A Disagreeable Spirit

February 21, 2018 12:02am Published by Jules Smith in Whimsy On A Wednesday 22 Comments

Angel, Jules Smith

Satirical Snapshots Bringing You Whimsy On A Wednesday!

I jest about being a rancid bitch shat from the bowels of Hell, but recent evidence might suggest it’s true.


The Psychopath Test

The other day I was asked to do a personality test by a work colleague. They had participated and suggested I should take it as it is devised by a well known psychologist. You even have to pay a fiver to do it so that gave it more credibility.

The test stated that you must be in a calm setting,  a settled mood and not stressed. I don’t even know what that means.

The test asks random questions from ‘strongly agree to strongly disagree’ with many variants in-between. That caused instant irritation because I’m a bit of a ‘yes-or-no’ kind of chick and can only do shades when I’m being creative; otherwise I like to get straight to the point.

Be honest, it said.

Bring it, I answered.


Meet the New Stalin

Undertand Yourself


I mean….


As you can plainly see I am probably the most disagreeable person you know. Have ever known. Will, in fact, ever know. Not just slightly. Not by a smidgen, even.



At first, well, not at first because the first thing I did was tell the person who made me take it to bugger off and go and ruin someone else’s day. True to form. Then I thought, well if you’re gonna be good at something then you may as well excel, right? Look at the positive side.

But then I wondered at its accuracy. Disagreeable people have massive, life-changing mistrust.

I have lots of fabulous and lovely friends. Some of them LIFELONG. How, if I am so wretched? Hmmm… maybe they fear me? So, I rang one of them up and asked them.

“Why are you my friend?”


“Answer the question.”

“The same reason anybody is a friend, you like each other and enjoy each others company. We share a commonality.”

I thought about that for a second and whether the person I was talking to was a mean-spirited bitch. No. Quite the opposite. Good.

“So it’s not out of fear?”

“What’s going on, Jules….?”

I explained.

“Which mood were you in when you took this test?”

“What do you mean by which?! I exclaimed in a disagreeable fashion.

“Well, you know… were you agitated? Testing the test? Being ridiculously literal?”

In hindsight, I did take the test after many gruelling hours of work. And I might have only had 4 hours of sleep. And someone was vomiting upstairs and making me skittish. And I’d just lost my Apple ipen. And someone had stolen my last vanilla cappuccino sachet. Not to mention that at the time of answering the question, “I care about other people’s problems,” someone was chuntering about how their day was ruined because the shade of the dress they’d just purchased was slightly off. Do I care about other people’s problems? STRONGLY DISAGREE. TICK. 

I’m sorry but if someone’s life is ruined because they bought the wrong shade of frikkin’ yellow then I have no compassion. None.

I’ve got real issues. Like being labelled a psychopath.

Maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t the right time and maybe, just maybe, I answered a little rashly.

However, not wanting to leave things to chance, for once, I decided that I should make an attempt at becoming a bit more balanced.


Goddess of Mother Earth

Goddess of Mother Earth

Gaia, they call it. It’s like the Netflix version of mind-blowing spirituality and (yes, and) scientific findings. Rather than download another book on the art of Japanese folding, I decided I would subscribe to this channel and watch endless programmes that would enlighten me rather than violent thrillers and series where people blind you with their peaky caps.

I started with Quantum Physics as I rather like this subject. However, I realised the only reason I was enjoying this particular episode was because I figured I had the ability to affect global consciousness and make people adhere to my whims. Very sociopathic. I moved onto something about water. I was so captivated by this series that I stayed up until 1 am watching it.


I am now afraid to drink our water. Water, when it comes out of our tap is dead. Dead and vile and full of life-destroying chemicals. Not only that, but water has a memory and retains all the gubbins that people have flushed into it despite the chemicals. The only way to cure this is to freeze water and then melt it to return it to its original state. Then, after all that hassle, you have to run it through a black carbon filter to remove the chemicals.

I sat up until 2.45 am researching water filters on Amazon.

When I had to get up at 6 am the following day I was utterly atrocious. And dehydrated.


I’m Not Scared of Dying – I Just Don’t Want To Be There When It Happens

The next night I resumed my Gaia viewing even though I was now a sociopath on mead. Back to medieval insight. Don’t drink the dodgy water.

I started a series about the afterlife. I dismissed about 3 episodes because the people on there were pissing me off. Yes, of course you’ve had 97 near death experiences and spoken to spirit guides who keep sending you back because THEY HATE PEOPLE LIKE ME and want to INFLICT YOU UPON US.

And breathe…

This is making me even more intolerant. What’s after 0th percentile? Burning in Hell?

Eventually, I found one with scientists talking as well as nutters. I decided to stick with it.


I am now petrified of dying and have issues with my loved ones who have passed.

Apparently, when you die your soul rushes out of the top of your head with such force you might be violently disorientated.

Really? You just frikkin’ died!

Because of this, you might not know where to go, what is happening or what to do. Well, whoopy doo. I don’t know what I’m doing now, never mind how I’m supposed to deal with exploding out of my mortal head, with no moral support and no sat nav. I’m going to be one of those orbs that bounces off the walls of my house forever.

Secondly, if you’re not quite as neurotic as me, when you pass you may feel a sense of great relief. You will look down on your loved ones crying at your death but not give a toss about that and only feel peace and happiness.

How selfish is that?

I take great exception to the fact that I’m here crying and wailing at the loss of people I care about and all they feel is great relief and sod off on a jolly to never-never land.


I’m No Sigourney Weaver


I moved swiftly on to alien encounters.

You’ve heard it all before: abductions, poking, other kinds of poking, UFO’s and so on. Blah Blah. Despite being a sociopath, I am not averse to the fact there are other life forms in the Universe than us. I’m not that narcissistic.

Then I found that they could be walking among us. That could explain why I have so many eclectic friends; they’re not human. I’m being conned.

I now start wondering how I would react to an encounter with an alien and realise that in all scenarios I would become extremely disagreeable. Fear.

I then learn that if you think about aliens, they pick this up (being all advanced and all) and turn up cunningly disguised as the FedEx man. Not only am I now dehydrated, feeling unloved by my ancestors and a psychopath, but I’m also agoraphobic.


The Disciples of My Mind

Matthew, Mark, Luke, John

As I sat in my tinfoil hat and contemplated my new found enlightenment, someone called me and asked if I had ever spoken to myself.

Look, I told you my friends (aliens) were eclectic.

“Yes, I even answer myself. I sometimes have arguments with myself too.”

“No, I mean have you ever spoken to your subconscious?”

“I dunno. Probably. Unless we’ve had a row and they’re blanking me.”

“Look, Jules, it’s a good way to understand yourself. ( Can we just stop here and laugh out loud to that? I did.) Try and talk to your subconscious and give it a name.”

Hippy shit.

“A name? Really?”

“Yes. Make it real and have a conversation.”

“OK. What else have I got to lose at this point ?”


Back To My Former Self

I’m gonna be honest, I tried it. Nearly sent me off to Broadmoor.

My friend called. “Did you talk to your subconscious?”

“Oh yes.”

“And a name?”

“Matthew, Mark, Luke and John.”

What? That’s 4 names?!”

“Because 4 people spoke to me. I had a mind orgy – and not in a good way.”

“You can’t call them male names, you’re a female.”

“I know. One of my subconscious personalities made the very same point. So, I renamed them ‘Itsy, Bitsy, Teeny and Weeny’

“Oh.. How did that go?”

“Badly. We all fell out, I couldn’t remember who was who so I sent them to Coventry.”

“And what have you learnt from that?”

“To remain very disagreeable.”

Moral of the story? – Don’t water yourself down to appease other people.

Eris Day

February 14, 2018 1:40pm Published by Jules Smith in Whimsy On A Wednesday 22 Comments

Satirical Snapshots Bringing You…

Rather full up from yesterday’s pancake day where you force fed yourself batter and are now suffering from some sort of gluttonous intolerance, and now it’s Ash Wednesday which means you have to repent not only to God but also to your partner because it’s also Valentine’s Day and you got it wrong. Again.

Thank Goodness For Whimsy On A Wednesday!

You’re welcome.

I hope most of you are floating on that newfound fuzzy feeling of lurrrve, be it rekindled or in that heady first flush stage. Make the most of it because my prediction is that 79.9% of you are perhaps a little bit slighted or bewildered as to what went wrong on V Day.

Allow me to enlighten you as practising mentalist of the blogosphere.

Let’s just start with the premise that logic and emotion don’t usually work well together. AKA women are psycho’s and men are indifferent.

First Love

You think you can’t go wrong. Mistake.

You’re likely to go over the top with excessive gifts and now you’ve set a precedent. This means if you stay together that you are bound to fail because if you don’t maintain or surpass the previous year’s show of emotion, you’re toast.


You purchase a simple card and a bunch of flowers. Nice. Wrong. Whilst she may exude kisses and thanks because she’s in the first throes of romance, her inner psycho bitch is evaluating you for future reference.

*The card could have been a bit more romantic.

*Flowers were nice but full of ‘fillers’ to pad out the not so many roses. Hmm. If this is his first attempt is he really boyfriend material? Doesn’t bode well for the future, does it now.

You are now being assessed like a new dress bought on impulse. It stays in the wardrobe being looked at. It’s nice, she likes it; that’s why she bought it. However, hmmm… there’s something not quite right about it. She can’t quite put her finger on what that is. She will pull it out of the closet and hold it up against herself every now and then. Just to check. One day, in a fit of temper she will toss the dress into a bag and give it to charity without a second thought.

Take heed, guys.

The Bloom Is Off The Rose

You’re together. An item. There’s been peaks and troughs but on the whole, you’re trying to make a go of it. Along comes the day of love.

Inner psycho bitch is already ten steps ahead of the game. For goodness sake don’t mess up, boy.

Worst case scenario? You forget. She has waited all day for some surprise gift and her angst has been building to the point where magma is close to exploding. What you don’t know is that she has had to witness her colleagues in the office turning into prissy little princesses that make her want to vomit as they fawn over their ginormous, delivered bouquets. It doesn’t matter that she knows that Karen’s boyfriend recently had a one night stand with the tart from marketing because she still got flowers.

She awaits your arrival home trying not to be frosty but it’s an inbuilt female defence system, and all she gets is you coming through the door stating that you’re tired and does she fancy a takeaway curry?

Whilst she promised herself she wouldn’t mention it, she can’t help it and the lava spurts out like a torrent of evil.

The worst thing a man can say? “I don’t believe in this commercial crap. I love you every day not just on Valentine’s Day.”

This line does not, repeat NOT, work on women. You see, it is irrelevant that you love her every day because that should be a given. This was the day that you should have proved it by acknowledging the fact regardless of the commercial pressure. Now she doesn’t believe you love her enough and you can shove the curry up your arse because she is going to bed in a full-on chastity fleece pyjama set and the pillows down the middle of the bed. Here she will stay fuming whilst re-reading Fifty Shades of Gray bollocks and believe that other men are just like Christian and you are a pathetic waste of her breathing space.

You will have to console yourself with a Pot Noodle, Star Trek re-runs and a quiet night to yourself.  She thinks this is punishment but this is actually the best night in you’ve had for six weeks.

NB: Even if you are upfront about not celebrating Valentine’s Day before the first one even comes along, don’t be fooled by the female nod of agreement and coy smile. Her inner psycho bitch has already planted the notion that, “If you’re THE ONE he will throw this silly principle to one side and shower you with gifts and affection, obviously…”

Damage Limitation

Does not exist in the Valentine’s scenario. If you think you can make it up to her the next day you are sorely mistaken. It’s too late. Even if you sent the worlds most beautiful bouquet by way of apology she will just want to rip the heads off all the flowers because she hates you. It didn’t help that you slept soundly next to her snoring your head off last night whilst she lay awake plotting ways to kill you.

However, if you don’t send flowers by way of apology the next day then you really are sleeping with your secretary.

Either way, you cannot win.

Don’t be surprised to come home to find her dressed to the nines, cooly stating that she’s going out with her friends. This is female code for “Look and weep you total toss pot because somebody out there will pay attention to me if you can’t be bothered to.”

If Love Is Like Wine Then Marriage Is Like Vinegar

You’ve been together for years. Like a pair of comfortable old slippers. The companionship, whilst somewhat staid and predictable, offers a warmth and security. You know where you are; like Groundhog Day.

She wonders what happened to romance and you wonder what happened to that svelte like nymph that used to have you rocking on your heels. If you ever asked her that she would remind you that you killed it.

Valentine’s Day may be celebrated in a passive-aggressive fashion with a sarcastic card or a bunch of flowers from Asda, cunningly purchased the day before when they were half the price. She’ll make a show of putting them in a vase, somewhere in the back of the kitchen where they don’t mess with the decor that you’ve spent your whole life’s wages perfecting in your now perfect house where joy reigns.

She’s given up on expecting any grand show of wild emotion and you’ve given up on naked dancing with benefits. At a push, you might both share a meal out but be back in time for you to watch Wonder Woman and her to stalk her ex-boyfriends on Facebook.

Don’t worry though, it is Ash Wednesday so starving yourself of emotion is a noble sacrifice!

Happy Whimsy!

A Very Hairy Experience

February 7, 2018 2:26pm Published by Jules Smith in Whimsy On A Wednesday 30 Comments

Satirical Snapshots Bringing You Whimsy On A Wednesday!

The lady in the post office has a beard and a tash.

Just let me run that by you again.

The lady in the post office has a beard and a tash.

Now I know it doesn’t matter what people look like because looks are transient. I’m a big advocate of this and can prove it by showing you some of the troglodytes I’ve dated in my time. What is important is a person’s mind, heart, and soul.


You Can’t Do Comedy With A Beard

When confronted with a female and her beard it really does test your character. Quite obviously, my character is severely flawed. Far worse than I first thought.

My initial reaction, aside from trying not to stare, was to subconsciously run my hand over my chin. Recognising, a few seconds in, that this was the most stupidly obvious thing I could have done, I began to make over the top full face rubs whilst pulling a quizzical look as if to suggest I might have some sort of dermatological issue and WAS NOT thinking about her beard.

At the very same time, I am being filled with shame and embarrassment at my behaviour which, let me tell you, always renders me imbecilic. I already know at this point that everything is going to go tits up.

I tried to calm myself and stared intently into her eyes like some sort of demonic fruitcake as she asked how she could help me.

Oh dear Lord, where do I start?

I thoroughly hated eBay in the first place but now I’m silently scorning it inside my head because I have 17 parcels of this exchange to get through before I leave.

I placed my first parcel on the weighing machine and felt the beads of perspiration tickle my upper lip from my guilt-ridden hot flush. No. Please no. It tickled insanely but if I go to rub it she will think I’m doing sign language for “Nice tash.”

She asks me for a second time where the parcel is going.

“Australia,” I manage at the same time my eye muscles start to act involuntarily and drift to the long and wavy hairs on her chinny-chin-chin and I marvel at how they dance as she talks.

Damn, she’s talking! What the hell is wrong with me?


“Hairmail?” she asks.

No. I didn’t mishear her. I promise. She absolutely said that.

I squirm, nervously on the spot and look into her deep-set eyes. I notice the monobrow. I hate myself. This is secondary to the tash and beard, but still. She may have more of an issue with that, for all I know.

“Yes, H…h…airmail is great.”

As I placed the second parcel on the machine I noticed how hairy her fingers were.

I am being served by a werewolf.

Bard Of Beard

Being ever the storyteller I couldn’t  help but invent some tale in my head about this woman. I mean, there’s gotta be one hell of a story behind a lady who stands in the post office publicly serving the people of this working-class town where they call a spade a spade. That can’t be easy.

I fiddled with my iPhone as she stuck labels to my packages and imagined her being the secret flesh-eating demon of the town, and for every kill she makes she grows another hair on her face. I wonder if I could surreptitiously take a sneak pic of her as I wait, to show my pal at the pub later and then berate myself for even considering this atrocious notion. I make deals with God in my head and vow to be a better person.

Perhaps I could interview her? I think. I’ve interviewed lots of people before and maybe her story will release inner turmoil and bleed the hardened hearts of the piss takers. I could call the article “In the Hirsute of Happiness”

“Where to?! She snaps me out of my reverie.

“Oh, sorry. That one first class to hair..to Ha…to Hereford. All of a sudden I am talking like some tosser from “Made In Chelsea.”

I need help. I should be banished from the area. Forever. I deserve it.

In an attempt to control myself I decided to look to the right and focus on some of the shop’s merchandise. My eyes fell instantly on the special, BOGOF tins of WHISKERS cat food.

ARRRRGH! Somebody make it stop!

I am totally cursed.

Talking of curses…

Don’t Take The Coat Off Another Man’s Back

One of my eBay packages was a coat I sold that didn’t belong to me. In all fairness, I didn’t actually steal it.

At the beginning of spring last year I took my winter coats to the dry cleaners. I picked them up a few days later all covered in polythene and shoved them into my wardrobe. When winter arrived in late October, I took them out and unwrapped them only to find I was in the possession of an extra coat that didn’t belong to me. Oops. Well, it wasn’t my fault, it was theirs!

I rang the dry cleaner and told them. They didn’t care and said the person would since have been compensated and I should have told them at the time. I object to that kind of remark and will never use that dry cleaners again. The least they could have done is gifted me with a decent coat and not the one I had which, whilst it was a nice wool blended overcoat, would be better suited to a funeral director.

So, I decided to flog it. On eBay. For the measly sum of £8.00 plus package and posting. Lizzie Dripping purchased it and I sent it off thinking that for once, Karma had smiled on me.

Two days later I get an angry message in my eBay inbox.

“This is a man’s coat and not a woman’s. I wish to return it.”

Personally, I couldn’t tell if it was for a male or female as I studied my pictorial entry in the sold section.

“Well, it’s a size 8,” I replied. “I don’t know many males of that size myself – not one that you’d call a man, anyway. However, I’ve fully refunded you via PayPal. Sorry for your dreadful inconvenience.”

I left it at that. Thanks, Karma. I’m now out of pocket on a bloody coat that wasn’t even mine. That’ll teach me.

A couple of days later I received a message from her saying that she wanted to send it back. Why?

I told her to keep it. A gift from me. Wear it for gardening or give it a friend. Donate it to charity, whatevs.

“I’ll send it back to your local post office,” she threatened.

“NO! NOOOO.. Please no!”

Phew. That was a close shave. Anyone want a coat?

Want more?

Load another!