School Shoes

School Shoes ©

By Michael Casey

Shoes are shoes, are shoes, right? No, shoes are not shoes, they are school shoes, which is another thing entirely. And as for children’s shoes, don’t make my cry. They are something even more tearful, to the parent that is, the cost is so enormous.

You or me we got to the shoe shop and try them on and in 5 minutes you are out the door, you may even be wearing the new shoes and your old ones are throw in the bin. Shoes are expensive, leather shoes that is. Plastic or any other material tends to be cheaper.

The school year started a month or so ago, now ½ term approaches, and small daughter tells me she needs new school schools. She has small feet, size 2 or less, so normally she does not get through shoes as fast as her sister, who is a size 5.

So you look at the shoes and agree they are ready for the bin, so now you have to replace them. You can’t just give her any old shoes, they have to be school shoes, which have a special, almost magical quality, the fit, not the fit for the foot, but the fit for the school rules. Yes, school rules. They must be black and be plain, as if fit for the Amish or Quaker temperament.

Our cheap and cheerful shoe shop has closed down, and the other one is expensive, so the Internet beckons. We look at Clarks, they have nice shoes, in nice black leather, but I wince at the price. Small daughter doesn’t mind non leather shoes, so we agree to look at other websites. She does not have sweaty feet like me and big sister, so we can try non leather shoes.

We browse here and we browse there, then hey presto we find £15 shoes, which fit the bill, and fit her feet, and fit school rules. So we buy 2 pairs which we hope will last till the Summer, and save £15 if you can follow the logic.

So dad is given a congratulatory kiss, and small daughter skips away happily. Only to return half an hour later to remind you that the Seasons are changing and really she needs some new boots to wear to school in the bad weather, but once at school she’ll put her cheap new school shoes on.

So together we look at the boots, size 2 boots, at least there are no rules to conform to here. So we go to Clarks and they have a sale, and we put a pair in the basket, before opening a new Window.

We look at Amazon and Debenhams, and compare the boots. Are fluffy warm boots good enough, are the boots too tall, which would get in the way of small daughter’s running activities in the playground, or are they just right. I feel like Goldilocks looking for boots instead of a bed.

Then we find the just right boots, only they are not just right, as my small daughter decides they won’t match her clothes, when she’s wearing them not just for school. So we have to search again. Finally we settle for some mid- calf length boots with fake fur on the inside and thick soles  to keep her feet out of the puddles and snow this coming Winter.

So now she is a happy bunny and away she goes to play with her dolls’ house, at least I don’t have to buy shoes for all the inhabitants of that house, or I’d be in the poor house.

Photo is me in Malta 2013, if I make any money I'll return there

Pain and Fear Oct 2014

Pain and Fear Oct 2014©

By Michael Casey

Just so you know I’m talking from experience, not airy fairy philosophy, only my own philosophy learnt the hard way. I’ve talked to a few people now about Arthritis and pain. My own Arthur as I call it, arrived unannounced in March 2013. By the time I went through the health system it was 5^th October before I got some proper pain relief, for my left hip.

Then such is the nature of the beast that my other leg, hip and everywhere else decided to go out in sympathy. Now after maybe 4 to 6 months I hope that’ll be sorted too, finally.

I always say I don’t want to pop pills for the pain as I don’t want to turn into Michael Jackson, the name Michael is all we share in common. I don’t want to be addicted to anything, besides which my kidneys don’t allow me to pop too many pills. So I use Movelat gel instead. It works in 5 mins and doesn’t smell like Deep Heat.

So that’s my background, I have met people who suffer much much worse and for years. So should I should shut up, or grin and bear it, and have a stiff upper lip, the British way.

Personally I think stiff upper lip is bollocks, when you are in pain you are in pain. You are not even looking for sympathy, but a little empathy does go long way. I’ve met people who say their kid or grandkid or nephew or whatever has this disease or that disease. As if it’s a competition in pain. It’s not a competition, and I do pray that others do get a bit of relief from their pain.

The other thing I say when people are offering one up-man-ship in pain, is does the sufferer have a sense of humour. This takes the wind from their sails, and they even think I’m being unkind. Some even miss the point, if you have a sense of humour it deflects pain away, it lessens it. Humour got us through the War, if you can laugh at something it is not your master.

Fear of something is greater than the thing itself, Churchill knew that, so we should all remember that too, whatever pain we have. He also said Never Never Surrender. That’s true too. I have seen people give up through pain and sorry, it just leeches away the soul. So the answer really is Always Look On The Bright Side of Life.

It does not mean that I or anybody else is a comedian, and all singing and dancing comedian. A kind of Bruce Forsythe but on speed, or any other substance. Your outlook on life colours your life itself. If you give yourself a crucifix to carry then you will weigh down your soul. I’m sad because of this or because of that, my Life is Over, this mentality is a Cancer.

I don’t say we should be like Patch Adams, we can all heal ourselves, medicine helps, but it is ourselves that help ourselves the most. Give yourself a kick up the bum when you are feeling glum. So you did not get that job, that girl ignored you or slapped your face.

Life moves on, and we have to move on too, or we are drowned in the sea of life, time and tide waits for no man. I had a Birthday and this means I am now the same age that my dad was when I was at the lowest point of my life. It was my dad’s Birthday and I’d lost a job and I could see no hope on the horizon.

I can remember my dad shaving in the kitchen sink, saying sagely that something would turn up. I never knew if he really believed what he was saying, then or now. But I believed and loved him totally, which I hope every other son everywhere does. And if you don’t then you don’t have a Kerry Blacksmith for a dad as I did.

So I lived in hope and my brother said try computers, so I did, so I applied for one job in computers, and got it. That job lasted 21 years and laid the foundations for my very life. My fears were banished and I had a secure job.

How did I repay my dad for his confidence in me, I visited him every single  day when he was in the old people’s home, for 3 years, 20 years later. It’s all in Padre Pio and Me.

The pain of loss is a great big thing, I know as my mother died, then 8 weeks later my dad would have joined her, but my brother did CPR and saved our dad. So we had 5.5 years extra time, time to show our dad our thanks for his great life and influence over us his children.

When mum died I shed not a tear, not one, as she had ordered us not to cry for her, and not to fight. This was her mantra for years before her death. To be honest, she was worn out from her large family. 

When dad died finally, a week after I’d found another new job, escaping the scrap heap again, I was in pain. I howled like a puppy dog being beaten with an iron bar. Grief does that to you. History repeated itself, I had found another great job. I was working for CPNEC Birmingham. Hotel work is hard work but great fun. I really did excel at the hotel.

So I’ve talked about real pain, as in Arthur, emotional pain as in losing a parent. I nearly lost 2 in the space of 8 weeks. So which is the worse.  Emotional pain always trumps physical pain. The heart feels pain more than anywhere else. So when your friend is going through a divorce or her bloke cheats on her, be there for her. A few words here and a few words there can and do save lives and souls too.

Some may think you are a stupid sod, but if you shine sunshine into a life as the clouds gather and the walls come crashing down, then, you will save a soul. You may also make a friend for life. The clever people don’t know what to say, or they are too posh or too polite to say anything. This is Wrong.  A hug is worth more than any amount of pills from a busy uncaring doctor.

You may wonder why I try and write humour most of the time, and not more serious posts like this. Well the answer my friends is blowing in the wind. Music is therapy too, that’s why your neighbour was playing Barry White all night long for a week. Until either the Police raided his house, or he realised there are as good a fish in the sea that ever came out of it.  

You Only Know When You Are Dead

You Only  Know When You Are Dead ©

By Michael Casey

There is something similar between Paul Merton and Alfred Nobel, no Paul Merton does not have an explosive delivery. The thing I see in common is this, they had to have a death before they realised what people really thought of them. Alfred Nobel read his own obituary, then he changed. Paul Merton only discovered after his parents’ death that they admired his success.

Which has set me thinking, what do people really think of us. Will they only tell the truth behind our backs, or do they have the balls to tell it as it is to our face. I once said of somebody that he was “shallow” then a week or so later when we were all down the pub, as was our company’s religion, I was confronted by him.

I heard you said I was shallow. Yes, and yes you are. Do you want another pint I asked, so I got a round in and no more was said. In those days 20 years ago and more the company was more like a social club, but, everybody did work very hard, very hard indeed.  We have all scattered to the 4 winds now, but I’m sure when we all look back we all look back not in anger, but with laughter.

When I left the company I’m told they had the largest leaving collection ever, though that could have been like Cecil D Milne’s funeral, not because he was liked but  everybody wanted to make sure he was really dead. However, as I look to my right I have a painted water-coloured copy of a Burne-Jones hanging on the wall, the angel is playing a flute, below is our piano which my eldest daughter plays on. We saved up for years to buy it, and now the fruits are being to show.

Why are people afraid to say what they mean and mean what they say?  Perhaps I was born blunt, or honest as I would say, there is nothing worse than asking people what they want to eat and then they change their mind, or moan afterwards that they really wanted something else.

Whenever the kettle is boiled in our house I’ll ask do my girls want a drink, tea, green tea or hot chocolate. So I don’t waste the gas. My youngest is the one who says no, then says yes just as I’ve sat down again at the computer, just as I’m in mid-sentence.

Though I should not complain as they always give me inspiration to write something new, 550 short stories, pieces like this is my tally so far. Take a peek at Amazon Kindle if you want to read some. Slice of life, as the NY poet Elaine Polin would say.

When you are dead and in your grave its only then you realise that a coffin and a grave is just like being in a submarine, such a small space to sleep in, though you’ll never again come up for air. In your grave you’ll hear the grass being mown above you. You’ll hear lovers make love in the sunshine above. The laughter of children as they steal the flowers from your grave before giving them to their teacher in the school next door to the cemetery.

The rain beats down on your headstone, tears merge with the rain, somebody has come to pay you a visit, only the sound is muffled six feet under, they should have left your hearing aid in when they put you in your box. They put shoes on your feet, but a hearing aid would have been more useful.

You strain to hear who is crying, who is lamenting your passing. Its none of your family, it’s the cleaner from your office, you gave her some advice to help her son read. Now he’s passed the 11 plus, all because you spent a few minutes chatting every night to his mum. She forced him to listen to Radio 4 and to read a quality newspaper, and then there was that book list you gave her. It was nothing really, but it was enough to change her son’s life. Just as BBC Radio 4 had changed your own life.

There’s laughter above, two drunks are sitting and spitting as they drink cider as they sit on your grave. You wouldn’t mind a drink yourself, it’s a bit boring just lying here all stiff 6 feet under, if only there was cable tv in the grave. At least you have time to think, and you are not rushed off your feet any more.

No need to visit my grave you had said, I’m with you, I’m in you, I’m your dad, I’m your husband, your boyfriend, your secret lover, your boss your friend or whatever else you may have been. No need to tramp though the rain to lay flowers. That’s what you said, but secretly you wish somebody came, its cold and lonely in a grave.

So on it goes for all eternity. If you were a Poet maybe people would come and you’d hear laughter and listen to your own poems being read back to you. But you were just you, and sometimes its only when you are dead that you know just how much or how little you were loved.

So love now, not tomorrow, because tomorrow you could be dead.

You are always better than yourself

You are always better than yourself ©

 By Michael Casey

 You are always better than yourself,

because you have the love that made you,

so that’s 3 to start with,

then there is the love that you gain as you create friendships,

and find a partner too,

so you are never alone,

you are forever growing,

add Faith too,

so we are all Eternal.

Michael Casey

*** I stumbled over this on my PC then I deleted it by mistake, then I though I’d never find it again., So I was glad when I finally found it in a dark corner of my PC. I just  hope you all like it.

Theatre

Theatre ©

By Michael Casey

Theatre, or drama what is it? Its life with the boring bits taken out, though you can stumble over a bad production. I’m going to take my daughters to see Blood Brothers, it should be great, I saw it years ago so now maybe 20 years on I’ll be taking them. If you get to the lift quick you can get to the bar real fast, and then have a pint of Stella for me and ice cream for them. This is the Birmingham Hippodrome.

I did take my girls a few years ago, we saw Fame. I think they’ll enjoy this show even more. They can prep by looking on UTube, I looked at Barbara Dickenson singing “Tell me it’s not true” last night, her singing was so powerful. Both my daughters are singers, my eldest daughter has got her Dean’s Award, which is a musical singing and theory exam. So I fully expect them to learn the songs and sing them incessantly when we get home.

I started going to the theatre when I was in my twenties, I went for a number of years. In those day’s people used to dress up when they went to the theatre. I once saw Anne Diamond in a long evening dress in the circle of the Hippodrome. I used to wear my black velvet jacket when I went to the theatre. Nowadays I dress for comfort, though I’ve reached an age where I don’t wear jeans anymore, so I don’t look like a member of Status Quo sat in the circle.

Before you are married you can sit in the best seats and please yourself, post marriage you have to think about the price of kids’ shoes. You can get out of the habit of theatre. My Shanghai wife was introduced to theatre, or should I say Panto, some of which she understood, the rest was totally totally strange to her.

So marriage and a different culture led to different things. Such as Chinese food in the Chinese Quarter, just outside the Birmingham Hippodrome. Though when I first met my wife I was positively vetted by a Chinese Ballerina from the Birmingham Royal Ballet, which is based at the Hippodrome. A friend of a friend is called “Chimp” and he works as a stagehand at the Hippodrome, he even toured China with the Birmingham Royal Ballet. So you could say there will always be some form of connection between the Hippodrome and my life.

Now a show is just that a show. You are captivated and controlled by the production, you are one with the production. I once saw the Conterfeit Stones at the Alexandra Theatre, the performance was amazing. The imitations and the singing were unbelievable, I’d tell Sir Mick to go take a look at himself. This is theatre at its best where you are carried along with the show.

I used to see bands perform at the Bell and Pump, this was mainly Folk, then I’d see Jazz at the Waterworks Jazz Club  the next day, this was mainly Trad Jazz. That must have been 30 years ago, for a number of years. It’s because of this exposure to music that I can spot a good singer when I hear one. At a folk club there is theatre too, the way in which the band or solo artist holds the audience. Mad Jocks and Englishman were beyond compare, they must be all retired now.

Eddie Izzard was at the Hippodrome once and the way in which he rocked the audience back and forward, literally holding them in the palm of his hand. He did a joke about Engelbert Humperdinck and it was like watching a cat play with a mouse, such total control of the audience. Ken Dodd is totally different but he really is a Master of Mirth, control and avalanches of material, and a 4 hour show if you are lucky. He just never stops, you always get your money’s worth.

Theatre, does entertain, the Roman’s knew that, bread and circuses keep the Plebs in check. When done right the emotion on the stage spreads and touches everybody to the core. People can be helpless with laughter, crying with laughter. Some say it’s like a religious experience. The best play I ever saw in my life was Candide at the Birmingham Rep, it was standing room only.

There was a funny pitched circular stage if I can remember correctly. Period costume and riots of laughter. I imagine like the performances at the new Globe theatre in London. I have Taming of the Shrew on my Sky+ box, I need to sit down and watch it. My point though is that theatre IS better than film or your tv, it’s right there breathing on you.

When done right theatre is a conspiracy of the stage and the audience, especially something like Candide. There are no barriers, no tv screens nor silver screens getting in the way of you and the story and the performance. And yes my play Shoplife was accepted for production but not finally produced, so I still dream what if my play was on the stage.

So I hope that now my girls are older I can watch their faces as we see Blood Brothers at the Hippodrome, I hope the spark will be passed on between us. Who knows one day they may be on the stage, singing, performing or as the writer of a new play. 

Confessions of an Art Lover

Confessions of an Art Lover ©

By Michael Casey

I like Art, I suppose in a way I love it. My mum bought a picture printed on cardboard, it’s a street scene in snow, cost her 10p at a jumble sale. I still have it, it’s hanging over my bed, I’ve had it for 46 years maybe. That one thing has influenced my life till now and forever.

I even bought a book on Art while I was on holiday in Exeter with my brother, it was a 3 day weekend with hotel and car hire thrown in. He had named a locomotion engine and the holiday was the prize. So if ever you see “the graduate” that’s the train named by my brother. The art book was on sale and we got another quid off because there was a mark on the front inside page. I still have that book, it’s behind the telly.

I was just watching Andrew Graham-Dixon on tv, his programmes educate me. He’s been talking about artists from 100 years ago who were trail blazers, England’s version of Picasso if you like. Though that’s a very large over simplification.

The thing with art is its art, it’s not a photograph, it has many more meanings than a bare polaroid. Artist love the female form, the female nude is everywhere in art, and the internet in today’s world. Artists get bored with just one version of anything, so they stretch and strain the images. Look at some of Gaudi’s work for example, then look at Picasso’s, the form, the image on the canvas is changed and mangled even.

It’s as if the artist is drunk or looking through a kaleidoscope, or looking at a refection an image through a broken mirror. Nothing is as it seems it’s all been changed. The female form was corpulent and fat long ago, it was the tradition, then with time and different schools of art the nude was presented differently.

Everything, the landscape, the way of painting everything has changed, we had Constable so millions of copies of the Haywain adorn millions of homes. We had Turner with a blob of spit in the centre of an angry sea swell. We had the Pre-Rafaelites too with their almost cartoon bright colours, by the way Birmingham city gallery has a great collection of them.

Time and Tide wait for no man, ditto the artist. That’s why I need my guide Andrew Graham-Dixon to explain it all to me, and to help make the penny drop. Some may follow Man United, some may follow Formula One, others follow the still a Brit Murray at the tennis. Me I did play rugby at school, but I’d just love to sit down to dinner with Andrew Graham-Dixon and a  60 inch HD4 tv  set beside us.

As we enjoy our meal, cooked by AGD’s Italian friend I could be taught the History of Art, I have a large stomach so I could be deeply educated. The length and breadth of art, as well as the 16 course menu that would cover the table as I look up and learn my Art.  

Perhaps I am just naïve, but a painting on the wall does turn a house into a home, and if you understand all the nuances of the painting then so much the better. It’s like being on holiday abroad and being able to understand the language. Art is more than pretty pictures, it is a language, which is even better if you understand it.

as you can see I like my art, that's a copy of a Burne-Jones above the piano, it was a leaving present

Recording Star

Recording Star ©

By Michael Casey

I’ve been recording my short stories recently I recorded 4 more today in fact. As I record them the memories come flooding back, some of the stories are 3 years old, so as I record them I smile and sometimes laugh. I also want to add an extra line or two, it’s really hard sticking to a script.

There is a difference between a writer and a reader or a radio speaker. As a writer I want to change things, so recording my own words is like being on a train, I have to follow the tracks. As some of the stories are 3 years old events have moved on, so I want to change or give an update to the story. So it’s very hard for me just to read the words on the page.

I used to read the Lesson from Bible when I was young, over 40 years ago. You cannot ad lib when you are reading the Bible, or jazz it up, it is what it is. Though sometimes at Mass a priest may read the shorter version of the Lesson, you have to be disciplined. So I have to be disciplined as I record my back catalogue, I reached 194 today. I have recorded 194 out of 540 short stories.

They say Video Killed the Radio Star, if you remember the old song, so maybe I should be putting all my stories on Utube instead. Though I do think Radio is my medium, I did listen to BBC Radio 4 for 20 years before I started to write back in 1987. Words should be heard and listened to, and enjoyed, pictures can get in the way.

Recording makes you “announce” your words, the flavour is different, the comic timing has to be correct as you read. I was also thinking today as I listened back to my recordings that I could learn a lesson from Sinatra. Yes I do everything my way, I write in my own style, but if I recorded His way then it would be better. Clear enunciation, crystal clear enunciation, though you have to have a balance, I don’t want to sound like a BBC radio announcer from after the war. Having said that my daughters say I sound like a news reader, which makes me smile as my wife says I look a bit like Huw Edwards.

So on I go recording my shorts using my microphone which has a blue lcd light in it, makes me feel important, I suppose my very own studio live light. Its tiring too, all this recording, I hope that finally I can get my words on the radio. My other idea is to sell a book of shorts with facing page translations with a usb stick attached with my recordings on. Would you like learning English by reading my words and listening to me too?

I suppose in the end I may just be talking to myself, but isn’t that what radio is all about? Talking to yourself, in the hope that others are listening to you and smiling as they hear your words on the radio. I’d be happy either on the radio or in print or cyberspace. All I need is the Help of God and Two Policemen as my mum used to say.

This is me before I got a decent mike