Making An Impact

December 19, 2018 3:04pm Published by Jules Smith in Whimsy On A Wednesday 24 Comments

Photo by Dave Allen – “Creative”

Satirical Snapshots Bringing You Whimsy On A Wednesday!

I got up this morning, had a shower and dressed in attire that I considered casually smart with an air of distinct quality.  Hair brushed neatly into a side ponytail and just a light spray of perfume to suggest understated class. No make-up bar a whisper of lash-lengthening mascara for a natural bird-next-door look.  Clean, smart and together: sophisticated without being pretentious. How you are perceived in the first 8 seconds can have a drastic effect on how you are treated and since I was going for my first deep-tissue sports massage I wanted to be given top quality service. 

I hopped in my car and tuned into BBC Radio 4 because that’s what smart people listen to and I didn’t want to go in humming Wizzard’s Christmas hit from Smooth Radio or I would’ve blown my kudos altogether.  I needed to arrive with an air of brilliance and be studiously pauciloquent. 

Creatively Compromised

The monotonous tones of the presenter and his cheery broadcast put me in a right depression. Apparently, if you haven’t made your mark on the world before the age of 30 then you may as well cash your chips in now.  It is a known fact that the genius’ of our time have always made an impact before this tender age. Those proficient in science, arts, music or film have done so before brains shrink, creativity declines, and it goes rolling down that steep and rocky hill followed closely by self-esteem.  

Awesome. Let’s roll in the Christmassy spirit with a nice dose of negativity. Put down your pens writers because there’s no point! Have you written your autobiography yet?  Don’t bother – Justin Bieber is a tit did it when he was straight off the tit. That should tell you all you need to know.

As the wheels of my degenerating brain creaked and searched for possible escape routes to this new found knowledge, a recent experience came to mind.  

Clearly, the people on Radio 4 have not yet met Whistling Sheila. 

What A Pucker!

As luck would have it I got invited to the Christmas Carol sing-a-long at the Rutland Arms, village pub.  It all started as usual with a bit of “Sticky 13’s” where I became Spartacus and won twenty glorious pounds.  This was followed by the “Great British Pull Off” involving all punters linked in a circle pulling each other’s crackers at the same time. Fate had me winning a giant plastic paperclip in order to gather all my innovative musings and file them away under ‘Creatively Compromised You Old Bastard’  Karma is such a passive-aggressive bitch. 

And then it was sing-a-long time and out came the turn: Our Whistling Sheila.  

You couldn’t make it up. 

This woman is a world whistling champion. Really. 

If you can imagine (what sounds like) a giant canary whistling carols whilst pissed up punters sing along then you’re probably halfway there. Think Phoenix Nights with a sadistic twist and a lot more fun. I urge everybody I know to visit this pub at least once in their lifetime and tell Al I sent you. It won’t get you a discount or anything but it will build your character and teach you new mind scarring things like how to be creative past 30 and find your inner schizo.

 As our Sheila said, “It changed my life in a lot of ways.”

Sheila. You changed mine too…

Back To Basics

I arrived at the sports massage clinic and mentally justified my reason for being as I waited in reception. This was aided by the receptionist donning cat ears and giant bauble earrings.  By the time my therapist (a strapping bloke called Ben) came out to fetch me I had already composed myself back into the game. This is called “Top Lobster” status as written by ‘Jordan Peterson’ who is also the reason for my being at a sports clinic because he states that one should look after themselves as much as they do their lizard. And, since Kevin is in brumation and not being very helpful at the moment, I decided to sort my insanely knotty shoulders out once and for all.  

Ben visibly shrank in my presence and I knew I was going to get the best treatment ever lest I berate him for failing. He pleasantly explained to me how he would map out the areas of my back to locate muscle lock and use his elbows to release tension. I readied myself on his treatment bed and stuck my face through the hole. 

Dear God.

Never in all my days have I felt such pain. Ben was a vicious little git and I went through such agony I didn’t know if I was going to faint, shit myself, vomit or all three at the same time. After an hour of this torturous ordeal, I told Ben how much I hated him and drove home in a state of severe dizziness which did not abate for an hour.  

I am now sat bolt upright in a leather chair wondering if I have broken ribs because breathing hurts. Violently. 

Ben said that typing at a computer elongates the shoulder muscles making them weak and this could be a re-occurring problem. Shut up, Ben.

 So, in a nutshell, I’m physically screwed, too old to make a mark anyway, and, despite following the wisdom of Mr. Peterson, I have been upstaged by a whistling diva when it comes to creative genius.  Suck that up.

Merry Christmas.


Leave a reply

😂😂😂👍👍 Great Wednesday to all! Jules you are right on target.

Hey, Uriel! Thanks for the visit and well wishes! I always aim for bullseye! 🙂

It makes me sound like a jerk to say, “you should have asked me first,” but, well, you know. Let’s take Kevin for a moment even though he’s currently in no position to conquer England. How often does he jump in his Land Rover and get a deep tissue massage? I know the answer to that question. You need not expound.

If you are going somewhere for a massage, get the chair massage, not the full Monty. Unless you’re going for an erotic massage, then the full Monty is fine. With a chair massage, they work your back, your neck, your arms, you cough up a tip and you’re outa there, with only a few aches.

You don’t know where these people who are touching you have been. It’s like eating road kill. It’s like dipping your tea cup in the toilet for brewing water, convincing yourself that boiling will remove impurities, while ignoring the taste factor. It’s like going to Spain on vacation – “it will be fun” – they tell you.

And that’s nearly all that I have to say on the subject. Merry Christmas.

Well, of COURSE, I should have asked you first, LL!

What’s the chair massage? That sounds like a Special Forces torture ritual and knowing you, it probably is! Do you mean one of those fancy things they put you in at nail salons? That’s all well and good but then I have to deal with the inane chit-chat and various red nail polishes available and let me tell you, that just adds to the tension!
You cough up tips? If I’d have known that on all my international junkets I’d have saved myself a lot of money!

Yeah – you’re right. And I fell for the “Spain” one last year in a big way!
Merry Christmas, Mr. Wolf. I hope it is everything you wish for. 🙂

I would like somebody to buy me an executive jet and pay for the insurance and pay for the fuel. At this season of magic, I might as well wish big.

They have those massage chairs at shopping malls. You can pay a modest fee to have somebody rub your back. You can also pay to have them come to your place of work and rub your shoulders if the tension is too great.

But WHAT DO YOU KNOW OF TENSION? You live in bucolic Old Blighty. If things get out of hand, you go to the pub, and get a therapy session from whoever you end up sitting next to. In California it’s not quite the same. If you can prove you’re an illegal alien from Latin America (not England), you can get free housing, a free cell phone with free minutes, free food, free healthcare, free transportation, and you can set up your narcotics distribution network without fear because almost all drugs are legal here now.

If anyone can get that bought for them, it’s you, LL!

I can’t have anyone coming here with their dodgy magic fingers or Kevin will bite them and it would be rude to wake him from his winter slumber.

It’s very tense around here. The Brexit issue has taken the benign right out of Blighty. Gin sales are through the roof!

Why can’t I get this kinda deal when I come to the States? As your nearest cousin, I should reap these benefits first! Tch!


Yes, Masher.
Really, really.
I smell jealousy… 😉

pauciloquent is one of those trap words, by the time you say it, you’ve already used too many words

I was the whistling champ at my local tavern. but the patrons asked me to leave when the place was filling up overcapacity with birds, both birds, women and birds.

please, I can’t be reminded again of the Phoenix Nights audition I didn’t get, it’s too painful. I was born to be on that show the way Malcolm McDowell was born to play Alex DeLarge.

you know that thing with the hole is a relatively new thing in massage therapy, in Medieval times when I was a page looking for a massage your face would just get all smashed in cos there was no hole in the chair.

Happy Christmas, mah dahlin, in case next week gets too hectic. over on this side of the Pond we have NPR:


I wish people would write legibly! You just can’t trust #InstaScribblers! *Corrected.

You’re too good for Phoenix Nights, my sweet. Your brainpower would blow them away. And the birds. Both kinds. There’s always a pay-off for power.

Glutton funnelers!

Seasons Eatings! There’s a lot of room for mischief in that.

Schweddy Balls…. Our Dickensian dishes need some of these. Christmas seems a lot more provocative across the pond. Catching a plane…. *)

I was going to ask you for the sport massagers number given my chronically knackered neck & shoulders thanks to many years of ‘nursing’, ie moving fat bastards about but don’t fancy the idea of expelling bodily fluids, think a night down the Rutland Arms will be more therapeutic

Agreed! A night down The Rutland Arms is enough therapy for anyone! Priceless too! 🙂

I am so completely shattered.
I recently sold my lips, having given up hope of ever being a champion at silbo gomera . I am well past 30 , and after hearing what I now discover is FAKE NEWS, I regret that decision. I saw the video of Sheila performing. She is in my generation. SHE is a CHAMPION ! There may have been a glimmer of hope at maybe, somehow, someday, I could challenge her in the Big Blow-Off !!
But, alas, the pursed puckerers are gone 🙁 Never gonna happen . No way. No how.

However….with renewed enthusiasm thanks to Whistling Sheila, I’m encouraged to chase a new dream .
I begin yodeling classes just after the holidays !!

BTW, My Dear Crowned Jules…Next time you’re in ‘Merrica maybe we can meet up for a Bubba style deep-tissue massage. All that is needed is a quart sized bottle of Mazola Oil , rubber sheets , and imagination.
I regret that due to my current situation, I will not be able to blow in your ear.
Ever Your Bawcock,

PPS – you NEVER sell your lips to anyone! You don’t know what people will do with them!

Do you reckon Sheila and Silbo ever got it on? Maybe they whistled while they worked and then their conscience came to be their guide and they parted ways. Such a sorry affair. Imagine the dynamic duo they’d have made!

Yodelling? Got some pipes on ya, eh? No, not that one. I look forward to your joyful screams in the coming New Year!

Mazola oil?! You bloody cheapskate! I only get down on rubber for Extra Virgin Olive. Imagination I have a plenty! 😉

>if you haven’t made your mark on the world before the age of 30 then you may as well cash your chips in

I have long said, If God had meant for me to be a great mathematician, I’d be 30 years dead by now.
Well, not exactly. Ten years ago I’d have said “20 years dead”. But you get the idea.

>like a Special Forces torture ritual
Nobody expects the Special Inquisition!

I didn’t want to be a mathematician anyway, Mike – I’d have to account for my behaviour.

The only way to make a dent now is by ending up on the front page of the news and we all know that’s not gonna be a good thing. Unless we fake it…OH…WAIT! Hehehehe!

You can’t beat a bit of Monty Python. Comedy genius. And, over 30 when they hit pay dirt! 🙂

Juliette, I have one thing to say and it is this.

Hahahahaha! That made me laugh, that did!

As a child of the 70’s, I have to inform you that it’s Wizzard, ‘When the Snowman brings the snow, when the Snowman…………………………………………………………………………………………………….’

Bloody hell! I’m getting pulled up left, right and centre here! Next you’ll be telling me that Frank Lampard is a midfielder! 😉

Anyway, it’s not my fault that people from the 70’s can’t bloody spell! 😉

I did enjoy seeing Frank Lampard going apoplectic on the touchline against Forest on Monday.

I bet! 🙂

I am told by my massaganist that one should start out slow and drink plenty of water after the massage.
She asks $50 an hour and I have been many times and felt wonderful after (“no helping” she says whilst
gently pressing and manipulating pressure points).
I must admit that I have not been for awhile, not proud of my dumpy
naked body these days. But that is another story. gm

I love your avatar, Goatman!

I had to drink some roasted apple moonshine after mine, just to take the pain away!
A good massage is heavenly though, I’ll admit. I think they should be at least 3 hours long and end with wine and not water. I see no sense in punishing oneself after a treat!

Get yourself back there and tell her to work hard on your lust cranks. 😉

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published
Required fields are marked (*)

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.