My Lottery Numbers

My Lottery Numbers ©

By Michael Casey

Well Christmas is upon us and all our thoughts move towards a baby in a manger. Maybe 40years ago that was true, nowadays we all have a variety of different thoughts. My wife is telling tales of her youth back in Shanghai, tipping rice out of her bowl and landing on a neighbour’s washing below, pants with rice in them, the remainder of the rice landing on an old lady’s head. This was 30 years ago.

Other people wish and dream for a lottery win, just in time for Christmas. Me I play spasmodically, and yes I  never win, I tend to play when there is a rollover, as if my chances will get any better then. I know I’ll never win the lottery, but spasmodically I waste a quid on it.

How do you pick those six numbers?  The number of smiles you got  on the bus in the morning, the number of times you fell on you’re a*&^% in the snow. The number of Z list celebrities who were featured in The Metro the on the bus newspaper, or the number of copies left strewn on the floor of the bus waiting for somebody to slip and twist their ankle on.

Or  maybe it’s the number of attempts you have to make before your computer switches on at work. Or perhaps the number of people in your lift or how many got out on your floor, or even how many free cups of chocomilk you have in a week from the free vend machine.

Choosing a lottery number is a very engrossing  thing. I have won a tenner very very occasionally. I once got an IM from Shanghai my small daughter gave me the winning numbers. So when she got home  from her holiday I gave her the £10. Hover I’d much rather win enough to move house or even retire, then I could write all day everyday. But maybe the Fates are saving the Reading Public, God does have a funny sense of humour after all, he did make us Mankind after all.

So is there any hope or logic in lottery numbers, no, perhaps what I really need is for Vince Cable to introduce me to Rupert Murdoch and maybe then Rupert will discover my writing. Either that or my 33year old Premium Bond finally comes up trumps.

Merry Christmas Everybody www.michaelgcaseyfrombirminghamengland.wordpress.com 

                                       to escape the Turkey.

photos from 4aug2017 me at my worse after a few pain days but at least I had a wash for you all, just read this upwind of me.

Michael and the Chink in the Wall

this is another piece I've stumbled over again, from 18 months ago, it was very well received before by the DT crowd

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.

Mummy Who's My Sperm Daddy

I was clearing up my files and I found this so I hope you all like it

Mummy Who’s My Sperm Daddy©

By Michael Casey

I just read in the Daily Telegraph about an idea for a celebrity sperm bank, so people can have the pick of the "best" sperm daddies. I thought it was an   April  Fool and then I realised it was October, so it cannot be true. Can it be true, can it be really   true.  I did think of the Nazis too.

I always say that beautiful parents have ugly kids, and ugly parents have kids the gods themselves would adore. My own kids are very pretty, in fact when we've been in Shanghai visiting grannie we even had people taking photos and videos of the kids as was went around Shanghai zoo, yes treating my girls as if they were animals in the zoo. Our Army Uncle as we call one of the relatives, he was a political officer in the Chinese Red Army, anyway when he was taking the girls out for a treat would stop all the attention by saying "get lost, they are from Tibet" or other such words. By the way he really is a very nice man, you'd respect and admire him instantly if you meet him.

But why this obsession with looks, or I want Einstein's baby, will men be attacked in the street so women can have the perfect baby.  A new form of mugging in the street. It a horrible thought.

God's lottery is the one and only lottery as far as I am concerned. I am blessed, or is it cursed with three beauties in my home. I often sing "If I was a rich man" from Fiddler On The Roof. Only I change the world and act "why was I cursed with 3 witches", we are near Halloween after all. Our girls have great Chinese eyes and hair you'd kill for, but then God's lottery gave them Western features. My eldest daughter looks exactly like I did at that age, obviously with more feminine features. The smaller daughter, 9 this week, looks like a classic beauty.

So this is how my kids have turned out, but I never call them pretty "ugly mug" is what I used more often than not. And they never have this obsession for mirrors. Now our USA uncle, his daughter married an American. They just had their 1st child so her parents wondered just how their granddaughter would turn out. Would they perhaps look like our kids? Their granddaughter looks totally Eastern, a pretty totally Eastern baby, no Western looks at all.

What does all this prove? God's lottery is the best and you never know how your kids will look, what combination. Somebody once joked " Michael she wants to breed with you." Why, not because I look  great but because my girls look nice, my wife is a beauty too. The fun is see in how the children look. He's got dad's face, she's got your nose, her smile is like grannies. All the things we notice when a child is born, and then when kids grow up all the changes, and all the similarities that appear.  The DNA  lottery.

But most of all what is the most important thing? It’s the love we give the child, it’s the Grimm's fairy tales we read to it, it’s how we build and form their mind, so that they have a spirit that will reach for the sky, that will visit you in the old people's home, and not abandon you because you are old. I met my own wife in the old people's home, she was cleaning my dad’s room, I  didn’t  abandon him, and see how I was rewarded.

An old About Me

Posted on 08/04/2017 by michaelgcasey

Since I wrote this I've has a unplanned quadruple heart bypass and arthritis has come along too. An no I have no money, and I never believe any God or Allah emails sent to me or rewards etc, all are deleted unread. Just read my books and buy a few please, but hurry before North Korea uses it's evil toys.

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Michael-Casey/e/B00571G0YC 

Hello, how did you find me? Anyways I’m a fat silver haired guy in Birmingham, I’m trying to get no.2 my smallest daughter to practice piano behind me. My other daughter no.1 wants to kick me off the family computer so she can do her homework. You have seen the King and I?

My Shanghai wife is practicing Gangham Style at the Korean food store where she works, I would be teaching English to Somalis only I hurt my back, so instead I sit at the computer wincing as a spasm of pain goes up and down my back. My wife reckons its punishment for my sins, she is of the fundamentalist new Christians variety, clutching Bible and Guns as Obama would say. Me I’m a fat Catholic, I believe in Love and Laughter, even Satan and The Republicans are Forgivable it only they say “sorry”. But enough of the Philosophy.

I write humour, or try to. My play Shoplife could have made me rich and famous years ago, but as always I get close but no cigar. I have 14 books  on Amazon Kindle only 3dollars each the perfect Christmas present, Honaker presents too.

The thing with humour, and English English spellings is that it’s not quite right, so it may or may not hit the nail on the head. https://butcherbakerundertaker.blogspot.co.uk/       is the car park where I leave my prose. So if you like this then tell Obama to buy all 14 of my books, I read somewhere he’s a big reader, when he’s not sneaking out with the Secret Service to practice his bowling. S T R I K E!!!!!!!!

Since I wrote this Trump goes out dining, he never sends me a doggie bag either

p.s. as stated in my Birmingham Pain centre piece,if I do ever make any money 1/2 will go to study pain via a charitable foundation that'll I would set up. If you don't believe me then never darken my door again.

Broken Computer & my dad my best friend

you were spared me because I took 2 days fixing my computer, the hard way.
Luckily s I have the pain monster I can get up in the middle of the night and set things running. etc

Here's a random old piece to keep you happy, and I don't mean me.

My Dad My Best Friend ©

By

Michael Casey

My dad was my best friend, no I’m not boasting, he really was my best friend. How can I say that, well it all started with having a 2^nd ice-cream when all my brothers and sisters only had one. When you buy 8

ice-creams for your family buying another 8 is expensive, even in 1960s England. I got an extra one and my siblings called me the “pet” as they were jealous, to tease me they sung the song Michael Rows The Boat ashore, my dad used to say “leave the boy alone.”

I suppose it was because I was the 5^th child, the 5^th child in 8 years and they were not expecting any more that I was spoilt a bit, and yes I did enjoy it. Dad always seemed to wear an old sports jacket and when he came back from his weekend trip to the pub after his week of being in the furnace, he always brought us back cheese and onion crisps in the blue bag. Dad really really loved us, as mum did too, I don’t know about other families but we knew we were loved, it wasn’t said and we didn’t hug loads, we were loved and we knew it. The sky is blue and the moon shines at night, it was as certain as that, we were loved.

I spent a lot of time talking to my dad, I was the penultimate one to leave home, we spent hours talking every night, we were both news junkies, or should I use today’s language, we love current affairs. We both  loved Sir Robin Day the journalist, I still love journalists, we even have one in our Chinese family. Simple perhaps naïve pleasures, these bond you, glue you to your family. My dad also encouraged all of us to save, he wanted all of us to have a good start, we had lodgers and most loved drink too much, so leaning from their bad example we all saved for our futures.

“What’s a bit of food,” said dad as we stayed at home, modestly downplaying his influence, his role, his love for us.

“Do what you like but do your best,” was his simple yet sage advice when I asked what subjects to do at 3^rd year split. His children went to the best universities in the world, they worked hard, we followed his example. Dad would and could work 16hours a day, he even worked 7 days a week at times, perhaps even for years. A Kerryman will walk into Hell for his children and for 40years that’s exactly what he did. I hear people complain about this and about that and it makes me smile, people should try working as hard as my dad did.

My father survived a “fatal”  heart attack   back in 1996, I’ve written about it in Padre Pio and Me, he even found me a wife and perhaps even a job, then he had his last breakfast then he died. I did visit him every single day for over 3 years, then I met my wife. Dad lived long enough to see me marry, only today we found a photo of him holding my daughter in his arms; 8 months later he died, he died 5 days after I’d found another job after a long bleak spell.

Do I miss him? No. The day he died I wept and howled like a tortured dog, but that’s normal. When my mother died  I did not shed a single tear, I’d been ordered not to cry years before, so when mum died I shed no tears, she was in Paradise so I shed no tears. And what of now ? Dad’s in Heaven too, no doubt wearing a big thick coat, when you’re used to a furnace anywhere else can be cold, I hope he’s enjoying watching his 4 grandchildren growing up. I also believe he’s now met the Chinese side of the family and together they drink tea, both Chinese and English while they debate just how Irish or Chinese my girls look. The Chinese grandfather and the Chinese great-grandfather watch from Heaven and both will have to admit having some Irish blood is not a bad thing at all, at all at all.

Man Up a film with Simon Pegg 2014 was on tv tonight so go watch it

Man Up a film with Simon Pegg 2014 was on tv tonight so go watch it

I hope  you all enjoyed a rest day from me, Thursday I'll start with Simon Pegg and see where I go, wait till the afternoon for that. I need rest now,and a cure for tinitus in one of my ears...

my translation site is~:

https://michaelgcaseyfrombirminghamengland.wordpress.com

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Michael-Casey/e/B00571G0YC

and yes what I said I'll do in the previous post is what i'll do,

I like my silly photos instead of the pretentious ones holding double chins.

The Birmingham Pain Centre

The Birmingham Pain Centre ©

By

Michael Casey

This is an alternative reality story, or a Donald Trump truth story, if that is not a contradiction in terms, and yes it has nothing to do with Donald, he is busy polishing his shoes with a tooth brush, his new General insisted.

Well The Birmingham Pain Centre, is a dream, which I hope I can magic into reality with the help of God and Two Policemen as my mum used to say. Let’s just fast forward to the opening ball, or gala, picture the scene in a barn of a bar. Journalists are everywhere, they were told it as a free bar and their editors will also be there, so it will be a perfect afternoon’s drinking session.

An Abba tribute band is playing in a corner, what more could they want? Yes Subway are providing the food, they have set up shop in a corner with models making the sandwiches, they will of course get out of bed for any free publicity. And why are journalists’ balls bigger than anybody else’s balls, because they write it up for themselves, so it must be true.

Sean Spicer is guest of honour, he’s in England to voice over the new Yoga Bear in Space movie. To be honest journalists have no balls, ask Kate Adie and the Sky lady, why because they get shot off in all the dangerous places they visit. Lynx has a concession in another corner, it’s a spray that lasts 10 days, made especially for hard pressed journalists, it even takes the smell of beer away. Obviously this is the busiest place in the bar, ok I’m lying, but everybody but everybody will pay a visit.

The editors are doing each others’ crosswords, and editors know many a cross word, which reminds me of a future story from Tears for a Butcher where there is a scrabble competition. But I digress. Also in attendance are several judges and lawyers galore, lawyers galore I said, not liars galore. The law knows about bars, the legal bar, the alcoholic bar and behind bars, they also know about barmaids down the Trader in Old Forge and Singing Anvil, but I digress, I was just product placing from The Butcher The Baker and The Undertaker.

Now you may be asking what would this bunch of reprobates be doing on a Tuesday afternoon down the pub,it is Tuesday isn’t it? Elementary is on tv so it must be Tuesday. Well wait, stop, Hugh Grant has arrived, he’s sitting in a corner heckling. I did tell him to get some cream for his heckling but he just would not shut up. The journalists as one have turned their back on him. He is now gently crying as he mouths the songs the Abba tribute band is singing. He’s ringing a friend, Nick from radio 4, but John answers the phone as says Nick is on holiday in Scotland with his best buddy Alec. Hugh just says, just tell him I rung, before wiping his nose on his sleeve.

To the sounds of corks popping the meeting is called to order while the Abba tribute band has a Subway sandwich made by models. This is the inaugural of The Birmingham Pain Centre, or the Birmingham Pain for short. Now I could say that folks made jokes about Birmingham being a pain, a right pain, but I won’t tar MU supporters with that brush, I want their money after all, I want everybody’s money. That is my mission, my position, my missionary position.

The Birmingham Pain will promote the study and relief of pain, everything from acupuncture to the Karma Sutra and everything in between. If it takes away pain, then its part of the Birmingham Pain. Obviously the first place to start is Curry’s we need to have a computer full of knowledge. Better still we get IT students in Birmingham to build a computer from scratch. 3 in fact, a live, a backup and a spare. Having worked in a computer room 40 years ago, safety and backup is everything. If we could get folks to donate kit or money to allow the Birmingham IT students to build the servers as the fancy name is the so much the better.

Stop let’s get back to the surreal a moment, what is that Judge doing, a High Court Judge caught singing And The Winner Takes it all. His chums in full regalia singing Super Trooper, somebody hold back that Daily Mail person, he’s not allow up on stage for Health and Safety reasons. The Daily Mirror boy promised a big donation if we kept him off the stage, I’ll accept “bribes” from anybody. Hugh Grant has cheered up he has got his vegan Subway sandwich, and a giant fizzy drink, Moet in Subway cup.

Where was I? Now if The Birmingham Pain was affiliated to Birmingham Medical school, maybe my daughter could get in in 2 years time, ONLY JOKING, besides I want her to go to Cambridge. The idea is to fund research, not waste it on buildings and PR. The idea would be to give scholarships and funding. And talking about affiliations, who knows more about pain? MU, that’s who, by which I means their Physios, every elite sport Physios, IF you tapped into their knowledge of pain relief it could aid general research. You could also hold medical conferences at Premier League grounds, that way the reach would be all over the country, obvious The Premiership donates this free on wet Tuesdays when the facilities are empty, the WAGs could hand out the Subway sandwiches.  

Stop that’s disgusting, a Teetotal journalist, somebody fetch a priest, what he is a priest, a priest and journalist? I don’t believe you. This is FAKE news, from the Gutter Press. A priest and a journalist and Teetotal too, it’s just not true, I just don’t believe it. What’s his name. Michael Casey the fat silver haired writer in shades from Birmingham. No that’s me but I just had to visit the lavatory, so give us a second and I’ll tell you his name. Don Camillo yes that’s him. I have a Dream is playing the tribute band is just so good, its true honest guv, its true. I read his book just before my triple with turned out to be a quadruple heart bypass. I just hurt myself then stretching too much,no not stretching the truth, just stretching, yes really, 2.5 years on and still pain from that and the old Arthritis.

And that is why I have decided to set up The Birmingham Pain Centre, because I know more about pain than James Bond, remember the line from the film? Yes millions know much much more. So if you buy the books I can give you lots of pain, oodles of pain, I’ll share it with The Birmingham Pain Centre. Why have journalists and judges in the story because they would be on the board, very bored, working for zilch, but if a bar wants to provide a free lunch that’s where the annual meeting would be held. Pro Bono lawyers would do any law that’s the dream laid out before you. I am in my missionary position waiting for you, if you are smiling then you may be tempted to HELP.

None of this can happen till people buy the books, though most of you may think my writing sucks. It will never have Charity written on the book, and really you don’t need to buy a damn thing. Because I give you the idea on a plate. Do your own pain relief, thief my idea, in fact you can take the idea and use it in every country of the world. So if you are in Germany or Egypt, today’s readers in German and Korean were from those countries. Wherever you are please let’s set up a pain relief foundation, affiliate like football does. Use every scrap of knowledge, technology and medicine combined. Pain is no joke.