Our Day today 28th March 2020 Remember to put clocks FORWARD in UK
now we had a Disney + Day in our house
I had a few lines of a poem appear in my head
Poems come, I never "write" them, they appear list morning mist
And Where was God (c)
By
Michael
Casey
And
where was God
Drownd
out by the Silence of Politicians Lies
And
where was Mercy
On
a ward all garmented and gownd
*******************
I'll see if any more lines appear
I did not write any new story today but there's a ton of stuff on this site already
I hope my Banana Photo didn't frighten too many of you
I had Syria and China amongst my readers today
Indians can enjoy the Indian hero, and the dramatic Indian Princess rescue
if they dig out The Butcher The Baker and The Undertaker on my
Wordpress site including Hindi translation
Perfect for All India Radio to read to the masses during Lockdown India
I've decided the Banana Head photo will be cover for Words 2020 which
will be my 20th book when I finish it by the end of this year
below what I've written so far
2020
Words ©
By
Michael
Casey
It’s
30th
Jan 2020 now as I begin my 20th
book, Brexit Day in the morning. I hope you enjoy this book as much
as my other rubbish. I have readers in over 80 countries via my
Wordpress and Blogger
And
up to TEN separate Translations are being read, for my 1st
book The Butcher The Baker and The Undertaker, on the same day. So my
words do travel, but maybe only foreigners like me, should I have
stayed in the EU? Ha Ha Ha, I have watched Politics as a Blood Sport
for over 50 years now. I spent 20 years listening to BBC RADIO 4
before I started writing in 1987, so that is 33 years. So over 50
years in love with words, Sir Robin Day is no doubt to blame.
The
Menu in my Head (c)
By
Michael Casey
Well
I noticed today that I first started here on WordPress 10 years ago,
which has been a busy period for me. I became a house husband and
more of a full time writer, or any other W word you would like to
call me. I also started to get PAIN, Arthritis, then post Quadruple
Heart Bypass pain, and yes bore you all about it. I’ve even got a
chest hernia, which 1% of heart op people get. But enough of that for
now.
I
launched my 19th book, The Final Cut of The 19th Hole the other day,
which turned out to be the same day as my dad’s Quing Ming
day. So how did I get here, well I knew I could do something and
stumbled into writing over 30 years ago now. And where do the
words come from? It’s like a menu in my head. I pick A20, or H34
and out plops a story or a poem or a chat. It’s simple really, I
just add sauce as required. I’m a kind of old fashioned Juke Box,
or story machine. When I check my readers it’s nice to see
which old piece you are all reading across the sites. Some bring back
memories, others I have forgotten, can the girl in the take away
remember everything? It’s nice too to see your reaction to
new stories.
What
else can I do anyway with Tinnitus as my bed fellow, Tinnitus is
neither a Roman slave nor a Korean dream, it’s just a horrid noise
that does not stop, and seems worse at night. Sometimes me and
Tinnitus are awake all night, but not having fun. I will launch into
my 20th book soon, this will be the first piece in it. I hope you all
enjoy the variety.
So
what can you expect? God alone knows because I never know, it’s
more fun for me that way. I do wish I could write Tears for a
Butcher, it would be a 600 page stand alone sequel to The
Butcher The Baker and The Undertaker but then again I doubt if that
will ever happen. But God is Good as my mum always said. So stick
around in 2020 and see where I stumble. I pray to God that
Trump resigns, as he really is corrupt, he hides everything,
and not out of modesty. And the news says NO WITNESSES, this is a sad
day for USA, and folks are lazy and don’t bother to vote, so 25% of
the population who have voted control what happens to the other 75%.
SO VOTE.
Ok
enough of him. Always look on the Bright side of Life, as Monty
Python sung, because if you let sadness get you it will bring you
down. Just pause, scream, shout, and get back on the
laughing rocking horse. That’s my only advice. Others say sex,
drugs, rock and roll, I’d say 2 out of 3 ain’t bad. So forget the
drugs always, just have an imagination, that’s all you need.
So
can you prove you ARE a Writer? (c)
By
Michael Casey
Well
it’s nearly Midnight on 1st Feb 2020, and I want to write a bit
before bedtime, and if I’m extra tired I may sleep through my
Tinnitus. So what did I do today, I spoke to my man about
hanging my curtains, then I realised old fashioned plastic tracking
is in itself hard to track down. Everything is a Pole, but in the end
I found what I wanted so I ordered that, then my man can get up
his ladder and install it. Then the neighbours won’t see me sat in
the window at night working on my next 1,500,000 words.
So
how can I prove I’m a Writer, for that’s what I tell folks I am.
Well 1,500,000+ words and 2000 plus stories, now spread over 19
books, just go to Amazon and buy some. But you never do, but you do
read my stuff for free here on WordPress and on Blogger. I’ve got
through the 80 Countries barrier now, and up to TEN
Translations in one day of The Butcher The Baker and The Undertaker
being read. My readers map is greater than the British Empire Map. So
I tell folks this via random emails in the vain hope that ZTE
or anybody in the East will use my comic words to help teach English.
Ok,
you’ve heard all that before. Do I have a Monet or was it a Mona
Lisa on my wall? Do I have a fleet of fast cars? No I have a bus
pass, and an old print in an old plastic bag my Yfronts came in. Do I
have a fancy writing desk list Charles Dickens? Well I did think of
splashing out on one, but in the end I have this white desk with
black computer. As you’ve seen from my beautiful photos. Do I lean
my chin on my head? Never that’s for Pretentious People, I just
have my fat bum with a cushion underneath and me grinning like an
idiot. I just hate all these posed people in poser land, so I go the
opposite way, and what you see is what you get, as Derek Willins once
remarked, in our outer office, the pub, maybe Easter 1998. Then then
next year we the band of brothers were all scattered, I really was so
lucky working with such a bunch, Barry, and Wooly and John G and JC,
and many many more. I was the one locked up in the computer room in
those days.
I
did write a story called The Czech story the week after when I had
returned from Czech, and it was then that everybody realised. Michael
CAN WRITE, I wrote a page, then a page more, and sent it to Louise my
friend on the 4th floor, and I was on 3rd, overlooking the Chinese
quarter. Finally it was finished and it was passed around. People
could read the pathos and comedy combined, and that was when I was
confirmed as a Writer, but only to a select few in the office. So 10
years after I started, 20 years ago now, I was officially a Writer,
in an unofficial way. None of them got to read The Butcher The Baker
and The Undertaker. But 7 years later Claire was more than happy to
say I was a “lovely writer” as she read most of The Butcher The
Baker and The Undertaker. She really was kind to me, she looked like
a biker chic with tats, she was one of the kindest people I’ve
ever met. Though if she disagrees with the description, she might
give me a slap, though I rather we had cake and tea at Druckers in
town by the cathedral.
So
do you have to have some form of praise before you can call yourself
a writer? NO. though praise is nice. You have to be honest with
yourself till you realise, I can really write, and you are not lying
to yourself. I once managed to speak to a radio producer called Mary
at the BBC. By using her Christian name I got connected. Her advice
was read more, so I looked at books and noticed where the punctuation
was. As for reading technical books, I did not bother. I just worked
out where to put the punctuation. And carried on. In my opinion,
basic punctuation is enough. People don’t need to get lost in the
sentence or paragraph. What is the point? Keep the story rolling, and
don’t hide it, and don’t make the paragraphs so long people get
tired or confused.
So
that’s what I do, I even have been complimented on my paragraphing.
Tell the story and let it flow, let it blossom let it grow, and yes
I’m listening to Eric Clapton from 1974, that’s why that sentence
slipped. It’s like a joke, don’t kill the punchline do, like some
idiots who interrupt me while I speak, I have a style, it’s
deliberate, so don’t interrupt, it’s well practised. I did speak
to 100,000 people over my 3 years front of house at CPNEC Birmingham,
a 4 star deluxe business hotel. So I do know what I’m doing. MIAOW
So
its 00.22 on 020220 now so I’ll marry my words to the page and try
not to sneeze, a Historical reference for all you diggers of
words. So am I a Writer, yes I am, though I’ll probably never make
any money from it. And If I do the plan is to give most away to
PAIN relief, with that I’ll go to bed. Just pray for Health, the
only thing worth having.
Inner
Strength ©
By
Michael
Casey
As
ever I did not know what to write about, but today’s events forced
this idea to the top, so this is what you get today. I never plan,
though very occasionally I do, like for Tears for a Butcher ideas,
but you’ve heard all that before. So today I’m going to talk
about inner strength. I don’t choose the topics they choose me,
which sounds stuck up my own rear end, and I was going to use the A
word. But here’s what has percolated to the top, and me an instant
coffee drinker.
My
parents were incredibly strong, physically and mentally, Irish
farming stock, so what do you expect, just the best from Kerry, the
Kingdom. When mum died in 1996, dad said of her that she was as
strong as a horse, high praise indeed from a Blacksmith. He nearly
followed her just 8 bare weeks later, it’s all in Padre Pio and Me,
which is on my site. However as he was strong as an Ox, he survived,
and the rest you know if you’ve read Padre Pio and Me.
When
on 11th
Nov 1977 when my life was trashed, unfairly, but that’s another
story, I can remember my dad shaving in the kitchen sink, the
bathroom upstairs was too cold, and we used our electric central
heating sparingly. When God Made Time He Made Plenty Of It, dad
explained, then I had 6 fallow months until I got into computers on
the ground floor in 1978, that’s 42 years ago now. It was his 56th
Birthday so I remember that day forever.
I
was lucky I had parents who loved me and a mother who could pray like
the Devil, so to speak. Mum used to watch Dallas, and her pinny
pocket would be jumping as she watched, she has a Rosary on the go as
she watched JR. Later she’d go upstairs to say her prayers for an
hour, I still have her battered Prayer Book stashed away somewhere,
with Holy Pictures littering it, even prayers cut from newspapers
within. So this is my Legacy, it’s been poured into me. When she
died I did not shed a tear, she said no tears for years, so I obeyed
her. Any Faith I have comes from her, it’s secondhand, though with
such a teacher I’ve done well. She used to go to Mass daily at
Saint Patricks, opposite Dudley Rd hospital, of City as the now
unglamorously call it. And yes she had 5 priests say the Funeral
Mass.
Does
this mean I’m Holy, no not at all, I can and will curse like a
Blast Furnace Man, if the occasion arises, dad did start as a
Blacksmith in Kerry and then spend 40 years at The District Iron and
Steel Brasshouse Lane Smethwick. You have to be tough to work there,
400 degrees, lose half a stone in sweat every day. So dad’s refrain
to the idle rich on tv always was, did they sweat? BOLLOCKS. And
other such words as the occasion demanded. But his kids went to
Oxford and Cambridge, so “posh” folks could kiss his arse.
And
no he did not behave like an oaf, he was a gentle gentle gentleman,
who washed his hands in washing powder because the grit got the dirt
from the furnace off. Mum called him soft, she would lash offenders
with her tongue should the need arise. A perfect mix of ying and
yang. Mum gave dad her £300 and he gave her 6 kids in return. I
suppose I am the “failure”, 19 books, 1,530,000 plus Words,
readers in 80 countries, and up to 10 Translations in one day being
read from my Wordpress and Blogger. My map of the world is bigger
than The British Empire one. But still no money, so if you judge by
money, I am a failure.
However
I never ever give up, did they give up on the Long March, or pushing
the Nazi scum from Mother Russia, or getting to the Moon? No they did
not, you never never give up, and yes The Pen is Mightier Than The
Sword. So if I can persevere and thrive, so can you. If you read a
pretentious self help book you may learn stuff, but experience is the
best and harshest teacher. Just imagine me in red Lycra, skin tight
with a feather duster, threatening to tickle you to death.
I
just threw in that line to see if you have been paying attention. But
the point, does there have to be a point? IS. Michael Casey the fat
silver haired writer in shades from Birmingham England, is strange,
as strange as British Humour. And the point is, that my Inner
Strength is humour, humour will save you, as it has saved me. I’ll
finish now as I want to watch the late news, and as I do so I
remember my dad, as I can hear his echo, did they sweat, BOLLOCKS,
they can kiss my arse. For I am after all a son of Kerry parents, and
we are as good as ANYBODY. And so are YOU.
Thursday,
6 February 2020
Over
on Wordpress 8 languages and 7 countries reading my stuff
On
Blogger Hong Kong and the Philippines are reading my rubbish
You
are all most welcome as I listen to Crosby Still Nash
I've
also supervised my small daughter build a book case for the corner
of her
room, her reading tastes are very eclectic, I just
buy them, so it's not me
reading them. She had a trip to
a real book store and really enjoyed it,
so I'll be
financing that in future. Hudsons in Birmingham was really
good,
maybe 40 years ago during my book buying era.
I
cannot be very physically active due to the scar on my chest having
a bulge
coming through it. To be fixed/operated on soon,
I am one of the 1% who
gets this post heart bypass
"bonus". I remembered building her dolls
house,
when I was even fatter, prior to my heart op 5
years ago.
Though I think I am heavier now, but
less fat,
I weight more than the World Heavy
Weight Boxing Champion,
but I don't have a
scales any more.
Decades of physical work means I
have lots of muscle density. I also have a very strong grip after
years of screwing on mag tapes in the computer room, I
also have my very fast fists of fury. Just in case you are too
cheeky. Though my running days are long over. I may write a story
story tomorrow after I chase down my curtain man, then it will be
curtains for my study.
So stay pure and keep on reading,
message all your Chinese friends, let them all read my books as they
are stuck in their home.
I pray for my Chinese family in
Shanghai and all of China too, let this curse be lifted. The world
needs China just as China needs the world.
Peace
Happiness and Health to all of Our Land China
Just
be Yourself, Gay, Straight or Any Which Way
Just
be Yourself, Gay, Straight or Any Which Way (c)
By
Michael Casey
As
you all know I am a Gay Dad, which means you know about FASHION, as
far as sex goes I ONLY ever look East, at women only. I do have
Shanghai wife as you all know, presently stuck in Shanghai due to
the virus situation, while I hold the fort back here. So Courage My
China, all will be well, just Pray Hope and Don’t Worry. As for
me, I’m not nice enough to be Gay, as a rule Gay people are nice.
So I knew Shep Smith was Gay for years, he really Is a great News
Guy, and today here on Tv a Brit came out, but he is so nice, he
must be gay.
I
know the Gay community may want to punch me for speaking like that,
but my point is, as a rule Gay people are nice. The problem is in
some Societies, Gay people are treated badly, or even murdered,
which is WRONG, those Societies need to Grow Up, and be Tolerant. As
a rule here in UK, we live and let live. Sure it’s not a Gay
Paradise, but we are a great place for anybody to live. So if you
are Gay, Straight, or Any Which Way, come here if the BASTARDS in
your own country won’t leave you alone. I could go down my usual
Comedy Rabbithole now but I won’t not today anyway.
I’ll
just finish with a film Tip, watch Stardust the Fantasy
film, where De Nero is a Pirate Captain, who is secretly Gay, but
has a hard man front. When his secret is revealed, the hard man
crew, stand by him, and say we always knew you were a PUFF, or other
such words, but they still and will always love him their Captain.
So let’s all love our Captains, and spit on the ignorant
“cavemen”, Michael Casey never nice enough to be really gay,
Just a Gay Dad, fashion expert.
2020
Skill Set (c)
By
Michael
Casey
Ok,
so tomorrow is another day, and God I really know the meaning of
that at the moment. So what’s this got to do with skills? Well you
never know how your Yellow Brick Road life leads you, and what
Rolling Stone material sticks to your shoes. The used to say have a
boring a predictable CV, but for some jobs they like “Oddballs”,
yes you’ve guested it I’m going to work at No.10 for Boris.
I
did have my working life in reverse, as my lawyer sister in law
observed, as she stopped me from having 3rds or was it 4ths at her
house. I’ve worked in computers when people used to be impressed
by the very notion, 40 plus years ago. I’ve carried tons of heavy
paper, continuous stuff not the 500 page A4 stuff you are used to,
that’s for girls. Though if Ang is reading this, she’ll say
crawl away out the way, let a Woman deal with it, but that’s
another story. Paper is heavy.
I’ve
been a Trainee Betting shop manager, a Life Insurance Underwriter,
non medical. A lost adjuster note taker. Hotel General Manager,
that’s what guests thought, though in reality I did 10 other role
almost daily. You learn a hell of a lot in a hotel, the job, the
guests, the people. Best job I ever had, though it was the hardest
work physically. My chest grew 2 inches and my neck 1 inch, due to
the carrying and non-stop talking for 3 years. I only gave it up
because the hotel went one step too far regarding my shifts, so I
wouldn’t see my toddlers as much, so I left that job.
One
moment I’d be cleaning toilets with Vicky, then I’d put my
jacket back on and straighten my tie and be holding my own talking
to millionaires, it was a business hotel after all. Great fun and
very hard work, but I loved it. I had tried out the new uniform,
which actually fitted me, instead of my own DIY suit, that’s why
folks thought I was the General Manager, I did have the looks then
too. But then I left, 15 years ago now.
Who
you mix with, and what you pick up does add to your skill set. I’ve
always watched workmen, 50 to 55 years worth, so I can see their
skill and know how to do such and such a job. But obviously not be
able to do it myself. So when I hear BS, I just smile, if only
inwardly. Me and Roger used to hear a fair bit of BS, then Roger
would turn to me and whisper BS.
So
I’ve had all my working life, adding to my knowledge, I am heavier
than I look, both in intellect and weight, I was 120kilos yesterday
fully clothed, the shop assistant in the store insisted I keep my
clothes on. I could have Life Posed on the counter for her, me and
my quadruple heart bypass scars, up my chest and down both legs,
they harvest your veins after all.
If
you listen actively to Radio for 50 years you can learn a lot too, I
don’t just mean the Chart Show, though my dance steps are
impressive, BBC Radio4, the best radio station in the world,
period, as the Americans say. All your Life at every moment you are
growing and learning, not directly, but subliminally. Then when the
occasion arises you can jump into action. You did First Aid
training, on the Annie doll, so save a life in the street. In my
brother’s case he saved our dad’s life long enough to get dad to
hospital. Though 8 bare weeks earlier he was not so lucky, as mum
died in his arms as he held her in the marriage bed, with dad
looking on.
So
life goes on and you learn stuff, or you lie on a CV, until a Czech
trucker arrives at the factory and your Czech does not exist, the
Trumps are ½ Czech you know. As for me I learnt French and Spanish
at school, but never Chinese, though my kids are bilingual, Shanghai
wife and all that. Though now my small daughter says she hears more
Korean than anything as I watch all my Kdramas on tv.
So
life goes on and you accumulate knowledge, or 50 years worth of tv
and radio news, one of my addictions. My daughter did a quiz and
only she knew the answers because, she heard it all from me and the
BBC. The other teenagers looked at hear in disbelief, who is Robin
Day anyway? As my life has gone on, and could have ended too, I’ve
morphed into a writer, I try and be humorous but on other occasions
you get what you are getting today.
So
33 years ago I started writing, I can remember writing in pencil on
paper, now its direct Brain to Screen and nothing in between. Leap
Years Day 1988 was when I first finished The Butcher The Baker and
The Undertaker, so in 2 weeks or so it’s another Leap Year, I
forgot we were having one, so 2020 Leap Year’s Day means its 32
years old. Then you have the other 18books, all on Amazon. I also
have stuff on my sites, just in case I die, so at least somebody
reads my rubbish.
All
in all what does this mean, as I have to finish as I’m expecting a
man at my door soon, it means I may look like a stupid fat silly man
with brilliant silver hair, ok dandruff man 2020. However I have
lived a life, and I did it my way, and I always analyse even if at
the moment you think you have won, for I will come back and bite you
on the bum. Which may be a kinky way to start a relationship, but
whatever gets you through the night, enjoy it and do it.
The
Courage to Sing (c)
By
Michael
Casey
Well
it’s 16th
Feb now, and the Red Shoe’s Ballet at the Birmingham Hippodrome was
great, the music induced a tear. Today the pain monster in my
back/hips is inducing near tears, and loads of pain. That’s the
sine curve of pain, totally random pain, on randomly chosen parts of
my body. As I sit here in my chair, I wanted to write something new,
and not just post a repeat, and as Celine Dion started to sing, the
choice of subject rose its head from the barricades of pain.
You
do have to have courage to sing, so as Les Mis comes to both our
minds, you can start singing that to yourself, as I talk to you,
above Celine’s voice. To sing is to doubly praise as Saint Cecilia
says, though in S&G’s song was Cecilia a bad girlfriend or
worse? Then Cecilia broke hearts, if you can remember the song. A
good song sung well can break hearts, can touch as much as the music
from The Red Shoes touched me yesterday. Or in a play, you can shed
tears as the play unfolds. We saw the theatre version of The Lovely
Bones recently and I was shocked to by core by the performance and
sat with tears falling, I had forgotten the film version, so I was
not prepared.
So
Art, can and does touch the parts that only some lagers do. If you
have a pint or three you will be inclined to sing, but otherwise you
have to have a good spirit before you can sing. You cannot sing when
you are sad or dealing with a crisis, just as I cannot write if I’m
sad, or yet another USA shooting horror overwhelms us all, nobody
wants to sing at a funeral.
Yes
great songs can be sung at at funeral, and the Lazarus reading
usually read at funerals is very touching, Jesus wept. Generally to
sing you have to be happy. If you are happy and you know it clap
your hands, if you are happy and you know it stamp your feet, and so
on as the song goes. Songs are ways to defy tyranny, they unite and
bind us, from union songs, to slave songs and all manner of songs,
from sea shanties to songs of war. To rallying cries and more, from
I’m a Yankee Doodle Dandy to Over There to the Yanks are coming, or
here in Britain We’ll Meet Again.
But
Out of the Depths I Cry to Thee Lord, may be the start, when we are
flat on our back, when we are crawling like worms in the dirt, when
there is no hope, when we are battered and broken, and beaten. By
life, by lack of hope, when we are at the end of our rope,, when we
might be tempted to use a rope. Then a song, a noise, a hum, a voice
might cut through our darkness and give a glimmer of hope, somebody
or something offers a rope ladder out of our pit of despair. Then the
only way is up, just like the song from years ago.
We
have the courage to begin to sing, to hold that hand that reaches
down to the gutter, and lets us look at the stars, Oscar or David, or
whoever it is. We have the courage to sing, it can be anything, away
in a manger, if it is Christmas, or a rugby song, a spiritual, or a
really obscene song, it does not matter. The point is it lifts us up,
there is a song that we love and whenever we hear it we feel better.
My favourite song is The Windmills of Your Mind, from the 1968 Thomas
Crown Affair. I just love it, and if you’ve read some of my
1,500,000 plus words you can understand. I was Sancho Panza and my
master did tilt at windmills after all.
A
song is a shock to the heart, it makes us skip a beat, or kick starts
our emotions, our feelings, if we have no feelings then we are dead
already. So a song, and being able to sing is evidence of life and
hope and love. We sing to our children to reassure them, to keep the
bedbugs away, or whatever. It brings joy and happiness to them. We
sing in the darkness as we wait for the power to come back on. To
sing is to have a heartbeat, they say you should keep on talking to a
coma victim. But you should also sing to yourself to whistle while
you work.
I
have music surrounding me all my life, and now with Tinnitus coming
out to play and attack me for 18 months and more, music and song is
so important. In the dark of the night I have no Cecilia, just music
playing till exhaustion gets me, then I sleep. You can make up your
own Cecilia references. I hope you recognise that when you are down
and nearly out, you do need a bridge over troubled water. And that
bridge is song, a song will inspire, and ease your weary bones, it
will come on baby light your fire, just little little embers being
blown in the wind, but it is the answer.
So
sing to somebody, have a sing song, whistle while you work, be the
sparrow singing in your family, in your neighborhood. Then rejoice
rejoice Emmanuel, because you have learnt to love again. The shadows
of sorrow and pain have been banished, by a simple song of sixpence.
Weather
Vane ©
By
Michael
Casey
Now,
Storm Dennis has been a Menace, just like the kids cartoon of the
same name, our 2nd
storm in as many weeks. So after I ventured out past the barricades,
Virgin Media are digging up the pavement outside, I sit here and
think what shall I write about, sorry talk about, today. Then Weather
Vane comes to mind, though I may not actually talk about the weather,
I’ll leave that to pundits, I hope I’ll write something more
interesting and better, though you’ll be the judge, as ever. So
Settle Down Now, as an old comedian used to say, as Eric Clapton
sings for me as I talk to you. Clapton lounge singer, though I did
meet him once, but I’ll save that story.
Clapton
is drowning in a river of tears. We all can when events overwhelm
you, when bureaucrats put paper before people, you’ve all had your
own battles, but what I want to talk about today is how do you
overcome them. Events blow, and we are that battered Weather Vane on
the roof, we spin and shake and may almost be blown away from our
place on the roof, on the committee, in the family, at work or
anywhere, or even amongst safe old fashioned church politics.
So
how do we survive, we may pray, pray like crazy, or just have a good
old session with the local ride, in all senses of the word. Or we
visit Nice Nelly, who is such a good listener, she is blind but she
can see far better than authority. She is also very very fat, and her
dog Dougal too. How do you reward a blind lady? You give her food,
the very best of food, and even arrange for a sighted cleaner to come
twice a week. Nelly listens, she does not miss a heart beat, her
sightless eyes, and wonderful ears, as good as any dogs, listen and
dissect. She’ll solve your problem, she is patient and kind, and
has all the time in the world. She used to be a Litigator in another
life but a random act of violence took her sight away. But now though
sightless she feels God has given her the chance to do something
useful with her life. She is a listener, and thanks God for the
opportunity to be of use to the world. Before she used to extract
blood from a stone, for profit. But now she extracts Love, Hope and
Charity, and spreads it all around. She is better than any therapist.
We
all have such a person somewhere in our lives, it may be a friend, a
relative, or a random stranger on a bus, paths cross and wisdom is
revealed, and you never meet that stranger again. Was it an Angel, an
angel with a dirty face, a smelly fat silver haired man in shades on
the bus to Birmingham? Was it the man or young girl you thought would
rob you in the dark. But a big smile shone out of the darkness, in
every sense of the word and saved you, saved you from stepping into a
giant puddle, and saved you from your dilemma.
Life
blows us, sometimes there is a gentle breeze on our face on a summer
day, sometimes there is blinding freezing hail cutting our face as we
walk uphill home from work. The weather vane spins, but with hope,
friends and love we get back to our True North. So what I’m trying
to say is that, you’ll be swamped and even almost Water Boarded by
Life, but you can and will survive. You don’t have to be a Hero or
Legend, two very over used and over rated words, no you just soldier
on quietly. Dig out your own Nice Nelly, and cherish her and her dog.
Simple unassuming ordinary or even boring people are the
extraordinary people in this life, and I’ve been very lucky indeed
to meet some in my life.
Let
the wind blow, but know this my mother used to Bless the Wind and
tell it to be calm. Just as some other guy you may have heard of used
to do when he was out fishing with his mates. The storm may batter
the weather vane, but there is only one way up.
The
Navvy (c)
By
Michael Casey
Now as Donald Trump flies off
to India I was thinking what to talk about today, then as I looked
out the window the answer lay there. The Navvy, you see Virgin Media
are laying cable everywhere, its suppose to be the fastest and the
best, according to the reviews. Sadly out of my price range, but if
you are reading this Richard, feel free to give me the whole package
for free, and I'll thank you in pectore if I spelt that right. But
obviously that'll never happen, not unless it's him in American Samoa
who is reading me. Though it's probably a desk clerk bored with porn
who is reading me.
Now a Navvy is a misspelling
of Navy, no Donald it is not, word blindness is a bad thing, it slows
you down, you get tenses wrong, P for B and so on, and yes I do all
that, but maybe it's because I'm too fast. So let's hold hands Donald
and tip toe through the Tulips, just watch of for Tiny Tim, you know
the boy from a Christmas Carol, by Charles Dickens, the British
Writer who pees all over Twain, leaving his Mark on him. But enough
of the friendly Literary Rivalry. Charles is best period as you say
over there, though over here a period is well, a period.
Now as you also know a Navvy
was/ is the guy who digs things, not the fab and groovy, hey man what
was in this cigarette, or fag as we say over here in England, not
that kind of “dig” but the dig as in digging, not to be confused
with Mick Diggings who used to live in Cromane Kerry if memory
serves. I hope you are keeping notes Donald, didn't Kim give you a
souvenir, no not that Kim of the curves Kim, but the short fat and
bad haircut rocket man Kim, before you became BFFs and pen friends.
Anyway back to Digging. The Irish and the Chinese made America, and
they still look after America. The Irish are the Cops, and the
Chinese make everything sold in America, such as the iphone.
The Irish and the Chinese laid
America, by which I mean they laid the railroad tracks, any other
kind of laying, must be something to do with eggs. One of the streets
where I live is named after the chicken farm that used to be there
100 years ago. Yes it's called Chicken Lickin Street, nowadays we
have roads named after the Brewery that used to be there. I used to
hop, as I could smell the hops, as I went down the hill, and yes it's
been all down hill since then I can hear you exclaim, you are so
cruel, at least Donald make such remarks, maybe because he thinks
this is Abbot and Costello, but no it's Gerald Wiley, go google NSA.
So the Irish Navvy and the
Chinese Navvy linked America from coast to coast by building the
Railroads. And AMTRAK was born so to speak. I did have an Uncle, no
not the man from UNCLE, by my mother's brother who worked for Amtrak
in Boston, his son is a Cop there, he's Irish or son of Irish, so
obviously he's a Cop. If he were Chinese then he'd be a business man
or run a restaurant, or run a factory building iPhones. Though the
Chinese connection is this side of the Atlantic via my Shanghai wife.
I hope you are keeping up with all this Donald, or we'll get Kim to
spank you with a rolled copy of the failing Washington Post, by Kim I
mean the curvy Kim, though I'm sure your BBF would jump at the
chance.
As the railroad advanced
people died, so they were buried at the rail side, no doubt Mark
Twain would comment, and curse Dickens for being on the train behind,
touring Dickens was a great big hit back then. Before TED talks were
invented, and how did Roosevelt persuade a bear to talk I just do not
know, but it ended in a film, but maybe Donald knows more about film
than I. He was in Home Alone, after all, well apart from the Canadian
version.
Early photos captured the back
breaking toil of the Irish and the Chinese, without them Casey Jones
would not even have had a job, and no he's no relative of mine,
Casey is my surname, my family name. There is a Genesis song on the
We Can't Dance album about Navvies. And remember too, who dug the
Canals in England 100s of years ago, they were the motorways of their
time. I'll pause now for Movelat painkiller gel, which was not
invented back then, so no doubt the Chinese massage was the best
alternative back then.
Buy shares in Movelat Gel, it
works fast and stops me from screaming in pain, I know it's you the
readers who are in the most pain, from listening to me. You are so
cruel. I was going to offer you a cup of tea and biscuits, and no
that's not a metaphor, what kind of boy do you think I am? I did give
my navvies outside tea and biscuits, and a couple of apples from
Portugal too, as they dug the Virgin Media trench, I know how hard
they work, my dad used to sweat for 10 to 16 hours, if he got
overtime in the steel works, The District Iron and Steel Brasshouse
Lane Smethwick. Years later Betty who taught my girls piano revealed
she used to teach in the Primary School in the same road. Small
world, and obviously you couldn't put a piano in front of a furnace,
that would be ridiculous.
So Navvies come in all shapes
and sizes and are ridiculously strong, they have to be, you and me
would just drop down dead if we tried to do their job, so when you
get the new superduppa Virgin Media, spare a thought for the navvy
who brought it to you. So I'm going to finish now as my belly needs
feeding, I heard that Trump, it looks overfed already, you are such a
card, and I'm not talking about your golf score card. Just spare a
thought for the navvy as you ride the rails, without them, you'd be
stuck at home with your mother-in-law all. You couldn't go and visit
the ballet, or the bowling alley, and all the other bs there are, so
spare a thought and say a prayer for some soul buried there by the
tracks. Irish and Chinese we salute you.
Now if you think this piece is
too Robin Williams, then really it's more Robin, Batman's boyfriend
or is it boy and friend, and Williams, Andy Williams, so as I moon
over a river, I'll say a pray too as Internet Mass is next for me.
Simple
Sarah (c)
By
Michael
Casey
Simple
Sarah, was well simple, or so folks thought, in fact she used to
teach languages, very strange languages to very strange men. They all
respected her, she used to slap their knuckles with a plastic ruler
if they made any mistakes. She was no ordinary ESOL English teacher,
but in reverse if you know what I mean. She was the best, the very
best in her field. When she announced she was to retire early, while
there was still some life in the old dog, everybody at the “school”
was sad. You’ll miss the bitch, or Miss Bitch, I know what you call
me behind my back. Then she laughed like a drain, and everybody
joined in. She always told them after slapping knuckles with a ruler,
one day you’ll thank me. And indeed they did, indeed they did.
They
didn’t give her a clock as a leaving present, they gave her a watch
and a parrot. As she had told them all that Parrot Fashion was the
only way to be when speaking a language. She also told them a friend
of hers used to own a cafe and he had a parrot that always said “shut
the bleeding door” and yes that’s a true story, because this
writer’s dad used to go there on High Street Smethwick many years
ago. So Simple Sarah retired early, with a parrot and a Mickey Mouse
watch, though it was no ordinary Mickey Mouse watch.
So
Simple Sarah settled into living in her Agatha Raison style village.
Soon she knew everybody and she knew everything, she cycled
everywhere with an old grocer’s bicycle with it’s basket at the
front. Simple Sarah was a big strong girl, in fact she once had a
French student in her class, he complained about being hit with a
ruler, so she slapped his face so hard it was red for an hour. She
believed in discipline, and so did her students. The French man never
complained after that, in fact a year later he returned with a gift
of wine and cheese. All he said was, you saved my life, and went away
with a tear in his eye.
So
Simple Sarah soon became the village gossip par excellent, she knew
things only your priest or doctor should or could know. If you were
sick, or needed cheering up she was there. A cheerful chat,
disgusting really disgusting jokes, that you’d need confession
after hearing them. Or a kiss and a hug, and a gift of jam left at
your door. She had a friend called Mrs Douglas who made cake so a
cake made with love from Mrs Douglas would find it’s way to you.
Carried in a basket in front of the bicycle, Simple Sarah really was
the best, simple the best, better than all the rest. Flowers were
grown in her garden and shared with love. Simple Sarah had green
fingers up to her elbow, she received seeds in the post from her
“boys” as she called them fondly, even if they called her “Miss
Bitch”, she laughed at the memory.
Simple
Sarah loved her life, her retirement, she could keep a secret too, so
she was the confessor to all, she could easily have put the priest
out of business. But she did not, she was a glue, a form or
chattering cement that bound the street as other women do all over
the world do. Now when one day Sarah was not seen at the post office
everybody assumed she was some place else. But she was not, she had
in fact fallen down the stairs, carrying too many books and her mug
of Horlicks.
There
was a Frenchman in the post office, he wanted to buy a plastic ruler,
he was the very same Frenchman, all the girls swooned. He was hot,
so very very hot, and yes he even had a moustache and a battered
beret with a Lourdes badge on. Then everybody pointed to the sky,
there was a parrot flying overhead, it had something in it’s claws,
it was a watch. It was Simple Sarah’s, she had told them all to
call her simply Sarah, or Simple Sarah and had laughed when she first
met them all. Hence Simple Sarah, and now the parrot was carrying her
watch.
The
Frenchman looked up, Miss Bitch he exclaimed, he recognised both
parrot and the watch. Everybody in the post office gave him a filthy
look, such language and to speak of the angelic Simple Sarah in such
a way. The Frenchman ran outside and spoke in a foreign language, the
parrot immediately descended and perched on his shoulder. The
Frenchman looked at the watch, he pressed the special button
immediately. Help will Come, Help with Come but this was not Narnia
this was a little English village, near Herford.
The
Frenchman spoke into his phone again in a very strange language, look
after the parrot he commanded, and he was so very commanding, the
French as so very hot, hot hot. All the post office ladies were
aquiver. The rescuers will come, just tell them Jacques Cousteau has
gone ahead, and then he raced through field in a direct attack, or
should I say save. What’s going on, and why is Simple Sarah’s
parrot here. Then the ladies looked at the Mickey Mouse watch, on the
back was an inscription, from those who dare to speak.
They
didn’t quiet understand what it all meant, but 3 military
helicopters overhead and quad bikers swarming did give a little
indication. Simple Sarah used to teach strange languages to even
stranger men, and yes your life could depend on it, so you did have
to speak just like a parrot. Or something deadlier than a ruler might
hit you. And why was the Frenchman call Jacques Cousteau? Because he
enjoyed a gentle paddle in water, if I explained any more somebody
might have to kill you, if you’ve read the first story in The Final
Cut of the 19th
Hole that might explain it to you, ok enough.
So
Simple Sarah was saved and a helicopter took her to a Military
hospital, as it was the closest, and they do look after their own
after all. Though Birmingham’s QE does look after many military
too, and military nurses work there, as this writer can testify. All
was revealed, well almost, Simple Sarah was a linguist, was it 15
languages she spoke, and they were the kind of languages “naughty
boys” as she called her boys might need when they were out for a
Friday night’s mischief. And yes that’s a metaphor.
All
the post office’s supply of plastic rulers were bought up, the
“naught boys” did have a sense of humour after all. So a vase of
wine with plastic rulers sticking out of it like flowers was placed
by her bed in hospital. They did give her a very long straw as well.
Saturday,
29 February 2020
How's the past 32 years been
for you?
as
you know today marks 32nd anniversary of
The Butcher The
Baker and The Undertaker
I finished it 32 years ago today
on Leap Year's Day 29th Feb 1988
It has been downloaded
thousands of times for free
from my Wordpress, in many
languages
My original English you can buy on Amazon
So
how has the past 32 years treated you?
Me,
I've experiences many many horrors and bucket loads
of
pain, you've seen me and my bucket in photos
But I refuse
to let that dissuade me
YOU MUST CARE ON, AND
START OVER
Or you are dead in the spirit
Yes
I moan and bitch, but if you've had my past 32 years
I'd
like to see how you survived or would you have thrown
in
the towel in many many ways
I'm very very lucky as I had
great parents
and a great family to support me through
the horrible times
and there have been too many
But
the thing is I just never give up
Because I has a faith
poured into me, I am just a cup
and I had love too poured
into me, I am still a cup
I am very lucky I had two great
girls, two daughters
now teenagers, forgive the old
photos I post
So I never give up, even when racked with
pain
so far all pain passes, even if it is like a thief
in the night
and makes me want to scream, and sometimes I
do scream
Writing is a focus, it may drive you guys mad,
or bore you all
but for me it's almost like a
prayer, it gives me hope and a focus
to my life, when
pain is upon me
No I'm not in pain all of the time, just
enough of the time to
call
it chronic pain.
So after 32 years there are 19 books
now, 2 of which are omnibuses
I can say at the end of my
days, at least I left something behind,
my
legacy to mankind, which lives here on Blogger and Wordpress
and
Amazon too, if any of you bothered to buy, and pay this writer.
My
face hasn't changed much all these years, though my hair is
far
whiter, and I have scars on my chest and both legs
post unplanned
quadruple heart bypass.
Never mind any other metaphorical scars.
If God were to
give me my health back I'd marry again, a Korean
catholic
girl and have 4 more children, and live till I
was 100.
We could have a Kpop band or
a martial arts school.
And grow older all pampered
by my 6 kids in
total. And if I actually made any money
as I write the next 19 books,
I'd donate 50% to Pain
Relief, rising to 90% to Pain Relief
But sadly Yoona or
anybody similar doesn't live anywhere near me in
Birmingham,
& I'm not humble enough to receive more Blessings from God
So
that's about it from my 1st 32 years of "professional"
writing, because once I finished The Butcher The Baker and The
Undertaker
that's when I started to call
myself a WRITER,
though you may choose
another W word
such as Wa, Waiter.
Michael MANUEL Casey he's
from BIRMINGHAM
As
I look out my window again ©
By
Michael
Casey
Well
it’s 1st
March now, just to aid all you archaeologists of my words, am I that
vain or conceited, or do I just have a sense of humour, just. I was
playing with the font style a moment ago, this is a very big deal if
you are a writer. As important as your makeup if you are a girl, or
me on a Friday night when I dress in drag. Well I have to look my
best or the bouncers won’t let me in, besides girls have more fun,
so I dress as a girl.
Again
I haven’t a clue what to write about, Sam Smith is singing behind
me, I just wish he’d sweep up and wash the dishes, he’s really
good at that. But he just keeps on singing behind me, who does he
think he is? James Bond in his slim suit, now that I stopped him
from eating all my bread and cheese. I just had to let Totoro our
cat back in, so there was a dramatic pause in the writing, I also
had a play with my fonts, which could be a writer’s metaphor, but
in reality it means what it says.
Yes
I’m chilling today, like sitting on a roundabout in the park,
slowly looking about me and wondering which way I shall go, or shall
I suddenly leap off and go to the sweet shop. The rain comes down so
that decides everything for me. As I’ve just mentioned park and
roundabout a story from 50 years ago comes by. We were all in the
park, it must have been the Summer of 69, to name a song title. My
brother wondered what was that in the distance being blown around.
Somebody jumped, it was a £20 note I seem to remember, whatever
size note it was, 50 years ago that was an enormous amount. Somebody
had lost it, but we found it.
So
we all dashed back to the sweet shop on the Dudley Rd, was it called
Jennings, or was that the other sweet shop? We all crammed in, me my
brother, one of the many McNalleys and maybe 3 more. It’s my
Birthday said McNalley and produced the note, so boxes of chocolate
galore were bought, McNalley was confident he was already 6 feet
tall, as was my brother, both early sprouters. 30 years later I met
McNalley again, I was working in CPNEC Birmingham and he was a
guest, now a businessman I believe.
I
paused again, nothing to do with the cat, I went to Internet Mass,
in Belfast today. I get to “travel” to Mass, its easier than up
and down our hill with my aches and pains and a hard bench for my
soft behind. That was yesterday by the way, as a day and a night
have passed before I resume amusing you, or not. I was just at the
store and the kid was looking the vegetables, so I asked was he
praying to them. He replied who would pray to vegetables, so I told
him vegetarians would. Then he asked was I a vegetarian, so I said
look at me do I look like a Vegetarian. I’m heavier than Tyson
Fury I continued, but he can fight the kid in the store said. So I
said so could I, I’d spit in Fury’s eye, then kick him. Though
I’m not very fast at running away. The kid must have thought he’d
given up a place at MiT, just to suffer “the fat silver haired
writer in shades” How shopworkers suffer, and it’s me who make
them suffer the most. But they can always read my play Shoplife, as
somebody Japanese is doing so, right now. Or Still Alive 2015, as a
Korean is doing so right now too.
This
is a hobby of mine, bewildering the staff in the store, but Harvey
is kind, he always says hello as he stands at the door. All I really
desire is an escalator or moving pavement installed up the hill,
then it’d be great. Though if Harvey was the other Harvey then I
could sit side saddle behind him on his horse, that’d be a
Victory. At this point any USA readers will have to research the
references, but it’ll be good for your soul. Speaking of Soul, as
I watch the Hunters on tv I’m learning a tiny bit about Jewish
culture, and a Rabbi’s saying. Basically perspective changes
everything, and the more you know the more your eyes are opened.
As
for Seoul they seem to like my writing, though not as much as I
like Kdrama, but it’s good for my ego to see the world, or planet
or globe as trendy people call the “world” being shaded in as my
words spread like spilt coffee from my mug. So at this point I need
to refill my mug and fill my belly too, so that’s your lot, I was
thinking with this virus thing, we need a world day of prayer. Then
when I googled World Day of Prayer is actually due anyway, this
Friday on 6th
March 2020. So whatever Faith you have or none at all, or even if
you worship vegetables, or just your French Fries, do say a prayer
for the world on Friday, or at any time.
Is
Twitter worth my spit ©
By
Michael
Casey
Well
I’ve stumbled into Twitter again, only because of Tinnitus my
Roman slave who shares my bed, till exhausted I fall asleep with a
smile on my face, as for Tinnitus he is beaten or is Tinnitus a she
or an it, or a they if you want to be totally PC. Well Tinnitus is
knackered. For foreign readers this might really confuse. But if you
did Latin at school it might help, or have an old grannie who keeps
on saying, What? Or Speak up, you know I have hiss in my ear. And
yes HISS, nothing to do with grandpa’s leaky waterworks in her
ear.
So
I was in bed, hissing Tinnitus in my ear, so as I’m awake I play
with my phone. Which led to me thinking why not Twitter Trump. So I
pressed a few buttons and I was on Twitter. I did have a go a few
years ago, but found it exhausting fun, not very productive. Writing
a story is better use of my time. Twitter then was too much like
flogging Tinnitus, and now I’ve returned I hope I might just
direct folks to my sites where they can read my rubbish. But they
will join readers in 80 Countries. Though they might prefer to flog
their own Tinnitus, or just play with their Twitters, if they carry
on like that they’d be both exhausted and blind, they should
listen to Brown Own in the Guides after all, or they’d need a
guide dog.
But
back to the plot, I trolled Trump, but he never replied, I think
he’s planning on Nuking the West Coast to save it from this virus.
Just like Lex Luthor in Superman, is he buying up Nevada as we
speak? Or using them as Lab Rats for 2 month ready vaccine, Seattle
doesn’t vote for him anyway. If this virus is the new Black Death,
then USA will have a Civil, an very uncivil Civil War, as everybody
has a gun, 300 million of them in civilian hands alone. It’s my
right to cough and spew, so (*&&* you, as they load up.
Plenty to Twitter about there.
Over
here I’ve been reading the Press, all the Powers needed just in
case, BUT SUNSET CLAUSES MUST BE INSERTED, or our next Dear Leader
could be a very nasty leader. But at least the trains will run on
time, because there will be no passengers. The thing with Twitter
it’s very ping and pong, and nobody thinks, or so it seems when I
looked at it a few years ago. Everybody wants oven ready microwaved
Opinion, which may remind you of our Election just gone, there’s
not enough space to develop a theme. It’s like kids in the
playground.
Silly
photos rule, so obviously I’ve added my own in an attempt to
direct people to my Words. But Writing or Broadcasting is Talking to
Yourself, and Twitter is painting on walls, Graffiti, or even peeing
up a wall. As kids we’d see who could pee the highest up the
outside bog wall, and high praise indeed if you could actually pee
over the wall. Is Twitter just like that, I don’t know what the
female equivalent is, there’s a discussion to be had over a drink
on a Friday night. Or you could have a hashtag for it
*Peeingoverthewall I don’t even have a hash on this keyboard, # I
just found it, #peeingoverthewall
So
is that the sum total of the debate. Then of course you have
Politicians all Tweeting, as if we want to hear their Drivel,
whatever happened to a Statement that actually said something. It’s
too much people joining in and piling in, as if they’d be the odd
one out because they did not comment, and they’d be castrated if
they did not comment.
Michael
Casey did not comment of the fallen leaves blocking the drain, for 5
minutes, before a Hero, a True Legend, of a caretaker, or his own
wife or mistress or bit of stuff or whatever, or just neighbour,
unblocked a drain. We have melodrama because of what? 2 minutes
delay for something inconsequential. And then you have the ping pong
played out, on the merits of cleaning drains etc. Have people got
nothing better to do. We have nonentities being paraded as heroes,
and why? Because of Twitter.
Real
heroes, the caretaker who does care and look after his school in all
weathers, and the crossing lady, and you can add those you know to
the list, the real list, they aren’t noticed by Twitter, or
anybody or anything.
But
I’ve twittered on enough, use Media to the best effect. But go
deeper and find out facts, not more and more bite size, pieces of
vacuous rubbish. Yes, I’m trying to get you to think, and think
for yourself, Follow Nobody, just be your own Leader. Or we’ll
have more “leaders” like Trump, who’ll let the Vultures eat
us.
Un
PC Political Comedy ©
By
Michael
Casey
Here
in UK, Labour lost our Christmas Election, because the Labour leader
looked like a tramp, and workers voted for the brainy Toff instead
because they felt he was one of them, he was London Mayor twice as
well. They also did not like our Political Classes who had ignored
their vote for 3 years. In a nutshell that’s it.
Over
in America, in USA you have a selfish egotist billionaire as
President because he won the Electoral College, not the popular
vote. A President who banned film and video and copied Kim in North
Korea, by insisting only pen and paper were allowed. Because he was
recorded a day or so previously being told off like a naughty
ignorant child by CDC DOCTOR and expert in the field who explained
it in 4th Grade
style for the President. So the President more concerned for Optics
than Protecting the People which he swore to do at his Inauguration,
banned recording devices. Though this may have gone unnoticed what
with Super Tuesday.
Yet
some people still think Trump is King, which is what Trump believes
in his own imagination, as he folds his arms around himself in an
effort to control his temper. How many times is he hugging himself,
just watch the pictures, sorry you cannot do that, or has he allowed
cameras back into the White House.
So
what will dislodge him, we need to use PC, Political Laxative, I
know I said PC, but if you use the laxative then you will get the C,
in PC, need I explain more. If Mel Brooks wrote Political Adverts
what would he do? Charlie Chaplin made a film,The Great Dictator,
perhaps somebody at SNL is doing so already. Perhaps I should give
Mike Bloomberg a few tips, now that he has taken my advice via
twitter to him, he’s going to be a supporter, because he’s a big
man. Unlike a Big Man who is actually a little man, can you guess
who, boys and girls. This might turn into a Panto, or Pantomime,
which is British comedy slapstick theatre for the Christmas season.
Go google and watch one, you will never never never be the same
again. Have I just given Broadway an idea? You could just produce my
play Shoplife, but I digress.
So
lets say this is a Pantomime, or Political Cartoon advertising.
People bore with attack ads, they won’t remember the FACTS, or
they may not even watch them, because its FAKE NEWS. However if the
show in 60seconds or half that is FUNNY. Then they’ll LAUGH, and
come back to see it again and again, like Rocky Horror show, or
better still my play Shoplife which was actually accepted for
Production, but I digress.
So
where do I begin boys and girls? You have a man coming down an
escalator, singing Hello Dolly, in drag. I suppose I’ll have to
give up this if I run for President. The drag artist rips off the
dress to reveal himself in a suit with a very long red tie, touching
the floor, it’s our Donald.
Run
that commercial over and over, and put it on Facebook and Utube and
Billboards.
You
have a multitude of dancers in skin tight tops, with numbers on 1 to
17 maybe or more and more and more who appear, and disappear as
cheques are passed out. Cartoon this or live action this.
Have
a series of buildings going up, and falling down like puppets on a
string. Have the Donald with the enormous tie, skip backward and
forward trying to distract attention as buildings fall and rise
again. The buildings could be in the shape of vampires rising from
the dead.
Have
Donald skip around banks, with doors slammed in his face. All with
great Disco music being played. These are little snapshots that’ll
make people laugh and watch over and over again. So in 30 seconds to
1 minute you show the real deal. No need for an hour on CNN or MSCBC
showing the reality. You show it quick, and rock him and mock him.
Mel
Brooks did it so well in the Producers, and the never version is
great too. So this kind of humour cuts to the core. And you can keep
it rolling, or bring out a new one twice a week, to keep momentum
up. Donald is great at misdirection, and the USA audience has a very
low attention span. But if you keep them laughing, then his core
will slowly seep away, until finally crack.
You
can have a whole serious of Great deeds of the Donald, and have the
Dear Leader, or the Taliban or Putin, talk to the audience, just
like in Panto or the narrator in Rocky Horror show. He thinks this,
the reality is really this and so on.
You
can have voter try and vote but it’s like a Treasure hunt, as
obstruction after obstruction is put in the way. You can play King’s
I have a Dream speech, and Kennedy’s Ask Not What, on a speaker as
the citizen in search of a voting place struggles to vote. Finally
the citizen puts his vote down. Stars and Stripes plays, or a
marching band strides across the stage. Rejoice you have voted, or
Ding Dong the Witch is dead from the Wizard of Oz.
There
are many many scenarios, keep then short and swamp Trump, his trick
is to spout so much rubbish you just cannot fire fight it. Every lie
you hear from him just play a FART sound. COMEDY WORKS. So use it as
a weapon. If more and more people are laughing at him, then his
“message” of ignorance and spite can be washed away. And washing
away is the key, the whole world is depending on folks getting off
the sofa and voting. You can even cartoonize that. Why do Dictators
dictate, because people don’t bother. Now is the time to register
and vote when the time comes. Before it is too late. And my final
thought, Defence has been a theme of Trump’s yet he had to repay
$2,000,000 to a Veterans Charity. And CDC is part of the Biological
Defence of the people, why was that trimmed to the bone. I sometimes
feel here in UK I know more about what is happening in USA, than
some Americans so. Trump is no joke, so vote him out, and start by
mocking him constantly in a Tsunami of comedy/cartoon short.
Starting with a Cartoon with him in a bunker surrounded by a wall
made up of LIES.
OK>
the DEMS will now be condemned for having a foreign adviser, Michael
Casey the fat silver haired writer in shades from Birmingham
England,
The
Old Irish Dancer ©
By
Michael
Casey
Delia
was, well she was Delia, no way to describe her other than that, she
was herself and nothing else. She was old now, and a bit slower in
movement, but she had strong legs. So when she was invited to a
dance by her dear old friend Mrs Winston of course she’d come.
Their combined ages over 160 at least, but nobody dared ask, for
fear of a slap in the puss, for cheeking their elders.
Mrs
Winston and Delia stationed themselves in 2 old chairs, battered
like themselves, brought especially to the church hall tied to the
roof rack. Don’t be thinking you can take me home like that
strapped to the roof rack, said Mrs Winston her bosom shaking like
an enormous bouncy castle. Delia said she didn’t mind being
strapped to the roof rack so long as she was still sat in an
armchair.
And
that in fact was how she got home in glory.
Delia
shuffled about leaning hard on her stick, a present from Mrs Winston
for her 70th
Birthday, practical and much love. Mrs Winston had many many
relatives, and they had friends and friends had friends. So the
church hall was full, before the 70s theme started and Barry White
could do his thing. The gospel choir did their thing, with all the
boys looking on. Delia weaved her way in and out of the choir, like
a sparrow hopping from place to place. Though like a bee pollinating
might be a better description. The Delia sat next to Mrs Winston,
they exchanged a knowing look.
Barry
White started proceedings, always reliable. At the first interval,
Delia stamped her stick, winking at Mrs Winston. Do you call that
dancing? If I could have a little support I’ll teach you how to
dance Irish style, it was Saint Patrick’s Day after all. So
pointing her stick at the biggest man in the crowd she called him
over, then she pointed stick at a shy girl, you too, come here. They
were both cornered, so they came over. One on her left, one on her
right supporting her weight, then with a wink Mrs Winston
bluetoothed the speakers, Irish dance music blared out.
Delia
was on fire, those legs dashed and pranced, all her weight
supported, by Dennis and Marlene. Uproar.Dennis and Marlene joined
in, 3 Irish dancers. Then Mrs Winston could see the look in dear
Delia’s eye, she released her supports and danced for 10 seconds
before tripping Dennis and Marlene over, only Mrs Winston knew this
was her plan. Dennis tried to catch Marlene, only he just ended up
with his hand on her chest, and Marlene ended up with her hand below
his waist. Silence then with Delia leaning over the couple, her
weight on her stick. Well if you have finished your introductions,
I’d say you would be a great couple. But learn to Irish dance
properly first. Uproar of Laughter.
And
that was how Dennis and Marlene got together, they were tricked. Mrs
Winston knew they’d be a great couple, if only they were
introduced, and Delia did the introductions. So Marlene and Dennis
spent the evening being the first my last my everything with Barry
White as a witness. They say the rhythm method is the best method,
and Delia and Mrs Winston knew all about that. So over the course of
the evening 4 other couples were introduced to Irish dancing, and
each time they fell for each other literally. If you have rhythm
then you should stick to it.
Some
may say it was a cheap trick, a dirty trick, pushing people
together. But Mrs Winston and Delia had a plan, besides the nursery
needed more kids or they would close it next year. But Mrs Winston
knew as did Delia, fools rush in where angels fear to tread, and at
their ages they’d be joining the angels soon. So they were helping
couples find each other, and they’d have a few more visitors with
gossip, the lifeblood of older people, all because they were
creating families, via Irish Dancing.
Now
when the dance was over Delia was chaired out of the hall, and
indeed tied to the roof rack chair and all. Then ever so slowly
driven home. Sgt Mulholland from Old Forge and Singing Anvil police
station was driving past and could see what was happening. So
obviously he gave them a Police Escort with blue light flashing,
How
many couples this Saint Patrick’s Day he asked Delia as she was
lower from the roof rack. So she high fived him by way of reply.
Self
Motivating when you could not be bothered ©
By
Michael
Casey
I was
going to start with a much repeated opening, “I could not think
what to talk about today”, then as usual an idea formed. How do
you motivate yourself. Me, I am not driven, but with a Protestant
work ethic, though I’m a catholic altruist, that best describes
me, though fat silver haired and wearing shades is more accurate.
And yes I write too and am from Birmingham. Though a confession, I
use Birmingham as nobody outside UK would know nor could pronounce
where I’m really from. Ok, it’s Old Forge and Singing Anvil, and
you thought it was a made up place in The Butcher The Baker and The
Undertaker, or am I lying to you, or just a good writer?
Confused,
I hope so, bemused is the best way to have our readers, stand up
writing, where you are a few paces ahead of them, just out of
hitting range, or best practice self isolation range. Talking of
range, free range eggs are the best, the yolk is so yellow you
almost need shades as you look at them. So am I looking at a lot of
eggs, hence the shades, or is the yolk on me? Roy Hudd RIP left me
that joke in his will, or was it John Prescott? Non USA readers can
Google those names.
Which
brings me to Motivation, as you all know everywhere, in 80 countries
where you stumble over me, I’ve done a ton of writing, nearly
1.6million words now spread like manure on my field of 19 books. So
I don’t need to write any more, and I know some of you may be
praying for me to stop, you and your friend Covid. So why should I
add another story to the 2000 blocking the sewer of the Internet.
Social commentary inserted without you even realising it, I do like
to test you all, I can hear you reaching for that bucket of water to
drench me. Oh was that a bar of soap you’ve thrown at me, I
thought it was a rock, what, you left the rocks outside in the
rockery next to your Gnomes. So you want me to strip naked before I
continue talking to you? I’m clean I have no need to wash, if I
paraphrase the Bible. But you insist.
So there I
am on a doorstep, naked, a hairy bear with scars and a breast poking
out through my bypass scar. All I hear is laughter inside and I can
see a light, I’m being filmed and uploaded to the Internet. Self
Isolation my fat behind, I’m being pranked. And that’s how I
explained myself to the ice cream man as I ran still dripping and
naked to the ice cream van.
You see Mr
Wippy’s 99s are legendary around here, so I just had to have an
ice cream and sprinkles too. I looked like that dog that does the
paint advert for Dulux, Dulux I said not those personal clothing
things made of plastic. You are all so deaf, DEAF. I’m having a
hearing consultation over the phone in 5 minutes, yes really. So I
think I may just stop now.
And the
point of all this? Well there I was with no motivation and now I’ve
added 600 words or so to my grand total. If I can write or talk to
you off the cuff the so can YOU. The thing is to just start, turn
the tap and see what comes out, something is better than nothing. If
you have a tick list, or a to do list then GREAT, or if you can only
muster a few words, then that’s great too. Something is better
than nothing, if you only do one square on the chess board, then
that’s a beginning, little by little you can do more and more.
Motivation is not about climbing Mount Everest on day one, it’s
about thinking, about preparing, it’s about doing.
You may
have 6 kids now, but it all started looking out the window, then
smiling at that girl, then waving to the girl, then inviting her in
for a cup of tea. Then finally years later you are a family with 6
kids. So motivate yourself to get off the couch and do something.
I’ve ended up with 19 books spread all over the Internet. But it
all started writing in pencil with a scrap of paper, then pages held
together with shoe laces. So motivate yourself to do something, and
yes chasing a girl and having six kids, is far more fun than writing
any day.
Shouting
Shakespeare (c)
By
Michael
Casey
Well
I threatened to write this, so here it is. As you all know Covid19
is annoying us all, young Covid needs a slap, and he’s getting one
right now as I speak, thanks to NHS and labs the world over. So what
about me? I need a slap and tickle, just the slap, you are all so
cruel. I’ll have you know Colombia is reading me today, they think
I’m Joan Wilder, or is it Michael Douglas, the local double
glazing fitter? I did post a photo with a banana on my head, but if
you don’t expand the photo you don’t see the banana. Can’t see
the banana for the head, and my toilet should be flushed down the
head for all you sailors out there, the navy is no lark after all.
Still
with me, remember I am the bastard, you know that already, what I
meant to say before you rudely interrupted me was that, I am the
bastard love child of Joyce Grenfell and Ronnie Corbet so does that
make my writing style so Gerald, not Duncan and Sandy kind of
Gerald, but Gerald Wiley. It’s a form of indulgence, not Papal
Indulgence, it is Lent after all, Francis does like Cadbury’s
cream eggs so I’m told, all so very Easter. I get all my gossip
when I go to Confession, it’s the best place for news why do you
think old mothers go so often. Not unless they get a pint of
Guinness from the priest while they are in there.
But
this is but the prologue, Ian Dale gets a quid a word, so 278 quid
so far if I were him, no wonder he waffles on, but I like waffles,
but only potato waffles, I tried the other and they were too sweet
and set fire to the toaster. So what has all this got to do with
Shakespeare, and I was called his agent by an Open University tutor
I’ll have you know, then the next year my play Shoplife was
accepted for the stage, so I am like Shakespeare. Though he was
produced and was I not, I think they did Rocky Horror show instead,
30 years ago. But that could be an excuse.
Which
brings me too Shouting Shakespeare, finally I hear you all groan,
any more cheek and I’ll come and knock on your door. But sadly I
cannot I am in Isolation for 3 months, me and my broken heart and
assorted ailments. I heard you all look to the Heavens and say thank
you God, and that was just the non believers. So we are all in this
together, Cameron should have trade marked that phrase he’d be
even richer now, he’d have so many caravans he could open a
caravan park, for writers who cannot write, no I don’t mean me.
The cheek, I don’t sit here talking to you to get abuse, I get
enough from the neighbours already, well when I Shouted Shakespeare
that is.
So
a stray word gave me the idea, Shouting Shakespeare. It was and is
so quiet here on our hill, so I thought I’d cheer the neighbours
up, as I normally do with the folks in my local shop. But as I’m
staying in, the Government insists, is it just me, what have I done
to upset Boris. I’ll ask him if ever I meet him. Anyway so I
thought the Bard, that’s what they need. So I went to the bottom
of our garden and started to quote, though the neighbours prefer I
choke.
To
Be or not to Be, measure for measure, a stitch in time saves nine,
and on I spoke, just trying to get their attention. Then I thought
I’d put a silly voice on, my Topol impersonation voice. They
seemed to like that, but it gave me a sore throat after 2 hours.
Shouting Shakespeare in a silly voice does hurt. As it grew dark the
nude sunbathers decided to go back inside, so they all wanted me to
shut it, so very Frankie Howard of them. But I persisted,
Shakespeare should be heard, I know it sounds absurd, but you must,
you can, and you will, Will Shakespeare that is, or was it Kenneth
Corner practising his chat up line in an old Carry On film.
Then
the neighbours started throwing things at me, tins of beans because
they thought I was just an old fart. Then one card threw a toilet
roll, to go with the beans. I was so affronted, and with the size of
my behind, I can be very affronted, but that’s just at the back.
They even threw stale rolls, but I’ve seen Heide so I knew I could
toast them and they’d be ok. Now is the Winter of our discontent
made glorious, I continued to shout. They would have beaten the
c(*& out of me, luckily I had plenty of toilet paper now. Only
the social distancing meant all they could do was throw things at
me, even the kids threw things at me. Luckily I have a sweet tooth,
and gelly babies don’t hurt when they hit you.
Finally
as I looked at the debris surrounding me I realised I had enough for
my dinner, and I could wipe the plate afterwards with bread rolls,
and as for my behind, my audience had also provided paper for my
behind. So I don’t get a pound a word like Ian Dale on the radio,
but I’ve nearly reached 1000 words now, just by Shouting
Shakespeare, so perhaps I’ll send it to him. Though I doubt the
radio would pay me for it, maybe I’ll send it to Isabel Oakshot if
I got her name right, she has better hair than him.
Though
she’ll just think I’m a nanna, I do have a banana on my head
after all, some card put superglue on it when they threw it. Expand
the photo to get the full picture, like reading newspapers, it’s
dying art, I am an old fart.
