Whimsy On A Wednesday
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Gypsies ‘Tramps’ and Thieves

September 18, 2019 12:02am Published by Jules Smith in Whimsy On A Wednesday 14 Comments

Satirical Snapshots Bringing You Whimsy On A Wednesday!

Let me just set the scene so you can feel where I’m coming from:  Beautiful, well spaced detached houses line the sought after street all overlooking the green and pleasant farmland of England. The fields roll on forever; so far into the distance that some say you can see the Russian steps. Sheep frolic in the pastures like clouds and russet brown dairy cows move from field to field, their haunting moo cow noises lingering in the fresh air. Hares can be seen jumping through the crops at dusk and sunrise, skirting their way diagonally through the corn. It’s idyllic and you can see all this taking place from the windows where I live.

What you don’t expect to witness are two police search vans, four cars, ten armed police, a handful of plain clothed CID, people with ‘equipment’ and other undercover cops in hoodies landing at your next door but one neighbours. 

No. Not where I live.

In The Ghetto

Astonishment took over me as I watched the scenario unfold.  People in rubber gloves were dusting everything and going backwards and forwards from house to van. A car truck rolled up and took away several vehicles – A BMW M5, Merc and a Range Rover. All day long they were there and I didn’t have a bloody clue what was going on. I fully expected the cops to come and have a chat with me to see if I knew anything because I’ve seen them do that on crime dramas, but no. I had to watch it all going on without being in the know. For a person like me that is absolute HELL. 

If only I’d been more sociable with the neighbours along the street I might’ve had a clue but I don’t like the idea of people close by getting close by, if you get my drift. Self preservation. 

Turns out that the millionaire a few doors down rented this said house out to a couple who were proper nice. Always mowed the lawns, paid the extortionate rent on time, bought gifts for the neighbours from their holidays -yours truly excluded. Right as rain they were. Right up until they got arrested for firearms and drugs. 

WELL OF COURSE THEY WERE NICE, DUH.

If I’d have been friendlier I could have had myself a free Glock and some internal psychedelic tripping. If only I’d known….

A Walk On The Wild Side

Needless to say, I felt a little on edge now that I was living in the ghetto. The Wolfit is not fully grown and is far too ‘puppy cute’ to instil fear and the lizard is a complete hermit.  However, you do what you can with the infant army you have, so when my best friend called me to the country pub up the road after her holiday I strapped up the wolfdog and stepped out onto the street with trepidation. 

I had given the pupster a rather large raw bone that was kindly donated by the butcher at the farm shop who can see the potential of being friends with a wolfdog owner. This, I thought, would help Tex T.Bone get in touch with his wild side and be an able protector. The ten minute trek to the pub from my abode in the ghetto becomes very countryfied with the pavement tapering into skinny single file.  In front of me, about halfway to destination, I saw a heavily tattooed man, clearly one pint too many worse for wear, sporting a skinhead and arguing with another fella. At the side stood his very bottle blonde girlfriend wearing a skirt that made a waist belt look maxi-long. Tied tightly to a lead (held only by the man’s Doc Martin) strained their Pit Bull Terrier as it spotted Tex the lone wolf Timber dog approaching. 

The Internal Dialogue

You know how it goes. *Internal sigh* How am I going to deal with this?

Why me?

Look, you can do this. You’ve been in Texan Redneck clubs and come out alive.  You’ve been the only chick at a deer hunting camp with homemade moonshine and firearm games and survived.  

Just go past them- somehow – without getting killed by side-stepping into the main road with 60 MPH travelling cars. 

How?  You can’t. Large and in charge. It’s the only way.

*You have to have lived in England to fully understand how mental people can be here. Not everyone is stiff upper-lipped in lace collars polite. The divide is very extreme.*

Maybe they’re customers of the dodgy neighbours? Brilliant. A nut job on withdrawal. Hopefully out of ammo. 

The Tex-Mex came to a halt, head down, hackles up and began to make the most extraordinary low whinny.  

You’re really not helping, I said. 

They didn’t move out of my way. Here we go. 

The chap turned around, glared at me and the dog, fell to the floor with open arms and said, “ Awww, look at ‘im, he’s mint! Come ‘ere big dog!” Both he and his pitbull fawned lovingly over the wolfit making him feel relaxed and happy whilst the acid in my stomach continued to eat me from the inside out. 

Just goes to show you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover.

Talking of Books…

I arrived at the lovely country pub and met up with my best friend who had just come back from holidaying in the coastal town of Whitby.

“I’ve bought you a present,” she declared.

“I hope it’s Tramadol mixed with valium.”

“Better! I saw this in a little shop and thought of you. It was a quirky little shop with really interesting things and this was sitting in the window and I had to get it for you.”  She handed over the gift that was wrapped in a thick brown paper bag with a kitschy shop name emblazoned on it and it smelt of rustic quality.  The kind of bag you don’t want to open because it’s already perfect.

 And inside was the most delightful and aptly named book.

Tramping!  A trend I have brought back to life, it would seem! Except mine includes a truck. This darling little read from the 1920’s is about losing yourself to the wildnerness and how to do it properly.

Escape from the ghetto?  Yes, please. 

Even though its title was the reason for its purchase the contents of this book were made for me. As soon as I read the back cover, I knew.

Not past the ‘foreword’ and I became hooked.

Such wisdom.

 

Right?  Haven’t I always said, ‘Keep it simple’?

 

Don’t I know it. Read on.

And if ever a book could spread my soul onto paper, this called trumps. Or should I say, ‘Tramps’

Finally. Something in my language!

Tramping. It’s where the smart booted roam.

 

 

Wee Are As One

August 28, 2019 1:45pm Published by Jules Smith in Whimsy On A Wednesday 15 Comments

Satirical Snapshots Bringing You Whimsy On A Wednesday!

It will soon be time for adventures now that the little wolfit is growing and allowed into the big outside in ten days.  

The truck is ready – the tramping gear is all sound. I have beds, cookers, tables, and hoo-yah off-roading wheels. The world is my oyster from Lands End to John O’ Groats.  

Bar one thing.

The Package

This little contraption was required to make all the difference.  

This 5” little plastic box will be able to transform and transport me into the fluidity of the future.

No. It’s not a lunchbox.

Nor is it a drugs container.

Or an ice pack.

What on earth can this vital piece of tramping gear be, you might wonder.

What A Tool

Pop off the cap and discover some some useful tools within.

A spoon for scoffing down one’s porridge? 

No.

A fake Unicorn horn perhaps?

No. 

A funnel from beer can to gob?

No. Not unless used first and once for this particular avenue of pleasure.

Don’t be Ri-DICK-ulous

This, my friends, is a Purple Plastic Penis. 

Also known as…

Shewee.

I can imagine eyes rolling to the back of heads right now as you read this but if anyone is going to have anything this ri-dick-ulous then you full well know it’s going to be me.  There’s no better person on this planet to test out the art of being able to “pee-like-a-he” than yours truly.

All Cock And No Balls

But dare I try it? 

There’s something a little scary about the Shewee that has stopped me from giving it a trial run.

As you can see, it has an extension tube. You can attach this so that your Purple Plastic Penis creates great envy by being longer than a French door.

Whilst I appreciate this has great sporting possibilities I’m not ready to take someones eye out just yet.  The instructions state that it may be best to first try out the Shewee in the shower incase of accidents.  

Err, no. Gross.

Urination does not occur in my lavender scented, pristine white shower cubicle.  I need to find a secluded spot outside in the woods and hope to God I don’t get reported by a passing jogger for flashing. 

Joggers are a colossal pain in the arse. They always happen upon you in the most random areas in the great outdoors when you are trying to have a wee. They must have special kind of non-twig-breaking trainers because you can never hear them coming  up on you. They whip past you like a nasty breeze.  

Silent joggers are probably the cause of many a splash-back mishap. It’s very difficult to remain unshakeable whilst crouched down to floor level, your feet (tiptoes to the point of calf cramping ) only allowed the stretching width of your knicker elastic whilst you try your best to balance on uneven ground with one eye on your angle and the other on the lookout for any creepy crawlies that might jump up your Dooh-Dah. It’s bloody stress central let me tell you! 

Hence the Shewee.

When I get round to having a go.

Baby steps. 

Pee-ple Skills

At the moment I’m practicing the art of carrying the Shewee around in my bag and using it in inappropriate or awkward situations as I do my Emergency Clown Nose. 

Arriving at a pub, taking out my sunglasses, my phone, my Shewee box and putting them down on the table next to my glass of wine creates a great ice-breaker. Or mass exodus.

My favourite of all is going to someone’s party or summer BBQ and saying, “Can I go to the loo?”

“Yes, it’s down the hall on your left, but I think Dave’s in there at the moment…”

“Oh that’s OK, I’ve brought my own!” I say, giving my hand a shake, the Shewee box clutched tightly.

I  pop the lid and remove  the tools, piecing them together as I wander down to the prize petunias at the bottom of the garden. Fortuitously, there’s always some stuck-up, sour-faced fun-sponge guest where I’m heading as I wave  the purple plastic penis in full, mighty extension in their direction.  Heh. You’d be amazed how quickly you get steered back to the bar or the hosts rather lovely en-suite – just for friends of course – where you get a splash of free expensive perfume from the dresser and a pee in peace.  

So, without actually even getting to watering the plants yet or revenge on silent, weirdo joggers, I can behave like a knob and turn a party around just by getting it out of my handbag!  

Looks like the Shewee is going to be a very useful and versatile tool. 

 

Tex – The Lone Wolf Timber Dog

August 7, 2019 7:34am Published by Jules Smith in Whimsy On A Wednesday 20 Comments

Satirical Snapshots Bringing You Wolfie Whimsy On A Wednesday!

I’ve been on a waiting list for many months.  

Patiently (or not so) waiting for the ultimate weapon in my newly formed army.  The sniper! I told Kevin all about it.  He flicked his tail violently and scurried to his cave. Dragons are very competitive.

And then…

eventually…

it happened.

On the 4th June, ten little wolfalikes were born and one of them was mine.  After stalking the breeder from Shima Onida Wolfdogs for 8 weeks ( nearly camping outside her house and knocking on her door at every given opportunity) I was finally able to take my puppy home. 

Meet Tex –  The Lone Wolf Timber Dog

A first generation Timber puppy from The ‘Angel and Demons’ litter.

Pedigree name: Shima Onida Lucifer. 

Because if anyone was going to get a hellhound, then it’s me. 

His about town moniker is Tex.  Tex Larry Lupo of Wolfendom – The Lone Wolf Timber Dog. 

AKA #TyrannosaurusTex #Texterminator and many other punny-like nicknames I have ready to go up my sleeve.  Please feel free to join in.

I did consider calling him ‘Wesson’, cos, ya know, that would have been amusing.

The Timber Dog Club UK

As a relatively new breed, not many people have heard of the Timber Dog. 

“The Timber Dog Club UK are still in the process of creating new bloodlines. New bloodlines have been introduced to improve health, temperament and conformation. All Timber Dogs to date carry recent wolf content, it is relatively low – But it is still there. Therefore families overseas, especially in the USA need to keep this in mind when enquiring for puppies as some States in the USA do not allow dogs with any wolf content. “

Shima Onida

The breeders definitely know what they are talking about, hence the long waiting list and produce only the best dogs to those who they deem worthy of dealing with such a breed. Their Inuits are closely related to the wolfalikes used in the Game of Thrones series.  My breeder has a beautiful Timber dog who actually met Karl Drogo.  I would have died. 

Below is a picture of a Timber wolf on the left at 9 weeks old and my low-wolf-content Timber puppy dog, Tex- Mex, on the right at 8 weeks old.

A Howling Similarity.

Because this breed is not well known, I have been asked so many bizarre questions when carrying him out and about to get him socialised, stopping to sit outside coffee shops in order to meet lots of interesting people. 

I have started to take the path of least resistance. 

“OH MY GOD! Is that a fox?!”

*sigh* “Yeah”

Or…

“What is he?  He looks like a kangaroo!”

‘He’s a KangaPoo”

“Wow!  Where do you get those from?”

“It’s a one off.  An opportunist poodle came across a sleeping Kangaroo.  There was a jump he wasn’t expecting…”

And so on… 

Texcitable Times

But on the whole, he has been met with dribbles, tears of joy, open mouthed wonderment, and melted the hardest of hearts with his adorableness.  I’ve never had so many visitors. 

He’s forever at my feet and I am unable to walk properly anymore because he has turned into my shadow. He knows who the General is. Good dog.  And, he howls when I eat a bacon sandwich because  bacon is for dogs, obvs. Smart.

A Dragon, a Truck, and a Tex. Who says a chick can’t have everything? 

 

What A Load Of Bull!

July 18, 2019 12:30pm Published by Jules Smith in Whimsy On A Wednesday 14 Comments

Satirical Snapshots Eventually Getting Round To Posting!

And as usual, there’s a lot of bull….

The County Fair 

Nothing says you’re in England quite like a Big Wheel, a man in a suit and a bowler hat, a pretty girl in boots, and a white coated pubescent walking a giant bull.  It all goes on over here.

Farmers – they’re a bit mad aren’t they?  I can attest to this from an experience I had at a “Young Farmers Ball” once upon a time.  A man in tweed and expensive wellies, who’s not afraid to ram his arm up inside a heifer, is of a different breed.  And when drunk on cider at a posh do full of fillies in frocks they’re even worse.  Maybe all they can see is cattle?  Terrifying.

Off I went to the County Fair to see what was going on.

Farmers are very proud of their moo cows.  Brushing them, making them stand correctly by hitting them with a stick, and smiling whilst a burly judge has a good look around them and pins a rosette on his favourite.  I don’t quite know what he’s looking for… Is it going to make a good burger? 

Look At The Cajones On This Beast!

My word! 

Well, the farmer judge turned up in a fitted tweed two-piece and seemed to be in his element.  

Get a load of this fine rump! He had a good old stroke around that and seemed to adopt this rear position with ease.  Like he’d maybe done it before…

And then straight underneath for a good old feel of Mr.Bull’s swinging tackle!  

Why?

Brave.  And, like I said, a bit mental. 

And if you’re not about the bollocks you can take a turn at pulling titties.  

Or, understand the fine art of fleecing with our Nobby!

Who seems to have the Norfolk horn…

It’s all very animal farm.

However, it’s not all bestiality.  For those looking for a bit of refinement there was falconry, giant tortoises, some classic cars, and a rather nice show of horse and cart riding.

I quite fancy my hand at this!  How very elegant and refined! I could see that looking pretty good parked outside my house next to my truck!

This event rounded off nicely with a magnificent display of horsemanship.

Not that my mind was on sausages or anything but you can’t leave a good farming show without a bit of Lincolnshire’s finest meat.

A footlong too.  They make ’em big over here.  The farmers are always saying so.

Take a gander at that, my American friends! You have some competition from across the pond.

Needless to say,  that kept my mouth full for a while…

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 ancestry.com 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. 

Ace.

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.  

FREEDOM. 

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. 

“What?” 

Pause. Eye roll. I showed them pictures.

“Ah.” 

“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

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