Sneak Preview of 17 Again
Choice Words (c)
By
Michael Casey
As my readers are busy with the World Cup I was wondering what should I do to attract them back, though I know only as the World Cup proceeds will my readers return. There's Loyalty for you. So how can I choose words to impress my readers, to entice, to tempt them back. I am not a model so a post with a picture of me naked attached to it would not work. Maybe only with Morticians.
So how can I write a swimming pool as the Beatles once said. BBC Radio documentaries told me that, so if you are reading this Paul and I'm wrong feel free to pop around with some groceries and I'll put the kettle on. As I was saying, before there was a knock on the door, it was the pest controller, said his name was Paul something. But he did leave me some vegan burgers, which I'll give to the cat later. Anyway where was I, I almost lost myself then, lost and found that's me, I need a label, a record label.
So how do you choose your words to inspire your readers, or impress your listeners, ok I just recite each new piece to my daughters before they are allowed to watch the 100th episode of Gilmore Girls. Some words are easy, like A level Maths for Arabs, they did invent Maths after all. Other words are hard, like cooking for the French, isn't that right Macu, or should I call you Mr President. He has forever lost his Dignity now with that reply. Mr President, that'll come back to haunt you. It's always best to be humble and be given the best seats at the wedding if you remember your Bible. Now you'll be attacked for demanding all your trappings, you fell into a trap of your own making there, Macu.
I was once at Chinese church a decade or more ago, and everybody but everybody had a PhD, Drs galore. I looked over at a guy in thick black specs cleaning out the dustbins, is he a PhD too I asked? No, he's a Professor was the reply, it was Andrew Chan. HE is now a chancellor at a University in Australia I believe. So Macu, you could learn a lot from him. Titles mean nothing, it's humanity that counts.
But back to choice of words, children love a bit of alliteration, it's like scratching a dog's ear. Personally I think those who cannot write alliterate, same goes for cursing and sex. If you cannot write throw a bedroom scene in, or have lots of cursing. I have comedy sex, or rather comedy innuendo and metaphor swearing in what I write. I hope its funnier. Have you seen the size of my punctuation, it's bigger than Trump's hands. Whatever that is supposed to mean, but you are smiling as you read it, so I get the laugh.
As Gill from Stats MR used to say, Michael you lead them up the garden path, well only as far as my pansies, but be careful of my thorny bush, it'll cut you to ribbons. You look so nice with a ribbon on, thank's mum, I'm going to play rugby it's to keep the hair out my eyes while I play hooker. The cheek of him calling me mum, I know I look like my mum but calling me mum. I know I am wearing my mum's old smock, but calling me a woman. He's a useless hooker anyway, ribbon or no ribbon, he can never get his leg over the oval balls quick enough.
See I digressed into Round the Horne style of radio, you can turn your knobs on your crystal set and find it and compare, am I just a counterfeit Julian and Sandy, more Julian than Sandy. Or am I just confusing you? Or have you realised as I did that in this mode I am Ronnie Corbett's and Joyce Grenfell's bastard son. You absorb everything, for me that'd be 50 years plus of love of words, then when you write, only then you discover what your style is. By osmosis I am that bastard son, I'm not copying, it's just the way it is. Just as we inherit traits from our parents, such as cross dressing and shaving my legs in the kitchen sink, in the same bowl as we use for the washing up. See I've put another cartoon in your brain, the sick bucket is to the left of the computer.
Pause, while I put the fish fingers on. Left of field arrives on the page, because I have to answer my stomach. It rumbles, I burp, then I make food then I fart. The usual merry go round of love, of love of food that is. By being open to the reality of real events, was that pretentious enough for your Journalists out there? In other words background noises are added to the page and form structure to the piece. am I really getting pretentious now? Or in plain English I pick things up, like a thief and use them in a variety of different ways.
Some people don't think they just pass through like shadows having no form or substance, just like reality tv people really, so they never notice or observe or even feel anything. They are too busy smoking the newly legal drugs, which means my job is to point things out and ask have you seen things this way or that way. Rather like a naked contortionist, again a horrid picture of me in your brain
For those who might miss the joke, deliberately or not. By putting myself forward, maybe the Elephant amongst men, the ludicrousness of it is enhanced. I am the original ugly duckling so to speak, so it magnifies the idea. Just as when I reveal myself as a writer to some people they don't believe it. HIM, he's a security guard or bouncer at a nightclub. You wrote that, as they look at me as if I'm pooh stuck to their shoe.
So its's nice when I get a good or big reaction from my choice of words, for this story or that story. It means I've made people laugh and sometimes think at the same time. It's when we stop thinking and allow others to do it for us that we get bad politicians everywhere, who can ruin our countries and all our lives.
Now the previous sentence is a good end point, but I've continued because my fish fingers are not quiet ready, see I have my priorities, stomach first,words second, after I've had my seconds of fish fingers. A good end point is always best, and sometimes the circle of words leads you right back to where you have started. Or you can end with a joke. Like my circle was finding a new shop that sold even cheaper fish fingers, fish fingers made into words. So you could choose your words while you ate your fish fingers. None of you saw that coming, not unless you use sonar for your own words
Monday, 16 July 2018
3am monday 16th july
Here’s some Random Connections©
By
Michael Casey
Well I’ve just been asked for CHOCOLATE, or rather my big daughter has demanded a Bounty, so I have to stop to pay the bounty, then I’ll be back with you. Teenage daughter are so demanding, but at least she brought in my drawers from the washing line, so they cannot be spotted from the space station, nor stray parachutists using them as target landing places. So I’ll pause with Simon and Garfunkel playing, with the cat snoring along on the back of the sofa while I run to the Polish shop before it closes, otherwise there will be a bounty on my head and it wont be chocolate. I hope you notice how I weave in real life drama into my stories, what you haven’t noticed? I’m going to sulk now, I’ll have a moan with Julian and Sandy from round the Horne, you can google that for yourself.
Now where was I? It’s4.30pm another day, Sunday 22nd July now, just in case any of you are archiving my writing. The storm has passed, and I was up in the night with pain, its so very unpredictable, when and where pain comes. At least my computer is fixed now, it might just be too much anti virus software, or good old Windows 10 having a Benny as they used to say. So if I cannot sleep I can always fix the computer, or even think about a new piece.
Now today if you have spotted today’s message the wife has lost her voice, so in the middle of the night just before I crept back to bed I thought what if I lost my voice too. So I left a note on the coffee table stating I had lost my voice. And still after 1/2 the day is over she believes me. I winked at my small daughter, and she smiled knowingly, then she ruined it by telling he big sister. You must never tell anybody not even your small daughter if you want to keep a secret, or a joke for that matter. My wife still does not know and is asleep like a pig on sofa. I should post a photo but we keep our media lives separate. My photos are not suitable for Linked IN after all, and I’m not on it anyway.
I spotted Germany having a reading fest so hello to you all, Ich Lieb dich if I’ve spelt that right. As you know I was in Frankfurt at Hotel Achat in Offenbach back in 2008, it really was great. I assume they have had the room fumigated by now, and replaced the bed after my heavy weight stay. I did have a metal bed collapse once under my weight, you can track down that story for yourselves. Though it was an ill wind that blew no good as a passing Polish guy rescued it from the street and hammered it into shape, no doubt him and his beautiful wife are smoking in it now, the Poles tend to smoke a lot.
Yes I realise that some of you misplace my words and their meaning, assuming I’m thinking what you are thinking, but as Gill from StatsMR used to say, you are going up that garden path again, and again and again. Rather like a Status Que song, its all in the rhythm and the beat after all, rolled up magazines not included. That was for all you Political Scientists out there, and why is the BBC better than Sky, its all about coverage? The BBC uses bigger paper, rolled up, and no I’m not talking about smoking of a different kind.
Where was I, there was somebody at the front door and I’m all in my scruffs, at least I showered earlier. When a stranger arrives it does put you off your flow. In actual fact it was a Fairy Godmother, yes really, I don’t just make this up, it was Fran, a real Godmother, a nice white lady with an Afro hairdo. She’s my small daughter’s Godmother, she just dropped by with a present for my small daughter. I thought she had come to demand the return of a library book, she is in fact a member of the Library staff at the end of the road. Her husband is the organist and choir master from church, he really knows how to make people cry. Not due to his organ skills or lack of them, but rather he use to work for the Inland Revenue, or IRS as the say in USA. Thinking on it, in the Untouchables there is a little bald guy from the IRS, well they could be related, they look so similar.
I hope they laugh if ever they read this, or I could be hung from the bell tower. Which reminds me of Chuck Berry’s song My Ding a Ling, though that does sound like one of my Chinese relatives. Or will I be accused of being “Wordist”. Snowflakes everywhere want to be wrapped in cotton wool and not experience real life, Casey Jones was a tv show about the steam train driver in USA, I believe as a child the drummer from The Monkees featured in it. And yes when I was small, and I was well below 200lbs once, Casey Jones was shouted at me in the school yard.
I think that’s enough random connections for today, I think we have some Ice Cream Soda pop in the fridge so I’ll have some of that. I’m lucky now that I’m older, at least my brother does not pee in the old glass pop bottles anymore. He knew I used to drink the dregs, so he left his surprise pee in each and every bottle. That’s an example of family love, some families never interact with each other, they don’t even bother to pee in pop bottles, ready for their little brother to drink.
By Michael Casey
Today I’ll not mention any heat or cross dressing, sorry to disappoint my readers in the Philippines, Priests or Sinners of anybody else. I’ve got Barry White singing in the background as I talk to you all, the wife has recovered her voice and is ordering folks about in two languages, the cat Totoro has let herself out via a window and is off killing the local wild life. Everybody should have a hobby I suppose, though I noticed that the ham I bought today has a RSPCA sticker on it. The pigs in Heaven will no doubt appreciate that.
Today we are discussing colour in our house, no nothing to do with Barry White or my sometimes black humour, you’ll have to ask the pink pigs about that, or the RSPCA. No, what we are talking about is colour, as in what colour our walls are going to be painted in. Me I like white, as it makes a place brighter, we do live in a South Facing home, so that does colour our lives, and anybody else’s house looks Grimm or is it Brothers Grimm by comparison. By the way for the record they only wrote 250 or was it 280 stories. My total is around 2000. They were actually very educated, I even have a copy of their Fairy Tales on the book shelf behind me, you can have it too, just go to Amazon. And yes my stuff is on Amazon too, it may take 200 years before you all start buying it.
Barry is singing about the colour of your hair, my weakness is red or browny red hair. See colour of hair makes men defenseless, and women know this and spend billions on hair colouring products. Though Chinese girls do have the best hair of all, as for my hair, it’s ever so soft, and wonderfully silver, but you will all have to take my word for it. All the little old ladies in the White House will be spitting at the screen now, envy really is one of the seven deadly sins. No I’m not calling Donald a little old lady, he has his own little old lady as we call them in UK, Melania. No the White House I’m talking about is the retirement home up the road in Spangles Lane, Stars and Spangles is the name of the pub opposite. So residents use their walkers to get to the pub and a wheelbarrow brings them back. So I hope I’ve explained things clearly, the Donald does not drink as we all know.
But talking of blondes, Donald is a blond after all, why do blondes always have the most fun, or in Donald’s case, why does this blond always have the most fun? Because he has a good grip and knows where all the bunkers are, which reminds me of the Dr Strangelove film, which you can find for yourselves. See this talk of blondes or is it the blond, has made me lose my thread, speaking of thread that reminds me of a camel and the eye of a needle. But the Base believes anything can go through the eye of a needle, whatever colour it is.
But I was talking about our walls, what colour should they be, the wife has ordained that Shingle is the colour of her choice. I did tell her that Shingles was a disease that spreads around your belly and if the spots join up you are in deep deep trouble. I can remember my old Kerry Irish mum telling me all about it on one occasion. So there you have it Shingle colour is ordained, but remember Shingle colour on your walls is not the same as Shingles you put on your roof which are a dark grey, the colour of tombstones. I do have a new friend called Tombs, so hello to her if she ever stumbles over this. So I was worried that our walls would be the colour of my tomb, I can wait for the tomb without it invading my living room and pointing to my final exit. Charles Dickens has a lot to answer for, him and his Christmas Carol, though my wife does have a friend called Karol, a Polish guy. Even though she thought it was Carole and was amazed when she turned out to be a Polish he.
Back against the wall, is that how you are all feeling as I talk to you, that’s not nice, I may punctuate you all! Did you like the exclamation mark, no, well please yourselves. At least there is no blood on the wall or carpet, just a little kebab sauce and coffee stains. We had a very nice carpet and yes, I spilt my coffee all over it, it’s still a very nice carpet, apart from that one spot. If I stand decoratively on that spot when we have visitors then, it still looks very nice, thanks to John Lewis. Otherwise it looks as if Jackson Pollock was about to start but dribbled a bit. The moral of the story is don’t have white or sand coloured carpet near traffic areas, ok, don’t ever let a fat silver haired writer in shades from Birmingham have a drink. Not unless he is standing on concrete .
Heaven’s Devils ©
By Michael Casey
Rodrigo was a bad man, a very bad man. He had lied and cheated and killed his way all over Central America, but he was good at his job. He was a killer for the cartels. Obviously he was going straight to Hell, the hottest part of Hell itself, but he neither cared nor believed. He was BAD with a Capital B, Michael Jackson could sing and dance and prance as much as he wanted but compared to Rodrigo, he was just DEAD with a capital D. Jackson was not Bad, he was Sad with a silly voice and bad dance moves, and he was DEAD. Rodrigo was the MAN and his moves left a trail of Death all over Central America.
Rodrigo had no friends, but he did have one cousin, Miguel was his name, and he too was a bad man, a very bad man, who like Rodrigo lied and cheated and killed his way all over Central America. They used to send postcards to each other, with cartoons written on the back showing how many and how they had killed their latest victims. The postmen just assumed it was children scrawling things. But to the FBI it was evidence.
Rodrigo and Miguel were tasked to kill a priest who condemned the drugs trade from the pulpit. So obviously they sat at the back and enjoyed the sermon, they would slit his throat after the Mass and steal the offerings too on the way out. Only Fr. Camillo had other ideas, he was not stupid he knew when death was calling him, and today after Sunday Mass was the day. But the thing about Death is that it is not the Master, there is only one Master, and today the Holy Ghost was in town. Now the Holy Ghost was faster and quicker than any assassin, so Rodrigo and Miguel had better watch their backs.
Now who or what is the Holy Ghost? Well the Holy Ghost was a retired CIA assassin, he knew Fr. Camillo from high school, and every day Fr. Camillo had prayed for his dark and evil soul. If the thief on the cross could be spared and Saul could become Paul, then the Holy Ghost could be saved too. And so he was, the Holy Ghost became plain old Sancho, he was Fr. Camillo’s invisible bodyguard. Any time the cartels sent a hit man to kill Fr. Camillo the hit man disappeared off the face of the earth. In actual fact, Sancho cut their ear off and posted it back to the cartel. As for the hit men, they just retired to Miami, thanking God they were still alive, though slightly hard of hearing. They grew their hair and enjoyed all their ill -gotten gains.
Rodrigo and Miguel were about to strike, when Sancho hit them first. They awoke to find themselves tied up chickens ready to go in the oven. Fr. Camillo blessed them with Holy Water, Sancho who had been drinking relieved himself on them. They were about to swear, but Sancho hit them with two Bibles across the face. There will be no more swearing ever, Repent or Die, with that Fr. Camillo threw a bucket of Holy Water over each of them. Now the Holy Spirit the real Holy Spirit works in most strange ways, Rodrigo and Miguel had come to kill, but now they would become savers.
They were shackled and told to read the Bible, every day Sancho fed them and Fr. Camillo blessed them, the Holy Spirit did his work too. That is the real Holy Spirit and the Sancho the retired assassin. Sleep deprived and forced to change, this was no road to Damascus, this was Central America. How many months it took I do not know, but I do know, light began to shine in their hearts, a tiny tiny light, but Fr. Camillo could feel it. The Holy Spirit was at work. Sancho had to go away with his donkey Panza for supplies, so with a wave and reminding the prisoners that there would be a 1000 question Bible test when he returned he disappeared like a Ghost, a Holy Ghost maybe.
Now an ill wind blows no good, and fools rush in where angels fear to tread. The cartels had not received any ears lately so they dispatched an entire squad to kill Fr. Camillo. Would they manage to finally kill Fr. Camillo? In the jungle whistles broke through the animal sounds. To Rodrigo and Miguel it was obvious what was about to happen, they smiled. The old priest would get his comeuppance. But as they read their Bibles, the gentle breeze of the Holy Spirit fell upon them. The Padre Pio prayer card which had acted as bookmark, fell from their Bibles, Padre Pio’s face gave them a hard stare. As Mrs Casey would say, don’t give me any cheek or I’ll slap you in the puss with the mop bucket. They had had enough of murder, it was now time to save. This was their Damascus moment.
So like any good assassins, Roderigo and Miguel broke free from their shackles and slipped away.
The assassination squad numbered 10, but 10 divided by 2 is 5, and 5 to 1 were easy odds as far as they were concerned. As Fr. Camillo prayed they took action, then 10 became 9, became 8, became 7, became 6 and then Panza the donkey came to the rescue. Panza distracted the assassination squad while Miguel and Roderigo with the returned Sancho finished off the 10. All of whom were tied up like chickens ready for the oven.
Don’t think you’ll not having your Bible test, after supper will be you final test. They spun round it was Fr.Camillo who had finished praying. They followed him into the jungle, there on the ground was another 10 men, how come to assassinate him. They were the advance party, I sorted them out myself, they were such amateurs. So they tied those ten up and dragged them to join the others. 20 men sent to kill just one priest. Roderigo and Miguel bowed their heads, you love God so much and the send so many killers to get you.
Fr.Camillo blessed them and they all had supper, afterwards Sancho gave them their 1000 question Bible test. So what happens now? Well said Fr. Camillo, Sancho has some friends in the CIA they could use men like you. But we aren’t killers any more, you know I think we could become Christians, real Christian, do you think your boss would accept people like us. Of course he can, but listen to Sancho. So Sancho explained the CIA or the friends of friends of the CIA needed bodyguards, not close protection ones, but invisible bodyguards to protect special people from a distance, and maybe sometimes to intervene. They would become Ghosts, Holy Ghosts if you like.
Roderigo and Miguel took all of 2 seconds to say yes. But don’t you need more than 2 sometimes? Well yes explained Sancho, after I cut off all those ears and previous assassins are official dead I stay in touch with the “dead” so to speak, and they do me favours occasionally. What about these 20, they are the worst of the worst. Well you could help us re-educate them. So after they had cut both ears off all 20 assassins, they chained them up and Bible school began. Fr. Camillo was left alone after that the cartels gave up on him, the Sicorro was blowing after all.
Now where did Roderigo and Miguel go? Well if you remember Mrs Murphy likes to visits lots and lots of churches and some are not in nice places. And her Jewish friend Esther has a zillionaire son who makes satellites for CIA etc. Well a satellite is all fine and dandy but Esther worries about her friends, her close friends. So it makes Esther sleep easier knowing that the Holy Ghost Protection Society is only a heartbeat away.
This is 17 Again ©
By
Michael Casey
my 17th Book
All my own work 14june2018
Michael Casey
The fat silver haired writer in shades from Birmingham England
Seventeen Again ©
By
Michael Casey
Well tomorrow is another day, and today the pain has ebbed away so let’s see if I can make you laugh, and maybe me too. I’m still wondering why I get the cursor dancing all over my screen, it could be North Korea hacking me for a free read, or it could be Barron Trump, or maybe it’s just Microsoft Windows 10 being a bit strange. Or even my keyboard tray is vibrating because of Billy Joel dancing on his piano talking about it all being about Soul. The cursor has stopped dancing now, maybe the North Koreans ran out of dance steps.
I can of course step dance or Irish dance, my sisters did it so I kind of leant how to do it. The trouble with tap dancing is that you keep on falling over in the sink, that was a 1970s style joke, I don’t know what you’ll make of it, but the sink could be a Belfast sink, now that’ll really confuse some of my foreign readers.
What can you expect in this book Seventeen Again, or is it 17 Again? I have no idea as I said yesterday it should be ready by Christmas 2018, assuming I don’t die. And with all the pain I have that’s not just black humour, so enjoy me while I’m here, now is this emotional blackmail with my readers? Not if you are my neighbours hearing me moan and scream in the night, and they thought it was the foxes mating.
Summer holidays approach so my girls will be demanding a greater variety of food as they are home all day. My small daughter will no doubt read 3 books a week, while the bigger one says she’ll study hard as next year she wants to get into a good University. Though nowadays getting into university means getting into 35 to £60,000 worth of debt. Frankly I’d say get a loan and start a business instead in some cases, or some Caseys.
My big daughter has decided for now that Medicine is not for her, so she may do Bio-Chemistry. Which is fast turning into a family thing. My best friend, he’s laughing at this now, he has a PhD in Bio-Chemistry, my wife did it in Shanghai, and my nephew is just finishing at York in Bio-Chemistry. So that’s 4 Bio-Chemistry people, the only bio-chemistry I make is down the toilet.
My other daughter is yet to decide which way to go, Arts or Science so if you keep on reading my epistles you’ll find out in a few years time. Remember both are bilingual in English and Chinese so I have no worries for their future, I just hope they face-time me in my dotage. Kim from North Korea may have been talking about me, and not the Donald. Both of them could copy my hairstyles.
What else can I share? Yes Bavarian sausages are nice, they are so big that just one is enough as a meal with bread and a few vegetables or other stuff. My local store has them ,though I have to watch my fat content, no I don’t mean look at my own belly, I mean look what I put into my belly. I’ll be having one soon as it’s nearly my dinnertime. Listen to Billy Joel with me, We Didn’t Start the Fire. It’s good. Well I had a look in the fridge while you were listening, I did turn the volume up so you weren’t all alone in my “study”. It’s soon time for me to start the fire under my frying pan and eat.
My local store has 2 pizza and 4 budweiser for a fiver so I may go out and buy that, I’ve not had alcohol for months and months. They say the World Cup starts tomorrow. I was in Lourdes France in 1966, maybe it was our prayers that helped us win. The nice thing about Music is that it IS company and also it fires the imagination if it has words, a word from a song can lead my story one way or another. Its a split second thing.
Though with words they can lead you into “trouble”. Our neighbour knocked on the door asking for jump leads as his battery was flat, I happened to be wearing only one loose layer, so I flashed my belly and my surgery scars saying they used jump leads on me here. Where I had my quadruple heart bypass. He went away unimpressed mumbled the area had gone done, and he’d have to catch a bus.
Aren’t you glad you don’t live next door to me? I also have scars on each leg from the groin to my ankle bone, where my veins were harvested. Luckily for him he did not ask to borrow my evening dress. Speaking of which my wife has to put her’s on tonight as she is going to a Gala Dinner, meanwhile I’ll be having strawberry jam on toast, it cost 1.79 from the Polish shop. Enough of this talk I really must eat now, I hope you’ll enjoy Seventeen Again when I launch it at Xmas 2018, but now I must head for the kitchen and hope Totoro hasn’t helped herself to my Bavarian sausage.
Healthy Living ©
By
Michael Casey
I was wondering what to talk about today and I really hadn’t any thoughts ready at all, and yes the pain monster has come out to play again, so talking was not on my list. Then as I was having my Kafir Polish yogurt drink an idea came to me, why not write about Healthy Living. Yes, I know you are all laughing at the very thought of it, Lech, Boris and Gregorgi even looked up from the tv and Russia’s World Cup to laugh at me. So I just sung some Robbie Williams songs at them, and why does Robbie Williams look like Kim from North Korea, is Robbie Williams starting a K-Pop band in North Korea?
So, Healthy Living and Michael Casey the fat silver haired writer in shades from Birmingham England, is that a contradiction or a fantasy? Sounds like something you do in Philosophy. Now most of my life I suppose I’m like any other bloke, apart from being one of God’s special people, Lech and Boris and Gregorgi nearly dropped their bottle of vodka, the small 3 litre size one, they have no belief in me sometimes. I’m just the friend they enjoy burying in the woods, so their dogs can get tracking practice.
Exercise, such as digging yourself out of a hole is always good, it builds muscles and character. And when you are wedged too tight and left for 2 days, as the boys have to watch a still, then it teaches you patience, and you may just decide that a few grubs would be nice as you starve for 48 hours. You also get used to the smell of babies, or rather yourself in your soiled clothes. But it’s a Spiritual Journey, even if you are wedged and and buried in the woods for 54 hours. Fear and love combine as you pray to God that Lech, Boris and Gregorgi will finish making the latest batch of vodka in Warley Woods, and not sample all 1000 litres before remembering that they left you buried somewhere.
Your skin, or rather my skin is perfect by the time I am dug out, even though I am foul smelling. This is amended by getting the dogs to drag me naked through Thimblemill brook, my clothes are disgusting after all, they are left on a bench. Lech, Boris and Gregorgi squeeze 2 litres of Fairy Liquid all over my body to de-grease me. The brook foams and bubbles fly all over the Warley Woods area. Naked yet covered in suds I emerge from the brook.
Then I am tied still naked to the roof rack on their Skoda Superb, as I’m too wet to be allowed inside, and they drive as fast as they can back home. They do have a trailer attached behind, not to my behind but to the Skoda Superb, 3000 litres of fresh vodka are inside. Once home I’m carried like a carpet from the Skoda Superb and thrown on to my kitchen floor.
Then sparing the fresh vodka,as it’s too good to waste, the three of them give me a massage. Fresh vodka certainly tones the skin after 2 days buried alive, and being dragged through a brook, then air dried by being driven while strapped to the roof rack. As life is restored Totoro my cat comes along to lick the vodka from me, the hounds join in too. Finally I’m thrown into a scalding shower. After all that you soon forget all your aches and pains. You just thank God you are alive and have such good friends called Lech, Boris and Gregorgi.
Watching the Cat ©
By Michael Casey
We have a cat called Totoro, and thank God it’s not a dog, otherwise I’d not be here to tell the tale. You see my kids begged for a pet, so I said you can have a dog if I die and a cat if I have a heart attack. A few weeks later, after I had written To The Very Gates of Hell I had an unplanned quadruple heart bypass. That was Jan 2015, 3rd Jan was when I was admitted then Tuesday 13th Jan 2015 I had the operation. So when I came out of hospital I kept my word and Totoro came and joined the family a few months later.
I had said I’d accept a Tom cat, but Totoro deceived us by being a female cat. So we had her neutered otherwise we’d be soon overrun by cats. My friend when he was at University in Canterbury Kent, his landlady had 16 cats. But at least the seaside and fresh air as available at nearby Whitstable.
When you first have a kitten you have to kitten proof your house, we used old shoe boxes to block the space under the sink so Totoro could not hide nor more importantly pooh there. Then there is the need for kitty litter to soak up all little messages, you can buy this in supermarkets and an old tray can be used to hold the litter. Now kitty litter was a revelation of sorts for me, all the years at home, 30+ years our cat your rattle the doorknob and out she’d go to bury her treasure in the next door neighbour’s flower bed. Now with Totoro we had to bury her pooh for her, self-service for the owner so to speak.
I always said it was wrong for a cat to be a house cat, but Totoro got Whiskas from us so she was content as she grew from kitty to cat. Totoro has free range of the whole house, so she was happy enough. We had a little wicker basket for her, and she could jump on top of the fridge for variety. She even mastered opening the kitchen cupboards so we had to tape them shut, all in all a happy cat.
But cats need adventure so Totoro decided to escape, she jumped from the bedroom window to the top of the bay window and finally into the bushes below. Or that was the only explanation of how she could possibly escaped. The amount of prayers my daughters said for her safe return could not be imagined, let’s say Saint Christopher himself brought her home. Love me, stroke me, feed me.
I think Totoro got out a few more times before it was decided to let her roam free, free as dad’s farts blow, in and out like a yo-yo. Totoro as you might expect in our house is bilingual, English and Chinese, despite having a Studio Ghbili Japanese name. She is tri-lingual if you include Plastic, she can tell from the sound of plastic opening that Chicken or Chorizo or Polish ham is available. So she will run faster than Hussain Bolt to get to the fridge, Bolt is a slouch compared to her.
After cats eat they groom, they have several positions that would put humans in hospital if they adopted them. The Cello is one such position, the cat’s body looks as if it is holding a cello while she licks her own hind quarters. You can try it at home if you do yoga, otherwise don’t even think about it.
Cats like heat too, that’s why if you have a baby you must watch it, as the cat will sit on the baby for its heat, they do smell of milk too. Our old cat Jean used to sit on the tv at night, the valves were hot and kept the cat warm, either that or she was a tv critic for the Mews Times. With modern tvs cats can no longer sit on them for night-time warmth. Though Totoro is so very nimble with Ninja qualities so she may sit on our lcd tv when we are not looking, the remote always has claw marks on it too.
Any opening in a door or window will let your cat in and out, or rather she lets herself in or out. You may be in a dream sat on the toilet and then suddenly the cat appears, frightening the pooh out of you. Or you are in mid-shower and Totoro will appear and you pee yourself, luckily you are in the shower. And if she wants out she’ll just scratch at your bedroom window until you open it for her so she can join the dawn chorus and kill one of them. Such is cat life.
I’ll leave it there, you all have your own cat stories, we love cats but they just use us. Dogs are loyal, but cats are like manipulative mistresses, we know they are bad for us, but we can’t live without our pussy cat.
Sudden Surprises ©
By
Michael Casey
I couldn’t think of a theme, there were too many children children crying in the background, that Trump Daycare Centre is so noisy, then I had a stabbing pain above my left nipple, no I hadn’t been suckling too much, the Trump Daycare Centre does all that. No it was my left over pains from my surgery and so on, but at least I know how to sing songs in Spanish, Manana Domino de Pipiripingo.
So sudden surprises will be my theme, or I could go and watch the Russia v Egypt match. How you react to sudden surprises makes a difference in your life. You are naked on the sofa, now I could proceed with various tales, so I’ll use the less X rated story. Sorry to disappoint, but this is Radio after all, I want everything I talk about to work on radio.
So Florence and Zeb are on the sofa, and the spring are making a lot of noise, a lot of noise. Obviously they are practicing their trampoline act for the student ball later in the week. They were going to do a balloon blowing up act, but they forgot the balloons, so they just had to be extra careful. Whatever that means, is this turning into Panto for Radio,oh yes it is, oh no it is not.
For my far flung readers or is it listeners you’ll have to take everything with a pinch of salt, just sprinkle it lightly and be careful, Florence and Zeb are still naked after all. Or maybe just throw a bucket of water over them. But make sure Totoro isn’t splashed or she’ll jump up claws out, and I’m sure Florence and Zeb might get injured, they’d never be able to ride the magic roundabout ever again.
So what did you do, yes you blushing over there behind that Physics text book. You told your parents you were practicing learning all the parts of the anatomy, and you just had to get naked. Your girlfriend’s mother being dim believed you, her father a master butcher just took you to the deep freeze and left you there for 3 hours. By which time your ardour was cooled, but you read the posters with the best way to divide a side of beef or pig or lamb, just to pass the time.
Released from the deep freeze you fell to the ground as if dead, so the master butcher ran away in his meat van. The mother said sorry and fainted. Your girlfriend who had done a survival course knew all about body heat. So she made love to you for hours, until the colour came back to your cheeks. In the morning dad returned, he had to open the shop up after all,besides he had decided to chop up your body and sell it as dog meat. He returned to find his wife as if dead lying on the floor, or a World Cup footballer diving for a penalty. His daughter had bright red cheeks like a Russian doll, and you were even redder.
Obviously his daughter was pregnant, but you had had an epiphany, you no longer wanted to be a mortician, you wanted to be a butcher instead. Dad, was unbelieving but you recited the list learnt from when you were locked inside the freezer. A tear came to his eye, but what about your knife skills. You had spent a lot of time with Lech, Boris and Gregorgi so you knew all about knives, and potato peeling and making vodka in a still in Warley Woods. It was a match made in Heaven, or rather on the back of the family settee.
Your future wife wrote a recipe book called Sofa Meats, because after eating all the meat based recipes all you would want to do is lie down on the sofa. Though like football Sofa Meats was a game of two halves, recipes and relaxing things to do on sofas. Like, well you know, watch the Russian World Cup, or write stories like this, or where did I put those balloons. STOP, you are making up your own stories now, who do you think you are, a fat silver haired writer in shades from Birmingham, Michael Casey is the name.
By
Michael Casey
As my readers are busy with the World Cup I was wondering what should I do to attract them back, though I know only as the World Cup proceeds will my readers return. There's Loyalty for you. So how can I choose words to impress my readers, to entice, to tempt them back. I am not a model so a post with a picture of me naked attached to it would not work. Maybe only with Morticians.
So how can I write a swimming pool as the Beatles once said. BBC Radio documentaries told me that, so if you are reading this Paul and I'm wrong feel free to pop around with some groceries and I'll put the kettle on. As I was saying, before there was a knock on the door, it was the pest controller, said his name was Paul something. But he did leave me some vegan burgers, which I'll give to the cat later. Anyway where was I, I almost lost myself then, lost and found that's me, I need a label, a record label.
So how do you choose your words to inspire your readers, or impress your listeners, ok I just recite each new piece to my daughters before they are allowed to watch the 100th episode of Gilmore Girls. Some words are easy, like A level Maths for Arabs, they did invent Maths after all. Other words are hard, like cooking for the French, isn't that right Macu, or should I call you Mr President. He has forever lost his Dignity now with that reply. Mr President, that'll come back to haunt you. It's always best to be humble and be given the best seats at the wedding if you remember your Bible. Now you'll be attacked for demanding all your trappings, you fell into a trap of your own making there, Macu.
I was once at Chinese church a decade or more ago, and everybody but everybody had a PhD, Drs galore. I looked over at a guy in thick black specs cleaning out the dustbins, is he a PhD too I asked? No, he's a Professor was the reply, it was Andrew Chan. HE is now a chancellor at a University in Australia I believe. So Macu, you could learn a lot from him. Titles mean nothing, it's humanity that counts.
But back to choice of words, children love a bit of alliteration, it's like scratching a dog's ear. Personally I think those who cannot write alliterate, same goes for cursing and sex. If you cannot write throw a bedroom scene in, or have lots of cursing. I have comedy sex, or rather comedy innuendo and metaphor swearing in what I write. I hope its funnier. Have you seen the size of my punctuation, it's bigger than Trump's hands. Whatever that is supposed to mean, but you are smiling as you read it, so I get the laugh.
As Gill from Stats MR used to say, Michael you lead them up the garden path, well only as far as my pansies, but be careful of my thorny bush, it'll cut you to ribbons. You look so nice with a ribbon on, thank's mum, I'm going to play rugby it's to keep the hair out my eyes while I play hooker. The cheek of him calling me mum, I know I look like my mum but calling me mum. I know I am wearing my mum's old smock, but calling me a woman. He's a useless hooker anyway, ribbon or no ribbon, he can never get his leg over the oval balls quick enough.
See I digressed into Round the Horne style of radio, you can turn your knobs on your crystal set and find it and compare, am I just a counterfeit Julian and Sandy, more Julian than Sandy. Or am I just confusing you? Or have you realised as I did that in this mode I am Ronnie Corbett's and Joyce Grenfell's bastard son. You absorb everything, for me that'd be 50 years plus of love of words, then when you write, only then you discover what your style is. By osmosis I am that bastard son, I'm not copying, it's just the way it is. Just as we inherit traits from our parents, such as cross dressing and shaving my legs in the kitchen sink, in the same bowl as we use for the washing up. See I've put another cartoon in your brain, the sick bucket is to the left of the computer.
Pause, while I put the fish fingers on. Left of field arrives on the page, because I have to answer my stomach. It rumbles, I burp, then I make food then I fart. The usual merry go round of love, of love of food that is. By being open to the reality of real events, was that pretentious enough for your Journalists out there? In other words background noises are added to the page and form structure to the piece. am I really getting pretentious now? Or in plain English I pick things up, like a thief and use them in a variety of different ways.
Some people don't think they just pass through like shadows having no form or substance, just like reality tv people really, so they never notice or observe or even feel anything. They are too busy smoking the newly legal drugs, which means my job is to point things out and ask have you seen things this way or that way. Rather like a naked contortionist, again a horrid picture of me in your brain
For those who might miss the joke, deliberately or not. By putting myself forward, maybe the Elephant amongst men, the ludicrousness of it is enhanced. I am the original ugly duckling so to speak, so it magnifies the idea. Just as when I reveal myself as a writer to some people they don't believe it. HIM, he's a security guard or bouncer at a nightclub. You wrote that, as they look at me as if I'm pooh stuck to their shoe.
So its's nice when I get a good or big reaction from my choice of words, for this story or that story. It means I've made people laugh and sometimes think at the same time. It's when we stop thinking and allow others to do it for us that we get bad politicians everywhere, who can ruin our countries and all our lives.
Now the previous sentence is a good end point, but I've continued because my fish fingers are not quiet ready, see I have my priorities, stomach first,words second, after I've had my seconds of fish fingers. A good end point is always best, and sometimes the circle of words leads you right back to where you have started. Or you can end with a joke. Like my circle was finding a new shop that sold even cheaper fish fingers, fish fingers made into words. So you could choose your words while you ate your fish fingers. None of you saw that coming, not unless you use sonar for your own words
Chick Flicks ©
By
Michael Casey
Well I had a nap and went to the Polish shop for chocolate and 7Up, now we can settle down for a film. There doesn’t seem to be much on normal tv, then I spotted Bridget Jones’s Diary. So my girls are watching that for the 10th time while take refuge here, and talk to you about them. Meanwhile the girls in the Polish shop are shelf filling, no Hugh Grant for them, he’d have to be 2 meters tall with Slavic good looks even to get a look in. Sorry Hugh, go back to your film, we have shelves to stack.
So what makes a good film, a good film as far as girls are concerned? Well there has to be humour, and a good bastard to bitch at. Is that Hugh Grant again? There has to be a noble soul, he can have a limp and be ugly, so long as he is not too ugly. He can get the girl, and the bastard can get beaten, or rescued by a really fat and ugly girl who finally saves him. Dream boy gets ugly girl, with a wart, so he is
saved, or is it condemned by Fate. Meanwhile the heroine is saved and gets a nice boy, even if he has a limp.
Gushy music plays a part, as does music, genre music of its time. Bridget Jones’ Diary I see was made in 2001. Soft focus and girls crying while just in their knickers sat of their bed stroking the cat for comfort. It’s as simple as that, it’s almost like a recipe.
There is a film about a London/LA house swop, The Holiday now that’s a chick flick but also a good family film, we’ve seen it a couple of times now. It has music and comedy and soft focus, I like it, though I’m no chick. The genre is made for girls who want a film without their bloke, just for them and their girl friends, a Thursday night out, where they can laugh together and bond with their girlfriends. No violence and blood bathes, no need to squirm, and no chance of puking because of all of the buckets of blood.
In the room behind me I can hear the pompous lawyer saying he loves Bridget Jones. Corny but nice themes, she gets a nice man who’ll treat her well, the bastard always loses. Or gets drowned in the pool in the park, only to be dragged out by the really fat girl with the wart on her lip. So the bastard gets his just rewards a really fat girl with a wart who’ll break his back and bed when she takes advantage of him. So it’s a morality tale, if you are a bastard this is what will happen to you.
Though in other chick flicks, the ugly duckling has a good wax and loses those hairy legs, and suddenly loses 40 pounds. Then she steals Hugh Grant’s heart, only to discover he’s still a bastard in the 2nd film in the series, he divorces her because they cannot have children. So she is comforted by the fat ugly man in shades with silver hair from Birmingham and she marries him instead, only to discover she can have children after all. Seven of them, each more beautiful than the previous one. It’s God’s sense of humour, ugly dads have beautiful children.
As for the Hugh Grant character, what happens to him? He dies a horrible death, or becomes a doorman in a strip club, Stringfellow had pity on him before he went to Heavens About, a deluxe club. At the end of the day a chick flick is a laxative as it moves you, and clears blockages, but makes you feel so relieved, so relieved you cry.
Chatting with Doris ©
By
Michael Casey
I was about to find my bench in the churchyard when I stumbled over Doris in the churchyard, it’s not her real name, just in case her husband is reading this, he could be the jealous kind, not wishing to share his Doris. Doris is not a nubile young thing trying to turn my head, Doris is 80 and maybe more. Though if she is younger I hope she will forgive me, I can talk what with my silver hair, or white if you are unkind.
So I had popped into the churchyard and part on my routine and was about to sit on my John Thomas Beddall bench when I spotted Doris, so I said hello again and sat down. Am I lying really and is she a nubile young thing with legs up to her armpits with an innocent smile above a heaving chest. No she is not, beside I’m only attracted to Orientals. Doris really is a little old lady, we’ve exchanged a few greeting on the high street, and she has a great smile, she twinkles, she has a good sense of humour too.
So I sat by Doris and said hello again, last time we met was at the GPs when I had to take my small daughter for her tetanus injection, which turned out to be 2 injections, they gave her the kissing virus injection too. You know the one students get before going to University, meninajarvirus injection or some other name. Then Doris had met my small daughter while she was looking for a dustbin, now she met me again.
I told Doris my other daughter was having a look at Birmingham University along with the small daughter she had already met. I had rung my Oriental wife, Shanghai that is, with some news when a pigeon poohed on my wife as I shared the news. My Irish mother would have said that was good luck. I hope my mother is right, we’ll find out on Monday. Meanwhile my girls went to Ying Yip to spend the vouchers my wife had won at the Birmingham Chamber of Commerce dinner, so a very big thank you to them. My wife is world famous now in some quarters of Birmingham, a small sprat in the fishbowl.
A man passed by in the churchyard, he reminded me of the Postman I stumbled into on my wedding day, the Postman had said I was Shanghaied and of course he was right. So I asked was he him, it turned out he was not, though he has jade beads on one wrist. He turns out to have a connection with the churchyard, so I recommend my neighbour for any gardening requirements. The man who was not a postman turns out to be a local property man, he said he had 3 houses, so God Bless him.
Meanwhile me and Doris alighted on Round the Horne, I told her I was a bit of a Julian though my hair was once a bit Sandy, she laughed so encouraged I continued that my Sandy was a bit Julian, and I was a Bona writer. Now this 80 something was tickled, the rest of you might think we had had too many Lucozades or being chewing too much Wrigleys. I asked her had she seen that man again, no not the man who was not the postman, but ITMA, Its That Man Again, a famous radio show. You can all discover audio on Utube, it will illuminate my back passage to where my comedy stems from.
It turns out that Doris has a typewriter, I swooned. I hope you are a speed typist, I explained I had another full length novel in me. If only I could recline like Dame Barbara Cartland and recite my next 600 page full length novel, Tears for a Butcher to Doris ready at her keyboard. Sadly Doris was not open to my proposition, at 80 she could not keep up with to torrent. I asked did she have a child, but she did not. So my idea was stillborn.
We bantered away while her milk curdled in her wheellie shopping bag, then I departed I had to do a bit of shopping, non Chinese food shopping that is. I said to the strawberry salesman in the church grounds that me and Doris might run away together on the no.11 bus. Doris just remarked I was definitely a Julian and not a Sandy, whatever that meant.
Doris was not on the bench the following day, but there was a Korean girl sitting there, she said she was the cleaner where Doris lived, and you have guessed it, she was also a speed typist, 150 words a minute. Doris had sent her along, with instructions, look for the fat silver haired writer in shades from the churchyard. He’s a bit of a Julian but you’ll have a Sandy experience with him if you type Tears for a Butcher for him, whatever does Doris mean?
Ice Cream at my Funeral ©
By
Michael Casey
Well its hot and my big daughter wanted ice cream so we had some new green ice cream from the local alcohol shop. It did not have alcohol in it and it was not minty either, but we liked it, so we had our share and put it back in our fridge for later. It said the taste of the East so obviously I was attracted to it. As me and my daughter enjoyed it, I thought what can I talk about tonight, then the idea of Ice Cream at my Funeral arrived.
So would you eat ice cream at a funeral. We had a snooker table full of food at my mother’s and then my dad’s funeral, and obviously the bar was open too, we were in the Irish Club over the road from the funeral directors. But would you have ice cream at a funeral. I’ve just decided I want ice cream at mine. Sadly I won’t get to eat any myself, but there should be a party atmosphere, the days of wearing black at funerals are long over. Except celebrity funerals, especially Z list celebrity funerals where everything is exaggerated as much as the Duchess of York’s, that’s Fergie’s, waves to the Queen at Ascot.
Ice cream is from Xmas parties at primary school, I can remember hearing don’t get burnt, yes burnt as they moved a chunk of ice which was being used to keep the ice creams cold at the school Christmas party, this was in 1968 maybe. See my greed has kept that memory alive till this very moment, we were sat in the school hall I remember.
Maybe only Latins would have ice cream at funerals, or drugs cartel funerals. I don’t know, I’ve never been invited to a Latin American drugs cartel funeral. And the only “drugs” I take are medicines my doctors insist I take. Though with my imagination some people think I must be on drugs. Sorry to disappoint you, and please stop sending me adverts for legal cannabis. I’m in UK, not USA. Imagination is all I need and maybe a good supply of ice cold fizzy pop from the shop.
Ice cream does denote celebration or relaxation, and expensive ice cream, not the cheapest of the cheap stuff is so nice. Ask any girl, the quickest way to her heart is Cadbury’s chocolate from here in Birmingham, and ice cream. Give a girl that and she will give you, her attention. Anything else you will have to deserve.
Ice cream is Summer and happiness, even Theresa May is having an ice cream right now, as she contemplates hanging Boris from the flagpole on top of no.10 Downing Street by his naughty bits. Meanwhile she has a 2nd ice cream and gets her security crew to have one too, an ice cream to relax with, even the policeman on the door gets one, with not one but two Cadbury flakes inserted. Forming a 2 fingered salute in the ice cream just in case Boris passes by.
So ice cream is a thing of joy, you cannot be unhappy when the ice cream is dripping down your fingers. Even hardened close protection officers can relax as they have a ice cream. Theresa may have some ice lollies too stuck at the back of the fridge. If you save the sticks from the lollies when you have five of them you can weave together a triangle that you can throw across the garden of number 10 Downing street. How else do you think Theresa May can relax? Yes it’s ice cream and lollies followed by making flying ice lolly stick triangles.
But I digressed, however it proves a point ice cream helps people chill, it relaxes us and brings out the child in us. So when my time arrives head for the ice cream section in Iceland or any posh supermarket, don’t wear black, not unless you are fat or going to a night club later. Then lick your lolly as the priest says the prays and buries me in Trinity Road graveyard Smethwick, next door to the Sikh temple and the postal sorting office, and over the road from what was The District Iron and Steel Brasshouse Lane, Smethwick, where my dad spent 40 happy years sweating. It has rail, canal and road connections, so you can all come and pay a visit when you are looking for work, as it’s opposite the labour exchange too.
Enjoy your ice cream and remember though Life ends in cold, its when we make Life warm and full of laughter that we truly enjoy our lives. So make love and enjoy ice cream simultaneously, then you will enjoy life to the full, but be careful where you drop any ice cream.
Process and Routine ©
By
Michael Casey
What? Process and Routine, what kind of story is that? Well settle down we only have an hour before the England v Belgium match, so get a drink from Lech, Boris and Gregorgi and I’ll explain it all. Though before I start did you know there is a Lech Polish lager, I saw it in the Polish shop last night. I knew there was Lech vodka, he makes it in Warley Woods with Boris and Gregorgi, but now I know there is a legal larger called Lech.
So what’s this about Process and Routine? Well yesterday when I fixed my computer again it was only because I followed Process and Routine that I was to fix it. If you follow the Process and have a Routine you can fix anything. If you panic then you are dead. So you have to go through the options logically and then you’ll come to the answer. I suppose it’s Logic really, something I think they should and must teach kids in school.
Why do soldiers train, why do acrobats train? Why do Politicians lie, and why are Bankers well Bankers. Because that is how they hone their skill, but too much honing can be very bad for your eyesight. Going back to basics, if you just try things hit and miss you may get all the right answers, especially if it is multiple choice, as did one student I know of. But realistically it is only by following the Process that you get good results. That’s why doctors and lawyers ask questions sequentially. Watch the Grenfell enquiry to see the proof of this.
Now as I used to work shifts most of my working life, before the delights of ill health meant I could annoy you all more frequently, I always had to have a Routine. Up, wash, eat and out the door to work. Then home, eat, wash and then sleep. I spent 14 years working night shifts and enjoying the delights of what that did to my body. So there was no time to relax and stay up late when it was a work day/night, I had to be at that bus stop and get the bus to work. Otherwise the evening shift had to wait for me, or they were supposed to anyway. Ditto if the night shift did not arrive on time then I’d miss my bus home, so I was part of a mechanism, a rickety clock that ticked and tocked. You cannot imagine just how tired you get when you work so many night shifts, some of them 12 hours for a few years.
Now if part of the computer broke, and it did often, this was 40 years ago remember, you would have to improvise. You’d transfer files via the scenic route as we called it. Copy files to a tape on systemA then to systemB then finally systemC. Instead of just doing one direct transfer, that’s if I remember rightly, Dave Eaton will remember should he stumble over this, just as much as he remembers Elaine cleaning the windows in Collins. You’ll have to read my play Shoplife from 1988 to understand the reference. You do have to do the occasional bit of research if you read my stuff.
The point of this though is that we all need to be able to improvise, if its raining what do you do? You put a plastic bag on your head, you may look stupid, but if you’ve just had your hair dyed what other choice is there. You lock yourself out, and only Mr Obnoxious has a key, will you stay on the landing all night, or suffer him, and it really is suffering, but you brown nose him so you can get into your flat. The point being Life is a learning curse, or should I say curve. If you don’t learn from your mistakes, then you are cursing your life, which is something a female priest once said to me. Now obviously I am perfect.
So if you have a routine your life is easier, and if you follow a process you can correct any mistakes along the way. I’m not saying be a machine, everything so orderly and routine, like a North Korean parade, oh when are the nukes going to be shipped out to Russia, Donald? But if you have a routine life is tidier. I’m trying to get my kids to put the marg and ham back in the same slot in the fridge, otherwise only the cat could possible find the ham, I never could. But it does make all the difference for family harmony, same as not using dad’s razor to shave your legs.
Now if you look at your own kids or friends at University or wherever you are, even in Indonesia today, what do you see? Are they clued up enough to react when they need to? Or are they clueless? Simple things like keeping your eyes open, watch for that toddler about to put its head in the revolving door of the hotel, or for a person with love and hate tattoos on his knuckles in a 5 star hotel. So things stand out, you should be following that person and ringing the martial arts security crew. Then Sandy says it’s only Julian the vicar, he used to be a bad boy with tats before he saw the light, he’s giving a lecture on Religion in the Business environment today in the Corybn suite.
And on it goes, I could give more examples but the match is on, I’ll post this in half time.Belgium man, Belgium, which as you know is the biggest curse of all, that’s if you have read The Hitcherhiker’s Guide to the Universe. So use Process and Routine and expand your Universe, feed your mind, or else it really will be Belgium man, Belgium.
As Ever I return to Music (c)
By
Michael Casey
Well I’m trying a different word processor so forgive any mistakes, it looks darker like an old fashioned newspaper, with the print, the ink coming off on your fingers. I don’t know if I like it yet, it’s Abi Word you can try it for yourself, as Vangelis plays in the background. Which brings me to today’s talk, as ever I return to Music. I do always return to Music, yes with a capital M, it plays a most important part in my life. As does talking to you, some would say writing is my therapy, the Cards amongst you would say if you read Michael Casey then YOU need therapy, you are all so cruel. The Card was a book by Arnold Bennett and a nice film in 1952 as well, so go read or watch that if you have had enough of me already, have a Guinness too, a Sir Alec Guinness.
So what’s it with music, as a Chinese theme plays through the speakers. Well its the thing that binds us all together, it is a heart beat, the internal tick of time that plays through our lives. I remember this or that or even the other when a certain track was playing, or an entire Barry White double album when me and my lady got acquainted. Music is the rhythm to our lives, the beat, the slow slow quick quick slow as we dance through our lives, or enjoy Barry White with somebody we love.
In times of trouble when your heart is broken maybe after you smashed his Barry White collection because, well just because. Then you retreat to the bathroom or the sofa somewhere to cry. But as these gentle tears fall you just need a bit of loving and compassion. So you play your dad’s Nat King Cole, because Nat was a gentleman, and as those tears fall his voice is brushing your hair, and wiping those tears away, your love may have met its Waterloo, but you’ll survive because you have the eye of a tiger. So you play I will survive, and the winner takes it all, cos your mate is a divorce lawyer, so you smile.
I’ve digressed as usual, but its the winding road that makes the story, the long and winding road that leads us all home. Music is a special place in our hearts, it soothes us, it reminds us. Celine Dion was singing on the radio the night my mother died so now her song Because you Loved Me, has a powerful reminder and effect on us all. I just put it on the speakers and I’m almost crying now as I talk to you, so that is the power in music. I’ll stop and listen to the song.
We each have a song that makes us happy or brings on the tears, or coaxes us back to the right path. Grannie would bribe us with sweets when we sulked, and we’d listen to the radio with her, so now when we hear that song we think of grannie too. So when she was even older you made sure she had the best DAB radio money could buy so that she was not all alone in the old people’s home.
Music is Love, if you think about it, it really is true, maybe explains why Mick Jagger is still dancing in the street, or why musicians always had groupies, music is a magnet, as is musicians’ large back list. None of us can live in silence. Silence is loneliness, silence is even pain, we all need music in remembrance of love, of kindness, of hope. If ever you have walked through an accountancy firm it’s like walking through the valley of the death, they don’t talk, yet they exist.
So when they leave the office it’s like a fart exploding with noise and relief. To be able to speak, to listen to music, to dance in the street even. We all need to escape into music, to be swept along by the rhythm and the beat. Even if it is only Agadoo, though we may be blind drunk and desperately looking for the toilet, through that big gold handbag will do, Laura Kuenssberg shouldn’t leave it lying about.
Earlier I was listening to a piece by Sky and I imagined a chase through a woods to rescue a child from a kidnapper, the ending to The Butcher The Baker and The Undertaker in fact, the undertaker praying he’d not have to bury the little Indian Princess, the butcher vowing to kill the kidnapper, the baker cursing his dog for chasing squirrels. Then as the music plays in my imagination I can see the result, all played out to music, such overpowering music. Yes that is the power of music, in fact Betty’s son writes film music I believe, while I dream my comic novel makes it to the screen, 5 years ago a low budget film producer did take a look.
So as Vangelis plays chariots of fire in slow motion, my dreams are in slow motion waiting to hit the floor and accelerate. So it’s time to finish so there is only one track I can play Windmills of my Mind from the Thomas Crown Affair, or maybe Queen’s I want it all and I want it now…
Passport Photos ©
By
Michael Casey
As usual I had no idea what to talk about then reality gave me an idea, even though I wish it did not. My big daughter lost her seasonal bus pass, with just 2 weeks left of term time, but the pass lasts till the end of July. So I was was not very happy, so after we moaned and told our daughter she was just like her uncle, he’d lose his arse if it was not tied onto him, as my mother used to say. She went to the shop to get a new bus pass. Only she needed a new passport sized photo, so she had come home like a fool, and we had no spares at home.
This is when it got interesting and funny. She took a photo of herself, then emailed it me to print off, only you have to print it to the size of a passport photo. By doing it ourselves we save a fiver, though if she hadn’t lost her bus pass we wouldn’t need to save a fiver. So I printed the photo on colour paper, I’d bought some ages ago so we had plenty thanks to the Pound shop. Only it came off full size A4. So I tried again, still the same result.
We decided to consult Dr.Google it told us that a passport photo was 35mm x 45mm, so armed with that information we put the photo inside a word document. Then we dragged it smaller and tried to print it. Now my daughter looked as if she was in a hall of mirrors at the fair. I decided to print again on the same piece of paper, hoping it’d go in the space. Only it printed on top of the same photo. Now it looked as if Picasso had taken the photo of my daughter.
Then my daughter noticed I had magnify on the word document, ratio 189%. So I reduced to real size and tried again. This time the picture was better, only my daughter’s neck had been squashed, no longer an elegant swan, now a stumpy little robin. We tried a few times and then finally a 35mm x 45mm photo, or as near as we were going to get. That would have to do.
I used to have software that let you print a whole sheet of passport size photos but that seems to have gone on one of my updates to Windows 10. But at least Picasso would have bee pleased with my efforts, and I do remember seeing some of his stuff in Barcelona in Feb 1999. Then I tried chatting up a girl with great hair and an American accent, who I discover the next day was a Russian ballerina, who happened to have a broken nose, but maybe it was Picasso doing her makeup in Las Ramblas.
Pictures are strange, and passport photos are even stranger, so you have to keep your sense of proportion in life and in photos, or you end up like a Picasso image.
Do What you Can ©
By
Michael Casey
Now I’m not one of these people that is impressed by things, and I am suspicious of loud, happy clappy people. I distrust them immediately, and when they say they want to “help” I know really “help” means help themselves and fleece me. Salespeople can be like that, others are as honest as the day is long, but the default position should be distrust especially in very large ticket purchases. You have been warned now think for yourselves.
I’ve sidetracked myself, but its very hot in Birmingham and the UK in general so your common sense might not be working, we had the worst Winter in 20 years maybe and now we are having the best Summer in 40 years maybe. Now in the heat as in the cold my body makes me vulnerable, which I hate, it’s not old age rather its my diseases. But my brain is in fine fettle, and though I always have a Buster Keaton look, it’s a way of seeing if people are lying to me. Then like a fat sumo I pounce, or rather waddle. I may look like a bouncer, but I do have a brain, far better than the micky mouse university you went to. Give me strength.
All of this has nothing to do with today’s piece, but I’m sure I’ll weave it together by the time the satnat takes me to the bottom of the page. I WAS impressed by just 4 words I read yesterday in the Columban magazine yesterday. It’s not a magazine for Columbian football fans, nor drugs dealers. Its a missionary magazine, and no not about missionary position for sex workers or those seeking to improve their love life. The Columban magazine is about religious missionary work all over the world by the Columban Missionary Society. I have their calendar on my wall for years, and occasionally I send them a donation.
Now what 4 words impressed me so much, Do What You Can, those 4 words really impressed me. I love you, are 3 words that should impress all of us and lead to great things, and creation, and creation of families. But when we grow up we may be told to Do What You Can. If you are Harry Kane you may score a hat trick over Sweden. That is doing what he can. As for you and me, we’d score 6, Harry can be such a slacker sometimes. Gareth has to promise that Harry can try on his waistcoat if he gets a hat trick, that’s his motivational method.
Doing what you can, means being honest about your abilities and using them to the best of your ability. Hopefully Harry will be given Gareth’s waistcoat because he’ll perform to his very best by doing what he can. If he was a dancer he’d be doing the Can Can because that was doing what he can can can.
Whatever your skill, use it to the very best, just as my dad said 45 years ago. I have no education, I cannot tell you what to pick at O Level, but do what you like, but do your best. This was his mantra for all of us, and I suppose it worked as one went to Oxford, another to Cambridge, a third is a great teacher, and me I am what you see before you. A fat, smelly, silver haired writer sweating in the Summer of 2018 sun, wear his shades in front of the computer as he adds to his 1,333,000 words over 16 books on Amazon.
What about the other side of the coin, what does doing what you can mean then? Doing What you Can, means doing the best with the material you have. If you can draw then draw in a notebook, even if all you can draw is match stick men. If all you can do is sing, then sing, or if all you can do is dance then dance. Whatever you can do, then do it, and never let any bastard belittle you. I saw a documentary on the tv about a musician and how his family broke his guitar and crushed his spirit, but he never gave up. That man was Eric Clapton.
We are not all Eric Claptons and we may never have any such talent. All we are good for is opening doors, as a doorman. I’ve done that, so there is no shame in that. Or all you are good for is cleaning rooms, I’ve done that, there is no shame in that. I’ve cleaned toilets and then chatted to millionaires minutes later. No matter how humble your job, you still have worth, so do what you can, where you can. You may not climb any ladders. But you may start as a humble receptionist and by your hard work and talent become a General Manager, just as my friend Robin did. If you see a General Manager with orange hair in Birmingham then that’s him, say Michael Casey says hello.
The point of all this is that doing what you can, it’s better than saying I’m nothing, I can do nothing. You can be a cheerleader, you may have to stay at home because of illness or infirmity, but you can be the reservoir of love and hope and prayer. Even stuck at home, you can do what you can. Theresa taught us that, and no not Theresa May, I’m sure she’d appreciate prayers, and shoes with poisoned knives in, just like in James Bond. Or a cabinet maker, if you know anybody good with woodwork, especially halving joints, and I’m not talking about Columbians and drugs. I’m talking about doing what you can.Which seems to have brought us to the bottom of the page. And sometimes you have to slap your own bottom when you are at the bottom of a pit of despair or self pity. Or roll up a copy of the Columban magazine and slap the bottoms of the Cabinet, then you’ll force them to do what they can.
The Joys of Text ©
By Michael Casey
Well I must be on a roll, I read back Do What You Can which I wrote earlier tonight, instead of watching the Brazil match, and I really enjoyed it. You see it’s only when I finish a piece and read it back in its entirety that I know if I’ve hit it on the nail or have I missed it. If you like I choose a target to write about and fire my words on the page, not quite like a blind man or a blindfolded man, but rather I’m in a tank with limited field of view. So when battle is over, or when I’ve ran out of words, as I step back or emerge from my tank I see the battlefield. I can see the results of my hour’s labour, and each piece usually takes an hour.
It’s then that I enjoy my text, my words on the page as I read the full thing back to myself for the first time, it’s the afterglow. Just as after a workout in the gym you feel so good, as you stop and head for the pub, or enjoy Stella in the changing room. By which I mean a can of Stella Artois in your gym bag, not unless you have a close relationship with Stella your gym coach.
Words are real fun, as I read it back I can feel if I have made my point, or have I failed. Failed is too strong a word, remember what I write about is randomly chosen by me. So if I pick Pain Relief Gel, I’ve just looked at my tube of Movelat in front of me , that’s why I’ve randomly chosen that to explain my point. So if I chose that then there may not be as interesting a story to tell than if I told the story about being trapped in the toilet on the Paris to Calais express. At least I remembered the French for Help I’m trapped inside the toilet.
So the random choice of story effects the quality of the story, I hope the quality of the writing is always high, by the way my pain killers don’t add or subtract to the writing. I might stop to slap on the Movelat gel, by the way buy shares in that, otherwise I’ll carry on writing till I die, or till a North Korean Army girl spirits me away to her flat above the undertakers. I always tell my Shanghai wife I’ll run away with a Korean girl. She just laughs and reminds me she turned down a millionaire for me. Yes, Love is blind and stupid, or maybe we are each other’s punishment from God, discuss all you philosophy students out there.
As you can see surreal ideas are a joy to me, it’s like finding another can of Stella in the back of the fridge when you thought it was empty. Or a cake in the cupboard when you wanted something to go with your coffee before you finish writing your thesis. I am of course a PhD, but you guessed already. Maybe the Novichok was in the back of a fridge, the bad boys hid amongst the least of our brethren in Salisbury. But we will never know.
The thing with words is that you can build and rebuild with them, they are Lego, and Lego is never ending and Danish. Which is not Legover in a Danish, that is something entirely different. The sprinkles would get everywhere. As I write this I realise I am Ronnie Corbett’s and Joyce Grenfell’s bastard son, am I turning into Gerald Wiley again?
I also like the fact I can mix the sacred and the profane. Would you listen if I was too sacred, or too surreally profane? I think not. But if I add a spoon full of sugar then the medicine does go down, please stop calling me Julie, call me Julian, Sandy does all the time. Sandy does what all the time? Never you mind it’s nearly time for bed. I’ve given you two tonight, maybe I’ll give Sandy 2 tonight as well. Two mugs of cocoa, what did you think? You are all so easily led. The ink still hasn’t dried on my PhD, I paid 2.99 online to the University of Donald Trump for it.
Ok, I’ll really go to bed now, thanks for reading my rubbish, feel free to pay for it on Amazon, 16 books worth
ok, please yourselves as Frankie Howard once said in Up Pompeii
Bee Gees on the Beach in Birmingham ©
By Michael Casey
Well England won 2 nil, Sweden forgot how to put an attack together, a bit like losing the build instructions for an IKEA product. My daughter saw the match in China town with her Maths Viz friend, we have high hopes he gets into Cambridge such is his skill with high and exotic numbers. Though when she told me where she saw the match I told her about my old company’s high and exotic numbers. Which brought more joy that any World Cup match.
You see it was our work’s Christmas party so the company issued beer tokens, 2 pints each. This was very kind of them, especially as the nature of our work, and the fact this company could out drink anybody, and no this is not an empty boast. I was the sole shandy drinker in the company, rather like an accepted Leper. Dom, God bless him used to look at me with amusement, and say “A Girlie” as he poured my pint maybe 30 years ago now. A Girlie being a pint of shandy, which is half lager and half lemonade. Tragically Dom died as a result of a fire. So whenever I think of a Girlie I think of him. Some bright spark, who shall remain nameless decided to photocopy the beer tokens. We the staff needed no encouragement to drink excessively, but with beer tokens galore, the beer flowed even more.
The following week the bar bill was to be settled, but instead of say 400 free pints, beer was cheap then. The bar presented my old company with a bill way way higher. Which my company promptly refused to pay. So an entire company of experienced drinkers were banned from that bar. Which happens to be where my daughter and her friend watched the match today. Such sweet memories. So like a nomadic tribe my company packed their tents and decamped to another bar, 50 yards away. We had to be close to the office after all, we could not leave the Chinese Quarter, which was very pubescent at the time.
Which brings me back to my Bee Gees, they are singing as I talk to you I thought they deserved a spin. Though they are a bit mellow, not because they are singing a slow song, but because I’ve got drops in both ears, prior to having them cleaned out. It may help the Tinnitus I’ve acquired, which may or may not be due to too much water in my ear. If I stopped washing my hearing would be better, but you wouldn’t want to stand next to me, you’d stand far away and shout at me. And all your shouting would deafen me, so it might just be best to stick to email or posting my thoughts here.
The good tracks are coming now on the Bee Gees double album, outside its very sunny and quiet. Everybody watched the match here in England, my wife said the roads were deserted, and everywhere was quiet as she stormed the shops. Now the next match of the day is on. Russia v Croatia is happening now so everybody is watching that. England v Russia at the next stage would be interesting to say the least with another poison attack in Salisbury area. Though all in all Russian World Cup has been excellent, fantastic people, as usual people, all people are let down by Governments.
So as you read this you will know the final score, one football match in a day is enough for me. Birmingham feels like a beach, majestic in the sunshine and my fuchsia are sprouting like beans in my front and back gardens. That’s the joy of sunshine, everybody feels happy and are talking to each other. If you add a great win, with a wonderful goalkeeper what could be better? Pardon, I can’t hear a thing, all I can hear is a gentle banging on my front room wall. It’s my neighbour I’ve got the speakers too loud, all the cotton wool in my ear and so on.
Sweden Calling (c)
By
Michael Casey
Well I've just done my daily check of readers over my 4 sites, The Butcher The Baker and The Undertaker is the main site by the way, it's named after my comic novel, all 600 pages of it. To my surprise Sweden is reading me, just after losing to England Sweden is reading me. So is that a good sign or did the Finnish and Norwegian cousins recommend me. I have the Slavic cousins already, Lech, Boris and Gregorgi from Poland, Ukraine and Russia, so should I invent Scandinavian cousins as well? The idea does appeal. But what would I call the cousins? And would they always be nudists and be ever so polite, speaking multiple languages better than the English. Not to mention always free climbing mountains as ropes are so very uncool.
Bjorn, Magnus and Sven now what would I do with them? Well maybe I'll just have to go to the Sauna and sit naked and cogitatate. Lech, Boris and Gregorgi would sit beside me with a barrel of lager hidden in all the steam, obviously I'd feel inadequate compared to my Slavic friends. They would drink straight from the barrel while I like a girl would have a 1 litre tankard, as the steam surged all around us. Clean living cousins, from Scandanavia, in the war against the Nazi bastards a great uncle or something was working behind the lines and under the covers travelling everywhere, and naturally he'd have to hide from those Nazi bastards. And as it was so cold in Scandinavia, the Scandinavian branch of the Slavic family was born, or should I say Bjorn.
So that's the beginnings of an idea, would Lech, Boris and Gregori accept them, what with their perfectly groomed beards and pressed trousers. I suppose Bjorn, Magnus and Sven would have to prove themselves. So the six of them would go for a hike and climb a mountain, with just a backpack each of a small barrel of larger on their backs. No ropes, they were Scandinavian cousins after all. Rather like Clint Eastwood in the Eiger Sanction, but obviously much much tougher. So they all go free climbing and get to the top of the mountain, then they get drunk. Lech decided lager would not be enough so he had brought the 2018 batch of new vodka freshly stilled in Warley Woods, instead of lager.
Now getting off a mountain when you are still hung over is a very difficult thing to do, but Scandinavian cousins had thought of that. So they had brought micro parachutes with them, they were cool Scandinavians, they would jump off the mountain into a Fiord. Lech, Boris and Gregorgi thought they were joking till their newly discover cousins just did it. Bjorn, Magnus and Sven were gone.
5 hours later Lech, Boris and Gregorgi got back to the cabin where dinner was waiting for them. Bjorn, Magnus and Sven ever so politely apologised, you see they just had to be in time for Sunday service. Bjorn was the organist after all, and Magnus a lay preacher, Sven was man who collected contributions. So they had to get off the mountain quick. No time to make love on any mountain, though that’s how it all started in the war, they had to pray.
Lech, Boris and Gregorgi obviously forgave them, blood is thicker that mountains after all. So Sweden if you are still reading this would you like to join the family? The Michael Casey the fat, silver haired writer in shades from Birmingham England family, the comedy of errors, sometimes typing errors. I have to go clean the toilet now, the wife insists, then I’ll be flushed with success.
I’m just a stupid Artic Monkey ©
By Michael Casey
I’m sad, any comments from the back of the bus and I’ll throw you off the bus, without stopping. I’m broken hearted in fact. You know I wrote Sweden Calling a few hours ago, and I’ve been picking furniture since then, well I’ve had some really heart breaking news. NO, not a fart breaking noise, I think you need your ears cleaned not me. Well, no, it was like this I had a nice mug of coffee and Billy was singing loudly, no wonder my ears are the way they are, that Billy Joel is such a noise, and his Storm Front is self-explanatory.
So where was I? Yes, a nice mug of coffee is so good, you ask Julian or Sandy from Bona Coffee shop on the high street if you don’t believe me, though they can be high for other reasons and it’s not therapeutic either. Yes, I was sat here minding my own business gently shaking my hair dry, like an Old English Sheepdog, but with dandruff. When the trio sneaked up behind me and shook me violently, Lech, Boris and Gregorgi had just adopted a new blood hound from the pound, and yes they were shaking me dry, or trying to leave a trail of dandruff for the new hound to follow. Then they gave me the news, and I’ll admit it a tear did fall. Which reminds me, let’s put Tears for Fears on, and let Billy Joel have his Storm Front in the outside toilet.
Woman in Chains, fashion is really strange that’s all I’ll say. If anybody tried to put Lech’s wife in chains she’s cut him it two with her best butcher’s cleaver, Lech really does love her butchery skills. But where was I, yes I had tears in my eyes, the boys explained why Finland, Norway and Sweden had been reading my stuff. It was because they weren’t reading my stuff, it was an Elk.
The boys’ friend Alexi Alexicoff worked for a satellite tracking company and sometimes the boys did a favour for him. If a satellite landed and nobody could find exactly where it was then Lech, Boris and Gregorgi would hunt it down. Space stuff is very expensive and you want to get your results back. It’s not like sending your photos off to be processed, if you lose 100 photos of Lech drinking while up a mountain or arm wrestling a wild bear, then that really does not matter as they post everything to the cloud as well. But Space stuff has to be found, and as it lands there is a smell as it burns through the atmosphere. So if you have a hound you can track it when it’s landed in the back of beyond.
You all thought Lech, Boris and Gregorgi burying me in Warley Woods was just high jinx, when in actual fact it was part of their hounds recovery satellites training. Look deeper, sometimes there is depth in shallowness, well that’s what I always told my Latin teacher. Shall I get to the point, let me have a wee first, too much coffee does that to me, at least Julian and Sandy’s coffee shop on the high street does have an outside toilet, it’s very clean, well in 1984 it was.
Alexi Alexicoff read my story about The Spaceman and the Arch-Angel and he said I was cheeky. The boys defended me, and Alexi relented, but he had an idea. He was doing some tracking of Elk , a special project for Finland, Norway and Sweden, migration and population, Elk population that is. So Alexi decided to add a mobile phone to the tracking device strapped to the Elk. Then as well as tracking the Elk he could make it appear that my website was being read in Norway, Finland and Sweden.
I had been suckered by an Elk, no new readers in Finland nor Norway nor Sweden. It was just Alexi Aexicoff’s joke. Never joke about the Russian Cosmonauts, even if it is a great story honouring them, you can read The Spaceman and the Arch-Angel for yourselves I’ll repost it again after this.
So I should be sad and disheartened, no real Nordic readers, just a travelling Elk rutting his way across the Artic. Though Alexi did say for some reason my view figures at the North Pole had gone through the roof. Had Santa Claus discovered the phone strapped to the Elk. Were Elves having a break from making toys, and reading my stories. Or had nuclear powered submarines stopped at Ice Station Zebra, for tea and biscuits. Julian and Sandy were saying they were fed up of all the heat, and the smell from the outside toilet, so maybe just maybe it’s their new bona café. One Yank and you can Russin, a catchy name for the café at the top of the world.
Killing Time ©
By Michael Casey
Well I promised you I’d Kill Time, so here it is. Sometimes we wish we could kill time, or turn back time. Sometimes we think our Time is up, but sometimes there are miracles, such as the Thai child footballers being rescued from that cave. But we must all remember the one Thai who lost his life bringing those children home. We thought Time was up for my own dad back in 1996 when he had his heart attack 8 bare weeks after mum had died in the marriage bed beside him. But he beat Death itself and had 5.5 more years with us, which led to me meeting my wife and then having 2 daughters. It’s all in Padre Pio and Me if you can find it.
So this afternoon I was waiting in, but sadly I did not get the result I wanted. However it did make me think about Time, and killing Time. And being bored. I never get bored myself because I’ve always got something to think about, and yes I have an Interior Life. I’m sure if you ask the “stars” on Love Island what an Interior Life is they will say it’s something to do with decorating. Though I may need to get somebody to do some decorating for me before I wait in again. Sounds like a puzzle, I’m sure you’ll work it out.
Or in the meantime what does MC=4C mean, something for the Maths or Chemistry students out there. By the way in her latest test my daughter got 87% for her Chemistry. As my dad used to say, do what you like but do your best, he did hold her in his arms before my mother called him to Heaven for his dinner. Yesterday 9th July would have been their 71st Wedding Anniversary, that was them on their Wedding Day in the photo I posted plus my auntie too. My dad slept with his brother on his wedding day and my mother slept with her sister, you can see her at the side of the photo. Why? A Kerry Tradition? No, because dad’s brother was up from Cricklewood in London so he had to sleep somewhere.
I hope I haven’t stolen too much of your time by sharing that story, but Time is for sharing and my dad used to say When God made Time, he made Plenty of it. Kids say I’m bored, and will sulk, but never think of talking or having a conversation. Wifi rules everything. Just switch the Wifi off and make your kids talk to one another. Expand their brain and vocabulary, Real Life is much more fun, parents just need to have backbone, and switch off the Wifi, instead of wasting all their time on mindless Wifi distractions.
Our kids were late to wifi toys, we bought them crayons, thousands of crayons, for years. I was even allowed to bring scrap paper home from my print rooms for my kids to use. Now both my girls can draw really well. If you want to see early examples of their art then look at The Butcher The Baker and The Undertaker plus 300 and Not OUT the print versions on Amazon. Time spent learning to draw is a great investment of Love in your kids, uncles provided pencils galore as did aunties, and even books teaching them to draw. Its normally a very quiet process, and teaches patience, it’s also a life skill, such as riding a bike or leaning to swim. Time is precious so use it wisely to help your kids grow. Expand their mind, not their waistline by giving in and giving too much junk food.
I hope I don’t sound like a teacher, though 3 of the family were teachers, and even I ended up teaching Esol for a year, so does that make 4 teachers? Time should not be killed, I’m bored so you sit on your behind reciting, I’m bored, I’m bored like the Donkey from Shrek. There used to be a BBC tv kids show called Why don’t you switch of the TV and do something really useful instead. And yes I never watched it. The principle though is that you don’t stay a Zombie but you use your time.
The worse words in the English Language are, I’m Bored. Our dad used to switch off the tv 50 plus years ago and say Go Out into the Sun this fine day. So then we’d use the wooden draft excluder stick from the side door of the house as a cricket bat and we’d play cricket. The wicket was the concrete post that help up the washing line, mum would scream at us to go down the yard and not break the windows with our ball.
These are just a few examples of using time I my life. Sometimes you are too tired to do anything, you don’t know what to do or say. Like in 1996 when I whispered into my dad’s ear that he should joint my mother in Heaven. He was not expected to survive. I wanted to stay by his side, my brother’s advice was step back, remember he had just saved dad’s life, and 8 weeks previously he had tried CPR on mum, but it was already too late as he cradled her in his arms in the marriage bed.
Time can seem to be in slow motion, or you are at a different angel to Life as it moves on around you. Prayer can enter even if you have no words, but you have the Faith that your mother had poured into you. So Prayer fills the void, and Time does not end. You persuade God through your heart to STOP Time, keep Death at bay. So you can see my prospective on time is different to yours. Same as in 1979, 17 year previously a lodger, Andy Madden died on me as I tried heart massage. Time flows, we are just passengers sat upon it, Jan 2015 could have been my own end of days. But I’m still here, still having some pain, and sharing my words with you all.
What am I trying to say, as I ignore the France v Belgium match, I’m saying use your time, don’t waste it. Enjoy your time, as we all will when I watch England v Croatia tomorrow, and with the help of God and 2 Policemen and one waistcoat we win the Cup. I was in Lourdes France in 1966 when England won last won. And if it’s true that History Repeats Itself, then Logically England should win the Cup again. And as you know everything I write is 1st draft as I don’t want to waste my time on rewrites. And another strange thing is what I sometimes write happens. So I won’t be correcting this, so it must happen. Though Prayer does help as I said before, so all of you reading this will be praying to Saint Andrew the patron saint of Russia to remember he has the head of England.
I’ll finish now and hope I haven’t wasted too much of your time, usually there is more comedy in my writing, perhaps you need to Xray me to find what lies beneath. You only see the tip of my iceberg, and that’s not a metaphor either.
Sacred Places and Tourism ©
By Michael Casey
Sacred Places and Tourism, not what you expect from me, but let’s see where the road leads, all roads used to lead to Rome perhaps. I was watching the BBC news on the computer and I saw the end of a piece about Ayers rock, which might be a magical animal asleep in the middle of Australia waiting to be awakened to save Australia in time of peril. Who knows? The thing about Ayers rock is that it belongs to the native people, Aborigines they used to be called. But the white settlers dispossessed them, so it became a theme park for drunken Aussies to climb. I am generalising but it’s not too far from the truth. The Spanish did the same thing to the Incas, and as for the Colonialists they did the same, we did have the Scramble for Africa after all, was it around 1870, I did something in History about it over 40 years ago. Why are there so many straight lines on the map of Africa?
Back to Ayers rock, you can Google all the information for yourselves, it is beautiful in a way, I’d rather be up in Scotland with Donald playing golf, I don’t like too much heat. As I’ve mentioned the Donald we are getting all this guff about The President and The Presidency. If the holder is behaving badly then he denigrates the office. Same as the Catholic Church in Ireland and elsewhere hiding behind their Office when terrible terrible things are being done. Now in Ireland only 40% attend, when it used to be 90% this is as a direct result of the Hierarchy, covering up, to cover their own arse. In USA only 50% bother to vote, so they get the government they deserve. But I’ll leave that subject in the bunker, along with Hitler.
Now back to the plot, why are people obsessed with selfies, and why does it have to be if it’s Tuesday it’s Turin, and Friday it’s Florence. The point of a holiday is to see something different, be it the toilets, or turtles swimming on the beach. If it’s a herd following a guide all eating McDonald’s because they don’t like foreign muck, what’s the point of going? Virtual reality holidays would be better. You would not have to bother to interact with the locals. In 2000 I was in Shanghai and we stopped for food, Western food for me, and there as a table of maybe 10 Americans, trying to analyse who me and my wife were. They really were the worst of stereotypical Americans, like amateur FBI, loudly talking, who would never get the culture, this is 18 years ago now. Now everybody wants to know China, need I say any more.
You have to be aware of local sensitivities, you can’t just have a pee against any wall, it could be the Wailing Wall, or a Holy Place of any other nature. Same as camping anywhere, you could be camping on a sacred graveyard or burial place. Sadly if people are not white then it seems to some they have no value. A Banksy on a wall has more value than sacred items from a different culture. What makes a Banksy valuable? What people are prepared to pay for it. It’s not a Renoir nor a Picasso, it is transitory like a Rolf Harris picture.
Tourism can and does destroy places. I’ve been lucky when I’ve been in Ireland or France and China as I’ve stayed with family or friends so you enjoy the company and the food without swamping local culture or place. In the end everywhere could just look the same, a car park and a McDonalds, you can only tell the difference by the signage in a foreign language, the signs themselves all made in China.
People have a tick list of things, which to me proves they are shallow, as shallow as Everest is high. It’s like Euston station at rush hour on Mount Everest sometimes, K2 I believe is the actual harder mountain to climb. Or just watch Cliffhanger or that other great film, or even the Eiger Sanction, and don’t leave your rubbish over mountains. In today’s documentary about Ayers Rock one lady spoke the truth, it was her ego that made her climb Ayers Rock, especially as climbers will be banned next year. Things are a trophy, Mount Everest, Ayers Rock, seducing a fat silver haired writer in shades from Birmingham. What? Just seeing if you are reading this or still asleep.
The point is that trophy tourism is a waste of your time. Mrs Murphy in a story I have in my head, maybe I’ll finish it, she visits all the churches in Birmingham and lights candles and prayers. Then from that I hang a story about Navy Seals finally saving a North Korean girl who they did not save in North Korea, so half her face is cut off. But she escapes and comes to Birmingham England and meets a black guy who loves her. Now she meets Mrs Murphy and it may have been her who introduces her to her black boyfriend. Anyway in Birmingham the North Korean girl is tracked down and is about to be killed even though she is pregnant, but the Navy Seals turn up and save the day and regain their honour. All because Mrs Murphy could not get into the 100th church so she called in a favour from her good Jewish friend, who is the mother of a zillionaire industrialist, which you may remember from my Malta story. But I’ve sidetracked myself, that’s the trouble with stories, it’s like sitting on a jack-in-the-box, or on top of a nuclear missile it will go up into the air and detonate into laughter, well my ones anyway. Rocket man, put your toys away today.
I suppose I’ve covered most of the bases, just enjoy your holidays but don’t destroy places with your litter and ignorance. Treat it like your grandfather’s house, with love and care, and don’t wake him up he is 94, so don’t go banging any doors. You don’t tick a list to see how often you have kissed your friend goodbye, it’s love an laughter that you should be after. Then each time will be fun, and if you do seduce that fat silver haired writer in shades from Birmingham you don’t take a selfie or post it on Facebook, have some Dignity, not Ignominy.
Monday, 16 July 2018
3am monday 16th july
I was thinking to myself that the hot weather seemed to have helped my left shoulder, not as many outbreaks of pain this month. Normally at least on bad one a day. I also was pleased not so many pain in the night problems, as far as my chest goes. Then you've guessed it tonight I've been screaming in pain due to my left hip, which is where it all started 5 years ago in 2013, before my heart decided to join in. My neighbours think it's kinky sex, or somebody being murdered, or both, killing two birds with one stone maybe.
So I've slapped on the Movelat and got up for 2 pain killers. I do have new ones which are originally Elipesy medicine, but the does is too high, so I'm not going to use them.I don't want to become an addict, and as screamingly horrible the pain is I prefer that to being in a daze. Maintaining mental clarity is the most important thing.
I was talking to my big daughter this afternoon and I was discussing should I buy a big ticket item for myself, her reply was you may as well, as you'll be dead soon. So I may as well enjoy myself. I repeatedly say "I'll be dead soon", it's a catch phrase when various pains hit various parts of my body. But it was ironic that my phrase was used to encourage me to spoil myself.
I have been lucky to spend a lot of time watching my children grow up while I've become an unpaid housewife, and it has allowed me the Time to write all my books. 16 to date, and about 1,340,000 Words or 4000 or so pages.
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Michael-Casey/e/B00571G0YC
You could say its an ill wind that has blown some good. Though obviously I could do without all the pain. So if ever my readers do buy some books or I get Media interest I really will finance a Pain Relief clinic.
I'm waiting till I'm so tired I am nearly falling over then I'll try going back to bed. If you see me in the street you might think I'm much more good looking than George Clooney, but I may start to limp, or stop to catch my breath or nothing at all. Then at home I am suddenly mugged by pain. It's the Randomness of it all that's so frustrating.
Yes many more people suffer, and really suffer, but as I've said before I bitch about it more. At least I'm not Padre Pio, now he really suffered.
My dad used to say have some comfort in your life, so I will spoil myself, though some nights really are, The Dark Night of the Soul.
So I've slapped on the Movelat and got up for 2 pain killers. I do have new ones which are originally Elipesy medicine, but the does is too high, so I'm not going to use them.I don't want to become an addict, and as screamingly horrible the pain is I prefer that to being in a daze. Maintaining mental clarity is the most important thing.
I was talking to my big daughter this afternoon and I was discussing should I buy a big ticket item for myself, her reply was you may as well, as you'll be dead soon. So I may as well enjoy myself. I repeatedly say "I'll be dead soon", it's a catch phrase when various pains hit various parts of my body. But it was ironic that my phrase was used to encourage me to spoil myself.
I have been lucky to spend a lot of time watching my children grow up while I've become an unpaid housewife, and it has allowed me the Time to write all my books. 16 to date, and about 1,340,000 Words or 4000 or so pages.
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Michael-Casey/e/B00571G0YC
You could say its an ill wind that has blown some good. Though obviously I could do without all the pain. So if ever my readers do buy some books or I get Media interest I really will finance a Pain Relief clinic.
I'm waiting till I'm so tired I am nearly falling over then I'll try going back to bed. If you see me in the street you might think I'm much more good looking than George Clooney, but I may start to limp, or stop to catch my breath or nothing at all. Then at home I am suddenly mugged by pain. It's the Randomness of it all that's so frustrating.
Yes many more people suffer, and really suffer, but as I've said before I bitch about it more. At least I'm not Padre Pio, now he really suffered.
My dad used to say have some comfort in your life, so I will spoil myself, though some nights really are, The Dark Night of the Soul.
A Question of Taste ©
By Michael Casey
Taste is a big thing, and style is another, and there is good taste and bad taste, and leaving a bad taste in your mouth. As I speak Trump is in Finland, thanking Putin for helping him get elected, Putin wanted a chump and he got Trump. If you have seen the film Being There one of Peter Sellers last films you’ll see the comparison. Sellers was Chance the Gardener, but people thought he was Chancy Jardinier, and in the end Deep Society is it, decided he’d be President material. The comedy sex scene is very funny, where Sellers says he likes to watch, so he does, he watches tv while the woman cavorts on the floor on her own, best sex ever she says. It’s maybe 40 years since I saw the film at the cinema.
And now we have Trump, Obama was wrong, people did elect him, and all because folks thought it was Hillary’s turn. Sleeping with the President instead of Divorcing him is not a good enough qualification for being President. President Stormy Daniels next? Trump does not believe in anything but himself, but sadly if only 50% of the people bother to vote you get the Decline and Fall of the American Empire. I’m sure I’ve got your attention now. Shall I just Pardon myself and refuse a writ to attend as we call them in UK. This is why in UK 100,000s protested, not because Trump is such a bad man, there are many many more worse leaders.
The point is taste, Trump has none, everything is in the worse possible taste. Look at Candide and Kenny Everett in drag and you’ll soon see the similarities with Trump. WE hate arrogance, money does not give you class and nobility. Breeding gives class, as in manners, and kindness and compassion. And I’m not talking about Royalty, I’m talking about being a Gentleman or a Lady, even if you live in the flat above the chip shop. Sadly from this side of the Atlantic Trump seems to have taken over the White House and gone rogue as one of our Political Commentators remarked.
It’s the economy stupid is what Bill Clinton said, and Trump claims credit for all of that. But yet again today the Markets are frightened because of Trump’s self-imposed bullet in the head, Trade Wars are the height of stupidity. Markets wildly going up and down is never good stewardship, it’s almost Biblical in its stupidity. Remember the master asking what did you do with the talents? Trump seems to be the one who buried the talent in the ground. Talent is the People of any country, but if the bus driver is so busy on twitter he does not do his job but instead crashes the bus and all the talents of the people go over the cliff, who is then to blame? I’m sure he would blame all previous Presidents.
I was going to write something different but I’ve ended up talking about Donald, maybe it’s because I despair that USA voters won’t cull him and his policies. Has Trump sold America’s soul for 30 pieces of silver? But if the trade wars kill the stock market then the 30 pieces of silver will be even more worthless. Some things have a value much much greater than money, but Donald only thinks in money terms. To the rest of the world USA had been downgraded, and that’s all due to one man. Is Isolationism returning, if there is no quick buck, why should Trump’s America bother?
They say that the Presidency changes the Man, in Donald’s case he has trashed the Presidency, it’s become a 50cent store. I have no pleasure in saying this. If he and his chief of staff are shouting at each other, if so many of his staff have left and so on, what chance for Hope. Trump’s America is no longer a beacon of hope in a dark and sometimes cruel world. It’s become Scrooge before finding redemption. So in the end the Future is with the people they have to bother to vote, if they are not too busy watching Trump’s photo opportunities on Fox News.
Glossing over the Facts ©
By Michael Casey
I think we all need a laugh, maybe especially Theresa May, Putin is still laughing at the back of his super-sized car, as for Trump the whole world thinks he’s beyond a joke, but will his Party actually do anything? I bet not, but watch the news tonight to see if I am proved wrong. So let’s talk about facts and glossing over them, why let reality get in the way of a good story.
So when you arrange a blind date, but not in Helsinki, what do you do? You build up the girl. She’s so good looking she stops traffic. And she does, she has a stick and stops traffic so the schoolkids can go over the road safely to school. Or rather she has jam jar glasses and jaywalks into traffic, hence the stopping the traffic, or the crashing of traffic. But that’s fine she works as a loss adjuster for an insurance company.
My own wife was very scruffy when I first met her, now decades on, and two kids later she can still fit into the evening dress I bought her. We were in Offenbach in 2008 and they had two tall models filming a Honda Jazz advert in the courtyard of the Hotel Achat, me and the wife and kids walked past, the models started to cry. Yes, I am that pretty, and the wife and girls aren’t so bad either, but I digress.
So your girlfriend wants somebody nice, so nice he could be gay, but isn’t, he is nice but knows how to please a Lady. Barry White is singing in the background, it aint what you’ve got but how you use it. Which could be the kind of bloke your best sister from the tyre factor wants. Somebody who knows how to please her, just like Donkey said to Shrek. You gloss over the fact that he has spots, like a puzzle book, all you need is a pencil to join the spots up. But when they meet its perfection, you see she is spotty too, they look as if they should be in isolation together. He gives her a gift and she gives him one too, the new super spot removal cream. Her dad has a Pharmacy, which will be useful as the relationship progresses.
We gloss over lots of things, like her bad breath and his smelly feet, but it’s a match made in Heaven, they have so much in common, like rambling, they can never hold a decent conversation, it just rambles on and on till they hit the bunkers. They fall into the bunkers by the golf course, but bunkers can be very nice places, so long as you don’t get too much sand in sensitive places.
So you decide you should move in together, not just share a bunker. Then you read the ads in post office windows, warm flat available with great views. It is a warm flat, it’s above the chip shop and smells of fish and chips. Look out back and you can see the yard with a mountain of potatoes, look out front and you can see the dual carriageway and interchange. But at least the bed really is super king size. But it’s been there since the time Henry XIII stopped by for some orange chips. One leg of the bed has been replaced by a tin of tinned roe, the other has an old tyre underneath it. But when you jump from the wardrobe onto the mattress you have the surprise of your life. It’s perfect, the chip shop owner got it on discount when the bedding warehouse closed down. Fat Freddie from the bedding warehouse was a regular customer, so thanks to those extra large portions of kebab the flat above the chip shop gained a great mattress.
We gloss over the fact that we hate our job, it’s challenging really means that every day it’s a challenge for you not to punch that bastard’s face in, or stab him with your stiletto. He never appreciated your hard work, and he had total disrespect for the fact you cross dress. Why could he not accept the fact you wore bright red lipstick and red dress split to the thigh, and if you wanted to shave your legs in the Gents at dinner time what was it do with him, the inconsiderate bastard. But you have to gloss over those facts or Danny la Rue your auntie might be very upset. Nobody could ever accept her dressed as a man after all.
We boast about our cars, though not me, as I travel by bus. There is so much lying about motors, and the size of the spoiler, spoil her with your larger spoiler, so much utter rubbish. So long as it goes from A to B and there is no hole in the seat, now that’s enough for me. The sound system is great, or in other words, a 4 seater becomes a 2 seater as child size speakers are in the back seats. Give me a DAB that’s enough, I have no need for my ears to bleed as we are stuck in traffic, though Traffic were a good band. And as for engine rumblings, an engine should be as silent as a Rolls Royce. I don’t need audible flatulence from any motor, on que a motor bike with chronic farting has just passed by. Pardon me while I close a window.
I just looked over to see Totoro our cat asleep on the armchair, I’ll gloss over the fact the fact that she is a one girl killing machine, but if you love your cat you will forgive the bodies she lines up outside the kitchen door. It’s been a long hot summer, and for Totoro this means open season, as she escapes my bedroom window at 4am as dawn breaks and let the hunting begin. It is no longer the dawn chorus, more like wake up wake up, killer cat alert. Even with her bell dingling she is faster than that sloth Hussain Bolt.
I’ve given you just a few samples of what we gloss over and why we gloss over. And what is the best glossing over? That’s when lip gloss rubs against your lips, from the Lady you love, I think I need put Barry White back on. Or I could just kiss my own reflection, but I am no Donald Trump.
Wednesday Evening 9pm ©
By Michael Casey
Apologies to Simon and Garfunkel fans but I could not think what to call this piece, so I looked at the clock and then at the wall calendar, and that’s how I titled this piece. I’ve had a quiet day, I stumbled over something and I could end up making a new friend, he’s in a Blues Band, but somehow I think not. I may put Celine Dion’s song on, where she sings in French, Le Blues du Businessman I love that song, join in everybody, I want to be an Artist, but in French.
As usual what has that got to do with anything? I thought this morning I might write something, nice, a poem perhaps. I was thinking how can you describe a Mother’s Love, or All Our Mother’s Love. I had a line or two in my head, and I was thinking how best to put it on paper. Poems are like feathers, you have to coax them, to blow them onto the page, to gently blow them into position. They are like the toddler walking in the street with mum or grandpa, you have to guard they don’t walk into the road, training straps are far safer, but like a poem you have to be ever so gentle, or you will hurt the toddler. And so it is with a poem, it’s like directing a bubble, if you poke it then it bursts, shattering like an egg yolk for morning breakfast.
Where there is anger, let there be love.
Where there are lies, let there be light.
Where there are tears, let the dawn of smiles break through.
Where hearts are broken, let them be mended by kindness.
Where fear has taken over, let laugher ring out again.
Where clouds hang forever, let the swings of love disperse sadness.
Where there is doubt, let a mother’s certainty ring and shout out.
Where confidence is lost, let a dad’s strength hold out a hand of love.
Where strength has failed, let a grandpa’s never-ending hope strengthen us.
When all is lost, refuse to die, refuse to give up, refuse refuse refuse
For when all is lost, when family is not enough we still have friends
For when the dice is loaded against us and they divide out clothes.
We still Prayer, we have more friends in very high places indeed.
For we have a friend in the highest place of all, In God We Trust.
*****
Well that’s the best I could come up with in my hour at the keyboard, I hope my new friend in the Blues Band sees this, he could put it to music, he’s not very busy nowadays. And with that I’ll quit while I’m ahead,
Here’s some Random Connections©
By
Michael Casey
Well I’ve just been asked for CHOCOLATE, or rather my big daughter has demanded a Bounty, so I have to stop to pay the bounty, then I’ll be back with you. Teenage daughter are so demanding, but at least she brought in my drawers from the washing line, so they cannot be spotted from the space station, nor stray parachutists using them as target landing places. So I’ll pause with Simon and Garfunkel playing, with the cat snoring along on the back of the sofa while I run to the Polish shop before it closes, otherwise there will be a bounty on my head and it wont be chocolate. I hope you notice how I weave in real life drama into my stories, what you haven’t noticed? I’m going to sulk now, I’ll have a moan with Julian and Sandy from round the Horne, you can google that for yourself.
Now where was I? It’s4.30pm another day, Sunday 22nd July now, just in case any of you are archiving my writing. The storm has passed, and I was up in the night with pain, its so very unpredictable, when and where pain comes. At least my computer is fixed now, it might just be too much anti virus software, or good old Windows 10 having a Benny as they used to say. So if I cannot sleep I can always fix the computer, or even think about a new piece.
Now today if you have spotted today’s message the wife has lost her voice, so in the middle of the night just before I crept back to bed I thought what if I lost my voice too. So I left a note on the coffee table stating I had lost my voice. And still after 1/2 the day is over she believes me. I winked at my small daughter, and she smiled knowingly, then she ruined it by telling he big sister. You must never tell anybody not even your small daughter if you want to keep a secret, or a joke for that matter. My wife still does not know and is asleep like a pig on sofa. I should post a photo but we keep our media lives separate. My photos are not suitable for Linked IN after all, and I’m not on it anyway.
I spotted Germany having a reading fest so hello to you all, Ich Lieb dich if I’ve spelt that right. As you know I was in Frankfurt at Hotel Achat in Offenbach back in 2008, it really was great. I assume they have had the room fumigated by now, and replaced the bed after my heavy weight stay. I did have a metal bed collapse once under my weight, you can track down that story for yourselves. Though it was an ill wind that blew no good as a passing Polish guy rescued it from the street and hammered it into shape, no doubt him and his beautiful wife are smoking in it now, the Poles tend to smoke a lot.
Yes I realise that some of you misplace my words and their meaning, assuming I’m thinking what you are thinking, but as Gill from StatsMR used to say, you are going up that garden path again, and again and again. Rather like a Status Que song, its all in the rhythm and the beat after all, rolled up magazines not included. That was for all you Political Scientists out there, and why is the BBC better than Sky, its all about coverage? The BBC uses bigger paper, rolled up, and no I’m not talking about smoking of a different kind.
Where was I, there was somebody at the front door and I’m all in my scruffs, at least I showered earlier. When a stranger arrives it does put you off your flow. In actual fact it was a Fairy Godmother, yes really, I don’t just make this up, it was Fran, a real Godmother, a nice white lady with an Afro hairdo. She’s my small daughter’s Godmother, she just dropped by with a present for my small daughter. I thought she had come to demand the return of a library book, she is in fact a member of the Library staff at the end of the road. Her husband is the organist and choir master from church, he really knows how to make people cry. Not due to his organ skills or lack of them, but rather he use to work for the Inland Revenue, or IRS as the say in USA. Thinking on it, in the Untouchables there is a little bald guy from the IRS, well they could be related, they look so similar.
I hope they laugh if ever they read this, or I could be hung from the bell tower. Which reminds me of Chuck Berry’s song My Ding a Ling, though that does sound like one of my Chinese relatives. Or will I be accused of being “Wordist”. Snowflakes everywhere want to be wrapped in cotton wool and not experience real life, Casey Jones was a tv show about the steam train driver in USA, I believe as a child the drummer from The Monkees featured in it. And yes when I was small, and I was well below 200lbs once, Casey Jones was shouted at me in the school yard.
I think that’s enough random connections for today, I think we have some Ice Cream Soda pop in the fridge so I’ll have some of that. I’m lucky now that I’m older, at least my brother does not pee in the old glass pop bottles anymore. He knew I used to drink the dregs, so he left his surprise pee in each and every bottle. That’s an example of family love, some families never interact with each other, they don’t even bother to pee in pop bottles, ready for their little brother to drink.
Hot Stuff ©
By
Michael Casey
Now the heatwave is continuing in Birmingham and everywhere else in the world, so I’ve just been wallowing in the bath like a Hippo, with lots of ice cream to dribble down myself. I had been thinking the pains had stayed away when I screamed, my scar tissue made me jump. But otherwise I cannot complain, I acquired Tinnitus from somewhere, sounds like a cat with a Latin name, and sadly I cannot get rid of it, though it’s not too noticeable when I’m listening to my music, just lots of miaowing.
I’m listening to the soundtrack of Moulin Rouge right now, I am of course wearing my bright red stockings and suspenders, topless of course, showing off my bypass scars, and my chest hair, which took 2 years to grow back. I love the film because the music is so very good. It’s interesting but not really sexy, I won’t define my tastes, not on this page anyway, maybe if ever I get locked into a Japanese Private Hotel. Pause, or should it be Tinnitus paws.
You all need to find Around the Horne, which is a RADIO show from the 1960s to understand some of the styles of humour. And with all Styles just be careful you don’t snag your bottom as you go over. I resisted the temptation of mentioning Harry, actually his music is very good, though he is no good in drag, and if ever he ladders my stockings again then I’ll slap his bare legs with lettuce.
But what has this got to do with anything? I don’t have a clue but I’m sure we’ll get to the end of the page safely, even though some of you may be red faced. It’s all the sun, little old ladies all trying to trip me over with their walking sticks, or barging me with their baskets on wheels. I thought it was because I looked so irresistible in my white shirt exposing my bypass scar to the world, walking down the street like John Travolta, but with 2 pints of milk not a can of paint in my hand.
Only the local old girls were feuding me, they could not remember why, but it could have been something to do with me saying I did not like Tinnitus. The old ladies all studied Latin, so they knew that Tinnitus was a cat, and me a young man, a good looking young man prancing down the street in my shades just made their blood boil. A Tinnitus hater, I may as well have said I did not like the vicar. So the old ladies were not behaving like ladies, they were trying to kill me, or at the very least split my pants. Getting me to fall in the gutter without ever an Oscar Wilde for company. I was a star they wanted to drown in the gutter, no chance of rescue for me like that 1950s film, which they could remember like yesterday, as well as their Latin.
The window cleaner hissed, he was like a snake, playing Snakes and Ladders with his own ladder. I looked up and he wrung his rag on my head. He’s saved Tinnitus when she was stuck up a tree by using his ladder and carrying her down in his bucket, even though he’d forgotten to empty it. So Tinnitus was was a soggy moggy, but at least rescued. Meanwhile I was persona non grata as my bottom lip began to tremble, my ice lolly was too cold and had stuck to my lip. It’s hard to look as cool as John Travolta with an ice lolly stuck to your lip, its even harder to speak.
I headed for Post Office, Donald Trump’s influence was everywhere, hang on where am I, a lolly stuck to my lip had sent me overboard, or over the sea to DC. I sneezed all over old Mrs Murphy, I knew it was time to run as I left her pebble dashed in snot. Tinnitus might be forgiven but covering the chairwomen of the local Women’s Institute in snot would ever be accepted. I would come to a sticky end.
I screamed and sat bolt upright in bed, I’d knocked my cocoa off the night stand and burnt myself. I had been dreaming, that Feta cheese has got a lot to answer for. The doorbell run, so I answered the door, in my ladies pyjamas, funny place to have a door in your ladies pyjamas as Eric Morcambe said. Here’s your cat you forgot to let her in said Mrs Murphy as she handed Tinnitus to me. Who’s a clever cat, I asked Tinnitus, it’s all Greek to me replied my Tinnitus, or maybe I was hearing things.
Colour Blind ©By Michael Casey
Today I’ll not mention any heat or cross dressing, sorry to disappoint my readers in the Philippines, Priests or Sinners of anybody else. I’ve got Barry White singing in the background as I talk to you all, the wife has recovered her voice and is ordering folks about in two languages, the cat Totoro has let herself out via a window and is off killing the local wild life. Everybody should have a hobby I suppose, though I noticed that the ham I bought today has a RSPCA sticker on it. The pigs in Heaven will no doubt appreciate that.
Today we are discussing colour in our house, no nothing to do with Barry White or my sometimes black humour, you’ll have to ask the pink pigs about that, or the RSPCA. No, what we are talking about is colour, as in what colour our walls are going to be painted in. Me I like white, as it makes a place brighter, we do live in a South Facing home, so that does colour our lives, and anybody else’s house looks Grimm or is it Brothers Grimm by comparison. By the way for the record they only wrote 250 or was it 280 stories. My total is around 2000. They were actually very educated, I even have a copy of their Fairy Tales on the book shelf behind me, you can have it too, just go to Amazon. And yes my stuff is on Amazon too, it may take 200 years before you all start buying it.
Barry is singing about the colour of your hair, my weakness is red or browny red hair. See colour of hair makes men defenseless, and women know this and spend billions on hair colouring products. Though Chinese girls do have the best hair of all, as for my hair, it’s ever so soft, and wonderfully silver, but you will all have to take my word for it. All the little old ladies in the White House will be spitting at the screen now, envy really is one of the seven deadly sins. No I’m not calling Donald a little old lady, he has his own little old lady as we call them in UK, Melania. No the White House I’m talking about is the retirement home up the road in Spangles Lane, Stars and Spangles is the name of the pub opposite. So residents use their walkers to get to the pub and a wheelbarrow brings them back. So I hope I’ve explained things clearly, the Donald does not drink as we all know.
But talking of blondes, Donald is a blond after all, why do blondes always have the most fun, or in Donald’s case, why does this blond always have the most fun? Because he has a good grip and knows where all the bunkers are, which reminds me of the Dr Strangelove film, which you can find for yourselves. See this talk of blondes or is it the blond, has made me lose my thread, speaking of thread that reminds me of a camel and the eye of a needle. But the Base believes anything can go through the eye of a needle, whatever colour it is.
But I was talking about our walls, what colour should they be, the wife has ordained that Shingle is the colour of her choice. I did tell her that Shingles was a disease that spreads around your belly and if the spots join up you are in deep deep trouble. I can remember my old Kerry Irish mum telling me all about it on one occasion. So there you have it Shingle colour is ordained, but remember Shingle colour on your walls is not the same as Shingles you put on your roof which are a dark grey, the colour of tombstones. I do have a new friend called Tombs, so hello to her if she ever stumbles over this. So I was worried that our walls would be the colour of my tomb, I can wait for the tomb without it invading my living room and pointing to my final exit. Charles Dickens has a lot to answer for, him and his Christmas Carol, though my wife does have a friend called Karol, a Polish guy. Even though she thought it was Carole and was amazed when she turned out to be a Polish he.
Back against the wall, is that how you are all feeling as I talk to you, that’s not nice, I may punctuate you all! Did you like the exclamation mark, no, well please yourselves. At least there is no blood on the wall or carpet, just a little kebab sauce and coffee stains. We had a very nice carpet and yes, I spilt my coffee all over it, it’s still a very nice carpet, apart from that one spot. If I stand decoratively on that spot when we have visitors then, it still looks very nice, thanks to John Lewis. Otherwise it looks as if Jackson Pollock was about to start but dribbled a bit. The moral of the story is don’t have white or sand coloured carpet near traffic areas, ok, don’t ever let a fat silver haired writer in shades from Birmingham have a drink. Not unless he is standing on concrete .
Heaven’s Devils ©
By Michael Casey
Rodrigo was a bad man, a very bad man. He had lied and cheated and killed his way all over Central America, but he was good at his job. He was a killer for the cartels. Obviously he was going straight to Hell, the hottest part of Hell itself, but he neither cared nor believed. He was BAD with a Capital B, Michael Jackson could sing and dance and prance as much as he wanted but compared to Rodrigo, he was just DEAD with a capital D. Jackson was not Bad, he was Sad with a silly voice and bad dance moves, and he was DEAD. Rodrigo was the MAN and his moves left a trail of Death all over Central America.
Rodrigo had no friends, but he did have one cousin, Miguel was his name, and he too was a bad man, a very bad man, who like Rodrigo lied and cheated and killed his way all over Central America. They used to send postcards to each other, with cartoons written on the back showing how many and how they had killed their latest victims. The postmen just assumed it was children scrawling things. But to the FBI it was evidence.
Rodrigo and Miguel were tasked to kill a priest who condemned the drugs trade from the pulpit. So obviously they sat at the back and enjoyed the sermon, they would slit his throat after the Mass and steal the offerings too on the way out. Only Fr. Camillo had other ideas, he was not stupid he knew when death was calling him, and today after Sunday Mass was the day. But the thing about Death is that it is not the Master, there is only one Master, and today the Holy Ghost was in town. Now the Holy Ghost was faster and quicker than any assassin, so Rodrigo and Miguel had better watch their backs.
Now who or what is the Holy Ghost? Well the Holy Ghost was a retired CIA assassin, he knew Fr. Camillo from high school, and every day Fr. Camillo had prayed for his dark and evil soul. If the thief on the cross could be spared and Saul could become Paul, then the Holy Ghost could be saved too. And so he was, the Holy Ghost became plain old Sancho, he was Fr. Camillo’s invisible bodyguard. Any time the cartels sent a hit man to kill Fr. Camillo the hit man disappeared off the face of the earth. In actual fact, Sancho cut their ear off and posted it back to the cartel. As for the hit men, they just retired to Miami, thanking God they were still alive, though slightly hard of hearing. They grew their hair and enjoyed all their ill -gotten gains.
Rodrigo and Miguel were about to strike, when Sancho hit them first. They awoke to find themselves tied up chickens ready to go in the oven. Fr. Camillo blessed them with Holy Water, Sancho who had been drinking relieved himself on them. They were about to swear, but Sancho hit them with two Bibles across the face. There will be no more swearing ever, Repent or Die, with that Fr. Camillo threw a bucket of Holy Water over each of them. Now the Holy Spirit the real Holy Spirit works in most strange ways, Rodrigo and Miguel had come to kill, but now they would become savers.
They were shackled and told to read the Bible, every day Sancho fed them and Fr. Camillo blessed them, the Holy Spirit did his work too. That is the real Holy Spirit and the Sancho the retired assassin. Sleep deprived and forced to change, this was no road to Damascus, this was Central America. How many months it took I do not know, but I do know, light began to shine in their hearts, a tiny tiny light, but Fr. Camillo could feel it. The Holy Spirit was at work. Sancho had to go away with his donkey Panza for supplies, so with a wave and reminding the prisoners that there would be a 1000 question Bible test when he returned he disappeared like a Ghost, a Holy Ghost maybe.
Now an ill wind blows no good, and fools rush in where angels fear to tread. The cartels had not received any ears lately so they dispatched an entire squad to kill Fr. Camillo. Would they manage to finally kill Fr. Camillo? In the jungle whistles broke through the animal sounds. To Rodrigo and Miguel it was obvious what was about to happen, they smiled. The old priest would get his comeuppance. But as they read their Bibles, the gentle breeze of the Holy Spirit fell upon them. The Padre Pio prayer card which had acted as bookmark, fell from their Bibles, Padre Pio’s face gave them a hard stare. As Mrs Casey would say, don’t give me any cheek or I’ll slap you in the puss with the mop bucket. They had had enough of murder, it was now time to save. This was their Damascus moment.
So like any good assassins, Roderigo and Miguel broke free from their shackles and slipped away.
The assassination squad numbered 10, but 10 divided by 2 is 5, and 5 to 1 were easy odds as far as they were concerned. As Fr. Camillo prayed they took action, then 10 became 9, became 8, became 7, became 6 and then Panza the donkey came to the rescue. Panza distracted the assassination squad while Miguel and Roderigo with the returned Sancho finished off the 10. All of whom were tied up like chickens ready for the oven.
Don’t think you’ll not having your Bible test, after supper will be you final test. They spun round it was Fr.Camillo who had finished praying. They followed him into the jungle, there on the ground was another 10 men, how come to assassinate him. They were the advance party, I sorted them out myself, they were such amateurs. So they tied those ten up and dragged them to join the others. 20 men sent to kill just one priest. Roderigo and Miguel bowed their heads, you love God so much and the send so many killers to get you.
Fr.Camillo blessed them and they all had supper, afterwards Sancho gave them their 1000 question Bible test. So what happens now? Well said Fr. Camillo, Sancho has some friends in the CIA they could use men like you. But we aren’t killers any more, you know I think we could become Christians, real Christian, do you think your boss would accept people like us. Of course he can, but listen to Sancho. So Sancho explained the CIA or the friends of friends of the CIA needed bodyguards, not close protection ones, but invisible bodyguards to protect special people from a distance, and maybe sometimes to intervene. They would become Ghosts, Holy Ghosts if you like.
Roderigo and Miguel took all of 2 seconds to say yes. But don’t you need more than 2 sometimes? Well yes explained Sancho, after I cut off all those ears and previous assassins are official dead I stay in touch with the “dead” so to speak, and they do me favours occasionally. What about these 20, they are the worst of the worst. Well you could help us re-educate them. So after they had cut both ears off all 20 assassins, they chained them up and Bible school began. Fr. Camillo was left alone after that the cartels gave up on him, the Sicorro was blowing after all.
Now where did Roderigo and Miguel go? Well if you remember Mrs Murphy likes to visits lots and lots of churches and some are not in nice places. And her Jewish friend Esther has a zillionaire son who makes satellites for CIA etc. Well a satellite is all fine and dandy but Esther worries about her friends, her close friends. So it makes Esther sleep easier knowing that the Holy Ghost Protection Society is only a heartbeat away.
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