Hello and welcome to the imaginatively titled post no. 4.
Once again a big thanks to our few, our happy few, band of readers and likers.
As they say, the nights are drawing in, winter’s on its way and it’s nearly time to wrap up tight.
Wrap up tight against the coming onslaught of the winter marketeers, out to bleed you dry and leave your lifeless corpse strewn on the carpet as a tasty snack for Santa and his reindeers. Wrap up tight against the greedy, profiteering energy companies who might as well hold a big magnet over your house and suck every last cent up through the flue.
From Halloween to New Years Day, it’s no time for the faint of heart or the light of pocket. In fact Halloween itself is so big nowadays it ought to have its own eve like Christmas and New Year. Halloween’een, the eve of battle. The battle against merciless commercialism.
Which in a round-about way brings us to today’s topic… The Undead!
Or to put it in a less scary or sensational way, spiritualists, mediums and such- like and the existence of the afterlife.
Can these psychic Sallys or mystic Malcolms really converse with the dust biters? I mean, from what I’ve seen, they are all a bit vague until they get some poor sap drawn in, by which time they’re so mesmerised under the spotlight that they will agree that their grandad was called Mussolini and the Queen Mother used to help their late aunty pick coal off the local slag heap.
And another thing. Don’t you find it a bit discomforting that the dearly departed are sat on a cloud somewhere, monitoring your every move like some spectral Trueman Show? I know they reckon that they look away when you’re in the toilet or having a crafty wank, but I’m not sure I would. Or indeed will.
I must admit I’m a bit sceptical about it all. Although, having said that, I recall many years ago on a day trip to Blackpool, that a fortune teller prophesied to my missus that I’d never amount to much. Spooky or what?
This week Johnny plants himself in the audience of one of these spiritualist séance events. There is the now the almost customary profanity warning as Johnny lifts the lid on the hereafter, with a more or less verbatim account of proceedings in….
Is There Anybody Here Called Dave
Is there anybody here called Dave
I’ve got a message from beyond the grave
It’s coming through now… yes..ok.. fair enough…
It’s from Bonzo, he says woof woof woof woof.
Is there someone whose name begins with an A
Your granny is here and she’s something to say
She tells me the legacy is under the floor
But it’s not very much because she was poor
Is there someone called Margaret or is it Gordon or Fred
Your dad says it’s not all that bad being dead
The food’s ok the weather is fine
And there’s bingo every night around nine.
Here’s one for James from your late aunty Mabel
She says that you’ve stolen her Chippendale table
You know it was left to your first cousin Pete
And she saw you hiding it under a sheet
So give it back you thieving louse
Or her and her mates will be haunting your house.
Is there a Julie? Can you come up to the stage
It’s your mum, tell your father to please act his age
She’s spent some time floating round at his place
And she says his behaviour’s a total disgrace
He’s bothering young women, he’s neglecting the lawn
And he’s spending all day watching internet porn
And finally as we’ve only got minutes to spare
A message from someone called Colin to Claire
He says I’ve thought about us quite a lot since I died
And I don’t want to see you when you pass to this side
You’ve always been a stroppy cow
And I’m knocking about with some new people now.
Hold on I’ve got Jimmy Savile on line three
He wants to speak to the boss of the BBC
He says now then, now then, goodness gracious
These allegations are a bit salacious
About me and my sleazy showbiz pals
Messing with under-age guys and gals
If you don’t stop giving me all the blame
I’ll be back next week and I’ll start naming names
It wasn’t just me there’s a least another ten
So hows about fucking that there then.
Well that’s it for now. We’ll be back soon with more of this
senseless drivel riveting stuff.