I’m Getting Medieval On Your Ass

August 16, 2017 1:45pm Published by Jules Smith in Whimsy On A Wednesday 20 Comments

Satirical Snapshots Bringing You Whimsy On A Wednesday!

I very nearly let you talk amongst yourselves because I’m way too busy to be whimsical, but, as luck would have it, I listened to a piece on the radio about medieval marginalia.  My interest piqued and just for you lot I went and did a bit of research.

Living in a medieval town, I wanted to know what people got up to as a form of art philosophy back in the Middle Ages.  Blimey, that mead must have been good stuff.

Dirty Doodles

Medieval marginalia is basically doodles (very explicit and expressive I might add) in the margins of a written page.  These were usually put there as an aid to understand the text for those who probably couldn’t read or didn’t get the gist.  Dear Lord knows what some of these rapscallions were writing about because just going from the pictures, it looks pretty debaucherous to me.  I must confess to slight envy as I thought I held the torch on dark, twisted comedic tradgedy, but apparently not.

Don’t Get Arsey

Is not something that would have been said way back then because they clearly had a penchant for anal hoopla.  Toilet humour seems to have followed mankind from dot to now and is something we have never grown tired of.  I don’t really know what that says about the human race but I’m not sure it’s a good thing.  I’d be interested in the psychology on that one if anyone has an inkling.

I think it’s time that marginalia made a comeback in paperback novels although I’m not sure it would lend itself well to Kindle.  I’ve chosen a few choice images below as I thought it would be fun to play “Give the picture a caption.”

There’s a prize for the winner.

Picture 1: Why the backstop became popular.

Medieval Marginalia

“If I were you I’d keep those legs crossed, swinger.”

 

Picture 2: Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy.

“I’m sure it didn’t look like that in the Kamasutra, darling…”

 

Picture 3: The Ball and Chain.

“Can you hear me now, numb nutts?!”

 

Picture 4: Ascot Special. (Dragons Day)

“Dickhead.”

 

Picture 5: You Don’t Bring Me Flowers Anymore…

You told me it was 12 inches!”

 

Picture 6: He -morrhoids

“Smuggle your own effing cheese next time!”

 

Picture 7: Not My Circus, Not My Monkeys.

“Join the band, they said.  Be part of the team, they said…”

 

Picture 8: Penelope Piper Picks a Pecker.

“Errrr…. Adam…”

 

Picture 9: Enema of Men.

“Look, stop being so miserable.  This is all the rage.  You’ll lose a stone in a day!”

 

Picture 10: Not His First Rodeo.

With the absence of the internal combustion engine, increasing horse power took on new skills.

 

Picture 11: Medieval Intruder Deterrent.

Smells like mean spirit.

 

Picture 12: Don’t Tell William.

“Brings a whole new meaning to cockswain,” said the archer…

 

As you can see, I’ve swiftly moved on from the wisdom of the Stoics.  But I will leave you with this:

The Saga of Grettir the Strong:  “A tale is but half told when only one person tells it.”

Let’s hear your version! 🙂

 

 

Temporary Ego Suspension

August 9, 2017 1:41pm Published by Jules Smith in Whimsy On A Wednesday 36 Comments

Socrates

Satirical Snapshots Bringing You whimsy On A Wednesday!

PFFFFFFT – I’ll give you bloody whimsy. Yeah, this is going to be one of those posts.

What a crap week. I’m still infected. Those antibiotics were total rubbish – most likely filled with Talcum Powder. Add to that I’ve not slept properly for weeks and have turned into an insomniac, you can imagine what a bundle of joy I am.

Drone, Drone, Drone

And then I broke somebody’s drone which is another story I’ll regale you with later. That ended up with me falling out with a ton of people because the last thing I need right now is unnecessary drama over a bloody toy. Recognising my intolerance to pretty much everything around me I decided that it was time for some much needed reflection and analysis. As a world renowned Art Philosopher, practising mentalist and long time study of Homo sapiens, it’s important to keep oneself in tune with nature and your place in it; particularly since I just told someone to shove their drone up their arse.

Virtue and Vice

How has someone not made a cocktail called Virtue and Vice? I’d drink that in a heartbeat. However, since I’ve been on medication I have remained alcohol free for a week and locked myself inside the house like a hermit. I decided to brush up on some philosophy, particularly ethics, and see if I couldn’t philosophise myself into harmony. Every night I have tucked myself up in bed and read about normative and applied ethics.

Don’t anyone tell me I don’t know how to rack it up on a Saturday night.

 

Truth philosophy

 

Truth is The Way

Apparently. I find this a debatable subject, as is the philosophical way, but on the whole being honest about ourselves is a crucial first step. A (THE) foundation on which to grow.

So, instead of writing some dark and ambiguous piece which is my normal MO when out of sorts, I’ve decided to spread my truth on the table like a vulnerable banquet. Writing is my emotional outlet and the way I get rid of pain.

A couple of years ago my father committed suicide. (Wince) Wow! Inject the post with some cheery banter, Jules! Way to go, girl! Heh. Hey, this is about truth! There’s no real easy way to say that in a good way, if you know what I mean. But it is what it is. Obviously, at the time it absolutely floored me as it was most unexpected. Rather than dealing with this head on, I skirted round it by busying myself with his affairs, taking on loads of other stuff and going on endless adventures (not necessarily a bad thing) in order to live life to the full. What I have noticed is that just because you ignore something, it doesn’t go away. The effects of that have given me an irrationality about death. So much so that if anyone is ill or depressed I think they’re going to die and try and find every which way to stop that happening. But they still do. And they have since. I’m not a fan. Fairly recently somebody died with whom I had a connection and for some reason known only to ‘The gods’ it has completely screwed me up. So much so it is debilitating and I am having to force myself to do things in-between my severe melancholy and inertia.

 

Philosophy on death

 

Schadenfreude and Death of a Salesman

I’m in such emotional turmoil that I even considered therapy. Seriously, I’ve had my finger over the number many times. But this is not my bag for numerous reasons:

*I can’t sit in front of someone,one-to-one, and take it seriously when they ask me how I feel. I am the class clown – the ultimate salesperson – the bad-ass friend you call when you need a fun overdose. In this situation, I would feel highly uncomfortable and resort to taking the piss.
*I can’t go to group therapy like ‘suicide club’ <~~ great title for a book ~~ because I will turn it into a comedy sketch and well, that’s just not on.
*I’m a strong person, ipso facto I’m revealing all this with a strong cup of tea and determination.

I even tried some online tests on sociopathy & narcissism (fully nailed those) and being Bipolar. I got a hundred percent in that one which for a moment there I was quite proud of because I’ve never got a hundred percent in anything except for that and A plus as a blood group. However, they’re wrong. I’m actually Tri-polar.

 

 

Back to Phil ’n’ Sophia

So, now you can see why I took it upon myself to turn to that old faithful, philosophy.

First off, you have to recognise that you’re actually nothing. That’s right.

“No human thing is of serious importance”

You can’t be vain: Hmmm. As a shameless narcissist, this is going to cause problems. Admittedly, I’m more of a vulnerable narcissist rather than a grandiose narcissist which is somewhat more acceptable but not nearly as cool. Personally, I find everyone has varying degrees of narcissism so I don’t really know where the cut off point is here. For starters, writing a blog is narcissistic otherwise we’d just write a personal journal. Looking at the world today, I find that being a Snapchat or Instagram whore, having numerous body implants and becoming a reality TV star seems to be the way forward so I can only see vanity becoming more predominant.

You can’t show off: Great. So, in completing the major ordeal of writing a book, I have to keep this to myself and feel satisfied in achieving my goal without bragging. Cos that’s gonna get sales, Mr Ethical Philosopher. I can’t promote it on FB or any other means of social media either because that would be out and out boasting. And it’s alright you saying that Mr Greek Philosopher, he who is forever immortalised on Wikipedia and in every library on the planet. Hypokrisis!

I must see everyone as an extension of myself: I can’t even hold my shit together in Sainsbury’s car park when some numpty can’t park. I find myself surrounded by all manner of fuckwittery and now you’re telling me I must be at one  with all other souls: howling slags, stupid drivers, silicone pumped up prima donnas and droners. I. AM. STRUGGLING. Not gonna lie.

Do not indulge in physical gratification: The one avenue of pleasure and you close it down like a Baptist on Bar Lane. I am now in stalemate position and cannot see a way out of my conundrum. How’s that for moral luck?

What a bunch of miserable bastards philosophers are.

 

 

Philosophy

 

Blogatherapy

They say that hard times reveal true friends. I’m going to put that to the test. Call it psychological trickery if you want to.  I see a niche in the market for blogatherapy. Where best to find your answers than the place you frequent the most?  The place you feel most comfortable?
Ergo, I am now appointing YOU, my readers of this long time writerly paradise, my counsellors. No pressure, but I’d like it if you could help me back to whimsy with your wisdomous advice: Maybe you could recommend a book, a philosophical one liner (though TBH I’ve about had my fill of those) a challenge, a light in the darkness. Something.
I’ve never asked to be saved before but right now I am. Is that narcissistic? Who frikkin’ cares…

Doctor Feel Good

August 2, 2017 9:47am Published by Jules Smith in Whimsy On A Wednesday 26 Comments

Satirical Snapshots Bringing You Whimsy On A Wednesday!

Well, truth be told it’s more like woeful on a Wednesday. I’m very poorly.

It started with a feeling in my throat akin to swallowing broken glass with meths. I knew then that this wasn’t going to be pretty.

WALLOP!

I called the doctor for an appointment, such was my agony. There’s an art to getting past the doctor’s receptionists whom, in truth, think they’re more qualified than the doctor. They hold on to their precious little appointments like prizes and won’t let you have one unless you’re dying. It makes you want to go and breathe your germs on them but you have to try ringing first.

“Hello, doctors surgery, Marjorie speaking.”

“I’m desperately ill and need to see a doctor immediately.” Always use strong words and get straight to the point. Being all polite in that classic British way gets you flipping nowhere.

“Is it an emergency?”

*Sigh..here we go*

“I feel it’s past emergency, Marjorie. It took me several attempts to dial the number my vision is so distorted. I can barely breathe, swallowing is a thing of the past and my chest sounds like the farmer’s tractor. And that’s not all, Marjorie. I’ve spent 8 months in America and got bitten by so many mosquitoes that I had to spend weeks in a Benadryl induced coma. I don’t know if you’ve seen the Benadryl commercials over there but I am at serious risk of heart disease, epilepsy, ectopic pregnancy and mini strokes. I’m wondering if that’s where it all started…in foreign lands.”

“I can get you in this afternoon at 2.00 pm.”

Well, I about fell off my bloody chair.

Waiting To Die

My objective was serious meds. Again, not easy to acquire. The receptionist is the first hurdle, the doctor the next. They don’t like to give out medicine unless it’s absolutely necessary. Go home, gargle with salt water and stop being a pussy is the usual advice.

I sat in the waiting room doing things to make myself look and sound more dreadful than I did. I rubbed my eyes really hard and then tried not to blink. I didn’t blow my nose and I didn’t cough. I let all that stuff build up ready for the stethoscope. I then sat running fingers through my hair again and again to make it look lank and greasy. The person next to me got up and moved.

As I was doing this I glanced at the posters on the wall. Nurturing, positive, up beat material that makes the suffering patient feel….

Like they’re going to die.

First off, before we get onto the “You may be fatally ill” POS, how is this OK?


You can have condoms at 13? I mean, at this tender age shouldn’t you be gazing gooey eyed at your first crush and nearly fainting if they talk to you? At a push, maybe a peck of a kiss. But no, how things have changed. What goes on in the school yard now, I beg to ask?

“Alright,” says gangly, spotty youth with a mouth full of iron brace.

“Yeah, you?” giggles girl with freshly groomed, high top ponytail.

“You wanna…move things along, like,” he says.

“Have you, err, have you got..”

“Condoms. Yeah. Pocket full. Got my C card, B.”

“I’ve got a couple too. Registered the other day. Joey P filled one up with water and dropped it from the bridge onto the science building and nearly knocked Dr Farqua out! Didn’t wanna use it wiv ‘im anyway. He stinks of B.O.”

“LOL. That’s joke. So, err, where d’ya want do it? Bike sheds or common lounge toilets?”

“Not bovvered, really…”

DEAR GOD.

Am I misremembering?

Well, yes actually I am now! I can remember everything I did a few years back but finding my car keys before this appointment took 17 minutes. And what did I do this morning apart from talk to Marjorie? Not a clue. But that could be the shock of getting an almost instantaneous appointment. Almost worthy of opening a bottle of champagne.

Or not.

How is a tiny glass of vin rouge 2.3 units? Are the French aware of zees? Note to fun-sponge quacks: Having this cheery notice on the wall causes health harm, raises my blood pressure but, to be fair,  improves my spelling – I never knew you spelt cirrhosis like that. Because I really wanted to know.

I felt sick to my stomach. Not good, apparently.

Oh good. That’s not caused the onset of anxiety and got my heart racing.

 

That helps.

And now they have “special mystery medical people” who you can chat with. That’s right. Spill it all out to a stranger.

Don’t worry, Des has probably registered his C card.

 

YOU THINK? WELL DONE EINSTEIN! That was your cunning plan all along, wasn’t it! Oh yes. This is what we do to patients who demand appointments. Passive aggressive voodoo in the waiting room. Sick? You’re gonna be… BWAHAHAHAHA.

The Doctor came out and shouted my name. I just about came to from the bad JuJu and followed the High Priestess into her den like a zombie.

“What seems to be the problem?”

“Well, initially I came in with the mother of all viruses but since then, it seems I could have all manner of fatal diseases. I may have to meet with Desmond. Is he good for a couple of units?”

Like all that wasn’t enough, I glanced at the doctor’s table and saw this.

Poetwee

“Are you serious?” I asked, picking up the colour chart.

“Hydration is very important.”

“Let me ask you a hypothetical question, doc. Let’s imagine that you’ve been very ill and to help your immune system, you’ve been taking a high dose of vitamin C. Thing is, when you go for a wee, the colour is off the chart,” I said pointing to the wee chart. “Like it’s way down in the colour section that seems to be missing here, more like Farrow and Ball’s “Babouche” and verging on radioactive. What does that mean?”

“You could have vitamin C poisoning.”

“It’s like coming on a black comedy game show and winning the lot here,” I retorted.

“Let me just look in your ears….hmmmmm…”

Out came the stethoscope next. I had a pretty coral coloured bra top on (pre planned) so the doctor would think I was classy except you couldn’t really tell anymore. It was impossible to see where the lace ended and my skin started due to my increased blood pressure from sabotage induced panic.

“And breathe in-and-out-and-in-and-out -and-in-and-out”

Torture. Legal torture. Nobody can breathe in and out this fast without their left ventricle slamming shut. Doctors are psychopathic.

“Hmmmm…that doesn’t sound good.” Positive reinforcement.

“Open wide and say ahhhhhh.”

“AHHHHHHHHHHH”

“Have you had your tonsils out?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“I think I’m pretty sure. I think I might have noticed. Unless I’ve been abducted by aliens or someone’s slipped some Rohypnol into one of my “units” and sold them off on the black market.”

“Odd. I can’t see them.”

“Brilliant. Either I have some sort of flesh eating disease or they’ve shrivelled up in fright.”

“I’m quite concerned about you.”

“You’re not the first.”

“I’m giving you seven days of antibiotics instead of five and I want you to come back at the end of the week.”

“Can’t wait.”

Medicine Man

I hurried out, as best as one with a book of illnesses can hurry, from the surgery and drove a few streets up to the 24-hour chemist. I passed my paper over to Sanjeet the Scrip.

“Do you pay for prescriptions?”

“Usually. Unless having disappearing tonsils counts as a disability.”

“That’ll be £8.60”

“Bloody hell, that’s gone up. It was only a fiver last time I came.”

This reaction was ridiculous and yet typically British. See, over here (for the benefit of my American readers) we don’t object to paying £1.15 for a litre of petrol. ( 4.54 litres equates to a gallon which is £5.22 which is basically $7.00 a gallon) we’re used to it being expensive but when prescriptions go up. Now, we have an issue. It’s the other way round at your end.

Anyway, I begrudgingly passed a tenner over to Sanjeet the Scrip and he went off to get me these.

Amoxicillin

“Are you allergic to penicillin”

“I don’t think it matters, mate. Ship and sailed on the medical front here.”

I’m three days in and still alive. Though in all likelihood, at this point, I’ve probably lost a kidney.

 

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