Friday, 30 June 2023

6 years on since I wrote this

Philosopher in Pyjamas

Philosopher in Pyjamas ©

Michael Casey

Clever people don’t wear pyjamas, they are nude in bed. As I am, because my bum is just too big for pyjamas, and so when I got my own house 30 years ago I ditched pyjamas. Ok, you can all reach for the sick bucket, 30 years not a prude.

So why are we more relaxed in our PJs and not in our office attire? And why are we so cool when we are in the nude, obviously because we have no warmth from our clothes. Its ideas that keep us warm, its in our PJs that preconceptions are lost, and yes you can see it coming, when nude preconceptions can end and conceptions begin. Its 22.45pm here in Birmingham so you’ll have to forgive my opening.

When you are chilled, again through lack of clothes you are more inventive, that’s why companies have dress down days. These days make us all equal, or so is the theory. I find wearing comfy shoes makes me more relaxed, ask any woman when she comes home from work and throws her heels off. As she pours herself a glass of wine. Me a bottle of Dr. Pepper and my brown suede shoes does the trick.

Ditto with soft furnishings, if you are sat on a nice sofa and not on your hard office chair then you are more relaxed and creative. Google and such places are like a Wacky Warehouse such is the level of low key and dress down. Perhaps a toilet made out of soft furnishings would end constipation as well.

I try and have a comfy chair as I sit here talking to you all,with a bit of Gerry Rafferty playing in the background. As I am heavy and sit in the chair a lot they only last a year on average. I may replace the one in the photo soon, perhaps I should ask for a chair sponsorship from an office furniture company such as Staples. This story is brought to you by Staples printed at the bottom of my story. Or try and get a computer company to offer a free PC and printer, and not forgetting free unlimited Broadband. Sadly nobody anywhere would be so kind.

Its hard to know what anybody will like about a story, some people won’t get the joke, like one I tried to make about Scholes and Scholls tonight when I spotted somebody wearing a football shirt. All I can do is put my words out, on the page or live to people I meet and hope they get it.

You have to be philosophical about it. If you get laughs 90% plus of the time then you are doing well. Some people will always think I’m an idiot, and not like what I say. I don’t like the Harry Potter books but a billion people do. Who is right on that one? Me or the billion readers?

Have you got the strength to stick to your guns against a billion to one others? Again it depends on your self confidence, and your self belief. Yes things are not always Black and White, and modern writers say White and Black to be trendy and thereby become a herd animal with words.

There are many shades of grey which is a Monkees’ song, and you have seen my hair after all. But you must always be true to yourself. But never say I’m Sorry But, say this is My Opinion, never say sorry but for having an opinion, you’ll be apologising for the colour of your eyes next. Though you do know I have nice eyes, its just everything else about me that stinks, especially my writing. See I stole the words from your mouth, perhaps I should go into Politics.

I have to watch the Press Preview on Sky now before bed, so I’ll leave you all pondering on tonights words. If you are as old as me you will remember Two Tribes by Frankie Goes to Holywood, if I remember right there was a video of Reagan and Gorbachev wrestling. Perhaps politicians should mud wrestle naked, then we can see all their shortcomings. And then laugh as we vote, it would be great reality tv.

Or am I just too far ahead of my time? Tick Tock the clock stops for no man. And when it does we argue with God that we just want a bit more time with our family. We feel exposed as God see us all naked, without any Philosophy. So if you are reading this God, I really did want to live till I was 100, but can I share my pain with a few sinners. I’ll let you chose who. Or am I trying to be too much like a god.

Singapore you've nearly done it, more readers in Singapore than UK if you Carry On

I'll be disappointed if you turn out to be an AI Bot

I'd rather kiss a lady, so here's a Kiss for my Singapore girl

As for me my Head is Exploding

Because its great news day today at home

One daughter has learnt to ride a bike, on grass with video

grass as in green grass not substances, naughty people reading this

All smoke makes me vomit

and any passing substances give me a massive headache, just passing on the wind

the other daughter is off to PRIDE in London

she has great friends down there

So hello boys

She's not Lesbian, but parties are parties after all

my other daughter had to pretend to be, to get into some clubs

they even gayed up a straight guy, just so he could get in

Music and Safety combined

so if you are having a Pride thing anywhere just be safe and happy

Magic Mike, no not me, my girls saw that too once

and one daughter was serenaded by Magic Mike himself

at the end of the show, we have video to prove it

must let Totoro the cat out her bells are jangling

If Putin had more Pussy Cat dolls in his life

and a bit more PRIDE maybe he would not have invaded

But be careful out there

And speaking of Music, thank you Jeff Bezo for the

Unlimited Music Offer, I've signed up today

Michael Casey the fat silver haired writer in shades from Birmingham England

Thursday, 29 June 2023

A Tearjerker, pure Kdrama maybe, Michael and the chink in the wall (c) by Michael Casey

Michael and the Chink in the Wall ©

By Michael Casey

Michael was all alone in the house, he was abandoned, left all alone with just the mice for company. He was the kitchen boy in the Master’s house, he’d fetch and carry and be allowed to sleep in a corner, just like a dog, but a dog would at least have a basket. He was actually the Master’s son, but when the pantry maid had died in labour, Michael was kept in the kitchen, the Master agreeing not to send him to the Workhouse, a promise he kept as the maid died before him.

Being the eldest, Michael should have inherited the house and the fortune, but he had been born on the wrong side of the blanket. The non bastard children were in fact very ugly, but the Master had married for a fortune, and not for love. Meanwhile Michael slowly rotted in the kitchen, while snotty noses enjoyed their Victorian life.

Michael would sit and dream on the cold flagstones, just shadows on the wall for company. Sometimes one of Charles Dickens’ stories would appear wrapped up with carrots or turnips. Michael loved Charles Dickens his stories were so good, what with the cliff-hangers, one day Charles Dickens would be famous. The cook just laughed, but she enjoyed listening to Michael reading out the stories while peeled the spuds. That was the only reason she had taught Michael to read, so she could entertain her, she had in fact invented Radio, minus the radio that is, Listen with Mother if you like.

Every night the staff went to the attic to sleep while Michael shivered in a corner, it was a slow death of the spirit apart from Charles Dickens. Michael had to try and fall asleep before the kitchen fire went out, or he would not sleep at all, the cold being so bone chillingly cold.

There was a chink in the wall from the house next door and this was Michael’s tv, without the tv that is. For in the next house everybody was always happy and gay, the servants laughed and even danced. They had a good Master, their fire was always on, the Master liked a warm house, he had made his fortune in India so he liked a warm house.

If Michael squeezed himself against the chink in the wall he could hear the singing and smell the cooking, he could pretend he was with them in the warmth of company and of real warm. There was actually a bit of heat coming from that chink in the wall, Michael loved that house and that kitchen, it was so full of life and joy.

At night Michael fell asleep mumbling the songs that he’d heard from the next door household. In the middle of the night he’d regularly awake, his toes numb with cold, his bum freezing too. So he’d get up and stamp around. Only shadows for company, the one candle in a jar his only illumination. Michael would hold the jar and press it against his body for warmth.

Even the shadows on the wall had pity on him, they would dance about and form faces of people dancing and talking, trying to amuse and console Michael. The very stones cried for him, shadows of tears fell. Michael loved their company in his daily Dark Night of the Soul, a shadow is great company if you have no friends, if you have to decide whether to burn Charles Dickens for warmth or save him so he can warm your soul. Such a choice, warmth of the spirit or warmth of the body.

The same shadows came night after night, they were in fact peopled by stories from Charles Dickens, if your body is so cold, then all that is left is the spark of soul. Or distant smells and laughter coming through the chink in the wall. So your imagination sees things in the dark, you see what you want to see in the cold and dark. You see Hope. You see Love. You see Laughter. You see dancing shadows.

The cook gave Michael a sweet, it was covered in muck and feathers, she’d found it in the street when she’d been to the butchers, a few weeks previously. She had only just remembered it. It was a present for being such a good boy. It was also a goodbye, Michael would be 9 next week so the Master had decided to let Michael find his own way in the world. Michael would have to leave.

The Master was going to buy a puppy for his legitimate children, Alpha the dog would need a space in the kitchen, Michael would have to leave to make room for Alpha the dog. A dog is a man’s, a Master’s best friend after all. The promise to the pantry maid had been kept, 9 years Michael had squatted, now he was man enough to find his own way in the world.

The Master ordered that Michael be locked in overnight and then in the morning when Alpha arrived Michael would be shown the door. Michael stuffed all the Charles Dickens in his pockets, he’s freeze one last night, but Charles Dickens would be part of his new life whatever and wherever that may be.

The walls wept, if only Michael could squeeze through the crack in the wall, if only he could sing and dance with the neighbours, they were having a Christmas Eve celebration. Michael fell asleep dreaming that very same dream. He was dancing and drinking punch, the maids all gave him a dance and a peck on the cheek. They all loved him, he was not the bastard son, unwanted and thrown out to make room for a dog.

Michael danced and laughed all night long, he was so happy, a much loved member of the family. He was smiling in his sleep, clutching Charles Dickens in his hands. That was how they found him in the morning, curled up like a dog, but with a smile on his face, and Charles Dickens’ new story in his hand A Christmas Carol. Michael had died happy in his sleep. But how he got next door through a locked door nobody would ever know, not even the stones would tell. Sometimes all the love you need is a chink in the wall.

that story is 7 years old

I am a well rounded writer, in every sense

ye Pregnant look when I sit down

yes Pregnant look, when I sit down 29 June 2023

Thank You Singapore for Blitzing me, I hope you like what you’ve read

Please. Put a sign up in your Building

Michael Casey Reading Rooms, outside the public toilets

Then you can be Flushed Away

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how did you spend the last hour?

pain came down suddenly as ever

left shoulder down arm, finger tingling

paracetamol, my pain killer never good enough

slap on hemp stuff, but lately that takes longer to work

so now an hour later, after tears of pain

i'm back at my desk, typing with just my right hand

the left side is just too much pain

and no, i'm not making this up

and yes it is too much for me

so prayer and cursing combine

till the pain lessens

the tinnitus is always there too

so some days i lose

and the tinnitus can be triggered to a much higher level

so then i hide in a ball in my bed

or lie on the blue sofa behind me and listen to music

in the dark with just notes for company

so if you think you'd prefer a new new story

then all i can say is DIY

these bullet points have taken over

due to tinnitus and pain

but i hope they give you a fuller picture of

Michael Casey the fat silver haired writer in shades from Birmingham England

and Singapore you are going to overtake UK readers in a days

so despite everything, do come cook for me

does daddy own a catering company?

or does he own Greggs?

money is no use, just the spirit and nice eyes

but if you have read everything the you have seen

all of me already

except my scars all over me

here's a nicer house

https://www.rightmove.co.uk/properties/136223276#/?channel=RES_BUY

6 bed, 4 bathrooms

still walking distance from where I live

though, I'd take the bus myself

so Singapore, when you are finished reading

come cook for me, B17 is the posh postcode in Birmingham

though I'm from the wrong side of the tracks so to speak

Wednesday, 28 June 2023

Coming of Age, a repeat, so now you know more of me

Monday, 10 January 2022

Coming of Age, 20, me it was 11

Coming of Age, 20, me it was 11 ©

Michael Casey

Well an item in the news attracted my attention, Coming of Age in Japan which is when they reach 20. Ditto in Korea. It’s in the newspapers so you can read it for yourselves. So, it got me thinking, when was I all grown up. Well it was when I was 11, Summer of 1970 before I started at Grammar school, the 3rd brother at the same school, hence I was called Casey Minimus by the Latin teacher, a very small man called Mr Hanny.

He got Max Francis who was 6feet 4inches to stand at the front while he taught the body parts in Spanish, so Max was a visual aid. His younger brother Simon was in the same class as me, 1B, which may have stood for Brothers, as we all seemed to have bigger brothers in the school. The UB40 guy Ali was in my class too, he broke his collar bone playing rugby and cried, we though he was a girl for crying. A friend I made in 1B was in the class too, so I know him 52 years. I think 4 of the class became Drs including my friend but he was just a PhD not a Medic.

Now I could say a bit more about the class, such as MacKenzie a Black guy who could run like the wind, I think his dad was the cobbler down the road, as for Clive he’s a Rastaman now, last time I passed him on the Dudley Rd years ago. Anyway your environment is part of your Growing Up. That and your family. So in a way I was all grown up, or wide as Big D might say, he was so small he was nicknamed after a brand of peanuts. Woke rubbish was not recognised 50 years ago.

So if you grow up with lodgers in the family house, then you learn about them. We even had an alcoholic struck off Dr as a lodger, dad carrying down her Piss Pot to empty in the outside toilet is one of my memories. We had a fridge of sorts too, all the fancy Minton tiling was where our daily 6 bottles of milk were left to stay cool. We were a family of 8 after all, 2 girls and 4 boys, plus mom and dad, hence 4 children’s milk and 2 sterilized milks, not forgetting our cat and dog, making 10. Sterilized milk was for dad to take to work at The District Iron and Steel Brasshouse Lane Smethwick, in a little bottle, as the heat from the furnace curdled any children’s milk. He did want milk for his tea after all, that’s what sterilized milk is for after all.

So you grow up seeing the alcoholic lodgers, Mrs Casey here’s the rent. As they swayed at the side door, dragging on a fag. Then when they bailed out you had to clear out, and why are nurses so messy? You have to keep their rubbish for 3 months, in the old coal shed in the house next door, just in case they come back to pay the owed back rent. Dad is gone 20 years in 2 week’s time, he was far too kind, a gentle gentleman.

So I have experience of tidying, I even had a lodger die on me while I tried CPR. But that was ten years later. If you come from such a background you are grown up, and 50 years ago I knew too many things which I wish I never got to know for decades or even ever. You have to compartmentalize or not even think of it, hide in the bunker of your imagination or prayers till the storm passes or the tide ebbs.

I could say more, I could write a PhD thesis, but I don’t need to prove anything to myself, nor anybody else. But I did nail PAX over my door once I got my own home. And then a year or so after that I did actually stumble into writing in 1987, it was not planned it just happened. What is in your life, just ends up on your page. Though 20 years of radio listening thanks to Frank Brown, who mum called the Best Lodger did play a part too. I remember him giving me an orange and he had the programme of The Jungle Book too from the Gaumont Cinema, which was the biggest screen in Europe. Later the site became where Pinsent Masons office, where I worked for 3 years 30 years later.

Events in your life, direct and indirect play a part. I noticed in today’s article about Japanese coming of age, 20 you have a bank account. My dad got me mine when I was 8, I can remember the bank, and going in with dad to do it. I can recall what dad was wearing the string bound bank book. Though today with 2 student daughters I have nothing now. A day without pain is enough, or Tinnitus not driving me to the edge and beyond, which it does almost every time I wake up. Tinnitus is worse than all the pains I get and they are horrendous at times, hence the current hospital tests.

Coming of age can be a sudden thing, or a series of things, with one being the straw that broke the camel’s back. Never Give Up is playing as I talk to you right now, Gallagher and Lyle are right, as was Saint Mark, but it is my own credo already and always. Life is full of colour, if you just say I’m Bored, or There’s Nothing to Eat, or There’s Nothing to Do, then I suggest look inwardly. The Greatest Journey is the Interior One, or failing that look at the back of the fridge, you can always make something with an egg, even if the egg is slightly cracked.