Start Whining and Then Wining!

September 9, 2020 4:39pm Published by Jules Smith in Whimsy On A Wednesday 12 Comments


Satirical Snapshots Bringing You Whimsy On A Wednesday!

Don’t you get sick to death of things not running smoothly?  Oh looky-do, here we go again with me having to follow up / sort out / get some control back of a situation or service that you paid good money for so you don’t have to worry.  And then you find yourself in the midst of the chaos caused by the incompetent ones wondering how they even got out of bed that morning let alone have a bloody job.

I’ve had a lot of that recently. 

What a colossal pain in the arse.

Uh-Oh – It Looks Like Complain!

But, here’s what happens when you keep doing the same thing over and over again – you get good at it. I have now made complaining an art form. OK, so it’s made my blood pressure go up; it’s made me a snarkier and more impatient individual and it has given me further trust issues, but I am finally good at something.

It all came to a head with the bank. 

Bankers. The lot of ‘em

I have a particular issue with banks because they are vicious control freaks that make money from your money and are very sociopathic when it comes to relationships. Add that to the COVID mix and you get all that plus passive-aggressive dismissal. 

During the global virus, I needed two pieces of paperwork from the bank, one for my accountant and one for my solicitor. This paperwork should be readily available to me but never is. Hours I’ve spent being pushed from one department to the other because nobody knows their arse from their elbow.  

Add a pandemic and nobody in the bank can:

  1. *talk to you
  2. *answer the phone
  3. *respond to emails

Total ineptitude. 

If At First You Don’t Succeed…Kick Off

So, off I went with mask and temper to confront someone.

I got girls on desks telling me to:

  1. *find someone to talk to
  2. *try calling
  3. *try emailing

I well and truly properly kicked off until someone gave me the Head Honcho’s e-mail. 

I wrote to him and his superiors and the Ombudsman. I penned the most beautifully obnoxious rant. I should have won a Nobel Prize for trashing bankers

In Vino Veritas

All of a sudden and straight away I had a business advisor all of my own bending like a pretzel to my every whim. 

And then I got a little note that said, “Moving forward we’d like to send you a hamper of wine for your inconvenience.”

And they did!

I got so drunk I forgot to get my paperwork! 


Throwback Thursday!

August 27, 2020 11:20am Published by Jules Smith in Off Piste Posting (Any day thoughts) 10 Comments

Satirical Snapshots bringing you ‘Back in the Day!’

I’ve started to participate in Throwback Thursday on Instagram having come across a bunch of photos of when life was carefree, adventurous, and fun! As opposed to now where I’m TRAPPED, TRAPPED, and TRAPPED  in a mask-donned, corona-chaotic world with endless signs on how to and where I should stand and walk and so on. Not that it’s affecting me or anything…

So, what was going on there, Jules?

I’ve been asked numerous times to tell the story behind the picture I post every Thursday and where better to tell those stories than on my blog which I started for the sole purpose of telling stories of my high jinks and holidays!  

On Yer Trike!

This is a photograph of myself and my best friend on holiday in Lanzarote. We bought a cheap, last-minute deal where you didn’t know which hotel or resort you would end up in until you got there. But, we didn’t care! Having done this many times we knew that no matter where we ended up we’d make the best of it and manage to manipulate the situation to our advantage. 

Resorting to Chaos

As luck would have it, we ended up in a top star, luxury resort with a two bed, two bath apartment right in the middle of everything. We had never been in such a beautiful place and couldn’t believe our luck. Result!  However, not so much fun for the people who had paid top dollar to stay in this fabulous complex because this is what happened…

We came across this trike that was parked outside our apartment complex and found it hilarious. So much so that we decided to get on and play with it – posing for photos and suchlike. 

Then, in the midst of figuring out if we could hot-wire it and take it for a spin, the owner of the beloved trike came over and asked us what we thought we were doing because apparently, you shouldn’t just help yourself to somebody else’s pride and joy.  

Thankfully, he was a nice guy and let us off the fiddling with his toy and we got to have a go on his great, roaring, purple trike. He then introduced us to a bar where he and all his friends worked and we spent the rest of our holiday partying with the bar and all its staff.  Further stories of this particular holiday are to follow. 

Needless to say, every day our new gang of friends would roll up on their noisy trike and jeeps and come and hang out at our top-notch pool. They’d bring beers, loud music, and frivolity. Peace and quiet around the 5* pool ended violently. They even brought their Great Dane dog with them who also took a liking for a bit of a swim much to the outrage of the posh folk that had paid a fortune to be there. 

Obviously, my friend and I found it hilarious and couldn’t understand why the rest of the holidaymakers did not. That’s youth for ya. 

Repeat and Ruin the Rep

The poor holiday rep received numerous complaints about the rowdy, fun-loving youngsters that were disturbing their R&R and had to repeatedly visit us to tell us to stop having fun or he’d have to kick us out. 

We didn’t. And, he didn’t, because our new-found friends pretty much ran the island. 

By the end of the two-week holiday, he looked like a nervous wreck and couldn’t wait for us to leave. I think he went back to England shortly after that and got a job in an accountant’s office. 

Happy days. 


Toe Be or Not Toe Be?

August 19, 2020 9:53am Published by Jules Smith in Whimsy On A Wednesday 16 Comments

Satirical Snapshots Bringing You Whimsy On A Wednesday!

So, here’s what’s been going on…

Things opened up a bit, right?  Masks on, we ventured out and tried to get on with life a little bit more how we remembered in old Blighty.

To give us a little bit of a shove our government kindly decided to pay 50% of all meals out in a restaurant from Mon-Weds throughout August. As any true Brit knows -we can face anything if there’s something to be had for FREE.

Coronavirus? PFFFT!  There’s a free plate of steak and chips here! Hold yer breath! You’ll be reet!

Understandably, I’ve been taking advantage of this offer whenever possible. 

Best Foot Forward

Having become braver in this new world I decided it was high time I had my nails done. Mani/Pedi days were back on the menu and I booked in for some much-needed luxury.

Now, I’d normally frequent a little shop run by Asians – no booking required, cash only, cheap-as-chips for a good job done. However, it was pointed out to me that sanitisation of equipment in the said venue would not be happening – hygiene wasn’t the focus in the first place. With that in mind, I booked into a posh nail and beauty salon at twice the price.  Twice the price PLUS an extra £5.00 to cover the cost of sanitisation sprays used on all didgery -pokery- toolery.

Well, what a bloody ordeal. The PPE was overboard with masks and visas and hand gel and gloves. Temperatures were taken, names were taken, all sense of freedom was thoroughly taken. How on earth the beautician worked in all this regalia is beyond me. She told me that it had been like learning her job all over again.

So much for all the hygiene procedures because a few days later I got an infection in my big toe.  Never-not-once have I had such a thing in all my life. I contemplated asking for my fiver back. 

After a few days of this getting worse and walking becoming an issue, I went to the chemist to get a remedy. 

“Hey, I’ve got foot and mouth,” I said to the pharmacist. “Got any cream for this?” 

“Ooh… “*sharp intake of breath* “You need to go to the doctors with that – it’s infected.”

“This I know, dear pharmacist, but you must have a cream for it in the meantime?  I’ve been looking on t’internet and following advice from all and sundry – like using cortisone and Vicks Vaporub, which, incidentally, woke me up at 4 am with my toe throbbing like a bastard.”

“No – stop that at once. You must get antibiotics.”

The Quacks

I’ve not been to the doctors for ages and didn’t know if you could even go there in the throes of a pandemic. I called the gate-keeper receptionist and got straight to the point.

“I need antibiotics as a matter of urgency before I get gangrene” 

“You can’t come in.”

“No change there then.”

“The doctor will call you this afternoon.” 


To be honest, I much preferred having a chat with the GP on the phone rather than sitting in a waiting room for ages with a bunch of snotty, sick people. My prescription got sent immediately to my preferred pharmacy and all I had to do was roll up there and pay a tenner for my medicine. The pandemic has brought about some changes for the better and this is one of them. 

4 antibiotics a day for 10 days! Think twice before some posh totty fiddles with your feet.

However, doom-gloomers around me said that it could be an ingrowing toe-nail and I should get that checked out. Instilled with fear after reading about surgical toe procedures online I decided to contact podiatrists. The only ones prepared to take new clients at this time were the dodgy types. The types that answer the phone like this:

“Err…yeah, hello?”

“Is that Feet Feelers Chiropody?”

“Sorry?  Say again… hold on, love – Mandy!  Turn telly down. I can’t hear owt! – Sorry duck, what did ya say?”

“Umm… I’m just ringing about feet” (and regretting it severely)

“Oh, yeah. What’s wrong?”

“Just inquiring about ingrowing toenail removal…”

“OK. We have a couple of girls who can come out and do an ‘ome visit.  If there’s one there, they can gerrit out.”

“With an injection first, yes?”

“No, duck. We can drill into it if it’s a bit stubborn.”


Dear God. I know I live in medieval England but come on…

The Podiatrist

After bleating to my mother about the state of things, she went and found a willing podiatrist to look at my foot. His practice was in a very salubrious village known for its millionaires so I knew they’d deal with the situation competently. 

My mother drove me with a promise of a cream tea afterwards (50% off, of course) It was one of the hottest days of the year and we sat in the car park waiting for me to be collected by the footman in temperatures of 33 degrees centigrade – known to boil an Englishman on the spot. Ten minutes later a vision walked out of the door like a Hollywood actor in scrubs. 6 ft 3”, lean and muscular with dark hair and piercing blue eyes. Not that I noticed. But my mother did. 

“BLOODY HELL!” she shouted, way too loudly, staring wantonly at the footman.

“SHUT UP!” I whispered harshly, mortified by her outburst. 

There I was, forced to sit in a tiny room without air conditioning, mask on to make it even more oppressive with the added factor of embarrassment to ramp up the heat intensity. I feared near death.  And then he got out a big pokey tool and shoved it down the side of my toe to check for an ingrowing toenail issue. Brutal. If it wasn’t for the fact I was concentrating on filling out a form with my details, so intently that my eyes nearly bled, I might have kicked the foot Adonis in the face which wouldn’t have ended well. 

Turns out I didn’t have an ingrowing toenail and the foot fetish fellow recommended a good old smearing of everyday Savlon.  Something which the bloody chemist couldn’t even come up with.  

Here’s to keeping your feet on the ground. 


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