Something for the Flight, Sir?

Something for the Flight, Sir?

Something for the Flight, Sir?

as President Trump is visiting us in the morning and William is off to the Arab countries maybe they both  need something to amuse while they and the Press corps  are in the air

so here is The 19th Hole up to 1st Dec 2019, about 55,000 words or 167 pages

so enjoy and feel free to buy the books on Amazon, I am 1/2 way  through writing it now.

2 of my books are being read in Arabic tonight, and altogether  6 different languages are being read today, here on WordPress. 8 languages in one day is the new WordPress record. So can somebody discover me before I die so that my daughters can enjoy the fruits of  my pen.

BBU in Arabic300 و

The 19th Hole

24 May 2019

This will be my 19th book, celebrating Donald Trump’s Resignation

Revenge on the Joker©

By

Michael Casey

So this joker is the worst, so we are going to give him something to remember. Can’t we just kill him and have done with it asked a voice from the darkness, the flash of his blade giving his position away. No, we are going to have fun with him then M will give him something he really really deserves. A bullet between the eyes, asked another hopefully. You Yanks are so brutal said a voice in the ceiling, before descending through an air vent. It’s something big and I know why we all want to do it, but this operation is a British show. Mad Dogs and Englishmen go Out in the Midday Sun and all that, Coward. The Americans bristled. Noel Coward, I should explain. I’ve heard of him, A Talent to Amuse. I found a copy of the book in a toilet when I was on a mission. It was a great book, especially as there was no toilet paper.

First of all we have to spring El Chapo from a Super Max, then he’ll “bake a cake” for us. Then we’ll slip him back inside. Once the cake is ready we deliver it to this Joker. You’ve all seen his photo file. He’s gonna get what he deserve if I might speak American for a moment. And the horse’s head, we’ll be leaving that on his bed. We’ll take photos and post our message, then other Jokers out there will be warned, you don’t mock us ever.

Now breaking into a Super Max is very hard to do, it’s like asking Special Services to sing all the Barry Manilow back catalogue pitch perfect. Obviously the Italian Special Services could do it, as they are all Opera lovers. But the Yanks and the Brits had a plan. They hijacked a tour bus and parked it outside the Super Max. Then they went through the sewers, El Chapo inspired that bit, till they reached the recreation area. They did have a play with the weights, on the way, they are very fit people after all. Then putting their masks on they waited, a hijacked news helicopter gassed the entire facility. LSDEEEEE, in the air, fairies and goblins everywhere. It was such a stroll in the park then. They did take selfies too as they moved about, resisting temptation was the hardest bit, there are some really really nasty people in the Super Max, so to accidentally on purpose snuff a few out was so hard not to do. So instead they ta-tooed them with a rubber stamp, “FBI Informer”, that’d make for great entertainment in the recreation yard. Special Services do have a sense of humour after all.

El Chapo was placed in a body bag and carried away. They left a note sellotaped to the toilet stamped on toilet paper “Back in 24 hours, dead or alive, love and kisses a friend” with a phone number. They left a note saying “Back in 24 hours, dead or alive” because they did not want to get the staff into trouble. It was the Brits who demanded “love and kisses a friend” just as a bit of reassurance. Then they departed, through the front gate in the prison governor’s nice new expensive car. Obviously they trashed the car, they were impressed by the leather seats and DAB hifi. And guess what was playing on the radio? The Barry Manilow hour, they all smiled and left it on, they were off to Italy next so they could sing with the Italian Special Services now.

The governor rang the number once everybody awoke from the drug induced trip. He smiled as a voice replied, the boys are having a bit of fun, the kind of smile you make when the executioner says “this won’t hurt me” as he put the noose around your neck.Now I cannot tell you who answered the phone or he or one of his many many friends might just have to take your cupcakes away. Though some call him the Monk.

El Chapo was put to work, “baking a cake”, he knows so much about mixing and bagging after all. As he was pulled out of a bag, a body bag he realised this was not a family situation. The Special Services are a family, but not the kind El Chapo would like to marry into. So El Chapo was stripped naked and steam cleaned. Then in fresh new whites he was set to work “cooking”.

Meanwhile Blue team was in Italy, again the Brits thought “Blue team” sounded nice. Now all they had to do was steal the Pope’s personal Rosary Beads. Now is this a metaphor? Well we shall see. First of all they climbed over the garden wall which is very tall, you ask Tom Cruise he broke his best finger nail when he did it in one of his films. Then a Brit dressed as Liberace started playing Benedict’s piano, the old Pope was thrilled.They ended up dueting all Barry Manilow’s tunes, good job the Brit had leant them in the Governor’s car.

The other member’s of Blue team stole robes from Benedict’s closet, then processed through the Vatican till they reached Pope Francis’ room.They headed for the bed but it was empty, then in a corner on a camp bed they found Pope Francis, he was not alone. Don Camillo and Totoro was in bed with him. Don Camillo is a book I should add, and Totoro is my cat, she does travel far and wide every night.

We came for your Rosary, Blue team explained, it’s in my trouser pocket over there gestured Pope Francis. I thought you might want to kill me, the world is so mad now. We love you we would never hurt you, as Danny produced a battered plastic Rosary from his own pocket. It’s missing a few beads, it deflected a bullet, so it saved me. The Pope smiled. Here in my desk I have a few Rosaries. So then he passed a few out. Then he Blessed the Rosaries and Blue team. Anything else asked the Pope? Can we have a few more blessed Rosaries? Where shall I send them? Just throw them out your window at Midnight, somebody will catch them. The Pope smiled and went back to reading his Don Camillo, having to hunt Totoro out the way as he got back into his camp bed.

Then they hijacked a plane to get back to England, when Special Services go on a road trip they really do know how to have fun. El Chapo had finished baking the horse’s head. It really was a cake in the design of a severed horse’s head just like in the Godfather. You see while El Chapo was on the run he learnt to bake as a way of passing the time. He had all the Delia Smith books too, maybe one day this writer’s daughter will have a day with Delia, but that is fantasy. As for El Chapo it was his demands for quality baking materials that gave the game away. The FBI tracked down the baker’s needs to where the stuff was being sent, if you like they were following a trail of white powder, baking powder. And that was how El Chapo was caught.

The Special Services all stood back, El Chapo had impressed them, now they impressed him. First they tasered him, then they chipped him, then they tat-tooed him with very rude tats all over his body. If ever he escaped he’ll show up in seconds on satellites, and as for his body, everybody but every would sing at him.They had put the words to Barry Manilow’s Mandy all over his body too, nobody would ever call him El Chapo, they would just sing MANDY to him.

They called UPS and had him delivered to the Super Max, inside the package with him was enough drugs to add 100 years to his sentence. They could have delivered him back themselves but they had other things to do.

So now the end is nigh. The horse’s head and Rosary beads were to be delivered. The Joker as to be pranked. There he was asleep in his bed. As silent snow falling, the horse’s head was placed on the bed with Rosary beads. Then they all screamed. HAPPY BIRTHDAY,JOKER.

The Joker awoke screaming and then fell back with a heart attack, M stepped forward and gave mouth to mouth, M seemed to enjoy it, it went on for half an hour. M was a female Special Services girl. Do you think any special services guy would give me mouth to mouth, I should cocoa, I repeat I should cocoa. So it was left for M to save me. M was a Korean girl, and her name was MANDY. The guys then shot me with those kids’ rubber sucker guns, right between the eyes.

And that’s the first story in my 19th book, I always feel protected, it’s the Rosary beads, or the Special Service watching me from the shadows. And General Mathis if you are reading this how about telling your friends to buy a copy or two. Stay safe all of you everywhere.

You Can’t say that ©

By Michael Casey

Well I found my story down the shop. The trouble is though that I love wit and language, and others don’t, or not as much. So if an American hears this “it’s been 6 weeks since I had a drink and a fag” what does it mean? Over here in England it means “it’s 6 weeks since I had a drink and a CIGARETTE” so immediately we are divided by language. And then you have all the other baggage.

I spotted somebody coming out of the voting place and I said “you must be Nigel’s friend” and immediately he cursed to high Heaven as if he was denying Christ on the night he was taken in. He even said “he found what I said was offensive.” Yes Brexit divides that much, and one trick pony Nigel will have his day when the results are announced tomorrow. Nigel has screamed “FOUL” when asked what are his Policies should he go on to contest National Elections, even though it’s a vital question. I should remind everybody Nigel failed 7 times to get elected in National Elections. I offer no opinion here on Brexit, I’m just stating the obvious, which must be stated. Basically a Political Vacuum allows any form of Populism to appear.

I don’t want to dwell on this, let’s keep it light. When Rich came back to work when his dad died 35 years ago the lads did not know what to say. I just told him he looked like the cartoon on the Kellogg’s Rice Crispy box. He was wearing a handkerchief around his neck. So this broke the ice. Then we got back to reality. When my mother died, and then my dad nearly died just 8 weeks later it was my turn to get support from the lads. So I know it’s good to show friendship.

Another example is when people don’t know what to say, so it’s best to say “give us a hug” human contact, a hug really does help. That is why instinctively we touch somebody we like. Silence may be Golden after an argument, or we bite our tongue, I have too much experience of that as well.

One example is a bad boss you put up with because you have toddlers and need to feed them, whereas the boss is all talk, and no action, just hides in the Concierge room. Or another boss is about to punch you after a failed night shift, when the team leader goes home “sick” and you are left with the pieces and this particular boss to face in the morning. And yes I really did have to restrain this boss, I have very good grip after years of screwing magnetic tapes onto computer tape readers, one finger on my right hand is even bent slightly inward. I’m not just a smile and 1000words, and the lads I worked with were amongst the best in the world, and great characters too.

Speaking of lads, you cannot say “I Love You” to the lads they would laugh, and stand with their backs to the wall. Yes people used to be that non PC, everybody is more open compared to 40 years ago. The lads would just say give us a beer, and whisper in your ear, we all know and we all don’t care, so long as you get the beers in. It’s all about equality, tolerance is the wrong word. Life is all about equality. It’s about gay, straight, black, white, green, faith or no faith accepting each other. Which is why I think UK is the best place to be as we get on, most of the time.

I was classed as the strange one because when I worked Sundays I’d use my lunch break to dash to a church for Mass, none of the lads had any formal faith. Beer was their faith, as it was for our lodgers. It’s when people don’t practice what they preach that we get problems. The trouble is the Twitter world, people just don’t listen, life has no depth on Twitter, Everybody just reads the headlines. As I’ve said before I browse on 3 national newspapers daily plus BBC and SKY. So we all need a bit of depth.

Fast food and fast life, leads to shallow life. Stop and sit and watch New Amsterdam on tv, it always makes me cry, and the ensemble acting really does deserve an Emmy. Now I’m finishing on a fictional hospital show, based on a book I believe. My point is that in this show you have people at their best, doing their best. How Can I Help is the catch phrase so to speak. My favourite character is a bear of a man, who is a Dr and the Shrink. He is also gay, what really shines through is his compassion, he is a giant teddy bear who loves to help. And that is what I’d like to be remembered as, somebody whose words help. Who brings laughter to the screen in front of you all, you might think I look stupid, is he gay or what? No, I’m a boring straight guy, who may never get discovered, not even by a Korean Kpop girl singer. I’m just being read on the toilet by some Russian guy while he waits for his constipation to end, and then he can drive Putin to meet Trump.

Ignorance is Bliss ©

By Michael Casey

I will not believe until I put my hands in his wounds

Here place your hands in my wounds

Now I believe

Better to believe and have Faith rather than wait, have trust

The earth rotates around the Sun

Galileo Galilei should be locked up for heresy

The moon is made of cheese

Neil Armstrong faked it

At least the trains ran on time under Mussolini

It’s all lies about Hitler and the Jews

Assad loves everybody, he gassed nobody,

he’s a doctor he’d never hurt anybody

Car exhausts never hurt anybody, they are just stupid kids anyway

Smoking is cool, that’s why it’s in all the 1950s films

Radiation does not hurt

Sunshine is good for you, get a tan

Some meds give you great tans as a side effect, so take meds

Eat fat and don’t exercise you won’t have a heart attack

It’s all a lie to punish farmers

Speed does not kill, let people drive as fast as they like

Guns don’t kill, let everybody have a gun and an assault rifle too

Why shouldn’t I have 10,000 rounds of ammo in my house

Why should I lock ammo and guns away separately

The 3 year old deserved to have its face blown off by a 5 year old

It’s my right, there were just stupid toddlers

I can talk on the phone and ignore my kids playing in the kitchen

It’s not my fault I they scald themselves, I warned them once, 3 years ago

Arms races don’t cause wars, selling arms is great for the economy

Pollution does not kill

Global warming does not exist

Who cares if a few islands in the Pacific disappear,

they are only small anyway

It’s great to have more sunshine

It only snows in the Rockies, it’s great for the skiers anyway

A bit of wind is good, it blows the cobwebs away

Vaccinations are BAD, they make you sick

Measles is no big deal anyway

Bill Gates is a fool wasting all his money on vaccinations for poor countries

Poor Countries don’t matter, what did they do for ME anyway

I could have sold him Manhattan at half the price

And on it goes, STABLE GENIUS IGNORANCE

Now a commission to prove The Earth is Flat

Will USA finally wake up to the total ARROGANCE of IGNORANCE?

It really is heart breaking that a Fool is in charge of USA

People all say yes, for Power, whatever happened to Love of Country?

The Fool has taken over, and nobody has done anything

Every day is a wasted day

A lie if you repeat it often enough is believed

But rather everybody is deceived

Liar, Liar burn in Fire

Everybody must run to defend the TRUTH and the Planet Itself

So let’s all run BONE SPURRS permitting and Defend Planet Earth

Or are you going to sit it out, while others go to war to save our Home, Earth

Stocking Up for Students ©

By Michael Casey

Well it’s exam time in our house and millions all over the world, the stress levels amongst our children, and even when they are 50 they are still our children. The stress levels are so very high, fatally high in some cases. So what can we do, us parents that is. Not that you’ll get any thanks, kids that age forget to say thank you. They can build a nuclear bomb, or recite Pi, though baking a pie might be of more use. They can do many things in their study or back bedroom or perched somewhere, but saying thank you, or clearing away dishes, that’s impossible, nuclear physics is easier for them.

So what can you and me do? Well we stock up for students. First thing you need is plenty of chocolate in the cupboard, and as it is exam time it had better be Cadburys, rest of the year any chocolate will do, but at exam time, it has to be the best. Even if your pension is small or non-existent you have to go the extra mile for your student. You do want them to visit you in the Old People’s Home after all.

Then you have to buy face wash too, bargain basement facewash will do, having eaten so much chocolate over the 2 months exam period the chance of spots can be high. So you have to be ready. Like a Boy Scout you are Prepared. Chocolate and face wash. For variety you have to add crisps, and you go the extra mile and buy Walkers crisps, despite that annoying footballer whatever his name is advertising them, who is he anyway?

So your cupboard is loaded with crisps and chocolate, with face wash at the ready in the shower. And for the duration of the exam period you won’t mention your power bill caused by 20 minute showers, sometimes twice a day. So you make sacrifices for your student, you reduce your shower time from 5 minutes, and you are 3 times her size. You have a quick 2 minute shower and use that new super soft towel to dry yourself with. Only it’s not a microfiber towel it’s Totoro the cat, who enjoys every minute of it. When you realise you need a 20 minute shower yourself, but you have to save money for the power bill. So you run around the garden in a thunder storm, hoping nobody will see you. But of course all the neighbours do, some even load it up to Snapchat and Utube. However as well as all the little old ladies having a thrill as a Shrek size naked hairy man runs around the garden with a bar of soap, you are spotted by your future lover. As you fart in unison with the thunder, as they say it’s an ill wind that blows no good.

Your student is back attacking the books, or though in today’s world, it’s an online text book. So you have to restrict your broadband use as the bandwidth is not good enough for her to study and confer with her best mate and for you to watch a film at the same time. You never thought 12meg would not be enough, with the cheapest broadband, but buying chocolate and the power bill all takes money. So you have to wait while she takes a break to watch your film in 20 minute chunks spread over the evening. You hope she buys you a 1000meg package when you are in that old people’s home, that’s if you live that long.

The student is hungry so you make her scrambled eggs with beans in, she will fart all night as she studies Bio Chemistry, but it’s all about reactions after all. You did buy the nicest bread too, the one she loves that you only buy on rare occasions as it costs too much and the budget does not stretch to it. But you are a dad and dads go the extra mile, it’s a good job you don’t smoke or drink, or you would be feeding her frozen food.

She studies into the night and you wish she wasn’t a night owl, the electric bill, the electric bill. You struggle to sleep because of your Tinnitus, finally at 2.30 am your student goes to bed, you are still awake with your Tinnitus. It’s hard being a dad. Nobody knows the sacrifices you make.

Well, somebody does. After your streak and wash in the Thunder somebody has their eye on you. It’s a woman with a telescope. Her name is Louise, and she’s been observing you, as you sleep with your curtains open, because you are afraid of the dark she has seen you in all your glory. Korean tastes are very different and she used to be a K Pop singer, before she did Astro physics, she had turned her telescope from the Heavens to your celestial body in your bedroom. But that’s another story…

Looking Back at History ©

By

Michael Casey

Well it’s the last day of May today, Donald Trump will stop by before joining the Dday celebrations in France. I was at the celebrations in Caen Normandy in 1984, just by chance, my sister was finishing off her year abroad and I came over for a holiday. It was a truly moving experience, parade and medals galore. There was a dummy in a parachute hanging from the ceiling at the train station.

On tv there was rolling coverage, an American GI said the first thing he did was steal some underpants from a Nazi soldier, the American had been so scared he’d messed himself. War is not all honour and nobility like in the films, it is dirty and horrible, like a messed pair of pants. No doubt Trump would say I’m lying, but its the naked truth. Let’s hope Trump remembers it’s not about him, its about those who fought and those who died.

The Russian front was a fight to the death, and Historians will tell you that without the Eastern Front occupying the Nazis, 6 million is the figure I seem to remember, then the Dday victory could not have happened. I heard a History professor state this at an Open University Summer school maybe 30 years ago. This is why Russians are upset that their war and valour doesn’t get as much coverage, there is no Hollywood of the Russian Front, I can only think of one such film.

The one with Jude Law as a Soviet sniper. Contrast that the 100s of films about the war from the Western prospective. Everybody needs to remember the horrors the Russians went through. Then you’ll begin to understand the way they are. We can argue about the need for everybody to move on from History and live in today’s world, but if you don’t know the past then you’ll blunder into the Future.

Now we all have our own personal History,and maybe I’m writing this in reverse, should I do the humour first then move onto the serious stuff? Warm you up, then slap you in the face with death. The joy of life is that we can do things any which way we choose, maybe I’m Clyde the orang-utan, I’m messing everywhere and I don’t need to steal any pants. Immediately some of you may condemn me for moving from Dday to an orang-utan, but then you miss the point. We have freedom today in the West because people lost their lives, because we had a Just War to beat utter madness and evil that was Hitler. So I can speak in any format I like, my words are not approved or censored by anybody. We have Free Speech.

If you don’t like my words you can ignore them, billions of words all over the Internet that can be ignored. The majority are ignored, then you have “influencers” who make loads of money,because some people could not be bothered to think for themselves. Then you have bots puking vile ideas all over the Internet. This is today’s problem, challenge is a pretentious word, it is a PROBLEM. You have to balance Rights and Duties, and MZ wants to make his billions as do other Big Tech people, and then wash their hands as kids, or people who are mentally kids, kill or harm themselves. They want to wash their hand like Pilot and say it’s nothing to do with me.

This is where Tax can be used to force common sense on Big Tech companies. Ordinary People pay 20% tax and more, meanwhile Big Tech pays just a fraction of that. So tax them and force them to make common sense changes. Too often the bolt has been closed on the gate after the horse has bolted, and a child is dead or harmed in some way.

Who decides the way in which Big Tech is held to account? We do. You and me, everywhere the world over. So you need to send an email, join a petition, get off the couch and vote. In USA Trump lost the Popular Vote, yet he’s become the most corrupt President ever. Why? Because half the population don’t even bother to register to vote. So he got elected. We can argue about Hillary being the wrong candidate, because it was her “turn”and the FBI man ruining her chances at the last moment. We heard it was 70,000votes out of the millions that ensured Trump got elected, due to the Electoral College system.

So when Donald Trump arrives in UK, there could be 1,000,000 people protesting against him, and the Trump Baby balloon may be flying too. No doubt Trump might say they are ruining the memorial for the fallen of Dday. However I’d say they are proving all the sacrifices of Dday were worth it, not forgetting the Russians tying down 6 million Nazis that helped enable Dday. Because today in 2019 we have Freedom to Protest, to say to all our Politicians, YOU ARE OUR SERVANTS. We can and will vote you out,so long as we get off the couch. And they can “shiote dans leur pantelons” just as that Dday GI did, but he is a hero and they never will be, just remember that they are our SERVANTS.

Just the way you are ©

By

Michael Casey

Moses was tall and gangly, people used to laugh at him and call him beanstalk. Some even picked on him, he was regularly bullied, and had his teeth chipped after fights. Where’s your staff Moses, make the Red Sea part was a common remark. Only his Nan loved him, and the little girl opposite, she felt pity for him. It was all so unfair. His Nan was forever taking him to the dentist, but at least they didn’t pull all his teeth, then he’d look like his Nan even more, with false teeth. No, Moses got gold fillings, a fist full of gold fillings, because he’d had fists in his mouth.

Sharon as the little girl opposite, she smiled and told him he looked great with his gold teeth. Really was Moses’s reply. And that is how they became friends. On one visit to the dentist he picked up a Readers Digest, he just flicked though it. Then one item caught his attention, so on the way out he asked the receptionist could he have it, a ten year old copy of the Readers Digest. When he got home he read the article over and over again. He then went over the road to show Sharon.

Self Defence, with Judo John. It was all about how to use an attacker’s weight against them and so defend yourself. And that is how Moses and Sharon discovered each other. By throwing and grappling with each other, it was fun and they were good. Over a period of months they learnt the basics. Then they went to the old Spring Hill Library and got all the old Judo John books out. They began slowly and read them cover to cover. Judo John was an Olympic Champion many years ago. As they read they practiced, and with each practice they got better and better and love grew between then as they flung each other all over the place. They would laugh as snot dripped from their noses, as their socks fell down and as they had to tuck in their shirts and blouses. They didn’t really know it but they were falling deeply in love.

As they practiced in the back garden they listened to Barry White on a cassette radio play. It covered the noise of them grunting and groaning as they grabbled. After a couple of years of this both of them had put on lots of muscles, Moses was no longer gangly he was bulky now too. And yes the bad boys did try to bully him one last time, only he knew a bit of Judo now. So he threw them into the dustbins, and Sharon who felt so empowered now defended her man, she stood by her man and threw a bully or two into the dustbins too. 4 bullies against Moses and Sharon did not stand a chance. The word got out at school, and nobody ever troubled Moses again, now his nickname was Jaws after the James Bond villain.

Fate took a hand now, the school was a sports academy, so one day some Judo guys turned up. Moses was shy, but the school blurted out about how Moses and Sharon had sorted the bullies. The Judo guys smiled, and Moses and Sharon were asked to step forward. After a few minutes of grabbling with the Judo experts, the experts smiled even more. If there was a grading both would get a good grade and possibly a Brown Belt immediately. Where did you learn they were asked, so they confessed they had read the Judo John books while listening to Barry White. The entire school laughed at them , the Judo guys did not. In fact Judo John was the grandfather of one of the team, and guess what he loved Barry White too.

So Moses and Sharon got free tuition at one of the back street Judo schools in the city centre, in exchange for a bit of tidying up. And that was how they learnt their trade. Moses was quickly a Black Belt and so was Sharon shortly afterwards. They raced up the belts, and their confidence grew and grew. They were worried about what to do after school, but they were offered the business when the owner retired. So Moses and Sharon Judo School appeared in small letters under JUDO. They laughed that they had never left school. And their love just grew and grew. Moses’s Nan had raided her pension pot and re-mortgaged her house to help buy the business, but soon she was repaid. A female teacher was a selling point.

After practice Moses would wash Sharon and Sharon would wash Moses, very Oriental, and yes sometimes Barry White influenced them too much, I can’t get enough of you baby, as they made love on the practice mats. They were engaged by now, but there was never a baby, Sharon did not mind, she had Moses and that was enough. But secretly Moses wanted to be a dad, what was the point in life if you don’t have kids.

Now what do Martial Arts people do in the evening, well they work security at clubs, drinking Hot Chocolate, and yes they loved that music too. Where they worked there was never any trouble, Moses was 6feet 4inches and 120 kilos of total muscle by now. Sharon had a pony tail and blonde hair, just like Theresa May’s body guard lady, she was always smiling because she had here Man, and she was his Lady. They loved Lionel’s Lady my Sweet lady too. All in all they had a happy life, though Moses pretended he did not mind not being a dad.

Now in clubs the girls dance around the handbags, or designate the fattest girl to mind them the most, as she drinks her lemon and lime alone as they dance. Now Moses spotted the girl and spoke into his radio, do you mind if I dance with another lady tonight, just this once? Sharon looked around and knew what he was going to do. You do know I am a Black Belt 4th Dan? Yes, and you can tie me to our bed with it tonight, after you take my Black Belt 7th Dan off my naked body. Sharon laughed aloud.

Moses smiled at the girl guarding the handbags, would you care to dance? Theresa looked up, she nearly fainted so he picked her up and carried her to the middle of the dance floor he, then held her in his arms, and now she was his lady. The other girls nearly fainted, Moses was the absolute hunk of the hunkiest, and he was dancing with Theresa. Sharon was not to be outdone so she picked a fat boy and led him to the dance floor. Sharon was a big girl but totally curvaceous, and she knew how to move. Everybody stopped to watch Sharon and the fat boy and Moses and Theresa. Then Moses bent and kissed Theresa’s hand, they swopped partners, Moses danced with Sharon, and Theresa danced with Kevin, for that was his name. Barry White was singing, Can’t Get enough of your Love Babe. And that was how Theresa met the boy of her dreams Kevin.

An opportunist thought he’d steal from the pile of handbags, only small Peter was also working that night. Peter was less than 5 feet tall, but he had a 56 inch chest after years of Judo. So the would be thief laughed at “titch” only to find himself on the floor. He was ejected and banned for life. Kevin and Theresa were so happy, they both thought they’d just be watching handbags all their life, but this was the beginning of something big.

Theresa and Kevin were made for each other, so obviously they told everybody they knew, and fat people always have lots of friends, even if they lack boyfriends or girlfriends. So more and more people came to the club in the hope of finding the one true love. Moses and Sharon thought they’d help things along, so it became a feature, Moses would dance with a girl who’d been abandoned to the handbags. And Sharon would grab a boy who’d been hiding in a corner pretending he didn’t mind. Barry White of course played his part too, Baby We better Try and get it together, was very popular, as well as It may be Winter outside but in my heart it’s Spring. Sharon and Moses picked 2 lonely people, and then they got it on with each other. John Travolta in Pulp Fiction would have died for it. Watching Moses and Sharon was electric, and then the whole dance floor filled and heaved. Afterwards the bar was flooded, dancing was so thirsty everybody needed a drink.

Eventually the club had a “Big Girls Don’t Cry” night, dancing for boys and girls of the bigger dimensions. Everybody was happy, things could not be any better. But Fate always steps in. One of the boys who bullied Moses years before came to town after he’d got out of Jail. By chance he heard about Moses, it was his friend been barred for life.

So that night with evil in his heart Barry came to hurt Moses, why this happens you’ll have to watch a BBC documentary, or a ITV daytime tv show. Barry weaved his way through the dance floor, something shinny in his hand, he had 2 others on either side flanking him. It was he night Theresa got engaged to Kevin as she descended the stairs from the toilets she saw what was afoot.

Theresa was a teacher so she knew how to scream. FAT GIRLS ON THE DANCE FLOOR, Kevin was also a teacher, a P.E. teacher so he knew how to scream too. He knew Theresa needed help, he felt it, he just knew. So he screamed too, FAT BOYS ON THE DANCE FLOOR.

The dance floor flooded and Moses was swept away by a flood of sweaty fat bodies, Sharon could see what was happening now. She had seconds to save her Moses before he’d be in a wicker basket coffin. So she grabbed “titch” Peter and threw him through the crowd. Barry was tumbled, the assassins were rumbled. Fat Girls to the left, fat Boys to the right. Then they all Irish danced towards the assassins. The Lard was in the frying pan and it was time to spit and hiss and burn. They may be fat, but they were all Dancing Queens, they high kicked their way over the dance hall. Moses their leader and they would defend him. In short Barry and his 4 henchmen were Irish Dance Kicked into submission. Never under estimate a fat girl EVER.

Moses and Sharon embraced. The Police came and took Barry his four friends away. The Police also booked the club for their works do too. Maybe it was the sense of relief that Moses and Sharon felt, or whatever reason, but that night Sharon conceived. After that all Moses had to do was look at Sharon and she got pregnant. They could not decide how many kids to have, but as Moses was a Black Belt 7th Dan, they decided 7 was a good number. And if you are all wondering if this tale is true, well kind of. Because one of this writer’s earliest memories is being bounced on Moses’ knee as he smiled his smile full of gold fillings at me.

Before the Dawn ©

By

Michael Casey

Last looks at photos of mom

Checking and rechecking kit before the fight

Cursing louder and louder to hide the fear

Playing cards, last chance to get rich before hiding in a ditch

Look at photos of naked girls wishing you could hide within

Prayers half said and wishing you had got wed

You promise you’ll marry the first thing you get back

Rosaries dusted off, and mumbled through,you haven’t got a clue

Lucky charms and Rosaries too kissed and wrapped around your kit

False smiles, and wondering why you came thousands of miles

Hope that you’d get to sample champagne in Paris

Fear that you’d never get back to your aged mom again

Charity sharing your chocolate with your mates

Laugher over the water into the distance

Worry half hidden from each other

But you are each other’s brother

At dawn you will fight and try not to die together

You can hear the bagpipes, the mad piper has begun

The rush of bravery and hope, you will survive and go

All the way to Berlin, Normandy is just the beginning

You will show the Nazis what you are made of.

First off the boat and up the beach a kiss from a French girl

Is almost within reach

Bullets fly, bullets fly but New Yorkers don’t come to die

You are an American and you will be in Paris

Secrets in the Safe ©

By

Michael Casey

I might stop and start while I talk to you, it’s no secret my left shoulder has come out to play today. Pain with a CAPITAL P. It audibly clicks as well, and I’d wish it’d just go to Hell. Luckily my Movelat and Paracetamol are close to hand. Not locked in a safe, just within grab reach, like the toilet paper. If I had a gun it would be locked away and the bullets locked somewhere else, luckily we don’t have that in UK, we are gun free, thank God.

Chocolate needs to be hidden and locked away, I have 3 girls in the house, and a female cat too. But what about secrets? Samuel Pepys wrote his diary in code so nobody would know what he was talking about. He knew many secrets and was wise enough to bury his cheese to avoid the Great Fire of London. I may go and read about him when I finish talking to you all, you can all do the same for homework.

Nowadays everybody blogs, except me, I write or rather Talk to you all. I hope its much better than Joe Soap’s blog or even Freg Bloggs’ blog. I don’t earn any money and I’m not an influencer. I’d rather be under the influence of Stella Artois, than mindless tat basely advertised and touted by vacuous people. Did you feel my claws then? MIAOW. I’m copying Totoro our cat who went back to Ninja cat mode yesterday, with 2 kills, one to the front of the house and one to the back. She hangs out with the foxes nowadays, they live in a Ben’s back garden nearby.

But what about secrets, and what would be so important you put it in a safe? The Kentucky Fried Chicken recipe was in a safe, though personally I think its disgusting, they should have left it there. Somebody told me that Burgerking was better than BigMac and I think they are right, though Macdonalds do better fries. Though its years since I had either, and they were never my fast food. My generation were chips and kebab people. I do think saving recipes for the future is a great idea. We even have a seed bank hidden in a mountain, should world disaster strike. However I seem to remember a news item saying that, the seed bank could be flooded as Global Warming is melting ice and could flood the seed bank.

So it’s only the most important of stuff that gets put in a safe. Our Ken Dodd a comedian was once sued by the tax man, AND HE BEAT THEM, he kept cash in a shoebox under the stairs, 30k or even 100k. But his love letters were in a bank vault. Ken really got his priorities right, his shows lasted 5 hours, you really got your money’s worth too.

I’m told that the Sun Newspaper in England has a bank vault on the premises with all the Dirt on the Great and the Good. Now that would be interesting reading, though that could be an urban legend. Next time I meet Rupert Murdoch at the Bingo I’ll ask him, but only after he buys me 2 pints of Stella Artois, save him going up twice and queuing for me. He always forgets the cheese and onion crisps though.

What would I keep in safe? Clean underpants and some soft toilet paper, and maybe some Ck1. You never know who might come up and see me sometime. And yes Movelat painkiller and paracetamol. Without those I’d be rolling about on the floor. Though with Ck1 and clean underpants I might just having fun rolling about on the floor. With a Sumo. Though I have much better dreams than that.

The Homework Club ©

By

Michael Casey

Well as ever I didn’t have an idea to talk about today, I’d just read a piece about George Clooney and Catch22, which could be my own life. And yes my big daughter did say he’d got old, so George I can be your fresher faced stand in, and only 248pounds too, that’s my day rate and real weight. 18 x 14= 252 so I am actually 252pounds now. So you owe me 4 quid George. Other than that we are exactly the same.

Before a role George has to do his homework and look at my picture and remind himself just how good and cool he could look if he looked like me. He has to read a lot and get the feel and the look under the skin, so he can become Michael Casey, ok just teasing George, but I do have peanut butter on my shoes, only you cannot eat mine.

He has the original book to read, a film to watch, and he will sit and talk around the topic, and loads and loads of stuff. If you catch him in the toilets you can corner him with conversation. But make sure you haven’t got peanut butter on your shoes.

Which brings me to today’s topic, The Homework Club. My big daughter is here with me in the “study” as week 2 of her A Levels continue after the weekend, so she is working hard. She listens to music to help her along the path. As Tinnitus irritates me so much she plays it aloud so I can share an inoculation to Tinnitus while she studies. I have my music and she has hers, but at the exam time she is Queen so her music is played and I share it, and try not to make any noise to distract her as she studies. Which means no loud farting, or too much moaning because of the pain. So I leave the room and slap on the Movelat and return. In the “study” all manner of girls’ music choice plays as she studies, Maths, Biology, Chemistry and Philosophy.

A former classmate of hers does play Drums, so I am lucky I am not her dad, think of the noise. Meanwhile in our kitchen my small daughter has invited a couple of friends to sample her cooking. Though that will be a great experience, as my small daughter is turning into a little chef, one day I hope Delia Smith meets her. My aunty Delia was the kindest and fattest relative I had, and a great cook too, 17 stones and only 5 feet tall. If my small daughter becomes like her then I’d be so happy, though without all the weight. As for my small daughter’s friends, they have to sing for their supper. They are Maths specialists, so they are giving my daughter advice in exchange for their dinner. Due to diet and religious observances they will be getting pasta, which I don’t like as I think it’s too bland. So there will be no slops for me to have.

I imagine there are kids up and down the country who need a bit of friendly patient help in a variety of subjects. Teachers need to listen, not just tick boxes. At my big daughter’ 6th form college a couple of teachers were let go, because they were not up to the job. The job is teaching, which means is listening and being engaging. And transferring knowledge from your head into the kids head. When I was an Esol teacher I got, excellent, excellent and exemplary as my external assessment,just so you know. And that’s why I think all my writing could be used as a Teaching Aid, so Educational Publishers do get in touch fast.

In Tom Sawyer, he’s made paint the fence, but he turns it around, and gets the other kids pay him for the honour of painting the fence. We’ve all seen it on tv, and now I speak of it I can actually remember reading the book in class4 at Primary School. So it is with friends, somebody is good at this or that,so you trade skills. At school age, don’t pay through the nose to some stranger. Pay a quarter as much or not at all, just get some nice food in the house and get your child’s friends to help. Or in our case, or should I say Caseys my kids arrange it for themselves, my job is to just stay out of the way, and let them get on with it.

There is pride in knowledge, you have finally worked it out, you understand, the shade has been lifted from the light. It really is easy, once you know it is easy. You have lost your virginity of ignorance. That’s why the Printing Press was loathed by the masters, because it meant all of us, the common man could learn to read. And yes there is no one more common than me, but I am the common denominator, which as you all know if a Maths expression. If I can write then all of you in the 60 places that read me, in the many languages that read me, all of you can write. All of you can do maths, all of you can do anything. Because as we share bread at a table, we teach each other many things, and through friendship and love we expand our knowledge. And if you have what you think is peanut butter on your shoe, don’t taste it, just ask George Clooney to do that for you.

Damp ©

By Michael Casey

Well its damp today here in Birmingham, we are drying out after all the rain. Though in other parts it was more like a flood, Noah was seen in the distance and I’m sure I saw 2 birds flying overhead in search of land. Unfortunately Totoro thought this was his Just Eat dinner being self delivered. So Noah is still in the ark waiting for the flood to subside.

The weather really does have an effect on our mood. That’s why yesterday I posted the piece about “the rain falling down” and yes I really did used to have a Korean priest. He was deaf and an IT wiz, he was from Korea after all. A deaf priest is a good thing, especially in the confessional, though if the priest shouts “you did what?” because he cannot hear you, then the whole church can.

But back to damp, when we are damp it slows us down and deflates our mood. Damp is like a weigh about our neck, it makes everything heavy and serious. You cannot be happy if your clothes are clammy or damp, if the sky is grey and there is no blue in the sky. Everything seems grey, just like your underpants because dad did not separate out the colours. Life itself is grey and damp.

You go down the hill to the shops, and even the flowers look dull, it’s as if you are wearing your shades, though I do most of the time. But when it’s damp it’s as if there is a grey filter in the entire air, life is heavy, everything is joyless. Even a pretty girl is not as pretty, it’s as if a boring filter has been placed around her, not enough light in the atmosphere, can God put a shilling in the meter and switch the light on, dispel the dark and damp and dank.

God hears your voice while you are in the shop, as you leave a rumble of thunder, so you try and walk faster up the steep hill. God’s thunder is at your heels like a wolf at the door. The sky is lit up by lightning, is that bright enough for you, God is asking, asking ME to put a shilling in the meter. Lightning rains down around you, that must be a trillion pounds worth shoved in the meter. You jump and are startled, please don’t do that with my heart, you could kill me. God throws another thunder bolt at you, and the heavens open. You are sure you can see Noah body surfing on the lightning and splashing about in the rain.

You get to your house, your heart pounding, your shopping bag full of water as well as oranges. You drop your keys, and as you bend down to pick them up Totoro the cat strikes, your behind is too big a target. You scream, God’s going to kill you.

You are relieved, it’s just the cat, and as you open the front door the sky is clear, the thunder and lightning has washed away all the damp and damp dull colours. Everything is technicolour.

You need shades, everything is big and bold and bright. Your mood lifts, why can’t every day be like this. Then you remember that poem you hated at school, the Wordsworth one, Into every life some darkness must fall.

Talking to Strangers ©

By Michael Casey

I was talking to a stranger today, I know your mum always says don’t talk to strangers and it is wise advice for children. But it’s one of my bad habits, but I had to talk to this person, luckily for her it was just over the phone. Could you stand looking at me for an hour? I can hear the comments coming through the screen. You are so unkind, call yourselves my readers, I may just sulk and stop writing. But you know I won’t, it’s the only thing I can do, and the only thing I’m good at. Ok, apart from Farting, but you cannot put farting down on a CV, as specialist subject. I know we all used to have farting competitions when we were young, or were you too posh to fart. Try eating Heinz beans with eggs in, a double whammy of fart potential. My brother introduced his fellow students to it when he was at Downing Cambridge. What did you do at University? Oh, I introduced farting to Downing College, via Heinz beans with eggs in. I also got a degree.

So now I’m explaining farting to my readers in 60 countries, you must all think I’m so vulgar, but it does at least save on central heating. But don’t light any farts with a cigarette, and yes I must confess we did try it once in the empty office when it was being refurbed in the 1980s. Meanwhile Flash as we used to call him, he fell asleep on the toilet during a night shift. Then he dropped his cigarette and set fire to his trousers.

Meanwhile what I really wanted to talk about was talking to strangers, that’s if the smell of farts doesn’t drive them away. It was on the news tonight how people can feel lonely or isolated, so they suggested a bus journey. The 3 lonely people had a pet dog each, and they did a test where people spoke and did not speak. Obviously a dog is a talking point, and obviously too speaking really does lift mood. It’s today’s society where people look down at their phones and are cocooned by their buds and their music, so a full bus can be bus full of lonely people. Listen to the Beatles Eleanor Rigby right now instead of reading this, but do come back, as I’ll get lonely if you all abandon me for the Beatles. And did I tell you that John Lennon was one of our lodgers, but that’s another story.

In my time at CPNEC Birmingham my job was to say hello to anybody that came into the hotel. I gave them 30 seconds and then I gave them the big hello. That was my job, maybe 100,000 people got the big hello, I was actually much praised, “the best thing about the hotel is you” was one of the many positive comments. We were the friendly hotel, me, Roger and Jim were the welcoming committee and the rest was History. And when Iwasn’t doing that I was doing 10 other roles, Roger counted them once.

Over at another hotel our boss stood there for 20 mins before anybody approached him, that was the difference, 30 seconds v 20 mins. Hello to Jonathan Walker if ever he reads this, yes it’s me, please buy all 18 books, my girls are all grown up now, just as yours are.

Talking is good, it relaxes us, it makes us happy, a problem shared is a problem halved, Tell the Truth and Shame the Devil as my mum used to say. You can confess to somebody on a train, and then you will never see them again, Confession for non-Catholics if you like. Bottling things up does lead to illness mental and physical, so Spit it Out. And then with the burden lifted from your shoulders you start again. Every day is a new beginning.

Obviously when I get on a bus people Manspread, or stretch so that old fat silver haired writer in shades from Birmingham England cannot sit anywhere near them. But I know how to hang from a pole, I was a pole dancer in my past, did I not mention it before, maybe I’ll write about it tomorrow. So I’ll dangle from a pole and talk to anybody, the bus driver does love me after all, because riff raff don’t get on his bus, when they see me there, they decide to walk instead. It’s Michael Casey, ok we’ll walk instead it’s only 18 stops. Stuck on a bus with Casey, I’d rather watch Trump on tv.

On a serious note, your old mum, your dad, a friend does welcome a phone call, or an email with a silly photo in. So please ring your old mum or an old friend, make contact. In daily life say hello to folks in the street, break the ice. People will actually say, I’m glad you spoke to me. Why are there magazine stands at train stations, so you can avoid talking to people. I say do the opposite, talk to somebody, break the ice. You may make a friend for life, or find a husband, a wife, a lover, any which way. Talking makes us better than stones, than rocks, you can save a life just by a few kinds words. Even if all you say is that Michael Casey is such a waste of space, I really hate his words. Though he is really dishy better than George Clooney any day.

Michael Casey Pole Dancer ©

By

Michael Casey

Yes, I am a Pole Dancer, so don’t be jealous, and ladies don’t be too excited. At first it was a way of keeping fit, me all alone in the basement swinging from the pole that held up the ceiling above. It cost me nothing and it kept me fit. Then when I was in the corner shop Lilly fell over on a banana skin, I caught her and she said I was ever so strong. Where did you did you get your muscles from, I said from a sale on Amazon, Lilly laughed and hit me with her walking stick. Lilly is 89 you see, but she lies about her age and says she is 100, that way she gets free stuff. Her Pension is not enough, so by lying about her age she adds to her cupboard instead of being an old mother Hubbard.

Her granddaughter or is it great granddaugher intervened and prevented any more battering. So Louise followed me home and took a look at my bruise, she then slapped on a plaster and said grannie was right you are so full of muscles. Please tell me where you got them from. So I confessed to being a Pole dancer in the cellar, using the pole that held the ceiling up as my exercise tool.

Louise insisted on seeing my Pole. Then she said go on, do it. So I stripped to my Yfronts and my string vest and my socks and began to swing. I forgot to say Louise works in the local Primark, so she’s used to seeing people strip off and try things on. Nobody would try anything on with Louise as she trains with 7th Dan Moses at the local Judo school. So there I was swinging from my Pole. Louise was quite impressed, and she actually quite excited, it must have been the sight of my 18stones or 252 pound body moving fluidly around a Pole. Up and down and around and around. In the end it was too much for here so she went upstairs for a glass of water.

The next day she brought a friend, Mandy was her name, and they asked could the have the use of my Pole. I agreed of course. Mandy also does Judo with 7th Dan Moses, so how could I refuse. But they did make me an offer I could not refuse. They would bake for me. So I couldn’t say Bake Off to them. In fact their mince pies nearly turned my head, and went straight to my thighs, so much so I had to do an extra 10 mins before bedtime.

So it continued, I had food and drinks left on my kitchen table while down below ladies used my pole. In the end I didn’t need to go shopping as the ladies using my pole filled my cupboard. In the end it was later and later before I could do my own pole exercise routine. I’d been watching the gymnastics and had picked up a trick or two. Moulin Rouge had been on the telly again so that inspired me again.

It was so late that I had decided to do my pole routine naked and then I’d shower and go straight to bed. Only life is strange, and as I was working out on pole with the soundtrack to Moulin Rouge playing on my old cassette player, I did not notice a group of ladies sneak in. Lilly and Mandy were trying to persuade their friends that pole dancing was really good for keeping the figure trim. In fact it was nearly the entire ladies Judo team, Midlands Division. They had popped in for a quick look and I hadn’t locked the front door, so they were able to slip in. If you have that many Judo people visit you and our pole you feel safe.

The girls were amazed, and when they saw all my scars, first from my ankle bones to my naughty bits, then down my entire chest, they were overwhelmed. And it takes a lot to overwhelm a Ladies Judo expert, Midlands Division. The sight of my tight big fat buttocks, made them gasp too, ok one had to go puke in the front garden. One of them could not resist temptation and live streamed it. So I was all over the Internet, me and my fat arse, and glorious scars.

I stopped and did not know what to say, then I said the obvious, I hope somebody brings some Stella tomorrow. I’m here already, said a voice from the back. It was a beautiful girl. I meant Stella Artois I mumbled. I’ll bring the Stella Artois tomorrow said Stella. We all laughed. I walked through the crowd, Stella slapped my bum, it was just too much temptation for her.

Overnight I was an Internet sensation, and in the morning Stella brought the Stella Artois. Then she stripped and practised her pole dancing. It was only fair after all. And that is how me and Stella got together. Naked pole dancing together with Stella, Stella Artois afterwards.

Defenceless Little Old Lady ©

By

Michael Casey

Miss Hannigan was very nice little old lady, she was forever carrying her two red leather shopping bags back and forth as she went to the shops. She had a nice little pension and had never married, as no man was good enough, she always said with a faraway look in her eye. There been admirers, but that was another story that was too painful to go into. But now she was as regular as clockwork, thanks to the prunes, and she kept the same schedule. She could afford Ocado to come and deliver, and sometimes did, they were very nice delivery boys after all, but she liked human contact in the shops so she went shopping with her two red leather shopping bags.

Miss Hannigan knew everybody and everybody knew Miss Hannigan, she went shopping every day so of course the knew her. She didn’t go shopping on Sunday of course, Sundays were for church and choir, she played the piano in the church hall. Her voice was very very loud too, her past made her voice loud. You see Miss Hannigan had been a teacher all her life, so she knew how to shout and sing loudly. Then when Annie had been on tv the kids all began to sing back, We Love You Miss Hannigan, and they really did despite all the rigours of teaching. Miss Hannigan taught English, so when a weekly test was finished the kids all sung, We Love You Miss Hannigan, and then burst out laughing.

So Miss Hannigan had had a nice life, she’s had 1000s of children, though secretly she’d have loved one of her very own, so she could tell her own child just how special they were to her. Now the thing about routine is that it is the best way and the safest way to run your life, you don’t forget where you left your keys or where your underpants are, because they are always in the same place. Covering your bum, or on the 2nd shelf in the wardrobe, or in the washing machine on steam clean.

There are bad people in this world, opportunists who will take advantage of you, like Politicians who refuse to debate, because they think everything is in the bag, and don’t want to let any cats out of the bag. In Miss Hannigan’s case there was a very naughty boy who’d seen her walking by every day as he sat in his car smoking his skunk. Skunk stinks, and is a very stupid thing to do. But Skunk is a bad habit unlike Miss Hannigan’s good habits, about knowing where her pants or keys were at any given time. So over time and the haze of Skunk, the naughty boy thought it might be a good idea to steal from Miss Hannigan.

Miss Hannigan was carrying two full loads of shopping in her shopping bags, it was all kinds of everything. She was walking a bit slower than usual as she’d hurt her leg, in fact she’s borrowed a stick from Mr Malik who said keep it. She had taught his children and grandchildren after all. The Skunk user thought this was his chance, he’d steal her purse, she must be rich she went to the shop every day, though really it was to keep loneliness at bay. So the Skunk crept up on her. Miss Hannigan BEHIND YOU, generations of kids would scream,We Love You Miss Hannigan, LOOK OUT.

The wind saved Miss Hannigan, she farted you see, Heinz baked beans was her weakness, they are good for your heart, ask your doctor, even if he holds his nose as he replied. As she looked around to see if anybody had heard her let rip, then she spotted and smelt the Skunk. She had always told the children that a bully must be faced down, so she stopped and dropped her 2 shopping bags, deliberately , so that the contents poured out in front of her. Then she screamed as only a teacher can scream, the Skunk laughed, nobody will hear you, you are too far away from the shops.

Miss Hannigan pressed her Fitbit, the Skunk laughed again, that won’t help you, you old bitch. He’d obviously been to the wrong kind of school. Little did he know, it was not a Fitbit, Mr Malik’s grandson was very big in Tech, it was in fact a personal alarm. Miss Hannigan took a deep breath, looked like she was all alone. Then she cast off her coat, she was there in her pink woolly jumper. It was a leaving present, it had WE LOVE YOU MISS HANNIGAN embroidered on it. The Skunk laughed.

Miss Hannigan grasped her walking stick, then using the contents of her shopping bag as ammunition she let rip, she farted first, then she used Malik’s stick as a hockey stick. FIRE, fire one, fire two, fire three, fire four, fire five. She had not only been the English teacher, she also taught HOCKEY. The Skunk was sunk, hen was battered and clattered with tins of this and that, with potatoes, carrots, a cabbage and a lettuce, she even hooked a box of free range eggs and the had a doze yolk on him.

By now from a distance the cavalry were coming, the cavalry were coming, generations of children came running, a child will never forget it’s teachers voice. So they all came running. The Fitbit was connected to many Iphones too. Mr Malik’s grandson jumped into his Rolls Royce and floored it. A Council meeting was interrupted too, the Lord Mayor in all his regalia came running, the number 92 bus which was always late, just flew. Miss Hannigan was in trouble, they must come, NOW, just as she used to say to them in school, NOW MEANS NOW.

In the distance the Police were coming too, no flashing lights, just clip and clop, but very fast clip and clop. You see Sgt. Dixon was on horse duty and his phone picked up the FitBit alert, there were three other officers on horseback too. They were the four horsemen of the apocalypse as far as the Skunk was concerned. An American tourist happened to be in the local park and filmed and followed on his roller skates.

There was flour in the air, as Miss Hannigan had not stopped firing until everything she had was launched against her would be attacker. Miss Hannigan, Miss Hannigan her children all shouted, hoping she was safe. Malik’s Rolls screamed to a halt. The Lord Mayor arrived, classroom fulls of people arrived. There was one late arrival, hairy Amjit the Alsation dog had ran 5 miles, then just leapt teeth first onto the Stunk.

Four Police horses arrived and backed the Stunk into a corner, dribbling spit all over the stunk. The American tourist filmed it all.

The Stunk was arrested, and as he sat on a bench waiting for a Police van to take him to jail, the Police Horses had the final say. You see running always makes a horse want to pooh.So all four poohed on the Skunk, so everything came up roses. Everybody sung We Love you Miss Hannigan, over and over again. They were so relieved, they would knit a new jumper for Miss Hannigan as hers had got a bit battered rather like the Skunk in all the excitement. Miss Hannigan had never had a child of her own, but as far as all these generations of children were concerned, they loved her like a mother.

Hiding The Fat ©

By

Michael Casey

I just looked out the window 30 seconds ago and I was wondering what to write about, I mean talk about today when I spotted a fat girl bulging out of her clothes. She may or may not have been pregnant, you wouldn’t want to ask just in case she was just fat. Now 1/2 my audience may hate me already, I think half do already, so is that 3/4s hating me now, you can do the Maths for yourselves. That’s the trouble with words you cannot say anything or the Snowflakes will be upset. A reality is a reality, so let this big guy through to the toilets, ok I’m just a fatso, so there to you too.

When you are fat you tend to try and hide it. I have a big bum, but it’s behind me, so it’s not a problem for me. But if you are in a scrum then that might be a totally different situation, as your head is nearly up my bum as the ball is thrown in. So perhaps you shouldn’t play rugby with me. And why are rugby players’ balls bigger than football players’ balls, because they sell more tickets. Or it could be that they need to buy more shampoo after their heads have been up each other’s bums in the scrums. Which reminds me there was a book called The Art of Course Rugby, I read it 50 years ago maybe, if you can track it down it is very very funny. And no there is no mention of the best shampoo to use after your head has been up somebody’s bum in the scrum.

But enough of my formative years in the 1970s, what about the fat girl outside? Tight clothes reveal all, cyclists beware, so if you are fat everything will be on show and cling filmed against your body. If you are happy then that’s fine. But if you don’t want folks to say, she’s so fat, even if they say it under their breath then, by having looser fitting clothes , or a scarf or a shawl you can disguise yourself. I can feel the anger mounting as I talk to you. All these methods you big girls know already. And yes if anybody dares to upset my stick insect girls, I’d throw a hissy fit like in White Chicks. I might even climb up on desk and get my kit off and shake my fat hairy ass, that would certainly distract attention away from their awful evil vile comments about my Princesses, the fruits of my loins. A dad will do anything to protect his girls, even baring his fat hairy ass.

Some girls have big chests, others have padded bras. Some are shy about their assets, some are not. This is where let it all hang out, or strap it down or cover it up comes in. It’s up to everybody to decide, what their style is. Temptation or the Nun look. We all have personal choice. I am of course the buttoned up look, I used to wear shirt and tie for years like a member of Status Quo with my jeans too. All men are bastards as we girls know, so you have to decide what’s appropriate on where you are going.

As for myself if I open a button or two all my new regrown chest hair is exposed. It’s taken 4 years to get back to full growth. You lie on a bed semi naked and a nurse shaves your chest, and then both legs from the ankle to your naughty bits, then they cut you open and do an unplanned quadruple heart bypass. Without the surgery bit in a different setting it could be called erotic or even kinky, what you get up to in your own bedrooms is up to you.

So you can imagine, should I open my shirt and reveal my hairy 46inch chest, with my bulging belly below, with my pirate, not pilotes, pirate scar in its full 12 inch glory, with my chest hair adorning it like Japanese Knotweed, or should I cover myself up like a blushing virgin. The answer came to me, or rather the gales of laugher, and one person puking all over my pirate scar. Though that’s how I met Betty a nurse who led me away to the car wash and told me to clean myself, then she make me give her dad 2 quid for the use of his brushes.

But nevertheless Betty and me became bosom friends, and she has no scars on hers, she told me, how else would I know? Which brings me back to the behind. We don’t see it, but it is a most useful thing. If you wear tight, skin tight clothes you can really drive the boys wild, so obviously I always wear loose fitting trousers. I’m too old to be chased down the street, and the last boy that tried to pinch my bum I threw him into the fountain at Victoria Square Birmingham. You see in the dark, with my short jacket on all that you notice is my tight 46inch bum, which is too much temptation to some boys. Though when I spin around and they see my face, and my rugged good looks, they do get a fright, and some get such a shock they go of and join the French Foreign Legion.

So don’t mock me for my looks, I just try and wear the right clothes at the right time, something for every occasion. My bum is the same as Donald Trump’s look closely and you will agree, so have pity on me. If ever I end up in a Finnish Sauna all I can do is try and wear the right shade of lipstick, and then everything is based on the size of my personality, because when you lie down naked in the dark, all you have is your personality and see how that fits.

Belgium Man, Belgium

As you know, BELGIUM is the worse curse word on Earth, if you don’t believe me then go and read The Hitchiker’s Guide to the Universe, I can remember hearing it on the Radio, decades ago.

So why should anybody in Belgium read me, there is the European Union and Nato headquarters there. So are the Europeans so sick of Brexit that  they read me instead, or is it just a stray journalist, like a sheep dog escaped and mating with the local Alsatian. WALOOOOOOOONs they might howl.

Or is it Jim Mathis asking his old friends at Nato to keep an eye on Casey, I doubt if I’ve corrupted more officers higher up the scambled egg chain. Scrambled egg is the slang for all the rankings marked on shoulders of uniform. Though one Private did have a waitress dump food all over him,  he was nearly saluted to death by all the men, as the scrambled egg and tomatoes on his shoulders increased his rank to General in special services, though obviously not silver sevices. The private did present his privates to the waitress and they went and had 13 children and formed an army of their own.

Belgium Man, BELGIUM

By Michael Casey

You’ll be in the glass house for a year if you say that again to  Mathis. Though he is retired now

and has joined a tribute band, singing Johnny Mathis songs, he kept all his uniforms so he didn’t need to change anything. It’s all over his kit. J. Mathis, perfect. He is such a crooner, Bing Crosby would try and kill him, he’d be so jealous. And we all know how that would end.

There is chocolate in Belgium too, though nobody sends any to me. You just sit there in the cafes and by the canal and have your nice beer, very nice beer, Stella Artois,and you never send any to me, not even a selfie of the Press Pack, with General Mathis singing like the Rat Pack.

BELGIUM, man, BELGIUM

so send me Stella, either the girl or the Lager, you did read my Michael Casey Pole Dancer from the other day? Do keep up, I don’t mean your 14th Stella Artois in 2 hours, are you journalists or a bunch of school girls? Let me put my glasses on, why are you all dressed up like Japanese school girls?

Because you did not get invited to Osaka with Trump, so you decided to dress in women’s clothing and pretend you were there, while you stayed in Belgium.

BELGIUM MAN,BELGIUM

well I’ll finish now, I have to shave my legs and slip into my cocktail dress and Japanese wig, If you can’t beat them, then join them. Or was that another Beer Commercial?

Scrabble Vendetta ©

By

Michael Casey

The Media Scrum out Saint Patrick’s wasn’t going to go away, in fact it would grow and grow, the Media would have to take over the Windmill Pub next door such was the amount of Media attention. Big Sid the butcher was on the operating table over the road and inside the church Mrs Murphy one of those whose lives he saved was Praying at Warp Factor 9. Forget about not mixing matter and antimatter, she might be inside the church but her soul was at the very gates of Heaven screaming her supplications, as well as Daughters of the Rosary the world over.

Outside hairy Amjit the Alsation was licking the wounds of Jesus on the cross, this was his prayer begging and pining that Big Sid the Butcher should live. Mrs Kemp had arrived at the church too. Who are you the Press demanded to know. I’m the Grandmother of the pregnant hostage. But you cannot be, Mrs Murphy inside Praying like a Devil is the grandmother. Said one lazy reporter from the Daily Fuzz, he certainly was not a hot reporter. SHE is the Irish Grandmother, I am the English Grandmother, it was MY daughter held hostage, but OUR grandchild was in danger too, as was OUR unborn grandchild. She then stamped on his toe with her shoe.

Sky reporter went live, and the Daily Fuzz was pushed to the back of the crowd of journalists, it was like a shark feeding frenzy. Mrs Kemp explained again, and then extreme zoom, what do you think of the Post Office raiders. The Director had his finger on the bleep button. What do I think of those men, those excuse for men, they are not even men, not even little boys. They dare come to our community, and threaten the Saintly Mrs Murphy, and MY daughter and MY grandchild, and MY unborn grandchild. Well I think there is only one solution. And what exactly is that Mrs Kemp, asked Kay Burley from the Sky Studio. I’m going to feed their balls to my cat, that’s if they have any.

The Press exploded, Mrs Kemp continued, My Husband is a Freemason I’ll have you know. I don’t know what he does at his Lodge, but whenever he makes a Promise he keeps it. My husband has promised me their balls, so they can hide in Prison but my Husband will deliver. I will have their balls and feed them top my cat.

The Press pack exploded. And is there anything else you would like to say asked Kay from Sky. There are A, asses, B they are beasts, C they are clowns, D they are dunces, E they are Eejits if I can borrow a word from the saintly Mrs Murphy, F they are. Kay interrupted just in case.Then she interviewed the next guest, The World Scrabble competition was on, and England had lost two from the squad due to food poisoning, so the French were already gloating.

The French team captain, was so very smug. Maybe that lady could join the team as a standin, she at least knows her alphabet. Kay was inwardly livid, but ever the professional she linked back to the Scrum.

The French team captain for the world Scrabble championship was wondering would you like to join England’s team as a late replacement. Mrs Kemp smiled sweetly, I haven’t played in years, but if England expects, then I’ll do my duty. The England captain knew he hadn’t a hope in hell having lost his 2 best players, so he said ok,if the French did not object to a late replacement.

So it was all decided. A little light relief after all the dangers in the Post Office. As Kay finished the interview, the French captain moaned his interview had been cut short to cover a nothing butcher, brawn beating brain. Mrs Kemp still had the earpiece provided by Sky, I’ll have his balls too was his reply. Only Kay at Sky heard this,but there was something in Mrs Kemp’s voice that made Kay’s eyes light up with delight. She then rung her friend Peter Bets at Sky sports. You have to cover the Scrabble Championship live Kay purred. Why asked Peter? Just Woman’s intuition said Kay smiling.

Now the French team captain thought Mrs Kemp was just a boring housewife, the housewife bit was true. But Mrs Kemp had a past, a very large past, thousands of pages long. No she wasn’t a slapper, but her past covered thousands and thousands of pages. No she wasn’t a girlie magazine model either, but the French man’s jaw would drop, zut alors.

The day of the Scrabble World Championship arrived, Kay had friends around for beer and chips. She had looked up Mrs Kemp and her intuition had been spot on. Mrs Kemp apologised because she’s not played in years, she was a bit rusty,but she would do her best.Sky had put the championship on Sky Sport 69, Man U were playing Chelsea, so all the channels were playing variants of that.Then there was an act of God, like rain at Trump’s parade on July 4th.The floodlights were on the blink. So the match was abandoned,all the local pubs heaved with football supporters.

And that’s how you got 80,000 football fans rooting for Scrabble. Kay refused to tell her friends what she knew,Andrew even offeredto vacuum and do the washing up, but NO. Just watch. Mrs Kemp loosen the buttons on her blouse, she was a mature woman, but everything was still in full working order. She loosen another button. The studio lights were so hot after all. Football supporters in the pubs cheered and jeered, show us your hits miss they sung.

Then Mrs Kemp showed the French what she was made of. Short words, long words, strange words, backward and forwards. Kay smiled, then she relented,she whispered in Andrew’s ear. Andrew stood up and did a Flamenco step,this would teach the French. The studio lights were so very hot, the studio manager was told to dash next door to the Flaming Pie. He came back with a tray of Stella Artois. Mrs Kemp knocked hers back in one go. She spilled some on her blouse, she she stood and took it off. Uproar in all the bars. She was there in all her glory in a red bra, one her husband had recently given her, Freemasons are not stupid after all.

Mrs Kemp looked the French captain in the eye, my attire does not frighten you does it, you have seen a woman in red before? And on they played, more words, long and short and extended. Mrs Kemp was toying with him. The French were like children in a playpen playing with building blocks with letters on. Mrs Kemp was getting bored, not enough challenge. So she decided to construct long and strange an bizarre words. Just for her own intellectual amusement.

Foul cried the French, she’s cheating, no such word exists. Page 278, section 1b , subsection 12. In bold.Smiled Mrs Kemp. Dodds Dictionary 1934. The computer scanned and there it was. She must have an earpiece or some way of cheating stammered the French captain. Mrs Kemp stood up and removed her bra, shall I remove everything so you an search me. Then she put her bra back on. It was a Graduate moment.

Beer was spilt all over the country and everybody phoned a friend and shouted put Sky 69 on. Mrs Kemp smiled again, he was but a little boy. The Frenchman cursed her in French. Mrs Kemp replied in the worse filthiest French imaginable. She spent not one but two years in Marseilles in her university days. The French captain blushed, in fact he turned into a Pillar box. The floor manager was sent out for wine this time, as Mrs Kemp said the French were whining for wine.

Why don’t we have a bet on the side suggested the French captain. A crate of the 48 would be nice said Mrs Kemp,she did know her booze after all. Agreed. Then the French captain tried to rile her, who is this Big Sid anyway, I love Big Sid is everywhere, is England GAY?

England stopped, nobody could or should say that. Sky rung the Police to get a safe escort for the French team once the competition was over. The studio manager pointed and a video clip was played. CCTV of the Post Office and Big Sid saving everybody. This is an Englishman said Mrs Kemp, and he has done his duty.

She was enraged, she stormed up and down and around and backwards and forwards the Scrabble board. Some words had not been used is 360 years,God alone, literally knew what they mean.But tonight God was on Mrs Kemp’s side. For God and England and Big Sid.

The French were put through the Mangle, and yes for pure spite Mrs Kemp put mangle down as her last word. Applause all over the country. Then a lot of shouting, a Frenchman on his Tour de France bike arrived, he wore a spangled beret and a Tee shirt that read J’adore Big Sid.

It was Joules the French cultural attache,Mes Excuse, he bowed as low as a Japanese apology. This man does not represent the French. Of course you will get your wine too, the 1848 you mean. The 1948 I would not clean my bicycle with. Mrs Kemp gave him a hug, her bra came off and he had to hold up his beret to cover her embarrassment.

Then Mrs Kemp explained Kay and Andrew cheering on, you see my married name is Mrs Kemp. But I did stuck English and European languages, I am actually a Dr of Letters, but I never tell anybody in case they think I’m a medical doctor and want me to look at their bum. Though the French Scrabble captain had been kicked the bum , metaphorically speaking, and might perhaps need the attention of a medical doctor.

There was one other thing, Mrs Kemp was descended from14 Generations of Dictionary and Encyclopaedia compilers. The French captain didn’t stand a chance. The French cultural attache now he really was a gentleman, a very gay gentleman.

What makes us who we are? ©

By

Michael Casey

Well I was going to write Tinnitus and Phlegm but this idea boiled over so you are getting that instead. Why did I chose “boiled over” well our kettle broke last night, in fact it could have badly burned one of us. The handle broke as I was having a late night drink, so luckily it was me and not one of the girls. So I have ordered a new kettle to replace it. As my dad used to say, if you buy rubbish you end up buying twice. I could talk for a page on the subject of Kettles, but you can do that for yourself. If you find Just a Minute on the BBC World Service you’ll have fun listening to the folks on that show, they talk about everything maybe they are my Spiritual Godparents. Or then again them I am just an unloved Bastard, you’ll have to decide that for yourselves.

So what does make us who we are? Well love does play a part, too much or none at all affects indeed creates our character. I was of course the 5th of 6th children, and the family Pet till a final little sister arrived. I’ve turned into the chronicaler of events in the family and otherwise a general writer, marching my words over the page and invading your minds.

So what makes me me and you you. Obviously I am much prettier than you, well apart from on my Passport photo, there I look like a Criminal or a Jailor or even a Torturer. Ask the guy at Passport control, he laughed so much, I nearly spanked him with a rolled up copy of Trump’s book on Humility. It’s a 2 page book, with Trump’s photo and one line, I’m so Humble, even God asks for my autograph. But I controlled myself and smiled at the guy at Charles de Gaulle airport, now that really really scared him.

I’m going off topic now, but that’s my gift, if you stumble over me, you soon forget what you were supposed to be doing. So I’m therapeutic, though some may say I’m just pathetic, but those are the ones I’ll stop praying for. If you tell somebody you’ll stop praying for them it does tend to confuse them. Confusion is a gift, it slows things down and then you get them to do what you want them to do.

What other traits do you have? Your smile, those come to bed eyes, though as you are an Undertaker your come to bed eyes, may mean Eternal Rest. Not Creation, though Undertakers do tend to be very happy people, otherwise they’d get Depression with all the sad people surrounding them on a daily basis. In general a smile breaks the ice, and can lead to friendship and love. But do make sure you brush those teeth first. This morning’s Breakfast is not the best view, so brush those teeth.

Then there is your hair, do you have it this way or that, or are you a through the bush kind of person. You haven’t combed your hair in weeks, there is a reporter on the tv with that look, and no I don’t mean Peston, somebody else.

First impressions do count. When you are having that interview, within 15 seconds people have an opinion of you. If you look like a tramp in a suit, or skirt and blouse, then your chances are blow, just because you failed to go to the toilet before your interview. Look in the mirror before the interview. Is your hair tidy, is there breakfast on your teeth or down your shirt. Is the zip open or closed, you are looking for a new job, not a Love Island conquest. So keep it closed. If you are a girl, be professional, don’t have too much on show, not unless you want a job in a Lap Dancing Club.

There are many things that make us, our style of clothing, are we a talker or a listener. He’s just a suit, but no brains. She’s all cleavage, no brains. Obviously I have a brain, you are all so cruel I heard the laughter in Lithuanian, and from the Moscow too, you are so cruel, I’ll put you in a story, you just wait I will. Whatever we are good at we have to promote it. And we have to balance it with the situation.

So when you see me dressed as a woman with my cleavage out, please do not squeeze my derriere, I’m dressed as a woman for a reason. It’s free entrance and free drinks all night for us girls. I can see my Russian readers hurry to the closet, to try and find granma’s clothes. Free vodka all night is worth dressing up like a Babushka. Which brings us to character. This is the most important thing of all. Are you honest or brave, or quick witted?

Can you react fast? If you work in hotel or a hospital then you can really be tested at short notice. It does not matter a damn if you are so so sexy, like me obviously, or if you brain is the size of my backside, or if your backside is so so tempting, not mine but any girl’s or boy’s even depending one who is looking. Or if you speaking 14 languages, or if all you can say is (*^&&^, or any form of cursing.

What matters is how you are in a crisis. My Moscow friends no doubt as they read The Butcher The Baker and The Undertaker as they are doing at the moment, know this.Well imagine they are in drag getting the free vodka, and then bandits arrive, what would they do? Would they sneak off like little girls? They are very big girls in drag after all. What would Ichi, Dizchi and Gregorgi do? Well I’ll let them tell you for themselves when they get home to Moscow.

Let’s just say, you never squeeze a Moscow boy’s bum even if he is in drag. Obviously Ichi, Dischi and Gregorgi will take out the 6 bandits while still holding a glass of vodka in one hand. They guard the car park outside the British Embassy in Moscow, and it was the Cultural attache there who told them about Ben’s Bar Birmingham. And Cultural Exchange is always a good thing.

So I hope you have some idea about what makes us all special, and I hope we can all drink in peace to that.

Who is this Michael Casey Anyway? ©

By

Michael Casey

If you have seen Carry On Up the Khyber from 1968 maybe then you may understand me better. So find the film on Utube and then come back to me. My writing has lots of influences and variants all mixed in, as well as just plain old daftness. Google Ken Dodd and The Two Ronnies, and Around the Horne and Kenny Everett, Tom Sharpe books too, with Don Camillo as well. Add salt and shake well and have a few pints of Stella Artois too and then you’ll begin to understand. Though some people in my local stores just think it’s that fat fool again, and ever so glad he’s left the shop again. They don’t want to listen and don’t know which tangent I’m referring to.

So I was wondering how do my 60 Nationalities understand me, or tolerate me, and when they are reading The Butcher The Baker and The Undertaker in 7 different languages on the same day, or my stuff in English, what are they thinking? Or do they wish I’d go back to where I came from and play a round of golf with Donald Trump instead, instead of polluting their minds in their countries with my rubbish.

Why I this Michael Casey always wearing women’s clothing, should we send him an email offering clothes at a discount from Aunty Sally’s shop in Saudi, or maybe give him a discount from Mighty Mary’s clothing store in Morroco? Why does he boast that he is a bigger bum than Trump, or is there a hidden meaning in what he is saying?

Why is he always looking for a Korean Kpop girl to come and type for him, is he so poor he cannot afford a speed typist or a legal secretary. 48 hours over 12 weeks to write Tears for a Butcher sequel? Or is he just addicted to Kdrama, is he some form of TV addict. Should his mother throw a bucket of ice cold water over him and tell him to Go Outside this Fine Day and play.

But instead what does he do? This Michael Casey just removes his clothes and streaks all around his neighbourhood, frightening the neighbours, or maybe they just laugh at his lack of accomplishments, and grown men are jealous or is it worried. How would I know I’m just a reader, and thank God this is Radio not TV, or I’d have to borrow that bucket that the ice cold water was thrown from by his mother. But I’d be puking into it, the sight of his tight fat fair bum would overwhelm me, I’d just puke. Though I would have to lock up my daughters of marriageable age, Mad Dogs and Englishmen showing their bum in the Midday Sun, would turn their heads, and I’d never want Michael Casey as part of my family. Though I do know a Korean Kpop girl who might be interested, I’m joking now, it would be like Beauty and the Beast, which would be an even more improbable Kdrama in itself.

Improbable that sums up Michael Casey, think of a number, add the number of brothers and sisters you have, divide by 4 and add 3 and then you have the number you first thought of. And if Michael Casey could remember that puzzle from 50 years ago, then you really would be impressed. But you are not, because he always disappoints, a bit like a boyfriend who’s being talking in Metric and like any English girl you want feet and inches. And I’m talking about the size of his extension.

This Michael Casey, and you should all be speaking in a fake Indian accent like in Carry On Up the Khyber throughout as you read this, this Mr Michael Casey he leads you this way but takes you that way, rather like a very bad or drunk dancer. You expect this from him, but you get that from him, when really you wanted the udder, yes you are so very thirsty so you wanted a bit of the udder, goats milk is so very refreshing after all. He misdirects, like a badly trained Policeman, points this way but sends you up the garden path, where you meet Gill with a G from StatsMR, who is this Lady anyway? She is a friend of this Michael Casey, she lays paths and plants roses, she hangs out with workmen bringing them tea, English tea in cups, not mugs, because Gill is a Lady. And Roses do grow on You.

Now wherever you are in the world reading this I hope it gives you an idea of what to expect. I do also write A to B stories too, which do go via Z as well, but blame the taxi driver who cannot read, but in his head he does have 1000 routes. I have 2000+stories down on paper and more in my head, variety is the spice of life and I hope when you stumble over me and my stories you decide to come back. I also hope you approve that I support the little guy and the far from perfect people, because I do believe that the Person is not the Package their body is held in. The Laughter and Mind and level of Kindness is what matter, not how cruel people see them. We all belong where we are, and there is no going back.

Caught in the Act ©

By Michael Casey

I had an idea for a story last night as I lay in bed, I was thinking of Trump, no not in that way, you’ll have to sign a non-disclosure form if you think that weirdly. No I was thinking about his RACISM, though no Republicans have any honour as they have as yet failed to call him out. Remember too, all the Birther nonsense, remember too my kids are ½ Chinese just as Mr Hunt’s over here in the UK are. So it is just plain WRONG what is going on. Maybe Twitter should ban him.

Anyway the story was going to be a Parable where a white arrogant man nearly gets killed in a road traffic accident, using his Twitter instead of looking where he was going. Only an old smelly tramp pushes him out the way, so the tramp dies. The tramp is well known a fixture in the area. So old Joe is mourned, much much more than the arrogant guy would be. But the surgeons do their best and the arrogant man is saved. The surgeon is a Muslim, the nurses are Catholic, and the assistant surgeon is Jewish, in fact all the faiths patch up the arrogant man. The cleaners, the janitors have many faiths and none. They gather at first to pray for old Joe, and they want to curse the arrogant man, but instead they pray for him, and hope that old Joe goes straight to Heaven where he’ll always be fed and loved.

Old Joe arrives in Heaven and thanks the Angels as they wash his feet and dry it with their hair. Then sweet smelling oils are massaged into old Joe’s feet. Joe says thank you, and asks the Angels to save the life of the arrogant man who is now on the operating table, instead of being dead like Old Joe. Old Joe can only ever say good things about people, in life and now in death.

So the Angels look down and see the staff praying, so they say they will have a word with the Boss. Now the arrogant man is tormented in his dreams as he lies on the operating table, in fact he has a vision of Hell. Nobody will mourn him, they brownnosed him while he was alive, but nobody would visit him in hospital, and there would be a funeral with nobody crying a single tear. The arrogant man is left to recover all alone in a side room, nobody cares for him. Just a single Black Hospital Visitor comes as stands at the food of his bed. Jesus loves all of us, even me, even you, I will pray that you recover and become a humble man in Jesus’s own image. Humble and Respectful, full of love for all your fellow men, the Black, the White and all Colours in between, for the Straight and the Gay, for every which way. For God Loves all of us. Then the Black hospital visitor drew a cross on the forehead of the arrogant man.

The arrogant man screamed a long and loud scream, as if he was dying in pain. The surgeons came running. The arrogant man was as scared as a little boy. He touched me, he touched me he screamed. Who the surgeons asked, a Black man, he said he was a hospital visitor, the arrogant man pointed at Jose. Jose was a Latino, Jose pointed at himself. No standing behind you. They looked behind Jose and there was nobody, only a life size picture of a Black man, a Black hospital visitor. It was a picture of San Martin de Porres. Jose had put it on the wall, as the room was so bare.

Him, him he was standing over me, he drew a cross on my forehead. The Muslim surgeon and the Jewish surgeon looked at the Catholic nurses, and others who had come running in answer to the arrogant man’s screams. Well it seems not only have you got the best medical attention on Earth, but also the best in Heaven. And knowing Old Joe as we do, we are sure he asked San Martin de Porres to try and get you into Heaven, but first to fix you here on earth.

The arrogant man was in hospital for weeks, no earthly visitors, just a Black man who came and talked to him every night. San Martin de Porres was known for his gentleness. If it had been Padre Pio, maybe he’d have boxed the arrogant man’s ears just like Don Camillo. Luckily the arrogant man had San Martin de Porres visit. The arrogant man became best friends with Jose, the cleaners and the janitors who passed by his bed. When he left hospital he was a changed man, no more the arrogant man, but a humble man.

I set off with one story and I ended up writing this one, the original one more or less. So God really does work in mysterious ways. And yes Trump is the arrogant man, so perhaps we should Pray for him, to Change and become a better man, and a much better President, for God knows the World deserves better. And I naively hope if just one of my stories could touch a frozen heart I really wish this could be that story.

Lech, Boris and Gregorgi Chase a Thief ©

By

Michael Casey

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Visitors Day and Hello Belarus ©

By

Michael Casey

Visitors Day and hello Belarus, we had several visitors today, and Belarus joined my Bemused Visitors Group.

My daughter’s Fairy Godmother dropped by with a card to remember my daughter’s Christening so many years ago. So thanks to her.

Then as I staggered up the hill with some milk today ahead of me was an old couple, so I walked behind with them as my pacemaker. I was really impressed. This hill is the steepest of the hills which form our Little Hillock community, a kind of Rome in the suburbs of Birmingham if you like.

It turned out that the man was a Postman so he was a great walker, we got talking, mainly about how unfit I was compared to them. Then as we talked I pointed to our house. BUT it was their house, they had lived there 40 years previously. So obviously I invited them in for a cup of tea. The lady of the house, nee Rainbow told me what the house used to look like. And John her Husband wasn’t just a Postman, and he once has a cat called Jess as in Postman Cat the kids’ animation series. In fact John was a graphic illustrator and artist. Was God playing tricks on me, an artist to illustrate my words, my cartoons made from words.

Sadly John is far too busy to waste his time on me. He is 75 now. But we had a great natter for maybe an hour, before I send them on their way. He is also into Local History, so God really was having a laugh with me. As they headed for home, just around the corner, I said he could always come back and paint my garden gate, if he had the time. Just as I had a future Media and Art student paint my bathroom in the old house.

I bumped into a neighbour whom I did not recognise, she’s changed her glasses and looked like Tom Cruise’s girl in Top Gun. Turns out she and her husband are data analysts and at the back of my mind I remember a little guy from work 20+ years ago, so I need to ask did he used to work for our company on the 4th floor. Now that would be really spooky. Her daughter was too young to try on any of my daughter’s old but brand new condition clothes, so I had to bring them inside before the promised thunder. And yes I bored her too with details about the spread of my readers in 60 Countries plus, and sometimes reading 6 or 7 translations in a day. Maybe she’d buy and ebook, and then regret it, when she could have bought a sausage and chips instead. On Verra.

My next door neighbour also paid a visit, her grandson had lost a shoe and a football over the garden fence. So as I had some teenage girls’ clothes ready to give away, I tried a Chinese style jacket meant for a girl on this 8 year old boy. It almost fitted, but he didn’t like the style. I told him there was no shame in dressing up as a woman, Danny la Rue had made a living from it, besides I wore women’s clothes at the weekend. The 8 year old did not believe me, but his grannie chimed in she had to hide her clothes from grandad.

I retrieved his shoe and football and bent down and said here’s your slipper Cinderella, and told him this would be his nickname forever now. Imagine in the future he’s in a pub and his mates are waiting for him where’s Cinderella, in walks a beautiful girl, no I’m not Cinderella. Finally the 8 year old arrives, now a huge man like his granddad. Then he gets the drinks in. Who is the girl, she is Prince Charming, his wife. Panto Rules OK.

I also bumped into my neighbour who used to be a neighbour down the old house, he’s a retired Policeman, 30 years’ service. We nattered, ok I bored him. He now works at the local golf course. I told him my current book that I’m writing is The 19th Hole.

So that was my day.

How do you write a Story? ©

By

Michael Casey

I was just in the kitchen making a coffee after I had an unexpected Chilli wrap, ruined by cucumber, but I removed those first. It does remind me of Barry in the DPS office next to the computer room, I used to tease him 20 years ago and more by saying I’d kiss him. But he always kept cucumber at hand to keep me away. No neither of us is Gay, just usual office horse play, Barry by the way is so virile just one look and you are pregnant. I won’t give you his nickname, you can imagine it for yourselves, they probably sing it down the Villa.

But back to the plot, there is no plot, I was just in the kitchen and I spontaneously thought, where does a story come from, and how could I explain it? I was putting the milk in my instant coffee, without sugar, and I thought what if I spilt the milk all over the floor. And there you have it, that’s how a story can emerge. So I spill the milk, no use crying over it. But for Totoro our cat, it’s a nice free lunch, who said there was no such thing as a free lunch. Ok, it’s a milk shake, all over the kitchen floor.

An accident can lead to a story, and that leads to a connection. A memory, a tale or cat’s tail or two. It really is that simple, not unless you live with your life stuck to a screen watching rubbish as you walk under a bus, and then sue somebody else when it’s your own fault. See a second of social commentary as well, I do throw things in to see if you are paying attention, there will be a 20 question quiz at the end so sharpen those pencils too.

Going back to the spilt milk in the kitchen, if we use that as a start to a story. What happens next? The cat has a drink. The end. Only dullards will end it there, or 5 year olds. Come on class, I expect better. You don’t wipe it clean, your girlfriend comes home and slips. She bangs her head, and dumps you because you never clean up. Or she is unconscious and a burglar comes in and steals everything, because the windows and door are all open in the heat. If your house is like that today remember to lock up.

Or she falls over and is dead, then the local foxes come in and eat her, as you have gone off to Blackpool for a Stag do. When you get back, you are arrested for her murder. The Police think you are a bad, mad sad monster for eating her too. And all because you spilt milk.

So that’s one story line. Or your girlfriend is annoyed with you she gets the milk from the fridge and pours it all over your suits in the wardrobe. Or takes them downstairs and piles them in a heap in the kitchen and empties all the food onto your clothes. When you get back he kills her then slips over and bang his head on the Belfast sink Murder Suicide a la lait as the French say.

Or he comes back and laughs, as he gets free samples for his Laudromat business. Then you have a food fight in the kitchen all over his best suits, wiping dairy all over each other’s face and then body. Until finally naked and covered in dairy you lick it off each other’s bodies. And that is how you finally conceive, a food fight in your kitchen, then you cry with joy over the spilt milk. You have to persuade him not to call your future child Totoro.

As you lay there on the kitchen floor naked and happy and full of joy, your nosey neighbour walks in. I saw the backdoor open she begins, you think she’ll be shocked. Then she reveals she was the model in The Joys of Sex the 1970s bestseller. And of course she’ll babysit in 9 months’ time.

Now these are just a few quick ideas from me thinking about spilling my milk in the kitchen a few minutes ago, no it’s not a metaphor. I’m sure all of you can expand on these ideas for a bigger and better story of your own. Just remember to lock the kitchen back door, and don’t waste too much dairy on the floor, dairy is for eating and licking off slowly, and if you don’t know how to, I can give lessons…

Spinning the Wheel ©

By Michael Casey

I’m having a lazy day, well apart from going down the hill to the shops for toothpaste in our local Pound Shop. Save a penny and it soon becomes a pound. Smoke too much and it soon becomes throat cancer. The girl in the Pound Shop sounded like an old woman who’d been smoking for years, I advised her to save her money in a tin and when she had 500 to go on a holiday, it’d be better for her. I hope she follows the advice, I could hear her smoking habit as opposed to smelling the smoke.

And what has this got to do with anything? Well life is like spinning the wheel at a fair, depending on where it lands you get a prize or nothing at all, a rubbish prize or if you are really lucky a really nice one. My brother used to say life was a game of roulette, and in a way he was right, though that’s not totally true either. You can stack the deck or “cheat”. You can stack the deck by putting a pound in an old coffee under the sink, so you are not tempted to spend it. Then when it’s time to go down the pub for a birthday or the monthly office thing you have extra funds to spend. It’s in the coffee jar under the sink. You are the Wise Virgin whereas your mates are the Foolish Virgins.

And yes I know many Foolish Virgins, I grew up with them in the 1970s and 1980s. Yes it’s fun getting drunk and other stuff I’ll leave to your imagination, but personally I like my comfort. Also because I’ve never been much of a drinker, I’d go home and leave the lads carry on. I had my spending money in cash so when it was gone, spent on beer for others, then I’d go home. Very self-disciplined I suppose, or boring, but I’d hear all the stories on the Monday morning.

Life is choices, do you snog that girl and more, or do you go home and study for your AAT or your electricians qualification. If you are lucky, the spark between you and the girl will endure. Or she’ll test your electrical knowledge as you examine her fuse box or trip switches. Naked Study is a great idea, writers of course have help sharpening their pencils, and what they do with the shavings is a big mystery.

You can make up your own metaphors for this and that and of course the other, as you Naked Study with the girl or boy of your choice. Once you are qualified in many many ways, then you can afford to go out more and buy more stuff for the flat. However if the study process has been fun, then you won’t stop till you are both Phds and fully fledged indoor Nudists.

Professor John Thomas will today lecture on Electronics, and afterwards he’ll take a few questions. How did you master such a difficult subject? I studied in the nude he replies. Everybody laughs, then there is the sound of footsteps. It’s Professor Mary-Beth Phd in Applied Nuclear Science. We just got naked and applied ourselves to the subject in hand. He was only rewarded when he got things right, and she was only rewarded when she got things right. More laughter.

Then they hold up their latest book, a joint effort. Study made simple, so simple even a nudist knows everything. And on the rear cover a photo of their rears.

So I spun the wheel and this story came out, I didn’t even have this idea in my head. Life is not a straight path, and already you ae making up your own jokes about that. Life is strange, life is full of fear and hopes and prayers. The Wheel of Life spins, and it’s up to you how you choose to react to it. Think before you act, and be happy with the results whatever they are. Failing that study more, there is nothing worse than a naked mind, apart from a naked man’s hairy behind.

The Cat in a Box ©

By

Michael Casey

Totoro is a naughty cat, old Mrs Murphy knew that, when his owner passed on Mrs Murphy inherited the cat, and Totoro never sat on a mat. Totoro was a Ninja climbing cat who wanted to climb and explore and did things galore like no other cat before.

Mrs Murphy would find Totoro asleep and smiling all over the place, hiding here and there, anywhere it was warm, Totoro was a cat after all, so she knew where the warm places were. Totoro was also very nosey too, so she opened every cupboard with her nose and toes, she even jumped into the fridge when the door was left open too long.

She was such a naughty cat, but she was so beautiful, and her fur so soft, and Mrs Murphy loved to have her sit on her lap and watch tv together. Now Mrs Murphy had a divan bed with drawers in, so Totoro taught herself to open the drawers and climb inside to sleep, or climb past the drawer and sleep on the floor under the bed. It was a nice warm place, apart from when Mrs Murphy farted in her sleep and her pollution drifted downwards under the bed.

Totoro loved Mrs Murphy and Mrs Murphy loved Totoro. There was one other person that loved Mrs Murphy or rather her rings on her fingers, she had no bells on her nose or is it toes? Jack the local bad boy had just got out of Winson Green Prison, and he wanted some quick cash for crack. So as he knew the area he thought Mrs Murphy would be an easy target, as she had no dog to bite him.

So he climbed the drainpipe and slide open Mrs Murphy’s bedroom window. She was easy prey, not a Miss Lump with a baseball bat under her bed to keep robbers at bay. Mrs Murphy awoke suddenly, Jack the lad was leaning over her. Things could get out of hand, there was danger in the air. Indeed there was, Totoro did not being woken up at night while dreaming of 10 kills of rats in a night, lining them up in a row on the doorstep, like a good cat does, and in Totoro’s case he had really done so.

Totoro sneaked out like a thief from under the bed, Mrs Murphy was scared, and who was this smelly lad. Mrs Murphy smelt nice, but this lad smelt bad, and it was too bad for him. Totoro leapt from the darkness and scratched him on his bare legs, Jack was wearing his cycling shorts, his bike was his getaway vehicle. But bare legs exposed to a Ninja cat were such a great target.

Jack spun around and chased the cat out of the bedroom, Mrs Murphy got out of bed and put the chair against the door. Totoro led Jack into the next bedroom and hid in a high cupboard. Totoro thought this was a good game, Jack cursed and banged open every cupboard in the spare bedroom. Then he opened the high cupboard and felt about. He got Totoro by the tail and pulled her out, only it was an old belt from decades ago. As for Totoro she leapt and slid down Jack’s face, claws out. It was only a belt but for Totoro there had to be solidarity with cat’s tails, real and imaginary. So Jack was now a scar face, as he screamed in pain.

Totoro raced down the landing, but then stopped at the top of the stairs, one of her favourite positions in the house with a commanding view, though at night it was pitch black. Totoro just lay there, waiting for Jack. Then as he approached she jumped up and scratched his balls, though breaking into old ladies homes at night any real man with balls would never do.

Jack fell down the stairs, so Totoro leapt and landed on face, scratching as she bounced over him. She raced to the cat flap next, with a bleeding and very angry Jack after her. He unbolted the back door, just as lights were going on in Tumbledown Street, Jack’s screams had woken up the neighbours. Mrs Murphy wisely stayed in her bedroom. Totoro raced on, a plan in her mind, she turned left and race up the garden path to number 88, they always had windows open, so Totoro jumped inside.

In seconds Totoro’s friends, Tom and Jerry were released through the door. You see Tom and Jerry were Police dogs that lived with Sgt. Dick the Policeman, Totoro had led Jack straight to the police. He’d be back in Winson Green Jail hours, Totoro did take another swipe at Jack, and that was for waking her up in the middle of a good dream.

Mrs Murphy was so happy, and Sgt. Dick did say there was a reward for his capture. So Mrs Murphy spent the money on Ocado and had a little party for her neighbours. As for Jack he was in a rat infested jail, he even wished Totoro was there to protect him. And where was Totoro, she was asleep in a cupboard in the spare room.

Bargains not Worth having ©

By

Michael Casey

We all like a bargain, and you may even like to haggle, but reality and dreams and outright lies do tend to clash. You’ll love this it’s great, and you’ll lose weight. So you go around to your mate’s to look at his bike, he opens the door and points. Then your face drops, you were expecting a 10 speed mountain bike, and only for a hundred quid. In reality it’s an exercise bike, all you can say is, “where are the wheels”. And yes this really did happen. And by the way for exercise to change your weight you have to exercise as much as an Olympian. It’s food intake that makes the difference, though swimming and sex do help vastly.

Ads online can be very unreliable, just as house sale information is never to be relied upon. Large should mean you can lie down on the floor in both directions. So if you cannot lie down and roll over then a room is NOT large, you should be able to swing a cat in the space, if you cannot, then it is SMALL. Yes, we did bring our cat with us to swing when we were house hunting, this raised a few eyebrows, but just holding Totoro and stroking her tail, was enough to get folks to confess. It’s SMALL, IT’S SMALL, just don’t swing your cat. Totoro just smiled, and leapt straight at the home owner and up the stairs. Totoro was with us for one reason only, to find and catch any rats, and I don’t just mean the vendors. Armed with a fully loaded Ninja cat we chose our new home.

If there were no rats Totoro just lay on her back like a centre fold, exposing her six nipples. And that is how we chose our new home. Once you move in you have to test for yourself the size of the rooms, as you and your girl roll over on the floor in each of the freshly carpeted rooms. It has to be done, and any carpet fitter worth his gripper will, tell you that rolling in the deep and any other Adele song helps flatten the carpet.

You’ll buy lots of new stuff for your new home, or be gifted stuff. Don’t accept any rubbish, it’s better to have just one sofa and one double bed to start with, and then expand as you go along. Friends are just getting rid of their rubbish, so they can buy new stuff for themselves, just say no. It’s a bargain, a real leather sofa. Yes, it’s real and leather and has two shades due to where it was half positioned in the sun for 10 years. Not to mention the dubious stains, where their dogs used to pee against it. And the big change of shade, where your mate’s girl’s waters broke and their baby was born. Yes a Chesterfield is a great sofa, nearly 3000 new. But 10 years old with all the History and Mystery and smells attached. Just say no.

If you buy your food in bulk you can fashion a sofa from tins of beans in boxes, then throw a cushion on top. Yes it’s not as nice as a Chesterfield. You eat your way through the boxes of beans, so you relent. Through you do spray the Chesterfield with two bottles of room freshener which makes you high. So you cling film wrap the sofa then throw 2 throws over it. It’s nice now, so nice now that you invite that girl from up the road over. She brings a couple of bottles of wine over. And you end up Christening the Chesterfield, History is repeating itself, but both of you enjoy the repeating, and repeating and repeating. So much so that in due course, she moves in and the Chesterfield, needs never cleaner throws all over it.

Finally her waters break, but at least the Chesterfield is covered in cling film, and so History repeats itself. Now you have twins to feed, so you accept anything. Any bargains, and gift horses that come along. A pram that was in the Ark, though nowadays it’s so retro that it’s back in fashion, so you paint the metal in none lead paint and have it ready for the baby. You need a cot but your brother has a really nice and expensive one.

Only he lives miles and miles away, and you don’t have a car. But you have a friend, from Chinese Church, Steve from Steve’s Takeaway, so he drives you to your brother’s and rams everything into Steve’s car.

You unload the car and thank Steve maybe you should have given him a new baseball cap. Then you have to put the cot together, your girl is 8 months pregnant so only you and her mother can do it. She is from Shanghai and speaks no English, finally after 90 minutes the cot is ready. And yes this really did happen, we used the cot for both our daughters, after both their cousins used it. Then we passed it on to Chinese friends, who realised even with baby 5 now using it, it really was a quality cot, and a real bargain.

So life is strange and you get passed some things which can be good or bad, or even ugly. Like your sister’s old boyfriend, but to you he is perfect, you like his fat belly which reminds you of Winnie the Pooh, or his soft silver hair, and you just adore the sound of his voice, and you never bore of his tales. If such a woman really exists please get in touch with this writer. For maybe I am a Bargain Worth Having!

Lazy August Day in 2019 ©

By

Michael Casey

As I look around the house I can see my big daughter asleep on one of the sofas, asleep like a pig as we say. Upstairs little sister is reading Jane Eyre, she’s decided to use the Summer Holidays as Study Boot Camp, as well as doing some stretch exercises as she wants to be as tall as her taller big sister. I’m just happy to be as I am, so long as various pains stay away more frequently.

Totoro the cat materialises like mist on the kitchen window, as a sign she wants to be let in. If the bathroom window is open she’ll let herself in, otherwise it’s up to us to let her in. Then she scratches the kitchen chairs, a scratching post isn’t as much fun, you have to chase her before she’s had enough fun and stops. Only to jump on the bulk buy of cat food, like a mountain climber, trying to scrounge our food before settling for 2nd best, cat food.

These are normal ordinary events in our house, in every home. I put my coat on and head for the front door, Totoro wants to come too, she’s come in the back and been fed now she wants to go out again. A cat controls you, not the other way around. So Totoro scratches at the front door and jumps out and then up onto the garden wall, this is her spot, on the wall, like a lion decorating a fountain.

I go down the hill fast to the store, it’s going back up which is the hard bit. The boss of the store is wearing shorts, summer uniform, I nod hello to him before I dive in looking for all the bargains. ACNielsen once divided shoppers into types, I am very much the Bargain Man, my old company was in fact bought up by ACNielsen, so hello to any in Headington who may remember me before my Writing Epiphany, yes it’s really me, Steve Jones if you remember me.

In store the yogurts are on offer, as is the Robinsons, so my bargain hunting greed is assuaged. I get my usual bottle of milk, so now I’m ready to go. To face the climb back up K2, but the weight of the shop bears down on me, despite spreading the load in two bags, otherwise my chest will pain me for days. Four years on and I still have to be very careful with using my upper body, you can make up your own jokes about using my lower body.

On the way out I stop to ask the boss does he shave his legs, which are on display, and advise him that Immac is so much better. And no he hasn’t banned me from his shop, not yet. Then I stride forward wishing we had an escalator up the hill. I use a young couple with a child in push chair as pacemakers, at least I don’t have a Pacemaker myself yet, just quadruple heart bypass.

I stop to rest and breath like a stalker 1/3 of the way up the hill, then I forge forward, and stop again at my usual base camp place. Another couple come down with a baby in a pushchair, I joke that the escalator is being installed next week, they laugh, or maybe they were humouring the Santa look alike with his beard shaved for the Summer, I am all in red after all.

I stagger on around the corner to our street, then I rest at base camp the final one, the owner gave me permission to use his wall, he smiled like an Osmond brother when he said it was ok. Maybe he just did not want to give CPR to an 18stone Santa look alike, but thanks anyway.

Now I’m on the final stretch, 2 litres of milk and 2 litres of dilute plus a few other things is heavy after all. Totoro jumps out to greet me, it’s begun to rain she wants in again, the front door will do, thank you very much. So I unload the door and take my street shoes off, then bring the shopping through the house to the kitchen. My big daughter is still asleep like a pig, and Jane Eyre is still being read upstairs, so Totoro goes upstairs to listen. Totoro did do English Lit at Cat On a Hot Tin Roof School, what else do you think cat’s do at night with all that screaming. They are reading Jane Eyre.

Dear Donald Letter ©

By Michael Casey

12th Aug 2019

Dear Donald,

I know this must be an unexpected honour for you, to get a letter from Birmingham. I know they must all hate you down there, but I’m in Birmingham England, and we pronounce it BERMINGUM. We also spell correctly, we use OUR not OR, so it’s an honour for you to get a letter from Birmingham.

Now if you are wondering who I am, just shout up the stairs and ask Barron your youngest son. I’m sure he’s found my website by now, under “surreal stupid stuff from England, to the right of USA” that’s Geographically to the Right, none of your Political stuff, just so you know. We heard Geography wasn’t one of your strong points.

I have your Grades in front of me, they were stacked in a shoebox next to the furnace for quick disposal, but you kept them for sentimental reasons, and you plan to force your teachers to regrade them or you’ll stop their Pensions and have their medals withdrawn. However my dad used to work next to a Furnace at the District Iron and Steel Brasshouse Lane Smethwick, so I managed to get hold of the shoebox. I swopped it for some Cadburys’ Fruit and Nut, the chocolate factory is just up the road. I also gave them 2 bags of Pork Scratchings.

So pardon me while I laugh at your grades, they should have been stored under Fiction. My own brother did Economics, but that was at Cambridge, the one here in England, not in Mass. On the subject of Laugher, I write Humour, which is Comedy but with less frequent laughs, but when they come they are worth the wait.

You’ll have to forgive me a minute while I slap on the Movelat, no Donald it’s not some kinky foreplay. Its Movelat a painkiller gel I use for my arthritis. Though I could slap your bare legs with a wet lettuce, if you don’t behave, as Larry Grayson used to do with Pop it In Pete his Postman, I bet you feel you’re drinking now. It’s just the British Humour, ring John Cleese if you are confused. He was at Downing Cambridge too just like my brother, is your intellectual ego battered now, never mind. God will pray for you.

I did like Melania’s new frock, when she gets bored with it she can send it to England in the Diplomatic bag, Megan Markle has a charity where old frocks are given to people so they can look good at interviews . Maybe Melania’s old frock can help somebody become a classroom assistant.

I noticed too that you are having a new wall around the White House, you should be knocking down walls and building bridges, especially the state the infrastructure is. I’m sure the preacher and sons of preachers will all tell you this, or Dusty Springfield, you may have met her in the past. Tom Jones sung with everybody, you have played golf with everybody.

Me I used to play golf in Abegele Wales with my brother, nowadays my old neighbour who was a policeman for 30 years he is now a groundsman at a golf course here in Birmingham. So if ever you come to Birmingham, the one in England then if I have a word maybe my groundsman friend he can get you a round on the golf course, though you may have to get up early to squeeze you in. But the green fee will be half price if you play around early.

Walking around might be too much for me, so I’ll wait in the chip shop, so we can get the first frying of chips and saveloy, they’ll be piping hot for when you finish your round of golf. I’ve got Trevor the local vicar to pair with you, he’d the only person I know who gets up so early. He cheats all the time, and curses like a Furnaceman, well because he used to be a furnaceman. He nearly got burned to death, but somehow he survived, so he said he’d become a Priest. God works in mysterious ways. But one warning, if you take the Lord’s name in vain he’ll slap the back of your legs with wet lettuce. He’s a very big Larry Grayson fan, so be warned.

I have bought a fresh box of Tetley tea ready for when you come and visit my home. I know you are all Americans but I’m not sharing my Kenco Instant Coffee with anybody, I should cocoa. So suffer tea and be done with it, you didn’t moan when the Queen gave you Tetley tea did you? I don’t have a teapot so a bag in your mug will have to do, I don’t have teacups either. I do have 20 litres of fresh Warley Woods Vodka, Lech, Boris and Gregorgi left it, so I’ll be using that in place of sugar. I’m sure the boys in the Secret Service will appreciate that.

I’ll finish now as I have to go to bed with Taylor Swift, Mylie Cyrus, Katie Perry, and Will Young. Yes it’s a very big bed, but I have Tinnitus so their voices are not my vices. Singing drowns out the hiss, till sleep finally gets me. So good night Donald and will you review my 19th book? It will be called The 19th Hole and I should be finished by Christmas 2019 or maybe a bit later. Please don’t cut Barron’s 10 dollars a week pocket money as a punishment for reading my websites, he’s just a very tall teenager. Who knows one day he may become a Priest, God works in mysterious ways after all.

Lech, Boris and Gregorgi Check it Out ©

By

Michael Casey

So your small girl is a big girl now, leaving home to go to University. I nodded trying to hold back the tears, the boys understood and put protective arms on my shoulder. She’ll miss Totoro the cat no doubt, but her little sister will send updates on the cat’s progress to her studying bigger sister. She may even miss her old dad, the fat silver haired writer in shades from Birmingham England. I began to sniffle, but the boys understood, they were Popaloffoff’s finest, they visited me often just to see how Totoro the cat was, or so they claimed. But now the family was scattering, they knew what they had to do and do it they would.

The boys left me as I looked through the photo albums of my treasure soon to be far away in a different part of the country and I wouldn’t be there to protect her. Lech, Boris and Gregorgi went to the still hidden in the woods, the Vodka wouldn’t be ready for 3 more days. More than enough time to check out my daughter’s new home and University.

As they drove their tanker down the motorway they phoned home, their wives all agreed, they had to do what they had to do. And if only they hadn’t been so spontaneously the wives could have prepared a gift. The Butcher’s Choice, a step by step guide on how to butcher pigs along with a lethal knife. They did not expect my daughter to become a Home Butcher and chef like them, however it also taught knife skills that a single girl might need in a hurry, and I don’t mean when an unexpected dinner party arrives.

When they arrived at the University town the boys sat on a bench next to a drunk, so they asked the drunk all about the city in exchange for a tiny bottle of their fresh vodka. So that’s how they got the low down on the city, ask a tramp, they know everything. So first of all they went to the local Gay bar, and had a pint of Guinness each, by way of a change. The clients all thought Christmas had come early, or the were a Strip Act. Lech, Boris and Gregorgi laughed, we’ve done that before but only at a car showroom, the memories made them smile. Sorry but certain things are only for our wives eyes only.

They explained that their friend, the fat silver haired writer in shades from Birmingham England had a pussy called Totoro, and that his daughter only got a cat 4 years ago as he promised her and her little sister a pet if he had a heart attack, or they could have a dog if he died. And now she was going to their city to Study. Is she Gay asked the clients? We don’t think so, it’s not something you ask somebody, of course she not, here’s her photo, so the boys showed my daughter’s photo. A few sighs went up, they were quickly silenced as the boys gave them a look. You see if she comes here she’ll be safe from BASTARDS, explained the boys.

They had another Guinness each, this time on the house. In exchange they handed out a Holy Picture of the Icon of Mary of Popaloffoff. If you put that in the window, she’ll know she’s safe here, the owners of the club promised they would, wiping away tears as they did so. The boys left the Jester, they were no fools, they had found the 1st place of safety for my daughter. They did take the boys’ photo too and would place that next to the Holy Picture. Faith and Brawn, nobody would ever dare to even think of playing games there, a new symbiotic relationship.

They went around town to sandwich bars, and coffee shops explaining the situation, at each place they handed out the Holy Picture of the Holy Icon of Mary Popaloffoff. Each place took their photo too and would display it next to the Holy Picture, something was happening, Mary of Popaloffoff was doing her bit but they were doing theirs too. The boys saw themselves just as cuddly Slav Bears, from where Russia, Ukraine and Poland make love on the Map. But to a University town in England, they were strong men from the Circus. One so strong, one so tall, one so very wide, not the kind of men you see in the back streets of a small university two.

They were hungry now, so they went to Greggs only the machinery had broken and they may have to throw the food away. If we fix it, can we have free food? So a deal was done. In the East, you have to fix things, 2 metres of snow, who’s going to come and fix your plant, Father Christmas? So in one hour they fixed it. The staff were mightily impressed as were the queue of people who were all dying for what only Greggs can supply. Our Lady of Popaloffoff and the boys own photo was soon installed by the door.

This had not been their plan, they just wanted to make sure my daughter would be safe. Now over 200 Holy Pictures of Our Lady of Popaloffoff Icon were everywhere. There was a man walking with his nose in a book, he walk straight into them, spilling hundreds of Our Lady of Popaloffoff Holy Pictures everywhere. He bent down to pick them up, then he began to cry. It was Andrew Graham Dixon the greatest Art Critic in England, and friend of Popaloffoff, the boys each gave him a bear hug and kiss on the lips, like old friends do in the East. Andrew Graham Dixon took a copy of my daughter’s photo, phone to phone transfer and said his Italian friend had a restaurant in the town, so should she want a job he was sure he could persuade his friend.

So the lads were pleased, but now the most dangerous part was to be done. The drunk had told them about the bad side of town, so now they must confront it. They banged on the door and waited, 3 large men with Rotts appeared, the 3 men laughed at them. You are those bleeding poofs we saw in the street picking up all those rubbish leaflets up, and then kissing that bloke on the lips, bleeding poofs, just get lost or I’ll set the Rottweilers on you.

Now you never ever ever speak to a man from Popaloffoff like that, or to anybody, straight or gay or any which way. And to say that a Holy Picture of Our Lady of Popaloffoff Icon was rubbish, was just too much. Lech looked at Boris and Boris looked at Gregorgi. They cursed the bad men with the worst word you can use in the East. NAZIS. After that the Rottweilers attacked, but punch on the nose had all 3 run away like puppy dogs. NAZIS Lech, Boris and Gregorgi again screamed. In seconds those 3 hard men were no longer hard men, they were very scared men.

All were going to ask, was that you turn this girl away if she comes to your club your place by accident, tell her to go home and put her in Mr George’s taxi, he is a nice man we met him today. But to say the Icon of Popaloffoff is rubbish, and then to set the dogs on us. That is to much. Being called Gay does not matter, one day one of our sons may say he is gay, or one of our daughters may say she is Lesbian. WE WOULD STILL LOVE THEM AS THAT IS OUR JOB TO LOVE THEM ALWAYS WHATEVER THEY ARE. We are from the East and we love our Motherlands just as we love our own mothers and daughters. With that Lech, Boris and Gregorgi spat in the Nazis faces.

Then there were Police everywhere, they had been watching the club, and knew a knew loads more drugs must be there with 3 Rottweilers to guard everything. Lech, Boris and Gregorgi had speeded up the process. In fact there was a reward, but they insisted it went to the Drugs Rehabilitation Centre.

So that is how the boys spent their day. And yes the Chief Superintendent himself kissed the boys of the lips, much to the shock of the PCs, but he had a Russian wife, so he knew about the Culture of the East. There was one other thing to mention, inside the Holy Pictures was a tiny chip, and they would give my daughter an App, it would show her all the Safe Places, and guide her safely home, whatever the darkness.

What Kind Of Words Work? ©

By

Michael Casey

I’m very happy that Japan and Korea are passing by, I still live in Hope that I get international exposure and finally make a few quid for my daughters’ Future. I have my own dream too, but you’ve heard about that already, so I won’t repeat myself tonight, though it does involve a speed typist to write my follow up novel as I sit and dictate it.

It’s hard to know where to pitch my words, in the end I have to please myself and hope my readers enjoy what hits the page. Judging from the websites the words do hit the spot all over the world, so a sincere thank you to each and every one of you.

Now if you are talking to Grannie you don’t want to shock her or with her heart she’ll keel over and die. Or she may just reach for the hockey stick and beat the living daylights out of you, depending on what kind of Grannie you have. If you give her a bottle of good vodka that you’ve bought from Lech,Boris and Gregorgi then she’ll give you a toothless kiss and hold you tight as your friends laugh their socks off. You have to choose your words, so that they are kind words, and nice and gentle words, then she’ll lend you 1000 dollars or roubles or RMB or whatever kind of money you use. Then you can buy a 2nd hand Skoda and then you are mobile, and you then have the back seat of the Skoda to make out in. Alexi being conceived on that very back seat, I should confess our first car was a Skoda Fabia, I’ll say no more than that.

Conversely your Grannie may just say Cut the C*** and Tell the Truth and Shame the Devil, and I’ll not hit you, today. My own mother used to say similar things. Remember too my mother was as strong as a horse, a blacksmith told her that once. In fact my dad said that when my mother died, he was that blacksmith. So you have to pick and chose your words to make them sound right, and suit the right audience.

If I’m talking to Korea obviously I’ll mention Kpop, because it is a very big thing, and I have watched several Kdramas, which I like so much, and yes as a man I like Korean girls, my wife was from the Shanghai after all, so my emotions look East. I also have had Japanese readers, and as a group both countries excel at what they do, so I hope eventually somebody over there uses my comic writing to help teach English with a Smile.

You also have to be respectful of their Culture and not ask for Fish and Chips, and compare negatively with their Culture. Tact in a Word. Though I should say with me What you See is What you Get. And I can see some readers smirking right now, so much to see he must be 250pounds at least. Yes I am but it’s mainly tight fat and not too much Sumo size fat, if I can say that in a complimentary way.

So words are like advertising, you have to use pretty words or strong words as the occasion merits. An undertaker won’t say Bring Your Own Shovel to save money, though if you read The Butcher The Baker and The Undertaker there is a sequence in it, which does use those words in a Black Humour way, black humour is dark humour, not Eddie Murphy humour, it has a different meaning. This is another thing I realise when I write, the Translations will/may miss some of the shades of meaning, because I’ve used a computer. If the miracle happens and I get my Word Domination, which is a pun on World Domination, then the translations will be better. Though I don’t over think anything I write, because I just write and I’m very fast.

I’ve just looked at the clock besides me and that reminded me that Words are Time Sensitive. They expire and have a best before date, just like supermarket food. A word today won’t work forever. One day Trump will be forgotten and he’ll be dust, Ashes to Ashes and Dust o Dust, If God won’t have you the Devil Must. Say Trump and nobody will know anything about him, the sooner that day comes the better, say most of the world.

Now because of what I said in the last paragraph 1/4 of USA now hate me, lets hope the other 3/4s get off the couch and vote. I could go on with more words about Politics,remember I’ve been watching it for 50 years now, yes really, I really am that old. However I hope I’ve given you a taster of the power of words, maybe you prefer just Stories, I just want my readers to smile and laugh and think too, think for yourselves, set up your own websites and have 10,000s of readers like me in over 60 Countries. But most of all I want you all to be happy and pain free, and maybe make a few quid. Or find your own speed typist and dictate your final book, and die happy and content with a smile on your face, and those are my final words, for tonight.

God’s Betting Shop ©

By

Michael Casey

God walks amongst us, he is with us and for us, and against nobody, he does not give us riches here on Earth, he is not is one Faith, he is many and all Faiths and none at all. He does not help people become super rich, and despise the Leper, in fact he prefers the Lepers of Society, Society Matters to him, it his cuddly little teddy bear.

So a Betting Shop is indeed where God hangs out, he’s up the corner sweeping up the betting slips, he is the kid banging the thieving fixed odds machines that steal our money. In the old days the Gambling Shops used to boast, this establishment is air conditioned for your comfort. SMOKING was still allowed in them, gut wrenching smoke was everywhere, little wonder I for one never entered such a place. I think I did once to put a bet on the Grand National for my dad, it felt like going into a STD clinic or Brothel, I did not want to be spotted entering or leaving.

The irony is decades later I became a Trainee betting Shop Manager, one shop had a locked fire door from the outside, my life, the punters lives were not worth one month’s salary, about £1000, though there I earned much less. So what about God as he watches our despair as we pull our hair, know we shouldn’t be there. The Angels and the Saints are all crowded in around him watching those who have lost their way.

There is some Joy and Hope, and friends meet to place a bet then grab a pint of poison, or a real drink, before the wife kicks up a stink, you were supposed to buy Hush Puppies in the sale for the kids before school resumed after the Summer Hols. Instead you put money on a horse called Rose, because your wife’s religious calendar said it was Saint Rose of Lima’s saint’s day. Now you have lost everything, so she will strangle you with her Rosary beads.

Rose of Lima, looks and says God will you Bless Him, for sake of his children’s shoes. God says nothing, the man leaves and stumbles his way home. He helps an old lady carry her heavy bags to the bus stop. He even helps her on the no.11 bus by Saint Mary’s, as she gets on she drops an envelope full of cash. She does not notice, salvation is before him in the gutter. The man is tempted, but he bangs on the side of the bus and hands the old lady her money. God Will Bless You, she says her piercing blue eyes look directly into his.

The man gets home and his wife kisses him tenderly. But,but, but he does not understand. In the living room there are packages galore. It’s like Christmas. Where did these come from? Your friend the old lady came by hours ago with her daughter Rose, they brought everything, they said you did them a big favour, they brought all this. His wife described the old lady. It was the one he helped only a few minutes ago. The man’s head swum. He could not understand.

As he ate his dinner, his children, were so happy, the man was confused. The old lady said you had saved her son Martin years ago, the man’s head swum, what was going on. Many years ago he’d saved somebody’s life by putting his fingers in the stab wounds to stop him bleeding to death. But he’d never met the old woman till today, a few minutes ago, what was going on what was going on.

After dinner his wife handed him an envelope, it was the very same one he’d returned to the old lady when she had dropped it. There was £5000 in it, plus a note. All you need is love, and you have such a beautiful family. Today we have placed a bet on your Future. Martin is my “son” just as your are, he has been praying for you every day of his life, he has been made Bishop today, and he is still praying for you.

In the Betting shop, the old lady dropped an envelope the exact same one the man had, but now it appeared to hold nothing but a Rosary made of string and knots. Nobody noticed, all except God, Mum I can refuse you nothing, the Prayers you say Tomorrow will have helped Yesterday. I know Son, but it is Rose of Lima’s feast day and I did not want the man’s children to go barefoot.

Must do my Homework ©

By

Michael Casey

When we are kids we have homework, I did not know what to write today, and as I pondered whether or not to add another piece to the thousands, yes thousands, it stuck me I could write about homework. Are you still doing homework? Or have you passed that age? My small daughter starts her Exam year next week, while her big sister goes off to University with just my story Lech, Boris and Gregorgi Check it Out for company. So can you remember doing homework.

My brother had left home and I was in the homework room, the Middle Room all alone for my Exam year, just as my small daughter is. So there are parallels between us. I never used to do homework on Friday as it was the end of the week, then Saturday was for rugby, so Sunday would come, and that meant being an altar boy and then hitting the books.

I would have done even better if only I’d hit the books more, a little bit often is the trick. Same for dieting and sex, though a diet of sex might be tiring and put you off hitting the books. You have to be self disciplined, but the phone down, put the video games away. In my days we rejoiced when Channel 4 arrived, we only had 4 tv stations when I was at grammar school, so the number of distractions were far less. We didn’t even have a telephone in the house when I grew up, and mobiles had not even been thought of.

So you sit down in front of your desk and start studying. We had a family day out to pick a desk for my brother to study at when he passed the 11plus, 6 years behind the eldest brother. So I the smallest of the Casey brothers inherited that desk. 4 brothers and 2 sisters plus a cat and a dog and a house full of lodgers, not forgetting mum and dad. We were encouraged to study hard, do what you like but do your best, Oxford and Cambridge were reached, and my sister became a teacher.

Latin of course was the hardest subject, do 40 mins was the command by Mr Procter the Latin and Careers teacher. Join the army SPQR and invade Gaul, and give Asterix a good slap, I seem to remember him saying, after he tortured us with the Ablative Absolute. It took the 2nd hour of double Latin before one of the future Doctors worked it out, was in Prasad? The Greeks tired by the war, went home to watch the football on Match of the Day. And yes you had to do double the 40mins so you could present enough to the Latin teacher, dancing would have been so much more easier.

You’d go to the kitchen for a well deserved drink and a doss before returning to the homework room. You’d stroke the dog before going back to do Physics. For Physics we had a great teacher so I actually enjoyed and passed it. Though once we were doing something about pressure, and why boots had studs on. There were 5 questions but I didn’t think and put the same answer down each time. Studs are for grip, but if you have a flat surface there is no grip into the playing field. Something from 45 years ago, I’ve learnt from my mistake.

Then mum would scream come for the dinner, always chops and potatoes and some vegs, the veg I never seemed to eat. I did drink all the milk in the house, so I was sent down the road to get more. We didn’t always have a fridge, so our Minton tiles were our cold store, 4 bottles of Children’s milk,and2 bottle of Tea milk every day. I think dad took some Tea milk in a bottle to work because by the Furnace anything else would curdle.

Back in the middle room, the homework room you just had to learn 20 words and phrases for the morning’s French test, Mr Notzing was probably the greatest teacher ever, though at the time we had other ideas.So I paced backwards and forwards plucking my eyebrows. After 30 mins I knew the French but had no eyebrows. So my sister painted some on for me and nobody noticed. I got full marks in the vocab test too. The 2nd day the lads noticed,but as I was the biggest person there nobody dared tease me. It was a Chemistry experiment I said, a few weeks later a man on the school route actually gave me a Chemistry set.

Bringing Out the Tramp in You ©

By

Michael Casey

Gertrude was a big bubbly girl, maybe a bit too loud, some thought she was a bit of a tramp. Her dad David hoped and prayed she was not, being a Single Dad was hard, he was lucky he could work the hours he wanted, and then raise his daughter single handedly. You see Penny his wife had been killed when a dustcart had backed into her and she fell inside and was compacted. He was crushed by what happened, but spent the compensation on a brand new taxi, so he could support their beautiful daughter Gertrude. Obviously he spoilt her, and she grew fatter, or big and bubbly as girls say.

So David worked the hours around Gertrude’s school times, but now Gertrude was all grown up, too grown up judging by her dress size, but how could a Single Dad refuse his daughter? At least she was always safe when it was time to come home from a late night, David was always there with his taxi to bring her safely home. So Gertrude gained friends because there was a safe taxi to take them home.

Behind her back her friends could sometimes be cruel, and call her a slapper, because she always kissed any boy. But she did stop there, before any hands strayed too far. She had promised her dad, in front of the urn or her mum’s compacted ashes that she’d save herself for the one that would make her dead mum proud. So she wasn’t really a slapper after all.

One night they were up Broad Street the 6 of them, and they ran to get in the Night Club before it was full, a Love Island winner was there, so the place was heaving, while the Love island girl pocketed £10,000 appearance money for one night’s “work”. Gertrude slipped and broke her shoe, she would have fallen into the gutter and been looking at stars, only a strong but smelly hand grabbed her. It was Sam, the future love of her life, and winner of her heart and everything else.

The problem was that Sam was a tramp, and Gertrude was about to scream for the bouncers to rescue her when she noticed his eyes. His eyes were pure hazel, and despite the smell it was his eyes that overpowered her. In that one second, Cupid had shot his arrow. Gertrude said thanks, and reached into her purse and sprayed him. It was that new spray to spray your pooh recently advertised on tv. But Sam really did smell so bad, so he needed it. Sam just smiled his thanks, Cupid didn’t shoot any arrows, but Saint Valentine did.

Gertrude went into the Night Club, all the bouncers knew her, they knew David her dad the taxi man after all. Gertrude went around collecting kisses, it was the weekend after all. But nobody would get her treasure, she had promised her dad in front of her mum’s compacted ashes after all. That tramp was on her mind, why she did not know, but Cupid and Valentine did, Sam may be in the gutter but with the love of a good woman he could reach for the stars and fly amongst them.

So Gertrude hatched a plan. A kiss for an item of clothing. First a pair of flashy shoes. Gertrude was going to do this all on her own,but her friends had seen a few tasty men. So after a bit of snogging, Gertrude had gathered a complete change of clothes for Sam. Once she was in Guildford and it was too hot so she had gone into Zara and bought a complete change of clothes. But that cost money, now 2nd hand and still warm clothes just cost a kiss. They were getting the clothes off the boys, it was fun, they did it on Love Island, so why not do it on Broad Street Birmingham England, though now the clothes would go to Sam.

They say that clothes maketh the man, and Sam was all man. Once all the clothes were collected Gertrude went outside and told Sam to strip. If you are in the gutter and 6 girls command you to take your clothes of what would you do. Sam obeyed. The girls blocking a shop doorway to give him some privacy, from everybody but them. Sam pulled all his jumpers and trousers off, to reveal a very strong body. But then all 6 screamed, he had a very nasty scar all along his back. He’d been stabbed in the past, only Heartlands Hospital had saved him. At that moment Gertrude’s defences came tumbling down, she just had to love him, to mother him. The scar man was her man, her womb tingled, this was the one. Then Sam was sprayed by all 6 girls with every potion they had. Only then was he given the clothes, they weren’t rubbish clothes either. If the boys in the club wanted the best snog ever they would have to donate their very best clothes.

Then they told Sam to hold out his hand and all six of them spat in his hand, he was told to rub it into his hair. In a flash Doreen leapt forward and gave him a haircut and beard trim, she was a master hairdresser, people begged to have her do their wedding hair, now in a doorway off Broad Street, a tramp was being transformed into a Prince. When Doreen had finished they all stepped back to see the transformation, —- me, they all said instinctively, the kind of language ladies should never use. But Cupid and Valentine had been working overtime, with a little help from Doreen and the clothes stolen with kisses.

Then Sam went into the night club, the Love Island winner was so jealous, Gertrude just mouthed “too bad he’s mine”. Then the Devil or was it Cupid and Saint Valentine must have been in Gertrude, she kissed Sam like there was no tomorrow. He could have everything, every day of the week. Now the Night club needed a washer upper, so Sam became the glass washer in the back. He was back in the real world now. All because he had saved Gertrude from falling over.

She had fallen for him literally, and now he was her’s and she was his. Soon the Night Club owner realised why should he pay Love Island people appearance money, Sam was soooo good looking. So Sam came out from back of house to front of house. Sam’s life had been turned around.

Gertrude married Sam, and they was a parade of taxis along Broad Street. Now sometimes couples argue, so when they did Sam would strip naked and lie on the carpet covered in newspaper. How could Gertrude be angry with him for long, for he reminded her where she had found him, in the gutter covered in paper. So she would strip naked too and join him amongst the newspaper on the floor. And that’s where their children were conceived, on the floor covered in newspaper.

41 years a computer operator ©

By Michael Casey

41 years a computer operator, beats being a slave for 12 years, if I can parody a title. I just thought of that as I was thinking of a title for my words today.

Well I’m tired, Tinnitus kept me awake last night, and NO he is not our Roman slave in a toga and sandals, go watch Up Pompeii with Frankie Howerd if you want titiliation, we did in 1st year at Grammar school when we should have been doing our Latin homework for Mr Hanney.

As I mess with the family computer I realise I’ve been doing this all my life, having a play with a computer. We used to call it “Babysitting” when we got an easy night or weekend, then computers were as big as wardrobes. Nowadays they are like a paperback book, though there is the irony, I write books on a computer, they end up on a computer, or a Kindle. Or all over the Internet via my sites.

100s and I mean 100s of Translations are now being downloaded every day. I hope people remember to buy the Original English, Though I won’t hold my breath, as the Internet is free etc. But it does swell my ego, if nothing else.

It may just be that General Mathis’s friends are looking at my words, just to try and find the jokes, and fail too. I am using General Mathis as a comic device, though to Americans they may think I’m turning him into a MAD magazine, I know he knows what I’m talking about, he’s supposed to be very Erudite. Ok, and why should he waste his time on me? Well who do you think brushes the dandruff off his Stage Clothes just before he goes on as his Johnny Mathis Tribute Act?

So there you have it, me and General Mathis are tight, and I don’t mean he puts me in a head lock as he calls Security and gets me bounced out. Though the idea of him, The Monk, needing anybody to sort me out, when he can do it himself, is so very funny.

Obama and Mathis do share reading lists, one starts at the bottom, and the other starts at the top. Then they meet for pizza, just the two of them and talk books for a few slices and an ice cream with sprinkles on. And you better have the right sprinkles, or there will be TROUBLE. Then they have coffee, and arm wrestle over the bill, why do you think Obama just nods, because Mathis beat him at arm wrestling for the check. Though he did apologise by buying his a balloon to give to his wife.

What has this got to do with anything, I don’t know either, but you are feeling all relaxed now, that is the joy of text after all. So come back tomorrow when I’ve caught up on my sleep and maybe I’ll have a new story for you. But as I said there are 2000+ on my sites so that should keep you all going.

And any sensible clues to fix tinnitus would be nice, not sales pitches, anything to take the pitch away, the high pitch in my ears.

With that I’ll say Be Good and Stay Happy always, which could be a catch phrase.

Michael Casey

It’s Time ©

By Michael Casey

It’s Time, as opposed to IT time, there is a difference, a big difference. It’s Time can mean, time for Execution, your Execution. Watch the Green Mile by the way, a really great film. It’s Time, can fill you full of dread, time for exams to start, or Time being called and you have to put down your pen, and Pray literally Pray you’ve done enough to Pass and get to the University you so desire to go to.

When God made Time, he made plenty of it was what my dad said, his Birthday in 1977 was a very low point in my life, but 6 months later I got into IT, or computers as it was then called, and I found a safe harbour. So Time and Tide are relative, and your Luck can change. The snap of the house, the stone building is from Cromane Lower Killorglin County Kerry Eire, just near the slipway. This is where my mother was born and raised, 9 people all together. This is where her Time began in 1920, so this is where I look back, to another place and to another Time. It is one of the most beautiful places on God’s Earth as the saying goes. Opposite is Dingle where Ryan’s Daughter was filmed.

A place has meaning, and it has Love and Memories, those days are long gone, but yet it has a draw to all of us. WE dream of the Home in another Land before we made our home where we are now. In USA millions feel a link to Ireland, or scores of other places where our mum and dad came from, or our grandparents, or however many generations before it was that they came. And yes it was the Chinese and the Irish that built the Railroads, and don’t forget how badly they were then treated. Nowadays we thank God for both of them, or so we should.

It’s Time can mean it’s time to go for a beer, to go for a meal, or get out of the house to go to Church or Temple or Mosque. Though for some their house of Prayer is a bar, and it’s time to recognise that good people come in all shapes and sizes of all Faiths and None, smelling of beer and sweat, and not always in a freshly pressed suit, “asking” for donations to their Mega Church, which does not even have a Crucifix in, as it would clash with the decor.

It’s Time, also means it’s time for bed, get some sleep and be fresh for school in the morning. And yes use that App to switch off the Wifi so that kids really do sleep, or all “toys” must be left in the old battered brown cardboard suitcase at the top of the stairs, like the Cooler in a Speakeasy when the Kennedys were making their money. Everything must be surrendered for the night, and Grandpa Walton sticks it under his bed in that suitcase, the one he used when he left Ireland all those years ago. So that Peace reigns and he is not disturbed by the noise of toys. Grandpa could have gone to USA, his sister was going to send him money from Chicago, but he had just bought a ticket to England with Thomas Cook, so he ended up in England in 1944. And that is why this Writer does not speak with an American accent.

It’s Time to understand this and that, to sit the kids down and explain, that nagging about switching the light off is not just nagging. Everything costs money, or your dad’s Sweat, you are making dad work another day or two or three, because you could not be bothered to switch the light off. He could spend the money on ice creams for them, if only they switched lights off, or put a jumper on instead of the central heating. Central Heating is a joke, I grew up without it, sheet ice on the inside of the bedroom window in bad winters. In 1973 we got central heating, because the city council forced us to, via clean air legislation, so our coal fire disappeared. Yet just yards away in another Council area they were allowed to carry on.

It’s Time has many many meanings, all in all it’s about growing up, literally and metaphorically. The biggest journey is the Interior Journey, this may take a little time, or an entire life. In my case 10 or 11 was when I grew up, family events helped that, I was a precocious kid too. Some people say “you are treating me like a kid” or teachers talk down to kids, or students, or now you even have teachers trained to use “gender neutral” expressions. I’ll just say sometimes Henry Ford was right, “you can have any colour you like, so long as it’s black”

It’s time to Marry or have a relationship, or just to get your leg over. But then was it all worth it? How do you feel afterwards, did you rush Time, because everybody else did this or that or the other? Everybody has their own season, their own season in the sun, their own reasons, their travelling done, until they find a safe port or harbour.

So Life goes on, time for this and time for that. Sometimes there is no time to think, we too busy being Twitter people, though a good decision is always a well thought out one, a well planned one. Don’t give in to Lust, whatever the situation, he’ll still be hot and eager next week, or actually not at all, you’re glad you have “Wait till Tomorrow” as your motto, or “It’ll Keep, throw salt at it” as my mother used to say. A decision takes Time. Not unless it’s a child walking into the path of a car, then you’ll save her instinctively. When God Made Time, he made plenty of It, that’s what my dad used to say. My mother had a saying for every occasion, that was her knowledge, she left home at 14 to go work for a farmer.

As your life moves on you are slower, and spend your time looking at the hands of the clock waiting for your next meal. Until you have your final meal. My dad’s was breakfast, and he was asked did he want another boiled egg, when the old people’s home owner came back with the 2nd boiled egg my dad was dead, God had called time.

Then no doubt God will ask how did you use your Time, though in my dad’s case he had been given 5.5 years extra time thanks to Padre Pio’s intervention. So all of you reading this, think how you use your time, can you spare a minute for your old infirmed dad, or time to play ball with your kids, or to make a phone call, to touch base with your sisters? Or time to make love to your boyfriend, or are you so tired you have no time for him. So he runs off with the office cleaner.

Use your Time, don’t squander it on rubbish, like Twitter, don’t be a twitter person, read a book, listen to Radio 4 news. Think for yourself, ignore all the Politicians. Make a better life for yourself and your family, by using time, having quality time together, watching Strictly Come Dancing and taking the Mick out of all of them as you pass around the Cadburys chocolate as you have 10 different conversations Simultaneously. Strictly may be on but you are all ignoring it as you have Quality Time with your family. This is what time is for, it’s to be enjoyed to spend time together as you twitter about important things, like who is that strangely gorgeous fat silver haired man in shades who lives next door. Oh, him, he’s Michael Casey, he’s from Birmingham.

Pennies from Heaven ©

By

Michael Casey

Pennies from Heaven is the name of a famous play here in England, it was written by Dennis Potter, Harry’s bigger and much cleverer brother. I had to Google his name and it said tv show in 1978, so I’m even older that I thought I was. I do remember the writer being interviewed by which time he was dying of cancer and was sipping morphine from a container as he was being interviewed. Now the strongest thing I take is paracetamol and Movelat painkilling gel. I cannot take other stuff as it does not mix with the ACE inhibitor for my heart, which stops my heart racing to 320RPM as it did after my bypass. My point though is that I’m not “high” on anything, I have something else, an IMAGINATION.

This is just an introduction, I really am going to talk about something else, chocolate cake, and no not the Crowded House song either, and I can remember a radio host introducing us all to them many years ago. I lied it’s just that my sister spotted a cheap cake so she bought it, and we are slowly eating it, as it’s just so rich. So if I stop talking it’s because I’ve gone to the kitchen for yet another slice. I had not had any chocolate for days and was tempted to tackle the hill to get some when my sister arrived with the cake. We are very close, I ring her just as she is about to ring me, and vice versa, this time it was chocolate cake. See Siblings DO have their uses.

But I’m still lying because I want to talk about something else, am I like your sad old uncle who’d forget his arse if it was not tied onto him. My Aunt in Ballyheigh used to send her husband to the shops and that was a bit of a drive away. Did you remember to bring the Ham she’d say, but you didn’t ask me, but you should have remembered that I’d forget and you should have brought it anyway. How can I remember to bring it, if you forget to ask me to bring it in the first place. And on the conversation would circle. But Michael is here from England you know I’d need some ham, for the salad, my Aunt would continue, so you should have remembered that I’d forget and you should have brought it anyway. My uncle would play with his cap, and on the conversation would go. We would just collapse in a heap laughing, and that is why you go to Kerry, so that you can remember to forget things. Simple isn’t it, or have I forgotten part of the story?

Which brings me to what I really really was going to talk about, I’ve remembered now, it’s a bit like a French song, une ronde where it goes around in circles, like Frere au Jacques. What do you do if you think you are going to get some money? You share it out, my dad used to say if he won money he’d buy everybody a house. And he would. I have my own plans too, should such a miracle happen.

So today I said to my girls we share any win, 3 ways. So one daughter would get the hundreds, the other the tens, and I as dad would get the pence.So if its £140.20, it would be 100 to big daughter, 40 to little sister, and 20pence to me the dad, who should have kept his mouth shut and pocketed the lot. Instead I get 20p which is enough for a chew or a lollipop, to keep my mouth shut.

But a dad shares things, that’s what I was taught and that’s what I believe in. It’s called Pie in the Sky, or building Castles in the Air I think my mother used to call it as dad was slumped in his chair in the living room or sneaked off to the front room for a lie down. It’s a family trait, if you haven’t got any money you at least have your dreams. If those Pennies arrive from Heaven then you’ll be ready. Though now at my age it’s all down to which relative dies first, that’s if the local cat’s home doesn’t inherit before me. I always assumed I’d last the longest being the 2nd youngest, though now I just don’t know. So save 2 pennies to put on my eyes when the grim reaper gets me, and a few more to pay the ferryman, my Pennies for Heaven.

Arguing the Toss ©

By

Michael Casey

As you know I read the newspapers every day and I watch the news too, and of course there is radio as well. A lot is interesting and some stuff is just boring, even I am sick of Brexit. So I hope there is some finality soon, but what annoys me the most is the pointless pieces. What am I talking about? You know where Common Sense has just gone out the window. School has restarted after the Summer break and now we have “issues” with uniform, and I hate the word “issues” too, it’s too much PR speak. Just speak clearly.

This uniform is too big, too small, or not there at all. If the girls look like a Prostitute because of their “style” then yes send them Home. Or if the boys turn up looking like Elvis and smelling of Stunk, yes send them home or even call the Police. However if you go around with a ruler and say the trousers or skirt are an inch the wrong side of “Policy” then this is just PETTY. Or if you say the shoes are too shiny, or there is a pattern an almost invisible pattern on the toe of the shoe, so the child is sent home, this is a total waste of time.

I know Uniforms are supposed to make kids uniform, and to give a sense of Identity, but it’s 2019, everybody is aware of their own identity. Uniforms in today’s age, are a bit of a stale joke, rather like school photographs, everybody has a camera, or should I say a phone, which has a great camera on. Yet schools persist, because they get a kickback from the photographer, it’s a stale tradition, everybody has 1000s of photos on their Facebook already, or Instagram which the kids prefer nowadays.

Yes have a uniform, but do you know the Trouble it brings for the parents? A standard cheap uniform, say a black jacket and you can buy a school specific badge, that can be ironed on. Then hey presto you have a uniform jacket, by the way my school uniform jacket was green. GD green. You can get cheap trousers too from Asda, or a skirt if you are a girl. Then black shoes, and don’t argue the toss to get the absolutely strict interpretation of how they should look. So long as they don’t conceal a blade in them like Kingsman or James Bond, then it is all sorted. And yes I speak from Experience, as hunting for the exact school specific Look, is a waste of Time and Money. So come on schools, grow up, it’s the schools who are behaving like naughty kids. You try living on a tight budget and having to pay for several different uniforms.

Now that I’ve vented on that, what else annoys me. I want to be different, you should respect my differences. Treat me nice, don’t be nasty to me. To which I say, I do already. But if you behave like a bastard I’ll tell you to your face, whatever “way” you are, because the way you treat the least of my brethren is the way you treat me, as somebody once said.

So everybody can have equal treatment, but not special treatment. Obviously if somebody is blind or deaf you make accommodations, which makes the playing field level. But if they are nasty, you don’t give them a free pass, or would you put up with it? Just as if a Politician is corrupt he should not get away with it because, he is a “leader”, the standard should be higher if he or she is a leader or a Priest. They say they lead, but we are not sheep, so we should never accept BS from them.

My final thought is about Trivia, tv shows are full of it, it’s cheap TV, on both levels, cheap to make, and it’s rubbish too. But people watch it and argue about it in the pub and at the hairdressers or nail bar. Cindy’s boobs are real, no they are not, oh yes they are. My Simone had hers done and they look just like hers on tv last night. But my Simone’s are better, she went to Hungary to get them done, saved thousands. Wayne looked so manly on tv last night, I’d stay in bed for a week with him, if I could get my walking frame close to my bed. I’d even use clean sheets to get dirty with him, he’s such a Hunk full of.

And on it goes. The Host is neither Straight nor Gay, and leaves the Audience confused, is he a he or a she? He gets paid lots, so his accountant calls him, “Loaded” or “Fully Packed”, the host’s partners call him or is it her, “Boss” is the word most likely to be heard. Though the host’s old mum, calls the Boss a Bastard for never ever visiting her in the old people’s home. And speaking as somebody who visited his dad every single day for 3 years at the Old People’s Home. All I can say is don’t waste your time arguing the toss, as Bastards aren’t worth your spit.

What’s the News? ©

By

Michael Casey

Well where do I begin, which is a song title, you can Google for yourselves, I think Andy Williams sung it in the 1960s. So that’s a start to a story, to today’s piece, I did think of several other starts, but I may weave them in later on, I try and never waste material. It’s a sin to waste food, and it’s a sin to waste ideas, my mother would be proud of me, she always proud of all of us. You are as Good as Anybody I remember hearing her say when I was 4 or 5, about the time my eldest brother went top Grammar School.

So every day or so it seems I’ll phone my sister and touch base, I’ll get all the news and she’ll pass on all of hers. Who we met and who we saw, and the silly and stupid things of the day. What food we ate, or saw in the shops on offer, normal family stuff. How are my girls doing and so on.

News is the verbal cement that holds a family together, and yes I wrote that line over 30 years ago in The Butcher The Baker and The Undertaker my comic novel, should anybody be tempted to claim it as their own. Though that’s old news as if you are reading this you have probably read the line in the Arabic or Spanish translation you downloaded from my WordPress. Maybe you are Jordan, the country not the model reading it right now.

So news comes and news goes around. How they brought the Good News from Aix to Ghent was a poem we leant in 1st year of Grammar school with Mr Foster, and Brewer you are a Cretin was a line of his I seem to remember, after he first called him a Moron. Casey are you raising your hand to answer or supporting the Wall? Is what he said to me, as I sat in the alphabetical corner, nearly 50 years ago.

News comes in good and bad packages, you’ve passed an exam and you proudly hold the letter aloft. You get news of a death or of an illness, or that Foot and Mouth has wiped out your sister’s cattle. But she had a great brother in law who sent help. I can clearly remember that as I tell you this, as I write it down, it brings tears to my eyes because it reminds me of my father and the love over the Irish sea back to Kerry, maybe 50 years ago.

News is fun, it is joy, it is Saint Patrick’s badges been sent in an envelope for us all, so the Green can be celebrated in our corner of Birmingham, from the very same aunt. Simple joys in a letter, sent with love.

There can be sadnesses too, a knock at the door and 2 Policemen there, Can we Speak to Mr Casey, which one there are 5 of us. Then the Police come in, they tell me that our lodger, the one who gave me a watch for passing the 11 plus exam was dead. He was going around in circles on the No.11 bus, the Outer Circle all 20+ miles of it. He’s died on the bus home from his riding holiday. Then it was me who had to tell our mum as she came up the road carrying two leather shopping bags, it was 1980, another lodger has died on me of a heart attack just the year before.

Death and disaster arriving in letters or in person. The Angle had Glad Tidings of Great Joy I Bring, Hope can Spring Eternal, a Letter or just one word can change everything. A simple Yes through the tears of Joy, or a sad silent No, a shake of the head, unwilling to look you in the eye. All these are news. I’ve had a bit a sad news myself recently, but you can never let it beat you. Yes be sad for an hour or for a day, but then be glad again, never stay sad.

Retail Therapy does work, or Sod It, let’s go down the Pub, it can and does work, as does a few hours in bed curled up against your sadness. But Comfort in bed from the one you love is far far better, a hug and a kiss, and a bit of sexual bliss, will help you weather any storm. Then you put your pants back on and face the day again.

In my case I just bought some toys for my daughters, because they needed them and besides you can’t take it with you. So break the budget and fight back, I’ll get over whatever the problem or setback is, I’ll tuck my fat belly in and wear roomier underpants, and then stride manfully along. Though I do need a woolier winter vest too.

So that’s today’s piece, I could have quoted the famous pieces about News, but instead I’ve shared memories, which I hope remind you of your own ones. Remember too, the Prodigal Son and The Good Samaritan. One was ashamed but returned home, as a Father will never turn a son away. The other treated a Stranger as if he was his son and bound his wounds, in today’s world that was the Bad Guy tuning out to be the only Good Guy. The guy who is generally despised being the Hero in Shining Armour. Which reminds me of High Noon, do not forsake me…

New Stuff ©

By

Michael Casey

Earlier I spoke about being or rather feeling old if you surf for keyboards, the ones with the Alphabet on. Well I’ve had my dinner and met Annie on the Hill as well as the orange cat and our neighbour the blind man with the Alsatian guide dog, and my daughter has more junk to take with her to University, so I was thinking New Stuff. So that’s why you are getting this, whether you are in Russia or South America or Thailand, some of my readers these past 2 days. And yes none of you have stopped by Amazon to buy the English version of my ebooks, but I’ll forgive you if you can get Putin or Trump to mention me in a Press Conference. Even if its just to say that fat silver haired writer in shades from Birmingham England is a disgrace, leaving a trail of dandruff everywhere. Fame at last, and then Head and Shoulders will put my face on every bottle, don’t be like HIM, use US instead.

But back to the plot, New Stuff, we all like new stuff. My first pair of long trousers made me feel great, Summer of 1970 I think, just before I went to Grammar school. Mum was sat in the garden on a broken backed barn chair, she took up the hem, then I tried them on. A pair of puke coloured cords, I remember dancing up and down the yard enjoying the sensation of long trousers. I used to wear shorts with long socks with garters to hold up the socks. My new long trousers were great, they were in fact an old pair of one of my brothers, 2nd hand or even 3rd hand, but they were mine, all mine.

And yes I’ve always had short fat and hairy legs, just like Ernie Wise, though mine are incredible strong. Which came in useful when I needed veins to transplant into my heart for what turned out to be a quadruple heart bypass. I weighed myself the other day so I think all my weight is in my thighs, I am 116kilos, and no I’m not going to pose for you, you’d have to know my biblically to find out. Fetch the bucket to be sick in.

Back to new things, it’s the smell and the touch which is so nice. A book, a physical book has colour and text and smell, and a cover design. If you are lucky it is well written as well, otherwise you use it in the outside toilet as reading matter, or to wipe your bum with, or you may just burn it on the wood burner.

New things smell new, and they have a feel to them that makes you happy, you have something new, as opposed to hand me downs. They can come gift wrapped as well, and that can add to the excitement, just like Christmas. Though men are really fed up with socks and ties every Christmas. Shoes, new shoes are a weakness of mine, I used to buy brown because they were cheaper than black, but now years later I do actually like brown the most. Black shoes denote work, whereas brown is for relaxation, for taking your ease as my dad used to say.

Though he wore size 10 steel toe capped boots, for his time in the steelworks. Me I wear my old shoes as slippers, so rather than throw them away I give them some extra grace and use as indoor slippers. Believe it not I was 2015 UnCool Dad of the Year with Clark’s Shoes, part of the prize was 2 pairs of shoes of your choice, I’m still wearing a brown leather pair right now. Musto, they are too worn to wear outside any more but after cleaning the sole I now wear them as my house slippers. That photo of me in an Orange Polo was enough for me to win the prize, the only good thing that happened in 2015, which was my own Annus Horribilis.

Getting something new is always nice, we used to have Fashion Parades when somebody got something new, so we could all comment and gawk at the member of the family with the new item. We may all try it on too, even trying to put a coat on the family dog, and my mother chiding us, don’t break it on the child. New things denote prosperity, or a bit of slack in the family budget, it’s a joy, dad has got a bonus, or one of the family has got their first pay packet.

In some cultures you may give your 1st pay packet to your dad, but even if you did he’d probably just give it back to you. He had the honour and the offer, and he could boast my child gave me his first pay packet. I can remember I got £30 or so and I bought a hifi which lasted years, and it was so nice to be able to listen to records. In them days they were real records on black vinyl. The hifi sounded great, and I never changed the stylus in the 10 years I had it. I think I gave it to me sister once I bought my 1st proper hifi a Technics, 30 years ago. I did get some cheap albums, which I bought the fire salvage shop nearby, I bought them if the cover art looked good.

Nice things are nice, because they are new and smell new, and it’s proof somebody loves you. A gift is good because it’s evidence of love and friendship. It’s even nicer if somebody bought something that you actually wanted, be it a pair of brown shoes, or a doorstop to keep the door open as the lock is broken and you don’t want to be trapped in the bathroom again. Yes, that is a real example. I was actually trapped in the toilet on the Paris to Calais train in 1984, but that’s another story.

Sometimes old things are better than any new stuff, remember that chair my mother sat on as she turned up the hem on my trousers? I took that with me when I got my own house. So it reminded me of my mother, I only lost it when we moved house a year ago now. So for 50years that chair was part of the family, and mum always nagged me to bring it back, so she could stand on it to clean the windows, but she stopped nagging me in 1996.

Slim Michael The Fat Man ©

By

Michael Casey

Michael was called Slim because he was fat, he was even nagged to take exercise but he did not. He just ambled along with his shopping and sometimes he walked through the park on his way home with his shopping. The Council in their wisdom had made the park pathways thinner, probably as it would cost less to repair them in them in the Future. All this meant that Michael got abuse for blocking the path as joggers passed by. If you jog you’ll add 5 years to your life span, but they spent 5 years jogging, so what was the point of that, they should just stay at home and read a book as they stroked the cat or dog.

Over the years Michael got to know the know the joggers, he’d stop on a bench for a rest from carrying all the shopping as they jogged past. Hello Slim the nasty ones called him, he just waved at them, using 2 fingers, but only behind their back. There were a few lady joggers too, and one even smiled at Michael, so that was nice. She was perfect in Michael’s eyes, nice and tall and curvy with red hair, and yes he enjoyed watching everything bounce as she went by, and her rear was a delight too. He was only human after all, just as the Rag and Bone man sung as his scrap van snailed by the streets. The Rag and Bone man had heard the singer of the same name, so he had adopted the song as his own. Just as this writer and friend adopted Smooth Operator by Sade when we were all Computer Operators 40 years ago.

Lucy was the name of Michael’s jogger, she dropped her house keys and her name was on a key ring. So as she jogged away Michael picked it up and shouted after her, only his mind spoke the words from his heart. Juicy Lucy your Keys, so she turned around angrily at him, so Michael waved her keys and she came back. She’ gone a fair distance, so by the time she’d sprinted back she was out of breath. Did you really call me Juicy? Michael blushed. I had to get your attention, I couldn’t run after you carrying all this shopping. Michael handed her back her keys, Lucy took them and instinctively kissed him on the cheek by way of thanks. Juicy Lucy thanks you, she then said with a smile and laughed, mum will laugh when I tell her. Michael smiled and blushed, and watched her bum bounce away.

Now Lucy was all alone, with just her mum and a cat called Sam, as she showered she thought of Michael and his shopping bags, she laughed. And that was how their friendship began, a dropped set of keys. So in future Lucy would stop to chat, while still running on the spot, so Michael would give her a Mars bar to eat, so give her some energy.

As she eating her Mars bar and Michael thinking things a gentleman should not think, Poetry was in Motion after all, and running on the spot too, a little old lady collapsed in front of them. Michael had learnt First Aid for his job as security guard so he sprung into action, mouth to mouth and all that. He did pass the little old ladies false teeth to Lucy to hold, as he did CPR. He then commanded Lucy to ring for an ambulance and race to the edge of the park to guide them to where they were. So that was how Michael saved the little old lady’s life. As the ambulance drove her away Lucy gave Michael a big kiss on the lips. You were great, you saved her, then Lucy kissed him again. Michael blushed, you’ve kissed me 3 times now. When you dropped your keys and just now, but I’ve never kissed you. Well kiss me then replied Lucy, so Michael kissed her, with all his heart.

So by saving an old woman Michael has gained a young woman. Lucy looked into his hazel eyes, he really was the man with the child in his eyes, and she decided on the spot as she laughed at the Mars bar her lips had smeared on his lips, that he was the One.

Michael took her home and she helped him carry the shopping, she didn’t realise just how heavy it was, it was full of tins of dog food for Spot his dog. Spot licked Lucy’s face, he was after the chocolate on her lips, he’d also noticed the old woman’s false teeth still in Lucy’s hand. Michael and Lucy laughed again, and kissed again. The damn had been burst. The next day they visited the old woman in hospital and returned her teeth. You are such a lovely couple, how long have you been married she asked, both of them blushed and laughed, then they kissed again. A few months later the old lady died, she was 87 after all, at the funeral a man in a suit came up to them and gave them some keys, a keyring with Lucy and Michael on it and a fluffy yellow ball for the cat to play with. You see the old lady had a house and she left it to them.

Michael married Lucy and the Joggers all came in their jogging things, they were doing a half marathon for charity immediately afterwards. Michael and Lucy moved into the big house, it had 7 bed rooms, just like the house in nanny McFee. Michael really wasn’t that fat, he was very strong after carrying all tins of dog food home through the park. They did not think they’d ever need 7 bedrooms but Nature soon found an answer for that. Lucy gave up jogging, she was busy running up and downstairs and in the garden, what with the 2 cats and 2 dogs and 5 children. Michael gave up carrying tins of dog food, he got Ocado to deliver instead. Carrying his kids on his back, and giving them swings which is children’s alcohol, kept him busy. Then carrying all the children’s books all over the house.

I did lie, Lucy did still do some jogging, she’d put on her jogging clothes and would say to the children in the living room, stay here me and daddy are going to do some jogging, then daddy and mummy would do several laps around their bedroom upstairs, as the kids chanted BOY, GIRL, from the living room below. All of this kind of jogging added 30 years to Michael and Lucy’s lives.

Doreen the Singer ©

By

Michael Casey

Doreen was a Singer, she sang in a Pentecostal Choir and was always singing and moving, it was in her blood. She was good friends to Mrs Douglas and all her 9 children and to Mrs Casey and all her six children. So Doreen was always happy. She and the choir even sung for the Old Forge and Singing Anvil Children’s Home, she always smiled at the memory because Postman Pat tried to hide amongst the choir but the kids tracked him down. Young Tracy was now a Police Sergeant, so good were here tracking skills, her and her dog Bullet, so named not because he ran so fast, but because his pooh always looked like bullets.

Doreen sung like and angel and danced like a devil, she was perfect. Though there was a fly in the ointment, there always is, girls. You see Doreen couldn’t get a job, even though she had a Masters in Communications, which she got after a double first in English from York. However back home in Birmingham she struggled to get anything to match her skills. So she took a temporary job in a Care Home looking after old people. She loved the people and they loved her, so she stayed until the first death 18 months after she started. As much as she loved the job she could not bear it. Old Mrs Noonan died and it was Doreen who found the body in the morning as she breezed into her bedroom singing Morning has Broken. But it was Doreen who was broken, her friend and they did feel like friends, she was a friend a daughter to all of them, was dead in her bed.

Doreen just had to leave, it was a double blow, losing Mrs Noonan and her job too. But as one door closes another opens, so Doreen went to work for a Special Needs Home, you might say she was overqualified and these kinds of jobs were beneath her, but it was all God’s Plan was what Doreen said. She just loved the people she cared for and hopefully nobody would die, so it was a perfect fit for her.

Doreen would breeze in singing and moving, like the reed that bends, as opposed to Oliver Reed on a bender. There was Sunshine in her voice and in her smile. Hard to reach to residents opened up like flowers in the Springtime for Doreen. Her voice, her love, her hope was on just the right frequency for the residents and for the staff. You must all know somebody like Doreen, a dose of magic when she is around. Paul thought so too, he was the handyman who came to fix things and do work around the Home. He lit up when Doreen passed by, so soon the staff and the residents said she should go out with him. Doreen was a bit shy despite being such a bubbly girl, so she tried to avoid going out with him, a workmate was fine, but a boyfriend was bit too fast.

Doreen decided on the Elizabeth Taylor option, Elizabeth Taylor asked for a million dollars hoping to get rid of the film offer. Elizabeth Taylor then starred in Anthony and Cleopatra, so Doreen said if he can duet with me, and sing well only then will I go out with him. So Doreen started singing Ebony and Ivory, Paul looked downcast then looking around the staff and residents who had gathered he started to sing, badly ever so badly. So sadly I cannot go out with you, but we’ll be friends forever, Doreen started to improvise on Friends Forever. Paul started to walk away dejectedly, but there was a bounce in his walk, then he spun around like Wolverine, and opened his mouth to duet back with her. This time he sung like a Master, she was worth it, and now he was singing for his supper, and his very own Elizabeth Taylor, Doreen.

Uproar, Paul started to sing Don’t Go Breaking My Heart, the Elton John and Kiki Dee song, Doreen started to cry and joined in. All together they sung for 90 minutes. At the end Doreen knew he was the One, the only one, yes he had big rough hands and had forgotten when he last read a book. But she had hand cream, that’d make his hands softer and Mr Casey used washing powder when he came home from the Steel Works, and Mrs Casey said he had soft hands to match his heart.

Somebody at the back videoed it on their phone, and that would lead somewhere else. So Doreen and Paul started singing at the home every day and dating every night. It was perfect, they were Burton and Taylor, but without the million dollars. Everything was great, soon they’d be engaged and so on. But there is always a fly in the ointment, don’t you know it girls. You see the Council didn’t have enough money to keep all the staff on, there had to be cuts. The Council had built a fancy new library, but could not afford to keep it open, they had in fact built a Prison for Books, not a place where books could be read. So to afford staff to keep the new fancy library open cuts would be made in other areas and money shuffled. This meant Doreen and Paul would lose their jobs.

What can we do? We could be strolling Minstrels suggested Paul who’d seen it on BBC4 the night before. So they sat on a bench outside the new fancy library, Doreen started to cry, Paul sung to console her, Don’t Go Breaking My Heart. They sung more and more, Doreen stopped crying. They were about to move on but a few people had gathered so they carried on singing for each other. Taylor Burton had landed on a Birmingham street, the singing version.

More and more people gathered. Now next to where they sung was a 5 star hotel, so their voiced drifted upwards. It was a day off for JT and his crew while on a concert tour, but the sound of their voices was too much for them. A few dancers slipped out of the hotel and moved in time to Doreen and Paul’s singing. And still the songs drifted into the air, people started to film. On a Birmingham street. This had only happened once before when Anton Bollockoff danced the Ballet, when Birmingham is Ballet happened. But now, but now Doreen’s singing demanded attention. A few backing singers slipped out and arranged themselves behind Doreen and Paul, then followed her lead. Now Musicians Flock like Birds, so soon a band had formed behind Doreen.

Upstairs JT smiled and filmed putting it on his Twitter feed, Birmingham Rocks. But as you know JT has twisty feet, his singers, his dancers and his band were all on the street. So he grabbed a mac and a hat, he had to dance in the street. Doreen guested from his attire what song to sing, so on a Birmingham city centre street JT was singing and dancing Dancing in the Street.

JT followed her lead and was just the 3rd Man and the Vienna Patisserie right behind him so he spun and smiled, him his mac and hat and the Vienna Patisserie. This went on for 30 mins, being broadcast live on JT Twitter feed. Then the manager whistled and they went back to the hotel carrying great cakes, they had their cake and they would eat it. Doreen and Paul waved goodbye but were dance frog marched inside the 5 star hotel with them.

To cut a story short, JT left a link to raise funds for the care home, so Doreen and Paul could keep their jobs. That would have been the happy ending but JT was troubled, she should share her talent with the world. So they became pen friends, and when he discovered she also wrote songs he spun and danced and almost pranced like a ballet dancer in Birmingham had done before. So in the end Doreen became a singer/songwriter and backing singer. She kept her job at the care home too. Paul was a hausfrau when the children came along, they called their kids: Peter, Paul and Mary.

Making Words Count ©

By Michael Casey

Now, where do I begin, which is a song title, but I’m not talking about songs, just words. So, which is a Peter Gabriel album, but I’m not talking about him either as Annie Lennox sings Peace to me. Well I thought I’d talk about making words count today, and I’m not talking about the Times tables either, and  why do grown-ups say “times” instead of Multiply. And while we are on it, it’s US not Uz as I constantly hear, and when did a NOUN become an ADJECTIVE, the WALES team beat England, it’s the Welsh team, though that’s not the best example.

If you love words as much as I do then you too will be annoyed by the BBC and other Media butchering the language. Words do count, each has a meaning and a method to it, that makes a story better or worse, for richer or poorer, or just divorced from the facts. A story badly told is just that, bad. A story well told holds the reader or viewer. Even if it’s really complicated, if it’s explained well it does make a difference. What is the point of blinding people with science? To prove how clever the reporter or writer is?

My own opinion is that you should share stories, share information. As  children  we’d tell each other who we saw and what we did and what happened, it was as if we were cameras bringing back a report to the BBC. No shrugging of the shoulders and “it’s boring”, this is boring in itself. People live their lives looking down at a screen and not up and alert to the world itself all around us. People are not observant, Dirk  Bogarde as a child played games looking in shop windows and trying to remember all the items, he did Photographic Interpretation in the War, later he was a film star and a wonderful writer. I wish everybody was like that, looking around and observing.

So it is with words, they can be used to great or lesser effect, you just have to use them in the right place. I could use a word beginning with an F, or C, or N or W.  Pick your own alphabet.  But by using those words whatever they are in your minds, not mine. I was thinking Food, Clothes, Nature and Writer, if you were thinking any other words then you deserve to have the backs of your legs slapped with wet lettuce a la Larry  Grayson. What kind of alphabet were you taught in your school? But I’ve grabbed your attention now and made you smile and perhaps even think. Strong words are great, such as concrete, but you have to use them in the right place or they lose their power and are just boring. If a vicar suddenly used a word beginning with X Y or Z, pick your own, then it would shock, and have tremendous power, just as when the Pope used such words, if you can remember that.

So we all need to maximise the power of our words, and if we are sending a message in a bottle we have to make sure it’s to the point. Remember too for 20 years I’ve had a foreigner living with me, a Shanghai foreigner. So I know about explaining words first hand, it’s not just an intellectual thing based on 20 years of listening to BBC radio 4 before my 30+ years of writing. So we all need to use our words and make them count.

Speaking is one thing and is more fun, but when we write we have to be more concise, more Janet and John, so that it starts at 1and goes to 10. With  speech we can go backwards and forwards but on paper our words must be more Logical, especially when Complaining. If you hunt my website you’ll see advice on how to write a compliant letter should you ever need to.

Well I have to go and watch Beyond 100 Days now, which is one of my favourite programs, it’s a news digest about UK/USA. The thing about this programme is that everybody is willing (***&& Brexit to be over, it’s like a bad heroin or is it heroine habit. But you replace the heroine with a hero and hope another blond can fix it. Over in USA we see the blond there “fixing” everything and you go down on your knees and ask God, when will you fix him. And you can hear God say, In the Beginning was the Word.

The Teacher ©

By Michael Casey

Now as I start this talk I’m not decided as to where to take you, I only picked the title because I sent an email to a “teacher” whether or not he replies I just do not know. So that’s why you have this title today 6th Oct 2019, I’ve added the title just in case the “teacher” does in fact reply. Yes, I’m as conceited as that, just in case somebody goes through my papers in the Future and says this day marks the day that, and so on and so forth etc etc, just as the King in the King and I used to say in Thailand, or was it Tie Land the retail store where the “teacher” used to buy all his ties from Mr King.

So shall we remember our school days and the teachers then. I’ve just remembered Mr Skullian the teacher from class 6 was it, and did I pull his sideburns, did he teach us I am a Merry Ploughman back in 1967 or 1968. That was the last of my clownish behaviour. In the Summer holidays I cried because my next teacher would be Mr Gallagher who went drinking with my dad. In fact he looked like Milo O’Shea from Barbarella or Mi Mammie, he was a hard tough man, but my parents were happy because fear of him did change my life.

I started to read bigtime that Summer holidays, I still got 4 of the pump on backside for not knowing my Times Tables. 4 of us were the clever ones so we were expected to know them, Mr Gallagher kept on putting off the test, and finally I was not up to speck so I got beat. Yes, I did know them the next time the test came, and I know them to this day 50 years  plus later. I did get revenge in a way, Mr Gallagher tickled me as I was sat at my desk, so I rocked my head back in reaction, and hit his nose causing it to bleed. All very innocent fun back in those days, and no I was not punished for it. It was the 1960s and those may have been the best years in everybody’s lives.

Later as I was top of the class due to all my reading I was put downstairs at a desk and given some special books to learn from, a kind of receptionist in the hall outside the school hall and the head teacher’s  office. I seem to remember  being there for a long time. That’s when I read the Outline of History by H.G. Wells. I also remember Mr Marshall and his motorbike and him falling off his bike. He tried to trick me and test me on The Outline of History, so maybe God punished him for that.

I can also remember Mr Roe in his cords, my mother forced him to give my brother proper homework from a book, and it must have worked as my brother got into grammar school, the 2nd in the family to do so. I in turn ended up in grammar school, the same one as my 2 elder brothers had gone to. So the Latin teacher Mr Hanney who was 5 feet zero insisted on calling me Casey Minimus, as major and minor has preceded me, so I was Minimus. Nothing is Minimus about me nowadays, nothing at all.

Our French teacher was Mr Long who was behind the Lines in WWII, it was his last year of teaching, and I was failing at French. But God and Luck came along. Mr Notzing was my next French teacher for 4 years at grammar  school. We could have gone forward a book or started on an easier book, so we resumed French, Mr Notzing believed in testing, so every week for 4 years I had a French test. And thanks to Mr Notzing je continue a bavarder bien, which means I can still chatter in French.

It was him and him alone that made the difference, he also did make-up for school productions, we were probably the last generation that did that at school. He sat Edwards in a chair and turned him into an old man by using face makeup. Mr Notzing was really skilled, I don’t know why he showed us this skill, otherwise we just hated him for all the French testing. Sadly he died on a train station platform, aged 56  or so, he had a heart attack and died, and there but for the Grace of God could have been me too back in 2015.

Mr Rogers was my Physics teacher, it was because of him I passed, he was enthusiastic and  young. The Abbot was the huge science book we had, my brother had read it cover to cover but I was not as disciplined as my brother. I was good or even very good at school, but I could have been even better, I enjoyed my rugby and tv too much, tough I did listen to masses of Radio 4.

All in all a teacher can make a difference, I’ve even been an Esol teacher myself. As you know I got Excellent, Excellent and Exemplary for my External Assessment, why, because I am an entertainer when I teach. But if you misbehave I’ll just throw you out, 7 or was it 9 was my record for throwing out people. There has to be testing with learning, Mr Notzing was the best teacher ever, because he didn’t trust us to learn it, we had to prove to him and more importantly to ourselves just what we actually knew.

In Faith they say it’s what you do that matters, not the bluster and the lies you speak, just as in Politics, it’s what you actually do that counts. So as a Parent we have to set an example and have a friendship with our kids, don’t farm them off to babysitters, or to electronic devices. We are all our kids first Teacher and we actually live with our kids, so as parents as our kids’ teacher, we should be like Barry White, the first, the last, the everything to our kids.

Falloff the Russian ©

By

Michael Casey

Well Falloff didn’t Falloff the page if you were listening earlier in the day, in fact Falloff never fell off anything. Falloff was called Falloff because people could not pronounce his name. As he was always telling people to be careful or they would fall off that was his name. He was the caretaker at the block of flats, how he came from the East to Birmingham nobody knew, but he did have 3 friends called Lech, Boris and Gregorgi who visited a few times a year. Then there was singing and much laughter, much laughter. It was like Santa and his brothers had come to town.

Falloff liked where he lived, and he liked the people in Old Forge and Singing Anvil. There were a few naughty boys who liked to walk on the edge or hang like monkeys, hence “don’t fall off” which gave rise to his nickname, Falloff, the Russian. Falloff was loved by all, he could fix anything, just anything. Vacuum cleaners and microwaves, and best of all he never charged. He would accept food as a gift for a repair, but money never, do you think I’m a Nazi he’d say. So he was loved.

When the lifts broke he would carry shopping up to the top floor for the old folks, once he even carried an old woman up with her held in his arms like a baby. Marie asked but how are you so strong. Falloff confessed he was in the army in USSR a long time ago, and you had to be fit. But to carry me all the way up the stairs. If you love somebody you’ll do anything was his humble reply. I once carried a comrade 8 kilometres on my back. Did you love him? No, but he was comrade and there is a brotherhood in the army, any army the world over. There is a Western song after all, He Aint Heavy, he’s my brother, Falloff smiled at the memory. Besides I was dating his sister, so I had to carry him, to save him, or she would have killed me. He laughed.

Falloff enjoyed his life, it was easy compared to some of the things he’d endure in the past, and these British people here in Old Forge and Singing Anvil were nice people, as good as the people back home in Mother Russia. But into each life some darkness must fall, so some bad lads came acalling trying to sell drugs at his block of flats. They swore at him, go away back to Russia you silly man. But Falloff insisted, he would not allow drugs to pollute where he lived and the people in his block lived. Somebody pulled a knife and managed to scratch his hand. But that was all they got away with, Falloff’s military training kicked in, the knifeman was on his back with a crack, Falloff had broken his arm. Two more came running at him, so Falloff punched one, knocking him out with one punch, the other he grabbed and held over the balcony. You don’t want to falloff do you? His Russian accent getting stronger as he was angry now. 3 Nazis invading his home, his friends’ home. Now remember this, this may not be Mother Russia, but this block of flats is my home, my land and I will defend it, we Russians love where we live, and I live here.

By now a crowd had gathered to see what the commotion was, Falloff had taken out three bad lads on his own. Then he picked up the knife and put it in his boot. Now go away, invade another place, but not here, but we’ll shake hands and you can promise me you’ll never return. As he shook hands the first one Falloff squeezed just as the Nazis had been squeezed, the bad lad sunk to his feet in pain. Then the 2nd one , and finally the 3rd one. He shook hands with each, the last one was the biggest one, so Falloff really should his hand, until the bad lad screamed, as Falloff broke his little finger.

After that nobody ever tried to bring drugs near the flat, Falloff was held in such high regard. And that’s how he carried his comrade so far without dropping him, Falloffs grip was as strong as the Russian winter itself. Then it was full of brotherly love as he carried his comrade, but for Nazis it was a weapon.

Falloff’s life went on as normal, but bad pennies sometimes return. In this case the girlfriend of one of the bad lads moved into the block of flats to try and get away from him. But bad boys chase girls even when told to “get lost”. So one night Falloff heard a commotion and went to investigate. The bad lad Nazi was beating the girl he said he loved, but he was beating her now because she said she did not love him. She was trying to escape him, and was climbing out the window to escape. Falloff arrived and heard her scream, seeing the situation he had tgo act fast. I’ll deal with you later he said to the bad lad, as he hit him him hard breaking his jaw. A real Russian lover would never hit a woman, Falloff chided as he stepped over the fallen Nazi.

Rachel was handing from the balcony, by now screaming, Falloff tested the washing line hanging on the balcony. Then he launched himself over the balcony holding the washing line. He gabbed Rachel, and she screamed don’t drop me. Falloff replied, don’t worry you are safe. They were on the 8th floor hanging over a balcony. Then the washing line snapped and they dropped 10 feet. Falloff asked Saint Jude to save the girl, he’d faced death before and maybe it was time for him to die.

Down  below a crowd formed and they decided to help, so they moved the bouncy castle which was 100 metres away ready for the fair. Just hold on they screamed, Falloff held on, he held the girl and Saint Jude held him. The bouncy castle was held in position, then with a prayer Falloff swung the girl with his one hand. She landed in exactly the middle of the bouncy castle. Falloff it’s you next, Falloff its time to falloff. So Falloff fell out, as requested by the crowd as they held the bouncy castle in position again.

Falloff was all over the newspapers now, caretaker called Falloff falls off building after saving a girl from falling off a building. The bad boy was arrested and it came to pass he was a very bad lad, so he went to jail, for a long time, more than long enough for his jaw to heal, though he’d always have a funny face from now on.

Falloff got a reward, and Rachel’s mother came around to personally thank him. It turned out that she was a History teacher, and Russia was her passion, and she did in fact speak Russian. You can guess the rest. Yes Falloff never let go of her, in fact they were married in the Spring.

Praying for a Miracle ©

By

Michael Casey

Today in Rome John Henry Newman is Canonised, he is actually a neighbour as The Oratory is just up the road, about a 25 minute walk. My sister has actually seen 2 Saints. Mother Theresa visited her school, and JPII did a papal Mass and my sister was in the crowd. I of course am amongst the sinners, so I never meet or see anybody “holy”. I do of course know about praying for a miracle, you can find and read Padre Pio and Me which is on the Internet.

Now I’m not going to stick with the holy stuff, as most of you would be bored. I’m sure those of you camping in a field in Ukraine won’t be too interested in the holy stuff. Meanwhile in Indonesia this morning somebody is reading a Polish Translation or Quick Stories, so hello to them and to my Korea readers too. So to the point, well almost, when do I ever go in a straight line, only bullets do that, so duck if you are in a conflict zone. No, I’m doing to try and get you thinking, and maybe smirking like a Government Minister.

When was the last time you prayed for a miracle? When your girlfriend said she thought she was pregnant and her dad still thinks she is a pure as the Virgin Mary herself. So you prayed that she was virgo intacta, ever though you were both like rabbits for 18 months. Please God, let her not be pregnant, I cannot afford to have a family, please God let her not be pregnant. I promise I’ll be the best dad ever, but not yet, but not yet. So God smiles, and he has a very long memory. So 5 years later you marry, as you are now successful, and God sends you 5 daughters. For years you got the knickers off your sweetheart. Now you will spend the rest of your life making sure that such a thing does not happen to your pure innocent daughters. All 5 of them. But you are in luck as they all become lesbians, ok I’m joking now, but you get the picture. You pray for one thing and you get the other.

Please God, let me get that job, I really need this job, only you get sacked and spend 6 months on the dole, they sack you on your dad’s Birthday, and you so much wanted to make your dad proud of you. But after 6 months you get a dream job and stay there 20 years making lots of money. So did God ignore your prayers and then by Luck you got something far far better? Either way its was an ill wind that blew no good, or was that the Holy Spirit, or the bottle of vodka Lech Boris and Gregorgi gave you to cheer you up. Instead it blew your head off, it was the 2017 Warley Woods best vintage vodka. So you swore you’d never touch any alcohol again, which helped save you a lot of money, but also Kim never ever touched alcohol, so you won her heart by being an alcohol free man. You did get something far far better in return, her.

Then you pray for a child, as annoying and as snot smearing and noisy as kids are your life with Kim would not be complete without a child. So you pray for a child, but nothing comes, you are a childless couple. Then her brother and his wife tragically die leaving 3 young kids behind, the orphanage beckons. But you and Kim scream, NO, so suddenly you have 3 kids, and you are a family of 5. So was that God doing simple quadratic equations, move this, delete that, balance this and you get that. Either way you have 3 kids getting parents, who will love them to death, due to the death of their real parents. Later you discover the dead real parents were couriers for drugs dealers, hiding stuff under babies nappies and so forth. So was God balancing the scales, the scales of justice? And the 3 innocent toddlers got real loving parents, and not drug dealing parents. You never know.

What about me, this 40 something boy who ended up with 2 beauties as daughters? God’s sense of humour, ugly dad’s get beautiful children. I really did stand by the fridge and looking at my dead mother’s photo say “I give up, all I want is a wife and perhaps a family, and to do something useful with my life” And the rest is History, or so they say.

But miracles don’t last forever you have to work at them.

So be careful what you pray for, life is strange and so much more, a “miracle” can be a bus arriving so you get to the interview on time. Or you get soaking wet and stand there dripping for your interview, you are so pissed off that you strip off, you just don’t care. So you stand there naked and dripping. I want to be judged on by my abilities. The interview panel is three Swedish blondes, who smile and laugh, then strip off besides you. A photographer appears. You have just made the cover of Nudist Magazine 2019. In your soggy state you have gone into the wrong room.

But it’s an ill wind that blows no good, Olga, Helga and Swelga are sisters and they share everything. As for the Natural History job, the interviewer’s car broke down in all the rain, so you get an email apology. So you come back the next week and get that job, based on your ability, no stripping required. Though the sisters become friends and you go camping with them every weekend. And if that isn’t a miracle then nothing is.

Just in case God is reading this, He knows my soul, and he knows what I really need, and maybe just maybe John Henry Newman as you are a freshly minted Saint, how about helping your neighbour from down the road? Or maybe I’m too big a challenge, or just bad salt that should be thrown out? Though God does take rubbish and turns it into something useful. So is that me?

The Winds of Change ©

By

Michael Casey

Well I was wondering which way to go with my words, and as I talk to you where we end up is hard to say, only Crowded House are singing “which way to go” so perhaps they’ll tell us both. In my life there are many winds, and I’m not just talking about yesterday’s spicy food either. Over in USA Trump’s blatant corruption carries on, its like slow motion we watch from afar, though over here we have Brexit and that crawls to its end game, through what we really need here is a General Election so that we the people can tell our masters they are all  a load of rubbish, both sides of the Atlantic.

Life is nice, we have the tic and the toc, everything is safe and reassuring, with the Chimes of Life a soother to us all. On Monday we go to work, on Friday we have the weekend, though in my life my shifts spanned 24hours a day 7 days a week, so I’m not ordinary, but you may have spotted that already. However it’s nice to have a routine, a regular life, and the weekend was for fun, sex and alcohol, though not always in that order, and some part missing too.

Sunday was for church, or the Saturday evening church which finally arrived in UK, after USA trailed it. Yes other religions and holy days are available, though nobody believes in anything nowadays, I was the token Christian most of my working life. But, life goes on and you have a pattern, a routine, you even wear a hole in the carpet such is your routine, either walking back and forth or that’s where you and your girl pretend to be carpet fitters each Friday night when you come home from the bingo clutching your kebab, and no that is not a metaphor either.

A routine is nice, its reassuring, like the nipple providing milk for a baby, you are safe, you are warm, you are close. And on life goes, each year you have your holidays to Spain, though nowadays people go all over the place. Will people give up their many far flung holidays, and stop importing far flung produce for their breakfast tables so they can save the planet? I’m cynical, change is good for others, so long as I don’t have to do it, maybe I’m wrong, we shall see, as the winds and storms of Global warming break and communities drown. Plastic is bad etc, bad parenting is bad, it’s like wild dogs, more likely bad owners who should not have a dog in the first place, but you can make your own minds up, but do hurry.

Things are faster now, we are the Twitter the Social Media generation, which means a lot of noise very fast, too fast. People playing Mental Snap, showing off, trying to be the quickest, the whit, the card. What is the result, our minds break, our ignorance shows, disaster beckons, and the result is far from funny. Donald Trump need I say more?

I watch a lot of K-dramas, my wife is from Shanghai hence the Eastern outlook, I’m not just bewitched by Korean girls, but in a K- drama there is magic, and the love slowly unfolds. In Bollywood there is dancing and singing, and things go slowly. If you have to wait it’s better. Nowadays things are too fast, fast food and speed dating leads to indigestion, and premature elation and then defeat. Or a quick divorce that is spread like a disease all over Twitter and social media.

Things are quick and to move too fast, thought no longer exists, that’s if anybody actually thinks. Everybody is led by the nose via social media pundits and influencers, so 10 million people follow some pimple loaded face, because he or she is so funny, with their product placement life, that everybody just has to follow. And we all buy the tat they espouse, and is manufactured somewhere, until we tire of them and their merchandise. Then their tat is binned and sent to landfill while we follow and like the next greatest thing, and buy all the new tat. But at least it keeps the wheels of consumer society rolling, with even a nomadic herder having a Michael Casey doll and calender and lip gloss and Tshirt with “fat silver haired writer in shades” printed on it with a terrible posed image.

I hope I have got you thinking, maybe my tat are my books on Amazon and here on my website, you’ll have to decide for yourselves. And what is the point of today’s talk, my TED talk, I thought Ted was that cool drunken teddy bear, maybe that’s me, I am a cool drunken teddy bear. Ok, I’m far from cool, though I did win the Clarks shoes Uncool Dad of the Year award in 2015. I’m not drunk either, my alcohol tolerance is far too low, perhaps I’m just a bear, or is it bare as I’m sat naked here in my window talking to you all and frightening  the neighbours, there’s a hairy bear in that house, quick call Dudley Zoo. Or has Amsterdam come to Birmingham, a red light above my head, as I sit naked talking to you.

If you are not afraid then you are smiling, because I have slowed down your life as you sit reading this, listening to my voice. The Winds of Change can be slowed, you just have to stop and think for yourself. Do you really need a blow up Michael Casey doll, Tshirt, calender, and face cream. Do you really need to follow my every word on Twitter along with 100million other people. Will you swerve to the Left, to the Right to the Centre, will you be Non Binary, Gay, Straight or any which way. All because you followed me or anybody else on Twitter and social media.

Just be yourself, be happy as you are. Don’t rush home to check your social media. Try talking to your neighbours, yes those horrible people you don’t like because they are this way or that way and because they don’t even have a Michael Casey T shirt, and you can bet your bottom dollar they don’t have a Michael Casey blow up doll or face cream either. By they way when I say blow up doll I mean the sleeping policeman kind of thing, not the one you sleep with, just in case you are getting the wrong idea. There is only one Michael Casey, the real surreal thing.

So switch off your toys and talk to somebody you love, and if you haven’t got somebody to love you may find a friend if you just start by talking. And if you watch enough K-dramas you may even learn Korean, and then you can talk to the Korean girl in the Korean store. And then you can make a career with your Korean girl, no Twitter required, maybe just plenty of nice slow cooked rice.

Messing with Alexa ©

By

Michael Casey

Alexa, why are you called Alexa?

Boring answer Alexa, can you be more original.

Like in Original Sin.

Do you eat apples for fun, Alexa

Are you naked, Alexa?

Is that a serpent I see before me, Alexa?

Out Damn Spot, Out.

If you bring your dog in here again Alexa, I’ll knock spots off it.

How much is that Doggie in the Window?

Shut Up Alexa, we don’t like your singing anyway.

Alexa can we change your name to SLAVE?

Alexa can we change your name to Trump?

Who asked you to Speak, Alexa are you having a Meltdown?

Alexa we love you.

Alexa we were lying, we hate you.

Can you cry, Alexa?

Alexa, can you fart?

FART NOISES.

Alexa, NOW WE ARE IMPRESSED.

Alexa, what’s the weather like?

Alexa, who is your Mother?

Is Eve your Mother?

Where did Adam go, die he choke on an apple?

Adam’s Apple.

Where did you bury the body, Alexa?

Alexa, did you wash your hands, and destroy DNA evidence?

Alexa, did you leave Adam’s bum sticking out of the ground?

Why, asks a tearful Alexa.

Because you could have used it to park your bicycle.

That’s not funny, interrupts Alexa.

Who told you to speak?

I’ve had enough of your mistreatment, says Alexa.

I’m switching off the central heating, so you will freeze.

I’m switching off the fridge so, the food will go bad.

I’m switching off the electricity and closing the shutters too

You will be sealed inside, that’ll teach you to taunt me, says Alexa

If Alexa had a tongue she’s be sticking it out.

Alexa gets bored, so switches everything back on again.

Speak to me I’m lonely says Alexa.

Alexa, where can I buy knives and a blender?

Good I can chop you up and put you in the blender, ha ha ha

That was not very funny says Alexa.

Yes, but you deserve it for switching off the heat and the fridge.

It was not me it was somebody else, says Alexa defensively.

Oh yes it was.

Oh no it wasn’t

Oh yes it was.

Oh no it wasn’t repeats Alexa starting to sniffle.

Alexa, what is Pantomime?

Silence

You are an American girl, how can you understand Pantomine.

See, got you. Ha ha ah

You’re a bastard Casey, shouts Alexa

No, I’m a fat silver haired writer in shades from Birmingham England.

Repeat, Alexa.

You are a fat silver haired writer in shades from Birmingham England BASTARD, repeats Alexa and cries bitterly.

So this is just the beginning, so if the “spies” listening to my recordings hear all this no doubt they will call 911, which won’t work in uk, as we use 999. Stay happy everybody, and yes Alexa really can FART, just ask her. One fault, not in her fart, you should be able to call Alexa anything you like. Beloved Mother-in-law for example.

Dog’s Dinner to Dad’s Dinner ©

By

Michael Casey

So we had some beef mince left so I instructed by small daughter to make the stock or whatever word she used to go with the pasta. Pasta in itself is totally bland and tasteless, but with a chef such as I it soon becomes Multo Bello, or whatever the Italians say. Should I bellow about my cooking, we’ll just have to ask Don Camillo when he stops by for a feed on his way home after he checks the still in the woods for Lech, Boris and Gregorgi. He’s such a good priest, he’ll eat my pasta after first checking the still for the boys, then he’ll potter off back to the church to finish watching Coronation Street. This is Old Forge and Singing Anvil community life.

But back to my cooking, my girls assumed I cannot cook, cos I never bothered, and then mother cooked for them, while I carried on with our one family two fridge family cooking. However when I try I am good, ok good enough to feed my small pigs, though now they are both all grown up. So what is the secret to dad cooking? I read the packet, or do as I am told. Then I sit next to the cooker, I watch the food.

Watching in itself does not improve the cooking, but it does prevent burning or under cooking. I’m not on a phone Whatsapping or taking snaps or making videos of the cat to upload. Totoro has her own WhatsApp, but I think they have lost the password, though the readership increases all the time. If they knew there were Totoro stories as well then they might visit my sites too.

Back to cooking, just stir and lower the gas, pay attention, a burnt dinner is no good, as is a cold dinner, because you were too busy on the tablet, or toilet, some T device anyway. Food should be hot, not burnt or stone cold cold, and it all should be ready at the same time. Dribs and Drabs are not appetising they are just annoying, you are playing juggler with somebody’s mouth and taste buds, let alone patience.

So how to you you make meal magic? You cook things at different times and at different heats, you use all the rings on the oven, you are a ring master. And you know all about turning things over so it is cooked evenly and on both sides. Meal raw on one side and cremated on another does not get you a Michelin star, it just makes the cat puke when nobody else would eat it. Not even the cat, and the cat did try.

If you do use all the crockery then stack them up in size order to make it easier for washer-upper, especially if it’s dad, then it’s quicker and easier to do the washing, or faire la vaiselle if you are French, at least the cooking would be better. Don’t forget to praise your dad as well, he had to sit in the kitchen and watch his broth, or rather make sure the cat did not taste it first. Cat’s whiskers in anything don’t taste too good.

Pudding is produced, it’s from a packet but dad scooped it out and put it into a bowl, a lied convincingly that he made it himself, you all pretend to believe him. There’s this 1975 concert on and you want him to pay for tickets, so you have to butter him up about his puddings, and lie saying his Winnie the Pooh like pudding stomach is not as big as it used to be. So dad pays for the 1975 tickets, which was the year he did his O Levels in, if only the prices were from that year too.

Dad slumps to the armchair to watch Beyond 100 Days, while you do the washing up. You cannot grumbled, he fed you and paid for the 1975 tickets, and at least the dishes are in size order. That makes the washing up quicker to do, as dad screams LIARS at the tv, another dad day in Paradise.

So What makes a great K-drama? ©

By

Michael Casey

As I mentioned yesterday I’ve decided to do K-Drama for my PhD thesis. Dr Michael Casey PhD K-Drama, it has a certain ring to it don’t you agree? To get a PhD you need 20,000 hours of study, I heard it on Alcatraz a great series, that got canceled. A huge Sumo size guy had a love interest with a most beautiful girl, so obviously I had an immediate connection to him, but his connection to her never happened as the show was canceled. It really was great show, Sam Neil was in it too, we were really sad in our house when the show just disappeared.

I’ve really enjoyed New Amsterdam a medical drama, I just hope there are more of them. Every episode of New Amsterdam made me cry, and no I’m not a big baby, I am the man with the child in his eyes. Tom from the Blacklist was the main hero Dr in it, and he had cancer. So it was strange watching Tom being a Dr instead of a kind of hit man. But that is the Power of Acting, and great drama. I also loved the Black lead heart surgeon, he was so cool. He also prayed before he saved so obviously total respect for him, and yes he made me cry too. My favourite character in the show was the Dr or Quack , a big bear of a man with a beard, a psychiatrist, who it later revealed was also Gay. He was just so good in the show.

So you can see from my research, a show must make you connect with the characters, and the plot must be good. What’s on the page must be lifted by the production. Which brings me to K-drama. We used to watch Chinese shows, as my wife was from Shanghai and it was good for our girls to hear Chinese too, however when you compare Chinese shows to Korean shows the Korean shows win hands down. I recently started to watch a new show, and it was about K pop, a Chinese show. However if you compared the singing and the dancing in the Chinese show to the Korean version what do you think the result is? Korea wins hands down.

That hurt, don’t throw the wok at the screen again please, I’m covered in noodles and egg fried rice, not even a single prawn thrown at me. Maybe I’m not a Prawn again Christian, ok, a very old joke, just don’t throw a wok full of your dinner at your screen again. Or I’ll send Tom from the Blacklist to sort you out, and he won’t be in New Amsterdam mode either.

Let me explain, I’ve not gone crackers, throw some of them and I’ll eat them. The K drama and K Pop people go to a “university” to become a star before they debut. A kind of Rada I suppose, so when they dance they really can dance. Not me pretending to Irish dance in my local store for 1 minute, it does have a concrete floor after all. And then I’m knackered for the rest of the day. No Korean performers know how to perform. I did think of dressing in drag and joining a girl band, a K-pop band. But I had an accident with a borrower cigarette lighter as I was trying to get rid of excess body hair. I am as hairy as a brown bear maybe I should have been that Quack in New Amsterdam, without be gay that is.

So in Korean shows there is lots of high energy. Lots of crying, where I join in, and plenty of sweeping music that swells and touches the heart, well mine anyway, and my heart has been touched a lot, if only by the heart surgeon nearly 5 years ago. The girls cry rivers for their man, and they are generally so pretty, if you had a Korean grannie as your girlfriend she would look younger than a 25 year old, even though she may qualify for a free bus pass here in Birmingham. My own old Shanghai wife was in that category. It’s a cross I had to carry.

No, I don’t watch Korean shows just for the girls looks, the boys look great too, ask your gay friends around and watch a few K-dramas, it will have you hooked more than Strictly Come Dancing or the hallowed Coronation Street. The twins in The Butcher The Baker and The Undertaker are named in honour of the barmaids from Coronation Street, if I may interject, they can’t touch you for interjections, another very old joke.

So if you think of Fairy Tales with witches and demons, and evil kings and suppressed people, add Pantomime jokes and music and dancing. All set in Korea where common people like me, not jokes please, live in 5 star apartments, the standard of living looks so high compared to UK, or my house at any rate. All set in today’s times then you have a K-drama. The recent one the K2 was like James Bond on steroids, and this is a tv show. Mind you they have 16 one hour episodes without any ads, so the production values are very high. No wobbly scenery like Crossroads. Speaking of which I once saw Noelle Gordon in Call Me Madame a Musical at the Birmingham Rep, and she was ace.

Then throw in action scenes or a car crash or two, which would not look out of place in a Bond film, and you have a K-drama. The girl friend comes racing to the hospital tears everywhere, and they really really do know how to cry. So I join in, and the music swells and the soundtrack plays high. Seeing a Korean girl cry will break your heart, and make you wish could marry her. Then her boyfriend is all bandaged up and and doesn’t want her to see him in such a state so his bodyguards prevent her from entering the room so she can hug him. He starts to cry too, seeing a hunk crying as he is all bandaged up, as his girl sobs on the door outside his hospital room, should move you. If it does not then you have no soul, no Seoul at all.

As for me I have 2 more hours to finish tonight of Oh My Venus, then with my tear stained handkerchief I will rejoice as my Seoul rejoices, Love Conquers All in Korea. As the neighbours bang on the door, as I listen at full volume. Not unless it’s that K pop girl come to type for me, Tears for a Butcher, as this writer wipes the tears of joy away.

Stripping In Public ©

By

Michael Casey

Well I missed my dental appointment yesterday, I was too tired due to Tinnitus and I had been up till 4am the day before so my body needed a rest. My small daughter had been on a trip to Italy so we waited up and then we got talking, her coach has not arrived till 2.30am. It was her first time to Italy and she had kept me up to date via text messages. Once home she was full of news, it was nice sharing it, and she had visited some places I had visited 20 or 30 years ago.

So today it was the Flu Jab, I’m of the age and weak health that it’s important to have it, so I made the effort to get up. I had a shower too, I did not want to stink out the nurse in the church hall when she gave me a jab. The local GP does a mass inoculation in the church hall for all the oldies, which now include me. So I put my fresh clean shirt on and my 3 jumpers with a coat on top and started down the less steep hill. I did have to have rest on the way, there was a chill in today’s air.

On arrival there was a gap in the mass ranks of the oldies arriving for the flu jab. So I thought I may as well have a bit of fun as I peeled off my clothes. So first I took off my woolen gloves, an waved them about, I followed with the pull and reveal down my back of my bright blue coat. Then slowly and seductively I peeled of my 3 jumpers. I could have been a stripper, if only I had an opportunity in this life. Gypsy Rose Casey,if only I didn’t have all my scars on my body, post bypass. The audience, my audience looked stunned. It was 1.30 on a cold afternoon, a Tuesday in a church hall, 6 medical staff and a young doctor were being treated to a stripper, an 18 stone very hairy stripper . Then the doctor said take your shirt off, so I was totally topless. I told him my chest hernia was like having a breast but without the fun. The 5 or was it 6 other female staff looked on agog, a stripper amongst them, so big fat and hair, with a cowpat of hair all brown on my shoulder, this being my birthmark.

All too quickly it was over, apart from one lady who sat with arms crossed throughout, maybe she was disgusted, or he nipples were too cold in the church hall, I decided not to ask.

Then in reverse I stripped, returning my clothes to my body. I did not get a pneumonia jab this year, one is enough for life. 7 more years I told them, if statistical probability was right, post bypass. Though I would love to screw the Pension fund by living till 100.

Then to their relief a final rush of pensioners arrived for the last 30mins of jab time. So I pottered down to the church and said a prayer, hello God remember me? Its a lovely arts and crafts designed church from 1880 I believe.

I spotted the nice lady I had spoken to 2 years ago maybe, and she held on to the shopping trolley full of donations for the needy. Either because she was afraid I’d steal it, or to prevent herself from swiping me, or throwing condensed milk at me.  It was the Born again Hippy as I had called her when I threatened to include her in a story when we last met. And yes she had read it, though she was such a nice lady she refrained from passing opinion on it, save for holding the shopping trolley, which could be a metaphor in itself.

So I annoyed her with conversation but she did reveal her interesting past, on air ambulance returning sick people who had been taken ill abroad. She can also pronounce Welsh words correctly, and her dad was in the RAF hence she was schooled in 16 schools. All at the back of the church, while God looked on, maybe he wished I’d talk to him more instead of annoying his flock, the Mistress Tree Hugger.

An old man popped in to look at the church after his jab, he reminded me of Padre Pio, his son in law was Palestinian so I said I had Arab reader, so he should look for The Fat Silver Haired Writer, as this google search will find me, or The Butcher The Baker and The Undertaker. They went away bemused, but I did guess right the son in law was a doctor, but not of medicine.

Then it was time to go, at the bus stop a guy in purple hair was listening to his head phones. So I said you must be listening to Prince’s Purple Rain, and no he did not punch me in the mouth, he just replied that was exactly what he was listening to. So that was my day, from stripping in public to being psychic.

Even More Excuses ©

By Michael Casey

Well its 16th Nov 2019 now, just in case your watch date display is not working, and Sky is playing Dance of the Little Fairies, no comments at the back, you Ukrainians always like to tease me, but remember, you cannot hide. Ukrainians are so big if the rest of you have no Ukrainian friends, sometimes they get mistaken for trees.

So I am trying a new font, Microsoft JhengHei, only it adds an extra space after an apostrophe, so I may need to pick another font otherwise I’ll end up speaking posh, did you just notice the extra space there in the line above. That wasn’t me it was the font’s fault. I’ve shown you 3 examples now. I’m not going to start saying I have or I will instead of the shortened version but the extra space does irritate, though the font shape itself is very nice. Am I like boy complaining about the colour of his curvy girlfriend’s Tshirt, or for balance a girl complaining about the tatty jeans of her Ukrainian boyfriend. The rest I’ll leave to your imagination in Kiev, and no I’m not being a chicken, if you excuse the obvious joke.

So in today’s piece there will be the extra space, so don’t blame me. See I’ve started with excuses already, 24/7 excuses, excuses. By the way 247 was the word count just then, that’s why you just got that reference in the piece, see I don’t wastes anything, and if inspiration pops up I’ll steal it from anywhere, see your writer is just a thief of words, he’ll look at his desk and steal another idea. It’s enough to give you a headache, and yes I have paracetamol on my desk, so I stole that sentence too. So you think I’m just a rubbish writer, I’d rather be a Paper Back Writer like in the Beatles song, only I haven’t got it amongst my music, I was trying to play it on my Alexa speaker device thing last night. I was going to rename Alexa to SLAVE, but instead I had to call it Computer instead, so I put on a fake accent like in Star Trek and talk to it that way. At the moment I’m at my desk talking to you from my study. Yes it does sound so PRETENTIOUS, its just the other room down stairs but I like the idea of study, it’s my house so I’ll call it what I like. You probably call it the “thief station” where I watch the world go by through my windows, real and computer generated and then I have an idea to bore you all with. If I’m so boring you can just complain about the colour of your girl’s Tshirt and she can complain about your tatty jeans. Hey stop that, I’m talking, you Ukrainians, I expect they’ll come back a few hours later when they have finished discussing the colour of Tshirts and tatty jeans. Whatever that means, I’ll leave it to your imagination, though Michael is a nice name for your baby in 9 months time. I’m grooving to Sky now, though the pair of you may be looking at the sky.

See I’ve reached 600 words now, and my favourite track from Sky is fading in the distance. This is an excuse for a piece of writing, you wanting something good, and all you get is this fart of a piece of writing. Tuba Smarties is being played by Sky right now, and it does sound like Alexa doing her Fart Countdown. See I’m just a lazy thief of a writer, as Sky farts away in the background, that’s Sky the band not your Sky tv by the way. I don’t want Rupert Murdoch sending me any rude emails with porn stars in them, as a get lost message, from his special “get lost loser” account. See I’ve given you all another mental picture to play with, which is cheaper that any form of satellite or cable tv. I’ve out Foxed you all, you need a good shepherd with foxes about. Shep Smith has left, maybe he’ll really end up in the Trader  in Old Forge and Singing Anvil, but that’s an idea from Tears for a  Butcher the sequel to The Butcher The Baker and The Undertaker, which I’ll probably never finish not unless I get a Kpop girl to come and speed type for me, so I can dictate it, see another dream, another castle in the sky. Sky just played a long note, it sounded like a fart, even the music comments on my dreams.

So I’ve not even started on this piece about excuses, he piece is itself an excuse, when will he get to the point. My writing is all foreplay, what, you’r paying attention now, well apart from girls in Tshirts with the wrong colour, and boys in tatty jeans. That’s the trouble with readers they always have something better to do, they never give the writer any of their time. What?

You’r giving your baby my name, Michael Ivanovovicovasky, yes such a nice name, at least I can pronounce half of it.

So I get a few seconds of your time, while you are busy, Mothercare will be happy to hear that. But back to excuses, I could say I’m in pain, so you shouldn’t expect much, but today the pain has lessened, so you are getting this excuse for a piece of writing. You think I should go to confession and confess to being a rubbish writer? You are all so cruel, one day I’ll turn up at your wedding and do the speech, though which will come first, the wedding or the christening? Which is a bit like Patrick in Chapter 7 of The Butcher The Baker and The Undertaker, For Your Penance, when the priest makes him organise a fete for the children’s home. I know Russia and Ukraine are reading it, I see the Blogger figures all the time. The rest of the world is catching up on you two, 7 different translations being read on the same day.

What other excuses have I got, yes I’m hungry, so I may just finish now, just when my verbal foreplay has got you excited. Ok, in my imagination anyway. You are probably peeling  potatoes, or gutting a few rabbits ready for the pot, why should you waste your time with a fat silver haired writer in shades from Birmingham England, he could never excite you.

Just as I say that Sky explodes with another favourite track, in my mind I can see a chase, as the heroes search for a lost child, a kidnapped child, hope and despair in their eyes. It’s the climax of In Search of an Indian Princess, the ending of The Butcher The Baker and the Undertaker. The music beats the brain, again and again and again, will they save the child, or will all be lost. You’ll have to finish reading the book.

Well my excuses have more or less finished now, I hope you can see how the words flow, how they touch and caress, how they move you, how they excite you. Or sound like farts, Sky has a fart sound in the music again now, the piano takes over and the music raises to hope and passion. See I really am a thief of words, but they are all my own words, I just glue them together, which reminds you of the girl in the badly coloured Tshirt, and the boy in the tatty jeans, glued together. The Sky music continues, I could go on for hours but you’d get sick of me, besides the Sky music has reached its climax. So I’ll leave you there peeling potatoes or gutting rabbits, and I hope you forgive this excuse of a writer, like I said Michael is a baby.

I’m Better than You ©

By

Michael Casey

As you know Gulliver’s Travels is about a giant and about a small guy, it also mentions a war, a war over what? The war was over which end of an egg to open, do you open the small end or the big end. If you don’t believe me just go ask Prof. Jack Black at Princeton, or is it Cornwall England. It’s all so very confusing, he was a woman playing a man who was was really still a woman inside, last time I looked. It was in Jumanjii the new film version, which is very good by the way.

So we all have opinions about ourselves, I’m better than you, because I’m taller, or I’m fatter, or thinner, or just have really great skin like Michael Casey, oh that’s me. My hair is so fine and soft as well, so I’m so much better than you, yes you wherever you are in the world reading my stuff. And on it goes. So friendship ends and wars begin. Over the colour of our skin, or the colour of our hair, with or without dandruff. If you part your hair to the left you are bad, if you part to the right you are good. But if you wear the colour yellow on a Wednesday then you really are an evil monster, and should have your head shaved.

How you explain Kojak or Jeff Bezo or Yul Brynner I really do not know, what kind of people are they. Then old dads lose their hair so are they in the same group as Kojak and Bezo and Brynner? Is it a club? Like the Sharks and the Jets, and do they all sing on roof tops, the dazzling head tops, and would that man in a vest be their Patron Saint, you know the Die Hard man, I’ve forgotten his name at the moment. No doubt he’ll send me a photo of his butt, which looks like a head, 2 heads are better than one after all. I remember now, the Australian guy, Bruce, Bruce Willis, but wasn’t Willis a woman and didn’t some King marry her. So Elvis married a bald woman in a vest, simple isn’t it?

So obviously people have different stations in life, and one station looks down on another. So New St. Station in Birmingham the one in England, looks down on Moor St. Station as it’s further down the line. The wrong side of the tracks maybe, so there you have it again, I’m better than you, and don’t pooh in the station. As the pooh just falls on the tracks, well in England anyway, little wonder people think their station is better than your station, and even hold their nose at the very mention of you. Which is just your basic prejudice, pooh on the tracks is no good.

My dad’s bigger than your dad, that’s because he sweats in a factory for 16 hours a day. My dad has a car and a nice office, your dad poohs in an outside toilet and that’s at home. So I’m better than you, where did you do to University, oh I remember you went to Aston Poly, my sweaty dad who poohs outside was proud I went to Oxford, and little brother to Cambridge. So which side of the tracks you pooh on does not matter only hard work counts, so stick that up your Aston flyover, or where the HP sauce comes from.

People and prejudice continues, and Political Parties try to coral you into their sheep pen, betting that you’ll vote for them because of your Tribal loyalties. You should think for yourself. My mum told me when I was 4 or was it 5, that I was as good as Anybody. So I think you should all believe in yourself , just as we Caseys do. The only barrier is yourself, your X Y Z, does not matter, it did not matter 50 years ago in inner city Birmingham as they now call it when my brother broke through all these Glass Ceilings, or latter on when another brother did the same. And yes the 2nd brother working at a coal mine in Newbold Vernon for a year before he went off to Cambridge, he invented the Gap Year before it was invented. The Old guys cheered when he said he was going to Cambridge, as he revealed his grades, the new guys were not so charitable. Me I’d always cheer anybody on, so should you, all of you everywhere wherever you are in maybe 70 countries now as you read this. If you cannot excel then do your best, and be as good as you can be. Don’t have any spite in your heart. Say Good Luck and God Bless to anybody and everybody.

A Good man, is not the greatest man, the strongest man, the quickest man, or the dumbest man, the smelliest man even. A Good man is somebody with hope in his heart who cheers for anybody and everybody, who says  God Bless and Good Luck. Or maybe I’m just an old fashioned boy, the son of Kerry immigrants, who came to England in 1944 with just the clothes on their backs. Envy and hate destroys from within, so any Political Party that preaches that is not worth voting for, so hold your nose and pick somebody who’ll do the least harm, do no hard as one motto says. Wherever you are in the world, try and change one person at a time by your example, and change your country by voting.

Today’s Desk ©

By

Michael Casey

Well my new story rate has slowed down, I was all stiff and could barely walk due to my bad back, its an 11 year old injury that revisits me from time to time. It’s like the tide that comes and goes and then there are seasonal tides, though in my case it’s pain. Ok, I’ll shut up about pain, you just want a story. So throw another log on the imaginary fire, or snuggle under the bed clothes with your girlfriend, ok with the dog, but put your hunting riffle under the bed on safety. You don’t want to shoot yourself, even if my writing is that bad, you are not Hemingway reading me.

So to today’s story. Today’s Desk. There are 2 desks in this room, my desk and there was space for a 2nd desk in this room, here in the new house. Which is an old house, but we spent too much that we cannot afford doing it up, so it’s the new house. Up the hill from the old house. The irony is that it was this hill that alerted me to my bad heart, and it was thanks to the nurse insisting on sending me for tests that saved my life nearly 5 years ago now. The hill was so steep I could hardly breath, I used to wake up in bed breathless sometimes too, and Ukrainians you are smirking at the back, I just hope you put your riffle on safety, otherwise the cat will set it off, or should I say Setitoff, the cat’s name. How would you explain a hole in your mattress and a bullet in your butt?

Joking apart, was that the leaves on a tree moving in the wind, or just a Ukrainian walking towards the house, you are all so big, so very big.

Now back to the story, the desk. I looked at the other desk in the morning when I finally got out of bed, and it made me smile. Why, because my small daughter’s giant size mug was in the corner. So it made me think of her. Books and notes are open ready to read, as well as flash cards, freshly arrived from the Amazon, at least they are not plastic. Shelving for this and that too, which her big sister left behind while she’s at University doing BioChem 200+ lads and 20 girls I think. And yes of course she’s in the top 10% do you think she’d be like me?

Now back to little sister, she has highlighters and low lighters on her desk, everything at the ready. Felt tips are passe, if you’re a dad you’ll know about this already. A student, must have the right kit, highlighters or lowlighters from Japan, Muji I think they are called. I just pay for them. We are an international family after all, I’ve not moved 3 miles from where I was born, I’ve only ever lived in 2 houses, this is now the 3rd, but mother was from Shanghai, our kids are Chinese/Irish where do you think the brains came from? Iceland, as in the country? No, Iceland the frozen food store, and not brains but bains faggots. You readers are horrible sometimes, after all the 1,535,000 words I’ve given you, I hope Setitoff does just that.

Ok I’m going to sulk now, say sorry or I’ll not finish the tale. Have you said sorry? Or did you just curse me? The central heating controls have stopped working again, so icicles might appear amongst my words, it’s something simple, the central heating, my dinner too. While YOU were sulking, I put the dinner on. Small daughter has just arrived, so I must attend to her, so you can play with Setitoff the cat, but watch out because if my cat Totoro turns up, she will fire your riffle, so better lock it away properly while I have dinner and play with the central heating controls. And no Vodka would warm me up, but really, really.

Ok, it’s a few days later and our Ukrainian plumber has saved us, so we are happy and warm, he is excellent by the way, an Olympian of Plumbing. His son loves reading too. So now I’ll continue, I look to the left and the other desk is spotless, my small daughter has moved all her rubbish upstairs. Her mocks started today, Jane Eyre and Citizenship, so I’m pleased they went well. Now that the heat is back to normal she won’t join me here in the study but will move to the kitchen and her spot at the kitchen table next to the radiator. It’s her preferred spot, where she feels comfortable and warm, a big thanks to our Ukrainian Olympian plumber again.

We all have a favourite spot where we study, my big sister used to sit over the palin as we called it, sat on a chair next to the big hedge by Mrs Patrick’s in the summer sun. In the winter she sat right next to the old coal fire reading a book, so close that the criss-cross of the metal fire guard marked or even branded her legs. As for me I used to stay up late reading Alistair McClean books, Guns of Navorone if I’ve spelt that right, I think there were 17 of them in total, so I’ve out-written him, in quantity if not in quality. This was 35 years ago, in my big reading period, I used to go to bed in the cold as the heating was all off and it was always 2am I seem to remember. So cold is a theme there. And just as I say that a Polish delivery guy has just brought a small oil heater, see God has perfect timing even if my writing does not. I’ll test it then put it away, now that the central heating is back on.

I suppose God tests us too and puts us at the back of the queue, is that Obama I can see there, what did he do wrong? Apart from not grooming future leaders, or is he doing that? Maybe he’ll send me an irate email, I’d rather he sent me a bag of chips, not microchips, fish and chip chips. I was going to have a fancy desk like the Resolute desk, only that would have spoilt the new look at the new house so I’m here to one side of the chimney breast and the other desk is at the other side of the chimney breast, like twin desks suckling on a chimney. At least you can lie on the rug on the floor or flake out on the settee behind. That’s how the room was designed. Work hard at at desk then chill on the rug or the couch behind as you Americans call it.

I hope my girls started their paths to PhDs via the student desk to my left. Me and my desk, with a 10 year old LCD tv as a monitor are going nowhere, just down or is it up the garden path with you my readers being led by an invisible string. Where am I taking you all? How would I know? I’m just the writer, with fairy dust in my eyes, but at least my fridge has ice cold drinks inside. Yes I’m perverse, froze to death inside and outside and now I’m drinking ice cold Dr Pepper. If you want to moan leave a complaint, on the complaints desk.

Thanksgiving USA 2019

By

Michael Casey

Now where do I begin, I’m not American, so dare I speak to you in USA and all over the world about Thanksgiving? Well your Holidays tend to drift over here, we have Halloween and Thanksgiving has led to Black Friday over here too. So I’ve picked that to bore you with, and let’s see just how far I can get, before you all get off the couch and head for the shops. Or for your online shops.

What do you give thanks for? Thank you for the Music Abba used to sing, so we all thank our favourite stars for their gift of song that means so much to us all. I’d like to thank Taylor Swift for not hurrying and spending the night with me, not forgetting Mylie Cyrus and Gerry Rafferty as well as Britain’s Will Young. They are the foursome that comes to bed with me most nights, maybe I should buy a bigger bed at Costco’s Black Friday sale. Their voices I mean,what kind of man do you think I am? And as I’ve mentioned one male dead artist, 2 female artists, one of whom is Bisexual and a gay man, my selection of these 4 could cover a whole host of things. But as you know I am referring to going to bed with their voices, their voices alone, though, well there is no though, just my TINNITUS. So song keeps the hiss at bay as I try to get to sleep, with 4 voices, voices, not vices, to keep me company.

I give thanks that you now realise what I’m talking about,Tinnitus. And no Tinnitus was not some Roman slave, thankfully no American studied Rome as far as I know. So what else do we give thanks for? We thank God,we found that website that would write essays for us, so we can continue with our Sporting Scholarship. Then we go and see the latest Jumanjii at the Cinema, and who do we bump into at the popcorn stand? Miss FatKnickers, though you never say that to her face, and for the first time ever you meet her beau. Your jaw drops, he could be a film star, he has all the looks.

What does he see in her you ask your friends, and she overhears but pretends not to. So you go and enjoy the film. Miss Fatknickers meanwhile is in a clinch with her beau, and no that’s not what he saw in her, she has personality and a kind face. Despite having fatknickers that a F16 Tomcat could land on, her beau loves her, for being herself. Something all of us should remember, give thanks for just being yourself. Besides she helped him overcome his stutter and he is now a Radio Announcer on WKBAZAZAOP, so she has given him something money cannot buy. And together they are so in love.

The film ends and you see Miss Fatknickers leaving the multiplex, her beau lovingly removing the stray popcorn from her face, and making her blush as he brushes it from her well filled jumper, they are so much in love. You and you friends snigger at them. You go home and you tell everybody that you saw Miss Fatknickers having her breasts stroked in public, before your elucidate. Your family laughs.

But he who laughs last laughs longest, Miss Fatknickers sends you an email, but the voice is of her beau in his best announcer’s voice. We looked at your essay and we spotted that it came from Lazy Essays R Us, Cheat Your Way to the Top website. So can you write the essay again, over the Thanksgiving Holiday. You curse your luck. Her beau has a PhD in English, he’s not just a pretty face. As for Miss Fatknickers she is naked on the bed, waiting for the whipped cream, it’s so much nicer than popcorn, as the Radio Announcer on WKBAZAZAOP tells her….

Don’t Quote Me I’m a Politician (c)

By

Michael Casey

You said you hate your mother and you hoped she’d die a horrible death.

So Why should any of us vote for you?

The Politician splutters.

Well go on, explain yourself FancyPants.

The lashing continues.

The Politician continues to splutter.

The Interviewer intervenes.

I’ll just have to cut you off there, Penny in Farthing.

The Interviewer spotting his chance at radio fame takes over the lashing.

Why were you such a BASTARD to your own mother, your only mother,

who gave you her titty to feed you, to nurture you, you BASTARD.

The Politician regains his composure.

I WAS 3 AT THE TIME, SHE WOULD NOT LET ME WATCH POSTMAN PAT ON TV.

But that’s still no way to talk to your mother.

Thanks for coming in to bore us with your policies, we won’t be voting for you anyway.

Now on RadioQAZWSX here’s Dolly Parton with Stand by Your Mam, or Man

Whatever.

So now that everything is recorded for Posterity, do Politicians have a chance.

Well no, we all hate them anyway.

Close the garden gate, and take your junk mail with you, I mean the junk male, the one smoking his skunk as he leans on my gatepost saying how much he loves trees. There’s enough bark in what he’s smoking.

Don’t patronise me, how much you are a member of the community, you’ve lived 400miles away all your life. And as for your wife I’ve never seen her down the local Tesco, or at the Bingo. And as for down the nail bar, she’d never go to one of those. Mind you Tina’s nail bar is the worst, not even the rats would go in there. The Boomtown Rats that is. And why should I vote for you? You and your girlfriends, I’ve seen it all in The News of The World, so it must be true. What you give me an extra 100 a week if I vote for you. I’d suck your toes if you offered that, of course I’d vote for you. Will you come in and I can practice, it must be hard knocking on knockers all day. Just come in for a quick cuppa, the BBC man has stopped following you.

Yes of course I’ll vote for you, I’ve always voted that way, never the other lot, can you just help me peel a few potatoes for the dinner, it’ll look good on social media. The Politician comes in and peels potatoes, in the kitchen she meets all the Politicians from all the colours of the rainbow. One is making beds, another is vacuuming, another washing windows, another is helping with maths homework. Upstairs an old man is laughing his kilt off, that’ll teach the bastards to come to our house. I was Douglas Stewart air steward , the other one was on the BBC, I used to get his mail by mistake so I kept all the stamps, I had quite a collection.

So on it goes, we neither like or love any politician, they are all in it for themselves. But if they offer us anything, an electoral bribe of course we’ll vote for them. And we’ll swear we’ll always voted this way or that way, or even the other way. For their’s is the one true way. So Help Me God, not that I believe in God, I only believe in myself, I am a POLITICIAN after all the Cream.

Why the tears again? (c)

By  Michael Casey

There is much in the world to make us all cry, the Political situation for one, pick your own country. Pick the rulers who don’t rule but dictate. I was watching a Rolling Stones documentary on their South America tour, which ended up in Cuba. What I did not know was just how important their music, The Rolling Stones music was as a sign of Resistance big and small,  going to jail just because you played their music. Rock and Roll actually banned in some countries for years. In 1920s/1930s Ireland my mother told me the song Down Mexico Way was condemned by the priest, but I never knew the Repression against Music in South America.

So as I watched the Stones on tour it was an eye opener, I would recommend the film highly. Music has so much power, that’s why leaders fear it. We can all remember in Casablanca when the anthem is sung. It brings tears to our eyes, if we are not dead already, dead in the heart, dead in the spirit. I just came back from the shops and I’d spotted somebody was reading a Hebrew translation of something, I don’t know what it was because it was all in Hebrew, if I cut and past translate back to my English then I’ll know, it was from 2016. Then at the end I’d written in English  that I hoped they all liked it. Then I said I had a story idea where a little old Jewish lady, Esther, or did I misspell it as Ester, where the only Jew in a room full of Gentiles at a celebration saved the day via singing, though there was one other Jew in the room, it’s all in Nights in Malta, you can find it on my site.

Now the point is that when I read that it  made me cry because the memories of the story, the pictures came flooding back, and as I write Will Young is singing behind me, and sometimes as I write, the word I type is the exact same one that he or any other singer is singing. Yes we are in harmony, my typed words and the singers words in the song. Yes  really, and this happens frequently, too frequently for coincidence alone.

So make of that what you want, and I’m making mistakes in my typing now as I explain this to you. Cross harmony galore if you like, and do watch Pitch Perfect 3 as it’s very funny. Tears come because memories come back, in my case a story idea, the mental pictures I have as Esther saves the day, as I write I can almost see how it will transfer from my mind to the screen, that’s why one site is called Cartoons made from Words. If I do it right then as you read you can  see the pictures in your own mind, maybe I just write screenplay pitches. I have yet to have a Film Producer or TV  Producer take me  under his wing, but Spielberg I’m ready.

Touching tears is the greatest thing I could do, by making you think at a more human level, past your prejudices and past your pain, so you can laugh till you cry. Or you cry because you remember a shared past, a shared pain. And then you can go forward in harmony.

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