I Can’t Be Bothered To Think Of A Title



what day is it i cant be arsed thinking to work it out it doesnt matter anyway all the days are the same hours and hours and hours of nothing except when little emily comes to see me

beyond boredom lies dont give a whistling shit about anything because giving a whistling shit involves too much effort and any effort is too much effort

capital letters are too much effort

punctuation is too much effort

typing with more than two index fingers is too much effort

touching the space bar is too much effort but im forcing myself

putting the colour i like onto the words is too much effort

doing bold shouty letters is too much effort

moving is too much effort

i need a sleep



i dont care what scotty does any more he can do what he likes he can send messages however he likes he can put me away if he likes whats the point in fighting him he always wins



this laptop is making a strange noise

and its very very hot

i cant be bothered to turn it off

if my blog is gone when you next try to get into it you know what happened

it blew up







Dotty Does Another Shitey Poem To Keep Her Occupied



Terpsichore Dances


she stirs, at one faint pluck of a spectral string,

to tend her hair, her lissom fingers

wrapped over the crystalline comb;

drum-beats creep spryly round the moon

and through the wind, stroking ears of corn,

fields of solidago, apple trees, larkspur

and silver birches that sway

in anticipation of what is to come.


she says, is it time, is it time?

and the sweet, sweet rot of her cerecloth

scents the pregnant air with delight.


songbirds race on thunder, spilling trills across the sea,

rain falls in quavers and she leaps to her feet,

moves in lightning streams of mercury glissades

faster and faster, kicking the earth in twists and craves.

the screams of her body, in its witchly dance of rite,

trace the antiphony of the storm-spinning night

leaping higher and higher, the chorus of her white feet

lighter than breath.


hurtling over the heads of men, children, ladies,

lords and queens, she is the choreographer

of their opus-spangled dreams;

they raise their heads to see,

to sigh,

to gasp,

and to weep,

and when she is gone

they all lie down to sleep.



Another Day, Another Daydream


When my ex-brother JUDAS came round yesterday afternoon for his dinner, as we agreed he would before he broke the RULES and lied to me again, I hid under my bed and pretended I wasn’t in. He knocked for ages and ages then the phone started ringing and wouldn’t shut up so I crawled out from under my bed and unplugged the phone at the wall socket, then he started ringing my mobile so I threw it at my Millais print of Ophelia that lives on the wall above the long bookcase little Emily likes to sit on. The glass smashed but the picture itself wasn’t torn. And my mobile was fine because it’s always fine no matter what I do to it – it’s an old mobile, about 6 years old now, and the make of it is NOKIA and the model is HARD BASTARD. It’s the BEST MOBILE PHONE IN THE WORLD. It’s just a phone, but what more do you need? Who uses all the other shite on these new-fangled phones anyway? My NOKIA HARD BASTARD has one game on it, SNAKE, and why would I need another one? Why do you need games on a phone in the first place, it’s a fucking PHONE not an amusement arcade. I’d had it about 2 years when I jammed it in the back door. I’d been gardening – I used to go out in the garden then – and I was sitting on the doorstep drinking a cup of coffee when I needed a wee so I stood up and tried to shut the door but it wouldn’t shut and I thought the door had seized up so I kept banging it but it stil wouldn’t shut so I looked down and there was my phone. I thought I’d killed it but no, it was still working, the only thing wrong with it was a big green mark in the top left-hand corner of the screen. But, and get this — over time MY NOKIA HARD BASTARD HEALED ITSELF. Yes, you heard right, over time the green mark slowly faded and faded and now it’s like NOTHING HAPPENED. There isn’t a mark on it. I wouldn’t part with my phone for any amount of the stupid expensive gadget touch-screen internet sat-nav smart-arse SHITEY PHONES THAT BREAK IN TWO SECONDS.

Anyhow, my phone was okay so I switched it off. Judas went away after a while and he didn’t come back but he left loads of messiges on the BT answer thingy and he sent loads of text messages as well. Why can’t he take the hint? He never could. I remember my dear dead Daddy used to get annoyed at him for not being able to take hints – ‘Your football boots haven’t been put away yet, have they, Scotty?’ – and Judas would go and have a look and come back and say – ‘No, Dad, they haven’t’ and dear dead Daddy would clout him round the ear.

I miss my dear dead Daddy. He’d know what to do about Judas and Lottie and everything that’s happening. He was smart and wise and intelligent. He was a scientist & an inventor, but his personal hobbies and interests lay within the arts, in particular opera, in particular opera from the Baroque period which was THE GOLDEN AGE OF MUSIC being that it was THE AGE OF THE CASTRATI. But he never in his life got to hear a castrato voice, which couldn’t be helped because NOBODY IN OUR TIME has heard a castrato voice. By all accounts they sang like angels, their voices a heavenly defiance to earthly laws, and my dear dead Daddy’s one wish had been to hear a castrato sing, to be part of his audience, one of the transfixed who wept in wonder at the beauty of the ethereal, disturbing sound.

And he COULD HAVE HAD THAT. My dear dead Daddy could have had HIS VERY OWN CASTRATO if he’d had Judas castrated at the age of seven. Why didn’t he? He could have done it and had him trained by the world’s best opera singer trainers, who I’m sure would have LOVED to have had a castrato to train in secret, hidden from the world until he was ready to be revealed, THE MUSICO, THE ONLY TRUE WONDER OF OUR AGE, his voice more lovely than the loveliest thing on earth, revered by all, envied by all, especially the PAPAL CHOIR who would sob with bitterness at how crap they sounded next to MY BROTHER, THE ONE AND TRUE VIRTUOSO. His name would have to be changed from Scotty to something just as beautiful as the names of the famous Baroque castrati, Farinelli, Marchesi, Bernacchi, Porporino, Vittori, Senesino, Caffarelli, Pistocchi, Marianni, Rauzzinni, Salimbeni, Carestini, Meloni, Nicolino — Scottynelli, Scottyrino, Scottyesi, Scottyoni. He would sing in the world’s greatest CATHEDRALS, he would have riches beyond riches and HE WOULD HAVE NO CHILDREN which would be a good thing seeing as he doesn’t give two shits about the ones he has now.

Why didn’t you do it, dear dead Daddy? Why? It’s too late now, even if I owned a knife sharpener.


I have to go, little Emily wants to talk to me. She has an idea. 


Dotty Psychotty – Payback Begins



So he lied to me. AGAIN. He promissed to abide by the RULES and he broke them almost immediatelly by doing his MISSPELLING MIND-TRICKS on me.


But i’m not going to let it get to me like last time. I’ going to play the lying wanker at his own game.

I was up all last night tryeing to think of what to do. One word wouldn’t stop pounding through my head, WHY? Why is he doing it to me? What does he have to gain from making me misspell myy words? All sorts of things came to me but they were all far-ffetched and ridiculos and I had to do a bit of trepanning to stop myself from thinking for a while so the paranoia wouldn’t take over and I wouldn’t have another series of panicc attackks.



And whn I’d calmed down enough to start thinking clearly again I realised what he’s REALLY doing. He’s using me as a conduit to send coded messages thrrough my blog. He’s CONTROLLING MY SPELLING – an extra S here, a missing O there, an extra D somewhere else – and who knows what secret message he’s spelling out to someone somewhere and that person IS READING MY LITTLE BLOG.

Is it YOU?

So what I’ve done is I’ve put MY OWN MISSPELLINGS inside this post to out-fox the fuckers and I’ve done MY OWN CODED MESSAGE too. So, READER, who ever you are, how do you like that then? And you, SCOTTY, YOU JUDAS FUCKWIT, HAVEN’T YOU LEARNT YET THAT YOU CAN’T GET THE BETTER OF ME?

No one does in the end. And this is far from the end, it’s just beginning. 




Dotty Film Review – A Bronx Tale






This is one of the best films ever made. I love it. I love it, I love it, I love it. I’ve watched it about 40 times over the years and I still love it. Nothing will ever take away my love for it.

I won’t tell you ANYTHING ABOUT IT because you need to see it and love it all for yourself. It has BRILLIANT MUSIC, a BRILLIANT STORY, BRILLIANT ACTING and I love it.

The only thing that puzzles me is why does Sonny have to die in all the Mafia films he appears in? He dies in The Godfather, he dies in A Bronx Tale. I’m not certain but he probably dies in Goodfellas too. And all the other Mafia films. I wasn’t so bothered when he died in The Godfather but when he dies in A Bronx Tale I cry. Always. Poor Calogero. And when the car burns with Calogero’s friends in it, I cry then as well because that’s a REALLY SAD BIT. And when Calogero is running to try and get there to warn them, I cry then as well because I know they’re dead but he doesn’t and that’s a REALLY, REALLY SAD BIT.

But there are loads and loads of bits that make me laugh – the bit where they lock the door of the bar and kick the shit out of all the biker gang, the bit where Sonny lends Calogero his car to go on his first date with Jane, the bit where they’re all sent into the toilet … there are too many funny bits to tell. I love it.

So if you’re looking for a film to love that will make you laugh and cry and want to watch it again and again, look no further, this is it. I LOVE IT.


Score — 100000 out of 10



Dotty’s Shitey Family – Another update


All is fine with the world today and all is fine with me and Scotty as long as he sticks to the RULES.


Rule 1 – I don’t want to hear any mention of Lottie, including her name, unless I specifically ask about her.

Rule 2 – Scotty has to stop using his MISSPELLING TRICKS on me.

Rule 3 – He has to promise never to read this little blog.

Rule 4 – He has to promise never to put me away.

Rule 5 – He has to promise to INFORM ME IMMEDIATELY if Lottie ever contacts him regarding ME.

Rule 6 – He has to promise he will never again ask me for bacon that is not accompanied by Cumberland sausages.

Rule 7 – He has to promise never to con me into getting rid of my collections.

Rule 8 – No more lies.

Rule 9 – No more tricks.

Rule 10 – He has to promise he won’t blame me if Interpol catch him because it was HIS OWN FAULT I BLABBED ON HIM.

Rule 11 – He won’t try to sue me if he needs CORRECTIVE SURGERY (and it does look as though he WILL need it – the finger is bent backwards at the knuckle nearest the nail).

Rule 12 – He won’t try to sue me for LOSS OF EARNINGS.

Rule 13 – He won’t blame me if his aim is off when he does go back to work.


Rule 15 – He will never mention the new house in the middle of nowhere.

Rule 16 – He will cancel the tenancy agreement for the house in the middle of nowhere (I made him do the email while I stood behind him watching carefully).

Rule 17 –

Rule 18 –

Rule 19 –

Rule 20 –

The last 6 are left blank because I know I’ll think of more rules for him and I didn’t want him to think he’d got off easily becausse there were only 13.

I presented the rules to him when he came to the door. He read through them and agreed to them all. After I’d checked his bag (more about his bag in a minute) and frisked him and he’d stripped down to his undies for me to check for wires, I made us some coffee and a pile of Cumberland sausage sandwiches and we sat at the kitchen table. He had the first sandwich down his neck in three seconds flat. He ate five before he wiped his mouth, had a gobful of coffee and told me he wasn’t keen on the food Lottie served him – STEW – but not a particular stew, just stew made with vegetables and STEWING MEAT. When he asked her if the meat was beef or pork she shrugged and said she didn’t know. He shuddered when he told me that every night he had to surreptitiously pick out the lumps of UNIDENTIFIED STEWING MEAT and hide them down the sides of his RIGGER BOOTS and he was successful in this until the eldest BERSERKER, Prissy, spotted what he was doing and blackmailed him into buying her a PRINCESS PORNY doll (they’re not really called Princess Porny, that’s just Scotty’s way of highlighting the unsavoury prevalence of unsuitably attired dolls on the market nowadays – he’s very moralistic when it comes to OTHER PEOPLE’S KIDS). Personally I don’t see anything wrong with STEWING MEAT. What you don’t know can’t hurt you, and who can afford to buy a bit of best beef just to stick in a stew anyway? Not me, and not Lottie either by the sounds of it.

When Scotty had finished telling me about the stew he opened his bag and pulled out a carrier bag full of CUMBERLAND SAUSAGES. Then he pulled out another carrier bag full of McCAIN’S CHIPPY CHIPS. Very sweet of him to bring me presents. But then he asked if he could put his bag UP IN HIS ROOM and I said what fucking room? and he started pleading and begging for me to let him stay, saying he couldn’t stand another night at Lottie’s, he was frightened THE BERSERKERS would kill him in his sleep, one of them had already broken the finger next to the trigger finger that I broke when she danced on his foot with her rollerblades on – he held the  new broken finger in the air and I must say the little sod did a good job on it, the one I broke was bent backwards but she had managed a SIDEWAYS AND DOWNWARDS BEND and I felt a sense of pride that she is MY niece.

I did feel a bit sorry for him but not enough to let him stay, not after last time. I don’t fully trust him yet and I can’t cope with having another person in my house with me all the time so no, I won’t let him stay but we agreed that he’ll come here every day for his dinner and stay all afternoon till he’s had his tea which means he’ll only have to eat breakfast at Lottie’s and as she doesn’t serve stew for breakfast he’s okay with the meal arrangements. He’s not so pleased about having to continue sleeping in the same house as THE BERSERKERS but tough titty, they’re his nieces too, he’ll just have to learn not to be scared of them and anyway, if his trigger finger has healed properly he’ll be back at work soon so he won’t be there for long (he said there’s a new job coming up in another MIDDLE EASTERN COUNTRY in the near future – a few governments have been in touch with him about his costs and expenses). So we’re all sorted again, brother and sister reunited and back on happy terms. All good.

I have to go and floss the Cumberland sausage bits out of my teeth now. If I’ve run out of floss I’ll just have to swill.



Dotty’s Shitey Family – An Update


I got up this morning. I went for a wee, had a wash, got dressed, went downstairs for a fag and a cup of coffee which tasted very nice indeed, thank you for asking. I’m telling you what I did this morning because since JUDAS left I haven’t done it, not all of it, only the wee, the fag and the cup of coffee that I took back upstairs to bed with me.

My bedroom is a shithole. It’s a mess. I don’t know why because all I usually do is sleep there but it’s become something of a dumping ground for collections I’ve grown bored with, for books I haven’t read yet, for books I have read but haven’t found a place for yet, for clothes I haven’t put away yet (CLEAN CLOTHES – I’M NOT A DIRTY MINGER, I KNOW WHAT A LAUNDRY BASKET IS FOR – see Losing My Biscuit) and for bits and bobs and things I keep but don’t know why I’ve kept them. But like I said, all I usually do is sleep there so I didn’t notice how bad it had got because I never LOOKED at it until I started to spend my days in bed. Well to be honest with you it was little Emily who MADE me start noticing it, she wouldn’t shut up about it until I brought my head up from under the covers and listened to her- “Dotty, my dearest friend, you must LOOKThis room resembles Branwell’s room when he’s had a little too much laudanum and thinks his enemies from Glass Town have come to disembowel him. SEE IT, my friend. KNOW IT. And decide WHAT TO DO ABOUT IT.” We had a little argument and I shouted at her from under the covers IF IT BOTHERS YOU THAT MUCH GO AND TELL QUEEN VICTORIA AND GET ME BEHEADED, YOU MOANING BITCH but she said she couldn’t hear me properly and I didn’t have the energy to repeat myself or to listen to her yakking on and on and on so I looked and I saw and as the days passed I looked and saw more and more of the mess, and I DO know what I have to do about it but I’m not doing it today, I’m waiting for Granny Euphemia to come again and she’ll help me to clean it.

Little Emily is getting on my nerves lately, sweet as she is. She’d look pretty enough with a bit of eyeliner and mascara to bring out her eyes but I don’t think make-up would stop her looking so fucking DEPRESSED all the time, like someone stole her pens or maimed her bible. I think it’s those sisters of hers, they keep telling her Heathcliff will never be famous if she doesn’t give him a flowery cravat and a blue velvet jacket but she doesn’t want to give him those things and I told her bollocks to Charlotte, bollocks to Anne, tell them to go and fuck themselves, Heathcliff is YOUR character, you can dress him how you want. During my days in bed she’d come and sit on the long bookcase and talk to me while I was writing my new book and film review pages for my little blog and you should have HEARD the things she told me about what one of the sisters got up to with the – no, I can’t tell you, juicy gossip isn’t part of this blog. But even when she was gossiping and slagging off her sisters she still looked as miserable as fuck – I put up with it for days until yesterday morning when I (politely) asked if she could go somewhere else because her face was upsetting me. She went and she hasn’t been back since. I hope she wasn’t offended, but I’d had enough of looking at all that GLOOM.

So back to this morning. After I’d had my fifth cup of coffee I made a batch of Cumberland sausages and they tasted like HEAVEN, thank you for asking, and I don’t ever want to go so long without eating them again. They perked me up so much I thought I should open the curtains to let a bit of sunlight in so I went into the living room and opened the living room curtains, I ran upstairs and opened my bedroom curtains, I went into the spare room that JUDAS slept in and opened the spare room that JUDAS slept in curtains, but I didn’t open the little spare room curtains because it’s not a spare room any more it’s an airing cupboard (see Adventures In The Airing Cupboard). I opened the blind in the bathroom and then I went back downstairs into the kitchen and opened the blind in the kitchen — AND THE OUTSIDE HAD DISAPPEARED. Gone. Vanished. No garden, no catshit, no sky, no clouds, no nothing of the outside at all. I screamed and jumped back and banged my arse on the washing mangle (it fucking well hurt, I bet the bruise is going to be the size of a GOLFBALL) and I thought that’s it, Dotty, you’ve lost it completely, no road back from INSANITYLAND now and I had a SUPERMEGA PANIC ATTACK and all sorts of things were going through my head about COLLIDING UNIVERSES and BIG BLACK HOLES SWALLOWING UP OUR PLANET and KEANU REEVES HAD CHANGED HIS MIND ABOUT DESTROYING US and GODDYJESUS HAD SMITED US BEFORE KEANU REEVES COULD DO IT and then I noticed the writing on the black blackness where the outside had been, four underlined words – dotty open the door – and I knew then that the outside HADN’T disappeared, it was behind the BIG BLACK PAPER THAT MY FUCKING KNOB-ROT OF AN EX-BROTHER JUDAS HAD STUCK ON MY WINDOW.

And I surprised myself then. I laughed. I kept laughing. I laughed and I laughed so much I had to sit down but I sat on my banged arse and it HURT so much it stopped me laughing. I waited for a few seconds but I didn’t feel any tears coming like they always do after laughter, and I realised a weird thing, that the laugh had lifted my spirits (fuck, I’m talking like little Emily, she’s becoming a bad influence) and given me a feeling I thought I remembered but not a whole feeling, it was more the memory of a  long-forgotten feeling, something I knew once upon a time, and all of a sudden it struck me that I was remembering HAPPINESS, pure happiness, pure glee-inspired, carefree, impish CHILDHOOD HAPPINESS and that brought back a whole stream of memories of the summer I was 13 going on 14 when Scotty found a hidden stash of PORNOGRAPHY MAGAZINES in the field next to the woods and every night for weeks afterwards we’d sneak out of the house when it got dark and we’d sellotape a pornographic picture of a lady with HUGE KNOCKERS and LEGS AKIMBO to a neighbour’s window so that when they opened the curtains the next morning they’d get a good eyeful. We did the whole village including our own house so we wouldn’t stand out as the culprits but meine Mami suspected us because she never saw the pornographic picture we stuck on our window, she didn’t even know it had been there.  And it turned out she didn’t see it because dear dead Daddy had opened the curtains that morning and KEPT THE PICTURE and we know this because after dear dead Daddy died and we were going through his things we found the now tatty pornographic picture folded up in one of his scientific journals and we realised he must have KNOWN IT WAS US doing the pornographic pictures on windows and HIDDEN the pornographic picture we stuck on our window in case our fingerprints were on it.

Bless my dear dead Daddy for loving us so much but we got caught anyway. Meine Mami sussed it when she needed to use the sellotape and there was only a little bit left on the roll. But get this – I didn’t get in trouble. Scotty took all the blame, he said I had nothing to do with it. He got battered round the house and was sent to bed every night for a week without any supper (the soft punishment of being grounded wasn’t invented in Britain in those days – we only had a few American programmes on telly, I loved Champion the Wonder Horse – so our punishments were the tried and tested good old violence and starvation which they should BRING BACK to stop the brats of today from being such brats. A swift belt round the head never did me any harm).

But Scotty – he took all the blame. He always stuck up for me at school – he threw one bully-boy in the school dinner slop bin when he called me names. And even though I knew full well that this morning he was trying to manipulate me with the black paper on my kitchen window, I also knew that his trick had worked, I didn’t want to continue with this bad feeling between us, I wanted to sort it all out and have my brother back.

So I rang him. He’s coming round soon.

I’ll let you know what happens.


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.



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 ….


Dotty Book Review – Wuthering Heights


My new best friend, little Emily, is the credited author of this book with a teensy bit of help from yours truly – Cathy Earnshaw has ginger hair and this was my doing because little Emily couldn’t make up her mind what colour hair Cathy should have so I advised her – ginger. Cathy runs around the moors a lot. I think she has a mental illness that makes her think she’s a ginger sheep she gallops about up there so much. I asked Branwell if he can sort her out with a little tot of laudanum to calm her down (his prices are very reasonable).

It’s Heathcliff I feel sorry for. Have you seen the state of his little house? It’s nothing but RUINS, a few tumbledown stones. I worry about where he sleeps in winter. In summer he’s fine, he sits drinking in the Black Bull all night with nice American tourists who’ve travelled a long way to visit him and when they find out he has nowhere to stay they very kindly stump up the cash for his Bed & Breakfast in the pub. It’s when the nice Americans go away that concerns me, what does he do then? Little Emily won’t have him in the house he’s caused so much trouble. He’s a moody sod at the best of times, so how anyone would put up with him lodging in their house I don’t know. I wouldn’t have him to stay with me, I couldn’t anyway because I HAVE PEOPLE PHOBIA and a moody man in the house would scare me. Having JUDAS to stay was bad enough and he’s my ex-brother, imagine what it would do to me having a relative stranger around all the time, especially one as morose as Heathcliff. No, he can’t come here.

Cathy should be the one to take him in but she won’t. She’s a bit of a bimbo, and she’s a bit slutty too. And she can’t sing. When she had black bushy hair (before little Emily saught my advice) she changed her name to Kate and she used to stand outside Heathcliff’s window singing a synopsis of the book. I’ll leave you to listen to her singing it, I don’t want to hear her again, I’ve got tinnitus and she’d do my head in. This is what she sings —


Out on the wiley, windy moors

we’d roll and fall in green.

You had a temper — like my jealousy,

too hot, too greedy.

How could you leave me

when I needed to — possess you?

I hated you, I loved you too.

Bad dreams in the night

told me I was going to lose the fight,

leave behind my Wuuuthering, Wuuuthering,

Wuuuthering-a Heights

Heeeaathcliff! It’s me, oh Catheee

I’ve come home I’m —- so coh-oh-oh-old,

let me in at your windoh-oh-oh-ohw.

Heeeaathcliff! It’s me, oh Catheee

I’ve come home I’m —- so coh-oh-oh-old,

let me in at your windoh-oh-oh-ohw.

Oooh it gets dark, it gets lonely

on the other side from you.

I pine a lot. I find the lot

falls through without you.

I’m coming back love,

Cruel Heathcliff, my one dream,

my only Master.

Too long I roam in the night.

I’m coming back to his side to put it right.

I’m coming home to Wuuuthering, Wuuuthering,

Wuuuthering-a Heights

Heeeaathcliff! It’s me, oh Catheee

I’ve come home I’m —- so coh-oh-oh-old,

let me in at your windoh-oh-oh-ohw.

Heeeaathcliff! It’s me, oh Catheee

I’ve come home I’m —- so coh-oh-oh-old,

let me in at your windoh-oh-oh-ohw.

Ooh, let me have it,

let me grab your soul away.

Ooh, let me have it,

let me grab your soul away.

You know it’s me — Cathy.

Heeeaathcliff! It’s me, oh Catheee

I’ve come home I’m —- so coh-oh-oh-old,

let me in at your windoh-oh-oh-ohw.

Heeeaathcliff! It’s me, oh Catheee

I’ve come home I’m —- so coh-oh-oh-old,

let me in at your windoh-oh-oh-ohw.

Heeeaathcliff! It’s me, oh Catheee

I’ve come home I’m —- so coh-oh-oh-old,

let me in at your windoh-oh-oh-ohw.

Heeeaathcliff! It’s me, oh Catheee

I’ve come home I’m —- so cold.

by Kate Bush (Cathy’s stage name)


Short Dotty Film Review Of All The Twilight Films

I'm not putting a picture of ugly Pobert on my little blog so you can look at the book instead



Pobert Rattinson (see Dotty’s Consonant Swap Game) is one of the ugliest fuckers ever to show himself on my telly. His face looks like someone smacked it repeatedly with a gravestone. He resembles Stefan Somerhalder (see Totty On The Telly), my lovely Ian Somerhalder’s ugly brother from THE VAMPIRE DIARIES.

In the films Pobert is a vampire and he has a girlfriend who is human. Ring any bells? Yes, of course it rings bells, a BIG fucking ding-a-ling of bells, because IT’S A COMPLETE RIP-OFF OF THE VAMPIRE DIARIES. And yes, I HAVE read the books, the first three anyway, and putting aside THE VAMPIRE DIARIES rip-off issue the books are a zillion times better than the films for these four reasons —

1.  Pobert’s ugly face isn’t in the books.

2.  Pobert’s ugly face isn’t in the books.

3.  Pobert’s ugly face isn’t in the books.


So don’t bother watching these films, they’re shite. You should read the books instead – PROPER books with PAPER PAGES.


Score  – 0 out of 10


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


Totty On The Telly


If you want to give Ian a kiss be careful not to drool on your screen or you'll have to do housework to wash the spit off.

Eeeeeeekkk, eeeeeeeekkkk, eeeeeeeeeeekkkk!

I’m so happy. So, so, so, so happy.


My Shopping Person brought me a telly magazine yesterday with next week’s listings and MY LOVELY IAN SOMERHALDER is back on the telly next TUESDAY NIGHT in THE VAMPIRE DIARIES.

He’s back!




And he would LOVE ME if that Elena would fuck off and leave him alone. I don’t know why he likes her, it’s not like she’s PERFECT is it? – I’ve noticed she has a VERY UGLY LEFT THUMB. My lovely Ian, can I tell you something? My left thumb is VERY BEAUTIFUL, I don’t expect you’ll have ever seen a left thumb more beautiful. Elena’s left thumb is BENT like a GNARLY OLD TWIG but mine isn’t, MINE is as straight and true as the far horizon on a bright, clear romantic evening. If you take me to a Caribbean island I’ll SHOW you my left thumb as we stand on the beach looking out at our dreams, our future, and you can compare that distant line of FATE with my left thumb and YOU WILL SEE NO DIFFERENCE BETWEEN THEM.

I have to start getting ready for next Tuesday night. I’ll do a list.



Cut my hair — I’ve been trying to grow it since last week when I saw a telly programme that said British people want REAL BRITISH HAIR for their extensions and you can get a good bit of cash if you sell your own hair to them, but sod it, my lovely Ian Somerhalder is more important.

Put a bulb in my Muppet lamp — I like to watch my lovely Ian in a soft, smoochy light.

Get my catapult and my catapult ammunition ready —  I need my catapult for when my lovely Ian Somerhalder’s ugly brother, STEFAN SOMERHALDER, appears on the telly. I aim for his squashed nose and my total hits for the last series – 54. I’m a DEAD SHOT with my catapult (see Weaponry For Hermits for how to make your own catapult).

Find my bottle of red food colouring — I dye my Cumberland sausages red so that when my lovely Ian is having his dinner I can have mine too, at the same time. I also dye my Diet Coke which doesn’t work too well, the red doesn’t show up much through the brown, but in the romantic glow of my Muppet lamp you can’t really tell.

5  Give my fangs a wash — To wash your fangs just use toothpaste and a toothbrush. Polish them with a squirt of Pledge and a duster after you’ve washed them and you’ll really feel the difference.

Find my sexy black dress — They’re always having big parties in THE VAMPIRE DIARIES so I need to look my best or I’ll give my lovely Ian a right showing up.


I know there’s something else to go on the list but I can’t remember what it is. I need to have a little think so you’ll have to go away now while I do because it’s important I don’t forget something for Tuesday night. Don’t worry, I’m not kicking you out and making you homeless, you can go and sit with my lovely Ian until I remember what it is I can’t remember.


Guess What I’m Giving Up For Lent?



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.

Conquered – Them, Not Me. Ha!



I’ve got them all back.


But they still shouldn’t have done it in the first place.




The Tyrant God Of The Internet Smites Little Dotty – Defences Are Up









EDIT EDIT EDIT – ———–  VICTORY IS ALMOST MINE. I’ve got most of them back except Pile of Shite. It’s amazing what a well-worded up-your-arse email can do, isn’t it?



The posts about tags

Sorry, Judith and anyone else who commented. I haven’t removed the posts, I’ve marked them as private. I’m going to email WordPress tomorrow to see why they did that.

Dotty Is Having A Blue Day Today


I need to FEEL something today so I’m going to have a BLUE DAY. It won’t take long for me to turn blue – I’ve switched off my heating and opened the kitchen window (here’s a tip, Hermits – only open the window of the ROOM YOU ARE IN to save weeks of worry over what might have SNEAKED INTO YOUR HOUSE). In a few minutes, when I’ve finished writing this, I’ll go and stand at the open back door and within ten minutes I’ll be BLUE. Most of you won’t be able to do this trick because most of you won’t have RAYNAUD’S DISEASE, a handy condition to have when you need a BLUE DAY.

The only downside is that for the rest of the day I won’t be able to come and talk to you all (y’all) because my fingers won’t work for a long time and when they do they’ll hurt too much to type. But don’t be concerned because that’s the bit I’m looking forward to, the BURNY FIRES OF HURT that come after the NUMB and the DEAD (oooh, that would make a good title for something) and I’m looking forward to it because it’s a FEELING and I haven’t had a proper one of my own for months (FAMILY FEELINGS DO NOT COUNT).

The temperature outside is — well, I don’t know what it is but it’s fucking cold, I know that. I’ve prepared everything – I’ve made my dinner for later on when I can’t do anything (the NUMB and the DEAD lasts for a long time, hours) because past experience with cooking things on a BLUE DAY has led to many cuts and burns that I didn’t notice until the FEELING came and I might be a lot of things but I’m not a MASOCHIST. I’ve made up a flask of coffee (in a flask with a good big thick handle that enables me to pour my coffee with my wrists). The heating is set on the timer to switch itself on roundabout tea-time but I’ve had a wash and cleaned my teeth and brushed my hair and I’m wearing clean clothes just in case something goes wrong and I can’t DEFROST MY BLOOD. If something DOES go wrong, you know where my will is (see My Head-Shaped Brick) but don’t let my FUCKING FAMILY anywhere near it.

See you later, alligators.




EDIT EDIT EDIT – I pressed publish and forgot to add my TAGS. Stupid cow.



The Dotty Headbanger Award For Being Mental And Loving It





I feel like a horrible cow for not accepting awards that people give me so I’ve decided I’m still not going to accept awards, instead I’m going to GIVE OUT MY OWN AWARD because I’m nice and kind like that and it is bettereth to giveth than to receiveth. Also, I needed to show off and brag about my new-found skill of being able to WRITE INSIDE A PICTURE which I spent all morning perfecting.

I’m not really sure how this award thing works, but from what I’ve seen there are specific QUESTIONS TO ANSWER, so here are the questions for THE DOTTY HEADBANGER AWARD FOR BEING MENTAL & LOVING IT.



1.  How many bricks do you own?

2.  How many Cumberland sausages can you fit in your mouth without chewing?

3.  What is your most inventive way of using biscuits (or cookies if you’re American)?

4.  If it was made compulsory to have a mental illness which one would you choose and why? (If you have a mental illness already you have to choose another).



So now I have to give it out to people – BUT I CAN’T, I don’t want to leave someone out and watch them sitting alone in the corner crying because they haven’t been chosen (like when the BITCHES who chose the netball teams never picked ME). So what I’m going to do is present it to EVERYONE WHO READS MY LITTLE BLOG AND EVERYONE WHO PARTICIPATES IN ITS MENTALNESS to say THANK YOU VERY MUCH and you all (y’all) can do what you want with it, either give it out and MAKE ME VERY FAMOUS or ignore it (at your peril).

P.S. You now have a choice of TWO pictures, mine (the one I sweated blood and tears over) or the new posh one made by clownonfire (the link to his blog is on the right at the top of Dotty’s Pet Blogs). Choose which one you want.


Dotty Is The Reincarnation Of WHAT?


How the fuck should I know, I’m not a REGRESSION HYPNOTIST. And I’ve never been able to afford one so who or what I was in my past lives will have to remain a mystery for now. There IS a chance I was one of Branwell Brontë’s painted pox-ridden laudanum floosies because little Emily said she has a strong feeling she recognises me but she doesn’t remember how, only that she knows it’s in connection with her brother (she thinks we’ve become such good friends because we both have bad brothers).

Why is it that when people get regressed and go back into their past lives they always find out they were RICH and WELL-TO-DO, and if they weren’t rich and well-to-do they were POOR MURDER VICTIMS? Or they were wrongly executed? Or they were Cleopatra? (This also happens with We Who Are Mental – our delusions of being someone else are always grandiose la-di-dah delusions – I am Jesus/Napoleon/Cleopatra (she gets around a bit)/God/Mary, Queen of Scots/etc etc etc).

The regressed always get to be someone with a really meaty history, never a boring one. Why doesn’t anyone want to be old Joe Bloggs the cheesemonger, or Jane Clapp the hatchet-faced fish wife, or Miss Agatha Pratt the virgin spinster cat-lady?

I want to be regressed. I want to be regressed and find out I was NORMAL-MINDED. I want to KNOW what it was like. Are there any REGRESSION HYPNOTISTS reading this? If so, get in touch and I’ll let you practice on me and I WON’T CHARGE YOU ANY MONEY FOR MY TIME. You can even come to my house and I’ll make your dinner for you. It’ll be nice. We’ll have Cumberland sausages and McCain’s Chippy Chips and for pudding we’ll have spotted dick and custard (made for me by my lovely Aunt Bessie).


P.S. If I was an animal in a past life, I bet I was a SLOTH.



A Short Note About A Note From JUDAS


I couldn’t avoid it any longer. The note I’ve been hiding in my pocket is from JUDAS and his SISTER. It’s in an envelope but it wasn’t properly posted, (couldn’t they spare the price of a stamp?) It was handed to me two days ago by my Shopping Person who was waylaid on their way up my garden path.

This is what it says —


Answer the door please. We only want to talk to you. We will not put you away like you think we want to. Lottie is going out of her mind with worry and so am I. stop being stubbern and answer the door next time we come. My face is healling up but my finger is still bad. I am off work with it so I will be here for a few weeks at Lotties. I will keep coming every day till you answer the door. Open you’re curtains. I know you are in there.
Scotty + Lottie


Okay, this solves something that’s been bothering me – the misspellings that kept happening in my posts when Judas was staying here. It must have been HIM doing it, his MISSPELLING INFLUENCES must have possessed me while he was in the house. He’s never been very good at spelling but he could have turned his poor ability to his advantage and learned to do a DISCOMFITING MIND TRICK at THE HUMANITARIAN ACADEMY OF MASTER MERCENARIES AND CRACK ASSASSINS as part of his Targeted Killing training while he was on his apprenticeship, (there you go, Interpol, some juicy info for you). I wouldn’t put it past him.

I’m just going to ignore the twat (and his sister), the same as I’ve been doing every day when he knocks on the window and the back door. And I am SO GLAD I haven’t got a front door any more or he’d be banging on that too.

I’m going to talk to little Emily now, she’s stuck on part of her book, she doesn’t know if Cathy should be blonde, brunette or ginger. I think ginger, it would suit her temper.



Dotty On Reality (WITH TWO PICTURES)


I'm off to get a chunk of moon cheese for my dinner.

If this post is going to make any sense you’ll have to read my last post, Dotty Headbanger, Star of the Dark Satanic Screen and then it will make complete and utter sense. If you don’t read my last post you won’t know what I’m whittering on about here so go and read it NOW and then come back and by then I’ll have finished writing THIS post.

Go on then, off you toddle. And don’t forget, you can’t lie to me and tell me you’ve read it when you haven’t because I CAN SEE YOU ON MY STATS.


Right then, you’re back. Good. I’ll start by telling you that I HAVE BEEN TO SLEEP. And it was my last post that SENT ME TO SLEEP (I hope it hasn’t done the same for you – that would be a BAD THING TO HAPPEN and I’d have to cut my fingers off so they won’t ever BORE you again). Anyway, when I was writing my last post  (at 12.30am this morning) I couldn’t work out which parts of it were real and which weren’t and my brain got all boggled and exhausted and I couldn’t keep my eyes open and I fell asleep. But when I woke up this morning everything was crystal clear – my brain must have sorted it all out when I was asleep and I’m not confused about it any more, I know what’s real and what isn’t and so should YOU.


So here’s what my brain did in the night to sort out REALITY for me —


I am real but I’m not real because the me you THINK I AM isn’t the ME I AM (this is true of EVERYONE, isn’t it?)

Little Emily WAS real but now she isn’t. BUT SHE IS.

Heathcliff was NEVER real, only in little Emily’s head and then in the heads of her READERS which makes Heathcliff real INSIDE HEADS which makes little Emily real because how could Heathcliff be real inside heads if little Emily didn’t put him there?

Nurse Ratchett IS real. I know because I saw her yesterday when she was mean and cruel to Jack Nicholson who isn’t real because the age he was yesterday when I saw him isn’t the age he is NOW, so the Jack Nicholson I saw yesterday is an unreal long gone GHOST.

The dead ewe IS real because the carrion crow was eating it.

The carrion crow is NOT real because where is it? It’s nowhere to be seen.

The Cartesian Evil Demon IS real because if she wasn’t real it would mean that I wouldn’t be here and I AM HERE because YOU ARE READING ME.

I am NOT real. That isn’t really ME cycling to the moon in the picture — I don’t LIKE moon cheese so I would never eat it, I only like DOUBLE GLOUCESTER cheese. And anyway, you know it isn’t really me because how could it be – I CAN’T GO OUT.

The words I am writing are NOT real because when you leave this page WHERE ARE THEY?

YOU are not real because even if you’re size zero you STILL wouldn’t be thin enough to fit inside my laptop.


So now we know what’s real and what isn’t, I want to show you this picture of the REAL ME before I finish–









P.S. Do you know how long it took me to do these pictures? A FUCKING LONG TIME, that’s how long. And if they come out wonky when I press Publish I don’t care, they’ll have to stay wonky.


Dotty Headbanger, Star Of The Dark Satanic Screen


Sometimes I feel like I’m in a film of a tragic, desperate character who goes through a lifetime of SHITE only to die a horrible death at the end. Except I can’t act. And I don’t know who’s directing the film, maybe Nurse Ratched who I always thought was NURSE RATCHETT until 2 minutes ago when I checked I was spelling her name properly – unless everyone else is spelling it wrong and I’m right which is more than likely the case; it happened to Galileo, it could easily happen to me.

So NURSE RATCHETT is the Director, I’m Dotty, the unfortunate main character (who we in the acting world like to call the unfortunate MC), the Producer is a CARTESIAN EVIL DEMON named Clive (do you see what I did there with the name?) and the people in the camera crew are THE SPYING, PRYING EYES OF HUMANITY.

The film I’m in isn’t The Truman Show (which, as we all know, is not a film, it’s a documentary). It’s not Lassie – the last time I looked I wasn’t a dog (actually, that’s not true – after 3 nights with no sleep I admit it, I look a right fucking dog at this moment in time). It’s not any of The Matrix films either because okay I might be having psychotic delusions but they don’t include alterations to the laws of gravity and I KNOW Keanu Reeves can’t run up walls and move at speed x 100 because if he could he’d have done it in The Lake House to get to the letter box on time.

The set is grim (it’s grim up north – which reminds me, did you see that t-shirt with THE YORKSHIRE RIPPER on it? VERY BAD TASTE, A HORRIBLE WAY TO MAKE MONEY, YOU VULTURES – I HOPE YOUR BUSINESS GOES BUST AND YOU GO BANKRUPT AND STARVE).

Yes, the set is grim, filled with all things DARK and SATANIC. The camera pans out across the moody moors and lingers on a carrion crow feeding on the carcass of a dead ewe. The crow caws, a sound that chills the soul, viler than the screeches of BANSHEES ON HEAT. Heathcliff strides over and bats the crow away with his hairy, manly fist. He turns and looks at the camera, his broody, lowered eyebrows meeting in the middle. Little Emily runs up behind him, her skirts muddy and wet. In her inky hand she holds a feather – ‘GET BACK IN MY PEN, HEATHCLIFF, OR I’LL KILL YOU OFF ON PAGE ONE’ – and she stabs him in the neck and he disappears. And so do I.

The End.



3.00 am And Dotty Is Awake AGAIN


This is the third night in a row I haven’t slept. If I don’t sleep soon I’ll DIE of awakeness (I wonder how that will work).























Will my eyes drop out soon?




Did Jesus Steal My Followers?


I was up all night again last night (that’s two nights in a row – how many more before I DIE?) worrying about my missing followers and trying to fill the gaping, glaring gaps in my house left by THE BINNING OF SOME PRECIOUS COLLECTIONS when I had a thought — what if my missing followers were stolen away by JESUS because I have more followers than he did at the start of his career? He could have kidnapped them due to overwhelming jealousy, or he could have tempted them away with a bit of BREAD and a FISH (if they prefer bread and fish to Cumberland sausages then I leave them to their fate, they are UNSAVEABLE).

Or Jesus might not have pinched them, they might have just been VERY TOUCHY about me mentioning the huge difference in followers. Some people do get VERY TOUCHY about Jesus, like the VERY UNNEIGHBOURLY JEHOVAH’S WITNESSES I lived next door to many years ago who tried to steal my garden the first summer I lived there (they didn’t get it – I went to my local council and REPORTED THEM). During the garden battle I happened to be going through a DECORATING MY WINDOWS phase and I put some decorative signs in one of my kitchen windows, (I had TWO kitchen windows in that house), the window that just happened to face their door. I can’t remember all the signs I put in the window, but I remember that one was a big recruiting advertisement for BLOOD DONORS (very pretty, if I recall rightly), another was a very fancy bumper sticker that said JESUS IS O NEGATIVE and across the top of the window I strung some sparkly fairy lights and a foil MERRY CHRISTMAS decoration that glimmered in the summer sun and twinkled softly at night when the fairy lights were on.

I can’t be certain if it was the garden battle or the Jesus thing but they didn’t speak to me again. I suspect it was the Jesus thing. And the amount of EVIL LOOKS they threw at me forever afterwards – all I have to say to that is professing to be GODLY and GOOD and LOVE THY NEIGHBOURISH doesn’t actually get you people to heaven UNLESS YOU PRACTICE WHAT YOU PREACH.

So if my missing followers DID leave because they were VERY TOUCHY about me having more followers than Jesus in his early days, well I’m sorry but I CAN’T HELP THAT – a fact is a fact and you’ll just have to get over it.


Come Back Runaways And All Will Be Forgiven


I got one new one today which should have taken the total to 81 (or 80 if you don’t include me) but TWO OTHERS RAN AWAY FROM ME. Why would they do that? I’m not horrible to you all, am I? I don’t hit you with big sticks, do I? I don’t make you do dances for me (though I have thought of asking), nor do I make you wash the dishes or make my bed or cook my Cumberland sausages. So WHY would TWO OF YOU run away?

Have they eloped? Good luck to them if they have, but COULDN’T THEY HAVE LEFT ME A NOTE? What have I done to make them reject me so publically and so cruelly? Don’t they have hearts? Don’t they know what rejection DOES to a SHE-HERMIT? 

I’ll give them till tonight to come back and BEG FORGIVENESS. If they haven’t returned by 10.oopm that’s it, they’re on their own, I don’t care what trouble they get themselves into – they’ll have made their choice, they’ll have to live with it. And I’ll disinherit them. I’ll cut them out of my will and out of my LIFE. And I’ll give all their clothes to the charity shop. And I’ll write all over their shoes with a BLACK MARKER PEN. And I’ll sell their computers on Ebay and KEEP THE MONEY.

10.pm. That’s your deadline, traitors.




You are all like my children, innocent and needy, and I AM AFRAID FOR YOU when you venture out into the big wide WordPress alone. Come back, Child, and other Child, and I’ll make you a nice cup of HOT CHOCOLATE and give you a HOBNOB to dunk in it.






Dotty’s New Inventions – Wii Brick©™® & Wii Brick Plus©™®


I’ve been up all night honing and perfecting the plans and diagrams for my new inventions. I can’t show you them because —

#1 – I can’t get pictures on my blog


I’ll give you SOME information though, a taster so you’ll all know what to buy when they come on the market.



The Wii BRICK ©™® is a genuine, authentic brick. It looks like a brick, it feels like a brick, it hurts like a brick. But the Wii BRICK ©™® is fitted with a sensor, just like a Wii remote, in fact you won’t need a Wii remote when you buy your Wii BRICK ©™® because everything that is possible with a Wii remote will be possible with a Wii BRICK ©™® with the added advantage of being able to play Wii BRICK ©™®.

Within the Wii BRICK ©™® game there will be lots of options and features, such as My Wii BRICK, an area that allows you to keep track of your headbanging, brick-shaping progress, to look back on your failures, and to plan a routine that suits your level of ability with the Wii BRICK ©™®. Your current little Mii thing will represent the real you on the screen and warnings will be slapped all over the game for people who are reality-disadvantaged and can’t seperate themselves from the Mii (the last thing I want is the whole world ringing for ambulances because they think their head is bleeding – it won’t be your REAL HEAD BLEEDING it will be the big head on your Mii, which is NOT REAL).

You’ll also be able to play interactively BUT IF YOUR Mii EVER TOUCHES MY BRICK I WILL KILL IT.





Wii BRICK PLUS ©™® will be fitted with Motion Plus sensors that register even the slightest bang of the head (which can’t really be called a BANG now, can it, you wussies, it’s really a tickle – but don’t worry, you’ll soon progress). The Motion Plus sensors will be able to detect EXCESSIVELY SHAKEY ACTIVITY which tells them you are having a panic attack and will switch the machine to standby mode as Wii BRICK PLUS ©™® has been designed with energy saving cost-effectiveness in mind.

A FLUFFY RED TOWEL for mopping your bloody, sweaty brow will be one of the new features and it will have the Wii BRICK PLUS ©™® logo embroidered round the edge. The concept of including a FLUFFY TOWEL is innovative and ground-breaking, and the idea of making it RED is sheer genius.



The next step will be Wii BRICK PLUS ISLAND ©™® – a whole other world for you to explore. You’ll be able to build your own house (with bricks) and live there forever if you want. There will be shops and builder’s merchants and Cumberland sausage factories and HEADBANGING COMPETITIONS which are not compulsory for hermits and it will be like heaven except it will be Wii BRICK PLUS ISLAND ©™®.




Rapid Cycling


I’ve spent all day rapid cycling round the Wii Sports Island. Except I don’t have a Wii exercise bike because they cost £100 so I just stomp on the Wii Fit board thingy and hold onto the control like it’s a set of handlebars. I don’t like going into the town because I keep crashing into the walls and one of these days I’m going to go head first over the handlebars and knock my eye out on the corner of the coffee table. I don’t like those scabby little animals either – Wii should make it possible for me to move my legs to the side so I can give the mangy rats a swift kick when they’re annoying me.

I kept going till the batteries went dead.




Dotty’s St Valentine’s Day Massacre


Well, what I can say? I was all ready to ring INTERPOL yesterday to grass up that JUDAS brother of mine, AFTER I’d blown his arse off with the new present he gave me. BUT I DIDN’T. And after everything that’s happened this week you’d think by now I’d be curled up in the corner blowing spit bubbles, but NO I AM NOT, I have been EMPOWERED and FORTIFIED and I’ve HAD A BATH and WASHED MY HAIR and I am like DOTTY THE WONDER WOMAN and all because of this darling little blog of mine. I LOVE MY BLOG. I LOVE IT, LOVE IT, LOVE IT. I’ve sent it a Valentine’s Day card and I gave it a big sloppy KISS. And my darling little blog LOVES ME – it’s given me EIGHTY FOLLOWERS and Jesus only had TWELVE FOLLOWERS in the early days and one of them turned ROGUE — so ha ha Jesus, who’s the DADDY now, eh? EH?

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

Today I am ALL ABOUT LOVE so here is a list of –



Cumberland sausages

My darling little blog

My brick

My other brick, the one that broke JUDAS’S TRIGGER FINGER

My EIGHTY followers in my darling little blog (hey Jesus — NEH NEH NEH-NEH NEH – I’ve got more followers than you. LOSER!)

McCain’s Chippy Chips

Diet Coke

My collections (which I won’t list individually because I love them all equally, but I will make an especial mention of my COLLECTED AMERICANS (see Dotty’s List Of Collected Americans) because they are PART OF MY DARLING LITTLE BLOG, combining two of the things I love best today.

Judge Hackisnackersoff


Ian Somerhalder


Ermm, that’s it.

If anyone wants me today you’ll find me in A Bit Of Totty For Dotty where I’ll be looking at my pictures of my lovely Ian Somerhalder.

I hope you all have a beautiful, beautiful St Valentine’s Day.


EDIT EDIT EDIT – I got it wrong. I’ve only got SEVENTY NINE followers because the other one is ME. Also, did Jesus have TWELVE or THIRTEEN followers before Judas became a JUDAS? Hmm, they’ll ban me from the bible class if I ever go to a bible class which I won’t because I CAN’T GO OUT and if I could I wouldn’t go anyway because I used to live next door to a family of JEHOVAH’S WITNESSES and in the summer, when all the other kids were chasing the ice cream van and throwing each other in the paddling pool, the JEHOVAH’S WITNESS KIDS were sitting in their back garden DOING BIBLE STUDY.

AND the JEHOVAH’S WITNESSES tried to nick my garden but that’s another story for another time.




I Might Be Mental But I’m Not Stupid


You know that saying, Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you well it’s true, the fuckers ARE out to get me. I knew something was going on. But this time, instead of allowing the situation (and the bastards behind it) to overwhelm and control ME, I took Judith’s advice and I spoke to Scotty and here’s what I discovered –

He didn’t come to stay with me because he WANTED to. He came because LOTTIE ASKED HIM TO. He’s been ringing her daily from whatever foreign rathole he happens to be in. To check up on me. To spy on me. The only person I ever trusted not to.

LOTTIE got him to come here by telling him her version of what happened on THAT NIGHT. And his disgust and outrage at her behaviour, the disgust and outrage that seemed real to me (he called her all sorts of things including FAT, DEVIOUS, CONTROL FREAK, and SNEAKY – and I’m going to TELL HER WHAT HE SAID) had been false, a lie, an act put on for reasons I can’t begin to fathom.

He says the new house is real – but he hasn’t bought it like he implied, he’s renting it for 6 months TO SEE IF I LIKE IT. He said if I do like it he has all the arrangements in place to buy it for me. Lying bastard. If there IS a house he can stick it up his sanctimonious, lemon-sucking ARSEHOLE and let LOTTIE move in up there as well. She should feel right at home.

Oh, and he never did order a trepanning kit on the internet, he said he was trying to stop me from getting myself a new hand-drill. Unbelievable. It doesn’t matter though, I remember the internet website the trepanning kit was on so I’ll buy my own fucking trepanning kit. I’ll buy TWO TREPANNING KITS. Or THREE. Or FOUR. Or FIVE. Or SIX. I’ll buy as many TREPANNING KITS as I fucking well want. And I’ll buy another HAND-DRILL. I’ll buy a FUCKING PNEUMATIC DRILL if I decide I want to drill my head with one. Judith is right, NO ONE IS THE BOSS OF ME.

He got angry at one point and shouted at me. He’s never done that before, he is ALWAYS calm and collected, he’s one of those people who never lose their temper so you don’t know if they’re super-cool relaxed types or peaceful-jesus types or plain old psychopaths (I prefer psychopaths, you know where you are with them).

Then he shouted at me AGAIN — “we’re only trying to help you, Dotty, we don’t know what else to do, waaaahh, waaaaahh, waaaaahh, waaaah, waaaah”— so I broke his TRIGGER FINGER by grabbing it and hitting it with my brick and for that I am truly sorry because I know he loves his work and I know the world would have more evil in it if it weren’t for him, but I’m not sorry for kneecapping him with the shovel or for bursting his nose and splitting his lip and chipping his tooth when I headbutted him.

There IS a moral to this sorry story of mine (who the fuck do I think I am, Dotty Aesop?) – if happiness ever comes into your life DO NOT TRUST IT. It isn’t real. It never WAS real, it was only more of the same old shite that life ALWAYS slings – only this time I allowed myself to be tricked into believing in it and, well, there you go, I got a face full of putridness and it was my own fault for being so gullible and stupid and trusting. But I can honestly say that I NEVER imagined in my wildest imaginings that SCOTTY would betray me in the way he has. He’s stabbed me right between the shoulder blades and I am dying of hurt and I am SO CONFUSED – what he has done is beyond belief but WHY he did it – I don’t think I’ll ever understand. I expected it of Lottie, never of him. Shame on you, Scotty, heaps and heaps and heaps of shame on you.

Sorry, Judith, I tried to follow all your advice, but bridges have been well and truly BURNT today and I will NEVER be the one to provide the bricks to build new ones. NEVER.



Happy, Happy, Happy – Nothing Is Wrong At All







He’s moving around downstairs.

I think I managed to bring all my personal papers up here last night when he was asleep. If I left anything downstairs it’ll just be bills and junk mail.

I’ve told him I want to pack up my bedroom alone today but what I really need to do is think. Something is wrong, very wrong.

I have to be quiet in case he hears me. And I had to put a happy, happy title on the post in case he sneaks a read at it. Does he know I do this blog? I don’t know. I’ve only written in it when he’s been asleep or busy in another room but he could have used one of his devices to watch what I’m doing, or used another device to listen in (that’s why I’m whispering).

He won’t go out. He won’t leave me alone, he’s been here in the house ever since he arrived. Usually when he visits me he goes to see his old mates for an evening, or he goes for walks, or at the very least he’ll nip to the shop for a paper. But this time he hasn’t done any of those things.

Last night I heard him making a phone call and if I didn’t know better I would swear he was speaking to Lottie, except he and Lottie haven’t spoken for years after she found out what he does for a living. No, it couldn’t have been Lottie, I don’t see how or why it would be.



What’s that noise?



I thought he was coming upstairs. Late yesterday afternoon we were sorting through my collection of Bookmarks and I brought up the subject of child support and the fact that he doesn’t pay any. He trotted out his usual excuse, he didn’t see why he should, he had only been in relationships with 3 of the mothers and they all had new partners now and the other mothers were one night stands or ports of call and he said he didn’t believe in DNA anyway, it was a global con to make men pay for someone else’s flyblow, the world governments just wanted someone, anyone to cough up, they didn’t care who as long as it wasn’t them. He got agitated, I could tell by the big vein pulsing in the side of his neck, so I didn’t say what I wanted to say about it, what I always say, that this is the only bad thing about him, that if he’d just pay up he would be perfect. At the time I thought I didn’t say it because I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but when I thought about it last night – and I hate to say this – I didn’t say it because I was scared of the pulsing vein.

It was only a couple of hours afterwards that I heard him on the phone. 

I was right to be scared.

I don’t know what to do. I’m trying to think but I’m stuck in this house with him and if I have to I can’t get away. What is he planning? What are they planning if it was Lottie he was speaking to? And I’m more and more certain it was, I’m sure I heard him say ‘Lots’ which was what he always called her.

You see I know what he can do. How he can make things seem other than they really are. After I killed Simon, Scotty said I should have got him to do it and no one would have suspected a thing, he could have done things to make it look as if Simon had got himself into dark deeds with criminals, or embezzlement, or an affair with a nutter’s wife or something. He could have faked a whole life that Simon never lived and it would have been real, officially, on paper, which would have made it more real than the truth.

Is there a new house or is he lying to me? He could have easily found some random pictures of someone else’s house to show me. Why though? Why would he do such a cruel thing? Why would he make me get rid of my collections and pack up my house if there wasn’t a real house to go to? Is he – are THEY – going to section me again, this time forever?

I think I know now what I have to do. 




Packing Up My Collections


I have begun packing up my house. It’s a scary job, very daunting, but I’m doing it sensibly, a bit at a time, focusing on one collection before I even look at another. I started in the kitchen and you’ll be GOBSMACKED when I tell you that I have THROWN AWAY four whole collections. FOUR.

I binned my collection of 534 McCAIN’S CHIPPY CHIP BAGS.

I binned my collection of 211 OXO CONCENTRATED LIQUID STOCK BOTTLES.

I binned my collection of 4,876 DIET COKE BOTTLES (2 litres) which included LIMITED EDITION CHRISTMAS DIET COKE BOTTLES, LIMITED EDITION VALENTINE’S DAY DIET COKE BOTTLES and LIMITED EDITION 2010 FIFA WORLD CUP DIET COKE BOTTLES. When I’m in my new house I intend to begin a new collection of DIET COKE BOTTLES when they start bringing out the LONDON 2012 OLYMPICS DIET COKE BOTTLES. Yes, I’ve given up some treasures but Scotty said I can only take a few collections with me and it’ll be worth it when I’m in my new house and can SEE THE DIMENSIONS OF THE ROOMS.

And I binned my collection of 1,765 SUMA TOMATO PUREE TUBES because they stank.

I didn’t bin my collection of 701 FLORA LIGHT MARGARINE TUBS because they’ll come in handy to store OTHER collections in, such as my collection of 98,543 COLOURED DRAWING PINS, or my collection of 3,621 HISTORICAL TIDDLYWINKS (this collection goes back years, back to when I was five years old, and I still have the red NUMBER 1 TIDDLYWINK which I liberated when Susan Green ran off to tell her mother I had nipped her arm and spat in her hair).

I still have a few collections to sort out in the kitchen but they’re not huge. Then I’ll move on to the living room, then the hallway, then I’ll do upstairs. Generally I’ve not been panicking MUCH if I keep focused on what I’m doing and remember to take my pills at the right time. Scotty has been a great help, singing to me if I DO get a bit panicky or apathetic, cleaning all the shite that my collections have been, until now, covering up (I didn’t know spiders went HARD when they were a long time dead – the legs have been snapping off them here, there and everywhere and Scotty has had to locate every single one of them because I’m NOT sleeping in a house that has DEAD SPIDER’S LEGS all over the place), and all in all he is being the brilliant brother that he has always been.

Strangely I haven’t cried at all today, even when Scotty’s been taking the binbags out to the skip in the front garden. I just give my collections a little wave and blow them a kiss and in my mind I say a nice goodbye and hope they don’t think too badly of me. I’m surprising MYSELF with how I’m reacting (or NOT reacting) to it all and I just KNOW that this move is the best thing that could have happened, it’s come at JUST the right time. The one thing I’m looking forward to above all the other fantastic things this move will bring is going for my first walk alone. Can you picture me walking in NOWHERE? I can. I can sense the freedom, I can almost remember what it felt like to just GO OUTSIDE AND WALK without a care. Eeeeek! Eeeeeek! I can’t wait!

I’m going to go and whittle down my collection of 364 BETAMAX VIDEOS now. I might just chuck the lot out, I can’t even remember what most of them are since my BETAMAX VIDEO PLAYER broke in 1998.




The Universe Is Bestowing Blessings On ME, Dotty!!!!!


What’s happening? What’s all this GOOD LUCK I’m having? Is it a result of me SAVING THE WORLD yesterday? Have the BUTTERFLIES grown extra pairs of WINGS? Is it an anomaly in the UNIVERSE? Has a NEW BLACK HOLE opened up in a distant GALAXY and is, at this very moment, sucking up all the BAD?




Me, Dotty, the Dotty who never wins anything even a booby prize. I just checked my ticket from Friday night and BOSH, I’m a winner! Granted, it’s only £2.80 but that’s A PACKET OF CUMBERLAND SAUSAGES (£1.50) and almost ANOTHER PACKET OF CUMBERLAND SAUSAGES!!!!

Waaahooooo!! Get in there, Dotty, you lucky cow!


The Best Ever Pretend Christmas Day


After I SAVED THE WORLD this morning things went downhill in the food department and we didn’t get to have our Pretend Christmas dinner, it all went tits up (burnt bits, frozen bits in the middle, and a strange taste of Maxwell House coffee granules that I have no idea about) and we had to have Cumberland sausages, McCain’s Chippy Chips and fried eggs which were lovely but I think Scotty would have liked some turkey. But he was pleased with the present I gave him – it was a wallet (he uses lots of wallets for all his identities) and I really should have remembered that because it’s what I buy for him EVERY year, but hey-ho, we can’t remember everything can we?

But guess what? It turned out to be a lovely, lovely day, the best day I’ve ever had in my whole sorry life including my wedding day and the day I offed my husband and the day I got out of prison for offing him – this day beats them ALL (it doesn’t beat the days of my children but that’s different). And in what way, you might ask, was it such a good day? I’ll tell you —





It’s a proper house in proper NOWHERE, all you can see for miles around are fields and hills and moors and NO HOUSES which means NO PEOPLE which means I can start trying to go out alone without worrying I’ll make a tit of myself if I have a panic attack because there aren’t even any SHEEP to watch me, and NO EYES MEANS NO SPIES so I might soon be able to GO FOR WALKS ON MY OWN in the lovely countryside without fear of MEETING SOMEONE WHO WANTS TO TALK TO ME or PASSING SOMEONE WHO LOOKS AT ME.

Can you imagine it? I can’t, not fully, not yet, it’s too much of a miracle to actually HAVE what I’ve always dreamt of, a lovely little house of my own that I can live in for always, a garden I can plant trees in and know I’ll see them grow, acres and acres of beautifulness to look at every day AND NO ONE CAN EVER TAKE IT AWAY FROM ME, EVER. Is it too good to be true? – Scotty laughed when I asked him that and then he switched on my laptop and went on the internet and showed me pictures and I AM IN LOVE WITH IT, ALL OF IT. It’s beyond perfection, it’s THE idyllic ideal and my house has a NAME not a number like every other house I’ve ever lived in, it has a real NAME and it has a PORCH and it has a CONSERVATORY but not a new plastic conservatory, an old wooden one that runs the length of the back of the house, and it has cute little SASH WINDOWS that I want to KISS they are so gorgeous and it has EVERYTHING I EVER WANTED AND MORE and I can’t wait to go and see it.

I’ll NEVER be able to thank my lovely generous brother enough for what he’s given me. I was worried about the cost but he said he’s been paid VERY, VERY WELL INDEED for his last two jobs and all that time spent trying to get out of LIBYA was billed at TIME AND A HALF plus he got a BIG BONUS for infiltrating the NLA and doing what he did, so he ended up with more money than he could ever spend on himself (I WAS going to bring up the subject of CHILD SUPPORT but it was such a happy day I didn’t want to spoil it with an argument about him shirking his responsibilities so I left it for now – but I WILL bring it up before he leaves).

This is like a dream. Good things never happen to me, just one miserable thing after another, and NEVER has anything so wonderful come out of the blue like this.

I never thought I’d say this again but here goes –



Dotty Can Be A Horrible Hermit When She Has To Save The World


I bet you wouldn’t have dreamt in a zillion years that I have a little streak of fiendishness in me. Just a teensy one. It doesn’t come out often but given the right circumstances – wooosh, I could cut you down like a scythe through slush (I was going to say through shite but I’m trying to stop swearing again, Granny Euphemia popped in to see again me the other night – sorry, I didn’t tell you, did I, it was the night after THAT night).

My little streak of fiendishness came out an hour ago, on this PRETEND CHRISTMAS morning of ours, when Scotty asked for bacon INSTEAD OF Cumberland sausages for breakfast. Now I don’t mind bacon, there’s nothing wrong with it AS AN ACCOMPANIMENT TO CUMBERLAND SAUSAGES but on its own, nah, that’s like Ant without Dec, Torvill without Dean, Roy without Hayley, it’s just plain WRONG and if it ever happened all the butterflies in the world would FALL TO THE GROUND as their WINGS DROPPED OFF and tsunamis and hurricanes and lightning bolts and showers of meteorites would descend on the WORLD and we would all DIE. But he insisted on bacon sandwiches, JUST bacon, and I had to think of something to SAVE US ALL from dying VIOLENT and PAINFUL deaths.

So what I did is when Scotty was in the bathroom I opened the packet of bacon, separated each slice (there were 8 slices) and on each individual slice I rubbed BIG DOLLOPS of Hellman’s Garlic Mayonnaise, Bisto Best Rich & Roasted Chicken Gravy gravy granules, Colman’s Tartare Sauce, Hartley’s Strawberry Jam With No Bits, and Maxwell House coffee granules. I put some Cumberland sausages under the grill to cook then I put the frying pan on the hob and chucked the manky bacon in to fry. After 1 minute and 23 seconds Scotty came out and said ‘What’s that smell? It’s rotten.’ I told him it was his breakfast, JUST bacon like he wanted. He looked into the frying pan at all the sizzling gunk, then he looked at me, then he said, ‘I’ll JUST have Cumberland sausages then, if that’s all right with you.’

That was FINE with me. TICKETY-BOO.


OH SHITE —- I forgot to put the turkey and the goose in the oven.

Must dash.


Scotty Has Bricked Up My Front Door


He’s finished it. And he made a better job of it than I could. Very neat, and he painted it and did all the tidying up afterwards. He’s having a little sleep now so I’ve got time to do some blog.

I don’t think I told you much last time, did I, except about our shopping trip to the 24 hour Tesco. Okay well, Scotty arrived about 1.05 am the night before last (twelve taps on the kitchen window and a noise that’s supposed to sound like an owl but never does, bless him). He looked different from the last time I saw him, bigger, much BIGGER and when he took his coat off I saw his arm muscles and they were the BIGGEST ARM MUSCLES I’D EVER SEEN, like DEAD PUPPIES curled up under his skin, and his chest looked like a GIANT’S CHEST and I asked him if he’d been going to a gym (he doesn’t normally join things unless he’s on a job and in disguise) and he said no, it was the job before last that had required him to spend a long time lifting a lot of rocks and boulders in order to look inside caves to see if his target was there. He couldn’t tell me WHO the target was, he never can (outright), but he did a lot of nodding and winking towards my waste paper basket, saying ‘That BIN‘s a bit LADEN, Dotty’ and finally I got it. Ha! But OF COURSE they would have HAD to hire Scotty after all that time spent looking. I should have realised before now.

When we were eating our Cumberland sausage sandwiches (he ate eight of them) he said he was sorry he couldn’t make it back for Christmas, he would have been here, he really, really wanted to be but he was stuck in LIBYA trying to find a way back out again (another job done, isn’t he clever) and he couldn’t find a post box to send me my Christmas card (that explains his tan – I’ll admit I was A BIT worried at first when I saw him, I thought he’d joined a gym with a sunbed in it and become all fairy-fied and metro-sexual like a big muscly PONCE, not that big muscly ponces aren’t nice people or anything). And he looked so sad at missing Christmas that I had a GREAT IDEA (which led to the shopping trip to the 24 hour Tesco) – tomorrow I’m going to make a PRETEND CHRISTMAS DAY for Scotty. You should have seen him when I said we’re going to have a pretend Christmas – he had tears in eyes and I had to punch him one in the face to stop him blubbing, the big girl. We finally found all the decorations, (after a big hunt through my collections because I couldn’t remember where I’d put them), we’ve put the tree up, the turkey and the goose and everything are happily defrosting away and Scotty finished bricking up the front door (yes, I know I’ve already told you that, now I’m telling you again. So what?) He’s painted it white and at the bottom he’s painted a fireplace so it doesn’t look like a front door was ever there at all, it looks like a CHIMNEY BREAST! Not to be boastful or anything but Scotty is the BEST BIG BROTHER IN THE WORLD. Little Donkey is playing softly on the CD player, Scotty is snoring away on the sofa, the tree lights are twinkling, everything feels Christmassy AND IT’S SNOWING! Not bad for a pretend Christmas, eh?

I put the present I had bought for Scotty at Christmas under the pretend Christmas Christmas tree. I didn’t have to hunt for it, I knew exactly where it was and I went straight to it – it was in the place I always keep his Christmas present when Christmas is done with and he hasn’t turned up –  it was in the wooden bread bin that isn’t really a bread bin it’s SCOTTY’S PRESENT RECEPTACLE although it does still say BREAD BIN on the front. I can’t remember what’s in the present though so I’m just as excited to see what I got him as he is.

The present he brought me is a secret, I can’t tell you what it is, but after I shot Simon (see A Statement From The Accused) and the thieving police took all my guns away, Scotty knew just what I wanted and HE GOT ME IT. He’s also giving me his old sniper rifle sock, which has been used in some FAMOUS WAYS, because he just bought himself a new one, (a sock) state of the art – it has all the usual bells and whistles but it also has a BUILT-IN SATELLITE NAVIGATION SYSTEM which would have been useful for helping him out of LIBYA if he’d had it then. The sock, I mean, the new one not the old one, hang on yes the old one, that’s the one I mean, not the new one, he’s just bought that. Oh look, you’re confusing me now. I’m not talking about it any more.

 I’m going to dig out the Christmas Pudding that’s at the back of the kitchen cupboard. I haven’t seen it for a few years but I know it’ll be there, EVERYONE has a Christmas Pudding at the back of their kitchen cupboard.

Jingle bells, Batman smells, Robin’s on his way …….


LOOK!! I’m A Cartoon!!!


Look what Alan made. HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!


I’m A Cartoon!







Dotty And Scotty Go Shopping



I HAVE BEEN OUT. Out of the house. Outside, outdoors, out in the air, out in the snow, out, out, out, out, out. Scotty took me to the 24 hour Tesco. He wasn’t tired after all when he got here last night so he talked me into going shopping but he didn’t have to do much convincing because I always feel safe when Scotty takes me out and I felt particularly safe last night because of my new present (which I can’t tell you about but it fits in my handbag and the silencer fits in that little mobile phone pocket in the lining of my handbag). We set off at 3.30am (Scotty has a gorgeous brand new car – it’s posh) and there were NO OTHER SHOPPERS in the whole of the 24 hour Tesco except two different, separate women in their pyjamas (who does that? Tramps, that’s who) and three separate men, but Scotty got each of them in his sights and tracked them round the aisles while I waited in the Stationery aisle and they didn’t take long to get what they wanted and go.

I bought LOADS of stuff and some lovely, lovely stationery. Have I told you I have a thing about stationery? I LOVE IT ALL but especially fresh new black A5 NOTEBOOKS, soft bendy ones with metal spiralbound spines and a big elastic bit attached to the front cover so the pages don’t flop about if you don’t want them to. I love opening a new A5 NOTEBOOK and seeing the first blank page and knowing there are LOADS of blank pages for me to fill up with whatever shite I want. And I love getting to the last page and knowing I’ll soon be able to open a NEW ONE again. I LOVE MY A5 NOTEBOOKS. I bought a good few of them (32) because who knows when I’ll get to go to the 24 hour Tesco again.

I also bought TWENTY PACKETS OF CUMBERLAND SAUSAGES because I’d rather have Tesco Cumberland sausages than Asda’s (see Dotty Will Soon Be Done For) and like I said, who knows when I’ll get to go there again. I won’t bore you with my whole shopping list, bread, milk, McCain Chippy Chips etc etc because you probably buy similar things to me except if you’re American and you buy things like buttermilk and rye bread and chilli dogs and cornbread and grits and pot roasts and succotash (what the fuck is THAT?) — I have to tell you that in my recipe book collection I have spiralbound copies of both WHITE TRASH COOKING I and WHITE TRASH COOKING II so I know what you people eat and let me tell you IT IS VERY STRANGE and UNHEALTHY and when I’ve got some time I’m going to write to YOUR PRESIDENT MR BARACK OBAMA on your behalf and tell him you need PROPER NUTRITIOUS BRITISH FOOD in America, like Cumberland sausages and Yorkshire puddings and Jam Roly Poly and Chicken Dippers and Chicken Jalfrezi and haggis and Spotted Dick and McCain’s Chippy Chips (which are REAL CHIPS – THEY ARE NOT CRISPS) and sausage rolls and Melton Mowbray pork pies and HobNobs and onion bhajis and Scotch eggs and haslet and samosas and Spam and prawn crackers and Billy Bear sausage and Turkey Twizzlers and all sorts of PROPER NUTRITIOUS BRITISH FOOD that y’all (see what I did there?) should be eating.

Anyway, look what you made me do – I don’t have time to tell you any more about Scotty being here because he’s going to show me some of his photos and things and he’s going to tell me how to get Lottie back for what she did the other night (he was DISGUSTED by her behaviour and he’s going to order me a special trepanning kit from off the internet to replace my hand-drill that the police nicked off me) so I’ll have to tell you all about it next time. Okay?


EDIT EDIT EDIT  — Panic attack, panic attack — I did a spelling mistake that I’ve had to come back and edit. I HATE making spelling mistakes, HATE it.





Ssshhh, This Is A Secret



Oh my giddygoddyjesus, I’m as happy as a pig in shit. I can’t stop squealing, eeek, eeek, eeek, not Psycho-stabby eeek, eeek, eeek, not tonight anyway, I’m doing happy eeeks and I can’t stop. Do you know why?


and I didn’t find out until now because you know when you buy a box of plasters and you get those little round ones that no one uses? I use them. They’re the perfect size for sticking on your electronic things over suspect lights that are really hidden cameras. I’ve got one plaster on a strange light on my laptop (Lottie said it isn’t a camera, it’s a microphone, but who believes HER the spying bitch?), one on my telly, one on my digi-telly-box, one on my DVD recorder, one on my microwave, one on my digi alarm clock, two on my Wii thing, in fact anything that has a red light (or any coloured light, they do blue and green ones nowadays), has a little round plaster on it and this includes my telephone answering machine so I didn’t see the message Scotty left me this morning to say he’s coming (he leaves a coded message, usually a song or a nursery rhyme to outfox Interpol) but I didn’t know the little light was flashing until I accidentally knocked the whole phone off the wall with my hod-carrier a few minutes ago (I’m still on with bricking up the front door, I seem to have missed a few hours somewhere since yesterday, but it doesn’t matter now, Scotty will finish the job for me).

I have to go and start cooking him some sausages. He’ll be starving when he gets here.

OH! AND HE’S BRINGING ME A PRESENT!!!! I know because he sang Baa Baa black sheep, have you any wool, yes sir, yes sir, three bags full, one for the master and one for the dame, and one for the little dot who lives down the lane. And that’s me! The little dot is me. Yippeeee! haaaappy talkin talkin happy talk, talk about things you like tooooo doooooo. if you don’t have a dreeeeeam you’ve got to have a dreeeeeeam or how you gonna make a dream come troooooo.

eeek, eeeek, eeeeek.




And I’m so excited I forgot to say CUMBERLAND sausages, I just said sausages. Hahahahahahahahahaha I’m such a divvy bitch, aren’t I?



More Mushy Untitled Poemy Shite


I am from the far place of shadows and quiet desperation, hiding inside layers of old wordstacks that litter these grey and thistled fields.

The wind, an eerie falsetto, wails in accents lost to all but the half-living, calling me out into the thick and sorry night. But I don’t mind darkness any more — what use is light if I cannot see his smile?

Savage storms blend into my grief with ease, leaving no trace, yet oceans rise from a single tear on the swell of all those tomorrows, gaping voids, chasms of fear, with only the writing of me to show me I am real.

The sun is gone and what once was precious is now dust. From this dust I spin stanzas that ache with the burdens of the lost, and tie grief-laden raindrops into knots that lie here beside me, piled up.

Over the poem comes the sound of a drum, yet the beat means nothing, nothing at all, mere counterpoint to the creak of a worn soul buckling before the final snap. Never, never was a life so long and so damned.

I run and my foosteps are light, but the very fall of them makes the grass bleed and the flowers shrivel to skeletal stumps. Round and round the wordstacks I go, charting the course of a life once lived, now lost.

 I am from the far place of shadows and quiet desperation, no escape, no redemption, so I crawl back to hide within the confines of this poem. Where else is there to go?



Dotty In The Darkness (with lots and lots of swearing)


It was the scream that brought them. First the police, then the ambulance, then the fight, then the jab in my arse, then the hospital bed, then the stitches in the burr holes at the top of my forehead, then the FLAPPY-MOUTHED HEADSHRINKINGFUCKFACEDBASTARDINGDICKWAD WHO WOULDN’T KNOW A MENTAL PERSON IF THEY STABBED HIM IN THE THROAT WITH HIS OWN BOWTIE TO SHUT THE FUCKER UP, then home again this morning in time for my breakfast (a Cumberland sausage sandwich – I was bloody starving).

I’m bricking up the front door. At this minute, as I write, I’m waiting for the dust to settle in the bathroom. I know I said I didn’t want to knock down any more walls but this is unavoidable. That front door will never, ever open again. Not to anyone. They can all fuck off and leave me alone, I will NEVER NEVER NEVER speak to any of them again, why couldn’t she just keep her nose out of what doesn’t concern her? And who gave her the key? Not me, I give NOBODY a key to my house, how did she get it the THIEVING BITCH she must have swiped it because it’s my LOST KEY, the one I spent days and days looking for last year and I never found it and it’s worried me ever since but SHE had it all along.

She used my key to let herself in. She invaded my HOME and my PRIVACY and my DIGNITY and what will the police do about it? FUCK ALL, that’s what, they won’t arrest her, they won’t warn her, they won’t even TAKE MY FUCKING KEY OFF HER. She can come into my home whenever she wants, and that’s not right, where are MY RIGHTS, if I stole HER key and sneaked into HER house I’d be done for BREAKING AND ENTERING, but no, because I’m not RIGHT IN THE FUCKING HEAD anyone can come into MY house at ANY TIME OF THE DAY OR NIGHT. And how can ANYONE live like that? Tell me, I want to know. The nights are bad enough when you can’t sleep and every little noise is the sound of your head caving in on itself, or an axeman coming through the window, or a creature, or a monster, or your dear dead Daddy turned EVIL UNDEAD DADDY like he sometimes does and on top of that there’s now the possibility that SHE will be creeping through my rooms spying on me again.

THE POLICE ARE USELESS AND THICK. Can’t they see what she’s doing? Why are they conspiring with her? They won’t get my key back but they take away my little hand-drill, why? Why? It’s my own business what I do with it, I wasn’t hurting anyone was I? It’s A LITTLE FUCKING HAND-DRILL for christ’s sake, not a Black & Decker power drill, if I was trepanning with THAT I could see why they’d take it off me, but I wasn’t, was I, so basically the police have THIEVED my little hand-drill and I’m going to report them, I’m going to sue the bastards to get it back, they had NO RIGHT to take it.

She said she didn’t mean to scream. She said it was the shock that made her. If she hadn’t been spying on me in the first place she wouldn’t have got a shock, would she? And her fat fucking fool of a husband, what was he doing driving her here in the first place, why wasn’t he at home looking after their BRATS? And what did he THINK caused her to scream, did he think I was killing her or something, if he thought that why didn’t he come inside to HELP HER, eh, instead of SITTING IN HIS CAR to phone the police? The cowering fat fuck needs to grow a pair, she could have been dying for all he knew and what did he do, he WAITED OUTSIDE FOR THE POLICE TO COME. Why did she marry such a wimp? SOFT SOUTHERN BASTARD.

What is this compulsion she has to spy on me? What is it? I can’t understand it, most of the time what I am offends all her instincts and sensibilities and she can’t even bring herself to look at me. She said I wasn’t answering the phone but I didn’t HEAR the poxy phone, if I couldn’t HEAR it how could I ANSWER IT?


Forgiving her for this will never be an option. Not for this.


I asked her – What have I done that’s so bad? I don’t slap babies or disembowel rabbits. 


I asked her – Who have I ever hurt?


And I answered for her – NO ONE.


I told her – Don’t waste your guilt on me.


I told her – Everyone is marked by someone else.


I told her – I will never speak to you again.




The dust has settled. I’m going to get started on my door.




Dotty In The Doldrums (with very little swearing)


It’s funny how thinking about one thing always leads to thinking about another. Except when you’re comatose, no one knows what your thoughts do then and there are no memories to show you afterwards. My little foray into thinking got me thinking a bit more today, not much, just one question that kept repeating itself over and over and still won’t go away —

What is Dotty?

No answers come. There are no answers. To have answers you first need truths and all my truths went out of the window years ago. One truth that everyone on this planet thinks they are certain of is BEING BORN. I’ve never been certain of it. How do I know I was born? I only have meine Mami’s word for it and that’s not really proof, is it, it’s hearsay. I don’t remember ANYTHING about my alleged birth and you’d think I would seeing as it’s up there with DEATH in the list of major life events.

 Some of us trudging this planet might not even be homo sapiens, we might be another, different, cousin species of the first apes to stand up, homo doomigloomius, homo slittywrists, homo whythefuckamIevenhere. Because most of the time I don’t feel human and human behaviour confounds and baffles me and I think, Dotty they are just like you without the fuckupiness, but no, they’re NOT, they’re SO different that I can only conclude I’m right about not being completely human, or either I’M not completely human or THEY’RE not, it depends who and what the original namer of the species was –  if he was a happy chappy then THEY became humans, if it was a miserable fuck then We Who Are Mental did.

But if we ARE all one species then it all becomes truly tragic and hopeless (which is the way WE see it now – which, I suppose, is a TRUTH after all). If we are all one species then NORMAL people are merely posturing their way through life in the hope that others will believe they too are NORMAL. Scratch down a bit and We Who Are Mental  would see them for what they really are, reflections of ourselves, because it can’t work the other way round, scratch OUR surfaces and all you’d find is more of the same. And worse.

Which is why, one species or not, WE will always be the not-quite-human humans (if we are human at all), made to feel like an alien species, unborns, mental abominations, fucking loose-minded loonies who need locking away. But it isn’t US they really fear even though they think it is – it’s what they see in us, the dark reflection, it’s what they hear in us, their own echo, it’s what they know when they think of us – that IT lives somewhere within themselves too. And it truly terrifies them. As it should.





Meine Mami Und Me (with no swearing)


This morning I looked out of my window. Properly looked out, not a peek or a 2 second glance or a white van vigil, I did a proper stand-there-and-SEE look. And what I saw is SNOW. And it reminded me of meine Mami so I thought that seeing as I’m thinking about her today, I might as well tell you a bit about her.

Shortly after my dear dead Daddy died meine Mami upped sticks and left England for a little wander round the world. She’s still wandering and the last I heard she’s somewhere in India, living in a hut on a hill with a guru Yogi who millions of people worship from far and wide – well, good luck to her, I say, she’s living the youth she missed out on. She and dear dead Daddy married young, she was only 16 when she had my brother and she spent all of her young years looking after the three of us. She deserves some happiness and freedom, god knows I wish I had some too. The only thing that worries me is that when she decides to come back she’ll have changed from being meine Mami into being someone else, a stranger, a WOMAN.

Meine Mami was the best mutter in the world when we were young. In most ways. Some things weren’t so good, like the communication problem between her and the rest of England – she only spoke a smattering of English and we didn’t speak any German but she refused to teach us, getting angry when we tried, pointing at us and shouting ‘Englander! Englander! neine Deutsch in zis haus!’ I say she shouted at us, she didn’t really, it was just that her voice ranged about 600 decibels higher than the rest of the human race so it seemed as though she was shouting but she wasn’t – you knew about it when she did. The call for mealtimes shook the house ‘NOW ZAUZAGE. NOW ZAUERKRAUT. NOW HERR KIPLING’S EXZEEDINGLY GUT CAKEZ.’ Every day when she came to pick us up from school she’d stand at the school gates and call ‘SCOTT-EEE, DOTT-EEE, LOTT-EEE, HERE AM MUTTER, HERE AM MUTTER,‘ every day, every single sheissey day of my school years, louder and louder as I slunk further and further down in my seat. The whole school could hear her. She thought it was the best school in the world, all that hilarious laughter coming from it at the end of each day. She didn’t realise they were laughing at US. And I didn’t have the heart to tell her, or the words, come to that.

Going shopping with her was just as bad. We’d trot off down to the market every Saturday morning, me and Scotty and Lottie running in front, looking for a hiding place that we knew wasn’t there. We could never outrun her, her stride was equal to ten of our steps. Most of the stall-holders knew us so that was all right, they’d have her fruit and veg bagged up ready and waiting and all she had to do was pay. But if a new stall appeared her eyes would light up and she’d march over, ‘SCOTT-EE, DOTT-EE, LOTT-EE, FIZH UND CHIPZ,’ or ‘SOHN TROUZERZ, SCOTT-EE’ or ‘TROCHTER BUMNICKERZ, DOTT-EE UND LOTT-EE. RED VUNS, BLUE VUNS, PINK VUNS, VHITE VUNS,‘ and she’d hold up every pair of knickers in our size to select which she wanted to buy. And the stallholder would tell her the price, ‘Three quid, love.’ And off she went, ‘NEINE, NEINE. AM PAY ZWEI PUNDZ, ZWEI PUNDZ, DU ARSCHGEIGE, ZWEI PUNDZ,’ and she’d stand there, unmoving, till the stallholder took the two pounds just to make her go away.


No, I’m sorry, I can’t do this, I can’t write about her any more. I’d planned on writing all day, nice things about her, twee little stories of when Scotty, Lottie and me were young but I can’t remember any and now I’m wondering if there were any to remember in the first place because every single thing I think of is not good and I don’t know why. Seeing the snow outside this morning – I must have hallucinated  the rosy glow of nostalgia because I used to dread the snow coming – when it did she’d stand at the school gates calling for us while she threw snowballs at the school windows and at the other parents and at any teachers who dared to step outside to ask her to stop. She’d throw and call and laugh and throw some more and Scotty, Lotty and me would have to wait outside the empty school when everyone else had gone home because dear dead Daddy was working, but before he came to collect us he went down to the police station to pay her bail and drop her off home to get the tea on.


I’m going to have to stop now and have a little lie down.




DIY For She-Hermits



For All She-Hermits

DIY is shite, we all know that. It involves planning things and DOING things that we don’t want to do. It’s not just normal shite, it’s A LOAD OF SHITE, but sometimes it’s a necessary evil, sometimes it’s unavoidable and we just have to pull our fingers out and get on with it. So I’m going to tell you everything you need to know about DIY so you don’t have to worry about it ever again.

Men treat DIY as if it’s brain surgery. Just as a brain surgeon wears his scrubs to operate, DIY men get dressed up in boiler suits or overalls (or whatever they call those all-in-one things), thinking they look work-like and sexy, but really those boiler suits are just BIG BABY ROMPER SUITS that look like BIG BABY ROMPER SUITS and serve no purpose at all. Wear your jeans, you silly man, you’re not a baby. It’s not a good look.

DIY men have all sorts of tools and power tools and gadgets, but they don’t just have ONE of everything, they have a ROOM full of the stuff, usually a cellar or a shed that they won’t let you into, packed full of it all, millions of screwdrivers and hammers and awls and drills and drill bits and pliers and spirit levels and screws for wood, screws for metal, screws for bricks (INFIDELS) and chisels and saws and grinders and welders and sanders and planes and loads and loads and loads of other bits of metal shite that are all POINTLESS and STUPID. And they make boards to DISPLAY THEIR TOOLS ON THE WALLS. What’s that all about, eh? Rembrandt the Spanner? And they won’t use THE WRONG TOOL to get a job done quickly, they have to use the exact one, the two and one eighth red posi-drive screwdriver that clicks when you turn it and JUST FITS inside the screw, and when they’ve done the job that screwdriver has to be put back in JUST THE RIGHT PLACE or they moan and moan and moan like the big whiney-arses they are. WELL BOLLOCKS TO ALL OF THAT. Every single DIY job can be done without keeping B&Q and Toolfix in business. To do a DIY job to perfection a She-Hermit doesn’t need all that fuckwit-stuff, you only need a few tools and a few all-purpose things that I’m going to list now.


1 massive straight-headed screwdriver

1 stiletto shoe (strong heel, metal tip)

1 palette knife

1 carving knife

1 fish slice

1 nail file

1 pair of eyebrow tweezers

1 big, big bag of nails

miscellaneous household & garden things


And that’s it. Not even a drawerful, but you don’t need anything else and I’m going to demonstrate this by telling you about a little DIY project that I completed last year.



Begin by taking your floor up in the kitchen. Lift your lino then take the floorboards up by prising at them with your massive straight-headed screwdriver. Be careful you don’t rip your lino or snap your floorboards, you’ll need to put them back down again when you’ve finished.

Get your garden spade and start digging out your Air-Raid Shelter. Use your pots and pans for the soil and when they’re full empty them out of your kitchen window. As you empty more and more pots and pans a soil-wall will grow in front of your kitchen window providing you with a natural block against nosey neighbours peering in. Dig down deep, the deeper the better, and you’ll tap into the natural geothermal heat that the centre of the earth provides for free, saving money on future heating bills when you spend time in your Air-Raid Shelter.

When you’ve dug out your big hole you need to line it with something. Get a lot of wood (send your Shopping Person out in the middle of the night to nick a big fence) and get your stiletto and your big bag of nails. Nail all the wood together to form walls and a floor. You’ll need to water-proof the wood or it’ll rot at some point – A DIY man would tell you that you need to tank your Air-Raid Shelter with something non-permeable and spend loads of money doing so, but in the same way as you line a pond by sealing it with puddled clay, you can water-proof your Air-Raid Shelter with a mixture of solidified Cumberland sausage fat and the dust from around your house (leave the dust for as long as it takes for 3 inch piles to form and when you need it for water-proofing your Air-Raid Shelter you can just peel it off in lumps). Spread the mixture all over the wooden walls and floor to seal it permanently.

Now comes the fun bit – choosing the wallpaper. White is good because it brightens the place up but it can be a bit sterile so I went for a lovely background shade of Apple White, (which is white but with a little hint of apple green), and in the foreground is a repeating picture of a little blue bird on a branch, just right for when you have to spend a lot of time down there and you can’t see any nature. Use your carving knife for slicing the strips of wallpaper to the right size. Stick it straight onto the walls and it’ll stick to the Cumberland sausage fat and dust mixture, no wallpaper paste required. Use your fish slice for smoothing it into place and getting the bubbles out. (You can paint the walls if you’d rather – your massive screwdriver will easily open the paint tin, doubles up as a stirring stick and you can jam it into the head of a paintbrush if you’ve lost the original handle). Ba-da-boom, one beautifully decorated Air-Raid Shelter ready to furnish as you please but remember to put in a food shelf (use nails and stiletto), and a bed (bring one down from upstairs).

When you put the floorboards back be sure to make a door in them (with your carving knife to cut out the shape, nails, stiletto). Don’t forget to cut a bit out of your lino for access.


When I can be bothered I’m going to tell you about how I made the wasted space in the insides of my walls into extra storage space for my collections by taking out the cavity wall insulation. You need some little children for this, to squeeze into the narrow spaces – I used THE BERSERKERS but any will do. Also you might need to borrow two tools from a man – an angle grinder and some bolt-cutters. These are to cut through the metal butterfly ties that join the inner and outer walls together. Remember though, big electric power tools are dangerous so give the angle grinder to the eldest child and the bolt-cutters to the youngest – Prissy is the eldest BERSERKER (she’s 7) so she had the angle grinder, Cissy’s only 5 so she had the bolt-cutters. If you’re American and live in a wooden house you won’t have to borrow these tools, in fact you won’t have to use the insides of your walls at all, you can just get your Shopping Person to nick a load of fences and make some more outside walls for your house, leaving as much of a gap as you want.


So you see, She-Hermits, DIY isn’t brain surgery, it isn’t complicated and you don’t need all the tools and shit that men pretend you need. It’s a PIECE OF PISS and anyone can do it.

Happy DIYing!!


Adventures In The Airing Cupboard


Last night I was driven to hide in the airing cupboard by certain people who shall not be named (but you know who you are, don’t you?). They all scared me silly – niceness is disconcerting at the best of times but when it’s forced on a hermit willy-nilly from all directions, well, it was either the airing cupboard or total collapse and a trip to Ward 13. BUT – (and don’t all you Perpetrators of Niceness misinterpret what I’m going to say next as forgiveness or anything) – my time in the airing cupboard turned out to be one of the best times of my life and one of the worst. I’ve only just come out (well, not exactly this minute – I went for a wee and a wash and a Cumberland sausage sandwich or four before I switched on my laptop).

It started off like it usually does. I gathered what I needed (pills, brick, water, blanket, some Cumberland sausages, and a couple of little drams of Laudanum to help me sleep) and went in. My airing cupboard is larger than the average airing cupboard, in fact it used to be one of my spare bedrooms but after my children left home I stored all my new towels, sheets, duvet sets, etc in there (I like to collect nice towels and bedding) so you could say the room decided for itself that it needed a change (and why shouldn’t it?). It’s bigger than a normal airing cupboard but it isn’t Narnia so I can only fit so much in there, and the space I have to make my little bed in IS little, probably a lot smaller than the space in an Uncollector’s airing cupboard. I made my little bed on the bit of floor left in the middle of the stacks. Cosy and warm. I began the shaping of my new brick and spent about an hour or two on that (handy that I was in the airing cupboard, my towels were right there ready to mop up the blood – actually, wait a minute, I just need to check I didn’t use my white ones).

Okay, they were blue.

When I’d finished with my brick I felt round for my torch but it wasn’t there. I know NOW that I forgot it, but I didn’t know it then and all sorts of things started going through my head, terrible things, horrible things about monsters and demons hiding in the stacks, about giant woodlice and moths crawling out to get me, about the airing cupboard being Narnia after all and Queen Jadis had nicked my torch and was going to come back and turn me into a giant snowball. At that I panicked, full blown panic. I thrashed my arms about a bit. And my legs. I think it was my right big toe that clipped the stack of eiderdowns and started the TOPPLE (I’ve put that in big and bold because it was a BIG MEGA TOPPLE). Everything came down on me, all of it, even the stacks that were wedged to the ceiling, I was underneath the whole lot. I panicked some more. I was stuck, I couldn’t get out. I got ready to die and I just knew that when I was found I would be nothing but a dried husk of a Dotty and everything in the airing cupboard would have soaked up all my bodily fluids and CSI Yorkshire would have some nice new towels and posh duvet sets after they’d extracted me out of them and they’d given them a good wash (I hoped they’d use Persil Non-Bio because I’m allergic to other washing powders). I wondered who’d come for me at the FINAL SECOND, Death, or one of his minions, Death’s mini-me, – and if Death really IS a Hoodie I’d be even more afraid than I already was because if he was anything like the Hoodies in my area he wouldn’t just carry a sickle he’d have a five inch shank and a semi-automatic and he’d call me nasty names and say ‘innit’ a lot and then he’d mug me for my phone before he took me away to Deathland (but my phone was in the drawer where I’d put it so phew! he wouldn’t get that). As all this was going through my head I started to  feel dizzy and see stars and I knew it was TIME, the life was seeping out of me, goodbye World you were a shitty place but you had some nice scenery, I’d really miss the sun coming up over Ilkley Moor at dawn on a clear winter’s morn.

Darkness fell and I don’t know what happened then because I was dead (well, obviously I wasn’t DEAD dead, but you know what I mean, I thought I was). I woke up and it was still dark so naturally I assumed I’d been transported out of the airing cupboard to Hell (in case you’re wondering, it wasn’t red, or hot, and there were no flames or screaming wraiths). My head hurt like fuck. I wondered if I’d been right all along and Death HAD mugged me for my phone and while he was at it had given me a bash round the head with his rock-hard boney fist. I put my hand out in front of me to see if it was still there. I wiggled my fingers. I couldn’t see them but what I did see, what slowly took shape right there in front of me, was the most wondrous, heart-lifting thing ever, the best thing I could ever, ever, ever have seen, and if I live until my dying day I shall never forget the sight of my Granny Euphemia standing where my left thumb should have been, her hair still curly and white, her lovely toothless face still crumpled like a squished-up peach, her favourite torn slippers still flapping at the front, her woolly brown dress, her pink cardigan, and her kitchen apron with a big picture of Michelangelo’s David on it. I couldn’t believe it, I thought I was hallucinating that I’d been taken to Heaven not Hell because my Granny Euphemia was the loveliest, kindest, goodest person that ever lived and died and there was no way she would have ended up in Hell. Euphemia Agnes Headbanger nee de la O’McDuff, – our ancestors were French Calvinists, Irish potato faminists, and Scottish barbarians (ginger Picts) –  married to my Granda, Angus McHeadbanger – (dear dead Daddy dropped the Mc when he moved to England but I’ll tell you about that another time when I can think of him without keening).

‘Is that you, Dotty, hen?’ Granny Euphemia said.

Tears were pouring down my face and I was so choked with happiness I could hardly speak. But I did. ‘Yes, Granny Euphemia. It’s me,’ I said.

‘My, my, you’ve got awfy fat, lassie. Whit have you been eating?’

‘Cumberland sausages. They’re my favourite.’

‘Sausages? Do you ken whit they put in them?’

‘They’re no worse than haggis, Granny.’

‘Am I fat, hen? Am I? Tell me now, is there one spare inch of flesh on me? I’ve been eating haggis for nigh on eighty years and I’ve still got the figure that caught your Grandfaither.’

‘But you’ve been dead for twenty years, you’re bound to lose weight.’

‘Have I? Deid, am I? Ach, well, it comes tae us all in the end. Come here and gie me a cuddle, hen.’

I still couldn’t move. I tried to but one arm and both my legs were trapped. ‘I can’t, I’m stuck. Will you help me, please, Granny Euphemia?’

‘No. If you werenae so fat you’d have sprung up out of there in no time. You need tae stop eating yon sausages.’

‘For fuck’s sake, Granny Euphemia, just shift that bag of towels and I’ll be able to move my foot to kick my way out.’

‘No I will not. Ach, whit happened tae you, Dotty, hen? You were such a nice wee lassie. I should’ve gone tae see wee Lottie instead, she widnae speak tae her Granny like that.’

Typical fucking Lottie, I can’t even have a reunion with my long-dead Granny without her butting in on it. ‘I’m sorry for swearing. Please help me up, Granny Euphemia.’

She peered at me lying there, stuck. It seemed like ages before she spoke again. ‘I’ll help you up if you dae something for me,’ she said. ‘Promise me you’ll change your ways. Swearing and eating sausages, they have tae stop. And have you seen the state of your hoose, you dirty wee pig? It’s bogging. Clean it and keep cleaning it every day. I cannae believe you’ve let it get tae that. Where dae you keep your scrubbing brush and carbolic?’

‘Under the sink.’

‘Right, I’m away tae make a start then.’

And poof, she went, disappeared, gone. I lay there thinking about what she’d said. She was right, I had to make some changes, I do swear too much and the house could do with a bit of a tidy. Cutting out Cumberland sausages though – I’d have to see about that one, I’d give it a try, for Granny Euphemia. I hadn’t promised her I’d give them up though, she didn’t give me chance to before she fucked off to find the scrubbing brush and soap, so I thought that if I can’t manage without them at least I’m not going back on my word to her.


I got out of the airing cupboard at 3.03pm this afternoon. I don’t know how, it’s all a bit of a haze after Granny Euphemia disappeared, but if I remember rightly my lovely Ian Somerhalder came and lifted everything off me and stacked it all up neatly again. As I’ve already said, I had a wash and a wee and a pile of Cumberland sausage sandwiches as soon as I came out. And I’m going to have some MORE Cumberland sausage sandwiches now for my tea because you know what, Granny Euphemia is nowhere to be seen, she didn’t TOUCH the scrubbing brush or the soap and everything in the house is just as I left it last night. So, Granny Euphemia, even though seeing you made me the happiest Dotty in the world, you can go and sit and swivel on the scrubbing brush you old slacker, I bet you didn’t even look for it, I bet you just pissed off down the pub to get sozzled, didn’t you, so if it’s all right for you to say one thing and do another it’s all right for me too. I WILL stop swearing like I said I would, and I’ll clean my house BY MYSELF (seeing as you haven’t done ANYTHING at all) but as for giving up my Cumberland sausages, Hell will freeze over before that happens.

Right, I’m off to make my tea before it gets any later. I’m starving.


A Few Oggerys For Hermits


Bloggery – (Dah-Dah!!)

Sloggery – (housework)

Cloggery – (what happens to my sinks when I don’t do any sloggery)

Foggery – (of the brain)

Coggery (the process when I try to think)

Joggery – (on the spot)

Soggery – (wet, teary pillowcases)

Toggery – (the duvet I wear all day)

Moggery – (hatred of other people’s cats)

Hoggery – (Cumberland Sausages)

Smoggery – (when I’m cooking Cumberland sausages)

Hoggery # 2 – (collecting! and keeping!)

Boggery – (this is what happens when my loo gets cloggery if I’ve neglected my sloggery)




A Dotty Question

Do you really like me or are you just clicking?

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