The Ghost Hunter

Do you believe in ghosts?

I don’t really but I have had rather a spooky encounter in the past that could have been a ghost (I’m still not 100% convinced but you could judge for yourself – read about it here).

Maybe there is something in it – maybe not. My feeling is that if ghosts really do exist then at some point we all must have seen them or at least felt their presence. The house I live in is over a hundred years old and I am certain that at least one person must have died in it during that time.

Yet I have never felt, seen or heard a ghost in my house – and neither has anybody else that I have known of. In fact, none of my friends, acquaintances or work colleagues have had an encounter with a soul from the afterlife either.

If ghosts really exist then this is a weird thing. I read an article surmising that for every living person today, there are 15 dead people, which means that, potentially, there are 105 billion ghosts wandering the earth. Whenever we walk the streets of our towns and cities there are 15 spooks also wandering the streets for each of us.

I sometimes watch weird videos on YouTube featuring all manner of creepiness, ranging from aliens, to lizard people, ghosts to demons, yet when I watch supposedly genuine images of ghosts caught on camera, I cannot help but chuckle because, to me at least, they like elaborate hoaxes. I’m pretty sure that your everyday psychic would disagree with me, suggesting that not only have these spirits allowed themselves to be caught on camera, they are also able to communicate with certain special people, like a psychic, a person who claims to be able to perceive a different wavelength of reality and as a result can talk to ghosts.

They are lying, dear reader. However, I don’t want to drift into telling you that all psychics are charlatans (deep down you know that already). What intrigues me about the videos you see on YouTube is that they are very well done, so well done in fact that you can barely see the cracks in some of them.

One of the best of these videos is from my adopted home city of Manchester. The video contains CCTV footage from a number of cameras scattered around an office in the city and the security guards on duty flicking between the cameras as spooky things were happening.

Here it is:

Now I loved watching this and, almost as much, liked reading the comments on it. What struck me is that it was recorded on the night of 1st November 2012, that is Hallowe’en night. It is very well done and could, I think, convince anyone who is even slightly gullible. Since then a Ghost Hunter has debunked the film as a hoax.

What’s more interesting is the term “Ghost Hunter” because until I read that article, I thought that a Ghost Hunter was a figment of the imagination of authors and writers who wrote scary fiction about ghosts.

I am amazed that there is a Ghost Hunter in Manchester – in fact there are possibly more.

People exist who actually go out to find ghosts or at least deal with situations where people think they are being haunted.

While I love this kind of spooky nonsense, I don’t think I would want to go out in search of them, just in case I actually discovered that spooks really exist after all.

But if you had a heart of steel and fear is not part of your DNA, how would you set about becoming a Ghost Hunter?

First of all, you probably need the equipment. And it is not cheap.

Here’s an example of what you would need:

An accelerometer to measure even tiny vibrations in objects.

Video recorders and cameras (obviously – though I am not convinced that ghosts can be photographed), including special infra-red equipment to detect weird stuff in the infra-red spectrum.

Sound recorders to detect abnormal sounds.

Spectrum analysers to detect energy out of the normal perceivable ranges.

Thermal cameras to detect changes in temperature.

Various other essential equipment such as X-ray and UV scanners.

Obviously, you also need to be totally laid back, methodical, patient, confident and, most importantly of all, not prone to squealing like a little girl should you ever see an actual ghost.

Of course, if you can talk to the ghosts when you find them, that might be a bonus but, since nobody can talk to ghosts, that is just a little wishful thinking.

Finally, you have to have an open mind and not be, like me, a totally cynical sceptic.

I know that I may be mocking what could potentially be a fulfilling, if not totally weird career path and for that I apologise. To be honest, if there are any genuine Ghost Hunters out there, please leave a comment and I will read it with an open mind.

In the meantime, if I feel that there is a ghost in my house, I might just hire these guys:

Over to you, dear reader:

Do you believe in ghosts?

Have you ever seen a ghost?

Room 101 (Part Three)

A new series of Room 101 has started on BBC1, a show where famous people can banish things those things that annoy, irritate or simply horrify them so that the human race never has to see or experience them ever again. 

I have written two previous posts in a similar vein and so far have expelled twenty items,into that dark gruesome place including one or two people.

You can read about them here and here.

Now it’s time for ten more horrors to be cast into that room. 

Psychic Mediums

Psychic mediums, or charlatans as I prefer to call them, are basically con artists who prey on the vulnerability of people desperately struggling to cope with the loss of a loved one. I wouldn’t mind if there is any truth in what they claim. 

There isn’t - and to me it looks like The Emperor's New Clothes. Nobody can see it. 

Just look at this pile of crap and then dare to disagree with me.

Derek Acorah – please lead your fellow charlatans into Room 101.

Cold Callers

When somebody knocks on my door, I feel a surge of dread. Many people hope for a friend or a postman bringing a parcel or something equally pleasant. Sadly, most of the time it is a door to door salesman, somebody trying to shame me into giving yet more money to charity, a Jehovah’s Witness, somebody trying to persuade me to change my electricity supplier, a bunch of trick or treaters, a load of carol singers  or, worst of all, a politician canvassing for my vote.

The last doorstep pain in the arse was a Liberal Democrat party activist asking me what I thought about his party and whether or not I would be voting for his boss, the local Member of Parliament. I live in a marginal constituency and am therefore a prime target for these buggers. I told him what I tell them all:

“No! I don’t want to vote for your boss or your party. Goodbye!”

Good riddance to all of them.

McDonalds

McDonalds really irritates me, because they are ubiquitous and have been for seemingly decades. Worse, the burgers are unpleasant and don’t look anything like the pictures you see at the counter. 

Worse still, the food is horrifically unhealthy, as proven by the movie Supersize Me. 

Worse, still, I have had to explain to my kids again why we are having a healthy meal instead of visiting the McDonalds that was over the road from where I used to live. 

Worse still, they are trying to change their image by selling salads as if they now realise that they are contributing to the massive obesity epidemic in America and Europe. A

And the crowning turd in the toilet? 

THAT BLOOD JINGLE! 

“I’m Lovin’ It”? 

“I’M BLOODY HATIN’ IT!”

Into Room 1010 you go.

Clive Tyldesley and Andy Townsend

Foreign readers will not know who these jokers are. Let me introduce you to them.

Clive Tyldesley is a football commentator on ITV. He has the most irritating voice in Great Britain. His football knowledge is zero. His jokes are totally unfunny. He is obsessed with his own ridiculous opinions. 

Andy Townsend is an ex-footballer who is Clive Tyldesley’s sidekick – or as I prefer to call him – partner in crime, the crime being ruining my enjoyment of the game with their inane, pointless banter, flawed opinions and irritating voices.

These two men make me think twice about watching football. Usually I turn the volume down – it’s better that way.

Begone – the pair of you!

Rapping

A friend of mine who is into hip hop tried to explain the culture behind his music. And it was extremely and gave me a fresh insight into the main artists, the music and the philosophy behind it.

But I have to stay – rapping ruins songs – and I still hate it.

I’m sorry to any readers who love to “spit lyrics” and effectively just talk their way to musical stardom but I just don’t get it – and I never will. Now while I am fine leaving rap lovers to their own genre, what I really hate is when it invades other musical styles – in particular rock music. 

I blame Aerosmith. I love Aerosmith by the way but I hate this song because of the rapping:

If rapping goes into Room 101 then it will no longer invade the music I love.
Sorry!

Traffic Wardens

If I ever lose my job, and find myself faced with a life without work, the last job I would look for is that of a Traffic Warden. These people are universally hated and spend their time strolling around town centres, scrutinising parked cars to see if they are violating any parking regulations. It seems to me that when you enrol to be a Traffic Warden, you have to learn to adopt the grim face of a jumped-up jobsworth. You have to have the gene that shows mercy surgically removed from your body and master the art of a smug smile when you hand over a parking ticket to a little old lady.

Begone you evil subclass of humanity and let me park in peace.

Katie Price

If you have never heard of Katie Price, or Jordan as she is also known, let me tell you about her.

She is a topless glamour model, an author, a reality TV star, a singer and a producer of a range of lingerie and beauty products as well as perfume.  She has even tried to be elected as a member of parliament here in Manchester. Her manifesto was “free plastic surgery for all”.

Basically she is an ex tabloid topless model with big boobs who has used her fame and figure to irritate everybody in the UK (and probably beyond) and corrupted a load of young girls who want to be just like her. Her novels are ghosted and her music is awful. She tried to represent Great Britain in the Eurovision Song Contest and failed miserably – she is that bad.

Here she is “singing”:

Go away! Just GO AWAY!!

Eurovision Song Contest

Talking of Eurovision, this joke of a contest that has been around for decades should be cast into Room 101 immediately. Basically what happens is every country in Europe, ours included, writes a song and they all go up against each other in a contest that is broadcast all over Europe on a Saturday night. The winner is the song with the most votes as voted for by each country.

The contest in the past has had good moments; Abba suddenly found themselves thrust into the limelight in the 1970s with Waterloo.

Now, however, it is a total joke. The music and performances, ours included, are shit. The voting is equally contrived with countries only voting for their mates.

Take a look at this – if you like it then you belong is Room 101 too.

British Weather

We are suffering at the moment because of something called the jet stream which has altered its position, causing Mother Nature to dump the Atlantic Ocean over our entire country. The entire south of England is underwater – and has been for two months.

This happens a lot and it doesn’t matter what time of year it is.

I am sick of it. Please let us have some sunshine.

Bad Taxi Drivers

On my travels I have encountered many taxi drivers. Most of them are okay (although they charge the earth to get me from A to B) but some have been terrible. Here are the worst offenders:

The taxi driver at Manchester Airport who was happy to let me into his cab after I had returned, jet lagged, from Toronto and then, when I told him that I only wanted to go 5 miles instead of 35 miles he accused me of queue jumping, threw my suitcase out of the cab and told me to piss off. I reported him – I hope you got the sack!

The Chinese taxi driver who took us to the wrong hotel in Chongqing having almost killed us on the motorway by driving for about a minute with no hands on the wheel and looking back at us as he tried to double the price we had agreed at the airport.

The New York taxi driver who was Romanian and tried to convince me that he had played for Tottenham Hotspur – in the hope that I would give him a massive tip.

The South African taxi driver who diverted off the motorway to show me a Township and then demanded a tip at the airport.

Into Room 101 you go – and let the good taxi drivers prevail.

Do you agree with my choices dear reader?

Spooky Chat - Oh Really???

Last month I posted about an experience I had not long after my father died (read about it here). It was a spooky encounter that may or may not have been my imagination and, for a while, made me question the existence of ghosts.

I suppose that I could have sought the services of a psychic or medium, you know, those gifted people who can talk to the spirits on our behalf. People like Derek Acorah (being sent up by Harry Hill):



Now I wonder whether Harry Hill was perhaps being a little cruel. I mean, if ghosts do exist, why can’t there be a dog ghost?

Mrs PM’s mother actually bought me a book by Derek Acorah for Christmas a couple of years ago. She knew about my fascination with all things weird so a book entitled “Amazing Psychic Stories” seemed a great idea.

Within five minutes of starting it, I cast it aside. It was dreadful. As I read it I began to think to wonder what kind of people believe in the nonsense that was written in books like this. So much for me going to speak to a psychic.

I don’t want to pick on Derek Acorah in particular but his behaviour and techniques do leave a lot to be desired. I mean, come on. A dog ghost? What on earth does he think he’s playing at, pretending to be possessed by Fido the wonder dog?

“Woof woof woof woof woof!”

Oh really Derek? And is Fido worried about me from beyond the grave?”

“Woof woof woof woof woof!”

So forgive me if I’m being just a little too choosy, but I think I might cross Derek Acorah off the list of psychics that I might consider bearing my soul too.

Mind you, the truth is I wouldn’t go to ANY psychics at all; I am too sceptical and I simply don’t believe a word that comes out of their mouths, particularly if they are “possessed”. Here is Derek Acorah again, supposedly possessed by a child killer:



Now to me this is ridiculous.

I have a huge problem with psychics and mediums; I think that they are full of crap. I’m sorry but that’s my opinion and I apologise to anybody who believes in this nonsense.

Mrs PM, on the other hand, seems to be fascinated with the idea that there may be something in it.

I have often caught her watching these people on TV.

“What are you watching?”

“Oh nothing,” she says, waiting for the inevitable volcanic eruption.

“Who’s that weird looking bloke?”

“Nobody,” she says.

Cogs turn in my brain as I try to trawl my memory for the face; for once it doesn’t let me down.

“It’s that bloody bloke; that bloody psychic; the one who cons people that he’s talking to dead people.”

“Oh no,” she sighs.

KAAAAABBBOOOOOOOMMMMMMM!!!

My soapbox is out, I am standing on it and ranting so much that the cats hurl themselves through the window, calling 999 as they do.

To be fair I have watched these people on TV just for research and the script goes something like this:

PSYCHIC: I’m speaking to a man – he’s trying to connect to me. He’s a soldier. He is wearing a uniform.

THERE’S NOBODY THERE!!!!

PSYCHIC: He says his name is Dave or Don or Derek or Dilbert or Desmond or Dennis. Does anybody here know a soldier who has passed to the other side?

AUDIENCE: (COMPLETE silence ...)

PSYCHIC: He may not be a soldier.

GULLIBLE AUDIENCE MEMBER: I have just lost my husband. He was a pilot called Zebedee.

PSYCHIC: AH! YES! Welcome Zebedee. I knew there was a D in there somewhere.

What follows is a load of old baloney that the psychic invents to somehow reassure the gullible audience member that their loved one is safe, well and enjoying the afterlife.

“I’m having a PARTY! Don’t worry about me! I love you. Sort yourself out! WAHEEYYY!”

A few years ago, I went to Las Vegas to join Mrs PM who had been at a conference there. I remember one morning, waking up thinking that I was still jet-lagged.

PM: What shall we do today?

Mrs PM: You can do what you like; I’m going to see James von Praagh.

PM: Who?

Mrs PM: James von Praagh.

PM: Who’s he? A comedian?

Mrs PM: He’s ... erm ... erm ...erm a psychic medium.

PM: HA HA HA HA HA!!!!

Mrs PM: What’s so funny?

PM: I’m sorry; I just thought I heard you say you were going to see a psychic medium.

Mrs PM: I am.

PM: WHAT????

Mrs PM: And it’s costing me $75

PM: WHAT???????????????

And she went, leaving me completely in the lurch for a man who claims to talk to ghosts. I had to spend three hours of my life in Las Vegas wandering around casinos, drinking beer and trying not to spend too much money - which in the end was very nice. I ended up in a bar chatting to a man who was about to get married by Elvis - presumably through a medium.

Meanwhile, Mrs PM sat for around three hours in a theatre listening to mumbo jumbo about messages from people who had died and, for some reason, wanted to send a message back to the living.

We met in the bar later; I had had a couple of beers.

PM: So, did you speak to the dead?

Mrs PM: No, but it was very interesting?

PM: In what way? Did somebody come back from the dead and say to a gullible audience member “And I hope you are looking after my house. It was lovely when I died. I’ll just bet you’ve redecorated it haven’t you? And have you spent my inheritance yet? I’ll bet you blew it all on a WILD PARTY!”

Mrs PM (tutting): You’re such a cynic. Some people were genuinely happy and upset.

PM: Happy AND upset? Why, were his jokes that bad?

At this point Mrs PM became possessed; not by a ghost but by a sudden inexplicable urge to punch my arm.

PM: Bloody Hell – that HURT!

Mrs PM: Shut up or I’ll hit you again.

Now I’m going to be honest with you. I would actually have considered going to see a psychic presentation had it been absolutely free.

Why?

So I could have heckled.

Imagine sitting in the audience of “Crossing Over” with Colin Fry (a man who looks so spooky that he may in fact already BE a ghost):

CF: I’m connection with a lovely old lady called Edna and she is here to speak to this lady here.

PM: Where is she then? I can’t bloody well see her.

Mrs PM (through gritted teeth): Will you SHUT UP??

PM: No I will not. Mr Fry, I don’t mean to be rude but where is Edna? And how come nobody else can hear or see her? How do we know she is there when we can’t see or hear her? What can you actually see and hear? Are you sure you're not just seeing things?

CF: You clearly are a troubled soul. Security? Get this idiot out of there – and his missus too.

PM: Why don’t you get your ghostly poltergeists to throw me out then?

Mrs PM: I’m gonna KILL YOU!!!

PM: Well if you do, I’ll try to come back and talk to Mr Fry. Make sure you are in the audience for that, my dear.

Anyway, I am a fair minded person so I want to give the psychics a chance to fight back. Here, once again is Derek Acorah, getting his own back on Harry Hill.



Perhaps I should change my views. I wouldn’t want Derek Acorah to come and punch me on the nose.

Talking to Ghosts

About nine months after my father died, I was asleep in bed when something woke me up. It was in the month of June in the year 1982, and my room was still dark, with the morning light beginning to push the night away. Birds were beginning to sing and it seemed as if it might be a nice day.

I lay in bed, wondering what had disturbed me from my slumber and was at the point where you have just travelled from your dream to the waking world and are therefore not actually sure whether you are still asleep or awake. I looked up and tried to focus on the shadows that were still present in the room. I am very short sighted so, as you can imagine, this was impossible.

And then I saw it.

My bleary sleep-filled eyes were drawn to the door and my scrambled thoughts tried to let me know what my faulty eyes were telling me. As I was about to reach out from under the covers to grab my glasses so I could see what the thing was, something happened that was rather bizarre; I froze.

I use the word “froze” quite literally because I found myself unable to move. Bear in mind that it was June, and we are were in the midst of a lovely spell of hot weather, and I was lying there in bed, incapable of any movement and enveloped in what seemed like a cryogenic field.

And the thing by the door that I couldn’t describe due to my failed eyesight had moved towards me.

I tried to work out what the hell was going on; my mind was still scrambled, in that limbo between dreams and the waking world. I was confused and, now, scared.

I simply couldn’t move.

That’s when I heard the voice.

“It’s only me, Dave”.

I heard the words quite clearly – in my head. Still half asleep I couldn’t work out where the words had come from.

And then I was free. I could move and the iciness that had pinned me helplessly to the bed had vanished.

I sat up with a start and scrabbled around looking for my glasses.

I was breathing rapidly and my heart was pounding. As soon as I put on my glasses I looked at the door and saw – just a door. There was no weirdness in the room at all. It was just getting light and the shadows were succumbing to the sun as it gradually rose over the horizon. My room was empty. I was the only person in there. Whatever had been by the door and then moved to the side of my bed had also disappeared.

What did I see?

Well it’s difficult to say simply because my eyesight truly is poor. I am like Mr Magoo without my spectacles. The thing by the door appeared to be a cloud, white and nebulous but transparent enough for me to be able to see the walls and the door. It had no shape that I could make out, but it certainly moved. Had my maker not selected a duff pair of eyeballs for me when constructing me, I would probably have been able to make more sense of it. The thing certainly didn’t seem to me like it was human in form but then again, with my poor eyesight I could have been mistaken.

And what of the words? I could have sworn that the voice was my father.

I leapt up and switched the light on, still totally freaked out by what had happened.

I kept the story to myself and found it hard to sleep for the next few nights. I thought about it right up until I went back to university and then began to seriously doubt what I had seen.
However, when I returned at Christmas, the elder of my two sisters started telling a story about seeing a figure (or something) in her room; what made it stranger was that my youngest sister related a similar story. Neither had heard a voice.

Until that time, I was very sceptical about ghosts and, to be honest, I still am. Whenever I have told the story, I have convinced the recipient (and myself) that I was in between waking and sleeping and that the visitation was merely a figment of my imagination.

My sisters disagree. They are both blessed with perfect eyesight and their use of the word “figure” is quite revealing.

My father actually died in his own bed in the early hours of the morning, so there is a possibility, for those who believe in such things, that his spirit is still there. He was in fine health, or so we thought, and his death was very shocking. I can imagine, if he was aware of what was happening, that he would have been amazed himself.

He was 44 years old.

So, did I see the ghost of my father, and did he speak to me?

I’ve gone over the episode a few times since the occurrence and I’ve gradually convinced myself that I was simply dreaming.

For the first few months after it happened, I was so spooked that I actually began talking to my dead father just before I went to sleep. I lay in bed, in total darkness, and spoke aloud, addressing my father and telling him about my life at Liverpool University, my studies, my friends, my activities and my thoughts.

I was talking to a ghost.

In many ways, it was comforting. It took me several years to fully come to terms with my father’s death; to be honest, I still have a vacuum in my heart where he should be. He was so proud of my academic success and I am delighted that he found out that I was accepted at Liverpool University before he died. The encounter I had, whether it was real or not, caused me to think about what I had lost. By talking to my father I was opening up a whole new experience for myself, focussing on my goals, my desires and my achievements. I gained comfort from it and, as silly as it sounds, chatting to a ghost that may or may not have existed, was therapeutic and helped me get over the loss.

But did I really encounter a ghost?

Ultimately, I didn’t know for sure whether his ghost haunted our house and I still don’t. As far as I know, there have been no other encounters, certainly not for me anyway. My mum was sceptical when I told her some years later, and asked the obvious question: “Why hasn’t he come to see me?”

That’s a good question and is further evidence that I imagined the whole thing.

When I turned 44 myself, a few years ago, I suddenly began to feel a little strange. Deep down in my mind I knew I was being stupid, but I imagined for a while that the same thing would happen to me as had happened to my father. As crazy as it sounds, I began to believe that I, too, would shuffle off this mortal coil. I dubbed the year between October 8th 2006 and October 8th 2007 as “the year of death”.

On my 45th birthday, I celebrated – I mean really celebrated. I was over “the year of death” and I was still alive. I realise that such idiocy is absurd and as the year passed, try as I might, I couldn’t shake the feeling.

Of course, I didn’t let it dominate my life and now, looking back, I actually laugh at how dense I was. However, it just goes to prove that 25 years after his death, my father still influenced me.

He was a kind man, an intelligent man, an honest man and the light of my life as a child. He encouraged me to take the chances that he had been unable to take and I owe everything to him.

I still miss him.

So why am I writing about him now?

I was watching a TV programme the other day involving psychics and I began to rant about how these people are preying on the weakness of people who want to believe that their loved ones live on after death. I began writing this post as a means to expose these charlatans and the more I wrote, the more annoyed I became.

I started chatting to Mrs PM about it and somehow the subject drifted back to my father and my encounter with him.

Mrs PM had heard the story before and, being more open about these things, she said something that sent shivers up my spine:

“You know, Dave, you may think you were dreaming but I’m not so sure.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, as you know, I used to be short sighted too, before the laser treatment, and whenever I used to dream I could still see things as clearly as if I had been wearing my glasses. Can you see clearly when you dream?”

“Yes – I can.”

“But in this case, you couldn’t see clearly at all. Whatever you saw was blurred, so much so that you needed to put your glasses on to see it properly. I don’t think you were dreaming. I think there was something really there.”

When she spoke those last few words, I felt like crying. Maybe my father really had visited me. Perhaps he had taken one last opportunity to say goodbye, because he had died so suddenly that he hadn’t had the chance.

Maybe when I spoke to him in the weeks and months after the encounter, there was some part of him there that listened to me and understood.

And dad, if are still around somewhere, I miss you and I hope I’ve made you proud. Hopefully I will see you again one day.

For any psychics reading – you have a temporary reprieve while I contemplate this episode again. However, rest assured I will return with a post all about you and your “art” in the near future.