Pulling Your Leg

Pulling Your Leg ©

By Michael Casey

We all love to laugh, especially when times are bad, a joke lifts the mood and lightens the load. There is even a term for it, Black Humour or Graveyard Humour, or even Gallows humour. A laugh can break the ice when you don’t know what to say. I can remember maybe 30 years ago in my computer room days when Richard came back after his dad had died. He had a neckerchief on and I said he looked like one of the Rice Chrispie kids, look at your cereal box and you see what I mean. It broke the ice and we all moved on, we were all young lads so we didn’t say “we love you”, we probably said it was his round next down the pub.

 hug, a physical hug does make a difference, we hug our kids when they fall over, we kiss our auntie, or we break convention and hug our neighbour when they share their bad news. We also hug when good news is shared. There is something special about a hug, though the English are renown for their lack of public hugging and kissing. I think we should copy the  French and Italians, I’m sure we are just as hot blooded as them, more so, they just boast about it more.

We loving teasing those we love, in fact it could be called proof of love, we wouldn’t tease a stranger. A tease is something personal, we are making gentle fun of those we love, it’s using insider knowledge to make somebody uncomfortable so we can laugh at their expense. But it’s all done with love. Then you make up, or share the sweets or cake afterwards.

A strip tease is something else entirely, it’s a way of heightening sexual tension and arousal. Either at a lap dancing club, or in the comfort and privacy of your own home or bedroom. I am of course an excellent stripper, just imagine a Sumo wrestler doing an ever so slow and seductive routine, I am Michael but I knock spots of Magic Mike. 

Though I should remind you to close your curtains or the neighbours will be in for some sex education, and some Sumo wrestling moves with a bit of Haka thrown in for good measure. Or I could just be teasing you, it’s all in the imagination after all, 50 Shades of Michael’s Grey Hair could be the title for my 11^th book. 

My Friend Andrew Dixon

My Friend Andrew Dixon ©

By Michael Casey

So you know you are sure you know what you are talking about? Andrew tapped his nose knowingly. What does it say on my donkey jacket? Andrew Dixon. Andrew smiled knowingly, and adjusted his horn rimmed glasses on his nose.

We were going to a huge car boot sale, Andrew assured me we’d make a killing, and his fee, he always called it a “fee”, he was posh like that, his fee was as much ale as he could hold down the Trader in Old Forge and Singing Anvil. So we tramped around a muddy field, in Old Forge and Singing Anvil, Big Sid the butcher was there doing a pig roast. This was a posh car boot sale after all.

So what do you think its worth? Andrew took his specs off and put them on again, before pausing for a moment, it was a pregnant pause, until he let out a large rasping fart. Andrew always hung out with Guiseppe from the Pizza Palour, and pepperoni was his favourite free pizza, need I say more, Andrew had his own central heating, permanently.  Give him 5, we can make 10 when we sell it on. So I gave him a handshake and gave him 3, I wasn’t made of money after all.

Andrew was full of advice, and wind, in a proportion of 5 to 2, 2 parts advice and 5 parts wind.  We always got a discount just to make us move on and not pollute the objet d’arts. So we plodded around the muddy field, stopping to get some pork from Big Sid, our Tesco plastic carrier got fuller and fuller.

How much do you think we’ll get for all this? Maybe 80 if you take it to that blind art dealer on Hope Street, or a bit more if you use adjectives. He just loves to hear adjectives. Sounds like a good idea, it’s started to rain now, let’s get to the pub, the Trader.

That donkey jacket is good, you don’t seem to be getting wet at all, and it has your name on too. Tell the truth it’s not my name at all. There was this skip outside the BBC full of them, so I grabbed this one. We could have made more money if we just stole from the skip. There was one donkey jacket with David Attenborough on the back, but it was covered in bird pooh, a really good design I think. Not unless it really was bird pooh.

So if you are not Andrew Dixon, who are you really? Sergeant Dixon is my real name, my parents had a sense of humour.  So it’s one thing hiding another, like having one Mona Lisa on top of another. Sounds like some  saucy late night film on Channel 4.   

Dear Santa

Dear Santa ©

By Michael Casey

Well it’s that time of year again, so here’s my list Santa. I have been a good boy, I ate vegetables, I even gave up meat. Trying to stay alive a bit longer after what turned out to be a quadruple heart bypass. I suppose the operation, was your Christmas present to me last year. So can I have something nicer this year. What do you mean, isn’t the gift of life enough?

I suppose you are right Santa, at least I’m not like the Sherlock actor demanding a light sabre, and he’s so nasty about you. How about giving him a copy of Winter Song by Lindesfarne. It’s the Spirit that matters not the big list, a bar of cheap chocolate from  Poundland is the best thing of all if it comes with love.

My mum used to say if they got a hard-boiled egg or an Orange at Easter or Christmas they considered themselves lucky. If you look at the picture of her home, my mum was born in a Manger too, and lived there for 12 years. The glue that holds the family together is the laughter, I know some families only allow Poundland presents to be exchanged.

Ok Santa, can I ask for something simple, you don’t even have to give me anything. Peace and Goodwill to all men? Not exactly Santa. Just some words, that’s all I want. I’m so proud of you, you really share my values as Santa. So what exactly would you like me to say, or do you want me to sing Silent Night in German to you?

No Santa, all I want is 6 numbers for the Lottery, 2, 4, 7, 9,18, 59 for example. Santa looked sad and even began to cry, his tears freezing into his long white beard. Santa I’m sorry, it’s just that we need a bigger house now that the children are growing up, and I’d like to be able to walk around my bed. And I don’t want to share a bathroom with 3 girls, and a female cat who always watches me use the toilet. Revenge for her having a cat litter tray.

Santa refuses to budge, he starts gathering up the reindeer who’ve been grazing on my living room carpet. Dancer who used to have a slots gambling addiction, whispers to me as the take up their position on the sleigh, why not use those numbers you gave as an example to Santa,       2 4 7 9 18 59 . But Santa never spoke those numbers so they’ll never win. Dancer had an idea, Santa are 2 4 7 9 18 59 the first houses on the list?

2 4 7 9 18 59 mused Santa as he looked at the scroll, No you got that all wrong, its 59 18 9 7 4 2 which are first on the list. Dancer winked at me as they pranced into the Christmas sky. So I’ll be trying them on the lottery, if I can find some coins down the back of the settee. Though George Osborne  found £7,000,000,000 down the back of his settee in the Treasury to pay for the Tax Credits. I wonder did he get his sofa from Argos like we did.

Santa is real and I should know cos, he aint that heavy cos he’s my brother. He washes his beard in Persil, and to get the suit to fit so perfectly he wears it in the washing machine as his beard and himself too is washed on setting 28 of the local Chinese laundry. Santa can hold his breath for an awfully long time, he has to as he is so high in the sky there is no atmosphere at times.

Anyway Santa is so dizzy when he comes out of the washing machine, he has to have 3 litres of Dr Pepper to counteract the dizziness. If you look up into the night Christmas sky and hear the sonic boom as Santa goes about his work, it is in fact Santa burping after all the Dr Pepper, and why is Santa so quick? Because he’s using the bathrooms, he did drink 3 litres of Dr Pepper after all.

So Sherlock a very Merry Christmas to you, and if you promise to be good my brother Santa may, just may let you have his very own copy of Lindesfarne’s Winter Song, its Santa’s favourite he plays it in the hifi on the sleigh as he travels the world, in between burping. Peace on Earth and Goodwill to all Men, and thanks to City Hospital and the QE, may God Bless you One and All. 

The First Christmas Card

The First Christmas Card ©

By Michael Casey

I was having a pain few days so when I got my first Christmas card of the Season it cheered me. It was from Martina my cousin’s wife in County Kerry, the memories flooded back as I opened the card. I’d spent 3 Christmases in Kerry in the 1970s, it was so much fun and plenty of feasting, I remember putting on a stone, 14 pounds as the Americans call it, or 6+ kilos if you are metric, in just 2 weeks. I was a teenager then, and not a single white hair on my head.

 The Christmas card evoked memories of times past, of doing The Dying Fly Dance on the floor of a cousin’s house, it was a big thing from Tiswas, my big hearted Auntie Delia jumped down on the floor to accompany me, Delia was 17.5 stones and only 5feet something tall. She was and is the best Auntie ever, 30 years on she is still remembered with love and laughter by all of us.

She once even prevented a jail break from Killarney Police station.She had a cleaning job there and one of the tourists who was backpacking decided to make a break for it in the morning after been arrested for having drugs. There was only one Policeman on the very early turn, so the backpacker made a break for it. So Aunty Delia helped the Police by rabbit punching the backpacker, 17.5 stones of punch, so saving the day.

Christmas cards from Kerry have very pretty stamps on, religious ones, angels and so forth, you can feel Xmas when you see the cards sticking out your letter box. They have a tradition of leaving a lighted candle in the window too, so as you drive in the dark all over the Dingle Peninsula you can look over the bay and see all the candles in the window, guiding you with Hope and Love.

Some say Christmas cards are a waste of time, a waste of paper. We used to have washing lines full of Xmas cards hanging in the living room, plus every shelf had cards on top of them. The card total would reach 150 to 200 cards when both my sisters still lived at home. All manner of cards and all manner of designs. The Holy ones came from Ireland and Irish relatives in USA, while the modern silly ones came from England and younger friends. I’m sure you can judge a person’s character by the design of the card they send. All are welcome.

You can send free ecards nowadays, which can have dancing elves where you put your own face on the elf. See how technology has changed the face of Christmas. Whatever kind of card you send, just send them with love and a few lines of news for your relatives, for a card is all about love, and love is what we all need in today’s bad world.

 this is where my mum was born and lived till 12 years old with 8 other siblings, so we have advanced in one generation.

Speaking is a very powerful verb

Speaking is a very powerful Verb ©

By Michael Casey

Prime Minister you are not properly dressed, the PM follows the eyes of his bodyguard, his flies are undone. The P.M. attends to his wardrobe malfunction, saying “I was speaking to wife” which is the only benefit of living over the shop.

I shall speak to them about it, says a very senior lawyer, this is the equivalent of arranging for the party of the first part to have a very nasty accident, falling down the stairs of the 3^rd party fire and theft, if you know what I mean. Speaking has so much power, that’s if you can get people to talk to each other in the first place.

I was speaking to your mum is a very nice phrase, but I’ll speak to your mum makes you quiver with fear, especially if you’ve been doing anything naughty, and naughty can cover a whole multitude of sins. Please God don’t let her speak to mum, she’ll skin me alive, or she’ll beat the living daylights out of me.

The two parties agreed to speak to each other, this is always a good sign when there are disputes, neighbours fighting over overgrown trees, or nuclear powered neighbours fighting over which end of an egg should be the one that is opened, the fat or the thin. Wasn’t that in Jonathan Swifts book, I’ll have to speak to my English teacher to find out.

There is speaking and there is speaking, a couple may fall out and not speak to each other. It may be over the size of the phone bill, or how much toilet paper is being used, or even who wet the toilet seat. So they don’t speak to each other till finally they give in, and have sex on the living room floor, strictly come dancing on the tv in the background. How the judges would mark them for performance and technical ability, perfect 10s and what exactly would Bruno say, I cannot say, I won’t speak about it. Ask me in 9 months time and then maybe I’ll speak about it.

We’ll speak about it later, but later never comes, so anger and frustration mounts, all because we did not speak. Just a few words here and a few words there could have changed all our lives. I did not know how you really felt, why didn’t you speak to me, are words lovers exchange just as one of them is dying in a film.

I’m tongue tied when I see him, I wanna tell him but I cannot, if only I could bring myself to speak to him. If she had spoken, if he had spoken, they would have been married 20 years ago. Now both are still single, regretting what could have been if only they had spoken. Or both are thanking God they did not speak, he is old and very fat, as well as bald. She is a smoker with a hacking cough. The only thing that should have been against her lips should have been his kiss. A word and a kiss, if only they had spoken.

Sometimes we speak too much, less is more so they say. Though teenagers grunt and don’t answer in sentences as if their batteries are running low. So speaking is a nuclear weapon which should be used with caution. If you get on like a house on fire then you will talk the hind legs off a donkey, or talk till the cows come home. Explain those phrases to your Esol students. Or as Churchill said Jaw Jaw is better than War War.

Dr Who Times Two

Dr Who Times Two ©
By Michael Casey

Dr Who Times Two, why have I called today’s piece this? Well sometimes it takes me two viewings to understand every nuance of the show, especially if you live with 3 girls and a female cat. I’d love to have it on even louder, I’d get a sound bar too, just so I could hear over the screaming of my wife to Shanghai or Korea on her phone. However I’m not allowed, though if somebody has one for Christmas that they don’t want then I’d give it a good home.
This season as the Americans call it has Capaldi as the Dr, it was his childhood ambition, now he is the Dr. He is not as funny as the Silly Dr as my children call Matt Smith. He’s not as heroic as David Tennant, who we never knew was Scottish until after he finished Dr Who. His real accent came to the fore only then.

Capaldi as Dr Who is a different Dr Who. Capaldi is the same age as me, though ½ the size and not as good looking, we do have one thing in common, our shades. Last night’s episode where he was trapped in a Rubic cube like moving castle was on 2nd viewing one of the best and in my opinion may win awards. Why do I say this?

The themes of perseverance beyond hope, beyond reason, with Clara being his prayer, his Hail Mary was very touching, being augmented by the use of music. This is where a sound bar would come in handy, although everybody was out this afternoon so I had the tv on loud, loud enough for Dr Who and that great Welsh orchestra.

I cannot wait for the final series ending episode, has Galifrey been saved? Well after Strictly Come Dancing next week we shall find out together. Capaldi’s Dr is a heavier Dr, he’s less plastic than other ones, earthier. Here in England the time slot has been pushed back due to the Rugby World Cup and then Strictly Come Dancing, so the tea time tradition has been eroded. Again as the guest writers write some episodes the standard does dip, so some episodes are a 6 and others an 8 or 9. Last night’s in the Rubic cube castle was a 9.

I read Dr Who review’s in the Daily Telegraph and they generally give 4stars, though for some episodes I’d say they were generous. The format this series has also had several 2 parters, which can irritate some viewers, a throw-back to the Saturday morning pictures of 50 years ago at the Grove Cinema.

I also read that Whoians or whatever they call themselves are too precious, and think they own Dr Who, too many inside jokes and references in Dr which only they understand, a code which the rest of us are unworthy of knowing.
As if the Dr were in private practice, when really he is a NHS crash Dr.