Toxic Waste Of Time

January 11, 2017 6:48pm Published by Jules Smith in Satirical Snapshots 14 Comments

Satirical snapshots bringing you whimsy on a Wednesday

On the wagon of despair

Look, its very difficult to be whimsical when you’re trying to be “normal” and adopt an everyday lifestyle like no alcohol, green food and practical accomplishments. I’ve got to tell you it’s put me in a bit of a tailspin and I’m not all together at one with life. I really don’t think it’s for me and I’m far more fun when I’m being self absorbed, drinking Margarita’s and being inappropriate.

Narcolepsy is no joke

Being normal also brings about severe drowsiness. I don’t know if it’s because of the detoxification process or the fact it’s so utterly boring. I find that by nine ‘o’ clock at night I am falling asleep to the crocheted scarf in my lap as I watch something on the telly. I used to be able to stay awake until 4am. This is ridiculous and a total waste of my time and brilliant personality which is being soaked up by A-Zinc vitamins and early nights. I had a complete meltdown the other night about this and went out for a Chinese and three Margaritas. Never felt so good in all my life until I got home and noticed my skin was burning. My inner forearm and outer thigh felt like they’d been scalded by hot water and yet this was not the case. I checked the areas and they looked absolutely normal: no rash, no cuts, no hives, no evidence of foul play and yet I burned like a whore in church. I looked to my friend Google for answers.

Self diagnosis



Celiac disease
Food intolerance
Foot and Mouth
Alien interference
A list of other made up diseases.
Or, the work of dark magic.

I decided to opt for the latter as I have no tolerance for intolerances. Isn’t that about right? You try and be good and then you have one little tiny bit of a cheat and get afflicted with a vile, scorching punishment. Thanks.

Attitude is everything

And having a bad one never did me any harm in the past. However, I thought I should give my brain a bit of a detox too. It makes sense to deal with the mental part first, right? Allegedly, meditation is extremely good for…well, apparently everything. Especially brains. I decided to start slowly and do one at night in bed that aids deep and relaxing sleep. The woman taking me on this hippy trip took so long to get to the point that I fell asleep before the good stuff started. I woke in the middle of the night being strangled by my headphones. Pointless. Normally, I would have put it down to useless psychobabble and never attempted such rubbish again but I’d read somewhere that people who can meditate develop really cool mind control skills that I’d rather like to have so I gave it another go the following night. I found some bloke on Spotify, lay down and listened.

The journey of self examination

‘Relax your whole body and do not open your eyes..’


‘Feel how tight the muscles are at the top of your scalp…’

‘Ow. OW! How have I not noticed this before?’

‘Concentrate only on your breathing…’

‘In, out. In, out. Shake it all about. ha! NO! I must concentrate. OK, breathe and breathe and Oh God I’m hyperventilating.’

‘And release your shoulders…’

‘Shit! I forgot to take my coat out of the washing machine! Damn I need that tomorrow. Shall I get up? But he said I can’t open my eyes. I’ll just open one and see what happens….’

‘Check that all the tension has left your body…’

‘What?’ I opened my eyes, lifted the covers and had a look. Couldn’t see any.

‘Feel yourself sinking into the mattress…’

‘Why has this bloke got a dodgy Essex accent? He’s probably some lightweight who’s taken a weekend course on hypnosis and now thinks he can make a few quid sending gullible chicks to sleep….’

‘Picture yourself walking down a beautiful path to a special place…’

‘Oh, right. Damn it. I’m behind now. Quickly walking down very bright path. Looks a bit like Disneyland or Oz. What does that mean? Maybe I’m out of touch with reality…hmmmm. Got to special place. White beach, blue sea, waiters with cocktail lists. Nice.’

‘What does the path look like?”

‘What? I’ve already been down the sodding path! I’m already at my special place. I mean why don’t they tell you to stay on the path at the frikkin’ beginning?  Bloody hell. Now I have to walk all the way back and I was just about to order a Pina Colada.’

‘Picture the flowers and shrubbery around you..’

‘I wonder if Spotify check out the credentials of these people? How do I know I’m not being groomed? Hypnotised into doing something I don’t want to do? Why has nobody thought of this?’

‘Now picture an elegant staircase..’

‘Hold on, I’m supposed to be on a bloody path with flowers. Mine had cacti, just sayin’. Now I’m supposed to be on an elegant staircase? Fine. OK, Elegant double, sweeping staircase. Quickly changed from swimwear into swishing frock and long gloves; martini in hand.’

‘Begin to walk down the steps..’

‘Oh yeah. Look at me on my staircase being all lah-de-dah…Total class. Look and weep, peeps!’

‘And now you’re at the bottom of the few steps..’

‘ERRRR, NO. No I’m not. What kind of elegant staircase are you thinking of, pal?’ A few steps? Mine has at least a hundred! Oh yeah, charlatan from Essex, only used to a two up, two down. Pillock.’

I flew downstairs, dropped my martini and tore my pretty frock. The tension flooded back like a tsunami. And all this was just in my imagination. I ripped my earphones out mid trance temper and went downstairs for a cuppa until 3 am. Problem is, I feel very spaced out and out of sync. Do you think I’m still under hypnosis?

Sugar Coated Hell

January 4, 2017 8:10pm Published by Jules Smith in Satirical Snapshots 26 Comments

Satirical Snapshots bringing you whimsy on a Wednesday.

Wednesdays aren’t what they used to be

It’s very difficult to find whimsy post Christmas and “What A Happy New Year”

It’s. Just. Another Day.

However, for the sake of my discerning readers I have been trying. Very hard.

Advanced Sloth and SAD

It’s cold. This is not conducive to sprightly behaviour. Not long ago I was knee deep in mince pies, cheese boards, lashings of fine Port and toffee pennies from the Quality Street tub. It’s a difficult cycle to break.

“Do you want a mince pie?”

“Go to Hell.”

“Well they’ve got to be eaten…”


“Shall I warm it up and put some cream on?”

“Why don’t you just inject me with pure lard? I can almost hear my left ventricle SLAMMING shut!”

And yet, despite the protests, I eat it whilst reclining on my leather sofa, binge watching Luke Cage on Netflix. He’s bulletproof. I wonder if I can become mince pie proof? Instead, without conscious thought my hand betrays me. Oh the perfidy of Christmas limb syndrome! In it goes to the sweetie mountain grabbing randomly at the colourful wrappers; now not quite so pernickety about the flavour. Oh no. A few weeks ago I wouldn’t even entertain an orange cream but now that’s all there is and I need my fix. Drooling, without realising, the hand undoes the wrapper with ease and pops the thing into my open mouth. This keeps happening.

All control is lost until you wonder why your legs are twitching and there’s a film of sugar on your teeth that is akin to fine grade sandpaper. Your blood is now treacle and over saturated with sugar. There’s only one solution: a crisp sandwich.

For the love of God help me

Extreme action and some kind of first aid is required. The Grim Reaper laughs as he raps on my front door with a selection box in his hand. Bastard. There’s a Curly Wurly in there and it’s a good way to go…

NO. Make it stop!

I decided to face the world. Away with the tinsel and shiny foil. Away with the brandy butter and Christmas cake. Away with the vouchers for House of Fraser because you won’t be able to fit in anything now that you’ve turned into a pig in a blanket.

The whole lot went in the bin and I ran to the hills.

Muddy countryside.


So cold my face nearly bled.

Maybe walking boots would be a good idea, Jules. There’s no room for London Fly fashion in them hills.

I followed a long and arduous walk with a trip to the coffee shop. Baristas. Whatevs.

“Coffee. No fat, no sugar, no cream or any of those bloody gingerbread men. In fact, you’ve made me hate gingerbread, just sayin’.”

“Would you like to try our new blend of Columbian..”



“Smack in the teeth?”

“Chocolate dusting?”

“Knuckle dusting?”

Nine letters – word puzzle

I sat and decided to do the Daily Mail crossword which was hanging around on the table for some mental stimulation.

Look at that. Saltpeter – #1 across. Spelt ER at the end. Right? But then that totally ruined my #5 down. A religious festival. Well that’s Easter, right? But it can’t be because it now begins with an ‘R’ Raster? Nope. Most annoying. This makes no sense. Here I am trying to better myself and the crossword is befuddling my sugar infested mind. I stormed out and went home to watch Agatha Christie and tried to solve a mystery instead.

I solved it. Ok, I’m back in the game!  Good. Next step? To find a hobby even though I have hundreds and thousands of half completed art projects, I felt it time to excite myself with a new fancy. Whimsical, right?

Cro- shame

Since I received 17 crochet books for Christmas instead of an Aston Martin, I thought I’d visit a wool shop.

“Hello, wool lady”

“Hello, how can I help you?”

“Do you want to buy any crochet books?”

“Not really, we have lots here…”

“Fair enough. I’d like to learn to crochet and become a normal female that stays in and makes crappy things for people. I’d like to experience how other people entertain themselves outside of pubs, wine, travel and coat swapping. Do you have any lessons?”

“Yes. They start next Tuesday and last for four sessions.”

“Oh? That’s perfect because I’ll probably be bored by the third and try to take your class over just for kicks. Where do I sign?”

I left with chunky wool. I’m going to make a scarf before the lessons start so I can be way ahead of the other students. This is one of the laws of power.
Then I am going to learn to make these just to piss everyone off next Christmas.


Toilet roll dolly covers. Total kitsch. I think these could make a massive retro comeback. These could make me famous.

Before I leave, I have one other thing to say…

The crossword person at the Daily Mail needs to be fired. I checked the answers on the next day’s paper and THEY SPELT SALTPETER WRONG. Probably too many mince pies… Oh wait, no they didn’t…you can spell it the RE way too. Well how ridiculous.  That’s just mind play.

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