Innuendo or 700 UP

Innuendo or 700 UP ©

By Michael Casey

Nudge nudge wink wink, you know what I mean, what’s it like, to win an Election as Miliband asked Cameron.  Eric Idle isn’t in Parliament yet, so we won’t be talking about the size of his majority, or how big his swingers are, sorry I write that again, the size of his swing, the one he has in his garden, under his oak tree, he is a conservative, conservationist I mean. It’s all a load of Politics, and you know what Politicians are like, a load of silly stunts, have I mistyped that?

There was a menu in stone, not even our local take away has a menu writ in stone, writ on plastic so when the drunks heave it can be cleaned up with a bucket of water, I think that what Hung Ho said, I’ll ask my Shanghai wife to translate. Put or is it but, disloxia however you can’t spell it, transposes words like that, or maybe I just type faster than my brain spells.

Innuendo was an album by Queen, I’ve got it in my box somewhere, you are all ahead of me now, you dirty dirty little twits, did I misspell that too? I’ll have to start using a dictionary, I don’t mean shoving it my nose either. Where did  you all go to school, you bunch of readers, and I deliberately miswrote that time, you’re all a bunch of readers. And where did you go to school anyway?

Eric Idle, Cambridge. Nothing to do with punting on the Cam, what does punting mean anyway, though I could guess, you and your python, I bet that has something to do with impressing the girls. Seeing a Don to guide you with your studies when you weren’t busy punting, what do Dons do? Do they teach you extortion and murder skills, plus Medieval Latin so you can write frightening notes  to the opposition farting about in Oxford, the dark side as it’s known as.

And before I forget why do all the spies and traitors come from Cambridge, is it a bridge over troubled water, or too much punting made them blind, blind to the love of their Country. Footlights what does that mean anyway, what did Stephen fry anyway, was it his kippers, and that’s what all the stink was about his “performance” no wonder his friend drove a lorry up the Cam, which must have been very painful, so he became a doctor in America.

What is Snow Whites favourite drink, well you can make your own mind up about that. I used to be a shandy drinker for a few years, then Jonathan introduced me to lager and pints, and no that’s no metaphor. Stella Artois is nice, and no Stella isn’t a girls’ name and Artois doesn’t mean “are you” Stella Artois is just a great drink, I may even have one when I have something to celebrate, heart pills permitting.

I have gone all tangential again, and what’s a Tangerine Dream, it sounds disgusting to me, oh it’s for my ears, I thought it was form of cricket box, to help players performance, or rather to protect their performance. And why when they are in they are out, and when they are out they are in, is it some form of dance? And what’s all this stopping for tea? Tea? Have they not heard of Costa Coffee, or even Stella Artois?

Rugby that’s my game, real men, with oval balls, it’s a sad affliction, but it does explain the way they walk. Why do they huddle with their bums in the air and move about like crabs, they haven’t got, no of course not, half the team are doctors after all. Or they used to be, very violent doctors but doctors none the less. Injure then Heal was their motto.

Well I can hear screaming behind me, no my behind isn’t screaming, I’ve hardly eaten all day, it’s my daughters behind me. I have to feed them before choir practice. Yes real singing, no metaphors included, they are in a choristers. So I’ll finish now this has been my 700^th piece of short writing, Julie Andrews is ringing the doorbell, she gives them a lift in her Subaru, such a noisy woman, and such a bad driver, I’m sure she’ll fall off a cliff.   

Hopes and Dreams

Hopes and Dreams ©

By Michael Casey

I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas, well we missed that by 3 weeks, but are having it now. We have High Hopes and Low Desires too. Hopes for this and hopes for that, indeed prayers for this and that. The more we hope for this the more we turn to prayer. Our mind is so full of something that we dream about it when we sleep, we just cannot switch off, our very dreams want whatever it is that we want.

We dream of kissing that girl, and more. We hope that our dream becomes a reality and the girl says yes. We want to join that band or club, or just get a ticket to see that band. So our waking thoughts become our night-time dreams. Our one track mind, is still revving even as we sleep.

Sleep should restore our body and mind, deep deep sleep, which is essential for our equilibrium. If you destroy somebody’s sleep you destroy somebody’s very soul. Ask your local torture chamber they’ll explain it all to you. Insomniacs are very ratty people, like tax collectors or accountants something in their soul has turned to ice, because they have not had enough sleep.

Now if you have Hope, even if your dreams are disturbed, then the hope will guide you and be a life raft in the sea of dreams. Hope is more than dreams, its more than prayers too it’s inner confidence, its juice, its electricity if you like. It may be because of faith inside you, or you may just be made of the right stuff, whatever it is your hope will save you.  

I’ve had hopes and dreams in my own life and you have to be dogged about them. You have to be like a rabid dog, never let go and you’ll get your dream. Saving for a house nearly 40 years ago was one much dream. Then starting to write 30 years was another. You just have to persevere, nobody will read your rubbish, your pieces of paper, you just produce more and more. Nine books worth on Amazon to date, and 100pages of Undiscovered Words 2016 so far.

Nobody knows who you are or where you are, you are the Undiscovered Writer, with a picture of Charles Dickens at his desk as your screen saver.

But Martin Luther King had a dream too…. 

Journalism a Paper Won't Refuse Ink

Journalism, a Paper Won’t Refuse Ink ©

By Michael Casey

My dad used to say that “a paper won’t refuse ink” when he read something that he thought was too scandalous for words and should not be printed at all, or in my dad’s opinion was just all lies.  The old adage that newspapers can and do print anything.

Everybody reads the Sun, or used to, on your way to work you buy sweets, fags and a copy of the Sun. This presents one world view, a borrowed copy of the Mirror presents a different world view. As you grow older you read other papers, such as the Guardian in Dunkin Donuts then you graduate to The Daily Telegraph.

I am a DT person now, though it’s hard with all the pay-walls, so you have to have 8 browsers at least so you can continue reading it for free. I do look at the DM and DE too, I am a news junkie after all. My dad used to watch Sir Robin Day on Panorama, I sat with him watching maybe 50 years ago now, then a few years later I shared a double bed with my brother and Douglas Stewart Reporting, the world tonight on Radio 4. This has given me my love of words, and 20 more years listening to BBC Radio 4, before I started as a writer.

Its funnier still as my wife’s uncle was a Political Editor in Shanghai and her dad did a bit of writing in a newspaper in Shanghai too. I only found this out less than 20 years ago. So in a way it’s obvious that our daughter at 12 is already such a good writer, it’s in the breed as my dad would say. He also used to say, they couldn’t be honest if you paid them, which could be applied to some of the naughty boys, but let’s move on.

I do have a radio reporter in my novel The Butcher The Baker and The Undertaker, you’ll have to read it for yourselves. But what of reporters here in UK, how do they go about their business. There are a variety of styles and weights, I do have one favourite who has now moved to USA in the massive crop rotation of BBC reporters. Suddenly without warning my favourites were now on different continents. Anyway my favourite one, XX, treats politicians with contempt, he doesn’t call them lying bastards but his manner towards them is so great to watch. He’ll no-doubt say he is drilling them, as they should be.  

You have different styles on different stations, and should you stray to foreign stations it’s more like a toothpaste commercial, all floss and no substance, but the clothes do look good even if the quality of the journalism does not match. Not that I want scruffs on tv, and of course radio reporters are all nudists after all, that’s why they are always sniffling and getting colds. However the quality is better on the radio, I did spend my formative 20 years with BBC Radio 4 nudists, in a manner of speaking that is. I’m sure they’ll be a rush of graduates heading for Radio 4 now.

Why do people talk to journalists in the first place? Is it the sight of the microphone and the pop filters that turn their heads, let’s put Radio 4 nudists behind us or we will be distracted, it was only a thought after all, I’m sure Nick and John would disapprove, not unless they are hiding something. Anyway why do people talk to journalists? Is it the overpowering reek of alcohol which overpowers them so they just give in and spill the beans? In today’s world it’s is more likely the Costa Coffee, though I’d rather have a pint of Stella Artois myself, and it’s probably cheaper.

People just love sharing gossip, and if it’s about that Slut or Bastard up the road, and no I’m not talking about celebrity journalists now, I mean people talking about people in number 94 by the bus stop, next door to the chip shop and that suspicious lock up garage. Well with a bit of coaxing the whole can of worms is opened, and why should he park his motor in that little garage, his very expensive motor. Jealousy and Envy are great tools to excavate a story. As is getting people blindingly drunk, or flirting outrageously with a a woman old enough to be your grandmother.

For balance I should say there are heart-warming stories too, and some reporters do a load of those. We’ve all seen Bruce Almighty and the lame film with Will Ferell, I’m sure the unctuous Royal Reporter would love to stop all the brown nosing and have a juicy murder mystery to sink his fangs into. A tale of modern day vampires, in the churchyard, or in the flat above the laundromat, the churchyard is so cold in the winter.

And on and on it goes, reporters report, what has been seen and what has thought to be seen, and there is a difference, and knowing that difference is the difference between good and bad journalism. And a Pulitizer Prize  is their reward, not unless they get caught making it all up, then they go to jail. When instead they should have just have sent it to Simon & Schuster, Inc.

Twitter Followers

Twitter Followers ©

By Michael Casey

I’m trying Twitter out, in another vain attempt to track down a few readers, or a publisher or radio station that’ll do the hard work for me. I did try FB and LinkedIn only I just got tracked down by mad people, I know what you are thinking already so I’ll just say “shut your face” as Frankie Howerd used to say.

My michaelgcasey has also been abused by millions of variants, on FB I tried restarting my account and the first thing I was asked was how many of these names did I know and study with in, Hydrobad or was it Islamabad or and other bad, all I know was that it was BAD. So I gave up and forgot about FB. There is a Michael Casey in Birmingham but he is a not me, I’ll say no more just in case his account is hijacked. There is another in NY, he is a journalist for the New York Times.

So Social Media has its pitfalls, and I have fallen into all of them. I even tried the French version of FB/LinkedIn and yes you’ve guested it I was pursued by mad people. The usual I am dying and am a good Christian/Jew/Muslim with 14,000,000 in gold bars from a sunken ship that they want me to help to offload on the bullion market. I’d get 50% for my help.

The usual BS in other words.  If people want to send me an automatic Cartier Diamond Blue large version then feel free to send it to the  Lord Mayor of Birmingham England telling him to ask the police to find me, and if he cannot after 3 months he could raffle it for the dogs home.

Now I’ll get loads of emails about this, I would like a big house in Harborne too, so they can talk to the Lord Mayor about that too. He can find anybody, the police do know me after all. He’ll probably be banging on my front door tomorrow, dressed in all his regalia, all because of social media.

Before I forget, hello to readers in:- USA, Russia, Poland, Ireland, Germany, Norman no I mean Norway, Portugal and Spain, I may have missed out a country or two. I’m sure the British astronaut is following me too. I am a needle in a haystack after all.

So now I’m on Twitter, I don’t know how it really works, but strange things happen, and a few have happened today. Perhaps I should tweet Jerry Hall as she makes Rupert Murdoch laugh, hey Jerry get him to look at my comedy writing. Then perhaps I’ll earn that watch and house before I die. Though if I die my kids will get a dog, they got a cat when it was “only” heart problems. Or the Lord Mayor of Birmingham gets it all instead.

Just say NO x 1,000,000

Just say NO x 1,000,000 ©

By Michael Casey

I don’t know about you but I hate being pestered in the street for whatever reason. I have eyes and ears I can see and decide for myself. So I can cross the road and be a bad Samaritan, or I can be a good Samaritan. I can give a packet of biscuits to the ever growing beggar population in our area, or to our regular Big Issue sellers outside our supermarkets.

It’s up to me, to my conscience, to my values. I decide if I want to help, or if I think they are just cluttering up the street and bringing down the area even more. It’s up to me, it’s up to you, it’s up to all of us. We all can and do make up our own minds. I do get a regular God Bless from my Big Issue saleslady, her children like chocolate by the way. I do in fact treasure that God Bless, as you know I have now had 1 year of Grace after my unplanned quadruple heart bypass. So who knows it may be her God Bless that has helped keep me here in the land of the living. It may even be her God Bless that gets me into Heaven and keeps me from the Fires of Hell, so think about that. And maybe you’ll regularly donate a packet of chocolate biscuits to her and her children, it could be the ultimate insurance policy.

So you’ve had a glimpse into my heart and even soul. However if its mad people handing out leaflets for some religious cult, they could worship toilets and flushing is their way of praying. Can you think of some other religious cult that attracts the rich and famous, and gullible? Well whatever they believe in, I don’t want to be pestered on the high street or in the city centre, I just want to be left alone. I am a catholic from the nipple, see photo that goes with this piece.

My one trick is to speak Italian as they lean into my own personal space, No Parlare Inglese I say in my best fake accent, or accident as my Shanghai wife sometimes says. I can also use French or Spanish or German. Or I point to my ears and feign deafness. What I’d really love to do is what happened in Airplane, if you have good memories you’ll remember for yourselves, if not go watch the film. Sorry the dustbin is over there, or I’m not collecting rubbish today, or no thanks my diarrhoea is much better today, are some of my replies.

Then you walk on past the sad people, they may even been double glazing salespeople, or ambulance chasing lawyers, who are the worst kind of people. And on it goes. However what is even worse are cold callers on the phone. Why are the cold callers even worse? The worst of the worst. Because they invade your very home. Imagine you are in the bath and a man with a clipboard appears from  under the toilet seat, demanding you do a survey. Or you are admiring yourself in mirror, naked as you have just got out the bath, when a man appears from inside the wardrobe. He wants to know about your finances.

These things don’t happen, well not unless you are a drinker or taking illegal substances, or plant food which is legal but should never go up your nose. Anyway the next worse thing is the phone caller, from far far away in the land of Shrek. They just won’t take no for an answer. You can tell them you are dead, that you are a ghost or John Doe and your wife is Jane Doe. Then you curse and hang up. You were just about to watch The Voice on tv, or put on your wife’s clothes, cross dressing is your religion, that’s why you shaved your legs and were admiring yourself in the mirror.

Then they ring two hours later, just as you and your wife, or somebody else’s wife, it is Tuesday after all, anyway you were about to have relations, and this does not mean your brothers are coming around to play Monopoly either. Relations not Relations. So you answer the phone and you hear the static from an international call centre, and there is even a 3 second time delay. They want you to tell them everything, even your inside leg. So you swear at them in 3 languages. And you ask them do they know the meaning of this crude word in English. Then the phone goes dead. Victory.

The next day just as you are on the toilet the phone rings, you think is John with results of that big tender you put in, so you hurry, and soil your pants, then you fall down the stairs and split your soiled pants. You answer the phone, they want you to confirm who you are. After falling down the stairs and having split your soiled pants you don’t know who you are, you are just very angry. They want you to confirm you address, so boiling over with rage you tell them, I am Dr John Doe, 27 Cemetery Lane, Wokingham, Kent, WK9 7XP  The guy on the phone is triumphant, he gets his £5 bonus, enough for a month’s worth of rice.

And why does the international nuisance caller want your address that he’s found on the Internet from when you used to live in England. Because there is a toilet paper promotion and they want to send you some free samples. David Walliams must have got his idea for Billionaire Boy because he too had these persistent nuisance calls.