Don Camillo and Me

Don Camillo and Me ©

By Michael Casey

Just a quick note to say that I stumbled over a 1951 film of Don Camillo it was in English too, kind of made my day. My History teacher Mr Trout said take a look at the Don Camillo books so I did back in 1975 or so, I read them all. I reread them a few times. Before my Unplanned Quadruple heart bypass I read them again prior to the actual op, my surgeon leader was a Prof. Pagano so it amused and impressed him when I showed him what I was reading. That was Jan 2015.  Today I watched Don Camillo on UTUBE I really enjoyed it, though the books are better. So can I point you all in the direction of Utube. I also got an email in Italian from Microsoft, so I google translated it and then decided to send them my idea of teaching English via humour. 40 stories with 40 facing page translations plus my audio. I have recorded 200 of my 740+ stories, you can hear 50 at www.michaelgcasey.typepad.com   SO if only I got microsoft as a backer, they could turn it into an App. Such is my dream, then I could move house and live happily ever after, so goes the theory anyway.

I also discovered that on 23rd May somebody read 110 pages of my comic novel The Butcher The Baker and The Undertaker, on the Amazon read thing if you are a Prime person, I think. I hope they enjoyed it, please tel all your friends whoever you are. I think they got as far as when Patrick the Milkman was seduced by Carol Sampson a lawyer. Patrick in the end finds true love with the girl from the dog pound, who thinks he's gay. You'll have to read the book to discover the rest. It was the ending which is very dramatic that a film producer had a peek at, sadly he did not take it up. But its still available, I called it In Search of an Indian Princess.
If I get my hands on a legal secretary I'll write Tears for a Butcher the follow on novel, I could just sit and dictate it, the great dictator, which was Chaplin's famous film. Anyway goodnight to you all, and don't forget to pray for my health.

All Alone in the House

All Alone in the House ©

By Michael Casey

Well I’m all alone in the house, apart from Totoro who is asleep upstairs somewhere, maybe under a bed, or on a comfy duvet, or sneaked into a wardrobe, you’ll know all about this yourselves when a cat adopts you. The girls have gone out to the woods for a half term picnic with friends, more like the feeding of the 5000 for 5. And yes as this is England the 1^st day of June, its damp and over-caste, but hopefully they’ll find a try spot somewhere.

All alone in the house is not the same as home alone, I’m far prettier than Mac Mac or whatever his name was/is I’m just here at the computer thinking how my future will be, girl less, when my girls go off to University, and yes I detest the term Uni. One wants to be a doctor, the other has not decided yet, though at 12 there is more than enough time to decide. To be honest the amount of pain I get makes me think I won’t be here when they graduate. I’ve been honest with them about that, why lie, we should enjoy what we have and don’t be surprised. Obviously I want to live till I’m 100 and screw the pension fund into the ground.

At home all alone, means I can get to the bathroom without too many girls in the way, though the cat on occasions will use the bath as a toilet, I think she is just posh. When you have the house to yourself you realise why you got married, to have some noise in the house, form a Christian family if you want a little Peace said Padre Pio. Though for balance you can change to the Faith or none of your choice, some people may even worship toilets, so long as they flush I don’t care.

So by creating noise, you get a little peace, wasn’t that a Euro song long ago, a German girl sang it if I can remember, you can all Google to see if I’m right, remember I’m not a journalist researching before I write, I just write and hope I’m right. You certainly get noise, a baby’s cries and you get smell too, pooh galore until they are potty trained, for us 2 years a bum. Then you save money as you don’t have to buy nappies any more.

Totoro has woken up and  jumped  on my lap, her two bells jingling from her flea collar, she wants a cuddle, before she’ll attack her food bowl, so forgive any typos as I switch to one handed typing. At least Vangelis is not put off as he plays for me, he’s a regular visitor to my house, via his music. I’ve topped up the cat bowl, so forgive me if my words smell a bit cat foody. These little things break up the silence of being alone in the house, just as the tick of our clocks marks and breaks down the silence of Time.

The clock in the other room chimes One, so I’m starting to think of my belly, it’ll be Orange drink from Iceland, 2 litres for 69p on special offer. A bit of silence does help when you are writing stuff though I tend to be zoned in when I’m writing, just background music as I write. Then when I’m finished more music but this time much much louder.

The day seems slow without the sounds of children in the home, even if they are upstairs and all I can hear is muffled sounds and laughter, the house our home is not complete without them. I think I need to put some loud music on to compensate for their absence, growing up in part of a large family leaves its mark on you and that mark is, you hate the sound of silence,  not the album,  but the real thing, and I don’t mean Coca Cola either.

Waiting for Words

Waiting for Words ©

By Michael Casey

Well I’m waiting in for the parcel man to collect something the wife misordered, she’s small so when she orders stuff it looks perfect on the model but on her, on 5feet 1inch her, it’s too big. So I have a relationship with the courier guy who comes to take it back again.

As for writing you have to wait for the words to come, or the idea to come, then the words will take care of themselves, that’s how it is with me. If I’m too tired I cannot write to order, I’m no journalist, I’m more of a wilting flower, overlooked at today’s Chelsea flower show.

I just need a spark and the explosion I can provide myself, I eat far too many beans and eggs no doubt, I even eat scrambled egg with beans it, no need for central heating in our house. So I wait for a title and away I go. I was waiting for the parcel man, I still am, I have to get to Aldi before the girls get home from school. Anyway the word Waiting arrives in my mind, so that’s the spark and the parcel man is here, so wait please.

It’s one week later now, no the forms are not in triplicate, I just got tired and the half term arrived, if you have school age kids of your own you will understand. Hang on its Totoro our cat miaowing in the background, she got out the other day and came back very tired, the joys of free love for a cat who cannot have kittens, now she wants out again, sleeping under beds is not as good as having Tom from next door.

So back to waiting for words, it’s not as bad as waiting for Godot, which we all suffered at school 40 years ago, no, the right words just have to be chosen. I never use a Thesaurus even if Roger is very kind to sit on my bookshelf to my right in his yellow jacket, such a fashion conscience person, my sister gave me an old copy of hers. I see it this way if I cannot use a good selection of words to tell a story at my age, then I should just give up the ghost. I did listen to BBC Radio4 for 20 years before starting to write 30 years ago.

So that’s why I write the way I write, I’m a story teller just like Jeffrey Archer, though he is £300,000,000 richer than me, I have zero and he has all the money in the world. Though I do know he is a nice man, prison education stuff and so forth. I did contact him once, I had hoped he’d send me a photo copy of his Monet in a cheap frame, better still he’d get confused and send me the real thing, though he’d probably just send me a bottle of diet Coke with a photo of his Monet attached. Hope he is smiling, I know people  have belittled his writing, but he had balls and look at him now.

So words are important, they help tell the tale, me and my small daughter joke that alliteration is used by writers who cannot write. Her English teacher adores her, but she is just writing to order in the style they expect, horror and mystery just drips from her pen. As my wife is a horror movie fan I suppose it’s inevitable that it’s in the genes. I do tell her that style is the most important thing, I just cannot read anything that is badly written or in a style I hate. Advertising speak is the worst form of words possible, some people think that writing like that is prose, it’s just junk. I once had an American radio station say they loved my style but not the content, maybe sending a piece to a Hip Hop radio station was not the right target audience.

So do I choose words for my audience? I just tell the tale and hope they enjoy it, to make them smile during  a busy day at work. Or while they sit on 3^rd and 7^th diner they have a look at my latest story and smile, who is this Limey anyway, that’s why I attach a photo to most things I write, so they know who I am. Maybe I should just attach a photo of a male model, instead of a mature security guard like image of me, the real thing, or just a picture of a diet Coke, with a Monet in the background.

Words can fail you in some situations, you get tongue tied or just cannot believe what is being said, but on paper, this is my ice rink, I can glide and slide and even pirouette and jump high and land perfectly, just like in The Bishop’s Wife with Cary Grant and David Niven all those years ago. And no I don’t waste my time rewriting and polishing, I know Jeffrey Archer can rewrite 13 times or so, for me that would be torture like waiting for trail and execution. I’m talking to you and my fingers put my words on the page for you. Life is only one chance, don’t waste time on polish, go out and eat Polish bread and meat from your local Deli, enjoy it washed down with Stella Artois, don’t wait for words, just make love to life.

  

 

louis va Gaal and me

Louis van Gaal and Me

Internet Story michaelgcasey

May 24th, 2016 22:23

p.s. an Irish p.s. its at the beginning my mytelegraph post will disappear in 2 weeks time so come here please

Louis van Gaal and Me

By michaelgcasey

I was just checking my readers before going to bed and up popped Netherlands, which I’ve never had before, I also get a few Portugal viewers . I even had Google say I was in Scotland by a loch with a hamlet beginning with A, very pretty reminded me of Lakes of Killarney. Anyway with these things happening IT got me thinking.now that Louis van Gaal  has a few weeks to relax perhaps He’s like to relax in by reading http://www.michaelgcasey.typepad.com and perhaps he’d like to invest in my Learn English via Humour idea. All the world’s footballers have to learn English, so why not use my idea. 40 stories with 40 facing page translations plus my audio.  in each book.I have 200 audio pieces recorded so far. It would be a bit of fun for Louis van Gaal If he invests in me he can have 30% profits and I get 70% profits.. If he sends me a postal address in Portugal or Holland I’ll send him the 200 recordings, about 11 hours worth. I have written 740 stories so far. Or we can do it via email.
That’s all, I have to slap on the pain killer now, my Arthur is really playing up, its so unpredictable, as is skeletal muscular pain, its almost as bad as being a football manager.

The Bicycle Removal Firm

after last night's piece I remembered I had this one in my quiver

 

The Bicycle Removal Firm © 

By

Michael Casey

                 

                Today's blog is inspired by what I saw through the window.

And what did I see? Well you may have all seen The Quiet Man with

John Wayne and Maureen O'Hara. In it a spare bike is “carried” by somebody already riding one. It no doubt takes great skill.

It wasn't that I saw but something much more intriguing, I say a man on a bike carrying a mirror under his arm. Not the newspaper, but a  real mirror, a 3.5foot  one under his right arm. He also had it mirror side out, so no doubt several car drivers would have been dazzled.

Later on as I sat here at the computer I saw him again, this time he had an ironing board under his arm, at least the legs weren't sticking out.  He just pedalled past. I was wondering what would happened next. I was thinking it was nearly time to collect the girls from school when he came walking past carrying a heavy bundle on his shoulder.

As we walked home I told my girls what I'd noticed, I always try and teach them to be observant, such as seeing the new trendy sign over the help the aged charity shop today. And as we walked home why the policeman had got out of the panda car near the bank, to go to the cash point and then

go to Subway for his sandwich.

 I explained to my girls  that the  man on the bike must be moving house,  but he didn't have a car so  he was DIY moving with the aid of a bike. My mother once put on all her clothes and then walked home to Cromane Kerry because she had no suitcase so she wore everything. Her mum had belted her for her stupidity, this would be in the 1930s. I encouraged my daughter to use the bike man as a  story for her next English lesson, she said it was  not her style.  Then as we closed the front door, who did we see? The man  on his bike with a mixing desk under his arm, my daughter laughed, but her  little sister had the last laugh, she'd found the chocolate biscuits.

So what can I say, I hope that if ever we move house, if ever I sell my 3 books then I hope we can at least have a van to transport our things. Or perhaps I could self upgrade from a bicycle removal service to a  bus removal service, I do have a bus pass after all.

www.michaelgcasey.typepad.com 

The Pain Bicycle

The Pain Bicycle (c)
By Michael Casey
We'll all here again, riding the bike called pain, wishing we were still in bed, not a word being said. But the pain returns, the pain returns like a thief in the night. Stealing our happiness, destroying our calm, hurting us to the very core. SCREAM we scream again and again, hoping the pain will disappear but it does not. It just moves about, from one spot on my body to another, I'm like a child's toy, see if she can move a lever without making the light go on and the buzzer go off. But this is real too real to mention, SCREAM, I have to get up, it seems as if the very act of lying down brings on the pain. There is this pain and that pain, pain in the chest and pain in the heart itself, then a pain in the side, skeletal muscular pain, pain in the legs from where the veins were harvested to  go in the heart. The list goes on an on, if only I could have a boring old headache. SO I'm here writing about it, what more can I do, once I'm so exhausted I start to fall asleep, and then I'll sleep though the pain. Ah well I'll trying going back to bed now, see if I sleep or SCREAM. So please have patience  with you old and sick relatives, hold their hand and kiss them on the cheek, one day it will be your turn, so just try and love them, and pray for them and me too.

Return of the Voice

MAY 21ST, 2016 10:30

Return of the Voice ©

By michael casey

I hope to resume my recording career in a day or so, ok, I'll pop a mike in an old plastic container placed on the corner of the computer desk, then I'll open a pdf and read it aloud.  It’s not as posh when you explain it. I have recorded over 200 pieces, my kids say I sound like a newsreader or a narrator, I hope to record everything I ever write, it’s my legacy to them.

I was too tired to record any for months but now I'm strong enough to record. Recording 5 in a day was my limit, I may be able to double that number eventually, but never more than 10 in a day. Its a more tiring process than you could imagine, as is the actual writing itself, a casual observer may think I'm very fast and no effort is involved, but its like after Hussain Bolt has run a race, I'm as knackered as he is.

When you read aloud, if you get it right you are adding an extra element to the words on the page, the words you have written yourself. I even read somewhere that one writer went on a presenting/narration course. Otherwise he would have sounded verbally incontinent, the um and ah and pausing in the wrong place. As you all know I did my presenting course back in 1998 and I later worked at CPNEC Birmingham in 10 simultaneous roles for 3 years.

So I can talk, the tricky bit is finding where to pitch your voice. If you in a hotel then you lean in verbally and you may adopt the tone of the guest, you may say wee if they are Scottish for example, or if they are highly educated you pitch your language to try and match theirs. I met somebody once at the hotel who was a little condescending, so in my reply I used concepts at his level, then I paused and said my brother did Economics at Cambridge, he looked at me and said, I believe you.

We have Ping and then we have Pong, your speech reflects this, we also have our parent's voice or our teacher's voice, or even our gutter voice, all of which we use as the occasion needs.  A voice for all occasions, but sometimes we can still be wrong footed, how would we talk to the Queen for example? I hope I'd treat her the same way I used to treat everybody in the hotel, with courtesy  without being on bended knee, and in her case we'd talk about horses, or rather ask her to forgive my ignorance but please talk to me about horses, having a dad who was a blacksmith would be the opening conversational gambit.

So words are toys we play with in the pram of life, toys can be thrown out of the pram and hurt people. Words can wound, hurt and malice and lies are the deadliest toys. The voice we adopt can sooth a child's scraped knee, far quicker and better than any bandage, so we have to voice our concern and voice our love, then our children return to their play, for we are the sound of love, music to their ears, banishing all tears.