Family Laughter

Family Laughter ©

By

Michael Casey

Well its time for a family laughter story, something happened today that has inspired this piece,but it will stay a joke in the family, I may share my embarrassment on another occasion. I have plenty of material all I have to do is stop and pause, and pause could become paws which would lead to another animal story.

Jean the family cat from over 50 years ago was a tv critic, why do I say this? Because she used to sit on the tv in the evening when it was switched off, in those days they were boxes like microwaves. Jean was not a contortionist or anything like that, LCD or LEC tvs were not even dreamt of, you had a square surface big enough for a cat to curl up on top of. After a nights viewing it was hot, so as far as the cat was concerned the more tv we’d been watching the better. Her tv criticism was based on heat, not quality, rather like some of today’s reality tv programmes.

Jean also knew how to rattle a door handle to indicated she wanted to leave the room or the house itself. She was black with green eyes, so she looked the perfect witch’s cat. She was also very religious, lik emy own mother. Jean always knew when it was Sunday, she’s appear, probably just jumping of a witch’s broom and sit expectantly by the back door. No she did not go to Mass, not even the Black variety, no she was waiting for the giblets from the Sunday chicken. So she was religious in her attendance of our back door on each and every Sunday for the 20 years we had her.

We also remember Jean because we watched my sister as a toddler, push Jean out of the way so that she could eat her KittyCat. Yes we still tease our sister about it 50 years later. Being a little sister in a large family was fun for us, if not for our litter sister. We had a corner cupboard and inside it were all the jumpers, so my eldest brother thought it would be fun to make her wear all of them, one on top of another. When our mother returned from shopping with her faded red leather shopping bags my little sister was bright red in colour, and was wearing maybe 13 woolly jumpers, half of them knitted by mum herself. My little sister could not get her arms down due to all the jumpers. I remember my mum saying “you’ll kill the child” as she tore the jumpers off.

Such fun when you were young and innocent in the 1960s. My brother made it up to my sister a few years later.When he went to Oxford he bought our little sister a tricycle with his student grant. We had not quiet finished with our little sister, we decided she should be a circus performer. Contortionists were amazing on Billy Smarts Circus or whatever was on tv at the time. So as we had a wardrobe with a small shelf area we decided to squeeze our little sister into it.

The space was 3 feet off the ground on the left side of the wardrobe, then there was a hanging side with a small mirror at the top on the right. I can see it now. We manage to jump and push our sister into the space and then me and another brother squeezed her into the space. My brother was pleased with the result so he decided to make economical use of the space, by closing the wardrobe doors.

Only the economical use of the space meant that we could not open both wardrobe doors again. The pressure of our sister squeezed on a shelf inside prevented the latch from opening. We kind of panicked. But eventually by both of us leaning against the door we were able to get the latch open. But we did learn about the economically use of space. As for my brother he ended up going to Cambridge were he changed subjects and did Economics. Yes I don’t need to make things up they just happen. I have just remembered another 2 stories about cupboards that happened 20 years plus ago, such is memory.

I’ll just say that sometimes the trapped person is calm but the potential rescuer panics. So I’ll finish for today as the pain monster is attacking me. As I said to somebody only the other week when my boat comes I will found The Birmingham Pain Centre it will benefit as much as I do. Now I have to reach for the paracetamol, I may be in the gutter but I hope my stories make you all laugh to the stars. 

The Green Mile is the Last Mile

The Green Mile is the Last Mile ©

By

Michael Casey

I was going to talk about the Green Mile but as ever this has morphed into something else. I watch films and enjoy them, it is only afterwards do I give or realise the English Literature or Latin context of them. What? I hear you all say, I realise why I enjoyed the film so much and which of its elements made it such good viewing. I am not a film critic with a chart, but afterwards I do colour in my colouring book with my opinions on the film, emphasis on children’s colouring book. I am not Barry Norman. All I’ll say is watch The Green Mile.

Now today when I looked at my chart it showed that Serbia has joined the ranks of my readers. So how have I managed to corrupt Serbia? My chart also shows me which stories are being read, but not which in each country, not unless I haven’t yet discovered which button to press.

So its a choice between a comic piece about politics which is chapter9 of my novel or a serious piece where I predict that North Korea will suffer, and only for the vanity of its leader, when his people could be just as rich as its southern cousins. Such a massive gap, comedy at its best, yes my opinion, and WW3 because North Koreans have allowed themselves to be treated like sheep.

History is full of comedy, mishaps and mess-ups, too many spurious connections that have led to war. Idiots or Donkeys commanding brave men, as some World War One battles are recalled. I spotted that Serbia now has its 1^st Gay/Lesbian P.M. so that perhaps proves just how much the Serbian ethos has moved on. I doubt it was her who stumbled upon my piece M.P. Married to a Person, Married to a People, chapter 9 of The Butcher The Baker and The Undertaker. Not unless the British Council and Tony Blair’s old organisation is teaching the use of comedy in Government Affairs, and by affairs I don’t mean affairs.

As we grow as people, take Serbia having a gay P.M., and yes I really do agree with her, its what she does  as a politician not who she takes to bed with her that she should be judged by. As we grow we are more accepting and less judgemental. Some day fat silver haired writers in shades from Birmingham may even be socially acceptable, but I think the world is not quiet ready for me yet.Maybe in another 1,000,000 Words time, but not yet. I’ll never enjoy the fruits of my labours, I hope me girls do, when they have finished squeezing me into the recycling bin outside. Ealing Comedies were an influence.

Perhaps Serbia makes its kids use my stories to teach them English, such a punishment could be use worldwide too. Imagine I would be such a hate figure, broken English worldwide, that Michael Casey I hate him echoes throughout FB chat rooms.

Only Donald Trump likes me, he’d send me to North Korea to discuss opening a chain of hotels, North Korea is really really beautiful. Trump hotels and resorts with old bunkers used as bunkers on his golf courses. In exchange for all the North Korean fissile material, and a list of locations, the Donald will give the Dear Leader the cheese concession at every course. So golf would save the day, and Trump and the Dear Leader could ride into the sunset in a golf buggy.

The alternative may be too horrible to bear, so going the extra mile is worth an effort, otherwise it is the Green Mile for all of us.

politics is not for Grown Ups

Politics is not for Grown Ups©

By

Michael Casey

Well its Saturday 29^th July 2017, I have to give up on my dream of a bigger house for now. Maybe I’ll win the lottery or all my relatives die and leave me some money. A bigger house made of tombstones. Would I be in tears then, forever living in a memory? Life is full of setbacks but I never give up, never. I could remind you of my past mishaps and misunderstands which have led me to where I am now.

But more important things are happening in the world.

Donald Trump will finally lose his virginity, men not just missiles will be in harms way as the quaintly say. He will be ordering men to die, and women too. The North Korean boil will have to be lanced. Two men so similar in many ways will fight to the Death, for one of them will have to die. If we are lucky air strikes will destroy all North Korea’s nuclear stockpile. If we are lucky the 20,000 artillery pieces can be taken out by just 2 or 3 neutron bombs or whatever new toys they have. If we are lucky the Navy Seals can decapitate the Dear Leader, and his several doubles. If we are over the battle will be done in 3 days, half what the Israel did. If we are lucky.

You all know that If you are Lucky, does not exist in war, and what is it all for. So a despot keeps his throne. So China can send 200 or is it 400 trucks a day over the bridge to North Korea, we all saw it on Sky News. For what a few RMB? If the North Koreans were promised, food, a tv, a mobile and solar panels on their roof maybe they would not dance in such wonderful choreography for the Dear Leader. But if dancing is all you have got then you dance.

As for Trump, 310 million Americans won’t be pleased if they cannot see the event on Fox tv. So is Trump just pandering to his base, foreign wars to cover his lack of domestic accomplishment? Its an old old trick in Politics. Sadly I fear another Hitler moment is here, America was “late” to the 1^st two world wars but will they be the first to arrive at WW3? Hitler had to be put down, ask everybody that suffered. But now in this 21^st Century we are depending on an old fox, to be a Churchill or a Roosevelt, and remember Truman had to be told what the “Bomb” was and it was he who had the weight of History on his shoulders. Twice.

I would rather speak of nice things to cheer myself up, my dream of a bigger house has to be forgotten for today. But compared to what might be on the horizon, let’s hope its not a flash, I should stay happy. Perhaps God will intervene and The Dear Leader has a heart attack, and the North Koreans can have that tv, mobile, and solar cells on the roof, and become as rich as their southern cousins. Though some may wish the same Fate on our blond bombshell, pick you own sides, for in the end you DO have to pick.

And why did I title this Politics is Not for Grown Ups? Did I forget my path? No, Really No. In the end what we all do is for our kids. Everything is for our kids. Not for our vanity, not for our wealth. But for our kids well being. A taxi driver once told me the trouble his teenage daughter was growing up, but finally but finally, she gave him a huge hug and thanked him for looking after her. Then she realised. Then she realised.

So on this Eve of War and I do believe it will come, if we are doing it to save the lives of millions of our children, then it will have to be done. Life is not a Popularity Contest. For sometime you need a Truman.   

In Limbo

In Limbo ©

By

Michael Casey

I’m in Limbo right now, and in pain, ok I’ll shut up about the pain.In Limbo because my girls are out with their aunty having fun and fast food. They are rice eaters after all, so a chance to have fast food is a change from the Chinese diet they get from mum. I’m here waiting and having a think, yes I do think, if you just watch my writing you think its too fast, as I hit the paper with another idea, 1300 coming up I think, 1,100,000 words or there abouts.

Thinking has been a big part of my life, if you work funny shifts and strange hours, with even stranger people, and I’m not just talking about myself, then you have time to think. You are in perpetual Limbo, its a Tuesday/Wednesday/Thursday afternoon and its your 3 days off on the shift pattern. Everybody else is working, except you, you did your 3 days 3 nights 3 off this week, now you are in Limbo.

So you get to think, this was before the writing arrived, I was 28 or so when it did. As you are like a lost piece of luggage waiting to be collected you have time to think, about everything and nothing. You are in Limbo Land, and no I don’t mean on a beach dancing to music and getting drunk as you slip under a wire. Its time to dream and time to hope and even to pray. Or just listen to BBC Radio 4 all day, and I did a lot of that, 20 years worth, 8 till 28. Hence my posh Birmingham accent, or accident as my wife called it when she first leant English.

In Limbo Land you walk the streets while everybody else is at work, you take the dog on a 5 mile hike to pass the time. You dream of living by the woods and throwing the ball for Patch or is it John Noakes. You dream of having a 60 acre wood as your back yard, if only the shifts don’t kill you first, 14 years of shifts is no fun, especially if 50% is nights. Its like walking through a scene from The Living Dead, and that’s how I felt due to the constant changes to sleep patterns. The first day off was always the recovery day.

This explains my life for those 14 years. Years later working in an hotel was even more physical. My neck size went up an inch to 18.5, and my chest went up 2 inches to 46, my stomach also went up two inches as the food at CPNEC Birmingham was always great. I imagine it still is, if they want to come and take me there to give a food revue now that I’ve morphed into a full time impecunious writer.

I did have Limbo times at the hotel until everybody decided I could help everybody else while I was waiting for the peaks. This was great fun, though very tiring, 12 hour shifts standing all day with 3 hours travelling on top. Yes, really. I did love it though and if you have 2 toddlers to feed anybody’s work ethic is very high.

So much for work, I don’t do any of that any more, I am now a hausfrau. I’m in Limbo right now hoping that this house that arrived out of the blue can be ours. Otherwise we’ll have to forget our bigger house plans. You are in Limbo for a few hours or days as you wait for the owner or vendor in posh speak to decide do they want your offer. All in all this past year of house hunting has been exciting and horrifying in equal measure.

Vodka martini shaken not stirred, or beautiful on the snaps but you couldn’t kill a Spectre on the inside. Has potential, if you demolish it and start again. Great area, if you don’t mind wearing body armour. You have to read the adverts to believe them. You always have to go to the area, or google earth the surroundings before you bother looking at it. If no measurements are given even though the photos look nice on the Wide Angel photos, to make things bigger, then its because the house was built for the 7 dwarfs.

So Limbo is a strange place be, not as bad as awaiting trial, or queuing at the registry office to record a death, or waiting for your new wife to undress on your wedding night. Then you know something nice will happen. But Limbo is like waiting for your lost property to be returned to you, only the watch they have in Lost and Found is the fake one, not your real Omega, no matter how shaken or stirred. You don’t even know how long you will be in Limbo, your watch is lost you cannot judge the time. You are too tired to hum, your mind just drifts, like watching Politics.

Then Limbo ends, What Trump is President?  

a Multi-tasking man

A Multi-Tasking Man ©

By

Michael Casey

Let me start by saying I hate the phrase, its a relatively new phrase, I can remember when it did not exist, and would prefer it to stay that way. But I am multi-tasking myself this morning. I’d had my breakfast, and morning meds, I was told to take them with food, hence the breakfast, I’m not just greedy. While I wait for the hot water to heat up I’m listening to REM’s Automatic for the People album. Drive is the 1^st track and I’ve just been reading in DT about the new clean car initiative, where will the Govt steal more taxes from us if petrol is no more, as dead as Monty Phython’s parrot. I am also talking to you, so that is 3 things I’m doing, waiting, listening and talking/writing to you.

Does this mean I qualify as a woman and can have my gender reassigned without talking to a doctor or wearing a dress for 2 years?

I’ve just thrown a cat amongst the pigeons there, could that qualify me for the Olympics as a hammer or cat thrower or swinger, without being a swinger myself that is. Are you counting all the elements of my multi-tasking now?

I try and teach my kids to be like hotel workers, the hardest job I ever had but the most fun. 2002 to 2005 I was at CPNEC Birmingham. I was big and strong then without any heart problems, nor arthritis, nor CkD. But to the point if you are in a hotel, a 4 star business hotel at front of house you HAVE to run around like a blue arse fly, this was the original phrase before pretentious multi-tasking arrived. You have to be busy and seen to be busy, you are on security camera everywhere.

So you look to the left , you look to the right, you pick up that piece of paper, you tidy your area. If there is something more then you get on the dect phone in your pocket and ring Vicky to come and do her magic. You wanted our hotel to look immaculate, and as far as us staff were concerned it was OUR hotel. So I say to my kids tidy up as you go along, tidy and wipe the place, you are not a guest in a 4 star hotel paying 30 to 300 a night depending on the season. Keep it nice and clean, even if Totoro our cat wipes her tail on the coffee table to clean it. Don’t walk over your own mess, tidy up. What did your last maid die of? Very much what my own mother said to me and our tribe as we grew up.

Mothers can multi-task too, a slap or a sweet thrown at you at breakneck speed. Just like the nun in Blues Brothers hitting the boys with her stick. The smell of burning interrupts me, my girls, all girls think they can make breakfast and be on their phone at the same time. They can, but that’s how the fireman became a regular visitor to our house, first to put out the kitchen fire, and then as a boyfriend. So make your kids put the toys away while they are in the kitchen. Leaving a phone on a microwave is a bad idea too, as the microwaves could scramble the chip inside. Was it Tom O’Connor whose entire joke collection was lost because his PC was right next to the microwave.

The flies are circling me, and Totoro is attacking them, so I think I need to finish my green tea and have a bath. I’ve had showers recently so I miss a good old soak in the bath, though I have to careful as the arthritis and my chest scars can inhibit movement. I don’t want Fireman Sam my daughter’s new and imaginary boyfriend releasing me from the bath. His sister Sara also a fireman, is forever releasing Andrew LLoyd Webber’s toes from his bath tap. Now that’s a private joke, I don’t even know if ALW has even read it yet. And fireman, firegirl, firefighter Sara is another cat amongst the pigeons, how many of you were offended, should I apologise to the Word Police Chairman who is a woman.

I multi-task with words to keep you and me both amused, to see if you can spot the 3^rd joke. Tony Cole who had a daughter called Natalie once said Michael is on the 3^rd joke. Though most of you may say Michael is the 3^rd degree. If you excuse me I have to multi-task in my bath, to shave not just my face but also my legs,as I make bubbles.

With the bath bomb I’m about to steal from my girls while they are on their phones. If you are in Birmingham you may see me at Celine Dion’s show tomorrow, I am the support, I do a Diana Ross impersonation, hence the need to shave my legs and other regions. And if you believe that then you believe in fairies, but they can multi-task too, ask Tinkerbell he may be sprinkling his fairy dust over my work. Or maybe I need to call Vicky on my Dect phone.

    

Thinking about it

Thinking about It ©

By

Michael Casey

Well I’m all alone the girls have gone to take a look at the fair, and maybe the woods too. I’m just thinking what to write write about, usually its a quick decision then away I go, but today I’m tired as I was up in the night and I’ve written 2 short pieces already today. So I’m using it as a way of writing about, the thought itself as a piece of writing.

Sounds like something trendy people at a French or German University might do. The Nature of Thought, instead of writing a new good Tin Tin story. Writing about writing instead of doing some actual writing. You could say I prepare all the time, prepare for my writing break in the Mass Media, only my back list gets bigger, swollen almost and I have a zillion copies of all my stories scattered all over hyperspace. Over 1,108,000 words now copied and saved for Eternity.

I stop to scratch my nose and watch a pretty girl pass my window, this could be a metaphor but I’m not that clever. I’m good at misdirecting you up that garden path to nowhere. I’m tired so you won’t get any direction in this piece, though some may say there never was anyway.

I look outside and see the blue blue sky and our gay neighbours are in their bedroom as I look up, but I’ll respect their privacy. The flowers are all in bloom, cars glint in the summer sun, which can just be one day as we are in England after all. Gerry Rafferty is singing in the background, I feel like an ice-cream, so I may just head for the fridge and get one. But I remember we finished them yesterday, so I’ll settle for some Ribena.

These are the things you think about when you are too tired to produce something new, these are the random thoughts of this writer. So long sings Jerry Rafferty, I think I’ll say the same and leave it for today. 3 pieces in a day is enough. I did the surreal in an email and then something else, so this is your lot for today. You have plenty to read on my site https://michaelgcaseyfrombirminghamengland.wordpress.com 

So I’ll head for the settee and put my lazy feet up. You can also go to

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Michael-Casey/e/B00571G0YC 

For a cheap buy, from this cheap boy.

With that I’ll bid you good afternoon, form this buffoon.

Michael

A serious piece

I was up  in the night for a pain killer and I went to the computer and had a read while I was writing for it to kick in. I spotted a piece so I wrote an email to the person concerned. Now that was a surreal piece of writing, as serious stuff is ignored, so cereals are better.

Word play plays part of writing, ask Will down the Shakespeare pub, and its more fun as the writer and hopefully the reader gets it. Eric Morecambe used to say don't analyse the joke, if it works then that's good, its done its job.

You also get too many people wanting to get to the punchline, and in doing so they kill the joke, a joke must be allowed to breathe. Let the audience titter in anticipation, and then give the punchline, if you are very good you can even get 2 or 3 laughs from the same piece. Its the way you tell them for sure. Or the way you write them.

Boris has appeared in my writing as a device, a Polish/Ukrianian/Russian man of the people or a Peppone figure if you have read your Don Camillo. This is not me trying to be clever, and I can hear a snigger from Dr P in my head, an old school friend of 50 years, being heckled already,  who needs Boris. What's to be writ will be writ, and in my case the long and winding road of mirth will follow its own path along my funny bone to yours.

So forgive me if you expect one thing and get another. Look at my own life it has been a strange tale, or even stranger brew if you are a Cream fan.

So stay with me for the adventure and  if you read my earlier books you get the more family funny material. the later stuff has emerged as more, well just more, or moorish whatever that word is.

we have to hang out my dirty knickers now, the washing machine has finished cleaning them,they are visible from space you know.

Michael 25/july 2017

The Bickers

The Bickers ©

By

Michael Casey

The Bickers were in fact Mr and Mrs, but I’m not going to tell you their name as The Bickers was what they were know by, ask the post man and their long suffering neighbours. Why The Bickers? Was it rhyming slang for No Knickers, no. They were an old couple, a couple of old dears, and no that’s not rhyming slang either. They were called The Bickers because they lived next door to the Vicar’s, well no that’s a lie, they did live next door to the Vicar’s, but they were called The Bickers because they were always bickering. BICKERING. It became a place on the map, well known to delivery drivers, better than any Sat Nav, The Bickers.

Have a parcel for anybody on that stretch of the B82 then just drop it off at The Bickers, they’ll sign for anything. And Mr Bicker would, it was his way of having contract with the outside world. People would drop by for their parcel and give him a bar of chocolate or a few lines of chat, it did not matter what, it was nice to meet people, anybody.

Mrs Bicker had a cleaning job in various places, so she was always out and about, she always smelt of Pledge, forget Chanel no.5.Pledge was her perfume. Though she was given plenty of Chanel no.5 by very satisfied customers, she was a good scrubber in the best use of that word. So she hated the dirty boot marks from all the couriers who past by her house, Mr Bicker even gave them a quick tea, he always had his fast brew kettle on the hob. So the bickering as a result of their different life styles.

She was always cleaning, and he was always dirtying, she even complained about the amount of toilet paper he used. He just retorted when he died he’d make sure it was on her best floral carpet, image getting the marks of death off that. She said she’d buy him rubber nappies so if he died while she was out, they’d be no mess on the floor. Treating me like a Death Row Prisoner about to be executed, shouted Mr Bicker. That’s too good for you, if you ruin my new carpet from John Lewis with your coffee, I’ll put you over my knee and spank your bare arse. Do it now then retorted Mr Bicker.

So there he was spread over Mrs Bicker’s knee in her new Parker Knoll chair with his bare arse in the air, when Mrs Knowit, the local gossip came in for her parcel. The doors were never locked as he was always in and ready to receive parcels. Mrs Knowit gasped and grabbed her parcel. In 5 minutes the whole village Knewit, SPANKING, and at their age. However the Agatha Raisen was a newcomer to the village so she was impressed, very impressed and knew 1/2 the village would be giving it a go that very night. But I digress.

I’ll put the sterile gloves on next time, she said when she had finished giving him 6 of the best, Mrs Knowit was still outside gasping for breath, so she heard that too. However she looked at her watch, if she hurried the local Post Office and general store would still be open, she was sure they sold sterile gloves.

The Bickers loved to Bicker, it was their form of tv, they did have a tv but stopped watching when Arthur Negus was no longer on talking about furniture. So they listened to BBC Radio4 instead, and yes for them Nicholas Parson and Just a Minute was King. The Vicar always seemed to appear naked having his shower when Nicholas Parsons was on the radio. They always spotted him from the snug in their cottage kitchen, his bathroom overlooked their kitchen. And with BBC Radio4 Extra, Nicholas Parsons was a daily event, as was the naked vicar in the shower.

The Bickers would bicker about repetition, deviation, though  thanks to Mrs Knowit’s observations all the village were all learning about repetition and deviation. In the best context of a stable and caring relationship, jut ask the stable girls, but I digress.

One day the Bickers were bickering so much the whole village heard. It had been Amazon Prime Day, so there were stacks and stacks or parcels to collect. They gathered outside for a couple of hours, all they could hear was the crash and bang, crash and bang, and bang and crash. After 3 hours, they were very polite people after all the Vicar suggested they all went to his bathroom, not to baptise them but so they could look down in to the Bickers’ kitchen.

What they saw shocked them, I could not possibly put it on the page, it would singe the very page. Ok, I’ll tell you. The parcel men had clubbed together to get them a present for their 40^th wedding anniversary. It was Karma Sutra for beginners, the Bickers had been trying it out all around my house, and other places and positions. This was much much more then mere spanking.

The villagers crept down the stairs only to trip over the vicar’s bondage gear, he said he was minding it for somebody who was in jail. Mrs Knowit, winked, she would return after dark. As for the rest of the villagers, they hurried to place orders on Amazon Prime, it was a primal instinct in them. What was good enough for the Bickers was good enough for them. Agatha Raisen would fit in perfectly in this village.

THE LOOK TO MATCH YOUR WORDS

The Look to Match Your Words ©

By

Michael Casey

I’m chilling this morning as the pain monster ebbs away, I’m just a Canute in front of his computer commanding words into order. I spotted a piece in the DT that caught my eye about writers and their style, clothes style that is. I would have looked at it only it was behind the pay-wall, so Rupert send an email to the Barclay brothers, I need to  get over that pay-wall. Or I could just stand on Rupert’s shoulders and peek over it, you have a cartoon in your head now, I am still 17.5stones, or more than a heavy-weight boxer.

My title is obviously less pretentious than that in the DT, I am a humour writer after all, if I said comedy you’d expect more or better jokes, so I stick with humour. Can somebody slap Boris, he was about to interject. Boris is a device that has slipped into my writing and to be honest I do enjoy a bit of Boris. He’s a Polish/Ukrainian/Russian man of the people, like the child that spots that the Emperor is naked and not wearing new clothes. But less of Boris or he will demand equal pay with the old woman who is writing this stuff.Me.

Style in writing is the most important bit of style there is, if the style is rubbish and I nearly said the C word then I just cannot read it. I could mention a very famous writer whose style is so bad that me and my girls just cannot read their stuff. And I’m not just talking about Dan Brown, miaow.

Once you have made some money as a writer, obviously not at the BBC, then you can afford decent clothes. Though some persist in wearing Oxfam’s best bin, because it makes them trendy and at one with the Youth of today, whatever that means. Though it could mean people with Degrees who continue working at MacDonalds because there is nothing else. A degree is worthless nowadays because everybody has one, you can discuss this at Burger King, I’m told the food is better there.

You have people dressed in all kinds of everything being interviewed by the presenter on BBC, an overpaid male presenter, or a 1/2 overpaid female presenter. We have the BBC gender pay storm raging at the moment so I’ve slipped that in for the cultural historians if they find this in 100 years time, in some slush pile, by the juice machine in MacDonalds.

I am a writer. Ok I’ll pause there while Boris and his clan have a laughing fit, I really must learn how to curse in Eastern European languages, if I didn’t pay at the Polish shop I’m sure I’d find out, I’d get battered by 5 of the girls who work there. Luckily I’m on good terms with the almost identical twin brothers who own the place, you can only tell them apart as one shaves his head. Their place is great, and yes I really mean that.

Ok, so I’m a writer, so does that mean I wear my shirt open to the navel, do I dress like the 70s, do I walk like John Travolta holding that tin of paint. I walk like that of course, but I cannot carry any heavy things any more. Do I have a dictionary in my hand, do I stand on it to reach the top shelf, Boris stop it. Stand on it to reach for the pickles in the supermarket, what else would I reach for. I’ve just reminded myself now to buy some Branston Pickles now, so it’s not been a waste of time talking to you all.

A writer will go one way, then another, Boris I’m not talking about cross-dressing, I mean he’ll follow one path, no not Church of England, he’ll see where the story leads him, then if that dos not work, he’ll scrunch up his paper on his typewriter and start again. Though this writer won’t do that. Because it would be a waste of paper, and for decades now I use a computer. There is another reason why I don’t waste an idea because of the dysfunctional way I think, no Boris it doesn’t mean I have the sh__s, though CkD is similar. What I mean is I bounce an idea around my brain, like a pin ball machine, and lights and buzzers come on. Then I follow the new path. Why waste an idea when it can fill more of the page?

As a result of all these words, and all these words is a line from a John Denver song. I’ve just set him singing now, so beware JD references might slip in, just like farts from Boris. As a result of words you paint a  picture and you may not bother to get dressed, you just want to attack the page. In our house we are mostly like refugees in PJs until we go out. The page is dressed but the writer is not, the thought of me naked sat here talking to you just flashed though your mind, luckily you can puke into the waste paper basket, you can blame the cat.

So the writer dashing off yet another 1000 words means he is the mad scientist of prose, and has no time to pose. He could do with a wash and shave and the 3^rd S, before going out to Aldi, SSS complete, no more smelly feet the writer, the writer is fragrant as he skips through the frozen food aisles of Iceland.

I started wanting to write my opinion of writers and their wares, or what they wear. As usual I’ve bounced this way and that, like a rugby played without a jock strap, or Erica Roe. Then my thoughts have flowed, but they do return to rugby as the writer did spend years just wearing a Polo Rugby shirt, the orange one I bought at Sawgrass Mills Florida in 2007, I bought 3 in fact as they were very cheap.

Which brings me back to what I wear. I wear what is comfortable, I won’t be buying any more clothes though as I don’t expect to wear out what I have got. Replacement chairs to sit here talking to you is all I imagine what I’ll wear, because my weight is such that after a year a chair has had enough. Wear and Tear on my chair.

The words we write, they clothe us, all of us, if I can sound pretentious for a moment. For it is what we say that makes the most impact, how we phrase our words, what is actually heard. As a radio person, as a lover of words, I listen to the words as a lawyer does. In the end all we have our our words. If you use words all barriers come down, clothes included, and you are making love to the one you want, not because of the suit of clothes, or the suit of armour. Or the nice shoes or even the very nice perfume. Its because words count far more than clothes, and with the right words you can take a bull by the nose.     

The Time Machine

The Time Machine ©

By

Michael Casey

My life seems to be repeating itself at the moment, mind you, you all may say it always does that always. I’ve just watched the end of a modern version of The Time Machine on the telly. I remembered that I had a copy of The Outline of History on my book-self to my right, this too was written by H.G.Wells. He also wrote The Invisible Man, you may have seen the tv series with the Russian from The Man from Uncle in the title role, but then again you may not have seen it.

Watching the Time Machine made me realise just how fast time is. Is approaching 50 years since I read The Outline of History at Primary School, Mr Lester the Head teacher gave it to me as a leaving present. Yes I was a History geek at primary school, so History and Time is in my blood. I still feel that my life has not yet started. My big daughter is waiting to start her A levels and then I hop go to Cambridge to do Medicine, her younger and smarter little sister may be a Phd in something else. Or she may just become the new Julie Walters.

It would just be nice to achieve something more, yes 2 clever daughters is great, but selfishly what about something for me. Time   is ticking more loudly, my own ticker is held in check by beta blockers, but can I achieve a little thing for me, please.

So that’s my feet of clay, perhaps I should become Beckham’s new best friend and we can discuss humility down the local kebab shop. I can tell him to buy Gillette G3, one blade lasts 3 months. Or 8 in his case, that’s why he sports the rough look on occasions. We could advertise Dr Pepper, my favourite pop. Though I do enjoy a random Stella Artois, 12 pints a year probably.

When you first start to drink you drink Mild which is like dish water, and then you graduate to Cider, any cider. Then you may discover lager, Stella Artois hits the spot. A Time Detective can tell your age or where you are in your allotted time just by looking at the drink on the table before you, or spilled on the carpet. The size of your beer gut also betrays your age and your social status. Time, Tide and Belly waits for no man.

The same can be said for your shopping habits, they betray you. They also indicate the Time in your marital status. Pizzas and cereals indicate family. Marks and Spencer meals for one indict a career girl or a divorced man. Tesco is family Ocado is success, or they send you free coupons and you stuck with them. Besides you can bulk buy Whiskas cat food via Fetch, Ocado’s pet shop, they give coupons too, and Totoro your cat enjoys climbing the food mountain under the  kitchen table.

The seasons of our lives change, I still feel 20 in my head and I look younger than I am due to being fat, fat people don’t have wrinkles as any child, or mine, will tell you/me. My internal organs now they are 95 at least, I won’t be donating them after death. And some nights when the pain monster comes calling I really don’t fear Death as that would see the end of pain.

So attitudes change with Time, you think you need to be more Hedonistic as you’ll be dead soon. Or in plain English, when um dead um dead, so enjoy life now. Streak through Iceland asking have they seen Ken Dodd, was it true they had frozen his assets, or was that just a prawn cocktail of a story. If you are reading this Sir Ken, can I borrow 100,000 of your old jokes, as for the tickling stick can I borrow that for some dusting, the French Maid refuses to stand on the kitchen table.

If you can remember Ken Dodd on Top of The Pops then you really are getting old, but refuse to die down. I hear songs and I say I remember that when it was first on the radio. Now though there are nostalgia stations on the radio, so you can live in a time warp. If you go see the Rocky Horror show you can see them dance the Time warp, I’ve seen it on the stage a few times, even with the creator running down from the back of the rep to take the applause.

So revivals of theatre productions remind you of your days when you went to the theatre a lot, or to see bands in bars. But marriage and children end all that. You go shopping to see your brood and you remember that the new local discount store is on the site of Radfords an old department store where you bought your first ever chess set. I still have that chess set its in a wooden box in a draw in my chest of drawers. No not in my drawers, a bishop and pawns in your drawers is not advisable. In my chess of drawers, Boris sneaks in everywhere, he is the master of the double entendre, whatever that is.

And on it goes your life and your decline, aided and abetted by wine, age and wealth leads to wine and whining. You decide to have a fling with the girl from the takeaway, there’s 40 years age difference, but she wants to learn English and you do have a large back catalogue. So Egg Fried Rice leads to Vice, despite your own inner voice. And that’s why you are prawn crackered. It was your accent that was so attractive, you remind her of a fatter Benny Hill, and its ok she’s on the pill. So did you give in despite it being a sin.

I’ll leave it there as the cat wants to go out, and have I let the cat out of the bag, and I cannot think of any more rhymes to explain imaginary crimes. Because when you are old your time has run out, even if the egg fried rice has not.