According to a recent poll, a terrifying 39% of the British electorate believe that a house can be haunted and a chilling 35% of the UK - who are all legally allowed to vote in UK elections - believe in ghosts, whilst a frightening 9% of people - who are trusted to have their say in a referendum - even go as far as to claim that they’ve communicated with the dead. 
We ask 5 celebrities about their paranormal encounters with the hope of finding out, once and for all, whether ghosts are real or not which they’re not because they’re obviously not.

1 - ANDY FORDHAM (Darts Player)
“I’m absolutely convinced that ghosts exist as I’ve personally been followed by some sort of malevolent poltergeist since I was about 30 (stone). Wherever I go in my house I hear the eerie sound of squeaking floorboards and often, after dinner, my wife will tell me that she can smell an acrid aroma reminiscent of sulphur, as though our house were built upon some kind of hell-mouth to the underworld. It gets weirder than that as well because wherever I live the bulbs inside my fridge burn out in no time at all leaving electricians baffled and giving me no other option than to assume that my kitchen is possessed by Zuul, The Gatekeeper of Gozer, who made his most famous appearance in the original Ghostbusters film. Me and the Mrs have tried moving house but the same thing happens wherever we go. Very spooky.”

 2 - DANNY DYER (Actor and geezer)
“I’ve been getting proper mugged off by a pillar and post every since I found out that I’m related to that slag Edward III and now that that spooky fucking melt has figured out that me and the Mrs have got a bit of bunce he’s been doing my swede in every night, floating around the place and giving it the big, I am. Everyone says I’ve gone completely radio  rental but I’ve seen the creepy little mug with my own mince pies. I wish I’d never gone on ‘Who Do You Think You Are’ because now I’m wasting my time bowling into the local church and trying to get the local rev to come over and stripe up the creepy little plum with holy water until he does one”

 3 - PETER SISSONS (Newsreader)
“Well I believe in ghosts because when I was a little boy me and my friend Kevin cycled up the road to the old abandoned psychiatric hospital in our village so that we could break in and give ourselves the willies. Whilst we were in there we met the ghost of Brian Belo, star of Big Brother season 8. It was terrifying but the whole thing’s made even more spooky when you consider that Brian Belo wasn’t even born until 35 years later and didn’t even appear on British Television until 2007 so how did I even know who he was? The entire thing sends a shiver down my spine and now my wife makes me speak to a special doctor about all of this”

4 - RACHEL RILEY (Presenter)
“Everyone who works on Countdown knows that ghosts exist because the studio’s been haunted by the ghost of Richard Whitely for the last 10 years. Quite often during filming he’ll put up sinister messages using the magnetic letters or scrawl satanic runes onto the whiteboard during the numbers round which makes editing the show 10 times harder than it needs to be. It’s not all harmless fun though. Nobody likes to be the last one to leave the studio because there’s always things flying around and bursting into flames. On more than one occasion production staff and contestants have ended up getting killed. I never knew Richard when he was alive but I can’t say I’m a fan”

5 - DAVID ATTENBOROUGH (Naturalist and Presenter)
“I’ve always wondered whether albino animals are actually ghosts. I’m told by zoologists and biologists that they categorically aren’t and it’s simply something to do with skin pigmentation but I’m still not sure, they certainly look a bit like ghosts to me”

Anyone who’s watched the news recently will already know that it won’t be long now until the UK is nothing more than a baron dystopian wasteland controlled entirely by gangs on dirt bikes with human skulls for helmets. Many of us are now expected to die in a nude knife fight over the last bottle of water in our village as the cruel sun beats down on our weather-beaten bodies! But will it be all that bad? We ask 5 celebs how they’d survive …

KIRSTY ALLSOPP (Television Presenter)
As soon as it all started going a bit ‘Mad Max’ I think I’d get in my Range Rover and drive up to Scotland and find a really remote cottage in the middle of nowhere so that I’d be as far away from danger as possible. Then I’d bust my way in and kill whoever lived there and bolt the doors shut behind me and wait for it all to blow over.

GEROGE MONBIOT (Writer and activist)
After spending my entire life campaigning and writing about environmentalism and climate change it would be a sad day indeed to wake up in a post-apocalyptic dust bowl having realised that it’s now too late. However, I’ve always said if you can’t beat them, join them. With that in mind, as soon as society begins to collapse and scavenging tribes of bandits take control over the wastelands of this once great country, I’ll be the first to tattoo my own face and join a motley crew of hooligans on quad bikes who’ll tour the arid landscape murdering and killing everyone and anything that stands in our way.

BORIS JOHNSON (Prime Minister)
As somebody who’s actively encouraging this country to descend into a terrifying no-mans-land, I’ll be fine because as PM I’ll have access to a secret bunker that’s hidden under a hillside in Kent. Once there I’ll be able to see out my days eating delicious tinned produce from Fortnum and Mason whilst I crack on with my hobby of painting buses on the side of milk crates. Sadly I won’t be able to bring my children with me as there’s only room down there for fifty people, so I’ll just take a couple of girlfriends who won’t be able to escape out of either of the 25-ton blast doors constructed from steel and reinforced concrete.

BEAR GRHYLLS  (Survival Expert)
I reckon I’d probably quite enjoy it if everything went tits up because then I could finally employ some of my survival tactics, such as drinking my own piss, without feeling like I’m completely wasting my life. I might encourage my wife and children to embark on a life-threatening swim across the ocean to one of the more remote Channel Islands where I could keep them warm and dry by covering them in my own excrement. We could eat insects and sheep’s eyes and drink my piss and I reckon we’d have the time of our lives.

DEBORAH MEADEN (Sour-faced businesswoman and TV dragon)

As an entrepreneur I’d be on the look out for how to make a quick buck from the inevitable downfall of Great Britain. Whether it’s food, ammunition or gigantic rusty thunder-domes used for gladiatorial motorbike jousting tournaments, I’d stockpile as much as I could and savagely undercut anyone like Peter Jones who had the same idea. I’d spend my days atop a rusty throne inside a fortified cave patrolled by barbaric cyberpunks just like I do now and life wouldn’t seem that much different.  
NAME: Boris Johnson
AGE: 54
ABOUT: Looks like several dogs standing on each other's shoulders and wearing a coat in an attempt to get into a cinema to watch a film about a bum that's come to life. 
Looks like what would happen if the moon lost its job and started sleeping rough around Milton Keynes and stealing suits from outside the British Heart Foundation charity shop.
Called black people "flag waving piccaninnies with watermelon smiles and said they were thick compared with "orientals"and accused the president of Turkey of fucking a goat. Basically says the sort of stuff your Grandad would say if you thwacked him around the head with a dildo until he got brain damage.

NAME: Michael Gove
AGE: 51
ABOUT: Looks like a man who's taken off his space helmet on Mars and has seconds left to live. 
A man so devoid of integrity that he doesn't even have any in or around his own chin. 
A man who looks like a haunted ventriloquist dummy that's been carved out of a turnip by a paedophile.
Michael Gove looks like he's had his face cut off by a serial killer and then used as a sort of mitt to extract honey from a bee hive before having it carelessly tossed back onto his skull by someone in a hurry.
Jogs around London like someone who's just killed, fucked and eaten (in that order) a woman in a local park.
After his time as Education Secretary, he's now less popular with teachers than chicken pox and headline.

NAME: Dominic Raab
AGE: 45
ABOUT: Looks like someone in the middle of a compound nervous breakdown who's stapled a bunch of wafer thin ham onto their own head before going on a rampage in a South London train station armed with a machete.
Says that the average food bank user is taking the piss, feminists are obnoxious bigots and that the NHS is a childish wish list.
The sort of shit he comes out with makes you wonder if his forehead is a prosthetic mass of putty placed there to cover up his fucking horns.
Even his name looks like it's probably some sort of anagram of an ancient, malevolent demon from Mesopotamia.

NAME: Jeremy Hunt
AGE: 52
ABOUT: A man who's done so much damage to the National Health Service he makes Dr Harold Shipman look like Florence Nightingale. 
A man who looks like he'd rohypnol his closest friends at a dinner party and sell their organs on the back market. 
His wry, smug, smile looks like it should be accompanied by the sound of a high court judge lambasting him for his lack of remorse at the end of harrowing and disturbing court case.
Hunt is a man who is referred to as Jeremy Cunt every single time his name is mentioned on the news due to the sheer power of word association and unconscious, Freudian, impulses. 

NAME: Sajid Javid 
AGE: 49
ABOUT: A man with a perfectly round head who's skull will presumably one day be displayed in Ripley's Believe It Or Not Museum causing future anthropologists to even question its authenticity.  
A man who stands with such a wide power stance, in an attempt to evoke authority, that he looks like he's just had a fire extinguisher pushed up his arse by a bear.
He's constantly voted for tougher immigration and benefit cuts like some sort of cunt, despite recognising that those people threatened with deportation could have been his parents
He's kicked down more ladders than a fucking scaffolder. 

NAME: Jacob Rees-Mogg
AGE: 49
ABOUT: he looks like a drawing of Postman Pat that's been scratched into the side of a spinning Jenny by a Victorian chimney sweep. And not in a good way.
He looks like a 19th Century steam engine salesman who spends his evenings drowning children in the lake at the bottom of his garden and reciting incantations from Aleister Crowley's Satanic Bible. 
He looks like what might happen if Adolf Hitler was ever reincarnated in the form of the Windows 95 'helpful paperclip' and sent back 200 years through a wormhole to campaign against the abolition of the slave trade.
The kind of simpering, hat-wringing simpletons who support Jacob-Rees-Mogg are the types of people who camp outside Buckingham Palace for 3 days, crying and waving their Union Jack flags whilst awaiting the arrival of a royal baby, whilst back in their bedsit - littered with Sprite bottle containing their own piss - the eviction notices continue to rain through the letterbox. Unaware of the irony and devoid of hope. These are the worst humans in the world. Evolved, miraculously from the types of people who ran into gunfire during the Crimean War because a man with a handlebar moustache who went to Cambridge told them to.
Fucking hell.


Trainer: Seamus O'Shadowpuppet
Came third in the Gaviscon Cup last year. Been running well on soft ground and has spent the entire year eating bees. Put everything you own on it unless you're fucking stupid, I would.

Trainer: Finbar O'Toolbox
Been on good form lately. Runs sideways like a crab like something you might see in your worst nightmare, but don't let that put you off. Apparently, the jockey plans to ride this horse "on the inside", which involves climbing into the beast via the anus and wearing the hind legs like a pair of trousers. Never been done before but apparently well within the rules. Could be an interesting punt. 

Trainer: Harry O'Speedwagon
His mother ran so fast at the 2004 derby that she burst into flames and vanished and reappeared at the finishing line peppered with bullet holes before crumbling into dust. An unfortunate demise but you don't often see speeds like that outside of quantum physics

Trainer: Sir Findus Crispy Pancakes
Broke both his front legs and died at the start of the year but plans on running in ghost form. Will be able to run through the fences which will save him time but will be relying on everyone believing that he even exists. Might be an interesting contender.

Trainer: Padraig O'Battlequest
The trainer has alluded to the fact that Slug Pellet Medley might be wearing a little fake moustache and two pairs of jogging bottoms for a laugh. Might be a funny idea but it won't help him win on the day.

Trainer: Ardal O'Dardleradar
Sometimes stops halfway around the course to nibble at the grass so the team would do very well to make sure he's nice and full up on sausages, bovril, luncheon meat, Cajun spiced chicken strippers, blancmange and Cadburys Creme Eggs before the starting pistol. 
Fun fact: This horse once killed a child by kicking it in the head.

Trainer: Ronan O'Fingerblast
A really, really, really, fast horse. Faster than like a mouse or man on a bike. Stinks though.  A really smelly horse. The Jockey fucking stinks of piss as well. No one likes this horse. Or the fucking jockey. Honestly just the worst gang of cunts you can think of. I hope they both fall over and fucking die.

Trainer: Dermot O'Dermotodermatologist
Due to a corporate tie-in with a popular chocolate manufacturer this horse is actually a zebra which apparently falls within the rules of entry due to some kind of equine loophole. Slow as fuck. Doesn't stand a chance. Daft little legs. Bringing the entire sport into disrepute. Good name though. Also the jockey is fit as arseholes. 

Trainer: Bishop Brendan O'Breadbasket
This horse has got horse cancer so it probably won't win.

Trainer: Keenan O'O'Estrogen 
Ran nicely in the Fray Bentos Steeplechase in Harrogate last summer. Loves Jesus. He once had sex with his own Grandad which is a shame but he's a lovely horse and his trainer is a real character.
He's unlikely to do well at The National this year though since his testicles have ballooned in size and now it looks like he's dragging two Fiat Cincquecentos around in a tarpaulin. They really are just SO big it's hard to explain. It's actually cruel keeping him alive. There's a petition on the internet with almost 35'000 signatures in favour of  having him shot in the head with a bolt gun just to put him out of his fucking misery.




First and foremost it's important to find someone who is/isn't up for it (sex). This could be just about anyone; your wife / boyfriend / slut / dog / neighbour's dog.

Approach your target (try not to refer to them as a 'target'). Strike up conversation but be sure to keep it erotic. Tell her/him/it that he/she/it looks 'fuckable' (use the word 'fuckable' as often as possible).  Make some more crude remarks. Smile. If it feels appropriate then do that little hand gesture where you make a circle with two fingers and then poke at it with an extended digit.

Once you're certain that this person doesn't work for the Metropolitan Police then it's time to drag them back to your luxury hotel room / caravan / disgusting corner.

Set the mood. Mince around the place lighting candles and laughing. Remember this is supposed to be fun. 

Ask your lover if they'd like to put some music on. If they didn't bring any music then shout at them. Force them to sing. Make them dance. Create an uncomfortable atmosphere before apologising profusely for your dreadful behaviour. 

CHAMPAGNE! (apologise for not having any Champagne)

Ask / force your lover to wash. (If you're also covered in soilthen it might be a good idea to join them in the shower). This can be a great opportunity to try out a bit of 'foreplay'. Kiss his/her neck. Fondle their ears. Stick your fingers up his/her bum.

Return to the bedroom. If your partner seems frightened / disorientated then help them to remove all of their clothes. They'll be all wet now after that shower. Perhaps your partner is in the early stages of hypothermia. That would explain the far away look in their eyes. Keep talking to them. Say things like "I can't wait to see your penis" or "I'm still well up for a bit of slap 'n' tickle if you are". Stroke their hair.

Climb into the bed / nest / bin and let the sex commence. Go absolutely mental. Do whatever comes into your head. Shout, scream, applaud, laugh, spit and fire jets of milk out of your nose. Act like you've been possessed by some kind of bonkers sex demon. 

Have a little sleep

Repeat this process as many times as you like until your knob or fanny hurts / the authorities arrive.

Apologise to your lover for a) Making them cry, and b) Giving them aids.

Kick them out into the cold

Enjoy the rest of the afternoon and give yourself a big pat on the back. 

I wake up and take the PH balance of my own urine and log it on a spreadsheet.
I then write down my dreams onto the side of a Chinese lantern in Sanskrit and release it out of my window so that my ora can re-engage with nature. I watch from my balcony as it floats over Hyde Park raining invisible orbs of my own cosmic resonance onto the city I love.

I make a goji berry Nespresso in a tagine made from Himalayan rock salt that I bought in the kasbahs of Marraskesh and spend 5 minutes imaging where I'd like to be in five years' time.
I then make a small nest in my wardrobe out of lemongrass and turmeric, inside which I practice 10 to 15 minutes of 'Ashwanzi Horse Yoga'. The darkness brings down my potassium levels and the turmeric stains the carpet.

I spend 10 minutes every morning enjoying a bit of 'Owl Time'. This involves strapping on a beak that I've carved out of mango wood and then perching on the edge of my bath, squawking and defecating. Owls are my spirit animal and sharing an owl experience with the universe on a daily basis allows me to connect with the cosmos. The process also allows me to sweat out surplus amounts of phosphorus and mitochondria. I imagine that I'm choking up owl pellets which contain the mummified faces of everyone who's been mean to me over the last few weeks.

I shower using natural products as the chemicals found in shampoo and shower gels can be toxic. Also, as tap water contains fluorides and toxic metal salts, I don't even use that. I stand naked in the shower washing myself with air and simulating a shower experience which gets my head in the game. 

I remove my I-phone and MacBook Air from a lead-lined sarcophagus that I keep under my bed to protect me from 'Electromagnetic Horseflies'.
I send an email to myself telling me how good I am at everything and sign off by inviting myself to a party which I reply to by saying I'm too busy, which actually helps the social side of my brain grow. I call it my Social Brain Gym'
I drink a mug of honey and throw it straight back up into the kitchen sink, choking as the sticky, amber, columns block my airways. Vomitting up honey is sort of like being sick in slow motion and makes you think that you're going to actually die. I find that a near death experience every morning grounds me and helps me realise how precious life can be.

Breakfast. A spoonful of coconut oil, some chaga mushroom powder - great for the immune system - a little bit of frog spawn, colostrum, arsenic and collagen. I drink dog's milk because it's low in myxotoxins and then I have a spoonful of Calpol so that I can connect through time with my infant self and tell him that he doesn't need to be scared of Grandad for much longer.
I introduce the tip of a banana to my anus and allow it to soak in some of the vitamins and potassiums  and then I bury the rest of the banana in a pot on my balcony which contains a bonsai tree and avocado plant. The balcony has absolutely fab views of Marble Arch. 

I walk to work chewing grass like a cow which prevents toxic air entering my bloodstream and also helps me develop a second stomach which might come in useful if I were to ever get cancer.
Instead of listening to music on my commute I turn on my MammalPod, a device that looks like an iPod with headphones but instead of playing music it blows spores, moulds and fungus inside my head which gives me super energies and helps me focus at work. Doctors say if I keep using it I could go deaf or even die within the year.

When I arrive at the office I challenge every member of the team - 25 in total- to a knife fight. This asserts dominance and puts my head into 'Jungle Mode'.
I have a Frappuccino and wash it down with 2kgs of Ayahuaska which helps me concentrate on work for 30 minutes before I enter a nightmarish and terrifying fugue-like state in which I experience hallucinogenic visions of tree demons. The team spend the next 2 hours trying to prevent me from jumping out of the 135th floor of The Gherkin until lunch.

I have a 'Light Lunch' which involves sitting at my desk shining a torch into my own mouth for 10 minutes. I bite and nibble at the rays emitting from my LED Maglite which detoxifies by body and contains all the same nutrients found in a crab salad. 
I then blog. My lunchtime blog has almost 17 followers and involves me talking - in a sort of stream of consciousness - about what I think happens when we die.
I spend the rest of lunch flicking frozen peas at the microwave and muttering to myself about Hanuman, the Hindu Monkey God.
I take off my shoes for the rest of the day so that my energy can connect with the planet's core. 

I drink 12 gallons of water just in time to stave off the early stages of dehydration.  I keep all my water in a tank with an electric eel. The electric pulses add crystalline biorhythms to the water which make me invincible to any weapons built on Earth.
I then have a Kit Kat.
I work for the rest of the day redirecting traffic from redundant websites to clickbait articles online.

I usually have a meeting with the boss in which I beg him not to fire me before doing another 30 minutes of yoga in the middle of the office floor to bring down my heart rate and prepare me for the commute home.

On the way home I eat out of date yoghurts which introduce bacteria into my body. I go home and cry and shit blood.

I go to the gym. My local gym is called 'The Gun Factory' and is actually a replica of a 1930's, Sheffield, steel foundry. As I lift red hot gurders on chains I drink isotonic soup drinks and keep my energy up with raw chicken wings marinated in Ezekial Beans and Chia Seeds.

I go back to my flat and drink CBD oil - derived from cannabis but doesn't make you high- and shine infrared lasers into my head whilst I paint the faces of people who have had a big impact on my day onto my toes and thank them all for coming with me on today's journey. 

I lock my phone devices away and do 5 minutes of mental Taekwondo where I picture myself fighting in my mind's eye. 
I drink a shot of semen extracted from a shark and put on the sound of bullfrogs on my 'Bang And Olufsen Surround Sound Music System' which takes me back to the week I spent in the mangroves with Jason.

I put on my 'Lucid Dreaming Device' which flashes a red light into my eyes every time I have a dream about Grandad so that I can wake up and avoid the night terrors, and then it's off to sleep, ready to take on another day as the biggest cunt in the entire world.