Tweet
...and the worst thing is, you can't ban the bastards 
I was reading an old newspaper at my friend Daithi's house earlier and found an article on a ghost at a pub that I thought might give you a bit of a laugh (as well as a look at what the truly dedicated SCs get up to in the afterlife.) Then, a story of my own...
"The apparition at the twelfth-century Belper Arms in Newton Burgoland, Leicestershire only targeted females, a staff member said. 'If the girls are young and pretty the ghost always goes for their behinds. If they're older and more settled, he touches them on the shoulder to make them turn round - presumably to see whether they are worth his further attention.' The same month another ghost was reported pinching the bottoms of barmaids working at the Black Horse at Windsor, Berkshire, while in Corby, Northamptonshire, the ghost of a Cavalier was lifting ladies' skirts, ticking the tops of their legs and pinching their bottoms.'
In October 1981, the eighteenth-century Blue Bell pub at Warrington in Cheshire was forced to hang a notice in the bar saying 'Don't blame the lads, ladies - it's only our ghost!' It appeared that the ghost had groped three barmaids, the landlady, and a number of female customers. The landlady, Lydia Wrench, said 'No one has ever seen the ghost, but a few of us have felt his presence. He just grabs your behind and then pats it. Often the nearest man gets the blame, but it's happened too often when there was no one else around. We've also had a few glasses flying off the shelf - but he's really a friendly ghost.'"
There's a nice thought.... all the creepy old dudes who hit on you at work might come back after they've kicked it to pinch your butt
And now for me...
Backstory: I was an... unusual child. When I was a baby my eyes would follow things across the room that no one else could see, my parents would hear me chattering away to someone at night in my crib, I seemingly taught myself to read, and when I was three I told my mother that "I had a nightmare Mummy but it's OK, a nice lady came to sit with me." My mother had enough experience of me to not immediately write it off, and asked me to describe the lady. I gave a perfect description of her mother, who had died in 1976, 10 years before I was born, and who I'd never seen a photograph of. I started showing instincts that bordered on precognition - I'd react to something before it happened, eg the time I was in the garden reading and suddenly got up and walked away from the house, only for a bunch of slates to break loose from the roof less than a minute later and land where I'd been sitting. When I was seven, I refused to go out to play because "the little dead boy is at the end of the road again and I don't like him."
As I got older, other things went on. Whenever I lost my temper, any electronics went crazy - I once burned out the motor on my mother's sewing machine after it went haywire and started sewing maniacally fast when no one was anywhere near it (I was at the computer on the other side of the room.) My mother had to turn it off at the wall to stop it catching on fire. Another time (well, several other times) every light in the house fused at once.
When I was thirteen, I walked into one of the school buildings and saw a man staring at me from the centre of the courtyard, before he vanished. I also saw a woman in a beautiful period dress in the old building. I kept it to myself until I was in the headmistress' office for some infraction or other, and saw a portrait of her. The headmistress said she was the daughter of an old headmaster here in the 18th century and was known to haunt one of the staircases, and that some of the teachers wouldn't go up there. I told her they had a problem then since I'd seen her in the General Office
I ended up getting referred to a psychiatrist by my school, because they thought I might be schizophrenic. I went to the session, spent two hours in there, and when I came out the doctor told my mother that "she's not ill, she's gifted." Sheryl Lee, who spent a lot of time with Native Americans studying for a role, told me I was a shaman; several other people have said similar things. Apparently it runs down the family; my great-great-grandmother, who I am the spit of, was the same.
Anyway, onto the main story!
Some of you may know I used to work in a bar near my house in Belfast. It wasn't exactly a high-class bar - it was run out of a rundown house and broke pretty much every licensing law in the book. So, a standard West Belfast bar Pretty soon after I started there my bosses started leaving me alone to work (once they'd seen I wouldn't take any of the customers' shit) especially in the evenings (which NO ONE liked working - for reasons that will become clear.)
Weird things happened at that bar. The front door would slam open at the same time at night (around 11pm), several times a week. The Guinness taps would go dry for no reason, and when I went to check the barrels everything was fine. Once, a whole shelf of glasses was swept off the shelf and onto the floor. Aaaand there was the butt-groping The first few times I did blame the poor guy closest to me, and more than a few undeserved slaps were meted out, but then it happened when I was alone... and then again. And again. Another time I heard, clear-as-a-bell, a man with a thick Armagh accent shout "HEY!" from the centre of the room when there was no one there.
In retrospect, I think the poor guy was probably just pissed that he couldn't get a drink
One evening, I was already in a grumpy mood, and the fourth or fifth time the taps went dry in the space of about an hour I finally snapped, threw down the cloth and yelled "Oh, for FUCK'S SAKE!"
Bar:
I think I scared the ghost just as much as the usual drunks, given that he didn't come back for a couple weeks.
But then, he was back, making noise and causing trouble and grabbing my ass like ever before. I was about midway through my shift when I had an idea, poured a pint of Guinness, and set it on the end of the bar. A barful of drunks immediately descended on it, licking their lips.
Me: DON'T YOU TOUCH THAT, YOU GREEDY SODS, OR I'LL STRING YOU UP BY THE HAIR OF YOUR BALLS!
Men:
And we didn't have any more trouble that night. The next night, I poured the Guinness as soon as I got there, and the door slammed as usual but that was it. No groping, no breaking things, nothing. One time a guy grabbed the glass off the bar and drank it while I wasn't looking, and apparently he had such a miserable experience that evening he fled after less than an hour and never came back Now, no one fucks with that pint of Guinness - it just sits there all night until it's replaced the next day.
Sadly I don't work there anymore... but I've heard they still do the Guinness thing. I feel kind of sorry for the poor guy in a way, all he wanted was a drink... but then again did he really have to throw those tantrums? Cleaning glass up every other night really, really gets old fast.
Also, I don't appreciate having my ass grabbed.
The only thing I can figure is that he was one of the many people killed suddenly in the civil war here - there have been hundreds of shootings and bombings here. And, like any good Irishman, he won't let anything get in the way of a drink or two... even being dead
So... has anyone else here had any ghostly SCs come to visit? And what did you do?
I was reading an old newspaper at my friend Daithi's house earlier and found an article on a ghost at a pub that I thought might give you a bit of a laugh (as well as a look at what the truly dedicated SCs get up to in the afterlife.) Then, a story of my own...
"The apparition at the twelfth-century Belper Arms in Newton Burgoland, Leicestershire only targeted females, a staff member said. 'If the girls are young and pretty the ghost always goes for their behinds. If they're older and more settled, he touches them on the shoulder to make them turn round - presumably to see whether they are worth his further attention.' The same month another ghost was reported pinching the bottoms of barmaids working at the Black Horse at Windsor, Berkshire, while in Corby, Northamptonshire, the ghost of a Cavalier was lifting ladies' skirts, ticking the tops of their legs and pinching their bottoms.'
In October 1981, the eighteenth-century Blue Bell pub at Warrington in Cheshire was forced to hang a notice in the bar saying 'Don't blame the lads, ladies - it's only our ghost!' It appeared that the ghost had groped three barmaids, the landlady, and a number of female customers. The landlady, Lydia Wrench, said 'No one has ever seen the ghost, but a few of us have felt his presence. He just grabs your behind and then pats it. Often the nearest man gets the blame, but it's happened too often when there was no one else around. We've also had a few glasses flying off the shelf - but he's really a friendly ghost.'"
There's a nice thought.... all the creepy old dudes who hit on you at work might come back after they've kicked it to pinch your butt
And now for me...
Backstory: I was an... unusual child. When I was a baby my eyes would follow things across the room that no one else could see, my parents would hear me chattering away to someone at night in my crib, I seemingly taught myself to read, and when I was three I told my mother that "I had a nightmare Mummy but it's OK, a nice lady came to sit with me." My mother had enough experience of me to not immediately write it off, and asked me to describe the lady. I gave a perfect description of her mother, who had died in 1976, 10 years before I was born, and who I'd never seen a photograph of. I started showing instincts that bordered on precognition - I'd react to something before it happened, eg the time I was in the garden reading and suddenly got up and walked away from the house, only for a bunch of slates to break loose from the roof less than a minute later and land where I'd been sitting. When I was seven, I refused to go out to play because "the little dead boy is at the end of the road again and I don't like him."
As I got older, other things went on. Whenever I lost my temper, any electronics went crazy - I once burned out the motor on my mother's sewing machine after it went haywire and started sewing maniacally fast when no one was anywhere near it (I was at the computer on the other side of the room.) My mother had to turn it off at the wall to stop it catching on fire. Another time (well, several other times) every light in the house fused at once.
When I was thirteen, I walked into one of the school buildings and saw a man staring at me from the centre of the courtyard, before he vanished. I also saw a woman in a beautiful period dress in the old building. I kept it to myself until I was in the headmistress' office for some infraction or other, and saw a portrait of her. The headmistress said she was the daughter of an old headmaster here in the 18th century and was known to haunt one of the staircases, and that some of the teachers wouldn't go up there. I told her they had a problem then since I'd seen her in the General Office
I ended up getting referred to a psychiatrist by my school, because they thought I might be schizophrenic. I went to the session, spent two hours in there, and when I came out the doctor told my mother that "she's not ill, she's gifted." Sheryl Lee, who spent a lot of time with Native Americans studying for a role, told me I was a shaman; several other people have said similar things. Apparently it runs down the family; my great-great-grandmother, who I am the spit of, was the same.
Anyway, onto the main story!
Some of you may know I used to work in a bar near my house in Belfast. It wasn't exactly a high-class bar - it was run out of a rundown house and broke pretty much every licensing law in the book. So, a standard West Belfast bar
Pretty soon after I started there my bosses started leaving me alone to work (once they'd seen I wouldn't take any of the customers' shit) especially in the evenings (which NO ONE liked working - for reasons that will become clear.)Weird things happened at that bar. The front door would slam open at the same time at night (around 11pm), several times a week. The Guinness taps would go dry for no reason, and when I went to check the barrels everything was fine. Once, a whole shelf of glasses was swept off the shelf and onto the floor. Aaaand there was the butt-groping
The first few times I did blame the poor guy closest to me, and more than a few undeserved slaps were meted out, but then it happened when I was alone... and then again. And again. Another time I heard, clear-as-a-bell, a man with a thick Armagh accent shout "HEY!" from the centre of the room when there was no one there. In retrospect, I think the poor guy was probably just pissed that he couldn't get a drink
One evening, I was already in a grumpy mood, and the fourth or fifth time the taps went dry in the space of about an hour I finally snapped, threw down the cloth and yelled "Oh, for FUCK'S SAKE!"
Bar:
I think I scared the ghost just as much as the usual drunks, given that he didn't come back for a couple weeks.
But then, he was back, making noise and causing trouble and grabbing my ass like ever before. I was about midway through my shift when I had an idea, poured a pint of Guinness, and set it on the end of the bar. A barful of drunks immediately descended on it, licking their lips.
Me: DON'T YOU TOUCH THAT, YOU GREEDY SODS, OR I'LL STRING YOU UP BY THE HAIR OF YOUR BALLS!
Men:
And we didn't have any more trouble that night. The next night, I poured the Guinness as soon as I got there, and the door slammed as usual but that was it. No groping, no breaking things, nothing. One time a guy grabbed the glass off the bar and drank it while I wasn't looking, and apparently he had such a miserable experience that evening he fled after less than an hour and never came back
Now, no one fucks with that pint of Guinness - it just sits there all night until it's replaced the next day. Sadly I don't work there anymore... but I've heard they still do the Guinness thing. I feel kind of sorry for the poor guy in a way, all he wanted was a drink... but then again did he really have to throw those tantrums? Cleaning glass up every other night really, really gets old fast.
Also, I don't appreciate having my ass grabbed.
The only thing I can figure is that he was one of the many people killed suddenly in the civil war here - there have been hundreds of shootings and bombings here. And, like any good Irishman, he won't let anything get in the way of a drink or two... even being dead
So... has anyone else here had any ghostly SCs come to visit? And what did you do?
" - Jester, about me 
Comment