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Mike

Liverpool born poet and writer Michael Walsh traces his Liverpool roots back to 1865. This was the year his Irish great-grandmother arrived in the Second City of Empire. His parents were born at the turn of what was to become the most tumultuous century in history. Michael's father, Patrick, fought in three major conflicts before reaching his fortieth birthday. His mother, Kathleen, was a former nun turned gun-running renegade.
On leaving school at 15 years of age, Michael spent 12 weeks at the Merchant Navy School for Sailors in Sharpness, Gloucestershire. During his years at sea, he was to visit and work in over 60 countries.
The journalist and broadcaster since provided articles and columns for numerous magazines and international news media. In 2011 he was awarded Writer of the Year by the publishers of Euro Weekly News, Europe's highest-circulation newspaper of its kind. He has authored, edited and ghosted over 70 book titles.

A Taxi Ride and Heaven is the First Stop

We drove through the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived when they were newlyweds. She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that had once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl. Sometimes she’d ask me to slow in front of a particular building or corner and would sit staring into the darkness, saying nothing.

Would you buy a Porsche for $20?

‘Well,’ the woman says, not looking up from her garden. ‘This morning I got a phone call from my husband. I thought he was on a business trip in Florida, but it seems he has run off to Hawaii with his secretary and doesn’t intend to come back.’

THE SECOND CASUALTY OF WAR

According to the International Press Institute (IPI), a total of 100 journalists were killed in 2010. This figure is only marginally lower than the previous year when 110 were slain. The year 2011 figures were much higher and have been soaring ever since with the deadliest zones being Jewish Occupied Palestine, Pakistan, Iraq and Libya.

WINE THOUGHTS

WINE THOUGHTS . When all that is left hangs on Memory’s threads, Threads far richer in number, Than the fair hairs of your head. Which of those memories shall I dwell on? . Will it be the moment when the moonbeam, Paused upon your lovely face, When my […]