Social Media Rules Ok

Social Media Rules OK? ©

By Michael Casey

In the Old Days we’d go to the smoke filled pub and have a beer and debate sorry argue, there were even Smoke Rooms, tell that to your kids and they don’t believe you. Nowadays we go to wine bars, or bars, pubs the ones my dad used to go to are long gone. In fact the biggest one is now a MacDonalds, or rather a cellular unit was lowered into place after the Cape of Good Hope was demolished, as was the Locomotion Engine over the road, even the Brewery has been demolished to make way for housing. Though the design life for modern housing seems to be only 40 years.

So where do we go to argue nowadays? We go to FB or Linkedin if you are a professional, but never offer a compliment or you will be called all manner of things. I spent 3 years at CPNEC Birmingham and did we go around ignoring people? Compliments are great especially if meant, if there is a wall of anger then we are all worse off, much worse off.

I also spent 3 years at a major law firm and the people there were amongst the nicest I have ever met. The recruiting policy rooted any bad apples, before they could get in the barrel. And yes I can hear you already how did I get through? Perhaps they had a sense of humour too, or I was a Penance for them. One small thing, they had to hire a coach to take staff, including lawyers out for the day to do a literacy event at a school. That’s Class in my book.

Now as for Social Media you can use it to arrange a place and time to meet your friends down the pub or at the gym, and why isn’t gym spelt Jim, it would be so much easier for kids being taught to read by lawyers. If you like Social Media is a notice board, it’s our fridge with the fridge magnets on it. Face Book should be renamed Indesit Ice Diamond, or whatever brand of fridge you have.

You have social media with photos too, Snapchat, this is where all the embarrassing things are shown to the world, forever shamed in cyberspace until another European Law arrives, if it hasn’t already. In the old days somebody would fall over in the bar and a laugh would go up, that was the end of it. Now everybody has a camera on their phone so 20 versions of the event are uploaded. If you are a star people can make money out of your misfortunes, like not wearing knickers, and why do they never wear knickers, are they not paid enough?

We have Twitter as well, this is perhaps for witty people, for banter and so forth. I’ve given it a try in my quest to find a publisher/producer/radio outlet for my words. Getting a “like” from Kay Burley is my highest achievement.  I’ve abandoned it for now, and why have I abandoned Social Media?

I just tend to attract Loons, on Twitter I was followed by a Porn Star, or so it would seem, and a Boy Band, they follow you but then do nothing. You get people who want to sell you stuff following you. Or you get Born Again Christians, who I resent as they seem to think they own Jesus. He is for everybody, as is fresh air and water, but for them they own HIM, I just say they should listen to Genesis, the band not the 1^st book, Jesus He Knows Me, from the We Can’t Dance Album.

Andrew Childes recent documentary highlighted my own feelings on Faith. Andrew became a Catholic and in his film he had meals with Christians/Jews/Muslims and guess what he said the scariest people were the Born Agains, the major 3 he had a great connection with, but the Born Agains were scary.

Appropriately enough 666 just popped up on the word count as I finished that last paragraph. To balance the negative, we all know about campaigns via FB which have raised so much for charity, or are a lifeline for people. So modern technology brings the whip round into the 21^st Century, instead of a hat being passed around or a beer mug, and money is then collected, now we can give online, or join in a sponsored this or that. Have a don’t use FB for a day, or don’t your mobile for a day, that would be very interesting. People would have to talk to each other face to face.  

As I talk to you we’ve hit Chinese New Year, with a Shanghai wife and 2 bilingual daughters this means the Internet and FB or whatever the Chinese variant is will light up our house so that my wife can talk to family. It sounds like chickens gone wild, ask your Chinese friends if you don’t believe me. Talking does make the world go around, even if there are negative nasty people who want to heckle like chickens in the background,  but chicken is nice with a good Chinese sauce, and the more chicken you eat the less heckling there is. And that is an ancient Chinese Proverb, its trending on Twitter right now, Happy New Year family everywhere in Shanghai.

The Lady in the Red Hat in Aldi

The Lady in the Red Hat in Aldi ©

By Michael Casey

Well the Arthur pain has subsided, and I’ve just had my constitutional walk up to the clock and then to the shops and home. It’s such a relief now that Arthur has calmed down. Mind you my surgery scars were a double bastard last night, it was kinky sex club again, as far as my neighbours were concerned.  Me, screaming in pain, the slightest touch and I scream, or they just throb and make me scream. I hope I’m not putting anybody off heart surgery now. Then there was the Police helicopter overhead at 2.30am, no doubt looking for the murder happening.

So I was in Aldi, there was this really nice red hat, and it was worn by a nice old lady, with arthritic hands. So we got talking, I do hate behaving as if at a funeral while in a queue for my veg and chicken. So accost anybody who’ll listen. The red hatted lady mentioned Joan Bakewell reading her book on the radio, only she just made  the red hatted lady’s daughter get depressed. So mum, or the red hatted lady just told her daughter to switch it off.

So we continued our conversation as the conveyor belt edged forward, and my packet pancakes wobbled and fell over. I did tell Mrs Red Hat that I liked her hat, I added that my daughter had a black hat that made her look like a young Jewish girl, and my other daughter wore a hoody and a woolly hat indoors which reminded us of the  Pakistani child in East is East.

We also touched on late night radio comedy not being funny, I said it was an alternative to comedy, ie. It was not funny. I did mention that somethings were for the ears and should be heard and not read out. I mentioned Maeve Binchy’s  Times letters which I found to be much better if I read them aloud to myself.

So that was about the extent of our conversation, I did of course tell her to google me, michaelgcasey, and if she has I hope she is smiling as she reads this. That’s if she’s not busy booking Romeo and Juliet, I did mention Ballet to her of course. So that’s all my news for today. I have decided to forgo Twitter, it’s more likely I’ll find a producer/publisher in the queue at Aldi than on the bird table that is Twitter.    

Michael and the Chink in the Wall

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.

Political Interviews

Political Interviews ©

By Michael Casey

Thank you for coming Candidate A, now as we have been called biased in the past the Press have decided to do things differently this time around. So please put your blindfold on and I will then enter the room, also in a blindfold, so we both have unbiased opinions. No gender or race preconditions.

You could hate my cologne or the sound of my voice.

True, we could have done this by radio too, or Radio Four if we were in England.

So hello and it’s an honour to meet you, in this fine country of yours, where exactly are we, my limo has such dark windows and my shades are darker than that guy who plays keyboards, you know the dead guy.

I’m a Classical music aficionado myself, they are all dead, and none wore shades, though Mozart could have done anything. So shall we begin the interview?

Sure Mam, but don’t we shake hands first?

Its Ms, I am as good as any Man, so call me Ms.

It you whistle I’ll come forward and shake hands Mam, sorry I mean Ms.

My name is John, if I’m allowed to reveal that much.

I’m Margaret, named after the English PM.

The interviewer and Candidate A move forward and stumble into each other.

My you are a pretty woman.

And you are so strong, your hands are so soft yet strong.

I aim to please.

Can you now remove your clothes and get into the bed to your right, my left. This is an interview for Naked Politics after all. Every political avenue had to be explored.

The things I do to get elected.

This should be pleasurable too. I am an experienced political interviewer. I did PPE at University in Cambridge, a few years ago.

New England is so beautiful, especially in the Fall.

Cambridge England, not in USA, I have lost my accent but I am from England, a little place called Old Forge and Singing Anvil.

Shall we start?

Ok, can you tell me Candidate A what are your policies on Global Warming?

It’s cold in this room can we at least cuddle a bit first?

Let’s huddle and cuddle, but keep that blindfold on.

So using foreplay as a metaphor Candidate A explained how things slowly hotted up before anything happened then there would be an explosion of warmth which could not be stopped, the genie would be out the bottle and twin peaks would wobble and melt. It might be nice being hot and warm all over but, there would be a price to play. That price was not a sea of love but a rising sea, which would sink low lying lands.

That was a good metaphor, but I’d like more if I may.

Candidate A reached out, this time he had a slap high and low and in between. You always have to be invited, even if you were blindfolded and naked in bed, with a Political Interviewer. Walter Cronkite had never dreamt of such things, some politicians in the 60s may have done them but we never knew at the time.

Now what are your views on the unemployed? The homeless and so forth.

So Candidate A examined her nooks and crannies, especially the nooks, but he was great with the crannies too, she felt the full weight of his nooks and crannies against hers. It was a hard life being a Politician and as for a Political Interviewer, you always had to go the extra mile, to tough it out and go the very edge where you were left breathless, but inspired as you perspired. You may not get a Pulitzer but the warm glow inside was worth all the toing and froing, it left you breathless, but your audience deserved it.

That’s the best explanation I’ve ever heard, said the interviewer.

I do my best to explain things, I hope I’ve proved I do give more than a toss for the homeless and the unemployed.

My final question as you have several more interviews to do, my final question is, what’s your policy on defence. A hot button topic, as you will agree.

I think we should always defend what’s ours and defend our friends, that’s what friends are for. If I may explain further.

So Candidate A using the political interviewer’s body as a map of the world, he explained defensive positions, and open positions, attacks from on high and attacks from below. Not to mention slow creeping attacks, and sudden nuclear attacks which could lay you waste. The Political Interviewer replied in kind with attacks and counter attacks and counter arguments. They were more than a match for each other, the blindfolds nearly slipped off such was the heat and sweat pouring from them, it was if they were fighting in some steamy jungle.

Well it’s been an honour to meet you, what’s your views on pornography? The candidate did not know what to say. The Interviewer asked him to remove his mask as she removed her wig to real her red hair. They had been filmed by 10 cameras, live streamed to the internet.

My political career is over.

It was the only way I could grab time with you, you are my husband after all.

John look at his wife naked on the king size bed, beside him.

Screw the election, let’s try for the 7^th time.

So they did, and John, or Big John as he became known in Election circles, won by a landslide. As the electorate want to see a real man who really loves his wife, and not machine with speech writers. And John was a real man, as the whole of the internet could confess, and if he was a machine, it was a sex machine.  

   

Advertising Campaign

Advertising Campaign ©

By Michael Casey

We’ve got to get the message out, the whole world must know, not just everybody in our house, but the entire world. We want to scream and shout and let all the world know about it. It must be the best advertising campaign ever. We can do it, we have to do it, it’s so important, we want the whole world to sit up and take notice.

If we tell George and Brownie for starters then the whole of Old Forge and Singing Anvil will know in a matter of hours, they are the biggest gossips in the world, or Old Forge and Singing Anvil at any rate. Then if we tell Clarence, no not the cross eyed lion, you fool, you know Clarence who drives the No.11 bus. His route is 22miles all around Birmingham, he’s so talkative he does 5 or is it 7 circuits a shift, so that’s all of Birmingham covered in a day.

Then there’s Mandy the local call girl, no I don’t mean lady of the night either, I mean Mandy is a call girl, not a call girl stupid. She calls out the numbers at the bingo. That’s all the OAPs covered, and those students who come for the cheap beer. So if they know you’ve covered two major demo demo demo catholics, or whatever is that fancy word for groups of people. Oh you mean idle bastards with nothing else to do except play bingo. Only joking, I don’t want to be attacked by a slow motion hit man, nor  a spotty  student with issues, or is it selling the big issue.

So we have all of Old Forge and Singing Anvil covered plus a ring around Birmingham with the no.11 bus route. It’s not Colgate we are advertising is it, the ring of confidence and so on? Now if we ask Big Sid in the butchers to take a leaflet or two then we’d cover all the meat eaters, and all his girls cover 3 generations of customers, so the coverage will be huge. Almost as big as Big Sid himself.

Then is we asked Percy the Undertaker to mention it, have a few leaflets to spread about the crematorium. Percy could even write a poem for our campaign too, he’s not just an undertaker but also a poet. Then we could get Patrick to draw cartoons on the wall, he’s not as good as Banksy but always very colourful.

That’s all sorted then, Andy can run around delivering leaflets, or drive around in the hearse delivering them. If there are any left overs he can just throw they from the hearse as he drives, like confetti at a wedding, leaflets everywhere.

And what are we advertising, on walls and floors and at funerals too, oh I forgot to tell you, its and anti-litter campaign.