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?













♬ ♪ Just Another Shitey Sunday ♬ ♪


Yes, yes, yes, I know – I’ve written a post about boring shitey Sundays before – but so what, I’m doing another one and if no one likes it they’ll just have to lump it because I can’t think of anything else to write. All I can do is give you a mental update on the soaps if you want (I watched them all this afternoon) –


EMMERDALE – Zak Dingle is going mental (he gets sectioned next week)

CORONATION STREET – Tyrone’s girlfriend, Kirsty, is going mental (she belted him round the face with a ladle)

EASTENDERS – Ben Mitchell IS mental (and ugly – I liked the other, cuter Ben, he would have been sweetly evil)



Will that do for a post? I don’t see why it shouldn’t, what I’ve written amounts to 3 reviews which is 3 times more than I normally do. It also helps any Brits who might have missed the soaps this week, and it gives a snapshot of our week of telly watching to people in foreign climes.  And it’s got a tune in the title. So all in all it’s turned out to be a WHOPPER of a post, condensed into less than 200 words. I should do this every day.



Dead Ex-Simon – The Mental Cruelty He Inflicted On Dotty (Part 3a)

his actions “…reached depths of mental cruelty previously unheard of in this court.” — Judge Hackisnackersoff


The above quote is a dead-on description of my dead husband, ex-Simon. He could be a HEARTLESS, VICIOUS, SADISTIC, MONSTEROUS MONSTER when he wanted to be, a SICK, TWISTED APPLIER OF MENTAL CRUELTY to me, your little Dotty. Here’s a list of a few of the things he did – I can’t tell you all of them, we’d be here all week and some things were too horrendously cruel for me to speak about yet, too painful for me to even THINK about without bringing on a series of major panic attacks, for example WHAT HE USED TO DO TO MY CUMBERLAND SAUSAGES.



Ex-Simon was a remote control control freak, if it wasn’t where he put it last he went ballistic and paddied around like a two year old until he found it. He wanted complete control of the telly and that might have been okay if he’d watched PROPER PROGRAMMES like soaps and films and crime things and costume dramas, and proper documentaries about gypsies and dead sovereigns and that  dirty diseases programme with the doctors and the people who’ve had a nasty EMBARRASSING thing wrong with them for years but they’ve been too EMBARRASSED to talk to their own doctor or tell anyone about it so they GO ON TELLY AND SHOW THE NASTY THING TO THE NATION – what’s that all about, eh? 

Anyway, a female can put up with WAR PROGRAMMES for only so long before the violence gets to her and she batters the telly screen in with a hammer. When we went to buy a new one, ex-Simon wanted to get one with Sky or Branson added on but I put my foot down and said NO because I’ve never seen the point in having FIFTY MILLION TELLY CHANNELS when you can only watch one at a time, or with a twin thingy Freeview you can record two channels and watch one but that’s still only THREE CHANNELS at a time – and when do people WATCH IT ALL? Do all these subscribers get 10 extra hours in the day that the rest of us don’t get so they can get their money’s worth of telly? Because it costs a fucking bomb to subscribe to them, I know because they keep sending me shitemail to get me to sign up – BUT I WON’T because I’M BOYCOTTING THEM and the reason I’M BOYCOTTING THEM is because they THIEVE AWAY ALL THE GOOD TELLY PROGRAMMES after we’ve had one or two series’ on ITV or Channel 4 and we’ve got to like them and want to watch the next series but BOSH along comes Sky or Branson with their big bags of dosh and we don’t get to see what happened next —


Criminal Minds

The Walking Dead


are just 4 of the programmes they’ve THIEVED. So I’ll NEVER EVER sign up and give them loads of money, what I do is I WAIT UNTIL THE DVD BOXSET IS CHEAP and then I buy it and KEEP IT and Sky and Branson and whoever else can FUCK OFF.




At the same time as ex-Simon decided to become a MINIMAL, he also decided to become a health freak. He wouldn’t let me buy WHITE BREAD. He wouldn’t even let me buy BROWN BREAD, I had to buy WHOLEMEAL BREAD and not just NORMAL WHOLEMEAL BREAD, I had to buy WHOLEMEAL BREAD WITH ADDED BITS OF SHITE IN IT like sunflower seeds and poppy seeds (not opium poppy seeds) and sawdust chunks and the bits got stuck in my teeth after I’d eaten it and I had to slash-floss like fuck to get them out again because normal flossing just MOVED THE BITS to a different position.




Even writing about this is making me cringe and shudder and squirm and feel very, very sick. I HATE  feet, they’re nasty and disgusting and ugly and germy and smelly and diseasey and uuuuuurrrrgggghhhhh, I feel sick

I can’t do this one, I’m gipping too much

he never wore socks in  bed, the evil fucker


no, I can’t do it

I’ll have to go, I need a BIG swig of laudanum to take away the nausea.

Just imagine the absolute worst things to do with feet and that’s what he did.


Dotty Update On Pengate And Some Bad, Bad News


I’ve resolved the pen problem to the mutual satisfaction of both parties and I get to keep the beautiful, pure white swan feather pen. 

What happened is I had a bright idea so I sent Papa Brontë a BALLPOINT pen, to be precise it was a Papermate Flexigrip ultra pen (black) but three hours later Branwell came back and I had to give him ANOTHER Papermate Flexigrip ultra pen because his father’s first instinct when he realised the Papermate Flexigrip ultra pen didn’t have to be dipped in his inkwell was to throw it on the fire and scream


Little Emily managed to calm him down while Branwell went outside for a smoke and a sip of laudanum. She showed him her own Bic pens (I gave her two packs of three) and convinced him that if he allowed Branwell to get another Papermate Flexigrip ultra pen from me it could be made holy with a full exorcism before use. Now he likes it so much he’s sent me a note requesting more, in different colours.



So that’s all sorted, but what isn’t sorted is the fact that MY TELLY IS FUCKED. It won’t switch on. It’s a FUCKED BOX OF SHITE and I don’t know why. Last night it was working fine, no problems, then when I switched it on this morning (I don’t watch it, I just like having the little telly people in the room with me), NOTHING not a flicker, not a bleep, not a fizzle. I’ve wiggled the wires, I’ve smacked the fucker hard, I’ve given it a shake, NOTHING.


I’ve got another telly, a little one, in the spare room where Scotty sleeps when he stays BUT I DON’T KNOW HOW TO WIRE IT UP TO MY TELLY-BOX and if I try to do it by myself I’ll fuck that up as well.  

I need Lottie. I’m going to ring her now.


For One Night Only – Dotty On The Telly


I was on the telly last night for half an hour.

I wanted to know what it felt like to be my telly – sitting there in the corner for the whole of its life, unable to move, people staring at it for hours and hours on end and then it conks out and dies – I felt sorry for it, it must be a sad old life. And I wanted to see what my telly sees from where it’s sitting and I’ll tell you something, it’s given me a whole different view of my living room – it looks nice from up there, I saw my collections from different angles, I saw my bookcases from different angles, I saw my couch and chairs from different angles and I noticed what a good job Lottie and Scotty did when they cleaned everywhere – I actually saw THE CARPET

I had a bit of trouble getting up because of all my butterfly-stitched fork-stabs that are scabbing over nicely, thank you for asking (some of them pulled a bit and came open when the scab ripped off but I washed all the blood off when I got down). My telly is old and fat with a massive back, not one of those slim things that I don’t understand why they made in the first place because where do all the LITTLE TELLY PEOPLE live now? Is this how the telly companies have got rid of some of my favourite programmes, they’ve had a PROGRAMME POGROM and driven away all the LITTLE TELLY PEOPLE like others did in THE HIGHLAND CLEARANCES and THE JEWISH PEOPLE CLEARANCES and all the other ethnic clearances that have taken place. EXCEPT NO ONE HAS SAID ANYTHING ABOUT THE LITTLE TELLY PEOPLE CLEARANCES. Why? WHY NOT? It’s not fair. Just because they’re LITTLE doesn’t mean they don’t have the same rights as everyone else. Just because they live inside our tellys doesn’t mean they’re not entitled to stay in their homes, to live their lives the way they want to with SPACE ENOUGH TO LIVE COMFORTABLY. All these horrible things go on in the world and no one says DICKY-FUCKING-BOO about them.

It made me cry last night when I was on my telly thinking about how they must be living now, so I got down and went to find my BIG FUCK-OFF SCREWDRIVER which was in my cutlery drawer so I got a fork as well and I used them both to prise the back off my telly to see if I could help the LITTLE TELLY PEOPLE but do you know what? THEY WEREN’T ANYWHERE TO BE SEEN. They’ve FUCKING DISAPPEARED and I know WHY they’ve disappeared, they’re so frightened, so HARASSED and PLAGUED and TORMENTED by their  CRUEL PERSECUTORS – and that means YOU, YES YOU WITH THE FUCKING SLIMLINE TELLY – that they’ve run away from my telly, their SANCTUARY, probably the ONLY SAFE PLACE FOR THEM IN BRITAIN.

I’m too upset to write any more. It’s heartbreaking.

I need my laudanum.

And a Cumberland sausage sandwich.

And a lie down.





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.


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