The Butcher The Baker and The Undertaker in Dominican Republic
so hello to them, a new country to add to my readers list.
I checked Wiki and discovered there is gold there, sadly none has arrived in my pockets ever.
This will be a busy week on the home front.
I should be sat with my new wifi in a couple of weeks, and maybe a new chair too.
I'll get back in the groove again then.
so here's what I've done so far on 17 Again
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.
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
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.
Expectations ©
By Michael Casey
Oh
No, he thinks he’s Charles Dickens again. Yes, I do have Charles
Dickens as a screen saver, and I have cried while listening to A
Christmas Carol, and Michael and the Chink in the Wall had shades of
Dickens in it, but I’m expecting hence the title. Yes I’m worn out after
such a big sentence, and reading my stuff, or rather listening to me
talking to you might be construed as a Prison Sentence, but and you were
expecting a but, I’m expecting, so there you go.
What
am I expecting? And please don’t say I’m so fat it must be a baby, you
are all so very very cruel. In French as you know elle est grose, if my
written French is up to spec, well it means she is pregnant. Not just
fat. Language has many meanings and that is why it’s such fun, you can
build and breakup just like Lego. My neighbour was filling a skip with
bricks and he said he was moving house, one brick at a time. SO I
replied like Lego. Then he told me that he knew somebody was NOT allowed
into the new Lego attraction because they did not have a child with
them, so could he borrow one of my kids in future. I said if he could
tear them away from the Wifi. But the point is Lego has superglued their
policy together if only family constructions are allowed into their
attractions. Now if I’m wrong I’m sure Lego will email me.
So
you expect one thing and get another. And that’s how advertising works,
it builds up your expectations and then you are deflated when you get
the reality. Its best to have high hopes but low expectations, then you
won’t be disappointed. Dating can be like that too, you think he’s in
Property, and he is, he sticks the For Sale signs up outside houses.
Rather like in my play Battered Husband from 30 years ago. Time and Tide
waits for no man and now the Dating Game has changed so much too. What
people expect and demand has changed for the worse.
You’ll
find in my writing, if I can use such a pretentious phrase, I write
stuff, chocolate bars of stuff you can enjoy on your tea break then go
back to launching rockets into space, or fixing the asphalt , and
asphalt is not where you need to see a proctologist. Expectations are
one thing and reality is another, and a bird in the hand is worth two in
the bush. As we all bitterly discover as Life pushes us along, my only
Life has been a song and dance, but I did it my way, on the late night
bus avoiding the drunks after an evening shift. There was one little
Italian guy always singing on the bus, Frank something or another was
his name. He always got off at the Crematorium, just next to the Swish
curtain shop.
What
other Expectations are there? Well you never know what to expect when
you read my stuff, neither do I that’s what makes it interesting for me
the Writer. If I just wrote rhythms for greetings cards then it really
would bore me, and yes I can hear you all mutter, how do you think we
feel? I could easily be crushed if I listened to negativity.
Nobody
should put up with Negativity, so the worm should turn. The Lillys of
this world should shatter people’s expectations of them, as I said only
the other day, I do know how to swear, my dad worked in a Steel Works,
do you think they all spoke posh Queen’s English? They spoke excellent
cursing English, above the sound of the Blast Furnace, so as I’m still a
bit battered I’ll finish by encouraging you all to exceed your own
expectations, and if anybody, but anybody tries to put you down then
bite their bum, and they won’t expect that, not unless you are in some
kind of kinky relationship.
The Price of a Soul ©
By Michael Casey
I
read something in the paper and it should have shocked me, but it did
not. In USA a company is chasing debt, after the person has died. So
the debt does not die with the person, it is Immortal, whatever the
belief system of the person involved. Which goes to prove, never act as
Guarantor, because even though Death and Taxes cannot be avoided, though
some try to avoid the latter. You can be caught up in your friend’s
debt, even though they are dead, so you become part of their
Immortality, the immorality of chasing debt from the dead, thus killing
the afterlife, the here and now life of the living. But maybe I am old
fashioned.
So
this got me thinking, and for those of you who bother to vote in USA, I
hope you bother to vote because it seems everything has a Price, but
the Value of some things has been lost. A smile from your mother, what
price is that, priceless, I’m thinking of my own mother now. Even if she
said she’d hit me with the wet mop if I stood on her clean kitchen
floor. A hug from Grannie, as she slips 10 dollars into your pocket and
winks at you. If you visits her grave you will always but always think
of her and her Love for you.
When
your dad spanked you when you deserved it, you really hated him, but
later you realized that climbing the power lines was not a very good
idea. So when later you became a power engineer your dad just laughed,
and you laughed too over a few beers. But when your crew made one tiny
tiny safety error you’d say you’d bring your dad to beat them. You said
your dad was 6feet 6 and 300 pounds. They believed you as you were so
large yourself. Years later they finally met dad, and he was 5feet 2,
but his Love made you a Giant amongst men.
The
love makes you big, not your actual size. As for your crew they were
the best of the best, and all recruits were told that your dad would
beat your bare arse if you did not comply to all the safety standards.
And when finally the new recruit qualified, the look of relief he had on
his face when your dad was not as big as the Rock. And so your dad’s
memory and safety sense lived on through all your crews. Can you put a
price on that?
The
janitor who cleans through the night and leaves a few flowers every day
in Reception, he does this himself, everybody thinks it is the company
but it’s him. It’s only when he retires that everybody realised that
without him the company would not be as nice as it is. His brother was
an undertaker and that’s where the flowers came from, though nobody ever
knew. Until 20 years later when everybody, but everybody came to his
funeral they recognised the flowers. You all smiled, but nobody said a
word, but you all looked skywards and said thanks Joe. Now what price is
there on this?
The
crossings lady, the cop, the orderly in the hospital, the porter taking
people to their operations. All these people and many many more have
great value, great worth. Maybe even a fat silver haired writer in
shades, from Birmingham, the one in Engand, maybe me maybe you whatever
you do. We are all part of life’s rich tapestry, we are all a piece of
the jigsaw. If you know your Bible the piece about the value of each
part of the body springs to mind. Without all the pieces then we are not
whole, a fabulous sports car is going nowhere without a steering wheel,
or keys in the ignition. So what price do we put on a Soul? Is
everything marked and barcoded, because the barcode is high or the
sticker price is high then the Value is high?
A
mother’s Love, a friend’s support, a cheerleader’s shouts, a band’s
music, the smell of apple pie, or Irish stew, all of these and many many
more are our Soul. Would you put a price on any of them? Is it a yard
sale of the heart? A car boot sale, a wrecker’s sale, a bankruptcy sale.
If all we do is sell our soul for the short term profit, then we are
prostituting ourselves, our hopes, our futures. Yes we may make a
killing, in money terms, until the stock market goes off the cliff edge.
Life
and Love has many beats and tempos, but if you overwind the clock it
breaks, or goes too fast and chimes at the wrong time. So all I am
saying is that somethings are eternal, and if a company or a society is
just chasing the buck even into Eternity then the here and now is lost.
And the colour of life is lost, life’s rich tapestry fades to black, the
black of printed money, as the colours of life are slowly strangled.
Chose love, chose life, and make it your “wife” , for love is a many
splendored thing.
Too Much Choice ©
By Michael Casey
The
thing about choice is that it spoils you, too much choice confuses and
leads to delay and anger. I know this to be true as my wife is designing
our new kitchen. The amount of swearing and cursing coming from the
carpet as swatches and tiles and cupboard doors are dropped on the floor
is unbelievable. I may just be a carpet but I just cannot be walked all
over, I have feelings, you just pile on the pressure and vacuum me this
way and that. I HAVE FEELINGS!
Choice
means colour, a man knows basic colours, a woman knows 50 Shades of
Grey and 500 shades of every other colour. So you can imagine the dramas
in our house at the moment, it’s not red its more browny, more
chestnut, more Father Christmas and less blood spattered horror film
red. And on it goes, and this is just picking the colour of our
workman’s gloves. Give a woman a choice she is spoilt, and mention
colours, then you are busted, it’s all too much, you are like Daniel
Craig after his last Bond film. Well with my wife it is, I may just be
old fashioned, don’t talk of Fashion or we will be going down another
Rabbit Hole, Alice in Wonderland here I come. Eat me, Hemlock I worship
thee.
We
had 50 Shades of Grey, the tile colour, the film is too timid, too
limp, what we had was full on roaring and screaming, it’s not that
colour it is not that shade of Grey or any other shade. And yes me and
my girls did think of tying up mum, not ready for anything. Just so the
whirl and swirl of colour would subside. It was like Jackson Pollard
having a sugar rush, Brown Sugar as the Stones sung, I cannot get no
satisfaction. And you wouldn’t if you were all tied up, but at least it
calmed down mother, and the rainbow of colours ran through her head and
all over our living room floor.
Sparkling
ideas bounced around the kitchen, before the cat came in and puked on
the floor, I know a cat has 9 lives but the amount of colour swatches
and samples littering the floor was too much for the cat. It was a life
or two lives away when she got stuck in the local hippies house.
Whatever substance, whatever colour our pussy had licked up resulted in
her fur standing up for 3 months. She kept on attacking the kitchen
dustbin, it was only when we changed its colour 5 times did pussy calm
down. An emerald green dustbin was the answer, the colour of grass
calmed her down, as opposed to all the grass she has shared at the
Hippy’s home.
But
I digressed, when mother had calmed down we removed the masking tape,
but despite the pain she was very pleased. Because on removing the tape
it removed all the excess hair from all over her body, so it was an ill
wind that blew no good. Then she hit me with the frying pan, the kids
laughed and ran away. As the blood trickled down my face, she jumped for
joy, for there was the colour she wanted. So she screamed for the kids
to take a photo, and she forwarded it to her colour designer.
Now
she had the perfect colour creations for her new kitchen, she was
filled with joy and kissed me passionately, then seizing the masking
tape she began to tie me up. Many thoughts passed through my mind, none
of them grey. Once finished she slowly removed all her clothes, spun
around and tipped the kitchen bin all over me and left it on my head.
Naked she headed for the shower. She left me tied up with the bin on my
head all night long. In the morning she dragged me into the garden, and
hosed me down with the garden hose.
But
she was ever so glad she had got the perfect colour combinations for
her kitchen that she took me by the hand and we headed for the bathroom
together. Just stopping to grab the Jeyes Fluid she washed me in the
bath. You can imagine the rest. So now we have the perfect colour
combination of a kitchen, only it’s too small now, you see one of us got
pregnant, it must have been the allure of the Jeys Fluid, super
strength disinfectant. We are expecting triplets, I may call them Tom,
Dick and Harry. Or more colorful names, but don’t let’s mention colours.
Saturday, 4 August 2018
Lech, Boris and Gregorgi come in from the Cold
Lech, Boris and Gregorgi come in from the Cold ©
By Michael Casey
Now
it’s hard when building work goes on and there is dust everywhere, when
there is cursing galore, and that is just from mom and dad. Builders
blush when they overhear such language, but building is a blessed thing,
blessed with plenty of cursing. Anastasia was visiting family in the
village, when she had a phone call from her granddad, the builders had
let him down, now all he had was dust everywhere. This made her own
problem small beer, she had bought a brand new car for herself as a
graduation present, but it broke down repeatedly. The dealership just
laughed at her and called her little Russian Princess.
Now as Lech’s, Boris’s and Gregorgi’s wives chopped meat their blood boiled.
Anastasia’s
granddad was Denis Nellis, he was very very old now, but when he was
very very young he was a sailor on the Artic Convoy to Russia, after the
war he married the sister of a Polish Battle of Britain pilot. So he
was a man of great bravery, who should be honored and as he had a
connection to the village through marriage he was FAMILY. The boys’
wives sharpened their knives, but Anastasia said the Pen is Mightier
than the sword, and far far sharper, with a wicked smile. The boys’
wives agree as they did some target practice on the back of the kitchen
door.
But
where were the boys, where were Lech, Boris and Gregorgi? The Summer of
2018 was so terrible hot, some like it hot, as they say, but Gregorgi
had a friend who owned a former Russian nuclear submarine, he had bought
it in an army or navy surplus sale. He ran trips to the North, the far
North, ½ way to the North Pole. Ice Station Zebra and all that. Some of
the crew had gone sick, so Gregorgi had persuaded Lech and Boris to come
and have an adventure, or were they little girls? So the three of them
found themselves on an ice shelf playing football. The new or rather ex
Soviet winter warmer clothes were being sold to the tourists as Lech,
Boris and Gregorgi larked about on the ice. The pay was very good after
all, and it was in US dollars, perfect, what more did they want.
Their
wives could bear it no longer, they dug out the old SW set and setting
it to the emergency frequency they sent a message to the North Pole.
Come home the dinner is getting cold, family matter to attend to. That
was all it said, signed 3 wives. Now the American’s went mad trying to
work out what it meant. The Russian’s wanted to know what it meant too.
Only the British knew what it really meant. You see Anastasia had a
secret, she had just signed on to work for GCHQ, so she had told them
about her holiday plans, and having Denis Nellis as a relative had swung
the interview for her, that and having a Double First from Downing
Cambridge. Or the University of Monty Python as some card in
recruitment called it, you see Downing was where John Cleese went, and
Michael Winner and this writer’s brother.
Lech,
Boris and Gregorgi worried for a full minute, before finishing off the
submarine’s supply of vodka, their wives could look after themselves,
they knew how to use knives and riffles. So as the icicles melted from
them they enjoyed their vodka, the trip had been a success and they’d
been invited to join the regular crew roster.
When
they got home to the village their wives feed them well and took them
to bed. They had to make sure everything still worked after the cold of
the North Pole. In the morning their wife’s gave them the Eastern look,
they explained about Denis Nellis and Anastasia. Then Anastasia
explained about the builder saying her grandad would have to face facts
and surrender to reality. The car company has said the same, just
surrender to life. Now Gregorgi started to twitch, you never say
Surrender to a Russian, after what those Nazi bastards did. Lech and
Boris weren’t happy either, this was Family. The Scots never say
surrender too, go ask the Black Watch if you don’t believe me.
There
was just enough time to finish all the food their wives had prepared
while they were at the North Pole, then they made love to their wives 10
more times, before they were ready to hit the road. At David Nellis’s
house it was like the Nazi bastards had shelled it. Lech, Boris and
Gregorgi set to work. The bathroom extension with downstairs bedroom
would soon be sorted. The boys worked like slaves, worse than slaves,
they worked like men from the East, they worked like family. If you
married into the East, then you were part of the East. They only stopped
for 5 mins just to send me an email asking that I looked after Still 17
in Warley Woods, it would be reaching perfection too, by pure, 95%
pure, coincidence they would be in England to taste it.
When
the dust settled Dennis Nellis had his bathroom and new bedroom
downstairs. Gregorgi shed a tear, and for once his cousins did not mock
him for crying like a little girl. This was family. I had tapped Still
17 and send the postman to deliver 10 litres, so toasting Dennis Nellis
sailor from the Artic Convoys they got drunk. What else do you expect?
Now
Anastasia had not been forgotten, still hung over the boys decided to
go visit the car dealership. The car dealer had ignored Anastasia, even
though she was so pretty, and so very very intelligent. But boys will be
boys, and they had come in from the cold, and their 3 wives had asked
did they want to repeat their performance, once they had sorted out
Anastasia’s broken brand new car. So they went to the car show room, now
they could have physically turned all the cars over like turtles.
Just as Big Sid does in the finale of The Butcher The Baker and The Undertaker.
However
they had seen the Full Monty on Dennis Nellis’s tv the night before, so
they just played the music on their Spotify on their iphones so they
started to strip. The girls in the car show room giggled and live
streamed it on Facebook to their friends, they stopped giggling as more
and more clothes came off. Where was the nearest Polish/Ukrainian and
Russian food store, these were MEN with a capital M! The car showroom
owner came down to see the still drunk cousins sprawled naked over his
cars, leaving marks all over the polish, that’s polish not POLISH by the
way.
He
tried to threaten them but this was no Spring Time for Hitler. Your
Cars have one thing in common with us slurred Lech, Boris and Gregorgi,
and what is that asked the car show room owner? BIG BOLLOCKS! And with
that the boys left the showroom. And did Anastasia get a new car from
the car dealer. No, he was going to offer, but the Police closed down
his showroom after 100s of complaints, the Police even said he did not
have a licence for Erotic Dancers so were able to close him down
immediately. But Peter Stringfellow saw it all online and sent Anastasia
a brand new car, a much better car. He did offer the boys a job as
well, but they decided, The winner wives take it all, it was For Their
Eyes Only.
Pyrrhic victories ©
By Michael Casey
As
ever I didn’t know what to talk about, but I just read an email and
that gave me an idea, so thanks to the sender who did not sort out the
problem but gave me the idea for tonight’s talk. Who knows perhaps the
sender stumbles over this and smiles, and boasts that they inspired one
of my 2000 stories. A small victory for them perhaps?
Now
I had heard of Pyrrhic Victory before, maybe in 1970 in 1st year
Grammar school Latin lessons, in passing by Mr Hanney my Latin teacher.
So what is a Pyrrhic victory? It is a victory where you lose so many men
that it amounts to a loss, rather like winning a nuclear war and the
entire planet is polluted.
We
each have our own Pyrrhic victories, some may say me writing my first
book was a Pyrrhic victory. Because I forever bored people about it, and
they all head for the gents rather than share a pint in the bar. No, I
was never like that, now I only write short pieces because I might not
live long enough to finish another full length novel. It’s a year of
your life after all, I’d rather spend an hour and write yet another
short story. Though if ever I meet a speed typist I could rattle off
Tears for a Butcher in 3 months. I did in fact discover my next door
neighbour is fast typist, but she is moving away, and the other person I
know with a typewriter must be 80 years old.
There
are many Pyrrhic victories in life, you meet a professional model but
decide you prefer the charm of the old fashioned girl. And yes that kind
of happened to me more than 20 years ago. But then you finally have to
admit the old fashioned girl does not want you either. So everybody
laughs at you.
But
God is good, so you look at the picture of your dead mother as you
stand by the fridge with tears in your eyes and make a heartfelt prayer.
I give up you take over, as you pray to Padre Pio. You have lost all
the battles, Pyrrhic and otherwise. But soon you meet the future wife,
who everybody says is 10 times prettier than the professional model. And
then you are called a dirty bastard, nobody believes you fell for her
because she made you laugh, she is just so much younger than you.
But
you’ve heard my true life story before if you’ve been reading some of
my 2000 stories. Ambition can be a Pyrrhic victory at times too. You
work so hard to get that job, to study for all those exams to get you
that place at university. But does it make you happy? A guy I went to
grammar school with ended up as an accountant, he hated it. He really
wanted to change and become a History teacher instead.
Near
where I live there is a cramming school, but do they realise 5000 apply
for grammar school but there are only 500 places. My wife forced my big
daughter to cram to get a grammar school place. I told her not to
bother as the local girls school used to be a grammar school anyway and
was still so very good, top 1% in the entire country perhaps. So my
girls went there, though my big daughter did become a maths wiz due to
the Chinese cramming for the grammar school place. But grannie was
accountant for Shanghai bus company, so it could have been in the blood
anyway.
They
say that students from the 3rd world work so very hard to achieve, but
are not accepted in the 1st world and when they return home they are no
longer accepted back home either. So that’s a Pyrrhic victory I suppose.
Life is like that, you finally get the girl but then discover you wish
you had not bothered. Or all she did was give you the clap. We can all
chase after dreams that are no good for us in the end, they are all
Pyrrhic victories.
You
would not believe how hard I worked and saved for this house, yes
really. It was after I reached my ambition that I stumbled into the
writing, and is that a Pyrrhic victory because it consumes me so much?
I’d say no, but others have said yes in the past. These words are my way
of saying, Death where is your victory? Because they are my legacy to
my girls, if ever they read them all. Writing can be so very very tiring
especially in the beginning, now it’s very easy, getting Rupert Murdoch
and his gang to publish and pay, now that is impossible. So why does
anybody do it?
You
write because it’s your thing, if I was a hunk I’d have a string of
Oriental girls, if I were a painter I ‘d be painting walls, just like
Banksy, if I liked cars I’d tinker with cars. We all have our thing,
whether it is morally good or bad for us and society. What matters is
that it makes us feel 100% I imagine that’s the excuse druggies use. I
have never used those things because I have an IMAGINATION, and I don’t
want to destroy it with any substance.
You
could say my physical pains make me take refuge more in my imagination,
but you’d be wrong. My imagination is my greatest toy and joy, the past
5 years of zigzag of pain have been a pain, in all senses of the word.
However I hope pain inspires me to try and leave as much behind as I
can, before my heart stops or a stroke gets me. I’m being realistic not
morbid. In theory you get 20 years after a bypass, I’ve had 3.5years,
but statistically 50% live 10 years, so you do the maths yourself.
There
is a silver lining of course, if you have been following me for years,
insert joke of your own choice, in theory your suffering will end when
mine does. No more stories from the fat silver haired writer in shades
from Birmingham, the one in England. Before you all cheer, you are all
so cruel, I’m going to tell Julian and Sandy about you. The thing is I
am very determined, very determined indeed, I am from Kerry Ireland
stock. So I may just decide to live till I am 100, as I used to proclaim
as a child. Now whose Pyrrhic victory would that be?
Dealing with Salesmen ©
By
Michael Casey
We
had a salesman touting for business in the street, now this is such an
open goal as far as I am concerned. It’s like sweets left unattended, do
you think they’ll last in our house, in any house? Yes today’s guy was
Irish in his black shirt, like a Country and Western star, or Johnny
Cash. So I told him he looked like a priest, with the collar off, if
he’s reading this now he can verify it. He said he was from Clare, so I
said it did not matter, and did he not know that Kerry was the best
county. Ask any Kerryman they will agree, oh and yes my parents were
Kerry people.
The
trick with salesmen is not to let them talk, just talk over them, and
keep on talking. Don’t listen to them, just keep on talking over them.
And go on a sidetrack, if he’s selling double glazing tell him to buy
your house instead, then he won’t have to travel so much as he blitzes
the area with his double glazing. And go on and on and on, Obama
couldn’t keep up with my soaring rhetoric, maybe I should just be a
politician and keep on talking nonsense BS, but then maybe my hands are
just too small, even though my hair is so nice and silvery.
This
really is a blood sport, me activating the nuclear BS option, but then
again, salesmen deserve it. If you come to my door, this is what you’ll
get. Or if I’m busy picking my nose I might open the door and bless the
cold caller and slam the door in their face. A warning though if you
hunt in packs, if you are these mad “religious” zealots who think no
blood transfusions is God’s will and hand out their rubbish, saying it’s
an “invitation”. Firstly me and millions would be dead without blood
transfusions, their idea belongs to no God I would recogise.
So
if you bang on my door, a vampire will appear, with tomato ketchup
dripping down from my mouth. Yes, I will answer, you came to give me a
donation? I’ll lick my lips like Hannibal Lector, taking their hand
firmly, as firm as a Donald Trump handshake. I’ll scrunch up their
rubbish as I sniff their hand, which I’ll then begin to lick. As fear
and un-comprehension rises on their face, I’ll scream I’m Bad, I’m Bad,
and you are SAD, and laugh like Vincent Price.
Usually
that does the trick, I never get the likes of mad “religious” people
ever again. If you believe in Death, don’t ever come near me, just leave
me alone, as Michael Jackson used to sing. I have zero tolerance for
their ilk. And just in case you think I’m joking I am not, however if
you are a little old lady that wants a chat at the bus stop then you can
have all the time in the world, as Armstrong sung.
Life
is short, and I’m very lucky I had my quadruple heart bypass, so I’m
not going to waste a second, and despite knowing I’ll still have lots of
pain to some degree, maybe 50% of the time, I want to have some fun.
And door to door salesman are an easy target. Sometimes it’s fun to hear
them talk, but I’ll boast now, I can out talk anybody, and as you all
know, I have a PhD in BS. What are you reading after all, it’s top
quality Trumpian level of story telling, it all depends who you believe?
And who would you prefer to open the door to?
And Tonight’s Talk Is ©
By
Michael Casey
Well
I went to the shop and came home happy with some nice apples, our
regular ones have a different skin taste, so we had to abandon them, we
don’t peel apples here in England. So we have other juicy apples to keep
us happy, as well as bananas which I love too. What’s this got to do
with anything? I don’t know but who knows when we get to the bottom of
the page, place your bets now. I got home happy as I managed to fix my
computer with the Fresh start option. So life was a full fruit bowl, in
passing you do know of course in some cultures they eat their fruit very
very ripe, almost putrid in fact.
Then
the iron curtain of pain fell, I had to hang up on my brother as I
needed to lie down, so I’ve had a nap and a bite to eat. I did start
watching Pierce Brosnan’s 007 but after Daniel Craig he doesn’t look
tough enough any more, more pantomime that 007. In passing one of our
Polish neighbours looks like a very young Daniel Craig, he had his shirt
off in all the heat and my other neighbour a lady almost swooned.
Which brings me to tonight, 9th August
2018, I spoke earlier in the day about a lodger who was like an uncle
to me, it’s 38 years ago today since he died on the bus coming home from
his riding holiday. Then tonight I was going to sit here and speak
about Casting Bread on the Water, however when I checked my titles list I
discovered an old piece which I just scanned and thought was nice, so I
had already covered that ground. So I come to the table empty handed
but at least the pain has subsided for the day.
So
what do you do when plan A is no good, nor plan B, so you improvise
with plan C. Rather like me talking to you tonight, I’m listening to
Vangelis playing some Oriental music, yes I’m padding as I muse what
will amuse you. However it has made me think of another idea, and that
is, are we ever ready for anything? Were you ready for work this morning
or did you spill milk over your trouser or skirt, so you had to grab a 2nd garment?
Or you’d have gone to work in your long-johns or frilly knickers which
look like a shoe lace with a tiny handkerchief attached.
So
how do you react to being shamed, as in when you spill milk over
yourself at that important meeting? Do you say you have just bought a
new washing machine so you want a full 10Kilo load to test it out. When
you get home you’ll strip naked in front of the washing machine and
watch it spin round and around, just as Totoro your cat does. And then
you get back to giving your presentation to the Japanese, they love
Tototo so you have covered up your mishap wonderfully.
Life
is all about improvising, being quick or dead. Having worked lots of
night shifts in Birmingham city centre in the days when every night I
had to pass through one of the most dangerous underpasses there was, 40
years ago, I knew how to stay alert. In the actual computer room when
kit fails you had to improvise too,40 years ago computers used to fail.
I’m talking about the days when a disc drive was as big as a washing
machine, not one digit on your finger. When DEC PDP 1170s were as big as
wardrobes and had toggle switches and light at the front, just like in
very very old Dr. Who.
So
improvising in a computer room, or in my days at the hotel, CPNEC
Birmingham, you just had to be able to cope. You would finish your shift
covered in sweat, good job you had two sets of uniform. People can be
stupid or too busy talking so a toddler gets its head stuck in a
revolving door. My own kids were toddlers back then so I was child aware
and watched out for such things. Sadly in real life parents can be too
busy on the phone so the kids suffer, or so stupid taking selfies they
fall off buildings.
Coping
is a strange thing, some people can switch to emergency mode and do all
that is needed, and only afterwards breakdown and cry. Like me when
another of our lodgers died via heart attack right in font of me, just
after I’d got out of bed after a night shift. Our emergency services and
armed forces train and train and train again so they can protect and
serve as it says on the badge in USA. And thank God for them all.
So
you must understand that people doing stressful jobs have to let off
steam, I of course dress as a woman and go to bars to see how many
compliments I get. Others just sit and watch tv, as they eat all the
fruit from the fruit bowl. So you can understand the screams and shouts
if there is no fruit in that fruit bowl. Not everybody is bananas,
despite what you say behind my back, you bunch of grapes you. Apples are
rosy and so should your complexion be. Oranges are not the only fruit,
and being squirted in the eye is no fun, but if the tangerines are
perfect it really is a dream, a tangerine dream. Figs are good and can
become your reason d’etre if they help keep you cool. When all is said
an done a bowl of fruit is our very life, colourful and sometimes hard
to unpeel, but crunchy or soft, or juicy trickling everywhere, without
this fruit inside us we would break the bowl we call this earth, and all
would shatter, no glass ceilings, just broken glass in space.
My Lima Love Story ©
By
Michael Casey
Sancho Panza was Isabella’s
driver, Sancho Panza was not his real name but he had been christened
it and it stuck. His real name is, but I cannot even remember and I’m
telling his story. You see Sancho Panza was one of the native people,
strong incredible strong, not too tall but in his case very very wide.
When Isabella went to a fancy hotel he carried everything, just as a
mountain donkey does, so one joker decided to call him Sancho Panza, and
it stuck. He’d worked for her for 10 years now and he was her Sancho
Panza. Isabella apologized, she was a lady after all.
Isabella
was from Spanish Nobility who’d conquered Peru all those years ago, and
like her name she was pious, but she hid it well, she wanted to appear a
carefree European style person. However Sancho Panza could see her
saying the Rosary in his rear view mirror. So he was proud to be her
servant, he’d join in silently saying the Rosary with her as her drove
the Limousine from place to place. Isabella’s family owned a Hotel
company hence all the driving from place to place.
Isabella
was 27 now and he was 10 years older, but looked much older than that,
his face carved from stone. Isabella had a secret, and that is why she
had decided not to marry. Yes she had a few suitors, some nice, some
kind, some just wanting her family’s millions. Sometimes she come
running to the car and demanded Sancho Panza just drove, get away from
here, get away from here. Sancho could see the tears in her eyes, but he
was just Sancho Panza it was not his place to ask what was making her
sad. So Sancho Panza prayed to Saint Martin de Porres to take her tears
away and replace them with tears of laughter. Saint Rose of Lima was
also roped in. If she chose to be like you Santa Rosa so be it, but
please no tears, I cannot take tears. Just let her be happy.
So
his life continued, driving here there and everywhere, stopping in the
staff quarters and sleeping in the worst hotel bedroom, while she had
the Presidential suite. Now to pass the time Sancho Panza placed music
on the Limousine stereo, which as you can imagine was excellent. Sancho
Panza discovered Andrea Bocelli and was about to switch it off when
Isabella entered the car. No keep it on its so beautiful, and that was
the first thing that broke down the wall between them. So as he drove
Andrea Bocelli sung while Isabella did some paperwork in the back of the
Limousine.
Now
Sancho Panza had been brought up by his abuelita in Lima, after his
parents died when an overcrowded bus they were on fell off a mountain.
So Sancho Panza sent her money and paid flying visits when he could.
Isabella was happy, and she noticed him looking at the sign which led to
where his abuelita live. My abuelita lives there said Sancho Panza, pay
her a visit then I can stay in the car, Isabella suggested. And that is
how another piece of the wall came crumpling down.
Sancho
Panza’s abuelita was on her knees praying when he entered her house. It
was on the tv, this woman in Birmingham Inglaterra asked for prayers,
she asked in many languages, incluso Espanol. A butcher has been shot
while defending everybody, mira mira a la television, and Sancho Panza
could see CNN replaying it over and over. A butcher saved the lives of
everybody, including, a grandmother, her daughter in law, her
grandchild, and the unborn baby inside her, as well as several other
people. But while overcoming 3 gunmen single handedly he’d been shot 3
times.
And
that is why an abuelita was on her knees tearing through the Rosary,
because a request for prayers had been made in Spanish, by the
grandmother herself. In countries all around the world grandmothers were
praying in many many languages. You see the grandmother had learnt the
Rosary in a different languages when she’d been on Pilgrimages. So
united in prayer abuelitas the world over were praying.
So
Sancho Panza fell to his knees in prayer. Meanwhile Isabella needed the
bathroom so she slipped into the house. When she came to the living
room afterwards she saw them praying and CNN replaying the scene, it was
an international story today on an otherwise slow news day.
Instinctively Isabella fell to her knees, the abuelita passed her a
plain wooden set of Rosary beads.
After
an hour the abuelita had to get up, her knees were hurting on the
concrete floor. As she leant on Sancho Panza and Isabella to get herself
up she knocked them both over, so Isabella landed on top of Sancho
Panza. Their eyes met and lingered, they both blushed. Something stirred
inside Isabella, she felt it but did not understand. She had never
thought of Sancho Panza as anything but a loyal driver, though
friendship was growing due to Andrea Bocelli, no at that instant a
Mustard Seed had been planted. They got to their feet and both avoided
eye contact, they both looked the tv, and beside the tv were statues of
San Martin de Porres and Santa Rosa. A statue cannot talk, but the
abuelita noticed, and though it was a mad idea she would start praying
for it.
As
they drove away they both avoided saying anything, Isabella had
literally fallen for Sancho Panza. And there it would have ended. The
next month Sancho was driving her back from a dinner and dance at the
very poshest hotel her family had just opened when Sancho spotted the
tears falling in his rear view mirror. He’d seen her sad before, it
always seemed after she’d met some suitor, but now the tears would not
stop.
So
Sancho Panza stopped the Limousine, you are too beautiful to be crying,
look at the beauty in the stars, look at that shooting star. Sancho
Panza’s heart was breaking, to see her crying after his 10 years of
driving for her. The dam broke, I thought he’d be the one, I thought he
would understand. Understand what? I cannot have children, and she cried
even more. This was too much for Sancho Panza to bear, he got out of
the driver’s seat and went and sat in the back beside her.
I
am just a burro, I am a donkey called Sancho Panza but this burro is
proud to be your servant, and maybe your friend, a real friend someday
in the future. But today I tell you under all these stars and in front
of Almighty God himself, no man is worthy of you if any man thinks all
you are is a baby making machine. You are a beautiful woman who deserves
better. Isabella stopped crying for a second and kissed him on the
cheek.
Sancho
Panza got back into the driving seat and drove her home in silence. Had
he said the wrong thing, would she sack him after 10 years?
In
the morning came the answer, his abuelita had a knock at the door, it
was a furniture van. A total change of furniture and a new bathroom. The
delivery man handed the abuelita a hand written note. Forgive me, but
your grandson was so kind to me I had to thank him in some small way,
please accept this humble gesture. It was signed Isabella, your
grandson’s FRIEND.
Sancho
Panza smiled when Isabella got back into the car, you were too kind I
did not do anything, I just stated the obvious. Isabella found herself
leaning forward and kissing Sancho Panza on his cheek. Have you been
drinking joked Sancho Panza. No, but thank you. And with that no more
was said.
Now
up in the mountains where Peru meets other countries there was another
new hotel. They said it was bandit county, but they had a fast car, and
Sancho Panza was a good driver. But that night, not even Saint Martin de
Porres nor Santa Rosa could save them. After a successful opening
Isabella decided to return to Lima for an important morning meeting,
this meant travelling in the middle of the night.
Nails
in the road brought the Limousine to a halt, Sancho Panza managed to
avoid slamming into the mountainside. He then had to do things should
never have to do in front of his Lady. There were four of them and it
was all or nothing, one had a riffle so Sancho Panza hit him first. He
was like a bucking burro kicking and fighting and scratching. Lock the
car stay inside Isabella is all he screamed, she screamed but did as he
said, she clutched her Rosary to her.
I
will not describe what happen, but it was horrible and bloody. Isabella
threw her money out of the window and they decided they had had enough,
Sancho Panza had been defending her honour, not her money. Over his
dead body would they hurt her in any way. Isabella threw her money out
the window in a final act of desperation. As they left they threw rocks
and one lucky shot hit Sancho Panza on the head. He fell bloodied into
her arms.
Isabella
found a flare in the boot and fired it. 40 minutes later help came.
Sancho Panza apologised, did I do the right thing? Isabella cried, no
you did not. This was the man she would marry, but was she good enough
for him? Sancho Panza spent a week in hospital, his granny visited every
day, she was driven in a limousine owned by Isabella’s company.
Isabella visited, she was shaking all over. Sancho Panza can I ask you
one thing, just one thing? Yes. Would you marry a girl like me, who
could not give you children of your own?
Sancho
Panzo replied only a fool would turn down a girl for that reason alone.
Isabella licked her lips, then Sancho Panza will you marry me? Sancho
Panza opened his arms wide from his hospital bed. That was his answer.
Isabella
and Sancho Panza’s wedding was the biggest that year in Lima Peru. And
what is Sancho Panza’s real name you may well ask, well it is Miguel the
same as this writer telling the story. Sancho Panza and Isabella
accepted that they could never have children of their own.But the
abuelita did not, she prayed just for one pregnancy, just one pregnancy
she begged for as she knelt on her Aixminster carpeted house. Isabella
thought she deserved some comfort as she prayed.
So
after a year of prayers everybody was amazed when Isabella announced
that she was pregnant. Saint Martin de Porres and Santa Rosa answered
the abuelita’s prayers, just one pregnancy was all she had. Isabella had
baby boy whom she called Martin, she also had a baby girl whom she
called Rosa. She had twins you see as sometimes prayers are answered
twofold. And as my own mother and all Peru’s mothers will tell you,
never underestimate the power of the Rosary.
Flying ©
By
Michael Casey
I’m
scared of several things, one of which is flying, and as I’ve just had a
postcard in the post which means the sender will no doubt be landing
home any second now, I’ve decided to talk about Flying. I am a very
scared flier. I don’t like heights to start with and my invisible Rosary
is in overdrive when I fly. Yes I know you are all laughing now,
considering the Fact that Flying the safest form of travel.
Getting
on a plane is like being herding through an abattoir, so much process.
In actual fact one of our local supermarkets changed the checkout area
and now it feels like an abattoir too. Though I gave up going there in
search of nicer food to feed my daughter’s brain, 18 months ago. I hate
being processed, I know it’s all for speed and economy, but I really do
want to know how the security guard’s old mum is.
And
say, you do have such white nice teeth to the girl at passport control,
before she introduces me to the nice white teeth of the Rottweilers,
though that tends to be in Germany. I have to admit it’s 2013 since my
last holiday. Post heart op, and with arthritis I scream and need my
Movelat gel at the most awkward of times. So I stay at home and
cogitate, they can’t touch you for it you know, cogitation.
Though
some day Paris Hilton will offer a private jet, holiday and Health
Insurance, and then I’ll head for the Hilton Malta. I would of course
repay Paris Hilton in kind. I’ll tidy up her CV, and give her some
interview practice in return, then maybe just maybe she could get a job
on reception at the local Specsavers Opticians. One good turn deserves
another.
I
do of course sweat a lot when going through checkin. Because I’m afraid
I’ll get too close to God for comfort, though HE will be saying I don’t
want him I my house boring the pants off me. So much did I sweat in
2006 in Maimi that I’m sure they put me next to the Air Marshall. They
split the family up and the Air Marshall had the aisle seat blocking me
in, away from my wife and then 2 toddlers. He was 6 foot 6 and very very
big. He refused to talk to me. Though he may have just had good taste,
or he was just being very very cruel. I think he was Polish too, or
maybe just pretending so as to avoid having to talk to me. Some people
are not nice. Though it could have just been my imagination, borne out
of fear of flying.
I
do like the food on planes, it takes my mind off the fear. Thinking
back to 2006 when we landed in NY it was really really rough, and my 3
girls were all sick. I was not, nothing escapes my belly once it has
been eaten. Back to the food I get to eat all the portions should
anybody not like what is on offer. And a bit of wine is always nice,
most of the year I am dry but on holidays I like a little drink.
When
you drink and eat on planes you then need the toilet, which is an
adventure in itself. It’s like being a contortionist trying to get into
a dwarf’s clothing, how else would you describe it? Like trying to get
15 students in the back of your dad’s car perhaps? And which slot has
paper of any kind, where do you put this of that, and the toilet bowl so
shallow, much more like a soup dish. They don’t recycle everything do
they?
Once
you have finished you break out of the cubicle and fall over a
beautiful air hostess who slaps your face and the Air Marshall just
hopes he can taser you, punk are you feeling lucky, a la Eastwood. Or
you break out of the toilet and fall over a steward, who sighs repeated,
why are stewards all gay? So you scurry back to the Air Marshall, at
least the steward did not slap your face.
Then
it’s time for a film or 3 depending on the flight time. These can be
very good and very modern, but there is no popcorn, yet. No doubt Ryan
Air will invent it, and charge for it. There was a 2 hour interlude
while the pilots popped the popcorn, or while I had a nap, I got up too
early for that blood test. Or it could be blood tests are required to
get into Trump’s USA next.
How
the crew manage rushing here and there and everywhere I just do not
know. There must be a Patron Saint of air crew/cabin crew. Maybe Saint
Alan Wicker? Though Americans may be asking who? Ok, maybe Saint Rudolf
Nureyev, because you have to be so graceful and move here and there
effortlessly. By the way I like a bit of ballet myself, having been
positively vetted by a Chinese Ballerina from the Birmingham Royal
Ballet, check me out if you don’t believe me. Have you never considered
why this 248 pound man moves so gracefully? Which reminds me I have a
ballet story somewhere, either on my PC or in my head, I’ll have to put
it on the page soon. Leap.
Now
landing is the scary bit it’s like when you throw yourself into your
daddy’s hands and hope he catches you. Or when you fall in Love and hope
your heart won’t be broken, it’s all about leaping. And just when you
think you have reached the bottom you fall even further. Air pockets are
like that.
But
the relief is immense when you land, that steward can sigh as much as
he likes, you’ll just kiss that Air Marshall, and guess what you can
speak Polish too. The amount of time spent in the Polish corner shop has
meant you know a few words or two. Tak, or is it tic tac? And why are
Polish girls so impossibly beautiful? Because it’s the only thing
that’ll stop their men working 16hours a day, every single day.
Well
we have to go through baggage handling now and disembarking, which is a
bit like toilet time after a large meal. And why does your bum hurt so
much? Well 2013 and Malta was my last time, but I do have walks in the
woods to look forward to, that’s if the Eagles don’t swoop down and
annoy me. But they better beware as Totoro our cat will be soon scenting
everywhere, and as my big daughter will attest, you need water lots of
water to wash out a cat’s smell. Not unless you Fly away fast.
Shop Art to Shop Reality ©
By Michael Casey
Well
I’ve know my local corner shop guy for 32 years now, so the banter has
been passing back and forth for decades. When I wrote The Butcher The
Baker and The Undertaker back in 1987/1988 finishing on Leap Year’s Day
I never knew which way my life would go. The one constant is the corner
shop. Though I’ve lived here so long I can remember when he had not
actually gained the corner. There was a furniture shop there so he had
to wait before he could buy it out and then knock the wall down and
achieve full corner shop status.
I’d
had a vacation from his corner shop so today when I returned, I said
my divorce lawyer had told me to pay the shop a visit. His wife laughed
like a drain, he had previously asked my wife had I fallen out with my
wife as I hadn’t been to his store in ages. So today on entering the
store I said to the new staff loudly and to the boss himself, I heard
you had gone bankrupt and ran away with a Filipino. I tried he said,
which is code for he tried chatting up my wife. Normal Open All Hours
banter.
He
resumed by saying that my wife was clever, I know she has a degree in
Bio-Chemistry, she could slice and dice you and rearrange you
chemically. My nephew has just got a 2:1 in biochemistry from York,
perhaps he could help, I continued with a smile. The new staff look on
trying not to smile, so I explain to the hockey team, they look like
they should be playing hockey for England. Which reminds me of the
hockey story in Butcher Baker Undertaker. I explain that I know the Boss
so long we both had brown hair, 32 years ago, when the boss only had 2
kids not the 6 he’s finished with. I know him so long I remember when he
used a spoon to carve away at the old furniture shop next door.
I
realise I am not embarrassing my sparring partner enough, so as I look
around the spruced up shop .I add, did you find the footage of me and
the Boss French kissed just by the checkout. Just burn it all in the
shopping trolley in the back yard. Make sure you don’t miss any bit. I
pay for my milk and bread, safe in the knowledge that the Boss will be
the talk of the Temple for at least a week.
As
I leave I spot another new staff member, I lean in to him as he works
on his clip board. On second thoughts, don’t burn that footage of me
French Kissing by the soft drinks, with the Indian owner. Just blow it
up to poster size and stick to the side of the store. This will prove
the store is Gay friendly, and encourage the gay pound. With that I
left the store, with my milk and break swinging in the plastic bag by my
side. As for the owner he is going into semi-retirement, which could
just mean working 40 hours a week instead of 95. Either way I wish him
well, maybe he should sponsor the hockey team, they could have Shop with
Smile as a logo.
Dominus Vobiscum ©
By
Michael Casey
I
woke up this morning and Dominus Vobiscum popped into my mind, as I
got dressed I wondered where did that come from. As I wrapped my
dressing gown around me I was still wondering, and now an hour or so
later the thought is still with me. I’ve had my breakfast with my
morning Meds, and I’ve had my usual look at my viewing figures and a
quick look at the morning papers. So I’ve had too much time to think of
this or that way to talk about it. As I had my toast and coffee and
looked out the kitchen window in that minute the piece was written. A
minute is enough for the scaffolding to form, I then just peg the story
too it. I am that quick, or that rubbish.
So
why has Dominus Vobiscum come to mind, maybe because I need it, maybe
because we all need it, and not just because it is Sunday. Though the
Muslim majority of believers have a saying, they are the majority if
you count bums on seats or knees of floor. Muslims say Peace be Upon
you, and Jewish people say Shalom. So we each have a saying or a praise
that begins our day or prayers. The absolute majority have no faith
whatsoever, and let’s not pretend otherwise, we may be a nation of
shopkeepers but the Faith has long gone. Which may be why Britain is a
great place to live in despite the Media’s obsession with Brexit. As
there is not the hypocrisy of faith that happens in manner places, pick
your own.
Dominus
Vobiscum is of course Latin, and I am just old enough to remember it in
Mass before the English replaced the Latin. Some people hark back to
the Latin, because you could turn up anywhere in the world and
understand or rather say the words you recognized in Latin. Though
common sense would say let people listen in their own languages, wasn’t
the first thing the Gift of Tongues after all. Then you get arguments
over this or that and which form of words to use, thus forgetting the
Word.
Nowadays
pop songs are the lingua franca, nobody knows any holy words of any
kind, in some places you have the holy mafia, pick your own faith and
location. It’s up to you to find you own path to God, I am no signpost,
I’m not even mud on the signpost. It’s better if you grow up with a
Faith, because when times are hard you have something to lean on, and it
can even save your life. Reach out and I’ll be there, to quote one
famous song, it’s the same with faith. Though immediately I’m criticized
for using such a phrase, frankly people who have such a shallow
interpretation of faith, any faith have no faith at all. Discuss.
As
usual I’ve got music playing as I talk to you, you cannot hear it but
it permeates everything I write, conscientiously or unconscientiously,
that’s how certain words or phrases might appear. There was a music, a
tone in the Latin Mass, and speaking as an altar boy for 8 years and a
reader for 5 it was fun all the smoke and dressing up. But the basic
thing has to be the words. A missionary has not got all these trappings,
but he does have something of a much greater power, he has the faith of
the congregation. It is the congregation who provide the juice, they
are the electricity and energy and faith. Listen to any Shona choir if
you don’t believe me.
Now
where has it gone wrong? You have some priests who forget they are just
the signposts to God, and yes some people have to accept they are just
mud on the signpost. They need to be humble, not arrogant. Be a signpost
and point, let the people sing their praise, as to sing is to doubly
praise. Literal songs and metaphorical singing. When the priest is in
the way, and when the priest is corrupt in any way, the priests should
be caste out into the wilderness immediately. This applies to all faiths
and politics too.
1000
years ago Francis was told to Repare mi Casa, today the same thing
needs to be urgently done in the catholic church again, by today’s
Francis. I have visited Assisi and you could feel the electricity of
faith there, I’ve also felt the same thing in Lourdes. There are many
other holy places the world over, they are powerhouses of love and
faith. Or so they should be. If the love and faith is being corrupted
then it’s time to start anew. It is time to Repare mi Casa all the
houses of god everywhere. Dominus Vobiscum.
Gentle Helping ©
By
Michael Casey
As
you know I’m an Altruist, which isn’t anything to do with climbing
mountains or any altitudes, though it is about helping others reach the
heights. A dad will put his toddler on his shoulders so that the child
can feel 6 feet tall, this allows the child to feel just as tall as dad
and gives the child a great view. So if you like that is what I do, I am
just a pair of shoulders. As I write this suddenly and unexpectedly I
tear up as the Americans say. This is my dad I’m talking about and I am
just a pale reflection of him.
So that’s why I am the way I am, I am my father’s son, and that is all I ever want to be. Anything else is 2nd rate
compared to that. I can feel the story shifting as I type as I talk,
such power overwhelms me, just the memory of Love. When I wrote Big Sid
the butcher, HE was just a character on the page, a simple man who loved
children and was a butcher. When I finished writing The Butcher The
Baker and The Undertaker I realised the Love inside the character was my
own dad. It was in me, so it was in him, or as my dad would say it’s in
the breed. If you meet the Casey Clan in Kerry my dad’s words ring out,
it’s in the breed. The Love and Family is there just as Blackpool is
in the middle of a stick of rock.
Now
how does anybody help? They show, they encourage, they shout, but
through it all there is love. You might be so shy you would die rather
than ask a girl out. Then your bear of a friend will push you into her
arms literally, or your sister will ask you both to help with the
washing up. And that bottle of Fairy should be invited to your wedding.
Small little things can change lives, picking up a magazine on a train,
or overhearing a few stray words of conversation.
We
do of course have talent shows, and some are good and some are bad, and
some are dire. We had the Hairy Angel from Scotland who became an
international star, but then we also had boring people who wanted so
much more than their 15 mins of fame as Andy Wahol predicted we’d all
have. So the thing is, how should people be helped, and should you make
it compulsory. We have diversity this and diversity that, and even I
must know what your Social Class is. The only question that should be
asked is do you have any class at all. You have or you haven’t got
style as sung in Robin and the 7 hoods https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EjgNfhTZBrI
I
am not interested if you are gay or straight, it really is boring if
all you can talk about is who you sleep with. I don’t care if you sleep
with a donkey, actually only Catherine the great from Russia did
something like that allegedly. I don’t care if you are fatter than me,
or as thin as a rake, or any colour found in a rainbow. I just don’t
want to be bored by where you came from it’s where you are going that
matters.
Gentle
helping everybody, loving their neighbour as thyself is the thing,
though Barry would take that literally and learn how to escape over
rooftops, need I say more. Yes, give everybody a chance, but please
please please NO POLITICS PLEASE, Class Warfare should be left in the
dustbin of history. There are too many personality cults following
“leaders” the world over, when really we should all stand up and
proclaim that the Emperor has no clothes.
Laugh
and mock their stupid ideas, let’s get back to what is the base for
everything. Your mum and dad, even if mum and dad are somebody who you’d
prefer really were your mum and dad. We don’t need corrupt people
telling us they are so great for us, what’s happening in Trump’s America
beggars belief, a thief has stolen the presidency. Over here in UK, we
have 3rd rate light weights telling us all we MUST do this and we must do that.
What
we need is common sense, which is of far greater value than lots of
university degrees, common sense and a guiding hand. In my 3 years at
CPNEC Birmingham hotel I was lucky because I had Phil on Security as
well as the lads Roger and Jim to help me along until I could fly, and
in a 4 star deluxe hotel you do fly around. Taz the security manager
also made sure I did the job, till he could trust me. It really was a
very steep learning curve, but once I was in the groove I excelled, and
did 10 different roles simultaneously. So maybe in this life all we
need is a family, one where we live, and one where we work, and then
because it was OUR hotel people loved to come back. Why because they
felt at home there. And that was because we all helped each other climb
on each other’s shoulders.
The Fall ©
By Michael Casey
In
the Fall the leaves fall down, over here we call it Autumn. Weather
changes and aches and pains grow, Arthritis grips you again after a
Summer break. Now as the damp grows outside, inside your body aches,
it’s the merry-go-round of pain. But at least the Summer was good.
Life
has its seasons too. We begin all virgin and pure, but then you see
that Chinese girl’s photo, and when you finally her it’s too late, it’s
a Fatal attraction. Why she likes ginger boys with weak facial hair
neither of you know, it’s just an attraction. She’s never had a
boyfriend, and when the ginger smiled it was too much for her, ginger
snaps, changed her life. She fell for you, and it was her Fall. The
ignominy and shame back home, she was a A student but she threw it all
away for a ginger guitar player from a rock band. And he wasn’t even
Chinese, in fact he could not even speak a word of Mandarin, all he knew
was one cheeky catch phrase that the man from the noodle bar had taught
him. Xi Ni Di Pigu. Don’t forget to wash your bum.
Now
she was no longer pure and probably pregnant, wasting her life on a
ginger, a rock guitarist at that. 24 carrot stupidity. She was so
relieved when she discovered she was not pregnant, though no longer
pure. That she jumped straight back into bed with him, Chinese people do
like to be the best at everything. So she became the best at these
matters. But she was indeed by then pregnant, and all the ginger could
still say was Xi Ni Di Pigu.
Her
Fall was complete, 24 and pregnant, the shame back home. She felt so
bad she began to wail, and the ginger just recorded her wailing. As she
wailed he improvised on his guitar and she wailed the more and screamed
at him, but then she sung a song of remorse. The song went one for an
hour and as she sung he played along. Outside there was banging on the
door, maybe the ghost of Michael Jackson trying to get in. Finally all
was silent.
Regularly
as the pregnancy progress the Chinese girl wailed and her ginger boy
played along on his guitar. By the time they were days away from the
birth the song, an album length song was complete. At the birth her
recorded too, but his guitar was banished. Do you forgive me Linda Lu
for taking your innocence away and giving you a little ginger Chinese
baby boy? She slapped his face hard, as hard as the baby’s bottom had
been slapped. Then smiled, but she had wanted a girl so they’d have to
go through all this performance again till she got her girl.
The
ginger wonder had a friend in Korea who had a radio station, so he
persuaded him to play his album on the radio station. It debuted between
3am and 4am on Korea Seoul Sound FM368, for some strange reason the
Korean audience loved it. It finished with the sound of a baby being
born, and a slap. The next night it was played again, and for a whole
week night owls heard the hypnotic singing of a pregnant Chinese girl
with her ginger wonder playing guitar.
Now
the Gangham Style guy just could not sleep, even after reading Michael
Casey online, he stumbled on the Chinese girl and the ginger wonder on
the radio. And the rest as they say is History. Hong Kong wanted to know
why they had not heard this girl first, Shanghai followed then Beijing.
A ripple effect followed, The Fall of a Chinese girl with Ginger
guitar, was a massive hit. The slap at the end was parents favorite bit,
she should have slapped him first and then there would have been no
wailing and indeed no baby.
Linda
Lu was so happy and rich thanks to the radio exposure, and as for the
ginger wonder. Well ginger became a baker, though he never played the
drums, it was just that he always put things in the oven. They went on
to have 8 children, as 8 is a lucky Chinese number. Their last child
they called Michael, because sometimes the smallest child can have the
biggest adventures.
Playing with toys and other hobbies ©
By
Michael Casey
Some
would say that Writing is my hobby, but that would be a cruel thing to
say, it’s much more important to me than that. It’s not as important as
breathing to me, I’m not pretentious after all, though some of you may
be smiling. What I’m going to talk about tonight are others’ hobbies. I
came to this choice as I’ve been having a relaxing day playing with
stuff.
When
a daughter gets a new phone a dad gets the old phone, even though he
can barely understand how to use it, and his pork sausage fingers are
too big to press and hold and keys or swipe things. And how does the
swipe work anyway? It’s Black Magic. If you are very old you will
remember Black Magic chocolates, though in today’s world it would be
politically incorrect to use such word combinations. And then trading
standards would complain because the description on the box was
misleading, Harry Potter would complain.
Which
brings me to what I’ve been doing today, I’ve been using the old phone
as a music player. If you get a cheap HD chip you can backup your music
collection to phone and then you have a high quality music player that
has cost you nothing. Apart from the cost of a new phone that your
daughter just had to have or she’d die of shame. Which means that you
the dad have her old junk. But it’s still 10 times better that than
brick the dad’s phone you use at present.
So
more by luck than judgement or any skill whatsoever you blunder your
way through the buttons or swipes. In anger you hurl it at the wall, and
only then does the back come off, so you can insert you 2.99 30gig HD
card inside. You thought 2.99 was robbery for such a tiny fingernail
clipping. But it can store your lifetime of Barry Manilow albums, along
with all your guilty musical secrets. So all you have to do now is to
get the computer to recognise your old phone.
Two
hours and 3 beer later you have worked it out, you did have to give 1/2
a glass of Stella Artois to your daughter’s gay best friend, he
explained it in 10 seconds, and even pressed the right buttons on your
windows 10 computer. He refused any more Stella Artois, as he did not
want his mother to think his best friend’s dad was a drunken old sot,
plying with drink. So now it was action stations. You can transfer all
the Barry Manilow and Glad Rock onto your finger nail sized chip. So
with Queen playing in the background, We Will Rock You, Rock You you
start the xfers.
Only
you drag and drop to the wrong place and end up having copies of copies
of copies all over your hard drive. So you have to go and get a kebab
to fortify you as you plod through all your music files tidying up. What
you really need is a digital sheep dog that will guide your music
collection onto the fingernail. A disc drive used to be as big as a
washing machine I’ll have you know you drunkenly intone at the phone as
the icon flashes at the bottom of the screen.
A
competent person would have sorted all this in an hour, even with so
much Jim Reeves and all his darlings, and musical leftovers galore. But a
dad, well a dad takes forever, and as any economist will tell you. Work
expands to fit the time available. Rather like foreplay I imagine. Then
end result is children, which complete the circle because it is they
who gave you the old phone in the first place. And dos its sound any
good? Yes a HD chip in an old phone does sound great. Though when the
local dustman heard it, he did offer throw it in the back of his bin
wagon, as he strode about with his Apple wireless in his ear as he
emptied the bins.
It’s
all a question of taste and style, I still have a Toblerone shape
speaker from the 1960s in the corner of my living room. My brothers
listen to it when they were trying for Oxford and Cambridge. It still
sounds great to my ears so I’m saving it, just in case anybody wants to
swap it for an Apple thingy, or some other fruit. Though Oranges could
be suggestive, suggestive of what I do not know. I am just an ordinary
dad trying to salvage something for himself from his kids junk. I’ll
finish now, I just remembered I need to trim my fingernails, I wonder
could I use them as HD chips?
Confidence ©
By Michael Casey
I
was watching 100 Days Plus on the BBC when they had an item on self-
harm, new figures out today really are shocking. Katty in Washington
made some observations, so tonight I’m going to make a few of my own.
The problem seems to be more with teenage girls than any other strata of
people. I have met a few girls who self-harmed when I was working at
various places, you can see marks on their arms or other places, from
blades or elastic bands. It is heartbreaking to see, and now that I am a
dad to daughters I really thank God that they will never go down that
road of pain and sadness.
It
mentioned social media on tonight’s report, and this is where social
media can turn from a good to an evil. If you are naïve and don’t have
all of the material goods and looks then you may self-harm because you
are not perfect and don’t have all the toys everybody else has. That’s
the basic message and sad reality of today’s world. So I’m going to
debunk that for all you girls and maybe boys out there.
First
of all, you are loved, you are loved by God just as you are. I know
most may not believe in any God nowadays, well maybe in England. But if
you don’t believe in any God, make up an imaginary friend who will
always love you. If you like cut a picture out of a magazine and that
image is the one who loves you. It can be anything you like, create your
own parents if you like. Obviously its better if you have real parents
or a granny or an aunty. But if there is nobody then make somebody up.
Or have TED like in the film.
I
hope you are smiling already. My mother told me when I was 4 or 5 that I
was as good as anybody else, and I’ve always believed. My eldest
brother is 8 years older than me, so when he went to Queens Oxford, I
just assumed at age 10 that I was just as smart. So maybe a bit of
self-delusion is great for your confidence, though I am not stupid, I
just pretend to be. If you really are very smart people will hate you or
just be jealous, so you need to be wise enough to get them to like you.
By helping with homework, though if you are smart you get paid in
chocolate for your brains. It’s about getting a balance. If you have a
talent then share it, it’s like a mustard seed and you will be rewarded
1000 fold.
Obviously as I am large, 13 stones in 3rd year,
is that Year 9, and as strong as man then, obviously that’s weak
compared to Boris, Lech and Gregorgi my Slav friends. But it meant
nobody would ever bully me, so if you are small make friends with a big
person. If you still have no confidence then Pray, put a picture of the
Virgin Mary under your pillow for a few years. It really does work. As
Bertha down the Legion if you don’t believe me, or Stormy Daniels my
pole dancing friend, I have friends everywhere. Or am I just a liar, or a
storyteller?
If
you can make people laugh then they will look after you. But what if
you think you are too slim, or too fat, or too stupid, and a whole
hosts of excuses. I thought nobody would ever have me, but my mother
said Love will Conquer all. And she as right. Don’t be in a hurry to
find or want love, but don’t wait as long as me. Why do you think when I
write the prettiest of girls fall for the man with the limp, or his
mate the bloke with stutter. In Tears for a Butcher twin sisters fall
for the draymen, and when they are mocked, Bettie and Annie scream Don’t
mock him, he’s my future husband. And then they use their martial arts
skills on the mocking men. But that’s in the future.
But
it’s true, a girl wants somebody who’ll stick around, not become a
notch on his bedpost. Humour works as does having a few words to talk
about anything, just read a bit and have a bit of conversation.
Confidence is all about Loving Yourself, never hate yourself, and if
anybody makes my girls cry they will never forget my reaction. YOU are
loved, by your dad, by your mom, by the collage of a dad you created,
but you are loved and always will be. With my dying breath I will say,
forgive me if I wasn’t a good enough dad, but I will always love you. I
may start singing a Celine Dion song as I die with a smile on my lips.
Never
surrender to self-doubt. If you want to hurt something then keep a
special teddy you can punch or throw about, let the anger out, let it
all out and give it to the teddy. Or if you are Canadian join an
ice-hockey team, but let those emotions out, and you stay serene, ground
yourself, have a binge on chocolate, any diet can be resumed. Just let
any pain out, scream at the sea, talk to the bleeding wall. Watch
Paddington over and over again. But when you’ve had the controlled
tantrum you can go downstairs and cuddle up with mum and dad, or the
picture on the wall and watch Twilight for the 50th time.
Confidence
is knowing you’ll never be Katty Kay on the BBC, but you will be just
as poised, as self-assured when you reach 35 too. You may never be a
journalist like her, but you will be dying people’s hair just like that
Katty on the BBC, and you will have a chain of beauty salons. Because
you believe in yourself, and your dad did save you from that bad one,
and dad raided his pension so you could open your first salon. But you
did repay him 10 times over, and was it Fate or your confidence that
attracted that sailor to you, Christian, and yes he does look like that
bloke off the tv, you know Katty’s 2nd assistant. Confidence in the end is love.
As ever I return to Music, Surreal Version(c)
By
Michael Casey
If
you have been reading my stuff for a while then you will know that I
like a bit of music, sometimes I listen till dawn before I am able to
sleep so it is great company. As is the BBC World service which plays in
the Radio4 slot during the night time hours.
I've
found a stack of stuff online so I'll be listening to that, my own
record collection is mainly 80s and 90s so the newer stuff will be a bit
more varied. Or it will be the remastered versions of my old stuff,
marriage and kids put paid to having any new CDs decades ago. So
online free stuff, with or without annoying adverts is what I'll be
listening to.
Timberlake
is of course great, even if he did steal all my dance steps. Stealing
from a 248 pound dancer such as I, has Timberlake got no shame? I'll
hide my mirror, next time he'll have to dance without his own reflection
there to help and guide him. You just watch him stumble, as if I tied
his shoelaces together.
Seal
is dancing outside, can you hear him rapping on my front door. Snoop
has taken my dog for a walk, so Pink is making pancakes for us all, such
a nice girl, and a great pancake maker. As for Lionel Richie he is of
no use whatsoever, he just dances all over my ceiling. Adele is just
crying in the corner, she hasn't mastered how to switch on my washing
machine. When my Musical Heroes come around they could at least be
helpful. The Corrs just hang around on the corner outside, just making
rude gestures through my window, and I thought they were such nice
girls. Though they could just be gesturing how many cups of tea they
need, I really must get my eyes tested.
The
Queen is coming later on, or did they say May come later, I cannot
keep up they speak so fast. I told him the stars look so great from my
garden, so May said he'd come, he is an astrologer now, he has a PhD
now in Aston Villa, or Astro Turf, of Astrophysics or something with an
astro in, or was it Aston Martin, they earn so much money after all.
Why don't they all just take the bus. And look at the stars from the top
deck of the number 11.
Seal
is singing that I'm his baby, and I'll still be loved. That's so nice,
he's such a caring man. But enough of him, he's dancing in the corner
with Theresa May. She is of course Brian May's secret sister, they were
split at birth you know. When Theresa was dancing in Africa what she
really was doing was pretending to be her brother strumming on his
guitar, that's why she didn't move much she was afraid of falling over
the invisible electrical cable. She could have been in Queen too but she
got lost on the way to the audition, Geography was never her strong
point.
So
she became leader of the Tories instead, she could have been in the
Darkness instead with the tight leotards and the high pitch singing.
Instead she watches Black Rod enviously, the way he twirls his stick
would remind you of dear old Freddie. It reminds her of Freddie Truman,
the cricket legend, Theresa's musical education does need a bit of
help. Which reminds me to the Commons' Disco. Frank has left the Field
tonight to set up the coconut shy, where you can throw white feathers at
photos of various politicians. Something to do with moral cowardice I
believe.
But
what music will they play for Politicians? Stand By your Man, and Don't
Take your Love to Town are perennial favorites for Politicians. As is
The Politician by Cream. Abba's The Winner Takes it All is also a firm
Political favorite, along with The Windmills of your Mind, as nobody can
ever explain where the latest White Elephant came from. Too much time
spent in cheap bars, no not in sleazy parts, just in the Commons bars.
Seal
is still singing, he needs a bit of help so I'm going to give him a bit
of help now, then maybe he can fly like an eagle and avoid flying into
the sea. And speaking of sea, where do seagulls from the seaside go for
their holidays? BIRMINGHAM and we are the furthest spot from sea. Hang
on Totoro my cat has spotted a seagull she may just launch herself from
the garden fence.
I
have to peel the potatoes for tomorrow's dinner now, and I have to
harvest the rice from our paddy field outside, fresh food is a must for a
Shanghai/Birmingham family. Seal, can you stop the dad dancing and I'll
show you some really cool moves, so if ever you bump into Obama or
Opera, the Double Os as they call themselves, then you can show them
both how to dance. Irish dancing is the the only way to dance, I'll even
lend you my old tights.
Hey
you Corrs come off that street corner and come on over, and bring
Shania too, we've got some jigging to do, the maybe Seal can finally
regain his street cred, and be good enough to dance with Theresa May at
the Commons Ball at Frank's Fields.
Teasing ©
By
Michael Casey
I
wanted to write something new but although I have a load of
possibilities I could share I don’t want to share them with you yet. Am I
actually teasing you all already? I do have a load of ideas and they
are fresh but I’m not ready to share them with you yet. So as I pondered
what to give you, like a mother wanting to save the cake will the
weekend, or until Christmas, when I realized I could talk about teasing.
So that’s what’s on the menu tonight, 2nd Sept
2018 a Sunday if any of you are collating my word. You must be so sad
if that’s all you have to do. Go out find a girl and make love, or adopt
a dog and take it for a walk, but staying home in front of the computer
reading what Michael Casey the fat silver haired writer in shades from
Birmingham, the one in England is up to? Or is that the ultimate chat u
line, I have read all of his words in 16 books on Amazon? You must get a
better hobby for yourself, watch paint dry. Though we have a new Polish
friend called Carol who watches a lot of paint drying, but he is a
decorator.
Ok,
so while you are here, share those French Saint Michel biscuits from
Marseilles, they really are nice, stop don’t take them upstairs, leave
me some. I’m talking to my girls we just got those biscuits from my
brother who has just returned from Marseilles. No he’s not a sailor, in
the French Navy, though he does wear bell bottoms, they are back in
fashion after all. These are the normal family arguments when fresh
treats arrive in the house.
What
will you do for me if I give you a biscuit? I won’t spit at you is the
reply as a gob full of spit is prepared ready to spray over a sibling.
This was our family life in the 1960s. One of my brother was really good
at spitting so you never teased him about biscuits or he’d spit at you.
He was a great shot and long distance too, and oh so accurate too. He
was also great at dribbling food down the front of his jumper too.
Losing things was his forte too, mum used to say “he’d lose his arse if
it wasn’t tied on to him”.
As
children we love teasing each other, where is your little sister? And
you’d make the others guess, and say were they hot or cold as they
searched the house for her. In the end she was stuffed into a cupboard
or wedged under one of those old steel beds with exposed springs
underneath.
Teasing
is fun, the teased person goes mad, of feels as if they are being
tickled, or had banged their elbow or coccyx so it hurts but makes them
laugh simultaneously. As a child you are so excited you may even pee
yourself, until you find out were we really really getting a dog. Don’t
tease the child I can remember my dad saying to my brothers and sisters.
Then he’d buy me an ice cream to calm my tears, and that’s why I was
called the Pet. I repaid him when he was an old man by the years of
sitting by his side.
I
like to tease but do hate being teased. I’ll just curse and walk away
if anybody attempts to tease me, they have no sport of the target moves
away. Though lovers enjoy the teasing, it’s almost a form of foreplay,
have you bought me that house, or where did you hide my red pen, I have
to mark all those horrid students’ exams. Where did you hide the Stella
Artois, I’m desperate for a drink. If you give me the Stella Artois
I’ll give you the red pens. So a trade is done and as you get merry your
girl marks the exams.
When
she is finished you offer her your body, your fat and hairy body. She
says she’s decided to leave you and become a Lesbian. So you do a strip
tease and stand defiant, can your lesbian give you this. You girl looks
at you and laughs, stealing your Stella Artois she has a well-deserved
drink. Then she marks your body with her red pen, putting numbers, marks
out of ten on various parts of your body.
Only
what she does not realise is that those new pens from Amazon are the
never fade variety for teachers. The Stella Artois is finished and there
is only one thing left to do, yes she has to prove that the marks
allotted are justified. So you go to bed. And yes she did not use all
her pen on all your body. Though in the morning as you sleep she writes A
minus on your behind, then she heads for the shower. You join her in
the shower, and she teases that the ink never fades. To your horror you
discover she is right, she was not teasing, you bought those pens as a
token of love for your love, now you are all marked up. You are an ass,
an A minus ass.
The Power of Words, The Power of Prayer ©
By
Michael Casey
I hope that does not sound too pretentious, or as the saying goes, pretentious moi? It’s been a funny old day, I had to get up due to the chest pain that had descended, so as every I went on the computer to distract myself. I spotted something and as it hit a nerve I sent an email to the writer, whether he hates me or sees my point is too early to say. But the issue involves Prayer, so I was then using the Power of my words to try and make my point.
Later on I had an official email reply to something I’d been chasing up, and the answer was not to my liking so I fired off my 2nd missive of the day. You should remember you may think I am a clapped out old fat guy with immaculate sliver hair, though I still feel young and virile, at least in my imagination, I still get looks you know. It’s all a question of prospective you know, and that reminds me I did write about Prospective years ago. So I annoyed and upset the people who sent me the email, but I’d say they deserved it.
If you claim to do customer service then do it well, don’t just write it on the letterhead. Remember I may carry a donkey called pain, and smell like one, but I do carry a loaded pen, and with a pen you can change the world. Look what the Evangelists did, in fact I used to joke I would only ever write 4 books, but obviously their Agent is more powerful than mine, in fact I don’t have one.
So much for the power of words, words do have strength and you can blackmail people with your words, or browbeat them, though at the end of the session it will be you who gets thrown out. However sidestepping the news, the never ending news we have the tragic news here in England about a mother and news reader for the BBC who is dying of breast cancer. As you know I am a news junkie, so when I read about this in the Press I was sadden like all of you reading this are.
So this is where I can ask you all to heed the power of my words as I ask you all to use the power of your prayer for this mother who will soon be leaving her family. No more words of mine are good enough, but we can all say a silent prayer for this mother and BBC news reader. Just send our strength and love to her and her family, positive thoughts of love to a stranger, though we may never meet, we lay our prayers for her at God’s feet.
By
Michael Casey
I hope that does not sound too pretentious, or as the saying goes, pretentious moi? It’s been a funny old day, I had to get up due to the chest pain that had descended, so as every I went on the computer to distract myself. I spotted something and as it hit a nerve I sent an email to the writer, whether he hates me or sees my point is too early to say. But the issue involves Prayer, so I was then using the Power of my words to try and make my point.
Later on I had an official email reply to something I’d been chasing up, and the answer was not to my liking so I fired off my 2nd missive of the day. You should remember you may think I am a clapped out old fat guy with immaculate sliver hair, though I still feel young and virile, at least in my imagination, I still get looks you know. It’s all a question of prospective you know, and that reminds me I did write about Prospective years ago. So I annoyed and upset the people who sent me the email, but I’d say they deserved it.
If you claim to do customer service then do it well, don’t just write it on the letterhead. Remember I may carry a donkey called pain, and smell like one, but I do carry a loaded pen, and with a pen you can change the world. Look what the Evangelists did, in fact I used to joke I would only ever write 4 books, but obviously their Agent is more powerful than mine, in fact I don’t have one.
So much for the power of words, words do have strength and you can blackmail people with your words, or browbeat them, though at the end of the session it will be you who gets thrown out. However sidestepping the news, the never ending news we have the tragic news here in England about a mother and news reader for the BBC who is dying of breast cancer. As you know I am a news junkie, so when I read about this in the Press I was sadden like all of you reading this are.
So this is where I can ask you all to heed the power of my words as I ask you all to use the power of your prayer for this mother who will soon be leaving her family. No more words of mine are good enough, but we can all say a silent prayer for this mother and BBC news reader. Just send our strength and love to her and her family, positive thoughts of love to a stranger, though we may never meet, we lay our prayers for her at God’s feet.
Leftovers or I am a Dustbin ©
By
Michael Casey
My
daughter has a big table behind me to do her work on, she’s doing her A
Levels in 2019, and as ever she has left a load of junk on it. So like
any good dad I have tidied up after her, ok, I’ve scavenged to see if I
can find anything useful. I found the sweets first, followed by a scrap
of paper that has turned out to be 2 pieces of chewing gum, if the roles
were reversed the scrap of paper could have contained my snot neatly
bundled up. What, you are disgusted? I bet you never wiped your snot on
walls as a child, you were perfect weren’t you?
Back
to this perfect dad, I never knew they did mini boxes of Celebrations,
I’ve just found one amongst the rubble, so I’m celebrating myself. It’s
always good to find unexpected chocolate, it’s like a kiss, always
welcomed, not unless it’s a Glasgow Kiss, which is slang for a
head-butt. I’m chewing the gum now, but I have to be careful or the
chocolate will stick to it. Bits of bounty bar stuck to chewing gum can
be tricky, but I can multi-task, I bet you are all impressed, maybe I’ll
write a poem about it later, I am a poet as well you know.
What
else was on the desk behind me, well the bag itself said Celebrate on
it, so I’ve folded the bad and saved it, ok I’ve stuck it down the side
of the bookcase in the corner. I can reuse it for one of the family
Birthdays or Christmases, I am an original recycler, ok I’m a whore,
sorry I mistyped, I am a hoarder. Why throw away when you can use again.
Or is that being a whore after all, I know you all have your own
opinions about me, that’s why there are no comments allowed on my sites,
just send me an amusing email. Tell me you have a goat that eats grass,
and you save the money to buy apple trees, then you get drunk on
scrumpy and cannot remember where you are. Which sounds like me in the
middle of a story, but I always get to the end of a page.
My
daughter also has a nice new note book on the study table behind me, it
has scripture verses at the top of each page. It was a reward for pole
climbing with the vicar. Perhaps I should exclaim, she and others had
to climb poles, not Poles, she had to climb a telegraph pole and jump
onto a trapeze thing. I think she was going to run away and join the
crew in Madagascar, they say travel broadens the mind after all. Ok, for
those of you who could be confused it was an outward bound trip for
young leaders.
Me
and my other daughter enjoyed the quiet while big sister was being a
lumberjack, as for the vicar he had to rush back to do a wedding, there
is no rest for the wicked and journalists. Our vicar Paul, used to be a
journalist, my priest is an Editor, freelance, and yes I am just so very
annoying. You are all so cruel. Go listen to every episode of Around
the Horne, it may educate you, calling me annoying. I’m just fat and
silver haired and wearing shades and I’m from Birmingham, the one in
ENGLAND.
What
else did I find amongst the rubbish, a piece of string with knots in, I
thought it was a DIY Rosary beads but the vicar is with the opposition,
so I assume there was no tv so the teenagers made knots to pass the
time. Prayer beads of any kind are always good, I speak from experience.
I’ve just looked back and the desk is far tidier now. Little miss just
complained about the loss of chocolate, but if you leave mess and
chocolate unattended for 4 days what do you expect? Dads have to do
tough love too, if there is chocolate a dad will just have to force
himself to eat it, am I right dads?
Well
this chewing gum is beginning to lose its flavour, maybe I should leave
it on my daughter’s bedpost, you remember the song after all? So all in
all please don’t leave rubbish lying around, your old dad may fall over
it. And if it’s mum who is tidying up the dustmen will have everything,
Tidy or Throw is her motto, and Throw is her preferred option. So
children you have all been warned. Sometimes though I think I am related
to Rupert Murdoch, well his Sky tv is always on about recycling,
perhaps Rupert could recycle my words into tv programmes, I am so very
cheap after all.
Dark Again ©
By Michael Casey
If
any of you have wondered where I’ve been, well your favorite writer, I
stole the idea from somebody, I’ve been stealing things off the
President’s desk. Luckily I can teleport into the janitor’s cupboard
next to the Oval Office, where they keep a plentiful supply of toilet
paper for the President.
And
if you believe that then you know just who wrote that OpEd in the NYT, I
have guessed already, but I’m not sharing that exclusive. It’s much
more fun if we all keep on guessing. But in the end The Truth will Out.
Can USA survive 2,4,6 or 8 years of Trump telling LIES, it’s up to the
USA, but if you don’t even bother to vote and only 50% do vote, then
it’s your own fault, as your mother will tell you. In UK we get 75% for
General Elections.
But
I’ve digressed as usual, I do enjoy my Politics but I do detest liars
to the nth degree. As to why I say I’ve gone Dark Again, well the wifi
provider has cut us off too early. Yes, we are finally moving house, so
we’ll be switching, but my present wifi company has cut me off far too
early. I’m waiting for them to contact me, which will be interesting if
they have cut the wifi and maybe even the phone. The local clairvoyant
just drove past maybe I should have asked her opinion.
It’s
as if I’m in a church, swinging my legs as I sit on the bench, we never
used the word Pew, pew was for Protestants, I’m trying to think of the
actual word, maybe we just said seat. In those days the crowd was so big
that we had drop down chairs at the end of each bench, we had 4 priests
too. Then Irish priests went to the missions in Africa, now Africans
come to England to be our priests.
So
I could be at a loss as to how to pass the time, but I can still talk
to you all, and save the posting to my sites till when my wifi returns.
You know when your best friend visits from Australia, and you have only 3
weeks to catch up on 30 years of stories. So I’ll have the stories
ready and then you can all take your time with the reading. Speaking of
reading, Russia seems to like my stories at the moment, not unless the
local library is shut or out of Tolstoy. So they are reading me instead.
What
else can I do, I can continue throwing out stuff that won’t make it to
the new house, we’ve sent a lot of the girls’ clothes away to the
Charity shop, and to passing strangers as they passed the old house,
saves me carrying them to the charity shop. There is a darkness of the
spirit as you leave one house and go to another. The Love, the Life
migrates from one place to another, will you miss the old house? Some
do, as there are so many memories, good and bad. For me there are many
sad things that happened in the old house, but the good outweighs the
bad. I’ve spent ½ my life so far, at the old house, but it is time to
move on.
The
love is in you, not in any place, in the average house there is no
spirit left once the owners leave. In a church maybe, but in your bog
standard house nothing is left once the people are gone. The same goes
for places of employment, it’s never wise to go back, time has moved on
and you are forgotten. Like they say, never meet your heroes. You will
always be disappointed, it’s always better to keep the memory as it is,
otherwise you’ll destroy the memory as well.
Well
I’ve had a salmon wrap for my dinner, it’s supposed to be good for you,
is there any more to say about going dark? Well it does make you
realise how important wifi is, and how nowadays we are all so dependent
on it, for entertainment, communication and shopping. When my girls
come home from school they will probably turn tail and visit friends.
I’ll just laugh until evening time and then I’ll not be able to watch
any films. So I’ll have to see what is on Freeview, there is a good
selection, but they rotate too slowly.
Conversation
will return when wifi is broken, though my wife has lots of mobile data
so she’ll just laugh, wifi does not affect her as much as the rest of
us. Though Totoro our cat may be spoiled more as we’ll all have more
time for her, when she is not stealing from the local takeaway. Cats
have no scruples, if ever we have a new cat I think I shall call it
Trump.
Pantomime Panic ©
By Michael Casey
As
you all know I love stories, I’ve followed stories all my life, going
back to watching the tv with my dad over 50 years ago. I cannot believe
as the final curtain is now perhaps a sniff away, that people still
believe what they want to believe, and will deny the obvious. Reality is
banished by Fantasy, and please don’t tell us the Truth, we are
enjoying this self-delusion because we enjoy the transitory joys of
money, in fact we love money. In fact let us build and worship a Golden
Calf.
Pluto
flashed by, melted ice dripping from him, Einstein was a lap dancer
drinking the ice dripping from Pluto, as Pluto sped past. Snow White was
an alcoholic waitress drinking seven drinks at a time. The Wicked
Witch of the West was a spy for the East, clicking those red shoes
together. The fat boy said he was really slim and people believed him,
they were too busy watching the kneeing game. Sport was still king and
people bet on it, as everything else was fake. Reality was Fake, and
nobody trusted it.
Sport
was supposed to knock down walls, and build pride in Team and Country,
but there was more money to be made in building walls, so let’s build
them Higher and Higher, let’s touch the surface of the moon rather than
talk to one another. His faith is not my faith, his colour is not my
colour, his difference is not my mirror. Let’s just hate one another,
let’s have an arms race of hate.
Goebbels
smiles approvingly from Hell, is you just repeat it often enough,
people will be hypnotized by the Lie. Their own Love of Money, is the
root to all their evil. Nobody will stand up to the new Emperor nobody
will dare say he has no clothes. They have too much to lose, and the
first thing they lose is their Pride, and when pride is lost a Fall
surely follows.
Darkness
falls across the Land, John is crying, though he spoke nobly from
beyond his grave. The Keystone Cops are what the emperor requires, the
cardboard cutouts he can blow over. The Nation has fallen down a rabbit
hole into a world only Alice would recognize. Off with his head, off
with his head, is all that can be heard, the Emperor wants total
control. Rules do not matter, a pig wearing lipstick is the new judge in
the Emperor’s world.
When
will the three little pigs stand united against the wolf as he huffs
and puffs, and tries to blow the whole world down. Straw men stand in
the way, each saying Not I Lord, as they dip their fingers in the
trough, not I say the gatekeepers, not I say the jailers, not I say the
brothel keepers, not I say the money changers, not I say the sacrifice
sellers in the courtyard to the big house. We’ll take a lie detector
test, they all suck up to the Emperor.
The
three little pigs move to the house made of sticks as the Emperor
smashes the straw house away. And again everybody prostitutes themselves
so they can stay by the Emperor’s side. Outside the fat boy polishes
the Emperor’s new car, maybe he’ll be allowed to drive it too. If the
fat boy smiles enough, and lies enough the Emperor will be flattered
enough and not notice the bomb hidden in plain sight, but the Emperor is
always right, the fat boy is a good boy now, see look at the selfies
the Emperor took.
The
Press protests but the Emperor says they are all liars, and why does he
always repeat words 3 times? Because the Emperor is brain washing his
adoring public, Goebbels smiles from heaven, he must be in heaven with
the angels now, so perfect is the propaganda. And on go the lies, more
and more lies, photo-shopped from the day of the inauguration. Soon the
house of sticks is blown away, this is perfect house of cards creation.
The
wizard of oz puts in an appearance, the little dog laughs to see such
fun and the dish runs away with the spoon. But the Emperor denies it
all, and closes down all the newspapers that speak the truth, they are
all liars anyway, and he repeats it thrice. Pinocchio his PR
spokesperson issues denials after denials, as his nose gets so big the
press room has to be extended to fit his lies and his nose.
Finally
the three little pigs realize only a brick build nuclear fallout
shelter will be strong enough to protect them from the emperor. As they
retreat from all the lies, damn lies, and statistics only then does
everybody else realize that this vision of hell. Dante’s Inferno has
been replaced by the Emperor’s vision, or rather delusion upon delusion,
as the band plays on as the Titanic hits the rocks. Will they all
drown, cursing themselves, for believing in this false god, this false
emperor?
This
has just been a passing nightmare, a horror show of a pantomime, the
emperor will say Judas, we are all Judases. But in the real world we can
all wake up and make a new choice, raise our voice, all our voices to
heaven. We can start to love one another again, we can heal all the
emperor’s splits and hatred. For a nation divided will fall just as the
Roman Empire fell, so in November go out and vote for Love thy neighbor,
and banish the Emperor into the darkness from whence he came, before
the Light of Liberty is quenched in the sea of selfish selfies.
Old Smiles ©
By Michael Casey
We
ended up watching Suits from the start today, and we all really enjoyed
it. No we are not Duchess fans, we’re indifferent to her, but God Bless
her and her new bloke, maybe one day he’ll remember where he left his
razor. Harry, a beard just does not suit you, and I speak as somebody
who had a beard 40 years ago. However Suits did make us smile, all the
memories came flooding back, smiles of happiness and laughter. I did
actually work for a major law firm here in Birmingham, and I did hide a
copy of my novel, The Butcher The Baker and The Undertaker in the Law
Library which was next door to my print room, hello to the beautiful Ang
if she is still working there.
Smiles
come and crack our solemn faces when we see or hear things from the
past, we all have the Oh I Remember moment, music is the greatest tool
for making memories move us, to tears, to tears of laughter too. At the
moment I’m listening to Kate Bush singing The Man with the Child in his
Eyes, and I think she’s talking about me. Then I look at the image of
Kate Bush and I smile not just because of the song, but because Kate
Bush looks a lot like my sister in law, an awful lot. My sister in law
never sings nor dances around the kitchen at Christmas nor at Easter in a
leotard, she is a lawyer after all, though the dog is called
Heathcliff, and does bark rather like Kate Bush.
Well
I’ve had a bite to eat and a bowl of Cheerios too so I’m all set up the
evening, as I talk to you I think of my small daughter’s eating habits,
face covered in Heinz tomato soup, and it HAS to be Heinz. If I can
find the photo I’ll add them to the end of this piece, photos bring
smiles galore. As I speak my daughter has reappeared after choir
practice, on the way home she kidnapped or is it catnapped a cat, so she
has photos of her and the fat cat as she carries it to the new place. I
asked her how she managed to do that, her reply was that she is a cat
whisperer. Mum, is a witch and witches do control cats, so I imagine
it does run in the family.
Bread
are singing in the background now, so I’m thinking of bread. My own
dirty habit, ok just one that’ll I’ll talk about, the rest you can
imagine. Well I used to drink, just cocoa milk and sugar in a giant mug
all mixed up, then I’d dunk my folded sliced bread into it and eat the
soggy result. This would leave tide marks of cocoa all over my face. So I
suppose my young daughter inherited the eating habits from me. Though
that was 10 years or more ago for her, and 50 years for me. But it does
bring back the smiles.
Photos
make us all smile so much, the old fashioned albums, we will be having a
clear out soon so I’ll have to decide what to do with all my old
albums. I may just take digital snaps of everything and then bury the
old photos somewhere. I have so many old fashioned albums. So I may kill
two birds with one stone, have a look at all the old memories, and
photos are memories, as I record and backup all the old photo albums.
Why
do we say cheese in photos, why not say any other word, like FART,
then people would really laugh in all those posed photos. As you know I
hate those pompous photos for writers that’s why you get my nonsense
instead. Are you smiling now? I will be getting a new bed soon, so
should I pose like Burt Reynolds naked on my bed with just my dictionary
for company? Would it sell more hard copies of my navel, or novels, or
would a cover like that only be suitable on an ebook? It’s so very hard
to decide what exactly to choose. Maybe I need a makeover to improve my
appearance, but I am as hairy as a bear, so people may think a naked
Michael Casey on a bed looks too much like Paddington or Tubacca.
Are
you all ok now, none of you are smiling just heaving into a bucket.
Well I could go on but my aches are becoming a pain so I’ll leave it for
tonight. I’m glad the wifi is back, it means I can annoy you all. I
hope you all have stumbled over the translations just download them,
though I’m far better in English. And with that I’m going to practice
posing naked on the carpet, though I’ll have to hurry the vicar is
coming later on to show us his new mittens.
Annie and Bettie get their Man ©
By
Michael Casey
Now
if you have read The Butcher The Baker and the Undertaker then you will
have heard about Annie and Bettie, I don’t think I’ve mixed the names
up, but it is over 30 years ago since I wrote the book. However the twin
sisters are still impossibly beautiful, and still work behind the bar
of The Trader, their dad’s pub. They have now gone through puberty and
have complexions to die for, I won’t say any more but imagine English
Roses to the Nth degree.
As
the whole world comes trough the doors of The Trader they have become
experts in People Watching, to be honest growing up in a bar they have a
degree in psychology at very least. The Human Animal observed from
behind the taps of a bar. Customer service was of course in grained into
them, though this does not mean they did not know how to have fun.
Today
they were dressed as Pregnant Nuns, Rodney or is it Roger the Traffic
Warden had imprinted his love of dressing up and amateur dramatics on
them from an early age. So they dressed up and acted out dramas as they
served behind the bar, it made life more interesting for them and it
helped pass the time. As you can imagine The Trader was a very happy
place to have a drink in, very very rarely was there any trouble.
The
twins mother was worried that her beauties might do the wrong thing and
get pregnant by some BASTARD, so she made them promise at age 7 that
they would stay pure, and only ever go to bed with their husband. The
twins honoured this promise as they loved their mum and dad so much. It
was an easy promise to keep as they hadn’t seen any husband material, so
they were not tempted.
However
these past 3 years a revelation revealed itself to them, the twins had a
crush on the draymen, they saw them regularly for years and they’d have
a cup of tea together after each delivery. The draymen were just
ordinary guys, nothing special. In fact they both had something that
marked them out, you see Ken had a stutter, and Len had a limp, caused
by dropping a beer barrel on his leg years ago. Other that that they
were perfect, Annie and Bettie had decided that they were husband
material.
Ken
stuttered away but Annie loved him the more, when she heard on the
radio about stutterers being able to sing she persuaded Ken to sing for
her. And guess what? Ken’s singing voice was like Johhny Cash, so deep
and appealing. She would have gone through a Ring of Fire for him. As
for Len he was as strong as an ox, as was Ken, but seeing him limp made
Bettie love him the more. He had no limp in her eyes, he was husband
material too.
Ken
and Len didn’t know it but they were marked men, they had husband
written all over them. Now over the years the friendships grew, but
nothing happened, Annie and Bettie were good girls, and a promise to a
mother is a promise to a mother. However the Urge as the call it in
Ireland does come, and that Saturday night, the night of the big match,
the Urge would win and could lead to Sin.
The
Trader was full and everybody was matching the Man U Villa game on the
big screen. Len and Ken were in a corner enjoying the match, Annie and
Bettie were sighing, the Urge was upon them. It was a game of two halves
and everybody was merry. It was then that it happened. A drink was
spilt and angry words were exchanged. Annie and Bettie looked up and
stopped the Guinness in mid flow.
Sor
sor sor sorry, it was Ken trying to apologize. He was mocked by a giant
of a man. Len limped forward trying to be the peace maker. He in turn
was mocked. Annie and Bettie felt the urge upon them, Annie whispered to
Bettie, tonight is the night I become a woman. Bettie whispered to
Annie anything you can do I can do better. Again their men were being
mocked.
Sing
for me Ken screamed Annie over the noise of the match. Ken knew the
song she loved so he sung, Stand by Your Man, his singing was perfect.
In seconds Annie had leapt from table to table to be by his side. Bettie
was right behind her, Len needed her, she knew she needed him. They
were there chests heaving, it was now or never. Annie grabbed Ken and
kissed him, his stutter would vanish forever after a kiss like that.
Bettie would not be beaten, Len’s limp would never go but Bettie didn’t
mind.
Then
Annie and Bettie swung around, they were still dressed as pregnant
nuns, have you got a problem? The giant of a man laughed in their face,
turning to his mates, pregnant nuns are the only girlfriends these guys
will ever get. Len and Ken moved forward, they were so angry. Annie and
Bettie defused the situation by kissing their men and placing their
men’s hands where only a husbands’ hand should be. The whole pub gasped,
the match was ignored, was this going to be a Strippergram.
Trust
me, said Annie, trust me said Bettie with a parting kiss on the cheek
for their HUSBANDS. I don’t like BASTARDS the twin sisters said in
unison. With that they simultaneously, dropped kicked the giant of a
man, before kick boxing his friends to the ground. GOAL.
Villa beat Man U 3 2 in extra time, but in The Trader a giant of a man and his ugly friends were too dazed to notice.
The
whole pub laughed at them, Villa and Man U fans united, they did not
like bastards either. Mocking a limp, and mocking a stutter, will only
get you in the gutter, and you will see stars. Annie looked at Bettie
and Bettie looked at Annie, NOBODY would ever mock her husband. With
that they pretended to faint, they were caught by their husbands. The
husbands took them to bed. They had waited and now they were ready.
Their mother had been out shopping, and she fainted for real when Wayne
said their twin daughters were upstairs, being touched for the very
first time, Madonna was singing the song on repeat.
But
Len and Ken were the perfect husbands for her daughters, though they
would still need to go to church and the registry office, to make it
official. Were the girls right to beat the bully? Well if you have
multiple black belts, in fact they are 3rd Dan in some martial art, I forget which, what would you do? Stand by you Man is such a nice song after all.
Alternative Medicine (c)
By
Michael Casey
Well
it's Saturday afternoon now, I've sat down to talk about Alternative
Medicine, but first of all let me close the window the draft will give
me a chill and then I'd really need some medicine. Justin is singing
with Taylor they are cross, no I don't mean cross, they are cross
harmonising, it's quite off putting, I just want to talk to you all then
I'll pop out to Mass, or go to the online Mass, while those two are
crying a river. Totoro our cat has appeared and is staring at me, when a
pussy stares even Ice Cube would melt. I've seen a couple of his films
on tv recently, he's a nice boy too, very good to his mother, although
with tinnitus I may have misheard the mother reference, I am getting
old now, though not in spirit.
Now what is Alternative Medicine? Can you guess, am I wasting time while I steal an idea from
down
the back of the sofa? Well what do you think? I just let Totoro out the
back door, Justin has started to sing Mirrors so pardon me while I put
the volume up to 17. Ice Cube is hanging out next to the fridge trying
to regain his cool after being stared at by my pussy Totoro. But where
was I, yes Alternative Medicine. I have to take meds, the doctors
insist, as does the wife as long as the life insurance is valid, when it
expires then that is another matter. And here in UK once you reach 60
your meds are FREE.
Life
is about trying to avoid meds in the first place, and how do you do
that? You get up and DANCE with Justin, or any old bloke who happens by,
who will of course be so much better a dancer than Justin Trudeau,
sorry I mean Justin two left legs. I don't want Canada to declare on me
after all. Justin is crying in a corner now, wait. I have to dance with
him now to restore his self confidence. You know an erotic dance like
in Moulin Rouge, Roxanne I think it was called, go watch the film and
come to me in two hours or so, but don't leave any popcorn on my carpet.
Justin
is all puffed out in a corner, you try dancing with a 248 pound man in
drag and having to throw the drag queen about from pillar to post. I am
quietly impress by Justin, he must have been working out. Not unless the
rumours are true, he's been putting stuffing in meat pies with Big
Bertha from the pie factory down the Old Kent Road, you know where they
have the Pie Monopoly.
If
you can do the Lambeth Walk every day then you will be happier and not
need any meds, it is in fact an alternative to meds. Life style is a
dirty word, but Ice Cube insists he is just acting, he really does sing
in a choir, but so did Elvis in Jail House Rock, or Hugh Grant in
Paddington Two. If you can put on a happy face and smile, or laugh in
the face of adversity then you do have a much happier life. Yes you may
need a few pills, legal ones, but it's the Alternative Medicine which
makes a difference to you daily life. A kiss and a hug from Mrs Douglas
or Mrs McKenna on the Dudley road, now both in their 90s. A smile from
Sally, or a wink from the butcher, a dirty laugh from the window cleaner
high on his ladder. These are little things that lighten the spirit.
The
Singh brothers battering a shop lifter with hockey sticks, you don't
knock over their grandfather and steal from their store ever. The daily
tick and tock or life. If you can keep your spirits raised even when
things are sad and heavy, like Barry White before he smiles and lifts
the roof with his voice and spirit. Then you will overcome all the pains
of life, even if you do bore your readers occasionally. If anybody
has any complaints me and Barry White will jump through your screen and
sit on your lap and play with your hair. Would that be 600 pounds
between us?
Look
out the window and watch the weather, imagine that little old lady
suddenly hears Justin singing and just has to dance in the street. Like
the old ladies with carts dancing in The Producers. If you can use your
imagination to break the chains then you are free, you are always free,
your body may be old and broken but YOU and your SPIRIT is free.
This
is my Alternative to Medicine, use your spirit, free and lift your
mood, and even if parts of your body don't work so well at least in your
imagination they do. Justin stop singing like that, he's so naughty ,
he could tempt the Virgin Mary, him and his strawberry bubblegum,
whatever that means.
The Modern Child ©
By
Michael Casey
We
hear a lot about kids in today’s world, the stresses and strains, I
think I wrote a small piece about it a few weeks ago. I was talking to a
neighbour and afterwards I thought I might talk a bit more to you all.
They
say Saturday’s Child works hard for a living and so I do. But what of
all our other kids whenever or however they were born. In the past we
were hunted out by our parents, go out this fine day is what my own dad
used to say. Or we’d go to the park and play on the witch’s hat and the
swings and roundabouts in Summerfield Park. We might even explore the
neigbouring roads where a real witch was supposed to live. We might even
be tempted or double dared to knock on a witch’s door.
All
these are the simple pleasures of yesterday year, my sister would read
and read, and because she sat on top of the fire she ended up with the
criss-cross marks of the fireguard on her legs. Or she’d sit over the
pallin by Mrs Patrick’s hedge with the cat for company as she read. I
too grew up reading by the yard. Then when we got a radio, the radio was
king, and then when we got that Bush Radio, Radio4 came, and that after
20 years led me to writing.
But
what of today’s kids? Its wifi everything, and in UK it is a Billion
Pound industry, and over in Japan you can study games at University
level as does the son of a friend in Osaka. But and you knew the but was
coming, what happens then? People overdose on technology. I spent hours
a day, and years to decades just talking to my dad. And it was because I
tried to be a good son that all the time spent with my dad led to me
finding a wife, when I could have ended up on the shelf with all the
other spinsters.
So
today we all have toys galore. I have one on the desk in front of me,
an old phone that I’ve filled with music. So it’s useful to me as a
music machine, not that I ever use the phone much. However our children
and grandchilden ARE addicted. You can see a family together in a room
who are not together at all. Physically they are in the same space but
emotionally they are not connected at all. You know it’s true, so pause
to think about it. Or families are islands floating in separate seas
scattered like cushions in different places in different rooms.
Families
don’t connect, not for real, the Oxo advert is just that an advert. So
if the family is just a group of islands how can you expect unity, how
can you have dignity or harmony. The child will just play on its wifi
connected toys without any connection to mum or dad, or grannie,
assuming grannie hasn’t been shoved into care to be ignored, and
unloved.
A
bleak picture? How true is it? How often do you talk to your kids,
really talk, how often do you sit down as a family to watch tv together,
not even once a week, or once a month. Ok, just at Christmas to impress
the rich uncle so he drops a fat envelope of cash on the table. My kids
were never allowed all these electronic toys till a few years ago,
which means instead they learnt to draw, thanks to all their uncles and
aunts donating crayons. Being able to draw is a great skill, I wish I
could draw, rather than just draw cartoons with words.
Toys
are great, my friend Derek who is 60 today, we used to use a paperclip
as a car and go up and down the brickwork as roads with Leprechauns as
passengers, see we had imagination, as we were in the playground of
Saint Patrick’s. I was also the horse while he was the rider as we had
jousting fights in the playground, I carried him 8 times around the
playground to see how strong I was.
Old
century I can hear kids say, put it build imagination, what is built
nowadays, big thumbs and short tempers. Yes enjoy your toys, but there
must be self control. And if there is no self control, then there is
only addiction. Middle class newspapers say, I have a contract with my
child, no internet at the dinner table. Can people please grow up, my
mother would have thrown a phone down the toilet, many mothers would.
Apple would be happy too, as it would prove their new phone was crap
proof.
Eat
when you eat, sleep when you sleep. Put a lock on the wi-fi, so
downtime is downtime. And yes PASSword is not a very good password, be
sensible. A child should not be able to use their toy after bedtime, and
if they do take action immediately. My mother would have thrown a
bucket of water on me, though in today’s world that would be called
cruelty. So just hide the rechargers instead, but best of all switch the
wifi off.
Social
media at a young age is dangerous too, so don’t allow it, all the hype
is just that hype. Common sense should replace laziness, it is parental
laziness, or just plain old lack of love. I won’t bore you all more,
because it is a 2 second no brainer. You control the wifi, not the
child, if they want electronic time, then they must work for it. And
loving your child means you bother to spend time with them, otherwise
they think the wifi is the only thing that does loves them.
Carry On Shakespeare ©
By
Michael Casey
As
you know if you have been following me I did do a bit of Shakespeare,
they can’t touch you for it, so long as your coupling rhymes, as Kenneth
Williams might say. I also enjoy the Carry On films, though the
Politically Correct Revisionists now view everything from today. History
was then not now, if I might throw a bit of Philosophy into the cake
mix, let’s see in 9 months how my buns in the oven turn out.
Because
Shakespeare was so long, Kenneth don’t you say a word, so long ago,
there are difficulties with language. You need to bone up on the lingo,
as Bona Linguists from Round the Horne might interject. That’s the thing
with language it has so many leanings, and your leanings can get you
into trouble, not just with the trouble and strife. I hope this is all
clear, and if it is not then just try Head and Shoulders.
Carry
On started 60 years ago so the newspapers are saying, but Shakespeare
was carrying on a very long time before that. So you need to know what
all the carrying on means. What’s a codpiece for example? Go to your
fishmongers and ask can you see his cod piece, he won’t be showing you
his fish dinner. Sir Toby Belch, Falstaff and Co were heavy drinkers, in
today’s parlance 17 pints of Stella Artois and one packet of chees and
onion crisps. Prince Hal did find his bar bill after all, while Falstaff
lay snoring.
It
is worth the effort trying to understand the language, read the play
first, or watch the video then go visit the Globe, don’t just be the
tourist. My small daughter has been twice to the Globe in London and she
really enjoyed it. I just wish I could go, maybe if I just bring my
commode to their abode. Just a thought, I certainly would give them
measure for measure.
Now
in today’s world what merit is Shakespeare? If you look or rather
listen to the English Language you’ll realise all the phrases that
Shakespeare gave birth too. He was a midwife to language, so we should
thank him and laugh with him. He did serious stuff too, but I’ll let Me
Dears explain it all to you, those thespians as Les Dawson would say as
he rearranges his bosoms while he is sat open legged in drag on a park
bench. Shakespeare did a lot of cross dressing too, maybe that was why
he put it in his plays, or he could have just been kinky, you’ll have to
ask a Don, no not a Mafia Don, an Oxford Don, you are so silly as Ken
might laugh.
Where
was I, yes I was just taking off the wife’s knickers, I better put them
back in her knicker drawer before she comes home. She gets mad if she
catches me wearing her clothes, she claims I stretch them, the cheek of
it, Lycra is supposed to stretch, I’m only 248 pound after all. Lighter
than Barry White was, though I don’t think he ever wore his wife’s
clothes, all that singing he was always getting it on, whatever that’s
supposed to mean.
I
can understand Shakespeare but not 70s disco, I put my back out once on
the dance floor, too much Barry White, I was escorting him to the bar
and he slipped and fell on the dance floor and landed on me. So I’m not
as fond as him as I used to be.
Which
brings me to Donald Trump, what would he be like in Shakespeare? Love
is a many splendored thing, but forsooth the tan the tan, his hide has
been tanned too much, take him back to the tannery. The bird is nesting
in his hair, what manner of thing is that. Midas wants his bling back,
bling back, bling back my Country to me. Let us bend on one knee for
sanity.
A
proclamation, a proclamation, bring me a scribe, bring me a codpiece
full of proclamations, off with their head they cannot keep up with all
my proclamations. The pen and ink lies go kill all the scribes, empty
the monasteries of the learned men. They know nothing, burn the books,
burn the books, ask the cooks to cook the books, and let them drink
their own soup of lies. Only my truth is truth for I am a king and dear,
so please do not leer. Stop whispering to me, stop prompting me, for
only I am a GOD.
My Favourite Things By Theresa May
by
Michael Casey (really)
Well
those bastards shafted me, all 27 of them, where were you Cameron, in
your garden shed playing dead. Writer's Block more like Boris's *****, I
stand alone on the bridge of state, oh how I wish it was easy
Watergate, but instead I'm always late. Late for this and late for that
like some Canute of History, and will anybody care.
But
at least my husband loves me, and that is worth more to me than all
those conspiring conspirators. I think I'll go and buy some more shoes,
Clarks has a sale, and that Michael Casey was their uncool dad of the
year in 2015, and he always wears Clarks. So I'll cheer myself up with a
half hour of surfing their shoe website. Though waterboarding those
back benchers might be more productive and fun, if I might have an
unChristian thought.
John
Major as right, they are all bastards. Oh, look the Clarks sale is so
good, I'll have 2 pairs of those. If only they sold those James Bond
shoes with poisoned tipped knives, Jacques and those EU bastards would
soon jump with a kick up their collective backside. I'll have 2 pairs of
those other ones too, I have to look good at the Party Conference,
though not too shiny though or the tv cameras will upskirt me from the
reflection in my shoes. At least Laura is nice to me, well once she's
done that piece to camera. Afterwards we have a good girlie talk
together, I had 27 EU bastards, but she has to face the Labour
Conference, so who has the harder life. I think that's why we Bond so
much, Basildon Bond the tea that is. Though if Edris was a baddie in a
Bond film, now that would raise both our blood pressures. I'd certainly
give the Elbow to any Edris haters.
I
had a phone call from Julie Andrews, she said she's have said
supercalifragelistic expealidoscious or whatever, and that would have
sorted out those 27 EU monsters. The Sound of Music, the sound of a
lynch mob more like it. She also sent me some chocolate, I said I'd give
it to my security crew, I am diabetic after all, but it is the thought
that counts. I love Julie, Mary Poppins is my favorite film after all.
How she made the toys march back and forth, I just wish I could have
done that to the EU 27.
I
suppose I could write a cook book once the bastards knife me at the
conference, Rees Mogg is not in favour of the nanny state, but is in
favour of nannies. He wants to turn me into a Mummy, wrap me up and put
me in a tomb to be forgotten for 2000 years. Old Cameron whistled while
he worked his way back into No.10 then he disappeared into the oblivion
of Writers Block, I should not chuckle, it's very unChristian, but so
very enjoyable. Leave a women to clean up a man's mess. Everybody would
vote Remain now, we're up the creek without a paddle, but a Prime
Minister has to carry on, without any Sid James laughing in the wings.
Well
I better email Donald and tell him how much I love his hair, he did at
least take my recommendation for the new shampoo. I did not tell him
that it was radioactive as well, he'd think that was something to do
with radio. It could scramble his brains, but would anybody notice.
Ah
well I better empty out the swear box the vicar left, I've manage to
feed 5000 with all the swearing I've done, at least the EU can be proud
of that.
Love Twins ©
By
Michael Casey
Well
the pain monster was really bad for a bit, but at least I did not need a
nap today. I saw Hell Boy II on tv again tonight as well, so that in
part gave me an idea to talk about. I also put our piano up for sale,
it’s been gathering dust and after so many years not being used you have
to face reality and make room in the house. Half the family wanted to
keep it, and the other half wanted it to go. So as the ignored dad I
said let’s pass the piano on to somebody who would love and use it, or
at least dust it.
It
was an idea of the wife’s for the girls to have lessons and play, both
passed Grade One. They have also passed exams in choral singing, the
church they go to is very good, so a big thank you to Godfather David,
you didn’t know the Mafia had a chapter at the local church. Only
joking, I better be careful or Betty will slap me, she was their piano
teacher, she’s 90 now I believe.
So
this is an example of past lives, love twinning piano playing daughters
together. In Hell Boy II it showed how a brother and sister were linked
and emotionally connected. Me and my youngest sister are connected like
that too. I will phone here before she rings me, and vice versa, she
rings me as I think of her. I imagine it happens in other families too.
It is a connection, it is love.
So
why does this happen? Is it nature or is it genes, a way of defending
the tribe, the clan, and with all my Irish cousins I am part of a Kerry
clan? I think it is because Love does know no boundaries, you’ll know
when a parent has died on the other side of the world. Or you will fall
to your knees as pray, let it be me, let them be safe. In my Malta story
which I re-posted recently, Esther, and I think I’ve finally spelt it
correctly now, Esther says let it be me, save everybody else.
Love
twins us with those we love, a girlfriend, a boyfriend, a dog. The love
between us is like a rubber band holding us together, it can stretch
and stretch but we are joined. We are brought back together, to our love
twin, sometimes elastic band snaps, and that is why it hurts so much.
You
all know examples of people twinned, workers down a pit, or in a
football team are all twins. Folks in the army love each other, doesn’t
mean they speak nicely to each other, or buy each other presents. Jake
would break Mike’s jaw if such a thing happened, and no it does not
happen, maybe in special services as they have a strange sense of
humour, when you might die suddenly it does mean you do develop black
humour.
However
if the President asks why you rescued all your buddies despite all the
incoming fire, you’ll say, I’ve met their mothers and their mothers
would kill me if I didn’t save them all. Besides I’m dating all their
sisters simultaneously, and to save my sex life I just had to save all
their lives, all 18 of them. Now that would impress the President, but I
couldn’t possibly know the truth of it.
Old Things, Past Loves ©
By Michael Casey
I
was thinking about a title for today’s talk but Rupert Murdoch didn’t
phone, but he’ll have more time now, so maybe he will. He does Radio as
well you know, and as Terry Wogan used to say, I have the perfect face
for radio, if only Rupert stops cursing and gives me a chance, the Sky
is my limit.
I was going to write about Tidying Up but I checked my list and I did that a year ago. So I’m talking about a 1st cousin
to that instead. As I look about the room my eye rests and a memory
comes back. In front of me is my Movelat pain killer gel, I wish I never
laid eyes on it, so many memories come flooding back as I look at my
big tube of Movelat. Sticky memories of pain, not love. Cursing the pain
and cursing for it to be brought to me, as I scream in pain. No
exaggeration folks, it really is that bad at time.
I
look further around the room and wonder where the smell is coming from,
it’s my daughter’s school shoes, yes, girls’ feet do stink. So I gather
up all their shoes and sling them into the kitchen, we can say it’s the
wife’s cooking that is to blame. What’s the other smell, then I see
Totoro our cat scratching by the door, she has farted, see all my girls
stink. I tell them I don’t smell, I am the clean one, they reply my Ck
One is not to their liking. Should I just dab Jeyes Fluid drain cleaner
behind my ears?
I
have an old cardboard box on the shelf beside me, I’ve saved it just in
case I have to return something, normally it’d go in the recycle bin,
but I’ve saved it for now. I used to save my Clarks shoe boxes too, but
they did come in handy when Totoro was a kitten. Totoro used to hide
under the sink unit, and we were afraid she would pooh there too. So
Clarks came to the rescue, we blocked off the area under the sink, and
our noses were saved.
I
have 3 pots of Shamrock besides me too, so I may have to relocate them
soon. I also have it growing outside along the garden wall, and no
matter how often our Oriental gardener, the wife that is, hacks and mows
it down, it always comes back, deep roots, rather like Family.
I
have a lot of paintings too on my wall, I always dreamt of paintings,
after my mother gave me a print on cardboard which she had bought for
10p at a jumble sale. I still have it on my bedroom wall, 50 years
later. However I did over the years replace prints with paintings, the
dustmen used to call my house the Art Gallery, in the days when dustmen
used to come up the entry to collect your dustbin. Now I only have real
paintings, I haven’t bought any new ones in 20 years, being married and
having a wife and kids means you can’t afford to spend a penny on
yourself. If I want to gaze on beauty I can always look in the mirror.
What, you are all so cruel, laughing at the eye of the beholder.
Speaking
of mirrors, we’ll be abandoning most mirrors too, a mirror is a nice
thing to have, it brightens up a room, you can also take selfies. Though
I only ever have stupid photos of myself, I am honest about my looks, I
do weigh more than the British Heavyweight champion who won last night,
I’m very compact. So as I was saying a nice mirror is useful, you can
check your hair and eyebrows before you leave the house, you don’t want
to frighten anybody with your looks, though if you are a heavyweight
boxer you DO want to put the fear of God into an opponent, maybe the
Champ doesn’t use a mirror at all.
Moving
on to the kitchen we have cups galore, my small daughter collects them,
so we have 20 mugs and cups in the cupboard. It’s almost as if they
breed in there, so there will be a cull, or maybe we’ll just abandon
them. Cup abandoned with mismatched saucer, a bit like marriage really,
chipped and battered, pattern worn away, but still useful?
When
you get to pack your clothes that will be a revelation, the state of
your underpants. How droopy are your drawers, how washed out are the
colours, how many holes in your pants, is the pipping at the edged
coming off. But that’s just my neigbours, or is that what my neigbours
say about me? You would have to be a bird on the washing line to know
the truth, or a pigeon pooping on my washing as they perch from tree to
tree. How holy or is it holey are my pants. You’ll never know, not
unless you seduce me, just to see the state of my pants. Are you
laughing now? Or just violently sick?
I
better finish now, it’s time to bring in all my washing before the rain
comes, but as I haven’t got any clean clothes I’ll just streak into the
garden and stand there naked picking my clothes off the line and
getting dressed. It will be a treat for the squirrels and my neighbours,
and if they don’t like what they see then NUTS to them.
Explaining Comedy ©
By Michael Casey
Well
I decided a day or two ago to revisit Explaining Comedy, and today we
had Donald Trump boasting as only he can, the man with the Midas Touch
in Reverse. And then the whole world laughed at him, which is Irony and
they say Americans don’t get irony. I’ve also said before he is like the
Emperor in the Emperor’s new clothes, and that we were just waiting for
a child to laugh at him and then the crowd would, well perhaps today
was that day.
Humour
arrives at the strangest moment, for example at my aunty Delia’s
funeral in the 1980s, she was a great big woman, a massive character and
a wonderful spirit. At her funeral as the coffin was taken to the
graveyard they met another funeral procession. Now in the crowd
following the other funeral was the dead man’s wife and his new
girlfriend. The two women in his life were fighting at his death,
because he’d changed his Will, so the two loves of his life were arguing
as to who should have got his dough. My aunty would have laughed at the
sport of it all. So my aunty Delia went to Heaven laughing, I hope
she’s still laughing now, God Bless her.
If
you ever read my comic novel The Butcher The Baker & The
Undertaker there you’ll find some black humour, and for those of you
reading this in Vietnam or Greece, you were spotted today, so hello.
Well black humour, is not just Eddie Murphy, it’s also a term for
humour shrouded in darkness or unhappiness. Such as mentioned in my
comic novel, though I do also have to say that Percy the Undertaker is
also a poet, and that is ironic because poetry in the main is about
life, but Percy Frost is an undertaker, dealing with death. The Ethos
behind Percy is actually based on an undertaking firm I know of, how all
undertakers should be. Remember too in the Bible, Jesus wept for his
dead friend, then he raised him from the dead.
Back
to comedy, when my mother died we had the meal after the funeral in the
local Irish club, all the foot laid out on the snooker table. When my
sister booked it she was asked did she want the 1.99 or the 3.99 food.
All I remember was that it was great, six holes on a snooker table after
we’d come back from the cemetery which was full of holes, and the green
green grass, compared to the green baize of the snooker table.
Humour
is what you see, and it’s the angle you have on life that makes things
humorous. It’s very easy to be unhappy, especially if your life is hard,
so you need “trick” yourself into being happy. That’s where word
association and puns, and even outright filth will keep you going. I
heard once that on Nuclear Submarines, because they are away for 3
months at a time, there is a porn mag written by the crew that does the
rounds. You have to keep moral up after all.
Though
this could just be a lie that Putin told me when we were down the pub
drinking Stella Artois together, as we laughed at the girl Trump who
never drank at all. What kind of man is that asked Putin as he laughed
up his kilt. Now Vietnamese readers this does not mean Putin had his
head up Trump’s kilt or anything like that. It is a figure of speech, my
own dad used to use it. It means they were mocking, or taking the mick
out of somebody.
Comedy
happens because you take one thing and twist it, Shakespeare uses it
all the time. You see something and then you deliberately turn it
around, to have a comic meaning. Think of your own examples. Like pound
for pound I’m a great husband. Now obviously that is true. So that could
be the first joke or lie, but because I am 248pounds, pound per pound I
must be a great husband. Just like down the fish market and you pay
per pound, as I’m so heavy I’m a bargain. Though my wife might say I
just stink.
We
all have friends and they are like the good, the bad and the ugly.
Michael Casey has film star looks, he should be in horror movies, or his
wife is right he really does stink, he should be buried. With concrete
on top, like Charlie Chaplin, just to make sure nobody digs him up.
Though his humour is so old it has been resurrected. And so it has
because there are influences going back to silent films that I’ve
absorbed, so you all get the benefit of all my sucking up of material
and influences over my chequered life.
I
need to pop out to the Polish shop for pop, so I’ll finish now but I
hope you can all understand where all or at least some of the ideas come
from. Though my diet can make my windy at times, so perhaps my wife is
right, I do stink. But I am an expert on toilet paper I’ll have you
know. I am after all, soft and strong but very very long.
Little Old Lady ©
By Michael Casey
I
met this little old lady in the street yesterday and we got talking,
mutual accostation if you like, if there is such a word. Now should she
be reading this I’m going to divert from reality, lest she sue me, or
chase me while trying to pinch my bum a la Benny Hill. Now little old
ladies have a lifetime of experience, that’s why they are old.
Yesterday’s little old lady, shall I call her Lottie, I knew a cleaner
called Lottie once, so hello to her as well just in case she too is
reading this. Now the little old lady Lottie, didn’t need a shave, as
some little old ladies do, she had a sparkle in her eye, and no she was
not on drugs either, maybe stronger pain killers than the paracetamol I
take, but I did not ask her.
So
there you have a picture, a cartoon emerging, and guess what her son
worked in the local library as a shelf stacker, he’d previously worked
in Tescos, so he moved from stacking pees to stacking books at the
Spring Hill Library which actually adjoins the library. So he just slid
over from one stacking to another. But his true love in his life was/is
cartoons, a kind of Banksy but with chalk, all over the loading bay at
Tescos. He nearly got killed a few times as the 18 wheelers arrived,
but otherwise he enjoyed his art, as did the truckers. Only the rain was
his greatest critic, and Marvin the security guard’s dog.
So
naturally I told the little old lady by the name of Lottie that’s I’d
love to meet him, if only for the stacking skills, as our house could do
with a good stacker as I can no longer stack as well as I used to. If I
pick up a heavy load it hurts my chest for a day where I had my op,
sadly I doubt if I’ll ever be able to carry the nutty slack in from the
coal shed to our living room again. But at least I’m still alive to bore
you all, I better say it before any bright spark says it, perhaps they
should just try drawing in the loading bay, and maybe they could dodge
all the 18 wheelers, I have feelings you know.
Lottie
also told me about her granddaughter a maths wiz, so I said snap, as my
own bigger daughter is a maths wiz too. We hope to bribe the brightest
spark from the maths class with regular teas in the hope he’ll push my
daughter higher up the grading scale. This year the grades have been
toughened. By the way the maths grade boundaries are so high that you
need 10% to 15% more marks to get an A compared to the arts. Say 75 is
an A for English in Maths it may be 85. So me and Lottie discussed this
as she brought out a cucumber from her trolley on wheels, and began to
munch on it. Lottie explained it was good for her and it also prevented
little old men from kissing her. Now that I admit threw me, but then I
remember back in my computer days somebody who ate cucumber galore, 20
years ago and more this is. And as I said to them I’d never kiss you
with cucumber breath, he was a man as well, so obviously I really would
never kiss him, not even if her were in drag.
The
little old lady told me where she lived, but I told her I was not meals
on wheels nor a boy scout, so she hit me with her cucumber. If you want
to meet my son, stupid, then that’s where you will find him. Look for
all the chalk marks. So I said sorry, and then she kissed me goodbye. I
fainted and hit my head on a dustbin, as it was bin day yesterday.
Cucumber has that effect on me, I heard her trundle away in the
distance, as I tried to remember what day it was, as I leant on the
dustbin, I remember, it was bin day.
Silly Haircuts ©
By
Michael Casey
I
just looked out the window 20 seconds ago and that’s how I picked
today’s topic. Such disregard for my reader, but he’s probably in a
supermax prison being punished by having to read all my stuff. I’m sure
the Geneva Convention will be cited by his lawyer. Well as Taylor Swift
sings to us I’ll try and talk over her singing.
I
of course have had the same haircut all my life, short back and sides
it is called. The only thing that has changed is the colour of my hair.
Last night I stumbled over 3 old bus pass id photos, one of which
expired 19 years ago, but the photo may have been even older. I had dark
hair then, not the glorious silver hair I have now. Ok, the Santa Claus
look without the beard. My daughter just said I looked weird in the
photo, I can hear the chorus of agreement over Taylor Swift, and what
was she doing in the woods anyway?
Haircuts
are a statement, this is me, look at me, I’m so sexy. And that’s just
the boys. The Mohican was fashionable in the 70s, in the Punk era, so
when I see folks with one now it just looks too silly for words, its so
Old Fashioned. I was there when it was new. Or maybe I am being
Haircutist. You do need to know what suits your head, same as the
clothes you chose to wear.
If
you are fat you should not have very short hair, because it accentuates
your fat face. I can hear you all laughing now, has Casey looked in a
mirror lately. The reverse is true if you are small, a large amount of
hair just makes you look like Dougal from the Magic Roundabout. Hair has
to be in proportion to your face and your total body size. Though if
you are Kim you are copying your grandad, in order to stay in power when
Trump does finally build those Condos in North Korea. And as for the
Donald, he has 3 wigs, one to wear, one in the wash, and one for spare.
Though somebody today told me that really it was a Tribble, as in Star
Trek. I am right am I not?
Coloured
hair, and I don’t mean the regular colours used, but blue hair, or
bright orange, VW beetle orange is used to make a statement. I’m stupid
being the most obvious statement. Am I being a little agent provocateur,
or is that justy kinky underpants for women? Well half of you may be
smiling while the rest of you will be spitting at the screen, which is a
good thing as most people never clean their screens. I know I’ve been
looking at screens for 40 years, when they were in black and white, we
had an orange one and that was impressive before full colour arrived.
Geeks
have silly haircuts too, as if to say I’m a geek, I’d rather sleep with
a computer than a girl wearing agent provocateur. I even used to work
with a guy and his initials were PC I’m not kidding you. If he reads
this he’ll no doubt say I’m pants. He also has a scar on his arm from
where he nearly bleed to death on a night shift accident, but that
really is another story from 30 years ago.
Now
some of you may think I’m just an insensitive fat slob, and I accept
that. So for balance lets move to eyebrows. Of course mine are huge. The
barber always offers to trim them but I go home and do it myself. The
size of your eyebrows does effect the look that your face has with your
perfect coloured Mohican. Or in my case when I was 4 I cut my eyebrows
off with the scissors. So I looked really cute, and all my brothers and
sisters just laughed.
When
I was 13 we had a French test so as I paced the middle room learning
French for Mr Notzing, possibly the best teacher ever, and as I paced I
plucked. In the morning my sister drew eyebrows on with mascara, I went
to school and pasted my French test. Nobody noticed. The next day, again
with mascara my school chums, if I may use an old word, they all
noticed. But as I was the biggest kid in the class nobody dared mock. I
said a chemistry experiment had blown up in my face. Though I had
actually been given a chemistry set by a guy from a house near the
school. Remember this would be in the 1970s so all the cross gender
stuff had not even been thought of, and we would have pissed ourselves
if anybody tried to spout such nonsense.
So
there you have it, as you lay chained to your bed in your supermax
prison forced to hear me read my stories to you, with your body totally
shaved by Dr Lector. Though Dr Lector could be what you call your
girlfriend in her agent provocateur gear. Though in these days equality
it could be you wearing her gear, or then again you’ve just fallen
asleep in the barber’s chair again. It’s all in your imagination.
Iceland and Bangladesh welcome to my world©
By Michael Casey
I
imagine it's not the Iceland frozen food shop up the road, nor the
supply of frozen curries. By the way the best curry in the world can be
found here in Birmingham, so that's another reason to visit us here in
Birmingham England.
Though with a Shanghai wife I'd prefer Chinese myself.
I
was going to talk about Telling Tales today, but first of all let me
shut a window, the air has gone really cold today, or it could just be
rigor mortis.
Now
how do I write a story. I sit here at the computer, pick a theme and
away I go. Usually after an hour it's done. Remember writing a book
takes a year of your life, and I don't have the energy to do that. So if
you are a speed typist, then say hello, because I could dictate a book
in 3 months. Otherwise I'll just stick to the short stories.
Weaving
material together is what Bangladesh is famous for, so you all know
about the skill and hard work required to do that. You may even whistle
or sing while you work. It's a pile of material that is cut to size then
all the pieces and sewed together to make the garments. The skill of
the cutter gets the most value from the material, as little waste as
possible. In a modern factory a laser cutter or some other fancy
computer controlled machine is used. Then when all the work, all the
sewing is done you have the most perfect garment. Or it may just be Mo
in a corner of the family house doing everything himself.
Now
with story writing, now, 30 years on since I started I have those
tailoring skills in my head, yes it's chalk dust not silver hair on my
head. So I have an idea, like the stars in a dark night sky, then I sew
the ideas together. If you look up at the night sky you may not see the
dots that form the Plough or any other star pattern. It can be hard to
spot them, but once you know then you know, It's like a baby learning to
speak, slowly then more fluently with time. And that's the tailor's
skill, and that's how I write. Mo in Bangladesh may have a few coloured
buttons in a jar that the toddler knocks over, as Mo tidies up he
decides to add the buttons as decoration.
And that's how Mo got his lucky break, because of the added buttons to his garments.
When
I write I may look out the corner of my eye and see something and that
leads to another idea. In Iceland when they are not using whales as surf
boards, or climbing mountains without ropes, ropes are for girls.
Though the girls in Iceland as well as being Vikings, can climb
mountains too. They have Polar bears as pets, no Alsatian dog for them,
it just has to be a Polar bear. The favourite name for a Polar bear is
Michael, the same thing my wife used to call me, Polar bear, or is that
in reverse?
I
just stopped for a hot drink, in Iceland they do of course only eat hot
food as they live on volcanoes, so it must be a great place to live in.
I did write a story about love in a deep freeze, not Iceland but inside
a real deep freeze, it’s in my comedy Shoplife which is on Amazon
Kindle.
So
as you can see my writing goes this way and that, like an iceberg that
floats past Iceland, though my sister did sink through the ice in
Iceland up to her waist, but that's another story. There is always
another story and I do thank God for that. So thank you Iceland and
Bangladesh for visiting today, this has been your story.
Where is the ©
By Michael Casey
I
was wondering where, where is, where is the, love, the words, the rhyme
in things this morning as I was waiting for the pain top ebb way. And
what is the connection between Spirit and Pain, or anything. Well I
could have just watched Breakfast TV instead, only I don’t get up that
early after my nights of pain. So I’m thinking about how the Spirit
copes, as I’m listening to music on the radio, how your Attitude is what
really matters. Without Hope, you are soon dead. Dead in all senses of
the word. I’m wondering how many of you have stopped reading now? You
don’t like the serious pieces, you just want the Custard Pies.
If
I insert a joke I’ll soon get your attention back, maybe gallows humour
is the thing, Pardon Me I’m the President perhaps? If you are going to
die you may as well have a laugh as you go. In a Carry On film I seem to
remember as one guy faces the guillotine he gets a letter and says put
it in my pocket I’ll read it later. The point is even at death’s door
your spirit helps you along. And it is because you have a Sunny Outlook,
that you survive when everybody else gives in to sadness. Positive or
Negative outlook.
Personally
I try and think of everything, cover all the bases, hope for the best,
but prepare for the worse. Like carpet fitters refusing to move a few
items of furniture, so you have to find somebody else at short notice.
Or if you work in a hotel you can be a miserable person, or a positive
person. You can do all the work, or you can hide in a luggage room, does
that remind you of anybody you know?
Sunny
Demeanor who happens to be Sunny Outlook’s first cousin is the best way
to be in my opinion. Or jolly as my mother used to call me as a child.
You can be a victim or you can fight. Tip if you are held hostage,
fight, because they will probably kill you anyway, if you fight you at
least have half a chance, which is better than none. However if you are
Patty Hurst or from Stockholm you may have other ideas.
Satire
works too, go watch Mel Brooks The Producers, and Springtime for Hitler
song. So now it’s two hours later, was I right? Of course I was, so
don’t thank me, thank Mel Brooks. I’ve made a fresh mug of coffee while
you were all goose stepping, hello to my Korean and North Korean
readers. Which brings me to how do we smile through the pain. In North
Korea they just want food and decent tv, but how do they endure while
the madness goes on? Look at the Rose Garden at the White House
yesterday and you will have asked yourself the same thing.
It
all goes back to, putting on a happy face and smile smile smile, how
did folks here in UK survive back in WWII, it really was the back
against the wall time? It all goes back to Spirit. You can be in a
supermax jailed buried half a mile underground, but you are still free,
because of your spirit. The jailers are the prisoners. You could pick
Mandela as an example, then the corrupt politicians follow on from him.
Pick another place and another superhero. I could say the same with
Religion, how it starts Holy but is then corrupted by mortal men. Look
at the Catholic Church as just one example.
Now
I could sidetrack myself at this point, but I hope my readers are grown
up enough to look in the mirror and see wrongs, and also grown up
enough to look in the mirror and change, unlike Michael Jackson. So what
makes a spirit special, where is the love, where is the kindness? In my
own case I would say it was poured into me by my mum and dad. No I’m
far from special, but I do claim I do know how to write, or talk to you
all.
A
caring person, is not Donald Trump checking has everybody got a drink,
which is hostess stuff which any of his hotel workers do every single
day. A caring person genuinely cares, which is different to photo
opportunities. There is Love in their eyes, and music in their spirit.
The times I seen Shona people sing at Mass this is when I’ve felt it
first-hand.
Beggars
in the street as a rule look lost, but sometimes when you give them
something to eat, you can see the spark reignite. Like when the lady
from the local store sneaks out with a mug of tea for the beggar. You
can see her spirit by her actions, though I know she’d be embarrassed if
I named her. So you can see good spirits by their actions, and it is
because they have this good inside them that they can survive when bad
times come.
Chronic
pain, is a curse, and you are all cursing because I’m not sharing any
jokes today. When you spend the nights unable to sleep, not until you
are so exhausted that you fall asleep. That is when a radio or some form
of music is a life raft in the darkness, or the BBC World Service. As
you try and find a less place to sleep in, your mind wanders. Sometimes
Prayer comes along, and sometime saying the Rosary does lead to sleep,
as your mum used to say, say the Rosary if you cannot sleep is what she
used to say. However sometimes the pain is just too much, here there and
everywhere, which was a song, was it by Peter Paul and Mary, or some
other Evangelists.
Yes
pain killers are available, and the Pain Clinic can advise, but if you
find you don’t like the fizzing in your head if you take the Epilepsy
pain killers, they discovered they worked for pain too, so you have to
stick to the paracetamol. Though a super dose, of Epilepsy pain killers
at night kind of works, but you still wake every two hours, then in the
morning 12 hours later you feel all drugged up. So you abandon the
Epilepsy pain killers. Not unless you want to join the Opioid club, and
lose your brain. So that’s my own personal Catch 22.
So
that’s why I am the way I am. You do have to fight, with whatever
strengthen you have, to keep your spark lit, your hopes going. You have
to do what you can do, you used to be able to walk 5 miles without
thinking about it. Now you have a rest in the bus shelters as you go
along. Some days you are fine, some minutes you are fine, then with the
sweep of the clock you are all pained up. Yes for me, it can be like
that, I wouldn’t say my spirit is special, but I do know if you have a
focus then you are not washed away with a Tsunami of pain or
hopelessness.
Daytime
tv, or watching the world go by, shouting at the radio, find an outlet,
make love to the cleaning lady. Whatever gets you through the night,
just do it. I noticed in the Press yesterday something about you can die
in 3 weeks if you give up. We have all heard of Dying of a Broken
Heart, I remember the look on my dad’s face when my mother died, that
was a broken heart. You have to fight, and curse and howl at the moon,
and I see many many moons because of my sleep patterns. One step at a
time, like the AA motto, how I can make this day count. Do what you can
do. Tiny steps are better than no steps.
I
know it’s not easy, I speak from experience, hard won experience I wish
I never gained, and in some things I have 50 years’ experience. You
have to enjoy the small things, even what most people would consider
mundane. Look up at the clouds, see the shapes they form, look at the
stars at night, feel the wind on your cheek. You may be stuck in your
home, but your mind is not. You may be in a prison cell, but your mind
is not. You may be in a bad marriage and have a horrible job, or just
hate where you live. But in your mind you can anywhere you want to be,
in your mind you could even be in bed with me. Ok, a horror story
finish, but the premise holds true.
You
are as happy as you make yourself despite your weaknesses or failings,
in your mind you are floating in space, not in that super-max half a
mile underground. Sometimes the only super-max is in your mind, if you
can break through the pain, the lack of love, or the lack of hope,
then you can have a spiritual shelter inside yourself. I can only act
as a signpost, a battered signpost, showing you yourself, your own inner
light of eternal hope.
Lech, Boris and Gregorgi Save Christmas ©
By
Michael Casey
The
cousins had decided to buy and trade a few old Army Surplus materials.
Putin has updated his army so there was a lot of old kit being thrown
away. So obviously the enterprising cousins decided this was their
chance. There were all kinds of everything for sale at rock bottom
prices, such as Arctic gear, and even parachutes and an ancient flame
thrower or two. Junk to you or me, but to the cousins it was an
opportunity.
Sometimes what
is discarded becomes the most important thing, like a broken heart
healed by love, or the dream of a dead mother on the feast of Saint
Francis, that comes to heal and strengthen. But I’m talking about the
Slav cousins, and their wives just laughed at them, they were just so
stupid, but that made them love them the more. So as the wives sharpened
their knives ready for the Christmas preparations, which meant death
for some of the animals, but it for good purpose, to celebrate the feast
of Christmas.
Amongst
the junk was an old military radio or two, so the cousins’ children
were allowed top play with one. To their surprise they were able to
contact some other children, so soon there was a radio friendship. It
turned out that they had discovered School 76 in Novablizt, which was a
fair distance from where they all lived. It was a boarding school for
children of army officers, really they should not be talking to
outsiders. But it was a military frequency on an old channel, so that’s
how the wall came down.
As
Lech, Boris and Gregorgi rummaged through their treasure their children
were enjoying the radio. It turned out that the parents of School 76
were in reality Space Engineers, they would not say more than that, but
it was interesting to say the least. Now Christmas was approaching fast
and the cousins had managed to sell boots and coats and the like, so
they were content, they had at least made some money. There was the
Christmas feast on the horizon and their wives were glowing, happy and
so deeply in love. However when all the cousins’ children explained all
the anticipated fun and love that they would have to the children of
School 76 they were met with sadness.
You
see at School 76 the parents would be working far away, launching
satellites into space for the highest bidder. Christmas was lost to
them, duty came first, if only they got to see a fake Santa, it would be
fun amongst all the books. Now Lech, Boris and Gregorgi were saddened
when they heard this, Christmas without even a fake Saint Nicolas, this
was too much.
Their
wives looked at them and all the children looked at them. We need to
talk to your fathers said the three mothers. So the three mothers took
the three cousins to the 3 bedrooms. It is always best to discuss things
in a comfortable environment. 6 hours later, the mothers emerged
smiling, and the cousins emerged too. It had been decided, the 3 mothers
would sacrifice their 3 cousin husbands for Christmas. Lech, Boris and
Gregorgi would bring Christmas to School 76.
Now
School 76 is not on any map as it was classed as Military even though
it was just a boarding school. So a map reference was sent and Lech
marked it on a map with Rudolf’s nose, that was all the map they would
need. They loaded their snow plough with items they might need, and what
could they bring the students? Boiled eggs painted and some English
chocolate, Cadburys of course, and some Oranges. There was some vodka
too, but that was for any stray teachers or caretakers. It was the
thought that counted, there would not be any other gifts as such, or so
was the plan. You see the school was in a remote area and Lech, Boris
and Gregorgi may have to walk in the last leg.
When
School 76 heard the news they erupted. They would not only get one fake
Santa but three. Carols erupted from School 76, but the could not tell
the teachers, the caretaker staff as it was still technically called a
Military establishment. So with a final kiss to their wives, who were
probably pregnant by now, what do you think they were doing for 6 hours,
knitting? So Lech, Boris and Gregorgi set off to bring Christmas to
School 76. As they dove away a fancy 4x4 passed in the opposite
direction, paths had been crossed.
In the 4x4 was Mikhail Mikhailovich who
you will remember was the Spaceman who had a visit from the Archangel
Saint Michael, by sheer chance he was driving through Lech, Boris and
Gregorgi’s
village.Now there is no such thing as coincidence, there is only the
will of God. Mikhail Mikhailovich went into the inn and had some food
and a rest, he was going to plough on and get home for Christmas himself
but then the Heavens opened and it was a Whiteout, a mountain of snow
had fallen. So he just knew he’s be spending Christmas there, Mikhail
Mikhailovich was soon telling tales and enjoying all the company. His
eyes popped open wide when he heard what Lech, Boris and Gregorgi were
up to, he had studied at School 76 himself in his youth before he became
the world’s greatest Cosmonaut and then the world’s greatest
storyteller.
I
actually drove past them, will they be safe? They are like Polar Bears
replied the three wives, besides we’ll kill them if they don’t come
back, as they brandished their knives. Besides we are all pregnant so
they will not abandon an unborn baby at Christmas. How many weeks are
you pregnant asked Mikhail Mikhailovich? About 15 hours not weeks came
the proud reply.Mikhail Mikhailovich blushed, this was like one of his
stories, but true.
Mikhail
Mikhailovich took out his satellite phone and recited another story so
that Radio Russia would have a new story over Christmas. Then the
military radio crackled, it was Lech, Boris and Gregorgi. Well we are
20k short of our destination, the snow plough cannot go any further so
we will walk. We have skis and a sledge, it will be fun. Everybody
looked out the window and saw the snow, it was deadly dangerous.Mikhail
Mikhailovich took the microphone, hello I’m Mikhail Mikhailovich can I
help in any way? We love stories replied the 3 in unison. I was meaning
help in getting to your destination? We think we will be ok, we have
vodka to keep us warm and multiple layers too, we have got old USSR army
kit, so we should be just fine.
Mikhail
Mikhailovich looked about him, these fine people deserved their own
Archangel, so he took out his satellite phone. In seconds he was talking
to Chuck from the USA, his old friend Tim Peak who was back in space
again, and Petrov a fine Russian cosmonaut. Mikhail Mikhailovich was
talking to the Heavens Above AKA the Space Station. Hello guys, do you
want to test that new thing you have. In seconds it was decided, it was a
method of tracking Polar Bears, but now it would be tracking 3 polar
bears called Lech, Boris and Gregorgi.
The
only problem was their was no radio tracking device on a collar, just a
vintage USSR radio. Looking around again, Mikhail Mikhailovich rung his
good friend Esther, the mother of the zillionaire space satellite
magnate. Shalom he began, and then Mikhail Mikhailovich explained,
Esther would help he knew it. Ester put her cards down she was playing
poker in Vegas, the winner chose which Charity got the pot, 10million
had been raised just through her poker habit, if you can remember back
to the Malta story. A phone rang in the situation room at the Pentagon,
the ring tone was If I were a Rich Man sung by Topol, an actual one off
recording just for a ring tone.If you are zillionaire then you can have
such things.Sorry said the zillionaire turning to General Jim Mathis,
mom insisted on the ring tone. In seconds all was explained and Esther
went back to her poker, she wanted to win.
The
zillionaire looked around, I wasn’t going to show you this yet, but a
friend wants a favour. So with General Jim Mathis looking on the
zillionaire brought up the satellite image. It was not perfect but
through the snow Lec, Boris and Gregorgi could be made out. We’re
guiding them through the snow to School 76. So the zillionaire spoke to
Mikhail Mikhailovich and then he guided the three cousins.
In
deep deep snow they went up and down and around and around , and this
way and that way, leaving a trail as they dragged their sledge. High in
space the zillionaire and brought a couple of other satellites into
play, it was Christmas after all, they were not the three Magi, but they
had friends in high places, very high places. But then disaster, the
radio broke down, at minus 20 even a thirty year old USSR radio had to
come to the end of their life.
All
we can do is watch and pray, said General Jim Mathis as he looked up
from the book Esther had sent him, first edition of a Christmas Carol by
Charles Dickens.So watching from on high they all watched and prayed.
Three cousins, Lech, Boris and Gregorgi would go around and around until
the cold killed them. From space they tracked their route, then the
zillionaire spotted a pattern. Marked in the snow was PAX VOBISCOM, or
Peace Be With You. Then through the snow the satellite could see a
sledge drawn by enormous reindeer, there was a giant of a man on board.
The giant waved at the sky as if he knew the satellites were all
watching him.
Santa
Claus himself had come to rescue them, if the Archangel Saint Michael
had saved Mikhail Mikhailovich why shouldn’t Santa Claus save three Slav
heroes called Lech,Boris and Gregorgi. And that is how Christmas was
saved by Lech, Boris and Gregorgi or rather how Santa Claus saved them.
School 76 had the best Christmas ever, 3 fake Santas plus the real
thing. Now if you think this story is far fetched, just watch Norad
track Santa this and every Christmas. And if you still don’t believe me,
why are there photos of the Real Father Christmas locked in General Jim
Mathis’ safe with a signed copy of a Christmas Carol on top. Marked 25
levels higher than TOP SECRET.
Hidden Meanings (c)
By
Michael Casey
Well its 6th October now and the temperature has dropped, so Autumn has begun to show its face. Or The Fall as the Americans call it. The pain monster has come out to play too, so forgive the smell of Movelat gel as I swallow some paracetamol. Yes, I'm boring you all again, but it's not all silly photos and sillier words. This is my life. I did have my yearly Flu jab and one for Pneumonia too the other day, to keep me healthy during the Winter.
So I had to whip off my shirt in the local church hall, the sight of my naked body as I had a prick in both shoulders. They do mass inoculations, nearby where Mass is said. So at night when I tried to lie on my side and sleep I could not as I was in pain, because I was leaning on the spot where the jab went in. Sleeping in one position post bypass means thanks to my jabs I just could not sleep at all that night. Though I normally wake every 2 hours.
I got talking to the vicar as I had I had a coffee afterwards, he seems like a nice man. I did ask why he became a vicar and he said it kind of found him. Just as Writing kind of found me 30 years ago. I don't know who is the more successful, me or the vicar. I'd say the vicar. The vicar at the church my kids sing at was in fact a journalist previously, obviously he never wrote fake news as he was honest, so honest he became a vicar.
My own priest at my local church sings like Topal, and at the other church I visit there are a variety of priests. And as I've mentioned you can also go to church at https://www.churchservices.tv/
But I've sidetracked myself because the Horror Film on tv is Priest, which I've seen before. So lets get back to the plot. Hidden Meanings. Are there any in the stuff I write? NO. I'm not clever enough to hide anything. What you see is what you get, I write plain and simple stuff because I write or rather talk for the Mass Audience, if I might hark back to the Priest.
You can have many meanings and people interpret or misinterpret things depending on their own leanings. You have people say "what did he mean by that" and nowadays if you don't add what did "she mean by that" then you are not even handed, same goes with using Chairman instead of Chairperson. You can be viewed as anti-Gay, anti-Black, anti-Anything because you don't use the Politically Correct language.
STOP and think about that. If somebody is always correcting your language and grammar, instead of sorting the Problem then you should ask yourself are they really trying to STOP solutions. Whatever the problem is. All I want is some more soft toilet paper to clean my bum with, do I have to fill in a form in triplicate, or have a form of words? Or should I just wipe my bum on the curtains in my hotel room?
I'll stop here before my head explodes
THANKS FOR PASSING BY, ONE DAY MAYBE I'LL GET SOME RECOGNITION AND REWARD
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