Woah, Christ. I’m a little snowed under with work at the moment. I think I’ll blog a bit later in the week, as I’d like to pass comment on this whole Sam Harris/Bill Maher non-controversy.
But I couldn’t let Tuesday pass me by without mention of something that caught my attention over the last week. Does anyone have a friend who just lies all the time? Of course we do. We all know someone who is just reliably full of shit. The lies are just obvious: they once arm-wrestled Kate Middleton, or once incapacitated a bear with one swift punch, that sort of thing. But talking absolute bollocks in order to impress and intrigue your friends is one thing. Monetising your bullshit is another.
Sally Morgan, in case you didn’t know, is a psychic. Or really, she’s not a psychic. There’s no such thing as a fucking psychic.
Here’s the thing: Sally Morgan cannot contact the dead. Any more than she can breathe underwater, cast fireballs or sprout leathery wings and take flight when no-one’s looking. I know this not because I know anything in particular about Sally Morgan, but because of a small number of basic facts concerning human physiology. Three, in fact.
- The overwhelming improbability of a person’s consciousness surviving the decay of their brain.
- The exponentially more overwhelming improbability of a person being able to contact another person whose consciousness had survived the decay of their brain.
- Then we have the third and final impossible bullshit: that the dead person in question might choose Sally Morgan as their ambassador to the realm of the living.
Is this a spooky magic show? No, these shows are largely attended by people who have a dead friend of relative. And I’ve little doubt that many of these people haven’t quite gotten over the bereavement. What a fucking poisonous industry this is. What hope-vampires these people are. What emotional havoc they uncaringly wreak on their audiences. To compare this to a magic show is to slander magic shows. Has Paul Daniels ever seriously claimed to be able to reattach dismembered limbs/torsos? What a fucking disgrace.
Enter Mark Tilbruk. Who is Mark Tilbruk? Well, he’s a man who is sufficiently impassioned about fighting bullshit that he is willing to go out alone and hand out leaflets to people entering these shows. What do these leaflets look like, you ask? Like this.
Anyway, it turns out that if you do this, a pair of laughable cockbags will approach you and repeatedly threaten violence and death against you, ridicule you for being pale and imply that it’s because you’ve been sodomised. I’ve never been on the receiving end of homophobic abuse* but I imagine that this is quite terrifying – I’d be shitting myself, frankly. Particularly grotesque was how they boasted that they had silenced national newspapers through our fucking laughably atrocious legal system. Anyway, here’s the video.
Morgan herself has since fired her husband and son-in-law. I suppose we’re all meant to assume that she had absolutely no idea what monumental cockheads they were – though her telepathic powers extend into the land of the dead, they don’t quite reach her immediate family. She’s obviously sincere in her contrition; far be it from me to quote someone out of context, but she’s written on her website: “Many of my friends are gay.”
There’s little left for me to do but express my sincere hope that The Streisand Effect will cause considerable financial harm to this charlatan and her thuggish entourage. I hope you’ll all permit me my schadenfreude. And I hope you’ll all join me in saluting Mark Tilbruk, who is undoubtedly a ledge, legend, sound guy, acceptable person, the hero Gotham deserves, etc
*I suppose I technically have, but let’s be real, here.