Sing Songs

Sing Songs ©
By
Michael Casey

We had the Eurovision song contest yesterday on tv, it’s a song contest for the whole of Europe if you are reading this outside of Europe. As a child we used to love watching it on tv, some say it was a way of showing that European satellite technology worked, but for us kids it was a load of fun. It’s in it 58th year now, I can remember how excited we were when the juries all over the place cast their votes, this was in the days before telephone voting. The sighs and groans as other countries beat us, it was a 3 hour extravaganza on Saturday night in Spring. Then the utter naïve joy if England/GB won, or the despair if somebody else beat us.

Now what has Eurovision brought us? ABBA in one word, so you can forgive Eurovision everything just for the sake of ABBA. My favourite ABBA song is “Like an Angel passing though my room” which was on an album that I owned, only I’ve lost it over the years.

Sing Songs used to be a working class tradition in the pubs in England, before Juke Box became king, before monster tvs and football matches. People used to have a piano at home and they would all gather around and sing songs, having a sing song. Both my daughters are learning to play piano on the piano behind me, you may have seen the photo of me with my daughter on the piano behind me. So I hear a lot of live music at home, it will be a few years more before they can host sing songs in our house. They are in a choir too, their teacher for both is the same lady, so she is a big part of their musical life.

Music is the background to my life, but it really is so much more, saying it IS my life would be too melodramatic, so let me think of a better word. It’s part of my clothing, that’s the best word to describe it, just as we put on our socks or shoes before we leave the house or so that we are fully clothed, music is part of me it’s essential, just as clothes are. Now you get the picture. Everybody has music plugged in as they travel to work or to anywhere, Music is the Opium of the People, I’m sure Marx would say today.
Now what music do I listen to, I listen to Annie Lennox, her 17 album is a favourite so I must listen to it 2 or 3 times every week. 14 years ago JJ made me leave my copy of it in Shanghai, as a kind of hostage, so that I would not forget her. Now I play it often, because I like the sound and it makes me smile at JJ’s naivety all those years ago. That’s just part of my taste in music.

What about everybody else? It seems music to deafen you is very very popular judging by what I hear on the bus, the whole bus does not want to share it. However nobody can shout loud enough to discourage the listener not to share it. Then there are those lads in cars with the boom bass and the shaded black windows, not forgetting the spoiler, and the huge exhaust, the ones with blood tricking down their ears as they speed on the road. Music or should I say BASS is the thing for them.
Yes a song is good if you find yourself singing along or whistling to it. It was called The Old Grey Whistle Test, it was popular as it passed the test, that happened to be one of the best ever music shows here in the UK. Now we have Jools Holland show, no nothing to do with the French President, Jools is a piano man and his show is totally eclectic, maybe 8 guests, all in different genres of music.

So as you sing songs and even have a sing song in your own home, remember Music flows, it moves, in all meanings of the word move, and if it doesn’t move you, and I don’t mean because the bass is set on 11 either, then if it doesn’t move you it’s no good.

My wife the gardener

My Wife the Gardener ©

By Michael Casey

My garden grows/the weeds conspire to take over/the weeds choke my bluebells/ but bluebells persist they are like that/suddenly there is a crash and a bang/ a Shanghai girl appears/ her house pyjamas are all rolled up/ she is more Japanese than Chinese/ she slings and swings open the store open/ out tumbles the strimmer and the lawn mower/ their silent slumbers are no more/ their plastic covers are thrown away/like the morning duvet in the morn when sleep is over/ another crash and a scream/ husband fetch me the wire and the don’t electrocute me safety switch/ then she is off like a Formula One driver/ only she attacks the weeds and our grass/ the grass is getting its short back and sides/ the grass looks like a GI on his first day/ buzz and wooz and wooz and buZZ/ Shanghai girl attacks the grass/she must have a lawn/that little piece of England has entered her bloodstream/ wooz and buzz the machines cut the grass/ me I hide up the yard in safety/ I have a chopstick artists brush to paint the gutter drain pipes/perfect harmony man and wife together in wooz and buzz with drip drip drip of paint/ then the wooz and buzz ends/ all is silent as the grass green as green can be is all tidied up and ready for picnic duties/ then there are barked orders/husband do this husband do that/ drip drip drip the Shanghai siren disappears with sharp things in her hand/ the small front garden will be attacked and tamed now/ she is a Shanghai dervish/ I slip into the kitchen for Polish toast and my last green tea/ the gardens are tamed as I finish my green tea/ I promise myself never to buy it again even if it is good for me/ green tea fished/ I go out to the front of the house/ a trucker stares at my wife/ he has never seen a Shanghai gardener before/ she appears more like a rice sower than anything else/ then with a flourish she is done/ Shanghai has tamed Birmingham weeds by her heroic deeds. All is quiet on the Eastern front/ Mrs Casey from Shanghai has finished / just in time to nag me again.

My wife the Gardener

My Wife the Gardener ©

By Michael Casey

My garden grows/the weeds conspire to take over/the weeds choke my bluebells/ but bluebells persist they are like that/suddenly there is a crash and a bang/ a Shanghai girl appears/ her house pyjamas are all rolled up/ she is more Japanese than Chinese/ she slings and swings open the store open/ out tumbles the strimmer and the lawn mower/ their silent slumbers are no more/ their plastic covers are thrown away/like the morning duvet in the morn when sleep is over/ another crash and a scream/ husband fetch me the wire and the don’t electrocute me safety switch/ then she is off like a Formula One driver/ only she attacks the weeds and our grass/ the grass is getting its short back and sides/ the grass looks like a GI on his first day/ buzz and wooz and wooz and buZZ/ Shanghai girl attacks the grass/she must have a lawn/that little piece of England has entered her bloodstream/ wooz and buzz the machines cut the grass/ me I hide up the yard in safety/ I have a chopstick artists brush to paint the gutter drain pipes/perfect harmony man and wife together in wooz and buzz with drip drip drip of paint/ then the wooz and buzz ends/ all is silent as the grass green as green can be is all tidied up and ready for picnic duties/ then there are barked orders/husband do this husband do that/ drip drip drip the Shanghai siren disappears with sharp things in her hand/ the small front garden will be attacked and tamed now/ she is a Shanghai dervish/ I slip into the kitchen for Polish toast and my last green tea/ the gardens are tamed as I finish my green tea/ I promise myself never to buy it again even if it is good for me/ green tea fished/ I go out to the front of the house/ a trucker stares at my wife/ he has never seen a Shanghai gardener before/ she appears more like a rice sower than anything else/ then with a flourish she is done/ Shanghai has tamed Birmingham weeds by her heroic deeds. All is quiet on the Eastern front/ Mrs Casey from Shanghai has finished / just in time to nag me again.

Do what you like but do your best

Do what you like but do your best ©
By
Michael Casey
C.S. on Facebook posted “Follow your Bliss” and when I read it I thought that was good. I had never heard of it before, but Eleanor and C.S. are continually educating me, luckily I’m on this side of the Atlantic so I have 10 seconds to check everything they say on Google so I don’t appear too stupid. However they both do say that I make them laugh, as did Jesters in the Court of King Arthur onwards.
When I read Follow your Bliss I thought there’s another pump primed by the girls. I was going to compare my experience to what it says in Bliss. Then I thought why does everybody quote everybody else on FB? Let’s have more original though, I think I posted a piece by that very name a week or two ago, you can look at my site http://www.michaelgcasey.wordpress.com to find it.
My dad was a Blacksmith in Rathmore County Kerry Eire, then he worked in a steel works for 40 years here in Smethwick, which is just 1.5 miles away from where I am sat talking to you and pretending to be a Wordsmith. Dad was very clever, his teacher used to say to him, “Casey, one day you will hang.” Teaching methods were different then back in the 1920s and 1930s. My dad became a blacksmith when he was 14, 50 years plus later we found the old forge, it had become a hairdressers, such is progress.
If I can get back to Bliss, my dad did not quote anybody, he just spoke from the heart and from love. He read the newspaper and followed the News avidly, but he probably never read a book in his life, a prayer book maybe but not a book book. This must have been repeated by everybody of that generation, books were expensive, and the library was 2 miles away. We his children have made up for that fact, and if I count as a writer then we have more than compensated. So what do I say about following your dreams? Do what you like but do your best is what dad said and I’d repeat it. If you are happy doing a thing then you’ll be better at it, conversely if you hate a thing it’s hard to be any good at it. I follow the logic that if I hate it I cannot be any good at it, and if I can’t be any good at something then I don’t want to waste my time trying. There is one exception to this rule, Bowling, I am rubbish at it but I enjoy it, I can throw the ball down the gutter then the next throw I can get a strike. Perhaps I should tell Obama this, but I have heard that every Tuesday evening Obama and the Secret Service sneak out and go bowling. That’s why Obama got a Jorg Grey watch from the Secret Service, he beat them at bowling. I do in fact have a Jorg Grey watch myself, one with a metal strap and Roman markings.
In all things in life if you have something that makes you happy, then just do it. It may be reading your horoscope every day and posting it on FB, it may be posting pictures of cake on FB, or pictures of ranch hands with rippling muscles. Whatever ticks the box for you just do it. In Glee there is the black guy who sings, and dresses up as a woman, you may have your own neighbourhood personality. Bliss is when you achieve your soul’s delight if I’m remembering what Buddhist believe, I may be wrong there but I’m sure the Dali Lama will correct me next time I see him in our chip shop. Telling tale tales is a writer’s delight, it’s even a greater delight when you can pull the wool over people’s eyes, usually your own children before they reach 10. I told C.S. today that I got my orange Polo with a polo game scene printed on it in Saw Grass Mills Florida in 2006. Now what I didn’t tell her was that when I bought it the girl on the checkout wanted my name and address for some reason, so I told the girl that my name was Michael Rumplestiltskin.
Can you spell that for me, Sir?
You don’t know how to spell Rumplestiltskin?
Sorry, Sir, if you can just spell Rumplestiltskin for me
Are you sure you cannot spell Rumplestiltskin?
Sorry Sir, I cannot spell Rumplestiltskin.
Ok, I’ll spell Rumplestiltskin for you.
R u m p l e s t I l t s k I n.
Thank you Sir, have a nice day Mr Rumplestiltskin.
Yes I really did that and yes I’m not making that up, recently I found the till receipt with Rumplestiltskin on it.
So I have followed my path, it amuses me and I like it, I have done what my dad advised me 40 years ago, I have done what I like and I’ve done my best. All I need now is a publisher and a producer with the same sense of humour, but as mum always said God is Good, and I know He has a great sense of humour.

How do men shop?

How do Men Shop? ©

By Michael Casey

There is a difference between Men and Women, and thank God for it. But how do men shop? Shopping for men is about getting what you need, my shoes have a hole in them so I’ll go to the shop and buy another pair. A man will buy a new pair of shoes that are exactly the same as his old pair of shoes, or if he’s being adventurous he’ll have a pair of shoes which are exactly the same but with grey laces and not black. Now to a man this is being fashion conscious. If a man wants a new pair of trousers he just goes to the shop and sees if they have his leg/waist size and then tries them on, making sure they don’t split when he bends over and that his package is not squeezed. If a man needs a suit he checks the trousers before putting on the jacket, the jacket must be able to be done up without his belly exploding the buttons off. A man will never button up his suit jacket, but he needs to know that the buttons won’t fly off and hit anybody in the eye, if ever he does.
If a man needs a shirt he checks the neck size, 18.5 in my case, and then he sees if its full fit or not. Then he buys 5 shirts exactly the same all in plastic . For a lazy shopper he’ll go straight to Slaters and get what he wants. In and out in 30 mins for everything. Then he’ll go to the pub and meet his mates and have one pint too many and leave all his shopping in the Queens Tavern. Luckily they are honest there and his shopping is saved, otherwise he’s have to waste 30mins in Slaters, before going back to the pub.
This is basically the difference between men and women. Woman shop, men pick up clothes or whatever like an order picker does, without any passion. A man gets home and puts his shopping away and forgets about it. Just like in the film The Fly where the man’s wardrobe contains suits all the same colour, clothes are just a thing so they are all uniform.
As for women shopping s something different, the clothes have to be tried on and they must make the woman look perfect, her bum or boobs mustn’t be to big or too small, everything should be right. To help the woman chose her clothes she brings two or three mates or her children with her. Her man is forced to come too, but he plugs Radio5 Live into his ear and listens to the football while she is choosing. Men know 5 colours, red, blue, red, green, yellow or maybe one or two more; as for a woman there are at least 50 colours, and just as the eskimos have 30 words for snow a woman has 10 words for each colour and its hews.
This brave man, or am I stupid, I just give my wife the debit card and say leave me in peace, so she goes off with a smile with the girls with her, they are young Fashionistas after all. I decided years ago what a wife needed was space to shop and not constant looks at my watch. So that’s what she does and her bulging wardrobe will testify to the wisdom of my decision. When a woman comes home its 2 hours of mix and match to make sure that the new clothes match the old clothes, the husband tries to watch the big match on tv but his wife is prancing around the living room asking “does my bum show” and various other questions. It’s a penalty, and you sit on the edge of your seat, the wife appears and blocks your view, so you miss seeing why your side was relegated. Normal life in homes up and down the country.
The next day you watch the match again in peace, you remembered to record it on Sky+ and as for the wife she’s gone back to the shop to return ½ of what she bought because it doesn’t match her shoes. And it’s your fault because you wouldn’t give her your debit card again so she could buy cheap £100 shoes.

And the rain lashes down again

And the rain lashes down again©

By Michael Casey

I HEAR THE RAIN battering down on the bus shelter as I look again at my watch, cursing myself for not doing to the earlier Mass, now I have to catch a bus to elsewhere to catch the late Mass with the Korea priest. I hear the rain lashing down on the bus shelter and I curse myself again. I will be steaming as I hear the Mass read. Rain lashes down on the bus shelter again. If only I had learnt to drive, as the rain lashes down again. If only I had got out of bed, as the rain lashes down again. A car drives past the bus shelter and splashes me, oh if only I had got out of bed, as the rain lashes down again. If only I was a successful writer, I’d be in Fort Lauderdale, as the rain lashes down again, as steam rises from me as I finally get to Mass, Mass with a Korean accent. And why are the benches so hard on my fat ass, as the steam rises from me, as the rain lashes down again, on the plastic roof of the church. I say my prayers and ask for hope, for hope for my future, as the rain lashes down again. The final prayers and blessing is given as the rain lashes down again, but then up pops the parish priest with a final message or two, I look up as the rain lashes down again. I hope I don’t miss my bus. The rain lashes down again, as I tramp to the bus stop, as the rain lashes down again, I get splashed by speeding car, as I stand at the stop. I get on the bus and the rain stops, a rainbow appears. I promise I’ll get up next Sunday, so I don’t have to go to the far church. The sun shines through the bus windows, the bus stops I get off, the sun goes in and the rain lashes down again. God has been washing away my sins again, as the rain lashes down again.

Garden on the Pavement

Garden on The Pavement(c)
By
Michael Casey

An English Country Garden alive on the sidewalk, or pavement as we say over here on the right of USA, here in UK. The neighbour opposite is having a clear out, so a skip arrived, a small one and he is loading all his junk into it. Part of what he is throwing away is a collection of pots and containers which were once full of flowers in full bloom. Now its a water-but next to flower pots full of weeds. I did wonder would there be any weed in the weeds. Another neighbour opposite was raided by the police a few years ago. It was full of weeds, the kind you smoke. The landlord came and tipped all their stuff in a skip, after the police and taken the weed away. We have helicopters at night, they use heat sensing cameras to see who is force growing weed. At night hot spots show up really well. Over the road today its weed galore, but real weeds that cannot be smoked, just overgrown containers that need a lot of TLC. There is even a fancy bird bath kind of thing. My girls have just planted seeds galore in our garden I’m wondering should I rescue a few flower pots, and put them at the bottom of our garden in the jingle section. Then we could plant flowers, that could poke out from the wreckage of the jungle section. A bit of colour to brighten up the garden. Or I could just encourage my new neighbour to do her Green thing and rescue stuff for her garden. Gardening is great so long as you are watching somebody else do it.

What is the difference between a Poet and a Prose writer

What is the difference between a Poet and a Prose writer? (c)

By Michael Casey

Well a poet evokes a feeling with words and rhyme, though a poem does not have to rhyme. Prose is longer and the writer paints a picture through his words. I’d say the poet via poetry is quicker, the writer has to evoke things by explanation and by telling a tale, perhaps with a list of things. Satchel, tie, blazer and polished shoes = school. Sometimes a poem is to complicated you cannot understand it, Japanese have 3 line poems which are very very deep. I for one need poetry explained to me.
Andrew Graham-Dixon explains Art via his programmes on tv, what I need is a Poet to explain poetry, I feel a tv series is in the making. AS for Prose what I do here and on my site http://www.michaelgcasey.wordpress.com I can understand Prose fair enough , but I do know that style can either kill or illuminate things. Dan Brown and JK Rowling are very popular but I cannot read them as I don’t like their style. Terry Pratchet is another writer I cannot get in to. Read The Book Thief now that really one of the best books I’ve ever read in my life. His writing is so poetic. Reporters/ Journalists have a style too, sadly some American journalists have the same dull style. The I’ve seen everything so I’m going to pretend I’m an undertaker at a funeral. Me I think you should talk to your audience, Prose is all about talking, so people are hearing your words, its not a puzzle or an exam, writing should be for the EARS!

Pens and Penmanship

Pens and Penmanship ©

By Michael Casey

I just read a piece in the BBC magazine online, it was all about fountain pens. Now I immediately have to confess my writing is terrible, and no I’m not pretending, as far back as 40 years ago at grammar school I was told off for it. In fact I was told off in Primary school too, they even got me to write a few rows of “a” and of “b” and so on, it failed to improved my writing, I was a massive reader at the time, for one year I was practically left alone to read, perhaps it was then that my writing died. In grammar school my friends said my writing was like drunken spiders, or in today’s world my writing is like spiders on acid. So there you have it, my writing is bad, very bad. So bad perhaps I should be a doctor.

Once you have bad hand writing people take the mick when you tell them you are a writer, as did the nice lady from the neighbourhood office a couple of weeks ago when my daughter went to collect a prize for drawing. Both my daughters draw and paint, they are very very good at it, they have a collection of 700 crayons and paints and pencils, not to mention felts and gel pens and all things that can make marks on paper. My daughters always need more, so that’s dad’s job to provide more artists material. I am of course very jealous of their skills, if I bit the top off my thumb and used that to sign my name that would be an improvement on my signature.

So what can a writer who cannot write do? He can type, I remember learning to type in 1978, I stood at the bus stop moving my fingers and trying to remember the qwerty keyboard. Now I’m a fast typist, when I’m writing my stuff, I’m not so fast as a copy typist, nothing is more boring than typing up somebody else’s stuff. I remember one of the more mature ladies at the law firm who said “I was once clocked at 100wpm” and so she was, and that why one of the partners gave her two crates of champagne as a personal thank you for her typing, at that speed the paper would catch fire no doubt, if we still used the old typewriters.

So how can this writer improve his writing? I use different fonts on Word, and hope people like the look, looks do make a difference. If I can give a silly example, the ASDA near us uses a big bold font, but the size is too small and the letters touch other. This means to my eyes it’s terrible, and that’s the only complaint I have about the store, but I’m sure if any ASDA people read this they may change it. A sign encourages us to buy or to laugh, when we leave stuff out in the entry for Sky Burial I leave a note encouraging people to take our junk away. “Sit on Me” for a chair, and “sleep with me” for a bed, as I look out the window our gay neighbours are getting a new bed.

We get loads of junk email, if we had an open fire we’d never need to buy fuel, we’d just toast our bread on junk mail. Junk mail tries to look appealing and is printed on glossy paper, glossy paper is very heavy as I can remember when I carried bags at CPNEC, homes abroad salesmen had cases and cases of the stuff. So writing and communicating all needs words, good words from a writer, but how those words are written and displayed has a massive impact, ask any politician. When contracts are signed it’s done on quality paper that is bound together with a heat bind seal, and it’ll be a red seal if the contact is for Chinese clients, I know I’ve done 1000s. So presentation is king, you don’t want “thank you for your pieces of paper” when you send stuff to a publisher, and yes 25 years ago I did get that putdown. I hope you are all enjoying this Bookman Old Style, but I know just how important type setting is, another putdown a really good snide one was when I was turned down for a job and the HR lady replied in flowewry type face and yes I do know her name.

All I can say is thank God for word processors, 1988 was the year I bought an Atari520 just for the word processor and it was very very expensive, it did play a big part in my life, I had Shoplife accepted by a theatre, I wrote it in Aug 1988 when the Olympics were on. Yes I’d love to be able to write, but I can write but not handwrite, so I hope any future readers will accept a rubber stamp when I do any book signings, my daughters will be on hand to draw a cartoon on each book.

Triple Chocolate (c) by Michael Casey

Triple Chocolate ©
By Michael Casey
It just has to be chocolate, of course it has to be chocolate, nothing else will do. Ask any girl, ask any woman, CHOCOLATE is always the answer. I sent the girls up the road to buy a few things in Aldi, its cheap but always nice, so I like Aldi, when I’m rich it’ll be Sainsburys. So off they went, it was a nice sunny Saturday today, Spring had sprung, not as nice as Malta but nice, very nice after our bad extended Winter.
Two hours later the girls were back, the stationary shop had enticed them in, my big daughter wanted refills for her pen, 50 refills for 2 quid not so bad, she was spending her choir pay. The Anglicans give choir pay, me and my brothers were altar boys and we got nothing. My sister has been in the choir for 45 years and she never got anything either, perhaps we should stop being Catholics and change our flag to earn a few pounds. So my girls were out and about, money in their pockets and not a care in the world. Me I’m hoping to come into a few pounds and then I’d do a few things around the house.
But back to chocolate, why is it more important to women than anything, even handbags or sex. A man can buy you a nice handbag for your Birthday, I know I have been persuaded to follow that path; I’ve even paid for Burberry coat, in my more flush days. So woman like to be pampered and loved, and we show our love with bags and coats. As for women, they show their love by eating cake and chocolate cake and every expensive but ever so tasty cake they can find in Sainsburys. They are experts at it, just ask my wife, or anybody’s wife, and their daughters too. It just has got to be chocolate triple dip.
A woman will allow herself to be seduced by a chocolate bar, as she undresses the chocolate, slowly and seductively removing its paper wrapper, and then ever so carefully breaking the seal on the silver foil, slowly using her manicured nail to slide up the foil. Then with ever so careful movement she exposes the chocolate to her view. She looks at the chocolate, in all its naked glory, then she flips it over so she can adore its naked glory. Yes, this is what she wants, and she makes herself more comfortable in her bed. The she breaks off a piece and examines it, before licking it slowly, she then closes her eyes and pops a piece in her mouth. She lets it lie there, the heat from her tongue dissolving it, she smiles, and licks her lips. First piece consumed, she opens her eyes and devours the next piece of chocolate with her eyes, she thinks of the pleasure the 2nd piece of chocolate will give her. She half closes her eyes, and flutters her eyelids, yes, chocolate is SO GOOD.
It is a very private moment, a woman and her chocolate, the taste, the feel, the raw emotion, the love. Only chocolate can do this for a woman, the anticipation, the touch, the feel, the taste as it melts on her tongue, the sigh of satisfaction. Chocolate it king, only chocolate can satisfy a woman, a real woman. The man enters the bedroom, he can be any man, any man that any woman would lust after. Only she has had chocolate first. So even if he does the Full Monty in front of her, it’s no use, he should have hidden the chocolate. What man can compete with chocolate, a funny man may have an outside chance, a very slim chance of getting her to be interested in him, after she has consumed chocolate. And how can he get her interested, I can reveal, the only way to attract a woman who has been seduced by a chocolate bar, before his arrival in the marriage bed, the man has to paint himself all over in chocolate, triple dip of course, and then his woman might be interested in him.