Whimsy On A Wednesday
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All The Way Back From Yvignac!

September 20, 2017 12:01am Published by Jules Smith in Whimsy On A Wednesday 20 Comments

Yvignac, Brittany

Satirical Snapshots Bringing You Whimsy On A Wednesday!

I’m back from my little junket Francais. Despite the fact that Ryanair have hit the news headlines by cancelling pretty much all of their flights from everywhere with an estimated 17 million pound compensation hand out, they didn’t stop mine. Selfish.


Du Pain, Du Vin, Du Kouign Amann

As I sipped on a rather pleasant Burgandy in the sunshine with a kouign amann as company, I read about some bloke being stuck in Bordeaux and how devastated he felt at being stranded. Get a grip, pal. Go to the winery and rejoice. Why do people fail to see the positive angle in a situation?

Just recently, for instance, I read about some English bloke not being able to get back home from Florida ( only a few days into his holiday) when the recent hurricane hit. Apparently, all economy seats back to Blighty were taken. What did he do? Well, let me tell you. Instead of taking the opportunity to fly internally to another state and have an adventure, he paid an extortionate six grand for a first class flight so he could go home. He then goes on the BBC news to complain at the travesty. Honestly…I spat my Weetabix out and shouted at the TV in disbelief. What a numpty. He deserves to be skint. He should be banned from travelling.


Words of Wisdom From Your Art philosopher Behind The Doors

I’m going to be very serious now which I appreciate is somewhat astonishing but happens on occasion. Pay attention to this fleeting advice before I revert to type.

Life is but an adventure, people. Travel makes you richer than anything else. Get out, have fun and don’t die with the music still inside you. Face fears, fiddle ferociously with fun and snatch every opportunity that presents itself. It doesn’t have to be expensive, it doesn’t have to be far away – it just has to be new. There’s nothing like visiting fresh places and meeting new faces. You never know what you’re going to come across. I have met people in many lands: All genders, all ages and different cultures. Some I have just shared a twenty minute drink with; some just a laugh at a dinner party, or a random conversation about this and that. I’ll never see some of them again but for a moment in life we shared a little bit of joy and laughter.

I’ve made firm, lasting friends too. The kind that would have your back in a bar fight (very useful) and some that I can’t imagine being without.

Well ain’t that just marvellous? Sweet as Cherry Co-la.

Don’t be afraid to take chances and live! In a hundred years nobody is going to care or remember who you are anyway so GO AND BLOODY ENJOY YOURSELF!

Lesson endeth.


Pictures, Huîtres And The Ways of French Suitors.

I like France. Just don’t tell the French I said that. I arrived in Dinard, got collected by fabulous friends and driven out to the beautiful countryside – Fremeur, Yvignac. Peace reigned. The only sound I could hear was the fizzy champagne as it poured into my glass. Music, puhleease!

Night fell and the sky lit up with a gazillion stars because it was proper dark. The only problem being I couldn’t see my arse from my elbow and managed to poke myself in the eye playing ‘how close can I put my hand to my face before I can see it.’ The things you do to entertain yourself in a shabby chic French bedroom when you’re full of bubbles. Heh.

But what a bonnes vacances I had!

I went to La Gacilly (sounds a bit Welsh but thankfully isn’t) where I visited a free, outdoor photography exhibition. I have taken pictures of splendid pictures. Oh yes. Why have a camera and shoot yourself?

I visited the stunning town of Dinan and marvelled over a curly mad moustache that served my Gallette Complete.

I attended a bit of a soiree, like ya do in French France, naturellement. In France the tradition is that when you clink glasses with someone else you must maintain eye contact during the first sip. If you don’t, you won’t have sex for seven years. Obviously, nobody wants to befall that curse which means you end up drinking way too much and forget to blink. Personally, I think undatable, shy French folk have made this shit up in an attempt to bag a ride.

I took a chance stroll round the Vide Grenier which means car boot sale but sounds far more exotic. It’s not. Tat is tat no matter what country it’s in.

Finished up in Cancale, the oyster capital of France. I’m not a fan of oysters. I’ve tried a couple of times but, umm, nope. Like swallowing a ball of cold phlegm. This is why the French insist that they are an aphrodisiac because otherwise nobody in their right mind would eat them. If a French bloke ever takes you out on a date and buys you a plate of oysters, trust me, he’s using it as a prerequisite to your oral abilities.

People with woeful imagination believe that half a dozen of these molluscs are going to magically improve their sex life. Hmm. From a deviant point of view, possibly: “Oh yes darling, after that plate of delicious oysters you made me eat, I’m fair gagging for it. Let me strip down to my silky French lingerie..oops…Mon Dieu! Hold up, lover boy, I think I’m gonna puke…”
Off she goes to bend over the bidet and OOH-LA-LA , there ya have it, a sitting duck. Monsieur désespéré is up the back of her french knickers faster than a frisky ferret.

Zees French, zay are veree sneeekeee.

Anyway, people sit at the seafront here with a plate of oysters and throw their empty shells onto the beach. Novel. I sensibly went for a proper three course meal with beaucoup de ‘vin de necessaire.’ I am smart and not fooled by Frenchified shenanigans.

C’est ca, my petite vol au vents! I will leave you with une petite histoire Francais because stories are so much better in pictures….

Chew On This!

September 13, 2017 3:20pm Published by Jules Smith in Whimsy On A Wednesday 16 Comments


Satirical Snapshots Bringing You Whimsy On A Wednesday!

Today, I thought I’d touch on a bit of Art Philosophy. It’s been a while since I’ve stood back and taken a wondering, quizzical gander at some of the stuff I come across. Very remiss of me and I apologise for not keeping you all abreast of current trends.

The Twig of Hope

As luck would have it I had time to consider some pieces of work on my recent trip to one of Spains finest islands. I ended up in a rather classy joint which I couldn’t find fault with; bar the art.

What is it about hotels and their choice of wall hangings and sculptures? I don’t know who does this job but they’re crap at it. Probably some numpty with a fine arts degree, zero common sense and no taste whatsoever. And yes, I appreciate that art is subjective but that doesn’t stop some of it being shite.

Let’s take a look at the picture in my bedroom:

You may be thinking, ‘That’s not so bad, I’ve seen worse,’ and you’d be right. In essence, it’s quite a banal print; not too fussy that it’s aggravating; not colourful enough to be nauseating and it depicts nature, which, has been proven to physically improve our well being.

However, what does this picture say to you? These twigs with a couple of burnt orange leaves on?

Let me tell you what it says to me: Waiting To Die.


Not conducive to 5* holiday relaxing.


Eeh Bah Gum

But then there was this……

The particular art de joy that I’m about to unveil greeted me at the airport on the way home.
What first crossed my mind cannot be repeated on this tame and respectful blog but my thoughts that followed were this:

Which bright spark of a Thing One thought this a good idea to invent and which mastermind of a Thing Two said, “Yeh – love it. I’ll buy that genius piece of kit. That’s got the future written all over it!”

Chewing gum ball

Speechless? Heh. I empathise. Even I, world renowned Art Philosopher, am lost for words. The most I can muster are the same noises that result from a severe case of gastroenteritis.

Profiter Du Présent

Unfortunately for me, I’m going to have to see it again very shortly because an impromptu invitation came up for me on Saturday.

“Jules, we’re in France, why don’t you come over?”


“Loads of great food, free Champagne, lunch by the sea, late summer walks, middle of the countryside and some much-needed peace. Don’t need to bring a thing except yourself and a pair of jeans.” Verbatim.

I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth and to be honest after the week I’ve had I need a break so I’m going to French France tomorrow.

Since my Kindle has broken I will be taking this book to read because I know the French will love it:

1000 years of annoying the french

‘Let’s talk about Joan of Arc and Agincourt! What do you mean, NON?

I will be in Brittany. That’s basically French for Britain. Which means I can do as I please. Taking my lessons from the pub landlord below 😉

Au revoir mes chéris! A bientôt!

From Helltel To Haven

September 6, 2017 11:56am Published by Jules Smith in Whimsy On A Wednesday 28 Comments

Jules Smith in Menorca

Satirical Snapshots Bringing You Whimsy On A Wednesday!

I’m back! Did you miss me? I dare you to say no…

The Mediterranean

There’s a warm, iron based, vanilla essence that lingers in the air. Each breath tastes slightly sour in the back of your throat from the salt of the ocean. Sea and summer wind harmonise together in sound and movement like forever partnered dancers. The hot rays of the sun laser into your tired bones and are only lessened by the feathery fingers of the breeze as it flirts along your back and shoulders. If you listen hard enough you can hear old world spirits whispering healing chants in the wind and palm trees creaking as they flick their fronds confidently against the sky like Mardi Gras starlets.

But It Didn’t Frikkin’ Well Start Out Like That, Did It

Oh no. This is a Jules holiday so woe betide that it dare go smoothly and without drama.

I couldn’t quite remember why it had been many years since I’d booked a package holiday through a travel agent, but as soon as I disembarked from the ‘ship ‘em all off peasant wagon’ and arrived at my hotel, it all came flooding back to me.

Was it the mass of brightly coloured towels sporting various football club emblems hanging from balconies and making the place as appealing as an ill dressed tart at a black tie affair that first set alarm bells ringing? Maybe. But people have to dry their towels.

Was it the noise spilling from the back of the building that was reminiscent of downtown Swindon on a Saturday night that helped further my unease? Possibly.

I had a chat with my inner snobby bitch as I entered the foyer but she refused to be silenced and came back spitting in my face when dripping with pool water guests wandered past me carrying plastic glasses full of lager at 10 am. Classy.

I took a deep breath which I fully regretted when the smell of soiled nappies and macaroni cheese threatened to take the enamel off my teeth. I bared them to the male receptionist in what I could only hope looked vaguely like a smile. I’m not very good at hiding how I feel and he didn’t smile back. However, had I been in his shoes I would never have smiled again and the fact he endured this haven on a daily basis without mental illness was a testament to his character.

A Room With A View

After being branded with a ‘shake your wrist if you wanna get pissed’ all inclusive bracelet, I entered the prehistoric-open the door to it yourself-only room for one despite having more guests than the state of Texas, lift. Maybe it wasn’t really an elevator at all but a portal to another dimension, possibly purgatory, who knows, because when I got out I wondered if I’d fallen down a rabbit hole.

The corridor sported weird, faded bubble paintings: kind of like a Disney resort but on a major budget reduction. I found myself empathising with guests who started drinking at breakfast. Perhaps they wisely never stopped. My pale blue (I think Farrow and Ball might name it pigeon shit grey) walls had evidence of mould and dark smudges just above pillow height. I like to think that this was some sort of artistic shadow painting by design rather than the great unwashed shampoo shortage. Out on the balcony, my view ( that I paid extra for- Oh how I laughed) looked out over a giant oil tank followed by the pool. The pool where I planned to get some lengths in of a morning. Hahahahaha… No. Imagine, if you would, vegetable and minestrone soup coming to life. That should give you an idea.

A Word

I thought I’d have a chat with the powers that be. I remembered a sign in Texas Cowboy Church that said P.U.S.H ( Pray Until Something Happens) I decided to give it a shot.

“God. It’s me, Jules, your favourite waste of time. Now look, I know I’m not the best behaved of people but let’s be honest, I’m kind, generous and my heart’s in the right place. Whilst I’m not big on ‘appropriate’ and haven’t quite mastered the art of humility, I don’t deserve this. Ain’t happening, Boss and I need you to get me out of here pronto. If you don’t, I’m gonna kick off and either end up in jail or found drowned in my own despair clinging to a half inflated, blow up pink flamingo.”

I went downstairs.

“Get Thomas Cook head office on the phone,” I said in my best non-Spanish.

It went like this:

“So you’re saying you’re not happy with your booking. Can I ask why?”

“Well, despite feeling like herded cattle on the worst school trip ever, this is so far beyond what I asked for that I’m wondering if it’s a sick joke.”

“What did you ask for?”

“Peace, quiet, nice pool, beachfront and so forth. Not Costa Hell Butlitz.”

H/O had to go away and investigate so I took myself off to the dining area having not eaten all day.

I’ve Found The Best Diet Plan Ever – Call Hollywood

I don’t even know where to start when it comes to describing the mass buffet of food available but if I tell you that I had broccoli and tomatoes for my dinner I think that speaks volumes. In all my years and of all the stupid things I’ve put in my mouth, that’s a first. I went to get some fresh orange juice to wash it down with and marvelled at its radioactive colour. I can only describe said beverage as likely being akin to drinking morning bitch piss and were you to have a penchant for such a thing, this is the place for you. Now my mouth was suitably bleached and my taste buds erased I figured giving pudding a try couldn’t do me any further harm. They could have Spotted Dick on the menu. They did, but not on display and fortunately covered by a week’s worth of unwashed swimming trunks bearing the scars of too many spillings – and yes, I mean all of them.

“Ola, Miss sin-yaw-eeta!”

“Fuck off.”

A cake resembling meringue sat on offer and I gave it a poke with a fork just to see if it bit me. Seemed OK so I picked it up and took it back to my table, seventeen miles east of the family in leopard skin Lycra.
I put a piece of the flaccid cake in my mouth and promptly spat it back out again. Meringue?
Mer – Wrong.

It All Comes Out In The Wash – Unless You Stay In This Hotel

When H/O rang me back with options I didn’t hang about in making my move. Even though I had to pay a little extra to relocate, I would have sold my soul and I ended up exactly where I should have been in the first place:  a beautiful, serene, adults only, low key classy joint with spa and real orange juice.
And even though they weren’t going to pay the 80 euros to transport me to the other side of the island, we had a bit of a chat about me being a scathing and prolific wordsmith when irked and they came good. I even got a tour of the area. What could have ended disastrously turned out to be just the thing I needed.


Slowly, I began to unwind…

Anyway, thanks for letting me get that off my chest and in the meantime, here’s a video of the sweeter side. I’m telling ya now, you gotta crank up the volume because I love this song to the point of insanity. As an ex-salsa dancer, this tune turns me into a dark and twisted version of Shakira and entices me to be utterly atrocious. I don’t know why but it does. If you ever happen to come across me in a bar, do not play this song to me or it will end in tears, bail money and bitter shame.


The Three Meds

August 23, 2017 2:00am Published by Jules Smith in Whimsy On A Wednesday 27 Comments

Writer logic

Satirical Snapshots Bringing You Whimsy On A Wednesday!

I’ve come to the conclusion over the last few weeks that I’m insane. Not that this has come as a surprise to me; people have been calling me that for years. In a nice way, ya know. They gravitate towards my insanity rather than find themselves repelled by it. OK, maybe the occasional few have been afraid but I wouldn’t want to hang around with those vacuous, snowflake fun sponges anyway. Not that I’m judgmental or anything.

So, I came up with an instant remedy as you can see in my title – The Three Meds:

Medication: So, I’ve had all manner of that going on of late: Margaritas, antibiotics, vitamin C, vitamin D (because there is a woeful lack of sunshine going on around here) vitamin B and the pièce de résistance- Manuka honey. Sold to me by a cunning witch doctor at the health shop for the price of a two-bed townhouse in Wales. Allegedly this stuff can cure everything. Everything bar whatever I have, apparently. Snake oil….I’ve been duped.

Meditation: You’ve read my blog – how many times have I tried this? Endless. I either fall to sleep, hyperventilate, become more monkey brained or get pissed off with the person trying to narrate me to Zen. I’ve tried philosophy, medieval marginalia, cryptic, soulful books and I even ate a naked burrito in case it was a gluten thing that was making me edgy. You can’t say I haven’t tried.

So, there was only one more M left to complete the trio.

Mediterranean: Blue skies, warm seas, white sands, sailing boats and mountains.


How's work?


You might not know this but I’m quite an impulsive person and don’t beat around the bush. I have a professional waxing salon that does that for me.

I proceeded directly to the travel agent. Not been to one of those in years.

Her name was Juliet – Hows that for a sign?

“My name’s Juliette too,” I said. “Except I spell it properly.” See how I endear myself to people?

“This is the English way,” she said.

“Mine’s the romantic French way. But I don’t want to go to France. I went there far too much a few years ago.”

“Where do you want to go?”

“Dunno. That’s why I’ve come to you. If I go on the internet I will get sidetracked by adventure and end up in Tibet. Something simple: Mediterranean, not many people, hardly any in fact. Quiet but not so quiet they don’t know how to knock up a decent cocktail or suchlike. I want to be in close proximity to the ocean so I can fall onto the beach in a few paces from my bed. That kind of deal.”


“In a minute. Time is of the essence.”

“Why so quickly?”

“Someone asked me if I was sad because I didn’t get to see the eclipse that darkened America recently. Err…no. Correction. I have SAD because there’s a permanent effing eclipse in summertime Britain. Sun? I need to see it and burn. Ya get me, travel bird?”

“I do. All booked. Off you go.“

Going Under The Radar



I’m taking this seriously. I’m going completely off grid – ish. No screens, no social media, no blogging, no tormenting myself with news, nuffin’. I’m not taking anything with me (that can thwart my resolve) except a camera and books. I plan to return with superhero prowess.


Beach life

I won’t be here to be whimsical next week so play nicely amongst yourselves and don’t do anything I wouldn’t. I’ll think about you all as I lay naked on a yacht, somewhere in the Med with a Pina Colada,  obviously.

Laters, taters.


I’m Getting Medieval On Your Ass

August 16, 2017 1:45pm Published by Jules Smith in Whimsy On A Wednesday 28 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)



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


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.






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…

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