A Funny Video

 

Well, it made me laugh.

 

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Dead Husband Ex-Simon Garottey (Part 2)

 

This blogging lark is quite cathartic, isn’t it? Writing about the shite I can’t talk to anyone else about is having a good effect on me, it’s making me reflect and it’s changing how I feel about certain things. For example, remorse.

Before I say anything else, I’m going to copy and paste a paragraph from the post I wrote on Valentine’s Day to save you the bother of having to click on a link (which you wouldn’t do anyway, so really I’m just making you read the bit I want you to read). This is the paragraph —

 

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.

 

So now you’ve read that bit you know I was acquitted of all charges by the lovely Judge Hackisnackersoff. But what I DIDN’T mention in that paragraph is the question she asked me JUST BEFORE she acquitted me – she said

“Are you remorseful?”

And I said ‘Yes, Judge Hackisnackersoff, I AM remorseful.’

And she believed me – because I was TELLING THE TRUTH.

Yes, I WAS remorseful about killing ex-Simon. Here’s a list of why —

 

1 — My nice curtains got ruined with blood stains and I had to throw them away.

2 — My nice cushion covers got ruined with blood stains and I had to throw them away (but luckily my sofa didn’t, it’s a leather oxblood Chesterfield and all it needed was a wash and a wipe).

3 — My good carpet got ruined with blood stains and I haven’t been able to afford to replace it.

4 — Dibble took all my guns away – (I’m okay now, Scotty gave me his old sniper rifle and another little present and I’m building an impressive collection of other protective weapons — oh, that reminds me, WHY HAVE YOU STOPPED DONATING TO MY CANNON FUND?)

5 — Errmm. Hmmm. Nope, I can’t remember the fifth reason.

 

So yes, I WAS full of remorse for what I did, how could I not be, if I didn’t feel remorse I’d be a heartless psychopath, something I’ve always wished to be because heartless psychopaths don’t give two diddly fucks about ANYTHING. But what I’ve now realised is the remorse I was full of was the WRONG REMORSE, I was remorseful for the WRONG REASONS, I was remorseful about the WRONG THINGS. My reasons were selfish, ALL ABOUT ME, not about ex-Simon who should have been taken into account because he was the one who got killed.

So I’ve thought about it a lot and I’ve revised my reasons for being remorseful to include ex-Simon. Here’s a list of THE NEW REASONS WHY I AM REMORSEFUL

 

1 — Cleaning. NO ONE cleaned the house like ex-Simon did, NO ONE, and it’s starting to get manky again – Scotty and Lottie obviously didn’t do it properly last week, the clatty fuckers.

2 — The way ex-Simon died. If I hadn’t acted on impulse, if I’d just taken a few minutes to stop and think about it, I could have been more INVENTIVE IN MY METHOD of killing him – there are SO many other ways I could have done it that would have been less BASIC and CRUDE than shooting him in the face, cleverer, more thoughtful ways. Yes, I think this is what I’m MOST remorseful about. Poor ex-Simon, even though he deserved to die (as Judge Hackisnackersoff said) I’m now thinking he deserved a BETTER way to die.

Hang on, was that PITY FOR EX-SIMON I just felt?

No, never mind, it’s gone, I don’t know what it was.

Perhaps it WAS pity. That’s a new one, if it was.

 

So there you have it, writing my blog is changing me for the better.

Oh, if you want to know what happened  on the day I killed him you can read the statement I gave to Dibble by clicking on this link —

A Statement From The Accused

 

 

A Very Lovely Picture And A Joke / 2nd Attempt At The Sodding Thing

Oy, you smug baaastard, I'm talking to you!

 

Sorry about that, I’m not trying to be a spammy sod in your email but I’ve had to do it again – I had it all lined up nicely in the centre, and I had two big headers but then it all fucked up and the joke and my nice headings disappeared. Fucking shaggy pictures.

 

 

Here’s the joke.

 

A pair of zombie twins start fighting at the dinner table.

‘Stop it!’ shouts Mummy zombie.

‘He started it!’

‘No, he started it – he wouldn’t let me dip my bread in his neck.’

 

I Cooked And Baked And Blew Up Balloons But There Won’t Be A Party, It Was All For Nothing, No One Is Coming

 

It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to.

Does anyone want a Milk Chocolate Cumberland Sausage bun? I have 24. I made two batches this morning. And I made two batches of Dark Chocolate Cumberland Sausage buns too (80% cocoa solids), in case little Emily and Lottie felt they were too old for Milk Chocolate Cumberland Sausage buns. They’re nice, I put Cadbury’s Chocolate Buttons on top.

I also made a Cumberland Sausage trifle (like a traditional sponge trifle but without the sponge – I used Cumberland sausages instead). And I made a cake that DOESN’T have Cumberland sausages in it, it’s an Opium & Laudanum Sandwich cake that I made for Branwell because when little Emily told him about the party he got excited and said he wanted to come, and that’s what I’m going to eat all by myself, I’m going to scran the whole fucking lot of it, my Opium & Laudanum Sandwich cake with FRESH CREAM AND JAM.

Tonight, Matthew, I’m going to be THOMAS DE QUINCEY.

They all said they wanted to come. I expected Lottie to decline but she surprised me and said yes.

I surprised myself by even considering having a jolly-up, by even allowing the idea inside my head when Judith put it there. What type of She-Hermit has a PARTY?

A RECOVERING type of She-Hermit has a party and that’s what I went to bed thinking, maybe this is the first step on the road to recovery for me, maybe this party is the start of getting my life back again.

I should have known though, shouldn’t I? Fool, fool, fool. Fucking stupid simple gullible fucking fool.

 

You’re too late for a bun. I smashed them up with my brick during my shaping session. You can lick the chocolate buttercream out of my hair if you want to though, before it dries up.

 

I don’t know what to do with all these balloons. They’ll hurt my ears if I pop them. I can’t open the back door to set them free in case little Emily and Branwell are still outside, waiting for a chance to get in. She’s mad at me, foaming. Raging.

 

The phone won’t shut up either. Ring fucking ring fucking ring fucking ring, as soon as it stops it starts again, RING RING RING RING RING RING RING  

 

LEAVE ME ALONE, LOTTIE

LEAVE ME ALONE

LEAVE ME ALONE LEAVE ME ALONE LEAVE ME ALONE LEAVE ME ALONE LEAVE ME ALONE LEAVE ME ALONE LEAVE ME ALONE LEAVE ME ALONE

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I can’t stop crying

but it’s MY party

and I’ll cry if I want to.

 

 

I Made A New Page For You While I’m Waiting For The Boilerman

 

It’s for you all (y’all) to add your links to your blogs and so you can find other good blogs to read.

SPREAD THE LOVE, MY CHICKADEES, far across the wide, wide, WordPress.

Add your own blog to DOTTY’S PET BLOGS.

And go and visit each other.

But always come back to me.

Because I love you.

You are ALL beautiful.

And sparkly.

No exceptions.

Except one.

 

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.’

‘Surname?’

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.

‘Fire’

‘Where?’

‘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?’

‘What?’

‘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?’

‘What?’

‘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.

 

 

 

 

CUMBERLAND SAUSAGES TO THE RESCUE YET AGAIN? IS THERE ANY  FEAT OF SUPER-HERO-NESS THEY’RE NOT CAPABLE OF? NO, NOTHING CAN STOP THEM.

Dotty And Scotty Go Shopping

 

RAISE THE FLAGS. SOUND THE HORNS. FIRE THE CANNONS.

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.

 

 

 

 

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