My Spiritual Journey: From Aura to Autocorrect (and Greggs Pasties).

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Right then. Strap in, light a joss stick, and prepare to channel the spirit of your nan’s bingo winnings. 

I tried spiritualism once. Thought I’d commune with the beyond, maybe get a few stock tips from the ghost of Steve Jobs. Instead, I got a bloke in a cardigan telling me my aura looked like a damp flannel and that my chakras were “clogged with resentment and Greggs pasties”

Apparently, spiritualism is all about opening your third eye. Mine’s been welded shut since 2003, mostly due to exposure to daytime telly and the emotional trauma of watching someone eat a Scotch egg with a spoon.

They say spirits are all around us. Which is comforting until you realise one of them might be your Uncle Terry, watching you scroll through questionable websites at 2am. “I’m sensing a presence,” says the medium, eyes closed, hands trembling. Yeah mate, it’s the gas bill.

I went to a séance once. They dimmed the lights, lit candles, and played Enya. The only thing that manifested was a migraine and a strong desire to punch a tambourine. The medium said she was channelling a Victorian child named Beatrice. Beatrice told us to invest in crypto and avoid the chicken at Wetherspoons.

Spiritualism promises answers. But mostly it delivers vague platitudes like “You’re on a journey” or “The universe has a plan.” The universe doesn’t have a plan. It barely has a functioning HR department. If it did, Mercury would’ve been sacked for retrograde misconduct years ago.

Still, it’s nice to believe in something. Even if that something is a bloke in a velvet waistcoat telling you your dead hamster forgives you for the time you forgot to clean its cage. We all need closure. And apparently, closure costs £45 an hour and comes with complimentary herbal tea.


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