I Believe in Me

I Believe in Me ©

By Michael Casey

I read on the BBC site about confidence levels among new students in USA, Freshmen as they are called over there. There confidence is king, but ability does them a kick up the backside. Confidence is great, it is important, without it nothing can be done, or almost nothing can be done.

Over confidence becomes conceit, we can watch any reality tv show to understand this. Some say Eton educated politicians are conceited and out of touch with the real world, their ability is not equal to their conceit or should I say confidence. On the other hand coming from a poor working class inner city background doesn’t make you qualified to run the country either, especially when both ends of the swingometer haven’t had a real job, or as my dad used to say they’ve never sweated.  They have read a few tomes on politics while at uni, but actual getting up and going to work, or working night shifts for years, no, none of them or not enough of them has any exposure to the real world. Yet both sides are confident they no what they are doing.

Confidence means sex, the boy is cheeky enough to ask the girl out, and to seduce her, before she realises he’s a total arse. We’ve seen enough films to see this scenario over and over again. Wealth and Privilege breeds confidence, but practice makes perfect, the sportsmen we all may love have had to spend hour after hour after hour practising so they can chip that ball into the hole, or bend it like Beckham.

Rooney last time I looked had improved at heading the ball, why, because he practised. Which means when Rooney is in the area he’ll have a try with his head, Jackie Charlton used to be a great head player, but they all practiced. I’m sure Sir Alex tells them what he wants and they do that little bit extra, if they don’t then they’ll be sitting on the bench. This could be Sir Alex’s last season and he will probably be called the best manager ever, but even he has to practice and rehearse his art, and I doing mean by looking in a mirror holding a hairdryer.

Americans are confident and they can be because they have all the resources of the world at their finger-tips. In today’s world pop stars seem to be too arrogant, too takeaway food. Here today gone tomorrow, gulped down and forgotten. The craft seems to have been forgotten, the apprenticeship has not been done, it’s all ego and no tomorrow, throwaway “culture”. Our reality shows breed this, and sadly wanabees are the next big thing.

Hard work seems to forgotten, people craving without slaving first, to misquote Billy Connelly “ everybody wants to shock and they are auditioning for their own show.” You cannot turn back the clock, but singers, comics and their ilk forget about the practice that should come before any performance. Have 5 mins of material does not make you an entertainer. Over confidence is self disillusioned, you need to step back and get that paper graded, record your performance and really look hard at it, compare and contrast other people’s papers.

My own path into writing started by listening to all the stories my dad had, hearing them over and over. Being afraid of Mr Gallaghger   in primary school, so I took refuge in books from the age of 8, so I would not get the slipper. 3 years later and 100s of books later I was the head boy. We got an old Bush radio, the saucer dial one, with the dominoe buttons and the strip of marzipan carrying handle, this radio changed my life because I listed to Radio4 for 20 years. Imagine its midweek, your shift cycle has ended what can you do? You listen to the radio. Plays and News galore. Then you stumble into writing so you write and write, I had a head start thanks to Radio4 .

Now confidence I did not have, I just stumbled into it and then I realised I’d found something. I can do this, I can do this. You think what to do next after a few months of writing. Pad said “why not write a book”. So I did. This took a while and you realise you had nailed it. BUT its only on paper, a typed effort. I worked on computers, so I bought an Atari 520 and made a 2^nd draft, this took a year when I wasn’t working nights or weekends, a year of a life. It was only when I’d finished my book The Butcher The Baker and The Undertaker that I thought I was any good. I’d done my apprenticeship. 

However you never finish learning with writing, never finishing practising. From then to now is 25years. And before that 20years of using my ears. So if you like as I talk to you its 45years in the making. I’m still not overconfident, you have to work at your craft, and most important of all use your ears. Then and only then can you say I’m a writer.

https://www.amazon.com/Michael-Casey/e/B00571G0YC  

*****

this piece is from 5 years ago on www.michaelgcasey.typepad.com you can HEAR me read some stories  and AFTER the AUDIO are a few more old stories. I hope you all like them. Its 50 years since I first fell in love with Words now. And at time of writing I'm wondering why you are all reading the Shakespeare Was piece. Go online and find the BBC show I was talking about. You may even be able to buy it on the BBC website somewhere.

that's your lot, and if Boris, Lech and Gregorgi turn up, tell them they need to return my dresses, there are enough Pantomime Dames already without them joining in.

  

  

Coming Out of the Closet

Coming out of the Closet ©

By

Michael Casey

I’ve just tied up my wardrobe, or rather what used to be my wardrobe, and it was interesting to discover what was inside. And for all of you who thought I was going to declare myself Gay, sorry to disappoint you. I am only interested in Women, real ones, and with an eye to the Oriental, such as Korea, Japan and China. My wife is a Shanghai girl after all. Though my next wife will be Korean, depending on which one of us dies first. I’ve looked outside and the hitman has not arrived, yet. Not unless my wife hires a Korean girl to kill me. She will be going out with her Gay male friend later on, such is life’s eternal balance. Meanwhile my girls are at the Panto with other members of my family. Panto is where men dress as women and vice versa, it’s the end of the Panto season today and it could be Dick Whittington who used his cat to clean out all the rats in London. Which is vaguely topical.

So let’s get back to me and my closet, it is nearly big enough for me to climb into, and then I really would be coming out of my closet, but only to carry clothes, no other meaning implied. That’s the joy of language, you can give it many meanings. That’s what Shakespeare enjoyed doing with his puns. I hope all students passing by my site this weekend have as much fun with language as I do, whatever your own first language happens to be, and you speak 25 different languages at least. Maybe one of you reading this really is the Korean girl hitman or hitgirl waiting to take me out. I hope the take out is prawn toast from the local Chinese us the road, or then again you may be introducing me to the undertaker.

At this point I need a bit of food so I’ll pause and eat while you amuse yourselves, you may even ring your mother to say you are coming out of the closet. To which she will reply,I knew before you even knew,I am your mother after all. Just bring in the coal from the coal shed when you come home, those 100kilo sacks are too heavy for your old mum. I love you whatever you want to call yourself, the only name I know you by is Son. Which is as it should be.

Well I stumbled to the shop, my arthritis is being a *&*( today and I bought some bread and I’ve had a feed so I’m back with you all refreshed. I did nearly trip over a bag of clothes for the Charity shop, as wife has had a clear-out while our daughters are at the Panto with uncles and aunties, and left a bag by the front door. But if I spot our local Romanian recycle lady she’ll have them first. That’s the nice thing about clear-outs your old stuff finds new life and goes to those who really really need a hand up.

So now Freddie Mercury is singing to me as I talk to you, and did you know 30 years ago I used to look a bit like him, or so my wife claims when she looked at old photos of me. You discover things you thought were lost when you look in the closet. My clothes are scattered in 3 bedrooms, as daughters and the wife lay claim to all the storage space. I’m lucky my clothes aren’t squeezed between the cat food and our 2 month supply of toilet paper, yes I need to be ready hence that much toilet paper.We had 192 rolls delivered 2 days ago. See I am a boy scout, always prepared.

I found 3 jumpers folded into a rolled up mess, at the bottom of the closet, I think the girls had been using it as a draught excluder for their door, or for a cat pillow. It’s dad’s he won’t mind, especially if we don’t tell him. This is the worse winter in 10 years maybe and I need all my jumpers, but at least the cat had a pillow.

I did find a new belt, I had bought it in Italy in 95 I think, but it languished in the wardrobe. I bought a lot of belts as I could not find anything else I liked on holiday. Or my sister would say, you were just too fat, admit it, too fat by far, so you bought belts to hold your up your trousers, you big little fattie. She’s got a Canary up the Leg of her Drawers you know, and when she farts, well you can Google that to find the full rhythm. I did of course teach my girls the rhythm as soon as they understood the meaning of words, so when they were 3.

I found loads and loads of plastic bags, I hope my wife hasn’t been saving them to wrap my body in after the Korean girl hitman pays me a visit. But of course not we don’t have a deep freeze in the garage, though she was looking at a freezer catalogue recently, no it can’t be, its just my imagination.

What else did I find in the closet, I found a dolls house, my daughter’s first dolls house, she has a bigger one just outside the wardrobe. I was half expecting to find a way to Narnia as I pushed the clothes to one side. But there are no Princes in my wardrobe, there is a witch in the house but that is the wife downstairs, I am her Panda or Polar Bear, when she isn’t calling me Panzi. You can Google Panzi its Pinyin Chinese.

What else was in the closet? Tiny thin metal coat hangers which we all hate, wooden or plastic are far nicer. My old school tie had also survived, 40 years old and more. Then at the bottom of the wardrobe I found some slippers, not for any Cinderella nor for any Pantomime Dame, NO I’m not talking about myself. I thought Lech and Boris and Gregorgi were still shoveling snow in Davos, oh no we are not, oh yes we are, oh no we are not. Those three are just too clever.

Then there was a half coffin size box at the bottom of the closet. My small daughter keeps her treasure in it. But if the Trio are back and if the Korean hit girl does come for me, will they save me or offer their services to bury me in the 1/2 coffin size box. I’ll fold the story there.  

Shakespeare you want more?

Shakespeare you want more? (c)

By Michael Casey


For some reason you all liked Shakespeare post, 3 to 1 compared to next favourite post at the moment.

I'll assume it's because you are all studying Shakespeare, not because I'm a wonderful writer.

40 years ago the top stream in my grammar school had the joys of English Literature.

We did Henry IV part I or was it 2, plus the book Over the Bridge by Richard Church.

Then it was murder, no Internet to help, Internet was not even invented nor PCs , 1975.

So here's a few ideas for you, the work you will have to do yourself.

I did do Shakespeare at the Open University in 1988/9 I seem to remember.

You can Google Open University in UK.

For English Lit, read the BOOK FIRST, before your teacher/tutor/mistress

 of any kind starts to teach you.

If its in a Foreign Language, then get the Translation and read that first.

So when lessons begin you have at least read the book once, three times would be even better.

Google the Film of the book and watch that too, a few times. For Macbeth in English I think the Jason Connery version is the best. Ask his dad 007 if you do not believe me. There is so much stuff on UTube so go hunt it out. Back in 1975 and in 1988/9 UTube did not exist. I did not even have a PC/ Internet in my home for a further 10 years. So now I do have it for 19 years, having a Shanghai wife brought the necessity of Internet home to me.

Can you ask a question?

When you come home late and your mum thinks you have been out drinking she will ask you 20 or 30 questions as she batters you, as you both Tango around the kitchen table.So Ask Google the same question in a variety of ways till you discover the best answers, then bookmark those pages.

Michael Casey, michaelgcasey, Mr Michael Casey, Mr Michael G Casey, the fat silver haired writer in shades from Birmingham. All these will give slightly different answers as well as a lot that are the same. So Learn how to interrogate Google and then you'l find better answers. Exam Essays on Macbeth could be one search, Free Exam Essays on Macbeth could be another. Pretend to be a lawyer in court,  or your sister interrogating you about where her jar of money has gone. If you don't ask you don't find out. If you wanted to persuade a girl to bake you bread, how would you persuade her, what would you do? Flutter your eyelids at her?  Well go Flutter at Google.

Once you have all the answers then read them all. Then THINK. Then Write your own essays.

Yes its is as simple as that, and yes Teachers can spot and do use, CUT And PASTE spotting technology. And any cut and paste essays are an immediate fail.

I know in some cultures cheating is endemic, how do you expect us to pass if we do not cheat can be heard.

THE ANSWER IS DO SOME READING, LOTS OF IT.

TALK WITH YOUR FRIENDS OVER WHATSAPP 

In short do the work. There are far too many fake degrees and fake people in the world.

And when all the exams are done, then go out and celebrate, you could buy all my books and read them for pleasure. Or just go down the pub instead.

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

p.s. I've discovered that THIEVES have posted some or parts of my books online. This is theft, IF I put my hand in your pocket and stole money to buy  a Stella Artois, this would be theft.
People should put their hands in their own pockets and BUY my books  and not steal them.
Then I can buy myself Stella Artois.

Sign of the Times

Sign of the Times ©

By

Michael Casey

Sign of the Times can mean anything, its a song as well. But what does it mean to you? To me, tonight it means my physical body has perhaps reached its weakest, well for today anyway. I used to be able to stand for 12 hours a day and walk 5 miles. Today I can go out shopping but return tired, I don’t quite need a nap, but its a close thing. In a way its sad because you can feel the shadow of the Grim Reaper fall over you. This weekend also marks the anniversary of my dad’s death so that does bring on many memories.

I used to be a lumberjack and I was ok, chopping down trees, and wearing girlies’ clothing, suspenders and a bra, just as Monty Python did. I did get a lot of flack from the other members of the rugby team, but good hookers are hard to come by, so they respected my clothing decisions. I was quick and I always got the ball, I did not want my stockings ripped after all. It did happen once and there was such a maul afterwards and 3 players were sent off, and the referee’s mum came on to slap a few legs, just to restore order.

But that was then and this is now. How things change. You used to sing dirty songs on the coach to rugby matches, nowadays that is just a memory and you cannot remember the words at all. You go on visits to Holy Places instead, that’s what marrying the vicar’s daughter entails. It must be the same for Theresa May’s husband, visiting The Palace of Westminster when really he’d like to go to Crystal Palace to watch the football. But marriage does that to you.

When you first marry you are both full of vim and vigour, figure skating around each others’ bodies in bed. Then children appear, so you go bed to sleep instead. Besides the children have radar, so they can intercept and parental desires. You are both trapped apart, holding the babies so you cannot even practice making any more babies.

Your looks begin to fade, and your clothes get tighter, you’re sure they have shrunk in the wash. Its because Married Men, and Women get fatter, its God’s design. Thin to bait the trap, then hips and bellies get bigger, and everything drops thanks to Gravity. But you love each other, besides nobody would want you now, because you have the married look. You are permanently tired, school runs and overtime to pay for your crime, sex and marriage. They come and go together, so you have buy shoes for children and trendy clothes too. Meanwhile you evolve into the missing link, the tramp with the well dressed kids, you cannot afford anything for yourself.

And on it goes so you buy clothes in 2^nd hand or charity shops, not because you are being Retro and Trendy but because that is all you can afford. And its there while changing to try on a new secondhand pair of trousers that you meet temptation. The woman in the charity shop sees your strong legs and wants all of you. You end up making love amongst the donations in the back of the Charity Shop.It wasn’t planned it wasn’t even anything, it just happened.

Your wife doesn’t suspect but you become very well dressed in a Retro kind of way. Your kids work it out but don’t care because you are out of their hair, but in, well enough said. Your wife doesn’t notice because she has gone back to work and is now a manager. So you carry on carrying on in the back of the charity shop. So in a way it is perfect, except you get the woman in the charity shop pregnant, she thought she was too old to conceive, but with a lot of Charity anything can happen.

So now you are living the married life again, with your pregnant girlfriend living in your daughter’s bedroom. She has gone to University now, and your wife is so very understanding and charitable, so a baby conceived in a Charity shop is born, its a girl, so you call her Charity.

You did not plan any of this, it was inconceivable that Faith the girl from the Charity shop would have a baby. You Hoped she was mistaken, but no matter what you had Hoped, Faith had conceived Charity. At least your wife was understanding, she liked the idea of more children but it did not happen in the marriage. But now a new baby was born, she was just too understanding. I forgot to say she was the manager of a Baby Wear Shop.

See God works in mysterious way, though some might say men should just keep their trousers on, especially in charity shops. 

Degree Madness an old piece from 6 years ago

I was reading the DT tonight before bedtime and it was on about Grade inflation as some Unis don't want their scores knocked back. So they ignore some results before awarding the final degree. 

Statistics say people are getting smarter because more and more high grade degrees are being awarded.

But  some would claim the Students just cannot write, even though they get a First or a 2 1. I've met a lot of graduates and Common Sense seems missing too.

As you know I'm self taught, with the help of 20 years of Radio 4 first, then 30 years of writing. So That's 50 Years Slaving over a Keyboard.

I could not find the piece I wanted to share again, but I found this one.

Degree madness

 By michaelcasey

There was a nice piece in today’s DT about degrees and their value or lack of.  £27,000 for a degree is madness, and the piece did speak of “rubbish” degrees, I was told by a friend that 40% was the pass grade for an engineering degree here in Birmingham. This is madness pure and simple, 

I’m sure any real employer would roll their  eyes and reach for the coffee. I have also met young people with a piece of paper and no common sense. As for everybody demonstrating because it was their right to have a degree, I’d say having a red jumper is more useful that some degrees, save £27,000 and open a business instead.

My daughter took her 11plus 2 days ago, that I hope will help her, but even if she were to fail, we still have 2 ex-grammar schools where she could go. 

As for University, I am already telling her just to enjoy her life and get 3 years hands on experience, or 4 years if you include the gap year either before or after Uni. She can do what she likes, but always do her best, just as my dad instructed us. Then she has something to offer an employer.

I’ve had a varied employment life these past 12years, but it has taught me that being useful and flexible is better than a Micky Mouse degree she might apply for. I tell her Paul McCartney’s daughter went to a comp but look at Stella now. It’s the Person not the Paper that matters

Too Good to Criticise

Too Good to Criticise? ©

By

Michael Casey

I needed a nap today, as I was getting out of bed I switched on the radio, BBC Radio4, which is like the World Service that you all listen to all over the world. I stumbled on a conversation where a Posh Female Poet was being criticised for criticising mere mortals. Ok, I’m encapsulating it, I was putting my socks on at the time before getting dressed.

Literary Criticism while naked is never a good idea, though your boyfriend or girlfriend may criticise you at any time of the day or night, naked or not. You may think you are safe sat on the toilet or in the bath, but criticism can come at any time. Conversely your very best ideas may come while sat on the toilet, and remember Archimedes HE was in the bath.

So tonight I want to talk about criticism. Should you not criticise because the writer is a fat silver haired writer in shades from Birmingham? Or because he’s had a bad heart and arthritis and his Ckd is bad? Or should you say that Michael Casey is really really rubbish and if ever I meet him I’d spit at him, or just ignore the fat smelly man? Or I’d just give him a 200ml of Ck One every time I meet him? Not because I like him or any or his puerile words, but because I want to remind him he STINKS.

That in essence is the debate I heard on the radio, while I was naked and putting my socks on first. If the Radio people could see me as I was getting dressed would they PUKE? Or would they be aroused? We do not have interactive radio yet, so we will never know the answer to that question.

It is a very important point though, not me being naked, but whether you support somebody’s Art because of their handicap? And no I’m not still talking about my body but whether I must buy tickets because he is from Planet Zogg, so I really must support them. And what is Planet Zogg’s Art? It is farting through a hoop to make bubbles, literally Blowing Bubbles full of Farts. Then they drift over the audience to burst, covering the audience in soap and farts. So the man from Planet Zogg is a millionaire, who can do no wrong.

The point is should you support rubbish in the name of compassion or charity? Or say Planet Zogg is a load of hot air, very smelly hot air, and we should prick his bubble and let him have his own farts back in his face? Here’s a donation now get lost, I’m watching the MU match or whatever IF Planet Zogg was doing a Charity thing. Or just say NO, whether it was a Charity thing or just working for himself.

My opinion is that if it is Good then it is Good, but don’t over praise something which is rubbish, or just leaves a stink, like Planet Zogg’s act or Art. Vote with your Feet. If you hate MY stuff then you just stop reading it, I know none of my readers are reading it because I’m fat and silver haired in shades and from Birmingham, the one in England.

Nor because of all my medical weaknesses, which I mention because they are part of me and hurt me. They are NOT ME, I am ME and the writing is ME, I’m not defined by my weaknesses. So judge me for a reason as the song goes, and let that reason be, because I make you laugh and think. I’ll take my clothes off now and have a shower, and maybe Radio 4 will have a good debate on while I shower, is he really that fat and hairy, and look at those scars, interactive radio in the shower.  

And if I do stink, I will accept Ck One 200ml bottles anytime.

Like My Page last one of my rediscovered pieces for tonight

Like My Page (c) By Michael Casey

Like My Page (c) By Michael Casey

Like my Page (c) by Michael Casey

How do you capture a thought, its like a polar bear trying to capture a butterfly in its teeth without harming it. So you use a metaphor or some other kind of butterfly net, ideas lap at your toes  like walking on the beach at Cromane Lower Eire, then you get sands between your toes.   Your socks are stuffed in your pocket only they fall out and you stumble to catch them like a wicket keeper in cricket, or the catcher in baseball. See already I've put a few diverse thoughts in your head. Images is what advertising is all about, a warm and soft glow in your mind then you buy stuff. Memories of a first kiss, or the first loss of innocence, something that makes you smile and close your eyes, and want more. So you will go out and buy stuff, just one click away. I shouldn't ruin the illusion, but I will, you can buy my 5 books on Amazon Kindle, just look for my silly face on the corner. Comedy sells product, but how do you sell comedy itself? Perhaps  I should say read my books and your chest will expand, you'll look like Rocky, or if you are a girl you'll look like Angelina Jolie. Read my books and people will be impressed by your choice of reading, I never thought you'd read him, Michael Casey is so so, well just so so so, we have so much in common now, quick marry me and we'll read his books while we are on honeymoon.
So I've displayed cheap marketing tricks that B list celebrities use all the time for their Z list latest films. I've got on all the front pages  by flaunting my body, are fat hair chests all the rage now, is silver coloured hair with matching eyebrows the latest thing. Do I look like Steve Martin or Leslie Neilsen?
This is what you get when you ask me to go to your page on Face Book, would you have preferred a kiss under the mistletoe? Or will you just strike me off your Friends list, a horrid horrid man, or is it polar bear ?