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


The police called round to my house again last night.

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

Two policemen came to see me.

1  Sergeant Sherlock

2  PC Plod

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

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

Eh? What noise?

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

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

‘Clown? Clown who?’

CLOWN, you clown.’


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



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

‘Is Mr Fire still here?’

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

‘When did he leave?’

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

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

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

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

‘No. I killed him.’

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

‘Where is Mr Fire?’

‘Do you feel each other’s pain?’


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

‘Are you threatening us?’

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

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

‘Yes, he lives in Canada.’

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

‘Yes he was.’

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

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

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


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

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

‘Yep, that’s me, guv.’

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






Leave a comment


  1. clownonfire

     /  March 12, 2012

    Oh Dotty.
    I’m so sorry.
    You got off easy, I have to say.
    I woke up my daughter with our singing.
    And I’m only starting to walk again.
    And I’ll need a bit of make-up around the eyes.
    And my frogs have been eaten.
    And my son calls my daughter Daddy now, after what she’s done to me.

    • Dear clown,
      Don’t worry, you’ll recover. I like your daughter, she sounds like a fine, strong little belter. 🙂
      Love Dotty xxx
      P.S. I forgot – thank you!!!! Because I might have a new boyfriend. Sergeant Sherlock took quite a shine to my Cumberland sausage sandwiches.

  2. Great writing, so funny. 😀

  3. Dorothy

     /  March 12, 2012

    YAY!!! I’m going to tell my psychiatrist to take me off all my pills and I’ll replace them with Cumberland sausages (dances a little jig***) and if he doesn’t like that idea I can show him the one about the brick instead.
    P.S……your police sound nicer than mine. They swore at me the last time I was spoken to.

    • Dear Dorothy,
      Just swear at them first and it disarms them if they know you can swear better than they can. It gives them an inferiority complex.
      Love Dotty xxx

  4. clownonfire

     /  March 12, 2012

    Reblogged this on A Clown On Fire and commented:
    Singing with me will get you arrested.
    Don’t say Dotty didn’t warn you.

  5. I have learned from experience to never get snotty with the police, but it is funny when you do.

  6. Hello, Dotty, dear,

    I think you controlled yourself admirably, and the Cumberland sausage diversion was genius on your part. Maybe now the neighbors will leave your walls the Fuck alone with their BANG BANG BANG. You win honey — good for you!

    Love, from your very proud friend,


  7. Please continue keeping them occupied for me xo

  8. I do believe I’d like to invite you to be a guest speaker at the next group therapy session at the psych hospital where I work. The little children I counsel could afford to learn a few things from you for future reference. Do you charge a speaker’s fee? Or might I pay you in Cumberland sausages?

    • Dear Southern Sea Muse,
      OOooooooOO. Are you a real American psychiatrist or a real American therapist? If so, would you like to be part of an exclusive collection?
      Love Dotty xxx
      P.S. There’s nothing I would like more than to give a speech to your little children but I can’t because I have Hermititis and People Phobia and I CAN’T GO OUT OF MY HOUSE. I could write them a letter for which I will charge them NOTHING because I’m nice and kind like that, but if you’d like to donate 178 Cumberland sausages to my freezer out of the goodness of your heart, that would please me.

      • Fiddlestix, I was hoping the prospect of sharing your valuable wisdom with needy children might lure you out and cure you. Then again, perhaps you prefer your diagnoses over the plague of normalcy…vive la difference! My fee for this initial therapy session will be 200 Cumberland sausages, payable in 4 installments. 🙂

      • Dear Southern Sea Muse,
        No, no, no, no, no. You don’t get it, do you. YOU HAVE TO PAY ME. There will never ever come a time when I pay for therapy, it will never happen because I KNOW IT ALL already, I just don’t know how to put it into practice.
        Love Dotty xxx
        P.S. What is normal? Who is normal?

  9. There is no normal. It is an oxymoron, since just when it appears one is perched at the top of the bell-shaped curve, only then can you see you’re all alone – everyone else is scattered somewhere else on the continuum hither or yon. Skip the sausages…I have one slot left for a pro bono case. You’re on…I’ll lure you out yet. Skip the fine print and sign here:

  10. What the hell is a ‘bum-fluffed face’ anyway?

    • Dear pmao,

      Bum-fluff is that fuzzy baby hair teenage boys get before they’re man enough to grow a beard.

      Love Dotty xxx


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