Do You Believe In Ghosts?

Do You Believe In Ghosts?

Do you believe in ghosts? I do. I believe I have seen one, and been in the presence of at least two others.

Once was when I was quite young and at home in Erdington. Dad was not home from work yet and mom and my sister, J, were upstairs doing something girlie. I was watching a report on the local Midlands news programme, which was investigating hauntings in local factories. The interviewer was talking to two “witnesses”. As I watched a shadowy figure of a woman appeared behind the “witnesses”. I thought it was a joke. A special effect. I called upstairs to my mom and sister, but, the article had finished by the time they got downstairs.

My story was, however, corroborated the following day on the same news programme. They had received a number of complaints by other viewers who had reported seeing the “bad taste” special effect of the ghostly woman. But, the programme claimed innocence and replayed the piece, which this time was “spirit” free. Spooky.

Perhaps the best example of things going bump in the night was at the first house which C and I rented together in Alderley Edge. An old Victorian mid-terrace cottage. C woke in the night on more than one occasion claiming to have seen an old bearded man stood at the foot of our bed. Spooky. And no, I was neither bearded nor old at this time.

In the same property, strange things would happen in the kitchen. Drawers and cupboard doors would mysteriously open themselves. This was not the side-effect of poor fitting or cheap appliances. This was a Poltergeist. You could literally walk from the kitchen into the dining room with everything “normal”, and, having forgotten something, immediately turn on your heel and re-enter the kitchen, to find all drawers and doors wide open. Yes it was spooky but there was not any sense of animosity or fear. It was more as if the ghost had a sense of humour and was having a bit of a laugh.

Things did, however, get a bit twitchy one night when we were entertaining friends from London. We were having a meal in the dining room and talking about ghosts and all things spooky. Admittedly, the wine was flowing quite freely. But, all of a sudden the CD, which was playing music, stopped. The cassette tape switched itself on. The cassette tape switched itself on to “record”. The cassette player was recording us. The cassette player was recording our conversation about ghosts. To be clear, to get the cassette player to tape you would have to first switch from CD to tape, and the hold down the play and record buttons at the same time. I can barely do this sober, so I am sure I couldn’t have done it in my inebriated state.

We went very quiet. We looked at each other and we laughed nervously. We turned the music back on. And, it happened again. A second time. Even writing about it now I can feel the hairs on the back of my head stand up and a shiver is passing down my spine. Spooky.

We now live in an old Cheshire Reformatory School, a boys’ prison, which is converted into nine properties. The prison was built in 1855 and housed some 76 convicted boys aged between about 6 and 16. Crimes ranged from local boys who had stolen bread, presumably as a way of getting the education that the school also offered, through to convicted murderers. Often these would be boys from as far afield as Manchester, Liverpool, Glasgow or London, presumably working on the premise that there would be less chance of them running away to get home.

Now we have never felt any presence here, C and I. Our next door neighbour did once claim that a ghost was moving things around his home but as this used to be our old house (we moved next door!) and we had had no such experience, we assumed he was joking. We didn’t like him very much. He was a nob and a fraudster. Worse, he used to stand in his lounge window wearing just skimpy underpants. Spooky.

More compelling, however, was the story of Holly. When Holly was just 3 years old or so and her family had just moved into the property. Holly asked her mom if she could go and play “with the boys in the courtyard”. Of course there were no boys. And, of course, little Holly knew nothing of the property’s history at that point. Spooky.

One house that does have a feeling about it, an eeriness, is Trivor. Trivor is a house in Monmouthshire which is owned by the father of a good friend of mine from university. My closest friends, and more recently their wives and partners, and subsequently their children, have visited the house every year for nigh on twenty years or so now. Trivor is mentioned in the Doomsday Book. Most of the current property dates back to the sixteenth century, however. A Catholic Priest was caught practising an illegal Mass there during the reign of Queen Elizabeth 1 and was apparently hanged, drawn and quartered. It must have smarted a bit. I guess something like that can leave a bit of an impression on an old place like that.

So, what about you? Do you have any ghostly tales that you wish to share?

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The Great Divide

The Great Divide

On a recent holiday I read a great book written by the radio DJ and journalist, Stuart Maconie, called “Pies and Prejudice: In Search of the North.” I would heartily recommend it. It describes the North of England (Crewe through Newcastle as he describes it) from the proud perspective of a Northerner’s eyes (Stuart’s own) and has vivid descriptions of places that are familiar to me, interspersed with football and music references that bring those places alive.Unlike most books on the North it is pro-Northern. It sings the North’s praises and honestly describes its shortfalls without pandering to the dark, gloomy, stupid, flat cap and whippet idea of the North which other similarly titled/themed books, such as Charles Jennings’ “Up North” and Bill Bryson’s “Notes from a Small Island” portray, in an obvious attempt to appeal to the Southern (Jessie) market.I thoroughly enjoyed Maconie’s book but it did get me thinking about how easily my own homeland gets lost. Overlooked. Misrepresented. Maligned.I am a Midlander. I was born in Walsall and I lived in Birmingham until I went to university. The Midlands, by their very definition, are neither Northern nor Southern. I am proud of my heritage and I do not wish to be Northern or Southern.

I am a Brummie. From Birmingham. I am a Bluenose – a fan of Birmingham City rather than Aston Villa. The City does not often get a good press. Jane Austen once wrote, “One has not great hopes from Birmingham. I always say there is something direful in the sound.” J.B. Priestley seemed to be in agreement when he stated, “During the half hour or so I sat staring through the top windows of that tram, I saw nothing, not one single tiny thing, that could possibly raise a man’s spirits.”

The accent is not well-liked. It is second only to Liverpudlian Scouse as the worst dialect in the UK. For the avoidance of doubt, I am nothing like the stereotypical Brummie as portrayed by Benny off Crossroads. I must admit that I have left some things about Birmingham behind. I don’t wear white socks anymore, except when playing sport. I don’t eat sarnies anymore, preferring sandwiches or butties. I have lost a lot of the accent but I still look in a book (pronounced “luck and “buck”) and clean my teeth with a toothbrush (“toof brush”).

Despite the aspersions repeatedly cast, Birmingham has done none too badly over the years. You may have heard the proud Brummie mantra of “more canals than Venice, more trees than Paris and more green areas than any other town in the UK.”

Birmingham is the UK’s second city. The “city of a thousand trades”. Well perhaps not today but it was during the Industrial Revolution in Britain when it was referred to as “the workshop of the world”. The Empire was built using bullets from Birmingham (and soldiers from Ireland and Scotland). Birmingham is a diverse place. Some 30% of the population are from ethnic minorities.

Lawn tennis, the Landrover, Cadbury chocolate, microwave ovens and the balti curry were all local inventions. The NEC is the UK’s largest exhibition venue and the City hosts the third largest St Patrick’s Day parade in the world. After New York and Dublin. Lloyds and the Midland banks started here, as did the Odeon Cinema. You should check out the development around Brindley Wharf . Very chic. And Rackhams has now been dwarfed by Selfridges (the Boob Tube) and Harvey Nicks in the Mailbox.

Bill Oddie, Tony Hancock, Jasper Carrott and Lenny Henry; Trevor Eve, Charles Danse, Ian Lavender (Pikey in Dad’s Army), Kat Deeley, Felicity Kendal, Julie Walters. Brummies all. As were JRR Tolkien and Barbara Cartland. The City has given us music as diverse as Black Sabbath and Judas Priest, Dexy’s Midnight Runners, Duran Duran, Musical Youth and UB40.

So, what’s so good about being Northern or Southern? I’m a Midlander and proud. A Brummie. From Birmingham. I won’t hear a bad word said against it. I still like to visit.

That said, I also agree with Maconie. The North is not too bad either. I am very happy living in leafy Cheshire and the lure of the shops and restaurants of Knutsford, Wilmslow, Chester and Manchester. Things could be a lot worse. You could be a Southerner…….

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Cheshire Swingers Club

Cheshire Swingers Club

 Meanwhile, our pleasant little hamlet has been invaded by strange folk again. Outsiders. Our rural idyll has succumbed to the influx of the Caravan Club staying at the Village Hall. There must be some 30 or 40 vans crammed onto the car park and the adjacent field. Why? Why? Why? Why? Well, I guess we should be grateful for small mercies. While they’re clogging the car park of our little Village Hall, they are not causing chaos on our roads!

Caravans at the Village Hall are quite a common occurrence. They come from near and, well actually, near. Such far-flung places as Warrington, Stoke or maybe even North Wales. OK Wales may be a different country or, indeed, a parallel universe, but, it’s still only an hour away.

They come on a Friday afternoon and they are gone by Sunday lunchtime. But the weirdest thing (other than the basic question of why anyone would want to camp on a car park in the middle of nowhere, with no pub, restaurant or places to visit) is that you never see the people. You would expect to see them round the village, walking, or cycling. You would expect to see them on the footpaths or bridal ways. Nothing. Never. They just stay indoors. They stay in their caravans behind steamy windows. Or they stay in the village hall, behind steamy windows. It is a bit suspicious this steamy window thing.

We can only assume that the whole caravan thing is a front. We suspect that it is one great swingers’ club. Some of the suspensions on these rickety old caravans must have the workout of a lifetime. Some of the suspensions on the rickety old caravaners too. I can’t imagine it is very comfortable on a foam-padded mattress over a fold-down table. Maybe Calor Gas is an aphrodisiac. That, or tinned new potatoes, marrowfat peas and Smash.  Presumably the Village Hall is used for orgies or the selection process. Maybe this is where they throw their car keys into the mythical pot. Keys for Skodas, Volvos and VW vans mostly. Just imagine it. Swinging scallies from Stoke, Crewe and Wrexham. All of that cheap polyester rubbing together in a confined space, with gas bottles. One hell of a safety risk. The static electricity generated could run a small city. Maybe this could be the answer to global warming.

 

Fortunately most of the caravaners seem to be beyond breeding age. Thank goodness for that. Just imagine what could crawl out of that genetic soup. It doesn’t bear thinking about. And this in Cheshire too………

 

If not swingers then we must assume Satanic ritual at the very least. Or sheep shaggers….. 

 

When I do get my bike out of the garage I will be sure to cycle very quickly past the Village Hall when the caravans are in situ.