Claivoyance: my new side-racket

Posted: July 17, 2025 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

I am not clairvoyant in regard to any supernatural ability or actual belief in communing with the dead.

But I am prepared to say similar things for money.

Some people need a side-hustle in today’s (and yesterday’s) economy, and other’s – like me – need a side-racket.

Blogging will only take you so far and frankly the criminality just isn’t worth it anymore.

So why not lean into the supernatural, and why not be openly honest about it being both completely nonsensical and something out of which I’m looking to make the most?

For example, right from the get-go:

“Oh it’s your deceased grandmother and she’d like to say hello.”

Possibly (I don’t know – I’m not clairvoyant)…

“Not the living one, the other one. The deceased grandmother that without question died and that we can’t prove isn’t telling me to tell you that everything’s going to be alright and that you should leave a considerable tip.”

And it is at this moment that, with no morbid disrespect meant, I truly do hope you happen to have a dead grandmother.

“By the way, this might not resonate, but your great-great-great-great-great grandfather is exceptionally proud of you. You might not know his name or what he looked like, but he’s pleased as punch as to how you’ve turned out and he’d also recommends a significant tip.”

I can even be vague if you’d like.

“Also, that thing that happened at that particularly non-specifiable time that you might recall…we’ll I’m aware of that.”

I could get a little wooden caravan, or…just a car (perhaps a wooden one)…and could host clairvoyance get-togethers amongst those that are looking for hope from someone distinctly unqualified to provide some, albeit at remarkable value for money.

Bargain hope – you need crystal balls to dish that kind of humanity out.

“Now, let me deal my tarot cards.

“Will it be Death, will it be Love?

“Ah, the Pick Up 5 Uno card. That’s worse than Death and Love, but at least Napoleon, Caeser and Alexander the Great can relate – they’ve had similar bad draws, and they’re all playing it in the corner. They can’t find the Risk box.“

Napoleon would make a tremendous ghost, being of average height in the corner and French – very spooky. Very French. Very average-height for the time.

People might flock to me to hear my relayings from the afterlife, inspired by 100% fiction (maybe 97% fiction, since I believe Napoleon, Caeser and Alexander the Great have all died at some point).

Actually, maybe just one flock, filled with those quite prepared for me to miss-guess their dead cat’s name from 1992 after multiple attempts, or to miss-diagnose your financial worries as gout.

Being honest and open about my lack of belief or particular supernatural powers, might ease their frustrations about the fact people die, including – eventually – them.

They’re just looking for a little bit of hope after all.

And I’m willing to give them that, at any price.

Discount wonder, half-price divinity and “I’ll knock a bit off since it got wet” belief.

Maybe even Bring and Bless in Bulk.

Sam

P.S – I also bend forks. You just grab them and bend them, and then you have that bent fork you really, really needed. Possibly some hope too.

“If there are any spirits listening…fuck off.”

Posted: May 28, 2023 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , | Leave a comment

Fucking spirits, get a grip.

You really have to be a bit of a loser to refuse to die and pass away.

‘Away‘ being the key word – bugger off please.

I don’t mean this in terms of refusing the next great adventure (most likely returning to dirt), but more so: read the room.

You died, and now frankly you’re bringing down house prices in the vicinity because you keep nudging chairs slightly and turning the lights off, both of which are super-duper inconvenient – both when wanting to sit on your chair and read a book, and when you’re trying to sell your home to someone timid.

I could sell ghost tours of my home, I suppose, but no one wants a spooky walk around a semi-detached on a suburban street in which the neighbours are clearly watching ITV programming, the least spooky of all programming (too much smiling and purple).

Woe betide you if you are one of those spirits that keeps blowing candles out. I’m middle class – I need many, many candles – and frankly each puff you conjure to blow mine out only makes me more tempted to burn the house to the ground in fury.

Maybe that’s you trying to force me to the point of fury via your demonic methods, meaning ultimately that you’re winning, but I prefer to see it post-event. Once I’ve burned down my own house, due to you continually blowing my candles out, I like the idea of you trying to haunt all that remains – my partially charred lawn.

A haunted lawn? Get a life mate.

You’re a ghost, you’re out of vogue, and to be brutally honest this is the era of the zombie apocalypse – something we’re all looking forward to.

I can picture all the people at approximately my age with the same generational intake of horror media, all making our way to the local DIY store and heading to everyone’s favourite bit – the zombie apocalypse aisle, filled with axes and chainsaws and sledgehammers and other heavy sharp things you don’t want to approach your head at speed.

With trolleys and car boots filled, they eagerly head home and start hammering down (with brand new hammer, nails, and wooden boards) the hatches, loading up their bows and slingshots with ammo (because this isn’t the US so we’d actually be doomed), and watching the sun set glinting off their years of tinned food through the window to their bunker.

And then as the apocalypse is about to begin, with the hoards beginning to roam down the street, either casually or sprinting (it doesn’t matter in this example), the final night is about to truly kickoff into a happy and very gory ever after, and then from the attic they hear…..”wwwwwwhhhhhhhoooooooooooooooooo”.

They can’t believe it.

It can’t be…

Ric Flair, is in the attic.

Not really, its just a ghost, but everyone is now really pissed off because whereas zombies offer us the chance to live a new life as a super cool zombie hunter in the post apocalypse in which we’re, for some vague reason, totally fine without having the internet any more, all that’s happening instead is a ghost is reducing the value of our home property.

“But we have a Ric Flair in the attic!!”, you might suggest to realtors.

But they don’t want to know.

Because no one cares about ghosts.

Which makes sense, since ghost are the most attention-seeking of Halloween baddies. They’re the supernatural equivalent of a still-living person standing in a room with a white sheet over their head and presuming everyone thinks they look impressive.

If there was a ghost here right now, I’d play Van Morrison’s ‘Brown Eyed Girl‘, the greatest song to kill a spooky mood and therefore hopefully ruin the ghost’s evening, and vastly improve my own.

That’s enough writing for today.

Next time, maybe, we’ll discuss werewolves and their cuddliness.

Until then, in case there are any spirits listening…fuck off.

Sam

I am the Greatest Human to Ever Live (Part 5. I Can’t Wait to be Haunted)

Posted: October 7, 2015 | Author: | Filed under: The Greatest Human to Ever Live | Tags: , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

At some point, you should know by now, it’s going to be written down that I am the greatest human to ever live. Written by someone other than me.

Until then…I am the greatest human to ever live.

And here’s how.

Ghosts avoid me.

So does Bigfoot.

Ohhhhhhhh Bigfoot has some diabolical excuses to his name.

“I’m washing my foreskin hair tonight”.

I let him off for that one since he’s willing to bring up his foreskin hair over the telephone. What a creature. He can’t speak but he lets me know by just colliding his foreskin upon the receiver.

Sometimes I pity telephones.

Not that I let them distract me from filling you up and in with why ghosts tend to go the long way around when they see me approaching.

I feel ghosts avoid me owing to my ‘rip-the-sheet-off’ mentality that leads me to sing (fucking SING) Van Morrison’s Brown Eyed Girl whilst dancing in Piccadilly Circus on any day but Christmas.

I don’t deal in spooky.

I ejaculate on spooky purely for the reason of attempting to make apparent I am in a whole other frame of mind compared to what this ghost is hoping for.

Hence the semen.

Whilst this might not suit the law amidst the season of Halloween, at least the real ghosts can read about me in the papers.

Oh I wish I could pick up that telephone one stormy evening in late November to hear some croaky drawl utter: “I’m in the attic Sam”.

Because I want that ghost to know.

That I would then devote my body to two distinct attitudes.

My left hand side would box.

Jab with the fist, sweep with the foot and poke with my hip. Possibly also nutting with my left temple.

My right side would go about as furious a masturbation session as you’ve ever taken note of on the right hand side of a haunted man.

My reason for this two-tone combative-masturbatory stance?

Well…would you want to haunt me?

Whatcha gonna do? Clink your chains together? Softly tap the floorboards?

Be a long since abandoned and forgotten child’s clown-dolly?

Wail?

You know that turns my right hand side all horny and gets my left hand side in a mood to eradicate most-fistily (fistily. Adjective; much about the fist. Typically negative. Occasionally not) a ghost.

And I feel that closes the case.

What the fuck would you do in the face of my tactic?

Yes. I have tactics. Like a disciplined person from yore (wherever the fuck that is).

Distraction and confusion are nigh-on my sole arsenal, in the fury of silent cloak and dagger business.

Aside from my actual cloak and dagger, of course, as they quite simply ‘help’ when encountering an opponent needing to be pierced whilst also requiring a puddle to be obscured for them so as to gallantly defend their footwear and honour.

And I do that sort of thing for my enemies.

Why?

Because it distracts and confuses them.

To the point of them passing away into the hastily knife-dug grave to soon be swiftly cloaked-over and, then, returning from said hastily knife-dug grave to don my white cloak and go about haunting me with particular insistent focus upon my overly-literally imagery.

And then I ejaculate on them. Owing to my tactics.

That gets them sighing.

Good. I want them to sigh, I’ve always found it’s a good indicator of progress.

I simply refuse to acknowledge their apparition-like form and rather more insist they are just being rather witty with their parlour tricks.

“Passing through a solid wall eh? How terribly charming, I do wish cousin Bertie were here; I feel quite honestly you’d get on. Hmm. Yes.”

Middle-Upper Class vernacular infuriates ghosts.

Upon encountering ghosts I give it a really rather whopping “Crikey Carruthers!” and then leave it to my left and right hand sides to deal with the consequences.

I can’t wait to be haunted next.

I might even tempt it forward seeing as how I know the location of a native English gravesite. And I need somewhere to park my unpleasantness every now and then.

So I have a kilo of unwanted horse hair and no place to dump it other than that place where I dump things. How about there?

Can’t take it back to the horse; keeps running away.

Now I know I prefer to be galloped to, rather than galloped from.

Being galloped from has too many connotations of loneliness for the greatest human to ever live to oblige existence to. That’s why I find myself in so many stampedes.

Three stampedes at the time of writing. By the time of your reading this? Hopefully more.

I like a little hoof-mark on me. It’s my badge of both having been stampeded and then being proud as hell about it.

That should get the late-English natives coming for me.

That’s another flaw of ghost-hood; they have no strut.

Ghosts can’t dance.

And you needn’t even bet on it (just have some of my money), that I am the one to remind them of that.

Ever feel a little intimidated by the howling wind coming down the chimney and the weighty patter of rain upon the window pane?

Then fucking waltz, darling, waltz!

Now I’m not saying you should just get dancing, since I feel I’m truly the only one who should be doing that. Observe my physical expression sometime and you’ll realise you’re just not qualified.

However, I am saying you should certainly out-do that phantom when it comes to the art of tap.

I’ve always found that to be the trick to Irish Dancing. You cannot conceive, nor can I, those who are willingly Irish Dancing with aplomb aplenty and those who are righteously taking the piss out of it by flailing their legs all hither and thither in a manner most Irish-Dance-like.

So now you can do it to.

Don’t pretend you’re Irish Dancing, just Irish Dance.

Be an Irish Dancer; because I told you to.

And because you can do it if you just start. Soon all, ghost and the yet-to-be-late will assume you always were one.

Plus it keeps ghosts away.

Not that I’d really know; ghosts avoid me.

So does Bigfoot.

Do you ever get the sensation the author may have alluded to masturbation a tad too often throughout a piece, to the point that you consider him in an overwhelming and literal sense as a wanker?

I didn’t think so.

I don’t break bread with the undead owing to mainly to how swell this sentence sounds.

Aside from that, I am the greatest human to ever live.

And so are you.

Sam