Singing as pain relief

Singing as Pain Relief ©

By

Michael Casey

Well the pain was a bit of a Sledge Hammer this morning, though I am no Peter Gabriel, but I would like a bit of Steam. There’s this house for sale on Rightmove and it has a steam room, so I’d love to live there. Though I’d have to sell my body to be able to afford it, and only Birmingham Medical School would be interested. Ok, maybe the rag and bone man could sell it for glue.

So where was I, yes I was Singing, I sing badly, but deliberately so, I have a variety of voices. I have my attempting to sing properly voice. My Russian Basso Profundo voice, my Barry White voice, I’ve trapped my nuts in the mangle Bee Gees voice and a few others in various fake accents, British and International. Its nice to sing along, we all do it, even if its only in the bath.

My body takes a while to warm up some days, then I become a purring machine or animal. You are all making up your own stories now, listen there is only one Storyteller here, so kindly leave the page. Where was I, if your hips hurt and your shoulders have joined in and your nipple or just above it is so sensitive, then you have either had a hot night of passion. Or you are me and you have just had a night in bed alone, awaking every 2 hours like a vampire rising. Though…

When you get to the kitchen you spill the beans, because you’ve tripped over Totoro the cat, or whatever you call your pussie. So you scrape the coffee back into the jar and make yourself a mug of instant coffee. The flavour is always nice, though this morning it will have the added flavour of whatever the wife was chopping on the breakfast bar the night before. Kenco Rapor with added giblets or kiwi fruit or any other exotic Chinese vegetable you can possible imagine, it certainly gives a certain je ne sais quoi to the taste.  

I put them radio on and sing along, some songs I know others I bastardize, rhythms added and subtracted and divided too, sometimes a bit of calculus used on the lyrics. And yes as a writer sometimes I think these lyrics are so bad, or so easily constructed, I am just so JEALOUS. One song can set you up for life. So any musicians DO get in touch.

Let’s write a Swimming Pool as John Lennon was alleged to have said once. And if you are Andrew Lloyd Webber my comedy Play Shoplife could easily become a musical I have ideas but I cannot sing. Lets get together and write me a HOUSE with a sauna, there’s one on righmove right now.

If I were a Rich Man I’m starting to sing right now, between my tears, if I were a rich man, I’d be a poor man as I have daughters, I have daughters. I have audio of this too. But where was I, I was singing along to the radio in the morning, as my body warmed up and the pain lessoned. I can hear a distant banging that gets louder. Its my next door neighbour, she’s banging away, she must like this song too, or does she appreciate my singing. Or is she being her meat, no she’s a vegetarian. She’s banging on the wall, she must  really hate Boys2Men, or could it be my singing? No, can’t be that.

I’m all warmed up now, I stumbled over Lilly in the shops, I tell her I’m her stalker, and she says no its my turn this week. I have odd numbers and she has even numbers of the week to stalk each other. Then we laugh like drains by the baguettes, or was it the yoghurts, anyway something nice to eat. Lilly and me have a laugh and a joke sharing and caring, blocking the aisle. 15 minutes later I have to go I tell her, my brown loaf has gone limp while I’ve been holding it like a rugby player holding his balls.

I tell her she’s given me an idea for a new story in 14UP which is the name for this collection of stories I’m writing. 14UP because its twice as good a 7Up, which is Snow White’s favourite drink. All I need is a title and then I can write 1000words. She raises an eyebrow so I tell her she looks more and more like the Fortune Teller down the road, she says everybody says that. So I told her to stop selling clothes pegs in the street then. She threatens to squeeze my brown loaf, so I back off laughing while she goes in search of tinned peas.

At the checkout a body building and gym coach is telling the checkout lady how to lose weight and keep it off. I know is a gym coach because, because he looks so fit, just like me. Don’t laugh or I’ll squeeze your brown loaf, and I can make it really hurt. So now I’m home and I’m Singing for Pain Relief, you can hear me singing along to Celine Dion, I have to practice my French somehow. It makes a change from all Chinese I hear.

As I speak to you I’ve switched to Jean-Michel Jarre I cannot sing along to him but I can put his music to my words, or rather my stories, he’d be great soundtrack music to The Butcher The Baker and The Undertaker, do you think if I gave him a brown loaf, a bit crushed, he’d agree to do the music. It is wholemeal after all, perfect for all his movements, the musical kind.

So you can see that Music is my diet, the best part of my diet, it fills me with Hope and Joy, no they are not Oriental girlfriends, you are making up your own stories again. Serge can you stop doing that or Putin will make you polish his shoes, and when I say his shoes, I mean Putin down the street, Putin the shoe shop. Any other name is purely coincidental.

To sing is to doubly praise, and it lifts our souls up when pain is a right pain, by singing we allow Love and Grace to enter our heart. And yes Love and Grace are two Oriental girls I met at the butchers.