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15 Down ©

By

Michael Casey

This will be my 15th book, I was going to wait till I hit 100,000 Words, but life is too short, so I’m going to launch it today, at only 93,000 words or so. There’s plenty to read and the final piece has power. So buy the ebook and read to the end.

That’s all, its very cold today, 10th Jan 2018. I’ve had 3 years extra time thanks to my Quadruple Heart Bypass. Now all I need to do is fix my Kidneys, makes me sound like a chef, has anybody got any red onions? Michael Casey

The fat silver haired writer in Shades normally, from Birmingham, the one in England.

Soft Power ©

By

Michael Casey

I’ve had a nap and I thought I’d write a 2nd piece for the day and in actual fact this will become the 1st piece in my next book, my 15th, which will be called 15 Down. No, not Watership Down, though some might say my writing breeds like rabbits. Just 15 Down, no not Just William but simply 15 Down, because it will be the 15th book I ‘ll have down on paper. Let it loose at Christmas or whenever. So my words are my power, my soft power.

I used to be as strong as an Ox, now I just smell like one, I have retained my lightning fast reactions though, do you want to see that again, as Ali might say. Which brings us to what Power is, and more especially what Soft Power is. A priest has power, we come to church to hear the Word of God, today it was the parable of the sower. The priest has power over us and not just because he has heard all our confessions. He has power because we are there to listen and we want to listen.

However if the sermon is boring and badly constructed then people switch off, or start going to another church, or just stop going at all. See what is happening all over the world. I would offer to write a non boring sermon delivered at a god pace, that was a typo, but its correct its God’s pace, a good pace. Not a rambling Oxford Don pace with too many references. Today’s sermon should just contrast and explain the differences in message.

If you are looking at a photograph of your grand-kids you are not interested in where the camera was bought and which shutter speed was used, you just want to enjoy the snap. So the priest should explain the snap by being snappy in his explanations, and nor bore or confuse by talking about Samsung v Kodak or 35mm v 70mm or digital. All we need is the good quality snap. Only film buffs etc are interested in all the rest. So sermons should follow that path and not get stuck in the weeds. The parable of the sower should be used to explain how best to talk about explaining the word of God itself.

Ok, I’ve bored half of you already, especially those who only believe in Nothing. I’m trying to examine how Soft Power can be used if you use it in a good non boring manner. Perhaps I should write simple sermons for clergy and maybe the congregations will stop writing complaint letters to the bishop.

Enough of the Holy what about the Profane? Your mum has soft power because you love her from the nipple and you’ll do anything for your old mum, even if you call her the old bitch. Your mate who saved your life when you fell in the canal in Birmingham he has soft power as you’ll always buy him a pint. Your girlfriend his sister has soft power too, because he’d throw you back in the canal if he knew the kind of home movies the pair of you make. But its love and they are for your own private consumption, and you are not so stupid to load them to the cloud like the film stars do, only to be hacked.

The girl in the chip shop has power over you too because she always gives you an extra portion of chips, so you become friends and you fix her motorbike. The smell of chips and the sight of her in her biker leathers is too much for you, so you become more than friends amongst the mountain of potatoes behind the chip shop. Soft power peels away the leathers amongst the potato peelings. So much so that you have to go visit the priest, to arrange a hasty wedding, and a christening is booked at the same time, as the priest’s diary is always full. The priest also mentions the parable of the sower, in relation to what a good relationship should be like. Not vigorous and then dying and choked by weeds.

So to finish or conclude if you are posh, power is good, but influence or soft power is better. Because soft power is gentle and persuasive like a kiss, or a gentle breeze, and a reed that bends in the wind still can grow after the storms. Here ends the parable of the sower, so you can all go down the pub now, while the priest counts the collection.

Dr Who, Me a Woman?

By

Michael Casey

It’s been announced on the telly, Dr Who is a woman, Jodie Whittaker who, or should I say Dr Who. So now we have somebody almost as young and as attractive to be the Time Lord. It was going to be me you know, yes didn’t you hear it down the Trader in Old Forge and Singing Anvil, Michael Casey to be the next Time Lord. Maybe the sound of the bingo numbers being called drown it out.

I met the producer of the Dr Who series in the toilets of the Trader, he was trapped in his Tardis, ok in the 3rd cubicle, the one with the dodgy lock and after I passed extra scripts so he could wipe his aspirations he discovered he was trapped in space and time. I only went back because I’d left my copy of the Daily Telegraph by the sinks, and I heard him banging on his Tardis door. So as I had saved him from being left locked in a toilet overnight he said I could have a try out for the 13th Dr Who position.

I told him it was time a woman, a female, a good looking female was the next Dr Who. He said he agreed, so I arrived the next day in my best frock. I do a drag act on the weekends, me and Barry do a singing act at the Bell and Pump on Broad Street. So there I was doing a read through for the Dr Who producer. I am a natural 46 inch chest, but in drag its 60 inch, and I wear a silver wig, which is my natural hair colour but the wig shows what my hair would be if I didn’t cut it every 3 months. I wear a tight red skirt which hugs my huge arse, my neighbour once said she could park her bike up it, so I never bend down in front of her house any more. I do my shoelaces up before I leave home.

I was wearing my old hush puppies too, a man has to have a bit of comfort if he is on his feet all day. I used to do 12 hour shifts on several of my former jobs, including night shifts. So thus attired I was asked to pretend I was Dr Who meeting aliens, sorry I cannot do a Brummie accent I joked, even though I was born in Birmingham. Too many years speaking clearly for my Shanghai wife means I have an unaccented voice, our kids actually sound posh English. No Rada training required.

So I pretended to be my own mother, I can do an Irish accent, and away I went. Stop or I’ll phazer you, and if it gives you a headache I’ll give you pills Holsten Pils, you’ll soon forget the headache. I said Spock was really really really great with children, he’d even written books on the subject. I then broke into the song Klingons on the Starboard Bow, and so on.

The producer went away to the toilet, he was in there for ages, he missed 90 mins of my act. He came back with black hands, I was nothing to do with Klingons on his anything. I think it was him that stole my Daily Telegraph, it was news print. He’d been reading Tim Stanley and all those others in a Tardis like cubicle instead of watching me audition as a female Dr Who.

I thought I’d try one last trick to get the part, I hitched my skirt higher and let him see my strong strapping legs. In the gloom my surgery scars looked like the seams on silk stockings. I had shaved my legs then rubbed the Daily Telegraph down them, to make the ink simulate stockings, like they did in the war but in reverse. Then I bounced, not pounced on him and put my tongue down his throat, just like in Alien. The part would surely be mine, I would be the new the 13th Dr Who, a female one too, I am all woman after all when I’m in drag. Just ask the Police who patrol Broad Street if you don’t believe me.

Three minutes later as he lay on the floor a purple look on his face, his breathing laboured, I thought I had really turned him on. Only I had not, so me and Barry, who had come with me to offer support, it was Barry’s best bra I was wearing after all, so me and Barry left.We hurried down the road Man United were playing at Villa Park, and Barry was a season ticket holder.

So that’s how I Michael Casey the fat silver haired writer has stayed just that, and Jodie Whittaker some schoolgirl from Saint Trinians or something is the next Dr Who. And you know what, she’ll be great because she’ll be wearing a pair of my old Y fronts every time she’s playing the part. Just to remind her that though Dr Who is now a woman, he or is it she was once a man, its more than pants after all.

Disappointment ©

By

Michael Casey

The Summer is the period of most disappointment, you get your exam results and they are so important nowadays. My own were a very long time ago now. Your Life is in that envelope, or so you think. Life goes on with or without you, straight As or all Es , though the names and numbering of exam grades have all changed now. So what are you going to do next? You can always get a job in Woolworths was the safety net reply before the exam results, and afterwards, Woolworths was not needed.

I can remember my brother getting a telegram saying he had got into Oxford. Nobody had a phone in the house then, mobiles were not even invented. He just carried on studying, in those days you did the Oxbridge exam before, yes before your A levels. My other brother failed the Oxbridge I seem to remember, but then he got 4 straight As, so he had a gap year as a coal miner, before the word gap year was invented 40 years ago this was. Then he got into Cambridge via inverse snobbery, and 4 straight As.

You can be disappointed by many things, your lover only lasted an hour and he still wore his socks in bed. He did not notice your suntan, fake from a bottle, and he didn’t know all the gossip from the Kardasians. So you were disappointed, you do like conversation in bed after all. If you asked him about asset management and property yield then he’d be full of conversation. But you would think asset management was about boob jobs or lip pumping. And yielding was something to do with sex. You are an unmatched couple who only have one thing in common, coupling. He is just a banker, and you own a tanning salon.

Moving on, moving on, what about disappointment? How do you react to and live with disappointment? This is the true test of your character, speaking as somebody who has fallen over a few times, and no I don’t mean because I’m a drunk, quiet the reverse, our lodgers were all drunks, which means we went the polar opposite way. So what do you do when you are disappointed? First of all don’t panic, if she really loves you things will improve with practice, and yes I’m talking about learning all the hits from Abba. Though it could be car mechanics for beginners, or the boring old Karma Sutra and whatever old India cook book you cook and simmer with together. It is a cook book isn’t it, that’s what the little old lady in the second hand book store told me.

So after a disappointment or a failure you just have to pick yourself up and even give yourself a kick up the arse as my own mother once told me. The disappointment is in front of you like a giant iceberg, but ice melts and if you turn your back on it then you cannot even see it. You cannot see the wood for the trees as my brother once told me 45 years ago. But by stepping back and lifting yourself up, even on somebody else’s shoulders then you can overcome any disappointment.

And yes don’t confuse it with one of those recipes from your Karma Sutra, too much spice is bad for you after all, but it does put all disappointments in perspective.

The Power of Poetry ©

By

Michael Casey

I was taking a leak last night, and I casually thought what should I write tomorrow. I’ve written over 1200 pieces according to some counts, or 1,102,014 words according to yesterday’s log, that’s 3500 pages over 14 books now. This piece will appear in 15 Down when I have written enough material to fill it. So why did Poetry spring to mind, was it the sound of my own spring? Or was I just thinking I’ve written a few easy flippant pieces so why not try a bit of poetry for variety? I never know what you the reader, singular, like as Terry Wogan used to say. So if you are sitting comfortable still sobering up after your Morticians and Beauticians Annual Ball then I’ll begin.

Poetry is for Lovers and Mathematicians, because its all about balance and equations with scoring at the end. The 3 best individual pieces of writing I’ve ever done are poems. I may have only ever written 6 or 7 straight poems, so how have these poems come about. One The Dead and The Living emerged in Nov 1987, I was on a bus on a Sunday going to work at my computer room. I had just started writing my first novel, a few months after I had started writing in pencil on scraps of paper. I wanted something tender to talk about the dead, Percy Frost the undertaker was a poet, so that Sunday on a bus the poem arrived in my head. Its in The Butcher The Baker and The Undertaker my comic novel. Actually Chapter 9 is up on my site right now, so have a look before I cycle it off my site.

Years later, maybe 2007, 20 years later I wrote Let My Tears Be My Words or the alternate title Let There Be Light. This really touched my wife’s vicar. She follows the CofE, I’m a catholic from the nipple by the way. I also wrote a love poem called You Are Never Alone When You Are in Love. Or in front of a mirror if you are Donald Trump, but you can substitute any other name, just for balance.

I wrote something else called The Light from a Candle, I may paste them all in at the bottom of this piece. I was thinking of writing a new poem by way of illustration, but I’ve ended up explaining poetry instead of writing a new one, but I can write a new poem another time.

So what is it with words, with poetry? I don’t know,I remember studying poetry in English Lit and it was really difficult. They make you suffer, before explaining it, that’s if they do explain it. A poem is a formula of words that when the equation is finished unlocks the love, rather like a key to a chastity belt. Now as ever I put an idea in your head to both amuse but also to educate, no not that kind of eduction Boris, but you will remember what I said always. When you are being picked on for being a girl for reading poetry you will quote back my phrase, and you watch while the rugby team runs to the book store on campus to buy Poetry.

A poem is never a straightforward piece of writing, it is like a mirror with a crack in it, or a fairground mirror that distorts, but at the right angle normalcy returns. A poem has a reveal moment, just like the new Dr Who walking in the forest, the hood is removed and a smiling face smiles out at you. I’ve used the latest news item by way of illustration, I hope it works. I am not an Oxford Don explaining poetry, I’m just the fat silver haired self taught writer from Birmingham. If you want a poetry teacher then you’ll have to look elsewhere.

A poem can be like a strip tease or like a 9 course meal from your local Chinese, if your girlfriend is Chinese and works at the local takeaway then that is poetry in itself. So a poem a tale using fancy language and maybe metaphors galore. It can be serious and it can be comic, one does not exclude the other. We have Roger McGough over here I’d say go read his stuff. And now I’ve written enough, as I have to hang the washing out, or the wife will give me a clout.

Because I'm Worth It(c)

By

Michael Casey

We've all seen the ads for perfume or something, I use Jeyes Fluid, a drain cleaner, behind my ears myself. We've also had the news that News Readers' Salaries at the BBC are to be disclosed. So how do you feel if everybody knew what you earned?

Me I'm an impecunious punk, I know because that's what my brother called me in 1971 in a letter he sent to me at Romesley Field Training Course, he did add a pound note in the letter though.

So Avril why are you worth such a large some of money? Because I deliver the teas to the executive board of the company. But you are 79 and should be in a retirement home. But I love my job. No Avril, its really time to retire, don't cry over my spreadsheet. What's that you want to show me your final set of holiday snaps. Ok, but then be off with you to the retirement home. These are pornographic photos you have given me. Yes my grandson works on security, if you look closely you are looking at your own arse, instead of talking out of it. What do you want? You can stay serving the tea, see how magnanimous I am. No, I'll retire to your holiday home in Bermuda, Because I'm Worth It.

Tv stars earn big money because their agent steals 25% of it in fees, or so that’s what I’ve reading the Press.So how do their appraisals go? Well Francis, how’s the programme been? Do call me Frankie, that’s what the audience call me as I am so hip and groovy after all. Or are you talking about the AA program, I thought nobody knew about that? Or do you mean the substance abuse program or the. I’ll interrupt you Francis, sorry I mean Frankie just the stuff we pay you for.

It’s going well, but how did you know about the other stuff? It is an Investigative Journalist programme.We didn’t it’s the Catholic Guilt you have left over from when you were a catholic, you are a habitual confessor. Oh Sugar.Do you mean Alan? No I mean Oh Sugar, not oh Sugar. Do you want sugar in your tea? That’s perverted, oh you mean a sweetener in my tea. We don’t do sweeteners we are the BBC.

Which brings me to the reason why I called you here to the Ritz for tea, I’m sorry to say you have to go. Go where I’m on holiday, so I can’t do any foreign holiday reporting till I’ve finished my holiday to Bermuda, Avril says my room is spick and span and just waiting for me. Frankie you are sacked. You mean I’m F F F Fired? Yes.

Why?

Because you are NOT worth it.

Then Frankie sells his story to Hello magazine with pictures of him with his head in his hands. He re-emerges on Channel 99 as a new host earning double the salary, meanwhile the BBC employ a researcher with a double first in PPE from Cambridge as the new host of Frankie’s old show, on a quarter of Frankie’s old salary. Obviously she’s a lesbian , as the BBC has quotas to fill after all, she is great at her job. She keeps a diary as it could be worth it in the future. My life as an undercover lesbian at the BBC. The trouble with Media people is that they examine themselves too much.

My own diary is my Total Recall of the Past, apart from what I had for breakfast or did I take all my pills today. I’ll leave it there for today, you have had 2 pieces and a poetry selection form me for today, so I hope you go and buy some of my 14 books, because I’m worth it.



Only 3 usd each.

Rearranging the Furniture ©

By

Michael Casey

I just thought of this title for today’s piece then I remembered that somebody once told me that SAS folks sometimes called a mission, rearranging the furniture. Obviously this is a distant memory, so I’ll leave it there before anybody comes knocking at my door.

Today’s piece is about literally rearranging the furniture. I have a space under the tv, so I’ve filled it with a very old DAB radio, one of the first from when they came out maybe 15 plus years ago. Its covered in wood so it looks liker a piece of furniture as did the old radiograms years ago. I did have a lovely radiogram 30 years ago, but its lost with time. One of my first memories from maybe 55 years ago is of an old grammar-phone which was a nice piece of furniture, when it broke it was thrown into our back garden I can remember playing with it in the garden.

So have you ever rearranged the furniture? Or altered it? Another memory from 45 years ago was when my brother came home from Oxford and painted an entire room white. The doors, the skirting boards, the bed frame, the wardrobe, the dressing table and the chair. I was like sleeping in a dentists or a science fiction film.

When you get your first place you try different positions for the furniture, a different look and feel is achieved by having the furniture in different positions in the room. And yes I know what you are all thinking, so I won’t say the obvious. But John Lewis God Bless Them do do great carpets, its worth the investment, and with good underlay you get a great bounce. Boris will you leave the room, this is radio not top shelf, whatever that is.

Speaking of shelves though, if you are a reader of books not Kindle books, then a few shelves are always useful. Good old Argos has cheap but nice looking bookcases, bookcases not bookCaseys. Again it all depends on your budget or if you have relatives to give or donate furniture to your new place.

A wedding gift list might just be a bed, a good high impact mattress, Boris I told you to leave, so leave, and a table and chairs. It can be Ikea or any brand you like where you assemble the furniture. How about having an assemble furniture party. You are creating a family through marriage, so why not have friends around for a DIY party, at the end of the day everything is ready, all your furniture is there.

I like rocking chairs myself so I had an armchair on rockers when I bought my suite for my home all those years ago. As I look outside in the street the base metal rocker is lying rusted in the street awaiting the scrap metal man to take it way. I think my eldest daughter may have have been conceived in that rocking chair. And after she and her little sister were born they loved that chair so much. It must have lasted over 20 years, and has lay rusting in the garden till now.

Yes buy quality furniture, as my dad used to say if you buy cheap you buy twice, so save up and wait and then indulge. Boris, leave the room. Which reminds me, good locks are a must, and bolts too. More importantly you want to feel relaxed and free in your own home, so by thinking a little you can get extra enjoyment just by having things just the way you like them. If you spend your time in front of the computer then a nice chair is important, by pure luck the cheap one I have just got not only is comfortable, but it looks nice. So I get a good vibe just by looking at my chair, which may or may not help improve the writing but if you are happy you are more productive, productive Boris, PRODUCTIVE.

On the shelf beside me there is now more space, mainly for Totoro our cat , because the radio has been promoted to under the tv in the other room. It may sound stupid but arranging the furniture does may a difference. As does cleaning out the mess two daughters and a wife leave in the bathroom, when all their lotions and potions are cleared away, you feel so happy. Then Totoro the cat jumps through the window while you are in the shower washing your assets, this frightens me to death, is she auditioning for the SAS?

Creaking Like an Old Boat (c)

By

Michael Casey

I was thinking what to talk about today when I stopped to stretch, only all my bones creaked, I could hear them. But it least it reminded me about the times I've been on a boat, as I just wrote that down I remembered I'd been on a boat in China too, it wasn't a slow one either. So that's what I'll talk to you about today. Boats are strange things full of hopes and fears, you can go as far back as Jesus and before to when people feared for their lives as they earned their daily bread.

My grandfather in Cromane Kerry Ireland was a fisherman farmer, he joined the Merchant Navy too and could have possibly ended up in Shanghai before his own grandson, me, did. While he sailed the seven seas the Black and Tans were loose in Kerry and my mother could have been killed in the womb, or so the story goes. In Kerry you have a bit of land and you farm the sea too. On the wall beside me is a drawing of fishermen in a traditional small 2 man fishing boat that had oars to power it, my uncle had one of those too.

When the Irish return to visit family they use the night ferry, and that is an experience in itself. I’ve been a few times, at Christmas 1973 I went with my dad, the seas were rough and the bar was opened early. You really can hear the ferry creak and moan, just like my arthritis. The boat rocks up and down, and people puke and everybody is merry. You might get a cabin, which feels like a cupboard with shelving for six, and you stay there for the 6 or 8 hours I cannot remember which.

In the morning you queue for breakfast of some sort, then you disembark, the journey is half over you have to catch a train from Heuston Station, that’s Heuston Dublin down to Kerry. Kerry is the furthest point from Dublin, the back leg of the dog of Ireland.

Once landed in Kerry my aunt, mum’s sister would be there to wrap us up in her love, and yes as I speak to you I really have tears welling up because she really was the greatest aunty ever. She could do anything and did, she could was our cook and guide and driver for 2 weeks, and maybe 1000 miles up and Kerry’s boreens, back in 1973 the roads had not been improved. Delia was a great driver and knew everywhere, Sat Nav had not even been thought of back then. I think they still don’t have postcodes anyway. You start at the back of beyond and take a left from there to beyond still, and they up a steep road blocked by hedges you would find one of the Casey Clan. I have 40 first cousins by the way.

In Dingle there is a bar cum book store and there I bought a copy of the Prize about the Oil industry, everybody should read it, its a great read too. When I was there with just my sister we went on a creaking boat to see Fungy the dolphin, its worth a trip too, though if Fungy is still there you will have to ask the mermaids.

We had a postcard with a cartoon of Kerry on,that was our map for our 1000miles in 2 weeks. Now that Delia is gone the title of best aunty ever, or best friend ever has been past on to my sister, but don’t tell her I said it, she never reads or even knows about my writing, so let it be our little secret. Ok. Or do you want to swim with Fungy?

I was going to talk more about boats but my nostalgia for Kerry got in the way, if anybody is going they can tie me to the roof rack. There are a couple of 5 star hotels in Kerry, one German MP used to holiday in Kerry and you may bump into his security detail in the car park, but that was maybe 25 years ago. Going back is on my bucket list, when I’m nearer to kicking that bucket, I think my daughters should see Kerry,they have been to China maybe 5 times now,so it should be Kerry’s turn.

Boats creek and groan and are tossed about by the waves, as are people by their lives. Its when you arrive at the safe harbour that you feel relieved and head for the bar or the warm embrace of the best aunty ever. I have been very fortunate to have such an aunty and such a sister, but never tell her that, so whatever Life does to you, no matter how much your bones creak and moan always remember to come on back Home.

The Time Machine ©

By

Michael Casey

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Look to Match Your Words ©

By

Michael Casey

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Bickers ©

By

Michael Casey

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Multi-Tasking Man ©

By

Michael Casey

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In Limbo ©

By

Michael Casey

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then Limbo ends, What Trump is President?

Politics is not for Grown Ups©

By

Michael Casey

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

But more important things are happening in the world.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Green Mile is the Last Mile ©

By

Michael Casey

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Family Laughter ©

By

Michael Casey

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Birmingham Pain Centre ©

By

Michael Casey

This is an alternative reality story, or a Donald Trump truth story, if that is not a contradiction in terms, and yes it has nothing to do with Donald, he is busy polishing his shoes with a tooth brush, his new General insisted.

Well The Birmingham Pain Centre, is a dream, which I hope I can magic into reality with the help of God and Two Policemen as my mum used to say. Let’s just fast forward to the opening ball, or gala, picture the scene in a barn of a bar. Journalists are everywhere, they were told it as a free bar and their editors will also be there, so it will be a perfect afternoon’s drinking session.

An Abba tribute band is playing in a corner, what more could they want? Yes Subway are providing the food, they have set up shop in a corner with models making the sandwiches, they will of course get out of bed for any free publicity. And why are journalists’ balls bigger than anybody else’s balls, because they write it up for themselves, so it must be true.

Sean Spicer is guest of honour, he’s in England to voice over the new Yoga Bear in Space movie. To be honest journalists have no balls, ask Kate Adie and the Sky lady, why because they get shot off in all the dangerous places they visit. Lynx has a concession in another corner, it’s a spray that lasts 10 days, made especially for hard pressed journalists, it even takes the smell of beer away. Obviously this is the busiest place in the bar, ok I’m lying, but everybody but everybody will pay a visit.

The editors are doing each others’ crosswords, and editors know many a cross word, which reminds me of a future story from Tears for a Butcher where there is a scrabble competition. But I digress. Also in attendance are several judges and lawyers galore, lawyers galore I said, not liars galore. The law knows about bars, the legal bar, the alcoholic bar and behind bars, they also know about barmaids down the Trader in Old Forge and Singing Anvil, but I digress, I was just product placing from The Butcher The Baker and The Undertaker.

Now you may be asking what would this bunch of reprobates be doing on a Tuesday afternoon down the pub,it is Tuesday isn’t it? Elementary is on tv so it must be Tuesday. Well wait, stop, Hugh Grant has arrived, he’s sitting in a corner heckling. I did tell him to get some cream for his heckling but he just would not shut up. The journalists as one have turned their back on him. He is now gently crying as he mouths the songs the Abba tribute band is singing. He’s ringing a friend, Nick from radio 4, but John answers the phone as says Nick is on holiday in Scotland with his best buddy Alec. Hugh just says, just tell him I rung, before wiping his nose on his sleeve.

To the sounds of corks popping the meeting is called to order while the Abba tribute band has a Subway sandwich made by models. This is the inaugural of The Birmingham Pain Centre, or the Birmingham Pain for short. Now I could say that folks made jokes about Birmingham being a pain, a right pain, but I won’t tar MU supporters with that brush, I want their money after all, I want everybody’s money. That is my mission, my position, my missionary position.

The Birmingham Pain will promote the study and relief of pain, everything from acupuncture to the Karma Sutra and everything in between. If it takes away pain, then its part of the Birmingham Pain. Obviously the first place to start is Curry’s we need to have a computer full of knowledge. Better still we get IT students in Birmingham to build a computer from scratch. 3 in fact, a live, a backup and a spare. Having worked in a computer room 40 years ago, safety and backup is everything. If we could get folks to donate kit or money to allow the Birmingham IT students to build the servers as the fancy name is the so much the better.

Stop let’s get back to the surreal a moment, what is that Judge doing, a High Court Judge caught singing And The Winner Takes it all. His chums in full regalia singing Super Trooper, somebody hold back that Daily Mail person, he’s not allow up on stage for Health and Safety reasons. The Daily Mirror boy promised a big donation if we kept him off the stage, I’ll accept “bribes” from anybody. Hugh Grant has cheered up he has got his vegan Subway sandwich, and a giant fizzy drink, Moet in Subway cup.

Where was I? Now if The Birmingham Pain was affiliated to Birmingham Medical school, maybe my daughter could get in in 2 years time, ONLY JOKING, besides I want her to go to Cambridge. The idea is to fund research, not waste it on buildings and PR. The idea would be to give scholarships and funding. And talking about affiliations, who knows more about pain? MU, that’s who, by which I means their Physios, every elite sport Physios, IF you tapped into their knowledge of pain relief it could aid general research. You could also hold medical conferences at Premier League grounds, that way the reach would be all over the country, obvious The Premiership donates this free on wet Tuesdays when the facilities are empty, the WAGs could hand out the Subway sandwiches.

Stop that’s disgusting, a Teetotal journalist, somebody fetch a priest, what he is a priest, a priest and journalist? I don’t believe you. This is FAKE news, from the Gutter Press. A priest and a journalist and Teetotal too, it’s just not true, I just don’t believe it. What’s his name. Michael Casey the fat silver haired writer in shades from Birmingham. No that’s me but I just had to visit the lavatory, so give us a second and I’ll tell you his name. Don Camillo yes that’s him. I have a Dream is playing the tribute band is just so good, its true honest guv, its true. I read his book just before my triple with turned out to be a quadruple heart bypass. I just hurt myself then stretching too much,no not stretching the truth, just stretching, yes really, 2.5 years on and still pain from that and the old Arthritis.

And that is why I have decided to set up The Birmingham Pain Centre, because I know more about pain than James Bond, remember the line from the film? Yes millions know much much more. So if you buy the books I can give you lots of pain, oodles of pain, I’ll share it with The Birmingham Pain Centre. Why have journalists and judges in the story because they would be on the board, very bored, working for zilch, but if a bar wants to provide a free lunch that’s where the annual meeting would be held. Pro Bono lawyers would do any law that’s the dream laid out before you. I am in my missionary position waiting for you, if you are smiling then you may be tempted to HELP.

None of this can happen till people buy the books, though most of you may think my writing sucks. It will never have Charity written on the book, and really you don’t need to buy a damn thing. Because I give you the idea on a plate. Do your own pain relief, thief my idea, in fact you can take the idea and use it in every country of the world. So if you are in Germany or Egypt, today’s readers in German and Korean were from those countries. Wherever you are please let’s set up a pain relief foundation, affiliate like football does. Use every scrap of knowledge, technology and medicine combined. Pain is no joke.

Science Fiction ©

By

Michael Casey

As promised here is a story about science fiction, though you know there will be a twist, a la Beatles, sing and shout and let it all out. If you were listening yesterday or whenever then you have heard me say, “Suddenly from out of Nowhere” it was a line from a story I wrote in Primary school, I cannot remember di it earn me the 1969 Brooke Bond schools’ story writing award, it may have been a 3rd. Yes I can see the humour in what I write, it is intentional, I don’t just throw this together, I am no potter throwing things on his wheel. Don’t get me sidetracking into manipulation of my clay, stop, that’s enough for the Borises out there. And by the way Brooke Bond, if you don’t immediately restart this competition with lap tops as prizes then I’ll mention a different brand of tea.

Suddenly from out of nowhere it appeared a man with a pole through his head, a 6 feet pole sticking out of his head. I even remember doing a crayon drawing it may be upstairs in the rubbish room, the box room. Though if ever we do move house that’ll probably end up in the rubbish skip, which would be a pity as I like to save things. Yes the biggest things I save are memories, there are some tragic memories that have been vaporized, and others buried in pain, but there is a reason why I choose to write comedy, or my attempts at it.

So where shall I go with this story? Ok let’s pick it up and run with it. Suddenly from out of nowhere I appear with this pole sticking through my head, and what does this kid, this school head boy, what does he do? He abandons me for 50 years, so I’m locked in a tube with only Walt Disney’s body for company. If I hear zibby zobby zoo again I’ll kill somebody. I had Mr Muscles in the tube next door saying he’d sort things. I think he had just lost his rocks or something. So I pulled my pole out and hit his tank as hard as I could, that shut him up for a few years. He kept on humming Eye of the Tiger then, whatever that is, I think it’s some Shakespeare thing. Will was in a tank further along. He kept on belching all the time, he said it was Sir Toby’s fault not his.

Now I’m out, Michael Casey Spacy has released me, no Michael Casey is nor Kevin Spacy or anything like that. Rixy called him Spacy once so now he’s sticking it in a story, he refuses to waste a word, he’s like a garbage disposal machine. Or an Alexei Sayle as they say at the Fringe, the barbers up the road next to the cobblers opposite the butchers.

So what does Casey do when he sees me and my pole, he takes me to the Polish shop to get some bread and meat. He says I must be hungry after 50 years. So I had some food and I belched, better than Toby, more like Falstaff, but my pole is bigger than his staff.

Casey asks me have I heard of Star Trek, I told him I was stuck in a tank with my pole covered in ice. So then he makes me spend a week watching all the episodes ever, not just of Star Trek but also all the follow on. 7 of 9 was impressive, but after 50 years stuck in a frozen tank you’d be just as blue.

He asks me what the pole was for, I just looked at him, it was his story I’m a piece of his imagination. Maybe it was a wooden aerial I answered sarcastically, so he gets out some sandpaper and rubs it down, he says I’ll get better reception. Then he says he’ll take me to a pool, only its not a pool, its pool, as in snooker or something to do with coloured balls. Though the sight of all those coloured balls bouncing over the green baize makes me home sick. If you look west in the night sky you can see my home planet.

My home planet is called Muckerulla its a place where you can fish for all manner of things, and we have many moons of different colours, just like the balls on a snooker table. Watching that Casey getting his hands stuck in those pockets made me so sad and mad. So I used my pole to snooker his balls into pockets.

And that was how I got back to the beauty of Muckerulla, Michael Casey the fat silver haired writer in shades from Birmingham was in such pain after I snookered is balls with my pole that his imagination exploded, he could not contain me any more. This figment of his imagination from 50 years ago was no figment at all, I really was a Spaceman who came a traveling, I came as far as Birmingham and this Casey trapped me on a page by drawing my image. Its taken me 50 years to escape but I did it, now you all know what a pole is for. It’s the original Beam me up Scotty teleport, like a fireman’s pole in reverse, your pole takes you away from danger.

The History Teacher ©

By

Michael Casey

If my Life had gone another way I’d have been a History Teacher, I read The Outline of History by H.G.Wells when I was in Primary school 50 years ago, yes I am that old, but my mind is always 20, even if my body thanks to quadruple heart bypass and arthritis feels 95. Yes that sentence was too long, I’m not an English teacher, though I did do Esol. I have ended up as a writer, an undiscovered writer, a penniless writer. Having an online presence dos not give you money, please note this all you hackers and junk email people, all your efforts are deleted unopened. And I have no money to steal, and guess what when and if I did have money 1/2 would go to the Birmingham Pain Relief Centre, and that is my promise.

I should also say that my dad used to watch the tv news and say something and then it would happen. Sometimes the same happens to me and my kids, or I write something then it happens. No me and my dad are not witches. We just watch too much tv news. Though dad is dead and gone a long time now. Dad would have been a teacher too but in 1920s/1930s Ireland you went to work at 14. Dad was a blacksmith, though 4 of his children did become teachers. And perhaps 2 of his grandchild will have Phds, be doctors of some sort.

Another of dad’s phrases was “He’ll have to be put down” and the North Korea dictator does come to mind. Please God it’s quick whatever happens. Perhaps the Dear Leader has a heart attack and dies. I’ve written it down now, so will it happen, or will Birmingham be added to the Hate List he has. All will be revealed in a matter of weeks now.

History teaches us that events happen or we stumble over events. The Japanese military once said America was a sleeping giant, and WWII proved this to be the case. Sadly for the world and North Korea, an irritating child can’t hide behind its screaming. In the end the parent will put it over its knee and pull its pants down and slap its bare arse. I remember this happening to me when I was 4 or 5 years old, over 50 years ago. In my case the crime was ringing Mrs Patrick’s doorbell and running away, and then hiding in our pantry. Even though I was the golden child I was soon the sore red arsed spanked child.

So it will be with North Korea. This does nor bring me any pleasure, the people of North Korea live in a very beautiful land, and they should be equally prosperous as their Southern cousins. As my father said of Hitler’s Germany, they have the brains of the world but are led by a mad man. I remember my dad saying that maybe 40 years ago while we watched a tv History programme.

9/aug/2017 I repeat what my dad said, but it applies to North Korea and its Dear Leader. The brains of the world but led by a madman.

In History a spark leads to war, or appeasement is repeated then you have double the pain when appeasement was always the wrong path, and action is the only and last resort.

I pause there as I contemplate what might happen next. Historical revisionists claim USA was wrong to nuke Japan, but back then the choice was 5 more years of war or end it quicker. Today what are you going to do, led the cancer spread till it kills the host, the entire world? I have family in Shanghai and in USA, do I let a North Korean tyrant get stronger and bolder until he, the cancer is in charge of this body we call earth.

We can all pray for Peace, we can pray that an earthquake destroys all the North Korean evil toys. We might even pray that his mistress kills him in the night, sex as a weapon of war perhaps. Or all the cheese in his arteries gives him a heart attack. Or he could be allow to slip away to Russia in the night, leaving all the codes and locations on a note by his night stand, that’s if his night stand does not kill him first.

That’s the thing about History, it is a gripping drama that never ends, until God closes the book and we are all asked how did we spend our talents. Me all I can do is write. I scream in pain most nights as I cannot find a safe sleep position. If I had a North Korean mistress maybe the pain would be less. I know God has a sense of humour, he did make me after all. As he did make all of us, it’s up to us all to follow our own path, we have free will after all.

Sometimes though it is only in our darkest hours that God leads us to a safer harbour. We just have to be open. He’ll still be there after we nuke ourselves, but it would be far far better if this never happens, if my dream of a flash was just a dream. So men of courage in North Korea, throw down those chains and rise up and take charge of your our beautiful dear country.

Finding Perfection ©

By

Michael Casey

Well the world is in a state, and I’ve given my 2pence worth so I was wondering what to amuse you with instead of frightening you with the Truth, or my version of it. In writing this sentence I realise that that’s an idea for another piece, The Truth. But instead I’ll try and stick to Finding Perfection, so I’ll just look in the mirror.

Now newcomers to my writing or talking, it really is talking after all, may have just said, the Conceited Brummy. Brummie is the local name for a Birmingham person. However some may think I’m in USA, no I’m in the real Birmingham, up the road from Shakespeare and Stratford. And yes looking in a mirror was a joke, though as I know I’m perfect I have no need for mirrors. Now was that a 2nd joke or more conceit, or a joke concealing my initial conceit. Perhaps I should just join the Diplomatic Corps, my hair is so much better that Boris’ after all, ask our shared barber at the Fringe in Edinburgh, its next to the cobblers and over the road from the butchers. If you get lost just ask Alexei Sayle he’ll tell you where to go.

Now this is of course my usual prologue, you can Google:-Frankie Howerd, Ronnie Corbett and Joyce Grenfell for examples of what the hell is he on. Oxygen is the answer, and plenty of it, it is free after all and I do live on a hill. I am a Fool on a Hill after all, which would be a good title for a Radio slot if anybody out there wants me. SILENCE.

Perfection does not exist, life is a game of roulette as my brother once said 30 years ago and more, I am a vacuum after all, I’ll suck anything up and spew it out later, decades later even. That’s where all my 1,150,000 words and more come from. I am just an over inflated vacuum bag. Mr Dyson would have a fit if he met me, though otherwise I might amuse him for an hour or so, just as the King’s Jester would. I am available if any rich folk wish to hire me, collect and return with 2 Subway sandwiches and 2 pints of Stella Artois is my price. Abramavich would hire me and leave me in a corner with a dust sheet over my head, as a parrot is quiet when covered.

We look for a mate, a soul mate, a room mate, or just somebody to mate with. Then we start with, he must be Brad Pitt, he must be kind, he must be funny, Robin Williams, he must be like a Duracell battery, like that bloke on the Kardasians. WE have such high hopes, then we marry the dwarf who delivers our bottled water, a Danny DeVito type, because HE is kind and funny and strong, and he listens. Listening is the big big thing in relationships.

You wanted perfection and it just does not exist, so you compromised and got Danny DeVito. However HE is Perfection, because he ticks all those boxes. In my next novel if ever I finish writing it, Tears for a Butcher, the two twin sisters marry a man with a limp and a man with a stutter. I have a sequence in my head where the twins reveal that they are the men for them, actually its a fight in a bar, you’ll just have to wait to hear it all. Again if somebody can lend me a legal secretary I could write it in 12 weeks, another 600 page book.

There are many examples where we want perfection but it does not exist. The perfect wedding day, but it is the marriage, all of you days after that really matter, not just one day. If you have followed me, just stop, get another hobby, anyways you will know about my own unique wedding day. Its every day afterwards that matters.

Kids come along and you can read books telling you how to be a perfect parent. Just burn those books on the BQ, and never talk down to your kids,they are more fun if you just talk naturally to them, yes just as I do. Only talk baby talk to the cat, mind you our cat Totoro wakes me up in the middle of the night as revenge for talking down to her. Then she goes out for a night on the hot tin roofs, only cats are perfect, remember that and you won’t go far wrong.

Kids grow, you need a bigger house in a posher area. Only it has to be a perfect house, not the bachelor pad you begin with. If it’s near a pub that was your ideal home. Now school, shops, garage and church all raise their ugly head. All you wanted was a place to sleep and bring the girls to, now it has to be a home. You have to have more than 4 plates and 4 of everything else, you must have enough to feed the 5000, or so it seems once you are married with family. And cheap plates won’t do, posh matching plates that cost as much as a pair of tickets to see MU are the very cheapest of dinner plates.

And on it goes, having sex and marriage has to be paid for, home wares and curtains. Why are curtains so very expensive, an old sari from an old Indian girlfriend would make perfect curtains. Why must all your old bed linen be thrown out, sure its worn a bit, but John Lewis Egyptian Cotton? Your girlfriend persuades you, then you blame John Lewis for your visits to the baby section and so forth. Quality counts and costs, so John Lewis it is, besides Woolworths is no longer on the high street your now wife tells you.

Life goes on and you look for perfection in a car to move your brood, so you have to trade in your bus pass for a people carrier. Your fat neighbour teases you by saying you are an Uber driver now, all the stuff you kids need. And so it goes and I have more than enough to continue but bed time approaches, so I’ll just give you a few thoughts to dream about.

Why would a Shanghai girl marry somebody such as me? Was it because I am perfection? Is it my birthmark, is it my strong stocky legs, which years later were harvested to fix my heart? Was it my sex appeal? The bushy eyebrows? The posh Birmingham accent? My Sumo or Panda like physique? The ability to fart in several different languages. I could go on but my modest stops me. Or was it the prayer I said by the fridge looking at my dead mother’s photo, I give up, you take over, all I want is a wife and perhaps some kids, I’ll leave it all up to Padre Pio and God himself. Was it that, or was my prayer in God’s eyes Perfection. Just be careful what you pray for…

Birmingham is Ballet ©

By

Michael Casey

If you have been following me on my site you’ll know that the pain monster attacked at 4am this morning, I had a cuppa and as I’d managed to waken my daughter I told her about this story. It will actually form a chapter in Tears for a Butcher the comic sequel to The Butcher The Baker and The Undertaker, assuming I get around to doing it. I have a vain hope that I could borrow a legal secretary, then in 12 weeks the sequel would be done. I’ll just sit and dictate it.

Now why Ballet? Well as you should also know my wife’s first friend in Birmingham was a ballerina from the Birmingham Royal Ballet. I was vetted in a straight bar in the Gay Quarter of Birmingham, by the ballerina herself. The bar is called The Queens Tavern, you can have a beer there next time you are in Birmingham at the ballet, it’s just up the side of the Hippodrome Theatre past the Subway sandwich place.

Now if you put your 4 pints of Stella down on the coffee table Boris, and those three Subway sandwiches, eating alone again, then I’ll begin. Remember as ever these are all my copyrighted ideas.

Catherine and Damien were ecstatic they had scored top marks in the Law exam, in fact along with their friends, Peter and Paul all four had scored top marks. All because one of the partners suggested they go to visit Marcus in the old people’s home, the one owned by The Old Forge and Singing Anvil Coop, but that’s another story which I’ll tell you later. But you may need another 10 pints of Stella Artois and 6 more Subway sandwiches Boris, but Annie can clear the table away for you, or Bettie her twin sister.

Now where was I, yes Catherine and Damien and the other two had visited Marcus in the home, after his stroke he needed a little help but otherwise he still had it. So with Marcus’s help the four of them scored the highest ever scores in the Birmingham Law exams. Now it is a tradition that the Law firm that gets the best results gets a bottle of whisky from the other firms. As you may know if you wander around Saint Phillips cathedral area, we have a lot of lawyers in Birmingham. Obviously I worked at the best firm, Pinsent Masons, but I digress.

So back to the tale, grace a Marcus as the French might say, the foyer of Catherine’s company was littered with whisky. Not bottles but cases of the stuff. As her company the gained the top 4 spots, the other firms thought it was only fair to send not a bottle but a case of whisky. I am probably underestimating the figure, but 30 firms sending 30 cases of whisky, equals 360 bottles of whisky.

The senior partner arrived and raised half an eyebrow. It’s the legal results Sir, explained Tony on Security. We got a case instead of a bottle seeing as we did so well. 360 bottles. Yes Sir 360 bottles, litre ones too. The senior partner smiled, well if you put 5 cases upstairs in the boardroom. And the rest Sir? Well if I remember rightly it’s your Regimental Reunion soon, would it be an imposition if I asked you to dispose of it. 300 bottles may be a little too much to ask you to dispose of? I suppose we might find a good home for it all. Thank you Tony, said the senior partner. The senior partner stopped for a second, no he hadn’t changed his mind, oh by the way, ask Maggie our cleaning lady for the hangover cure, it works wonders, so I am well informed, touching his nose as he skipped away smiling. It was a happy ship their firm, one big happy family.

So the night of the Regimental Reunion arrived, Tony had hired a room in the local bar, in the corner the prize, 25 cases of whisky. Not your rubbish stuff from Asda or any other supermarket. 40 year old malt whisky, they were lawyers after all, they had standards to maintain. In a neighboring bar Catherine and the others were celebrating too. Catherine and Damien were having a quiet fag, when 3 lads asked could they have a light, when Catherine held out her lighter one grabbed her arm, they were going to be robbed. Catherine let out a scream, one of the lads pulled a knife.

Inside the Regimental Reunion things were going well, very well in fact, half the Tonys were tipsy.Ex army tend to work as security in Law Firms, and they always but always are called Tony,its almost like a religious cult. Ex army,law firms and the name Tony. If you don’t believe me ask Tony Cruise,the action film guy, is real name is Tony by the way. Catherine’s scream was heard, and like a mother running to save her baby half the room exited. But they were too late, blood had been spilled and bodies were on the floor.

Somebody else had heard Catherine’s call, it was a ballet dancer new in town, like a new gun slinger. It was Anton Bollockoff from Russia. He had dashed and pranced and pranced and dashed, three times in fact. He had kicked them high and low, and low and high and high and low again. The assassins were on the floor bleeding. Are you ok, my dear said Anton looking into Catherine’s eyes and she looked into his. It was thunder and lightning, may I introduce myself. Damien screamed,the Tonys ran faster, as fast as 40 year old malt whisky allows you. You are THE Aton Bollockoff, the ballet dancer, screamed Damien, he was so excited. He had been rescued by THE Anton Bollockoff, nobody would believe him down the gay bar.

The Tonys arrived and bounced the three criminals against a wall or two. You are banned from Birmingham yelled a RSM, another Tony took their photos, do you hear me YOU ARE BANNED FROM BIRMINGHAM, yelled the RSM. Now get lost, he would have used stronger language, the kind RSM have qualifications in but there was a lady present. Damien explained all. Tony from Catherine’s law firm thanked Anton Bollockoff if ever you need a favour just ask, you saved one of my girls and boys, I owe you.

Anton Bollockoff knew when to leap so he leapt. If I could get into a good Italian restaurant tonight with the beautiful lady that would reward enough. Catherine swooned, delayed shock, Anton caught her in his arms. This was love at first sight, and the Tonys were there to see it, Damien was slightly disappointed, but he believed in love, he has watched Moulin Rouge 12 times already.

So Tony took their photos too, he explained henceforth they were on the Angel list, never wait, straight to Heaven at any place in Birmingham where there was security. As for the 3 bad guys, they were on the Hell list, forever barred. Photos were appearing on mobiles all over Birmingham as he spoke.

So thanking the Tonys, Damien, Catherine and Anton Bollockoff made their way across town to the new gay bar and then to the Italian restaurant. Were they afraid of meeting any nasty people along the way? No because Anton was with them. Besides every security camera along the way was following them and as they passed every bar and eatery a security guy or girl waved and spoke into their radio. It was as if the Queen was strolling by, with security watching.

Damien had everything, a bright future in the law beckoned, but he wanted love. And you cannot buy love. He waved Catherine and Anton away as he queued outside of the new happening gay bar. He had a slight tear in his eye, all he wanted was somebody to love. He’d have a great future but without somebody to share it with. He brushed a tear of envy away from his eye. At that moment Martin appeared, Martin was the head of security, he was just checking the lines. Do you want a tissue he asked as he handed Damien a tissue, then looking at his phone he said, you are on the Angel list come with me.

Once inside Damien had a cocoa with Martin, you can’t have alcohol while you are working after all. Damien offloaded his life to Martin, it turned out that as well as being a body builder, Martin’s dad was a lawyer. Only they had argued so Martin ended up having a security company instead of a law firm. They say that God works in mysterious ways, but that night they had found each other, 60 years they were together, but I’ll leave the future to God.

Meanwhile Anton Bollockoff and Catherine were walking hand in hand through the backstreets till they arrived at the best Italian Restaurant in Birmingham. All the time security cameras and doormen charting their progress. The Regimental Reunion was I full swing, Tony was happy his eyes were everywhere protecting his children.

At Don Camillo’s Anton and Catherine instinctively queued, a security giant and his small blonde pig-tailed girlfriend ushered them in. Paolo was a ballet nut and when he saw walked through the door he screamed. The best table in the house given to them, best food and wine was produced. Catherine was all loved up, here in front of her was THE Anton Bollockoff from Russia. He was wearing a very tight shirt and even tighter cream coloured trousers. She was in love in lust and in love again.

People would have asked for autographs but one look from the pig-tailed security girl stopped that. Paolo refused payment, Anton said why not come to the ballet tomorrow for a full dress rehearsal, and the nice security people. So it was settled. Anton told Paulo to step outside then he asked Catherine to lean on a lamppost.

What happened next cannot really be explained by a ballet baby such as I. But I will do my best, with Paolo standing on the steps of his restaurant Anton floated back and forth only to return to stroke Catherine’s hair, her face and shoulders. Away and return, away and return. A crowd of hundreds appeared, held back by security. This went on and on and on, like singing in the rain but without the rain, this is Birmingham not Manchester after all. Anton stroked her hair, her face, her shoulders, her behind, her breast, her thighs. Ever so gently, ever so romantically. Women and men fainted in the crowd, erotic dancing, ballet dancing while fully clothed. Catherine’s breathing increased, the crowds breathing increased. Anton Bollockoff was making love to every woman in the crowd.

Finally it was just too much, 40 mins of balletic foreplay, Anton stroked a stroke too far. Catherine wheeled and sprung, she tore his shirt off in the street, Bollockoff shirt off in the street. This would be The Sun’s headline in the morning. She jumped on him and began to devour him on the bench outside the old church that was was now a 70s disco nightclub. For God’s sake get her to the church on time.

The security saved the day as ever, the couple, it was close but not quiet, the couple were grabbed and carried up the street to the Novotel. They were flung through the doors of the Presidential suite. But then something wonderful happened as they stood naked in front of each other. Not the urge, the urge was there, very much there. They just showered together and each other but then they stopped, naked but in love. They spent the night talking, they were up all night, talking. Can it be true, can it be really true? Yes. The exact same thing was happening for Damien and his new life long love. Both couples had stopped on the verge of coupling. They wanted to be sure it was LOVE.

Then they slept.

In the morning the Sun screamed out Bollockoff Shirtoff in the Street. As the couple talked and slept their love had gone viral. Everybody but everybody in the crowd had filmed it and uploaded it. Ballet Lovers Website crashed 14 times, such was the pull of the ballet. By afternoon on the streets of Bangkok you could buy a DVD of Bollockoff and the Mystery girl. To say Bollockoff was huge was a massive understatement. But what would transpire after breakfast would dwarf.

Catherine arrived at her law firm and Tony smiled, she kissed him on the cheek. Tony on security blushed, he was like a proud dad, as all law firm security people are. Now a major new client had been visiting and as Catherine spoke fluent Italian she was ushered to the boardroom just to be on hand. Now as luck or Fate would have it, the client had been at Paolo’s restaurant the night before. This could be tricky very tricky, but he was a Ballet Nut. He did not want to want to talk about contracts just ballet. Catherine looked helpless and trapped for a moment, the senior stepped in, not as elegantly as Bollockoff but just as nice.

If Catherine doesn’t feel too overwhelmed then I’ll permit it, he ventured, senior partners love their staff almost as the Tonys on reception, but with much posher language. Forgive me, I am just a farmer replied the Italian in clothes worth at least 10,000. He bowed and kissed her hand. So they talked business with Catherine doing a bit of translation. As talks had gone well, extremely well, the Italian could not keep his mind off Bollockoff’s performance. Catherine decided to do some of her own venturing.

Actually, there is a full dress rehearsal today and Anton said I should sneak out over a long lunch break and come and see him perform. The Italian screamed and dropped his man-bag leaving a tiny tiny scratch on it. Could we, please, we have finished here, my cousin Marco would be so jealous if I saw Bollockoff first. The Italian gave his best pleading eyes to he senior partner. Well if you are sure the business is closed. The Italian drew out his most expensive yet stylist pen and signed the 200million deal.

Let’s go and see Bollockoff he screamed in delight. The senior partner leaned over his phone and asked Tony on reception to tell the Italian’s driver to be ready. In the ride down in the lift Catherine told the Italian how she had met Bollockoff. So when the lift doors opened Tony was a superhero, putting Bollockoff on the angel list had been angels’ delight for the Italian. Bollockoff was at the restaurant as the Italian magnate and he had seen him dance in the street. The Italian kissed Tony on both cheeks, you should have a reward, Tony’s eyebrows formed question marks. The senior partner shrugged his shoulders, the Italian asked sheepishly would his man-bag be a suitable reward. The tiny scratch on it meant the Italian would not be seen dead with it. With the senior partner nodding his assent Tony accepted the gift. It was a PacoMacotaco man-bag not that Tony knew that till he googled the label inside. Retail value 4000.

The car whisked them to the ballet, the lights had gone down but they were ushered to a box. The music started and the lights came on. As their eyes adjusted to the light Catherine could see the security from the restaurant and Paulo from the restaurant in the boxes beside them. Then as she looked about she realised the Hippodrome home of the Birmingham Royal Ballet was overflowing. Every security in Birmingham had come. Invite one, invite all.

Bollockoff and the Birmingham Royal Ballet were on fire, his energy had supercharged everybody. The fact that the other newspapers had followed up on the Sun’s headline really made everybody feel happy. The show was an entire tour de force or whatever the French say. At the interval a miracle happened. Everybody got a drink, the Chairman of the Federation of Security Personnel Birmingham Branch had slapped down his American Express card and said fill everything and have every ice-cream in the building ready. It was a military operation, everybody but everybody was fed and watered in those 20 mins.

Happy with smudges of ice-cream on their lips which eager girlfriends more than eager to lick off slowly, the security all sat in eager anticipation. They were not denied anything. Ballerinas danced and Ballet dancers pranced. It was like Christmas for a child. Grown men cried and their girlfriends had to console them, and they’d console them much more when they got home to bed. Afternoon delights are a regular feature if you work late nights.

The Italian sneaked out his iphone and streamed a minute to his cousin in Milan. The cousin was so lividly jealous. As the curtain fell the entire audience leapt to their feet. The community of Birmingham security has lost their Ballet Virginity, and they wanted more,and when they got home they would have more ballet, but the horizontal variety. The corps to ballet bowed and the audience screamed.

Bollockoff stepped forward, I am sorry if my performance was not perfect it’s my first time on this stage but I promise to improve here in my new home, Birmingham. I met somebody so special last night and we spent the entire night talking , just talking. So did I screamed Damien and Martin in unison. The audience roared their approval. Things could not get any better. Catherine screamed out, I love you. Italian and the senior partner could go to hell she was in love. The entire audience screamed out I love you.

The corps to ballet bowed, the applause and screaming lasted 10 full minutes was like a pop concert. Then when the screaming stopped Catherine screamed again. It’s me, I love you. The spotlight moved to cover her, he’s seen her in the Sun now he’d spotted her in the crowd. The audience gasped it was her, the girl dancing or rather ripping his shirt off from Bollockoff. Anton saw the love of his life and dived into the crowd. His ballet dancing had lifted them up, now it was their turn to lift him up. So walking on palms Anton Bollockoff reached his girl. It was like Romeo and Juliette. Marry me and have all my babies he said in Russian. What did he say asked the audience? The Italian who also spoke Russia stood and with tears in his eyes translated. He said Marry Me and have all my babies.

Versuvius erupted, Catherine was lowered to Bollockoff’s level and still standing on the hands of security they kissed. Then hand in hand they walked over the hands to the stage. The Italian kissed the senior partner he was so happy. His Milanese cousin would die, absolutely die. After a few more bows the corps to ballet were about to leave the stage when Anton hissed, do you trust me? Yes. So the Corps de ballet left the stage by walking over the hands of the audience.

It took 90 seconds to empty the theatre they were all trained security personnel. Then outside the Hippodrome Anton reprised his dance from the night before, but with the Birmingham Royal Ballet improvising around him. If my mother were alive she would have thrown a bucket of water on them. As it was the Fire Brigade had been doing some routine checks so they decided to sprinkle the ballet. It was an utter internet sensation. Kirov can Bollockoff was the headline on the Sun the next day. Two days with 2 ballet headlines in the sun, was the editor drunk, or just drunk on ballet.

Linking his arm through the senior partner’s arm the Italian walked back to the law office, the crowds had gathered, his car could never get through now. I like you, your firm, your security Tony, I like everything, like a family, and I adore the ballet. This is the happiest day of my business life ever. Only when I bought the racing car company comes a 2nd closest, to this day. Ballet in Birmingham day, I think I’ll tell my biographer to write a whole page about it, maybe two.

The Birmingham Royal Ballet went inside to change, Catherine and Anton decided to consummate their love in a box of the Hippodrome. Damien and Martin were ahead of them, in a box on the other side of the Hippodrome. As they say Ballet is Universal, the Birmingham Royal Ballet encapsulates it all. And yes I really was vetted by a Chinese Ballerina from the Birmingham Royal Ballet in the Queens Tavern about 20 years ago. Where do you thing the ideas come from?

Influencing the Writer ©

By Michael Casey

I was having a lazy day today, the pain monster came last night so I thought I deserved it. Last night was good on tv as The Lady in the Van was on the telly, its a famous play by Allen Bennett. I do in fact have a copy of the book, it’s on my garden wall waiting to be taken away by passing scholars, or tramps in need of tissue paper. I’m sure Allen will praise me for my recycling efforts. I bought the book cheap but never got around to reading it. Then the play was on the telly last night, the film version with Dame Maggie Smith, she got an Oscar for the Prime of Jean Brodie.

So now the book is on the garden wall awaiting recycling, but I’ll keep an eye out for the rain as nobody wants a mushy book, in all senses of the word. Speaking of words Allen was interviewed in a documentary and the foul words he used en passant, if he used more of such words then he might attract a more working class audience, if I might steal some of the style in some of his stuff. I did email him once but I don’t remember did he reply, though I do send rather a lot of emails.

As you can see I am influenced by what I’ve seen on tv or read in the Press or on the radio, but then again a look out the window can provide an idea. Though lots of material I choose not to write about. Yes really. Today I pumped into our dog walker, I asked why he and his wife was so thin, recently both of them have lost a stone+ each, or 10kilos if you are handicapped by metric. See I add a throw away line just to annoy people, or to see if they are awake.

Our dog walkers are a form of clock for me as a I look up from the keyboard as they walk past. It turns out his wife has also been doing step ups, no she hasn’t been polishing her doorstep which was big in the 50s, no she has used the step up method. And no this is not a form of contraception for tall people, love should have no barriers. I could go on and on I do have a Doctorate in BS after all, I know you know already.

I’m still chewing now I had to grab a bite so I had fish fingers a la Birds Eye, they are the best you know, with a squirt of BQ sauce on top, wrapped in a slice of whole meal bread. I am Gordon Bleu you know, and where my 3 girls, they were at an Italian restaurant eating boring pasta. Meanwhile upstairs pussy, our Totoro the 4th female in the family was fast asleep on a duvet. I’m sure she’ll give me fleas one day.

I’m waiting for the kettle to boil now and I wonder does Boris my Eastern European Everyman understand the style, or does he think Bloody Foreigners, I’m not letting my daughter go to England, or certainly not Birmingham. They are strange people, as he rehangs his Putin calendar on the fridge, chest exposed.

As I talk to you I wonder was I really Ronnie Corbette’s and Joyce Grenfell’s love child, would that make me Gerald Wiley? Life is strange and you have influences all over the place. Coffee is warming me now and I’m glad I resumed drinking it after a year or was it two break. 50 years plus a coffee drinker. Only instant, Kenco Rappor, do you think I could afford anything more? It is my guilty pleasure.

I pause for a sentence, perhaps Allen Bennett will knock the door and proffer one. Only its just the mad christian people, knocking at my door on a Sunday, have they got nothing better to do? I have a good mind to tell them to Allen Bennett off, I am a man and I have history, I know how to swear, I find it clears the air, and gets rid of unwanted callers at your door. I bet Allen is writing all this down in his notebook, under never to be used. I hope he falls off his bicycle.

I need another coffee so I’m going to leave it there for today, I was going to add just one word after “off his bicycle” it would have been so much more dramatic. But Allen would say it was a stunt, so I controlled myself and let the crude comic alliterative possibilities alone, sometimes you have to do that or people think you are just a …

Pacing Yourself ©

By

Michael Casey

When you have a job you have to pace yourself, your life. You have to get up, to SSS, pooh, shower and shave, though some don’t understand this SSS, they think it’s SS with a stutter, or are you dressing up for some Allo Allo fancy dress party if you remember Rene. The reality is you life is not your own, you are owned by your job. I did do a lot of long hours, 12 hour shifts, even 12 hour night shifts. That’s why I have strong legs, all the standing and carrying.

Now I just carry on with words and nag the rest of the family to watch the clock and be on time for work or school or choir practice. I don’t have to pace myself, my heart does it for me thanks to my beta blocker. I can look up at my pendulum clock on the wall and say tic or tock as I watch it swing. I have a steady slow pace of life. When I feel like it I can write or rather tell you all another story. I am as storyteller after all.

We were in the garden calling our cat and I thought perhaps she’s a Food Reviewer, like Ratatouille in reverse, see the cartoon and you will not be disappointed. So the idea sprung to my mind so maybe tomorrow that’ll appear on my site, once I write it.That’s how the pace of my life works, my tempo. However as you all also know and I bore you all about it, my pain from Arthur my arthritis does come along unexpectedly, as does heart pain etc.

So that is the balance the see to my saw. It can all be so unexpected like parents coming home just when you finally persuaded Jane to, but to never happens as your parents arrived home early, interrupting your pacing heart. So it is with my pain, its pattern its rhythm is totally unpredictable, a bit like Jane but you never ever found out. Again I’ve planted an idea in your mind, without ever being specific, I am a stripper but you are all blindfolded, thank God for that you cheer, but that is the secret to my writing, well I hope. Maybe it is me who is blindfolded and stripping and you are the readers suffering the sight of me naked on the page, or is that just a horrible horrible metaphor. Boris bring us all a vodka fast.

A gentle stride to the fridge to get a drink then I’m back with you, though today I’m limping all day, my neighbours think I’m a character, a character actor practising a walk, like Alec Guinness. But it’s my arthritis. I can start my story any time I like as I have no set bedtime, once written I post it on my sites and wait for the apathy or applause as I see where in the world you all are.

Sometimes I feel like Napoleon, as I inch across the map with my word conquest. Portugal, France, Germany, Poland and Ukraine all in the same day. I think there must be some Christian Brothers forcing students to read my rubbish in an attempt to make them polish their English. Though the Polish do seem to like my stuff the most, so I promise to spend more money in the corner Polish shop. Their mayo is great by the way.

I am lucky these past years have allowed me to spend more time with my daughters, and educate and confuse them in equal measure. Once a story is finished I shout listen to this and I read it back to them, and my smallest daughter gives me a score out of 10. So they have heard a lot of my 1,000,000 plus words.

I did offer to put some stories on a USB stick for the Polish girl at the deli to help with her English, I have 11 hours of audio too, 200 of the 1300 stories recorded. However perhaps USB stick is not in her vocabulary, the local Polish community come to the store for food and get me reading stories instead. Luckily we don’t have hunting licences in central Birmingham or I could end up mounted and displayed on the wall of the local Polish Deli.

We have a Turkish store and an Iranian pizzeria maybe I should offer my USB stick there, or perhaps they would teach me some new words about pacing myself.

Our Cat the Food Critic ©

By

Michael Casey

Well I’ve had my haircut so I look even more like George Clooney now, though he cannot fart as well as I do, its the only way to tell us apart, the fart. But I digress, where was I, right here sat as ever in front of the keyboard looking at the sky above. I rediscover Sky on Spotify, the band, not Rupert’s toy, and they are very good, so have a listen for yourself.

They shall be hammering out the classics a la heavy metal, well kind of as I talk to you all. So get the headache tablets ready just in case they go a symbol too far. I did in fact hear them live at the Birmingham Odean in the 1980s, I had sprained my elbow after falling over ice skating, so I had my left arm in a sling. In the audience a whole variety of people had arms and legs in bandages, it was like an invalide’s night out, no I’m not making it up, it was maybe 30 years ago.

So as they wail in the background, rather like a cat on a hot tin roof I’ll get to today’s tale. Totoro is as you know the family cat, or rather we are the family she allows to pet her. Cats own you, you never own them, rather like a mistress so I’m led to believe. Dogs you do own and they are loyal beasts. But cats please themselves.

Totoro will come in the back door or through the window if you are slow and then sit on you. Not because she loves you but because she wants wipe her wet fur all over you. Cats are not stupid, dogs are. Cats do A levels, dogs stop at their ABCs, can you discuss linguistics with a dog? No. Case proven. Totoro is of course trilingual. She understands English and Mandarin, and will sprint faster than Hussain Bolt down the stairs to the sound of plastic wrapping paper being opened. Her third language.

She know that means snacks straight from the freezer from the posh shop. 3 months ago we changing our shopping habits to encourage my daughter while she was studying for her GCSEs. On Thursday we will discover has it paid off. Please God she should do very well and start her A levels in the sciences. However even if she has done unexpectedly badly we’ll stick with the fancier food, because its so much nicer. It may help my own health too, you are what you eat after all. Boris I’ll give such a slap, I know what you are thinking. Moi a male model and all, the cheek of it.

Which brings me to Totoro, we feed her Whiskas which is the best and slightly more expensive cat food, though if you use Ocado’s Fetch you can get a good deal on a box of cat food, 84 sachets or so. Totoro is well fed being part of a Chinese/Irish family but she does like to travel, she is young free and single and has been neutered, so this means she can and will jump over all fences to try the cuisine elsewhere.

Totoro can have at just a hop and skip away:-Japanese, French, Spanish, Polish, Indian, Pakistani, Iranian, Turkish food

So why should she just have Whiskas, she can purr and knows how to give that sad kitty look, she has seen Shrek a few times so she has seen the cat in that. So would you stay at home when you can scale the heights of haut cat cuisine?

Totoro may come in at 11pm for a snack then depart an hour later for the delights of the Indian curry house, or she may just be warming herself sat by its chimney. She comes home smelling of all kinds of everything,no Dana does not have a restaurant nearby. My small daughter is a cat smeller, so she’ll sniff the cat to see where she has been. Sometimes she smells of Chanel, which is better than my Jeyes Fluid smell, sometimes she smells of this food or that food, but she always comes home.

Sometimes she’ll come home at 3.30 am waking me up, only to wake another member of the family up 2 hours later so she can attack a passing milk float. I’m sure she helps the local shop keepers open up, then she can receive a reward of something. Cats are not stupid as I’ve said before. She’ll disappear as Polish schoolkids come home or our Japanese neighbour comes home, so she can share their snacks. Excited voices ring out as children play with Totoro, she is a travelling cat who will sit on any mat, she is the United Nations of Cat. Have a mat, she’ll sit on it.

Totoro does of course rate all the cuisine, she leaves her spray :-1,2 or 3 sprays on the dustbin by the back door. 3 strays means the food is delightful, on a par with Michelin, 2 is good, 1 is nice. And should she not like the food, then she’ll leave a brown message by the back door, and no its not a bottle of Guinness, but the same colour.

Later Totoro will return to sit in the window looking out at the world or at our back garden, satisfied, she has had enough, didn’t Satis mean enough back in latin class? Though I did go to school with a Satiswait who was rather large then, he had had more than enough. Funny how you remember things, that was 40 years ago when I was doing my exams.

I need to finish now and have a nap, I’ve managed to get a cold, I have to look after myself now. If only to be able to let the cat in and out at all times of the day and night while my pigs sleep. Did I tell you I discovered my Chinese name Panzi does not mean Fat Fat Boy, they have been calling me PIG all these years. I did used to equal the weight of my wife,my mother in law and my 2 daughters, MC=4C if you like. I think I’ll spray myself all over the dustbins.

As I Walk Out This Mid-Summer Morning ©

By

Michael Casey

I was walking up the road this morning, looking left and right and up and down and all around. Just in case the North Korean hit man is after me, but I am protected by a cloak of stupidity, so I’m not afraid. I try and be observant as I walk about, you never know what you might see, and an idea might present itself. The observant amongst you will have spotted a Laurie Lee homage in my title, do read his book, remembering from school it was a great read, as was his Cider with Rosie, but don’t get drunk till after you finished reading.

I see a sight and a seed appears in my mind, all I need is a mustard seed and then I have 1000 words, as I’ve no doubt told you before. Today we have the corner shop fruit stall outside the Halal butchers, I am tempted to give the stall-holder a spare pair of my sunglasses as he is always in the sun. My friend the lolly pop man has disappeared, we both had had bypasses, but now the road is fixed and a new zebra crossing is installed he has been bypassed, by a green icon, and not the Jolly Green Man from sweetcorn. As my dad said 30 years ago Automation Will Ruin the World, in this case a lolly pop man replaced by a flashing green man.

They were painting the Christian Cafe, perhaps adding lions all around, it turned out they had installed double glazing upstairs, though they did have a scaffolding tower. In my imagination it was a circus performance or the high diving board, maybe I should not watch Madagascar 3 too many times, but it is great. The reality was a local estate agent watching proceedings, maybe there is an upper room above the Christian Cafe, who knows what happens there.

Further up the road my pharmacist was closed, he has Wednesday afternoons off, he does work Saturday after all. He is a great pharmacist and a very good golfer. Maybe one day he’d have a round with Trump. I continued up the road try not to be killed as I cross on suicide corner, its very dangerous there, there used to be a refuge for pedestrians, now there is not.

Though the local undertaker is conveniently situated, and the church too. We have 6 churches I believe, even a talk to the dead church as well, we even get the mad people church people knocking on our doors too. They don’t knock on my door any more, perhaps it was something I said or was it something in the way I moved, or was it the Websters in my hand. It’ a dictionary for all you USA readers out there. The pen, the word IS mightier than a sword after all. So I could have frightened them off by my words, or maybe the way I look.

Further up the street we have acupuncture sessions advertised on one of the church railings, pain and praise the lord perhaps. I know a lot about pain, but I did have acupuncture 5 years ago and it worked. But I I stand too close to my Shanghai wife she may prick me with her chopsticks, which would be equally as good.

I pass the furniture shop and see the SALE, why do furniture shops always have sales, and what is the real price of anything in a store. I think furniture stores are a cross between Rubic’s Cubes and Random Number Theory. If your child gets a 9 in tomorrow’s results then only she can explain it, because I cannot. Furniture costs whatever the inside leg measurement of the salesman multiplied by his shoe size is, plus his wife’s age and the size of the mother in law’s behind. If you can equate that formula then you know just how much anything costs in a furniture store.

I stumble past all our fast food outlets, I just cannot believe there is a market for so much chips. England’s gift to world cuisine, chips and fries, and heart disease. The faint echo of cheering escapes the bookie shops we have, I cannot believe there is a market for so much gambling. Though looking about me, maybe gambling is the only way out. Which reminds me I must buy a 2 quid lottery ticket, the sum total of my own spasmodic gambling.

I get to the park and sit and rest and think if only, if only, if I won the lottery I’d be walking different roads and talking about different views. I’d have a dog called Camembert with a great sense of smell and I’d hide things for him to find. After my rest I return home doing my shopping along the way. Three months of fancier food is so much nicer and we’ll see tomorrow when the results arrive has it helped with my daughter’s grades. Tonight in anticipation we had sausage and chips from the local chippy, see we know how to push the boat out.

So this has been my Mid-Summer Walk, I hope you get a better picture of my life here as a Fool on a Hill, I am no Poet like Laurie Lee, but my neighbour does play the violin just like him.

Giving Advice (c)

By

Michael Casey

I was talking to a friend today and they confided in me, so in order to give them some advice I in turn had to confided in them. This is how advice works at the best level. None of us like to be told what to do, but if we share experiences then we are more likely to listen.Life is make it up as you go along, there are no rules, same as love has no rules. If you both like it then do it.

If you are afraid of something you will avoid situations and so limit yourself and your life, because of fear. As Churchill said we have nothing to fear but fear itself. So if you are afraid of spiders you may never go in the old storeroom again, so you get your friend to go in there for you. But what happens when your friend is not there and you need the extra chairs stored there for your cafe? So will listen to their advice about which spider spray to use, or you'll train the cat to eat the spiders that you are so afraid of. Then you can have a fuller life fetching chairs.

This is obviously a simple example about communication and how to face your fears. The thing bout fears is that they do have to be faced. You may have been mugged up that dark alley but it is your route home, so what do you do? You may find a loner route how to avoid it, or go home in a group, take turns with your local martial arts guy guiding you part the way home. Again another simple solution.

The thing about getting advice you listen more if there is a connection with the person giving you the advice. People listen less to their priest because he doesn't know about getting drunk on a Friday night and seeing this girl or boy you fancy. He knows less about temptation because he is safe in bed with his cocoa while you are out dancing and prancing.

So disaster strikes, and you are left pregnant with a baby. So if you are a school girl who would you listen to the priest,or the girl who learnt the hard way. The girl has experience and pain on her side, so hopefully in secondary school the girls would listen to her advice. Don't drink, do use contraception, have a sober friend to watch over you. There is a difference between sex and love. Now would you listen to the girl or the priest, or sister Agnes is she was giving that week's morality talk? I think the voice of experience always wins. But it is always far better if you have your own common sense.

Sometimes you have peer pressure, and the answer to peer pressure, is always____ --- or other such language. You have to be strong enough to say NO to whatever it is. Sometimes its emotional blackmail from your own family members, you should look after granny or the cat or the farm, or whatever. IF this thing would hurt you in any way, emotionally or physically or spiritually. Then you have to build a wall around you and say NO. You have to protect yourself first before you can interact with anybody and anything. When you are happy and secure in yourself then you can think about helping others. Everything starts with self then radiates outwards, self is the foundation, and if the foundation is weak then the walls of self fall over. You cannot help anybody if you are not strong in yourself. And if you are strong and you still don't want to look after your nan's dog or your sister's ex-husband she feels guilty about. THEN JUST DO NOT DO IT.

Once you are strong and healthy in yourself then you can think about teaching Albanian to Trappist monks or whatever your speciality is. But if you are too weak don't weaken yourself even more just out of some misplaced sense of duty or guilt. You do things because you a re strong enough to do them and because YOU WANT TO. Same as mentioned earlier on a Friday night, you made love to that boy because he was nice and you think you loved him, not because you could. Fresh Cream Cakes are Naughty but Nice as Salmon Rushdie 聽wrote in his copyrighter's days BUT we have to learn to control our urges or we will be forever 聽fat.

Love yourself first, then you can love others, but we are only one, then with love we become two and together two can create families. But everything should be done with love not fear, and if you remember that then you will not go far wrong. 聽As somebody once said in All Things Love. And never accept any other request.

Explaining Yourself ©

By

Michael Casey

Believe it or not sometimes I am inarticulate, relatively speaking that is. I am much more fluid on paper than in real life. The process of writing refines my words so they are so much better than if I’m sitting on a garden wall gassing away, and sometimes I can be very gassy. You think 4 times faster than you speak, so if you are sharing your thoughts on paper then that ratio is 6 to one, or 8 to one, depending on your typing speed. So you can imagine if I’ve already got all the story in my head the putting on paper process is like being constipated, very frustrating. As I just want to download it all in a second. Jackson Pollock school of writing, and yes I never rewrite, I am not clever enough to do that, so that is my curse. If you like I am Caesar What is Writ is Writ.

So if I am sat on the garden wall:- preaching, boring, annoying, gassing or whatever you may decide to call a visitation with Michael, sometime my explanations are lost in my babel. I really do hate trying to explain a story, you lose the spirit of the story by explaining it. As I’ve said elsewhere Eric Morcambe used to say if it works it works. Do not analyse it. So having a writer on a show explaining everything ruins it.I just want to eat the cake, I don’t care which field the wheat came from, over analysis ,like English Literature KILLS LOVE OF WORDS.

I think its enough to get the writer to read his stuff, and let the bores to bitch about it. It should just be a reading, no explanations required, just as no jacket was required by Phil Collins. I was trying to explain something to a friend today and I knew I was stumbling by trying to explain it. It’s like showing a trailer for a new film, so you in effect ruin the film before the fan sees the film at the cinema. So I just said go to michaelgcasey on Google, then hit my Blogger link and it’s under the butcherbakerundertaker and its posted there. In today’s case I was talking about Giving Advice. So I was giving advice about finding the post giving advice, so that I could give advice, otherwise I was ruining my advice about giving advice.

Tongue twisters like I’ve just given are fun for the writer, but they serve a purpose, as well as showing off. They make you smile and they make you laugh, and I hope think. If I get you to think, then you’ll have more sympathy for the writer. He’s not just a boring old fart, or a burnt out has been as I was called many a year ago. This was before my heart and arthritis problems came to the fore. If you know that the words are not all made up, he has experienced a bit of life, there is pathos and pain behind his armour of stupidity and the veneer of being a male model, well in my imagination anyway.

So I’ve poked my head out of my shell and shown you too much, like the tortoise who stretched too far and got bit by the cat. Which could be a metaphor for anything you like, or dislike. It’s easier to speak this way in a missive as it has more structure and form, like my body-builder’s body, I must give it back to him, he wants it returned for the Bank Holiday. Yes an obvious radio 4 joke, but Nick Robinson can’t use all the best jokes with Alec on their holidays together to the Vatican. Where else do politicos go?

I’ve given you an inkling into my mind and the land-mines which are my words, another cartoon made from words, I hope that the joy my words bring me is shared by your ears. If you want joy to any other parts of your body then it is a Friday night so go ask your lover. I have to go to bed now, so you should do the same while your lover is still in the mood, I’ve warmed up the ears for you, the rest is up to the two of you. Have a good night, I hope!

Dissatisfaction ©

By

Michael Casey

I was wondering what to write today, what to talk to you about when I thought our house hunting and my own health. When you are after a house you have a tick list of all the things you want in a new place, and you can be very disappointed and that can even turn to despair. You have to hunt high and low and stick within your budget, not unless you want to live in an empty house with no furniture as the budget is bust.

Health is same, you remember when you had no aches and pains but now they seem to be there all the time. You are being mugged by your own body’s failings. Its 4 years since my own health first started to go on a pain quest. But I’ll not bore you about it today. My point in both cases is that you get dissatisfied, you play the Stones’ I can’t get no satisfaction all the time, even the postman hums it as he goes past your house.

Dissatisfaction is a dangerous thing because you bitch about what was ok before, before you opened your eyes to a wider world. We’ve seen 100s of houses online and in actual viewing now, so we know in seconds when we enter a house does it work for us. Then we look around our home and we feel, if only we lived there and not here.

Though structurally our house is better than 90% of those we have seen. Today’s house I actually missed as I was in the grip of pain, Arthur came and and squeezed me, so my wife went on her own. I had seen the place online and via Google maps, but when she came back we both agreed that was the target area we should be aiming for. So looking at our home turf it was not as good as where we really want to be. If only we won the lottery and could get a nice place in the target area, instead of a doer upper in a good area, but as we all know location is king.

So am I dissatisfied? Yes and no, I’d rather have an end to my 4 years of random pain, which sadly I know I’m stuck with, but God is good. One property we put an offer in 4 months ago and they turned us down, then they came back to us and we rose our bid. Then finally I told my wife to tell them that if they didn’t sell it in three months time we’d lower our bid to the original bid. Now its 4 months later and its still not sold,and they have lowered the price to just above our original offer. Maybe next month they’ll come back to us and accept our original lower offer, after trying to sell the property for 5 months. Who is dissatisfied now?

Having looked at nicer properties in nicer areas, they may come back to us and we might just say no thank you. Everything has its time, its season after all. As I mentioned yesterday one daughter has got her exam results, they were great, so we need to stay near her school so that her younger sister can finish her schooling there. Then the world is our oyster, property further out is nicer and cheaper. But we are not dissatisfied because Education trumps everything.

Now it’s late on Saturday night s I write this, as I talk to you, so some of you may be thinking about love,once the curry or the Chinese is finished,and your 17 pints of Stella Artois. The thing with love is that people want more and better love. The magazines down the hairdressers tell them that it is possible and the Daily Mail has features on it, so it must be true. Otherwise they are dissatisfied.

Your husband giving you an hour and 2, well 2 whatever is the polite word for it, well 2 whatevers and a full hour is no good. So wives and girlfriends are not satisfied. This leads to eruptions in the marriage or relationship. People are expecting too much, when really its the talking in the dark afterwards which is the most important bit. When you are older and tired due to the 17 kids you have, its the talking in the dark which is most important.

Moving on, when people never had holidays they were happy enough with an occasional trip to the sea side, now the whole world is not good enough, so the stupid rich want to go into space. Consumerism creates dissatisfaction so it can be filled with the next version of the exact same thing. People travel the world looking for new experiences and new adventures, then they return home dissatisfied. Fish out of water, they left home for Education but return home despising the very people they hoped to help if they visited the big wide world.

As an observer of life, back in 1974 my brother told me to join in an not be aloof, I watch things, I am a vacuum cleaner and I save and remember things. I’ve seen the curve of life, and the many stumbles and disasters in my own life. And what do I think about dissatisfaction? Keep it simple and keep it small,and you won’t have too many broken hearts and broken dreams. Humility in everything, as Donald Trump used to say, but on a Saturday night, aim for 1 full hour and 2 starbursts.

Toiletries ©

By

Michael Casey

Well I was in need of toiletries this morning, disheveled and a trifle whiffy when my wife’s friend arrived on our front door step, they were off on a shopping trip together with my daughter too. But they needed the toilet, people always do so they had to navigate my circumference, just like Sir Harry, and then with a sniff leave in disgust they left wondered exactly was the chemical reaction that brought me and my wife together 20 years ago. Ok I did not reek but I hadn’t yet brushed my teeth or shaved and I was wearing house PJs with toothpaste all down the front. I have tidied myself up since then and I have shaved and taken 10 years off my age, not the 3 from last night’s film.

I also had a bad night with my pain, but that’s the norm. Anyway I wouldn’t have written the opening paragraph at all, but I have but it is a good intro for my story. What is the difference between men and woman and their toiletries’ habits. Yes I chose my words to make you think and stop, before I stink and stop. For Toiletries are all about smells after all.

The wife, asked me to get some hand wash and shower gel, why can’t women just use carbolic soap just like men? The answer is that they don’t want my carbolics with stray hairs in, to wash their pure bodies. Your soap is only safe and clean if it comes out a bottle. A bar of soap was all we had when I grew up, ok when I grew sideways. But now married life and daughters mean I have to buy body wash and hand wash. For goodness sake what a load of carbolics, reddish pinkish carbolic soap. Nurses used to smell of it, now we have a million varieties of soap. My old aunty made her own from fat and perfume, I remember telling me this 40 years ago,so it must be true.

So naturally I buy the cheapest from our closest cheap shop, I don’t ask advice on FaceBook about the best soap, and I don’t look for reviews of soap and body wash. By the way I’ve inserted the FaceBook reference because I am NOT ON FACEBOOK. I still get junk fake FB messages that get deleted unopened and unread. I met too many mad people on it years ago, this Mark Zuckerberg guy kept on asking about how to handle Chinese wives, so if you want madness just click on my sites. I wash my hands of it, it’s a load of carbolics.

Up the road the nice girl gave me discount on one body wash, so I bought two, I came home triumphant, holding it aloft like an Olympic torch. Only my girls, my 3 girls said it was cheap rubbish, only fit to wash the cat it when she comes home smelly. The cat glows as they always use my anti-dandruff shampoo to wash her in, its as if she is wearing a brand new fur coat like Zsa Zsa Gabor, but Totoro our cat does always wear fur.

So crestfallen I have to resume my search for the perfect body wash, the next day. And what becomes of my cheapest of the cheap body wash. Well we’ll save that for the next time the cat needs a wash, I just hope her dandruff does not return as mine has.

I tried a different cheap shop, they had nice stuff, but at feet level was the cheapest stuff, a cheap sporting boy’s body wash. So I bought that, it was double the price I paid the previous day, a bargain. And still half the price of what they would prefer, but if they don’t like it they can just use my carbolic soap instead. The body wash does smell stronger and nicer, but not nice enough for their noses, but at least the anti bacterial hand wash was acceptable.

They say that this generation gets diseases because they wash too often and have no immunity, if you dig out Steptoe and Son on UTube there is an episode where they are immune to dysentery. Well that’s about it for today, my computer is back together again, perhaps I need to use more soap on its carbolics to keep it clean and healthy. In the beginning I worked on DEC PDP 1170, google image that and you will be amazed, it will feel as if you have soap in your eyes.

Finding a Bargain ©

By

Michael Casey

We all like a bargain and some may say our wives and lovers are the best bargain we ever make, especially when you get 2 for the price of one. I was listening to Abba’s The Visitors album again on Spotify hence the opening remark. There is a song on the album about a lonely hearts advert, just go listen to the album.

What I’m really going to talk about are shopping bargains, I should remind you I did work for ACNielsen for many a year. Though I was just the paper stacker in the computer room, and a bit more. ACNielsen will explain about shopping habits they live in Oxford, Headington to be exact, that’s if memory serves. There was that plastic shark sticking out of a roof of a house nearby, I remember that and the company sports day.

Anyway Market research types like to talk about varieties of shoppers, just as bird watchers divide birds up by plumage and mating habits. Old Mrs Smith is a hoarder, she may have been a whore once before, but for the purposes of market research, and she really knew her market, by hoarder we mean she takes advantage of the market. If there is a sale of crisps she will buy as many as she can carry, even the horrid smoky bacon flavour that she hates. Not because she has a religious objection to bacon, but because nobody can get the taste right. Smokey bacon should be against the Geneva Convention.

So she hoards whatever is on sale, she just cannot resist a bargain, that’s what they said about her in the war, but she was just doing her duty as she said to the Magistrate. He gave her a ride home in fact, but we’ll just leave that there. People like bargains and their brain disconnects when they think they are getting a bargain.

I bought 10 packets of sage and onion stuffing, even though you don’t ever stuff a chicken. I bought 10 pints of milk even though I live alone, because it was 1/2 price and only 1 day left on the use by label. So you end up giving it to all the neighboring cats, and all the children think you are a witch, which is fine as it keeps them from loitering around your council house. We thought there was a witch living near our local park when we were kids, I’ve just remembered that, but in those days everybody had a milkman who came to your door. If you google Ernie The Milkman by Bennie Hill you will have a treat, I used to play rugby with Garry Marshall and he was a milkman’s son.

People are stupid and buy one because they get one free, even though they don’t really like the product. Now what kind of shopper do you think I am? Yes I buy all the bargains, such are 3 for 2 or buy three and save money. However I will eat and enjoy all and every morsel, my eating habits have improved these past 3 months and the level of crud in my bloodstream has slightly improved according to my latest blood tests. Quality food does cost more but the taste is so much better and it does seem to have improved slightly my health, and my daughter did get great exam results, was it the better food?

Online is King too, buy your Winter clothes in Summer, and your Summer clothes in Winter, just as the shops want to strangle the buyer for buying too much in the first place. You are saving a life and you make great friends with the courier. Courier employment is a major growth industry and the boys and girls really do work hard.

Toilet paper is a big thing in our house, yes I have a great big arse, you are all so kind, but so does Donald Trump, look next time he is on tv, and decide who is the bigger arse, me or him? Ckd means I use more, so we buy in bulk 48 rolls at a time Costco. My wife said I was using too much, I asked did she want me to use both sides, or maybe hang it on the washing line then use it twice. Yes an old joke of my brother’s from 50 years ago. To save my wife time I discover a bargain online and we got 108 rolls in 18 roll jumbo packets plus free kitchen roll. We were sitting, I said sitting, on jumbos for weeks until we had room in our pantry to store it.

Yes a jumbo mistake really, but toilet paper never goes to waste. And we got 30, yes 30 free rolls of kitchen towel too, personally I’d use the kitchen towel on my bum too, but my girls like paper towels for their hands. Should the 108 rolls of toilet paper run out unexpectedly then, my girls will just have to dry their hands on Totoro our cat.

I never waste anything either, if I buy it I eat it all, yes I know you all kind of guessed that by the size of my stomach. If you are poor you don’t waste a thing, and if there is anything left over the cat and dog can fight well like cat and dogs over it. See we are very ecological in our house, well the Christmas turkey had o be shared by 13 after all. And when was the last time you heard of a supper shared by 13?

Writing a Letter of Complaint ©

By

Michael Casey

Yes, I know how to castrate with my pen. I will be polite 2 or 3 times and give a company a chance to sort out their mistake, then I press the nuclear button. It works, trust me it works. You may have to persevere but in the end it works. I’ve written 2 this morning already. Ok, I just pointed out people’s mistakes and told them what they should have done and how they can make it up to me.

Obviously as this is a talk I’m giving to you I am also using my artistic license, if you have something you should always use it. So here in these paragraphs I’ll give you the straight and boring version and then I’ll digress. First thing use email and keep every email you send, open a folder to keep your emails in. My pot of Shamrock did not arrive so you email Paddy’s genuine Shamrock company in Albania, it was cheap that’s why you bought it from them but it did not arrive.

Then when they ask you to spell your name C A S E Y you write everything down as if they were 4 year olds. Assume they are bored students on plant food, sorry legal highs. Yes it does sound condescending, but if you have paid 2.99 for superb shamrock from Albania, the home of Mother Theresa, then you are entitled for it to come on time. By the way my sister has met two saints, JPII and Mother Theresa. Me I’ve only met 1000s upon thousands of sinners.

I digressed then, when you are complaining you must never digress, it just confuses them. You must must be like a pit bull with a burglar’s balls in his mouth. So AFTER the 2 or 3 Polite emails you turn into Jack Nicholson in that film where he has the axe, I know the name but as homework I want you all to find out, especially you Boris. Drinking 7 bottles of vodka in a week is not allowed, especially as it was Holy Water my sister had brought back from a holy place for me.

So after the polite messages you find the mail address of the CEO and you talk to him alone. Google email addresses of CEOs and Bob is your uncle, enjoy. Dear Sir your Cretinous staff based in some cheap non unionized country, NeverNeverLand or wherever it is have failed to send me my splendid shamrock priced 2.99. You must always write FORMAL COMPLAINT in the subject box, because the shareholders may know nothing but they do count FORMAL COMPLAINTS. Then you normally get action, as CEOs will testify.

Sadly sometimes the staff are not only on plant food but have not even been trained so they don’t check the complaints folder. Or am I being naive or is it cynical? The quality of the training shows in the quality of the answers you get. Once a CEO is involved you usually get action and fast, that’s if he can trust his underlings. Yes there are female CEOs too, but saying underlings is not a nice word use with female CEOs, it’s like rice and chips, they don’t mix, ok Boris I know you will eat anything and wash it down with my Holy Water.

If anything does go wrong after the CEO is involved you have saved all the emails as evidence, and you can quote things back to them. I worked in a computer room since 1978 so saving things is second nature to me. So there you have it, 3 strikes and the normal staff are out, and if they are on the plant food, sorry legal highs they are never in to start with. So after 3 tries you annoy the CEO. And then you will get action, even if you have to act like that pit bull.

Yes there is a club, We had Michael Casey email us, a bottle of Holy Water is hidden in the bottom drawer of a few CEOs. I will say though one company was fantastic and I still use them and would willingly recommend them. I have them in pectore so that’s enough praise for them, they don’t want a swelled head like Boris after all the Vodka or was in Holy Water?

Oh, before I forget I also email “famous” people in the vain hope that one of them has a sense of humour and then with the 7 degrees of separation I may get noticed and have Kenny Everette’s spot on the radio. All I have so far is a spot on my, on my, well that’s why I’m sitting side saddle today as I talk to you. So I hope you have all enjoyed today’s talk. I use a variety of styles as the Muse takes me, all in an attempt to amuse myself and my readers. And if you don’t like what you hear you could try sending me chocolate which I’ll accept in lieu of a formal complaint.

Amazing People ©

By

Michael Casey

There are lots of amazing people in the world, I met one in the supermarket the other day, his name was Michael too, and he was teased with the song Michael Rows the Boat Ashore as well. I could speak more of him but he’d probably throw a tin of roe at me, so I’ll just leave it there, but I will duck.

When we grow up we are amazed and impressed by others. In my case the kid who could direct his pee over the wall of the boys outside toilets, showering anybody passing by as he passed his water. The legend is that he grew up to be a fireman directing a hose to save people’s lives, life is a circle after all.

There was girl who could spell any word in the dictionary, her father could curse for England, Ireland, Scotland and Wales. So her mother asked her to say some nice words from the dictionary, as an antidote. The girl went on to win a scholarship to Oxford then she ended up with a PhD, she was Dr Lizzie now. An Oxford Don praised her to high Heaven in front of her now retired father. You must have been flummoxed when your little girl got into the illustrious den of iniquity. He laughed. Her dad grabbed the Don by the throat, if you use that word again in front of the wife and my little girl, I’ll *&^^* you. The Don just laughed and kissed her dad on both cheeks. Somebody get a Guinness and a whisky chaser for my best friend. And with that the steel worker and the Don became instant best friends. Dr Lizzie just smiled and her mum glowed with pride , imagine her )*&&* husband having a best friend and a Oxford Don too she said. It was the only time her mum had ever sworn.

My only claim to fame is eating 3 hamburgers back to back, though obviously I am only half the man my dad ever was. When he first saw hamburgers on holiday in Rhyl he ate 6 of them back to back, waiting for the cook to cook them in front of him. I do have a world record for eating Chinese dumplings while in Shanghai and staying in a hotel. In fact afterwards I did block the toilets, such was my throughput. When we left we gave a large tip to the hotel porter, we told him not to tell anybody and that I too had done his job in my much varied past. He must have thought it was Chinese New Year, and for him it was.

There are a few amazing drinkers I have met, especially in my computer room days, but they always worked so hard that they deserved all the beer they drunk. And they never missed a day even if they had a sore head from the night before. One person I worked with had amassed a year, yes a year in unpaid flexi-time. He was an amazing person, even if he ate cucumber which was like garlic to a vampire like me, if I am allowed a private joke.

Daisy is a girl I know who can always look badly dressed, even in Prada and all the highest of fashion. She is naturally very pretty but has no fashion sense whatsoever, she murders fashion, rather than using it to lift her up and accentuating her high notes. Mandy her fat friend, and pretty girls always have fat friends, it’s like a Law of Physics, looks great in a paper bag and a smudge of red lipstick. It’s because Mandy’s personality shines through the look in her eyes. And yes Mandy has the best boyfriends the hunks, because they like the laughter she brings. Daisy ended up with an accountant, on account of her lack of fashion sense. Though years later she read a story of mine and became a photographer, she specialized in taking nude photos of men. Starting with accountants holdings abacuses.

I could tell you more but the Great British Bakeoff is on tv, so I must stop now and dust down my breadboard, which could be a really filthy metaphor, you know what the show is like.

The Inanity Of Conversation and Its Therapeutic Effects ©

By

Michael Casey

Ok, its the longest and stupidest title I have ever used. I just got off the phone with my sister and I had a thought, and that led to the title, and for what you are about to receive…

Now learned people, or clever dicks will ask about the nature of conversation and so on. I’m not as clever as them but what I write is understood by 100% of the population not 30% so I think I’ll carry on writing or rather talking to you all the way I do. Recently I heard somebody say you should write so your grannie and your children understand you, and if you don’t rip it up and start again. I did do 3 years as a concierge and everything else at CPNEC Birmingham, so I may have spoken to 100,000 people over that time. As well as having a writer’s eye, so I hope, ok I’ll say know, no need for false modesty, that I can get on anybody’s wavelength. And yes on their nerves, or on their tits, should I choose to use common parlance.

So what’s so special about having a gossip, having a chat, talking to the cat, or just plain old sex. Well it relieves pressure, I’m back to conversation now, I’ve got your attention so now I have you I’ll lead you down another garden path. If your brain is focused on just one topic it just clogs up, it swells so nothing else can fill it. John Gordon about 20 years ago advised me to have a holiday as all I was doing was working and visiting my dad in the old people’s home. If by a miracle JG reads this in New Zealand then give him a job or promote him as he is really sound. Having a holiday was just what I needed, you don’t love anybody less if you have a holiday from 3 years of visits, every single day. Just as carers need holidays too.

Now some condemn people for talking too much, and yes I am a talker, as you can tell by my writing style. If you take the talker out the room, then the room dies. The talker may not be the life and soul of the party but they are the spoon that stirs the cocktail. And yes you do get the converse or reverse, some big word anyway. The S*&^ stirrer who can destroy all relationships, all friendships by their negative words and emails. Yes I know a few people like that and have suffered at their hands too, we all have. One person got demoted because one of their emails, so think before you hit send.

I am limited now due to the fact that I am at home all the time, if I were at a place of work, pretentious speak for if I had a real job, then I’d have a larger number of people to annoy, or is that fake modesty speaking? See I like to mix and match my words to see if you are all paying attention, Boris put that vodka bottle down its only 1.30 in the afternoon. Pay attention and practice your English with me.

You have a chat about old Mrs Moon’s wok or cat or her old dead husband, but as you listen or 1/2 listen you forget all your troubles, they are packed up in an old kit bag. You are distracted away from your day to day troubles, I really do hate the word “issues”, its a *****ing trouble or problem, you’ve met my girlfriend, my boyfriend or my whatever. By having a chat or a gossip, talking about flea powder, and next time you are buying plant food for your non existent plants, could you buy a flea collar for Tiddles her cat. Then you can’t even remember your own name, and thus, good word thus, so good I’ll use it thrice, thus your problems are forgotten. Not as good as 17 pints of Stella Artois but talking flea powder with old Mrs Moon does seem to cheer you up.

The Inanity Of Conversation and Its Therapeutic Effects really does work, even if it does sound a bit like the Harry Potter Prequel film title. Your spirits lift, a bit like bumping into Steven Hawkins at a strip club, you forget all your troubles, you are star struck, or bra struck by a pole dancer. Conversation, having a chat, a good old gossip, on the phone or in the street really does work. You may not really be even listening to Fred’s list of sexual conquests, all imaginary, or how Janet had her boobs enlarged or reduced, you weren’t even listening, or how Flora won at the bingo, not the money but with the juicy security guard. Or the priest telling about the best buys at Iceland, after he absolved you of all your sins, some real, some imaginary, you just need to have a talk and hear a man’s voice, you miss your husband’s voice so much.

There are many many examples of how conversation saves us, sometimes literally, that kind word stops a suicide, or gives hope and love and encouragement, or just a shared joke that the old lady will talk to her cat about when she gets home. Empathy, or just a face, listening or pretending to listen relaxes and relieves all of us. No man is a island, and we are made the way we are made so that we fit together. We are jigsaws, we are Lego, we are made to couple.

What am I allowed to say?

By

Michael Casey

I’m a bit tired but I want to write something new before the day is over, to have a chat, I could not think what to talk about for a while, I am a Postcard from Birmingham not Letter from America after all. Then as I was skimming the newspapers, I only read the interesting stuff, why waste my energy, some stuff isn’t worth my spit after all if I can misuse a Chinese expression. So I’ve decided to talk about What am I allowed to Say.

Kids or students are all so Politically Correct now, you cannot say this or say that because you are “attacking” somebody’s dignity. We even have a case in tonight’s news where somebody overheard a private conversation between 2 friends and reports it, so that one of them is sacked. The “victim” is not even asked about the “crime”, you can find it for yourselves in the newspapers.

In the living room my girls are watching Pitch Perfect again and I am listening to the music with half an ear. Do the cast stop acting and tap the tv screen and say I am insulting them by not giving the film my full attention? Do the politicians throw rotten vegetables through the tv screen at the general public for jeering them from the comfort of their sofas in front of those very tv screens? Life is a two way street after all.

When asked how I am I tend to say, “I’m still fat” am I not allowed to say that because I am impinging my own dignity. Americans or so it seems from this side of the Atlantic have an over valued sense of their own “dignity” and will sue for millions for “hurt dignity”. Though that is more likely because lawyers have too much influence in society. Or will I be classed as Un-American for saying that? McCarthyism at its worst?

Or am I not allowed to comment because I’m here in Birmingham, the real one, the one in England? Have I now offended everybody in the deep South because a lawyer would infer a slur on the dignity of the land of cotton, or is that another slur? The Brummie or Birmingham England accent is mocked by the rest of England, but we don’t sulk. If you want to hear my posh Brummie accent you can go to michaelgcasey. and other places. I speak the way I do because I have listened to 20 years of BBC Radio 4, which is our PSB if I translate, or am I classed as being condescending for explaining? I spent 20 years from 8 to 28 listening to Radio4 constantly, and since then 30 years writing. I also have a Shanghai wife and if I did not speak clearly she would have never understood a word, and I would not have 2 daughters now. Both sound very clear posh English, like in American films where Americans fake the accent. And by voice only I cannot tell them apart on the phone, and I made them.

We all have jokes among friends and certain things we say and do amongst friends we don’t do outside the group. We are not destroying each others’ dignity, we are in the company of friends. I’m sure Navy Seals have nicknames for each other. I have a story ready in my head which features Navy Seals, the 69ers because they don’t give a golly gosh about the enemy, and golly gosh is what the enemy says when they are left in the rubble. Now I’ve used the term golly gosh as I don’t want the Navy Seals, the 69ers to blush, they are in acapella choir dressed as priests in my story, just before they take out some North Koreans who are about to kill a pregnant escapee. Or am I not allowed to upset North Koreans just in case they track me down to an airport. Or would I be accused of being airportist?

Give me Strength.

People are People and should be left alone to talk and laugh and joke with each other. You should be able to ask silly questions of each other without lawyers appearing on your shoulder like the Devil in a very old Tom and Jerry cartoon. Some things go without saying, so I’m not going to waste my spit on the obvious safeguards and tolerances. Yes we should and must look after the genuinely weak in society.

45 years ago and more a Down’s Syndrome boy was watching Aston Villa play football in Birmingham, he was being bullied by somebody. The lone bully was part of what was then called the Quinton Mob, obviously the boy was very upset, but the wrath of God soon saved him. Suddenly a teenager dropped the nut, or headbutted if you are American, on the bully. The Quinton Mob could have attacked the teenage, but the leader of the pack agreed with the teenager that his gang member had been out of order. So the Down’s Syndrome boy was left in peace to watch Aston Villa. Rough Justice or what? I’ll let the lawyers amongst you decide.

The Student’s Study ©

By

Michael Casey

Well it had to happen so it has, I have had to share my study with my daughter. Ok, its not a study its just me up a corner of our front room with a computer perched on a steel computer trolley thing. Its a bit like a giant cheese grater, I grate the cheese, the words to provide ingredients for my stories. If and when I make money I’ll have a desk like Charles Dickens had, I even have his picture as my screen saver.

For now we threw away an old 2 seater sofa to make way for a pine desk for my daughter to sit and study for her A levels at. Its not really pine its cheap board with a veneer on top, but its a pulled square metre in size, so the future Dr Casey case study for her A levels behind me. If you have seen a previous picture then you’ll have seen her by my side at the piano, now she is behind me studying away with the aim of getting into Cambridge to do Medicine. My dad would have and will be so proud should she achieve this. Her uncle my brother was at Downing Cambridge back in 1975, and her other uncle is a Queensman from Oxford. A Queensman is not the female equivalent of a Kingsman, if you have seen that great film.

In a way I feel like Liberace now, we are back to back all we need is sparkly clothes, and music. We have music as we both like music while we work. I have 90 cds that I’ve bought over the years, mainly 20 years ago, and spotify is fun too. But now I have to suffer her music and she has to suffer mine, she may switch on her headphones and I lower the volume on my speakers on my cheese grater PC trolley. There are holes in the shelves to make it lighter, hence the cheese grater description.

In the next room abandoned in a corner is an old speaker, my biggest brother use to play Cream music through it while he was studying to get into Oxford, 50 years ago. I cannot believe where the years have gone. 15 years ago I met Eric Clapton while I was working at CPNEC Birmingham, so the circle was complete. Not unless Eric needs a backup speaker for his garden shed, I’ll swap the speaker for his back catalog on CD and USB stick, and I’ll throw in my back catalog of 14 books. A bargain.

Behind me my small daughter has migrated to the study table while her sister rests, my “study” has now been colonised by my daughters

But as we are looking in opposite directions we don’t disturb each other, hang on my small daughter has just started to chant the Periodic Table song, she shouts when did you learn it last, 1972 I reply, before your mother was born.

Luckily I am a very fast writer, hence the typos, so I’m normally done in one hour as far as the creative process is concerned, thereafter the noise of daughters’ does not matter. Though they might say the farts of father persist. Time for an ice lolly, so you have a cuppa while I devour my lolly.

Well I had my lolly and my big daughter put out the dustbins, its her job to make her realise Life is about the unglamourous things too. I remind her does she really want to put her finger up a strange old man’s behind to do rectal examinations, this is the Life of a Doctor after all. I just read that sentence to her, it was met by stony silence. The guard has changed now, she, the big daughter is sat at the desk doing her A Level homework. We are interrupted by little My in search of Polly Pockets, I never suffered this before, now it is my future. Perhaps I’ll have to write my stories earlier in the day to avoid study room congestion.

The printer at my feet is spitting out paper, I am a paper loader and handler again, just as I was back in 1978 at Stats MR, but now I have a daughter to help, just by passing the pages over my shoulder as they come off our printer. To be honest I am so proud, proud enough to cry, my dad would have been prouder still, and as for my mum, a Nuclear Bomb of Love is being detonated every day in Heaven. Her granddaughter planning to be a DOCTOR.

The printer spews out more paper before I can be too sentimental, before I count my chickens before they are hatched, lets see where we are in 2 years time when the A levels are taken. I need a banana to ground me, so while I unzip a banana, you have an apple, we have Gala apples in our fruit bowl. Some Hippy music is playing in the corner, I couldn’t listen to it for long, so I’ll hurry with my banana.

So you get the picture, my inner sanctum is defiled by daughters, but they will achieve great things where I will not. My small daughter can write the International Best Seller , “My fat dad the writer”, I just hope she does it while I’m alive. Then maybe I get the Dickens Desk as I write on into my 90s, but really the only thing that matters is that my girls are happy, even if they just work in Woolworths.

K POP saves the World ©

By

Michael Casey

As I flagged yesterday I’ll write something about Pop Stars today, I’ve even changed my usual Font. I did think of one thing and then another, then I had a splat idea. Its the Jackson Pollock school of writing after all, as we lie in our beds the Angel of Death approaches, and the Dove of Peace is just a tiny tiny mustard seed in comparison. I am talking of the looming nuclear war in North Korea.

Read these two links before I resume, with a fresh coffee in my hand.





The 1st is a worrying news item, the 2nd is K Pop.

I’m listening to REM as they sing “Everybody Hurts” I’ve chosen their Automatic for the People album as the backdrop while I talk to you all. Sorry Justin and your Beavers I’m not going to mock you, you do a good enough job on your own. And Snoop you walk your own dog, Eminem go back to school, but Justin dear Justin, I taught you everything you know, now its time to use your 20/20 Vision.

Instead I want to talk about Music, if it be the food of love play on. I wish I could lip sinc the entire film Moulin Rouge as I love it so much. My favorite scene is where the black guy punches the count and save Nicole Kidman. But I digress as ever, but I have such great legs so I should be in a dress. So today’s idea is K Pop for Peace.

23 million people in North Korea are being led by somebody who could be a fat rapper, who has spent everybody’s 50cents on Nuclear Bling, who could poison his own country’s water supply when the mountain where the testing is done collapses around him. In the South everybody has everything, they even have FOOD. So what are we to do to avoid the 1st Strike from USA, or a very close 2nd strike if the Panzi, which is a Chinese word for Fat or Pig, tries to get in first. The Logic Of Madness, this is actually a simple concept if you put yourself in the shoes of the madman. This is where the madman kills everything he loves, such as his own family, and then everybody just cannot understand why. Sadly we see such cases in the newspaper from time to time.

The Dear Leader loves nobody, he is corrupt and just loves his own position. So why will he listen to say a fat guy with silver hair in shades from Birmingham? He has not looked in the mirror and changed, he has not had a road to Damascus experience, he has no Soul. He hacked our NHS, it was only saved by a young guy who is now in Jail in USA for something, its due in court soon. A comedy about North Korea, not very funny in the artistic sense resulted in Sony being hacked. People forget Koreans are very clever, even if just in the Military sense in the North.

So what are we to do?

Pack up all your troubles in your all kit bag and sing, yes sing. All you Rappers and hard men out there, why not sing for Peace. I dare you to have a Dream, like King and yes like Abba. Pop stars always say in answer to what is their one dream, world peace, that was until one DJ punched the pop star, be realistic the interviewer shouted.

So Snoop follow your dog’s lead, 50 Cents lend us a penny, no not for a pee, just show us your sparkle, and all the rest of you out there in Hard Man Wrapper Land. Your time has come. Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country. And the answer is sing Take me Home Country Roads and all the John Denver hits. Yes, all you hard rappers out there, Sing Country. And may Buddy Rich rock and roll in his grave. As for all you gyrating girl singers there is room for you too, as I sit here talking to you Love Hurts plays again, so you Ladies can sing that and shake as only you can shake, while I finish my Lemonade.

Then here’s the clever bit track back from Sony to North Korea and let them hear the music. Let them have a Soul, let them dance. All of North Korea’s public address system is taken over by music. First the rappers singing country, they will be the storm troopers of love. Then Let the music sing let the music take over. Surround North Korea with K POP the only language they understand. From South Korea, from Japan and from China too, not forgetting a few Russians.

Constant K pop, the music of fun and laughter and very pretty girls, not forgetting Gangham Style. Broadcast at them on every radio frequency, on every IP address, take over the North Korean nuclear program with K Pop Music, and not forgetting Abba. The Dear Leader presses a button and all he gets is every tv and computer coming to life with K Pop, and then the population have something to really cry about.

Cry with happiness because K-Pop has saved them from the starvation of the spirit. This should be a cue for a Rapper to sing something good, but are any of you good enough? I’ll have a sip of lemonade while you reach for your dictionary. But I’m sure King would know what to say. Or do we just ask the King, Elvis to say a word now. Yes maybe Mr Gangham Style himself should start singing in the Ghetto. North Korea needs to leave the Ghetto and enter the sunshine. Sing Rappers sing, Take me Home Country Roads, in Korean.

A Slice of Life, a Piece of Cake ©

By

Michael Casey

Elaine Polin the NY poet once said to me that what I wrote was a slice of life. Though it’s many years since I darkened her door, we did have some fun when I was on FB, but I’m NOT on FB or anywhere anymore, but a big Hello to her, she’s probably forgotten me by now.

So what do I write? I write short stories, I was even told be a female priest decades ago that she thought it would be my specialty, makes me sound like a fat cook in a greasy spoon cafe. Heart attack on a plate, with ketchup.

I am a vacuum cleaner, or totally vacuous if you are unkind, perhaps I should just change my bag inside, a bit like Kate Bush’s kick inside? Who knows? Do I have total recall, I cannot remember what I have forgot, though there are some things I wish I could and cannot. Memories are things we have to live with, the bad ones, the sad ones can scar us forever, as we all know. My earliest is 53 years old when I was left alone in front of the fire while dad collected mum from the hospital and my new baby sister. I can remember my dad telling me to leave the fire alone.

On other occasions I can remember film like what went on. The proudest moment was when we went on a family Pilgrimage to Lourdes by train. The train stopped and money and tiny bottles of pop were exchanged via the windows. It was very expensive,so expensive that dad handed them back, all 8 bottles. Only he handed back 7. The seller came on the train demanding his final bottle, unholy uproar ensued.

The entire train swore and cursed and gave two fingers to the hawker. We were 6 kids aged 16 to 3 plus mum and dad. So Holy Uproar as we pulled out the station. Shouts of England will win the World Cup, t was 1966 after all. Other Pilgrims came to our aid with water, cursing the Bloody French. An hour later mum moved her position and plumped up her cushion, only to reveal the missing 8th very expensive pop bottle,it was orange. It was drunk and the bottle thrown out the moving train window. The Bloody French. Two years later my big brother was studying French at Queen’s Oxford. My smaller other brother went on to Downing Cambridge in 1975, to study Economics, maybe the Laws of Supply and Demand.

So there you have it a story from 51 years ago. I can remember racing against the life as I bounced off the walls of the stairwell. My small sister aged 3 refused to take her anorak off even though the temperature soared, this was for the entire week. She later 20 years later, went to France on her year abroad and was able to pick up all the slang going. She even memorized Some Day My Prince Will Come from Snow White. The other teachers were teasing her, what had she done over the weekend in the very small village. So she turned around and sang it to them, the staff room were very impressed and collapsed into laughter. Now 30 years later she is still friends with the English teacher.

So I think La Belle France has forgiven us for the forgotten pop bottle, one brother did study there for a year, and then work in Paris for a year, bilingual was the word. I had my own misadventures in Paris, if I can find the file I’ll add it to my website. Let’s just say 1998 was a very funny year for me.

Which brings us back to the vacuum cleaner. I love stories, dad used to tell us stories over and over again, even if the repertoire was limited, I just hearing them and magnified the love between us as far as I was concerned. So I visited him every single day for 3 years after his heart attack, I did it out of Love, and my siblings loved and visited very often too. I can remember my last ever visit to him on the Tuesday, then 4 days later he asked for another breakfast egg and was dead when the egg arrived.

Our Life, our Love is what makes us, it’s the glue of Family, of any family. That story, this event, makes us laugh, makes us cry with laughter, or just makes us cry. If we cannot cry then have we forgotten the love. I never cried the day mum died, all my siblings did, but mum had said don’t cry so I obeyed her. I can remember all the days events as we gathered around the family home and our broken dad. I can remember my brother digging the flowerbeds, mum’s delights. I can remember sitting behind Mrs M in Sunday Mass as the Canon announced mum’s death, Mrs M was so shocked, she is still alive, now in her 90s.

Memories are there to save us, to help us and to treasure in dark times. That’s why I record everything in my mind and share my stories on the page. And that is why I detest things that destroy the mind, the imagination or the spirit. Lift somebody up don’t knock them down. That night playing on the radio was Celine Dion’s You Lift Me Up, as my family sat up all night they heard that song.

That’s what mum did all her hard working family life, she lifted us all up. Mum had all the graces dad said, she was as strong as a horse too, which is high praise from a blacksmith, her husband, my dad. So if you wonder where does all my spirit come from though now my body is much weaker, then the answer is from my parents, from mum and dad. For they were Kerry people, its in the breed as dad used to say of things. And Kerry breeds for Love and Happiness and Stories, for though I may be in Birmingham, County Kerry is in me.

Molly and the Flu ©

By

Michael Casey

I had the flu jab today in the church hall up the road, one of our 6 churches, I also told the lady to google me, michaelgcasey, so she did instantly. Her phone revealed that the fat silver haired writer in shades had just been pricked by the nurse besides her. I had my flu jab so I was covered for this Winter. I may even sell one book on Amazon, The Butcher The Baker and The Undertaker being the 1st of my 14books that I’ve written so far.

Having given a quick synopsis of the plot to the lady I left the church hall and decided on impulse to visit the church itself. I hadn’t popped into this church in a while but as my mum used to say you get a “free wish” for every new church you visit. It does feel a little dark inside but its a nice place to pray in. I sat at the back, out of thunderbolts range or so I hope, and had a prayer or two. God no doubt wondered why I didn’t visit my own home church as often. My standard reply is PAIN, it takes a while for my body to warm up and then if the priest still hasn’t learnt how to give a succinct sermon the incentive is not there. If the priest remembered the Romans coming to kill you then he might be more to the point, when he’s not praying for the Bishop. So I hope God accepts my pain as prayer.

The flower lady pottered about, she had a small tea trolley with a dustbin and small broom on top. When I’d finished my prayers, and I didn’t even mention wanting a bigger house, I got up to leave. On my way out I spotted another section of the church, a Peace section or something, this was better lit than the rest of the church, the lady in the church, as opposed to the lady in the van asked did I want to exit that way. I told her I was just looking, a more prayerful kind of tourist.

Its a few days later and I’ve had a lot of pain, especially at night when I lie down, was it God reminding me to pray? I really must finish this story. Got a postcard of Saint Albans in the post, which was great, so I wondered who Saint Alban was. Turns out he’s the patron saint of tortured people, I loved the irony of it all. Well I’m tired but pain has lessened so let’s see if I can finish this now.

Molly and me got talking, yes I know purists will say it’s Molly and I but real people never say that, so this is the way I speak to you all. Now Molly has led an interesting life and it took me a second to spot the CND earrings and her matching fluffy long jumper coat, so obviously I called her an old Hippy. She has lots of bangles on one wrist too so I asked did they hid the marks from the handcuffs from her CND days. She took off one bangle and I was very impressed as she explained all the meanings. I stopped myself from asking her to leave it to me in her will, she must be only 75 or less.

We talked on and she explained how she lived in Egypt as her dad was in the RAF and how she had traveled the world. I told her to write it all down and don’t lose it for the future. I said her kids would love it, she explained she had no kids, so I told her to record it and when she had 2 hours worth I’d love to listen to it. She likes cats too, and has a cat or two story published. So I told her how we ended up with Totoro our cat. People are stories and the should not be lost so I encourage everybody to record their stories. My brother’s father in law was writing down his life before he died, so I urge everybody to share their stories.

Molly could be overlooked if you don’t stop and chat, she is the lady in the church as opposed to the lady in the van. Hidden treasure, hidden human treasure can be found even arranging the flowers in a church. And you may even say a prayer or two, just so God doesn’t feel lonely, just make sure He has a pew to sit on, wheels or no wheels.

From Airheads to PSB/Radio4 Heads©

By

Michael Casey

I’m happy enough today, I returned to my own local church just in time to hear the Shona choir nip in and sing a song or two after their practice in the spare room outside the church. I smiled as a guy in front of me removed both his hearing aids as the choir and drums struck up. If you have never heard a Shona choir I think you should try and get to hear one. It really is something magical, it even brought a tear to my eye, though nobody would have seen my tears behind my shades.

Earlier in the day I nipped into the other church to give Molly my new story, Molly and the Flu. I also paid the gas bill and did some shopping, the normal day to day things, meanwhile the wife cut the grass. My Arthur my arthritis prevents me from being too physical, that and my surgery scars, if you brush slightly against my left breast I’ll scream and jump 2 feet into the air, even after 2.5 years. So now you know.

I just watched Airheads on tv and old film from 1994 with the guy from the Mummy in it, its about a rock band hijacking a rock radio station in an attempt to get airplay. I give it 6/10 but its worth a watch. So this set me thinking, how do speech radio people such as I, get their stuff on the radio.On PSB or BBC Radio4.

Over here we have BBC Radio4 which was a very big part of my life for 20 years, from ages of 8 to 28 perhaps, and a few years more. I have heard 100s or even 1000s of plays, and that was before I wrote a few of my own. I used to hang around theatres too, and I’ve watched 1000s of films. I have drunk beer in bars and seen live folk and jazz galore, just in case you think I’m too boringly intellectual. And yes I’ve read by the yard, though nowadays its online newspapers.

So that’s my background, as well as growing up in a large family which was larger still with alcoholic lodgers and a cat and a dog. And all in what you’d call Inner City Birmingham. I am a vacuum cleaner as I’ve said before, so I record everything and it goes into the soup then I ladle it out in a story.

So how do I get these stories on the radio? I even parodied my self You can hear it if you follow the link.

Otherwise what do I do? I could stand outside the BBC in the rain reading stories like a performance artist. I could print off a few copies and sell them or hand them out outside supermarkets, but there would be too much competition from Big Issue sellers or our local beggars. I have no Allan Bennett to give me shelter, I don’t even own a van. So what can I do?

I can continue to write, aim for my next million words, try and reach the two million tally. I could add to my 207 recorded pieces of writing, that’s 11hours plus of air time. I could send photos of myself with food down my jumper to all the Radio 4 personal, would that work? Or do I have to pose with my hand supporting my chin. Isn’t the bouncer look good enough, looks should not matter anyway it is radio material after all. I do have a face for radio as Terry Wogan used to say.

I did once hand something in to a radio station, that did not work, though Bauer Media did like some jokes I left of FB or something years ago. And I did get loads of praise but no airtime from a variety of radio stations. So should I try harder? Could I ring in to all the late night radio programmes and banter away reading from my scripts over the phone. So I ad lib my way to their attention, between 2 and 5 am when real people are asleep.

I could take away their dictionary that would really hurt their feelings, I could hide the complete works of Shakespeare, and those desert island disks then they might give in and play some of my 207 recordings. And then I could record the rest of my writing, 1000 more short stories. I could even read my novel on the radio, all 600 pages of it.

Would any of this work? Would I have to offer my body in exchange for radio play? Would anybody want my much scarred body, complete with very hairy back? Would I have to sell my soul, my body just to get my stories on speech radio, or very late night commercial radio? Speech radio is run by very intellectual gay men, or middle aged women. So obviously none of them would lower themselves to have me, or rather my stories on the radio.

I can fantasise about being discovered with just a dictionary holding my lusts in check, but realistically that’s not going to happen. Its as likely as the seoul times having a story of mine on the front page for a week alongside a photo of a K Pop star.

K-Pop Saves the World

Though that is what has happened this very week. So the very week I have been pretty weak my spirits soar as have reach Korean shores.

If by any chance anybody with a love of radio does read this I am available as are my 1,000,000 words, perfect stocking filler material. Barry White is singing in the background, He cannot get Enough of my Love, I just wish Radio couldn’t get enough of my stories, Ed Sheeran cannot monopolise the radio forever. Could he not move over for a fat boy in shades, I mean Me not Barry White.

A Bit of a Fright ©

By Michael Casey

They say a bit of a fright is good because it gets your pulse going and helps your heart and its circulation. We were watching Don’t Breath on the telly tonight, it was given 4 stars and I agree with it. Very scary and very violent with lots of twists, it was only out last year 2016. Some of it you will say was just too sick, but there is a happy ending of sorts, its a 15 I believe.

So tonight’s question is do you like Frights? The Labour Party here in England do not as they are not even debating Brexit which is the biggest thing in 50 years in the UK. But I’ll leave the political jokes to my heroes the Political Journalists, yes they are my heroes, I’ve been watching all this for 50 years, me and my dad and Robin Day.

So what frightens you? The gas bill and the electric bill frightens me, and they both came this week, the week our fridge gave up the ghost after 6 years,my story Fridge Family Casey explained it all. I don’t like surprises, as they are nearly always bad, or people think they are doing you a favour when you’d rather be left alone. Look what happened to Thomas a Becket, somebody thought they were doing Edward the Confessor a favour. It all ended nastily. Maybe that was the inspiration for the first slasher movie, or the Medieval equivalent.

Monty Python and the Holy Grail had the knight that was dismembered, and still fighting on. This is the stock in trade of horror movies, just when you think they are dead they blink and get up and attack you again. The creak on the stairs is always there, or just the buckets of blood, though my wife is more scared by the creaks on the stairs.

We all love to hide and jump out and frighten people, its what we all enjoy doing as children, parents pretend to be shocked and scared. I used to pretend to be dead and lie on the floor so when the kids came home I was dead. They in turn used to jump up and down on me, and pull my nasal hair to make sure I was really dead, or force open my eyelids, the usual kid stuff. Thankfully they never tried the rectal thermometer.

No post unplanned quadruple heart bypass and with the state of my Arthur my arthritis I cannot pretend to be dead on the floor any more. Which in a way is sad as it means their childhood is ending and teenager attitudes are taking over, me I think you should always stay a child in your heart. It’s sheer coincidence that my big daughter wants be be a doctor, Pathologist is her target, at least you won’t kill anybody I say. My small daughter finished watching Don’t Breath with me, so I suggested she did a PhD in the Horror Genre, after she gets her degree. Something for her to aim for.

Imagine she’d be forever covered in popcorn as a result of all these films she’d see at the cinema, I wonder can you get a horror pass to get discount? Or if you say I’m doing a horrible PhD you get in free. I’ll have to find out for her.

As I said earlier we all enjoy pranking our friends. We had a roller cupboard in the office, 30 years ago and we said it would be funny if somebody hid in it and then just reached out and grabbed somebody’s leg while the rollers were down. So Neil hid in it and we waited for the next Sunday shift to arrive. Only the temptation was too much for me, so I pressed the close button, and Neil was trapped inside the cupboard.

I should have pissed myself laughing but I was scared he’d be scared of being trapped in the semi dark inside the roller shuttered cupboard. In fact I kind of panicked. So he had to calm me down while he was still trapped inside. He got out in the end by kind of limbo dancing wriggling his way out of the bottom of the cupboard. He was very red faced after it. But I suppose it was his reward for once calling me a burnt out has been. I went on to write 13 more books and get married and have a Chinese Irish family. He got divorced and years later I’m sure the last time I saw him he was scavenging from a dustbin in Saint Philips Churchyard.

That is the worst kind of horror story there is, so thank your lucky stars for the nice life you have. But do look under your bed, just in case there is more than the pussy hiding there.

Banana Skin ©

By

Michael Casey

Sandra Saunders was a great legal secretary, in fact she was called the Wind at the firm where she worked, because she typed so fast and she also had a flatulence problem, but only if she ate prawn sandwiches on rye. Sandra was the pride and joy of the senior partner, though he was always wise enough to ask did she have a good dinner. If she had had a prawn sandwich he always said that he felt rather warm and would she mind if he had the window open.

Sandra knew that he was saving her blushes so she loved him the more. There were many young pretenders who came and went over the years, but none could get within 30wpm behind her astronomically fast typing speed. The senior partner rewarded his treasure with cases of champagne left behind her fuchsia in her front garden, timed to arrive 5 mins before she got home.

So the years rolled on and Sandra grew fat, and a bit windier, but the senior partner just opened the window more frequently. Sandra was 57 when tragedy struck, she slipped on a banana skin while she was collecting her prawn sandwich. She twisted her ankle and broke it, but that was not the worse of it all, ahead of her Peter the new wiz kid boy at the firm had ran to beat the traffic lights outside the firm while he was busy eating his daily banana. He got hit by a bus, the banana skin he had in his hand flew in the air and Sandra had slipped on it. In a way Peter had saved her life as she would have stepped into the road behind him otherwise. So a banana skin had saved her.

The senior partner knew something was wrong when Sandra was 90 seconds late, alarm bells rung in his head, he could see the commotion outside. So the senior partner ran outside. Death and disaster lay on the pavement. The senior partner could see that Peter was moments from death now so he held his hands and said the prayers from Jainism. Then taking off his jacket he folded it like a pillow and put it under Peter’s head. First aiders and police and ambulance arrived but all knew they were too late. Turning to Sandra the senior partner bent down and gently carried her home to their firm. It was only when he had put her down in the comfort of the first aid room that they both realised how bad she was. Otherwise it could have been a scene from an Officer and a Gentleman, the senior partner being Richard Gere.

As they waited for the ambulance to take her away they talked, Peter had in fact saved her life. The senior partner was such a gentle gentleman, and indeed he was. Not unless you met him in Court, then the opposition always had the flatulence problem. Sandra said she thought she’d retire early, seeing somebody die was such a shock for her, besides her Pension Pot was huge. The Senior Partner understood, so Sandra took 12 weeks off sick on full pay, as that’s how long a twist/break takes to heal. Of course flowers and champagne arrived once a week as well as an Ocado delivery of prawn sandwiches.

Sandra did come in to work but if she had to pass the scene of the tragedy every day it would have been too much. So she put all her things in a banker’s box and left. The senior partner did try another legal secretary but after, was it 20 years he missed his hot wind, his faster than the wind legal secretary. Then he had a brainwave. He could dictate and she could type and email it back to his personal office printer. She would still be at least 20wpm faster than even the best replacement. When the senior partner put it to her she was happy to oblige, she had to keep those fingers nimble after all. The firm installed a new private superfast wifi and Apple Mac PC to handle everything, and threw in a media bundle. Law firms look after their staff, but you will work 60 hours a week and have luggage full of papers after all. And no I am not joking, as this humble writer did once work for a major very hard working law firm.

So Sandra enjoyed her retirement with benefits, and in fact became quiet a film buff,for when she was not working exclusively for the senior partner down the line, she watched films. She started sending in film reviews to Mark Kermode and because she was persistent and the quality of her thought was like a legal brief she and Mark became good friends. They ended up discussing this and that and sometimes the other in all the latest films. He even took her under his wing and gave her tuition in film appreciation. Sandra was so good in fact that Mark K, as his friends called him, even dropped by for tea when he was in the area. They had prawn sandwiches and the irony was not lost on him, his name and her wind. But it’s an ill wind that blows no good, besides her stash of champagne was far better than any he’d had at a film festival.

Tragedy like History repeats itself, Mark K was due to watch a few films ready for his film review, when he slipped over a banana skin and twisted his ankle. Mark was in the Pooh, and he was due to meet this new big shot film star. As Mark K screamed as the doctor said does this hurt he remember Sandra and her banana skin, and he has a road to Damascus experience. Sandra would have to cover for him.

Sandra did not want to do it, but she did not want to leave Mark K in the Pooh. And that was how Sandra met Peter Perfect, the new hot film star. She saw his film and the stood in to interview him. He was going to show her the door when she stopped him dead in his tracks. She hadn’t worked for a senior partner for 20 years without learning the look and the voice. So she told him the story of Mark K and the banana skin, and her own accident and how Peter from the law firm had saved her by his death, and how he was a follower of Jainism.

She may have picked him up and bounced him off the four walls of the very expensive five star hotel suite. Peter Perfect was humbled, utterly humbled. So much so that he gave Sandra 2 hours worth of interview. Sandra was asked did she want to take a selfie, she said she didn’t have one of those modern cameras, besides only the girls from the law firm would want such things. So Peter Perfect jumped up from his seat and taking Sandra by her hand they walked down the road to Sandra’s law firm. Pandemonium and together they walked into the reception. The senior partner could hear the noise so he went to investigate, he was first in the queue for an autograph, his daughters just loved Peter Perfect. A senior partner has to make some very tough calls, but this one was easy.Tony ring the fire bell we need a fire drill don’t you think?

So the firm evacuated so that everybody could have time for selfies. Mark K’s big film review was the best ever, he said his Aunty had stood in for him, and that gave Sandra such a big thrill. As for Peter Perfect he stopped being a pain in the butt, and really did live up to his name. He started a new production company called Banana Skins, with the senior partner handling all his legal stuff. As for Sandra she wasn’t afraid of banana skins any more, in fact she had a secret email admirer called Banana Skins who sent her films galore via email from Hollywood.

Fake News, You Pick and Choose ©

By

Michael Casey

I stumbled over Nick Robinson in my Guardian today, what he was doing in my garden, probably stealing rhubarb, that Johnnie friend of his is a bit of a custard, they are a right pair of jokers, and they both wear ear muffs indoors. Strange People those Radio 4 types, 4 types of what you may well ask.

I had just finished my prayers, 6 visits to my church of ablutions, you get an extra grace if you sprinkle three times on the floor and use 1/2 a roll of paper a day. My CkD specialist told me that one, or was he just being funny, you can never tell with specialists, there are so full of long words.

I read in the Daily Snog, an online resource for students of New Media, ok its a scandal sheet published online, with the slops from TNZ, the kind of stuff that was locked up in that safe and never published in the News of the World. Anyway I read that Nick Robinson and that Scots fellow are really best friends, more than friends, they even finish each other’s sentences and they went on a cycling holiday to the Vatican on unicycles after they had finished their mountain climbing holiday in Holland. I think they are actually brothers separated at birth, yes really. It was in the Daily Snog in a column under how to breastfeed your boyfriend, a tip to get pregnant. No not in that column,in another column just under that one.

Playboy died I read it in Live News, its an online paper for undertakers, they have such a quirky sense of humour, so would you if you were dealing with cold dead people all day. A bit like Political Journalists interviewing Politicians, I suppose you are right, I’d have to ask my friends Julian and Sandy, they work on the Daily Rag. A Political Newspaper? No an online resource for Window Cleaners, or is it Anger Management? Anyway they have Radio4 on all the time, the button broke on their DAB Radio, so as they push the cart around cleaning windows they listen non stop. They once cleaned all the windows at the BBC, the things they saw you would not believe. Throwing darts at a Piers Morgan photo was a common feature.

I think I’ll read the Obit to Playboy in the Telegraph, they wouldn’t cover it in the Guardian, they are too pretentiously posh, I think its because they are all Virgins, or is it Vegans? They all wear sandals anyway. Was Nick Robinson’s piece in the Guardian? Yes, because his dad wears Clarks or was he a clerk. I cannot remember, who checks facts anyway, I’m not a journalist.

The BBC is so boring and biased, it was in a link I clicked on which was in FB,or somewhere, I just click and read, follow the amazing facts column then take a right click followed by a left then a right again, just past all the dating sites for Vegans and Guardian readers, or was it Virgins and Gardeners? Something about throwing seeds into furrows and a lot of tilling the land, or was that land girls and grandma? How cares, where was I? The print size is so small on the screen, how kids can read off their mobiles is beyond me. Anyway it said the BBC was biased, so it must be true. All the Politicians agree.

And on it goes, I hope Nick and the crew forgive me, and when the Scots guy gets back from his mountain climbing holiday in Holland he might split a bottle with his best friend Nick. And no not over the head, you are not launching a ship, you are celebrating friendship.

When I saw Steve Hewlett on tv I always thought he was a nice man and listened to his words. Quality really does count and a scholarship in his memory is a great idea. There is so much rubbish all over the place so we need to preserve, protect and defend quality News and Information. Is Mark Zuckerberg doing the same thing in USA, or is he just polishing his image ready for a run at the Presidency?

Sometimes the best position is influence, when you have the power you may not be up for the job, so influence is always better than power. So quality information or journalism is the best gift we can give to any population. Otherwise wolves in sheep’s clothing take over. Satire and Cartoons also have a place in Journalism, so Political Cartoonists should also be encouraged and given space. The joy of the Internet is that there is no lack of space, it’s the BBC’s job to lay the buffet table and they let people try what’s on offer.

As for me I have to get back in the kitchen and do the washing up before my wife gets home, otherwise you’ll be reading about a new surgical procedure , Wok removal from Anus, in the online magazine Blacksmith’s Son and Cutlery, the essential guide for BBC Producers…

Tidy Desk ©

By

Michael Casey

If you have seen any of my glamorous photos, no I’m not a Bunny Girl, then you’ll have seen me sat in front of the computer which sits on a computer trolley thing. Cheap and cheerful, its the words that count, I do lust after a desk such as Charles Dickens had, I use it as a screen saver on occasions, when I’m not using a snap of a dream house. If any of my fans do get around to buying books or the BBC allows me to have a Postcard from Birmingham then I’ll finally get that house and the Dickens desk.

Until then I have to keep my space clear. I have a corner with scrap paper on, last years diary and backs of any letters that come to the house. This is to put my coffee mug on, and to write notes to myself, and to keep a tally of how many words I’ve written in total and in the next book. I was going to tell you only the paper is too soggy. So I’ll just have a quick look into the files. 15 Down which will be my next book is 40, 274 words long so far, or 90 pages, as for my grand total, that is 1,171,883 words or 3500pages or so.

On my desk,or perch is a large screen set to large font size, and behind it are some cheap but nice sounding speakers. The screen is a cheap one too, but good. I also have a couple of pens on the desk. One is an over-sized silver coloured one which was a present for my 50th Birthday from the print room crew at Pinsent Masons Law Firm. I think only the beautiful Ang is still working there now, but I could be wrong. I also have a cheap diary for this year on my desk, which I never seem to use,as I prefer to put things on the calendar on the wall which I can see to the left of me.

So there you have it, this is my spot where all my words are written, which means I have to be tidy as there is no space for clutter. I do have the window in front of me that I can look out, or gaze out if you prefer posher language. I pick a word or a title and away I go, an hour later I have another story, well over 1200 individual stories now I think. I have re-posted a few things over the years so the exact number would have to be collated.

No I don’t rewrite, I just write, I am not Jeffery Archer after all, I put it on paper and its done, just as quick as your kebab is made. Though Jefferey has a Monet on his wall and I have an Bourne-Jones Angel, it was a leaving present from my computer job, Jefferey’s Monet was as a result of selling millions of books, 300million, is that the books or his fortune. God Bless him, I did try to get him to place The Butcher The Baker and The Undertaker in his guest toilet but he declined, gracefully. Maybe he’s reading M.P. Marriage to a Person Marriage to a People from my novel which is on my site right now, 100s of readers in just 2 days. Just in time for the Party Conference. Anyway I hope he smiles if he sees this, even if my novel never makes it to his Guest Toilet in Mayfair.

As ever I have digressed, my writing seems to be a cross between Joyce Grenfell and Ronnie Corbett, which makes me Gerald Wiley perhaps?

As my big daughter is now staring her A levels I threw out an old sofa, or rather a very strong black guy took it away when he and a Muslim lad delivered a new table for my daughter to study at. So now my “study” is shared with my daughter. Though we face in different directions, we are not dueling pianos like Liberace and his assistant, but there is a piano to my left, squeezed into the front room.

I do insist that she keeps he much larger desk tidy, it is more that twice the size of my perch here. If I now have to share my space then I don’t want it looking like a tip. It has been Girliefied with ornaments and the like but no water allowed on the desk, yes I have a mug, but I don’t want spillages on electrical stuff up the corner which backs on to paper supply and bookcase. No dumping of school bags either, TIDY means TIDY, I did work in a 4 star deluxe hotel, I just remembered Mary Archer paid a visit to CPNEC Birmingham while I was there, she gave a speech I seem to remember. I’d forgotten that till just now, that’s how my vacuum cleaner mind works.

Anyway if you have to be tidy at work I expect my girls to be tidy at home, or at least keep my “study” tidy, though their smelly shoes do litter the place till I evict the shoes. Totoro our cat does come in and tries jumping on my daughter’s new desk as its another object for her to climb. You chase her off so she leaps on the piano then the armchair in the window before settling down on the windowsill like an Amsterdam hooker. Totoro does wake me up at 2am by scratching at the window will I let her out, hence the hooker analogy, though she could be a good girl, but cats keep their whiskers crossed.

So its nearly time for bed now,its been a terrible day for pain, but I have written this so I’m pleased. And I’m very pleased with the reaction to my Political comedy on my site. We all get the government we deserve, I’ll just say Happy 61st Birthday Theresa May, they are all bastards as John Major said, but at least your husband really loves you, I have spotted you both twinkling.

Writing Comedy ©

By

Michael Casey

I have been invaded by my girls, one is at her new table doing her A level Chemistry, the other is on the floor drawing for her Art, I decided I must fight the pain and write another piece and avoid having a nap. I just popped into the living room and the One show was on, there’s a new show set in a jail about to hit the screen, so they showed a clip. And that’s how I’ve decided to tempt Fate and write about Writing Comedy. I know Boris in Kiev is laughing at me already and Boris in Kracow is laughing too. How can you write about comedy? This fat silver haired writer from Birmingham is a fool, with or without his shades. They both agree on that.

Anybody will tell you not to analysise comedy it either is funny or not. Like the time Boris went shopping in Kiev and forgot his wallet, so he decided to busk outside the butcher’s shop, just so he could bring the bacon home literally. So he juggled sausages he borrowed from the butcher, as well as having a a necklace of sausages. The local girls had pity for him and went inside and put a coin in the saucer on the butcher’s counter. He also got their phone numbers, not because he wanted to date them, though he could, he’s a very attractive hunk after all. No, he got their phone numbers as he is also a plumber and plumbers are like gold dust in Kiev. Now that’s funny, can this Michael Casey imagine anything like that?

No I cannot, I just sit here listening to the younger generation’s music as my ears are hostage as my daughter is studying so I have to let her have her music on. In front of me an old teddy bear is sprawled in an arm chair, with my old surgical stocking around its face, like a bank robber version of Paddington. It makes the teddy bear more interesting I think, gives him more character. I bet when I brought him home from the hotel, CPNEC Birmingham, he was a thank you gift from Jaguar Cars after they had a visit to the hotel, 12 years and more ago, he didn’t think the little girls would grow up and he’d turn into a back robber. At least the cat Totoro doesn’t sit on him.

Comedy happens, you see things then you extrapolate them, a bit like Pinocchio’s nose, and yes both Borises I know what you are thinking so just shut up, finish making that chicken Kiev for your girlfriend, or is that girlfriends? Plumbers are always ready with their bag of tools. So I the writer have to be ready with an idea that I can bend and turn, just as Boris bends and turns copper pipe when he fits yet another shower. Though I’m not as stupid as you Boris, you always wear a bright pink swimming hat when you fit showers. You did it as a joke at first, but the girls all loved it, and the little old ladies loved it even more.They always make you stay for a bit of dinner. You make them pay for the new shower, then the feed you too.

Killing two birds with one stone that is called, and when you fitted that shower for those twins, you really thought you had died and gone to Heaven. Only they made you strip and take a shower to prove it worked, so there was Boris with just his pink shower cap on when their 300kilo dad arrived and Boris escaped out the bathroom window. He had to take the pink shower cap off and hold it in front of his privates as he ran for his life through the streets of Kiev. Kiev in October is not sunbathing weather. The twins laughed until they cried. Luckily the told their dad it was a joke he believed them. The next day they arrived at Boris’s place with his tools and clothes. They cooked him dinner and then they took a shower.

Stop I told you I was going to explain comedy and Boris led me astray, Boris we need to go to Confession in Kracow, as for Boris in Kiev, he is a spring chicken, showered with female company. I don’t know where today’s story went, it just kind of had a life of its own, like when you cut a chicken’s head off and it keeps on running around.

I have noticed that Ukraine likes my writing too, not unless you are all hackers, I have nothing of value on my computer, just my stories, but I’ve mentioned you so you don’t feel all lonely, with just your pink shower cap wrapped around your nuts. I forgot to tell you Boris could not get back into his flat, so he had to climb a tree and swing onto his balcony, then finally he was home safe.Though it did take him 20 mins and a crowd of 150 people gathered to watch the fun. It was even filmed and uploaded to UTube, the Naked Plumber from Kiev it was called. It got 100,000 hits in a week. He got plenty of work afterwards, especially Nudists in Kiev.

And if you believe any of this then you believe in Fairies too, or I am a good Liar, or is it Writer, Comedy Writer? You decide for yourselves. I’m off to the Nudist pub up the road, Boris recommended it, I just need to put my Winter boots on first, nothing else, I just wear a smile.

Picking ©

By Michael Casey

I was thinking what to talk about today when I thought Picking, as my small daughter who is in 3rd year will be picking her exams subject soon. 3rd year is year9 for all you Americans or modern people here in UK. They have all this modern numbering yet year 12 and 13 are still call 6th Form. You explain it to me. And college is a fancy term for 6th form, when really college is when you go to University or Uni as it is irritatingly called. Can I ask what being a self taught writer is called? Is it a Home School Bore? I said it before any of my Borises got in first. How about Doue?

Now to the point, how do you pick you choices for school? Mr Smith is nice, I fancy him so I’ll do Latin said Allison. Mr Jones has bad breath, when he leans over you it really stinks, So I’m not doing English. You have to do English, what, that’s not fair, then I’m going to hold my breath during his lessons. What about Geography? Mr Howes hasn’t got a clue he’s always getting lost on campus, but Geography is fun, so I’m doing that.

What about History? Miss Harrison always makes it sound better than a Soap opera, she hints then winks and says go Google that when you get home. And you know what its disgusting, what they did to Edward II with that poker, was straight out of a horror film. I’m definitely doing History, the Romans were right bastards too, I Googled it, it was terrible, so exciting, there should be more horror films with Romans in. Ask the Christians if you don’t believe me.

Maths, I hate Maths, why do Americans call it Math, don’t they know any English spellings and stuff. Why do they OR instead of OUR as well? I’m not doing Maths, that’s final. But you have to do Maths, or you’ll get ripped off every time you go shopping. You need to be able to contrast and compare. Mum said it’s like when you look at boys. You need to know which is the best value, like WAGs do with sportsmen. Who has the bigger pay packet. So you can divorce them when they do the dirty. It’s a shame about Wayne, but maybe she’ll forgive him. If he was better at Maths maybe this would never have happened, that’s what my parents were saying.

What about Foreign languages? My dad said he was great at Anglo Saxon, whatever that means. I was thinking French my Aunty used to love Sacha Distel. Is that a disease, Sacha Distel, sounds like something we did in Biology the other day. No he was a crooner, so I’ll do French to please my aunty. But Biology is that any good? You cut up things and feel about in dead animals, I don’t think I’d like that so I’ll leave Biology alone. But if I did Chemistry instead that could be fun, experiments and so on. What about Physics too, I heard that was fun, with experiments as well. You have Abbot to help too. A priest teaching Physics? No its the text book, my uncle said he read it from cover to cover.

Do we have to do Music? Mr Preacher just shouts all the time, says we are all tone deaf, but its his shouting making us deaf. Crochets and Quavers man nothing to me. I thought it meant eating crisps while you did some knitting. Why can’t we just listen to Capital Radio instead? Instead 300 year old Mozart.

We have to do RE or RI it’s a must. But nobody goes to church, except for funerals, and when my cousin got pregnant and her dad said if the boy didn’t marry her he’d get his History book out and do and Edward II on him. I didn’t know your uncle was a History teacher. He knows a bit about torture, he read 50 Shades 20 times.

We have to do PE or Gym as well, just to make us fit. But we have no time to shower so we reek all afternoon afterwards. But you can get a GCSE or certificate of some sort for wearing your gym kit. But the kit is terrible, the other schools laugh at us when we play games against them. Is that why you broke that bloke’s nose, no that was an accident I was aiming for his jaw. Hockey is a very violent game after all. I watch American Ice Hockey for inspiration, do you think if we have a hard winter the Gym teacher will let us try it in the playground?

I’m looking forward to doing my GCSEs do you think Saint Judes will come top of the scores again when the results are in? Of course, the teachers put the fear of God into us, my big sister said you hate it while you are here but afterwards you are so proud you went to such an institution. My mum went here too, she says its the best school anywhere, that’s her next to the pink Rolls Royce, she only picks me up to annoy the old staff who said she’d never amount to anything. Her dad said Do What You Like But Do Your Best, she sends him to Malta for 6 months of the year. That’s generous, no she can’t stand him, because he was always right.

Name Ownership ©

By Michael Casey

God created Man and then taking a rib he created Woman. If the Feminists were talking to you they would say, God created Useful then created Useless, Man being Useless. Men are just rattles holding seeds ready for Women to nurture. There is power in words and in names, if we can name something then we are not afraid of it and we are not in awe of it.

During the war when Britain had its back against the wall and at one point it really looked as if the Nazis would win Comedy helped lift people’s spirits. George Formby and the like raised morale when it really needed a lift. You can mock somebody so they are not as frightening, Hitler did look like Charlie Chaplin so immediately he was mocked for this, though Charlie was love. Mockery and Satire takes people’s power away. We have just had the Tory Party Conference and today Theresa May is at a crossroads, she is mocked everywhere. It’s the cross that Politicians have to carry, if they want to be in the Public Eye.

Me, I’m the fat silver haired writer in shades from Birmingham nothing could be simpler, except there is somebody of the same name who is NOT me, he’s clever and is from Dublin, he is far older and far more serious and he has a PhD. I just have a used bus ticket to my name, and an unlucky lottery ticket. There is also a Monk called Michael Casey too, he isn’t me either. That’s why I attach stupid photos of myself to the writing, so you know exactly who I am, though you should all be able to tell who I am by my writing style.

Hey you, fattie with your shades on, are you the fat Casey writer or the clever Dublin one? If its outside a kebab shop it’s probably me, or if I’m carrying two plastic bags full of equally balanced shopping. I have to balance out the weight as my surgery scars can really hurt if I carry too much shopping. By calling me fattie you may me ordinary, and show familiarity, as if you know me. That way you can own me, just as you can call Prince William baldie, to show you’ll not touch your forelock for him or any Royals.

Use of language levels the playing field, use of slang really levels the playing field. When you have that class reunion after 25 years you’ll find who the real people are and who are the ones to avoid. The ones who detest their school nicknames should be avoided. I never had a nickname at school, maybe it was because I was so strong and killed people on the Rugby field, we had to bury 3 people just behind the girls’ changing rooms, but don’t tell the Police. That was a joke just in case any Boris out there thinks I’m Evil.

A nick name does not have to mean lack of respect, it can mean the reverse, it is a badge of honour. Gas was the nickname for one of the lads from my class 1B in first year, why gas? Because of his ASS, he farted non stop for 5 years. We even had the Gas board come in as they thought it was a mains gas problem. It was just his bad diet as his dad had a kebab shop and he lived on kebabs. He wasn’t fat though as he always ran everywhere, as if he had jet propulsion, he was just trying to hide the fact that the smell was coming from him. I heard when he grew up he got a double First in Chemistry from Cambridge and later went into perfume trade in Paris. The girlfriends he had were all models, it must have been his animal attraction, or just his stink, or perfumes I mean.

We all have power with our words, we can lift people up or knock them down. I choose to lift people up, by making you all laugh in over 26 countries all over the world. I’m happy if you laugh at me, if Boris in Kiev and cousin Boris in Kracow think I’m just that fat silver haired writer in shades from Birmingham England. Because you own me with your laughter and I own you with me words.

I’ll finish with a heart warming story the Borises will enjoy. My dad was coming home from work from the steelworks on a dark Winter’s Night, he was wearing a Russian army style coat to keep him warm. Just as he was outside the Undertakers he let a nuclear sounding explosion of a fart go off into the air. A black lady in front of him screamed and jumped 2 feet into the air, she thought the end of the world had come. The Undertaker looked out of his window and was going to claim a corpse, but the black lady was still alive.My dad just chuckled like Muttley from Wacky Races and continued up the road home. Leaving a shocked black lady behind him, and a disappointed undertaker.

Daytime TV ©

By

Michael Casey

I was wondering what to write about today once the pain monster went away and my thoughts turned to Daytime TV, so if you ready lets take a peek.

Welcome I’m Garry Bond I’m licensed to thrill, I’m going to shake and stir you, and leave you thrilled, are you ready ladies? Today we are talking about embarrassing visits to Doctor. Should you just say you have a boil on your bum and flash you botty to the doctor, or nurse.Or are you the shy sort and you talk about the weather, before you can pluck up the courage to show your bum to a total stranger. Would online consultations be the way to the future of boil on the bum investigations?

We’ll have a panel discussion on the topic. On the panel will be an ear nose and throat doctor, we couldn’t get a Proctologist, but a doctor is a doctor is a doctor. We nearly got a Pathologist, but he was stuck at the cemetery. We’ll have that well know fart actor, sorry farce actor Brian Rix, he’s shown his bum to millions. What, stop screaming in my earpiece, when did he die? Nobody told me. So we won’t be having him, you just cannot get the staff dear viewers, I was in pantomime for 18 straight years before I lowered myself to do this rubbish daytime tv. What? I thought we had cut to the adverts, so the viewers heard me say that. Sorry viewers, I was rehearsing for my next panto in 10 months time, you are of course my special special dear personal friends.

There’s a flash and a crash, a little old lady comes on and punches the host, he is out cold and carried off. The studio manager asks the little old lady does she have any experience and would she like to host the rest of the show. I don’t know anything about being a tv star the little old lady stammers, but I do have a boil on my bum, she shows her boil to camera 3. A new rising daytime tv star is born.

Next show is a quiz, a general knowledge quiz hosted by lady dressed as if she was going to meet the queen, the contestants are wearing jumpers with paint stains down them. First question for 5 points can anybody tell me who lives in Poland? Pole Dancers. No, can the other side tell me? Poles, yes that is correct. For 5 points can anybody tell me what The Art of the Possible is talking about. Modern Art. No silly. Other side can you tell me. Haven’t a clue. It refers to Politics. I know they are artless clueless and they are impossible to live with, no not students Politicians.

How many times did Edna Scrunge appear as Dippy Do in the hit soap opera, You Can Always Do it Again and Again and Again. 1200. Sorry it was 1196, she missed 4episodes when she had her 4 kids, too much again and again and again. Now some sport questions, how many gold medals did Olga Toloffnov win. 5. Yes but no. She was stripped of them because of doping, so the answer is none. We’ve ran out of time now viewers, so see you next time, same time, same place, here on Quiz World TV for Winners.

After an eternity of adverts the next show begins, its a travel show, Dave Porridge travels by taxi visiting various back street chip and kebab shops. Dave used to be big in tv and only got this slot as he saved the life of the producer by hiding him in a cupboard when the producer’s boyfriend discovered he had been cheating on him with a woman. The producer said he’d always be in debt to Dave Porridge. So when Dave Porridge’s career went down the toilet the producer rescued him with this daytime tv gem, kebabs via taxis. Dave’s weight went from 120kilos to 155 kilo, it stabilised there, thanks to regular doses of food poisoning. And a few lusty workouts with with chip peelers.

Dave talks to camera and interviews the taxi drivers as he criss crosses the country visiting fast food shops galore. Dave is of course a bit of a linguist with all the various people he meets. His tongue is made of asbestos too, he can handle any hot stuff on his tongue, food or female. History and Geography is mentioned as he eats his way across the country. In a way Dave Porridge becomes a cult by eating food. But it was too many oats which was his downfall, Dave Porridge had his oats too often, he got 3 takeaway girls pregnant simultaneously. So the kebab knives were out and Dave caught a bus to Scotland, there he’d do his porridge.

With TV shows like that now you know why I choose to watch TV news and read the newspapers instead of watching. Maybe I’ll get my own tv show one day. I could have North Korean Army Girls sing K-Pop while I give them tea and crumpet. I bet somebody is already stealing my Format. But K Pop can save the world as I wrote last month.

If you are wondering (c)

By Michael Casey

If you are wondering how I go about amusing you, or is it bemusing you? Then I am all for patterns. A pattern or method helps things along. If its all random then its harder. I nag my girls about routine and getting out of my way so I can get into the bathroom. Otherwise its Midnight before I can get into the bathroom.

So if you have a routine you actually have more time not less. I worked shifts all my life so you have to be on time for the bus and go to bed on time so you can get up in time for the bus. Nowadays kids are on their phone all the time and Time just disappears, and then there is a log jam for our bathroom. Self discipline is needed too, yes relax and chill but if you don't Timetable things then the day or evening is gone and you have not done a thing.

No I'm NOT saying every second has to be ordered, what I am saying is that if you sweep like the second hand then you achieve more. So you come in from school and take the horrid uniform off and put you PJs or tracksuit on. Bags go up a corner and then you put the dinner on before you sit down. After a chill period homework is done. Then you can go back to your toys. But very important in today's world is encouraging your kids to read a book, an hour a day, either on paper or on one of those Kindles.

I already know readers out there are criticising me for being too harsh. If I told you our girls were not allowing video games when they were young. Crayons and pencils in the hundreds were what they got, which means they can draw, which is a great skill in itself. Self discipline is the key, or if you are parent you bestow it on your kids. Nobody is allowed to do what they want, we all have to do the stuff we don't like so that we can afford to do the stuff we DO like.

No I'm not a Fascist, people seem to want everything but don't want to put the work in. Years of crayons instead of video games means my girls are good artists. Being forced to hit the books at an early age means that later on they enjoy reading and have an imagination. They are not the Vultures from the Jungle Book who are bored and forever saying. What are we gonna do now.

Ok, enough of the methodology. When I write I look out the window and if I see something or somebody it can ignite an idea. This is because I did spend 20 years listening to BBC Radio4 BEFORE I started to write 30 years ago. So I have 1000s of plays and films I've watched, not forgetting 100s of books I read over the years and a deep interest in TV news, and Radio4 news reports. I also am like a vacuum cleaner and I suck things up, and later, ever decades later a word can make me vomit up a memory. No I don't have total recall, some things I wish I could forget, but generally I am a vacuum cleaner. A vacuum cleaner full of 50 years of memories, my memory goes back to 1963.

Yes that's how I write, I look in the Soup, and I ladle out a story. Nowadays because my health is a pain in my butt and maybe yours, I have good days and bad days. So I may dig out an old story and feed it to you all, while I have a day off from the page. But my work ethic is so strong I should be a Protestant, this is an old joke. As is the one about Rhythm Method and writing or is it drumming? You can work that one out for yourselves. I remember Dave Allen and now I look like him, or my hair at any rate.

I can write pure fiction, or just parody, with or without Vanessa our noisy neighbour. I may even come up with a poem. I don't like to restrict myself, you know what happened to the body builder who did that? I can have an idea, so that's like the dots in a colouring book, and then when I sit down I'm just joining up the dots for myself. So it can appear slow to me while I'm actually putting it down on paper. Or I have an idea and a style for a piece then as I start to write it changes. I am the ball in the pin ball machine, I can be knocked off course, or I can be expert and hit all the bells and buzzers.

It is only when I finish after an hour, they usually take an hour, when I read the whole piece that I can see if I have nailed it. Its a bit like a tapestry, I am looking at one side while I write. then I turn it over and all is revealed. If I accidentally delete the piece then it is lost forever, as I could never rewrite it, its not a recipe, everything is original. OK some of you dispute that, but the idea is that each story is unique. yes I may mention things again in another piece but generally everything is unique. If I were to write another full length book it would take a year of my life, or 3 months if I borrowed a legal secretary, so I stick to my one hour pieces. On this tally 1400, including repeats.

Ok that's your lot I have to collect more heart meds and pain killers, at least you know the background to the story telling. I may never have a Monet on my wall like Jeffery Archer, but its something that brings me pleasure. And yes I know you are all thinking of your own pleasures now...

A New Day or Get Up and Start Again ©

By

Michael Casey

I’m yawning I’m had my breakfast and the pain is subsiding, yes it’s boring for you to hear this you just want to hear the next story, but pain does slow the Writer, me, down. So today I’ll talk to you about Sleep, I just decided 2 seconds ago after the yawn that I’ll be sleep talking, or rather talking about sleep. Yes my ideas are as clever as that, so let’s see where the story will take us. If I were clever I’d sweat over the words the meaning and the commas. As this is Radio I never worry, and frankly its what the words are and how they flow off the page, or from my mouth that matters. Note to writers who cannot write, I won’t read anything that is badly written, no matter how good the ideas. I got that tip from Mary a radio producer at the BBC maybe 30 years ago. And the rest is History.

I’ve probably sent you to sleep by now, but sleep really is so important, I speak as somebody who wakes every 2 hours, and on some occasions when I wake I say “that was deep sleep” or if I have to get up because of the pain after an hour or two up I go back to bed when I’m so tired I’ll sleep through the pain. Sorry I’m boring you again, by the way Boris in Poland YOU never have that problem because you work so hard you sleep like a baby. Besides which your wife helps you sleep.

When we are kids we don’t want to go op bed we want to stop up and watch Grimm on Tv, so dad has to carry us up to bed and tuck us in. This is all fine and good, but carrying kids up the stairs to bed when dad is tired is dangerous. Once in the children’s bedroom I tripped over the bedsheets while still carrying a child, and fell heavily on the bed. Breaking the bed. Yes really. If suddenly 115 kilos falls on a bed it will break. In The Butcher The Baker and The Undertaker Patrick and June break the bed and have to superglue it back together,but that was while creating a baby, before June was carrying a baby inside her. And that was 30 years ago when I wrote it, then Patrick was made organise a fete for the children’s home as a penance set by his priest, go read the book.

So sleep is so important, especially for kids, nowadays just switch off the Wifi and they will soon go to bed and sleep. In the old days we would listen to the radio and fall asleep with it on bedsides us. I got hooked on radio when I was maybe 8, and I remember missing the end of The Ghost and Mrs Muir on the Book at Bedtime, my brother had to tell me what happened, we had the radio in bed with us.

Gentle music does aid sleep,as does gentle lighting, nobody had screens and phones and so on when I was growing up 50 years ago, yes I’m that old, but still so handsome, swoon all you ladies out there, ok just remember to rinse your false teeth and put them under your pillow. You do have to prepare for sleep, wash your feet at least, and any other important bits. We used to wash in the kitchen sink, an old Belfast sink as they call them, then a bath at the weekend. Yes the good old days, but we did get an inside toilet when I was 10. Before we got rid of the lodgers from the family house my dad used to carry down a piss pot belonging to an old lady struck off doctor, yes such sweet memories.

Yes, darkness is needed to sleep, so thick curtains might be needed like they have in hotels. But you may hate total darkness so you leave a chink in the curtains, or you sleep with the landing light on. All of which is great until your cat becomes a teenager, 2 in our years. So I am on my 2 hour catnap, and then Totoro wakes me up, not the children or anybody else, just me. She claws at the window, its not a burglar, just a cat wanting a tin roof because she’s so hot. I wake suddenly so I have to let her out the window, telling her not to come back pregnant. In actual fact we think she’s adopted a little Polish boy a few doors away, or it could be the Indian corner shop owner, we’ll never know as cats don’t tell, they are as quiet as the Sicilian Mafia, or the grave.

Meanwhile I go back to sleep, back to my one sided position, my scars don’t allow me to rotate like a kebab on a spit any more. Sleeping in the nude means my scars on my legs rub together, and lately my nipple on the left chest is mega sensitive. If you blow on my nipple I’ll scream and jump 2 feet into the air. Apart from that I have perfect blood pressure. Then I drift off dreaming my dreams. We all have our dreams but I’ll keep mine to myself. Some things I don’t share.

Most people toss and turn in their sleep,its almost like watching sailors using flags for messages, all the various positions. Beds and sleeping are so much nicer nowadays.Though I have broken 2 other beds.My main bed, a pine bed lasted over 20 years. I replaced it with a metal one, only it buckled under my 17.5 stones, or 112kilos of tossing and turning, that was when I could toss and turn and rotate like that kebab on a spit. So we left it outside, the legs like a collapsed giraffe. A passing Pole in a van took it away, then once he was at the corner he took it out and banged it back into position. I’m sure he must have though that fat bastard is just too fat, this’ll do for me and my Maria. So God Bless him, and Maria and all their babies.

The other broken bed was actually a wooden one, it had a tiny crack in it when I put it together, then 3 years later the crack kept on growing. BANG. In the middle of the night it broke on one side and I was in a mattress sandwich. So then I bought an industrial strength bed. I could barely lift it and fix it together. This was over 3 years ago, before the heart business. Its a really nice looking bed, but if ever we do finally move house, it will stay in the house as I could never shift it. Some days I can barely carry the shopping home, remember my breast bone was cut open to fix my heart, and the arthritis comes and does so I limp or don’t limp.

Anyway lets get back to bed, now there’s a offer, no Boris not you, I only really like Oriental girls, my wife is a Shanghai girl remember. So in the old days Duvets were not even invented.You just had 6 blankets on top of your bed in winter, that’s why you have such strong arm muscles, pulling the blankets over you. You really need a pulley to pull them. We did have an eiderdown 50 years ago, just the one on my brother’s bed. But duvets were not even invented. Just a note,when you went on holiday you had to bring your own sheets and pillowcases, so as a family we had 6 cases for the Casey’s bed linen.

I remember now I had a fold up metal bed, that I used to strum on the big springs at the side, thinking I was musical only for one of my brothers to shout shut up we want to sleep. I spent a lot of time in bed when I was unemployed, then one day I just decided to changed and then my Protestant work ethic kicked in, I’m catholic by the way Boris, hence my 1,200,000Words sending you all to sleep.

The other thing about my own sleep experience is shift working, I did 14 years of night shifts. So I used to go to bed at 9am and sleep till 5pm, this really does ruin your body. But I did get to see naked Dawn every morning, the Sky Boris not the girl in the flat opposite who never closes her curtains. As children Christine at the bottom of the garden always used to undress as far as her bra and knickers before only then retreating out of view, this was our sex education. She would be 80 now. But Dawn, in the sky was fantastic and we all used to stop work at 5am or so to watch her over the Blues’ ground.

You are always tired when you work shifts,the 1st day off is recovery day, then you enjoy your other days, but suddenly you are back on nights again, 50% of my working time was nights. My mother once woke me with the news that John Paul II had been shot, I remember crying before I’d even got out of bed.

I could tell you more about sleep or is it beds or sex education? But I have to eat now and eating always important, you cannot sleep or work or even enjoy sex on an empty belly. Though I’m sure Boris in Poland and his cousin in Ukraine have stories of their own, maybe they’ll start their own blog instead of reading mine, or are they just stealing them and calling themselves Boris Casey the Pole in Birmingham? I don’t know, so long as I can see a few readers on the score board, sleep tight and don’t let the bed bugs bite. One final thing Boris, I used to work another shift pattern when I got home at 3am. We discovered it was the perfect time to conceive, so you can either get a job as a bouncer and come home and play doctors and nurses at 3am. Or set your alarm clock. Sleep tight Boris and wife, but in 9 months time you will only have sleepless nights…

This Love is for Eternity ©

By Michael Casey

This Love is for Eternity

This Kiss is from my Heart

This Touch is full of Warmth

This Sigh shakes more than an Earthquake

This Whisper crashes Louder than the Sea on the Shore

This Caress is Deeper than Thunder

This Look is Brighter than Lightning

This Desire is greater than the Grand Canyon

This Song sings louder than birdsong

This Hope reaches beyond the Stars

This Love is mine freely given to the one I love

This Love is yours freely returned like the Tide itself

This is us, not one but two, but one again

This is all I can offer, this is my Prayer

This Love is all I have, my heart is Empty now

As I look to the Stars I hope my prayers have been enough

For this Love is Eternal

For it is my very Soul

Forgiveness ©

By

Michael Casey

I wanted to write something new today as I’ve skipped a few days due to the pain monster. So I hadn’t thought what to write, sorry talk to you about. I’ve just seen the end of the Johnny Cash film so when it finished I thought there’s a theme, forgiveness.There’s all kinds of forgiveness, and I’ll see where the words take me, so if you are sitting comfortably, or if you have finished that bottle of vodka Boris then I’ll begin, can’t you put something else in your mouth?

Now on a point of comedy I don’t need to say any more to Boris, as if I said this or that you’d all think of the other, so sometimes you don’t even need to say one word as the audience or the reader is ahead of you,or with you. Which reminds me of an old Les Dawson joke, but you can google and Utube him for yourselves. Les was my size but wider and not as tall, if that’s not a contradiction in terms, and sometimes he was dressed as an ugly woman forever rearranging her bussoms, in the best Panto tradition. So forgive me for sidetracking myself.

Now I’ve taken off my mother’s old clothes and am sat naked here talking to you via the computer, luckily I have no camera or you will all be sick over your screens. This is the joy of radio comedy, you have this mental picture in your mind which is always far better than a tv image. So do you forgive me?

How many times do you forgive your girl for cheating with the milkman or the postman, until it is you having the special delivery 9 months later? Are girls not allowed to cheat? Men cheat but girls cannot, that’s the rule, men are in charge after all. Is that what you believe? See I’m asking you to question yourself and your beliefs. This culture is better than that culture and so on. Or do you think we are all naked and equal before God, that’s if you believe in any God.

See I was almost serious for a sentence, but you prefer the comedy so I’ll ask you to follow me down the garden path, past Gill from Stats MR my old university of mirth. You will forgive some but not others, why is that Because of the twinkle in their eye, like Jim I know, his twinkle allowed him to get away with a lot more that the average person. Or that girl’s smile would melt any heart and allow her to get away with blue murder.

I’ll never forgive those bastards they drunk the last of the milk in the staff fridge. I’ll cut their balls off. Obviously she didn’t, she just peed in the milk bottle and left it there for the night shift crowd to find. The next morning there was a note on the fridge from the night shift. An apology? NO. Just a question, where could they buy such delicious milk again. So she did the same trick, left her pee in the fridge, and again a similar note the next day. This went on for a week. Till finally a clear blue pregnancy test was glued to the fridge door. Congratulations you are pregnant.

Did she forgive the prankster? She stopped overnight to confront him, only he had such a twinkle they ended up making love in the paper store. And yes then she really was clear blue, but she did forgive him.

My brother actually did do something similar, he peed in the bottom of the old glass pop bottles, because he knew I always drunk the dregs. I suppose it was his revenge for me putting a red hot poker on his leg, other that that we were very close, well close enough to put a poker on his leg. At least he did not do an Edward II on me.

Forgiveness comes in many forms, big and small. After wars great forgiveness is needed, political movements are needed, and the EU began as a effort to heal the divisions on the European continent. Though now some would say the EU hates the UK for being the child that says the Emperor is naked. And will never forgive us for breaking up the party. Though History tells us that nothing lasts forever.

I shoved in a serious paragraph to get you thinking. I’ll finish for tonight with the most obvious of statements. The person you need to forgive the most is yourself. Look in the mirror and change if you like. We all need to let go and forgive. I did not say the right thing today, or yesterday or these past few years. People misunderstand me and I’m too old and tired and sick to waste my time explaining things. Why is the world so fast nowadays.Nobody listens.

We can only do our best, and each new dawn, whether or not we watch from the night shift window over the Blues ground for 14 years or just a random morning when we get up early for a pee, each dawn gives us a chance to forgive ourselves and everybody we meet. Without forgiveness we have a cancer inside us, like rotten cheese we forgot to take out of our shopping bag. We look high and low for the stink but cannot find it, finally its in the back of an old cupboard. And yes 25 years ago I really did have a rotten cheese in a bag, really no metaphor.

So laugh at Michael Casey the fat silver haired writer in shades from Birmingham England. If you are laughing at this now wherever in the world you are then you have Forgiven me my Trespasses. If you can forgive me the stupid writer then you can forgive yourselves. Then Boris and Doris can stop leaving pee in the fridge, and make love and babies, but please get a room you are squashing all the paper, how can I write stories on squashed paper?

Never Lose a Word ©

By

Michael Casey

Martin was good dad but a terrible husband, his wife told him the 2nd part all the time. His girls just loved him because he always bought them their favourite food, health food. Martin worked in the Pie Factory on Upper Lower Street, a funny name but there used to be a river called the Lower many a year ago. It really confused stranded tourists who came to visit the world famous pie factory. It was one of these tourists who stole his wife away. An American with a great big lasered white smile. His wife fell for the smile and after six months she was in Florida turning herself perma brown.

His daughters went away at first but hated the sunshine, they preferred the weather in England. So they came back home to England. Mum sent money and kisses, but the kisses soon finished but the money continued. So dad switched to working part time at the pie factory. So he was always home for his girls. Meanwhile mum went working for the American in his chain of gyms, it was very physical. But she was fit, but her new husband died after 3 years, while working out to the tune of Let’s Get Physical. So thanks to Olivia Newton John mum became a millionaire with a perma tan and great great teeth.

She still sent money for the girls but bitched about it costing her an arm and a leg. She was now worth $25million. But she never returned to England as it was too cold, besides which Doris was in denial, she had never worked at a humble pie factory, no matter how famous. And the fact that she was wearing a hairnet when she met the love of her life, ok the man how cold get her away from hr brat children. How she let Martin get so close to breed with her she’d never know. She only married him because he had a jaguar, and they did things to her. Yes some women are attracted by your motor, a bit like the Stones song Brand New Car perhaps.

So Sandra drew apart from her girls, literally as she went to live in Arizona or was it Nevada, she didn’t care so long as the air was warm, not like damp England. So Steak and Kidney lost track of mummy, but the allowance still came so they were ok, not rich but ok. Steak and Kidney were the names Sandra called her girls as a way of mocking her husband Martin. Selena and Katy were their real names, named after the singers, but mummy was a witch riding high on a broomstick. Daddy was their fat hero, though he did lose some weight as he only worked part time at the factory.

Daddy’s dream was to win the lottery but he always lost and finally just bought a chocolate bar for his girls instead of a lottery ticket every Saturday. It was while he was in the shop buying a lottery ticket that he met Maria, she dropped her Jim Reeves album and he picked it up. She was a North Korean army girl who’d escaped to England. She worked in the takeaway over the road from the newsagents. Whatever Martin had she wanted it. He was a big big Jim Reeves fan, he sung her a few songs right there in the take away.

So Martin and Maria became firm friends, she brought rice around after work and together they listened to Jim Reeves records. Selena and Katy were happy their dad had somebody in his life. Besides Maria was a good cook and they soon enjoyed quality cooking, Korean style. Meanwhile in USA mum had lost all her money on a Ponzi scheme and could have been deported, but the Americans decided to send her to jail for 200 years without parole. Americans are very strict as far as money is concerned, if you kill somebody you get probation, or am I mistaken?

Martin promised the girls he’d find a way to make, now that the allowance had been taken by the American courts. So Martin started writing short stories and posting them on the Internet. He had no luck there, but Maria did, she had a son, then another son and finally a 3rd son. The girls always wanted a little brother, now they had three. They were called, Tom, Dick and Harry as Maria thought they were great names. They were a happy family and all they needed was a dog, so they got a dog and called him Vincent after Van Gogh as it only had one ear. All the family spoke English and Korean, except Vincent the dog who seemed to understand everything.

Of course the boys were very handsome too. Everything was perfect, Selena got a place at Cambridge to study Medicine and Katy went to Rada because her Julie Walters impression was perfect. As luck would have it a Korean businessman who had always wanted to be an actor but became a billionaire had donated money, for Korean speakers. Katy spoke Korean like a native with a North Koran accent, so she got the scholarship. He did have a son too, who was gay, so no romance, he just became her best friend and they spent hours discussing Kpop in Korean.

Meanwhile Martin persisted with his campaign, no luck at all. He did get a piece in the Soeul Times but otherwise no luck at all. He nearly gave up writing but Maria told him YOU NEVER GIVE UP, she even slapped his face. She felt so ashamed, she went to bed. Martin followed her and said she was right, Maria explained what it was like in North Korea until she escaped. Together they spent the night crying. But in the morning they were happy, Maria was pregnant and this time it would be a girl. And North Korean Army girls are the prettiest in the world.

Katy brought her gay Korean friend home, Vincent the dog loved him so much, and when they got talking he said he’d love to hear her dad’s stories. So they played audio of the stories though his Samsung S8. And that was how Martin finally got his lucky break. They were used in Korea to teach English to the newly unified and peaceful Korea. Martin and Maria could have become very stupid rich but decided to keep only enough to pay for Selena’s studies at Cambridge and Katy’s Rada studies. As for their boys Tom, Dick and Harry they opened a martial arts college, as boys will be boys. Oh, the little sister Tilly she just became an international model, she was very good at marching up the cat walk.

Martin and Maria did buy the old pie factory as they were very sentimental, and they did send pies to the SuperMax prison in USA where his ex-wife now lived. They were very kind and polite British/Korean family after all.

From Blank Page to Full Stop ©

By Michael Casey

I was having breakfast with my meds, just as my pharmacist orders when I was thinking about what to write about today. The idea of a blank page and a full stop beckoned. So I was going to start with a fair wind to my back but then I stumbled over PMQs or Prime Minister’s Questions so I watched that. Then the love of my life, as she tells me she is, or the witch as we call her rung to command me to bring in the washing. Then there was the very latest Windows 10 update so I had to wait for that. Afterwards my small daughter arrived, so with her watching the computer I went shopping for her chocolate biscuits.

The Windows 10 update finally finished and I had one, just one chocolate buiscuit. Then the pain monster decided to pay a visit, so I have just slapped it on and rubbed myself down, while stood in the front room window. Our Polish neighbours think I’m an exhibitionist, the little old ladies wish they were 30 years younger, me, I just wish Arthritis never came my way. I inherited it from my mother, and my heart from my father. It’s nice being a close family but you could do without the diseases.

So to today’s theme From Blank Page to Full Stop.

We start as a blank page, as virgins, we are pure and white, we are babies, I hope I don’t need to mention other colours and don’t need to say I’m not actually talking about sex or colour. I’ll take it as read that there are no pedantic readers with nothing better to do.

So we start all shiny and new without a clue, then we watch and observe and are influenced by events all around us. I grew up in a busy house and we shared the house with our lodgers, then we had the house next door too, just by accident. My dad’s brother was going to buy it but tragedy stuck their sister in law died in childbirth. So dad’s brother Willie went back to Kerry to help Danny raise the ten children. So the lawyer changed the name and our dad bought the house instead of his brother.

So the page was changed, events had changed History and the Future, the family future changed here in Birmingham and over in County Kerry. This meant we had more lodgers for me to watch and observe, making it real life theatre for me. Growing up watching mainly alcoholic lodgers was different to the average family in the 1960s onwards.

Good things and bad things can little tour life page, some things tear strips off the page. Or screw and scrunch the page up entirely, I’d had a scrunched up page several time, you just have to iron out the rough spots as the songs goes. Or even throw away one page and start again. Don’t be so obsessed with keeping the original plan. A new page can be a lifeboat to a new future, such as me stumbling in my computer operator job. As I talk to you my Bourne Jones angle looks down at me, a leaving present from that 21year job in computers. Another totally different page was my 3 years as a concierge plus everything else, or you could just call my porter.

My daughter had just started a new page by going to her new 6th form college a good bus ride away. Meeting new people and studying hard for A levels with high hopes of doing Medicine at Cambridge, or anywhere that’ll have her. This is her page. We all need to have dreams and hopes. Even if we never attain them, without direction we are just like those zombies on stunk you stumble over in some cities.

Influences and winds of change alter our direction on the page that is our life. If this were a Winnie the Pooh Cartoon the artist would draw as I talk to you. Sadly I cannot draw and the stormy weather has not brought an artist to me, maybe I’ll stumble over one in a bar. Maybe even a Polish artist as I seem to have many Polish readers, even if they never buy a book on Amazon.

So our lives continue and the page gets fuller, just like the space on the fridge where every family leaves its diary, outside of the fridge, inside is the dairy. You can use a rubber to make space on the page, you can retreat and regroup or cordon off some ME Space in your life. You may even wish you had used London Rubber then you’d have more space in your home.

Nothing is set in stone, you can have that North Korean Lover, even if in your imagination, or you could have that Parisian Romeo, life is up to you. We’ve all seen those romcoms on tv after all. However a word of caution, there is only so much space on the page. At some point the space runs out, the page is full.

So you have to ask yourselves did I waste my page, my space, my time, would I have used crayons or fine liner, would I have used capitals or a different font to my life. Or am I happy the way I filled the page that is my Life. The way my own life turned out with lots of pain punctuating it has coloured my page, but all in all I’m glad how my life has filled the page. I have had lots of time with my dad when he was alive. I have well I won’t be gushy, I am not American. I am glad I was born into the family I was born into. 500 years of Kerry Ireland farmers so I’m told. Now my own family which comes from rice farmers from Shanghai to match the Kerry side.

So Chinese Rice had met Kerry Potatoes, and my kids will write their own pages, as a doctor and maybe as an actress. This is their Future the blank pages lie before them. Me I continue to write in the vain hope of making a bit of money so we can move house. I’ll continue filling my pages until I come to my final full stop.

A Korean Christmas Carol ©

By Michael Casey

Vincent was a little child in Seoul, he had been learning English at school, so the teacher decided to read a Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens to the class as Christmas was approaching. The teacher Mr Michael confessed that he had listened to it on the radio after Midnight Mass at Saint Patricks after he’d thrown snowballs at Danny Moylan. And there was another Vincent there who defended himself with his umbrella. Vincent laughed at the mention of his name.

So Vincent fell asleep with the Tale fresh in his head. But Vincent was worried because they had a noisy neighbour called Kim who was always letting off fireworks, one had even smashed their bedroom window. As Vincent drifted off to sleep the world news with Douglas Stewart reporting was on the BBC world service, A Christmas Carol was going to be next but Vincent fell asleep as it began.

The Ghost of Christmas past came first, this was a beautiful Korean girl smiling and singing Kpop songs. Vincent smiled in his sleep. Korea was one big happy family then. Just singing and nice dancing, no marching, just laughter, real laughter and nobody carrying notebooks in their hand.

Vincent was so happy he even chuckled in his sleep. Mr Michael his teacher was right Charles Dickens was the BEST. Well in the English language anyway. Then clouds appeared and walls and noise and stamping and unfriendly fireworks appeared. Half the land sung Kpop the other half, just marched like robots with a smile that was fixed with fear hidden in their eyes. Half had technology and lights, the other half had no roads, no street lights just dim dim dark life.

One half had food galore and had the Korean Dream and Samsung really was king, the other just seemed sad but pretended to be happy by shouting a lot. They marched a lot too, to stay warm as their homes were so cold. Only the army mattered, not the people not the poor, not the sick, not the uneducated, not the least of Korea’s brethren. Only the army mattered.

One half got poorer and poorer and sick and turning into skeletons and ghosts. But all the time they cheered for the Emperor in his new clothes. While the people in that half became more and more naked, building a giant Golden Ox which was the name of the nuclear missile, though some thought it was a great hotel. But really inside it was a hanger for the greatest nuclear weapon ever. And still the people in that side clapped and carried notebooks to record the Emperor’s every word. As their clothes fell off their backs and they were more and more naked. Some even dying as they marched for their Emperor.

Vincent started to cry in his sleep, why couldn’t the Emperor just vanish like in fairy tales. The Ghost of Christmas present was a newsreader shouting and shouting, threatening and threatening. There was no hope and love in her voice, just anger. Wasn’t Christmas supposed to be about Love and Hope and a Future. Vincent screamed and sat bolt upright in his bed he was so scared, his parents came running and comforted him. Then with his head resting on his mother’s breast he fell asleep. His mother switched off the radio, why was he listening to BBC World service, he should listen to more Kpop it was Christmas after all.

Vincent slept on the Ghost of Christmas Future appeared, it was a scruffy monk with mittens, the monk showed Korea, all Korea in ruins, mushroom clouds drifting in the sky. Seoul was in ruins, millions were dead, the North was a wasteland. The Emperor was trapped in his bunker far beneath the Subway, 100s of metres underground. But even the Emperor knew his half was destroyed just as much as the other half. The food would run out and the air would run out, maybe he’d last 3 months, but then he would be entombed, just like an Egyptian King. Nobody would bother to dig him out, but at least HE had felt no pain as the entire country was vaporised.

There was a knocking at his office door, a scruffy monk in mittens appeared, the Emperor raised his gun to shoot the monk. The monk laughed, I’m dead already, 1968 was the year I went to Heaven. As for you only Hell awaits, I’ve come to show you a vision of Hell. Vincent screamed in his sleep but his mother did not come to comfort him. Vincent watched frozen as the scruffy monk in mittens placed his hand on the Emperor’s head. The Emperor screamed and convulsed in pain, he peed his pants and poohed simultaneously, then he vomited.

The scruffy monk, then said, that is but a vision, this is what it really feels like, much much worse than being vaporised in a nuclear war. So the monk continued to hold his hand on the emperor’s head, in one second the Emperor felt an eternity of pain. Hell is the absence of God’s Love. The Emperor fell to his knees and begged for forgiveness, if only he could turn back the clock, if only, if only.

Vincent woke up sweating, he could not speak. He grabbed his Rosary, Mr Michael had explained that the Rosary was Mary’s Nuclear weapons. And with the Rosary you could defeat the Devil himself. So Vincent said his Rosary and went to sleep happy and safe. The funny thing was that his radio was still on. The end of A Christmas Carol was being told. Scrooge repents and leads a good life and knows how to Celebrate the Joy of Christmas.

As Vincent fell asleep a News Flash North Korean was ended all its Nuclear ambitions and Putin himself would visit on Christmas Day to sign a deal to ship all nuclear material over the border to Russia. And how did this come about ? The Christmas Disco in Heaven was KPop that year and the 100,000 Korean Martyrs had asked the scruffy monk to Save Korea not just for Christmas but for always.

So he really had slipped out to pay the Emperor a visit. He also visited Putin too telling him to grab his place in History before his heart attack. When Putin heard this he decided to do as the scruffy monk suggested. Though the monk did put his hand on Putin’s chest, telling him he could live till he was 100 if he retired, being President is really stressful. The scruffy monk also paid a visit to the White House, all he said to Trump was Be Humble when Putin rings you, and then you retire immediately as after saving the world everything else is a waste of your time.

Vincent woke up and it was snowing in Seoul, church bells were ringing, Korea would be One again, as for the scruffy monk in mittens, he got back in time to hear George Michael singing the Ave Maria, Merry Christmas Korea, all and one Korea.

Nourishment ©

By Michael Casey

We just watched the Great British Bakeoff on tv, a cookery programme if you don’t have it in Poland or Ukraine or Russia or wherever you are reading this, Timore L’Est popped up the other night so I have very far flung readers. My own tastes are very wide, as is my pain. I had to stop to put on Movelat pain killer just then, buy shares in it, it really is fast acting, paracetamol is also part of my daily diet. I just hope that they are not contributing to the decline in my kidneys.

Ok, back to the story, Nourishment, the GBBO finished and I flicked channels and stumbled on a documentary about Benedictine Monks. Considering yesterday’s story, A Korean Christmas Carol, it might have been inevitable. So I’ve gone from food nourishment to spiritual nourishment, just by changing tv station.

So immediately I knew I had a story, so here it is. We all need nourishment, food and water and love and sex and something to nourish our spirits. We have comfort food and comfort sex. We are starving when we come home from work so we’ll grab a bag of chips or a kebab, or in my case for 20 plus years I’d throw in a processed food item into the oven. It’s healthy because I never fried anything, I only baked or grilled in the oven. Sadly the MSG in processed food was probably coating my arteries and may have killed me, but for my unplanned quadruple heart bypass. But I am not a dietician, I’m just a fat silver haired writer in shades from Birmingham England. I remind you of this as there is a clever Dublin guy and a Monk, who share my name. I am the good looking one, they are not me.

Family and food go together, just as English and Writers go together, otherwise its Writers who write in English which is not the same thing. The Great British Bakeoff is about cakes it is not about meat dishes, if you want meat dishes you need to watch another show. Andrew Graham Dixon one of my tv heroes does ART programmes, but when he is with his Italian mate together they do food and art programmes. You have to decide what you really want to learn about, otherwise you can dilute the subject matter, and ruin both. In my opinion AGD is fantastic at both, and his mate is a great cook.

I side-tracked myself there, perhaps you need to be a Don to understand my point. My point is that we need to feed our body and soul. We need food that is nice, otherwise we are in a jail, even a self -imposed jail. This Summer we abandoned our old supermarket as my daughter wanted quality food while she studied for her Exams. Well the quality food seems to have worked, she got 4Bs, 4As and 3A*. Which compared to other future Medics is average to good.

So now when my wife brought home some none nice food my daughters and me could not eat it. You are what you eat and you get used to what you eat, or can afford to eat. Luckily we don’t drink, nor smoke which is disgusting anyway, and we don’t gamble. Yes I know you will all start singing The Adam Ant Song, What do you do? And yes I do drink 12pints not a week but a year, on my Meds I should avoid alcohol. And yes I do buy the occasional lottery ticket, that’s for the Pedantic out there. Ok, so you can decide what is important and your food basket reflects this.

Polish people love their food and judging by the bit I’ve eaten the quality is so high compared to your average English supermarket. Egg yolks are bright yellow for example, just as Maltese food is so nice, not forgetting the food I’ve eaten in County Kerry Ireland. The closer the food is to the table the nicer it is. Family and food make such a difference.

Love and sex make a difference too. If you live all alone without even a cat to stroke then your mental wellbeing is not as great as a family environment. Mind you if you had a horrible childhood then being alone is absolute Heaven. But generally we all need somebody to talk to, to laugh with or to cry with. To make love to, badly or fantastically, quickly or slowly, all night long or a stolen 5 minutes before her cookery programme is on tv, or your football match is on. Or even if all you can manage is holding hands because you are 95, though for 70 years you did regularly break beds, but luckily you owned a furniture shop.

We all need nourishment, just as that plant on the shelf to my right needs watering too. It’s a Shamrock the Irish symbol. We may not be able to afford the best of food, and our sexual technique may have gone off the boil. But we all have our memory and imagination, so if we close our eyes we can be anywhere in the world as we eat our food, nice or plain. But a bit of nice margarine or butter and this will lift any meal and turn it into a joy. The French invented sauces because they were eating rats at one stage of their History. So a bit of flavour lifts any meal, as a bit of variety. Just as it used to be Fish on Fridays.

Sex makes us happy, and we are not alone, literally, two become one, and three or more if you want to practice your maths skills, mainly multiplication. I don’t need to elaborate, you can all look at your lover and stop reading this and do something much more fun instead. But finish your bread and butter first, as you may need your strength or just the…

The Common Room (c)

By

Michael Casey

What are you sniggering at? You are worse than a child, I have to mark this drivel, you would think if they got to Cambridge they would have least learnt how to write, they’d know how to string a sentence together. Or at least make it interesting. This one will get an F, and F is the appropriate letter I should begin with for this drivel. If his Daddy paid for all the best schools perhaps he should have bought his a Dictionary too. Or at least paid for a French mistress who could have taught him English in his gap year. At least they leave a few cases of the 69 at the Porters lodge. He’s a decent sort, he told me to be really rigorous when marking his son’s papers. If only the French mistress was as rigorous and taught him a bit of English in the gap year.

You are smirking now, I’ll have to gather myself up from my chair and see what exactly you are reading. Oh, that 300 and Not OUT, a cricket magazine or something. I would ask Jeffrey Archer to pop in and explain how to write page turning prose, only he’s gone off with Andrew Graham Dixon and some Italian bloke to have dinner. I despair of the youth of today, they can’t string a sentence together, what they write reads like an obituary. Shakespeare should inspire them, or Charles Dickens, or that Little Woman, or rather the book Little Women, they should have Pride and no Prejudice in what they read and then write about. Instead its cut and *&***((ing paste, do they think we are stupid, WE ARE CAMBRIDGE DONS after all.

Yes I will have a Cuban cigar, and I know you really did steal them from Fidel, help yourself to some of the 69 while I light this monster. We are the last bastion of good taste here at Singing Anvil College, we really were founded by a blacksmith 100s of years ago. We are known as the SAC college because of all the ale stored underneath the chapel. That bastard you are reading stole the idea and used it in his butchered version of the baker and the undertaker story, The Butcher The Baker and The Undertaker, my big fat hairy Cambridge arse.

You are still sniggering, is he really any good? Or does he just make lots of money from his books, even though his writing is horse manure, if I’m being polite. So he’s written over a million words, but is undiscovered, like a pearl of great price but you’ve lost the shovel and the map marking the spot. So he’s just a bit of a cult, yes I said cult. So who exactly reads him? Only Dons in Cracow Poland. But the Poles have a funny sense of humour.

But what do you see in him. He’s fat and silver haired and wears shades, mainly to hide his ugly mug. His structure is like an outside toilet, big and strong with the odour of something quite right, if I ever met the daft brush I’ll give him a bottle of something. No not a bottle of the 69, it would be wasted on him, maybe some cheap perfume for men, or failing that some Jeyes Fluid disinfectant to dab behind his ears.

He just teases and half tells a story and then expects us to finish it for ourselves. I say he’s just a lazy writer, or has run out of steam. You don’t think so? If a girl and a boy are alone then he should tell us what happens, it’s more like a Bollywood film and he just leads us a merry dance. I want more detail. He uses a metaphor. She weighed up his evidence, she assessed the power repeatedly, she smiles and gently glowed, and she in turn gave him a stiff sentence, or was it a stiff drink. Or knowing your writer it’s always a pint of Stella Artois. The only thing sophisticated about his writing is the Stella Artois.

I know, but he’s big in Poland. Only Amazon don’t publish in Polish, the irony of it all, now that is amusing to me. I better mark some more of these useless bastards’ essays. And yes of course I do want to read 300 and Not Out when you have finished with it. He may be a totally useless writer but at least he entertains me, otherwise I’d have to read Harry Potter to my grandchildren.

Some say he’s really a Don at that crappy University, up the road, you know Oxford. He just pretends to be a moron, when really he’s an Oxford Don, though how do you tell the difference? The moron is better educated. Wasn’t there something in a Tom Sharpe book years ago about a writer who had somebody else pretend to be him to do all the publicity. While he stayed in some house of ill repute, like the House of Lords or something? Well whoever really is this Michael Casey I just hope that someday he gets discovered then he can bequest all his money to our college. The SAC college wine cellar needs replenishment, those bastards from Porterhouse College tunnelling into the cellar and stole a load of the 69. Is there no honour any more?

With that it’s just after midnight, so go to bed with your wives and lovers and mistresses And if its 3 to the power of one its far cheaper, though for the mathematicians out there, you are in for a very exciting night, 3 to the power of one, is your favourite equation after all. And if you don’t know what this fat silver haired writer in shades means by that, I’m sure your girl will enjoy explaining it to you.

See no wonder Cambridge Dons hate me, though one brother really went to Cambridge and another to Oxford. Me I was just more common, as common as a Common room.

Donald Trump’s Opioid Crusade©

By Michael Casey

To begin with, I should say I have NEVER taken illegal drugs.

I do take painkillers for my Arthritis

And pain killers for post op chest pain after my Quadruple Heart Bypass

Every 2 months I get a repeat prescription which I take to the Pharmacy and they dispense it.

Paracetamol which I take for pain can be bought over the counter everywhere too.

YOU should never take more than 8 tablets in 24 hours

So I keep a note on our microwave of what I take.

I also use Movelat for pain relief on my joints and no more than 4 times a day is the limit.

I follow these rules religiously.

It costs 8quid or so per item for 2 months supply.If you take lots of meds you can apply for a certificate which costs 110pounds a YEAR

THAT'S THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN USA AND UK.

The most you will pay is the 110pounds is that 145dollars a Year?

If currency rates are taken into account

I was just talking to my local corner shop guy and he mentioned I was looking mobile tonight, so I reminded him that 30 mins previously I was screaming in pain from my left shoulder until I slapped on the Movelat gel pain killer. I alos get pain when I lie down and try to sleep. My chest is so sensitive that if the bedsheets rub my left nipple I will scream. Then I may get the random pain in my left side, skeletal muscular pain, which may make me scream at the top of my voice. Then my scars on my legs may throb and make my scream too. Yet to the average observer I'm just the fat siver haired guy in shades strolling around the high street. Though sometimes I walk with a pronounced limp. Then there is the stabbing pain above heart but not the actual heart, that too can come and go.

But I do now have great Blood Pressure readings thanks to my unplanned quadruple heart bypass nearly 3 years ago. The there is my CkD kidney disorder which means I wake every 2 hours in the night, and I visit the bathroom up to 20 times a day, thankfully I wake up in the night.

NOW THIS IS ME AND THIS IS MY LIFE.

That's why I enjoy the writing, because the writing shows the best of me. And that's why I wouldn't destroy my mind by indulging in substance abuse of any kind.

You have to carry on as best as you can, and there are millions of people with much more pain than me, in far far worse circumstances.

I am just the fat silver haired writer in shades from Birmingham England. I have written more than a million words. But I am also still the undiscovered writer. The penniless writer, anybody can put a book on Amazon, and I would encourage you all to discover KDP, because the next Mark Twain might be out there. And you may be discovered, me I've been writing for 30 years now, on and off, with 20 years listening to Quality Speech Radio before that. So 50 years in the making, though I still am much more good looking that George Clooney, my spirit is willing but my flesh is weak.

So save your mind and just say NO to illegal drugs. A 1% tax on the big drugs companies in USA or even a 0.1% tax could fund drug rehab over there. Or why don't they make the offer themselves to prove that they are for THE GOOD OF THE PEOPLE, doesn't it say We The People somewhere in the USA Constitution?

Fight your pain, don't just reach for your pills, I only ever take mine when pain strikes. Sometimes when I'm screaming in pain. Other times I get up in the middle of the night and put the computer on for an hour or two. Then when I'm so tired that I'm falling over, I go back to bed at 4am or 5am or 3am or whatever time it is. In a way its a sad life, but really it is not because, thanks to God I'm still alive and kicking and writing. If I can keep on writing I will always have Hope in my Heart, and as we all know Hope and Love moves Mountains.

If I could sing then I'd sing We Shall Overcome or anything else YOU can think of that makes YOU happy, or just play Barry White's Just The Way You Are, because God loves us Just the Way we Are.

Sentimentality in Life and in Films ©

By Michael Casey

I’ve just watched Hope Floats on the telly, an old Sandra Bullock film it was nice and sentimental and had some nice comic moments in it. Meanwhile this morning my daughter had to go back and collect the keys she had lost while out with an artist friend the day before. Thankfully the security crew had found them, and yes we gave her merry hell last night, as we would have had to change the locks on our doors. So we let her waste 2 hours this morning on 2 buses there and 2 buses back till she retrieved her keys. You don’t get a chauffeur from mum if you make such a stupid mistake. I told my daughter yesterday that we’d laugh about it in the future, and it would become a treasured memory. Once the screaming finished there would be laughter.

Today dawned and a new day and a new life was born. My wife’s boss’s wife gave birth to their first child today. So the lost keys gave way to the joy of life. The key to life is babies and family after all. No doubt in future the baby may be baptised. I mention this because Paul the Vicar was talking to me yesterday and he said the narrowboat trip was cancelled, and that once he cycled into the canal in Birmingham. I smiled as I said it must have been a form of baptism for him. He replied it was the filthiest water he had ever been in. I thought he’d not met some of the Souls I’d worked with over my life.

We can be sentimental after the event, at the time in real time things can be murder. I know from bitter experience how the Wall, not the one when you run a Marathon but the one in Life can be very hard or high, but afterwards the Relief is so great. Then you can sit around and laugh as you have a beer or just a coffee and biscuits and think just how did you survive. Our police, nurses, teachers, bus drivers, mothers and fathers all have memories that take them to the brink of disaster, mainly other people’s that they have to sort out, our live with. Then afterwards in bed as they talk through the day with their lover or partner, they realise how lucky they were to survive that dad. Then they can laugh, even laugh till tears fall.

At a funeral we can say, I hated that bitch, but I loved her, she was terrible to me, but I’ll miss her so much, she lent me that money to start my business but refused to accept payback. She said pay for my funeral instead, that’s why we have 6 black horses, and a hall for 1000 people and a gospel band here at her funeral. Mom I really miss you, all the things you made me do, like always polish my shoes, like always but always shave. And I was just a mechanic, until she pushed me, I ended up with a Limo hire business, and I diversified into the funeral business as I liked the cars so much. That’s why she said pay for her funeral.

So life is hard but we are very sentimental about the smallest of things. Nobody dare throw out that old chair, cos uncle always used to sit on it, and he used to tell such outrageous stories, did he really have 27 children? Or was he a liar? The old ladies used to blush when they saw him, and lots of boys and girls used to come and stuff ten pound notes in his top pocket, he was their dad and granddad and great-grandad. He must have has 1000 pounds in that pocket alone. Then when the priest and the rabbi and imam can by he always slipped money into their hands asking for prayers for his soul.

WE are sentimental when we remember old stories and they can hit us like a bullet just when we least expect it, I told a story about how my uncle was visiting from Boston USA and he hadn’t told mum that he was coming so he came in the back door with her sister Hanna and Joe her husband. Then mum turned around to see her brother who she had not seen in years, so she dropped a bowl full of crockery smashing them. Remember then we did not have a phone, mobiles had not been invented and a twice yearly letter was what all you got. A simple ordinary story but when I told my daughter the other day I started to cry. Why? Because I remember the Family Love, my mum, my uncles and aunt and my dad. I have a snapshot of it in my mind, like I’ve said before, even if I don’t have Total Recall I am a vacuum. So emotion gets sucked up too.

All of you reading this all over the world, and especially in Poland have these great great family memories, so you can think of you own family and friends and remember the laughter and anger then laughter again as family life unfolds, and sometime vomits like a baby on the Page of Life. So swop stories as you have a meal today and say Michael Casey encouraged you to think of the Sentimental Times, the Laughter Times. See who has the funniest story, the stupidest story. And when you are in bed with your wife you can share other stories, just use your imagination. Then the children will ask mum and day why were you laughing so much in bed last night. You can tell them as Clare Moore once did, when her dad asked her why she was laughing so much in her bed room. Its Michael Casey he’s making me laugh, she was reading my stories.

All Souls Day 2nd November ©

By Michael Casey

Well my back is on the mend so I’ve got a new story for you. As its 2nd Nov 2017 and its All Souls Day I thought I’d write about that. We have 3 Saints’ Days back to back. Halloween, which is all Hallowed Eve, All Saints Day, All Souls day and then Saint Martin De Porres follows on 3rd Nov. Yes I have a Religious calendar on the wall, because I get it free, though I am in much need of prayer what with all my aliments. Now shall I cut to the chase?

November is the month we remember the death, we even have a box on the altar where people slip in a list of their dead, so that we can remember them, yes almost like a suggestion box for God. In the old days the priest would dress in black and say masses for the dead. All very traditional, and if I have any Jewish or Muslim readers I’m sure you all have your own traditions, equally worthy. The thing about funerals is that it really is the BEST Mass, the story of Lazarus being already dead and smelly, and Jesus Wept too, such was his love of his friend. Then there is the ceremony, the waving of the metal orb full of incense, the showering of holy water, lots of carrying of candles, and then the final walk to the bottom of the church led by an altar boy, me, carrying a crucifix on a pole.

As it is also a full Mass you still get holy communion so people have to squeeze past the coffin on their way up. Then you see people touch or even kiss the coffin. I have served lots of funeral masses and attended a few as a neighbour, so I know it really is the best Mass. I have even attended a funeral where there were only 5 or 6 mourners. My mother’s funeral had a full church to bursting and five priests on the altar. She was sometimes the sole mourner for an unloved soul. She would go to the graveyard just so somebody would be there, at the request of the Cannon. The corpse may have not been buried for six months then finally a simple funeral, but my mum was there for that lost soul. Then afterwards the undertaker would give her a lift home in the jump seat of the hearse. So you can see where the undertaker comes from in my novel The Butcher The Baker and The Undertaker.

So why should we remember the dead, our dead, our loved ones? Because if we don’t then we are just machines, we are stones without souls. In November we remember the dead, because their Love carries on within us. You think of Tom who always bought you a pint when you were broke, of your CEO who said one day you’ll be the boss, and now you are, because he encouraged you, and badgered you till you shone like a diamond he knew you could be. You think of Mary your first love who died so tragically saving your life instead of becoming your wife. You remember Roger your Polish friend in Chicago whose name you could not pronounce, so he was Roger, he always smiled and encouraged you with your MIT idea. So you became a millionaire and he was head of security at your plant, you were friends for decades, and still you couldn’t pronounce his name.

By remembering the laughter , the fun and games goes on, you may even use a name as a password, RogDERSVaaapo49342, because it reminds you of a fallen buddy. Every time you log in it’s a prayer, just as you always buy an extra pint in the bar for Roger, then you give it to the old man in the corner. We remember because it is our link to the past, to those we love. So this All Souls Day, go to that bar in Chicago with your new Polish friend from Groupon and buy an extra drink and give it to that fat silver haired writer in shades from Birmingham. And if he’s not there, then give it to your CEO, and say cheers to all our pasts, and hello to all our futures.

Comfy Chair ©

By Michael Casey

I got a new chair the other day, from Groupon, I had tried them for toilet paper as you know, so I thought I’d then try them for the same part of my anatomy, so I got a chair from Groupon. I was sitting in it tonight watching Pete’s Dragon and letting a tear loose. Yes I can cry easily, and yes my film tastes are very catholic, yesterday it was American Ultra which was very violent with blood and gore but a good film to watch. As you know earlier in the day I wrote about All Souls Day, today, so I suppose the reservoir of love about family and hope swelled and dripped from my eyes when I watched Pete’s Dragon. Or maybe I’m just a big baby.

My new chair from Groupon is chunky and big enough for my fat backside, and as I watched Pete’s Dragon I had a memory, when I went to the cinema in Killorglin in 1977 or 1978 around Christmas time and you had to pay extra for the jumbo seats which were more comfy.  The new chair reminded me of that, memories of County Kerry swelling up in me because my fat backside was reminded of a sweet memory from 40 years ago. I’m struggling to remember the film I saw it may have been a Star Wars one. It goes to show comfort is everything.

The Gaumont Cinema Birmingham had really comfy seats too and I remember seeing a Star Wars film there, as well as an Alien film on my birthday, I seem to remember going with my brother. The screen was a wrap-around one which was the biggest in Europe.  Remember this was before multiplexes were even thought of. If you the fast forward decades later it was demolished and an X or W shaped building was built by the Weslian insurance who owned the land. Originally they had a little building right next to the cinema. In that building they had half and the other half was occupied by Pinsent Masons Law firm. Pinsents is obviously the best Law  firm, and I’m not saying that because they employed me for 3 years.

So as I sit on my new chair all these memories coming back and I’m sharing them with you.  A chair is a functional thing but it does bring happiness and rest. My dad would sit in his armchair once he came home from Hell, by which I mean 10 hours and more at a steel works, The District Iron and Steel in Brasshouse  Lane in Smethwick, it was sometimes known as Brockhouse. My dad really was a blacksmith  in Kerry and then sweated for 40 years in a steelworks in England. I’m not  just lying to you,  as a  good writer does for a living, my dad really was a blacksmith, and yes I am a Wordsmith.

My mother had a favourite chair it was an old barn chair, so when the back broke we sawed off the back and she continued to use it. It was good to sit at while she peeled the potatoes into the sink. Or to sit in the yard with when we got a sunny day. Dad invested in a cheap tubular steel folding lounger. I can remember Coffee our red setter like dog licking his toes as the sun shone. As for the wooden chair mum used it to stand on and wash the outside windows. When I moved house over 30 years ago I stole that chair, and my mum nagged me for years to bring it back. Its upstairs right now in the box room, in fact it could be 60 years old.

So you can see just how important a humble chair can be. I always wanted a rocking chair and when I set up home I got my heart’s desire. In fact it was a very nice armchair on rockers. I got a suite from Lewis’s in Birmingham, which is now a Court Building, for 1000 pounds, which was a lot of money over 30 years ago. A 3, 2,1 plus a rocker suite in the sale, I can remember dashing to the bank to get the money, or rather the deposit, 10 payments of 100 over 10 months. Then I broke a tooth as we ate our dinner, it was over the August Bank Holiday, and my aunty Hanna used to work in Lewis’s too.

Now a rocker is fun and you enjoy the rhythm, and rhythm is a good thing in music and sex. My daughter may or may not have been conceived years later in that rocking chair. Try it for yourself, rocking chairs are great, though I don’t know if Groupon has any at the moment. Once the children are born you watch as your child is held at the nipple and is fed by your wife. Now you are a family. Though a boyfriend at the nipple can also lead to a baby at the nipple, it depends how much rocking you do in your rocking chair, no matter where you buy it.

Children grow and they steal your rocking chair, so you have to share it, and finally you are ejected from your own chair. Meanwhile your wife just laughs at you, a rocking chair is now a form of contraception, because you won’t catch her in the rocker because the children are using it as a toy, and no longer will the rocker be your joy.

Old age comes along, or infirmity as it seems to be, so you just gently rock in your chair, with just your carer there. You are old and fat with no hair, so the carer puts you to bed. Then her boyfriend sneaks in and they rediscover  the uses of an old and battered  rocking armchair. And in 9 months’ time the boyfriend won’t have her nipples but their new born will, she mixed up your heart pills with her contraceptive pills. So at least you weren’t a pregnant man at 80, but she had the heart to take all the rocking in the rocking chair.

So goodnight to you all reading this, enjoy your Bliss, in a bed, in a car, in field or in a rocking chair, just be happy before the nappy.

 

p.s. today is the feast of saint martin de porres 3rd Nov

a neighbour longed for a daughter after having 3 sons, my mum said pray to saint Martin, the neighbour had a daughter, she is called Martina

Waiting for a Viewer ©

By Michael Casey

Well I’m waiting for a viewer, for somebody to take a look at our house. Ironically enough my wife is looking at someplace else, then she’s going shopping, so I have to crack the whip for the final tidy up of the house. You know a bit of light dusting, starting with dusting down the vacuum cleaner then giving it a spin. I don’t do any of this, I just head for the shower and have a SSS, otherwise I’d look like Steptoe the rag and bone man from tv when our viewer arrives. I look 10 years younger and smell far fresher when I emerge from our bathroom, I just hope I haven’t left too much mess for the viewer to view.

My youngest daughter who has pretentions of being the next Martha Stewart but without the jail sentence, has arranged the teddy bears on the chairs. Instead I just open up our neglected piano and put the teddy on top, with my surgical stocking covering its head and its arm in a sling, like some relative of Puddys Bear from Children in Need. Then I place the oversize puppy slippers with ears on the floor by the piano peddles. Yes this is what uyou get when you come visiting our house. My small daughter says its pretentious, I agree but say it’s time to sell and move on. I have eye on 2 properties that we could just, and I mean just afford if we got full price for my house.

So the washing up is done, the girls private litter bin is emptied as well as the kitchen bin. I would bake bread and have fresh ground coffee too, only THAT would really be too pretentious by half. What you see is what you get, and it’s a nice family home, though for us now we want something bigger and hopefully with 2 toilets or even 2 bathrooms. I did have to spray some Deep Heat pain reliever but I opened my bedroom window so hopefully that’ll go away as he’s due in under an hour.

Even if he does not buy our house, at least it’s tidy for a day. £700 a month is the rental value if you are wondering, if only I could charge that for each story I write. If you are reading this Mr Murdoch, 10million, a house, a car for the wife and a puppy dog for me is my price, for all of my stories so far, 14 books worth. Well you have to be cheeky, you never know who is reading this. Maybe world leaders meet to talk about Michael Casey the fat silver haired writer in shades from Birmingham. Though North Korea may just want to kill me first, is Birmingham on the target list now? I’d rather make love to all the North Korean army girls instead of being a target, or would that be classed as a fantasy? I don’t know.

So now the wife has returned its back to life, back to reality, wasn’t that a song years ago? She’s dumped the shopping and is getting the car hand washed down the road. Meanwhile my girls are going to disappear to the woods while I do the show around of the house. Its less cluttered with people when our viewer arrives in 35 mins, I’ve just looked up at the clock. Our washing machine has just bleeped too, so do I hang out the wash to show just how big the garden is for drying all the washing. Or do I wait till post viewing? These are the mighty decisions I have to make, I’ve had a painkiller or two so I’m ok now as well, chest pain is no fun.

So I’ll pause as my stomach needs feeding, 640words or so while I grab a sandwich and try not to leave crumbs to impress our viewer. Though the mountains of Whiskas for the cat, and 120 rolls of toilet paper thanks to Groupon may detract from our house. But what am I to do make them invisible like the dragon in Pete’s Dragon? In the end people decide in 15 minutes if they like a house and then they spend 25 years paying for it.

Well I’ve had a ham sandwich and a salmon one too with pita bread wrap and Branston small pickle topping, so I’m all set up now. I’m having my 3rd coffee of the day, just Kenco instant, I limit myself to 4 a day. So all I have to do is put on some music for my viewer. No need to argue by the Cranberries springs to mind, what do you think? Well that’s my choice to play in the background as I dust off my best Concierge smile, I’ll stop now as its 5 mins before show time.

Well the viewers came, so I showed them around, a very nice young family. Will they like my house enough to buy it? Are my show around skills any good? Who knows but I wish them luck in their house hunting, hopefully they have finished, as have I.

The Word Eater ©

By Michael Casey

Janet and John were small children they lived with their dad in a dusty house, dusty because dad wasn’t very good at dusting and mum was dead, so she couldn’t dust could she? She was very nice and great at dusting, she used to sit on dad’s shoulders to reach the high places in the house where spiders like to live. They used to laugh a lot, but mum died. Dad said she fell off his shoulders while they were dusting, and even grasping at spiders webs was not enough so she fell and died and slipped and fell all the way down the stairs, bumpty bumpty bump. So now they were orphans or half orphans, they still had dad. Dad was fat and silver haired and wore shades, people thought he was blind or posing. And why such a beauty from Iceland fall in love with him anyway. Did the freezer melt and did he offer her a blanket, or did she like his dog as he looked like a blind man in his shades.

These were just some of the unkind words spoken, but really she had a cancer that spread as fast as the spiders’ webs in their house, she had made him promise to tell them she fell down the stairs while on his shoulders cleaning. So they wouldn’t pity her pain. So dad lied to them, and they pretended it was the truth to make him and their dead mum happy. Of course it was a lie, they knew what Marie Curie was, and they knew she was a nurse not just a friend stopping over because her husband had left her. They had collected for Marie Curie at school. So Janet and John ate mum and dad’s lie, because it made their dead mum happy and kept their fat silver haired dad in shades sane.

At school the lie was shared, their mum had fallen down the stairs while on her husband’s shoulders cleaning the spider’s webs. So people were sad but smiled too, then were sad again. As for the kids in the playground, they just laughed and laughed. Killed by a spider, not from Mars but from Iceland, now your mum is as cold as ice. And your dad is just a fat fat old man, is he your granddad really they laughed. They did not notice the Marie Curie badges that Janet and John had on their lunch boxes, and that their fat silver haired dad in shades had on his lapel. He really needed the shades now, not just because he had sensitive eyes, but because he always had tears in his eyes. No more wife on his shoulders cleaning the spiders’ webs away. Now he had an empty King size bed, he was just a pauper now, his wife, his lover, his friend, his cleaner of spiders webs as gone. Cancer was quick like a thief in the knife, it had stolen his wife, but at least Marie Curie was there, better than a best friend for real. Now he had to continue, to be the fat dad as his Iceland wife called him, to mum too, if only he had a clue.

Your dad killed your mum, he threw her down the stairs, for the insurance money teased the kids in the playground. An Janet and John ate all those bad words. For their dad’s sake they ate those bad words, for their dead mum’s sake they ate all those bad and sad and tear making words that they heard. Janet and John smiled and just said, mum died happy while cleaning the spiders webs while sat on dad’s shoulders, it was quick and painless and she died with a smile on her face. It was an accident. Yes the Spiders’ Revenge teased the kids in the playground.

Now this kind of torture can go on for a long time, but sometimes Fate intervenes. On this occasion it was a new PE or Gym teacher, no she did not beat every single one in the playground, though they did deserve it, she sung to them. Miss Fiord was an exchange student from Iceland, she had only just arrived the day before. The head teacher had told her to look out for Janet and John as their mum had died tragically falling down stairs while cleaning spiders while sat on her husband’s shoulders. Dad had decided not to tell the school the truth, when um dead, um dead, and why take a chance that the painful truth about cancer would be revealed to the children.

Miss Fiord was a beauty, just as all Icelandic girls are, and when she saw Janet and John she loved them, even more than that teacher in Matilda. So when she caught the children teasing and bullying Janet and John she started to sing an old Icelandic song. The children did not know what it meant, only Janet and John understood, they were bilingual after all. The song was so beautiful and cold that all children started to cry, not just a little bit but a lot, a Paul Daniels amount of tears. And on and on Miss Fiord sung, till the children begged her to stop, but she would not until the whole playground was on their knees and in tears. She only sung the first 100 verses, there were 240 more, but 100 was enough. The children would never ever be nasty again, for the rest of their entire lives. A road to Damascus experience in a school yard.

Miss Fiord then climbed the climbing frame in seconds and beat her chest, like a gorilla, she was the king of the jungle, and the school kids would never argue about that. Miss Fiord was a hit with all the school and everybody loved her, especially Janet and John. That evening she met their dad the fat silver haired man in sunglasses, she introduced herself and found herself speaking in Icelandic, he replied in perfect Icelandic. He told her the truth, she cried and her heart broke, and she loved his children even more. So you lied to keep your Icelandic word, and to spare your children. Miss Fiord kissed him on the cheek, and that one kiss melted the iceberg in both their hearts. For Miss Fiord had lost the love of her life, he fell off a mountain in Iceland and his body was never found, his body would have frozen and turned into an ice cube in the drink that is the North Atlantic Ocean.

But now tragedy had brought them together. Ice takes a while to melt, first you get slush and cold water and then slowly the ice melts. And that is what happened with Miss Fiord, she fell in love with his children and then with the fat silver haired daddy in shades. He was old enough to be her dad, but his heart was young. Miss Fiord won a spa day as a school Christmas raffle prize, so on impulse she invited the fat silver haired dad in shades plus Janet and John, they could play in the swimming pool. So Miss Fiord and the fat dad tried the sauna, but in Iceland you are always nude in saunas, so as Miss Fiord was nude the fat daddy followed her example.

In future they would say their first of seven children was conceived in a sauna, everybody thought it was a joke. Same as falling down stairs while on shoulders cleaning spiders’ webs. Or falling off a mountain and becoming an ice cube. But the truth is, when the ice melts it melts totally, and it becomes warm liquid. Janet and John loved having a load more brothers and sisters, they moved to a big house next to their grammar school. There even was a sauna in the basement, which their new mum Miss Fiord just loved. How could they afford it, well Miss Fiord became a head teacher. There was a big garden too and every year they had garden party in aid of Marie Curie, oh and what is Miss Fiord’s first name? Maria of course, because the fat silver haired writer in shades had problem and Maria solved it, just like in the Sound of Music, and she did sing that Icelandic song in the playground after all.

Casting Like a Fisherman ©

By Michael Casey

I’ve been having a quiet morning after my early start for the doctor’s and I’ve looked at the newspapers and it’s still early, 12.30pm so I can talk to you before I have some dinner. I was wondering what to talk about today, I’d posted something to keep you all going while I was looking at the newspapers, Writer’s Block a piece from 2013, so I was relaxed but undecided about today’s chat. I was casting my mind, a key word is all I need then away I go and an hour later I have finished something new. So Casting came to mind.

I used to work with a guy who was a fisherman, or angler, they catch then return the fish, which my dad would say was stupid, you should eat your catch. If you’ve noticed the old stone building that accompanies some stories, that really was where my mum was born in 1920s and lived with 8 other siblings till she was 12 and the new house was built. If you spit from there then you have the sea, the Cromane Lower peninsula opposite Inch and Dingle where Ryan’s Daughter was filmed. The building has since been rearranged by my 1st cousin’s son, the stones are part of his improved house with the windows now overlooking the sea. So if you google earth you won’t see it. But you could find my cousin with the information given.

As you can imagine the sea plays a big part of life in Cromane Lower, my uncle used to have a boat and caught a few fish too, as well as having 4 cows and growing a few things. They had peat bog too, and this is a welcoming smell when burnt on the fire. The old house had become the cow shed for 4 cows, and I bumpt my head on the cow shed door because I gave up sugar in my coffee between 2 Christmas visits in 1977 and 1978. I grew 2 inches taller just by not having sugar in my coffee. Is that 40 years now, where did the years go?

Fishing is an important thing in the Kerry life and worldwide where fish and people meet. Angling is a rich person’s sport by comparison. I never understood it at all until my former boss explained it to me. By the way it’s a Pole not a Rod, if you hear rod then they are micky mouse anglers, fishermen. It’s a Pole. A carbon fibre pole can set you back 1000 pounds yes that much. It screws into each other and can reach 20 metres though it could be even more. One night in one of my computer rooms an angler brought in his pole and it stretched out half the length of our computer room. You would not believe it till you saw it.

I’ve just had a quick bite to eat, did you notice the flow of word change? Anglers have to have good eyes to spot their prey, and to be quick to chances. My old boss, Andy was his name, was a carp fisherman if I remember rightly. Now Carp Hunters are a breed apart, it’s like child with a bamboo rod and a hairnet on the end v a man and his carbon fibre pole. The carp is very clever and can grow very big, the fisherman is hunting it, like hunting for Red October. It’s a game of chess, not ludo or snap, yes a game of chess.

Andy described all this to me over 20 years ago, he has since moved on as have I. If Andy knew I’d written nearly 1,200,000 words now over 14 books he’d be amazed. We bumped into each other 15 years ago when I was working at a hotel. Now Andy works at the GBBO, the Great British Bake Off, he looks the image of Paul Hollywood the baker, not unless he has really changed his life path, as I have.

Back to Casting, as I said I just cast my eyes over the fridge and had a snack with Cranberry Juice, which is supposed to be good for you. I think a surgeon told one of us this once. Now where was I? Yes casting takes many forms, you have to throw your bread on the water. If you say you cannot do something then you are already defeating yourself. Give it a try. Faint Heart Never Wins the Belle. What’s the worst thing that can happen? Laughter but is it harsher than a slap in the face or a punch on the nose? Always try things, a new job, a new dress, especially if you have legs as good as mine. Don’t be afraid to try something new.

I tried hotel work, and I ended up the best person there. Then I had never taught before in my life but I just stood up and did it. I got 2 excellents and an exemplary for my teaching on my external assessment for Esol. I knew I could do it because I had previously spent 3 years in the hotel CPNEC, talking to maybe 100,000 people. I’d also had my writing experience. I am the lowest common denominator, If I can do it then anybody can. Give yourself confidence by practice, you do 15 mins a day, but every single day then after a few months you are polished. In my case I improved my Spanish just by using that method over 20 years ago now. So after 40 years since the exam I still cn string a sentence together. So try that method for yourself, 15 mins a day but every single day. But you must read/speak aloud.

Now it’s getting close to finish time for today. Ok, I just need to eat again and I can see 1000words approaching so I’ll give you all a rest. My point for today is, cast your nets wide, don’t be afraid of failure, your family will always love you, yes they may laugh at your mistakes. But if you don’t try you don’t know. Ask that girl out, ask that boy out even if you think he’s too young for you. Don’t live in such fear that you are always stuck on the side lines, get off the bench and join in. Though if you are a writer you are always partially on the side lines watching not part of it. Cast your nets even when you are tired and worn out, never give up, never give in. Didn’t somebody once say cast your nets again, trust yourself and then your nets will be full to breaking point. But you must keep on casting, listen to Him or listen to Doreen, but always try.

Locks and Keys ©

By Michael Casey

I was wondering what to talk about tonight, I’d been busy watching Stranger Things on tv with my daughter, so I’d been enjoying that as we watched our cat Totoro stretched out on the sofa. I mention Totoro as in Stranger Things the cat as eaten by a monster, so keep a tight hold of your cat if you watch the show. I’ve just helped out with a bit of homework too and now I’ve sat down and its 9.40pm as I look up at the clock, I just decided to talk about locks and keys as I looked around the room and was wondering what to talk about, and I looked at the door. So that’s how logically illogical I am in my choice of talk material.

In Stranger Things tonight there was a couple who hid their feeling from each other, it was only when they were talking to an investigative journalist that the allowed the barriers to fall down. Russian Vodka did part too. Tonight in the news we hear about a mother who is under lock and key in Iran. All I ask and pray is that she can come home with her baby to her family here in England. But I doubt if I have any readers in Iran, but I do know God is Good, so I’ll leave it to him.

I’ve just reminded myself of a piece in the Bible when Saint Paul was in jail and the Angles came and walked him out of his jail, and he walked past all the Roman guards till he was in the street and free. In the background behind me I can hear Where is the Love by the Black Eyed Peas, when we are locked up we all wonder where is the love, we feel we are all alone. Love has lost us, or rather our heart is locked, our heart is frozen. Love unlocks our hearts and minds. Example opens our minds and our hearts, example is the greatest Key of all. It’s been my dad’s birthday this weekend, and I’ve been thinking about him, he’d be 96 if he were still alive. I try and have as big a heart as his. He is the standard.

In actual fact he made me lock up our house every night including the entry gate we had, my brother used to call it the ceremony of the keys. So I supposed my ardour for locking up stems back to that over 45 years ago maybe. Keys jangle and clatter and bolts and bars slide into position. When I was 19 I had the keys to a building in Birmingham City Centre, if you know Superfi on Smallbrook Queensway I used to work above it in the office. We even had a remote control for the metal shutters on the steps of the building, we used to shoo the drunks and the night-clubbers away so we could get into work for the night shift. Then we had to go up the spiral stairs and unlock the shutters on that too, before reaching our floor and door and yet more locks, and finally the lock to the computer room door. Four locks before we got to work, foreplay would have been more fun but that’s another story.

Life is about locks too. As we grow we learn things and unlock things in our hearts and mind. Education is another key that breaks down barriers, reminds us that we need each other and work better as a team. It should also teach us that the more we know the more we realise just how little we really know. Though some people are smartarses and really smart arses know less that nothing, except how to spread manure as donkeys do.

So teachers, and by teachers I start with mothers as they are our first teachers, they unlock our potential with love. My mother taught me to read by teaching me from the local newspaper, from the cartoons I seem to remember. I hope she is happy now that I am a writer, 1,200,000 words now. 14 books on Amazon Kindle, though it seems only Poland loves my stories, the rest of the world just like them. I have yet to find the Key from being an Undiscovered Writer to being one that is read and bought. Being read is better than nothing, maybe when I die my daughters can have the royalties, penniless in death, rich afterwards.

The greatest thing you can be is a Key, you open minds, you open imagination. You help people realise their potential. My mother said You Are As Good As Anybody, and she is right, we all are equal. Its opportunity which helps, its keys that help. Water, Health and Education these are the keys to a good society. We may bitch in Birmingham about stuff but we have the fundamentals. If you live somewhere where you don’t have those keys, then you should change your society.

North Korea springs to mind, just Google earth and see the lack of roads in the north compared to the South. Nuclear weapons hidden in the Metro system because the West cannot reach there and they don’t care about their own people. That’s why it may just be that only a female revolution in North Korea topples the Dear Leader.

I’ve digressed but I know the best medicine comes from the nipple from all our mothers. Mothers teach us love, they teach us right and wrong, they teach us patience, they look after the sick and broken in our families or as nurses it’s the females, the best gender which does the most caring. I suppose as its Sunday I’ve ended up with a Sermon. The Key is Love, and yes it’s very complicated, I have my own scars too. But the Key to life is love, and family and as my mum used to say the Family that Prays Together Stays together. So if I do have just one reader in Iran Please put this family back together again. Because God is Good, and my mother taught me that.

Homework Then and Homework Now ©

By Michael Casey

Taylor Swift is singing behind me, our family study gets pretty crowded now that I share the front room with my daughter doing her A levels. My daughter brings all sort of people with her, yesterday it was the Black Eyed Peas, who knows who it will be next. Thankfully it’s only their voice that fills room not their gyrating bodies or their disco balls. There is only enough space for one set of balls in the house after all.

A nice beat is nice as you do your homework, or a gentle piano piece, anything that helps as background music. They say that certain music stimulates the brain and helps study. Though I’m sure parents will disagree and say it just drives everybody nuts. I can remember my mother banging on the front room door screaming for my brother to turn the volume down as Mr Dixon was on night shift. My brother was listening to Cream music on a reel to reel tape recorder via a Toblerone shaped speaker. I still have that speaker in a corner of our living room. It has survived 50 years. My brother did get into Queens Oxford, my other brother inherited the speaker and he was a Freshman in 1975 at Downing Cambridge. You can check it out if you don’t believe me. Me, I just met Eric Clapton at CPNEC Birmingham at the start of this Millennium.

I used to listen to a large Bush radio while I did my homework, Folkweave used to be good and BBC Radio4 and other shows. The radio was my company and support as I was all alone as my brother had left home, to be a coal miner in Newbold Vernon, he may have invented the Gap Year in 1974.

The radio, or a voice from a radio fills a void and you are not alone while you do your homework. Do 40 mins of Latin is not as arduous if you have the radio for company. So 40years ago I heard the repeats of great comedy shows while I did some homework. That extended my Comic Reach a few more decades backwards. While I struggled with the Ablative Absolute that only Boris and Jacob would find easy, 40 mins really was 90 mins. Why, because it was so hard you had to spend that long just so you had done a respectable amount for Mr Proctor our Latin teacher to mark. I even had Double Latin on a Friday afternoon, so I have suffered. So I know how important music while you work really is.

My girls litter the house with their books as they do homework, and they plug earphones into their ears as they study this and that. However this year my big daughter did her GCSEs, which everybody takes at 16 here in England. She got good grades and goes to a good school, the same one her clever cousins went to. She is now studying her A levels, Maths, Biology, Chemistry and Philosophy. So when she decided she wanted better food in exchange for better pass grades I abandoned our regular supermarket 5 months ago, to feed her better quality food. She does eat rice with everything on the Chinese side of her diet, remember she is a Birmingham/Shanghai girl. But we all enjoy the improved diet, wholemeal bread all the time is a great new favourite for me too.

Now we share my “study” ok it’s just the front room where my computer lives on a horrid metal trolley thing. I promise myself one day when you all buy my books on Amazon



then I’ll have a nice house and a desk like Charles Dickens’ one, you can google to see a picture of his study. Yes I know I’ll probably be dead before such a thing happens, but I like to dream. On the practical side I had to throw out a settee and make way for a table for my daughter to work at. Sprawling around the house is not an option at this level of study. Her younger sister steals it to do her school work on now too, as it’s a power thing, a proper study desk. It is twice the size of my computer trolley.

I can even remember when we went as a family looking for a homework table for another brother when he passed the 11 plus exam, now that must be 50 years ago. Well the table worked he did get to Cambridge. It was a drop leaf table with a wooden curved back chair with a red seat that I think could come out. I’m can clearly remember looking through the plate glass of the shop window and dad and mum and us kids talking about would the chair and table be good enough for my brother. It may have been a Sunday too as the furniture shop was closed, it may have even been in the city centre. Thinking of all this it is little wonder that I’ve ended up as a writer, undiscovered and penniless, will one of you just print this off and leave it in Rupert Murdoch’s loo, then I may finally have the Dickens Desk and a house to put it in.

That was 888 words, which may be lucky if I were Chinese, so it’s nearly time to finish and head for bed . My daughter has finished for the evening and all is quiet she has half tidied up her desk. It does annoy me the clutter the girls leave behind, as I keep this room tidy always. But now it’s like having the Odd Couple share my space with me, but as I face the opposite way to them , I only get annoyed when I turn around. They have introduced me to some good music that they play as they study and I follow a few things on Spotify now. My 100 CD collection is stuck in the 1980s and 1990s as I don’t buy any new ones, so Spotify is good as it expands my mind musically.

All in all I am like my dad, buying a table so my kids can study, just as he did, even though they do have a big one in their bedroom already. It’s the drop leaf table I used when I first started writing decades ago. But now my girls think studying in a bedroom is so passe. A study is what they want, just so long as they don’t want me to die out the way so they can have more study room.

Cake for Beginners ©

By Michael Casey

My small daughter has just come home from school with cake in a plastic tin, we used to used old biscuit tins now kids will use plastic containers, to bring home their burnt offerings. Things that would kill the gods and end their immortality stone dead. Luckily for us my small daughter is becoming a good cook, even if they use electric ovens at school. Ask any chef, fire is king, I remember when we had fire alarms at the hotel all the chefs would come out in their whites and curse the idiot smoking in a non -smoking area. The gas is automatically cut of when the fire alarm sounds , so any false alarms delay dinner, which should be cooked with a flame called gas.

My mother used to make fairy cakes that came in a packet, mix the mixture with an egg thrown in and a splash of milk then you had fairy cakes. And yes, I was first in the queue. I remember being scared by a bull dog breaking through the old back fence and how I was consoled with a fairy cake. This would be maybe 55 years ago.

Sundays meant Madeira cake which was a slab of yellow stuff that we had with a pot of tea at maybe 6 o’clock a few hours after we’d had the Sunday dinner. Mum used to buy it on the Saturday with the hope we would not find it till she sliced it out the next day. I can also remember how if we did not devour it all then it started to taste funny days later, and either mum would eat it herself with butter spread on top or the birds had a feast.

Mum also used to bake an occasional soda bread which was solid and dense but tasted good with butter on. Or as a side order with bacon and mushrooms, though I seem to remember soda bread at its best was when I was in Kerry on holiday staying with my aunts. My uncle Patrick might walk through the fields and pick out a few mushrooms and that’d be part of the breakfast with bacon and sausages and tomatoes. My aunty Bridie was great, as was Delia too and no I not forgetting all the cousins, but it is a Clan so I cannot mention everybody.

Delia would drive me or me and my dad or me and anybody all over Kerry as we visited the Clan. Tea and cake at every place, you could but on a stone in 2 weeks and I did. The Irish by the way drink more tea than the English, trust me I know. Delia was a great chef too, in fact she even worked as a chef in the hospital amongst her many many talents. Love and Laughter being her greatest. Though she did play a trick on me. I was accused of not sharing a Christmas cake she had once sent back over to Birmingham. It was a very nice cake, I could not possibly condemn myself, all I’ll say is I don’t remember IF I did share it. So when Delia heard the story she hid the next cake somewhere where I could not find it, maybe in my own suitcase. All I do know is that when me and my sister got back to Birmingham my sister magically produced a cake, a cake made by Delia our aunty.

Now the generations move on and my daughter is fast becoming a great cake maker, though I doubt if she will be as big as my 17.5 stone aunty. We are also spoilt because we have a Polish store nearby which means we eat their cake too. As we don’t know any Polish we pick by the picture on the wrapper and leads to many interesting experiences. Though 9/10 times it’s good. Different people like their cake differently, so sugar levels differ dramatically. Polish pop comes in 2.25 litre bottles too and they only charge 1.49 which is a bargain. So you can have your Polish cake and eat it washed down with fizzy pop. I haven’t been brave enough try Polish beer, maybe for Christmas when I allow myself a few beers. Remember heart meds don’t mix with any alcohol.

It’s nearly time for tea, or coffee in my case, I will be sampling my daughter’s new cake, freshly baked from school today. Then I would watch the Great British Bake Off but that has finished, so I’ll watch Star Trek instead. Do you think Captain Kirk and Spock make fairy cakes together, as they boldly go where no man or iceing sugar has done before.

Catching Up ©

By Michael Casey

I was up in the middle of the night again, I did have a few weeks without the need but last night or rather this morning I had to get up. I discovered an old piece on the computer, remember I have 1200 to 1400 stories in my back list, so if I’m too dazed by pain I may just pick an old story to keep you all interested, and then just post it. I posted a piece in pain at 4am or so which was very funny but it’s from Easter 1998, so later on when I got up for a drink I decided to remove it. It had 20 views but I could not see any more details for some strange reason. So I had a drink and went back to bed. Then when I was fully rested I got up for breakfast and beta blocker, just so that my heart does not tic itself to my death. Remember too I wake every 2 hours, such is my life, but it’s better than being in a cold grave and pushing up the daisies.

After breakfast I wondered where the people from the story are now. I tracked one down on the internet and sent an email greeting, but would any of you want anything to do with the likes of me? Especially after 19 years. We will see. I went shopping too and a little Pakistani lad was in the queue with his dad, I told the dad I was Santa and would be growing my beard for Christmas. I was dressed in red trousers and red coat, and I do have silver or white hair already. The dad laughed, later on as I walked down the road the child spotted me and told his dad it was Santa, so I told the dad conspiratorially not to tell his infant where I lived. Other than that I’ve not really thought of Christmas, though Ocado send me an offer, so I filled or fridge with it. They are very nice people after all.

Which brings me to today’s tale. Catching Up, when you meet old friends or enemies and you shoot the breeze. With friends it’s all about how’s life and where are you working or living now. How are the kids and so on. You share a joke about that fat slob of a guy with the body odour you all used to work with. Then your friend’s face drops, I married him, she pulls back her coat to reveal her pregnant belly. I’m having his triplets. So how do you respond to that? Do you pretend not to have heard what she said? Or do you limply say Three must be your lucky number. To which she replies, it is, this is our third set or triplets. What can you say to that? I suppose he must work very hard at his job. He does, he invented a new kind of deodorant, must dash now, one of the servants is picking us up in one of our Rolls Royces. A red Silver Shadow stops and a uniformed chauffeur helps your friend into the Rolls Royce. You wave weakly. She gives you the finger, just as the Queen might do. That’s the trouble with friends you never know where they might end up.

Me, if anybody sees me, they blank me, or pretend not to see me, or maybe that’s just my Priests. 17 hours in the confessional once, the Priest told me to go away and never come back, I was using reverse logic on him, it was very revealing. I have enough material for 3 books at least. But my lips are sealed. Do you doubt me, would I lie to you I am a writer or over 1.2 million Words now? Liars make the best writers after all, or is it Imagination, you’ll have to ask your own priests.

But where was I, here explaining Catching Up. Now parents love their children but as children grow older they love their parents less. They are busy with their own lives now. But when you meet an old friend you lie and say how wonderful your kids are and how much they spoil you. They are forever sending Ocado to your door with food galore. Even if you haven’t spoken to them in a year. You pretend that you still have a relationship when really there is only mutual hatred. But they do still send you Christmas cards, so that is something. But to your friends you lie and lie and lie. You can’t lose face can you, and you are not even Chinese. You have to have a good memory if you lie a lot, so your tales of great children are more and more disjointed. Your friends know you are lying but some are kind and remind you of your own lies so you can get the story or rather the lie straight. Others are just evil bastards you should not talk to anyway but it is a spiral of your own making.

There is humour when you catch up too, like do they remember when you nearly fell in the canal, I rocked back on my chair laughing so Barry had grab the chair’s arm or I’d be Jacques Cousteau in a Birmingham canal. We do have more canals than Venice you know, but not as nice. Steve said Barry only saved me because it was my round next, he’d have been pintless, so he saved me. I did tell you that the vicar Paul fell in with his bike once, it would have been a Baptism for him, but I digress.

If you have been reading Chapter One of The Butcher the Baker and the Undertaker on this site at the end there is a bit about a drunken man Patrick trying to chat up a girl, who claimed she was really a man. Well I wanted to add a hook to that chapter 10 years after I’d written it, and as the real event happened on April Fools’ Day 1998, in fact just before I went on my Czech misadventure I think, but it was April’s Fools’ Day. Well it was me, as I cannot handle alcohol, I am that April Fool. If I can find the story I’ll post it. But take it from me the event really happened and is immortalised in my stupidity at the end of Chapter One of BBU. So you can imagine people can laugh at me forever. But it does make the book funnier and hopefully gives chapter one a good ending which will make you all want to read more.

So if people who know me from my computer room part of my life when we catch up that is always remembered, and if they forget I’ll tell them about it. Life is more than Catching Up, it’s about loving up. It’s about your mates down the pub, at work, in your band, in your football team, or in your chess club or even in your stamp collecting club. Whatever binds you together, will always be part of your collective memory. Like the time fat johnnie saved that girl from being mugged, by throwing a dustbin at the potential mugger. He was too fat to chase after him but he got his photo and the police did the rest. Everybody said he was stupid spending that kind of money on a phone. But it did the job, the girl’s dad turned out to be rich and gave fat johnnie a job when nobody else would. Fat johnnie was so grateful he turned over a new leaf and became a body builder, he lost 4 stones or 30kilos. Last time I caught up somebody said he married the girl’s younger sister, his new phone is twice as expensive. And all because he threw a rubbish bin at a mugger. Yep Life is funny that way.

Starting a New Job ©

By Michael Casey

My daughter started a new job today, or rather she started as a volunteer at a local Charity shop, so she’ll be working but not getting any pay. Its ood experience of the real world for her. I told her I used to clean toilets and then talk to millionaires, in whatever order. I was everything at the CPNEC Birmingham, I’m very flexible, though not so much now thanks to my arthritis. That’s the thing with a job, be flexible, don’t say it’s not on your job description, though the ardent union people reading this will be angry by my attitude. While people argue the toss mess festers and worse, so I say just be flexible.

Can you remember your 1st ever job? Mine was walking the streets, yes I was a prostitute, are you shocked or worse? You cannot imagine women wining and dining me etc. Well you are wrong and I’m pulling your leg, but at least I know the measure of my audience my readers. What kind of boy do you think I am? Say Sorry or I’ll stop writing and I’ll never talk to you all again. Six hours later and you only now say sorry. What were you all doing, you went out to dinner with your girlfriend and then watched the MU match on tv. Then you etc and etc. Ok no need to carry on, well just stop carrying on, this is not a Carry On film. Google Carry On films if you have never heard of them. Carry OnUp the Kyber might be a good start.

Ok so where was I, I was walking the streets, it was first ever job. No I wasn’t a prostitute, I was a MARCH Assessor. Which means Men Are Right Clumsy Hooligans, ok I’m joking again, it meant Maintenance and Repair and Costing for Highways. Which meant I walked the streets all day. Thankfully I did not walk the streets at night. Though I do have great legs and look good in drag. OK, enough of this maybe a bit of that or even the other later, which means something else if English is not your 1st language, maybe Korean or Polish is your 1st language. At least learning English with me is much more entertaining than what you learn at school with Miss Smith from Leamington your exchange English teacher. My accent is much nicer, you can tell just by the words on the page. And if you understand that then you are far too good to be reading this you should be a writer.

So there I was with a clipboard in my hand walking all over the Black Country streets looking at the roads for Wheel Track Deterioration. This is like the marks on the road surface caused by the traffic, eventuation you will get rutting and holes. So by sending an idiot out with a clipboard you can see how worn down the roads are and decide if you need to resurface them. Yes I was that idiot, and it happened to be the hottest summer in decades. One day I walked 26 miles, as much as a Marathon, in 90degrees plus of heat. My face changed from white to brown, I have a photo somewhere of me with my new suntan. Yes I was young and fit then, years later in Ireland I walked a marathon in a day too, from Killarney to Cromane Lower. Now I’m still fit but only with encouragement. As I talk to you I again realise I am Ronnie Corbett and Joyce Grenfell’s lovechild, but maybe you have to be a Radio 4 producer to recognise that. But I’ll work for Capital Radio too, if they are inspired enough to use my 1200 or so short pieces.

Walking the streets meant I learnt the value of good shoes and decent socks, and of washing my feet as soon as I got home. Just as my dad did, though he came home from Hell every day, a 400degree+ steel works, the District Iron and Steel in Brasshouse Lane Smethwick. This was another thing that bonded me and my dad, we did physical work.

You get strong legs if you walk all day, ask any policeman or prostitute you may know, both would be arresting experiences, but I jest. Little did I know that I’d spend a lot of my life on my feet running around. In computer rooms and print rooms, or all around the hotel CPNEC Birmingham. Though all this standing DID save my life because when I needed veins I had them in my strong legs ready to be transferred to my heart for my unplanned quadruple heart bypass. So was God saving my life by having me walk and stand all my life? And as a writer I have to be quick on my feet to get the words on the page all lined up like soldiers to march across the page and into your hearts and minds. Then again I could just be talking a load of silk stockings, like I wear for 50 Shades of Michael.

All this started with me talking about my first job, now our worker has just returned home and I’ll ask her how her day went. I might help her celebrate by buying Dr.Pepper, she will be Dr.Casey in future after all.

I’m No Dictator I’m the Loved Leader ©

By Michael Casey

We all have our styles when we work, and sometimes you are better as a worker that a leader. And more to the point you enjoy it more that way. I once met another Michael who used to be a leader but he said it was bad for him so he stepped back from it. When I was a team leader it was fun, but whether I was the leader or just the worker I always worked very hard.

But what about our “real leaders” such as Mugabe 93 or Kim 33. They lead us why? Because they saved us from oppression, then treated the country like their own private possession. I freed the country, I was in jail for years now I am the leader because it is my right. Now I’m 93 my wife will become leader next says Mugabe as he clings to power tonight. Am I the only one who is not surprised? Brainwash our own people and blame ancient history almost. Hitler has the same moustache and he brainwashed his own people too, Mugabe shame on you.

As for Kim, it’s my granddad’s country it’s my dad’s country, so I’m keeping it. Like a spoilt child. A really beautiful place is wasted by a spoilt and arrogant leader. God alone knows will Trump nuke it all, or will China decide enough is enough. But Kim is the Leader with his marching bands and his drum majorettes carrying bayonets. Giant statues in a hall of the people stand proud like phallic symbols. While the real people cannot stand out of fear and out of lack of food. So pardon me for being rude but the best symbol to see is food in plenty in all the stores, not a people weighed down by dance steps showing how much they love their deity.

Mandela and Ghandi had a dignity they were proud, the flame of power did not corrupt them. Now we have a lady who earnt her Nobel Prize, now she tarnishes it because of her closed eyes. Or is it fear?

In God’s Waiting Room and I don’t mean Florida, Hitler and Pol Pot and Stalin await their fate. They still demand drinks and food from the waiter that serves them before their fate is revealed to them. And still they show no remorse, they made their people proud at first some might say, but then the evil, the cancer, the power lust and conceit filed their veins. Only they were good enough, their words were worth more, were better than anything anybody had ever said. No wonder young Kim follows their example and his people carry a notebook to write down every single utterance. When really a pooper scooper would be more realistic.

Saint Michael enters the room holding his nose, these are “generals” who have led their people with ignominy and shame. You are cursed for all time, and with that Saint Michael with his sword flicks them out of the waiting room through the door marked eternal fire and damnation.

It’s always the case that leaders want to stay forever, that’s why you have term limits. 8 years is enough. A leader should have a deputy ready to take over assuming they win an election. Not forever in government via musical chairs, it’s bad for the country, any country. Let the people speak, let the people dance, even dancing in the street. No one party is forever in charge.

Sadly this prayer of mine will not always succeed, but I let the music of the people speak, I let them take over. North Korea should be as happy and as rich as the South, and why is it not? Because people are afraid and cowed into submission, everything has to have permission. Zimbabwe should be as rich as it once was, will free elections be announced once their own dear leader finally exits stage left. Or will a Crocodile take over forever? The test of a leader is to announce free elections and then try and win them.

Churchill had his painting and his writing when he was not a leader, the whole world would have been a better place if Hitler had just stuck to house painting. Sadly Hitler had his Ego. If only people could throw their Ego in the rubbish and know that true leadership really is service. Wasn’t their somebody who washed others feet, and loved a friend so much that he wept and even rose Lazarus from the dead. Wasn’t their somebody who died for all of us, whereas Dictators think we should die for all of them.

I know what kind of leader I like, and when you are choosing a leader just think would they make a good Marie Curie nurse. Or do they think of themselves first. Any leader should be like my dad, family first, self last always.

Weary of Words ©

By Michael Casey

I don’t know about you but I find somethings boring, and what bores me the most is snap, no not the card game we played as kids, but verbal snap. You say the wrong word or misspoke as Americans call it, though LIE would be a much better word as far as some Politicians are concerned, then somebody slaps you down. It’s not clever and kills conversation. Yes the interviewer has to point out mistakes, or errors, especially with Politicians but the net result is you have a battle where none should exist. Just give the Politician enough rope and they will hang themselves. We are all watching Zimbabwe right now, so I’ll leave that there.

An interview is just that, the questioner should just ask questions, and allow the talker to talk. We had Michael Parkinson over here and all the Hollywood stars said he was the best. Why? Because he let them talk and he did his research. Nowadays everybody wants to nitpick and try and prove just how much cleverer than the interviewee they are. I’m doing you a favour interviewing you, you are not worthy of me, I was on MTV talking rubbish for 3 years, I was an ex-bodybuilder who became a star of MTV, so why should I waste my time on you. What if you spent 9 months in space and did 10 space walks. That’s nothing compared to my sex life all over MTV, why am I bothering talking to you?

The interviewer wants to talk about himself, instead of the guest. The guest mis-speaks and the host is ever so eager to pick him up on it, and wastes 10 minutes on it. A simple do you want to correct yourself is enough, just let the speaker speak. Instead of boring us about when you were living in a housing estate for a week on benefits, but you sneaked out to a 5 star hotel once the cameras were switched off. It’s supposed to be a chat show not a monologue about the Star’s sex life and size of his muscles, who only lets the guest actually speak for 2 mins out of the 10 min slot.

Sadly there are too many Personality interviewers who have no personality nor ability whatsoever. The viewers or the listeners want to hear what the guests say. Maybe it’s because I grew up with radio, 20 years of it, constantly hearing quality programming 50 to 30 years ago, so I’ve been spoiled. A good host brings out the guests and coaxes their stories from them, they are the story NOT the interviewer. If you watch as much tv news as I do, and I still listen to radio as well, you’ll see the whole spread of ability. We have somebody called Alan Titchmarsh here in UK, originally he is a gardener, yes plants and stuff, but I’m also seen him interview people as well as his tv garden show. Now he is really good, why? Because he lets people talk and he is very gentle, he has patience, why ? Because he lets things grow. Let it grow, let it grow let it blossom let it grow as Eric Clapton sung on 461 Ocean Boulevard. Then like in love, Love Grows where my Rosemary Goes.

If you like verbal snap then you’ll continue watching and listening to inane rubbish. Me, I’d like to hear the story, whatever the story is, be it about world record for farting, or the latest stink in Parliament. I want the facts and I want the interviewer to be like a breath of fresh air, clearing the air and the noise to give me facts straight between the eyes. Not just being a total bore, a boring old fart, or an even more boring young fart who is also a body builder.

Words matter and they should be heard, perhaps the Speaker of the House of Commons should have a chat show, now HE really is excellent. You do know he has Mace at the end of his desk, little wonder they do what he says. I would love to hear him, and it would not be on RT either. Tonight with John Bercow on Radio4 would be great, his catch phrase is Order, Order by the way. Perhaps it should be dinner with John Bercow, well that’s for the future, HE is not available for 5 more years. I am available it could be Michael Casey has a Subway sandwich with anybody who’ll pay for my meal.

November 24, 2017

With the help of God and Two Policemen was what my mother used to say. So today we may have just finally found a house. In fact two popped up. I went for a walk to test out the area and its ok, not perfect but ok. Its big enough for us and hopefully they'll take our offer.

If we don't get one we may get the other, but things are never straight forward in house buying. My wife fell in love with another house last weekend which is in a better area but I said it was not worth the asking price, and she decided to offer what I thought it  was worth. Which was rejected.

Another house which is in the best area for us but the owner is totally unrealistic about the price, when we viewed it I told the agent the cost of all the work needed on it. The owner was asking what was the correct price BUT only if all the work had been done on it, but owners believe agents, and then waste 6 months before selling it at a reasonable price.

We had another house like that where the owner rejected our offer but now 6 months later his asking price is near what we offered 6 months ago. Only the family no longer likes it.

Other houses we bid on but where we live is very hot property market so the nice houses go in a week. So even if you have the money you may still not get it. Because you need the help of God and Two Policemen as my mother used to say.

I would love to live in the house with a sauna in B17 which you can find on rightmove.co.uk or in the brand new houses down the road in the same street which you can find on rightmove, should take you 20 seconds to find it if you are good on the keyboard. But that would take a lottery win, or for you all to buy my books on Amazon.

But my mother also said God is Good, so who knows maybe a wealthy arab decides to invest in my teaching English via comedy idea and then I could afford to buy a new 5 bed house with garage. I'd also buy a puppy dog. My daughter wants a labrador, but as I always tend to wear shades people might think I'm blind.Me, I think perhaps a Portuguese water dog might be nice.

 But to be honest just living to see my girls grow up and become a Dr and maybe an actress or writer that would be enough. Because the only wealth worth having is Health, and my dad said that.

Feeling Tired ©

By Michael Casey

When you are tired you cannot control or coordinate your brain to your hands, rather like I am right now. As an experiment I’ll see what I can write while I am so tired, though you may all say it’s much better than my usual rubbish. So very kind of all the Borises out there, but we remember when we tied Boris’s shoe laces together when he was asleep instead of doing the security patrol. We hid outside the control room door and blew a whistle and heard him crash down on the floor, we knew he’d chase after us once he untied his shoe laces that’s why we were on the safe side of the door.

I used to work the night shift with Duncan, he’d be in his 40s now, now he could not sleep during the day no matter what he tried, so he’d be typing away at the banks of keyboards we had then suddenly he’d fall asleep and then bang his head on the monitor.

I stepped out to buy some milk and it was so cold it woke me up, but then I felt so tired once I got back to our house that I just had a 2 hour nap. That’s why you have the change of paragraph, I was sleeping. The pain monster did visit last night and it was after 4am before I finally slept. At 3 am I had Heinz tomato soup, with stale baguettes, just like Heidi, as well as dropping a plate, but my pigs stayed fast asleep. The cat did ask to be let back in, she keeps such strange hours.

Back to my computer room days, this was maybe 30 years ago, when the lads would go for a fag in the bogs, I’ll translate for the American readers, a cigarette in the rest room. So Flash as he was called cruelly, because the other lads thought he was slow. Well Flash went to the bog and while he was having a fag as he sat on the bog dumping, and dumping is not the computer usage for dumping. By dumping I mean pumping, I hope that is clear to all of you. So Flash fell asleep as he sat on the toilet, if you ever have to do night shifts you will have sympathy for him.

But Flash had lit a cigarette, luckily he had not had any beans that night or there could have been a major explosion. Instead he nodded off and dropped his cigarette, thus setting fire to his trousers. Good word thus, when did you use it last? Go use thus today, I dare you. Luckily he was wearing cotton blue jeans and not polyester, which as you know burns and shrinks as it burns. So his blue jeans caught fire around his ankles, and the smoke woke him up. As shift leader I let sleeping dogs pooh in peace, though we did wonder what was keeping him, it could have just been constipation which is the curse of shift workers, and people who take lots of pain killers, so now you know.

Flash came back to show us his smouldering ash, or was it ass? We all had a laugh, and then I had my sandwiches which were always red Leicester on ham which I microwave as it was 4am after all which was my usual lunch break time.

So you have had an insight into my world my life, my tired life that was shift working. You are always tired when you work shifts, so have sympathy for your nurse friends and store workers. Give them chocolate and kisses, though the chocolate will probably be the more appreciated.

It takes longer to think, to add up and to move when you are tired, your whole body can ache. That’s why doctors on night shift get people to double check dosage, or if they don’t they should. 5 seconds thought before actions can save a lifetime of trouble. Another thing affected by tiredness are your ears. You say “what” a lot when you are tired, as if you are suddenly deaf, mind you teenagers always say “what”. You are in a different time zone when you are tired. You are 10 to 20 seconds out of synch with the real world, with GMT, the Got More Time in bed people, than you.

My life has been a life of shifts, if you do the horrible hours it makes you more employable. So after all the nights shifts I spent years doing the 12 to 8pm shift. Which led to years of instant meals with MSG in them which could have caused my unplanned quadruple heart bypass. Even though I never used oil just oven baked.

My father was lucky in that his GP, Dr Hickman said he should not work night shifts, so he didn’t have to. So he just worked up to 16 hours a day in the heat of the steel works, The District Iron and Steel in Brasshouse Lane Smethwick. But being a worker like my dad did bond us even closer. Though my feet were never as smelly, as I didn’t sweat as much.

Well I hope I haven’t tired you all out by this talk of tiredness. I hope you respect the security guard walking around too, they tend to work really long hours. One day they may just save your life, that’s what they are there for. So blow Phil and Taz on security a kiss next time you pass by their station, it’ll make their day. Because speaking from experience if they don’t know the answer then they will know a man who does know the answer. Obviously it won’t be me, I’ll be fast asleep in bed, assuming I’m not slapping on the Movelat or making Heinz soup at 3am for me and the cat.

Aliens visiting Earth ©

By Michael Casey

I saw a bit of a film called Cowboys v Aliens on the tv the other night, James Bond actor Daniel Craig was in it, as well as Harrison Ford, then today I spotted a piece in the newspaper where a former Canadian Defence minister said aliens had in fact visited us. So it got me thinking. Why would you come all the way to Earth just to see the likes of you and me?

I would come to see Michelangelo to see Caravaggio, even to have a free dinner with Andrew Graham Dixon the Art expert, so long as his Italian mate was cooking. But to come to Birmingham to eat a donna kebab? Though there is one certain place where you would die for the kebabs, then another where you might die if you ate one of the kebabs, such as when I was in Paris in 1999, Valentines and alone. So what would make you get into your space ship to come all the way to Earth? Not unless it is the ultimate daytime tv, but for aliens.

Aliens reproduce by touching hands, just like in Barbarella, but Humans, it’s like Lego one piece fits another to make another, the legover method. It must be very strange compared to how they reproduce on Alpha Zeta or wherever the Alien Tourist Agency is based. Why come this far just to have a tour, with the Alien equivalent of David Attenborough as your guide.

All these famous statues in museums have a leg or an arm missing, is it because Aliens take a graft and once back home grow the full statue to fill their displace cases which are by the Alien toilets. Looking at a Human work of art helps make Aliens pooh. Is Human Art the cure for Alien constipation, well the prices would make anybody want to pooh. Half a billion for a fake recently. I know it’s a fake because an Alien told me the other night if it were real they would have taken a sample to bring back home to the stars to go in a display case, by the toilets.

Would aliens visit to see Manchester United when they were the best in the world, or to see Pele at the top of his game. Or do they just love Cheers and cannot get the box set on their planet so they visit Blockbuster to buy all the box sets in the store.

Or do they visit to see how we pray, and how leaders get in the way of prayer? Or do they think the idea of God just a great big joke? Would everybody on Earth stop believing if they knew there were Aliens everywhere? Or would they assume God is bigger that all the civilisations on all the planets everywhere?

Is Earth just a petting zoo for Aliens, a quaint old place like the American view of England? Do Aliens think we are retarded, what with all our nuclear weapons, with the posturing and posing? Are Trump and Kim the new Punch and Judy, but with millions of lives at stake not just sausages for the crocodile, and I’m not talking about Zimbabwe’s new leader who judging him from his past will be equally evil as Mugabe was.

So is Earth the ultimate Reality Tv for Aliens, is there a Richard Branson Alien who organises all the visits to Earth? If I were an Alien I’d cry. I cry that Kim was destroying his beautiful North Korea, I’d cry that Putin was starting an Arms Race, or is it Trump, he just wants to sell arms to everybody. Giving Alms is the thing. Aliens could be scouting for a new place to live, their own planet could be dying, it is no Hollywood.

Why do Aliens come to Earth, was it the planet of their Birth, were Aliens here before, before devastation showed them the door, did they quickly exit the time the dinosaur’s their friends were wiped out. Do Aliens visit hoping they can return, only to find the state the planet is in now? Arms race instead of Alms race, reaching for the stars, searching the oceans floor, finding Atlantis once more. Rebuilding the Alien culture which really is Humans first culture. Telepathy used to be king, now all we can do is sing, for an Alien its heart must sink, why has Humanity come to this?

Well I don’t know why the world is the way it is. But IF I did have Telepathy then I’d send all the leaders, this nightmare to beware, as you sleep I am sat in a chair watching you there. I am the Devil of your own making, I’m watching you all the time, and when you make that mistake it will be your final one. For you, your people, your country, your entire world.

Change must come, it comes from within, it’s never imposed, it’s always from self. So look around at the past, look inside, and look all around. What world do you want the Aliens to find? Or do you want it just to smoulder and sink and die because of Arrogance. Or do you want to return this Earth, our Earth into the Garden of Eden it once was, when dinosaurs were our lawn mowers, our friends, before it became an alien world to Aliens the original Humans.

Home Comforts ©

By Michael Casey

Home comforts and being comfortable are very important things, I noticed Harry and his girl seemed so comfortable together tonight, so rather than write about them I’ll write or rather talk about comfort. A girl a boy is a very comforting thing, to listen to you, or pretend to, to give you physical comfort too, after a very difficult day.

But what other things are a comfort? Soft toilet paper and plenty of it, nice warm towels straight from the airing cupboard. Hot water in the tank so you can have a bath, your antidandruff shampoo so you don’t look as if you have just come in from a snow storm, or from a wedding or from a carpentry shop. Providing that your children haven’t used your shampoo to wash Totoro the cat, so you have to use the dregs of shampoo and even a bar of carbolic soap on what’s left of your hair. All these are the comforts of home, any home.

Milk, your milk left in the fridge so that you can make a cup of coffee the British way, with milk, but no sugar. Or just have milk to go with your cereals. Though as often as not, Totoro the cat purrs “milk” so she has the last of the milk so you cannot even have a final cup of coffee. Your girls love the cat much much more than they love you , their dad.

Dry clothes that have been brought in off the washing line, and left to air on the radiators, providing your girls were not WhatsApping their friends, whatever that’s supposed to mean. So when you the leader of the family need dry clean clothes they are there ready for you, on the radiator. There’s no space in the family wardrobes as you live with 3 girls, so your clothes are squashed into a small corner, where the cat loves to sit, but thankfully not spray.

Up a corner of the living room is your bare wooden chair that you sit on. You bought new furniture 3 years ago, by coincidence when you had your unplanned quadruple heart attack, but it was too low and hurt when you sat on it post op. So you perch on a bare wooden chair, made comfortable with the addition of some horrid stripy cushions, while your girls stretch out on the brand new trendy but low sofas. Home is comfortable for them but not for you as you all watch tv.

You decide to buy a single arm chair to squeeze up a corner so you are comfortable as you watch tv. Only they are too big to fit in the space. Until finally you find one, only you cannot find the legs, which are hidden under the seat, in a secret zip up section, something never ever before invented. So you lose face, but are saved and helped by a nice Polish guy, to find and attach your chair legs. Then finally you can squeeze an armchair into a corner, and like Little Jack Horner you sit there and watch tv, you bum is no longer sore after 3 years.

All these are simple little things that are my home comforts. A cat does make a house turn into a home, even if Totoro wakes me up in the middle of the night so that I can let her out a window. Then if in the middle of the night I get up for pain or for a drink Totoro will suddenly appear on the kitchen window wanting to be let in at 3am or 6am. Her job is to purr as I stroke her fur, she is a home comfort too, whatever your point of view.

Fruit in the fruit bowl is always nice so long as your pigs don’t eat it first, Royal Gala apples and bananas are great. Our new supermarket does have nicer food than the old one, though you do have to pay a bit more, but judging by the family happiness level, it was a good decision to switch when my daughter was revising for her GCSEs. Nicer bread, we have switched to brown bread all the time now, one brand is so much better than the others now we have made the switch. These simple simple things really DO make a difference to home comfort.

Underpants make a difference too, so long as they don’t shrink in the wash, I replaced a load of my flags and guess what when I put them in the wash a load of the new ones shrunk. Tight pants that strangle your bits are no good to any man, a home comfort is a body that is comfortable, and not squeezed and squashed by tight shrunken underpants.

If you add all the things up that make up Home Comforts, they can be varied and many and don’t have to cost a pretty penny. You just want to feel relaxed and comfortable, like a pair of old slippers, and a dressing gown which keeps you warm while you write your next talk for all your readers. Then your life will Sparkle, so good luck to Harry and Markle, for she is your home comfort from abroad.

That Special Moment ©

By Michael Casey

Christmas is coming the goose is getting fat, well it is 28th November so forgive me for mentioning Christmas, though I do believe Christmas should be kept in December, and not August as some retailers may prefer. We had Harry and Markle on tv yesterday on about special things, I’m not going to talk about them, but how did Harry fall in love with the leader of Germany I’ll never know, as English people are notoriously bad with languages. My own speciality is bad language, so don’t vex me. Though I can stumble along in French and Spanish and one of brothers was a bit of a linguist, and another did live and work in Paris for 4 years. Not forgetting the Shanghai wife and our bilingual daughters. But I’ll leave Harry alone with his American/German phrasebook. The Windsors are from Germany after all.

So what makes a moment special? In actual fact it’s the Future or is it the Past? When in the future you look back at your past you only then realise just how special the moment was. I think in real time you are too busy to realise how good a time you are having. It’s when you go to bed and you rewind your day that you realise how good it was as you thank God when you say your prayers. That’s if you pray at all, I bet only 15% of people actually pray. Forget the Christmas Christians or other faiths, the ones who actually have faith in their life, not those who attend because they have to. These are the believers of all faiths and none.

But you can argue the philosophy of prayer next time you are down the bookies smoking a splif as you share a can of Guinness with your local vicar. Or whoever leads your prayers. Now one special moment is when the Queen’s horse romps home and you have had a bet on it. You win 700 quid, or 2 weeks wages in money terms. You did lose double that 2 months before, but now you are triumphant. Luckily the vicar though seeing double because of the splif decides to intervene, so he grabs your winnings, no metaphor intended and puts them down his pants. So you chase him out of the bookies and up the road to the village green, where you try to debag him.

The little dog laughed to see such fun and the dish ran away with the spoon, so says the nursey rhythm. In reality people are wondering why their trendy vicar is being attacked and having the pants torn off him. A tear appears and ten pound noses flutter from the vicars torn pants. The vicar continues running away, as Michael Casey Trainee betting Shop Manager stands in the door of the bookies and wonders will every day be like this. Smiling Paul the bookie in The Butcher The Baker and The Undertaker would be taking bets by now on how long before the vicar would be knickerless with just the odd 10 pound note to hide his modesty.

The vicar’s pants come off and tenners float everywhere, the vicar has just his union jack underpants on. The crowd are impressed by all his bulges. The vicar’s assistant appears still wearing vestments, she takes off her cassock so the vicar can hide his bulges. Then she turns on you to lash you with her tongue. She used to be a bingo caller before the call came, but now she’ll lash you unmercifully for daring to disrobe a vicar in public.

As she whips you with her tongue a strange thing happens, you realise she is the one for you. You are being chastised by god’s helper, by god’s little worker. So as you finish collecting your 700 winnings you look deep into her eyes, and then and then and then and then you puke all over her. Splif and Guinness combined with chasing the vicar and tearing his clothes off to get your money back has upset your stomach. Or it could have been the two spicy kebabs as you watch the race meeting from Ascot in the bookies’ shop. So the vicar’s assistant is covered in your puke.

Her face goes red with anger, you say it matches her red hair, and you just love her Edinburgh accent. She punches you in the stomach, which was a mistake so you puke all over her again before you collapse on top of her. Now at this point God intervenes, he knows she has a really bad temper and had hoped the church would hide it. She has now been twice blessed, or is it twice puked over. As you lay on top of her saying sorry you use the 700 in notes top wipe your sick off her.

Six months later at your wedding to the Scots lass all this is remembered as a turning point in both of your lives. A passing fire engine had hosed you both down, as for the 700 in the new plastic notes, that was given to the local children’s home, as a penance for being sick over the vicar’s assistant. The Scots lass had looked into your eyes and saw that you were the man with the child in his eyes, Kate Bush was her favourite singer after all.

So it was like being struck by lightning, or rather 2 shades of vomit. The vicar had lost his pants, the children’s home had gained a donation, you had lost your addiction, or rather the contents of your stomach, but gained a wife. And she would be a Verger no more.

Yes, looking back a really special moment.

The Sunshine of your Smile ©

By Michael Casey

I was wondering what to call today’s piece when Paul McCartney gave me an idea, he came around to clean our windows, he’s nice like that, he learnt it from his dad George Formby who was forever cleaning windows. So he sang The Sunshine of your Smile so I thought that’ll explain today’s talk nicely. I’m listening to his Flaming Pie album, I wish he’d just get on and clean our windows, but so long as they are done by the time the album is finished or I’ll tip the bucket of water on his head. Liverpool folk are just too chirpy some times.

Today is bright and very sunny, but the cold would freeze the arse off Kim, any Kim, you care to mention. But so long as you wrap up, by which I mean put lots of layers on, not sing some song by JayZ, then you’ll stay warm. I did stop by the Plastic shop, which sells all things made of plastic, and buy some silver lined insoles to protect my soles, by which I mean the soles of my feet. My Soul is God’s, well I keep on telling myself that. As for Seoul, that’s a place far away with a very noisy neighbour. I hope I haven’t confused my Eastern readers, but Poles and Ukrainians have a good sense of humour. Or has somebody on reception been having a joke and making all the new staff read my rubbish on night shift at the hotel. They should be cleaning the common areas not misusing Opera, the manager will make a song and even dance about it in the morning if the foyer does not glitter like a palace.

Ok, enough of the puns, but if Shakespeare did it, then I should at least try. What is so good about sunshine and smiles? Well it makes us all happy. A pretty girl without a smile is ugly. Just look at all the ghosts modelling on catwalks if you don’t believe me. A smile is like the sun itself. It is liked Dawn itself, and I have seen Dawn break hundreds times when I used to work the night shift in Birmingham city centre. Dawn is a new beginning a new hope, a new love.

When a girl forgives you, remember men are always wrong and always to blame and so always in need of forgiveness. If your priest did not tell you that when he gave you pre marriage instruction then he failed you badly, besides what do priests know about women? They live with 100 year old housekeepers.

So when we are forgiven the smile broadens and the lights light up in your loved ones eyes. I imagine the same happens when you are Gay, people are people and Love is Love after all. So you get the smile and the eyes twinkle and you are powerless before your love. What happens next is up to the both of you, so I’ll leave it to your imagination.

In general though smiles are sunshine and if you have somebody at work or just up your street or in the family that makes you smile as an individual or as a group then you are very lucky. The little ray of sunshine, really does exist. As does the sad bad mad cloud that kills life and laughter, you can pick your own bosses and world leaders and even your own family members or former friends who are like that.

One of my bad habits is making jokes to hard pressed shop assistants who are too busy to listen, though sometimes I can see that the shop assistant is sad for some reason so I’ll try and perk them up. Remember at CPNEC Birmingham I was the first person people met when they entered the hotel, so I have 100,000 people interactions up my sleeve. A distraction even from the fat silver haired guy in shades can perk up people, a smile can bring a bit of happiness into a life. No I’m not Paul McCartney, and he still hasn’t finished cleaning my windows, and I’m not a super model either, not unless you want a Michelin man model, but all of us can bring sunshine with a smile. I’ve seen enough dull and sad people and bosses in my life to know I want to be the exact opposite.

Sharing a joke does lighten the yolk, it can start new friendships too. You can say to that Asian girl you really fancy, your eyes are like stars, and your teeth are like diamonds. Then you add, do you take them out at night. She will either give you a big slap or just smile and tell you she’s a dentist, yes for real a dentist. Then she may push you back in the chair and ask you to open your mouth before pouring salt into it. It is used by dentists to prevent infection after all, and she may think you are an infection. At this point you will either storm out or think, she’s the one for you. As the whole of Subway watch a marriage is born in Heaven, or rather in Subway.

So my Spring Rolls beckon, my daughter is cooking them in the kitchen and my smile is widening, memories of food always make me smile. And anticipation of food makes my smile too. So I’ll finish by suggesting you buy fairy cakes and ask your girl to teach you how to bake them. It’s something really easy to do but the secret is in the mixing, so mix and bake and smile and put buns in the oven.

In Silence ©

By

Michael Casey

I was wondering what to talk about as I had some Cranberry juice, it’s good for my kidneys, when in the silence I thought why not talk about silence. I normally have music on as I read on the Internet, but I just switched off the sound for a bit of quiet when I decided I could always talk about Silence. I was going to say I could listen to Simon and Garfunkle’s the Sound of Silence but the phone just rang. It was my sister so the silence was shattered while we had a catch up.

Silence is a change from noise, if you are at work in heat and noise its always good to escape to the park during your lunch break. In my print room days at Pinsent Masons I’d escape to Saint Phillips cathedral. I used to stand all day in a very hot print room. So for lunch I sit by the candles in the cathedral, the vergers thought I was Holy but just some peace and quiet and no standing was what I was really after. Ok, maybe a bit of prayer, and one of the best pieces of writing ever bubbled up while I was there. I’ll insert it below the I’ll get back to today’s theme.

Let There Be Light ©

By Michael Casey

Let my tears be my words

Let the candle light be my eyes

Let the flowers in bloom be my lips

Let their scent be my blood

Let the wind be my breath

Let clouds be my mood

Let children’s laughter be my hope

Let widows’ sighs be my conscience

Let a stranger’s prayers be my delight

Let the bees be my wisdom

Let the trees be my strength

Let my patience reach to the stars

Let me be always remembered in your prayers

Ok, no need to be impressed, I wish I could just print it on Tshirts and make enough money to buy a house with it. So from the house of God, to Michael’s family house via poetry. Ok, I’ll just get the Monopoly board out and win a house that way.

One time I saw a bodybuilder lighting candles and praying, I was touched and impressed. He could have been a Russian called Lav, but here in the cathedral he was a humble servant. Maybe Putin should follow his example, but I digress.

When we are up to no good we are silent and sneaky, trying not to get found out. Pretending to pray when really we are going to steal the poor box. In my hotel days where I was a spare man I suppose, I also did a bit of security for Taz and Phil. This means I watch people and things, I always look at people’s hands to see if they are about to strike, I always look at number plates too. At the hotel if somebody had Love and Hate tats on his knuckles then they stood out, because it was a 4 star deluxe place. So obviously I’d watch them and report back on my dec phone. When it was silent in the foyer I’d be send to do the walk all over the hotel. It takes 25 mins to walk everywhere with the bleeper, you put the bleeper over the wall mounted nipples and it made a noise and recorded where and when you did the security patrol. Sometimes it was totally quiet on the walk but on other days you’d get to talk to all the staff and guests, so it was a nice experience, as if I owned the hotel.

Now I own nothing except my arthritis and my other ailments. But in the still of the night I can look up at the stars and wonder why are we all here. Are we here to make noise, because God was so lonely in space and time, so Mankind is his Radio, or Spotify. We make lots of noise when we are happy, when we are drunk, when we have sex, or maybe that’s just some of my neighbours. But what is the first thing we do to a baby, we slap it and say, Make some Noise.

So Noise and Silence are the Ying and the Yang, the heads and the tails of the coin that we call life. When collecting the tin is shaken to make noise to encourage more donations. When the band plays we scream and shout and dance in the street, like at Puck Fair in Killorglin in County Kerry. Once a band is famous no matter where they started they want seclusion and quiet, with high walls and security guards. Then they party too hard and overdose and end up having total seclusion and high walls, inside a cemetery.

Then there is a minute’s silence for the departed, before everybody leaves to bitch about them at the after funeral party. Nobody can say a good word for the dead, envy and jealous. Perhaps just silence would have been the best thing, as Les Dawson used to say Be Nice, and if you cannot say anything good say nothing, be silent.

So Percy the the Undertaker walks away from the grave, he has a poem to share.

The Dead and The Living (c)

by

Michael Casey

I first saw a deceased when I was nine years old ,my father said not

to worry as the dead are the same as the living , only the laughter

has left them , the sparkle has gone from their eyes , the worry has

been lifted from their shoulders , and their voice has vanished to

eternity .

In paradise the sparkle will return for it is the twinkle of the

stars , the laughter will return too for it is the morning breeze and

the turning tides are their sides shaking with laughter .

I treat the deceased with the same courtesy as I give to the living,

though I find the deceased are always more polite . My father also

had a few words to say about the living .

He said that the living are only the caretakers of the soul , yet

they think their existence is everything , that they know everything

because they experience many things with their senses .

What the living don't acknowledge is that their time is short and

when I lay their bodies to rest then their souls continue without

them , without their strong , without their weak , without their

beautiful or even ugly temporary form , to where I cannot say , only

that it is a better place .

Percy the undertaker placed the lid on the coffin ,the soul was free

THE BEGINNING

December 03, 2017

Shattered Things ©

By

Michael Casey

I just put the rubbish out and as I stood by the recycle bin I noticed that there was some faded red plastic on the floor, I did not know what it was at first as it was all shattered.It was in fact and old clothes peg. Then as I came back inside from the cold I noticed some shattered weeds or plant stems, tiny ones. It could be a witch casting a spell with DIY ingredients, eye of newt is very hard to come by after all, or it could just have been the wind and rain lashing the house last night. Though a witch would be more romantic, our own house witch, my Shanghai wife has gone to church, when she comes home she may cast more spells on me.

So it gave me the idea for today’s talk, 3rd Dec 2017, just so word historians can track back my words, assuming they dig up this computer in the future, or Google search archive rediscovers me assuming North Korea hasn’t nuked Birmingham for me telling Kim to leave and let his people live. A bit of Historical context for those scrapheap men in the future.

Shattered, everything can shatter. Everything can change, apart from what? Your Spirit perhaps? You are pretty so you flaunt your looks, and you catch a rich boy, maybe you are a WAG. Then when you lose your looks or the stretch marks don’t go away. And then he goes away with a newer model, literally. So you illusions are shattered. He did not love you, he just loved your hotness, once your hotness left you, then so did he, and now you are out in the cold. Everything is shattered.

Or he had loads of money so you married him, but he spent without saving, then there was a hiccup. No savings left, so you left him for a newer model, a man with a car dealership selling all the latest models of Audi and Rolls Royce. Another marriage shattered.

Lav from Russia was stocky and strong he could lift 100kilos with one hand, and 250kilos using both. He wasn’t a weight lifter, though he was always lifting weights, truck tires from the workshop where he worked keeping the fleet moving. He just did his job and loved it, knowing that nobody would ever love him, he was just the incredible Hulk, a red Russian version, but he did enjoy eating his greens, which made his fart too often.

One day the boss’s daughter came in her windscreen shattered, so Lav fixed it for her, he told her not to stray as the workshop was a dangerous place. But she did not listen, so when a rack of truck tires fell over she could have been killed and should have been. But Lav saved her, deflecting the tires away. Now this was the road to Damascus or is it Moscow experience that she needed in her life, and cutting the story short she became his wife. But he’s just an ogre, a Shrek look alike, you should not be his wife.

Sometimes events shatter your illusions, and you come to different conclusions. Some pretty girls see past the money, and some men see further than the honey. Shatter the glass and see further than her ass, look past his package, his wad of money, and no I’m not being funny, love is more than money. Maybe I’m naive and what am I trying to achieve? If you ever see a pretty woman, and I’m not talking about Julia Roberts, with an ugly fat man, maybe it’s love. Or maybe a Brad Pitt with a wrinkly girl, maybe its love.

Shatter a few illusions in your mind, just try and be kind, and not just look at his or her behind. Don’t just look at the size of her thighs, or at his deep blue eyes. Or the size of his wealth, don’t use stealth, just look at the man in his head, not just there lying in your bed.  

Enough of this rhyming ranting, if he or she fits the bill you’ll never be on the Pill, because love is without barriers, internal or external. You both together shatter all expectations, with your unusual flirtations. A man with a limp, or a man with a stutter, can win the fair maiden, for love is blind, love is deaf, love is dumb, love has no senses because because because Love is Divine Comedy. And if you don’t know that then its time you shattered a few self delusions, and that dear friends is my conclusion, and no I’m not fat it’s an optical illusion.       

Last Minute Writing©

By

Michael Casey

I was wondering what to talk about tonight, I could bore you about my pains, which have subsided so while I wait for my bath water to heat up I’ll try and entertain you, but then I’ll have a soak of my arthritic bits and pieces.

You may all think that my writing is all last minute, judging by the quality, but then I’d cry, and you don’t want to make Santa cry so close to Christmas, you do want you presents after all, don’t you? So I was thinking how do ideas come about? Or rather last minute ideas. You may know I love Don Camillo, no Boris, Lech and Lav I do not have a Italian gangster boyfriend, North Korean ex army girl would be more up my street. But I digress. Don Camillo is a comedy figure from the 1950s, you can find videos on Utube, if you click on my Blogger id there is a link inside to a full Don Camillo film in English. Even though the listing has changed these past few days for some unexplained Google reason.

Don Camillo himself was invented by Giovannino Guareschi when at the last minute he had to fill space in a paper, so Don Camillo was born. I was in fact reading an omnibus edition of the stories in the days prior to my quadruple heart bypass. The Italian heart surgeon Prof Pagano who had a look at me was impressed by my reading tastes. My point though is that a last minute filler became an International hit. Yes written before I was even born, my History teacher said give it a try 40 years ago and I did. I’ve reread the stories several times. You may have never have heard of Don Camillo but its worth a look, especially if you like comic communists fighting catholic priests. The priest and the communists are like brothers really as they fought as Partisans together in WWII. I’m sure my Polish readers will love it.

Now what about me, well as you know I usually write a piece in an hour, that’s my skill, ok Boris, Lav and Lech any more rude noises and I’ll write a sentence where your car breaks down and you are stranded for a month in 3 metres of snow. And you only survive by eating, well I’ll leave it to your imagination, I could say you cut Boris’s fat arse off and eat it. But that would be disgusting and inedible. Besides that’s what the rugby players did in that Andes plane crash, I read the book maybe 30 years ago.

So what do I do as a last minute filler, as a piece of writing to keep you all amused and to keep my brain active. Well each piece is unplanned, its spontaneous, I prefer it that way. It’s more fun for me, Boris, Lech and Lav if you dare say what I know you are thinking then I’ll make you have an accident. I’ll give you 20 litres of Pilsner and lock the toilets. Ok, sorry, I know 60 litres then I’ll lock the toilets, see if you like peeing in your pants like children. You’d pee through the keyhole, it’d be fun, especially after 20 litres of Pilsner each. It’s a waste of time talking to you three, Tom, Dick and Harry were never this trouble.

So I pick a theme and away I go. Remember having Total Recall, ok, being such a boring old fart, I can go on and on, don’t even think about it you three are disgusting. Ok, I’ve unlocked the toilets, go and have a pee, instead of taking the pee all the time. Now that I’ve got rid of those cousins I’ll continue. What do you expect when Polish, Ukrainian and Russian cousins get together? 100 litres of Pilsner. Ok can you be quiet too.

So I write a piece in an hour as I wouldn’t have the energy to do more than and hour. And a book is a year of your life, though as I’ve said before if somebody, anybody gave me a tape recorder or a legal secretary then I could write another full length novel in maybe 3 months. So where do the ideas come from? Lust? No I don’t write that kind of stuff, I just place a few ideas in your head then I let you take them home to bed. I’m just here all alone watching the news on tv, while Boris, Lech and Lav improvise from what they have read, from what I’ve hinted.

From the News? Yes if something is in the news it will spark and idea, or a parody of something. Trump goes on forever giving us all ideas, as for Brexit over here, it’s very boring, as it goes on forever. And I speak as a news junkie. A news item might remind me of something from last week or last year, or 50 years ago. 55years ago I was left all alone in the house in front of a roaring coal fire while my dad collected our new sister, number 6 in the family from Dudley Road hospital. So I remember that and my mother returning and sitting downing the chair holding my new little sister. I remember dad in his sports jacket too.

It’s really simple really, I think of one word, add the water of memory and nurture it with adjectives and simple punctuation and then hey presto I have another story for you. This one is Number 1450 if you include the repeats, 1,215,732 words plus this story. I may have 100,000 words collated into 15 Down ready to turn into my 15th book just after Christmas. If only you’d start buying them, but Boris, Lech and Lav are too busy drinking Pilsner, though to be honest, which is more fun?

Ok I have to wash and soak my sore bits now, my daughter just shouted out from behind me she is now ranked 18th out of 700 for Maths. So I have to buy her more chocolate. And that is the last minute writing for tonight, with a bit of maths thrown in by my daughter.

Cold Comforts ©

By

Michael Casey

Forgive me my Polish and Ukrainian readers, if 20cm of snow is called a lot of snow here UK. Cold Comfort is a phrase too, and there is Cold Comfort Farm the book, so that’s something for you to investigate if you think today’s piece is rubbish. Though I could say I’ve been snowed under, which as you know from your English teacher is another English expression.

My small daughter did mention in passing this morning, and in passing could be a very rude expression too. See how words attack your brain with multitudes of meaning. Ok, what did she say? She said English was supposed to be very hard to learn for foreigners, but for her and her sister languages seem quiet easy to learn.

Remember she also speaks Chinese thanks to mum. So she is hard wired for languages, though mum never taught me Chinese, so I speak a bit of French and Spanish to our daughters just to spite my Chinese wife. Speaking of whom she is in Shanghai enjoying a well deserved holiday seeing her own mum.

So while she is far away in Shanghai, I am Home Alone with our teenage daughters and Totoro our female cat. The Cold Comfort I have is that the weather is so cold that the cat does not wake me up to be let out in the middle of the night. My pigs, my daughters never hear her calls, so it is me who has to let the cat out. The cat can now almost say “milk” too when she wants more than the mountains of cat food we have for her. No only milk will do, before she escapes into the night to pretend to belong to several other owners. Apart from these past few nights, as 20cm of frozen snow is too much for even her own fur coat.

I’ve just had a warming coffee before I resume talking to you all, I could be sad as Christmas 2015 was when we decided we’d look for another place and then it was a while before we started to look, and now Christmas 2017 is upon us. Close but no cigar, 2 baths and 4 beds in our price range is hard to find. We did almost get there a few times, remember with my heart and kidneys location of bathrooms or 2nd toilet is as important as the house location itself. Its cold comfort having 2 toilets if I’d have to climb the stairs 20 times a day to reach it. Cause of death, heart attack brought on by attempting to reach the toilet for his weak kidneys. Though the obituary would be amusing.

Laughter is a comfort always, do you remember when dad wanted to watch the film but did not want to go to the toilet all the time during the film? Yea, I remember. So he threw mum’s poncho over himself and used an empty Polish apple juice bottle to pee into while he continued to watch the film. Luckily he’d only just finished drinking the Polish apple juice, perfect recycling no doubt. But he caught his willy in the bottle, so had go to hospital to have the Polish apple juice bottle removed. No I’m only joking, dad is stupid, but not that stupid.

He filled the bottle up, and then he enjoyed the film so much he even filled a 2nd Polish apple juice bottle up, with his cloudy apple juice pee. Then he fell asleep. When he woke up he got up too fast and tripped over the poncho tearing it. So he blamed Totoro the cat, he also thought he hadn’t drunk any Polish apple juice, he just thought it was cloudy apple variety. So dad picked up the 2 bottles, that had his own pee in, 4 litres worth and put them back in the fridge.

The next day we had carol singers. I did do carol singing once many a year ago,nearly 50 years ago in fact. Collecting for the Missionaries, but that’s another story. But as for today, when the carol singers came, dad had no change but thought they deserved something. Then he remembered the Polish apple juice which really IS nice. So dad gave the carol singers the 2 bottles of cloudy apple juice to share amongst them. And singing really is thirsty business, so they quickly downed the apple juice, which really was dad’s forgotten pee.

We never ever had carol singers ever again, we did wonder why, dad insisted it was because he’d been so generous they did not want to bother us ever again. And they never did, and dad never did pee in bottles either because in the Spring we found a new house with 2 bathrooms and an added downstairs toilet just for him. But that was cold comfort for the carol singers.

Peace and Goodwill to all Men or Christmas Revenge?

By

Michael Casey

Christmas is nearly upon us, its 14th Dec 2017 today, so we all think or start to think about Christmas. Though shoppers amongst you have done it all months ago. You ticked that box. You buy 40 crappy presents for your 40 crappy colleagues you work with, but would rather not. One of my sisters used to work in retail, or in a shop in real language. She always sent and received 40 presents, 40 years ago and more. It always baffled me why this custom went on. I quiet like Christmas cards, but the 40 crappy presents always seemed stupid to me, and it still does. I wrote a piece years ago reflecting in part on this, and the film The Bishop’s Wife which had Cary Grant as Dudley the angel and David Niven in it too. By the way if you can find The Moon’s a Balloon by David Niven its a great read.

My own attitude is always please yourself, if you don’t want to, then don’t do it. Peer pressure is a load of BS, if you are not strong enough to raise two fingers or one if you are American, to convention then you should not be allowed out at night on your own. Already I’ve divided my audience in half. Wouldn’t you rather put the money in a kitty and go to a bar, or out for a nice meal, instead of getting 40 crappy presents?

Nowadays we have the Mystery Santa, where 40 people buy one present each, so you all get one nice thing. Or you may just say only spent a quid or 5 quid, instead of the 40 or the 200 quid on rubbish. It can be more fun that way. The Mystery Santa way. As for cards, I prefer the Caravaggio style ones. Though nowadays as we all have computers ecards are a growing trend, and you can get them for free.

Back in 1978, yes 40 years ago when I started as a computer operator laptops were naked girls dancing, not a PC on your lap. And people used to be impressed when you said you worked in computers, IT was not even invented as a pretentious word then, and as for Ict, was that some form of yeast infection you went to the doctor with?

But I’ve digressed. Some people who’ll remain nameless deliberately give bad presents, things that should have been binned and not even donated to the Charity Shop. Is this a weird sense of humour? Like giving toilet paper to somebody who spends a lot of time in the toilet. Not caring or knowing the person has kidney problems, yes this really did happen. Though in today’s world of the Internet I get Funeral Plan offers from Birmingham Alabama because somewhere along the line, the title of The Butcher The Baker and The Undertaker comes up and so I get emails offering funeral plans. I also get Life Insurance offers too from USA. With my health status if I can be pretentious, nobody would cover me. Though Christmas and the New Year will bring many such offers. I am in Birmingham ENGLAND, so if you want a Test and Keep person I am your man, but you’d have to send it to Birmingham ENGLAND, as I told somebody in USA only last week.

Going back to presents, a pair of new oven gloves, large size would be really useful. So are any of you out there ready for Christmas Revenge, as they say Revenge is Best Served Cold, and Christmas is Cold after all. What would you send and to whom? A gross of red pens to your maths teacher, and in UK we say maths with an S on the end. A dictionary to your English teacher, though you’d glue the pages together. Enough of being called Moron or Cretin by the teacher, I think Brewer in my class nearly 50 years ago was called that. If I’m wrong Brewer you can always buy me a pint of Stella Artois. As for me in the same class I was always asked was I supporting the wall or asking a question, as I used to sit in the corner by the wall in 1B.

The best kind of revenge is success, so you visit your old school in a chauffeured Bentley and give cheap sweets to the teacher every Christmas and half terms. And a very large box of expensive chocolates to the janitor. You know the janitor will share his with the staff, as for the cheap sweets the janitor finds them in the rubbish unopened and takes them home. So the meek do inherit the earth, or sweets anyway.

Now cakes with curry powder in could be given, but that would be classed as poisoning, as tempting as it might be. Bastards do deserve their just rewards, but revenge is the Lords as they say. However Fr.Michael was a kind confessor, but as wicked as the devil if you crossed him. So when he heard about the toilet paper present he was incensed and he knew how to exact the Lords revenge.

On High Days and Holy Days there‘s lots of Holy Water to be thrown and people to be blessed. The incense is wafted everywhere too. Fr.Michael spotted Dennis sitting full of drink propped up in the last bench just by the door. Dennis had come in last as drunk as a bobbo, ready for his yearly blessing and Christmas look at the crib. Only Fr. Michael blessed everybody then decided to empty the last of the Holy Water pale over Dennis. Dennis was drenched. Later on Fr. Michael decided more incense was needed by the back door of the church to keep evil away, so Dennis was engulfed in incense.

Beer, Holy Water and Incense don’t mix,so Dennis puked. Earlier in the night his friends had said, Get It Down You, It will do you well. Now the Priest led the chorus from the Choir, Get it Up it Will do you Well, as Dennis puked. Fr.Michael’s aunt had kidney problems so when he heard that Dennis had given toilet paper as a present he was livid. He knew Dennis would never come to Confession, so Penance had come to him.

Well I’ll finish for today, and yes oven gloves are a useful present, if it were attached to a 4 bed house with two bathrooms, one downstairs now that would be perfect. Though Health really is the only thing worth having and I speak from experience, for as you all know I have total recall, but only for stories. So wherever you all are on the Map and it could be Singapore or Canada or any place in between, please be kind this Christmas and as many of the days of the rest of the year too.

Dead Good Bonding ©

By

Michael Casey

Well after yesterdays events today was much much nicer. I am as you know Home Alone with my teenage daughters while my wife has a well deserved holiday in Shanghai visiting her mum. Today while queuing at the store a man said “gesundheit” when somebody sneezed, so I obviously asked was he Jewish or American. He looked a bit like a tidied up version of ZZtop, “NO” he replied, “British as far back as Saxon times.” So you have good vocabulary and like History was my reply. He smiled and did not reach for any imaginary axe. On leaving I though he’d like the BBC4 program about Sir Francis Drake. So reciting what I’d learnt from the tv History docudrama I said Sir Francis was Pirate. Mr Saxon ZZtop replied, “Yes but in the Service of the Crown” So I just told him to watch the show on BBC4 catchup tv.

Now Mr Saxon ZZtop is the kind of person I love to bump into, I’m guessing but I bet he’s a History whizz too. Anyway he’d given me an idea for a story, maybe I’ll write it tomorrow. What did I buy in the store? Well I bought cheap pasta sauce on offer and mushrooms, also on offer. This is because my big daughter wanted to make pasta for herself, and me I decided to join in to save cooking for myself. My small daughter is on a sleepover with her little Indian friend, so with 2 of the girls in my life away for the night its very quiet here. Apart from Totoro our cat jumping around everywhere.

Once home my big daughter was talking to Shanghai, my wife was telling us about her day with grannie. There is an eight hour time difference, my wife is still a bit jet lagged as her flight was delayed 17hours in Paris. She had managed to escape Birmingham’s snow only for to get delayed by a bird strike in Paris. Now she was telling us of her nice Shanghai time, while we prepared pasta.

Me an my big daughter ended up cooking together, it was not planned, I just wanted to make sure the mushrooms were cooked nicely before they and sliced chorizo were added to the cooked pasta. My daughter thought it was nice. I also tried the wife’s new cooking knives, the one’s with the Pac-man like figures on the side. I avoided cutting my fingers off twice, otherwise they are great knives. Then you cook the unwashed mushrooms with the chorizo. My daughter was disturbed by the lack of washing but my view is if you are cooking them so hot any germs will be killed. Remember my old Uncle Patrick used to collect mushrooms by cow pats in his fields for breakfast.

So we had our pasta and I poured a jar of on offer pasta sauce all over it, all in all a nice bonding exercise as we cooked and ate food. Though if anybody uses the word bonding to me I really would call them Pretentious. Afterwards my big daughter helped me tidy up some old papers I’ve had festering in my drawers for years. We had a bin,keep and tear session.

Now as you all know my daughter hopes to go to Medical school in 2019, so while we had a bin, keep and tear session through my old papers my daughter listened to some music. Well actually it was not music, it was a podcast. As I’ve told her she must do at least do 2 hours study a day, even on a rest day or holiday. 2 hours at least, 8 hours at least on study days. It’s here own choice to be a Doctor, so that’s the standard.

I impersonate my own dad and say in his voice “Michael, I have no education, I don’t know what to tell you to chose, do what you like,but DO YOUR BEST” I tell her that was what my dad said to me so I repeat it down the generations to her. My dad would have been a teacher if he did not have to leave school at 14 and then become a blacksmith in Rathmore County Kerry Ireland. So I tell my daughter she has to keep on studying that hard, but if she wants to work in a sweet shop I’ll agree with her. She should just do what she loves.

What was on the podcast? Well it was different with lots of machine sound effects. As we sorted though paper and binned or kept it, we listened to a medical podcast. It was a Post Mortem, yes a Post Mortem. Luckily there were no pictures or I’d have puked all over our living room carpet. Together we sorted paper, like undoing a jigsaw to put in a bin, while we listened to an actual post mortem on a podcast. It was very interesting, the lead doctor was a very jolly sounding woman.

Occasionally they stopped to saw and drill. We heard the head come off and a brain being taken out, breastbone being removed and broke. I had that done when I had my heart operation 3 years ago. We heard about Kidney problems too, so obviously that interested me. My GFR is 32 now, ask your own doctor what that means, its not good. So I drink citrus drinks now, as I read it helps.

It was a nice look into my daughter’s future, as she want’s to do Pathology. The doctor on the podcast actually said HE had learnt most from a pathology room. I just remembered when I bought my house years ago my lawyer was the Coroner for the area, he rung up somebody and asked didn’t they have a phone in the Pathology room. I can also remember looking from his office window at a butcher’s shop, little did I then know The Butcher, The Baker and The Undertaker would be my first book a couple of years later. And now my daughter want’s to be a butcher, a “pathologist” though surgeons are called butchers in the medical world.

Do you think God plans all this or does he just start the ball rolling? Well me and my daughter finished my paper autopsy as we listened to the real thing on the podcast. Luckily she does not play them on the speaker when she’s on the bus to 6th form. She did say she’s love an autopsy on me, when I’m dead, she’s not going to attack me with a knife. I said I just want to be left alone and buried, Trinity Rd Church next door to the Sikh Temple is my chosen spot over the road from the steel works where my dad used to work. However the graveyard is closed and my wife would probably want cremation as that’s the Chinese way, they have 1,000,000 deaths a year. So my daughter’s friends would cut me up, before my wife would cremate me. Then I’d be put in some “ashtray”. But at least my daughter would be doing the job she loves. Either that or she’ll be a Maths teacher instead.

When Santa Lost His Ho Ho Ho ©

By

Michael Casey

Christmas is a time of Love and Cheer and too many drinks of beer. For Santa its a time of giving and comes after Thanksgiving, he circles the Earth sprinkling Love and Laughter and Hope or the hereafter. But something was wrong, there was a stink and there was a pong, because Santa had lost his Ho Ho Ho. Santa was Ho Ho Ho less, he couldn’t even say God Bless when he tucked the Elves up in bed. Rudolf was sick with worry and knew he’d have to hurry, for without his Ho Ho Ho the sleigh just would not go.

Rudolf flew to the North Pole to ask the Polar Bears what to do, but they had hardly a clue. The Polar Bears suggested Rudolf asked the Eskimos in Alaska. So Rudolf flew alone to ask the Eskimos in Anchorage what to do, but even they did not have a clue. So Rudolf had an ice lolly with the Huskies, they were always kind and playful, especially Vincent their leader who loved leading, that way he did not have to look at another dog’s behind as they pulled their sleigh.

Vincent said try Lapland, so Rudolf went back to Finland to find Santa’s Ho Ho Ho. Rudolf looked high and low and even places where a reindeer should never go. Rudolf met a BigFoot hidden in the trees who was quietly having a wee. Rudolf followed the yellow snow and asked politely where he should go to find Santa’s Ho Ho Ho. BigFoot was taken aback, how did you find me? Rudolf explained I have a Red Nose I can find anything, but yellow pee is a give away for a reindeer such as me. BigFoot blushed and scratched his head, it really was time for bed. But before he went to bed this is what he said. My friend is Nessy the Loch Ness Monster, if you ask her then maybe she’ll be able to help you find Santa’s Ho Ho Ho.

Rudolf thanked BigFoot, telling him to eat more peas and that would help disguise his wees in the snow. And with a glow Rudolf was gone, high high in the air, almost on a stairway to heaven, though for Santa it was the opposite, for Santa had lost his Ho Ho Ho. Rudolf flew to Bonnie Scotland, he got lost and stopped by a bonnie wee house, it was Alex Salmond’s. So Rudolf started speaking in Russian and doing Cossack dancing and all manner of prancing. Alex came out with a mug of hot chocolate for Rudolf, he spoke in Russian too, he could go along with any jest, especially when just wearing his best string vest.

Alex was mortified when he heard that Santa had lost his Ho Ho Ho, so he phoned his best friend Nick Robinson the Radio4 morning gossip show host. Nick Robinson dropped the phone such was his shock, Christmas with out Santa and his sleigh and no Ho Ho Ho. Nick shed a tear, then he remembered he had a friend, not just Alex Salmon his besty but Olga Takesometimeoff.

Olga Takesometimeoff was the dinner lady at the BBC, she pushed the tea trolley for 70 years. The bosses always said she should Take some time off, so that became her name, Olga Takesometimeoff. Now she knew everybody, their mums and dads and grandparents too, everybody told her everything. So when a tear stained Nick Robinson came to her trolley she took one look at him and slapped his face hard knocking his glasses off. This is the BBC, WE never cry, we will fight them on the beaches, we will never never surrender. I said that to Churchill, and look what did he do? He used MY words in a speech. With that she explained that she knew the private phone number of the Russian Ambassador in London.

So Rudolf armed with the phone number rung the Russian Ambassador, and asked for his help in finding the Loch Ness Monster. The Ambassador said he’d help as a special favour to Olga Takesometimeoff, and to Alex Salmond now that he worked for RT. So it was arranged that a Russian mini sub would sneak into Loch Ness and find Nessy for Rudolf. The Royal Navy were livid when the American’s told them what was planned.

The American’s listen to everybody’s phones after all. But Olga Takesometimeoff may have a Russian sounding name but really her name was Drake-Nelson, Olga Drake-Nelson. So she did ring up the 1st Sea Lord who was her grandson. So it would be a chance for the Royal Navy to play me and my shadow with the Russians, testing some new kit Q had invented. Yes Q really does exist, he is not just a made up person in James Bond. Santa had given Q a Chemistry set as a child, Rudolf said it was dangerous, and Q burnt his eyebrows off. So Q went to school with painted on eyebrows that his sister had drawn on, just like Michael Casey the fat silver haired writer in shades did.

So the Russian’s found the Loch Ness Monster with the Royal Navy watching their every bubble. Rudolf flew low and landed on the Russian sub which surfaced so Nessy and Rudolf could chat. Meanwhile in London the Russian ambassador met for a quiet drink with the foreign secretary in the Crown. The British were so angry they make the Russians pay for the Stella Artois, they did pay for the nibbles though. Both sides had to perform the pantomime that is Diplomacy. But both men were relieved that Nessy was found, and with the help of God and 2 foreign navies Santa’s Ho Ho Ho could be found.

They had tears in their eyes, but the Russian ambassador gave the foreign secretary a fur hat as an early Christmas present. The foreign secretary gave a copy of The Butcher The Baker and The Undertaker by Michael Casey to the Russian. Is this a punishment? Joked the Russian. You should have Mr Casey on RT reading his stories said the foreign secretary poker faced, to be honest he was not a fan of Alex Salmond, Christmas or no Christmas. Putting his new Russian fur hat on his head the British foreign secretary left the Crown pub, he did grab the last of the nibbles though.

Nessy had lived for ages in the Loch so she had seen Santa Ho Ho Hoing through the sky for many a year, a 1000 years at least. What Nessy knew was that it was the Love of the World kept Santa going. But not just the Love but, the need of Love. So in fact what Santa needed was not Love but the opposite. He needed a challenge, Norad tracking him was not enough, the world had grown complacent. Santa needed the world’s biggest challenge to put fire in his brimstone, to make his cheeks glow, to make his chest swell.

In Heaven Mum called Saint Michael to her side, you saved the Russian spaceman after you saved Mrs Murphy. Saint Michael bowed. Would you be prepared to stand in for Santa Claus? I am humbled, but there is only one Santa. Mum smiled, Michael had such humility. But you were at Stalingrad, you helped stop the Nazi filth. Saint Michael blushed, he thought nobody knew. I have a request for you Michael, can you be by Santa’s side and step in and save the day if you have to? To serve is to obey.

Santa saddled up the sleigh, Saint Michael was in the back invisible to his eyes. Rudolf said a prayer and the reindeer leapt from the highest mountain of the North Pole. The sleigh dropped like a stone. They would have crashed straight into Nanook of the North’s igloo, but somewhere in the world a child’s lonely disparate prayer went up. I just wish I could see Santa before I die, even if I got no present, not even one grain of rice.

Now that was the kind of prayer Santa needed to bring back his Ho Ho Ho, the sleigh rose and rose high into the sky. The red rosy cheeks glowed redder than Rudolf’s nose. Saint Michael kissed his sword, he knew he’d be needing it where the were going. Where in the world would a child long for love, for a grain of rice, for the chance to see Santa.

North Korea where love of God had been replaced by the love of war, the love of nuclear weapons. The love of fear, the land of the note book, all led by crooked power, not the power of love, but dictatorship from above. So the reindeer flew without fear, Saint Michael drew his sword, Santa was on a mission, it was Stalingrad all over again. Evil must be defeated.

The reindeer zigged and zagged as missiles flew trying to knock Santa from the sky. Saint Michael batted them away, he diced and spliced the evil North Korean missiles away. Santa Ho Ho Hoed the missiles away, a force field of love and laughter. He had his sack and they would never sack him. This was his job, his future for all eternity, he had Saint Michael by his side. The reindeer could feel the child’s cries, it was coming from the deep. In the deep the metro system. Hidden away in a secret jail next to the hidden nuclear bombs was a child jailed and chained to a wall for having a pretty picture of a Nativity in his pocket.

The reindeer flew straight down the stairwell bullets flying at them from the evils guards. Saint Michael spread his wings, Santa ho ho hoed, Rudolf’s nose was as red as Mercury. And then Saint Michael sang just as he had sung in Stalingrad, Ave Maria.

The sleigh landed on a platform and Saint Michael split the cell door in two with one swipe of his sword. Chained to a wall a child was dying, clutching the colour photo of the Nativity in his hand. Saint Michael broke the chains with his bare hands. Santa cried and his tears fell as grains of rice. The child said thank you as he died in Saint Michael’s arms. Saint Michael wrapped his wing around the child.

I bring Peace and Goodwill to all men said Santa as he remounted his sleigh. And I have a message from Stalingrad to North Korea said Saint Michael. So as Santa flew back into the sky to continue on his Christmas journey, Saint Michael shared the Stalingrad spirit. Every single nuclear weapon in North Korean was hit by his sword, and they all exploded 300 metres underground.

Carry the child’s body to heaven Saint Michael left a white trail behind him. Grains of rice, that Christmas rice fell from the sky onto North Korea. And in the distance above the muffled sounds of nuclear explosions underground, you could hear Santa going Ho Ho Ho, as he and Saint Michael had the last laugh.

Honesty is the Best Policy ©

By

Michael Casey

First of all a big thank you to the Polish shop around the corner, I lost some money in the shop and they saved it for me till I realised and came back. Its the new sticky slimy notes, plastic notes we are now cursed with in England. I also have too much rubbish in my coin purse. So I have now got rid of the rubbish so I hope I won’t lose any more money in future. So once again a very big thank you to the girls in the Polish shop.

So events have provided me with a source idea to talk about. I could talk about pain, but it bores you all so I won’t tonight. How honest are you? As honest as the day is long? Or are you forgetful, deliberately. Being the son of Kerry parents I suppose I’m very honest. I’m of an age where I feel guilty if I see a Policeman, we do have Police and Lawyers in the family too. And my mum always used to say “with the help of God and 2 Policemen”.

So if you find a wallet would you keep the money, or try and trace the owner, or hand it in to a bank should there be a bank card inside. Or would you head for Amazon and buy as much as you could with the card. Sadly I know that some people would head for Amazon. In the past nobody would even dream of it now people are jealous and can and would be tempted.

If you borrow a quid for the last bus home would you seek out that person at the bus stop next time to repay them? Or would you think they were stupid to help you? When does it does not matter become it does matter? Is 3 quid the threshold at which you must repay the loan, or is it 10 or 20 or 30. Or never because they are a fool and you have taken advantage of them?

When you meet an old friend do you lie to them and say you meant to ring them but you never did. Its 5 years since you were last in contact. Do we all casually lie about this and that? Only the old friend now lives around the corner for 3 years, and has seen you pass by for years. So you weren’t really friends at all. You were perhaps lying to each other.

We lie about our jobs and our promotion prospects, about where we live and how great our boyfriend is. We say our wife loves us to bits, when in fact she ran off with the bingo called 18 months ago. And on it goes. Till there is no truth left at all.

If we were both blind we could lie and say we were black, or Indian, or tall and thin because we could not contradict each other, because we literally could not see the truth. As my dad use to say of Politicians, he couldn’t be honest even if you paid him. So lying becomes the norm and we do all become Politicians.

They say Honesty is its own reward, or God will save the world for the sake of one Just man. In the end you really do need a good memory if you want to lie, so just how good is your memory. I have total recall, but only for stories, otherwise I forget where my keys are, or what I had for breakfast. I do know where the paracetamol and the Movelat pain killers are, I sadly can never forget that these past 5 years. But I have no need of lies.

This means my tolerance for liars, no matter how small is zero. Liars tend to lick their lips as they lie, and can never look you in the eye. Watch out for that, and see if I am right. Remember too in my hotel days we’d meet thousands of people, my guess is 100,000 people I spoke to during my 3 years there.So I used to be able to read a person in 20 seconds. Now I’m not as good, but don’t lie to me, as you could end up in a story.

Now I’m going to bed so I’ll say goodnight. Or am I lying and I’m going out drinking and gambling with my North Korean Army Girl defector? Well as you cannot see me licking my lips, or looking away from your gaze you will never know. Not unless you see a fat silver haired guy in shades snuggling up to a North Korean Army Girl defector here in Birmingham at our own German Market. But I can hear laughter from my Shanghai wife, even though she is is bed in Shanghai as I talk to you. And no I am not lying, honest folks, that’s the truth.

Perfect Passwords for 2018 ©

By

Michael Casey

They encourage you to change your Passwords every 3 months, I of course change mine as often as I change my socks and pants. Every 2 months, that way nobody comes near enough to steal my Passwords the smell is so overpowering. It protects my Password, why not try it for yourselves. You have already, good, I’ll just open a few more windows, the dog has fallen over and the cat has leapt out of the window even though I live on the 19th floor.

Passwords should be easy to remember but hard to forget, no not the inverse of my writing, you cheeky people. Little do you know I use your names as Passwords. Of course I have an easy password so the NSA or North Korea can hack me again without leaving Egg Fried Rice all over my keyboard, and my password is nice and simple:- Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch which as you all know is my local bus station here in Birmingham.

I used to have a password to celebrate the love I had for an old boss, BigFatBastardIHopeYouBurninHell, they say that phrases are easier to remember after all. Nowadays I have, GivemethePainKillersQuick as a favourite password. Along with, DADDYNeedstoPEE, or BloodyUselessKidneys are amongst the revolving passwords I use.

Passwords can be words of joy such as, FrenchKisswithGeography as a way of remembering your first boyfriend or girlfriend. NoodlesMYBaby is another over used Password. PrawnAgainNoodles does the rounds too as a password. NOSaladERver can be a good Password. HEARTattackwhen is another favourite.

All your bad habits can be used as passwords. Only people who really know you well will have an inkling about what you are on about. KimlovesDonald is a favourite with the NSA janitors, its the only way they can access the toilet paper store. Donald10000DegreeSuntan is a favourite with North Korean hackers. Really when all the nastiness is over they can all do the Degree course in Japan for Gaming. In fact the son of a friend of my wife’s is doing that course Computer Gaming. He may or may not be visiting in the New Year so I’ll have the chance to persuade or bore him with the idea of using my stories as Games. Then no doubt he’ll change his Password to, BoringOldWhiteHairedF

But it proves my point, a sentence is a funny Password and easier to remember and much harder to hack.

I did have I Love Dan Brown as a Password but my daughter guessed it in a nanosecond. Obviously I don’t love Dan Brown, because he is a man and although I don’t mind people being Gay, I am not. Dan Brown would have to be a North Korean Army Girl before I would even look at him. I can hear my wife laughing in Shanghai as I write this. Also as good as the Film versions of his stories are, I think he cannot write at all. Make money yes, but write no. I can tell you what HIS next Password will be, FATBIRMINGAMLOSERWITHWHITEHAIR

Me I think I can write, 30 years worth, but without somebody or anybody opening that door and allowing oxygen to my words, then I’ll just be the fat silver haired writer in shades from Birmingham England. FOREVER UNDISCOVERED could be my Eternal Password.

The point about Dan Brown is that you can have a reverse Password, something you hate can become your password, such as ILOVECABBAGE could be a child’s password. IHATEKIDS is the Password that removes the wheel clamp from Santa’s Sleigh. Nobody is going to interfere with Rudolf because of the IHATEKIDS Password.

I’ve just remembered I was in Killarney once with my aunty Delia and one of her many friends was the Tangny family who ran the water treatment plant for the town, and had a pony and trap coach. This may have been Christmas 1973. There were very high fences about because the deer can jump so high. I was going to make a joke about Rudolf but my aunt kicked me under the table. Why, because one of the family was called Rudolf. Now only I know this story, so any passwords that use part of this story could never be broken.

Yes I know I write so much that I could give away a Password,but then again have you read all the 1,200,000 plus words, with all the jumbled up possibilities. But far far worse than that what would the NSA or North Korea find on my computer or websites? Or even in my books? OK, I’ll tell you.I have a picture of Donald Trump on his hands and knees in the Oval Office along with Hillary Clinton. They are both fully clothed and there is a caption saying “WHERE IS OUR INTEDGRITY” Standing next to them is a naked FBI boss, and there is another caption “SEARCH ME I HAVEN’T A CLUE”

Well I think that’s enough for today, events in today’s news in UK gave me the idea for Passwords. But as you know anything can give me an idea, such as wind, either in the sky or beneath the sheets, so consider yourselves lucky that TODAY was my PASSWORD.

Donald Trump, Alcohol and Me (c)

By

Michael Casey

What do Donald and Me have in common, nothing. I am a liberal with a small l, I think for myself and would never join anything. As Groucho Marx said any club that would have me as a member isn't worth joining.

Alcohol is nice, it's relaxing. I've never been much of a drinker and nowadays I probably drink 12 pints a day, sorry 12 pints a YEAR.

I grew up watching our Alcoholic lodgers pissing their lives up a wall. If you see that at close hand you will never be a drinker. Wednesday May 23rd 1979 was a day I'll never forget. One of our lodgers died. I had just got  out of bed as I was on the night shift when Mary Madden, Andy's wife came knocking on the back door. Something was wrong with Andy her husband. He was having a heart attack.

So I pumped his chest, threw the furniture out of the way, then ran up the entry to bang on a neighbour's door. They had a phone, they were the Dixons. One son became a Policeman, a Sgt. Dixon just like in the tv series. But at that moment I just shouted at Mr Dixon to call for an ambulance.

Then I went back to the living room and pumped some more, I could hear a groaning. Then I had to run though the house opening up the doors so the ambulance people could come in. They had the mask and ball pump  thing. But Andy was dead. It was then , and only then that I cried.

I watched as they loaded Andy up and took away his body. Then I had to take Mary to our house I think, to calm her down. My brother arrived home, I told him what had happened. Then I met my mother in the street and told her too.

Mary Madden slept on our front room sofa that night, as she did not want to stop in the flat she rented from us next door.

I was 20, not yet 21 when this happened. Not a nice thing to witness and be part of at such an age. Though worse things have  happened before and after that event. But those are other stories.

Andy was buried a week or so later, the Irish club took up a collection and buried him. he had had 3 or four heart attacks prior to the fatal one on the living room floor over the pallin from our house. His wife did not want to stay so left us and went to live somewhere else.

Andy was harmless and loved his cat, they had had no children. Mary had been a cleaner down the hospital. I think I saw her once again 10 years later in the street, but that's another story too which has just flashed into my mind. Like I said I have total recall for stories, even the ones I wish I could forget.

The moral of the story, Be Prepared, learn CPR, which I did 22years later while working at CPNEC Birmingham. Though Be ready for tears, as 9 out of 10 CPR patients die I read somewhere. My own dad had his heart attack in 1996, but he survived because of my brother's CPR skills, and Almighty God Himself did intervene, you can read it in Padre Pio and Me  which can be found on the Internet.

Now as for Andy Madden, he was harmless, a lot of Alcoholics are. But a life is wasted if you don't know when to stop. Another of our lodgers went to visit dad, and what did the drunk demand? Have you got  a pound for a pint? And my dad was lying in his hospital bed. Having just beaten Death itself, dad was 12 weeks in hospital he was that bad. This former lodger can still be seen 20 years later drinking, when he should just sign the Pledge. Or join the AA.

With this background to Alcohol you can see why I think self control is always the best path. and if you cannot control yourself then just give it up.

I'll finish with God's Irony, I spent 21 years working for ACNielsen as it became and what did we do? We did Market Research into Alcohol Sales. Great People, and all enjoyed their Beer. But they all worked very hard.

So enjoy a drink this Christmas, make sure you make love to somebody you love, not just somebody who looks good through the Lens of an Alcoholic Drink. Obviously It won't be me, I don't look good, Alcohol or No Alcohol required.

Snowflakes Sing, We don’t Need No Education ©

By

Michael Casey

Why do you have Education? A starter for 10 for all challenged Universities. We have education to Empower people’s minds so they know More and can do More, for themselves and for Society at large. Now I want all the clever clogs out there to write a 1000 word essay on the subject using my Premise as a starting point. You can agree or intellectually shed my Premise, which sounds a bit kinky to me, but I am just a humble writer. I am not a University student, I’m be barred no doubt for being fat silver haired and wearing shades, or have 14 books to my name on Amazon.

So why do you go to University? To lose your virginity in different city far away from the preying eyes of your mum and your family? To come out as Gay far away from the preying eyes of your mum and family? To change your religion far away from the preying eyes of your family? To give up pretending to follow your religion? Just to believe in Yourself and nobody else, real or imaginary? To find out the real meaning of STD? Your teachers at grammar school said, Stop, Think,Do or STD for short. It was only once at University that the College nurse told you that you had a STD, Sexually Transmitted Disease.

At University you discover the grass is greener, the opportunities are more and greener that your little village in Wales. The grass, the Skunk certainly was greener, or rather stronger and gave you massive headaches. One brand of Skunk a right hemisphere head ache, and another brand a left hemisphere head ache. But at least at University you got plenty of exercise dancing all night thanks to the plentiful supply of E, and other legal highs you can buy online, or down the pub.

Now should any Snowflakes have read this so far they may be shocked, or saying their University was DULL, and wish they had the SO, or Substance Opportunities specified in this piece so far. An it is now that I come to the purpose of this piece.What I want to talk about is the PEACE snowflakes DEMAND at University. Call me a fat silver haired writer in shades, from Bloody Birmingham if you like, but don’t you go to university to DISTURBE the PEACE in your mind and intellect and LET IT GROW,let it blossom, let it grow, as Eric Clapton used to sing when he put the drugs down after rehab all those years ago.

I’m black, don’t use the word white. I’m tall don’t use the word short.I’m a drunk in the gutter, just call my alcoholically challenged. I am looking at the stars, just call me Oscar Wilde. I’m a thief, call me a liberator of consumer societies’ greed. My essay is late,it’s the tutor’s fault. I failed my exams, it’s somebody else’s fault,I may sue the University for my lack of future prospects and earnings potential.

And on it goes, boring the pants off the rest of society. Going to University is not a right. Now 7 times as many go to Uni as it’s called than used to, and still people bitch about the fees. If I had one child I could spoil it, but 7? So Snowflakes cannot do basic Maths. If the demand is 7 times greater how do you pay for it. It is a balance, just as I’m sat here in a big warm coat so I can save putting the heat on till the kids come home. When they come home the heat goes on and my winter coat comes off. So Dear Snowflakes how should Universities be paid for? You can write another 1000 word essay on how to pay for it. And don’t bore me with the old chestnuts, I want real answers.

As Snowflakes read this they hate me, but they should start by hating themselves. They are like the fools blocking Fire Escapes, saying its their right to hang out anywhere they like. Or the murderers who lock fire doors just in case thieves try to break in. And yes 20 years ago I worked somewhere where my life was less important than potential thief, so the fire door was locked and shuttered.

But to my point, a Snowflake is a self appointed Judge Jury and Executioner. Only their Narrow point of view matters. All dissent is shouted down and demonstrated down. You CANNOT is their byword. Old Obama used to say YES we CAN,but Snowflakes say the very opposite. The Snowflake code is as insidious and evil as it is wrong.

At University, yes get drunk, lose your virginity, and abandon Faith if you want. Its up to you, you can do whatever you want to do its up to you, is a line form an old John Denver song. University is a place where your mind meets the universe, and no I’m not talking about LSD, or even Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds, which was a line from an old Beatles song.

University is where you are challenged to THINK for yourself, not to be brainwashed by Snowflakes. At University you have a banquet, a buffet of bewildering ideas. You suck and taste all of them, or none of them. You can see if what your Mamma taught you, is right and good. If you don’t like something you can say NO, just say NO as somebody else said. You don’t go to University to put blinkers on, to put a space suit or a deep sea diving suit on. You don’t go to University to follow a strict maze. University is being naked, totally naked in a sea of learning. University is being naked in a snowstorm, then lying down and making snow angels.

Snowflakes, real snowflakes are for having fun with, for making snowballs with and having fun, laughter and fun and then hot drinks in a warm bath, or in front of the fire in the University bar. If you allow Snowflakes, the pretend ones to dictate what you can and cannot do or see or hear then you are not in a place of learning but in a concentration camp of the mind. Even Prisoners waiting for execution have their free imagination, they can fly to high heaven before they die. But if Snowflakes are allowed to get their way all students everywhere are not free men, they are just a number.

Hello Singapore

December 28, 2017

Hello Singapore, glad you found me. I don't know who you are. My guess is that you are a bored hotel worker on the night shift.

all my readers all over the world may be just that.

I'll be clearing off my sites and starting afresh in the new year.

Forgive the typos as I write very fast and don't spend too much time proof reading.

Everything is first draft all 1.200.000 words I've written.

Apart from, well I'll let you work that out.

I'd love to make some money for my family before I die.

3 years ago I had my triple heart bypass which I discovered 6 months later was a quadruple.

My arthritis comes and goes and really hurts.

and my kidneys are bad enough to send me to the bathroom 20 times a day.

Then i wake up every 2 hours like clockwork at night, otherwise I'd be swimming.

Apart from that I have my words which keep me sane.

If you see me in the street you don't see the pain within.

And some days are much better than others.

And there are 100s of millions is far far worse pain, I just bitch more eloquently about it.

That's why I tell my daughter if she does become a doctor only Pain Relief is of any value.

Now dear lonely receptionist in Singapore that's the other side of the coin.

I do tell my Shanghai wife I'll find a North Korean Army girl for myself, she laughs when I say this.

Perhaps I could be the next leader of North Korea and make love and not war.



 

Start the Year with a Bang ©

By

Michael Casey

Well 2017 is nearly gone, this will be the first piece of 2018. It has been an eventful and painful year in my family. Some of it I’ll share the rest will never be revealed. My sister’s car was in a crash and is a total write off, it was towed away never to return. Luckily she was not inside it, or she’d be dead. It was locked and parked and stationary, and she was inside the warmth of her own home. There was a loud bang in the street and that was the end of her car. Smashed and squashed into a lamppost.

It may have been God’s way of telling her to slow down as she is always busy. It has been very icy in Birmingham and where we live those roads are always lasts to defrost. Luckily our trip to my brother’s for the Christmas family gathering was event free just days earlier was event free. Apart from the lead being stolen from his bay window. His dog had frightened the thieves away but they had returned the next day to finish stealing the lead at 5am or so in the morning.

So a crash and a theft. At least I managed to get to Mass at Christmas and today. Though I’ve just had 2 days of back agony. I had a bath at 2.30am in an attempt to sooth my back, that kind of worked. I told my Shanghai wife I need a Korean masseuse, but that’ll only happen if Kim joins a K-Pop band and there are 2,000,000 Korean Army Girls looking for a new occupation.

I know this is classed a Politically incorrect on many levels, but people should grow up. On the BBC Radio we have a comedy show with Samantha as an assistant. And the guests make remarks about her. So some Politically Correct people complained to the BBC. Guess what, Samantha does not even exist, she is a comic device.

Just as Boris and Lech are comic devices is some of my stories. Though I was in the Polish shop and somebody said to me that Boris must be Ukrainian as he was so stupid. And Lech might really be Russian, as he can drink only 13 bottles of vodka, but if he were Polish he’d wouldn’t drink anything except milk. I hope you now all understand what a comic device is. Pathos too is self explanatory, but that might divert into fantasy, which is not allowed in today’s all too PC world.

True but you won’t believe this there was once somebody at the office where I worked who had fantasies about me, I never knew,one of the lads told me on strict condition I never revealed it. It was a long time ago. I was amazed, I could not even speak. Yes it was a woman, Boris I’ll take that saucer of milk away from you if you say a word. Lech you can stop smirking or I’ll tell everybody your secret, I’ve never ever heard of maths text books being used that way, you are such as naughty naughty boy.Let’s just say we’ll discover how good his multiplication is in nine months time, or it might just be his self control.

Where was I, sat here in front of the computer wincing, wincing not mincing Boris, there is a difference. Wincing with a bit of pain, no its not a metaphor Lech, can you just leave the room, and take that Maths teacher with you. What’s that on your lips Lech, lipstick, oh it’s not yours its the Maths’ teachers. You were sharing. Looks like you were plastering each others’ face. Oh, you are a builder. Good, you look as if you are building a family judging the lipstick marks. Here let me throw this maths book after you. He’s such a nuisance Lech is.

I really have forgotten where I was now, so I’ll have a pee and come back refreshed. Just had some lemon drink, its supposed to be good for the kidneys. I just remembered I spotted a site which had 11,000 views of a book of mine. They have not sent me a penny, if I won some money I could help my sister buy a new car now she has nothing as it was destroyed.



Is where the ebooks can be bought, just in case you have all forgotten.

I can hear a jingling and a jangling, Santa is not stuck up the chimney, its the cat Totoro. She did not come home pregnant, just full of fleas, so my wife has washed her and we put a new flea collar on her along with some flea vaccine. She’s drying out sat in the front window, rather like an Amsterdam prostitute. Boris and Lech you can both stop smirking, go outside and read some more maths books, and Boris where is your History homework, I want that 3000 word essay before you can go out drinking in the New Year. Don’t give me that ice hockey look, you have 4 hours, so just do it. You’re Polish, so make it 5000 words, Polish workers are so fast and hard working. Remember I have a Chinese wife, so you can guess the standards she wants.

Well while Lech plays with his tables, he’s a waiter too, as well as a builder and lover of all things to do with multiplication, so I’ll go and have some Polish ham and Polish mayonaisey. Boris doesn’t really hate me for making him do his History homework, he’s a PhD now. All the girls think PhD is a metaphor for something. But Boris Johnson now HE does hate me, everybody thinks I’m really talking about HIM. Theresa May starts Cabinet meetings by reading my latest piece out, just to annoy him. That’s why there is all the banging on tables in cabinet and 1922 meetings, they are all laughing at Boris.

Ok, I’m only joking but I’ll make a prediction, Boris will never be PM, because Boris is just a comic device in my imagination, and Lech would be speechless without him. Happy New Year my readers the world over, in all 26 plus countries, please spread my comic words like butter and maybe I’ll sell some ebooks, finally.

Feel Good Things ©

By

Michael Casey

I’ve just seen the film Glee 2 on tv, it made me laugh, in fact some of it was so funny I was saying “classic” as I watched I. There are many films that give us the feel good factor. You can pick your own, such as The Thomas Crown Affair, the 1968 version is just one of my favourite films, and the music The Windmills of Your Mind is my favourite song. You would have no doubt have guessed that already if you’ve read any of my 1300 plus short pieces.

So what gives us those feel good moments? A kiss from your mum when you scrapped your knee. Making up with your sister or brother, realising they really are the “best”. A letter from a loved one, lost long and now found at the bottom of a trunk when you are tidying up. Old photos discovered in an attic. A collection of contraceptives you never used, because you never could get a girlfriend.

Or because she said nothing could ever come between you, so you had 12 children, but you were both so happy. Now aged 88, you were all alone, apart from the 10 children and 20 grandchildren and 12 great grandchildren. She had kept the unopened contraceptives at the bottom on her sewing box, because your love had stitched you together. So never never never would she use those things. Now she had died in your arms a smile on her lips. Feel good things.

A meal even a post funeral meal is a feel good moment, because the food is great, and the memories shared are even better. I can remember the food after my mum’s funeral, it was laid out on the snooker table in the Irish club opposite the undertakers. All the colours of my mother’s life were laughed about and shared, how she had played the game of family life with all the events rolling over the baize green of life. She had loved us so much and worked so very hard.

My dad nearly died maybe of a broken heart just 8 weeks later, its in Padre Pio and Me by Michael Casey, you can find it on the Internet. Now nearly 16 years ago I can remember my dad’s own funeral, the food spread again over the baize of the snooker table. This time I held a daughter in my arms. My dad had found me a wife and a new job and then after eating his breakfast and asking for a 2nd egg he left us. As the calendar has almost reached the anniversary the events spring to mind but its a feel good memory for me. I remember my aunty saying just how pleased my mum, her sister would have been to see me married and holding a baby in my arms. I can remember telling John Lennon to eat up and have some of the loads of food that were available. John Lennon was the name of one of our lodgers, he was Mrs Moylan’s lodger but he moved to us when they moved house. Mrs Moylan had said to mum “I see you’ve got the Beatle”. John Lennon lived with us for a few years, then he died in his room, in Birmingham.

These memories, these stories are the things that have made up my life. A life of stories, listening to my dad and then reading stories by the yard and then watching films in their 1000s. Happy memories, fond memories. It’s our memories which last the longest. They are things we should treasure. When you visit old friends its the stories that make the day.

It’s not Gloria’s great cooking, and she is such a great cook. Or Boris’ dynamite vodka that his Ukrainian family always bring home. Its the love between us, between Ukraine and Poland and even Russia that unite. Sure we say each other is rubbish, but that’s because we can, because we are family, we are friends.

The stories we share make us feel happy even if Boris burns the food. Its the laughter, like when Lech went out in the snow to pooh when you were all out hunting and were in the tent for the night. Only his bum got frostbite, but he had left the tent in the dark and fell over after he’s dropped his pants. Then none of you wanted to waste vodka to rub on his bum to defrost it. Georgie just sprinkled a bit, like a priest blessing his frost bitten bum. Only Georgie loved to smoke Cuba cigars, and while he was “blessing” Lech’s frost bitten bum Georgie managed to drop his cigar and set fire to Lech’s bum.

Poland, Ukraine and Russia united to grab him and dunk him in the snow to extinguish the flames. Lech was allowed a full bottle of vodka to himself as apology. But really the Polish,Ukrainian and Russian cousins laughing so much they could not drink for at least 10 minutes. You can imagine this is a memory that’ll last a lifetime as will the scorch marks on Lech’s bum. Thankfully they had brought 12 bottles of vodka for their weekend hunting trip. They did bring 40 cans of Stella Artois too, just for variety.

Laughter is the best memory we have, so please please please remember that,and when you are old share those laughs. I do have a scar on my own bum, yes really, but that’s another story from 50 years ago. But if you ask my sister she’ll tell you all about it, price, one bottle of Russian , one bottle of Polish and one bottle of Ukrainian vodka. We can give it to the priest to bribe him to make shorter sermons.

Mocking the Afflicted ©

By

Michael Casey

I had to get up early today for a blood test, a fasting one too, which meant I could not eat after 10pm last night. As you can imagine I was starving by the time I got home after the blood test. I had to walk a bit to in the cold which set off my pains. Ok, I won’t bore you with that, the other thing though is that I got a printout of my medical history going back to 1975. So as I had my breakfast and lots to drink, I am a big fluids person after all, I had a look at my medical printout.

Then I swallowed my beta blocker which slows down my heart so it does not explode. My pigs are upstairs having their last lie in of the Christmas holidays while I talk to you all. I was going through the newspapers when I spotted something about a Utuber who was in Japan, it was in the Guardian I think. This person went to a well know suicide spot in a woods and filmed a victim he’d found there. A film star condemned him for such crass behaviour. You can all find it for yourselves and let him know what you think.

Mocking the afflicted is not a sport. In the old days the village idiot was protected by the village, yes they may not treat him perfectly well but he was protected. I was watching Peaky Blinders on Netflix over the holidays, it’s very good by the way. In it there was somebody who suffered from Shell Shock as it would now be called.He was protected by the Brummie gangster who had been a war hero. Yes, the tale did end in tears, but otherwise he was protected.

In my next full length book, Tears for a Butcher, which I may never finish, it’ll take a year of my life, or 3 months if I am lucky enough to be able to borrow a legal secretary I could recite the tale to. In that follow on to The Butcher The Baker and The Undertaker which is 30 years old this year, yes I cannot believe it either. Well in it you have twin sisters who are the publican’s daughters. They are beautiful beyond compare, but they are also very dangerous, as all girls are.

So who do they fall in love with? They fall in love with the draymen, one of whom has a stutter but can sing, and the other who has a limp. When I write it up it will be both funny and full of pathos. Because the two draymen are mocked by football fans from outside the area. Annie and Betty will not stand for this so they stand by their man. You don’t speak to my bloke like that, leads to Annie and Betty using their martial arts skills to bounce the outsiders out of their home, the pub. Then there is 18 certificate kissing in the bar, they have decided the draymen are theirs and so they put a marker down, or a tongue down throat might be more accurate. Typical writing by me.

The point though is that the twins Annie and Betty want real men, not plastic selfie taking posers. Men who will love them always. Yes one has a limp, but he has personality and great eyes. The other has a stutter but when he sings it disappears and his voice goes straight through her, she’d do anything for him. Tell your own daughters never to be impressed by the superficial. Its depth of character that matters, if he can make you laugh then marry him.

I am also a big believer in the little people, because they always but always surprise us. The least of the brethren are there for a reason. I know some would say I’m on the scrapheap, that I’m useless. So I am reminded of myself when I see people less fortunate than me. That’s why I try in small ways to help others. We all can, it doesn’t have to involve money if you have none to give. You can give a smile, a look, a word, a joke, or just hold open that door for somebody. Or just wave to the bus driver so that he waits for somebody.

All these simple things show our humanity, and it’s how we treat the least of our brethren that shows just who great we are. Annie and Betty in my story see the humanity within and that’s what they find so attractive. Yes life is not perfect, and I certainly am not. But one thing I’d never do is mock and laugh over a body of a stranger in Japan or anywhere else, because he is one of my brethren.

Fisherman of the Mind ©

By

Michael Casey

I had looked at the morning papers and I was musing about what to pick to talk about today, in actual fact I was thinking about Gary Oldman’s Churchill while I had a pee. Well you want honesty, ok, too much information perhaps. So I washed my hands of Churchill and was about to go out shopping for our daily bread when Fisherman of the Mind entered my head. So that’s how I came to choose today’s piece.

I can put in a few items from the news so you can track when I wrote or rather talked about this and that. Then clever people on inane game shows can show off their knowledge about the Complete Works of Michael Casey. When I first started writing the lads in the computer room drew a cartoon of me as Shakespeare. I also got Mark Alder to draw a picture of an octopus on roller skates surrounded by computer terminals. This was our life after all. I wish I still had those cartoons, Mark was Debbie’s cousin, but that’s enough of my past working life for now.

As you know I say everything is in the soup, which is my or our own life experience, so when I write I am fishing from that soup. So I really am a Fisherman of the Mind. See its simple really, don’t let anybody tell you otherwise. I just tend to think tangentially or in a surreal way. It’s called Imagination, no substances required, ever. Some bad boys think they are better with a bit of help, in the end they just jump off buildings, so just say no.

When you are fishing you need a bit of bait, or you have to trawl. What kind of fisherman are you? You may have a flash car or designer this or that. You may even be a footballer, image footballers reading my stuff. Ha Ha Ha. Though Premier League footballers all speak English as a 2nd language, managers too. Which reminds me my stuff could be used to help teach English. See I’m shameless I’ll insert my advert into my own writing.

You may just trawl for that girl, or job or house. Everything is hard won, you had to visit 45 bars before you found the girl of your dreams. Her heel got caught in a drain so you pulled her out and you both ended in the gutter.BUT you both laughed, and that was it, you had met the girl of your dreams, in the gutter, but you were both now looking at the stars. See Oscar Wilde is to blame for everything. But she had the keys to a dry cleaning shop and together you talked while the machines cleaned your clothes.

So that’s two examples of fishing, as a writer I can elaborate and push the story this way or that way. Go for the laugh, which I mainly do, or I can try and make you all think. You may start talking amongst yourselves and discuss how Lech and Boris and Gregorgi met their wives. You may even insinuate his wife was a mail order wife. Or used to be a man, or maybe was still a pig, not the Police kind either.

It depends how cruel you are feeling, or how much beer you’ve had to drink. Or he could have married your sister, and you married his sister. By using words and ideas I am scattering breadcrumbs in the waters of your minds. That reminds me of this, or that reminds me of that, or that certainly reminds me of the other. Which as you all know means something else in English. Then you laugh and reach for the sandwiches and more beer. If you have stopped reading me to talk amongst yourselves then that’s perfect as far as I am concerned. Because this Fisherman of the Mind, has turned your 5 loaves and 2 fishes into family laughter and fun.

Now I could have stopped with the tag line loaves and fishes or saved it to the end. But that’s what boring writers do, those you read online, who only have one style because they cannot write,or they are not allowed to. The joy of being a Fisherman of the Mind is that I can plunder 55years worth of my own memories plus all the stuff I’ve bumped into along the way. There was a book once called the joy of sex, so when I just wrote joy a connection came to mind so I had another sentence to tease you all with.

And the word tease leads to strip tease, so now I have another sentence to tease or arouse you with. You are all reading or rather watching as a fat silver haired writer in shades from Birmingham England slowly removes his sentences one by one. Are you all getting excited as first I reveal an adjective, then maybe a verb, then another adjective. Slow, slow quick quick slow, a dance of erotic adverbs. On on they rain down,one by one, till the writer is naked before you.

There was a rush for the bathroom then as Boris puked and Lech had to go outside into 2 metres of snow to avoid all the adjectives. Such is the power of this Fisherman of the Mind. Lech comes back with a shovel, is he going to dig his tractor out? No, he’s going to bury Michael Casey the fat silver haired writer in shades from Birmingham in an unmarked grave. Maybe he’ll mark it with some yellow snow.

Swings and Roundabouts ©

By

Michael Casey

Life is strange, You know, you read Michael Casey the fat silver haired writer in shades from Birmingham, are you mocking me, in the very first sentence? You are not confusing me with the Monk or the USA guy or even the Dublin guy of the same name? If I told you me and the Dublin guy had a connection, he did his PhD at Cambridge, same place where my brother went 40 years ago, would that confuse or amuse you? There is a bigger coincidence but HE does not know about it, only if Michael Casey contacts Michael Casey then all could be revealed if that does not sound too ridiculous. So Dublin has to contact Birmingham for all to be revealed. He has a book on Amazon too, but you may stumble over him when you are looking for me. My stuff has my own fat face on, and I am far younger.

So this is an example of a swing and a roundabout, you are looking for me and you find him, and vice versa. Today I met a nice man, he liked the paintings on my walls, and he even liked stories, and he had studied similar stuff to my wife.If he buys my house that would be the icing on the cake, all in all it was a nice 30 mins for both of us. Life is like that you can have a nice time but then you have no result.He may not like my house, or he may like my house but we still cannot find one to suit us all. So we could sell ours only not to be able to find another as nice but bigger. Swings and Roundabouts.

You can find the perfect man, such as a modest Donald Trump, but then not like his personality,because he is too modest. In all other ways he is perfect, it must be true because he tells you, and you believe everything he says, but you just cannot live with a blond. If you are a man a blonde might be perfect, but as a woman a blond man is not acceptable. If only he dyed his hair ginger like that singer,or the Harry Potter actor then you would be putty in his hands, big or small. But he is not, so you dump him by text message, or you just don’t even bother, you just don’t bother to turn up for your Big Mac Happy Meal. That’s swings and roundabouts for you.

House buying is like that, you find the perfect house then discover afterwards its right next to a red light area, or a church, whichever offends you the most. Who annoys you the most, the vicars or the girl without knickers? What if there is a red light zone and a church? Or is it great, because you can sin then be forgiven. Gain indulgences of different kinds. Swings and Roundabouts.

You may discover a school at the bottom of your garden, so you have 400 kids screaming when you get home after the night shifts. Or a park next door, literally you are next to the swings and roundabouts. Or an old abandoned dry cleaning factory is turned into a night club the very week you move in. Yes don’t laugh, this does happen, or nearly happen, where do you think I get my ideas from? I steal them from Donald Trump, of course I do. He’s going to resign at Easter you know, I read it in a fortune cookie.

So life is a balance you gain here, but lose there. You have the perfect wife, but she smelly feet, or smells of onions. How would you describe me? Fat, silver haired, in shades and from Birmingham? Only if you were being kind. Otherwise, a piece of work. I don’t know, I have to use my imagination where I put your words of paper and then my response. Writing is talking to myself and then talking to you. Its Swings and Roundabouts.

I never know what you’ll all like in Poland or lately Ukraine, or in Mexico or Singapore or wherever on the map. From Canada to USA and all over Europe I spread like a rash, I hope you all laugh when I tease you as I try to please you. I hope its the stories which are universal that make you all smile. I even discovered that 11,000 copies of a pirated book of mine had been downloaded, so somebody likes my stuff. So I get the downloads but not a penny in money. Now that is the ultimate Swings and Roundabouts.

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You can buy my 14 books here





Value and Worth, What's Love got to do with it?

By

Michael Casey

Something happened today that got me thinking, and the wife shouting. Our daughter dropped something down the bathroom sink. If it went down the kitchen sink there is a Ubend to save it, but the bathroom sink, no chance. It was one of the wife’s old treasures. Now it had had a water slide down the waste pipe to the sewer. So you can imagine the conversation between my wife and my daughter. There is a very big sting going on.

Though as I talk to you I remember another tale of drains, and no not the cartoon Flushed Away which is a good watch, but the story about my mother. We had lodgers and the drains were blocked, so we asked a local plumber, 4 doors away, but he was too busy doing nothing. So my mother decided to unblock the drains herself. She lay on the yard with her arm down the drain as far as her armpit, or so it seemed. She managed to free the drain but discovered loads and loads of little plastic bags. What are all these little plastic bags she remonstrated, as any mother of six would. I just bit my lip to control my laughter and walked away. Later on dad, the father of six poured Jeyes Fluid all down her arm in plastic bowl in the kitchen sink. Jeyes Fluid is black and thick like a glue, the strongest of all disinfectants. I suppose love is pouring Jeyes Fluid down your wife’s arm, after she has unblocked your drains.

Which brings me to what I wanted to talk about the Value and Worth of something. Value is greater than Worth after all. Worth is just a price, which can vary, such as the price of a bar of soap. But Value is something much more important. That Jeyes Fluid for my mum and dad was priceless, can you imagine the diseases there are down a drain, and as for the little plastic bags, well I leave it to you imagination.

A house with 2 bathrooms or just a downstairs toilet is of great value. Because when you are old getting up the stairs frequently for the toilet could actually kill you, especially if you don’t have a chair lift. So cause of death would be heart attack brought on climbing the stairs 20 times a day for the toilet. And yes I am talking about myself.

There are many things in this life that we do not value, everything has to be monetised, till everything has a worth, but no value. So what price do you put on sunshine? Do you value it less because you live in Florida the sunshine state. Though now the USA is in the midst of a Snowathon event everybody remembers the real value of Sunshine. If crop yields are effected then we will all suffer and know the great value of sunshine. Because we have lost it.

We can lose other things and then only then know their value, your Virginity. Was he worth it, was she a let down? Is Sex just boring anyway, as in making you yarn. Personal relationships are most important in our lives, but we can forget that. We are all too busy, or pretend too busy on FB, the pretend, the fake life. Will you miss speaking, actually speaking to people. Will you value a natter in the newsagents, or gossiping with Gloria, or Bingo with Brian?

I told you once how we broke a pale pink wooden coat hanger, it was the only thing my mother was given by her mother when she left for England in 1944. How my mother cried, I cannot remember did she beat us with the broken halves, no of course she didn’t, though I’ve had and deserved corporal punishment 50 years ago. The value of 4 swipes of the slipper on my bum encouraged me to learn my times tables, and to this day I’m great at mental arithmetic. These are examples of how much things can be valued, and of how much value they are in our lives.

Now I read there is a new way of cremation, which does not value anything. Its water cremation, where under high pressure our bodies are destroyed. Then afterwards the waste water, this is us, is just flushed down the drain. If our body water was used to irrigate a flower garden, that would not be too bad in a way. But to Flush Away our water, our bodies, our lives, down the drain with lost things such as what my daughter lost accidentally today, to mix with sewage and maybe lots of small plastic bags seems to me the saddest of all worlds.

WE should value things and treasure them, some things are worth more than any pearls of great price, their value is Priceless, by which I mean WE The People, Body and Soul.

Noises all Around Us ©

By

Michael Casey

I was wondering what to talk about tonight, and it is 9.45pm so I need to hurry on if I’m going to write anything tonight. Then as I’ve got a ringing in my ear, and I can hear my wife screaming in Shanghai dialect to her friends on her phone I thought maybe I should talk about noises all around us. Yes my Ukrainian and Polish friends it’s as scientific as that, I am the English teacher making myself groan, oh please Sir no that, can’t we just write about Cadbury’s chocolate? Please Sir, we’ll even do an extra 300 words if you left us write about that, I beg myself.

No my Mexican friends, my Canadian friends and all points on the compass, tonight we talk about noises. And if you are my friends in Kuwait who send me emails about horses, you too have to talk about noises. Even if they are just noises in your head as The Cranberries are singing to me right now. Zombie, zombie. And no, no writing about Farting, yes I know it’s a noise but gentlemen don’t talk about such things, and ladies certainly don’t.

I don’t want a 300 word intro about bathroom noises. Not after yesterday when my daughter lost something down the plughole, it’s too sore a topic a subject in our house right now. I will help you all, I was an Esol English teacher for a year after all, though with a Shanghai wife, I’ve been giving 20 years of English lessons in the home as well.

Before I side-track myself I want you all to close your eyes, trust me, just close your eyes. Nobody is going to steal a kiss, or pinch your bum, beside you are in an army barracks reading this, so I imagine that kind of thing does not go on in an army. Not unless you are in a bar tidying up after closing. Close your eyes and listen. What can you hear? Me, I can hear trapped air in my ear, with The Cranberries singing softly in the background, the shouting Shanghai wife in the next room has stopped for the evening.

But what about in Singapore? Can you hear a tap dripping, though I expect not as water is so sacred in Singapore. Can you hear the distant noise of music, or the crash and bang of your neighbours screaming and fighting. It’s a sign and sound of passion if there is a bit of fighting, the screaming ends and then there is the silence of passion. Proof arrives 9 months later. Then there is the sound of babies crying.

In Spain you may hear your neighbours practicing the Flamenco on the roof, why don’t they just wear slippers when they dance, or use virtual reality to practice with. Technology and Flamenco, there’s an idea for the Tech conference in USA this week.

If you are my next door neighbour you will hear me typing very fast and talking to Totoro our cat, punctuated by me getting a drink or going to the bathroom. Normal sounds if you live next door to this writer. You’ll also hear me suddenly screaming as a spasm of pain arrives unwanted and unexpectedly. You may also hear the sound of slapping, no not the wife slapping me for being naughty. No just the sound of me slapping pain killer gel, Movelat on various bits of my body. Rather like the Lederhosen dancers slapping each other. What my next door neighbour thinks of the sound, you’ll have to ask her. Perhaps she just thinks I’m Kinky and Strange, I know just as you my readers the world over do. You are so cruel to me, listen to my bitter bitter tears now, as they slash onto my floor.

The sound of the kettle boiling is a nice sound, it is so welcoming, so full of sharing, we’ll all have a tea, or coffee for me, and hot chocolate for Micha. Wherever you are in the world a kettle with a whistle is best, come in you are welcome, enjoy Egypt’s coffee or tea, in Italy too a nice drink to match the view.

Grannie’s toothless singing rings out as you study for your exams, she’s put a hot drink besides you before she disappears. The sliding slippers flip and flop into the distance. She always told you to do your best, please yourself with what you studied. Her singing ends, the flip and the flop fades, and then one day it ended forever. Now you are a Professor, you still have a hot drink on the corner of your now enormous desk, with a picture of grannie in a silver frame. Sometimes when you are over tired you can hear your grannie singing and hear the flip and the flop of her slippers fading into the distance.

Sounds do fade, but memories do not. I can still remember my mother chiding me, and scolding me, she’d hit me with the mop if I walked on her clean floor. I can still member all the love, all the laughter. I can remember the drinks after we’d all watch a film together at the weekend.

I can clearly remember her saying that ending of the film was “far-fetched like sh** from China” if the ending of a film was rubbish. This means beyond belief I should perhaps explain to my Chinese readers wherever you may be in the world. It’s like a Shanghai audience saying the film ending was so bad it was “far-fetched like sh** from Birmingham” So all of us can laugh together because I ended up marrying not just a China doll, but a Shanghai girl. And as everybody knows Shanghai sings, loudly.

So goodnight wherever you all are, whatever are the noises in your world, have a PEACEFUL life.

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