Tsunami attack

This morning while I have my morning meds and breakfast I see I am like a Tsunami through Europe

Portugal France German Poland Ukraine it seems you like my Finding Perfection post from last night.

I have also brought back MP marriage to a person marriage to a people Chapter 9 from the butcher  the baker and the undertaker.

So all you political nerds can laugh at that one.

On a sad note I think our Dear |Leader could try to create a Tsunami to wipe out the USA fleets, a sea level nuclear explosion would create such a wave as everything would be washed away.

But I am only a writer not General Mattis'  s secretary.

I'll finish on an up note, Abba The Visitors album is great I used to have a copy and lamented its loss, then I realised SPOTIFY will have it.

So lets listen in hope together.

The Dear Leader and Trump could met in Macau for Peace talks, in a gay bar  with a good selection of Abba and soft drinks.

But I am only a writer, a fat writer in shades from Birmingham with great silver hair.

Finding Perfection

Finding Perfection ©

By

Michael Casey

Well the world is in a state, and I’ve given my 2pence worth so I was wondering what to amuse you with instead of frightening you with the Truth, or my version of it. In writing this sentence I realise that that’s an idea for another piece, The Truth. But instead I’ll try and stick to Finding Perfection, so I’ll just look in the mirror.

Now newcomers to my writing or talking, it really is talking after all, may have just said, the Conceited Brummy. Brummie is the local name for a Birmingham person. However some may think I’m in USA, no I’m in the real Birmingham, up the road from Shakespeare and Stratford. And yes looking in a mirror was a joke, though as I know I’m perfect I have no need for mirrors. Now was that a 2^nd joke or more conceit, or a joke concealing my initial conceit. Perhaps I should just join the Diplomatic Corps, my hair is so much better that Boris’ after all, ask our shared barber at the Fringe in Edinburgh, its next to the cobblers and over the road from the butchers. If you get lost just ask Alexei Sayle he’ll tell you where to go.

Now this is of course my usual prologue, you can Google:-Frankie Howerd, Ronnie Corbett and Joyce Grenfell for examples of what the hell is he on. Oxygen is the answer, and plenty of it, it is free after all and I do live on a hill. I am a Fool on a Hill after all, which would be a good title for a Radio slot if anybody out there wants me. SILENCE.

Perfection does not exist, life is a game of roulette as my brother once said 30 years ago and more, I am a vacuum after all, I’ll suck anything up and spew it out later, decades later even. That’s where all my 1,150,000 words and more come from. I am just an over inflated vacuum bag. Mr Dyson would have a fit if he met me, though otherwise I might amuse him for an hour or so, just as the King’s Jester would. I am available if any rich folk wish to hire me, collect and return with 2 Subway sandwiches and 2 pints of Stella Artois is my price. Abramavich would hire me and leave me in a corner with a dust sheet over my head, as a parrot is quiet when covered.

We look for a mate, a soul mate, a room mate, or just somebody to mate with. Then we start with, he must be Brad Pitt, he must be kind, he must be funny, Robin Williams, he must be like a Duracell battery, like that bloke on the Kardasians. WE have such high hopes, then we marry the dwarf who delivers our bottled water, a Danny DeVito type, because HE is kind and funny and strong, and he listens. Listening is the big big thing in relationships.

You wanted perfection and it just does not exist, so you compromised and got Danny DeVito. However HE is Perfection, because he ticks all those boxes. In my next novel if ever I finish writing it, Tears for a Butcher, the two twin sisters marry a man with a limp and a man with a stutter. I have a sequence in my head where the twins reveal that they are the men for them, actually its a fight in a bar, you’ll just have to wait to hear it all. Again if somebody can lend me a legal secretary I could write it in 12 weeks, another 600 page book.

There are many examples where we want perfection but it does not exist. The perfect wedding day, but it is the marriage, all of you days after that really matter, not just one day. If you have followed me, just stop, get another hobby, anyways you will know about my own unique wedding day. Its every day afterwards that matters.

Kids come along and you can read books telling you how to be a perfect parent. Just burn those books on the BQ, and never talk down to your kids,they are more fun if you just talk naturally to them, yes just as I do. Only talk baby talk to the cat, mind you our cat Totoro wakes me up in the middle of the night as revenge for talking down to her. Then she goes out for a night on the hot tin roofs, only cats are perfect, remember that and you won’t go far wrong.

Kids grow, you need a bigger house in a posher area. Only it has to be a perfect house, not the bachelor pad you begin with. If it’s near a pub that was your ideal home. Now school, shops, garage and church all raise their ugly head. All you wanted was a place to sleep and bring the girls to, now it has to be a home. You have to have more than 4 plates and 4 of everything else, you must have enough to feed the 5000, or so it seems once you are married with family. And cheap plates won’t do, posh matching plates that cost as much as a pair of tickets to see MU are the very cheapest of dinner plates.

And on it goes, having sex and marriage has to be paid for, home wares and curtains. Why are curtains so very expensive, an old sari from an old Indian girlfriend would make perfect curtains. Why must all your old bed linen be thrown out, sure its worn a bit, but John Lewis Egyptian Cotton? Your girlfriend persuades you, then you blame John Lewis for your visits to the baby section and so forth. Quality counts and costs, so John Lewis it is, besides Woolworths is no longer on the high street your now wife tells you.

Life goes on and you look for perfection in a car to move your brood, so you have to trade in your bus pass for a people carrier. Your fat neighbour teases you by saying you are an Uber driver now, all the stuff you kids need. And so it goes and I have more than enough to continue but bed time approaches, so I’ll just give you a few thoughts to dream about.

Why would a Shanghai girl marry somebody such as me? Was it because I am perfection? Is it my birthmark, is it my strong stocky legs, which years later were harvested to fix my heart? Was it my sex appeal? The bushy eyebrows? The posh Birmingham accent? My Sumo or Panda like physique? The ability to fart in several different languages. I could go on but my modest stops me. Or was it the prayer I said by the fridge looking at my dead mother’s photo, I give up, you take over, all I want is a wife and perhaps some kids, I’ll leave it all up to Padre Pio and God himself. Was it that, or was my prayer in God’s eyes Perfection. Just be careful what you pray for…

The History Teacher

The History Teacher ©

By

Michael Casey

If my Life had gone another way I’d have been a History Teacher, I read The Outline of History by H.G.Wells when I was in Primary school 50 years ago, yes I am that old, but my mind is always 20, even if my body thanks to quadruple heart bypass and arthritis feels 95. Yes that sentence was too long, I’m not an English teacher, though I did do Esol. I have ended up as a writer, an undiscovered writer, a penniless writer. Having an online presence dos not give you money, please note this all you hackers and junk email people, all your efforts are deleted unopened. And I have no money to steal, and guess what  when and if I did have money 1/2 would go to the Birmingham Pain Relief Centre, and that is my promise.

I should also say that my dad used to watch the tv news and say something and then it would happen. Sometimes the same happens to me and my kids, or I write something then it happens. No me and my dad are not witches. We just watch too much tv news. Though dad is dead and gone a long time now. Dad would have been a teacher too but in 1920s/1930s Ireland you went to work at 14. Dad was a blacksmith, though 4 of his children did become teachers. And perhaps 2 of his grandchild will have Phds, be doctors of some sort.

Another of dad’s phrases was “He’ll have to be put down” and the North Korea dictator does come to mind. Please God it’s quick whatever happens. Perhaps the Dear Leader has a heart attack and dies. I’ve written it down now, so will it happen, or will Birmingham be added to the Hate List he has. All will be revealed in a matter of weeks now.

History teaches us that events happen or we stumble over events. The Japanese military once said America was a sleeping giant, and WWII proved this to be the case. Sadly for the world and North Korea, an irritating child can’t hide behind its screaming. In the end the parent will put it over its knee and pull its pants down and slap its bare arse. I remember this happening to me when I was 4 or 5 years old, over 50 years ago. In my case the crime was ringing Mrs Patrick’s  doorbell and running away, and then hiding in our pantry. Even though I was the golden child I was soon the sore red arsed spanked child.

So it will be with North Korea. This does nor bring me any pleasure, the people of North Korea live in a very beautiful land, and they should be equally prosperous as their Southern cousins. As my father said of Hitler’s Germany, they have the brains of the world but are led by a mad man. I remember my dad saying that maybe 40 years ago while we watched a tv History programme.

9/aug/2017 I repeat what my dad said, but it applies to North Korea and its Dear Leader. The brains of the world but led by a madman.

In History a spark leads to war, or appeasement is repeated then you have double the pain when appeasement was always the wrong path, and action is the only and last resort.

I pause there as I contemplate what might happen next. Historical revisionists claim USA was wrong to nuke Japan, but back then the choice was 5 more years of war or end it quicker. Today what are you going to do, led the cancer spread till it kills the host, the entire world? I have family in Shanghai and in USA, do I let a North Korean tyrant get stronger and bolder until he, the cancer is in charge of this body we call earth.

We can all pray for Peace, we can pray that an earthquake destroys all the North Korean evil toys. We might even pray that his mistress kills him in the night, sex as a weapon of war perhaps. Or all the cheese in his arteries gives him a heart attack. Or he could be allow to slip away to Russia in the night, leaving all the codes and locations on a note by his night stand, that’s if his night stand does not kill him first.

That’s the thing about History, it is a gripping drama that never ends, until God closes the book and we are all asked how did we spend our talents. Me all I can do is write. I scream in pain most nights as I cannot find a safe sleep position. If I had a North Korean mistress maybe the pain would be less. I know God has a sense of humour, he did make me after all. As he did make all of us, it’s up to us all to follow our own path, we have free will after all.

Sometimes though it is only in our darkest hours that God leads us to a safer harbour. We just have to be open. He’ll still be there after we nuke ourselves, but it would be far far better if this never happens, if my dream of a flash was just a dream. So men of courage in North Korea, throw down those chains and rise up and take charge of your our beautiful dear country.

Science Fiction

Science Fiction ©

By

Michael Casey

As promised here is a story about science fiction, though you know there will be a twist, a la Beatles, sing and shout and let it all out. If you were listening yesterday or whenever then you have heard me say, “Suddenly from out of Nowhere” it was a line from a story I wrote in Primary school, I cannot remember di it earn me the 1969 Brooke Bond schools’ story writing award, it may have been a 3^rd. Yes I can see the humour in what I write, it is intentional, I don’t just throw this together, I am no potter throwing things on his wheel. Don’t get me sidetracking into manipulation of my clay, stop, that’s enough for the Borises out there. And by the way Brooke Bond, if you don’t immediately restart this competition with lap tops as prizes then I’ll mention a different brand of tea.

Suddenly from out of nowhere it appeared a man with a pole through his head, a 6 feet pole sticking out of his head. I even remember doing a crayon drawing it may be upstairs in the rubbish room, the box room. Though if ever we do move house that’ll probably end up in the rubbish skip, which would be a pity as I like to save things. Yes the biggest things I save are memories, there are some tragic memories that have been vaporized, and others buried in pain, but there is a reason why I choose to write comedy, or my attempts at it.

So where shall I go with this story? Ok let’s pick it up and run with it. Suddenly from out of nowhere I appear with this pole sticking through my head, and what does this kid, this school head boy, what does he do? He abandons me for 50 years, so I’m locked in a tube with only Walt Disney’s body for company. If I hear zibby zobby zoo again I’ll kill somebody. I had Mr Muscles in the tube next door saying he’d sort things. I think he had just lost his rocks or something. So I pulled my pole out and hit his tank as hard as I could, that shut him up for a few years. He kept on humming Eye of the Tiger then, whatever that is, I think it’s some Shakespeare thing. Will was in a tank further along. He kept on belching all the time, he said it was Sir Toby’s fault not his.

Now I’m out, Michael Casey Spacy has released me, no Michael Casey is nor Kevin Spacy or anything like that. Rixy called him Spacy once so now he’s sticking it in a story, he refuses to waste a word, he’s like a garbage disposal machine. Or an Alexei Sayle as they say at the Fringe, the barbers up the road next to the cobblers opposite the butchers.

So what does Casey do when he sees me and my pole, he takes me to the Polish shop to get some bread and meat. He says I must be hungry after 50 years. So I had some food and I belched, better than Toby, more like Falstaff, but my pole is bigger than his staff.

Casey asks me have I heard of Star Trek, I told him I was stuck in a tank with my pole covered in ice. So then he makes me spend a week watching all the episodes ever, not just of Star Trek but also all the follow on. 7 of 9 was impressive, but after 50 years stuck in a frozen tank you’d be just as blue.

He asks me what the pole was for, I just looked at him, it was his story I’m a piece of his imagination. Maybe it was a wooden aerial I answered sarcastically, so he gets out some sandpaper and rubs it down, he says I’ll get better reception. Then he says he’ll take me to a pool, only its not a pool, its pool, as in snooker or something to do with coloured balls. Though the sight of all those coloured balls bouncing over the green baize makes me home sick. If you look west in the night sky you can see my home planet.

My home planet is called Muckerulla its a place where you can fish for all manner of things, and we have many moons of different colours, just like the balls on a snooker table. Watching that Casey getting his hands stuck in those pockets made me so sad and mad. So I used my pole to snooker his balls into pockets.

And that was how I got back to the beauty of Muckerulla, Michael Casey the fat silver haired writer in shades from Birmingham was in such pain after I snookered is balls with my pole that his imagination exploded, he could not contain me any more. This figment of his imagination from 50 years ago was no figment at all, I really was a Spaceman who came a traveling, I came as far as Birmingham and this Casey trapped me on a page by drawing my image. Its taken me 50 years to escape but I did it, now you all know what a pole is for. It’s the original Beam me up Scotty teleport, like a fireman’s pole in reverse, your pole takes you away from danger.  

morning news

I was about to write something but my daughter came back with a friend so I stopped to chat and so on with her friend. He's an art student and a fellow choir member.

I'm trying to persuade him to do some cartoons for me, I did get him to paint my bathroom in the past.

I write cartoons made from words, if I could get somebody of his skill level to do some cartoons to go with my words maybe we'd be in business. I tease him by saying he could be my surrogate son. Anyways if he has time to do some cartoons I'll share them with you, if he consents.

I could discover a great cartoonist, or then again just write a story about me annoying him while we feed him in our house.

Thanks Poland as usual and Ukraine and everywhere else who are becoming regular readers.

 Science fiction  will be the next piece using a line from a story I wrote 50 years ago at primary school as a starting point. See writers don't waste anything.

Michael

an old and fatter picture

Sunday Fixes

Sunday Fixes (c)
By
Michael Casey

Sunday, today was good once my body warmed up, it took about 2 hours today. Back in 2013 I had none of these aches and pains. My wife threatens to send me to the old people's home, I say fine if I can have a Korean nurse, she laughs, dressed in her National Geographic body warmer and her bright red Korean food store apron. This is her in the home Shanghai look. When she leaves the house she looks like a model, I of course am a model too, a Sumo model, I am nearly 3 times her weight.

Today we were trying to get the printer to work again after I'd fixed the AWOL computer. You have to load, reload, delete and curse at least for an hour before you get the printer to work. Finally it did so my daughter could print her first ever CV. It was 4 pages long, I told her that 2 pages, was more than enough, print on both sides too. She may get some work experience out of it.

I don't need a CV any more,my ailments mean even if anybody liked my personality I could not do a regular job. Yes I can sit here talking to you all, but my big three ailments rule out any paid employment. Not unless any of you out here want some comic advertising written. But nobody would pay for it, they run a competition and get 1000s of ideas for nothing. Lion Bar the Bar that Roars may have been invented by one of my brothers, as a competition. Another brother named a train, The Graduate, and he got a 3 night trip to Exeter on a train plus hotel and car hire. That was over 20 years ago, and yes I went too.

So now the printer is back and my daughter can use it for her essays when she goes to 6 form college in a months time, after her work experience. Two pages is what HR people like so they can flick through it, they like stand out things. So I told my daughter to put I speak Chinese too, a Casey, an Irish person who can speak Chinese fluently. This stands out and may help her get a work placement. My brother, the train namer said he got into Downing Cambridge because of a stand out, or inverse snobbery. Others may have been to Eton, but he  had a blacksmith father and had spent a year working as a coal miner. Little things get you noticed.

I'm chilled now and am listening to REM's Automatic for the People, the tinnitus in my ear is not so bad and I am getting used to it after a week, I am a moronic man in need of repair, I am Steven Austin the 6p man, maybe I'll end up in the old people's home, I don't think I'll get the Korean nurse, I am not Benny Hill after all. Maybe I should do my CV and send it to tv...

The writer as a dad