In 1848, three sisters in New York created a sensation. It seemed they were communing with those who had passed into the Great Beyond. The Fox girls spoke and the deceased would answer by means of strange rapping and cracking, one for yes or two for no.
They became the must-do thing of 1849, with people travelling for miles to hear the house shake, rattle and roll. The girls started to hold séances, which became the rage of New York city. Everyone who was anyone, my dear, just had to be seen at the latest fad, dead or alive.
These were the first big séances, but instead of passing on messages about how lovely the astral plane was, and how Aunty Jude has taken up needlework again, the spirits appear to have spent quite a lot of time giving advice about the stock market, which people took very seriously indeed.
Having seen the mess living bankers can make out of the financial markets in recent times, perhaps listening to a spectral rap might not have been a bad idea.
Our spooky sisters became very wealthy, thanks very much, so the ghostly advice was probably handy.
But there was no bank manager in the sky, rapping out advice about short-term loans and asking if you’d like to take advantage of a low-interest credit card balance transfer.
In 1889 all hell broke loose – literally – when the sisters admitted the whole bang shoot was a fraud. They were not happy mediums at all. The mysterious crack sounds were generated by the girls clicking their toe joints – no, really. Their followers wouldn’t believe what they were hearing and refused to accept the confession, and said that the spirits were communicating through the toe joints, so there.
I mention all this because I have developed a rather spectacular cracking noise in my right ankle joint. It could be something to do with not only breaking that ankle but also dropping a sofa on that foot. But that’s the boring explanation. I have begun to wonder if, in fact, the followers of the Fox sisters were right and the Great Beyond is trying to communicate with me. I’ve taken to asking questions on the way up the stairs. That seems to be the prime time when they are trying to get through. One click for yes, and two for no.
So, based on my extensive knowledge of the world’s financial markets derived from careful study of the bumph that comes through the door and e-mail, I would advise you all take advantage of the over-50s funeral plan that offers a pen as a free gift. The spirits want you to have a nice send-off. Well, they know how important it is. And don’t be fooled by a chap who sent you an e-mail claiming to have 50 million dollars in a Nigerian bank account for you.
The spirits have seen through that one, matey boy.
Cam’s boy band best laugh yet
And oh yes, I know there’s a big question looming with yes or no being big players out there.
The whole debate was worth it to see Milliband, Clegg and Cameron drifting about looking like a really, really bad boy band and then to hear ol’ Dave trying to get down with the folks by using the term ‘effing Tories’.
There has been a whole heck of a lot of sound and fury, and no way of guessing the outcome so what I think I’ll do is take a walk up the stairs and see what the clicks have to say.
I’ll report back when the spirits have been in touch…
Ghosts just too technical now
Has to be said that our ghostly chums do seem to choose some fairly rum methods of speaking to us these days.
Why, in Mr Dickens’ time, Marley just strode up them stairs and made himself quite at home to confront old Ebeneezer Scrooge – another money man, as I recall.
What is it with ghosts and money? I’d have thought there were much better things to rattle about the Great Beyond doing. I’d be up for tea with the Captain of the Titanic for starters. No more just striding about now, no, now they have to wait for Derek Acora or whizz about an Ouija board – which is not, as some people seem to think, an alternate way of communicating with people from Glasgow. That’s a Weegie board.
Witchell’s baby watch hell next
Hot news from the spirit world about the royal baby. It will, they can confirm, be a baby.
They are reticent on which brand of baby, female or male, but they can confirm that if you are getting fed up with the wall-to-wall coverage of the indy ref, you just wait until you have to face wall-to-wall royal correspondent Nicholas Witchell, who always looks like something dragged from the tomb of Rameses the Second.