The Return of Darth the Once Mighty part one

The Return of Darth the Once Mighty ©

By

Michael Casey

Now as I’ve mentioned Darth is a Warrior with a capital W. Well that’s almost true, apart from his weaknesses, mainly Mead, or Beer in today’s parlance. Darth is from Viking times, but he would not listen to anybody, Vikings are a bit like that, so he ended up sailing off the end of the world. The earth is flat after all. Darth screamed, may the gods help me, but they did not, but God did help him.

So, Darth found himself in 1987 alive and in pencil, on a dogeared piece of paper all bound with a shoe lace. Imagine the indignity of it all. Though he did discover that 1987 beer was ok, never as good as Mead, but he could not complain. Darth met the lads from StatsMR computer room and they super glued a red read/write ring to his left ear lobe, and for balance a blue read/write ring to his right ear lobe. They told him he looked so good, and Darth slurred one day Michael Casey will be a famous writer, but the lads just laughed and got another round in. Though Mark Alder drew a cartoon of Michael Casey in the style of William Shakespeare, as he was a comedian.

Now Darth did have a companion, a dwarf a very big dwarf, more like a Michelin Man size dwarf, who drank and belched and farted, but in tune to anything playing on the Jukebox in the Horse Trader bar. Falstaff was so talented that way, though when Falstaff drunk too much, more that 25 pints and 14 packets of crisps and 7 bags of scratchings something horrible happened. No not that. Falstaff would turn Plastic, just like a giant piece of garden furniture. So, the lads had to keep count, or plastic would happen.

So, as it was closing time the lads all scattered, the weekend beckoned, Darth was left to carry a plastic Falstaff away, if he could survive the subway near the small brook, it was said to be dangerous, the lads did warn him to watch out. But Fate came a calling, some other lads out for a weekend of 1987 drinking and wenching saw Darth in Viking gear carrying a giant plastic dwarf on his back, so naturally they laughed and mocked him in the subway next to the Asian food store. Debbie was there and she witnessed what happened and told the Statsy boys on the Monday. The yobs, let’s give them their true name, the yobs mocked Darth and his plastic Falstaff dwarf, it was too much for any Viking to accept. So, Darth dropped the plastic Falstaff and started singing Michael Bolton songs, he was very drunk after all. The yobs laughed and jostled him, Darth was outnumbered but on he sung, Can I Touch You there, Michael Bolton came to the rescue, then plastic Falstaff awoke farting and belching in time to Michael Bolton’s Can I touch You there. A dwarf fart is a mighty weapon, and the yobs were vanquished. Debbie smiled she recognised the read/write rings, and then as Darth outstretched his hand to help Falstaff off the floor, there was a flash, no not because of fart and cigarette combined, though Paul Flash might remember a story about that. No, it was the space time continuum, Darth disappeared into space and time, taking his dwarf friend Falstaff with him.

So, since 1987 Darth and his plastic dwarf friend Falstaff have been in the ether, waiting just waiting for the gods to call him back. Now it’s 2020 and the clock is ticking, the clock is ticking, I just changed the battery, maybe I should change it more often than every 33 years. My clock has chimed, and through the clouds Darth is falling to earth, not a spaceman, but a Viking and a Dwarf, not even a  Red Dwarf, just a grubby beer stained dwarf called Falstaff. May the gods help us screams Darth, again the gods do nothing, but God is listening. Darth and Falstaff fall through the roof of Saint Mary’s where thieves had stolen some lead and there was enough space for a Viking riding and gliding down through the sky sat on a plastic dwarf could fall. Splash landing, Darth and Falstaff land in the Baptismal font. They would get zero for technical merit, but 10 for level of difficulty if this were the Tokyo Olympics diving competition.

After all these years Darth was thirsty so he drunk the Baptismal Font dry as Falstaff awoke and wondered where the nearest pub might be. Climbing out the font, Darth spied the vicar, Quasimodo, it was not her real name but some bright spark had christened her that when she was spotted ringing the church bells, when she had first arrived.

Now the gods may have not listened to Darth, but God had been listening to Quasimodo over and over and over again, she was plain, but she had a heart of gold, if only she could find a man and have a child, one would be enough, somebody to love and be loved by. But who would have her? Darth was a strapping big man, so big he could be Ukrainian, though Darth did explain he was a Viking. Was God playing tricks on her, or was the altar wine too strong. She prayed for a man, and now there were two, both falling through the hole in the roof, she thought they were lead stealers at first, but she could tell they were not. She had done English and History at Queens before getting the call, the vocation, come follow me.

Quasimodo, was a great priest, she spent all her time reading, and not because she as so plain and nobody would ever want her. She was just so terrible shy too. God looked on, he had answered her prayers, twice over, now she could not make her mind up.

Darth should have been here but

Darth should have been here but

he broke into a church to drink the holy water

and ring some bells and hang out with Quasimodo his friend

then he banged his head on a table in a pub

and he's still there sleeping things off

but he promised to pass by and have a Quest

Darth is a viking in a loin clothe a bit like Conan

but he asks better questions, mainly about beer

so come back tomorrow and if he is sober I'll share a Tale about him

Does anybody know what read/write  rings are?

The coloured ones have more power

if your memory goes back 40 years plus then you may have an idea

see you all behind the bike shed in the morning

Picking a Winner

Picking a Winner ©

By

Michael Casey

It’s hard enough picking a font to use, I tried a different word processor program and it let me use Amiri, my new favourite font, but it then double spaced it, so I’ve gone back to another one, which sometimes freezes your computer, if you are not careful, but otherwise its nice to use. What has that got to do with anything, what am I waffling on about as some unkind people used to say. Well it proves my point for me without me giving any evidence, things that should work, and should be easy, can prove difficult and not give the required results.

I’ll give that girl a bunch of roses, girls love flowers. Only she has hay fever, you should have saved your money. And yes I know a girl who has hay fever and I do save my money. So you try a potted plant, only nobody bothers to water it, and it dies on the kitchen window sill. My mother who would have turned 100 this week, had green fingers up to her elbows. She would “borrow” a cutting from a sea side town and throw it in a plastic bag sprinkled with water, after the holiday it was planted in her garden and it grew. Whatever she picked literally, became a winner in her front or back garden.

So it is with words, if I use this word or that word you may not like it, and some words are overused, such as Legend and Hero. Common expressions are reversed in an attempt to be different, the white and the black of a situation, the zag and the zig, you can pick your own expressions, while I pick my nose. At least I know what I am doing when I pick it, which is different to picket. Word plays are fun, ask Will down the Shakespeare pub, or Will Shakespeare himself if you are a Thespian, or a Les Dawson fan. I do miss sitting on a bench with Les, my legs wide open, man spreading while dressed as a mature woman, with huge bosoms, showing my silk stockings and garters. Foreign readers can Google Les Dawson.

So what words should I use and chose, or is it chose and use, see you are divided already, so I divide and conquer. Then you criticize my grandma, or is it grammar? Remember I am talking to you, everything I write is a piece of radio, or rubbish if you want to upset me, and make this not a Good Friday but a bad day, on a Friday, though it is actually Good Friday.

Words have weight and power, you can say the wrong thing at the wrong time, or just the right words. Or just being there in silence is the right thing to do. You give a hug, a kiss, or just hold somebody’s hand. And think you have done nothing, but in fact what you have done is better than perfect. Others are just like marooned boats in low tide, but you are a life raft of hope and help.

Sometimes, or often in my case, the words appear for the situation, well on paper anyway, and you don’t know where they come from, so people say it’s a gift, as common place as rain in Manchester, they don’t know or appreciate the now 50 years love of words, since watching Robin Day on tv back in the 1960s. So how do you know what words to pick, well you don’t, you have to be an instant quote machine. You pull words from space, the space between your ears. I’ll give you a few examples. I was talking to somebody and they thought they knew the situation. So as we have a squared pattern carpet, the words sprung to mind via the visual stimulation. It’s like the first square, you have to look at all the squares, like in a chess board you have to read all the squares and pieces. Don’t assume you know everything just from the first square.

Likewise words appears from audio stimulation, Genesis are singing behind me, and a word or phase they sing is like a ball bouncing around in my head, like a pinball machine, which will lead me to words and phrases. It happens at the speed of thought, despite earwax, and appears on the screen equally as fast, its like a damn bursting with words and ideas. I just wish I could draw and then I’d have Cartoons made from Words, as one of my Blogger sites is named. It really is quick, so some call it a Gift, but as I said before 50 years love of Words equals a Gift, as if I’ve stolen Will Shakespeare’s folio, I’m too much of a Falstaff to steal.

Now when I began, I had to stop dead just then, my words becalmed, the Pain Monster appeared from out of nowhere. It’s like an elephant sitting on my left shoulder. So I just slapped on the Movelat pain killing gel on my clicking shoulder, and my face feels as if the elephant’s trunk gave me a slap. This is my normal, my sine curve of pain, so my words shared with you are an oasis of Hope and Fun for myself. Ok, it’s like dirty puddle or is it puzzle to you, that splashes on your best trousers.

Let me try that paragraph again, now when I began you all assumed I’d be talking about horses and racing, The Sport of Kings, as only they can afford it. No doubt my UAE, Saudi, and Qatar readers will have wished for that at any rate, not unless the Queen is a secret reader. I will finish with a horse, as you may remember my dad was a Blacksmith in County Kerry Eire. He began at Rathmore. The store in 1995 had been turned into a hairdressers, some 60 years after dad was there, we visited on the final Grand Tour before my mother died. Dad had bought his ticket and came to England in 1944, he could have gone to USA his sister Mary had or was about to send him money to come to Chicago, but Thomas Cooke had sold him a ticket so his Fate and my Future was decided.

Dad was very intelligent, and he liked watching Politics on TV, so as I grew up I watched with him. And it’s for that reason I love words. When I wrote The Butcher The Baker and The Undertaker I did not want to insert dad into the story as I loved him too much, however Big Sid the butcher is my dad. Not the character nor behaviour, but the deep love of kids inside him. I did not even realise it as I wrote Big Sid but when I’d finished I know he was my dad. So I am very fortunate this Good Friday, because I had the winning pick for parents, and as any Arab will tell you a good horse and blacksmith is worth more that all the grains of sand in the desert, even if they were gold.   

Maundy Thursday 2020

Maundy Thursday 2020 (c)

By

Michael Casey

Maundy Thursday was the night Jesus and his disciples had their Last Supper, and Christians still copy it in the Mass, breaking of bread and so on. That night Jesus also washed their feet, later he prayed, while they fell asleep, and finally has betrayed by Judas. And the rest is History, the only difference being that for Believers Jesus rose on the 3^rd day, and we have Easter.

So in today’s world who follows Jesus, or any other Faith or None? Who falls asleep, and who copies Jesus and washes the feet of others. Obviously here in UK, our NHS of all Faiths and None, are Jesus like in their devotion to the least of our brethren, they wash the feet and more of the sick, and dying. We the rest of us in isolation, self isolation or in Lockdown are just called upon to pray, that’s all we have to do, but do we fall asleep instead, while Jesus or our NHS is working for us? We are all weak and full of good intentions, but do we deny Jesus, or those doing good in society and would we betray them for 30 pieces of silver?

Something to think about as some of you make selfies and post them online and write that book on your self isolation tribulations. And will the Unwashed Masses buy your overpriced tat once the Covid 19 nightmare is over? Emily Maitlis apparently said something last night, which is obvious, it is the poor and least of our brethren who suffer most. Because they live in the worst housing, living off frozen food, because it is far cheaper that the fine dining food in expensive supermarkets. Jesus had simple food, and that became the model for Communion. The question is are we in communion with our fellow citizens, or will we deny them 3 times before the cock crows. Do we have to wait for the joy of Easter, to believe without seeing, not to demand putting our fingers in the wounds before we believe.

These times are a chance to look inward, I hope many of you do already, of All Faiths and None, for it is only by having discovered what’s inside that we can change the outside world forever. And change will come, otherwise we will all stay asleep in the garden of Gethsemane.

Korean Translation of Quick Stories + 2 other books too in Korean, Thank You

KOREAN Quick Stories

BBU in KOREAN

KOREAN TRANSLATION Still Alive 2015

KOREAN Quick Stories

Korean tv shows keep me happy so as a reward something to read, an Omnibus of mine

as a thank you to Korea for Kdramas amusing me and keeping me Happy

click link for a Translation in Korean  of Quick Stories an Omnibus of mine

https://michaelgcaseyfrombirminghamengland.wordpress.com/2020/04/08/korean-translation-of-quick-stories/

plus download the file from 1st link

Pretentious Poet Strike Again

something from December 2016, when I must have got up in the middle of the night or nite if you are in America

Pretentious Poets Strike Again ©

By Michael Casey

Now how exactly shall we describe Pain, is it just a myth advanced by Pharmacists aided and abetted by slick adverts on tv with wonderful graphics of throbbing this and that. Does it exist at all? Is it just a bad joke on Creation’s part? Shall I compare thee to a Scream on a Winter’s night echoing through The Dark of the Night of he Soul.

Now where did we put the Dictionary, next to our copy of the Perfect Word by Lenny Bruce, the well know American dictionary compiler, the coarse, the very coarse version. Or did we leave it next to our cook book, the American guide to Hamburgers a la Macdonalds, the 1999 version. Though who uses dictionaries, they are for the mentally weak, those with no moral fibre, we poets don’t need them, we just make up new words made up of sounds.

If it sounds good we use it, not forgetting a dose of alliteration on the side, and if we get the words wrong there is always the doctor or the priest to absolve us from our word choice. Priests are so forgiving of our words, especially Fr. Percy, he used to be a nudist till he saw the light and became a poet and then finally a priest, in the church of the Church of the Totally Gullible the church of Film Stars and Pop Stars.

But I digress, which word shall I pick and choose, where is my Muse, it’s hard to keep your muse, it should be chained to your bed, or was that a bad idea I saw on Blacklist, I really must stop watching late night tv, or was it the Brussel sprouts I consumed. We poets don’t eat we consume, and are consumed by ideas and emotions, because we are so sensitive, as we are Artists who teach the whole world what is Nature in the atmosphere and deep deep deep down inside us.

I found the dictionary in the bathroom, its such consuming reading while one is at repose, or just sat on the toilet. Sadly a few pages are missing, I ran out of tissue paper, the letter Z has all but disappeared. But Z is so boring so it shall not be missed by this Poet, nor the world of words, how many zebras have you heard of in contemporary poetry. Not even Leonard Cohen used Z, so it won’t be mourned, he will be mourned, but Z will not.

So where were we, yes we were describing Pain, rather like a Rolling Stones concert where there is a 400 years queue for the toilet, now that is pain as one hops from leg to leg crossed leg to crossed leg, like a frog in a kilt, and no I’m not talking about that French Fashion person, whose name evades me right now, though he does make rather good perfume in the torso bottle. I’m almost inspired to write a ditty about queueing to have a sh sh well you know what I mean, so long as its clean.

Now I was going to talk about how clever my choice of words is, but that would be boastful, but I am a pretentious poet, so I DO need to Educate you, there are more letters in the alphabet other than Z after all. In the Fall the leaves fall and gather on the ground for walkers to walk in and squash and squish, rather like pages stolen from a dictionary never to be used again, its all such desolation, how can poets survive with no cheap alliteration to be found in the leaves, Nature itself thieves them from our life from our very being.

So Pretentiousness must end the pain killers have worked and its 5.30am now so I need to go back to bed to finish my repose, this stink of words must have gone up your nose or fallen down and left a mess on your pjs or dressing gown, amongst the tooth paste stains and hot chocolate stains. So goodnight to one and all, as the good Earth spins I have finished blowing my own Trumpet, another night owl is reading my words, its 3am somewhere and I hope he enjoys my prose brought on by lack of repose. And if He wants to give everybody a great Christmas Present, how about lowering the cost of pills, then he would be a saviour for all our ills.

Idle hands tempt the Devil

Idle hands tempt the Devil

well I saw a film and I've come back and changed the backgrounds

Blue, Red or White depending on which blogger site you are on

I've left it so you can scroll down and read without having to click

Does it improve the quality of the writing I hear you all say

So I'll ignore you all, and hope Boris finishes reading my novel

before he has to get back to work.

I may write a story story in the morning, every day seems the same in

these Covid 19 times, it's all so quiet too

I think we should ring church bells on Sunday to punctuate the silence

or have call to Pray as well. An Audible sign we are not beaten

Silence may be Golden but we all do need to scream and shout and

let it all out. If you remember the scene from Network.

So tell all your friend thousands of stories here and Translations too

Here and over on Wordpress so, message your family everywhere

in the world. You can then all moan about how stupid I look

but I am a lovely writer, well Clare Moore said so, so it must be true

Hello Clare if you ever read this. Her dad knocked on her bedroom door

and asked what was going on "It's Michael he's making me laugh" she replied

She was reading The Butcher The Baker and The Undertaker

I have readers in 80 Countries now, Bangladesh tonight was reading me, as well as Austria and Germany. So Resistance is futile.

https://michaelgcaseyfrombirminghamengland.wordpress.com/

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Michael-Casey/e/B00571G0YC/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1