Writing as a Spectator Sport

Writing as a Spectator Sport (c)

By

Michael Casey

Well a few minutes ago I said come back later and I may have something for you, it’s Friday 16th April 2021 by the way. I went to the kitchen for a mug of tea, I’ve had 2 coffees so now I switch to tea, well by the kettle I had an idea, they never stop, and this is what you are getting, a swallow or a lark, flying through my imagination. Though you may think it to be a cuckoo.

I may need to stop in a while as my arthritis is creeping through me, so I may need to stop, in fact I do as, I need fresh air, to release a fart. While I let the fresh air in and search for my pain killing gel, have a think of what I’ll tell, as Tinkerbell falls over because of the smell. That’s much better, I’ll close the window now, whether you want me to or not. So where was I? The idea for today is Writing as a Spectator Sport. I’m sat here all alone talking to you, and not having a clue which way the words will take me. Destination Unknown, or a Run on the Bus, like my dad in his retirement days 30 years ago. I let the words move me and take over, a bit like Abba and the Music. I do have an idea, like looking at the stars and joining the dots.

So the process is joining the dots, that’s the Plough and so on, the words, the idea is all there, it’s just a question of joining the dots, simple. How I connect them, and the order makes the difference, like Frank Carson the Comedian, it’s the Way I Tell Them, so with me it’s the way I write them. Anybody can write, but not everybody is a good writer. Some writing is just too dense, for example a very clever girl was looking at my site, I think it was her, as it was a link from an old site belonging to her. Though the Internet is strange it could be anybody. Let us assume it was the clever History girl, now she’ll know who it is but I won’t identify her any more.

So, please don’t hit me. Serious pieces are serious, but the style of writing is for Academics only. I’m not saying Dumb Down, but what is the purpose of Writing? To communicate, if the style is too complicated, then the message is lost, to the average Moron like me, I’ve said it before you do. I keep it simple, because I’m a Simpleton, and I don’t have the skills to write in any other way. I do have readers in 90 Countries all told, who like the telling of my Tales, in up to 10 different languages on the same day. She’s putting her tongue out at me now, maybe she didn’t see my message I left on her site, as there was no email. She’s picking up a dictionary now, hope she doesn’t throw it, this could turn into a Kdrama.

She missed, I ducked, ok. I just imagined the cause and effect of the last paragraph, off message it’s called. Trump was off, for 4 years, though sadly people are dying because the believed his lies. So I have an idea and I follow it. I go where the wind blows, and no I won’t open the window again, I’ll just change my diet. Which brings me to my Topic, and they are such nice chocolate bars, you eat one instead of reading my rubbish. I really am Ronnie Corbette and Joyce Grenfell’s bastard child, perhaps I’m a Gerald Wiley, what you all think I’m just a Gerald, you are all so cruel. But beware Gerald is the patron saint of pregnant women.

New paragraph, as I hate it when there is a sea of ink, it’s so depressing, so space out you words, let the page breath. I’ve had a trainee Doctor comment on my paragraphing, ok it was my nephew. Shall I get to the point, there is no point, I’m a pointless Writer who never wants to be a “Celebrity”. Ok, everything is Reality TV, which I tend to hate, as it’s obnoxious Z list hosts, with sprayed on tan people, with loud voices and even louder “personalities” . MIAOW. So why not have people watch writers write. Online or in the flesh, next to the watch paint dry channel. Obviously the watch paint dry channel, would get double the viewers,  just like shopping channels.

So,I’d be sat in a chair, a comfy chair, near a toilet, with my computer on a desk. A side table for drinks and my friend a fisherman,who helps me breath. That’ll confuse Americans, ok, A fisherman’s friend is not some hairy bloke from a George Clooney film, whoever he is. A fisherman’s friend is a cough sweet. Sweet. Where would I be. In a bar, so you can drown your sorrows, not because my writing is bad, you are so cruel. There would be a link that sticks an image of my head and my screen onto the Big Screen that normally show the Football. Football is not some fancy dress game in padding, that thinks it’s bad Rugby, Football is Soccer, see I have to pander to the USA audience, because I’m just a big fat panda. The audience will always be with me, until I shake them off before I get to the train station, as Les Dawson would say, you can Google him, he was good. Used to play piano in a brothel, you’ll find the “truth” out there, just past Mulder.

So I’m up on a stage, music playing in headphones, so the audience can’t  put me off, they can hear the music too. Writing is a solitary business, like having a pooh in the loo, yes just like the quality of my writing, you are all so cruel. So I sit and write and listen to music as I normally would do while the audience drinks and tries to guess which way the wind will blow me. Luckily I am sat near a toilet. Then away I go, the title appears. So he’s writing Writing as a Spectator Sport. Will it be any good, or will we be too drunk to care, which might give the appearance that he really is a good writer, the fat silver haired writer in shades from Birmingham. As I’ve said before normally from a standing start it takes an hour to write a piece, assuming my arthritis doesn’t kick off. Though as this is a spectacle maybe a massage table at the ready, with some huge bloke bigger than the Rock ready to massage me, just in case. It could be a luscious lady, but I’d be accused of sexism, or any other ism. Frank Warren the boxing promoter would be the promoter. Though in truth the Rock look alike and the massage table are just a ruse to protect me should the audience become as ugly as I look.

The audience would comment, his opening was rubbish, what do you think Garry Lineker, he lacks “ball control” as I dash to the loo, before returning to my words. So I’d go on as usual, the crowd gently singing to the music I’ve chosen as I write. The audience in darkness as I’m in the spotlight, and if they could hear Eric Clapton right now they’d see where the improm slips in slides in, just as Eric is away on his guitar. Me, it’s an adjective on my keyboard being accompanied by a comma, that’ll lead people astray.

As I write the page moves higher and higher, and I forget what I’ve just written or is it like foreplay and the drunken audience want more. I write on a roll, so I have to keep on going or I’ll go off the boil, that’s why you should never interrupt a Writer, stay away from the spout as he’s writing or you’ll get burnt. For the audience they may be with me, or without me, or just mumbling a U2 song, as I’m on the edge of a sentence, will it be a throw in, or will the audience just throw up, as they head for the toilets.

And on it goes, why did he mention that, is he time wasting, where’s the Ref. Look he’s reaching for his left shoulder, he’s rubbed it a bit. He’s dropped his left hand, he’s typing one handedly, he’s just using his right hand to write with. Spontaneous applause in the audience. He’s stopped, can he go on, he’s loosen his belt to let his belly out, don’t look his hand is in his trousers, he’s pulled his shirt and 4 jumpers out. He stood up, Garry Linekar is speechless, the fat silver haired writer in shades is going to take his multiple tops off. Is he heading for the exit, is the piece abandoned. NO, the writer looks to the massage table, as he removes his top. Men laugh, look at that belly, he’s fatter than Lard from StatsMR, then the woman applaud, he’s Winnie the Pooh belly, and the hairy left shoulder, rush the stage. Sympathy, sympathy as the Rock throws me down on the massage table, just like a potter throwing down a piece of clay, though only my feet are made of clay. Was it me, or as it the Rock, I’m massaged, and  the women in the audience applaud, sympathy, sympathy they’ve all got it for me, as Kenneth Williams might say. And he’d say Go Google up the Khyber Pass, and carry on, ask Jon Sopal of the BBC to explain if you cannot understand dear reader. I really do have to stop now for a squirt of Movelat painkiller gel.

Well I’m still in pain, and so are you, you are sooo cruel to me, but my small daughter is making a snack as I speak to you. So I may finish soon. Well the Rock whispers in my ear, are you better, I whisper back, play the audience. But I feel so objectified says the Rock, I bet that’s never happened to you, so enjoy it I whisper back. So the Rock throws me for 30 mins more, while the men get drunk at the bar, and Garry Linekar improvises with data. Frank Warren counts the money before putting on his beret and mac, he’ll cycle to the Post Office before it closes, with the take, looking rather like Frank Spencer.

Then the Rock in one smooth motion, lifts and throws me into the air and catches me again. The women in the audience scream, I think the Rock has got use  to being objectified by now. I slip on my shirt and 4 jumper, a reverse strip tease, the women go wild, especially as I tuck it all into my trousers. Then I begin writing again, I have led them all up the garden path, past Gill with  a G from StatsMR, she’s winked at me. Then I begin again, with a new paragraph, half the audience is wild, the other is just drunk. The bar taking are through the roof, and I could mention 2 companies I used to work for, who could do that.

I spin my tale, I drop a bit here, I drop a bit there, I continue, I stumble as I write, I mistype but a better word appears, does he have a 7th gear. But we are in the Inn of the 7th Happiness, so do we care, Really, Really, Really is that the echo of Jon Sopal coming from somewhere. I stroke back my ever so soft and gently silvery hair, spreading dandruff everywhere. The audience go wild, they are ladies hairdressers who wash for a living, when they are not watching reality tv. This is gold dust to them, Really, Really, Really, says another Jon, the gay hairdresser from Rowley Regis, a king with curlers.

So on I write, a line here, a line there, continuing and joining as I preen the story, a bit of colouring and a bit of lightening as I write like Grease Lightning. John Travolta may be bald in reality, but like my story he can dance, yes he can dance, with or without a U2 song playing, and carrying a tin of paint in the street. He’s going to mark out the car parking spaces, for the next time I appear. Writing as a Spectator Sport is HERE, Really, Really, Really, oh do shut up Jon, put some curlers in.