Derek Acorah, the world's most good looking psychic medium, has announced that he is to go on strike, starting last week. His week-old self will psychically know that he has decided in the future to go on strike, and down tools.
Already, the dead are up in arms about their one and only conduit to the world of living is no longer taking calls.
"How am I supposed to pass on my cryptic messages about the location of my last will and testament?" asked a dead old general. "I've waited five years in the queue to get at Acorah from this side, and just as I get to the front, he goes and downs tools! This would never have happened while I was alive! I'm going to have to return to knocking stuff off the mantelpiece until my good-for-nothing granddaughter works it out for herself."
Across the land, the dead are making their annoyance known with a series of random banging noises, and moving the salt from one cupboard to another. Dictaphones are recording their anguished, static screams in every silent moment, whilst enmasse, spooky shadowy figures are amassing in the corner of every eye. Other than that, there is little they can do.
Acorah is adamant, and is even refusing to make public appearances in case he is overwhelmed by the dead queuing to reveal only the first letter of the name of somebody within a five hundred metre radius of the psychic.
"Mr Acorah is taking a break from this arduous and mentally tiring task," said his solicitor. "Although Mr Acorah does have one message to pass on: to Annie, if the letter H means anything to you, your grandmother wishes you to know that she is fine, and now has both legs."
