Knowing your audience

Knowing your Audience ©

By Michael Casey

If you ever look at my words http://butcherbakerundertaker.blogspot.co.uk/ is one place you’ll find them and www.michaelgcasey.wordpress.com is another place too, what you’ll discover is my mainly comic view of the world, a few typos too as I tend to write late at night after I’ve laughed at the Press Review on Sky News. I hope I amuse you enough so that you come back, eventually you might even buy my 9 books on Amazon.

It’s strange for me to look at the viewing figures and see where my readers live, or rather where their IP says they live. You can hide and disguise your IP so that you appear in a different country. Who knows President Xi may be a fan of mine, or even Putin and Obama. They ring each other at night and ask did they see my latest story, Pope Francis reads my stuff first of course, I did predict Francis would be the name of the next Pope, IF only I had put money on it, but the Love of money is the root of all evil, a card just fell off the hifi behind me, made me jump. I get the message anyway.

This past week I’ve had viewers/readers from:- Russia, Ukraine, USA, Portugal, France, Belgium, and here in England. So what are they doing, or are they all hackers? Does the humour travel, judging by the map it must do, it has reached Far Flung Places or Palaces, which sounds like one of our Chinese relatives.

It will be interesting to see if the Political Correct Brigade suddenly appear to condemn me for the last sentence. I’ll draw to their attention that my Chinese nickname is Panzi which I was told meant Fat Fat Boy, by my Shanghai wife, now more than a decade and a half later I am told by my Birmingham/Shanghai daughter that it really means PIG.        So who is being more Politically Correct? I hope that puts political correctness to bed.

As I write I don’t think this will appeal to the French or the Russians, I hope the commonality in my stories crosses all frontiers. I won’t quote Shakespeare and be all pretentious about him, I will say Falstaff is probably the character I have most in common with. I did in fact study Henry IV Part One for my Eng Lit O level a long long time ago. I even did a year of Shakespeare at Open Uni. All I’ll say is that the good bits are great and well worth watching on Sky Arts or wherever you find them.

However I will ask why do schools kill Literature by the way they study it. My daughter has started her GCSE English course and I remember how I was taught it 40 years ago. Can they just give the kids 2 weeks to read the set texts on their own, and then watch the video, before they start the line by line Postmortem of the book.

Now you see I’ve got side-tracked, because words are important to me and I just want people to enjoy words, not to see them as Castor Oil that nurse forces you to take, or English Literature forced down your throat. Words should bring joy, and if they don’t then the teaching is wrong. Discuss.

 Now back to you, my audience, even if it’s just one lonely person reading by a torch in the confessional while waiting to confess the next sinner. Francis your secret is safe with me, you are my number one fan in the Vatican, did Benedict forward my email to you when he resigned?

Anyway, you can connect with one person by talking about something they are interested in, as a Concierge+ for 3 years I spoke to 100,000 people all told, so I had plenty of practice at talking and breaking down barriers. When I write I speak about what interests me and hopefully by writing in an entertaining way I can get and keep the audience’s attention.

A singer has his set list, and from his experience knows what works and what does not. Certain songs work better in different cities, and countries. I spent years in a Folk club drinking in the corner, I also migrated to Trad Jazz as well. A feel for music even if  you can’t sing a note means that you can spot a good singer from 100 yards, and a bad snger from 1000 yards. You see stagecraft good, bad and indifferent.

Speaking of music I’d love to go drinking with Putin, imagine me and Putin have a couple of pints of Stella Artois in a back street bar in Birmingham. A singer starts singing at the piano in the corner, Putin is really really enjoying it. So he gets up to dance, I’ve had too much Stella Artois so I get up to dance too, me. Putin and the FSB. The lights come on, we all in a Gay Bar and its Elton John at the piano. Elton comes over with the biggest bottle of Polish Vodka you’ve ever seen in your life. Putin drinks it all, and spends the night dancing while Elton plays Abba songs.

I’ve side-tracked myself again now, but at least any gay readers and any Russian readers might be both amused and asking Santa for my stupid idea to come to pass. That’s the thing with writing, anything is possible. If you know my own story you won’t believe it either, but I assure you it all really happened that way.

Finding a Plumber

Finding a Plumber ©

By Michael Casey

As we all know a good plumber is worth more than Gold itself, and the prices they charge are of that order too. Last week we heard a drip drip drip but could not discover the origin, we went outside to put something in the bins and all was revealed, the overflow of water was coming from the upstairs central heating feeder tank. So now all we had to do was find a plumber. But hang on our central heating was covered by insurance, or so I thought.

Insurance is a strange thing, you are covered or you are not covered, it’s like your boyfriend stealing the duvet, sometimes your bum is exposed and a target, other times you are totally covered and as snug as a bug in a rug, while he shivers on a mountain ledge. So your insurance cover is like that, various degrees of coverage or exposure. So joyfully I rung my insurance company, I assumed I had total coverage, only it turned out my bum was exposed, and no joyful target for my wife, it was exposed and not covered by my insurance company.

In plain English, my new boiler was covered by my boiler insurance, but my header tanker and its float, they could have been on the Moon. They were not covered, but the insurance company could cover them, if I had them fixed first. As for my radiators they were not covered either, apart from my pants covering them while they dried and filled the room with steam. So now you know.

So the hunt for a plumber began, which was almost as difficult as Stanley’s quest for                 Dr Livingstone. You always go on recommendation for plumbers and builders and maybe even priests. So we got a recommendation for Peter, who  I thought was the same Peter who did my sister’s central heating. Only it wasn’t, it was cool West Indian lad, who said “later” which was supposed to be an hour later, but turned out to be never. Maybe he had something to do, but not for us. Then we had another plumber in mind, an Indian guy who’d done up several houses in the neighborhood and fixed our kitchen gutter. He was going to do a garden gate for us as well, but the cost was too much in my opinion. So I made a garden gate myself, out of the old slats from my pine bed. As for the Indian his phone was no longer receiving calls, so option 2 had gone.

Option 3 was look online, so I found a fancy plumber and told them what I wanted, a quote for a new float in my feeder tank. They replied with an automatic email, they even had a wonderful website, telling on a ticker whose toilet had been unblocked.  Only my job was too small for them as I never heard back from them.

Time had passed and my hair had grown longer, no I hadn’t turned into Rapunzel, maybe more like the Wolfman, so I gave in to my  Shanghai wife’s nagging and went for a haircut. We are blessed with maybe 13 hairdressers where I live, half being for women and half for men. So I went to the Italian barber, only he was shut. So then I went to the Russian barber, only she was shut too. I had spotted a new Pakistani barbers while I was trying to have my haircut, so I decided to go there. He had a certificate on the wall proving he’d had some college training in hairdressing skills.

I was pleased as his hairdressing skills matched the certificate on the wall, so that was great. We got talking and he told me how his cousin encourage him to try barbering. I was about to guess what he’d done previously when he told me, taxi driver. I smiled I remembered all my taxi drivers when I’d been working at CPNEC Birmingham, we had had a great relationship, they came in fast and I got them out ever faster. Keep the customer satisfied was my policy, get our guests where they wanted to be, and keep the drivers happy too. Most of my drivers were Pakistani lads.

As my hair was cut and the years fell away I asked on impulse, do you know any plumbers? He picked up a card from the shelf in from of him, plumbers. So my quest to find a plumber had ended, in the barbers shop with my ½ price haircut. I rung the number on the card and then 2 days later the plumber arrived.

The plumber Mr J was young and strong, he needed be, as my header tank was in a strange position, it was in my bedroom about 8 feet off the floor. Mr J had to remove my mattress and part-dismantle the bed so he could get the ladder up under the tank. As I’ve still not fully recovered after my bypass and my arthritis means I cannot exert myself too much. Mr J did the business and my central heating header tank float was replaced. And my bed put back together again. All for £50 and in one hour.

I did offer him a cup of tea, he couldn’t stop, so he said maybe next time, I said I hoped I never saw him, we laughed. I wasn’t laughing the night before, some bastard had tried to break into our home, but that’s another story.

Writing for Playboy

Writing for Playboy ©

By Michael Casey

I never thought of writing for Playboy until today, it was in the News that Playboy wouldn’t be having Nudes any more. I think it’ll be more like our page 3 or the Sun which we have over here in England. There was even a piece in the Daily Telegraph extolling the virtues of the Nude in art and the Nude and the Love of the female form in Playboy. There weren’t any glossy pictures to go with the article.

I could offer myself, my body, as the last naked form in Playboy, but I think they’ll like to finish with a female, despite me being so great looking in drag. Besides naked no matter how good my drag I’d be rumbled, even if I crossed my legs and shaved my entire body. All the pain killers I’ve been taking post op have given me a very slight pair of man boobs, so now I’m a 46AAAAAA.

What if I offered to write for Playboy, how could I interest them and their readers in my Words. Well I can write humorous stuff, but would it match the under the bedcovers photography of the girls, whatever their state of undress or part undress. Would the readers tear themselves or their eyes away from Mandy the 38CCC model to read my Words. I did write a piece called What Makes a Man Attractive to a Women, such pieces of mine could they prize the eyes away from the Girls to the Words.

I never really think of a target audience when I write, I hope I write for all, I hope what springs from my mine to the page is interesting and funny.  Would Playboy give this Birmingham England boy a chance to amuse, to amuse in all the foreign editions too. Would my words be a hit in Japan or Russia, or would I have to appear naked with a pocket dictionary  to be my protection against rejection, rejection I said are you  all deaf.

There was a book about Noel Coward the British actor, wit and playwright called A Talent to Amuse written by Sheridan Morley, that’s the son of the actor, anyway it was so wonderfully written that the words flew off the page. Would Playboy have featured his writing, well he is otherwise engaged, but my diary is free, and I’m available and Hugh doesn’t need to use the casting couch with me, though I would do almost anything for an XXXL dressing gown of his.

So if you want this Birmingham boy to write for you, just get in touch, I have already sent an email this morning, it’s in your system somewhere. Just give me a couple of days to iron out the wrinkles in my body, then I’m all your, just be careful with that staple.

020 3805 0585 is a fake computer help line do not ring them

if your computer is unlucky enough to get a pop up locking the screen and an audio message saying ring
020 3805 0585    

DO NOT RING IT NOR GO TO THE FAKE WEBSITE ON THE SCREEN

they will hack into your computer and steal your stuff, do not have remote assistant.

It says do not switch off. so do the opposite.

SO SWITCH OFF YOUR COMPUTER AND DISCONNECT FROM THE INTERNET WHILE SO CLEAN YOUR PC.

By coincidence? I had a phone call which was a silent one, a few minutes after the pop up/
Beware of bastards.
Goodnight and never leave passwords on your PC nor bank stuff on it either, 

Wrapping Paper

I stumbled over this old piece today, after I'd tried on my Winter Coat, spot the connection with this piece of writing.

Wrapping Paper©

By Michael   Casey

             

I was in Aldi and I spotted Winnie the Pooh wrapping paper, my smallest girl just loves all things Winnie the Pooh, so I got the paper. I wasn’t sure whether to wrap her Birthday present in it or just let her have the paper. In the end I gave her the paper to play with. She was delighted, immediately she wanted to use the wrapping paper to wallpaper the walls with. As I’ve said before she once said she liked Winnie the Pooh because his belly reminded her of my belly. Such is a child’s love, unflattering but love.

It did get me thinking though, why do we need wrapping paper? Packaging is part and parcel of ordinary life.  Easter eggs are the thing with the most packaging, so much packaging and then so little chocolate. My mother gave up on Easter Eggs because of the cost, there were so many of us Caseys after all. So we had bars of Cadburys chocolate instead, the Cadburys  factory is just a couple of miles from where I’m sitting. Easter came and we devoured the Cadburys bars, cheaper than the Easter Eggs but so very tasty.

People have wrapping paper or layers all around them, we can all remember what Donkey said to Shrek, so many layers like an onion. At the moment I’m dressing up in the wrapping paper called a “suit”, so that I can get a new job. So people can see me at my best, hide my tummy and hope they forgive my premature white head of hair, as for my bushy eyebrows God alone knows what they may think. You can judge for yourselves by clicking on the photos on this site. How much do you reveal, how much do you hide as you have an unnatural experience that is called an interview. Perhaps interviews should take place in a coffee shop, as you may know LLoyds of London started in a London coffee shop 100s of years ago. Even better interviews could be held in a bar. You have two pints to prove your worth, so don’t spill the peanuts over the interviewer’s haute couture dress. Perhaps then at the 2nd interview you have to sing karaoke with the 2 interviewers, and IF you can sing My Way word perfect then you get the job. It sure would be more fun.

More wrapping paper is used when we are embarrassed or too shy to explain things to our doctor, we waste 5 mins talking about the weather and the Fall leaves before we finally blurt out that its a boil on the bum or something below the waistline. And why is it that on these occasions the doctor on call is one of the opposite sex, why can’t it be your usual doctor.

Wrapping paper is used an awful lot in Faith, we lie to ourselves and our God/Gods by thinking we don’t have to do this or we don’t have to do that. Faith can become a Buffet, we lie to ourselves and God, this bit does not matter, so we’ll show God only so much of ourselves. A bit like cheating in an exam. I’m sure  God’s smiling as he watches us, perhaps the Saints place bets on who will finally come clean, clean being the operative word. The Saints queue up ready to intervene, which 999 or 911 call will come though so that a Saint can be dispatched. I know in1996 when my mum had died suddenly and then 8 bare weeks later my dad was given 1 week to live, we actually picked the hymns for his funeral he was so bad. Then all the layers, all the wrapping paper was off, Padre Pio came to the rescue. So that I met my wife in the old peoples’ home, 3 years after my dad came back from the dead. Dad lived long enough to hold his grand daughter in his arms, 5.5 years after that massive heart attack.

The ultimate wrapping paper is love, its hard to say you love somebody when your heart has been broken so many times before. Its hard to take a chance when somebody might laugh in your face. Slowly you reveal one thing, then another, then another, yes I can see  the idea of a Monty Python joke as I write this. I do write comedy after all. But when 2 strangers become friends, when 2 become one, then all the wrapping paper is off. She may not mind your hairy back or fat stomach, he may not mind her big feet or whatever she feared. It can turn out that  what one thinks is ugly your Love may find attractive. Love is Blind after all, Love conquers All, Love is all you need. Together naked, the wrapping paper is discarded.

Fairy Liquid and All That

Fairy Liquid and All That ©

By Michael Casey

As we all know Fairy Liquid is the best washing up liquid, that’s why my wife insists I buy it for her. Yes I do the washing up, or I used to until she decided  I was useless, I did not rinse properly, and the rinse is the important bit, she does have a chemistry degree after all. So as I love her so much I went to Iceland to buy Fairy Liquid for her, even though she didn’t give me the money for the Fairy Liquid, it was an act of Love buying the Fairy Liquid.

Then I noticed the price so I was tempted to try another brand, much much cheaper, so I was tempted, a bit like seeing a kebab and wolfing it down, even though I’ve given up meat since  after my operation in Jan 2015. So I gave into temptation and bought the cheap washing up liquid, I got 4 bottles for the same price as one big bottle of Fairy Liquid. You can see why I was tempted, please don’t judge me, I know it was wrong, but it was a big big temptation, 4 for the price of one. It was like what happens at a Christmas party, TEMPTATION.

So I went home guilt but defiant. When I got home I squeezed the green coloured washing up liquid into the Lemon Fairy Liquid bottle which was still on the kitchen sink. Only Totoro our cat witnessed my crime, and she wouldn’t tell, but to be on the safe side I bribed her with some chicken from the fridge. One whole bottle of the cheap stuff was squeezed into the Lemon Fairy Liquid bottle, then about 3/4s of the 2^nd bottle of the cheap stuff, I was triumphant.

So what to do with the other 2 bottles of the cheap stuff? I decided to hide them under the sink in the old metal bread bin that I had brought from my family home when I bought my own house. Then I had 2^nd thoughts, what if I was found out by my Shanghai wife, a Shanghai girl is known for 3 things, her beauty, her intelligence and her NAGGING. So I quickly removed the cheap stuff from under the sink, and decided to hide it in plain sight, I’d squeeze it into the hand wash and my anti dandruff shampoo. Then quickly as if my wife was in the next room I took the evidence outside and put the 4 empty plastic bottles at the very bottom of the recycle bin.

For five days my wife did not realise what had happened, she is a very busy woman after all, what with her career. I did let the cat out of the bag and explained it to my children, Totoro our cat miaowed that I had bribed her, such a traitor, my girls just laughed. We had hidden the fact that I’d bought my smaller daughter a new Zara coat from my wife before, it looked exactly like the one grannie in Shanghai had bought her, but was a much better fit. It took my wife 6 months before she discovered my subterfuge. But Fairy Liquid was sacrosanct to her.

Each day when the dishes were washed my daughters stifled their laugher and Totoro had to be bribed too, 3 girls could they be trusted not to spill the beans. Then finally tonight my wife noticed that the hand wash and the washing up liquid  were the same colour, both a pale imitation of the real thing, not Coca Cola but it was not Fairy Liquid either. It was just too much for me so I burst out laughing, with my daughters joining in, I’m sure Totoro was laughing too. I laughed so much that it hurt, my chest scar does still hurt 9 months after my operation.

I also warned them all not to use my shampoo, or they would be using cheap hand wash on their hair. They all screamed in terror, girls are very sensitive about what goes into their hair. It would be revenge for all the times they had stolen my shampoo, speaking of which the Aldi Tea Tree shampoo is really good, and its cheap. My wife chided me, her stupid and clever husband, but if I was so stupid what did that make her?

I left the house still laughing till it hurt, I promised to buy her some real Fairy Liquid, if I was quick Iceland would still be open. She promised to use the other rubbish first, but she longed for her Fairy Liquid. I know she’d make me use the rubbish washing up liquid on my hair, but I don’t care, I’m a real man, and real men don’t do use Fairy Liquid, because they are banned from washing up as they cannot wash up properly!