Derek Acorah is a Mentalist Pt 1

The following is a TV review/rant I cobbled together after watching one of medium-extraordinaire Derek Acorah’s shows a few years back. More deliciously fun Acorah poo-pooing to follow over the next week or so – Jamie 

Snakes on an Astral Plane

Derek Acorah and his invisible psychic side-kick, Sam, in happier times.

Most parents keep their children away from gory, overtly disturbing, sexual or horrific TV content: explicit war films; late-night pieces of a pornographic nature; violent gun-and-monster flicks, and anything that has a hint of the red stuff or even a soupcon of rough language. All well and good.

But there are some programmes that slip under the radar, which many families actively encourage their children to watch. Happy, feel-good shows that seem innocent upon brief inspection, but if explored in any depth turn out to be more insidiously destructive and psychologically scarring than a back-to-back late-night marathon of Vampire Gore Splat Anal Destruction Nympho Whores in Trench Warfare Hell.

Welcome to Derek Acorah (broadcast on Sky 3 in the UK), a regular hour-long delve into the spirit world with the eponymous Derek Acorah, ‘Britain’s best-known medium’ – an accolade bestowed upon him by the Daily Mail. ‘Best known’? Yes, he’s ‘Britain’s best-known medium’ in the same way that AIDS is the world’s ‘best known’ sexual infection, and Adolph Hitler is Austria’s ‘best known’ Jew-killer.

'Your gullibility is THIS big, screaming woman.'

So what’s my beef with Acorah and his ilk? Surely it’s all a bit of harmless fun? Doesn’t Derek Acorah bring people comfort and closure, say ‘please’ alot, and thread love, peace and happiness into and around all of his dalliances with the spirits and their living loved ones? Well, yes. But this is why he’s so insidious. What gives a man like Derek Acorah, with no demonstrable psychic powers – certainly none that would stand up to any scientific scrutiny – the right to take people’s raw feelings of loss, hurt, fear and confusion, and attempt to exorcise them with flimflam and lies? Not to mention to extort these peoples’ feelings for money?

There are a few possible explanations for his conduct. The first is that Derek knows he has no psychic powers, and is cynically employing his theatrical tricks to make money from vulnerable punters, or else to satisfy some insecurity or Messianic complex whereby he feels a surge of self-worth or grandeur through ‘curing’ people – even if it is by a sugared deception. The second is that Derek actually believes he possesses both ESP and the ability to commune with the dead, in which case he requires some urgent and far-reaching mental help.

What's it watching? The Hissssss-tory Channel, of course! Belter!

In the episode of Derek Acorah broadcast yesterday (Friday 21st August) Derek brought out a woman and her pet snake. He attempted to read the reptile’s ‘thoughts’ and translate them for its owner.

‘He’s not been himself,’ said the woman. Excuse me? How can you tell that a snake hasn’t been himself? A drop in witty repartee? Not dressing as smartly?

Anyway, Derek was able to meld with the snake and went on to dispense some real psychically-gleaned pearls of wisdom. ‘You’ll need to take him to a vet,’ he told the woman.

Later, Derek added that his long-time spirit guide Sam was sure that the snake wanted to watch more television. The woman looked enthralled. During her own straight-to-camera moment, away from the studio audience, she made excuses for Derek. ‘It can’t have been easy reading a snake. I think he tried his best.’

Derek did little better when he moved on to bipedal mammals; although the audience didn’t share my assessment. He appeared again to have convinced them that he was a spiritual savant and all-round psychic miracle worker. This despite the fact that any person with a little common sense and a lot of balls (or a psychological condition) could come up with an achingly similar ‘reading’ and enjoy a chorus of oo’s and aah’s from any number of poor misguided souls. I’m being diplomatic here.

Derek after being told how much he gets paid for this shit.

His subject was a woman called Sharon, aged between 50 and 65. He amazed by asking if she knew anyone called Jack, Betty or Anne. She did. Incredible. Who would have thought that a woman born between 1945 and 1960 would know people with some of the most common names of that era? He moved on to wow her with such startling and specific questions as ‘Do you know someone who died of breast cancer?’ and ‘You’ve had to counsel someone recently who’s been through a break-up, haven’t you?’ Shockingly, she had. Who would have thought, given how long she’d lived, that there would be a statistical chance of those two things having happened? Certainly not Sharon or the tearful studio audience.

‘You’ve not had an easy life, have you?’ oozed Derek, staring at her like some demented hypnotist.

‘No,’ she agreed. I was almost out of my seat by then. This was getting spooky.

‘But you’re a star,’ he told her, almost on the verge of sobbing himself, ‘I know you’re a star. And they (the gaggle of dead communicating with him) know you’re a star.’

Who knows what frisson of sexual excitement was zapping through his balls at that moment as he held this deluded woman’s happiness in his huckster’s hands. He was probably thinking: ‘Ha! Jesus can suck on my big Liverpudlian throbber.’

Don't let your children watch Derek Acorah.

Have you ever heard noises in your house late at night? Probably just the pipes, or the radiators, or wood or cement expanding or contracting, right? WRONG, DICKHEAD! It’s ghosts. They’re there to talk to you, silly. Only they’re not going to make it easy for you. If your death has been foreseen by your loved ones on the other side, what are they going to do? Simply tell someone like Derek Acorah in plain, uncluttered English so that you can do something to prevent it? Rap out a warning in Morse Code? Use telekinesis on the fridge magnets to spell out ‘GO TO HOSPITAL’? No. They’d really rather prefer to make pots fall on the floor until you get the message.

Sharon had heard things in her house at night.

‘You’re confident you’re psychic, aren’t you?’

‘Well, yes, I’ve heard things. But I’m not scared.’

‘You’ve got an innate receptiveness,’ he told her. ‘You’re sensitive to spirits.’

What I like most about Derek Acorah is how he listens to all the facts, forms a hypothesis, looks at it from all angles, contemplates everything deeply, conducts a thorough investigation, follows through with an experiment, and then arrives at a wholly logical and scientific result. Inspiring.

The best part of the show, however, was when he grilled an old lady (not literally, although that really would’ve been entertaining) and claimed to have one of her acquaintances from the other side jabbering in his ear. The old lady had no idea who the person was.

‘Not someone in your family?’

‘No.’

‘Someone you know?’

‘No.’

‘If anyone in the audience wants to jump in, if you know them, please raise your hand.’

Even that little bit of fishing never made the audience in the least suspicious. Even when he moved on and left the old lady on spiritual call-waiting to entertain another spook they were still on his side and in full support of his miraculous powers. And still no one raised an eyebrow when he pretended to be in conversation with the spirit and said: ‘What’s that? You’re saying someone here does know who you are? OK, but we’re going to have to move on now, please. Step to one side, please. Thank you.’ Yeah, fuck off, ghost, nobody likes you!

It’s quite telling that after the end credits roll a message flashes up that reads: ‘All views and messages relayed in the show are for entertainment purposes only.’

Wouldn’t it be reasonable to expect someone who sincerely believed himself to possess genuine supernatural powers to fight the government and the media regulators tooth and claw to remove such a disclaimer from the end of his television broadcasts?

Just a thought. I’d like to lobby to have the message displayed throughout the entire show, in huge block capitals at the top of the screen. And force Derek to shout it at the end of each reading.

If you’re looking for something mildly diverting and inspiring for your children to watch on television as you organise lunch or dinner, don’t be tempted to expose them to Derek Acorah.

In the true spirit of the medium, simply go over to the other side. Or put on a DVD double-bill of the Hostel films which they can watch while you beat them with a fucking spade.

 

Movie Reboots – COME SHINE WITH ME

Jack tries to keep cool after his croquettes burn in the oven.

Dinner parties can be stressful at the best of times, but this Film Four production takes social awkwardness to a chilling new level. Reuniting the original cast of The Shining, Come Shine With Me sees writer Jack Torrance returning to the Overlook Hotel to cook for Danny, Wendy, Scatman Crothers, and his mental son’s imaginary friend Tony – all for a crack at the £1000 prize money. It’s not as easy as it sounds, though. Tony used to haunt the finger of a famous French food critic, and so Danny’s index digit is always on the waggle: ‘This food makes me glad I’m only a finger with no mouth, Mr Torrance.’

Add to that the constant pressure on Jack to chop up his family into so much spotted dick, and you know there’s going to be a lot more tension in store before you hear the words: ‘Heeeeerrreeeee’s dessert!’

Dave Lamb’s acerbic commentary is a delight. ‘Good luck slicing the garlic with that axe, Jack. I think there’s a sledgehammer around here somewhere if you can find yourself a walnut.’

Look out for more of your favourite catchphrases in the movie, like: ‘All wok and no sautee make Jack a full boy,’ and ‘Watch out for that fucking axe, Scatman!’ We particularly liked the ending, which sees Jack freezing to death as he tries to retrieve his black forest gateaux from the hedge maze.

IF YOU LIKE THIS, YOU’LL LOVE: Stephen King’s ShIT. One of the writer’s turds is buried in ‘Pat’ Cemetary. It returns to possess a teenage girl, from Maine obviously, who takes a misanthropic writer hostage and breaks his legs with a mallet. Also look out for: Tommy’s Knockers.  

 

Movie Reboots – NEXT FRIDAY THE 13TH

To what fresh ground can you take Jason Vorhees once he’s been cryogenically re-awakened in deep space in the far-distant future? Producers and writers have faced this problem for the last eighteen Friday the 13th films. Some would rather forget the critical failure that was Freaky Friday the 13th. Others rather liked Very Camp Crystal Lake, one of the more recent reboots, which saw Jason stalking his prey whilst wearing tight bicycle shorts and a cravat.

Though commercially successful, the film’s ending raised a few eyebrows among diehard Friday the 13th fans. They argued it wasn’t exactly in the spirit of the saga to have Jason settling down in the suburbs with an uptight human-resources manager called Gerald.

Which is probably why Next Friday the 13th sees Jason Vorhees kicking back in the hood with Ice Cube and Chris Rock. Watch out for the increasingly inventive kills: especially Jason taking out a whole crew of Hispanic drug dealers using only a yo-yo and a bottle of Gatorade. Our favourite scene is where Jason rips out a man’s lower intenstines, prompting Chris Rock to quip: “Cos it’s Friday the 13th, you aint got no jobby, you aint got a shit to do.”

Although seemingly impervious to any form of physical pain, Jason is not immune to the social problems that are rife in the hood. By the end of the film he’s been shot fifty-six times, is the father of three illegitimate children, and starts selling weed.

IF YOU LIKE THIS, YOU’LL LOVE: Knightmare on Elm Street. At long last the two worlds of 80s ITV kids’ show Knightmare and Freddy Krueger’s Elm Street are brought together. Also, look out for: Rod, Jane and Freddy Vs Jason and the hotly anticipated John Craven’s New Nightmare.

 

Movie Reboots – JOHN CANDYMAN

Say his name five times into the mirror, and you summon the angry ghost of John Candyman. Does he flay you with his hook? Disembowel you? Lop your head off? Worse. He casts you in a Steve Martin film.

John Candy had several reservations about appearing in this film – top of the list being that he’s dead. However, Hollywood trade magazine Variety reported that a seven figure sum soon convinced Candy to come back to life. Actors’ unions are now up in arms over what they perceive as a grave case of ‘positive discrimination’.

‘Already we have Rex Harrison resurrecting himself to star alongside a recently re-animated Dudley Moore in Under Siege 26,’ said an angry Jamieson Girthrocket, of Roles Taken From the Living (ROTFL), ‘What next? Die Hard 12 with Clark Gable?’

In the original Candyman, the eponymous villain opened his jacket to reveal a stomach crawling with bees, an echo of his brutal death. In the new film, John Candyman will unbutton his shirt to reveal a fully-grown bull charging from his colon, as a consequence of dying during a violent steak-eating contest against Dan Akroyd.

IF YOU LIKE THIS, YOU’LL LOVE: The House on Notting Hill. Foppish Hugh Grant throws a posh dinner party to impress Julia Roberts. His soul quickly gets torn in half by an angry army of ghosts, who are sick fed-up of his humming, hawing, ooo-ing, ah-ing, and fringe-tossing. ‘If you’re not going to shag her,’ say the ghosts, ‘you might as well die.’ Die Hard 12 with Clark Gable starts shooting next April.

 

In the End, There Was the Beginning

Films are like fashion. Remember that film with the terrible special effects you laughed at in the 70s? Remember that film you loved so dearly you watched it fifty times a day and only communicated with other human beings through chunks of its dialogue? Well, they’re coming back… sort of.

Now that the cinema world has come of age, its going full circle. Over the last few years we’ve witnessed countless reboots, reimaginings, remakes and far-apart sequels; some of them good, some of them great, and many of them grating.

Star Trek, Batman, Terminator, Psycho, Halloween, Friday the 13th, Indiana Jones, Lost in Space, Alfie, the Italian Job: just a small sample of films and sagas that have had the treatment, with many more to follow.

I’m going to be posting tasters of the celluloid remodellings and regurgitations we’ve got to look forward to from the maestros of horror and science-fiction in 2012.

FICTION, PUBLISHED WORK AND PROMOTION

SELECTED PUBLISHED ARTICLES

DEN OF GEEK FEATURES – www.denofgeek.com

TV’s Most Shocking TV Character Deaths 

The wasted potential of Prison Break

The Sopranos: the greatest show ever made

MAGAZINES

Fear and Lothian – a ghostly tour of the Lothians, published in Paranormal Magazine

Goodbye… My Precious – a sad recount of the passing of the family cat, published in The Cat, a national pet magazine.

SCOTTISH COMEDY FC – www.scottishcomedyfc.com

Jamie Andrew Hates Football and Football Fans – published on the Scottish Comedy FC website

ORIGINAL SHORT FICTION

The Trench – a dystopian tale set in a quarantined town

The Tell-Tale Fridge – the lengths one man will go to find a friend

Blakey the Jakey – fairytale meets the real world in this Buckfast-soaked serialised story set on a Scottish council estate

PART ONE PART TWO PART THREE PART FOUR PART FIVE

PROMOTION/STAND-UP

Now That’s What I Call Funny – poster and ticket links for 2013 three-hander show as part of the Glasgow International Comedy Festival

A brief mention in a review of Red Raw @ The Stand – Speaks for itself, really. www.thestand.co.uk – Scotland and Northern England’s premier stand-up club.

Being an Open Spot – short Q&A in the Falkirk Herald

ICKE DON’T BELIEVE IT

Bizarre news stories from around the world. All true, honest, guv.

icke

Part 1 – Jackson’s Brain Goes on Rampage

Part 2 – Game Shows Have Ties to Kremlin

Part 3 – New Pope Builds Robots

Part 4 – A Stroke of Luck: Thatcher’s Funeral

Special Report: How Tesco Takes Over the World

Report from the Infectious Disease Conference

MISCELLANEOUS MIRTH

Jesus is a Jerk

Jesus loves you – that’s the problem

New Government Health Warnings – Smoking is Awesome 

Let it RIP – The Obituary of the Farting Preacher

Ice Bucket Challenge – THE MOVIE

MSN Picture Editor’s Last Day

The Tail of the Christmas Canine Part 1

The Tail of the Christmas Canine Part 2

I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For...

A Rather Childish Tongue Twister

POLITICS

On JAMIE’S GUIDE TO POLITICS

Part 1: The BNP

Part 2: Labour

MISC

Do It the George Gallo-Way

Vote for the Dinner Party

On viral campaigns to raise awareness – Ice Bucket Challenge

A Q&A with the NO campaign (Scottish referendum)

Are we sick of the referendum campaign already?

Scotland decides… what to watch on TV (referendum)

Reflections on the Scottish referendum result 2014

CUNT OF THE WEEK

Guest writers nominating their villains of the week. But villain spelled with a ‘c’. And an ‘unt.’

2012

Thomas Wotherspoon – North Carolina

Rik Carranza – Mattel

Richard Hunter – Argyll and Bute Council

Fraser Edwards – Real Ale drinkers

Euan Meikle – The Queen

Jordan RA Mills – Megabus

John McGoldrick – Customers

Robin Grainger – Social media sites

Gregor Wappler – The Edinburgh Festival

James Walker – Little Ant and Dec

Peter Wood – The X-Factor

Ross Leslie – Matt Bendoris and The Sun

Hannah Baillie – Supermarket Sweep

2013

Jonny Seaton – A surprising nomination

Will Richards – Australians

 

YOUNG JAMIE

Chronicling the contents of my primary school jotters, from the ages of 6 to 10.

PRIMARY 3

Pt 1: Fighting the Man

Pt 2: The Comic

Pt 3: Wild, Wild West

Pt 4: A Fanny Pad Halloween

Pt 5: The World’s Most Boring Shed

Pt 6: Skating on Thin Shite

PRIMARY 2

Pt 1: Bamlet

Pt 2: Christmas Fireplace Nightmare

Pt 3: The Robot

Pt 4: Billy Connock

Pt 5: Big Chief Little Jamie

Pt 6: Swinging the Baths

Pt 7: The Martyr

Pt 8: Animal Farm

Pt 9: The Jokebook

Pt 10: Sleeping With a Dog

MY LIFE, MY THOUGHTS

Waiter, Waiter, There’s a Lie in My Soup – Our experience in Frankie and Benny’s restaurant

Thoughts on ‘love’ – Waxing philosophical and cynical

Yer ‘avin a Giraffe – My take on Facebook’s biggest meme of 2013

Say What, Momma? – A wee murder causes a stir

Pet cemetery – a rather long, funny and sad look at the death of pets

Pack Your Bags, Obama – an unusual take on the 2012 US election

26 Fun Facts About Me – and they’re all true

Sit on my face – reaction to new 2014 porn laws

Skinflats and the Magic Torch – the Olympic flame passes through a small Scottish village

Happy Birthday? – on fearing the reaper on your birthday

Circus Vegas – a review, of sorts, of the circus coming to Falkirk

Toast Tae the Lassies – a little bit of Burns’ night misogyny

Why Advertising is Full of Shit – introducing the poo kittens

Remembering Gately-Gate – a response to Jan Moir’s article about the death of Stephen Gately

Culture Jamming GalleryPART ONE PART TWO

Bore Drummond Safari Park PART ONE PART TWO – A trip to the safari park

Personality-themed Cupcakes – a birthday treat

The Rain in June Falls Mostly on the Toon – reflections on the Grangemouth Gala Day

Jamie Andrew on Jamie Andrew – concerning one of my stand-up routines

The Dr Wants to See Your Box Filled – doctors drowning in bureaucracy

Remember the Spectrum, Grandpa – in which I’m old before my time

Violence: It’s All in the Game – video-game nasties

Beauty Pageant: Scotland Style – the Miss Falkirk Contest 2012

WEE WIND-UPS

THE ANSWER BAG BALL-BAG

What happened when I took to solving people’s problems on-line

PART 1     PART 2     PART 3

LETTERS AND EMAILS

Greggs: A Tale of Pork Pies and Racism – venting my racially-motivated fury at Gregg’s customer service

Space Raiders Killed My Son – an angry letter to KP Foods

Geez a Job, Loaded – an actual letter I sent to Loaded magazine, hoping they’d employ me

TV

CHANNEL SURFING

Kids TV – Rainbow: A work of true evil

Kids TV – The madness of Greenclaws

A Recipe for Kitchen Nightmares – How Chef Ramsay does it

John Lewis Christmas Ad 2013: Director’s Cut – How it SHOULD have gone down

Fresh Prince of Jihad – A riff on Will Smith’s iconic theme tune

Red Dwarf – Great X-pectations – A piece written prior to transmission of series X

Sieg Kyle – A loving look at the Jeremy Kyle Show

I’m Dead, I’m Dead, You Know it, I’m Dead – Derek Acorah raises Michael Jackson from the dead

Derek Acorah is a Mentalist – Derek’s Sky 1 TV psychic show

Postman Pat Redux – Pat updated for a gritty, post-9/11 world

TV REVIEWS/RETROSPECTIVES

Biggest TV Disappointments of 2013: The Following

The 24 finale

The Walking Dead Season 5 Episode 9 Review

Sons of Anarchy Finale Prediction

The most striking TV moments of 2018

TV Review: The Orville, Red Dwarf, Star Trek Discovery – Oct 2017

Entering HBO’s ‘Leaving Neverland’ with an open mind – 2019

The 5 worst TV shows of 2017

The Doctor Falls: A haunting look at love, loss, death and hope – 2017

Jamie on the box – After Life and The Walking Dead, 4/4/19

MOVIES

MOVIE REBOOTS 

Next Friday the 13th

Come Shine With Me

Allan vs Predator

An American Teenage Werewolf in London, Too

White Van Man Helsing

28 James Mays Later

John Candyman

The Omen Pigeon

THE BEST SHITTEST FILMS

Santa Claus Conquers the Martians (1964)

Twilight (2008)

MISC

Space: The Final Cashier – When Disney bought the rights to Star Wars


					

Pet Cemetery 6

Zoe

zoe2Pets. You take the relationship between their age and their inevitable death for granted. You look at a creature’s graying hairs and bowed legs, and you know that death is coming, and soon, but until the day it strikes you manage to push its cold sting to the back of your mind, relegating its inevitability to a mere statistical possibility. Your intellect and emotions have the occasional fist fight over it. You rationalise in the face of reality. It hasn’t happened today; maybe it’ll never happen.

My mum called me just as I got in from work.

“Jamie, I think we’re losing Zoe. I need you to come up.”

Zoe was my family’s Alsatian/terrier cross, and one of the gentlest beasts I’ve ever encountered.

Warm, happy memories are welcome visitors following loss – they’re all really that matter, and sometimes all that remain – but they’re not so welcome while the loss is still fresh, or in the process of happening. In such cases, happy memories are less a comfort, and more a cruel torture your own subconscious has deployed against you.

In the car, the memories came.

Memories like… her bounding towards me with what I thought was a stick in her mouth. Turns out it wasn’t a stick: it was a dead crow. She had a wing jutting out each side of her mouth. She gobbled it down in about forty seconds, rather than allow me to steal it away from her. She sooked the wings into her mouth like they were spaghetti, and crunched the bones like they were spaghetti made by me (let’s put it this way: I could set fire to the kitchen making cornflakes).

As a puppy, she went through an identity crisis, where she believed herself to be any animal to which she was in close proximity. When she saw the cats lying atop the kitchen table, she thought to herself: ‘Cool, I must be one of those things, so I think I’ll be having a bit of that table-top action, thank you very much,’ and promptly jumped up there alongside them. When she encountered a Shetland pony for the first time, as it casually chomped grass through the gaps in a wire fence, she stared at it with a puzzled expression, and thought to herself, ‘OK then. I seemed to have been wrong about that whole cat thing, but there’s no denying it THIS time… I’m a fucking horse!’, and then joined the pony in its green, ground-based meal. We can only be thankful she never encountered a lion.

When Zoe was very little I used to take her over the fields and along the rights of way that ran between and behind them. There was a particular row of trees I’d always encourage her to slalom through, which we did so often together that even years later she’d run ahead and thread through them in that same way, completely unbidden by me. Always swishing her tail, and fixing me with a look that seemed to say, ‘See? I remembered, Jamie.’ We’d sit in the tall grass, and I’d watch her as the wind whipped at her mane, blowing her fur back so she looked for all the world like she was riding on the back of a speeding motorcycle. We’d sit there for a happy age, her wide eyes scanning the horizon, her tongue lolling contentedly from her mouth, and I’d scratch behind her ears and ruffle the fur on her head, and say to her: ‘You’re my dog, Zoe.’ And she’d think to herself: ‘No, I don’t think so. You’re my human. Look at it this way: how many fucking times have I made dinner for you?’

zoe1I arrived at mum’s. Zoe was in the back garden, lying on the paving stones underneath my niece’s full-size trampoline, a shaded and secluded spot to which she’d often defiantly retreated when she didn’t want to come straight back into the house after a night-time pee. The place to which she was retreating now, we all knew, wasn’t one from which she’d return. Her breathing became more laboured, and she lacked the energy even to sit up. I lay with her a while, stroking her neck and kissing her head. We lifted and moved the trampoline, and brought her a pillow and a blanket to make her more comfortable. The emergency vet was en route, though we’d never see him. The end came too quickly for that.

As Zoe’s breathing became more and more of a struggle, all my girlfriend and I could do was lie with her on the ground, stroking her gently and comforting her with words she could never understand, in a tone that hopefully she did. If our pets truly know nothing of the death that awaits them, then that is their blessing, but it’s also our curse. Because we can’t articulate to them how much they mean to us, nor assure them that what is happening to them – the pain, the panic, the anguish – is not within our power to stop; we’re as helpless in the face of their extinction as they are.

The normal business of breathing became the occasional choking gasp; a violent half-bark that pulled her jaw into a grimace. All I could do was keep stroking and gently shushing her, a ritual that was as much about bringing comfort to me as it was to her. Now and then she became deathly still and quiet, and I would wonder if she had passed away, hoping that she had, wishing that she would. She was trapped in a cycle of struggle punctuated by pain, a harrowing cycle that I grew impatient to see come to an end. This poor creature – this little puppy that had weaved through trees – didn’t deserve this pain, this fear.

‘Slipping away’ is a common euphemism for death, and one that was impossible to apply to Zoe’s. As she drew her final breath, blood began to seep from her mouth, pooling on the ground next to her. Though she was at peace, the transition to that blank state was far from peaceful. The memories of those final seconds haunted me for weeks, and sometimes haunt me still. The choking, the gasping, the blood. The silence (after I’d viewed my paternal grandfather’s freshly dead corpse I dreamt about zombies for weeks, as his eyes had been wide with terror and his jaw was left hanging open – thanks a fucking million, nursing staff). I’d remember how being in the presence of death had reduced me – as it reduces us all – to the role of helpless bystander. And it reminded me that one day, and not long from now in the grand scale of things, someone will be witness to my final moments.

Hopefully, though, that poor bastard won’t have to dig the hole.

Just to break the gloom for a second, I’m just wondering if it might be feasible to pay a celebrity to be my grave-digger. Now THAT’s what I call a bespoke funeral. I can feel a franchise coming on. I probably won’t be able to afford a De Niro or an Alec Baldwin, so I guess they’ll just have to get Joey Essex to do it. Maybe Nick Nairn, so we can get a good deal on the catering, too. (Celebrities aside, I want it on record now that I don’t want to be buried by anyone who reads The Sun or The Daily Mail. Vet them, please. This is my last will and testament)

Mercifully, this time my step-dad directed me to a different burial site, a large rectangle of reasonably soft soil that had once nourished vegetables. So much for ‘you’ll need to bury the rats in the hard ground at the bottom of the garden, son, it’s the only patch I can spare.’ It was still hard going, don’t get me wrong – as a large dog obviously requires a much larger hole than your average shoe-box – but at least I didn’t feel like I was taking part in an episode of fucking Time Team (my favourite part of the burial was when my step-dad tried to tell me that my digging technique was flawed – sweat dripping from my face, agony coursing through my limbs – and I politely suggested that the longer he stood berating me, the more it made me look forward to the happy day when I’d be digging his grave).

Zoe was the hardest to bury (physically and emotionally), the hardest to say goodbye to, and the hardest to write about. I guess there is a sliding scale of grief when it comes to pets, or perhaps we form closer bonds with animals that are easier to anthropomorphise. Whatever the truth of that, I loved all four of my pets, and hope that in some small way I’ve succeeded in honouring their lives and deaths.

For the real markers for their graves aren’t to be found in my mum’s back garden.

They’re here.

You’ve just finished reading them.

CLICK BELOW TO NAVIGATE BETWEEN THE PAGES OF THE ARTICLE

1 2 3 4 5 6

FURTHER PET-RELATED READING

The true story of when I killed a snake.

An article about the passing of the family cat, published a few years ago. It’s a nice one, lacking my usual horribleness.