I write then it happens

I wrote Kpop saves the world a couple of months ago, the today North Korean Army Dancers were on display, they should visit the Birmingham Royal ballet we have Swan lake on next week. If anybody wants to send me some tickets.

It would be nice if all I had to do was write something then it happened.
Like magic.
I did write a Korean Christmas Carol too, both can be found here on this site.

Perhaps NSA and North Korean Hackers and maybe Polish readers who can't wait for my next story visit my computer uninvited, and they dance and prance around my hard drive. Like Tron maybe.

All anybody has to go to amazon and buy my stuff.

https://www.amazon.com/MichaelCasey/e/B00571G0YC

then maybe I can afford to move house, my daughter mentioned something about it taking 16 years to be fully qualified Pathologist once she's got her Medical Degree, she is 16 now so we'll have to support her till she qualifies.

So please buy a book or all 14 of them, and DO get in touch if you are Rupert Murdoch or any other media type or whatever the correct word is.

I may write something new later on in the next 6 hours before bedtime, at least the pain monster stayed at bay, and my Viewer did not want our house. But that's fine there's always  tomorrow, and tomorrow is sunny so I can put the washing out.

 

The Washing Line ©

By Michael Casey

See number 29 she always hangs her bloomers next to the hedge hoping nobody can see her droopy drawers, how can her bum be that big? I suppose its age, she must be 60 now. Though she puts so much makeup on she looks like a china doll in a Christmas stall. She still loves her fish net tights, she hangs those right in the middle so all the neighbours can see. There’s still life in the old girl yet.

Then there’s no.35 he’s so sad, everything droops, his moustache, his eyebrows his baggy trousers, I wonder what makes them droop so much. Probably stones, he’ll  throw himself in the canal, I’m sure of it. All his clothes are so drab, doesn’t he know how to use the washing machine, his mother must have taught him before she died.

His neighbour next door fancies him, she’s always putting out her enormous bras for him to see, like a trap. And those things just like laces with a small handkerchief attached, she always has them on the line. Why she fancies Mr Drab I’ll never know. It’s just like Jack Spratt and Mrs Spratt. If ever he looked up and saw her longing for him, they’d break that 4 poster bed she has in her back bedroom, the one with the sexy red lacy curtains. I can’t quite see what see has on the walls but I’m sure it’s something bad, in a good way if you know what I mean.

What about Mrs Mean who has one of those spinning washing lines, I really hate her, she looks like that woman in the cartoon about the hen house. She wears lots of shinny jewellery, the Magpies are always dive bombing her trying to get it off her. They should just pooh on her, she’s so cruel to that little dog of hers.

Well the sun is shining and the wind is blowing, it’s a good day for the drying. Hey look what’s happened, that big red bra has broken away, it’s flying like a kite in the sky, it’s landed straight in Mr Drab’s face. Miss Big Bra is clambering over the fence, he’s handing it back to her. She’s kissing him on the cheek to thank him. Mr Drab is smiling, she’s inviting him in for tea.

Finally at last he has noticed her, his mum always said she was a good girl. They’ve finished their tea, she’s taking him upstairs to her boudoir. Move over let’s look through the window. She is a good girl, a very good girl, but when she’s bad she’s even better. A match made in Heaven, all it took was a bit of wind.

So we’ve spied on everybody, shall we do something else now? Yes let’s swoop down and pooh on all the washing, we are pigeons after all.      

 and a 2nd piece which has the same title plus (c)   BUT IS A DIFFERENT PIECE I HAVE JUST REDISCOVERED IT

The Washing Line ©

By

Michael Casey

Ok, are you ready? I’ve had a shower, ok a sheep dip, I am big and hairy with lots of nooks and crannies, crannies, not Grannies, are you all deaf, DEAF. If I could hang my body hair on a line to dry then I would, like a Golden Fleece, ok a silvery old man’s hairpiece, no I don’t have a wig, its all soft and silvery. If ever you get me in your bed you can stroke it, MY HAIR.

See you all think one thing when I am saying the other, Gill was right, you are all going up the garden path on your own. I hope Gill is well I’ve not seen her in maybe 10 years. Now did you all take the one hour challenge? Did you write a story called The Washing Line in just one hour. If you did not then STOP, don’t even look at the screen, just walk away, walk away from the keyboard, SECURITY I have an idle journo here, can you come and collect him.

Yes female journalists exist, and without the spacing you have journalistsexist which gives you SEXIST, but I stumbled over that so I put it in, which if you mistype is PUTIN. Ok I’ll stop with the discoveries in mistyping, a guide for dislectics, yes I left it there mistyped just for the clever dicks to bitch about.

There is thought behind these pieces,or do you think I just sit here and rattle them off. And yes Rattlethemoff, is a Russian Nudist and Concert pianist and part time ballet dancer. Which reminds me there is a real ballet dancer in my next novel Tears for a Butcher, but I may never write that as it would take a year. Not unless I can get Nick from the today programme to take dictation, he got plenty from Alex Salmond after all.  

Where was I, being hung out to dry on the washing line, Ronnie Corbett on acid, you are so cruel, he only ever had pear drops, and I am a pineapple chunk kind of guy. See 356 words already, that Editor can go and take a flying leap, after I finish the test piece, write 1000 words on The Washing Line, and he’s making me do it on a typewriter. The one Rupert Murdoch left in The Sun’s safe roof where all the naughty files are kept. So how did our leader at the Daily Sploge find this Michael Casey anyway, the SOB.

So here’s my piece for the editor, and if he doesn’t like it he can give Michael Casey my job and my one inch column.

The Washing Line is a very ordinary thing, its in every back garden, but what is on the washing line is evidence to who we are and what we do. On my washing line there are lots of girls knickers in a multitude of colours, then besides them are my flags, so big in contrast to the girls’ knickers. I do live with 3 girls after all, the wife and our two daughters. My pants decorated the washing line in Shanghai when I first went there nearly 20 years ago. We used them to navigate our way back to the mother in laws house. In fact in Shanghai you have a giant bamboo pole with you bright blue acre size pants hanging from them. Rather like a national flag.

So that is my memory from Shanghai. Looking up and seeing my pants on a pole on the ten floor of the tower block where they lived.

In the olden days people hung their washing on hedges, maybe that’s how the first laundry begun, a farmer’s wife with a steam and a stone, and her husband busy planting hedges as business expanded. They got a bigger stone when the village got bigger. And when the farmer’s own family got bigger they bought a windmill, to make flower but also to hang the washing from the sails on the windmill. Yes Don Quixote was a pain, tilting at the windmills and stealing the washing as his lazy servant Sancho Panza never did the laundry. But Fr.Brain, now Bishop Brain did used to call me Sancho Panza maybe 45 years ago. So I have a soft spot for Sancho Panza, the laundry thief, and now me wishing to be 1% as good as the Author of that book, the book thief not the laundry thief, I got missed up.

Don’t tell the Editor that I sneaked off to the kitchen for a tea, don’t tell Nick on Today either, he’s such a gossip, he’ll tell anybody who cares to listen, why does he always wear ear warmers all the time? Did Alex Salmond buy them for him, it can be cold in Scotland.

I can remember looking out the back bedroom window and see birds on the washing line, watching not part of it, just observing, is the sentence that came to me back then 30 years or so ago. On a washing line you can be a sentry while the other birds have their dinner of words, or is it worms in Michael Casey’s back garden.

Then when the coast is safe you can drop down and eat some words or worms whichever taste the better. As for Totoro she is asleep in/on or under a selection of 4 beds, she’s had dinner with at least 4 different owners. She has two bells and the Best Bitch medal around her neck, the birds would hear her so they are off the menu. Besides our gay neighbours at the bottom of the garden have recently installed fairy lights, so Totoro is intrigued by them, the lights that is.  

Close pegs are very dangerous things that hold your clothes to the washing line. The quality of pegs is not strained, that surfeiting they break and a spring goes in your face and gives you a scratch.

You’ve been scratched by your cat, or is it the wife, your friends all ask as you are down the pub, they examine your face and take photos and put them on FB and Twitter. In an hour it trends, washing line injury, or problems with the washer woman?  

Somebody even rings up local radio. BollocksTalkFM the new radio station for the Islington Crew. Several Sky and BBC Press Preview listen laughing as they listen, drinking green tea in the green room before the Press Preview starts. Thankfully a bottle of Polish Vodka has infused the green tea.

First item on the Press preview, in the Daily Express, front page picture of a washing line. Are clothes pegs dangerous, new EU regulations, are they trying to tie us up with red tape before Brexit, or should we hang them out to dry. The anchor just looks at his watch and says, I use a hair dryer myself.

Well Mr Editor I broke my best finger nail writing this for you and its well over 1000 words. So can I have my one inch column back or are your giving it to this new Napoleon, Michael Casey from Birmingham, the centre of the washing line universe.

The Word Eater

The Word Eater ©

By Michael Casey

Janet and John were small children they lived with their dad in a dusty house, dusty because dad wasn’t very good at dusting and mum was dead, so she couldn’t dust could she? She was very nice and great at dusting, she used to sit on dad’s shoulders to reach the high places in the house where spiders like to live.  They used to laugh a lot, but mum died. Dad said she fell off his shoulders while they were dusting, and even grasping at spiders webs was not enough so she fell and died and slipped and fell all the way down the stairs, bumpty bumpty bump. So now they were orphans or half orphans, they still had dad. Dad was fat and silver haired and wore shades, people thought he was blind or posing. And why such a beauty from Iceland fall in love with him anyway.  Did the freezer  melt and did he offer her a blanket, or did she like his dog as he looked like a blind man in his shades.

These were just some of the unkind words spoken, but really she had a cancer that spread as fast as the spiders’ webs in their house, she had made him promise to tell them she fell down the stairs while on his shoulders cleaning. So they wouldn’t pity her pain. So dad lied to them, and they pretended it was the truth to make him and their dead mum happy. Of course it was a lie, they knew what Marie Curie was, and they knew she was a nurse not just a friend stopping over because her husband had left her. They had collected for Marie Curie at school. So Janet and John ate mum and dad’s lie, because it made their dead mum happy and kept their fat silver haired dad in shades sane.

At school the lie was shared, their mum had fallen down the stairs while on her husband’s shoulders cleaning the spider’s webs. So people were sad but smiled too, then were sad again. As for the kids in the playground, they just laughed and laughed. Killed by a spider, not from Mars but from Iceland, now your mum is as cold as ice. And your dad is just a fat fat old man, is he your granddad really they laughed. They did not notice the Marie Curie badges that Janet and John  had on their lunch boxes, and that their fat silver haired dad in shades had on his lapel. 

He really needed the shades now, not just because he had sensitive eyes, but because he always had tears in his eyes. No more wife on his shoulders cleaning the spiders’ webs away. Now he had an empty King size bed, he was just a pauper now, his wife, his lover, his friend, his cleaner of spiders webs as gone. Cancer was quick like a thief in the knife, it had stolen his wife, but at least Marie Curie was there, better than a best friend for real. Now he had to continue, to be the fat dad as his Iceland wife called him, to mum too, if only he had a clue.

Your dad killed your mum, he threw her down the stairs, for the insurance money teased the kids in the playground.  An Janet and John  ate all those bad words. For their dad’s sake they ate those bad words, for their dead mum’s sake they ate all those bad and sad and tear making words that they  heard. Janet and John smiled and just said, mum died happy while cleaning the spiders webs while sat on dad’s shoulders, it was quick and painless and she died with a smile on her face. It was an accident. Yes the Spiders’ Revenge teased the kids in the playground.

Now this kind of torture can go on for a long time, but sometimes Fate intervenes. On this occasion it was a new PE or Gym teacher, no she did not beat every single one in the playground, though they did deserve it, she sung to them. Miss Fiord was an exchange student from Iceland, she had only just arrived the day before. The head teacher had told her to look out for Janet and John as their mum had died tragically falling down stairs while cleaning spiders while sat on her husband’s  shoulders. Dad had decided not to tell the school the truth, when um dead, um dead, and why take a chance that the painful truth about cancer would be revealed to the children.

Miss Fiord was a beauty, just as all Icelandic girls are, and when she saw Janet and John she loved them, even more than that teacher in Matilda. So when she caught the children teasing and bullying Janet and John she started to sing an old Icelandic song.  The children did not know what it meant, only Janet and John understood, they were bilingual after all. The song was so beautiful and cold that all children started to cry, not just a little bit but a lot, a Paul Daniels amount of tears. And on and on Miss Fiord sung, till the children begged her to stop, but she would not until the whole playground was on their knees and in tears. She only sung the first 100 verses, there were 240 more, but 100 was enough. The children would never ever be nasty again, for the rest of their entire lives. A road to Damascus experience in a school yard.

Miss Fiord then climbed the climbing frame in seconds and beat her chest, like a gorilla, she was the king of the jungle, and the school kids would never argue about that. Miss Fiord was a hit with all the school and everybody loved her, especially Janet and John. That evening she met their dad the fat silver haired man in sunglasses, she introduced herself and found herself speaking in Icelandic, he replied in perfect Icelandic. He told her the truth, she cried and her heart broke, and she loved his children even more. So you lied to keep your Icelandic word, and to spare your children. Miss Fiord kissed him on the cheek, and that one kiss melted the iceberg in both their hearts. For Miss Fiord had lost the love of her life, he fell off a mountain in Iceland and his body was never found, his body would have frozen and turned into an ice cube in the drink that is the North Atlantic Ocean. 

But now tragedy had brought them together.  Ice takes a while to melt, first you get slush and cold water and then slowly the ice melts. And that is what happened with Miss Fiord, she fell in love with his children and then with the fat silver haired daddy in shades. He was old enough to be her dad, but his heart was young. Miss Fiord won a spa day as a school Christmas raffle prize, so on impulse she invited the fat silver haired dad in shades plus Janet and John, they could play in the swimming pool. So Miss Fiord and the fat dad tried the sauna, but in Iceland you are always nude in saunas, so as Miss Fiord was nude the fat daddy followed her example. 

In future they would say their first of seven children was conceived in a sauna, everybody thought it was a joke. Same as falling down stairs while on shoulders cleaning spiders’ webs. Or falling off a mountain and becoming an ice cube.  But the truth is, when the ice melts it melts totally, and it becomes warm liquid. Janet and John loved having a load more brothers and sisters, they moved to a big house next to their grammar school. There even was a sauna in the basement, which their new mum Miss Fiord just loved. How could they afford it, well Miss Fiord became a head teacher. There was a big garden too and every year they had garden party in aid of Marie Curie, oh and what is Miss Fiord’s first name? Maria of course, because the fat silver haired writer in shades had  problem and Maria solved it, just like in the Sound of Music, and she did sing that Icelandic song in the playground after all.

It's My Right

how many times does  it need to be said, before people act before others are dead.

Another Massacre in USA

It’s My Right ©

By Michael Casey

It’s my right to own a gun, cos I’m a MAN

It’s my right to shoot and hunt and be a MAN

Cos I am a MAN and it’s my RIGHT

It’s my right to have enough ammo to invade Panama

It’s my right to have as many weapons as the Police Force

It’s my right to use my gun as I like

It’s my right to take my weapon to the Library and to Church

It’s my right to be  a MAN with a gun because I CAN

It was his right to go into a school and kill and maim

It was his right to go into a movie theatre and kill and maim

It was his right, it was his right, it was his right, it was his right

It was their right to scream in fear and pain, to piss their pants with fear

It was their right to die and go into the darkness of death because of his right

It was their right to have their bodies broken and brown away

It was their right to be dead and unrecognisable to their loved ones

It was their right to die before having even lived

It was their right to die without knowing why 

It was their right to die without even having time to cry

It was their right to die without even saying goodbye to mum and dad

It was his right to own a gun because he was a MAN it was his right

Now only the undertaker is busy, the undertaker is crying

The undertaker takes the bodies away, the undertaker takes the bodies away

The undertaker is crying, the undertaker is crying

The undertaker hasn’t got enough coffins, there are never enough coffins

The undertaker hasn’t got enough  coffins, there are never enough coffins

So which is more important the right to bear arms, or the right to bear a coffin 

All is Revealed

had a quiet day watched a couple of films, inc Dr Strange 6/10 so have not written anything new for you. so here's something from last year

All is Revealed ©

By Michael Casey

I only just noticed that the truck parked outside has gone, I didn’t spot it straight away as I was both deep in thought and pain a few hours ago. Now that that the pain has gone along with the feminine hygiene truck, our neighbour empties those bins in the ladies’ toilets, I can see daylight. I’m happy now and I can hear the washing machine behind me spin around quietly, we bought a big Indesit and it is ever so quiet, and the two bells on Totoro’s collar are ringing as she has her dinner. 

As all was revealed, or rather the street in front of me It gave me an idea of what to talk about, yes my writing really is as tangential as that. I’ve spotted Pakistan reading my stuff on my website so hello to them and India too. Poland still is in love with my writing not unless its Donald Tusk and his minions trying to cheer themselves up today, Brexit Day.

With Brexit all is finally revealed, it basically was a  method of uniting the Tory party by allowing a vote, only Cameron got the shock of his life, and as he quoted Enoch Powell, All Political Lives End in Failure. Now we have a great big adventure. I’ll leave that there for you all to argue about amongst yourselves.

Ages ago I wrote a piece called Wrapping Paper so I don’t want to repeat myself too much, though you may say I do that all the time if you are cruel. Perhaps some things read better in another language, as the French may boast, so that could explain why Poland loves my stuff. Today though I want to think about and talk about Revealing, and what a difference timing makes to Revealing. 

Girls wear less and less, certainly on reality tv shows, and sometimes the largest thing they wear is their sun tan. Everybody sleeps in the nude too, well I do anyway, ok stop be sick in a bucket, take that idea out of your head, then I’ll carry on.  Though Julie Dangly whom I used to work with 25 years ago would say you have to wear a negligee then you have something to take off to get your boyfriend or husband even more excited, but I digress.

When you negotiate, with your kids, which you have as a result of wearing a negligee, so you should wear a diving suit to bed, or massive PJs if you want to avoid kids, when you negotiate, you start high and end low. You say they have to do 7 chores knowing they won’t, but they may do 6 or 5 or 4 or 3 or 2 or 1. And sometimes 1 is a major victory. Politics or Brexit is about aiming for the Sun when getting the Moon is what you really wanted as your least worst option, just watch out for the cow jumping over the moon, and as for the cat and the fiddle they are a metaphor for those nasty neighbours who shall remain nameless.

Now where was I, I just had to put the washing out, it bleeped so I had to hang out our stuff. I could lose my thread but instead it takes this piece into another direction. Washing, why are we embarrassed by our smalls, it’s a fine day so the washing goes out but we don’t want the neighbours to see the state of our pants, our knickers, our panties or our long johns. 

Obviously I have to padlock my pants to the washing line or they might be stolen, and if you believe that then you believe in fairies, and if you have seen Peter Pan, I do, I do, I do believe in fairies I do I do. If you didn’t join in the chorus just then you are and old fart who wears old women’s drawers. Is that enough emotional blackmail? 

I could go on but my daughter has just got home so these words will have to be enough. I have though revealed something else, talking to her is more important than talking to you. So today promise yourself that you’ll talk to your kids more, and not just when you shout at them to hang the washing out on the bushes or the tv aerials. Because the way your kids are when they are with you reveals all about, YOU and them, Love shines but fears wilts their spirits. Reveal what kind of mum or dad you really want to be, then blame it all on me.