The Spaceman and The Arch-Angel

The Spaceman and The Arch-Angel ©

By Michael Casey

Mikhail Mikhailovich was a spaceman, a cosmonaut as the Russians  call them, he’d been in space forever, he held the world record already, he was testing himself to see if Man could make it to Mars. He and Tim Peake had had a lot of fun in the space station, but now Tim was gone. So Mikhail was lonely, in fact Mikhail was having a dark night of the soul, flying high in the sky orbiting the world. He was on the edge, but bear a bear of a man he told nobody, if only his wife Katarina was with him to make him strong, but he was floating in space and she was back in Saint Petersburg.

Michael the Arch-Angel had just pushed back Satan back into Hell and had sealed the gates with a pair of Rosary beads, now he was taking Mrs Murphy’s soul back to her body, he was in a hurry before her body died without her soul inside. At Saint Michael the Arch-Angel flew in space with Mrs Murphy’s soul safely tucked in his belt by his sword he felt Mikhail’s sorrow. So much sorry, he flew as fast as he could fly towards to space station, a soul was in danger, the space station was in danger, a man’s life and soul was in danger. Mikhail was on the verge of thinking of doing something mad bad and sad. Michael felt this and as an angel he must intervene, he spiralled directly towards the space station, he went straight inside and grabbed Mikhail’s arm.

An angel does not need to use doors, the spirit just walks through walls even in space, love knows no boundaries, and an angel is just that, love. Saint Michael the Arch-Angel gave Mikhail a bear-hug and nearly broke his ribs. Mikhail screamed in fear, Michael just laughed in his face and said he screamed like a little girl, was he going to pee his pants as an encore. Mikhail rubbed his eyes, there was angel in front of him, speaking Russian, in fact he sounded like his own old grandfather, with the same local accent.

I could punch your lights out, but I’m an angel so let’s talk, have you got any beer, my wings are tired I need a beer, asked the angel. Mikhail laughed, where do we have the room for a barrel of beer in a space station? The angel reached behind him and two pints of Stella Artois appeared in chalices, so Mikhail took one and drank it, after such a long time in space it was heavenly to say the least. So Mikhail and the angel had 4 pints each, which is enough to wet their whistle if they were both Russian. Mikhail wasn’t scared any more, if this was a dream he was going to enjoy it. He’d love a big sandwich of Russian beef and bread with lettuce and tomatoes, so once more Saint Michael reached behind him and the sandwiches appeared. Is Paul Daniels behind you joked Mikhail, Tim the English spaceman had told Mikhail about Paul Daniels during his time on the space station. No replied the angel, but God is behind me, and in front of me and in all directions too, he has my back, and your’s too, that’s why I’m saving you.

Mikhail, looked at his feet, he’d felt a failure, he could have, but he didn’t, an angel had saved him. Michael the Archangel gave him another pint of Stella Artois, Paul Daniels was working overtime you could say. Why were you in space anyway asked Mikhail. I was returning a soul to a body, Mrs Murphy was risking her soul to save the life of her priest, or rather the soul of her priest. That’s when Satan pounced, so I had to give him a kicking, and then mum asked we to return Mrs Murphy’s soul to her body, before her body expired. Mum who is your mum? Mary is my mum, she’s everybody’s mum, she prefers to be called  ”mum” it’s  the highest title of all. Mikhail Mikhailovich started to cry, so Michael wiped his nose with his wings.

I wish I could be a father but being in the space program has put paid to that, I am a hero of Mother Russia, but my own wife cannot be a mother, we will never know the joy of children. Mikhail cried again, the angel gave him a huge hug, almost breaking the spaceman’s ribs and Mikhail’s face turned bright red due to lack of oxygen. A tear fell from the angel’s eye, it trickled down his face and splashed Mrs Murphy’s soul, this was enough for Mrs Murphy she was saying the Rosary in a nanosecond. Her body was dead by now, but at least she could pray for the spaceman.

Michael and Mikhail had some fresh fruit, bananas and grapes, washed down with more Stella Artois. Mikhail unburdened himself to the angel, all his hopes and dreams, being a spaceman was the last of them. Tim had told Mikhail about David Bowie and the two of them had put the face makeup on and sung the songs. Now Tim was gone and Mikhail missed him, but most of all Mikhail missed something he’d never have. Children. As a child Mikhail loved listening to stories, stories from all over Russia and everywhere else too, but then studying came along.

Saint Michael the Archangel has a secret, he loves stories too, he’s spent ages, literally Ages listening to stories from all over the world. So as they drunk their Stella Artois Michael told Mikhail some of the stories. First in Russian for the Russian stories, then he switched to Chinese for the Chinese stories, Indian for the Indian stories, and Japanese for the Japanese stories. Michael knew thousands of stories in told them all in all the native languages. The food and drink flowed, Paul Daniels really is a great magician, how he hid all of it in the space station ready to save a soul, a Russian spaceman’s soul we’ll never know, perhaps he’s just an angel.

How long would it take to tell tales from all over the world, as long as there is food and drink on the table there will always be tales, and this angel doesn’t follow Logic, only Love. In Earth time 50 years had passed, or was it just a dream? Michael and Mikhail hugged, this time Michael could not breathe and he turned red. Mikhail had been filled with Love, and food and drink thanks to maybe Paul Daniels, so he was a big Russian Bear once more.

You are Mikhail Mikhailovich a Spaceman who did not fall to earth, you are the Storyteller from Space, you are a “father” to billions of children, and to your wife you are the best husband in space and on earth who gave her seven children, angels love the number 7, Snow White really did exist you know, but that’s another story. Mikhail snored, he been dreaming hadn’t he.

Michael flew off into space, for decades he’d been talking to Mikhail, it was a coincidence he’d spotted Mikhail, he thanked God. As Michael looked at his watch, by which I mean the rotation of the stars in space, he realised he’d actually gone back in time by 2.9 nanoseconds. Einstein had been livid when he’d got to Heaven to discover that Time and Relativity was just one of God’s jokes.

Mrs Murphy’s soul was returned to her body, but her 50 years of prayers so that Mikhail could have a family had not been wasted, and as for her priest well that’s another story, Tears for a Butcher by Michael Casey to be exact, if God gives me the time to finish it.

The next night Mikhail said he had a story for all the Russian children, so he told them about the night the angel came to the space station. This was an instant hit all over Mother Russia, it was so funny too, though he had to explain who Paul Daniels was, they liked the story a lot, not a little bit. The Indians wanted to hear the story so could he tell them too, so he did but Mikhail told them in one of the major Indian languages, and as each child hear the story they hear it in the voice of their own grandfather. Japan was next and they were astounded too, not only did know their language but the accent was perfect, Mikhail was like a United Nations, his stories perfectly told demanded silence, followed by tears of joy.

Mikhail spent another month in space, each night he’d tell stories to the world’s children. He was out of this world literally and in all other ways. When it was time for him to return he was an international hero, for science and for story-telling. Putin himself said he drive him from the airport to the Kremlin for a reception. When Mikhail came down the steps from the plane his wife jumped into his arms, Putin was dressed as a chauffeur, the election was next month and he know good PR. The president as servant of the people.  Putin did have to close the privacy screen in the Zil because the spaceman started on creating his happy family on the back seat of the Zil limousine.

So Mikhail got what he wanted a big happy Russian family, was the angel right in guessing 7, no he was wrong, Mikhail and his wife only had 3 pregnancies. Three being Mrs Murphy’s favourite number, three sets of triples. Mikhail set up his own Utube station to tell stories to the world’s children, he called it You’ll Like It, a lot. 

Then his friend Putin suggested he should run for president, so that’s how a spaceman called Mikhail became the President of Russia, because an angel came acalling, twinkle, twinkle.        

   

Entertaining Rubbish

Entertaining Rubbish ©

By Michael Casey

Derby and Joan were and old couple, as wrinkled as, well as an old couple can be, as wrinkled as car tyres, but they were Pirelli, such was their love for one another. They had had a life, a very long life of love and laughter, but now they were marooned like children on a beach with the tide coming in from all sides. They had a family and a house, a fine big house in Harborne but they had sold up to help their kids get their own foot on the property ladder, and to help the grandkids too. It really was a grand house and they had parties in the Summer, everything was so nice. Derby had worked for a Panama hat company, and visited Panama often, and Joan believed him.

That was then, and now it was 2016 and things had changed and their life had moved on. The kids and grandkids seemed to have forgotten them, as can happen when it’s just the Money they want and not the Love. They say they love you when they want the cash to buy a flat or a deposit on something, but what happens after that?

Derby and Joan did not care though, they had each other, they called themselves the John and Yoko of their new area, Old Forge and Singing Anvil, which was Birmingham’s answer to Islington. They had a humble house with a great dab radio and a hifi, but no tv not broadband, they had each other so why would they want those things. It was pointless anyway, as the kids nor the grandkids bothered with them now, now that the Bank of Derby and Joan was empty, or so they thought.

Where Derby and Joan lived you were forever getting rubbish through your letter box, taxi cards, pizza leaflets and double glazing, not to mention estate agents saying they would buy your house for cash. Joan got fed up with throwing them in the bin in the Summer, in Winter they were burnt on the fire. So Joan invented a game, Entertaining Rubbish. They sat in rattan chairs by their front door with a cool box between them, Red Stripe for him and two bottles of Blue Nun for her. So they were ready for adventure.

You had to get a taxi card to start, as you always take a taxi when you go on holiday. Once a taxi card came through the letter box then you could begin. By looking out the window they could count the crows flying by, the number of crows represented the number of miles in 100 units they were traveling away. Then Derby would get out the old Atlas and a piece of string to show the radius from their house to where they could be going. A piece of litter flying in the wind would tell them which direction on the compass they were off to.

So their holiday began, when a pizza leaflet arrived they were allowed to go back into their own kitchen to eat before resuming their squat by the letterbox. A leaflet offering the services of a clairvoyant popped through the letter box. So Joan would ring her pretending to be  in the location the crows had decided for them. It was an entertaining way to spend a few minutes, and it cost nothing as their son had giving them the phone for emergencies, then he never ever rung them, as it wasn’t an emergency speaking to his own parents.

A house removal leaflet came through the letter box, so they had to move seats and sit at the top of the stairs looking down at the front door below. Luckily they had a chair lift so that made things easier. Then they waited to see what would happen next, a leaflet about higher education arrived on the doorstep, so they switched on Radio Four. Everything was not in the stars, but in the calling cards and assorted junk pushed through their letter box.

So this was their life and their entertainment, do this or do that, all dependent on what was pushed through their letter box, obviously a newspaper was very important, it meant toilet break, reading and wiping. Derby and Joan really loved each other and that’s how they died, loving each other. A leaflet for the Rumba and for Naked Yogurt arrived at the same time, though because their eyesight was failing they thought it said Naked Yoga. They were game for anything, so they did the Rumba while naked, if it was good enough for John and Yoko then it was good enough for them.

That’s how they were found with Imagine playing on repeat, it was the noise that alerted the neighbours after 5 days of constant Imagine, Derby and Joan were found clasped in an embrace. The postman had mis-delivered a copy of the Joy of Sex, and Derby and Joan followed  it……

Image and Advertising

Image and Advertising ©

By Michael Casey

Everybody is obsessed with advertising nowadays, and I don’t mean washing powders either, that’s where the term Soaps came from, as they sponsored shows so that people watched the show and bought their soap powder. What I’m talking about is image building, even when nothing as such is being sold. A soft focus advert on radio, where you cannot see the soft focus but you can hear it.

Michael Casey is the man you can rely on to fill the time in while you are waiting for your taxi, he’ll talk absolute drivel, total drivel, but so entertaining that you won’t notice that your taxi is 20 mins late. Then he’ll raise that barrier to make up 30 seconds while the driver speeds down the Cov Rd to take you to the restaurant that Michael has recommended. And yes I really did do that for 3 years when I was a concierge and 10 other roles at CPNEC Birmingham.

Companies want to create moods and images, the radio equivalent of the Hay Wain, so we all feel so happy and glow with the memory of Constable’s paintings, we all love an Old Master after all, then they tell us that Joe Bloggs unblocks sewers for the past 50 years. So we can trust Joe Bloggs for all are sewer and cesspit needs, and yes we’ll all come up smelling of roses. Such is the power of advertising and association.

Comedy is a great tool, but don’t tell Comedy to its face that it’s a great tool or it will be very very upset. A smile and a laugh sells more product, British advertising is famous for that. Radio adverts are far cheaper and catch a bigger audience, because radio is in the kitchen and in the bathroom and bedroom too, I think Radio is some kind of voyeur or Peeping Tom. And yes I’d love to get a chance to write adverts, the pay is great and I could earn enough for a new house, well in my dreams anyway.

Dreams are what adverts are selling, if you buy this new Brazilian Wax for Men, not only will you be all ship shape and Bristol Fashion down there but  you’ll also have a much better life, if you know what I mean, or so infers the advertising. On tv they could only show so much, but on radio it would be X rated without even showing anything. It’s all in the imagination you know, which is a bad lover’s best excuse, or so I’m told. If you dig out Around the Horne you will be in for a treat, trust me I’m a writer, and no it’s not a sex manual, it’s a BBC Radio Comedy Show.

Images are created and we are told how happy we will be if we just believe in the dream, if we are not part of this dream, then we are just boring losers. You really must try Cromfingle Cheddar from Italy and you too will be so sophisticated, on crackers or on toast, with it all dribbling down your fingers. Your cat will love you so much, your children will love you so much and your wife will have that come to bed look in her eyes permanently, all because you eat Cromfingle Cheddar from Italy.

It’s all a load of rubbish really, but I did buy 6 kilos, I ended up with really strange dreams, and a broken bed, the cat tried to mate with the local sheep dog, but that’s another tale.  

So you can see advertising is a modern Fairy Tale, but without it the wheels of commerce would not turn, were the Brothers Grimm really advertising copywriters?

What's my old stuf worth?

What’s My Old Stuff Worth? ©

By Michael Casey

Today I heard on the news that Harry Potter writer’s desk and chair were for sale, the ones she used when writing the 1^st two Harry Potter books. Such is fame, the bottom sat here and notebook or was it typewriter was there. Obviously you think I’m jealous, but if you know me, then you know I’m not, cos I’m an Altruist first and foremost.

I do still have the varnished old barn chair with the missing back and the old tall stool with the red top that I used to write The Butcher The Baker and The Undertaker on. I sat on the chair and balanced the typewriter on top on the stool, while I shivered in front of the old gas fire. It took maybe 4 months to write my first novel, when I finished I decided on one thing, to buy double glazing, as I was freezing.

I

 think my sister has the old typewriter somewhere, I think it was green in colour, I had learnt to type in 1978 when I 1^st became a computer operator, don’t forget men didn’t type in those days, just girls who worked in offices. I can remember flicking my fingers at  the bus stop while I tried to memorise where all the keys were.

Now nearly 40 years on I’m still typing and writing, I’ve gone through 850,000 words now over 9 books. So the question is would you pay big money for where my big bum sat and where I balanced my typewriter. I think my words are far funnier than JK’s but they haven’t been turned into major motion pictures, yet. Though I did get a film producer ask for a treatment once, just as I did get a theatre say they’d produce a play of mine, and radio did like my stuff too, and commissioning editors have said I’ve made them laugh out loud.

So with this in mind, with my twerking butt sat writing would that increase the value of my old chair, and how much for my stooles, I mean stool, though Americans would buy anything.  Could I sell my nail clippings and my beard that I’ve just shaved off.

What exactly has to happen before anything becomes valuable? You could mass produce items and say they were this and that and fleece people, just as some artists do. So what gives value to anything? The actual value, such as the weight of an ounce of gold, or the Magna Carta because of its value in History and the fact that there is only one.

Pop Art mass produces things, but still can sell for high numbers, but does that make it any good. We can say look at the numbers but still something is rubbish, sales and taste and value are very different things, very different things.

A bench in a park can be priceless, that was where your grandparents first met, that was where your mum dropped a handkerchief and your dad picket it up, then in Victoria Park Smethwick they first spoke, sitting on that bench.

Silly little things in even stupider places can and do make a difference in all our lives. Walking home with a new toilet seat hanging from your neck may have been how you first met your best girl. You made her laugh, so you became an item so she loaned you money to open that garage, now you drive her around in a Bentley, and all because of a toilet seat.

My mother was given an old wooded pink stained coat hanger when she left Kerry in Feb 1944, when we broke it 24 years later she cried, before hitting us with it, before we glued it back together. Her mother had given it to her, it was the only thing they could give, they were poor and that was all the parting gift they could give.

So when you are bidding for JK Rowling’s chair and desk, or even my stool and barn chair in my dreams, then think about something of far far greater value, an old pink stained coat hanger, and not my 50 shades of grey hair.

The Gifted Daft 2016

The Gifted Daft 2016 ©

By Michael Casey

We’ve just watched The Blacklist on tv, as we always do on a Friday Night, James Spader is in it, he’s the guy from Boston Legal, which won Emmys for comedy, it also had Captain Kirk in it. Spader happens to be Frodo’s real life dad too, but in Blacklist he plays a more sinister part. As for the title of tonight’s piece The Gifted Daft 2016, well that’s because I wrote a piece called The Gifted Daft a long time ago but I’ve lost it on my computer, but it may turn up in cyberspace, so I’ve kept the title but added 2016, just in case the original  from maybe 20 years ago turns up.

I was very touched by tonight’s Blacklist, it involved Autist children, it also talked about the value of Love and Family, and the urge to Love and have a family. It’s good that Drama can talk about such things without being all preachy or holier than thou. Of Mice and Men does have a “simple” character in it, who in the end is “mercy killed” as his friend knows being in Jail would be worse than death for him.

Tonight’s Blacklist had a “witch” who killed children when they reached 12, and had a mad and bad poetry death for the kids. In Logan’s run 30 was the Death Age, and a red light flashed in people’s palms. So that is the background, what is so important and amazing is how some people can bring out the best in Autistic children. You have to work hard, and love even harder to look after an Autistic child.

Some Autistic child do have special gifts, such as the child, now a middle aged man who could draw buildings. There are many other examples, which you’ll all know from your own experience or observations. We all remember Rain Man and Dustin Hoffman, some events strike a chord with us, events from our own lives. Some events we are proud of and some we’d wish we could forget, just to let the pain go.

As well as Autism there is the normal, if normal is the right word, mental handicap, people who need to be cared for on a permanent basis. You may have seen a carer take a few people out for a walk in the sun, or a ride on the bus. As you watch several things will pass through your head, Jesus how these people are suffering, thank God my own children are “normal” and how amazing these carers are. Some turn the other way and cannot even look at the “spectacle” it all depends on your own life experience, will you cross the road to avoid them or are you a Samaritan.

Today in the news we hear more about the horrors of Nazi Death Camps, things that have not been spoke about even after 70 years. I’m not going to be specific, but it was the Nazi’s fault, nobody else’s. Sadly we have modern “Nazis” destroying the world’s peace and harmony, using the internet to brainwash people. Hitler’s Nazis destroyed all they did not like, including the handicapped, it was a vacuum cleaner of hate, leaving destruction behind.

So what do you see when the handicapped are walking in the sun, being shepherded by their carers, I don’t know about you but I see Love. Yes Love, nobody does that kind of job for the pennies they earn, it is Love, there is no other word for it. The handicapped may be scruffy, and you may even think the carers are even scruffier, but they do seem happy, it’s not a family Disney would show, but it is a family none the less.

From my vantage point where I write I daily see a wheelchair wiz  past with a bobble-hatted carer in tow, sometimes I see them in the street when I’m doing a bit of shopping. Sometimes I see a nurse who looked after me when I was in hospital, they may not recognise me as they see so many people in their professional life. So what am I trying to say, I suppose I’m trying to say thank you, thank you to them for looking after me as an individual.

’m also trying to say I am proud of them and what they do for the least of our brethren, I include myself amongst the least, we are a lucky Society because we do care for all of our Brethren. It’s when we stop doing that, that we start to slide, hopefully never to Nazism, but any other kind of ism that throws people away, for I know in my present physical state I’m be amongst the first led to the gaschamber.