Time to break the spell

THE YEAR GETS TO GRIPS WITH LIFE IN THE BIG CITY BRITAIN’S REGIONAL COLUMNIST OF

ONE positive came out of lockdown: the army of trick or treaters were kept from our door.

In my corner of the Midlands, they’re in their mid-20s, wear hoodies and demand cash. I’ve attempted to explain smashing my greenhouse is not a

“trick”, it is criminal damage.

And pushing dog excrement through my letterbox is harassment.

Such is the way Halloween – something of a non-event in my 1960s childhood – has been hijacked.

It is an Americanism, a mere commercial orgy. Like Christmas and Easter.

Parents will again splash out on overpriced brooms, witches hats and giant pumpkins. There is an inherent danger with over-sized pumpkins. I read that a New Yorker was crushed by one – or “gourd to death”, as a US tabloid put it.

There’s even a skeleton-themed boardgame. Tibial Pursuit.

“Why do we carve pumpkins?” lisped my young nephew.

“Because they bleed a lot less than animals,” I snapped.

I am not a fan. On October 31, I will open my door to trick or treaters and deliver the now traditional Simon Cowell put down: “Guys, it’s tired, the costumes are awful and it’s all been done before. Do you honestly think you can make a career out of this? Sorry, it’s a ‘no’ from me.”

I therefore read the gushing prose delivered by our digital arm, BirminghamLive, and tutted loudly.

The article states: “If your family loves getting dressed up in costumes, carving and decorating pumpkins, conjuring spooky spells and listening to scary stories, then you’ll love some of the events we’ve included in our guide.

“The guide offers a snapshot of some of the spine-tinglingly good adventures to have as a family across the Midlands for Halloween.

“We believe that none of them are too scary for little ones.”

The “good adventures” include a

“pumpkin flotilla” at Sarehole Mill, the orange vegetables seemingly balanced on wooden pallets, and a Cadbury World ghostly adventure, with Freddo Frog leading the way in a choccy horror

show.

Freddo could be one of the living dead. He definitely croaked.

There are no pubs on the list, which is a surprise. I thought spooks liked boos. A message of assurance to younger readers – there are no ghosts.

Once, I thought I’d seen one – white, small and floating on air. It turned out to be a tissue.

I do not believe in the Hereafter, spooks, spirits, spectres, ghouls, poltergeists, demon possession, tooth fairies or Santa. If pushed, I will begrudgingly accept that farts are the ghosts of something we’ve eaten.

I do have a spirit guide. His name is Dave and he works at the local offlicence.

In a 46-year career, I have been tasked many times with tracking down the living dead and uncovered nothing that had not an earthly explanation. I have spent nights in haunted public houses - the vast majority of spirits strangely “going public” after the businesses underwent refurbishment or introduced a new menu.

The limited powers of those ghouls who allegedly occupy the premises always disappointed me.

If I’d battled to bridge the chasm between this life and the afterlife, I’d want to do something a little more dramatic than opening and shutting pub doors and switching lights off. The vast majority of time on this earth is spent doing that, anyway. Strangely, ghosts who want to merely fiddle with household appliances resist the temptation to repeatedly flush toilets, which would be my first port-of-call. When my own lights go off, I check the trip-switch.

When the room becomes cold, I bleed radiators. Accusing ghosts is pretty low down the lists, though I did once blame mischievous spirits for ordering the adult channel.

I’ve even interviewed a bricklayer who claimed he could speak to the dead through his tools. Seriously - on the level.

At college, we set up a makeshift ouija board in our sixth form common room, the spirits moving an upturned probiotic yoghurt pot from one letter to another.

Simon Kinchen was so traumatised by the experience he needed counselling. He paid a terrible price for dabbling with the Yakult.

As a family, we once attended a seance to locate my late grandfather: I wear his wristwatch, an heirloom retrieved from his deathbed.

We wanted to contact grandfather because of the sudden, tragic nature of his demise. He plunged to death while holidaying in Torremolinos.

That must’ve been the mother of all blocked toilets.

We eventually made contact with the ghost of an alcoholic down-and-out. A methylated spirit.

Just found an old vinyl record in the loft. A side: I do like to be. B side: The seaside Dozens of eggs have been stolen from a poultry farm. Poachers are suspected