The Ghost Writer

The Ghost Writer

The Ghost Writer ©

By Michael Casey

Michael did not plan to be a writer, it kind of found him, like tripping over somebody’s legs at an airport while you are reading a newspaper, then you notice that the legs you tripped over are very nice legs, that reach up to her hips. And instead of being angry at each other he and she found that there was a spark between them, they twinkled even. Marybeth was an American and she just loved his accent, she insisted on having his details. And as her bag on the floor said America Judo Team Michael could not resist.

Within six months she had joined him in Birmingham, the real Birmingham in England, a month after that she was pregnant, Michael had been saving up to be married and no doubt he had saved, he has saved all his, all his, well he had saved up all his, and she may have thrown him down on the mat, the mattress. But once she joined him there she had received all his, all his, well all his all. So she was pregnant and she was so happy, her child would have a British accent, now that was really cool, every so cool in fact.

Now as Marybeth could make more money as a Judo instructor they decided that once Margaret had finished with Marybeth’s breast milk
then Marybeth would go back to her Judo school and Michael could be a Hausfrau. Besides Michael always wanted children so he was happy to be a Hausfrau, and if anybody took the mick about him being a Hausfrau then Marybeth would throw them against the garage door or through the garden fence, she was very protective that way. Marybeth just adored Michael and he was very good on  the mat too, and soon Denis arrived. They now had the perfect family with two beautiful children, Margaret and Dennis.

Michael enjoyed all the time he spent with his kids and Marybeth coming home and all the time he spent on the Judo mat with her, now he understood why Putin was always smiling, it must be all the time he spent on the mat with his Judo partner. Michael now had time to do some writing, it kind of emerged once the kids were having an afternoon nap he could go to the old clunky computer and write a story. He thought he could write stories for his kids, but he seemed to run out of ideas, so he thought what could he write about instead.

So Michael wrote a steamy account of his and Marybeth’s love life, he wouldn’t dare show it to anybody or publish it in a blog or an ebook. It was just for him and Marybeth, or that was the idea. When she came home one night full of sweat from hours throwing people all over the place, a Black Belt 9^th Dan can get very sweaty you know, so Michael stood outside the shower and read his first efforts to her.

If ever you share this I’ll hang you with my Black Belt, she said before she dragged Michael into the shower, it was a power shower like no other, all the way to level 9. And so it became a private very private thing between them, he scrubbed her back and she scrubbed his after he had read the latest installment of their private log. Captain Kirk’s log was never anything like this.

With this kind of lovemaking in the shower the plumber was a frequent caller, or he was until they splashed out after they had repeatedly splashed about in the shower, and finally bought an industrial strength bathroom suite, imported from Japan.

Michael’s log grew and grew and Marybeth should have had masses and masses of children, but Fate dictated that Margaret and Dennis were all the children they had. When Margaret and Dennis started  Primary school  they demanded a dog, a Labrador because they had seen a blind man in the street. Michael gave in and bought them a Labrador, and the children called it Camembert because the cheese was the same colour as the dog. The children also added optimistically that should daddy go blind then they had the correct dog already.

So life went on and Margaret and Dennis grew up big and strong and soon reached Black Belt standard, as for Michael he did not go blind, though Camembert thought he was as Michael always seemed to wear sunglasses. Marybeth enjoyed her life and her husband, even if they had to import 3 Japanese bathrooms over the years.

Finally Michael died but with a smile on his face, he had reach 10^th Dan, though not in Judo, Marybeth was consumed with grief, but after the funeral which was attend by many many Judo people, most with 50inch chests, and that was just the women. So after the funeral Marybeth sat glumly looking looking at the computer, Camembert III was licking her fingers trying to comfort her. Michael had never gone blind and all the Camemberts over the years never understood why he wore shades. So Marybeth read Michael’s log, she laughed and cried and finally had to have a shower in her Japanese bathroom.

While she was in the shower she had a funny feeling, was it Michael or rather his ghost, their love was so strong his ghost remained. Was she afraid? No Mrs Muir had her Ghost, now she had hers. So Marybeth found comfort for the next 20 years in her shower.

And when Marybeth died her children Margaret and Dennis published the manuscript, it was an international hit, especially in Japan. Obviously to avoid embarrassment it was had a pen name. The book was called Reaching Tenth Dan by Ghost Writer.

Spare a Thought for the Cleaner This Christmas

Spare a Thought for the Cleaner This Christmas ©

By Michael Casey

 Well Christmas will soon be here, though to be honest I haven’t thought much about it. So this morning while shivering in front of the computer I was thinking what to talk about today, so cleaning came to mind. I did spend 3 years at the Crowne Plaza Birmingham NEC, or CPNEC, so while I was there I got to help out everywhere, I was a veritable Cinderella, though much better looking with a stronger shaving rash.

I’d be minding my own business in Reception and Anthony would ask me to go and help out with the cleaning crew, or Housekeeping, everything has a posher title in hotels. My title would be Executive Peripatetic Assistant, or dogsbody in plain English, but I didn’t mind everything was fun, and far far better than being unemployed with one then two toddlers to feed. So I’d go upstairs and help the cleaning crew, or Housekeepers. Normally when somebody asks you to go upstairs with them it is an invitation to have sex or some other kind of fun. But if you work in a hotel it means, go fetch or carry or clean.

Our hotel had 242 rooms if I haven’t forgotten, you can all double check on the website, you could even print off my photo and ask did this fat guy really work here 10 years ago. I believe Vicky still works there but in the Hacienda, which is the posh name for the staff canteen. When I was there Vicky was one of the Housekeeping staff, she is really nice and when I was teamed with her I’d try and stay out of her way.  So while she cleaned the bedroom, and placed notepads and pens and this and that in the appropriate places, and vacuumed and made the bed too, I’d clean the bathroom, sink, toilet and bath.

Then when one room was done we’d move to the next. They have 15 mins to do each room I believe and each Housekeeper has a printout of their list of rooms that they must do. There is a buzz about cleaning rooms, mainly the friction as they vacuum and fly about the room and onto the next room. I cannot praise the crew highly enough, because I was there too. I seem to remember that me and Michael Wilson once had the task of turning mattresses over after 6 months use. Michael went back to his carpentry once the Winter was over.

I would get a message on my phone saying come back down stairs after so long and then I might be meeting and greeting millionaires, once I had put my jacket and tie back on. Because I was 20 years older than the reception crew frequently I was mistaken for the General Manager himself, if only people knew I had my hand down a toilet minutes before.

Enough of the 4 star deluxe hotels, what about your office? I have an affinity with cleaners for many reasons, but another reason being that I used to always work till 8pm. So I was there when they were doing their job, so I know the disgust they had for the people who left half full cups of coffee in the bin. Come on tip the coffee in the sink if you don’t want to finish it, or pour it cold on mating pigeons on the roof outside, I think that happened once maybe 30 years ago.

A dustbin reveals a lot about a person or the group of people who share a dustbin. I remember once a syringe was found in a dustbin where I was working, and the cleaner pricked herself so had to have an AIDS test. I think in the end it was a careless diabetic who was to blame, but please think before you dump stuff in a dustbin. I’m not asking you to gift wrap your rubbish and to leave it all neatly for the cleaners, though a little thought does make a difference. A dustbin is not a basketball hoop, and the wall around the bin should not be splattered with food and all kinds of everything, even if the cleaner is called Dana.  

Naughty cleaners do exist, they will squirt scent in the air to give the illusion they have done your room when they have not. One trick or cleaners aid is to wrap sellotape or sticky tape around a few fingers just as boxers do then prance about your room like a ballet dancer picking up any specks of rubbish, this saves getting the vacuum cleaner out. Though I would say in 95% of the time all the cleaners I have met during my working life have been really hard working mums.

So what more can I say, just admire your cleaner and if you look after her then your room will be better than the company directors. I have to finish now as I have to spray perfume around the house and wrap sellotape around my fingers, I am a perfect hausfrau after all. Luckily my wife never reads my stories, so don’t you be telling her, or she’ll wrap the vacuum cleaner around my neck and throw me in the fish tank at the Fish Market, and wouldn’t that create a big stink?

Talking to Myself

Talking to myself ©

By Michael Casey

Well its freezing here sat in my North facing chair, it’s the coldest day of the year too, Totoro our cat poked her nose out into the back yard and decided it was too cold outside, so she dashed into the house and up the stairs to hide under the duvet, she is not stupid after all. As for me I had to brave the weather to hang out the washing, a hausfrau’s work is never done.

So what will I talk about today, I’m going to talk about talking to myself. If you have read any of my words then you will have noticed that I write so that you hear me, words for radio if you like. This is because I grew up listened to BBC Radio 4, which is Speech Radio, intelligent speech radio not Howard Stern like radio or the thousands of speech radio programmes that thrive on argument as their speciality subject. I have even recorded 200+ of my stories in the vain hope that one day I can break into Radio, though having just said what I’ve said they might never give me a chance.

So what is Writing and what is Radio, you might get that as an essay topic someday. In a way it is talking to yourself, it’s just you and a microphone shooting the breeze. Or in my case I write the piece, the story and only when I’m finished do I read it back to myself, and to my girls if they are around, and then I can judge have I hit the subject on the nail or not.

Then in the past I’ll record what I’ve written. When recording the written word I have to get the feel of the written word into my voice, as the writer I know the Timing and Punch Lines, if I were to ask somebody else to record it they could miss the Qs if you like. We have a comedy show here in England which is very well written and the show is/was much loved, but do you know what the problem is? The Timing is out by half a second so I just cannot watch it, and do you know what my Lawyer sister-in-law agrees with me, and she knows a thing or two about words.

When you are talking to yourself on the Radio, the flow does make a big difference, and so if the flow of words stops and starts like the pages of the script stuck together then the overall result is bad. Style does make a difference, do you let the words flow, do you let the Music Speak as the old Abba song says. Or do you stick the roadblock of your “personality” in the way of the flow. Here in England we’ve been spoilt by the BBC in my opinion, and if you love words like me, then if you hear a jabbering idiot talk over the music to tell you what he’s going to have for dinner or who his latest girlfriend is then all you want to do is scream, or if you are in America shoot the radio.

You do need a plan or an idea in your head before you start to talk to people, but once the ice is broken you can slide along without falling on on your ar ar, well on your lack of ideas. This is where reading and listening comes in, if you have talked to many people then some of them has rubbed off on you, so you have a greater awareness of life. That’s why working in a hotel is such fun, as well as incredible hard work.

Radio brings you straight into people’s private space, people listen with their cat, in their bath, in bed, holding hands, or just cosy in front of the fire. So if you make a little effort, then you soon become a friend, it should be about sharing something, then Radio is at its best. I know this as I started as a Radio listener maybe 50 years ago. Radio is a Conspiracy, of laughter or even of Music with David Mellor, a conspiracy of many many things.

As we all know con spire, is Latin for breath together, so we should be having a close relationship with our radio, almost making love to it, though making love to a person with the radio on is even better. Radio is not some shouty  person you would gladly let drown at the bottom of your bath, radio is intimate, that’s why you hide under the bedclothes with it.

Christmas 2016 and More

Christmas 2016 and More ©

By Michael Casey

Suddenly Christmas is approaching fast, I believe in keeping Christmas in December so as its 28^th Nov I think I’m safe in talking to you about Xmas. Xmas is not X   mass, it is Christmas, the X represents the Cross after all. So what does Christmas mean to you. If you are Jewish you have Hanukkah or Eid if you are Muslim, and there is Diwali for Indian families. We each have those special religious and family times. Luckily here in Birmingham we celebrate all of them at home and in our schools, so kids get sweets on more than one occasion. We even have white British teachers dressing in saris to get into the spirit of such occasions, but that’s enough about my sister.

So what about Christmas? In Ireland back in Kerry and beyond people keep a candle burning in the window to help guide the 3 Kings I believe, if I’m not  totally correct I’m sure somebody will leave a comment for me, maybe the priest in Cromane Lower near Killorglin. Christmas is innocent and all about family the first family and then our own.

It’s from the Kings that we get the idea of presents at Christmas. So you might say  Christmas invented or spawned  Amazon and Macys  etc. If you work with a big crew of people you might spend a week’s wages buying 40 little presents for all the people you work with. So you give 40 presents and receive 40 little presents in return, girls are more likely to do this than lads, lads will just go down the pub and give and receive lots of liquid presents, certainly that  was the case in my computer room days.

But for girls it’s a day of reckoning, she did not give me a nice present last Christmas so she’s getting a really rubbish present this year, I could name names but I won’t. And so hours are spent deciding what present to give, assuming the person is worthy of a Christmas present this year, or have they been excommunicated from the presents list, naturally everything done in the true spirit of Christmas.

When you send Xmas cards, a tradition brought to us by Prince Albert, Queen Victoria’s husband, or was it Christmas Trees, you really do need to research that for yourselves. My point though is that there Are nice really nice cards with the Baby Jesus on, or Caravaggio prints, by the way Andrew Graham-Dixon wrote a book and has a dvd about Caravaggio, it’s  a great Xmas present. Where was I, yes cards, you have nice ones for your holy friends and maiden aunts, then there are the drunken santa ones for the lads in the office. There are also rude ones for the girls you really fancy, not forgetting ecards with dancing elves where you can insert your own face.

 Christmas means shopping, blame the Kings for that, and as you dash backwards and forwards or even forbackwards and backforwards everywhere have you ever heard the Lindisfarne song, Winter Song. In  it there is a line “Santa is in his module, he is an American astronaut, and Jesus he got busted for befriending the wrong sort”  So as you think of the real meaning of Christmas, or any other high religious festival, do you notice the beggar in the street? Your wrapping paper costs more than a packet of biscuits that’ll fill her or his belly for a day.

So this Christmas and perhaps more often than that, I’m not asking you to give the beggar money, which you’ll say he’ll spend on beer, or she’ll spend on drugs. I’m suggesting and I’ll not even use a stronger word than that. Can I suggest you give a packet of biscuits or a banana or two or a 19p bottle of water to your member of the human race. Just randomly share something with the lease of my brethren.

Now for me and yes I really mean this the best thing I get every day is a goodnight kiss from my daughter, and I’m still alive 2 years on from my unplanned quadruple heart bypass, yes my Arthur my arthritis still brings me much pain, and my bypass has left lingering pain too, though I DO have perfect blood pressure. And I have Ckd too, but compared to the beggars in my street I am such a lucky lucky man.

There is something else I receive most days which is of incalculable value, it’s a God Bless from the beggars in the street when I give them biscuits. And maybe just maybe it’s those God Blesses which will decide whether I get into the Final Party. For whatsoever you did to the least of my brethren you did unto me. Merry Christmas, Eid, Diwali or Hanukkah to each and every one of you.

And to those of you who have no faith at all I can say is, can I have 17 pints of Stella Artois and a packet of cheese and onion crisps, and if you pay instead of hiding in the toilets when it’s your round, now that would be a Christmas Miracle.

Media Trained

Media Trained ©

By Michael Casey

I was reading a piece about Michael Parkinson the great and best Tv chat show interviewer, google him if you don’t believe me. What he said chimed with me, especially as my eldest daughter is doing her exams and will be choosing her A levels which will then lead to her career. In her case she has decided on being a Doctor, she is even thinking of being a pathologist. I did quip that at least she would not kill anybody.

What  Michael Parkinson was talking about was how  there are Mickey Mouse degrees and everybody wants to be in the Media. In other words  Andy Warhol was so so right, everybody wants to be famous, even if it’s only for one series on tv. If we look back we have Jade Goody, who was famous for being famous, as the BBC reporter said at the time of her tragic young death.

Now as a writer do I want to be famous, am I consumed with lust for fame? I may be consumed with lust for words, and for the wife, but do I want to be on tv and in magazines and have a column in a glossy magazine found on the floor of my local hairdressers. The answer is NO. Or should I qualify that, I want the world to read my words and make some money to give to my girls when I die, I could bore you about all my aches and pains, let’s say I’ll take the money but stay anonymous. I could be John Doe on the Radio, which reminds me about my daughter wanting to be a pathologist.

It’s said that Media studies is a waste of time, get a degree in English would be a far better idea. By the way my niece has a 1^st in English and has just done her Masters, so I’d say she’d be perfect as a trainee in a newspaper , though I would say give me the job instead, before I end up on the pathologist’s  table. 

So how do people get on with Media Studies? Well I studied horoscopes and how their place in society reveals so much about the ZZ9 strata of society. You  would not believe how the socio-ignorant believe such drivel, and Daily Mail readers especially, but let’s leave it  there before I upset too many white middle class women.

We had a whole module of the place of football in society, it was a compulsory add on to accountancy for beginners. There was an optional add on for 2 credits about Press Releases and Football. If you could use as many mixed metaphors in a paragraph you would get a citation from the course tutor, and he was very very coarse, he was a rugby player previously, he was always muttering about the Art of Course Rugby, which this writer read nearly 50 years ago.

A Media Course may ask you to write something in a variety of ways, objective or subjective, pro or anti, helpful or deceitful. Rather like the way politicians are, and they are the same the world over, trying to surf the waves and run with the tide.

Now once you have passed your Media training from the University of taking the mick, whose fees are so low that they are always full, almost like an American University where if you pay the fee they let you print off your certificate from the comfort of your own home, without having attended any classes. So what do you do next?

You send out your CV, which is shorthand for Completely Vacuous, or resume if you are an American. Resume should really mean you resume or restart your education after having wasted 4 years studying Kardashians and  watching E! tv for 80 hours a week. Miaow I hear you say, but you know I’m telling the Truth, and it Hurts.

You take a selfie in your kitchen cos that’s where the light is best, and you add it to your completely vacuous CV, then you send it away, only you didn’t notice that Totoro the cat was sat on the fridge with her tail dangling behind you. You look like Davey Crocket, E! laugh when they see your photo, but you are a good looking  20 something so they give you an interview, so you end up doing animal features for the next 20  years.

Though you have to pretend you are straight/gay/trans or whatever to keep in with the management. In the end you just end up confused, but confused is the new grey, and as the Monkees sang there are only shades of grey, or gray if you are American.  

Would I do a Media course if I were 40 years younger? No but I would read even more widely. I would read more newspapers, like I do today, 3 or 4 different ones every day and 2 or 3 news stations  on tv, and never never forget good old BBC Radio 4.  Read and Listen and Talk to everybody, rather like I did in my 3 years at a 4 star deluxe business hotel. This is I believe is one of the best ways to learn how to talk to people from all walks of life. 

Or you can be totally vacuous and marry the boss and get him or her to let you have your own podcast.

p.s. don't forget to buy my 12 books on Amazon

My Elevator Advert for the Singapore Readers and everybody else

I might start putting  my oldies but goodies just on this site, the

Michael Casey From Birmingham England site

My 12 books and it is 12 books now, I haven't  got around to reediting  my Elevator ad.

SO FEEL FREE TO BUY TYHEM ALL THIS BLACK FRIDAY

THIS IS MY ELEVATOR  AD 

Hello , how about a Verbal Cartoon for Radio and all other media

I grew up listening to the radio, we all used to hide under the blankets and listen when we should have been fast asleep. Radio did change my life, a lodger gave us a radio when he had to go back to Ireland to look after his sick mum. In fact he left all his stuff and caught the first boat home. Months later he came back to see us and said me and my brother could have his old Bush radio. I spent 20 years listening to radio. That and being afraid of Mr Gallagher when I was 8 changed my life, and improved my intellect.

Today after 20 years of radio and 25 years of writing, 45 years in total I think I'm a good writer, and thank God so do others. Yes I'm 55 now, in my head I'm 20, though my wife would say 12.

I met my Shanghai wife in the old people's home, she was cleaning my dad's room. I was positively vetted by a Chinese Ballerina  from the Birmingham Royal Ballet, now we are married with 2 bilingual daughters. I am the token male and English speaker in the family.

Now here's a few samples, what I'd like to do would be to read my shorts/blogs on your radio. Each piece is about 90 seconds long, 90 seconds with Michael is the idea, simple idea. I have gained 19,208 views on Funny or Die for a sample 

1^st chapter of Tears for a Butcher which will be my 8th book. Only the other day a publisher said my book of shorts 300 and Not OUT was very funny. In fact I must have 530+ shorts, enough for over a year. I have recorded 207 of them so far, 11 hours plus of audio. I have nearly 150,000 views on Google+ as well

I have started recording all my Shorts and have put 50+ of them on www.michaelgcasey.typepad.com  I have a new mike now too, so listen in reverse order.

My  7 books are on Amazon Kindle

 http://www.amazon.com/Michael-Casey/e/B00571G0YC/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_pop_1

 and  www.michaelgcasey.wordpress.com   is my site.

Here's the samples for radio or print.

LinkedIn Profile  and  CV ©

By

Michael Casey

We’ve all been on Facebook and LinkedIn, we get to know people and make “friends”. On LinkedIn it’s more about connections and maybe business connections. So we have to rely on the Profile, my LinkedIn profile tells my story, as I am a writer. But how accurate are these Profiles?

I am a born leader.

Means he was the firstborn boy in a family of 11 girls.

I created the supply chain structure.

Means he decided to use a clipboard and notepad instead of just his memory.

I optimised the sales among target audiences.

He chatted up all the girls, he was kind to seniors and went to church.

I was inventive and creative in gaining new sales.

Means he designed a flyer and went street to street delivering them.

I was never afraid of going the extra mile for the business.

Means there was a street gang chasing  him after he was at  the bank

I am great at communicating the business message.

He just would not shut up, so the boss got him to tidy the fruit outside the ma and pa store.

I always try and improve myself.

Means he has no friends so he reads a lot.

I created the new scheme to optimise the business cash flow.

Means he took the store’s cash and put the money on a horse.

I am now looking for new opportunities to excel

Means he got fired, cops not called as the owner married to his sister

I created a great new idea for centralising purchasing delivery.

Means he was a guard for the money delivery company, crash helmet and visor.

I created my own start-up company

Means he stole the money from the cash delivery company and started his own company.

I am now on a learning sabbatical before resuming my career

Means he is in jail, working in the library.

So when you read those LinkedIn profiles or reading a CV or resume think what do they really mean. Check the photos out too, the reality can be far different. Just like actors, photos can be 10 or 20 years old, and they are. Dig deeper.

Me, I google and check people out, as far as you can on Google. Google me(michaelgcasey) and my sites and think for yourself. I am on a sabbatical myself, no I’m not in a library, thought we have plenty of books in the house, no it’s called arthritis, which comes and goes and makes me scream sometimes. But at least I can sit here and make some of you laugh, as I Google everybody.

Let There Be Light ©

 By Michael Casey

Let my tears be my words

Let the candle light be my eyes

Let the flowers in bloom be my lips

Let their scent be my blood

Let the wind be my breath

Let clouds be my mood

Let children’s laughter be my hope

Let widows’ sighs be my conscience

Let a stranger’s prayers be my delight

Let the bees be my wisdom

Let the trees be my strength

Let my patience reach to the stars

Let me be always remembered in your prayers

           

                The Dead and The Living (c)

                           by

          

                     Michael  Casey

     I first saw a deceased when I was nine years old, my father said not

 

     to worry as the dead are the same as the living, only the  laughter

 

     has left them, the sparkle has gone from their eyes, the worry has

 

     been lifted from their shoulders, and their voice has vanished  to

 

     eternity.

     In paradise the sparkle will return for it is the  twinkle  of  the

 

     stars, the laughter will return too for it is the morning breeze and

 

     the turning tides are their sides shaking with laughter.

    

     I treat the deceased with the same courtesy as I give to the living,

 

     though I find the deceased are always more polite. My father also

 

     had a few words to say about the living.

     He said that the living are only the caretakers of the soul ,  yet

 

     they think their existence is everything, that they know everything

 

     because they experience many things with their senses.

     What the living don't acknowledge is that their time is short  and

 

     when I lay their bodies to rest then their souls  continue  without

 

     them, without their strong, without their weak, without  their

 

     beautiful or even ugly temporary form, to where I cannot say, only

 

     that it is a better place.

 

     Percy the undertaker placed the lid on the coffin, the soul was free

                          THE  BEGINNING

     

 

Sleepover©

By

Michael Casey

Sleepover is exactly that, your sleep is over, you have laughing kids invading your house, and driving you out of your minds. Well not always, but it is very distracting. You can’t remember what you were doing and where has that file gone on the computer. This is the 2nd time I’m telling this story, why, because my Word, or upon my word, the story died or rather Word did not close properly, so now you’re getting something different.

Total strangers, or strangers to you arrive at the house and kind of invade it for a night. You do shout up the stairs, keep them out of my room. Not because you have anything worth stealing, but they are stealing your privacy, and that’s all you have left if you have daughters in your house.

Then the smell of nail varnish drifts down the stairs and permeates everywhere, its worse than mustard gas from the Great War. You scream up the stairs, open all the windows fully, what about your room, dad? Especially mine.

Its then that your inner sanctum is breached as they bring their friends to help them open the window. They see the Teddy Bear that you’ve had since you were 6 years old, the invader laughs. She also sees the deep heat by your bed, And he complains about nail varnish.

Dinner time arrives and you have to feed the cuckoo, only she doesn’t eat this or she doesn’t eat that, on principle. So you say, you’ll have to stave then. Your daughter, the host, is horrified, so you relent and flick a pound coin at them, cholesterol free oil used to make the chips. So a compromise is achieved.

You put Sky Sports on to watch the match, they say Qatar is going to build underground stadia, novel idea. You are settling down to see Rooney when they arrive back chip laden. Her friend just loves the ballet and Sky Arts has Bolshoi on, so could they please please watch that. You say you’ll record it for them. But you are as bad as a puppy murderer even for suggesting it.

So being a nice dad you let them watch the ballet on your 46inch tv, while you retreat to watch the match on the laptop upstairs. They never tell you about this at parenting classes, just how to change nappies. Let’s hope William and Kate are told.

After the ballet they retreat upstairs for girlie music, and what were you doing in their room on the laptop. Didn’t you know you are just a dad not allowed in the inner sanctum. The Hits is switched on  their dab radio at volume 13, you retreat to watch the after match talk on the big screen.

Later its bath time, so you have to wait 2 hours for all the girls in your house, including the cuckoo, to pollute the bathroom before you a mere dad, and bill payer, can have a shave. Only your last razor has been used to save somebody’s legs.

So everybody goes to bed, all is well, holding your teddy bear, you sleep soundly. Until 3am, when a banshee screaming wakes you, your wife and all the neighbours. It’s the cuckoo, she’s having a nightmare, it must be the chips, and the cholesterol free oil from them. Or half waking up and forgetting where she was.

So remembering to put on your dressing gown you have to calm everybody down, and answer the door, to the police, as the neighbour from neighbourhood watch has rung them. So the police come in and have a look. Flatulence is written down in the Police note book. As you let the police out the house again your smallest daughter hands you your teddy bear, its ok dad, it’s only a sleepover.

How do Men Shop? ©

By Michael Casey

There is a difference between Men and Women, and thank God for it. But how do men shop? Shopping for men is about getting what you need, my shoes have a hole in them so I’ll go to the shop and buy another pair. A man will buy a new pair of shoes that are exactly the same as his old pair of shoes, or if he’s being adventurous he’ll have a pair of shoes which are exactly the same but with grey laces and not black. Now to a man this is being fashion conscious. If a man wants a new pair of trousers he just goes to the shop and sees if they have his leg/waist size and then tries them on, making sure they don’t split when he bends over and that his package is not squeezed. If a man needs a suit he checks the trousers before putting on the jacket, the jacket must be able to be done up without his belly exploding the buttons off. A man will never button up his suit jacket, but he needs to know that the buttons won’t fly off and hit anybody in the eye, if ever he does.

If a man needs a shirt he checks the neck size, 18.5 in my case, and then he sees if its full fit or not. Then he buys 5 shirts exactly the same all  in plastic . For a lazy shopper he’ll go straight to Slaters and get what he wants. In and out in 30 mins for everything. Then he’ll go to the pub and meet his mates and have one pint too many and leave all his shopping in the Queens Tavern. Luckily they are honest there and his shopping is saved, otherwise he’s have to waste 30mins in Slaters, before going back to the pub.

This is basically the difference between men and women. Woman shop, men pick up clothes or whatever like an order picker does, without any passion.  A man gets home and puts his shopping away and forgets about it. Just like in the film The Fly where the man’s wardrobe contains suits all the same colour, clothes are just a thing so they are all uniform.

As for women shopping s something different, the clothes have to be tried on and they must make the woman look perfect, her bum or boobs mustn’t be to big or too small, everything should be right. To help the woman chose her clothes she brings two or three mates or her children with her. Her man is forced to come too, but he plugs Radio5 Live into his ear and listens to the football  while she is choosing. Men know 5 colours, red, blue, red, green, yellow or maybe one or two more; as for a woman there are at least 50 colours, and just as the eskimos have 30 words for snow a woman has 10 words for each colour and its hews.

This brave man, or am I stupid, I just give my wife the debit card and say leave me in peace, so she goes off with a smile with the girls with her, they are young Fashionistas after all. I decided years ago what a wife needed was space to shop and not constant looks at my watch. So that’s what she does and her bulging wardrobe will testify to the wisdom of my decision. When a woman comes home its 2 hours of mix and match to make sure that the new clothes match the old clothes, the husband tries to watch the big match on tv but his wife is prancing around the living room asking “does my bum show” and various other questions. It’s a penalty, and you sit on the edge of your seat, the wife appears and blocks your view, so you miss seeing why  your side was relegated. Normal life in homes up and down the country.

The next day you watch the match again in peace, you remembered to record it on Sky+ and as for the wife she’s gone back to the shop to return ½ of what she bought because it doesn’t match her shoes. And it’s your fault because you wouldn’t give her your debit card again so she could buy cheap £100 shoes.

All Things Bright and Beautiful ©

 By Michael Casey

 I haven’t written a non-pain piece in a while, so I’ll try and forget the pain and write something new. We’ve just had the half time holidays and my girls have been playing “shop-girls” as they call it. They even have a sign on their bedroom door saying “open” or “closed”. They steal my wife’s clothes and prance about upstairs. Our eldest daughter has bigger feet than my wife now so that’s a relief as she cannot steal my wife’s shoes any more, but it does not prevent her younger sister from wearing mum’s shoes. There is also the matter of the beret with silver sequins, that’s an absolute Fashion Must.

Me, I’m not fashionable at all, three girls in the house is enough, if I gave in to them they’d be beading my eye brows, I do wear pink on occasions, so that’s as far as I go. If I were maybe 3 stones lighter I’d try other things, I did see a nice cord jacket in Cotton Traders 48R, it was bright blue, Kingfisher Blue, my girls called it a “Clown Jacket”. With encouragement like that what am I supposed to do? I did say if I win Euro millions I WILL buy the jacket. My wife has a nice light brown one, although as she is a woman there will be a more accurate colour name, men don’t do colours. If you think of it its black and white, blue, green, orange as far as men go, but women at least another 40 names for colours. As far as my hair goes, its silver, though a friend used to say I was an old man with white hair. As the colour of our hair change it’s the 7 ages of man.

I remember Ali saying why wasn’t it “Whitemail” instead of blackmail. We are in the Pink if we have good health, I long to be back in the pink myself. We say we hope be back in the black not in the red when we do company accounts, we look for the silver linings. We look look look for the rainbow as the song goes, we may find the crock of gold, all our troubles may be over and we can pack them up in the old kit bag. Hope springs up within us, it is now Spring after all, and as Chance the Gardener said “in the Spring there will be growth.”

Cheese and Chorizo ©

By Michael Casey

 The thing about girls is that they steal your stuff, you think they are nice and sweet smelling, but they are not. If they get up before you they’ll raid your side of the fridge and eat your cheese and chorizo. Cheese and chorizo on toast, with hot chocolate to follow, this is how your daughters treat you. This is how my girls treat me.

Yesterday mum bought biscuits, and did she share them? NO. The girls got some but I got none. They were  the ones I really like, its always the ones you really like. I looked high and low, just like an Ah Ha song, but nothing. JJ the wife just laughed at me as I went from pillar to post looking for a biscuit, the Tunnock ones. See this is how the 3 girls in my life treat me, I am biscuitless. Finally after much derision my small daughter showed me  where the biscuits were, a new hiding place, that’s why I could not find them. So I was victorious, I sneaked a biscuit into my pocket and slipped away to eat it in peace.

Shoes are a big thing, so our small daughter walks around the house in mum’s shoes, mine are too big so thankfully they are left alone. However having two daughters who like Textiles, which is the fancy word from school for sewing and making things. If they like textiles then your clothes are not safe, they drag a shirt or two out of the wardrobe and say they want to turn it into something. Jumpers are not safe either, they can cut them down to make a dress  or even a handbag. And as for needles, it’s like having a porcupine in the family, DANGER. You only realise that after you have sat on a needle or two, the wife just says its free acupuncture, no need to asked Dr Hu to pay us a visit, and yes he really is Dr Hu, not Dr Who, but Dr Hu.

Now that our 11year old is 5feet tall, as big as mum, she wants to wear her clothes, but you can imagine what kind of clothes a Shanghai girl wears. So there is debate in Chinese, I cannot understand a word, but SANINGONGA is heard quite often which means no. Which also means my girls, our girls will return to steal from my wardrobe again. In a way it’s like having moths, but instead of holes in your clothes, entire items just disappear. BUT it’s not just the girls, its mum too, she’ll decide that the Fashion Police would not like this item or that item, so it  disappears.  When do I find out? Never, or nearly never, until I walk past a charity shop and see a tent sized item in the window, it’s my clothes.

So if you want to keep the clothes on your back, don’t have daughters. If  you want your favourite food safe in your side of the fridge, the none Chinese side of the fridge, then don’t have daughters. If you want to save your pennies, don’t have a Shanghai wife. But then life would be boring, just make sure you look before you sit.

From A to B from Sat Nav to Blocked Sink  ©

 By Michael Casey

 Well I hope you are all fine this morning. For us the Sat Nav debate continues. In the old days a Black Taxi would not be seen using an AtoZ, it was beneath his dignity. He'd done the Knowledge and it was all up there in his head. Jack Rozenthal wrote a great play about it, was it 30years ago? Maureen Lipman was his real wife.

 Delivery drivers have and egg and bacon butty in one hand dripping egg on to the AtoZ in their other hand while they try and deliver a chest of drawers, with 5 days growth of beard for good measure.

 Bus drivers know their route, so once they've done it a while its automatic, they know what they are doing. All they have to do is put up with kids trying to use a 3 day old ticket, and not get too high from all the cannabis on the bus. Or remember when they have switched routes because that can lead to strange directions.

 Door to door salesmen all those years ago, with the rap at tat tat on the back door had their route carrying the suitcase with samples in. I can vaguely remember one at our back door did my mum buy a clothes brush? But that must be 45 years ago.

So basically we all know what we want and where we are going. Going further back they say people only knew a six block radius around their home. Going to War changed all that as did radio and then more importantly tv. Tv being our eyes on the world, previous to that only Merchant Seaman knew of the world. My own granddad was a merchant sea man, I sometimes wonder did he ever get to Shanghai

Or was it me, his grandson who got there first. Had he visited at the turn of the 19th/20th Century 100years and more ago.

 Which brings us back to Sat Nav. Me I use a bus which is fine apart from the pot heads who sit next to you on the bus and all I want to do is puke. My wife is a car driver, so she and our girls love the car. But my wife has borrowed a Sat Nav and likes the ease of it so now she wants one of her own. The result is that I’m being nagged to provide one. You pay, me pay, yes you pay, why me pay, because you are the husband so you pay, no way me pay, you pay you pay yourself, I say. And on the ding dong, sing song goes. Which is the fun part. Me I no pay, use computer I say. You can get perfect directions off the computer all you then have to do is print them off, if our printer was still working we’d be doing that. So really all the wife has to do is copy them down, in English.

 She’s  busy with the wok as I talk to you, she’s compromised now, she only wants me to pay half. So I say I’ll be doubly generous and double the share I won’t pay, I’ll pay zero and she can pay 100%. That’s the true spirit of negotiation, now I have another thing to resolve, she’s blocked the sink, so pardon me now as I take the plunge, or rather take the plunger to the sink, no need to use a Sat Nav to get there, its over my shoulder in the next room, just turn left at the tv and go straight on to the sound of bubbles. Love is everywhere don’t you know it, just find it, no Sat Nav required.

My other idea is a book of shorts, 40 stories with 40 translations

on facing page plus 40 audio of me reading my stories on usb stick.

Perfect to teach English as a 2nd language, via humour.

I was an Esol English teacher and gained

2 Excellents and an Exemplary on my external Assessment

As I have written 550+ stories this would be a series of 10 plus books

So we could have Mandarin/Japanese/Urdu/Spanish/Hindi/Russian etc

This would be a world wide hit, angel investors needed

Thanks for reading this, that’s if Junk did not get it. I have come close and not got a cigar many times in my life, so I decided to try you. Radio is the medium for my words, 90 seconds with Michael, could go nationwide, it’s a simple idea, with great words, mine if I can be boastful. I have already recorded 200 of my 550+ shorts, 11 hours plus of audio.

some can be heard at www.michaelgcasey.typepad.com

Cheerio, Michael Casey 

Email michaelgcasey@hotmail.com

 www.michaelgcasey.wordpress.com

www.michaelgcasey.typepad.com

 to hear 50+ stories

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Michael-Casey/e/B00571G0YC/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1

8 ebooks and 3 Printed on Paper Books

http://www.amazon.com/Michael-Casey/e/B00571G0YC/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1