here's what I've written while I was away from the Internet.
Monument to Headstone ©
By
Michael Casey
I saw The Monuments Men on Film 4 via Freeview yesterday, and I was pleased, I enjoyed the story and though at times it seemed a little lightweight it really got me thinking. So George Clooney you did well, even if you do look like an older version of me, or is it Huw Edwards?
The story in Monuments Men is based on true events. The Nazis were hoovering up Art and stealing it, then hiding it in old mines, in the future there would be a museum all planned by Hitler himself, so the film told. What was so interesting was that by stealing Art, the Nazis were wiping out People’s very existence. There was a line in the film about if you take their Art away you steal and destroy their very soul. Think of Dash in Iraq right now, or Pol Pot in Cambodia, wiping the face of History, so only Evil remains. The Rape and Kill policy of conquest.
Another scene at the end of the film the Monuments Men found a drum of gold nuggets, only it was not gold nuggets, it was the gold filling of Jews who had been murdered. Such tremendous Evil.
Now whatever I say next is trivial and worthless compared to what we are all thinking about now, the Evil men sink to. But I’ll try because if we all sink into despair then Evil has won. We have to remember to laugh, to think of the silly things that may us all Human.
Like giving a leaving present of a four pack of toilet paper to somebody who always hid in the toilet instead of working. Or a pair of silver foil pants because he once set fire to his trousers while having a cigarette while sat on the toilet on a night shift. How we all laughed.
Silly remembrances make us human, like the time you set fire to a fart in the middle of the dark of the night while the building was being refurbished, all the colours of methane or whatever it is. Sadly it was 20 years before mobile phones were invented otherwise it would have been filmed and live streamed. This would be called a Modern Art Installation and maybe win a Turner Prize, the Nazis would never have collected it and buried it down a mine. It would have been burnt just as Picasso and books were.
I’ve talked about either end of the spectrum to highlight, light and laughter compared to Evil. We all have our favourite possessions too, it may be a mint Pink Floyd album, it may be granddad’s old walking stick gathering dust in a corner, or a photo of dad riding a donkey at the beach, you had to really beg him before he got on the donkey. But now that photo is a really treasured possession. Think what would you save if the house was on fire, or a flood was coming. It’s at these moments that you may discover for the very first what Love really means. You love the memories, the love behind the items. What is your Rosebud item?
They say that when you die, or are electrocuted your whole life flashes before you. So what will be on your film reel, will it be great works of Art that you were able to buy because you were a success in your life? Or will will it be thousands of smiling faces, lit like lights when they see you? Or even if it is just one smiling face, your wife, your lover, or your children.
If when you life goes to black there are tears, real tears from millions or even just one person, then you have not wasted your time on this earth. This is your Monument, the tears shed on your tombstone, here lies Michael Casey the Birmingham Writer, he may have been a totally useless man, but his stories made me more human, and for that I thank him and I shed tears on his grave.
Chilling with my Daughter ©
By
Michael Casey
Well we are in between wifi providers so a dead calm has hit the Casey household. My big daughter is off for 2 months now until she goes to 6th form college, so we have time to chat, especially with the wifi off. When mum returns its a tsunami of noise as she is surgically attached to her phone, and that was before her new job which involves connections galore. So me and big daughter have time to chill and chat, until a friend phones and she’s back in her room nattering away.
My only concern is the chair I sit in as I talk to you all, its just a formal black chair, it came flat-packed and I had to construct it a year ago. I was in mid-construct when my old school friend Dr P arrived in time to heckle from the settee as I allan keyed it together. It was in fact a pair of chairs, and my friend enjoyed heckling, but I did once nearly kill him when we were in 1st year grammar school together, approaching 50 years ago now. So he claims divine right to heckle or say anything he likes.
My daughter wanders down stairs wondering what’s to eat. That last sentence may make some of you Esol English students scratch your heads, wander and wonder, it least it’s not weather and whether. The joys of English, though I really did enjoy my time as an Esol English teacher. So my daughter opens the fridge and says there is nothing to eat. So I get up from my Lotus Position on the carpet, next to the coffee stain I recently made, and yes I’m being nagged to death about. I am a Yoga man or is it yoghurt, you’ll have to decide for yourselves.
Anyway I rise gracefully, like a 3 metric tonne elephant, and lumber to the fridge, using my trunk, sorry I mean hand I open the fridge. I rattle off 6 different menus, half of then egg based. French toast, scrambled eggs, boiled eggs, fried eggs with bacon and tomatoes, scrambled eggs with beans in, just remember to open the bathroom window later. Then there is porridge made with milk or water, with honey topping, 2 or three different cereals.
Finish your sister’s tin of tomato soup, with bread or toast to dunk into it. Bacon sandwich, ham sandwich. I open the cupboard opposite, with 3 different toppings, I inspect one at the very back of the cupboard, and decide that should be in the bin, not unless she wants a job at Porton Down, or is it Watership Down.
Yes dad, like I said, nothing to eat. What do you want I say. I don’t know comes the reply, but not that. And certainly not that she says pointing to the Porton Down sample before I finally put it in the bin.
I have a trick up my sleeve, its the freezer below, Birds Eye Chicken Nuggets, I bow and reveal the Chicken Nuggets, round of applause from all of you, I may be a Useless Husband but I am a great writer but most of all I am an even better dad, all be praised Birds Eye Chicken Nuggets.
I resume my Lotus position on top off the coffee stain on the carpet, I heard that heat and pressure could get the coffee stains out of our new carpet. So sitting in the Lotus position on top of it may just do the trick, or my bum may just smell of Kenco Rappor, but you have to try don’t you? The smoke alarm goes off my daughter has forgotten to watch her chicken nuggets, luckily they are not burnt. She reaches for the Heinz tomato ketchup, the one squirt solution to all students’ cooking experience.
Any slops I ask as she finishes, she hands me the plate as I sit in my Lotus position, only the plate slips between us. Disaster beckons, a tomato and chicken nugget stain to match the Kenko Rappor coffee stain. Though this you won’t believe, even if you believe the rest of this Tale, I have lightning fast reactions, do you want me to show you again? Ali and me have that in common, we are fast, very fast, though I probably am a shade heavier than Ali.
Do you think that I, Michael Casey the Birmingham Writer would allow food to go to waste? I may think clean carpets are important, but wasting food, that is an absolute NO NO. As the plate falls I hurl myself sideways, from my Lotus position, like an ice hockey goalie, like when the Czech beat Russia. I catch the plate and gather the remaining chicken nuggets into my body. The carpet is spared. And I have food for my belly.
I finish the chicken nuggets and follow it with a cup of tea, still in my Lotus position on the Kenco Rappor coffee stain. I stay in position for 3 hours, until I let rip a rasping fart, raising from my Lotus position to go to the bathroom all is revealed, the coffee stain has vanished.
Shakespeare and Me ©
By
Michael Casey
Well we continue with Freeview tv and wait for our Broadband too, so it was great to stumble over a programme on Shakespeare, while my kids hid in the next room and attacked our piano. And no they don’t play Chopsticks, even though they are 1/2 Shanghai Chinese, they are in fact both Grade One on piano, and my big daughter has her Deans Award for choral singing. Me I just sing along to the radio, luckily our neighbours are all deaf.
So now that John Nettles has finished talking about Will Shakespeare it gave me the idea about talking about Words. I can never invent as many new words as Will did, he’s had a 400 year head start after all, but I hope I can raise a few laughs by my use of words, or my cartoons made with words. Words give you a picture and can be very colourful, especially if events drive you to curse, so long as alls well that ends well as Will used to say.
I read recently, and no I don’t mean I learnt to read recently, as Will’s wordplay would say, that swearing denotes a higher level of intelligence. So Teamsters must be really highly educated, and rappers must be the most highly intelligent people of all. Discuss, or not discuss that is the question, whether a Blankety Blank is nobler that a Zippy Zap Dang and can you move or remove your Thang, or is it Thong?
Will has given me a few thoughts now, we are connected you know his Ghost sleeps under my bed, I would never share a bed with a man, only Ghost or no Ghost. A women is acceptable but no men in my bed. So how about an all Pop Version of Shakespeare, though some may say Baz from Moulin Rouge has done it already. But Pray Forgive me and I offer my Humble Version of Will Shakespeare a la Pop plus.
Zoons says Snoop Dog as he lashes out with words, rhythms must be heard, no matter how absurd. Lionel Richie is all soft and sooth, he is dragged away and put in stocks, why does he wear those absurd golfing socks. Big bad Barry White strides onto the stage scattering all before him, he is the Man for all Seasons and many many more, nobody defy him or he’ll sing them to the floor. Lionel Richie sings once twice three times a lady, and he is dressed to play the female part just as they did in Shakespeare’s day.
50 Cent comes on all draped in Gold, he is giving Measure for Measure and much much more, his girls adorn the floor. Eminem climbs the ivy to the lady’s chamber, only she’s a lady, so Beyonce throws her chamber pot full of ale over his head, he can find another amour instead.
Stephen Fry wanders on stage, quoting Shakespeare, offering a pound of flesh, but 50 cent says he has 100s of pounds flesh, bowing to his ladies at his feet. Stephen Fry mutters something before breaking out into a break dance. Stephen Fry swivels on his head, like a Jester begging for his bread. The rappers applaud and throw coins at him, ok only 50 cents in total, but Stephen Fry will appear for any small amount, it all goes into his Barclay Bank account.
Lady Gaga appears in mist as Lady Macbeth, she may have been born that way, but on the stage she knows her measure for measure. Tina Turner is a Shrew who’ll never be tamed, not by Lionel Richie nor 50 cents, but when Barry White hits those low notes, she’ll be HIS lady, his ever so sweet lady, and Lionel Richie can just watch dressed in his frock still in the stocks.
The ghost of Sinatra appears and sings My Way, what else, Shakespeare himself applauds from the wings, if only Sinatra was around when he had his Globe theatre, Andrew Lloyd Webber would not have bothered to be born. He would have been really useful with the thunder machine though. Elvis was due to appear too, but he had left the building before the audience arrived. Time and Tide waits for no man after all.
One Direction and the Jonas Brothers fight it out for Juliet’s affections
Fighting with Ballads as the audience goes to the bar unimpressed, Will Shakespeare’s Globe had the very first Stella Artois after all. And on it goes, till Meatloaf and Alice Cooper descend to the stage dressed as angels and say the final words, Sleep Well Dear Audience, and if things go bump in the night it may just be somebody sneaking into Michael Casey’s bed for the night. The Ghost of Shakespeare or the Lady Macbeth herself.
Tidying Up ©
By
Michael Casey
Now this is not be confused with Tidying Yourself Up which is a piece I wrote a month ago. Today’s Tidying Up concerns tidying your place, or Palace up, if you are rich, or have limited English. I came to this idea as the girls where tidying up the dry washing they’d just brought in from our washing line, ready to be replaced, or is it repalaced with another load from our over eager washing machine. The door is so big we thought it was made from a left over docking station from the Space Station, open the door and astronaut Tim appears, with freshly washed knickers around his head.
Why do we tidy up? To be able to find things, order makes things easier and faster after all. Do you have your clothes or school uniform or office clothes ready? I know I’m ready and everything is to hand. It has to be or my wife will just throw it out, or send it to the charity shop. That’s her view on my clothing, or tents, as I’m so large compared to her, maybe 3 times the size. So I have to keep things tidy or they get thrown away into the ever open mouth of our dustbig or sack for charity shop.
As for our girls, one is tidy, the other is not, but a shout of “Wifi Off” soon brings a tornado of tidying, if you excuse my fake alliteration. Though this past week that would not work as we are changing our Broadband and TV package. However normally the threat of loss of broadband does work wonders.
When you tidy up you have more space, even on the coffee table, we’re not posh, our coffee is the table we eat from, just like in Japanese restaurants, as you know Shanghai is so close to Japan they are like cousins. And the wife is a Shanghai girl. Packaging can also be tidied up, so our recycle bin is well used too, if you stopped and looked at the amount of rubbish that can be recycled just by the average family of 4 you would be amazed. So give it a try. Though I pity the recycle workers who have to deal with in all.
When you tidy up in general you may come across things you have long forgotten, that’s where you left those stockings as suspenders, and no not the wife’s to spice up your sex life. But the ones you, yes you the bloke of the house wore to a stag do.I have to confess that I did dress up in stockings and a woman’s dress once, but it was a fancy dress party. And for some reason all the girls at the party wanted to kiss me. Katy Perry had not been invented then, I kissed a girl and I liked it and so on, though it was a rugby player sized man in drag, in his mother’s clothes in fact. Don’t mock me, you just try it and see what it does for you. But I’ve digressed as usual, or trans-dressed might be more accurate.
You may discover old school reports, and those can be a source of amusement and amazement. I found an old school report from 2nd year of Grammar school, I got over 80% in Chemistry. Then I dropped it, my daughter was impressed, my wife has a Chemistry degree after all, but to discover dad knew his periodic table and not just his times tables really impressed her. Luckily I hid the photos of me in drag down the back of the sofa or they would have been loaded up to cyberspace forever.
Old clothes can be found at the back of the wardrobe, Tee shirts and the like, though in our house my small daughter is forever stealing my old tops to turn them into bags and all manner of craft things. The moths never get a look in, besides Totoro our cat is a moth hunter, so no need of that disgusting stuff that grannie sent from Shanghai which is supposed to kill moths in your wardrobe. Totoro the moth hunter, a wife that throws away plus a craft centric small daughter makes an unholy trinity that keeps my clothes in order.
Photos are also discovered and my small daughter will spend hours laughing at them. I have not changed I’m told, if you saw the first photo of me and the wife from 20 years or so ago, and one from today you’ll say I haven’t changed. That’s because FAT PEOPLE DON’T HAVE WRINKLES, as my children kindly remind me in chorus. So I’m 20 in my head, but 58 on my birth certificate, though on bad days my body in pain feels 95, and I’m ready to ring for the Undertaker myself. Some days I walk like an Olympian other days I’m limping along, but look at my face I look 40 something, provided I’ve had the 3Ss, S__T, Shower and Shave. And I’m viewed in a good light from a far angle.
What else can you find, shoelaces and cello-tape, odd socks and a ton of gloves and scarves. You kept them all as they are so cute, but not the Charity Shop beckons. Never throw anything away, somebody out there may need your caste-offs. Especially with kids clothes as they are never worn out as kids grow so fast. If you haven’t got the energy to take them to the Charity Shop, and I know all about dipping energy levels, what with my illnesses, then display them on your front garden wall.
Instant Charity Shop on your own garden wall. Stand guard and drag people off the street and make them take your girls’ old clothes away. If you cannot get rid of everything then there is the 90 year old Bulgarian woman who pushes the child’s pram as she collects scrap metal. She will take anything. My wife was going to leave me on the pavement but the Bulgarian did not take me away as the wheels on the pram would not take the 110kilos plus of my weight.
And on it goes, more space in your wardrobes and in your nooks and crannies, ready for stuff sent by grannie in Shanghai, though sometimes you wish she did not try. However your Prom dress was the star of the show and if only they knew it cost 1/10 as much as everybody else’s. Well I’ll finish now,and no I won’t wear my daughter’s Prom dress to the next fancy dress party I attend, the colours don’t match the colour of my eyes, otherwise, otherwise…
Tapping the Plaster ©
By
Michael Casey
Tapping the Plaster, no I’m not referring to a doctor taking off the plaster from your broken leg. John G broke his twice in fact, he’s in New Zealand now, he met his wife in Scandinavia I think at a railway station, a romantic brief encounter. They were to go to Paris for a honeymoon only her visas etc would not allow it so they went to Edinburgh instead. John G is a very kind man and I owe him a great deal, so You’ll have to forgive me if he becomes the Prologue, he doesn’t look anything like Frankie Howerd either. Mind you that was over 20 years ago so he may have changed.
But what of tapping the plaster? Well I’m not talking about sticking plaster either, what I am talking about is when you buy a house you go around tapping the walls, if you get a different sound that’ll indicate that the plaster beneath is loose and may all slide off leaving a hole. So beware of fresh decorations and paint, as it can hide a multitude of sins, as can freshly painted exterior walls and new cheap carpet. People buy new cheap carpet to uplift a property before they sell it.
A recent property we looked at was so sweet on the website and even a quick exterior look was better than the photo. However on opening the front door it banged into the electricity mains cable, the entire house was freshly carpeted, in a dark horrid carpet upstairs and downstairs. Cheap and not cheerful, a socket in the kitchen was hanging off the wall. I could go on but I won’t. So immediately I would never buy that property, I knew in 5 seconds it was both dangerous and ugly. On the specs it looked big, but specs and reality are a very different thing.
If I refer back to John G for example you may overlook him because he was soft spoken and small. Or you may look at me and think I’m a Sumo on vacation in Birmingham. You have to tap the plaster to find out what people are really like, don’t just look and say he’s just a big sack of whatever, in my case. Or he is an apprentice Hobbit, he does live in New Zealand now after all. He’ll probably give me a slap if ever our paths cross again.
If you bother to get past first impressions and tap the plaster a bit, or a lot if we are referring back to John G and his 2 broken legs, only joking John, he probably has All Black friends by now. If you investigate a little, over a pint or a coffee then you’ll reveal more of the person behind the plaster. I always thought you were a stuck up bastard, and now I know you are not stuck up, even if you are a bastard, fancy your mum falling for that line, she should have tapped the plaster first.
That’s the great thing about working in a hotel, you really do tap the plaster, you met so many different people, the guests, and the staff. As I did 10 roles on a regular daily daily basis I got to see how the whole hotel worked. If you spent time with Vicky cleaning rooms and then doing the security role on walkabout all over the hotel then you’d experience more than if you just stood all day in the foyer. Working with most branches of the hotel staff gives you a great overview of the hotel and the staff. And obviously the guests are great fun too.
I never thought I’d be writing about it 15 years later, some just thought I was the fat guy popping up like a magician’s rabbit all over the place. And at the time I was too busy working to philosophise about it, working 12 hour shifts and then 2 hours travelling on top, but having one then 2 toddlers makes you work really hard. Standing all day too, maybe that’s why I had great veins ready for my unplanned quadruple heart bypass a decade later. Life is a circle after all.
As you can imagine I talk a lot, either to people when I get the chance, or hurling insults as the radio and tv news. But I do enjoy tapping the plaster with people I bump into, if you bother to talk to that little old lady in the street or at the bus stop you can discover a whole world that you’d miss otherwise. Conversation is a dying art as people talk on Facebook without actually talking, everybody just reacts or Twitters this or tweets that which can be totally superficial, just like the specs of the house I first spoke about.
Thinking, talking, writing does require a bit more effort than an instant Tweet, you can get reaction in a dead frog by adding electricity, but the frog is still dead. So tap that plaster, have a conversation, go out for a drink, or buy some cheap teabags and invite somebody in, or give a passing policeman a cuppa over the garden wall. Otherwise all you have is a dead plastered wall with all life hidden beneath.
Missing Broadband ©
By
Michael Casey
Well we are still waiting for our new broadband to arrive, the phone switch was painless but the actual Broadband part of it has not arrived yet. My girls went down the library to use their Wifi, only to discover that the actual broadband could take at least 10 days to arrive. They interrogated Google to find out when their lifeblood would arrive, and girls wanting Broadband can be very very nasty, Google hobbled away tears streaming down his face. But at least he now knew never to upset the Casey girls, or my big daughter knew exactly how to hurt him, she did take not one but 2 Maths exams simultaneously. So Google put that in your pipe and smoke it, or my big daughter aided and abetted by her little sister would ask you to compute MC=4C, and that only had one answer that not even Dr Who would be able to find.
Which brings me to what exactly have I been doing while the wait is on. As I’ve said in another piece its all so quiet in the Casey household, but what about me the Master of the house. By the Master I don’t mean Missy the nemesis of Dr Who, though I’d kill to be able to wear her clothes, the Evil Marry Poppins look, but I digress comme d’habitude. So what exactly have I, the Master, ok the ignored dad, being doing?
Well I’ve been tidying up the files on the computer, a decade of stuff, and versions of stuff and copies of stuff, and a bit of this and a bit of that. I have gained 20gig, yes 20 gig of space, which is more that some of the new flipperty giberbert, fancy bendy over contortionist laptop, hand held computer thingys have. As its all in the Cloud, where hackers can steal all your embarrassing photos and sell them to the Sunday Newspapers.
Nobody has ever taken such photos of me, if ever I become a famous writer or radio star, then women will flock to me, just to take photos to blackmail me. But this is doomed to failure, not because I would not be tempted, but because there is not a wide angle camera invented with a lens good enough to take snaps of my fat hairy arse.
But I’ve digress, put that picture or non picture out of your mind, go have a stiff drink then return to my page. Shall I continue, I will then, I’ve had the last the Pepsi from the fridge, now where was I? Yes, what have I been up to? Apart from tidying up my words, my babies, I have pruned my files so there is more space on my computer, an old fashioned desktop PC, though I have a large screen.At my age I need to see things, if ever I make money I’d buy a large screen Apple thingy. I also did the usual 10 off site securities to media. Remember I was a computer operator for decades so backups are my bread and butter, and my stories are much more important to me than mere work files.
As for my Internet habits, what do I miss. I miss my Daily Telegraph, though as I don’t have a subscription I cannot read all the stuff. If they want to donate a subscription to me that would be nice. At the moment it’s a bit like being in a strip club and the stripper removes her gloves and high heels and slips off her evening dress. Then NOTHING, because The Daily Telegraph paywall kicks in. I want to see what Tim Stanley has to offer or Michael the Deacon, and all the other stuff. So aroused but disappointed I have to flick to the Guardian then The Daily Mail, or I would usually only my Broadband has gone AWOL, well for 10 days at least. I could kick Google in its Al Gore, or some other Politician. Only I cannot, not unless I go down the road to the Library.
So gently simmering in my own juices, and I’ve never been much of a cook, apart from beans on toast with 3 free range eggs mixed in. It’s good for your heart, your heart I said are you as deaf as a fart? I miss my morning Press review. I watch the evening version on tv, and I do watch Sky and BBC Press previews on the computer while the family is watching tv. So not having my broadband means I’m suffering withdrawl symptoms, No Norman Smith or Laura and her gold coloured chav bag, no Sky human interest angle on events. I cannot mix and match my habits, my media habits as I pass my day writing stories and having a think, in-between my many visits to the toilet, Ckd does that to you, its not just being a journalist.
Though I have an idea for a story, it’ll be in the finale of Tears for a Butcher, Where the story is just so big, so important that when the Sky reporter rings his editor he gets the best command ever in the life of any journalist. BUY THE PUB. Rupert is on a visitation to Sky Centre, Big Sid the butcher has been shot 3 times defending his friends, his life is in the balance. If he lives he’ll get the George Medal. So the reporters are all gathered outside Dudley Road Hospital, in the bar of the Windmill Pub, they are going to be thrown out as its Closing Time. Its then that Rupert with ink in his veins says into the ear of the Editor. BUY THE PUB. NUJ membership allows entry into the bar, immediately a private members club.
Well I’ll leave that idea with you for now, I may or may not ever get around to writing Tears for a Butcher, If Rupert wants to donate a fast typing legal secretary I could finish that sequel in time for the Christmas market. Or a sober journalist would do, they are very fast typists after all. Though finding a non drinking journalist might be as hard as finding an honest politician.
Another of my habits is music, I have background music as I write, though at the moment I’ve had none as I talk to you today. Spotify is good, the Free version has a few adverts but it it worth a try. I’ve been listening to the Beatles Sergeant Pepper album recently, and singing along. Wednesday Morning is my favourite track at the moment. You can track down Michael Jackson’s History album too, that’s really good. I did have a copy of the album once but its disappeared from the house.
Broadband gives you a Window on the world, as Bill Gates will testify, we need to make sure it stays free of regulation that’ll allow totalitarian governments destroy it. Having said that Facebook and Google and the like should pay their fair share of taxes. 20% is fair, other companies pay, so should they,and none of this fiddling. Any big company can play the altruist card, and even run for President, and how can they afford to do all that? They are not paying their taxes by exploiting the very people they claim they want to lead and show a better path too. Pay your taxes, everybody else does, or are you using broadband as a tool to fool. Broadband is to educate, inform and entertain, and not to profane in all but name.
Signposts ©
By
Michael Casey
It’s a hot sunny day here in Birmingham, its 5th July 2017, I mention the date as North Korea seems to be hotting up to its sad and awful inevitable conclusion. Not unless somebody somewhere is saying the Rosary, which is Mary’s very own nuclear weapon of Love. Or the dear leader gets shot in the back or dies of a heart attack while eating his favourite French cheese. Only History will tell. I mention all this as I was thinking what should I choose to write about today. Our neighbour crossed the road with his 1/2 Japanese son and his guitar case in hand, so I thought about Crossings and roads and then Signposts.
So what is a signpost? I ask as a cyclist races past on his bike, all shiny in the afternoon sun. In a hurry to get home no doubt, I just hope he read the signpost of he’s in for a shock. Lorry’s forget to read signposts and then they get stuck under low bridges, or damage them entirely. Clever firemen just hum and deflate his massive tyres so he can squeeze his 18 wheeler out of the gap beneath where he should not have gone. If only he had read the signpost, then he would not have been stuck and the firemen could have had their dinner on time. I just hope they remembered to switch the gas off before they came out to rescue the lorry driver. For any USA readers I should perhaps explain that a Lorry is the English work for Truck.
By hurrying and not following or reading the signposts you do get in a pickle if I can use another old English phrase. So reading or noticing signposts IS very important. However Life is not like that, a Signpost does not appear advising you what to do or what not to do. Ask her out, she likes you, and you miss your chance because you are shy. Yes blokes can be shy too. Years later you discover she never married, and you would have made a great couple. But there was no signpost in the sky to advise you. The reverse is true too, so you marry a bad one, and are lumbered with 3 kids before the bastard pisses off, if only you had listened to your brothers. Who will now lynch him if ever they see him again, but he is in Malaga selling Time Shares.
Are signposts only visible after the event, like rumbling farts after the event, leaving smell and wisdom, afterwards as you come down with food poisoning? Never have the last egg sandwich from the sandwich shop where it has been festering for hours in the front of the glass sandwich box. I did 10 years ago and I lost half a stone, or 4kilos in a week. I also discovered a signpost, that my then employer were bastards, ringing me up every day to see when I was coming back to work.
This IS bad employment practice, it is little wonder that I decided to leave them, as did many staff, they had a major staff turnover problem. So the food poisoning was both signpost and a crossing of the Rubicon as far as I was concerned. I can also remember the unkind words uttered by somebody who should have know better, or just made sure they were out of earshot. I did meet a couple of great people, my fellow workers, their kindnesses I remember to this day.
We don’t have to be like the Buddha to rise above the fray and look down on ourselves, but having an Interior Life of any sort will help and guide you. Failing that 17 pints of Stella Artois and sex in the cellar with the local barmaid does help to relax you and put everything in perspective. Life is about going with the flow after all.
Some people are lucky and one thing leads to another, and no I’m not talking about sex in the cellar after or during your 17 pints of Stella Artois, or was Stella just her name, I cannot remember. There are these beautiful lucky people who have it all. But really they have nothing, I’d rather have Jim from CPNEC on that desert island when your plane crashes, or anybody practical or inventive. They will help you and guide you when all the signposts are broken.
A signpost can lead you this way or that, but its the people you meet along the way that make the difference. John G was one person I mentioned in a previous piece, he warned me to relax so I did. I ended up in the Czech Republic stopping with a gay Doctor, and then meeting a former fashion model who came to my house for a month to learn English. Its all in the Czech story its in one of my books somewhere.
Barry and Miss Dangly were also signposts and friends of great import in my life, I cannot mention all the people who helped and indirectly guided me to better things. But as I look back 20 years those two really were my daily bread, Julie was Miss Dangly’s Christian name, she was wise beyond her years. We had so many laughs, and a fair few tears.
So what should I say to help and advise you all? There is no help and advice I can give. You may not see the Signposts in your life, but if you slow down a little you may avoid getting stuck under any low bridges. Apart from Stella in the cellar, so perhaps you should avoid alcohol, that’s for you to decide. If something feels right then do it, Stella in the cellar included, just enjoy it as much as the 17 pints. Don’t feel guilty about anything, not unless you are an old style Catholic.
So long as you do everything in good faith then you will sleep well, and wake up with a clear conscience, though the concept of conscience seems not to exist much in today’s world. Don’t be a writer, aloof and just watching, not part of life. Life is an ocean so just dive in and enjoy the swim. No swimming trunks required.
Style, or the Way I Write ©
By
Michael Casey
Frank Carson the Comedian used to say, you’ve heard them all before, but it’s the way I tell them. Roger our driver was in tears and nearly crashed the van taking Frank back to the airport, because Frank really was that funny. I’ll never be like Frank, I don’t wear glasses for a start and my best fake Northern Irish accent is laughable. But I do have something in common with Frank, a certain style. No not in Fashion but in the Way I tell Them, or rather write them.
You can write in a variety of styles, just as you speak differently to different members of your family. You won’t cheek your mum or she’s give you a slap in the puss, and if she’s been cleaning the floor then she may just slap you with the mop bucket, and throw the dirty water over you too. It never happened but you were wise enough not to vex her. You speak differently to your kids and to your cat Totoro too. I my case I never treated my girls as children I just talked to them straight, the cat I talk to as if she is a child, thought in cat years she is a teenager. So Totoro must be thinking why am I treating her like a child as she slips in or out of a window at 3am, ready for fun.
The way I’ve written so far could be called my Style, it’s come about after first 20 years of listening to BBC Radio 4, which is speech radio, quality PSB if you are an American reader. Then my 30 years writing on top, so that’s 50 years of loving words. Which only happened because of a Signpost in my life when I was scared of a teacher so I hid in books. One thing does lead to another. What you are reading could now be called my natural style, as opposed to my Gangham Style or another style I may adopt as the urge takes me.
Sarcasm or Parody or just simple exaggeration can be used to make a point. Such as the Leader has had his office extended in order to fit his ego in, or to fit in a bigger desk, so he can have sex with 2 interns simultaneously while he is on the job, or to fit more maps on so he can see which country he’ll invade next. And on it goes.
The point of a joke is to make a point, and you can repeat the same joke to get another laugh in. However I’d say after 3 times you need to have a new joke, otherwise it’s just boring. Not unless you are a great comedian delivering those line, discuss. We have a comic writer and performer in UK whose material is good, however the delivery is not so good, the timing is out be a second, in my opinion. Which goes back to Frank Carson, it really is the way you tell them that matters.
As a writer by putting a comma in I hope this means that when you read it you get the timing right and its funny, or it amuses you. If my punctuation is bad then its not as funny. Though do people read punctuation? I try and break my stuff down into short paragraphs so the reader and the eye gets a rest. If its a sea of ink then people can be put off, especially if the reader does not have English as a first language. Ellen Palin the NY poet, I hope I spelt her name right, she once said I should keep it punchy, then she split my lip for upsetting her, ONLY JOKING ELLEN.
So by use of style you keep the reader interested and not longing for the end of the sentence or paragraph, or bathroom as any fellow Ckd sufferer knows from experience. You’ll have noticed that the last couple of paragraphs were serious in tone, but I punctuate them with a laugh to make the reading more fun, or bearable if you hate my writing. Wait for the joke could be the nature of my writing, just keep on reading then they’ll be a custard pie moment, though I hope I don’t telegraph my humour too much, as American comedies do, discuss.
Having said all that I don’t write to be read, and yes I can hear the cards amongst you saying, too bloody right he should be burnt not read, so thank you Nazis and KKK for your appreciation. Though Nazis with KKK could be something on the menu in some Chicken Diner somewhere, in the Deep South, south of Hell or Hades if I’m being posh. No where was I, yes I just put my dinner on, I’m having Chicken what else.
I write to be heard, by your ears, so its a Storyteller that you are reading on the computer in front of you. Get your girl to read this to you while you are in bed, consider my writing to be a form of foreplay, when she gets to the end then…
Stop, I haven’t finished, get out of bed and put your clothes back on, my words should be respected. No, my words should be enjoyed like a bar of Cadbury’s chocolate, then once finished you can get on with your life, or just go back to bed with your girl. What I want is just a couple of minutes of your time, before you couple. See the obvious use of words to convey different meanings, but you are smiling now, or one of you is dead. That’s all I want to do with my words, to make you smile, to give you a bit of relief in your hard and fast days.
I also try never to be explicit, naughty maybe but always nice, its all in your mind, not mine. Its like Panto and Ken Dodd, a joke for the kids and a joke for the mums and dads, and on and on spiralling into infinity, until we all get dizzy and throw up all over the cat. And why are there always carrots in puke, even when you never eat vegetables?
I hope I’ve given you an inkling into my words, and if you have an inkling I’d suggest you go and visit your doctor before it becomes a rash. Words are Weapons of Laughter, I hope I can get my 1,100,000 words read on the radio, any station, any time, any place anywhere all over the world in any language. Even if my own voice is not good enough to be used, but the Words are, that I am certain of. So what word can I finish with to impress my readers all over the word. It really should not be a world but a sound as I write for Ears, so my final word is, listen, FART.
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