From One Golden Clot To Another

June 20, 2018 2:27pm Published by Jules Smith in Whimsy On A Wednesday 15 Comments

Kane scoring against Tunisia

Satirical Snapshots Bringing You Whimsy On A Wednesday!

Basically, England have already won The World Cup.

Tunisia Got Kaned!  was my idea for the next day’s punny, sporting headline but nobody used it.  Why? I should be working for The Sun.

This young and fresh England squad have now convinced us that this will be the year that, “Football’s coming home” It’s written in the stars and after our victorious first game pub landlords across the land are rubbing their hands together in glee. 

England shirt detail

I’ve watched most of the games so far in the group stages and yet again got myself entrenched in the football euphoria!  This means shouting at the TV,  inventing new words for the biased dimwit of a referee and causing myself untold stress. I don’t know why I do it. Especially when I remember this…

How much I hate Ronaldo. 

What a tosser. 

I’m sorry but I can’t help myself.  I have an unhealthy and violent loathing for this man and it only worsened in the Rooney/ Ronaldo incident of 2006.  When he gave that arrogant little wink I very nearly punched him through my TV screen. 

And yes, I know he’s an exceptional footballer. No question. And yes, he’s a pretty boy if you like that sort of smug looking, pierced ears kinda thing. I don’t. I wouldn’t piss on him if he was on fire. 

He once said this: “People are envious of me because I’m rich, handsome and a great player.” Well, as narcissists go, he really takes the Ace card. 

The only moment of joy I have experienced connected to this arrogant man, (who I like to call Cris Ronald, takes the shine off him a bit, doesn’t it?) was when he unveiled the bust of himself that looked like he’d had a facial seizure. Boy, that must’ve stung.  Shame.  I loved it. 

Clearly, he needs a golden boot up his arse.  And I need therapy. 

Talking of Boots and Medical Aid…

I went out last night with my friend for a couple of orange flavoured gin and tonics because that sounded sophisticated and gin is in a frenzy in the UK at the moment for some reason.  And, we are sophisticated, so…

I kept poking at my leg because I’ve had this sharp, hot pain in my calf for a few days now.  I thought the gin might take it off but they put too much ice in it.  Shameful.  It just so happened I was out with someone connected to the medical profession. I’ve come to find that this is a colossal mistake because they scare you to death. 

“You want to get that looked at sharpish, it could be a blood clot.”

“Gee, thanks.”  

Well, I slept like a baby. Not.  I spent the whole night deliberately tossing and turning and doing those aeroplane exercises that they tell you to do on long-haul flights.  I’ve got pretty well-developed calves from my dancing days, (way better than Ronaldo’s) so I was able to continue this for hours until I got severe cramp. That didn’t help. 

Debbie Does Doctor

I got up early to ring the doctor and waited for 45 minutes on the phone. They have this new system in place where you can’t just make an appointment anymore.  You have to ring up on the day and if you get through quick enough you can have one.  If not, you have to ring back the next day and so on.  It’s like a free for all on Ryan Air.  

I was twelfth in the queue at 8 am. Annoying though this was, it gave me time to get my spiel on. You have to be mighty cunning to get past the receptionists because they think they’re doctors and make decisions on your life like an Emperor at a gladiatorial arena. 

I went straight in with the “I’ve been told by a medical professional that I could have a blood clot and I wouldn’t want you having that on your conscience, Debbie, if you don’t let me in.” 

Bingo. Early morning appointment, no questions.  Which only added to my fear.  Even Debbie knows I’m done for. 

Call Me Peggy

And what do my friends and family say to me when I tell them how worried I am?

“You’d be a nightmare if you have to have your leg amputated!”

Nice. Thanks for that.

“You’d make a great pirate though! Great at parties! You could throw your false leg at people!”

Hmm.. maybe I’d get a nasty parrot to peck your eyes out.

Rude. Just because I’m the sort of person that stands up for herself and doesn’t take prisoners and scored 0th percentile in the agreeableness test, doesn’t mean I’m not sensitive.

 I drove off to the doctors rather worried and begged God for mercy, “Look, I’m proper sorry for all the things I’ve done wrong and keep doing despite promising not to but, baby steps, ya know… and I really don’t want to have to have my leg amputated because I won’t be able to wear my cowboy bewwwts which will totally destroy me. How can I do the two-step with one leg? Oh, my days! Is it because I scorned Ronaldo? I’m sorry. Ok, that’s a lie. But I’ll try and be sorry about that. I won’t curse at him again. Not out loud anyway.”

Doctor, Doctor, Give Me The News…

I told the doc my worst fears.  She laughed.  Is it me?

“DTV?”

“OMG!”

“ADT…’

“WTF?”

Have you ever tried to have an acronyminal conversation with a doctor?  I can tell you that’s a first for me.  Anyway, so far so good.  I’m still here. There’s no visual evidence of a clot in my leg and she doesn’t know what it is.  If it gets worse, I go back and if it goes away? Phew, that’s what you call a golden goal. 

 

The Summer of 83

June 13, 2018 4:08pm Published by Jules Smith in Whimsy On A Wednesday 18 Comments

beer glasses clinking

Satirical Snapshots Bringing You Whimsy On A Wednesday!

Oh, looky do at you getting two blog posts in a week, ay, eh?!  I’m just all about the giving, me. Anyway, what I’d like to talk about today is ‘Pride before the fall’. Not that I would know anything about that sort of thing being so humble. 

Moving on…

Where’s the best place to find a bit of whimsy?  At a pub. Naturally.

A Braggart With Beer

Is always gonna fetch. 

Let’s take Billy, for example. Now Billy rolls up at the pub last weekend full of high spirits with his brother in tow. The sun was shining which means, in England, that beer is needed in plentiful supply. One has to keep up with the glory of the day by the force-feeding of liquid hops to maintain a cheery disposition.  We’re not used to it over here and it’s been sun-shining for nearly two months now.  Some people have been hospitalised with severe shock. It might be beer related too, I don’t know, but suffice it to say, England is aglow. 

The pair of them arrived having just been to a summer fete held at one of our many Stately Homes that were given up by those with olde money cos they couldn’t afford them. Now we hold fetes in their magnificent gardens in order to pay for upkeep, cos, nobody can afford them.  Still, what would be England without our Downton Abbey’s? So we conform and pay through the nose to enter these estates and behave like pretentious oiks.  Unfortunately, what with it being a proper nice day, again, the local food vans are starting to run out of pasties because everyone keeps going out.  I’m telling ya, if this nice weather carries on you’re going to end up with beer laden, hungry Brits going on a meltdown. Nobody has predicted it yet but this could be the start of the next revolution. 

Raffling Feathers

At this summer event, there was a raffle to win a wheelbarrow stocked with 30 bottles of spirits. Good call by the marketing team on that one! Boaters off, feet up and light a cigar, old chap. 

“Roll up, Roll up, buy too much beer then chuck it all up! Tickets 50 pence each or three for £2.00!”

 Yes, we do still gloat about our education system being one of the best because we are deluded like that.

Billy had bought himself a ticket and began to tell everyone in the pub what the outcome would be.

“Number 83, yep, number 83, that’s the winner. I’m tellin’ ya. I’m so lucky it’s ridiculous.  I’ve won all sorts me,” he told the fellow punters. 

He began to list the all the things he’d won in his lifetime.  Everybody stopped listening after the first three but let him keep talking because someone had to drown out the puke-inducing tone of Justin Bieber on the jukebox. Rock and a hard place. Thankfully, nobody found out who dared to put “that Canadian twat” (commonplace term of endearment over here) on which is a relief because they would have been made into next weeks pasties. 

“I’m not joking. I bet you any money I win that raffle. Give it an hour and they’ll be ringing up saying it’s mine,” Billy repeated. 

It doesn’t take very long for people to get irritated by others in this country. Just in case you were ever thinking of coming here on holiday it’s worth making note of that. 

Bragging Billy crossed the patience threshold. 

Winner Takes It All

Turns out that the phone number Billy put on the back of his ticket was his brother’s number cos he’d lost his phone when chucking it at some little skank trying to nick his car tyres the week before and it dropped down a drain.  But that doesn’t matter, cos Billy is lucky.  He’d mentioned it a few times now. 

The pub landlord, who’d about had his fill with Billy and his raffle ticket, takes his brother to one side and reveals his cunning plan.  

“Give me your phone number and I’ll ring up and pretend that he’s won the raffle. You go along with it and tell the others.” 

About half an hour later, the landlord sneaks around the back and calls Billy’s brothers mobile”

“I don’t recognise that number,” says bro, looking at the screen. “I wonder who that is?”

“Quick. Answer it! I bet it’s the raffle people!”

“Hello? … Yes, that’s right…..Yes, we did attend the fair.  Yes, I have our tickets, hold on…..Number 80…..say again…..what? 83?”

“YES-YES-YAAAAAAAAS!” screams Billy holding up his fawn coloured number 83 ticket. 

“Yes. That’s my brother’s ticket. Yeah, we’ll be round to fetch it in the morning. Thanks!”

Billy was now upstanding doing his sexy pants dance. Hips gyrating, flies undone – the cage may be open but the beast is asleep- pints going everywhere on the table and his ticket waving in the air. 

“What did I tell ya! Who’s the daddy, who’s the daddy, number 83! Yeah! Who’s the daddy, who’s the daddy…HAHAHAHARRRRRRRRR!”

Normally he might have got a belting but people were too busy stifling their laughter with pints of Pedigree.

“Well, why have we got to wait until the morning?’ Billy suddenly asks. “The fair will still be open.  Let’s go and collect that barrow now! Come on you beauuuuuuty!“

“Nah, mate. We’ve both had too many to drive now. There’ll be loads of cops out with the event and all, let’s just fetch it in the morning.”

“Yeah, yeah. You’re right.”

Cue the landlord…

“I tell you what, Billy. If you want I’ll give you a tenner each for those spirits you’ve won.”

“A tenner?  They’re worth way more than that!”

“Yes but that way you’ll have £300 instead of a load of spirits you likely won’t drink. I’ll be getting it cheaper than I can at the wholesalers and you’ll have a heap of cash that might see you better off!”

“Do you know what, yeah.  I’ll do that. Nice one!  I’m getting  300 quid and a new barrow! Woo-Hoo!  Drinks on me!”

Oops.

No.  Nobody spoke up. They all collected their drinks and raised a toast to Billy who was now over £40 light and still none the wiser that he hadn’t won the raffle. 

The next day’s fall must have been quite something. Cheers!

Dawning

June 11, 2018 2:40pm Published by Jules Smith in Off Piste Posting (Any day thoughts) 22 Comments

A pale pink English rose

Watching him flutter around the seed holder was a beautiful distraction at 4. 30 in the morning.  Little Robin Redbreast. Nature made sure we could see that bursting glow from your chest and we humanise it as it is our nature to poetically do so. Little Robin: your heart was meant to scare and ours to scar, it seems. 

Wild seeds on the floor discarded in haste for those more succulent that took preference.  Snatching at the tastiest lest some other flighty friend may come and get the pickings. Skirting swiftly after feeding to a nearby rose to preen. Her pale pink petals offering delicate layers of softness. Curled and yellowing slightly at the edges despite her face being a few days old. So heavy, her pretty head, that it bows low to the ground in submission while buds of her own family reach up tall with robust new life. Fresh colour. 

Summer at dawn. New summer.  The beauty as it develops from the dainty hold of spring into an overnight swell. Everything vying for attention and singing out its glory. Brighter, bolder. Softer, sweeter.  The songs in the air piercing the early morning silence. Such peace, such heavenly peace, though momentary which makes it all the more delicious.

 Existing silently in that moment and soothing tired eyes that should be sleeping. Tired eyes set to become weary with necessity in but a few hours. Bare skin traced by gentle breezes allowing an awakening at the same steady pace that the sun throws out her kisses.

Thoughts. So many of them. Each tumbling over the other for priority. Some amalgamating and forming branches. Setting them free without reprimand and being able to whisper them to the unsullied sky without even talking. Silent messages sent out into the ether with a hope of answers. Dreams released and untangled where nobody can snatch them and put them into files marked X. Impossible possibilities clinging to the hope of a new day. 

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