Shitey Sunday Picture Post – Help Me Choose A New Pair Of Shoes

 

I need some new shoes. I haven’t bought any for over three years (what’s the point?) but I’m sick of the ones I’ve got so I’ve decided to get some more. My problem is I didn’t realise how the fashions have changed since I contracted Hermititis and People Phobia – there are some FUCKING BEAUTIFUL shoes around and I WANT THEM ALL. But I can’t afford them all so I’ve narrowed the selection down to my absolute favourites, sensible shoes for walking the moors (when I get out of this house again), for shopping, and for general everyday wear.

Help me choose which to buy, please – trying to make a decision for myself only results in multiple panic attacks.

 

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WHEELIE SHOES

I LOVE the wheelie shoes so much I couldn’t make up my mind between these

and these.

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WHIRLY SHOES

On second thoughts I could probably make a pair of

these for myself by melting and remoulding a section

of my washing machine.

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APOCALYPSE SHOES

Since humans began to wear shoes we’ve lost  the ability to run vast distances in our bare feet.

Our feet have become SOFT and WUSSIFIED, pampered plates of tenderised meat that will be

an EXCRUTIATINGLY PAINFUL HINDRANCE to us when the APOCALYPSE comes and shoes

no longer exist. I like these because they’ll prepare us for that time.

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SHOES WITHOUT HEELS SHOES

Hmm, perhaps not. I have enough trouble staying upright as it is.

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BALLOONY SPORTS SHOES

 Now I do like these, very much. I could BOUNCE

my way round 24 hour Tesco!!

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KILLER HEELS

A good file would sharpen the ends of these heels to a fine point

and I’d have SHOE WEAPONS.

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PLASTICINE SHOES

Nah, I can make these as long as I don’t get the strips of plasticine

mixed up in a brown lump (why does it always go BROWN?)

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MANGLED FOOT SHOES

??????

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and some more MANGLED FOOT SHOES

Would I have to have my toes chopped off to be

able to walk in these? I NEED my toes.

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SATYR SHOES

My favourites. I don’t need to explain why, they’re

FUCKING LOVELY.

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MAGGOTY SHOES

 Comfortable and cushiony.

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FOOD SHOES

No, you can’t eat it, silly. Not that you’d want to,

they’ve been a bit mean with the gravy.

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Mmm, tasty.

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Where’s the custard?

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So now you see my problem – they’re all so GORGEOUS.

And they’d all suit me.

Which ones should I get?

 

 

Dismal Dotty

 

Sorry I didn’t do a post yesterday, I was counting my hair.

147245 – twenty three fewer hairs than last month.

I’m going bald.

And I’m scared of WIGS.

I have a WIG PHOBIA.

WIGS freak me out completely.

I don’t want to wear a WIG.

I don’t want to.

 

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).

 

 

THE OXFORD FLOP

for the young, educated llama who knows about

lonely clouds and daffodils.

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THE POM-POM

for that special occasion

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THE BUFFALO

I AM a buffalo. I AM.

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THE CATWALK

London. Paris. Milan. New York.

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

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THE DISCO BOFF

Yes sir, I can boogey

all night looooooong.

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THE SID VICIOUS

It’s a nice day for a WHITE WEDDING

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THE GAWKY GEEK

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

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THE SUPREME

Because I’m worth it.

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SHORT BACK AND SIDES

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

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THE TOUSLED DONKEY

eeee-aww, eeee-aww, eeee-aww

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Put It Back On, You Pasty Twat (The British See The Sun)

 

Today has been a nice Spring day with sunshine and a lovely warm breeze that I got a little feel of when I stood at the back door to have a fag. It seemed so nice I thought I’d look out of the window for a while so I took a few beta-blockers and a big swig of laudanum and I went upstairs to my bedroom and shifted a few things out of the way and I looked out of the window. I didn’t see any white vans or any suspiciously clean cars so that was okay, but what I did see was FLESH – horrible white flabby flesh fluttering in the breeze.

What is it about a bit of sunshine that makes people strip off to WALK TO THE SHOP? Is it just a British thing or does the whole world do it? It’s NASTY. This is some of what I don’t like —

Men in vest tops (wife-beater tops) and/or shorts

HAIRY men in vest tops and/or shorts

Women in vest tops/boob tubes/stringy-strappy tops

HAIRY women in vest tops/boob tubes/stringy-strappy tops

Old men in SHORT SHORTS – why, oh why do old men wear skimpy short shorts? Did they buy them in 1971 and that’s the only pair they’ve ever owned? THEY MAKE MY EYES FEEL SICK.

Topless men – Moobs, beer guts, pigeon chests. NO NO NO — DON’T DO IT.

I like the sun. I like to take my shirt off. I like to watch my belly go red. I like to feel the breeze through my moob hair. Grunt. Where’s my can of Stella, bitch?

What’s wrong with wearing a nice cool blouse or shirt? What’s wrong with wearing a t-shirt WITH SLEEVES THAT COVER YOUR ARMPITS?

Where’s your DIGNITY gone, British people? Cover it up. Please.

 

Morning Has Broken, So Has My Toaster

 

Little Emily stayed with me last night. We talked for hours about all sorts of family things, our fathers, our mothers, our brothers, our sister(s), and we talked about me being a she-hermit and what we could do to stop me being a she-hermit but we couldn’t come up with anything feasible that didn’t involve her punching me a lot. She did have one idea, that I should accompany her on her walks on the moors, which sounds lovely, I miss going for walks on the moors, but to get to the moors we’d have to go through the village and PEOPLE are in the village and PEOPLE won’t just mind their own fucking business and let others get on with theirs, they want to say HELLO. Why? Trot on, nosey fuckers. And if they say HELLO and you can’t say it back to them they give you evil stares and you KNOW they’ll be talking about you for weeks, ‘oooh, you know that snooty she-hermit, Dotty, she walked right past me the other day and completely blanked me ‘ and then you’re STUCK IN THE HOUSE AGAIN because how can you face them all when you know they’re talking about you?

We’ve decided I need an invisibility cloak like Harry Potter’s. Actually, we’ve decided the invisibility cloak I need IS Harry Potter’s, his old one, and we thought maybe now he’s living in The Woman In Black he might give me it if I ask him nicely- if you don’t ask you don’t get. I’ll do the letter when I’ve finished writing this post – and little Emily said she’ll help with the wording because saying DEAR HARRY POTTER, GIVE ME YOUR INVISIBILTY CLOAK SO I CAN GO OUT OR I’LL STICK YOUR MAGIC BROOMSTICK UP YOUR MAGIC ARSE, LOVE DOTTY XXX might be a bit too forceful for the dainty sensibilities of a Magician-turned-Actor and he might throw my letter away and with it my chance of getting the invisibility cloak. She said I have to be polite and grovelling and fawning, so basically I have to be a toadying, sycophantic creep – which begs the question, do I want the invisibility cloak badly enough to demean myself in words in order to get something from a BOY-MAN?

Errmmm, let me think —

 

NO. I FUCKING WELL DO NOT

 

because I’ve just had an idea, so I don’t have to.

 

 

 

I’m going to make my own burkha.

 

 

Oh yes, and I forgot to say – my toaster is shagged, little Emily tried to dig her slice of bread out with her knife and blew it up. Luckily she didn’t blow up with it or I’d be left here on my own again.

 

 

 

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. 

 

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