild Dotty.

TAME Dotty.

 

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

Shitey Sunday Picture Post – Hair!

 

I’ve had enough of men and their hair (or lack of it). This week it’s the turn of the ladies and I’ve chosen some nice, easy styles for the busy, modern woman.

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DOG HAIR

To bring out your inner bitch

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DEER HAIR or GIRAFFE HAIR

At first it looked like a deer, now I think it’s a giraffe.

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BEAR HAIR

This is a bear made of hair

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ANOTHER BEAR HAIR

This is another bear made of hair

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BUNNY RABBIT HAIR

Bright eyes, burning like fire

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STAG HAIR

The Monarch of the Glen – on your head.

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HORSE HAIR

I know, I know – this is a man. A ginger man. But look at his horse!!

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BIRD’S NEST HAIR

WITH A MINI BEAR CLIMBING UP THE HAIR

Look at me, I’m like a tree!

A sweaty tree.

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GUITAR HAIR

Is it a guitar? It’s too big for a violin, too small for a double bass.

Yes, it’s a guitar. Strum that thing, hairdresser.

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HELICTOPER HAIR

What’s that thing on her nose?

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ANOTHER HELICOPTER HAIR

I love helicopter hair.

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AMERICAN HAIR

And finally, a little present for my Collected Americans -

The Statue of Liberty

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

I like September.

 

 

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

 

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

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

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

 

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

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

I EAT.

I EAT.

 

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

I don’t know what to do.

 

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

 

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

MY GAS MASK — to prevent me from INHALING THE DEMON

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

SPARE HIM HIS LIFE FROM THESE QUORN SAUSAGES.

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

BISMILLAH! NO! WE WILL NOT LET YOU GO!

Let me go!

BISMILLAH! WE WILL NOT LET YOU GO!

Let me go!

BISMILLAH! WE WILL NOT LET YOU GO!

Let me go!

WILL NOT LET YOU GO!

Let me go!

NOT LET YOU GO!

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

more LINDA McCARTNEY VEGETARIAN QUORN CARDBOARD SAUSAGES

more ROUND RYVITAS

mothballs

rat poison

6 bottles of Domestos – kills all known germs. DEAD

caustic soda

some apples (they worked on Eve)

a fishing net

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

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

DEMON?/Shadey Shite? 

DEMON?/Shadey Shite?

DEMON?/Shadey Shite?

and the DEMON won.

 

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

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

 

 

 

 

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

LIVERPOOL V EVERTON

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

LIVERPOOL VEE EVERTON

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

 

 

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

 

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

Wait a minute…

 

 

 

Yep, they’ve gone now.

 

 

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

 

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

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

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

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

 

 

 

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

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

 

A Very Nice Video Post

 

This is Smokie, fronted by their original lead singer, Chris Norman, (who Dotty knows something about but she can’t tell you because it’s a secret), singing their most famous song. Watch it, it’s good, it’s a nice little love song.

 

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This is Smokie, fronted by their replacement lead singer, Alan Barton (who Dotty knows something about but she can’t tell you because it’s a secret), singing THEIR version of their most famous song. I prefer this one.

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Hidey-Holes For Hermits

 

I need a new hidey-hole. Why? Because I want one.

Here’s a list of the hidey-holes I already have —

 

under my bed – a normal place to hide

under the bed in the spare room – another normal place to hide

in the cupboard under the stairs – normal

in my kitchen cupboards – also normal except I can’t hide there any more because that’s where my collections of Heinz Salad Cream squeezy bottles, Colman’s Horseradish Sauce jars, Carnation Caramel tins, and Suma Tomato Puree tubes live. Oh, and my Atora Suet boxes live there too.

in my airing cupboard- I’ve already told you about my airing cupboard.

in my tumble dryer – I’ve already told you about my tumble dryer (a few times).

in my washing machine – I haven’t told you about my washing machine because the general consensus is that people who hide in their washing machines are EVEN MORE MENTAL than people who don’t hide in their washing machines but might still hide in their tumble dryers. I don’t really see the difference, they’re both used for laundry.

in my wardrobe – a small part of my collection of self-help books lives there. The other parts of my self-help book collection live in the stacks on the stairs. My clothes are in – hang on, where ARE my clothes? I know where some of them are, who moved the rest of them?

on top of my wardrobe – I can’t hide there any more because in order to do my flying I had to demolish the structure I’d built to enclose the space between the top of my wardrobe and the ceiling, and I need to keep it demolished or I won’t have anywhere to take off from.

in my air raid shelter that I built under my kitchen – what’s down there? I can’t remember. I think I put some collections down there but fuck knows which ones. I’ll have a look later when I can be arsed.

in the new wheelie bin I conned the council into giving me – I told them someone had nicked my second wheelie bin so they’d bring me a brand new one when really I’ve never had two wheelie bins, I’ve only ever had ONE. And no, I haven’t made a going-outside breakthrough, my brand new wheelie bin is in my kitchen next to my cooker where it’s nice and warm.

in my loft – I don’t like going up there for three reasons - SPIDERS and MOTHS and THE TRAMP WHO MIGHT BE SECRETLY LIVING UP THERE and sneaking in and out when I’m not looking, and stealing my CLOTHES (YES! that’s where they are!!!!!!!) and stealing my Cumberland sausages when I’ve cooked a big batch and put some in the fridge but when I go to eat them the next day they’re NOT THERE because the FUCKING THIEVING RONKER IN MY LOFT HAS STOLEN THEM AND SCOFFED THE LOT and he’s stolen my Asda Toffee Cheesecakes too because I had FOUR in the fridge yesterday and now I don’t have ANY because he must have crept down in the night and ATE THEM and put the empty tubs OUTSIDE IN THE BIN because he knows I don’t go outside so I won’t see the evidence. My Asda Toffee Cheesecakes that I was saving for after my tea tonight. BASTARD. When I catch him I’ll Asda HIS fucking price.

 

Where’s my AXE?

 

 

Dotty The Sagey Wise Woman – Wise Words Of Wisdom – Part 1, A Few Idioms For Idiots

 

I know everything there is to know about KNOWING NOTHING AT ALL which qualifies me to dispense as many wise words of wisdom as I feel like dispensing to educate the people who think they know everything about EVERYTHING.

I’ll begin with some well known idioms.

 

 

A fool and his money is a good friend to have.

 

A leopard can’t change his socks.

 

Every cloud has a bigger cloud following it.

 

A picture paints a thousand NOTHINGS because pictures can’t paint, you twat.

 

An apple a day keeps the dentist busy because eating so much natural sugar will ROT YOUR TEETH.

 

If the shoe fits, find the other one – one shoe is USELESS unless you only have one foot.

 

Don’t put all your eggs in your mouth at once. You’ll choke.

 

Out of sight, out of sight.

 

Blood is thicker than Absinthe, but it doesn’t taste as nice even when you combine the two to make a cocktail.

 

Too many cooks have undeclared dirty diseases. NEVER EAT ANYTHING YOU HAVEN’T COOKED YOURSELF.

 

A bird in the hand is worth ME PUNCHING YOU IN THE NECK. DON’T TOUCH THE LITTLE BIRDIES, YOU’LL SCARE THEM.

 

 

 

Feel free to add your own.

 

 

 

 

 

P.S. Yesterday I had a tomato with my breakfast Cumberland sausage sandwich. Today I had another tomato with my breakfast Cumberland sausage sandwich. I might have one again tomorrow and see where all this healthy eating takes me. Fuck, I might end up eating FRUIT in a few months time if I carry on like this.

 

 

 

Useless Dotty Strikes Again

 

Shitey Sunday Picture Post – NO

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

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

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

FUCKING USELESS WITH BELLS ON.

BEING MENTAL  – the gift that never stops giving.

 

Marvellous, Miraculous Sticky Notes

 

!wOw!  

I’ve discovered STICKY NOTES! Big bright pink ones! I found them on my desk but I didn’t buy them (I wouldn’t buy PINK ones). They’re BRILLIANT! They stick to paper when they won’t stick to anything else – doors, floors, windows, heads, clothes, cups, ashtrays, ANYTHING! It doesn’t matter how many times you try to stick them to something else, they don’t lose their ability to STICK TO PAPER even when they APPEAR to have lost all their stickiness, NO THEY HAVEN’T, they’re conserving it, they’re saving it for PAPER! But how do they know to conserve their stickiness for paper? And how do they know when they’re ON PAPER and not on wood or metal or plastic or skin?

HOW DO THEY KNOW? 

 

Dotty The Cosmic Orderer Who Asked The Universe For £148m But Didn’t Get It

 

The £148m should have been MINE. It WAS mine, I asked the Universe for it – when Andy Murray won the Gold I dug out my Cosmic Ordering book because I thought if Cosmic Ordering worked for Andy it’ll work for me, and I’ve been Cosmic Ordering my arse off ever since with varying degrees of success. Here are my successes –

 

1) my Cumberland sausages haven’t burnt AT ALL since I asked the Universe not to burn them

2) my learning to fly injuries on my face are healing up nicely after I asked the Universe to help them heal up nicely

3) Lottie hasn’t been in touch since I asked the Universe to make her go away

4) life has been quiet and free of stupid fuckers since I asked the Universe to make my life quiet and free of stupid fuckers (this one’s a bit iffy, I only asked the Universe for it last night so we’ll have to wait and see)

5) I won the £148m Euromillions jackpot last Friday

 

Did you read #5? Eh? BECAUSE THAT’S WHAT SHOULD HAVE HAPPENED but somehow it didn’t, somehow my £148m WAS STOLEN FROM ME and found its way DOWN SOUTH WHERE THE RICH FUCKERS LIVE.

 

 

I need to go now and talk to the Universe to find out what happened.

Aha – a thought – maybe the Universe is teasing me, like it did with Andy when it gave Wimbledon to Federer BUT THEN IT GAVE ANDY THE GOLD.

Hmmmmm!

 

 

 

Shitey Sunday Picture Post – Inspirational Wordy Posters

 

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

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

 

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

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

 

WALKIES – the cruellest

word ever to be heard by

a dog with no legs

 

 

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

 

 

Chorus

 

 

 

 

Verse

 

 

 

 

Chorus

 

 

 

 

 

Second Verse

 

 

 

 

Chorus

 

 

 

 

 

Repeat Chorus

 

 

 

 

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

 

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

 

 

The Big Blog Collection – Dotty’s Choice

 

I’ve just done a new Dotty’s Choice post on the Big Blog. It gives links to my three favourite Humour/Satire blogs. :-)

 

DOTTY’S CHOICE POST

A Nice Letter To Dotty’s Future Dead Second Husband

 

Dear Future Dead Second Husband,

 

How are you? Comfortable, I hope. Are they looking after you? If you don’t mind I need you to answer a few questions –

1) Are you a single zulti-zillionaire with no family, a minimum age of 99, a maximum age of no maximum- the older the better?

2) Have you spent your whole life building your fortune and now you’re lonely with no one to talk to except your nurses and the cleaners?

3) Do you want to die happy in the knowledge that your businesses and your mansions and your islands and the FUCKING LOVELY wordly goods you worked so hard for have been left to someone who will love and appreciate and cherish them for the rest of her life? 

4) Can you answer positively to the above questions?

Yes?

Then HELLO, DARLING.

We can get married NOW. It’s daft to wait when we’re so deeply in love. I can read to you and we can watch Dexter together when you’re awake. I’ll make sure the nurses give you whatever drugs you need and when you get close to your time I’ll make them keep you sedated so you don’t know what’s happening because I LOVE YOU and I’d hate to see you suffer.

 

Lots of love,

Dotty xxxx

 

P.S. Send me a credit card, I need to buy a wedding dress and some shoes and some flowers and a castle for us to get married in. Darling.

 

 

Dotty’s New Novel – Part 2 – This Is Not A Love Story

 

Before I get started, here’s the link to the first post I did about my novel in case you’ve forgotten I was writing one or you’re a recent follower who hasn’t seen the post.

 

DOTTY’S FIRST NOVEL – BUY IT, BUY IT, BUY IT EVERYBODY 

 

It’s been a while since I last posted about my novel and progress has been GOOD. I’ve decided (a decision!!) that my novel will NOT be a love story (you might have already spotted that bit in the title), it’s going to be a HATE story because there are far too many love stories in the world and NOT NEARLY ENOUGH hate stories - NONE that I can think of, but I might be wrong. And why is that, you might ask?

It’s because of the RAMPANT and SICKENING hatred people have for hate. THE HATRED OF HATE is WRONG. Hating hate is HATEFUL and DETESTABLE and it needs to STOP. Hate should be allowed the same rights as any other emotion. Aren’t we supposed to be striving for a world of EQUALITY and TOLERANCE? A world in which all are fairly treated and everyone is given the same respect and dues as everyone else? But no it isn’t like that, is it? The world is full of BIGOTRY and DISCRIMINATION. Those who hate hate are nothing but hatists, which, by the way, is pronounced hate-ist not hat-ist so really it should be spelt hateist but then people would pronounce it like atheist, hate-eist and there’s no such word. Oh, wait, hang on a minute — on second thoughts YES IT CAN BE HATEIST because AGEIST has kept the E and no one pronounces it ag-eist (rhyming with raggiest), do they?

So don’t be a hateful hateist full of hatred for HATE. It’s not nice. GIVE HATE A CHANCE.

 

 

So now you know the main theme for my novel (hate). And you also know, from what I’ve just said, that my novel will incorporate many elements of my campaign for equality for hate, that within the complex and refined layers and depths of my novel the crusade for fairness will always prevail, transmitting its honour and rightness directly to the hearts of my readers via subliminal messages intertwined throughout my carefully chosen words, sentences, paragraphs and chapters.

 

 

Which leads me to the reason for this post. I want to give you the privilege of being the first people to see MY SECOND WORD OF MY FIRST NOVEL. I’ll also give you a demonstration of how my subliminal messages work.

 

My first word is –

The

my second word is —

threat 

 

Can you see what I’ve done? Can you?

my first word is THE

my second word is THREAT

my second word includes ALL THE LETTERS THAT MAKE UP MY FIRST WORD with the remaining letters spelling RAT and what is THE RAT if it isn’t a THREAT?

AND

THE RAT is an ANAGRAM of THREAT.

Also, I’ve very cleverly used the word THREAT because it includes my theme word HATE and the remaining letters when you take out the word HATE are the letters T and R which, when put together and repeated fast enough, sound like the word TEAR and what happens when you see a RAT that you HATE and it’s a THREAT? You cry a little TEAR, don’t you? And, if you haven’t already noticed, the word TEAR is also included within the word THREAT. So is the word EAT (what the RAT will do to you) and the word ATE (what the RAT did to someone else).

AND – the word HEART is within the word THREAT.

ART is there too.

So is HEAT.

 

 

Fucking brilliant, isn’t it? I doubt whether Kafka or Stendhal or Hemingway could have come up with such LITERARY EXCELLENCE in such a short space of time. In fact, I’m doing so well with this, my first novel, I’m writing so speedily and with such depth, that I’m thinking of making a WHOLE NEW BLOG for my novel in order to show all you wannabes out there HOW IT’S DONE.

 

Thank you and goodnight.

 

 

 

 

N.B. — It’s not night, it’s morning. But night sounds better.

 

Dotty Has A Revealing Revelation

 

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

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

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

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

What does it all mean?

I don’t fucking know.

 

 

 

KUMBLANT ZOZEECH YOU SNEAKY LITTLE SHITE!!

 

The wanky little git has conned his way into the Olympic Opening Ceremony! I’m watching him NOW.

 

Yorkshire 2012 Olympickles

I thought I’d make a nice picture for tonight’s

OPENING CEREMONY of the OLYMPICKLES.

I’ll be ignoring the rest of it.

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You’ve Given Me The Fame, Now Give Me The Fortune

 

I don’t know whether or not you’ve noticed that on my sidebar I have a little note giving instructions to the Press and the paparazzi. The little note has been there for a long time but if today is anything to go by I think I’ll soon need to make it more prominent at the top of the sidebar.

Because I AM FAMOUS.

ME.

LITTLE DOTTY.

LITTLE DOTTY HEADBANGER WHO NEVER COMES OUT OF HER HOUSE.

FAMOUS.

LIKE A FILM STAR!

 

Today, there have been not one, not two, but THREE WHOLE POSTS dedicated to ME AND MY BLOGS.

THREE!

Can you believe it? I can’t.

 

First, lovely Lisa did this lovely post  –

LISA’S POST 

 

Then lovely Chris did this lovely reblog –

CHRIS’S REBLOG

 

And lovely Lisa’s friend, lovely Miss1sue did this lovely post after she joined the Big Blog –

MISS1SUE’S POST

 

AND THAT’S NOT ALL –

Lovely Dorothy did something with her Facebook

THIS IS A LINK TO HER BLOG, NOT HER FACEBOOK 

 

And lovely Rachel did a pingback on her excellent lovely post about how she beat WORDY BLOCK.

RACHEL’S POST ABOUT HOW SHE BEAT WORDY BLOCK

 

I’ve never had so many lovely things in one day.

FAMOUS.

ME!

Just call me DOTTY JOLIE.

Or MISS JOLIE if you don’t know me well.

 

 

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

 

Could I? – Yes / No

Should I? – The grey area. 

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

 

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

 

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

 

THE QUESTION

Should I have six Cumberland sausage sandwiches for my breakfast?

 

THE DECISION MAKING PROCESS

Could I? – Yes, easily.

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

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

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

 

RESULT OF DECISION MAKING PROCESS

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

TOO LATE TO HAVE MY BREAKFAST.

 

 

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

MMMMMM, HOBNOBS! COME TO DOTTY!

 

Wordy Block Lurgy – Have You Caught It Too?

 

Over the last few days, as I’ve been skipping my way round the blogs making a few inroads into the massive pile of post notifications in my email, I’ve encountered a VERY STRANGE THING - I’m not the only one with WORDY BLOCK. An exceptional amount of bloggers have it. Bloggers who are normally prolific and reliable are struggling for words. They can’t think of what to write. Their mojo has turned into noflo.

WHY?

What’s going on?

Is it a nasty lurgy? A WORDY BLOCK flu?

Are we all infecting each other?

YES WE ARE!

The blogging atmosphere is RIFE WITH WORDY BLOCK GERMS.

Doesn’t anyone own a HANDKERCHIEF? It’s basic HYGIENE when a lurgy is doing the rounds – YOU DON’T SNEEZE YOUR GERMS INTO THE AIR FOR EVERYONE ELSE TO CATCH. YOU USE A HANKY. OR A TISSUE. OR A BIT OF LOO ROLL IF YOU HAVEN’T GOT A HANKY OR A TISSUE.

 

 

Who started it? Who was THE FIRST TO BE INFECTED?

It wasn’t me.

I use PALMOLIVE ANTIBACTERIAL HANDWASH that kills 99.9% of BACTERIA (the blue stuff – it’s good).

And I use tissues. KLEENEX BALSAM TISSUES.

So it definitely wasn’t me.

Was it YOU?

 

And what if it turns into WORDY BLOCK PNEUMONIA?

What if we all DIE OF WORDY BLOCK?

You’ll wish you’d washed your hands then, won’t you, you FIRST-INFECTED SPREAD-THE-LURGY FUCKER? Because you’ll be left with NOTHING TO READ when we ALL DIE.

And you’ll wish you’d used a hanky. FUCKING SKANK.

And when you’ve killed us all off I hope WordPress sues the arse off you and you have to declare yourself BANKRUPT.

BASTARD.

FILTHY GERM-RIDDEN PIG.

DIRTY, DISEASY TRAMP.

 

If I could be bothered opening up Photoshop I’d make you a sign to hang round your neck to let people know WHAT YOU ARE.

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UNCLEAN

UNCLEAN

UNCLEAN

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Fucker.

 

 

The World According To Dotty (An Illuminating View Of EVERYTHING)

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Mental Music ——- Vitas – Opera # 2

This is Vitas, an award winning Russian singer/songwriter with one of the best high falsetto voices ever. He’s mega famous not only in Russia and Poland and a load of other countries but in China and all over Asia, (in China he’s called the Prince of Dolphins, or the Dolphin Boy). This is him performing his most famous hit, Opera #2 (which he wrote himself).

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And this is the video – watch it, it’s good.
He has gills.
And I don’t know what he wants with all the little fishes.
He’s mental.
The video is mental.
The song is mental.
I LOVE IT.

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Shitey Sunday Picture Post

 

Just one picture today. Yes I know it’s a piss poor Shitey Sunday Picture Post but it’s all you’re getting this week – and it made ME laugh. But I’m going to do a video post later so that’s a bonus. And I might even do a writing post if a miracle happens. You’ll be so sick of me by the end of today you’ll wish I’d never come back. (EVIL LAUGH GOES HERE BUT I’M NOT WRITING IT BECAUSE IT LOOKS STUPID AND I CAN’T REMEMBER HOW TO SPELL IT ANYWAY – MWWUUHAHA?? MUWHAHA?  MOOOOHAAHAA?)

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

 

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

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

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

 

 

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

 

A Song From Nowhere Boy

This song is BRILLIANT, the best version of it I’ve ever heard. It’s from Nowhere Boy, a film about John Lennon’s boyhood, and it’s sung by the actor who plays Lennon, Aaron Johnson. The video is a clip from the film. I won’t say anything about why but if you watch the film (and you should), when this song comes on you’ll be all teary (maybe not the men – but I might be wrong, the men might blub harder than the women).

 

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

 

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

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

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

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

 

 

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

 

Shitey Sunday Picture Post – Help Me Choose A New Pair Of Shoes

 

I need some new shoes. I haven’t bought any for over three years (what’s the point?) but I’m sick of the ones I’ve got so I’ve decided to get some more. My problem is I didn’t realise how the fashions have changed since I contracted Hermititis and People Phobia – there are some FUCKING BEAUTIFUL shoes around and I WANT THEM ALL. But I can’t afford them all so I’ve narrowed the selection down to my absolute favourites, sensible shoes for walking the moors (when I get out of this house again), for shopping, and for general everyday wear.

Help me choose which to buy, please – trying to make a decision for myself only results in multiple panic attacks.

 

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WHEELIE SHOES

I LOVE the wheelie shoes so much I couldn’t make up my mind between these

and these.

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WHIRLY SHOES

On second thoughts I could probably make a pair of

these for myself by melting and remoulding a section

of my washing machine.

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APOCALYPSE SHOES

Since humans began to wear shoes we’ve lost  the ability to run vast distances in our bare feet.

Our feet have become SOFT and WUSSIFIED, pampered plates of tenderised meat that will be

an EXCRUTIATINGLY PAINFUL HINDRANCE to us when the APOCALYPSE comes and shoes

no longer exist. I like these because they’ll prepare us for that time.

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SHOES WITHOUT HEELS SHOES

Hmm, perhaps not. I have enough trouble staying upright as it is.

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BALLOONY SPORTS SHOES

 Now I do like these, very much. I could BOUNCE

my way round 24 hour Tesco!!

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KILLER HEELS

A good file would sharpen the ends of these heels to a fine point

and I’d have SHOE WEAPONS.

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PLASTICINE SHOES

Nah, I can make these as long as I don’t get the strips of plasticine

mixed up in a brown lump (why does it always go BROWN?)

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MANGLED FOOT SHOES

??????

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and some more MANGLED FOOT SHOES

Would I have to have my toes chopped off to be

able to walk in these? I NEED my toes.

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SATYR SHOES

My favourites. I don’t need to explain why, they’re

FUCKING LOVELY.

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MAGGOTY SHOES

 Comfortable and cushiony.

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FOOD SHOES

No, you can’t eat it, silly. Not that you’d want to,

they’ve been a bit mean with the gravy.

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Mmm, tasty.

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Where’s the custard?

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So now you see my problem – they’re all so GORGEOUS.

And they’d all suit me.

Which ones should I get?

 

 

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

Dismal Dotty

 

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

147245 – twenty three fewer hairs than last month.

I’m going bald.

And I’m scared of WIGS.

I have a WIG PHOBIA.

WIGS freak me out completely.

I don’t want to wear a WIG.

I don’t want to.

 

Suspicious Things Happening On My Street

 

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

 

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

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

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

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

 

OY, WORDPRESS, I WANT MY STATS PAGE BACK ON MY DASHBOARD

 

My Stats pages (on both blogs) have disappeared, all I get when I click on them are mangled pages but no stats. It’s either a punishment aimed solely at me for calling WordPress a pile of shite and a set of tossers this morning, or they’ve finally done what they’ve been saying for ages they were going to do and moved the Stats to that stupid separate page along with the Freshly Pressed shite and the shitey Readers that don’t work and the fucked-up Topics thing that doesn’t work either.

I don’t understand why they’ve done it. Why move the stats away from the Dashboard? It’s the same as taking the mileometer from a car’s dashboard and putting it in the boot, forcing the driver to get out and walk round the back of the car whenever he wants to see how fast he’s going. IT’S FUCKING STUPID. It’s the stupidest idea the stupid ideas people have had since they had the stupid idea of shagging up the Topics.

I am not amused.

 

Where’s My Fucking Badge?

 

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

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

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

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

 

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Shitey Sunday Picture Post – This Is Very Funny If I Do Say So Myself And You Should Look At It And Laugh And Laugh And Laugh

 

I know it’s Saturday, not Sunday, but tomorrow I’ll be watching the Final so I’m doing the Shitey Sunday post today instead. It’s about ANDY MURRAY. Have you heard of him?

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THIS IS ANDY A SPLIT SECOND BEFORE HE SWALLOWED A TENNIS BALL 

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CLOSE YOUR MOUTH, ANDY! CLOSE IT!

DON’T LET IT IN!

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GULP!

GULP!

NO, IT’S STUCK.

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AND THEN IT WENT DOWN A BIT – BUT IT GOT STUCK

IN HIS THROAT AND HE HAD TO  SPEND AN HOUR

COMMUNICATING WITH THE COSMOS

TO GET IT TO SLIDE ALL THE WAY DOWN

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IT’S A MIRACLE!

THE UNIVERSE ANSWERED HIS PLEAS

AND MADE THE TENNIS BALL PLUMMET STRAIGHT

THROUGH HIS BODY ALL THE WAY DOWN TO HIS CROTCH

AND HE WAS ABLE TO PLAY AGAIN!

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ABRACADABRA!

ALAKAZAM!

HOW THE FUCK DID HE DO THAT???

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“FUCK OFF, I’M NOT TELLING YOU HOW I DID IT!

STOP ASKING ME!

YES, TWAT, I DO HAVE A SPHINCTER.

YOU’RE MENTAL, THE LOT OF YOU.

FUCK OFF AND LET ME CONCENTRATE ON MY GAME

OR I’LL PLAY LIKE SHITE AND THEN I’LL TAKE MY BAT HOME

AND YOU CAN ALL FUCK OFF.”

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GOOD LUCK, ANDY!

WE LOVE YOU!

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HELLO! CAN ANYBODY HEAR ME?

 

These are the floorboards I’m hiding under.

They’re made of wood.

Wood gives you SKELFS.

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This is one of my suits of armour.

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

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

against not only SKELFS but SPIDERS and OTHER NASTY THINGS

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

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

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

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

maybe I SHOULD have worn chain mail.

Fuck.

Oh well, it’s too late now.

Can someone pass me a Cumberland sausage sandwich, please?

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