True Brit

June 5, 2019 11:55am Published by Jules Smith in Whimsy On A Wednesday 28 Comments

Satirical Snapshots Bringing you Whimsy On A Wednesday!

I’ve been told for years that I’m “special” but now I’ve got proof. 

After spitting into a test tube and sending it off to the results were astounding. 

I am 94% homegrown.

If you got 94% in anything else it would be considered A*  

Top of the class. Top drawer. 


I should be queen.

Thorough ‘born and’ bred

My mother was convinced that there would be some Viking element in my DNA as it’s in the family tree, but no.

No Viking scallywag in me.  

No Roman conquerors either. 

The only possible dilution is some Norman aristocracy.  I like to call that French class. 

But on the whole, as you can see, I’m the epitome of English Rose-ness.

Individually Wrapped

Not only that, but I have no DNA matches.  I’m a one-off.

I told my mother that she has produced a miracle child and have started calling her Mary.  

She laughed. That’s typical behaviour from a mongrel Viking. I merely shrugged my shoulders, sipped on my Saint Émilion and hummed Rule Britannia. 

This also explains why I can never take to iced tea. It’s just not British.

Now, please excuse me whilst I execute my own Game of Thrones and see to it that I am recognised as the true ruler of my land. 

Tramping! You Heard It Here First!

May 29, 2019 12:13pm Published by Jules Smith in Whimsy On A Wednesday 24 Comments

Satirical Snapshots Bringing You Whimsy On A Wednesday!

You might think that my new vehicle is just a truck – but it’s not.  This isn’t just any kind of car, this is an experience!

After playing around with this beast of a vehicle for the last week I have found a whole new way to enjoy my outdoor pursuits. This isn’t just a nip around the block or drive from A to B, this is an outdoor orgasm on big fat wheels a brand new delight in personal adventure. 

And this is how it started…

After buying my big fat awesome pick-up truck because of a bike rack issue with my old car, I became fascinated with the truck bed and all of its room and possibilities. I went out for an ice cream and ate it in the middle of nowhere with my feet swinging under the tailgate, had a brain freeze epiphany, and realised I’d missed this kinda thing. I went back home and started looking online for truck accessories.

And I found this…

No more expensive hotels or skinny beds or dusty 4* cramped boxes on the 116th floor. No.  


It isn’t camping.

It isn’t trucking.

It’s way too tough and rustic to be considered as glamping.

This, my friends, is what I have aptly named as “Tramping”


Zip And Kip

After putting this truck tent on order I went straight to the great big camping shop for ideas. 

“I’ve bought a tent for my truck,” I said. 


Pause. Eye roll. I showed them pictures.


“I need a bed to go underneath. Comfy. Bouncy. Jules proof.” 

“We have many. But, what size is the back of your truck – they might not fit…”

“DUH!  Well can you blow one up and go and see which one fits?! Spit-Spot, camping boy, I have adventures to have!”

I continued around the shop whilst this was being sorted out with another outdoorsy salesman and pointed things out. “Stove, yes, I need one of those.  Steps, definitely need those. And a torch. Oh look at that pretty little light! Get me two. Do you have a crossbow?”

Before it got way out of hand and me nearly buying awnings, a time share in motor homing, and a 7 tiered BBQ, I left the store with a bed, a cooker, gas bottles and accessories. 

“At least you’ll now know how to deal with this problem if someone else comes in wanting to do this,” I said as the outdoors staff waved me goodbye.

“I don’t think we’ll get much call for tents and beds in trucks,” the store manager smirked with a wink.

I dropped my purchases on the floor in disbelief.  

“You, sir, will eat your words. I am about to set a trend. TRAMPING is the new camping. You better step it up, sunshine.”  

The Tramp Test

Blessed with an exceptionally sunny weekend and not yet with truck tent, I decided to take a jaunt to a nearby country park for breakfast and practice tramping. I parked up on the field with a beautiful view of the forest. Within minutes the bed was blown up and adorned with cushions and blankets, my skillet was frying up breakfast on my new stove and I sipped on a nice cup of tea whilst staring out into the wilderness.  

Bed made.

Stove on.

Farm shop sausages burnt to perfection.

This much room for my post sausage digest…

And, an after feeding kip.

This is the future, my friends. I can’t even be made homeless anymore  because wherever I drive my truck, that’s my home. 

#Tramping – You Heard It Here First

Wonderful, Wonderful Copenhagen

May 22, 2019 12:38pm Published by Jules Smith in Whimsy On A Wednesday 21 Comments

Satirical Snapshots Bringing You Whimsy On A Wednesday!

When I first arrived in wonderful, wonderful Copenhagen salty old queen of the sea, I bloody hated it. 

Maybe it was the fact that I arrived on the dreariest of days that tainted my mood. Wet, cold, blustery, and greyer than the worst of English days. Ugh. 

I had travelled light with just a rucksack to my name because I thought this would be a novel experience. Only two pairs of shoes and two outfits. I forgot to pack waterproofs, wellies, scarves, hats and furs.

I caught the metro from the airport to the centre of Copenhagen because I’d heard that Denmark was expensive. My hotel was a 25 minute walk from the centre, so I relented and got a cab from the central station because the rain fell relentlessly. That short ride cost just over £20.

Dearest mother, dearest father, here I am at bed bonanza

I arrived at the 4* hotel in the middle of nowhere and proceeded to the twin room. I dropped my sodden backpack on the floor and stared at my bed in disbelief. 

Surely this was a joke?

I had not a bed but a bench. Not even a skinny child could sleep on such a thing. I sat on it and found it was also a trampoline. After I’d stopped wobbling,  I lay down carefully on the bouncy shelf.  The pillow, which was even smaller than the bed, was square in size and so deep that you could lick your own chest when your head was placed upon it. I wondered if this, in fact, was the Danish idea of the brace position for when you fell out of the thinnest bed known to mankind.

“I can’t bloody do this,” I said to my travelling companion. “Just watch this…” 

I rolled over and fell straight to the floor. 

As I lay, cold, damp, bruised and desperately upset on the floor, I noticed a little card placed just under the bed. I picked it up, intrigued at such a peculiar find. 

“Well, can you believe this,” I said. “Here’s a nice little passive-aggressive note from the maids, who obviously know you’re going to fall out of your cot. It reads, ‘Yes! We even clean here!’

I tried to lift my spirits by drinking some.

Off I went to one of the in-house restaurants. It’s amazing how acidic a £15 small glass of wine can taste. Especially when you know you can buy a bottle of something far superior for under a tenner at Tesco. 

I nearly had a breakdown. 


In total despair, I went to have a chat with the front desk keepers.

“I can’t stay here,” I wailed. “Your beds are ridiculous. I might die in the night from a serious head injury.  I’m surprised I didn’t find body pieces of past guests on the floor. Ah!  This is why your maids clean under the bed, right? They’re not maids -they’re crime scene cleaners!”

“This is Danish way,” said the receptionist.

“This is supposed to be the happiest place on earth… I’m wet, cold, and miles from anything. I’ve spent a fortune on mediocre wine and can’t even afford to get pissed enough on that to render myself unconscious enough to stay still in my shelf bed. So, guess what? I’m really not a big fan of the Danish way.”

“Americans always have problem with bed.”

“The population of Lilliput would have a problem with your beds! And, I’m English! Where I live, single beds are at least 3ft wide!”

After a very awkward and tense conversation where burning down the hotel actually crossed my mind, I was offered a free upgrade the following day. In the meantime, I lay on my bench watching Danish TV and thinking like they sounded just like The Sims.  My depression was so great that I fell into a stress induced coma.

I can Cope – en hagen again!

I awoke to the sun streaming through the windows and wondered if it had all been a nasty dream. 

Downstairs I rushed to find people jumping on pretty little bikes with baskets out into the sunny day.  I found that the hop-on-hop-off bus stopped right outside my hotel and for a mere £22 you could ride it for two days  thus cutting out all expenses and being dropped at every possible tourist attraction you could want to see.  

All of a sudden, Copenhagen didn’t seem so bad.

This is Nyhavn, meaning new harbour, even though it’s very old. How pretty is this place?

I adored it here.

At the end of the canal there was a fabulous street-food market! Here I sampled the famous open sandwich known as Smørrebrød. Well, yeah, why would you put a lid on that?!

And here is where Hans Christian Anderson lived when he had his first fairytale published.

Remember The Little Mermaid?  I went to have a look at her. The tour guide said, “Here is the devastatingly unremarkable Little Mermaid.”  Just when I thought the Danes had no sense of humour.  Apparently, she has been painted red twice, had her arm cut off and her head severed.

Copenhagen is expensive.  Double the cost of everything in Britain.  However, the food is organic and tasty , Nyhavn is charming, their way of life is green and sustainable. I’d recommend a visit as my trip ended up  with me getting a REAL bed and was really wonderful, wonderful, and actually, as you can see below,  quite a beautiful finish.

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