Satirical Snapshots
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A Mixed Bag of British

February 22, 2017 12:27pm Published by Jules Smith in Satirical Snapshots 19 Comments

Satirical Snapshots Bringing You Whimsy On A Wednesday

Four weeks late, dreadfully tardy and woefully lacking in whimsical tales. WELL I WAS BUSY. I thought about you all but I had lots of things to do. It’s very difficult being a superhero come spy come entrepreneur and sometimes I have to sacrifice my whimsy to save the world. You’re welcome.

Mixed Media

Today I bring you a fuddle of delight from the past few weeks. Things that have caught my attention as I stand back and take a hard look at the world around me.

Go green

I went to the village pub to find the Christmas tree still up. I found Cockney Al and had a word.

“Hey, Al, you know it’s bad luck to still have your tree up, right?”
“Jules my little anthrax truffle. See, that ‘aint a Christmas tree, it’s a Valentines tree. And after that it becomes an Easter tree. See where I’m comin’ from petal?”
I have to admit I liked his style. Waste not. However, I think Al will concede to my superstitious point since after that conversation I won twice at ‘Sticky 13’s’ and walked off with fifty, glorious pounds. Nice.

The American Prophecy

I saw it with my own eyes. There, carved in Mansfield stone amongst many other grotesques, green men and gargoyles, a recognisable face standing proud in one of the arches of my favourite 14th century cathedral. A simple stonemason predicted the future some 700 years ago; blinded by the truth and light that shone down through the church spires, he was compelled to reveal the figure that would change the modern world through his simple craft. Oh yes. The truth is stranger than fiction, my friends. See for yourself.

President Donald Trump.

London Calling To The Faraway Towns

I took a little trip to the capital. You can never tire of London. Here’s what I found amusing on my junket.

Telephone boxes are now being used as advertising kiosks for dominatrix girls looking for sex slaves and offering lessons in sissy training. Pffft… pass me a whip… Some of these boxes even host defibrillators. I’m wondering if there’s a connection.

Make your own quilted jacket and avoid designer “rip -off” prices. Smart. London swag.

Or not… Instead become the notorious Vaporiser.

Amusing stickers pasted on windows from Brexiters.

And…the pub never lies. The truth will always out from drunken mouths.

Can someone please explain this to me?

Can I only park here if I’m a disabled tennis player?

 

The Art Philosopher poses a question.

Despite my skill and authority as the worlds leading Art Philosopher, I found myself befuddled by the following sculptures:

What is this thing? What is it supposed to be saying? It’s a giant orange pretzel turd and I don’t get it. Maybe it’s a misshaped fruit loop that appeals to fruit loops.

But then there’s this. Sat in the foyer of a four star hotel. I analysed it for a while, trying to find its meaning.

Conclusion: We are caged in a world of shit. Think on.

Say It With Forget-Me-Nots

January 25, 2017 9:39pm Published by Jules Smith in Satirical Snapshots 26 Comments

Satirical Snapshots Bringing You Whimsy On A Wednesday

Four double vodkas and a funeral

Sadly, I attended a funeral last week and after the service a wake was held at the pub. This is where groups of people celebrate the life that has passed by eating triangular sandwiches, sausage rolls and downing as much ale as possible. Well, that’s what we do here anyway. You meet up with folk you haven’t seen for donkeys and reminisce about your debaucherous past and… sometimes present… by regaling stories that we all hoped had been forgotten. Amazing how alcohol can open the darkened and dusty corners of the mind, innit?

The man with the beef

I met “The Butcher” at the pub who I hadn’t seen for a while. He’s called that because he is one and is not quite as sinister as you might be led to believe. Ok, he is. I ordered lots of fine cuts of meat from him which after a few double shots I thought was an excellent idea. Turned out it was cos he got me some nice topside and homemade sausages. He also showed me his many rifles and side by side and promised to teach me clay pigeon shooting. Now “The Butcher” is a hardcore northerner who doesn’t take any crap. When you knock on his front door he shouts, “Fuck Off, we’re not in!” You don’t mess around with someone like that. Thankfully he’s known my family and me since I was a little girl. This kind of thing is helpful and I’ll shortly explain why.

Remember when

So this pub happened to be in an area where I once went to a notorious and hardcore comprehensive school back in the day. The school was famous for its sporting ability which is kind of funny since I skanked off PE (double lesson on a Wednesday morning) for three years. Instead I wisely spent this time at local shops with my mates where we pooled our dinner money together for contraband. This people, is what you call “Real Life Learning”. Besides, the PE teachers were very scary lesbians that used to watch you in the showers and beat you with hockey sticks. I learnt to protect myself early by being a manipulative, sneaky little sod. I believe it has served me well.

Talking of forgetting

The hours passed by and at some point, much later at the bar, I spotted a bloke with his pals who looked somewhat familiar to me. Hmmm. Every time I looked up across the bar as I waited for my ‘house doubles’ said chap caught my eye. I left with the drinks and met my best mate across the room who was chatting with two other girls. Not being the patient type I interrupted.

“Don’t look now but see that bloke over there with the white top on..”

They all turned to have a gander.

“I SPECIFICALLY SAID DON’T LOOK NOW…OH. MY. GOD.”

“Yeah, it’s him,” my best mate said.

“Him? Do I know him then?”

My friend gave me that ‘Are you serious’ look and folded her arms.

“NOOOOOO..Oh my giddy aunt are you kidding me?” I said in my best actress voice.

The other two women started to pry. “Why who is it? Something we should know? Spill the beans.”

“It’s her first ever school crush,” my mate kindly offered.

Now she wasn’t lying. Here, in the bar stood Peter H who I fell in love with at age 14. When I say “love”  it was more like an instant rush of pubescent teenage hormones but same thing. I once wrote about Peter H here under First Kiss  incase you missed it the first time round.

“I see him in here all the time,” said my mate. “Shall we go over and say hello to him?”

“Errrr.. NO and NO,” I replied with haste.

“What are you, 15?” she replied

“No. I’m actually about 14 right now and I’m not going. I don’t have my strawberry lipgloss.”

“C’mon,” she insisted, rudely and dragged me over to the bar.

What’s in a name?

She and Peter said hello like they were old mates and then my friend said, “Remember my partner in crime?”

He looked at me for many seconds as he tried to recall. I folded my arms as I waited.

“I definitely remember you but I can’t remember your name,” he said.

If I’d have had any vodka left I would have choked on it. Errr, really? I fell in love with this lad and He. Can’t. Remember.My. Name. Bellend. I felt the onset of utter atrociousness but remembered I was at a funeral party. Instead I reverted to teen queen, did a massive hair flick, delivered a killer dirty look and said, “Well, I’m not gonna help you out here, sweetheart.”

He still didn’t remember and had to be told. Talk about stamping on the rose tinted glasses. My friend disappeared and left me standing in front of Peter H like a muppet.

Pull yourself together, Jules. This is ridiculous. You’re a grown up now, I thought.

“So, what are you doing in here?” he asked.

“At a funeral.”

“Oh, sorry”

“Yeah. You should be.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Anyway, so… it’s been a while. How long have you had amnesia?” I asked.

“Funny. You’ve not changed a bit.”

“Ha. You have. Barely recognised you. So what do you do these days?”

“I’m a carpenter.”

Oh, like Jesus.” What in the world possessed me to say such a stupid thing, I don’t know. But I did.

“Yeah.. if that’s your thing.”

We passed some small talk and I excused myself. I marched back to my mate and hissed in her ear. “Well THANKS for leaving me. Can you believe he didn’t remember my name. The audacity!”

A moment of flowered clarity

About 15 minutes later I felt an arm slink around my waist. Guess who?

“Can you remember when we were snogging outside the old science block after school?” he whispered in my ear. “I was just thinking about that.”

“Oh. All coming back to you now is it?”

He sidled off with a smile on his stupid face.

About a half an hour after that he came back again.

“I’ve just remembered something else,” he said.

“I’m sorry, do I know you?”

“Haha! “

“Oh yeah, Jesus.”

“Remember that night you came down to the youth club and we met up? I recall we tried to climb over that fence and we both fell over down that muddy bank. You had a skirt on with little blue flowers.”

I looked at him with utter disbelief. “Seriously? You couldn’t remember my name but you remember exactly what I was wearing to the detail of what colour flowers were on my skirt?! Unbelievable.”

I’ve since had a word with “The Butcher” Peter H’s card has been marked.

D’ya Wanna Be In My Gang?

January 18, 2017 12:13pm Published by Jules Smith in Satirical Snapshots 30 Comments

Satirical Snapshots Bringing You Whimsy On A Wednesday

Hello from the other side

So, we’ve had Blue Monday, Tits Up Tuesday and here we all are at Whimsical Wednesday. As author of this capricious weekly post it is my job to deliver amusement in some form and take you out of your malaise.

There’s a place downtown, where the freaks all come around

And it’s called My Blog.

There seems to be a sense of despair around; everybody’s talking at me: Deaths, illness, anxiety, judgment, self analysis, diets, no drinking alcohol, indifference, anger and so on. Pretty much everyone I’ve spoken to of late seem to have some discontent and I find that humans find it very easy to jump on the wagon of despair rather than hop on the positivity train. Negativity breeds like germs in a sick box. Well this town ain’t big enough for the both of us!

Naughty, naughty, very naughty

Oh no, chef! I will not swim in a soup of discontent! Pass me the Cumin, the Cayenne and a sprig of absolute ridiculousness. Time for a spicy kick up the arse, people. In a nice way.

Look, not to totally ruin your self esteem or anything but you are just a mere speck. A tiny little life on a tiny little planet amongst many in a galaxy of galaxies. Go take a look at Vy Canis Majoris and tell me how big you feel now.
Sometimes you have to step out of the mire, release the chains and stop getting bent out of shape about the small stuff.

D’ya wanna be in my gang?

Course you do. It’s fun there. You can be an absolute child. You may laugh at yourself with ease and not give a care in the world. You can have FUN instead of ANGST! Whoa!
So, being the all giving delight that I am I decided to become a pop star for a day and cheer everyone up.

You may MAMAMAMA– MARVEL at my production below, realise you’re ALL SUPERSTARS and X GONNA GIVE IT TO YA if you don’t get ADDICTED TO LOVE!

Yours lovingly, narcissistically, bored of the misery and back on the cocktails where I belong,

The High Clowness.

 

Toxic Waste Of Time

January 11, 2017 6:48pm Published by Jules Smith in Satirical Snapshots 16 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

WHY IS MY SKIN BURNING FOR ABSOLUTELY NO REASON WHATSOEVER?

Answers:

Celiac disease
Diabetes
Food intolerance
Leprosy
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..’

‘Creepy..’

‘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…”

“FINE!”

“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.

Bracing.


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..”

NO!”

“Sprinkles?”

“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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