Blah Blah Blah – Boring Shite In The Boring Mental Mind Of A BORED MENTAL In Her Boring Kitchen


How does a She-Hermit run away from home when she CAN’T GET OUT OF THE FUCKING HOUSE? How? HOW?

Big men in small cars. What’s that all about?



I wish, I wish I

was a fish, a fishy-fish

in a fishy dish.



Who invented madness? Does it go with chips?

Jack LaLanne’s Power Juicer.

How much is too much?



Yorkshire Gravy, A rich savoury gravy inspired by a taste of the region.

That’s what it says on my tub of Yorkshire Gravy.


What is the meaning of BLEEP?



Should the green mung beans in my green mung bean jar be brown?


Why hasn’t someone invented a SILENT FRIDGE?



My tablecloth is dark blue with pale blue and white flowers. It’s nice. I remember getting it. It was discontinued from BHS and I got it for ONE OF OUR ENGLISH POUNDS when it should have been a lot more, I can’t remember how much more but it was A LOT more. Fifteen times more. Or twenty. I’ll have to give it a wash.



Why have I started having panic attacks if I’m in the same room as LETTUCE?




FUCK – A LAWNMOWER. Why? A bit of sunshine and out comes all the FUCKING NOISY GARDEN ELECTRICAL SHITE.




NIGELLA LAWSON – How To Eat (well DUH Nigella!!!) – Nigella Bites (perv) – How To Be A Domestic Goddess (LIES, ALL LIES – IT DOESN’T WORK).




Dotty Has Been Asleep But Now She Awakens…


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

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



Hi Di Hi Campers!

I don’t know why I said Hi Di Hi Campers, it’s been going through my head since I got up. Sue Pollard, go away.

I’ve been piddling around on the new blog this morning, making a new front page and doing a post that gives the BLOG STATS of the blog.

‘What?’ I hear you say. ‘But BLOG STATS are secret, never to be seen by eyes that don’t belong to the blog owner!! What trick is this? Why is Dotty displaying her UNMENTIONABLES to all and sundry? Is she mental?’

No, I’m not mental. Well, yes I AM mental, but not in that way. I’m being pro-active in getting YOU to be pro-active – if the stats are a load of shite it means you won’t be getting any clicks to your blog. Simple. And if you can SEE that the stats are a load of shite you might want to help get them up – wheeeeeeeeee – ding-a-ling!

I need a little swig of laudanum.




Shitey Sunday Picture Post – Slimey D. Scameron, The Sea Pig Prime Minister

Slimey D. Scameron is one of the most hated

Prime Ministers Britain has ever known.

This is the story of his life.




Slimey D. Scameron was neglected from a very early age.

Left out in the cold in all weathers, not a bonnet to  keep his

tentacles warm, he knew that life would always be a

terrible struggle for him.




Waiting for his dinner in the dining hall of his boarding school,

Slimey D. Scameron dreaded the bullying taunts of his classmates.

Every single miserable day, when his dinner arrived and he started

to tuck in to the lovely grub, the name-calling began —

‘Scameron sea-pig the soup-sucker!’

Fat Scameron the sausage snaffler!

‘Gluttony hoggy food-pig!

and every single miserable day he left the dining hall in tears .

Poor Slimey D. Scameron.




Ignored and despised by scholars and professors,

Slimey D. Scameron spent his student years alone.

No wild, druggy parties for Slimey D. Scameron! No floozies!

No flights of fancy! No fun!

Just loneliness and misery and a longing for the day

when he could shoot them all.




He didn’t shoot the college up! Slimey D. Scameron found a better

way to get his own back on EVERYONE.

He became the PRIME MINISTER.




 And this is Slimey D. Scameron today,

walking companion of The Queen,


But at night, in bed, he still cries and cries

and sobs and sobs because with all his status


Poor, poor Slimey D. Scameron.




If You’ve Forgotten To Press Follow On The New Blog, Please Do It


If you’ve posted your blog links but forgotten to press the Follow button on the new blog – please will you do it? I know I sound like I’m moaning, and yes, I am moaning, but for a reason – people tend to gravitate towards blogs with more followers and the whole point of this new one is to attract more links from a whole shedload of other blogs we don’t know yet.

Thank you. 🙂



Thank You – The New Blog Is On A Little Roll, Yee Ha!


A big thank you to those of you who’ve followed and posted your links on the new blog. So far the category with the most views is Humour/Satire, closely followed by British (YAY!) and Art/Photography.

This afternoon my internet fucked up for about an hour. I had a panic attack – what will I DO if I can’t get online? How will I survive? Talking about survival I almost died a little while ago – I swallowed a HAIR, I don’t know how the fuck I did it – well I do know, it got into my GLASS OF DIET COKE and I didn’t see it and then I swallowed it – and it WRAPPED AROUND MY TONSILS and nearly strangled them and while I was hacking and coughing trying to get it out I was also gipping and gagging because it was a fucking dirty HAIR in my throat. BLEEEUUUUAAARRGGH!


Anyway, who hasn’t been to the new blog yet?

Go and see it. Go on. You can add your link.



Dotty’s New Blog – The Big Blog Collection


I’ve made a new blog. This is why I haven’t even LOOKED at my emails to see how many post notifications have backed up, and why I haven’t visited anyone’s blog or done a post for today. I’ve been doing the new one.

I decided I need a new collection of blogs. A BIG one. So this new blog (if anyone goes there) is going to be mainly a blog catalogue where you can add your blog to two of the categories (if you’re British you can add it to the British one too, so you get three categories).

What got me thinking about it was the fact that WordPress have fucked about with the Topics and it’s hard to find new blogs now – I used to like browsing through the Topics but I can’t browse through the Reader in the same way, it’s shite to be honest, so I thought, right, if I can’t go to the blogs, I’ll try and get them to come to ME.

I’ll also be doing a Feature Post every now and again, called Dotty’s Choice – a post about a blog I love or like. No bribes (except HUGE MONETARY ONES will be considered).  But I won’t be posting there every day, this is my blog, and I won’t be commenting on the lists either when (if) the blog gets going, I don’t want it to be TOO time consuming.

It’s not quite finished yet, I’ve still to make a proper front page and piss around with a few other things, but the categories are  done and they’re ready and waiting for people to add their blog links to them.

So who wants to be the first follower?


Oops, it’d help if I did a link!!




A Song Sung To Dotty On Her Mammy’s Knee, Ally Bally Bee

I’m posting this because I don’t have a post for today – I’ve been doing something else. And I’m behind with visiting blogs again, so I’M VERY VERY SORRY.


Dotty Does It Again – Dibble Defeated


I have a secret to tell you. I wasn’t allowed to say anything before but now I can BECAUSE NO ONE CAN DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT.

The secret is that after the horrendous way Sergeant Sherlock treated me (REMEMBER HIM?), the Big Chief Inspector and I had an agreement – when a complaint is made about me he sends his underlings round to my house to take a statement, all official-like, then, before the statement can be filed, he makes it go away and he makes the complaint go away and if he HAS to he makes the complainants go away too. In return, I don’t tell the newspapers about his druggy Sergeant who tried to take advantage of a poor, vulnerable, mentally-different She-Hermit (ME!).

The agreement worked well when everything went to plan, but in a situation like the one that happened yesterday afternoon when everything DIDN’T go to plan, it can all go tits up.

It started with the underling Dibbles being late. It’s a stipulation of our agreement that I NEVER have to wait for them, EVER, and the resulting panic attacks left me unable to answer the door when the fuckers DID decide to turn up. So what did they do? They BROKE THE DOOR DOWN, picked me up off the floor and arrested me, then they radioed for the Black Maria, threw me inside it and took me to the station where they PUT ME IN A CELL AND LEFT ME THERE TO ROT. All I could do was have panic attack after panic attack and vomit my innards into their nasty metal toilet. A doctor came after fuck knows how long and calmed me down enough for me to ask to see the Big Chief Inspector who didn’t come downstairs to my cell until about three months later.


I now have COMPLETE IMMUNITY FROM THE POLICE AND INSTANT DOUBLE DIBBLE PROTECTION IF I EVER FEEL I’M BEING GOT AT. Like a diplomat. Like the Queen. Like Prince William. Like Prince Harry. Like Princess Kathy. Like Prince Charles (who we should never almost forget because he IS the first in line).

I also received a profuse and exorbitant and extremely satisfying apology from the Big Chief Inspector.

I was also awarded a very nice, very shiny QUEEN’S POLICE MEDAL which I spotted in the display cabinet in the Big Chief Inspector’s office – it was originally awarded to the Big Chief Inspector for saving the lives of twenty-four people in something or other, I don’t know what, I wasn’t really listening until he said I deserved it more than he did. Very true.

I was also given the promise (a written promise, naturally) of transport to and from where ever I want to go when I’m ready and able to leave my house – which means that when I’m cured of Hermititis and People Phobia, I’ll NEVER HAVE TO PAY FOR A TAXI FROM TESCO EVER AGAIN.






How Shite Can Poemy Shite Get?


Oy, you.

Look at ME.

Look at me,

read me, read me.

Keep reading.

I’m a bad poem.

I’m a really bad poem

about nothing,

fuck all.


What did you expect?

We can’t all be Infernos,

Paradisos or Purgatorios

written by genius poets –

some of us were written by dotty twats,

some of us weren’t blessed with nice words

like sin or salvation,

and some of us wouldn’t know the meaning of allegory

if it bit us on the arse

with all the savagery of a starving dog seeking sustenance

because it hasn’t eaten in three days

because it couldn’t move

because a bigger dog mauled its right ear

and tried to chew its legs off.


I’m a bad, bad poem.

I don’t rhyme, I don’t scan

and I don’t really want to –

scanning is for cissies.

I’m too shallow for metaphors or similes

but I wouldn’t mind the odd yellow smiley or two

to brighten up my page.






Keep reading me, reader,

you never know what might happen (nothing)

before The End.


That wasn’t The End, by the way.

I’m still here, I’m still going,

on and on –

I can’t finish until I mention

the words SOUL and DEPTHS

and BETWIXT and ‘ERE and


I forget the others,

I forget my own banalities, my own boringness,

and all the wordy shite I really should learn

if I could be arsed.

But I can’t be arsed, and not being arsed

makes me not only a bad poem

but a bad, LAZY poem,

a bad, lazy poem about nothing,

a bad lazy poem that couldn’t hold a meaning if I had twelve hands to hold it in,

but I don’t have twelve hands

because poems don’t have hands,

we don’t have arms or legs either,

or a head,

or an arse;

we don’t fuck, we don’t breed, we don’t suckle our spawn.

All we can be is what we are.


Now is The End.

The End is nigh.

Death beckons and soon I will die.

I did a rhyme

in time.


The throes of death fling me here, there and everywhere,

but my formatting is shite so you’ll have to visualise it.


Now I’m dead. The End.


Oh, wait, hang on,

here’s a nice word with magic powers –


if you’ll come back and read me again.




Dottygeddon – The Aftermath


Well, I suppose you know the routine by now. This time it went –


Fire Brigade


jags in the arse


They tried to keep me in (Section blah-blah-fuckitty-fuck) and this time Scotty wasn’t there to shag the FEMALE HEADSHRINKER into compliance so for a while it looked like you wouldn’t be seeing me again for however long UNTIL I remembered I had my mobile phone in my pocket and on my mobile phone are the photos Scotty took when he was in the toilet cubicle with her so I let her have a little look at them and she signed me out, no problem. Before you judge me and accuse me of BLACKMAIL, no I’m not a BLACKMAILER, I’m a SHE-HERMIT and She-Hermits don’t DO hospital stays.


I’m vague about what went on before they came and carted me off (Lottie filled me in later), but the bits I do remember include –


 me standing at my bedroom window frisbeeing my cds at the gasmen (I hope I didn’t use my Doo Wop!!!!)

me lighting a little bonfire in my kitchen – I don’t know who built the bonfire, it might have been me.

something smashy happening with my lump hammer, I don’t know what but when I got home my cooker was missing.

And that’s all I remember until I woke up.


Bits of me are stitched, other bits are bruised and I’ve been wondering if the bruises were caused by little Emily giving me a good kicking but Branwell swears she was at home the other night so it couldn’t have been her. The bit of me with the most stitches is my forehead, six, seven or eight (it’s hard to tell the exact amount without a mirror) in a continuous line so it’s definitely a brick slice, not the trepanning. It doesn’t hurt though, the painkillers she sent me home with are GOOD.


On the POSITIVE SIDE (yes, I’m still being positive) –

1 – all my windows are intact

2 – Lottie said the surgeons managed to extract the CD from the digger-driver’s neck AND IT ISN’T A DOO WOP CD. It’s a bootleg copy of Bat Out Of Hell II which I’m not that bothered about because I bought the proper one a couple of years ago. It did cost me a fiver at the time though but I don’t suppose the NHS will reimburse me even though I bet the surgeons took so long to get it out because they didn’t want to snap it or affect its playability.

3 – No one else was injured apart from me and the digger-driver. Lottie disagrees, she includes the boss of the gasmen in the count but I wouldn’t class being scalped as being INJURED, would you? He had a bit of receeding going on at the front anyway. If I could go out I’d nip out the front and have a little look for it, it’d make a nice trophy, I could hang it next to Jolyon, my mounted boar’s head. Lottie’s being a bitch again, she won’t go and find it for me.

4 – I had a good, long sleep.


So that’s me. I’m not hiding ANYTHING from you, I’m being as truthful and honest as whatever is the most truthful and honest thing in the world, which might be a newborn baby but it might not because who knows what newborn babies aren’t telling us? I’m expecting a visit from Dibble later so I’m off to make some nice Cumberlaudanum sausage sandwiches in case I need to feed them.





Today I am practising POSITIVITY and SELF-CONTROL.

I am controlling myself and I am being positive.





I am.



I woke up in a bad mood, not a seething, sawing limbs off slowly bad mood (not my own limbs, some other fucker’s), a RAVING bad mood, a MURDEROUS bad mood, a DOTTYGEDDON bad mood.


BUT I have decided to fight it and instead of going off on one I will be a composed ME, a calm ME.







I did a positive thought to negate some negative thoughts —



at least I don’t have claustrophobia.


See, I can do it. I CAN get through this bad mood day without being arrested.


And I have a new trick to use when I am in session with my brick. I have a MANTRA to use and now I am going to use it –


My brick is my best friend.

My brick is my best friend.

My brick is my best friend.

My brick is my best friend.

My brick is my best friend.

Little Emily is not my best friend, she’s a FUCKING TRAITOROUS BITCH.

My brick is my best friend.

My brick is my best friend.

My brick is my best friend.

My brick is my best friend.


My brick is my best friend.

My brick






My br







Shitey Sunday Picture Post – A Photoshop Thing


I’ve been pissing around with Photoshop, trying to get to know it and I’ve made this picture. It’s bigger than this – click it if you want and it’ll take you to the big one.





Dieting Is Shite And I’m Not Doing It Any More And It Doesn’t Work Anyway


I haven’t been on the laptop to do today’s post until now because after my breakfast I COULDN’T FUCKING MOVE because of all the food I had to eat. And I COULDN’T FUCKING MOVE last night either to do the comments – that’s two nights in a row I haven’t answered comments because of THESE STUPID FUCKING DIETS. And I’ve put on FOUR POUNDS in a day and a half. And I can’t afford all the food for the twelve diets I was on – THEY’RE A FUCKING RIP-OFF – so I’m going back to eating what I normally eat, I’ll just cut it in half. But not today, today I’m not eating ANYTHING ELSE.



I Did It! I Survived The Night And I’m Still On My Eight Diets!


I got to sleep with a double-double dose of laudanum and a few glasses of absinthe and a handful of beta-blockers that I pretended were red Smarties. I was still starving when I woke up this morning but I had a good breakfast of –

MEAT (the Atkins Diet)

PORRIDGE (the calorie-counting Diet) 

a BERRY (the Paleo Diet. Did cavemen eat Strawberry Cornettos?)


some MUESLI (the Boring Fuckers Healthy Eating Diet)

some SPECIAL K (the Special K 2 weeks Diet)

and my CUMBERLAND SAUSAGE SANDWICHES (Dotty’s Fucking Fat Arse Diet). 

I was still a bit peckish so I sneaked in an item from the allowed foods on the Toast Diet list and I made a bit of toast (the Toast Diet).


It’s SO HARD, this dieting shite. How do all these skinny celebs manage to keep it up for always, especially when they have all that money to buy nice things to eat? They must be FUCKING MENTAL.



I’m Fucking Starving


I could eat my legs. Raw.

Sorry I haven’t done the comments tonight, my fingers are wasting away and if I type too much they’ll snap off.

I’m going to bed. Hungry. Like the wolf (not Kumblant, the  disloyal little fucker).

I hope I don’t eat my bedroom.


Dotty Diet Day One


It’s Day One of my new diet and I’m reporting in, like I said I would. I’m doing BRILLIANTLY so far. I’ve just had my breakfast, Cumberland sausage sandwiches, and there’s no fatty shite left in the house because I ate it all last night – well, I do live in Yorkshire and I am three quarters Scottish, what did you expect me to do, throw it away and waste all that money? As if.

Here’s what I’ll be having for my dinner –



some other leafy shite

tomatoes (I like baby plums)

beetroot (not pickled – bleaarggh!)


a good squirt of extra-light mayonnaise


I wanted to grate some Double Gloucester over it all but I can’t because THIS PERSON put me off it for life. I’m going to miss my cheesey treat but the thought of eating it makes me feel SICK now. Thank you very much.


Salad requires a lot of EATING doesn’t it? On average a gobful of mixed salad takes around 32 chews whereas a big bite of Cumberland sausage sandwich takes 15 until it’s masticated enough to swallow without choking yourself. I don’t think I’ve invented this theory, I think it was discovered by an Edwardian who used it as the philosophical basis of THE 32 CHEWS DIET, a diet that says you can eat ANYTHING as long as you chew it 32 times. So now I’m on TWO diets, DOTTY’S FUCKING FAT ARSE DIET and THE 32 CHEWS DIET. Brownie points to ME!

There are other diets I’m considering. That one where you eat lots of meat – THE GREAT PILE OF MEAT ON YOUR PLATE DIET, I can’t remember its real name, it might begin with D. Or the caveman diet (again, I can’t remember the name, fucking STIG OF THE DUMP DIET or something), where all you eat is what cavemen would have eaten, and that’s all good and well because they must have had a healthy diet or we all wouldn’t be here now but what I want to know is if we have to eat what cavemen ate, is this BEFORE or AFTER fire was invented? It makes a big difference – I don’t mind the odd raw Cumberland sausage if I’m too desperate to wait for them to cook, but RAW RATS and RAW INSECTS with a side-dish of BERRIES don’t really appeal to me that much. And what about FAT? During summertime cavemen ate ALL THE FAT THEY COULD GET and stored it on their arses so that in the depths of winter they had a warm cushion between their arses and the cold stone floors of their caves. I might be a She-Hermit, but I don’t live in a cave. Hmmmm.


So that’s four diets I’m on if THE STIG OF THE DUMP DIET is intended for AFTER FIRE WAS INVENTED, if it isn’t then I’m only on three. I’m off to look for others – common sense dictates that the more diets I’m on, the more fat I’ll lose. I’ll be swinging my skinny arse round the house in no time.


Enjoy your dinner.


The Hidden Horrific Horror Of Hermititis


There are some things in this world a woman should never have to see and her own fat arse is one of them. I saw mine. In a mirror, two mirrors to be precise – not because my arse NEEDS two mirrors to be seen (it’s fat but not THAT fat) but because with two mirrors you can do that looking-back thing to see what everyone else sees and I wanted to see what my new combat pants look like (the internet sent them) so I rang Lottie to tell her to bring round the mirrors.

Eight panic attacks (severe enough for two heart attack scares) later and I realised I should have just stayed curious.

Listen to me, She-Hermits – Hermititis is BAD FOR THE ARSE. Very bad. If you’re in the early stages and you’re still able to go out of the house, GET IT SORTED OUT NOW before it gets any worse or your arse will spread like a fucking HUGE blancmange and after a few years it will SUFFOCATE YOU IN YOUR SLEEP. I’m about a year away from having to have scaffolding erected to hold the fucker up when I walk.

And that’s what’s done it, not WALKING. I used to walk all over the place, I loved walking, but now I can only walk round the house so many times before I’m LITERALLY bouncing off the walls with boredom – walk, walk, walk, walk, BOING, walk, walk, walk, walk, BOING, walk, walk, walk, walk, BOING.

So I’ve made a decision (HALLELUJAH!) and what I’ve decided is that from tomorrow I’m putting my arse ON A DIET.

This is my diet (below)



No more McCain’s Chippy Chips

No more Hobnobs (when I’ve scranned the two packets in the cupboard)

No more Double Gloucester cheese (which is FUCKING LOVELY when grated over a plateful of McCains’s Chippy Chips and thick Bisto gravy (beefy).

No more Goodfella’s Thin And Crispy Twelve Cheeses Pizza (AHA! Betcha didn’t expect me to eat Italian cuisine – I do have SOME secrets I don’t tell you all (y’all)).


I think that’s it.


As for exercise, I haven’t been able to do my own invention exercise (which you can find HERE – CLICK IT CLICK IT) because I can’t hear the Jaws music properly so I can’t tell when Jaws is circling close to my table. So I looked up arse exercises on the internet and found some that I’ll have a go at, but one I WON’T BE DOING is the one where you have to get down on all fours and cock your leg like a dog pissing on a lamp post. I might have a fat arse but I still have my DIGNITY.


I’ll let you know how it goes.



Carl Orff – And The Best Video I’ve Ever, Ever Seen


I’ve absolutely LOVED this for years and years and I’ve just found it on lovely YouTube. It’s from Musica Poetica, Schulwerk: Musik Fur Kinder.

And the video – SHEER GENIUS.




I’ve just found this version – it’s the one I like best so I’m posting both.


Dotty’s First Novel – Buy It – Buy It – Buy It Everybody!


Not yet though. I haven’t finished writing it but when I do, and when it’s been published by Penguin or Random House or whoever bids the highest amount, you’ll be able to buy it and tell all your friends and family and followers to buy it too.

Here’s an exclusive preview of what I’ve written so far —




It’s BRILLIANT, isn’t it? The Man Booker Prize will be MINE – eat your heart out, hoity-toity literary fuckers, here comes DOTTY HEADBANGER to blow you out of the wordy-water with the best novel ever written in the history of novel-writing.

It’s about THE… something. Or someone. A woman or a man. Or it could be a child – yes, a child would work, people like children. Something bad happens to the child, then something worse happens, then something miraculous happens which brings about a change for the better, then the lesson is learnt and the child lives happily ever after.

Shite, I’ve just told you the ending – I can’t do the child now, I’ve spoilt it by blabbling.

THE man…? THE woman…? THE dog…? THE antelope…? THE house…?

Oh yes, I need to put in a PLOT WITH SOME ACTION IN IT, don’t I? And some CHARACTERISATION. And DIALOGUE (that’s easy, it’s just ‘he said, she said’ – note to self – don’t use anything but ‘said’), and a few nicely layered, grand THEMES – life, death, love, hate, etc etc. A VOICE and some LANGUAGE have to go in too, some ORIGINALITY, some PACE, RHYTHM and FLOW. And an UNFORGETTABLE FUCKING WHAMMY OF AN ENDING.

Hey, it’s like a big pot of soup, isn’t it? In go the carrots, onions, leeks, lentils, flavouring and all the rest of the shite you throw in your soup.

Okay, what else? SUSPENSE – I’ve already got that, you want to know what happens next, don’t you? Because do you see what I did there with my OPENING WORD, the one I carefully and painstakingly selected after weeks of thought? I chose this particular OPENING WORD because it immediately pulls you, the Reader, into the fictive dream I’ve created for you, it transports you to THE WORLD INSIDE MY NOVEL. There’s no AUTHOR INTRUSION, no FLOWERY PROSE, there’s just PURE DRAMATIC FICTION right from the start. BOSH.




I’m working on my SECOND WORD right now but I don’t know whether or not I’ll post it here in case some fucker plagiarises me. You can’t be too careful, authors are thieves and liars by nature (not me!), and I wouldn’t trust an author as far as I could throw it. Hmmm. What to do? I don’t know, I’ll decide when I’ve written my SECOND WORD and let you know, but be prepared, you’ll probably have to wait until the book is launched to read it WHEN YOU HAVE BOUGHT A COPY (hardback).


The Egg Is Nowhere To Be Found But I’ve Never Reblogged My Own Stuff (Or Anyone Else’s)…


… and I’m not going to start now even though I have nothing to say. Wordy block is back, big time, but it’s not MY fault, it’s little Emily’s fault and Kumblant’s fault and whatever they are plotting’s fault and the gasmen’s fault and Lottie’s fault and Photoshop’s fault and my Cumberland sausages’ fault and the egg that rolled out of the egg carton under the cabinet’s fault (I CAN’T FIND THE FUCKING EGG, WHERE IS IT? AN EGG CAN’T JUST DISAPPEAR, CAN IT?) and the grey day’s fault and something else’s fault that I can’t remember right now but whatever it is it’s to blame.

And why is there only ONE programme on telly for the whole of the week? Fucking FOOTBALL. Not just British football, but foreign EUROPEAN football. AND THEY’VE TAKEN THE SOAPS OFF TO SHOW IT. Even if you don’t like the soaps you have to agree with the fact that soaps are the bread and butter of the telly companies, they attract regular loyal viewers, but when it comes to showing SHITEY SPORT they treat their regular loyal viewers with disdain and contempt. And there’s no excuse for it now everything is on digital tellY, they could each get their own FREEVIEW SPORTS CHANNEL to show all the shitey sport they want to show. If you want to see how much fucking football is on telly this week go and look at my guide. FUCKING WANKING TELLY BASTARDS.

Will the egg hatch under my kitchen cabinet? I’m scared of chickens, they give me the creeps if I see them in any form other than just roasted.

And why is it so cold?













Shitey Sunday Picture Post – Opheliama (An Idyll)

Don’t worry, Kumblant didn’t drown.

And after I told him the baby llamas weren’t to be used to make a sandwich

for his Cumberland sausage, he was fine about them being there and he left

them alone until the photo had been taken.



A Dotty Ode To Love


O Sausage of Cumberland,

Thou art beauty in pork,

thy fizzle, sizzle on my grill

when I prick thee

with my fork.


O how I love thee,

thy juicy, meaty blob;

thine chewy lumps taste heavenly

when I shove thee

in my gob.


If I were handed

the golden sun above,

I would decline, O Sausage of Cumberland,

and ask for thee, 

my one and only love.


A Funny Video


Well, it made me laugh.



A Boring Dotty Update On Boring Dotty


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


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

1.  I didn’t see Venus, I saw clouds.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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


Dotty Has Written A Song – It’s Called ‘The Fucking Fiddly Folk Song’


I’ve written a folk song this morning, just the words, you’ll have to make up the tune as you go along.


The Fucking Fiddly Folk Song



With a hey-ho, fiddly fuck,

Bales of straw and a cripply duck,

Cider and blackbirds and bells on my knees,

The sun in the morning, the wind through the trees.


Verse 1

My farmboy is fit and he loves me,

And I love him, I love him.

He’s fit and he’s strong, he can carry a horse,

In one arm and a pig in the other.

Next year we shall wed and lie in a bed,

Until that day-o,

fuckitty day-o,

We lie in the birdshit up high in the loft,

Fiddling tunes in the hay-o.



With a hey-ho, fiddly fuck,

Bales of straw and a cripply duck

Cider and blackbirds and bells on my knees,

The sun in the morning, the wind through the trees.


Verse 2

Skip to the loo, what the fuck shall I do?

I met a wild rover with curly black hair,

His eyes are like marbles, 

They shine and they roll,

And when I’ve had my beer-o,

His voice is like silk in my ear-hole,

Ear-hole, ear-hole,

And when he fiddles, o fiddly-fuck,

his pecs are to die for.

I love him, I love him,

I love him-o.



With a hey-ho, fiddly fuck,

Bales of straw and a cripply duck,

Cider and blackbirds and bells on my knees,

The sun in the morning, the wind through the trees.


Verse 3

My two fit men, one here, one there,

I’m just a young milkmaid, I’m lovely,

I’m plump like a hen, I’m soft like a sheep,

O who shall I choose, O who shall I keep?

Fuck it, why should I have to choose?


I’ll keep them both-o,

my farmboy, my rover,

o fiddly-fuck,

in the hay and the muck,

both-o, both-o,

I love them both-o.



With a hey-ho, fiddly fuck,

Bales of straw and a cripply duck,

Cider and blackbirds and bells on my knees,

The sun in the morning, the wind through the trees.


Repeat Chorus



Wanky Wednesday One Word Post








Venus Has A Little Trot Across The Sun


This is your last chance to see Venus dawdling across the Sun. We’ll all be dead the next time she comes by.





Jubilee, Jubilee, Jubilee


For the Jubilee I’ve made a Photoshop picture, the second one I’ve ever made, and the first one I’ve done without any help. It’s crap but I like it and Kumblant loves it – he got to wear the diamonds. And he was allowed to eat the corgis when we’d finished.


Shitey Sunday Picture Post – Llamas And Their Hairstyles


This Shitey Sunday Picture Post is all about LLAMAS AND THEIR HAIRSTYLES. Llama hair is a big money-raking part of the animal beauty industry along with pig plastic surgery (liposuction, tummy tucks, nose jobs), nail care for birds of prey (French polishing is very popular at the moment), and skincare for elephants and other dry animals, (Note: Non of the products are tested on humans. They swear they’re not).




for the young, educated llama who knows about

lonely clouds and daffodils.




for that special occasion




I AM a buffalo. I AM.




London. Paris. Milan. New York.

(Please can I have a biscuit? Please? Just one?)




Yes sir, I can boogey

all night looooooong.




It’s a nice day for a WHITE WEDDING




It’s not fair. I try to fit in, but they don’t want me.




Because I’m worth it.




Hello. My name’s Andrew and I like cricket.




eeee-aww, eeee-aww, eeee-aww



A Dotty Analysis Of Hypomania 1:1


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




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

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

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

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

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


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

Hyporainia — Dancing in the rain.

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

HypotrainiaCHOO CHOO!

Hypodrainia — absolutely fucking knackered.



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


One More (Patrick Street – Irish Folk Band)

I can’t help it. I think I’m in a hypomusic phase – it’ll wear off soon.

I went to a Patrick Street concert years ago when they played here. Our concert hall is only little so it was brilliant – great view of the stage, aisle seat for me (so I could escape if I had to), lovely acoustics – it was FANTASTIC. The thing I remember most about it was hearing Music For A Found Harmonium for the first time and watching little JACKIE DALY sitting on the stage playing it on his accordion. I bought the cd after the concert – until last year when the ear thingy started I played this tune almost every day.






Dotty The Annoying Git Is Here Again…


… sorry! But I haven’t really been away, I’ve been doing my new pages and getting lost in YouTube (thank you, Missus Tribble and John the Aussie).

This is my new page, it’s up at the top of the blog – there’s a drop down list of the other pages when you hover over the writing.


Dotty’s Doo-Wop Collection


I’ll be adding more. It’s an acquired taste, a lot of people don’t like doo-wop – INFIDELS! – but if you listen to it, it’ll grow on you and you’ll LOVE IT.

The reason I was able to look for music was the gas board were QUIET when they were putting the pipes in – it was a bendy yellow pipe on a big reel, not the huge metal pipe I thought it would be – I thought they’d have to lift it with a big machine.

I’m sorry I haven’t visited anyone today either. I was so pleased I could listen to music – it’s probably because what I’ve been listening to is in mono on a harsh and tinny laptop, not a smooth stereo sound. It’s been ages since I’ve played any.

I won’t bother you again today – I’ve never posted four times in one day before so I hope you’ll let me off this time.

Oh, and I wasn’t gassed!


ha ha, gas board fuckers – you tried your best but you didn’t get ME!


Dotty Defies You Not To Be Cheered Up By Frankie


Don’t worry, I’m not going to post 50 videos a day, I’ll make some pages to put the videos on and then you don’t have to watch them – but you HAVE to watch this – I was elated to find original footage of this and a couple of other songs of theirs and I’m going to put them on my page. And Dion & the Belmonts, The Chantels, The Cleftones and loads and loads of others – ALL MY FAVOURITES!!

Absolutely brilliant.

My First Video In A Post!!!

This is one of my favourite songs.


Fingers crossed.

Will Some Kind Soul Help Dotty, Please?


The noisy fuckers are here. They were here at half seven this morning, but they haven’t turned the gas off yet. In case it gets too bad and I can’t write a post today I thought I’d ask some things I’ve been wanting to know how to do for ages so if anyone knows the answers I’ll be very grateful if you’ll tell me (I know some of you do because I see you do what I want to know how to do). Please.

1.  How do you put a Youtube video in a post?

2.  How do you put a Youtube video in a reply?

3.  How do you make a pingback thingy? Sometimes I do a link to someone’s blog and it makes a pingback, other times it doesn’t.

Thank you.


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