Doctor Laughter

Doctor Laughter ©

By Michael Casey

Now here's what I've been thinking about regarding Humour. Why do we laugh? We laugh at differences, we laugh at the unexpected. Events happen and that way they unfold gets a reaction. Nowadays people are too Politically Correct, you shouldn't laugh, it’s almost a sin to laugh. I'll give a few examples.

Look there's dad said my brother on our way home from serving the early Sunday Mass. So I run up behind this man and I was going to slap his bald head, or just say boo. Then the man turned around, it was not dad at all. So my brother ran up the street laughing.

So is that funny, or are you unamused.

In the old days it cost an old penny to use the public toilets. So we were on holiday somewhere so my mum was asking a man for some change so she could take my sisters to use the toilet in Rhyl or somewhere. The man gave her a big old copper penny and said "have one on me."

So is that funny or are you unamused.

My dad saved the undertaker's son's life, so when dad died years later the undertaker made my dad look 10 years younger in death. He looked like his own brother.

So is that sad or amusing or both? In fact I put the story about dad saving the undertaker's son's life in my comic novel

The Butcher The Baker and The Undertaker.

Fact is stranger than Fiction after all.

Comedy that is based on fact is far funnier, situation comedy if you like. A great British comedian Eric Morecambe once said if it works it works, don't over analyse it

When I write I know where I'm going, but I don't know how I'm getting there. Should I make a joke about this or that?

I have a blind boy called Barry in The Butcher The Baker and The Undertaker, how did he get in the book? I have a dominoes set in the house, they belonged to the man who bought me my first watch when I was 11, for passing the 11plus exam which meant I could go to grammar school.

AS I had the set of dominoes in my house when I was writing the idea came to me that at the dramatic end of the novel the heroes would be playing dominoes. They could not be playing cards as that's associated with gambling and in the story the hero's daughter had been kidnapped. So they played dominoes to stop themselves from going mad with fear for the daughter.

So when Barry comes along he joins in, he even asks them to put a mirror behind one of the other's back so that he the blind man can cheat. He may be blind but he still has his sense of humour. He also can hear the fear and tension in their voices, he knows there is something wrong, seriously wrong. So he the blind man is trying to help them.

Now some may say I should not have that line in the book, but if they do say that then I'd say, it’s them who are blind.

So you can have pathos and humour cheek by cheek. In another story of mine "I want to be a radio star" it’s no 127 on www.michaelgcasey.typepad.com you can hear me read it. Well in that piece I'm poking fun at myself. I always used to say I'd end up as a security guard when I was working in a computer room for 21 years at the same company.

 So in that story I am a security guard, and Doris, which is a kind of comedy name in England, a previous generation Christian name for a girl. Only she has faith in me. It’s a comedy piece. It has a happy and silly ending. I also wrote a story called It’s All in The Stars where again I'm a security guard and in that story I meet a girl who follows her horoscope all the time. In the end she falls for the security guard, he literally saves her as she crosses the road.

So humour can be used to laugh at ourselves, and it always has the underlying pathos. I know all about pathos too.

Find Padre Pio and Me by Michael Casey it’s on the Internet, you'll see real pathos and tragedy there. However there is a very happy ending. Yes that's how I met my wife, really.

So I hope if you have time to read the pieces mentioned you'll see that I'm more than the fat and boring writer with arthritis/Arthur from Birmingham. I've seen pain and had pain, that's why I want to create laughter and smiles with my writing.

Because Laughter is the Best Medicine.

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.wordpress.com

www.michaelgcasey.typepad.com

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

a story from 4 years ago, I was talking about furniture on my foogle+ thn I remembered this piece

To the Very Gates of Hell

I’ve had this idea as part of the finale to Tears for a Butcher for a few years, it may not make it into the book if ever I get around to finishing it. A book is a year of your life. Whereas a story is an hour, a big difference. Now read on.

DECEMBER 11TH, 2014 13:02

To the Very Gates of Hell

By michaelgcasey

To The Very Gates Of Hell ©

By Michael Casey

Mrs Murphy watched in horror, just yards in front of her Fr. Dan was going to be slain, the Columbians had him surrounded. Their guns were drawn and there was no Hope, he’d be as dead as a doornail in seconds. He was her favourite priest no he’d be gone to meet his maker. She could see his face, his eyes were fixed on hers, Pray for me he begged.

Fr. Dan  was not afraid of the Columbians, but he was afraid of his Final Judgement, he has killed two men in anger when he was younger. He had confessed this to Mrs Murphy when telling her that her soul was spotless as driven snow compared to his.

Some thugs had teased him and tortured him, trying to make him say bad things about Mary, the Virgin Mary. They had carved curses on his back with knives, but he would never say bad things about Mary. When his chance came he broke free and used all his Martial Arts skills to survive. Only he killed 2 of them and crippled 2 more with the other 2  running for their lives.

Jesuits know how to put the Fear of God into bad people, but   Fr. Dan feared God too, he had committed a mortal sin, thou shalt not kill, and he had killed twice. Now he was afraid, afraid for his soul, at this moment of his death he was afraid. His eyes were beseeching, Mrs Murphy would witness his death and his soul would burn in Hell’s fire for all eternity.

Mrs Murphy wanted to charge the Columbians down and run at them, but they had their guns ready, the situation was hopeless. Mrs Murphy did have Faith though, the Faith of a Child, as the bullets flew her heart broke, her womb exploded in love and fear, she lost her mind, but she kept her Faith.

I’ll go to the Gates of Hells and I’ll jump in the way, like jumping under a bus, I’ll catch Fr. Dan’s soul and stop it going into Hell. I’ll wrap my Rosary around the Gates of Hell, keeping them closed. God is good, God is good, it cannot be the end for Fr. Dan he’s such a lovely priest.

In Hell it was so dark and cold, the deepest of deep space, she couldn’t really see further than her hands holding her Rosary. If only she had her friends with her they would weld the gates of hell closed, nobody would burn in hell ever. She knew how to pray, she knew how to pray.

She felt heavy cold as ice breath on her neck, she could hear mocking laughter, but she could not see anybody. She tried to say her Rosary only her lips stuck together it was so cold, she tried to move her fingers though the beads, her mind was numb, it was like being turned into an ice cube. There is no love in hell, no love at all.

Mrs Murphy stumbled to her knees, the laughter, the icy laugher increased, the cold, the numbing cold went down her neck and to her very core. She had to force herself to remember why she was there. She was there to save a soul, she started with the Our Father. She continued with the 1^st Hail Mary. Fr. Dan was a good priest, he had refused to say bad things about Mary, they had tortured him, they had tortured him.

Jesus, Jesus forgive him, Mrs Murphy wanted to scream but it was so cold, so very cold. If only she had somebody saying the Rosary with her. The Gates of Hell cannot withstand the Power of The Rosary, he mother and her grandmother had told her. Mrs Murphy was using her best beads, the  ones that had been repaired when she was praying for Big Sid when he was shot. But now she was praying for a soul, not just a life.

Mrs Murphy managed to move her lips, it was just so cold, so very cold in the dark space of hell. Hope sprung from her lips, Jesus, Mary and Joseph she managed to scream, a scream that would be lost in the dark cold depths of space that was Hell.

Mrs Murphy’s head was spinning, her womb had exploded, she had lost her mind, she was dizzy, she wanted to vomit. But she had to pray on, she reached the 2^ndHail Mary on her Rosary. Her mind was playing tricks on her, she could hear her grandmother praying, she could hear her old dear friend Mrs Casey praying, she could hear Mrs Noonan praying.

On she prayed, it was just so dark and cold in the deep space of Hell. But then in the very distance she saw a light, a tiny tiny flicker, like the lights in the window of houses in Cromane at Christmas, like the lights in Dingle over the bay. Help was on its way, help was on its way.

Warmth seeped into Mrs Murphy’s body, the Darkness flickered and with an explosion of Love the cold and dark of Hell disappeared. Saint Michael the Archangel smiled and caught Mrs Murphy as she fainted. I thought it was all over she said, Michael laughed, it’s never over, it’s never over. Mary, Mum heard the Rosary so she sent me to investigate. Every Rosary everywhere is felt by her, by her womb. He hasn’t got a chance against the Rosary, never has, never will. And is he wants the argue he’ll have to talk to my sword said Michael as he brandished his sword.

But, Fr. Dan is dead and his soul must be heading to Hell, Mrs Murphy interrupted. Saint Michael the Archangel smiled and cried at the same time. God is good, and as you know his mercy is infinite. Come now I have to put you back together. But Fr. Dan’s soul is in peril, he must be shot and dead in the gutter by now insisted Mrs Murphy not understanding.

Time is just a joke as far as God is concerned, explained Saint Michael as he gathered up Mrs Murphy. He had to get her back to Earth and save Fr. Dan’s life in moments. Brandishing his sword Saint Michael flew through deep space on his way to Birmingham.

The observatories noticed a bright light from the deepest deepest part of space, it was moving fast, too fast. Many times faster than the speed of life. It was heading for Earth, if it hit earth it would be the end, the end of Civilisation and everything. It was impossible, where had it come from?

Michael did an orbit of the moon and had a look at the space station, one lonely astronaut had lost his love of life, Michael could feel the lack of love. So Michael waved at the astronauts before heading for Birmingham. Birmingham the centre of the universe, well for this one night.

Saint Michael gently lay Mrs Murphy down, her body and soul and heart united again. Saint Michael strolled towards Fr. Dan the Columbians had pulled the triggers, the bullets were flying, the bullets were flying. Saint Michael winked at an unbelieving Fr. Dan, Michael wrapped Fr. Dan in his wings and started singing, Ave Ave Maria, it was all angels’ favourite song.

God is good Dan, said the Archangel, and Mary said she was so proud of you too, she’s never stopped praying for you. You have many decades of work to do, just don’t be too hard on yourself. And as for the Columbians, they have no idea what’s going to happen next.

&&&&&&&&

ok folks, this is part of the finale to Tears for a Butcher which I haven’t even finished writing. I may never get around to it either. This would be chapter 12

I’ve written 1.5 chapters so far and have ideas for the book, really I want to dictate it, IF I had the software OR had access to a legal secretary who would be fast enough to type it for me perhaps Santa may send me something

GOOGLE SAVE OUR LIBRARY TODAY

Malala got her Nobel Prize yesterday, last year she opened the new library in Birmingham. 
And guess what one year later the city council are going to close it. 

Or rather  DRASTICALLY cut the opening hours.

 SO GOOGLE CAN YOU SPONSOR OUR CITY LIBRARY SO THAT IT STAYS OPEN. OR VIRGIN COULD YOUR SPONSOR IT. FOOTBALL TEAMS HAVE SPONSORS SO WHY NOT OUR LIBRARY.

 up the road in Sandwell the council there spent 40million on The Public a Pink White Elephant, which was a museum plus, That council got it wrong and now its been turned into a funky 6th form college.

 When will councils stop being so arrogant and do some real market research and costings BEFORE they give us what we don't want, or cannot afford.

 Perhaps I should go into Politics, I hear the house of Lords was saying the Commons' champagne was not good enough.

Stuffing Tony

Stuffing Tony

Stuffing Tony©

By Michael Casey

Stuffing Tony, what am I talking about, no not our tame turkey whom we’ve decided to eat, nor anything else. Tony is in fact a soft toy, he’s my small daughter’s favorite, the one she loves the most. He’s a white tiger, he was in fact he was her sister’s Birthday tiger from a few years ago, but she cried until she owned him. Tony is a very washed out bleached kind of tiger. Tony has been through the washing machine a couple of times, he was very very dizzy when he came out. Yesterday Tony got a brother, his brother is a ginger tiger, now christened Ginger. Ginger makes us laugher because Ginger is how English people call my wife if they cannot pronounce  her Chinese name.

Tony is one of 40 stuffed toys the girls have, they live up a corner behind the sofa which is just behind me. They are allowed out to form a class when my small daughter plays teacher, afterwards they climb back into their Iceland bags and go to sleep. There is a problem with Tony though, he’s lived in the fast lane and lost a lot of weight. So following strict instructions, today I have done a stuffing transplant, which is like a heart transplant but much more important and dangerous. Today without any sedative I have made Loony Chick donate some stuffing to Tony. I took the scissors and make an incision   in Loony Chick’s behind, I then proceeded to remove the stuffing. I had previously made an incision in Tony’s neck at the back, it was then  a process of removing from Loony Chick and stuffing Tony.

The whole procedure lasted 20mins, Tony now looks very plumped up and proud, as the leader of the pride should look. As for Loony Chick, he, she or should I say it now looks as if he’d had a few dodgy kebabs, very slim, but at least the head still looks plump. When the girls come home from school we’ll decide what to do with Loony Chick, should we stuff him with chopped up old clothes, or bubble wrap? Or should he face the death sentence and be sent to a Charity shop, I  know it sounds cruel, but since he came back from Shanghai in 2009 he’d mainly been a cushion.

These are the very serious things a modern parent has to deal with, luckily I know how to sew, and I have a special relationship with all the toys. Now that Tony is full and looks like a weightlifting Tiger I hope Ginger won’t be jealous, otherwise one of them may have to end up in a zoo, or the closest equivalent, in one of the 13 charity  shops near our house.

www.michaelgcasey.wordpress.com   www.michaelgcasey.typepad.com

this story comes from my book 300 and Not OUT

Hanging Out The Washing

Hanging Out The Washing ©

By Michael Casey

Well Winter is here, Christmas will be here in less than 3 weeks too, but what do we do with the washing, it still has to be done. Hail and sleet and snow may come and go, or just old boring rain, but still the washing has to be done. We are lucky I suppose as  we have a small back garden, so we can hang it out on our two washing lines.

My blue flags are the most distinctive part of the washing, as my Shanghai wife calls my pants. When I first went to Shanghai they were hanging from a bamboo pole from her mother’s balcony high in the sky, they were a landmark so I knew where I was. It’s very strange being in a country that does not use a Roman Alphabet for the first time, so my flag was something comforting if you like,

Back to now, and marriage and family and kids and washing hanging out in an English country garden, or rather our patch of green grass out the back. I hang clothes one way and the wife hangs them another way. I suppose its East v West, though my things tend to be 3 times the size of my 3 girls things. Their knickers are more like postage stamps, or handkerchiefs with shoelaces attached, if you have girls in your house you know what I mean. Mine as I said are like flags.

When it’s raining what can you do? Well you could use a tumble drier if you had one, though that is very expensive. Or if you can work out how to use the tumble drier feature on your Indesit washing machine. No like everybody else we put the washing on the radiators all around the house, socks here and socks there, and tights here and tights there as we have 3 girls in the house. Then there are school uniforms to be dried ready for school on the Monday morning. My stuff gets relegated to the upstairs rooms, I haven’t been at school for 40 years.

One radiator is a double one so it can hold more of a load, don’t forget the bathroom radiator too, no radiator is left uncovered, the bathroom has  a shelf so a pants mobile, or rather a mobile holding pants is pressed into service hanging from the shelf above the radiator. One day it could win a Turner prize.

Steam rises everywhere so windows have to opened to allow the steam to escape, the scent of our washing powder fills the house. It really is a Chinese laundry with Shanghai wife and bilingual daughters included. My job is to turn the items, like a fish fryer in a chip shop, sadly none of the items can be eaten.

When items are dry, and we do debate as to what constitutes dry then they are whipped off the radiators and folded so they can be taken upstairs out of the way. My stuff is never paper dry as I prefer, so I take it upstairs and unfold it and put it on a radiator upstairs. Later I can remove and fold it again, without the wife knowing, or so I hope.

As we pat ourselves on the back the sun appears, unexpected Winter sunshine, we could have left them out all along, but that wouldn’t have been as much fun. The Shanghai laundry mistress would have never been able to wag her finger at us, as she gives orders and I reply “sorry I don’t speak Chinese” in my best schoolboy French. 

Being Blunt

Being Blunt ©

By Michael Casey

What exactly do I mean by “being blunt”? Well I mean saying it as it is, not prevaricating, just saying it. Why dance around the houses, when what is needed is the plain simple truth,  HONESTY in other words. Some people just cannot tell the truth, even if it’s as plain as the walrus drink induced nose on their face.

People are afraid to tell the truth and shame the devil, as my mum used to say, tell the truth and I won’t beat you kind of truth. Double glazing salesmen and central heating installers come to mind. They will sit in your living room doing a pantomime, a calculator is even used, as if it will impress you. Then there is the discount afterwards, and then as if they are doing you a favour they will announce £3K or £2K or whatever.

Then you say thank you and show them the door. They may think they have another load of commission coming their way, my deadpan face gives nothing away. In fact the air is blue afterwards, what a &*((& I may say. No way will he ever get my order, my money. I always look dumb, but my brain is switched on. You learn more by pretending to be stupid.

As for doctors, they don’t say “you’ll be dead in a week, cancel your newspapers and season ticket for Manchester United” They um and ah and it’s very hard for them, they are healers not shareholders in the local undertakers. Though I could add that I could have been hit by a private ambulance this morning, killing two birds with one stone if you like.

People offering a service will go on and on and on, just how great this service is, and I’m not talking about the Vicar boasting about his carol service. I’m talking about maintenance companies, who’ll clean and power wash your gutters and even drains, and then charge £200. Me I gave a bloke a tenner and he sorted my gutters. If he had asked for £20 I’d have pushed him off his ladder, well almost. There is power in cash.

It’s so good for your child to do all these after school activities, it broadens there mind, more likely broadens the backside of the lady who sits there reading Hello magazine while your kids run around, or maybe that’s play places attached to pubs.

Please can people be honest and blunt, cos I can and will be blunt if people think they can talk down to me, and not get to the point, and I don’t mean priests on Sundays either. Sounds like I’m ranting, no I just want facts, I don’t want political speeches or their ilk, just give me the facts. I’m big enough to make up my own mind, and I haven’t got money to splash about in the wider educational interests of my child.

This is code for a school trip because the teachers always wanted to go there themselves, but their own parents could not afford it. While I’m talking about teachers it amuses my children that they get higher marks if they use more florid languages, score 2 extra points if you use alliteration. Me and my kids look at each other and say “alliteration is for people who cannot write.”

Have I been blunt enough, have I rambled, if you are blunt with me you will say I have rambled, but rambling with words is my exercise, exercise for my mind, and at least it does not leave sweaty soles, or souls.