Standing Out

Standing Out ©

By

Michael Casey

I was checking my reader figures this morning as I do every day, and I noticed a comment, which can also be spam advertising, from South America perhaps. So they liked a post, a sample in Spanish. I checked out their name and email, and it was fake. However the name used referred to tattoos and Ra tattoos at that, I even learnt the Spanish for tattoo. The name associated referred to a Mafia family turned Peacemakers. So who says I need any imagination if I get comments like this. It’s probably all fake, not unless in some Jail in some country they have stumbled over my writing.

But if you are really bad boys reading my stuff you could try reading all 1,280,000 Words of mine on a Kindle. It’s as if I am Joan Wilder in Romancing the Stone and the local gangster loves my stories. Well thank you all whoever you are, in jail or in a palace or whatever. And if you want to spend some of your billions before ICE or whoever catches up with you why not donate 30million GDP to Birmingham University so they can start that Pain Relief Centre. I’m all for turning swords into ploughshares. Maybe its the Jesuit in me, or I’ve read too much Don Camillo.

This is all the Prologue, a line of white stories to sniff as you have your coffee and buns, far healthier than any other substances we see in films. So why do we all want to stand out?To look hard, or to look soft, or just to be naked if you are a nudist. I suppose its because we want to have a family, we can chose our friends but not our family. But we can chose a family of friends, a gang or cohort if you know a posh word. So do we chose friends or do they chose us.

I suppose a writer if I’m being really stuck up my own, you can insert the word of your choice, a writer observes more and joins in less. But your life can make you an observer, you are the lookout, or the ICE surveillance guy. Or the priest at the church door counting the sinners in. But we all need love, sex and love are different, once your hormones quieten down you will discover this. We find love by romance, by joining a choir, or a football team, or the army or a street gang. Love in the broadest sense of the word, not sex, love, the kind where you’d die for buddy in the army, or in the street gang, or even for the other members in your Punk Rock band.

We all want to stand out, just a little bit, so we are not just grains of sand on a beach, all so the same. We want to be different, we want to stand out. We have to wear school uniforms, or I’m at college uniforms, ripped jeans and a top with a large coat stolen from granddad. We want to be different from our day to day existence, to show we have personality especially if we have none. So be being in a band, musical or not, so by making noise together, we find ourself a home where we want to be, because our real home may be a prison.

Then if you are a naughty boy your home in the gang can lead to prison, a real prison where you spend your time getting inked up, and all because you wanted to stand out from the boring crowd in your village. Life is not fair is it? I have my own tattoo as big as a A3 piece of paper, it’s a brown birthmark on my shoulder, all overgrown in hair now. Maybe that’s why my bothers and sisters used to say I was born under a cow, because of my cowpat birthmark on my shoulder, which makes me stand out.

Now as today is Holy Saturday 31stMarch 2018 I though I’d finish by saying this, just in case you really are those Egyptian Eye tattooed people from South America, thank you for today’s spark which led to this piece. Remember Easter is all about Peace and rebirth, so try not to kill anybody anymore. And yes do donate money to Pain Relief Centres anywhere in the world. Because in the end ICE or rather the cold of death comes to everybody.

How do you want to be remembered? With fear in the eyes of those who see you or with love? Jesus had his own gang, his own posse, today Holy Saturday Jesus is dead, but tomorrow and every day he is alive with Love for all of us. Even me, even you. All tattoos will be washed away and naked we’ll all be judged, Heaven would be so much more fun with YOU, yes YOU inside teaching the angels dance moves. And if you are very very lucky you’ve never get to meet me, ever, and how great would that be?    

Good Friday 2018

Thursday, 29 March 2018

Good Friday 2018

Good Friday 2018 (c)
By Michael Casey

If I were clever I would write about Jesus on the Cross and his sacrifice. I'd compare my own aches and pains to his, and say I was an utter fool for doing so.  How could I compare myself to the Lord. No doubt some would burn me at the stake just for even mentioning such an idea even though it was just a passing thought, a half whispered muse, not even a thought.

That's the trouble with Religion, or rather People who abuse religion, all religion. Why, just so they can lie and cheat and steal their way to the top in the name of religion. Or rather their abuse of Power.

Jesus was all about that, all about showing up the lies and hypocrisies, and as in Winter Song, he got busted for befriending the wrong sort. So why is Good Friday good, because it wipes the slate clean and we can all try again.

You can find all sorts of people suffering on their own crosses, and the ugly sweaty dirty people may be the best Christians you will ever find. They may not wear the flash clothes and have the ultra bright teeth like American Evangelists have. They may not have the gift of fancy words and their only language may be foul bad language. But you may just find that these people the kind Jesus would hang out with are better people than the well educated smart people.

Give me a cursing drinking bad man, because he'll give you a lift in the desert. He'll help you when you are down and almost out.  He'll help you out of pity. Whereas the Rich man  the clever man, would only help you if he thinks there is something in it for him.

See Jesus in the common man, see Jesus hanging from a tree, in the ordinary people you meet like you and me. You don't need to look to high heaven to learn about Peace and Goodwill to all men. Peace comes from a stranger you meet on a bus, who listens when you need a friend to talk to but have none. Peace comes after all your pain when you realise though horrible, some people's valour puts you to shame.

So over Easter as you over indulge on the Cadbury's chocolate, and for some Easter justs means chocolate and not Jesus on a cross, so over Easter remember after death comes rebirth.

So every day is Easter, it's a chance for you and me to get closer together and put our sins and pain to one side and walk with Jesus into the Light of happiness and sharing and caring,

For when we have Faith, and it can be any faith, or just working men cursing each other, because deep down we are all sisters and brothers. So we should love one another.
 

I'm not on Facebook but Still the World Pretends to Care

I’m Not On Facebook but Still the World Pretends to Care ©

By

Michael Casey

Yes, I’m not on Facebook, really, I was years ago but only mad people were attracted to me, so I gave it up. And yes MZ did send me a crate of Stella Artois as a thank you. Now I’m telling everybody to BUY his shares as they cannot go any lower, but what do I know about shares but my brother did do Economics at Cambridge though. So as Facebook is all over the news it did spring to mind as a subject to talk about. But I’m not on Facebook. Michael Casey the fat silver haired writer in shades from Birmingham is not on Facebook. Though like Mark Zuckerberg I do have a Chinese wife. I bet she is really kicking his a**&^ right now.

None of this is what I really want to talk about tonight, what I want talk about is why and how people pretend to be concerned about my Health. I get so much Junk Email, which I delete unread, but they pretend to love and care for me so much. It’s as if they read my stories here on https://butcherbakerundertaker.blogspot.co.uk  and then send me junk emails inspired by what they have read. Now if Barron Trump has discovered me, as he is a computer whiz after all, maybe he’s concerned and sends me emails about Heart Attacks and Health Insurance. So if it is you Barron, thank you I am very touched, but just ask dad to retire and help you with your golf game during his Golden Years. Besides thank God and Xi the rocket man is going to give up his mad quest, so your dad can claim that Nobel Prize. So HE should retire and play golf with you.

I also get ads for Lyft, and I do not even hold a driving licence, I would not even be allowed to have one anyway due to my many aliments. You cannot drive a car if you could suddenly get a stabbing pain to the heart, which turns out to be Skeletal Muscular Pain. It’s nice to know its not a heart attack, its just like having Hitchcock’s Psycho suddenly and randomly attack you, as I’ve had a few times tonight. Its when it repeats itself spread over a whole day, that’s when Hitchcock stops being one of your favourite film directors.

Now no doubt I’ll get offers as an extra in films. I did actually meet a very big guy who was an extra in Gladiator, or some Roman action film. We both had cortisone injections on the same day back in 2013/4 If ever we finally film The Butcher The Baker and The Undertaker he’d be right as Big Sid the Butcher, but that’s just a dream. Close but no Cigar is the story of my life as I said to my specialist at hospital today.

I also met a very nice 44 year old lady while I was waiting for the bus, I forgot to ask her name. We had a good natter on the 48 bus, so if she reads this I hope she gets in touch. She has lots of transportation knowledge and customer service experience, maybe she could get a part time job to fit in with her new obligations. But I won’t embarrass her too much. I was very impressed by her and her knowledge base. I did say I could end up mentioning her in a story. Though she may be saying to her friends she met this fat Santa Claus lookalike. I happened to be dressed all in red, like a Santa with the shaved beard. She did give me some advice, and NO it wasn’t fattie get lost you are boring me, nor stop sitting on my handbag. No she told me to buy a lottery ticket so I could afford to buy my dream house which the bus passed on the way home. So when Lent finishes I will take her advice and buy the lottery ticket.

Now I’ll get offers for bingo and lotteries galore in my email account. Microsoft scans emails so I’m now wondering is it Microsoft after all. Nobody is reading my stuff and then sending emails full of junk. Its Microsoft scanning my Blogger email that gets sent every time I write something. So that is my sad conclusion, people don’t care enough about me to send me junk emails. It’s dear old Microsoft reading my Blogger email about my latest post and then I get the glorious junk emails.

I still get the With Utmost Respect rubbish, and you have won, when its a link that’ll kill my computer. And dating rubbish, if somebody wants to seduce me they need to do it face to face, over the chilled food section in the supermarket. Emails don’t entice me. Read Shoplife my play its only 2quid on Amazon Kindle, that has lots of romance in a supermarket.

One of my sisters used to work in retail as the posh call shop work, and a friend from work Dave Eaton used to work in retail before he ended up working with me in computers. And both said Shoplife was so very true. While I’m on the subject if anybody who is reading knows Andrew LLoyd Webber my play Shoplife could easily be turned into a musical. And then I’d be financially secure till I die.

I also get junk about Life Insurance, nobody would cover me, and I have no money. Books on Amazon do NOT mean money, go to KDP and see how easy it is to have a book on Amazon. Writing is easy,as is using KDP, but actually sales, now that is almost impossible. And yes I’ll get ads for publishing your book, only 1000 dollars now. KDP costs NOTHING, so everybody should use that and then hope Rupert Murdoch stumbles over you. My only hope is that when Rupert is chatting to Donald then Barron Trump interrupts to say that Michael Casey is a funny fat silver haired writer in shades from Birmingham England. Though the reality is that I’ll get even more adverts for sunglasses. Real Raybays for only 10 dollars instead of 120dollars.

All in all you can see I just attract junk, like a clothes brush, or is it a Devil Duster. I’m a dandruff collector. So as the millions leave Facebook if only they would come and visit my sites. I have 26 different countries at least and I watch the map turn green on my Blogger site and on my Wordpress site. If only the Facebook refugees went to me.  https://www.amazon.com/Michael-Casey/e/B00571G0YC 

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

If I could make a few quid. But now I’ll get offers from Lyft again, or money laundering galore job offers. Or stuffing envelopes, or meeting girls from X Y and Z. But that’s enough it’s time to go to bed. My pain levels have lessened now so I’ll try and sleep. I am glad I met that nice lady today, talking to a stranger can be very therapeutic, though it may have made her head straight to the off licence. I forgot to tell her I spent 20+ years working for a market research company into alcohol sales. StatsMR which became part of ACNielsen.

Now that’s more than enough for tonight, Easter hols start tomorrow so I’ll be the housewife the more while my girls are on holiday. Though one has her exams after the holidays so she’ll need pasta and chocolate in large quantities while she revises. But I would not mind if Occado sent those to me. Instead I’ll just get email advice about not eating too much, and how to brush your teeth. My own advice to the Dentist my daughter’s best friend is try Downing Cambridge, if it was good enough for my brother I’m sure they’d love to have him.    

https://www.amazon.co.uk/l/B00571G0YC

Dazed

Dazed ©

By

Michael Casey

I’m wondering what to talk about today but I’m too dazed by pain to think clearly, so let’s see where I end up. Dazed has all kinds of meanings and connotations. You can be dazed when you are punched, or when 2 lads jump you when you are coming home from school with your mates. Like in 1973 maybe when one lad jumped on my back and held my arms while another dropped the nut, before running away. The 3 or 4 friends I was with were too slow to react. I’ve just remembered that story after all those years. I can remember feeling dazed and asking them when they did not intervene. The rubbish secondary school hated us from the grammar school, hence I was a target.

Since then I’m taller and far heavier, but I can remember being dazed and my head throbbing. So nowadays I always watch people’s hands to see what they are doing and to see are they clenched as. I potter about down the street. Taff used to work night shift with us and every night we all had to pass through the really dodgy underpass with Jags in the middle of it. Two bright sparks asked Taff for a light and grabbed his arm as he did so. Unfortunately for then Taff was martial arts trained, so he hit them both before running to the shelter of out building on Smallbrook Queensway. They were the dazed ones.

I have also in my time worked with dazed people who should have had the night off. So I’d make them sit in a corner for a few hours before persuading then to finally do some work. Working night shifts in themselves does make you feel dazed. You also go through a wall rather like the Marathon wall, but in the case of night shifts you are just so tired until you get your 2^nd wind. You also go through the Sillies, you just Laugh at the Silliest of things. If you have never worked over long night shifts you may have never experienced this. Speaking from 14 years of night shifts and a lifetime of the late shifts, maybe 30 years worth I’d say avoid night shifts if you can they are bad for your Health.

On a night shift you wake up again before Shift Handover, your brain I’m talking about, not your body, though I do know that other people can and will be naughty. When you get home you are awake again so you watch a bit of Daytime Tv before going to bed at 9am or so. But when you get up at 5pm you can feel dazed until food. So you have a few hours to yourself, before catching the 10pm bus to town and your computer room. So now after all those years you really are observant, nobody is going to jump you. Besides you have your Lunchbox for protection, or rather your ham and Red Leicester sandwiches in a plastic box. My lunch for a decade.

Now pain does daze too, you cannot think straight or you repeat yourself, or you repeat yourself. Death brings about daze too. I’ve had a lodger die on me when I was 21 or so, I also been the one to hear bad news first when the Police to the door asking for Mr Casey. Then they tell you one of your lodgers has been found dead on the bus, horse riding with a heart condition is never a good idea. I can remember stuttering and repeating myself because I was so unbelieving. Then we had send the body home to Killybegs, I remember all that and its nearly 40 years ago now. That lodger was actually like an Uncle to me.

And on life goes, you finally marry and have kids. You are so happy when you hear you are going to be a dad that you cry in the computer room at SMBC, the lads are embarrassed but you are not. It’s such a great feeling, a dream come true. Though I know for some a birth is a disaster, but not for me. Then the baby is born in the middle of the night and you are tired and happy and dazed. At 3am you go home to tell your Shanghai mother in law she has her first granddaughter. Try doing that in sign language when you don’t speak Chinese.

What else can I say about being dazed, probably more but I really am dazed right now due to all my pains. And my daughter was sick at school this afternoon, so maybe there’s sickness in our house. And no it’s not my writing that makes us all sick, if you say that then I’ll hit you with the mop before I wipe up any sickness. 

Grannie Elizabeth and the Soldier

Grannie Elizabeth and the Soldier ©

By

Michael Casey

Grannie Elizabeth wasn’t a real grannie at all but to a lot of kids that’s what she was. She was Grannie Elizabeth, Elizabeth wasn’t her real name either, she just had an English accent like the Queen of England so she was Christened Elizabeth, Grannie Elizabeth. She was in fact a widow who used to babysit, babysit a lot and she was cheap, so she was very popular. As she walked down the street she would get nods and smiles and kisses from generations of kids. She was loved by a unites nations of faces, in New York. You see she had married a Yank as they used to be called and was transplanted to USA. Only her Yankie Soldier had died.

Her heart was broken so she could never marry again, her Wayne was the only man she had ever loved so how could she marry another. She had a widow’s pension and she proudly had a Stars and Stripes in her front lawn alongside a Union Jack, she was from England after all, and despite 50 years in USA she kept her accent. Her Wayne was special to her and he worked in Special Forces but they never really spoke about that. She just loved him to death, and when he died she miscarried, so her heart was doubly broken. So babysitting was some consolation.

Her kids were her kids and told to call her mum, but as time progressed she became Grannie, Grannie Elizabeth and loved by everybody. She got Birthday cards and Christmas cards and Mother’s Day cards, though the mother’s day cards did make her shed a tear, but she made sure nobody saw those tears.

Now she liked to jump on the bus and have an adventure, and that’s how she ended up in 26^th and 2^nd Berry Juice cafe. In fact she got off at the wrong stop and her feet needed a rest so she went and had a berry juice drink. It was while she was there that she met the soldier. He was in normal clothes but she knew a soldier when she saw one, besides he had a tiny tiny badge on his shirt collar. The exact same one her husband wore. It may have been the sore feet or the sight of the badge, or the jaw line. But Grannie Elizabeth started to cry.

The soldier looked over concerned. Mam can I assist he asked? Grannie Elizabeth replied in he Queen of England accent, sorry but you remind me of my poor dead husband. In England Mam? Grannie Elizabeth explained she had married a Yank, and he was in Special Services, she recognised his badge. She recited her Wayne’s service number. It turned out that the Soldier was called Wayne too, this made Grannie Elizabeth cry. Two Waynes, it was impossible.

So they chatted and the Soldier gave nothing away, but he did remember the service number. When they had finished their berry drinks Wayne put Grannie Elizabeth on the correct bus and waved goodbye. He also phoned a friend who checked out the service number, and he was shocked and awed to see who the original Wayne was. It turned out that the original Wayne has been a Legend decades before.

A week later a bowl of berries and a card arrived at Grannie Elizabeth’s house, gift wrapped in Union Jack and Stars and Stripes gift wrap. The other Wayne was a surveillance expert, so he had checked her out before sending the berries. From then onwards Grannie Elizabeth received berries on her Birthday and at Christmas, she also got a present at Honaker too as the new Wayne was Jewish. Grannie Elizabeth was pleased by the attention, she also started to pray for him every day, she did not want to lose two Waynes it would be too much.

This went on for a few years, Grannie Elizabeth had a fall and was hospitalised, only her flags fluttered in the wind. In the dark on the night some slime decided to break into to her home. But what you all need to remember is that the service is a family. So as the burglar entered her home he had the shock of his life. Wayne was there all dressed in black, he was not a cowboy, he was there with two buddies also dressed all in black quietly playing cards, waiting just waiting for such an eventually.

The next morning the burglar was found stripped naked and hanging between two flag poles. The Stars and Stripes fluttering alongside the Union Jack. The NYPD know a good deterrent when they see one, so they slowly replied to the call. Then they pretend argued about Health and Safety and who should climb the flag pole to cut the felon down. One bright spark said it was a Fire Department issue, so the Police had a coffee while the Fire Department came slowly, it was not a fire after all. Fox News got a tip off and Shep Smith featured  it on his show, live as well, it was a slow news day so it got the most exposure as did the burglar.

The neighbours all came out to say how disgusted they were with the felon, and then all the children she had babysat over the years rung Shep Smith to say just how disgusted they were trying to rob a Veteran’s Widow like that. The VA had a lot to say when they discovered it was a veteran’s widow’s home that had an attempted burglary.

Shep Smith wondered who were the good citizens who had caught the burglar. Shep interiewed the burglar while he was still strung up, but the felon was very highly strung, as you would be if you had met the Devil in the night, 3 devils in fact. All the burglar would say and could say was it was the Devil and I confess. He had a major confession to make, as would anybody who met three poker playing Devils in the night. Enough for twenty years in jail, but it would be better that meeting those 3 Devils again.

Grannie Elizabeth switched on the tv in hospital from her bed. She saw her own home, but before she could be shocked Wayne was there with berries for her. He was with Jesse and Billy his buddies from the night before. That’s naughty what you did chided Grannie Elizabeth, but my Wayne would have done the same. So they all laughed. Meanwhile Shep Smith had worked it all out, a Grannie with a husband in the Special Services, Shep just smiled, he was off to England soon to Old Forge and Singing Anvil, maybe he’d tell the tale then in a bar.

As for Wayne and Jessie and Billy they kissed Grannie Elizabeth and disappeared, they had to return the doctor’s clothes they had “borrowed” they would flying out on a mission that very night. Wayne passed a piece of paper to Grannie Elizabeth as he left. It just said ring this number if ever you need a friend. 555 5555 With that they were gone.

Grannie Elizabeth got home and had a hero’s reception, she just waved like the Queen of England and sat inside to finish her berries, lots and lots of berries. Now the night her Wayne had died she had had a feeling and now she had the very same feeling. Her Wayne, Wayne number two was in trouble, she just knew it, but what could she do? She did think of he phone number but she was not in trouble it was Wayne, she felt it in her English water, or maybe she had had too many berries. So she went to the bathroom and then to bed.

She dreampt of her Wayne and then of the new Wayne, she dreampt of an orchard too, perhaps it was the Garden of Eden, perhaps she would die soon and be with her husband again. Meanwhile Wayne’s mission had gone wrong. He was hiding hoping to stay alive, only he was captured, things would be bad and end in darkness.

Elizabeth watched Fox news and a small item catch her attention, she knew it Wayne must be there in that place far far away. She was right Wayne was, he was being tortured as he lay chained and bruised and bleeding he thought about Elizabeth and he hoped he could die with as much honour as her husband. The torturers teased him, do you want to speak to your family before you die?

The Devil was there waiting in the dark for Wayne, but Wayne had half an idea in his blood soaked head. Can I speak to my grannie before I die? So they teased him and beat him before allowing him to phone his grannie. Only he phoned Grannie Elizabeth instead. Grannie Smith its so good to hear your voice, just rung to say I will always remember sharing berries at 372 on 12 or was it at 456 on 18 I’m sorrow if I’m all mixed up, but I do love you. Then she heard him being beaten before the phone went dead.

Grannie Elizabeth might be old but she was not stupid, with tears in her eyes she rung that number if only she could find the piece of paper. In the end it was under the berries. She shouted down the phone. This is and she gave her dead husband’s service number, and then she explained. It was a map reference, and a grannie smith is a variety of apple. Wayne must be near an orchard. Grannie Elizabeth called an emergency Prayerathon at her house, everybody came. They did not ask what it was for, when a grannie calls you come running. The NYPD and the Fire Service came too. Grannie Elizabeth had called a Prayathon so everybody got there.

High high above in the sky right over an orchard all dressed in black Jesse and Billy exited the plane with a few other Devils, they were going to a house warming. They were going to set fire to a house. Wayne was carried out by Jesse and Billy while the other gunslingers fired off their laser guided six shooters.

In New York Grannie Elizabeth fainted, everybody was concerned, but she was happy, she could feel it. In fact her husband’s ghost was beside her smiling. Wayne was alive, Wayne was alive.

The next day a general arrived at the house carrying berries, followed by soldiers also caring berries, as well as a bag of grannie smith apples. Nothing was said, it was all top secret after all. But when a general and loads of soldiers salute and go away laughing you can tell it’s a happy ending.

So I hope you all enjoyed today’s story 25^th March 2018, which also happens to be Totoro our cat’s 3^rd Birthday. My kids wanted a pet, I said they could have a dog if I died or a cat if I had a heart attack. A few weeks later I had an unplanned quadruple heart bypass, at least my kids didn’t get a dog. So a cat was a happier ending.

Growing Up as a Writer

Growing Up as a Writer ©

By

Michael Casey

As usual I didn’t have an idea to talk about, then I was talking to my daughter, as all dad’s should, and she said my material, my writer was for a higher age certificate as the years had progressed. And this is true, I cannot talk about kittens all the time, and no I don’t now talk about sex kittens, though Trump does seem to be the expert. I hope all my material is still no more than 12 certificate or PG, you never need to be explicit when a metaphor will do, or a pantomime phrase.

Coroline is very good as is the Graveyard Book by Neil Gaiman if I’ve spelt his name right, but that is not all he writes. The same goes with me, I follow where the muse takes me to amuse you all, and myself. I could never write to order, it would kill my spirit and my muse, and my Muse is not some naked woman a la Picasso. I just pick an idea from space and then away I go. I am an Astronaut floating through ideas in the spaces in my brain. I hope my Russian readers enjoyed the story about the Spaceman and the Archangel which was on my site a while back and may still be live on one of my sites, I have 6 altogether I think.I never know what I write till it hits the page with the first wave and then the tide of words soaks up the page or all over your screen.

I am no Canute either controlling the words and commanding them to obey me, I set the words free and hope you all enjoy them. I did of course mispronounce Canute when I was in Mr Reading’s History lesson back in 1970, my friend Big D PhD and yes he really is a PhD still reminds me of this. He also reminds me that I stopped his heart by a friendly punch the same year. But now he is a PhD and I am a penniless writer, even though I’ve reached 1.27 million words now.

So just as I’ve grown up, or sideways as Big D PhD will attest, so our likes and dislikes and tastes grow too. So I’ve had the dad experience and I’ve written a lot about it in my first few books, which should make you all laugh a lot, try 300 and Not OUT for examples. You can only write so much about this subject or that subject then you move on.

Though I do have themes. Such as the “weak” guy winning  the girl, because some girls are not just vacuous reality tv wannabes, a real man has character not just muscles or a flash car and no personality. How I ended up with a Shanghai model looking wife you’ll have to ask Almighty God himself, though nobody believes me when I said she made me laugh. Having a good brain did help too, but again nobody believes that either. However my Chinese family in Shanghai know me, I was even called 1 in 1,000,000 and no they were not all drunk. Or then again it could be that I’m cursed, you decide.

And on it goes, Life, Love and Passion and Arguing all measure for measure that ends in pleasure. Family life has all these things and I bring them to the page in a variety of ways. Its not a crime to display this or that and let you all imagine the other. I was thinking should I write a horror piece, though some of you might already be saying my writing is horrible. I did write Michael and the Chink in the Wall a while ago and I did get a lot of good reactions to that, so I never know which way I will go.

My writing is an amusement arcade, some words go up and down, others go from side to side, others over the top, and no this is not a metaphor of some kind, its all in your mind. I put words to page and when I reread from start to finish I’m always pleased that the piece is better than envisaged. I might think I’m riding on a bus, as Foster wrote in a clever piece about Life and Religion in the school magazine 44 years ago, see I remember everything. But when I finish the piece and read it back I discover I’ve been riding in a chauffeur driven car and the words have taken me further than I thought and I’ve landed in a far far better place.

So I hope the journey for all my readers all over the place in 26 plus different countries is enjoyable. I also hope that though I really am the fat silver haired writer in shades from Birmingham that I am Ukrainian or Polish or Russian or French or Belgium or whatever nationality you are. Even English or American or a stray Canadian. Because I a Fool you can all relate too, and hopefully forgive, because I am one of you, though you may just say he’s from next door, wherever next door is.

I have to go now as Lech, Boris and Gregorgi want to bury me at night in the woods, just to see if their hounds can track me down. Otherwise they would have to blindfold their dogs, no they wouldn’t do that, they love their dogs so much. They may just blindfold me instead. This is my cartoon writing, if you are a cartoonist why not do some drawings then together we could be published in someplace far far away. Maybe I’ll get published in the Antarctic Times with cartoons by Uri from Russia, stranger things have happened, so bye for now I have to put my blindfold on, we are reenacting 50 Shades…

    

A Quiet Night In something appropriate from a few years ago

Friday, 23 March 2018

A Quiet Night In something appropriate from a few years ago

A Quiet Night In  ©

By

Michael Casey

A quiet night in, now thats’ what we all need from time to time. The wife and the girls are at Nancy’s Mum’s, Nancy’s mum does have a name but my wife knows I couldn’t possibly pronounce the Chinese, so remains Nancy’s mum. While they are there the girls will go to an upper room and do some painting with Nancy, Nancy is 17 and an A* everything, with the help of God and 2 policemen she’ll go to Oxford.

In the lower room is a Jesus evening, everybody gets fed by Nancy’s mum then there are Bible readings and “Sharing” where the friends talk about Jesus at work in their lives. Me I’m here, listening to Genesis and Genesis are singing “Jesus he knows Me.” I’m a Catholic from the nipple, with added an added inheritance of my mother’s faith when she died. Doesn’t make me special, just makes me me. “Can you hear Me, Can you see” sing Genesis, it all seems on cue, but that’s how my writing comes out. A mixture of luck and hard work and a pinch of salt or angel dust, then I’ve got a piece to put on my blog www.michaelgcasey.typepad.com and in MyTelegraph.co.uk were I am the dunce in the class.

Back to my girls, they are no doubt painting with Nancy and she is good enough to sell her paintings at a car boot sale or wherever is the place they should be sold. They are picking up some great tips, I want them to experience as many things as possible, then they may find things they can keep with them throughout their lives. My wife has no doubt had a good old gossip and is now boasting how God had helped us this week. Other families are sharing their experiences too. I did travel to Nancy’s mum’s a few weeks ago, just to show my face, but their path is not my path. So while they pray I’ve been trying to find some way of getting somebody, anybody to go to Amazon Kindle and sample my 4 wares on sale. Traffic is the word they use nowadays, if only I were a corrupt journalist, or a hacker then I’d make a few bob, or is it just a prison sentence. There would be a full stop to my works.

I have found a few folks via Linkedin and Facebook but are they interested in a fat Charles Dickens, with 1000^th of the ability of good old Charlie. Strange things do happen on the Internet, if only I were allowed to blog for a Sunday newspaper, then I’d have a profile, though my profile at the moment is more like Falstaff, full of sack and a hapworth of bread, you’ll have to find my photo and judge for yourselves, well I do hope more than 1 person IS reading this.

I did have time to look at www.rightmove.co.uk and dream of where I’d like to live IF I made it as a writer. I have only moved a mile and a half from where I was born and IF I had money I’d only move a mile and a half more. Near the woods for me and Subway the dog is my dream, though my daughters would rather have a gerbil. It is so quiet here while they are praying and painting, that does give me a picture of God as Banksy, would God use lightning bolts and rainbows to leave his art?

Well its after 10pm now so I’ll love you and leave you, Genesis are still playing on the computer, “Dreaming in my sleep”  they sing, which we all will be soon. So off to beddie bybys as my mother used to say.

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my daughter dreamt last night of me holding a big dog maybe it is time for a Subway 6 or 7 years afterwards

The Toilet Seat

The Toilet Seat ©

By

Michael Casey

A Toilet Seat is a thing of beauty, it is also a thing that can provoke almost Nuclear War. Some people people may even worship them, and flushing a toilet is their religious practice as they scatter rose petals down the bog. I would say if people want to do that then so long as there is no coercion let them be, in the lavatory. All faiths should be left alone to be what they want to be, so long as they don’t drive the rest of us around the Ubend.

But all of that is an aside, but don’t mock me if I worship my toilet, I have cKd so you too could end up like me. Where was I, sprinkling  and blessing my bathroom floor with my yellow holy water. Now there’s nothing wrong with that, so long as you wipe your bathroom mat, before the mushrooms start to grow.

Now once you share your home, your pad, with girl things change. They have too. She fills your bathroom with loads of lotions and potions and your pad is filled with her pads. And now you have to observe toilet etiquette, the seat and the lid must come down, and the toilet must be flushed every time, otherwise its a big big crime.

Attila the Hun would be classed as meek and mild compared to your girl if the toilet seat is not down and the lid closed too. And no sprinkles left all over the floor either. But you are a lad and you forget, and her revenge may lead you needing to see a vet. So beware or you could get a kick down there.

But all is forgiven and you catch her unawares, and so now she is pregnant, and you have to massage her back, but you love her. Even if you have to pee in the bath or even sink because she is the queen always on the throne. And then the months pass and her waters burst all over your favourite Wonder Woman bathroom toilet mat. Wonder Woman is drenched, and it is far far worse than hair gel. Then you have no time, you have to deliver your baby on the bathroom floor, with only a bedraggled Wonder Woman there to help you.

Its a girl. You are so happy you cry, your girl thinks you are just a drip, as you place the newborn baby girl in her arms before finally dialing for the ambulance. So your new life as a dad begins, scraping pooh down the toilet before bagging the soiled nappies so they can go as far away as possible from you, thanks to the bin men. And on it goes.

Then just when your daughter is potty trained, your now wife decides she wants passion, so she is pregnant again, and it’s all your fault. You could have improvised with cling film, but now you will be a dad of two in several months time. And yes is a second daughter, so your chances  of getting into the bathroom are now less and less.

Your wife insists you can use a potty so buys you a bucket to use when she and your daughters invade your bathroom. This goes on for years and years. Little wonder you become a toilet worshiper, its such a relief when you can relieve yourself in the bathroom, down your own blessed toilet.    

But the worm turns and sprinkles everywhere, there is screaming and shouting, but dad just smiles and holds up something pink, pink paper not toilet paper. Dad has won the lottery and bought a mansion with 3 bathrooms and a spare toilet. Perfect, just as his old mother said, many mansions in Heaven. Though this one was in the posh part of Birmingham.

Then dad wakes up, he’d been sleep walking and sprinkled down his pyjama trouser’s leg. He leaked, not won the lottery at all. But at least he bathroom toilet paper was pink. 

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