My apologies for interrupting your web surfing pleasure however I am trying to make contact with intelligent humans on the Earth plane and, to be frank, this is proving very difficult. I agree it’s unusual for a spirit guide to appear on the website of a skeptic but I’ve tried believer’s sites and there is no intelligent life there at all.

My name is Sam and I work with a medium, who for now I’ll identify simply as Horace Drake. I want someone to free me from my life (as in ‘eternal life’) of misery and despair. Many years ago I decided to help Horace spread the word about Summerland and that when you’re dead it’s a really great place to visit – much better than say purgatory that the Catholics seem so fond of. At first we just did a few spiritualist meetings every now and again and life was sweet. I had plenty of time left to chill and get on with a few spiritual pastimes.

Boy have things changed. Now I’m expected to do tours, TV Shows, Radio phone-ins, the lot. What do I get out of this you might ask? Bugger all is the answer. Not only do I get Horace badgering me all the time but I could fill the Albert Hall with the dead people lining up outside my door wanting to pass messages on. I wouldn’t mind but the messages are so bloody pointless. “I just want to send my love and let them know I’m okay” they bleat. “Look”, I tell them, “it’s not at all easy getting through and the least you could do is come up with something useful like the homeopathic formula for curing cancer or maybe a warning about the odd Tsunami.” Do they listen – no chance. And that’s not the worst of it! Most of them refuse to give the names which leaves Horace having to give some half baked description of them like, “I have a lovely lady coming through and I think she lost a lot of weight towards the end of her life.” It makes Horace look like a complete twat.

Now don’t get me wrong there are a few benefits. For instance when some gorgeous bit of totty wants to get through to her old man on the ‘Earth plane’ I tell her I might be able to pull a few strings, “You do me a favour and I’ll do you one. Know what I mean?”

You probably realise listening to Horace that here in good old Summerland we do have some leeway regarding our physical form, so without putting too fine a point on it I’m hung like a horse. I don’t have the heart to tell Horace ‘cause he’s a bit wanting in that department, so that’s just between you and me, right? He’s about as good in bed as he was at football. I blame the booze and ciggies.

I already know your next question, “How do I know about his bedtime habits?” Well obviously I look in on him from time to time. In fact me and some of the other guides try to pop round once a month and watch Horace trying to perform. I tell you sometimes it’s an absolute riot being dead. Now before you start criticising me let me tell you everyone over here does it. I mean there isn’t exactly a lot happening here and eternity can really drag. So basically if you think you have any private moments then forget it. Yep we know everything you get up to. And yes, you will go blind.

Anyway back to my original point. Horace is getting richer and richer and it’s all down to me. Our original agreement didn’t involve having TV series, merchandising and generally making shit loads of cash out of the misery of his fellow human beings.

I’m not finished yet either. What really bothers me is that because Horace is so bloody useless people start thinking that it’s me who can’t come up with the goods. Take the other night for example, we were in Oxford and I’ve got this woman with me (having ‘persuaded’ me to give her a slot – wink, wink) called Janet. I say to Horace, “I’ve got Janet here and she worked as a prostitute in Grimsby and died a horrible death in 1867 after choking on a bun.” Do you think he could get it? No chance. He must be deaf as a post because he comes out with, “I have a woman here called Goldstein who died in her 60’s and had her hair in a bun.” Next, by way of an additional clue, I try to point out that she had enormous tits and what does he say? “I think she had trouble with her lungs.” Give me a break.

Later on I’m trying to tell him that I’ve got this woman from Scotland with me and I’m signalling to Horace that she drank herself to death by holding up a couple of wine glasses. Straight off without so much as checking Horace trots out something about her having trouble with her glasses! I’m thinking, “What’s the sodding use?” But as ever I try to help out with a bit more info and said she was “kinda fat”. “She was blind as a bat” quips Horace.

At this point I gave up and sat in the audience. I refused to speak but here’s the really weird bit, Horace kept on talking as if I was still helping. “Sam says this, Sam says that.” The crowd were lapping it up even though he did look a complete tosser chatting away to himself. Made me feel so useless I thought of putting in for reincarnation. Still I suppose it could be worse, take poor old Magnus for instance he has to mix ectoplasm for his medium. The stuff stinks but sometimes it just has to be done, trumpets don’t just float on their own you know.

Anyway until the next time.

Love and sausages

Sam