?

?

Fifty Shades Of SHITEY DROSS

 

Lottie had a copy of this SHITE in her bag. I nicked it when she went to the loo, not to READ it (you can all shoot me if I ever get THAT desperate), I wanted to take the piss out of it. But I can’t take the piss out of it, it’s too SHITEY. It’s TOO BAD TO MOCK. The horrendous writing makes me SHRIVEL IN DISMAY.

This is the first sentence —

I scowl with frustration at myself in the mirror.”

 

This is the last sentence —

I curl up, desperately clutching the flat foil balloon and Taylor’s handkerchief, and surrender myself to my grief.”

 

This is the first paragraph I saw when I opened the book randomly —

“”I want to bite this lip,” he murmurs against my mouth, and carefully he tugs at it with his teeth. I moan, he smiles.”

How does he smile with her lip in his teeth? And how does she see him smile? Is she bog-eyed?

 

Oh go on then, heres another random sentence —

I wake early to a gray Sunday morning after a surprisingly refreshing night’s sleep and lie awake staring at my crates.”

I’ve never heard them called that before.

 

That’s it, I’ve had enough.

IT’S SHITE.

 

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.

 

*

*

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.

 

 

 

 

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.

 

 

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?

 

Stinking Stillness – (What To Do)?

 

the towels stink

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

but they still stink

 

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

 

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

 Dotty’s List Of Collected Countries

 

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

Dotty’s Pet Blogs 

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

ALL RIGHT?

WELL GO ON THEN, WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?

 

 

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

 

 

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

 

 

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

 

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

Anyone have a problem with that?

 

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

 

I AM A HACKER

AND IT IS GOOD

BECAUSE CLOWN’S ARSE IS ON FIRE

AND HE’S IN A BAD MOOD

 

 

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

 

GOTCHA, BOZO.

 

Where Are You All Coming From?

 

Where are you all coming from?

From Smurfland where we belong…

 

BUT YOU’RE NOT, ARE YOU?

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

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

Is it cos I is British?

Is that why I don’t have a map?

Or any visitors from Smurfland?

Is it?

 

Ah, fuck it, I’m going to bed.

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

So goodnight.

 

 

 

Dotty Sundays Are Very Very Boring

 

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

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

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

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

 

Where’s my brick?

 

 

 

Little Emily’s Book Reviews by Ellis Bell

 

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

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

 

(hurry up, idiot, they’re waiting)

 

 

Dear Reader,

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

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

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

 

Tess of the D’Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy

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

The Moonstone – Wilkie Collins

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

Great Expectations by Charles Dickens

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

The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde

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

The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka

(What is this? What is it?)

 

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

Disgrace is upon me. I must hasten home.

Yours, in spasms of mortified ignominy,

Ellis Bell

 

 

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

 

Confessions of a Shop-a-holic

Bridget Jones’s Diary

Bridget Jones: The Edge Of Reason

Mills & Boon – a  Doctor & Nurse romance

A book by Barbara Cartland

 

 

That’s what she had on her list.

Fucking stupid Victorian. Why do I bother?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dotty and Lottie (But Not For Long)

 

 

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

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

‘Hold your horses, will you. They…’

‘TELL ME WHERE THEY ARE!’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lottie did. 

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

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

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

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

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

‘No.’

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

‘Do you want toast instead?’

‘I don’t want anything.’

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

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

‘Yep.’

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

‘She didn’t mention a teddy.’

‘Oh.’

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

‘Wayne’s seeing someone else.’

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

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

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

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

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

Oops.

‘What do you mean?’

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

That did it.

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

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

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

‘Don’t do that, it hurts my ears.’

‘Fuck off, Dotty.’

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

‘Cumberland sausages for breakfast!’ I said.

‘We’re going.’

‘No mummy,’

‘Yes!’

‘I’ve made their breakfast.’

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

‘Want to thtay here.’

‘PUT YOUR COAT ON.’

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dotty Film Review – The Woman In Black

 

And today Harry the Plank Potter is wearing facial expression Number One

 

I have only two things to say about this film.

FIRST THING —  THEY’VE COMPLETELY SLAUGHTERED SUSAN HILL’S BOOK

and

SECOND THING —  HARRY POTTER CAN’T ACT – why would he even try to act, why would he want to put himself through the shame and humiliation when he doesn’t need to? HE’S A MAGICIAN, isn’t that good enough for him? He’s like these soap opera people who decide that because their CHARACTER is popular on a soap they’ll leave that soap because they’re too good for it, they want bigger things, better things and what happens after they leave is THEY ARE NEVER SEEN ON MY TELLY AGAIN. They disappear into the whirly voids of obscurity and spend the rest of their lives in deep despond about the GRAVE MISTAKE they made, and they watch their old soap and they see the people they used to work with IN STEADY EMPLOYMENT, ENJOYING THEIR STEADY MODICUM OF FAME and they cry and cry and cry. Sometimes they DO re-appear, like Ricky & Bianca & Mandy & David Wicks & Dennis Tanner and all the other old faces the telly companies hire back because THEY CAN PAY THEM LESS THAN OTHER ACTORS BECAUSE THEY ARE SO DESPERATE TO HAVE THEIR WORN AND TATTERED FACES ON MY TELLY AGAIN. Harry, you don’t need to be like them. A magician’s life is a good one. You can travel, you can have a laugh, you can do MAGIC and best of all YOU CAN BECOME FAMOUS like PAUL DANIELS. If VOLDEMORT could see you now he’d piss his pants laughing at your acting, in particular at your TWO FACIAL EXPRESSIONS (facial expression 1 – wooden / facial expression 2 – is it fear?). But why didn’t you use your magic on yourself? Or your invisible cloak, which actually is a brilliant idea – get them to remake the film with you wearing your invisible cloak over your head FOR THE WHOLE FILM. That would be a right laugh, they could still call it The Woman In Black or they could call it Headless Harry Potter in The Woman In Black Film.

CONFESSION — I haven’t actually seen the whole of The Woman In Black, I saw three clips of it but that was quite enough for me, thank you. From what I gather though, the whole film is nothing but Harry Potter and his TWO FACIAL EXPRESSIONS, some CREEPY LOCAL PEOPLE, a few TENSE MOMENTS, and a lot of bad weather.

 

Score – 4 out of 10 (I’ve marked this up by two points because I’m soft, I still like Harry, he’s young, bless him, and he did TRY).

 

I Know I Said I Didn’t Want Pobert Rattinson’s Face On My Blog But ….

I COULDN'T HAVE SAID IT BETTER MYSELF.

Dotty Film Reviews – The Day The Earth Stood Still

 

 

The other day I watched a film I’d recorded onto my telly-box library. It was called THE DAY THE EARTH STOOD STILL which was a stupid, inaccurate title because the earth didn’t stand still - HOW COULD IT, YOU THICK SHITS? In fact there wasn’t much standing still at all and when Jennifer Connelly DID stand still a soldier on a winch dropped out of the sky and oiked her up into a helicopter. A better title is THE DAY THE EARTH CONTINUED TO SPIN – still not absolutely indicative of what the film is about, but a hundred times more accurate than the one they came up with. A PERFECT title is THE DAY KEANU REEVES DECIDED NOT TO DESTROY THE HUMAN RACE.

Don’t you think Jennifer Connelly looks like a young Demi Moore? I do.

Keanu Reeves is an alien. I never realised this but I should have because it explains his extraordinary abilities in THE MATRIX SERIES, which is a three part documentary about people who wear nothing but black clothes. I don’t think Sandra Bullock realised he was an alien either or she might have thought twice about falling in love with him when she lived in THE LAKE HOUSE.

Something else I find totally unbelievable in this film is how DOLORES CLAIBORNE got to be PRESIDENT MR BARACK OBAMA’S right-hand woman after what she did in her past when she was so sadistic to that poor author. AMERICAN PEOPLE, LISTEN TO ME – SHE MANGLED HIS LEGS UP, YOU KNOW SHE DID, YET YOU STILL HAVE HER IN A POSITION OF POWER. Why? What if she does it again and this time she does it to YOUR PRESIDENT, MR BARACK OBAMA? Don’t you care about him? Don’t you care what happens TO HIS LEGS?

And while you’re thinking about YOUR PRESIDENT, MR BARACK OBAMA’S legs, you might also want to think about Prince Will Smith of Bel-Air’s parenting skills because here in this country he’d be had up for CHILD NEGLECT for allowing a little kid like that to run round with AN ALIEN WHO WANTS TO DESTROY THE HUMAN RACE. Somebody needs to have a word with Prince Will Smith of Bel-Air and tell him you can’t just foist your kid off onto anyone who happens to pass by just because you’re royalty and you can’t be bothered with the little brat.

There ARE some good bits in this film though. The GREAT BIG BALL WITH A SWIRLY CLOUD INSIDE IT is a good bit. So is the GREAT BIG TRANSFORMER ROBOT except when he changes himself into A GREAT BIG SWARM OF INSECTS because I don’t like insects, they frighten me and I don’t know why Keanu didn’t just smite all the insects and creepy crawlies here on earth before he left to go back to his own planet. He could have at least done that for the human race – in the end he did fuck all for us, I don’t know why he bothered coming.

 

 

Score – 2 out of 10

 

Guess What I’m Giving Up For Lent?

 

ANCHOVIES

I'm giving up anchovies for Lent.

Disgusting, foul, nasty anchovies.

Leave them in the sea to live a happy fishy life because they taste rotten.

Dotty DOES Her Housework

 

I couldn’t sleep last night after I posted Dotty On Housework. At 3.12 am a series of panic attacks began at the thought of how unkind of me it was not to give you some helpful tips and instructions to guide you through the apathy that overcomes you when you look at the disgusting mess that’s mounted up in your house. When the police left, I DID have a little sleep, but not for long. Don’t worry, I’m all right, a little hazy from the beta-blocker sandwich I had to have, but that’s okay. Don’t feel guilty or anything – it isn’t your fault, you can’t help it if you’re needy and clingy and have no idea of what it takes me to write these things down. Anyway, I forgive you because I’m nice like that.

So let’s move on to the cause of last night’s crisis -

Housework.

Just because we don’t like housework doesn’t mean we don’t have to do some now and again but before we begin cleaning there are a few things you need to buy. Make note of these things and get your Shopping Person to get them for you (don’t let them go to Asda though, they get enough of my money already without me referring people to them. And we all know what they are, don’t we?)

What you need on your list if you don’t already have them —— A big bottle of Bleach. Flash Spray with Bleach. Flash Antibacterial All Purpose Spray. Another big bottle of Bleach. Dettol Antibacterial Loo Wipes. A bottle of Windolene. Mr Muscle Oven Cleaner. A can of Mr Sheen Polish. A bottle of 2-in-1 Pantene Shampoo & Conditioner, For Extra Volume. L’Oreal Moisturiser For Sensitive Skin. Cumberland sausages (any will do, get the cheapest, you won’t be eating them). A pack of Toothbrushes. A tub of Chewable Vitamin C to keep you going. A big box of Chocolates for when you’ve finished. Two big tubs of Häagen Dazs or (and) Ben & Jerry’s for when you’ve finished. A big bar of Galaxy for when you’ve finished. A Big Cumberland sausage Pizza with extra Cumberland sausage for when you’ve finished. A big Cheesey Garlic Bread for when you’ve finished. Six bottles of Pinot Grigio for when you’ve finished. Series 3 Boxset of True Blood for when you’ve finished.

I think that’s it.

When the shopping arrives, put the loo wipes and a big bottle of bleach in your bathroom. Put the new toothbrushes in the place you keep them and take the one you use now downstairs. Put all the cleaning products in the cupboard under your sink. You won’t be needing them but if someone comes to your house you can casually swing open the cupboard door and leave it wide open so the visitors can see what’s inside.

Now, believe me I know what it’s like trying to do housework, you begin by thinking ‘what REALLY needs a good clean? Everything? Where do I start?’ and then, because it’s all too much for you, you give up and have a little sleep and when you wake up you’ve forgotten about housework again. But the secret to seeing past the overwhelmingness of housework is to PRIORITISE. Obviously I don’t know what your house is like because I’ve never been invited, so all I can do is tell you what I do. You can copy me if you want.

 

Cleaning My Mounted Boar’s Head & My Other Stuffed Friends

Since they banned Arsenic from being used in the tanning process, (I still have my own supply but I’m saving it for when I really need it) I’ve had to find a way to give my stuffed friends a spruce up. I’ll take you step by step through how I clean Jolyon, my mounted boar’s head.

Before you carefully take Jolyon down from the wall, run a warm bath (no bubbles). Put Jolyon in the bath. Get your Pantene 2-in-1 Shampoo & Conditioner For Extra Volume. Squirt a good amount into your hand and give Jolyon a good wash with it. Scrub him a bit with your old toothbrush. Rinse off the soapiness until it’s all gone. Wrap Jolyon in a bath towel and take him downstairs. Get your hairdryer out. Dry him. Rub in the L’Oreal Moisturiser For Sensitive Skin. Hang him back up. Job done.

Do the same with all your stuffed friends. If you like, before you hang them up or put them back in their places, you can have a tea party with them, that’s what I do, but be careful of your seating arrangements – I once sat Bumbi, my stuffed baby deer, next to Peter, my stuffed mountain lion. Poor, poor, Bumbi, he’s never recovered.

 

Cleaning A Big Blood Stain Off My Astroturf Carpet

It won’t come off. I’ve tried everything except Cumberland sausage fat which works on other stains I use it for. Usually I heat the Cumberland sausage, drip the fat onto the stain, go away and eat the Cumberland sausage and the other Cumberland sausages I cooked at the same time, and when I come back the Cumberland sausage fat has set. I pick off the solidified Cumberland sausage fat AND THE STAIN COMES WITH IT. I don’t know the scientific term for this but I bet it’s a clever one.

But there’s a big problem with using Cumberland sausage fat on blood stains. I’m too frightened that whatever scientific process binds the Cumberland sausage fat to a stain will go wrong when it’s a blood stain, and something else will happen, like the Cumberland sausage fat will meld to the blood stain and the sun will shine on it and make it come alive and when it grows up it will be a CUMBERLAND MAN-PIG, and I’ll be stuck with it forever when it’s not long since I came out of prison for getting rid of Simon, who was also a man-pig but only metaphorically. (see A Statement From The Accused).

So the blood stain stays.

 

Cleaning My Panic Room

Don’t bother. Jodie Foster doesn’t clean hers. I couldn’t see any cleaning products in there, not even a sweeping brush, the lazy tramp. The least she could do is put some things out for show. But if Jodie Foster thinks it’s okay to have a mucky Panic Room, then so do I.

 

 

That’s enough cleaning for now, especially after last night. I’m knackered. I need a sleep.

 

 

 

I’ve come back to edit this because I couldn’t sleep – I remembered something important that will save you from having to do ANY housework at all. Make friends with a Mormon (see Friendly Mormons, Where Are You?). You don’t really have to be friends with them, just pretend and your house will be gleaming. I realise this poses a conundrum for hermits, how do I make friends with a Mormon when I can’t go out? Well you could ring them up or if you don’t do phones you could send them an email. And I know you’ll have a problem letting them in, but wouldn’t it be worth it to get your house cleaned? Think about it, they’re good, they’re really good. Thorough. Meticulous.  They love doing it. And they’ll sing you a song if you ask them to.

 

 

Can you see what I’m doing here when I refer you to my older posts? Clever, aren’t I?

 

 

Dotty on Housework

 

I only have one word to say about housework.

That word is -

WHY?

 

 

The Shrink Who Shrank When Dotty Shrunk His Shirt

 

Once upon a time Dotty had to see a psychiatrist. She can’t remember his name but she can remember his tie, a purple and orange strip of silk with a small knot that could have been made much smaller if someone (not Dotty) had decided to give it a substantial tug. She also remembers his shirt. It was green like a lime, also made of silk. People had made Dotty go to see him, she wasn’t that keen to be honest.

Oh stop it. Stop-stop-stop. Writing about myself in the third person is insane. It’s all right doing it when I’m giving instructions or advice or tips or orders, but when I’m writing a serious post for my blog it’s just silly – it makes me look like I’m a Multiple Personality Hermit when I’m not, (there’s only the two of us and I haven’t heard from the other one for a while, she’ll be watching the Eastenders omnibus again – she idolises Jean Slater). Okay, back to what I was writing and this time do it properly, Dotty.

His office was in a flat above a laundrette. The stairwell was dark and I had to hold onto the railings so I wouldn’t fall, (this is not a metaphor, there was no bulb in the landing light). His office had once been a bedroom, I could tell by the tatty Magic Roundabout wallpaper. It was faded and peeling. Zebedee-boing was torn off at the waist, his spring was missing; Ermintrude’s flower was gone too. The room smelled foisty and damp – the smell rose up from the carpet, a cloying scent of the despair of the mentals who had trodden there, a miasma of every single one of their fallen tears gone rotten. Or it could have been the wet washing hanging up downstairs.

As soon as I set eyes on him I knew. I just knew. I was proved right when he stuck out his hand for me to shake: what sort of shrink does that? Didn’t he know what a handshake would do to a hermit? Of course he did, he knew very well. I counted how long he stood there trying to psych me out with his sadistic, fat hand. Forty-eight horrendous seconds. The fingers were like … no, I won’t think of them as being like sausages or my dinner will be spoiled. They were like huge, slithery white slugs. He got the message that I wasn’t going to touch him and slinked his hand into his pocket then introduced himself (still can’t remember his name) and asked me if I wanted to sit or lie on the couch in the corner of the room. His politeness was fake like his big white teeth (they looked American) that appeared whenever he smiled which was whenever he wasn’t talking. I needed a lie down by then so I got on the couch and curled up on my right side for a sleep.

My face was turned to the wall but I could feel him watching me and I couldn’t doze off. His eyes were lasering into the back of my head, I could feel the burning. The longer it went on the more I realised that the pasty-faced creep had me pinned, mentally, to the couch. I couldn’t move. I sensed him behind me, slobbering at the thought of the juicy black secrets he knew he could psychiat out of me, (yes, that is a real word, I decided it is), wheedle, wheedle, wheedle, prise, prise, prise. I knew I had to do something or he’d make me talk but the bit of wall I was looking at was yellow and yellow always makes me feel sick. Really sick. Really, really sick. (Yes, it really does, but this IS a metaphor and I’m not afraid to use it). I felt so sick I had to close my eyes against the yellow. I couldn’t speak. And because I couldn’t speak and he could, he kept on and on and on, his voice dinning through me like a barrage of machine-gun fire. I concentrated, not on his words, just his voice, ratta-tatta-ratta-tatta-ratta-tatta and it did work, it calmed the yellow-sickness enough for me to think ‘What would Harry Hill do, Dotty? What would Harry Hill do?’ and it came to me right away, like a kiss from Baby Jesus or from a rose, this is what Harry Hill would do —

 

 

 

HEADBANGER      V     HEADSHRINKER

Who wins?

There’s only one way to decide …

FIGHT

 

 

Of course I knew I couldn’t hit him or I’d have been arrested again, but that didn’t stop me wanting to stuff my elbow down his throat and leave it there for the remaining 55 minutes. If I couldn’t twat him one, I was going to have to beat him with my sausage-sharp mind. He still wouldn’t stop staring and yakking, but I gathered all my powers and KAPOW!! I sprang off that couch like a wild sheep off a standing stone and jumped in front of him, but as I did so I felt overwhelmingly yellow-sick again and — well, what happened next wasn’t nice. His tie and his shirt got it. All of it. The shock was too much for him, he stopped talking mid-jabber with his mouth still half open on a word. His American teeth slipped slightly in his mouth, settling back at an odd angle so he looked like a picture of The Godfather by Picasso. 

I shouted, ‘I’ve won, you weirdy fuck-arse, I’ve won. And you’re not getting paid’.

And then I legged it, down the dark stairs (I didn’t fall), through the laundry, into the waiting car, and home, where it took me three weeks to recover enough to speak to anyone again.

 

Moral of the story — There isn’t one. I don’t know why I wrote that.

 

 

Dotty Will Soon Be Done For

 

I am trying to remain calm. I am trying not to panic so that when I phone the police I can explain exactly what is happening in a way that will make them take me seriously without them threatening to charge me with wasting police time again. But in case something happens to me before I can make my statement, or if the police refuse to come to my house again and then something happens to me, I am writing it all down and publically pinning it up on this blog and then the police will be sorry, won’t they?

Asda is trying to kill me. Or to be exact Walmart is trying to kill me, that big American shop that bought Asda. They’re trying to kill me with their Cumberland Sausages that contain more heart attack fat than Tesco Cumberland Sausages but milk is cheaper at Asda so I have to do all my online shopping there or I’ll have to pay another fiver for delivery. If you add up all the extra heart attack fat I’m consuming every day when I eat my packet of Cumberland Sausages, Asda will have killed me by the time I am 79 years old. 79! If I could get Tesco Cumberland Sausages without having to pay their milk prices I’d have another 3 months of life to live in my house. (I wonder if the police would pick up and deliver some Tesco Cumberland Sausages for me? I’ll mention it – you don’t get if you don’t ask.) Asda shouldn’t try to kill people, it’s not fair to take a hermit’s money every week and then take their life. Oh. Oh. I wonder if they need my life FOR their Cumberland Sausages. That would explain it. Yes.

I’m ringing the police in a minute after I’ve finished my sandwich. Think of me here, dying with every bite. Asda, you should be force fed your own Cumberland Sausages, you sly, evil murdering supermarket. Shame on you.

 

 

Friendly Mormons, Where Are You?

 

I’m thinking of dabbling in religion, specifically I’m thinking of getting to know some Mormons. I used to know some, a lovely couple. One of their children was in the same class at school as one of mine.

He was a Mormon priest. He lent me his reference books while I was studying. He drove me places. He did my garden every second weekend. All of this in exchange for a mere 30 minutes per fortnight (timed) of trying to convert me. Right from the start, when he first offered my child and I a lift home from school, I told him, ‘You’ll never get Dotty,’ and he knew he wouldn’t, bless him, but he kept up the pretense over a glass of fruit juice, a packet of Digestives and the copy of the Book of Mormon he gave me. He felt sorry for me. His wife did too. I let them. While he did the garden she cleaned my house. She kept it sparkling, and she also brought her own cleaning products with her which saved me having to buy any. One day she offered to decorate the bedrooms. I couldn’t let her do that all by herself so I asked if she wanted to bring her Sisters round to help. Lovely ladies, the lot of them, once they’d done the bedrooms they wanted to do the whole house. Who was I to stop their good works?

That was a lot of years ago. Since then I’ve become the she-hermit you read before you. But I miss my old Mormon friends. So do my carpets, my oven, and my overgrown hedges. 

 

Dotty the Dot

 

How small am I? Small enough to fall down the cracks and become lost in an underground labyrinth filled with ghoulies and beasts and screaming creatures that sound like me. Small enough to slip down the plughole and drown in the drain tangled in scummy clumps of my own dyed, dead hair. Small enough to be stepped on and squished into the carpet, but nobody ever scrubs away the little stain that is me because I’m the only one who ever cleans anything in this house.

 

Corpse & Corpses – An Injustice?

All day I’ve been thinking about how ‘corpse‘ is such a serious word. It has weight and dignity. It has an air of grand solemnness and gloom. It is dark with sorrow, with mourning, with death and all it represents. To read the word, or to say it, is to feel as though a great worm has crept down into the pit of my belly.

But the plural of ‘corpse’ is ‘corpses’. I say it out loud and it has a funny ring to it. Corpses. Corpses. It’s that last syllable, it forces a rise in inflection however much I try to keep my voice lowered to a suitable pitch. Corp-ses. Corp-ses. I try slow motion.

Corp —– ses. Cor ——p ———seeeees.

Nope, no good. Surely this is unfair; don’t two or more corpses deserve more gravity  and earnestness than just the one corpse? Even the word ‘corpses’ makes a sentence sound brighter than it should in the circumstances – Undertaker says to Mortuary Man, “I’ve come for my corpses,” or “Can I have my corpses, please?”

‘Corpsi’ (pronounced corps-eye) sounds more appropriate. Who do you write to get a word changed?

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