Climax of next book

Friday, 30 April 2021

The Climax of my next book, though it probably won't be written in full. Tears for a Butcher

Just got up to check my numbers, ok Tinnitus again

Spotted 7 copied in Russian downloaded via wordpress

7 copies of In Search of an Indian Princess downloaded too

Russia and India have also been online

Not forgetting Korea

and what did I stumble over on The Michael Casey blogger site

which is not the main one.

This is.

Underneath the Portuguese Translation

was THIS

Tears for a Butcher 

the beginning of the Finale

so enjoy as I may never get to finish it

Its a year of my life to write a book

not unless a typist turned up....

now discover what I discovered, it made me cry...

time for bed again...

and here is the start of the climax for the Sequel

Saturday, 1 June 2019

Chapter Ten Tears for a Butcher © By Michael Casey

a taster of my Next full length comic novel, here’s the start of the climax.
If I get a speed typist I may actually write this…

But what are the chances of a Kpop girl singer coming
to Birmingham to type for me?

Tears for a Butcher ©
by Michael Casey
Chapter Ten

Raging Bull in a Post Office (c)
By
Michael Casey

Big Sid had ambled into the Post Office he wanted to change for his till, so naturally he had stopped to talk to Mrs Murphy who was telling the world that June beside her was expecting a 2^nd child. Sid held baby Sheila in his arms like a Saint Christopher and told her she’d soon have a playmate. It was while he was holding the infant that 3 armed men in motorbike helmets broke into the Post Office. But for that he would have immediately charged them like a raging bull, but he was holding the infant so he had to control himself.

The alarm rang, and Sgt Mulholland had coincidentally pulled up outside, so a siege ensued. Now I won’t give you all the details of the siege here, but Big Sid immediately made sure that his bulk was in between the 2 Mrs Murphys and the infant. Over his dead body would any harm come to them. And on the siege endured. It turned out the robbers were at the wrong Post Office. They should have been at the Hope Avenue Post Office, the very big one the other side of town. That’s what happens when you don’t know how to use a Sat Nav.

Big Sid’s friend the Professor from Birmingham Medical school had been leading a conference of surgeons, and Jake Powers an American surgeon had wanted to say Hi. He’d heard how the Professor had used Big Sid in a lecture and BQ and wanted to meet Big Sid in person. He was going to emulate the idea back home in Dallas, imitation is the sincerest form of flatter. Jake Powers was tall and lean and proudly wore his cowboy boots and hat, he was the son of a rancher after all.
So the Professor and the American happened to be at Big Sid’s butcher’s before Jake Powers would take old Michael’s taxi to the airport. There is no such thing as coincidence only the Will of God, and maybe Big Sid had friends in the Highest of places. The Professor waited and was told that Big Sid had gone to to the Post Office. Then the siege began. The Professor looked at his good friend, you don’t want to miss your flight do you? Jake Powers looked him in the eye, just in case, just in case I think I’ll stay. Besides I did not have time for a drink in the Trader. Jake Powers had never had alcohol in his life, so the Professor smiled.

The Professor whispered into his phone, the nearest hospital is Dudley Rd hospital, the one opposite Saint Patrick’s church. Can Blue team assemble this is not a drill, he looked up at Jake Powers, just in case. Just in case repeated Jake Powers. I better let my friends know I’ll not be on the plane home. So Jake Powers phoned his friends who had by now gathered around a tv at the Birmingham airport. Collectively they were Dallas’s best trauma and gunshot team. We understand they said, and where is the standby hospital? Dudley Rd, opposite Saint Patrick’s church.

In a nanosecond the team decided to heck with the flight we might be needed. However they were a full hour away from the hospital. So Dean Marvin a surgeon from Dallas stepped outside and whispered into the ear of a bored Policeman. And with that they boarded their coach and the coach driver was told by PC Jones to stay right up his arse. So with a Police escort a coach full of the world’s greatest surgeons were on their way to join Blue team. It was the first week on the job for Ken the coach driver, with a new coach firm who were desperate for work if only they could get some publicity.

Well God works in mysterious ways, Sky was covering the seige now, and their helicopter saw the coach right up PC Jones’ arse as instructed. The A team was on it’s was, let’s pray they are not needed.

Singing Anvil Coaches were all over Sky news, a free advert as Ken  drove like a bat out of hell on his way to the hospital.

Everybody was calm at the siege. The robbers expected millions of pounds, but would get next to nothing at this Hope Post Office. Big Sid stayed positioned with his bulk protecting the women as the 3 bandits argued over whose fault it was. Then Fate or Ill Luck beckoned, Mrs Murphy was dying for the toilet, so she demanded they let them all out and then surrender to the Police and 10 years in jail. Shut Up you old bitch was their reply. Big Sid said they should not speak like that. Mrs Murphy fired back what are going to do, shoot the baby?

Yes, we’ll shoot the baby the trio of bandits replied. That was a red flag to Big Sid, nothing would ever ever ever hurt a child. So the raging bull was released. He was shot once but threw one straight out the Post Office window, then he charged the second and was shot a second time as he threw the 2^nd bandit out the shop window. Big Sid looked back at the women. Are you all safe, YES they screamed in fear. Then Big Sid though by now bleeding heavily charged a 3^rd time and got shot a 3^rd time, but still managed to throw the 3^rd bandit out. But that was not enough for Big Sid he staggered out the shattered front window and Body Slammed the pile of bandits. Is everybody safe he asked?

Jake Powers knew he had to save Big Sid’s life, he was the bravest man in the world, he had seen it with his own eyes. The Professor and Jake leapt into action, Big Sid was hauled into a waiting ambulance. Sgt Mullholland took the wheel, both ambulance men were needed to help the Professor and Jake Powers. Sgt Mullholland floored it, the junctions had already been blocked off as a precaution. Sgt Mulholland flew and I mean flew through Old Forge and Singing Anvil, down the Bearwood Rd, down Cape Hill and down the Dudley Road to the hospital.
And what of the three bandits, they were being savaged by hairy Amjit, the long haired alsacian. Nobody in the Police bothered to stop the dog, that’s if they dared. Finally hairy Amjit pissed on each one in turn. Then he picked up their guns one by one and left them at the feet of Roger the Traffic Warden who shook hairy Amjit’s extended paw.

Mrs Muphy knew what she had to do now, it was all her fault anyway, she should not have been so cheeky. But now her Rosary Beads were out in plain view. Michael get me to Saint Pats quick. With that old Michael the taxi driver floored it, he drove even faster that the Police, he had Saint Michael the Arch Angel behind him. At Saint Patricks  Mrs Murphy walked to the very front of the church and kneeing against the altar rail she began another Rosary.

Mrs Murphy’s heart was breaking, Big Sid could die and it was all her fault. But she had her Rosary and Big Sid had the world’s greatest gun shot team there all tending to his wounds. So she started in 5^th gear, no time to waste, she rattled through the Rosary. Outside a media scrum had begun. A slow news day had now become a very big news day. And on she prayed. Her prayers were not enough, she needed more Rosaries, then in her pain she had an idea.

She went outside the church next to the cross and asked Sky news could she say something. Sky news put her on live, this was by now a big big story. Can I ask for prayers for Big Sid? YES. Screamed the Sky reporter, and echoed the BBC reporters and ITN and more. So switching to French she asked for Rosaries, then in Spanish and in Italian. In 10 Languages she asked for Rosaries and said the Our Father, Hail Mary and Glory Be in each of those languages. Whenever she was on Pilgrimage she learnt the Rosary in a new language. The reporters were amazed, a little of lady from Old Forge and Singing Anvil could speak all those languages. All she could say was the Rosary, but that was enough. It was the Virgin Mary’s Nuclear Weapon after all.

Now the shooting of a butcher by 3 armed men, who were disarmed by him became a big big story. Hairy Amjit savaging them and collecting the guns and leaving them at the foot of the traffic warden was shown worldwide. Now Mrs Murphy beseeching for players also went worldwide. The daughters of the rosary leapt into action worldwide. A cry from the womb could never be ignored. 24hour prayers were soon in action, thanks to time zones and Mrs Murphy’s language skills. She even knew Hindi.

Now while all this was unfolding a British Aristocrat and a Shanghai Billionaire were gambling, and who else but Smiling Paul was  leading the entertainment. When Big Sid broke all over the news Smiling Paul screamed as if stabbed. The Aristocrat was livid too, his ancestors had provided the beef for King Henry’s Sirloin. As for the Shanghai Billionaire, when he heard Mrs Murphy beg for prayers not only in Mandarin but in Shanghai dialect he could not be moved. He was also a secret catholic.

Then as Smiling Paul howled like a wounded dog his wife comforted him. And then, and then the Shanghai Billionaire realised, Smiling Paul was The Lucky One, the man who was prepared to give everything to save the restaurant business of his Chinese friends. The silly looking one with the most beautiful of Chinese wives. Now at that moment the Shanghai billionaire swore Big Sid would be avenged, as did the English aristocrat.

To upset one billionaire is a bad idea, but to upset two. And how could he help? Father Dan was  in deepest China and Mrs Murphy’s broken heart asked for his return. So the Shanghai billionaire returned her priest, and asked his playboy son with his penthouse at the top of Pearl Tower to come to Old Forge and Singing Anvil too. And because of this coincidence his son would return to his father too. As I’ve said before there is no such thing as coincidences only the work of God. And that work would begin with Fr.Dan  hearing the confession of the 3 bandits inside Winson Green Jail, I forgot to say Fr.Dan is Old School, but I won’t talk of bruises in a prison cell, he is a martial arts expert too, but what else do you expect of a Jesuit….

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The Climax of my next book, though it probably won't be written in full. Tears for a Butcher

Just got up to check my numbers, ok Tinnitus again Spotted 7 copied in Russian downloaded via wordpress 7 copies of In Search of an Indian P...

Thanks a Million again

Thursday, 29 April 2021

Thanks a Million again

somebody was reading thanks a million from end 2018

it had 1,000,000. words attached in a file

if whomever was looking at it , in usa

but that link no longer works

so

email me michaelgcasey@hotmail.com

then

i'll email files to them

PLEASE SIR CAN I HAVE SOMETHING TO READ

in subject line and i'll send you my rubbish

 the Russian translation of The Butcher The Baker and The Undertaker has been

downloaded 3 times as many hours, so enjoy it

Michael the old coughing and spitting taxi driver was in the Arctic convoys to Russia

and at the very end of the story he ran the race of his life and saved The Indian Princess

along with everybody, he called a 29288, which is taxi code

for MayDay MayDay Mayday, so Russians are you going to help India

this  May Day, 29288 was Leap Years Day, I hope Russia leaps to Indian's aid

That would prove to me, that Mother Russia has a Man's heart, bigger than the Urals

 The Indian Princess  story file, is also alongside the Russian

in English, it is the final 3 chapters in fact, a film producer took a look back in 2013

So Russians and Indians everywhere if you look at my Wordpress from today you can find them

there, and I'll attach here again

BBU Russian Translation microsoft wordDownload

in-search-of-an-indian-princess-englishDownload

****************

I named the taxi driver after myself, in honour of all my spitting etc, even back then and as I mention

29288, I begin to cry, half a lifetime ago, I was as strong as a Russian, but now I am as weak as the

old coughing and spitting taxi driver Michael, see life is a circle, but not the Arctic circle.

today for the past 4 hours my left shoulder really hurt and I screamed in pain .

Never forgetting the roar of the Tinnitus

Now the pain has finally eased so I've checked my sites, before finishing at the computer

as for me I hope I win the lottery, or you all finally buy books on Amazon,

 because 2 daughters at university, one there and one next year hopefully

and student accommodation is so expensive. But God is GOOD, his heart as big as the Urals

as a brownie bonus one of my favourite stories

Lech, Boris and Gregorgi Chase a Thief ©

By

Michael Casey

 

Popaloffoff is the name of Lech, Boris and Gregorgi’s home village, where Poland, Ukraine and Russia make love on the map. It minds its own business and likes it when others do the same. It does not matter is it Polish or Ukrainian or even Russian territory, it’s Popaloffoff  through and through. Everybody knows each other and any of the 3 languages will do. But American dollars are preferred, that is always best the world over.

 

The Priest in Popaloffoff is called Tolstoy, yes really, he always has a Bible story to tell, it’s up to you the reader to decide which kind of story you prefer, a Tolstoy epic from the writer, or a Bible story from Tolstoy the Priest. Tolstoy the Priest always wears rose tinted glasses, not because he poses like a Pop star, or because the Bible makes him see things differently. But for a far far tragic reason, you see Tolstoy only has one eye. There was an accident or should I say incident, Tolstoy lost his eye when he was a young man, a young priest sent to Popaloffoff to tend the sheep.

 

Tolstoy had and still has a fierce Faith, when the tide was turning in the War, the Nazi bastards were retreating, the people of Popaloffoff feared they would come and destroy their church, and their village. Anything to destroy the Soul of the people. Tolstoy said he’s take the Holy Icon out of the church and stand at the Pass in the mountains and pray that the Evil Nazis went away, went back from where they came from. So in the middle of Winter Tolstoy stood for 15 days holding the Holy Icon aloft. Mary Mother of Popaloffoff  protect us. And so she did, Tolstoy lost two toes and 2 fingers due to frostbite, but the village was saved from the retreating evil. Tolstoy put the icon back in a leather bag and was still saying the Rosary when he heard a motorbike.

 

A Nazi SS man had wanted to see what was at the end of the Pass, so he had taken a motorbike and went alone to see what was what. Tolstoy spun around, you cannot pass, this town is under the protection of the Mother Mary, I have her icon here. The Nazi SS man laughed and drew his dagger. Tolstoy was tired and weak after the 15 days standing in the snow. So she has her eyes on your nothing village. YES said a defiant Tolstoy. So if she has her eyes, then you don’t need yours. Then the Nazi SS man stabbed Tolstoy in his right eye, leaving his dagger in the socket. Tolstoy screamed, his scream set off an avalanche, the Nazi was swept from the pass, only his motor bike remained. Tolstoy’s blood formed a cross in the snow, not an Iron cross, just a Holy Cross.

 

Tolstoy took the motorbike and rode down the mountain to the village, they were safe, the pass was blocked and the retreating Nazi bastards would not bother them. The Blacksmith in Popaloffoff removed the dagger and used a red hot horseshoe to cauterise the wound. He did make sure the horseshoe was the right way up, so the Priest could say it was good luck. And that is why Tolstoy wears rose tinted glasses, so as not to frighten people with his looks.

 

The Icon was returned to the village, and left in a place of honour. As for the Nazi bastard, the wolves had his body for dinner they are not picky who they dine on. So life went on in the village, minding its own business, until Tolstoy was crying from his one eye saying that the Icon was missing. This was over 70 years later, Tolstoy was still the Priest and though a bit slower, he was still loved so much. Lech, Boris and Gregorgi came running. Our icon is missing.

 

Now let me try to explain, an icon is not photo of your favourite footballer, or a selfie of a President and a Dictator, though it can be hard to tell which is which. An Icon is something you treasure, like a wedding ring, or memories you have of your mother. It has value thousands or millions of times greater than it’s worth. As a work of Art and Love and Prayer combined it is in fact Priceless. In fact some Icons if sold would fetch millions of dollars, and Professional Criminals use Art of a way of moving money, like Bearers Bonds.

 

And yes Popaloffoff’s icon was Priceless and worth many many millions, in fact when Andrew Graham Dixon, England’s greatest Art Expert happened upon Popaloffoff when he was on a hiking and food holiday with his Italian friend, he cried for 30 mins nonstop. Tolstoy had to give him a hug and Bless him. Andrew Graham Dixon was so overwhelmed, when he was allowed to examine it, he wondered about the blood stains on the back, so Tolstoy explained how he’d lost his eye and some fingers and toes years before. Andrew Graham Dixon cried even more. Then his Italian friend shared a recipe with the women of Popaloffoff, then everybody got blind drunk, if you excuse the expression.

But now, but now the Holy Icon of Polaloffoff was missing. There had been a bus of tourists, who had had visited the day before, but they were long gone. That’s if it were them, but who else could it have been? Mother Mary of Popaloffoff Speak to Me, Hear my Voice, Hear my Prayer said Tolstoy the Priest, tears still streaming from his one good eye, as he fell to his knees in the middle of the square outside their church. Bori, Lech and Gregorgi sunk to their knees besides him, soon the entire village were on their knees praying. Mother Mary of Popaloffoff was moved, Tolstoy could hear a quiet voice in his head, I am always with you. Do not cry, an Icon is nothing, compared to my love.

Tolstoy shook his head, I know, I know forgive me, but we want you back where you belong, here in Popaloffoff. Mary smiled, Tolstoy smiled, he’d bring her back if it was the last thing he did before he died. WE RIDE said Tolstoy as he got to his feet, Lech, Boris and Gregorgi wondered what he meant. They followed him, to the shed by the church. Inside was the Nazi’s motorbike, still in mint condition. There was no time to argue, Lech and Boris sat on the bike with Gregorgi and Tolstoy squeezed into the sidecar.

As they roared off they sent a text message to Andrew Graham Dixon, our Lady of Popaloffoff STOLEN. That’s all it said but they knew he would help. In fact Andrew Graham Dixon sent a message to every Art Collector he knew, nobody could attempt selling it on, and if they did Andrew Graham Dixon would know and he had friends in Interpol. This was Sacrilege, then he cried, before having his beans on toast, with lobster and a Guinness.

The trio of cousins did not know where they were going, they were just doing as their old priest told them. When they got to new main road they stopped. Left or Right? Tolstoy took off his rose tinted sunglasses and looked to the Heavens. A tiny voice in his head told him Left, so they went left. The Trio of Cousins wondered what was going on, but said nothing. On they rode, further and further away from the village.

They came across a car with a puncture, so they stopped to help. They had to be good Samaritans after all. They did not have a jack just a spare tyre, so Lech, Boris and Gregorgi lifted the car while Tolstoy helped change the tyre. A family with a baby thanked them, as they were about to go Tolstoy asked had the baby been baptised. No, was the reply, so on the spot Tolstoy baptised the baby, with Lech, Boris and Gregorgi as Godfathers. The family were deeply touched and shouted God Bless You as they rode away.

See a Blessing, said Tolstoy. But Fate and Evil always rears its ugly head, they were running out of petrol. They stopped at the side of the road, and what appeared coming from the opposite direction. A gang of Hells Angels. Tolstoy said, God is Good, as the Hells Angels approached, but he reached into his boot and brought out the dagger the SS Nazi had put in his eye. He’d kept the dagger all those years, now maybe he’s need to use it to defend himself.

The Hells Angels circled and pulled over besides them, Tolstoy took off his rose tinted sunglasses. Perhaps they’d be impressed by his scar, they were. One lady on a bike actually puked. Then the leader of the Hells Angels spoke, Hi I’m Wayne from Fort Worth, we are on a biking holiday, how can we help. They were tourists on a trip of a lifetime.

Tolstoy explained. Son of a Bitch, said the Hells Angels in Unison. Wayne texted his friend in the FBI, those bastards wouldn’t sell the icon in USA, or his name wasn’t Wayne Duke Hazzard III. So the Hells Angels said they’d ride with them part of the way. They had some extra petrol so they’d all be underway. Tolstoy asked could he ride pillion with somebody as he was a bit cramped in the sidecar with Gregorgi. So Tolstoy rode with Mary-Beth.

As they rode Tolstoy asked, did she enjoy being a Hells Angel, she replied it was a bit of fun at weekends, as they had no children. Tolstoy remarked you have the breasts for a great mother, Mary-Beth laughed but there was sadness too in her laughter. So Tolstoy silently prayed for her and all the Hells Angels. Further up the road they went their separate ways. But first Tolstoy Bless all of Them, may Our Lady of Popaloffoff protect you. He also showed them a photo of the icon.

Little did he know, little did the pretend Hells Angels know, what the future would bring. And on they rode, Tolstoy listening to the quiet voice in his head which was leading him to the Icon. It was getting dark, and they would have to stop for the night. But there was no room at the inn, a Beer Festival was taking place, so everywhere was booked out. But they were welcome to stop in the hay loft above cows in the barn.

So they did, and luckily the cows did not complain about the smell, in their leathers they’d managed to get very smelly. In the middle of the night there was a commotion, one of the cows a prize one at that was having difficulty giving birth. The Inn Keeper came out running in his night shirt. He was so worried for has Beauty, for that was the name of his cow. Lech, Boris and Gregorgi knew what to do and they must hurry. So Tolstoy gave them the Nazi’s dagger and they cut the cow out, before sewing the cow back up again. Blood everywhere, but in fact two cows were born, one in fact a bull, that’s why the mum was having difficulty. When the boys had finished the vet finally arrived. He was impressed to say the least.

The Innkeeper was delighted and in the morning made breakfast for all 4 of them, himself. Then Tolstoy said Mass in the carpark for everybody, and everybody said God Bless, and the cows in all the fields mooed in unison. Lech, Boris and Gregorgi wondered would they ever catch the Icon thief, but Tolstoy always said God was Good, and still the little voice in Tolstoys head encouraged him. In fact the voice was getting stronger, so Our Lady of Popaloffoff Icon was getting closer to them.

They continued along the road, and there was nothing but fields, fields and fields. Then they noticed a sign, Air Strip this way. They stopped the bike, in the distance was a small aircraft. Fly, Tolstoy Fly was what the old priest could hear in his head. So the floored the motorbike, went as fast as they could go. But it was too late, the light aircraft was going to take off.

But then Luck shone on them, the light aircraft turned around, it was heading towards them, it had been taxiing to the end of the strip. Now they had a chance. A chance to play chicken. Lech headed straight for the plane. The pilot thought he was mad, and so he was. You never steal from Popaloffoff, and never from a church in Popaloffoff, and Our Lady of Popaloffoff Icon belongs in only one place, Popaloffoff.

Tolstoy stood up in the sidecar and took the Nazi dagger from his boot, then he prayed, guide my hand Mary of Popaloffoff. He threw the dagger into the engine as Lech passed underneath the light aircraft. 70+ years ago the icon had saved village, now he would save the icon.

The plane stopped, and the engine caught fire, luckily they had a fire engine at the strip. Unlucky for the pilot and his 2 passengers there were Police galore hiding. All 3 bad guys were arrested. You see Andrew Graham Dixon and Wayne had both contacted Interpol and the FBI immediately. It turned out Art thieves were on a road trip, but now it was the end of the road, or rather the end of the airstrip for them.

So Tolstoy was reunited with his beloved Icon, and several more were rescued. As for the dagger, Evil had been turned to good. One of the Policemen knew of a motor bike museum, so the Nazi’s motor bike was retired too, after it had been turned from Evil to Good. Then Tolstoy and the boys were given a helicopter ride home with the icon.

Tolstoy held the Icon of Mary of Popaloffoff aloft and then sunk to his knees in praise. It was decided to put a laser alarm around the icon, the strange thing was though that Tolstoy could walk through the laser without setting it off. Our Lady of Popaloffoff knew he was a friend after all.

There was the sound of thunder, coming down the mountain when she comes, singing ai ai wippy ai ai hey, as she comes. This was 9 months+ later you see Mary-Beth did have breasts for children. She had twins, and every other biker chick had had a child too. Mary-Beth liked to ride a bike, but, well, you know. So Tolstoy baptised all the babies, and Lech, Boris and Gregorgi suddenly had even more Godchildren. They all had new leather jackets too, on the back was the image of Our Lady of Popaloffoff with the Logo “Our Lady of Popaloffoff Angels”

 

 

 

 

Addressing People

Thursday, 29 April 2021

Addressing People

 Addressing People (c)

By Michael Casey

Now I am a creature, yes you all reply, interrupting me

A creature of habit, and yes i look like a hairy Hobbit

But if you do things regularly then you won't be constipated

So get up at a regular time, and eat and drink etc

Regularly

Habits work, that's why Organisation works

Work, Rest and Play

and don't forget to Pray at bedtime

or any time, God is always waiting

Even at a bus stop or in a lift, or queueing at the checkout

God is everywhere after all

Now IF you are regular you life may

Seem boring but your life works

If you are wasting time, or not keeping track of time

Then you are always rushing about, like Putin

I had to put that joke in to see are you  listening

He reads me too

Some joker sent me a message from Russia

So I asked when will Mother Russia start being a Man?

No not a transgender reference

BUT a sincere question, 140,000 men marching up to the top

of the hill and then down again

And as Francis said down the club, its obscene when Covid 19

Is all about, use armies to save lives, not scream and shout

Or maybe I'm a pacifist, or just pissed, in all senses of the word

Then in the papers I hear all this PC language

Kids must be called students

and boys and girls is stereotypical so must not be used

I cursed at the screen, and my words worth drifts out the open window

Education is about exposing people to knowledge that's why they go to college

If you are afraid of this or that, then they may just stay at home and stroke the cat

Hey you little bastards get in line or I'll give you a slap of the ruler

And you are all a bunch of bastards, only I your head teacher 

Know who your dad's really are

My flat overlooks the supermarket carpark

And they are not testing car suspension at that time of night

And hey you Casey, one day you will hang

Which was really said to my own dad in 1920s/30s

But my own dad got "revenge" 4 teachers in the family

And his sons  were at Queens Oxford, and Downing Cambridge

Not forgetting the Sancho Pancha in the family, me

2,000,000 words and 20 books on Amazon

But should the head teacher call them little bastards

Will they be scared forever

I got 4 of the best on my bum for not knowing the times tables

In 1966 maybe, and today I can recite my times tables still

What about the little bastards of today

Pauline knows her kids, and they know they'll get a slap

Or a look that could kill, cos she has eyes in the back of her head

And they eat more than jam and bread

Like when gran did when she was younger

Hey Bollocks you, watch my fence as you park your car

Your just a fat old bitch

Noises off, as Denny farts

Yes she's an old bitch, and definitely got eyes in the back of her head

The driver spun around

We're her little bastards, and you don't talk to Miss like that

30 little bastards, now grown kids

It's her Birthday so we her little bastards are having a party

So watch her fence, Or I'll arrest you, Denny was a copper now

22 stones and 6feet seven, Miss said he'd thank her

And so he did, that well aimed slap of the ruler 

and being forced to read and learn. his times tables

Now he had a PhD from the Open University

But he preferred to walk the streets

A chance to meet people and to have a laugh

Nobody called him Sir, he was know as TT

Because he rode a motor bike

Or because Miss made him repeat his Times Tables

You can be fancy or call every Nancy

If you cannot remember just say hello Nancy

As nobody listens they will think you are saying

Nice to See You, well it worked for Bruce Forsythe

Talking is for communicating

You don't need to pretend to be posh

In the end we all wash our bollocks

Especially Michael Bollcocks Casey

or just call me Nancy if you pass in the street

Morons at Work

Morons at Work(c)

By Michael Casey 

I just got up, I'll check my reader numbers then go back to bed for a final session of sleep

You try on Tinnitus for size

I spotted somebody was using a Plagiarism tracker on my Words

How many years have I been online, before landing here?

Maybe 20

When did I learn to read and start reading by the yard, 50 years and more

When did I graduate as a writer, 29th Feb 1988

So it more than pains me that SOBs think I steal stuff, so they take a look

I'm a read SOB, Son of a Blacksmith

So take it from me, I never steal

I have  4 sites now, and I post after I've written, and compile my books as I go along

TRY BUYING A BOOK

I also repost old stuff if I'm too tired or in too much pain to think

So on autopilot I'll post

If I post from a newspaper it's stated, or clearly marked

I don't care if you don't like the writing, my rubbish

But if you even think I'm a thief, I'd slap the backs of your legs with a wet lettuce

and yes that's a Larry Grayson line, but I cannot explain everything as I go along

I assume you have some level of intelligence

Otherwise you'd just be looking at snaps of Kim K's arse

Mine is much bigger and better and so much tighter

But you'd have to know me Biblically first to find out for sure

As for the writing, I have a brain, over 50years worth

So you can stay digging in the dirt, while I look up at the stars

or do I have to cross reference everything for you while you are

in Reading Jail?

Now in the news today we have a cabinet at war eventually

It's better top jaw jaw than war war

And a nation divided cannot stand

So Let's Beat Covid 19, instead of all the prattle

Hissy fits may sell newspapers, but don't help the population

Churchill said he'd do a deal with the devil to save England

People should learn from History

Instead of Twittering on vacuously

There is a time and tide for everything, ask Will down the pub

TODAY India needs our help

We are not an island, the world is not a vacuum, 

though we are an object in the vacuum of space

If India dies we all. die

Who will buy, who will buy if the world dies

By being Charitable, be being Humane, we are helping ourselves

God Helps those who helps themselves too

But what of Putin's Russia, 140,000 troops posturing

They should be used to fight Covid 19

And China too

India is on your doorstep

As North Korea goosesteps

In Indian people are dying

Forget about losing face, save the human race

If the cat gets out of the bag, it's more than sad

Turn back time, or the crime of the century is more than a footnote

Who said what, where and why

Are they trying and prevented more dying

Comments in newspapers end up as chip wrappers

With vinegar splashed on them

So are you offering vinegar as Christ dies on the cross

Or are you doing something

Covid 19, has released the genie of hate and division in the world

Now is the time to set things right

Maybe even for prayer,

My last word was Calcutta

So save the Princess that is India

before everything is written in History books

or are you  too busy checking for plagiarism 

just go back to the first book

The Power of Laughter

The Power of Laughter(c)

By Michael Casey

Well I've just watched episode 18 of Vincenzo, and I've laughed till it hurts, with my hernia through  my bypass scar it really does hurt when I laugh. So I've taken 2 paracetamol and I'm gingerly rubbing my "breast" and it does look and feel like a breast. But at least it gave me the idea for today's talk. It'll kill me in the end, but to die laughing would be ok, though I need 7 more years till my small daughter over there in the corner gets her PhD. Yes I want more, Laughter and Years, but that's up to God not me. Which reminds me I need to pay our priest a visit, I have present for our  own Don Camillo.

The sun is bright, but there is a chill in the air, I could tumble down the hill, to visit priest and church, but getting back up again would be a struggle, from day to day or hour to hour, I never know the state my body is in. Though I did shave, shower and S---, the 3rd S after all, I said that once to somebody they totally misunderstood, because nobody listens they just react, or maybe they just could not be bothered to listen to me. I always want a  conversation, so never say How Are You to Me, because I always take it as a Literal invitation for Conversation not just vacuous Pleasantry.

So why does laughter have power? Because it is an equaliser, literally Equaliser. I learnt that at the hotel, I had the most Power there, though I was the very least of the brethren, because I could always make the guests laugh. Maybe 100,000 conversations over the 3 years there, some like Ami on the  desk called it "my act" but it was not. There is too much servitude in hotels, I know it's meant to be like that, but some people just did not know how to treat staff, others did and do, but some should have felt my shoe up their backside. I'm far more "Mouthy" now I'm a retiring writer,  but before with toddlers I had to put  up with anything, like a rubbish boss hiding in the concierge room, pretending to sweep a broom.

I can laugh at it now, but 12 hours all day standing on marble with 3 hours travelling on top of it, I put up with a lot, until somebody wanted me to work till Midnight, so I decided to say Goodnite. Yes it was the best fun I had in any Job ever, but it was by far the hardest job ever. So that's the pinch of salt to take with all the other comments I've ever written. My kids always are more important than any job, and ultimately I raised them, which is/was good considering  I could have died in bed, Jan 2015 unplanned quadruple heart bypass has given me 6 years more extra time, a neighbour down the road also with 2 daughters he died in bed. So I'm lucky.

Laughter makes you lucky, because people are glad to see you, he's good for a laugh. He always has a story, or he gets the drinks in, so God Bless him. That's why the criteria always is, they get the drinks in. So we don't care for education, or class, or if you boring about being gay or straight or any which was, so long as you get the drinks in. Can you  laugh, and can you make others laugh. Pinsent Masons when I worked for them were class, everybody was nice, the HR people saw to that. 

But I've sidetracked myself. A show on tv will make you laugh, or a Tom Sharp book, I was talking to the IT guy at Pinsents once and he had only just discovered Tom Sharp. Wilt, Porterhouse Blue, The Throwback were a few of the books, Porterhouse Blue was a great tv show too. I was visiting a friend doing his PhD  when the books were introduced to me, 30 years plus ago. So laughs can be shared and discovered, you'll find them in a reading list, or Shakespeare if we mention him as it was his Birthday the other day. And believe it or not I did an Open University 3rd level course in Will 30 years ago or so, I was called his agent by my Tutor. I did a bit of History too, but gave it up as I was working loads of shifts on computers. The History PhD gave a lecture on WWII and said forget Normandy the War was won with blood in Mother Russia that won it. And for Americans considering this, 40,000,000 Russians died beating the Nazi scum. 400,000 American died too, and many many more from other nations. So imagine a crowd in a church. 100 people there, 1 would be from USA, the rest one be Russian, the  sole American would be lost  in the crowd. So, image that when you scream "Commie Bastards" at some  Trump rally. A study of History would teach you so much more. And that could have made the Peace so much better.

Yes, I could have been a History teacher maybe, if my life took another turn. But you have to live with the way the Dealer deals the cards. And get up and start again, maybe repeatedly, as you follow the long and winding road. So my Writer incarnation  which only began in 1987 is the best of me, 20 years of "study" by radio listening then 1 years of practice, before on Leap Years Day 1988 I'd say I qualified as  Writer, when The Butcher The Baker The Undertaker, the paper version was first written. The expanded computer version was a few years later. So if anybody says my writing is rubbish, you'll hear this SOB, Son of a Blacksmith, call you (&&^&^&&.

I try to bring laughter, and just like in Vincenzo, ordinary, overlooked people can and do surprise you. That's maybe why I like it so much, and should you finally read The Butcher The Baker and The Undertaker as people in 90 countries do, in many many languages, you'll see why ordinary people like it, because they can see themselves in it.  And that maybe is the secret, but Publishers would rather sell coffee table books of Kim K'a arse, or is that because I'm just an even bigger fatter but tighter arse?

Shakespeare come out of the bog, I'm a cross gartered fool desperate to be let in

Shakespeare come out of the bog, I'm a cross gartered fool desperate to be let in (c)

By Michael Casey

Today is Shakespeare's Birthday, 23rd April

So he is quiffing ale like Falstaff

So his bladder is fit to but

So needs must, he is in the bog

No not an Irish bog, like found in Kerry and those parts

The kind of bog where farts are found

A toilet in any other words

Can you hear hear the Earthy Sounds

A hail of rain, and tempest galore

Merrily I say to thee, Shakespeare is past

He has had his Measure for Measure, and more

Litre pint glasses he adores, he is all for Europe

If he can fit more in his glass

And now it is all coming out his ass

And I don't mean a donkey

Though he brays like one

Especially if he is sat upon

But is takes up all the bench with a buxom wench

Where are we all to sit

So we all say, move up a bit

Then he has to go for a sh**

He says he won't dally while he dumps

The wench's breast look like mumps

So we say, take your time

It's no crime, as Falstaff moves in

His double chins as large as the maiden's breast

Though she is far from Maiden

She's been had, and Elizabeth said it first

When she was a walk on part, as Falstaff farts

So Shakespeare is in the bog and we cheer merrily

As the Inn Keeper to his credit will but the ale bill

on Shakespeare's account, because he is a right count

We did get a penny worth of bread for Falstaff

As he never drinks on an empty stomach

As we leer and tarry with the maiden

Shakespeare has inspiration and takes out his quill

As sat on the toilet, he writes a new Thriller

The Tempest, and judging from the noises off

It is the perfect title

As washed up on a sea of ale, Shakespeare writes his Tale

We are glad for him and call for more Strumpets

which are a bit like bread, recently invented and called 

Crumpets, so now you know, because I told you so

Annie was at the gate, so I missed a line

she is very refined and paints

But back to the yard of ale, for more of the tale

Shakespeare would not come out

No matter how loud we shout

He just used his quill and wrote on the wall

Many a verse, as we converse with Strumpets

And hoping for a bit of crumpet

Will was in there with his quill

Not know he would be paying the bar bill

But as the wind blew, he knew with his quill

He had swallowed a bitter pill

If he was writing on paper, then scenes would be missing

As the ale and hapworth of bread

Had entered via his head

Now was dropping like lead down the hole in the ground

With such a mighty echoing sound

Yes, Will was all piss and thunder

That's why he webbed words together like a song

And could do no wrong on any stage

And now filled with rage for the lack of a page

He was the writing was on the wall

But he was having a ball 

And so were we with Strumpets

Best paid by Will on his tabulations behind the bar

Though the Strumpets behinds, in front and behind the bar

Were England's Glory be far

For God and King Harry Parts One and Two

Were writ when he'd had quite a few

Strumpets and Ale, they were both for sale

And Will Shakespeare knew how to take the measure of both

He was a playwrite of note after all

And he was always after, before, after and during

He had to dip his quill, that's why Will was Will

He was no sheep in a pen, he was frolicking at will 

And Will did grow up in the wool trade and wrote all his own stuff

Though Ernest the Wise innkeeper always said it was bracing air

Like at Morcambe that made the lines fizzle

Not the damp air and drizzle outside

So come inside for we have crumpet to go with the ale

Best served by our very own strumpets

And what of Me?

I am Michael Casey the fat silver haired writer in shades from Birmingham

And it is I who is left to beat my carpet

For the bastard Will left the cat in

And she sha** on my rug, so now I have to beat it

To clean the mess off

Happy Birthday William Shakespeare

And hurry up out of the bog

So I can use it, and maybe I can steal a few lines

Off the Wall, as I dance the night away

Farting Happy Birthday