Go West. Actually, don’t.

The Diamond Jubilee completely ruined our ghost hunting plans as every location we wanted to go was hosting Jubilee events. In the end we managed to find two places that weren’t – Caldey Island and Tyneham, a ghost village in Dorset. We opted for Caldey. And lived to regret it. 5 HOURS it took us to get there because of the traffic. And when we eventually got to Tenby, we discovered you couldn’t park by the harbour and had to park in a multi storey car park – about 15/20 min walk from the harbour. Oh and it appears the people of Tenby are illiterate. That’s the only explanation we can think of for the extreme lack of sign posts. The harbour is not sign posted AT ALL. Neither is the pay desk for Caldey Island. Considering these are tourist places, this is beyond belief. We had to ask 2 people to direct us to the harbour. We reached the Caldey pay desk at 2:55. They closed at 3. Except they obviously can’t tell the time because they were already closed, leaving us and some other tourists pissed off. Actually, we were apoplectic. It had taken us five hours to get to a location only for them to close early. Oh and we had to endure constant staring, points, sniggers and abuse from the local Chavs that were crawling everywhere like cockroaches. Clearly they’re not used to seeing people who aren’t dressed in tracksuits and gold jewellery, and went into a complete meltdown as their tiny brains struggled to comprehend this.

Thoroughly pissed off, we had to make the long trek back to the car. Stopped off and bought some pirate flags to hang from the car windows in protest of all the Union Jack flags that were tainting the scenic views. Pirate flags flying proudly, we headed to Pembroke castle, where apparently people hear moans coming from beneath it. We think maybe this isn’t paranormal but the grunts of the local Chavs. As we were walking up to the castle we once again suffered abuse from another group of Chavs. One fat guy in a t-shirt and tracksuits bottoms shouted “what do you fucking look like? Fucking joke.” To which Cat replied “We look amazing. What do YOU look like? Fucking Chav.” Lynx responded “go fuck yourself with a sharp stick.” We apologise for our language but constant swearing is the Chav native tongue and the only words they’re able to communicate in. It’s completely incomprehensible why someone as ugly as him with such dire taste in clothes could DARE to criticise OUR clothing. Maybe he was so overcome with shame this was the only way he knew how to deal with it.

Pembroke castle is beautiful. And it has a dungeon! Which we only discovered when they were ringing the bell to throw everyone out. We refused to leave until we’d seen the dungeon and then got locked in the castle. Much to our dismay, they let us out. We did some EVP sessions in various places around the castle and at one point when we were asked for a name, in Welsh, the iOvilus said ‘Rodger.’ We’ve now discovered the castle was built by Roger of Montgomery in 1093. How cool is that?

As we left, a huge group of Chavs were sitting on the wall outside. They immediately started heckling us, shouting incoherent sentences that in the native Chav tongue was probably a chat up line. Y’know, like how cavemen would club women and drag them back to their cave. Maybe they were then confused as to why we weren’t swooning with barely controlled lust, like the Chav girls would’ve been. Then one of them asked if we’d take him to Hell. No thanks. We don’t allow scum in our Hell. Ryan was shocked and disgusted by the amount of abuse that was hurled at us. Unfortunately, we used to endure this every day for years which is why we became socialphobic. It doesn’t bother us any more. Clearly they thought we were celebrities. You know how inbred idiots get when faced with fabulous celebrities. They started grunting and throwing things like over excited cavemen. Unfortunately, Chavs are prolific breeders so are everywhere. The only way to stop this is with a neutering programme. Y’know, like with stray dogs. So while Pembroke castle was beautiful and we unfortunately didn’t have time to finish the castle, we will definitely NOT be returning to West Wales in the near future. If at all. In fact, we only suggest you visit there if you enjoy degenerate scum abusing you in every town. When we start the zombie apocalypse, that’s where we’ll send the zombies.

Watch the chavesty of an episode here http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZbjzzjP6YBY

Going Ape

Saturday’s ghost hunting expedition was a bit different. For a start, we were looking for the ghost of a murderous ape. Yes, you read that right. Before you ask, no it wasn’t a day trip to  a spectral wildlife park where mischievous monkey ghosts would steal our windscreen wipers and vandalise our car. We visited Carew Castle, which is reputedly haunted by Sir Roland Rees and his pet ape, Satan. We had another guest with us, the lovely Lizzie Rose, who was on top Lara Croft mode, scaling the castle walls and barriers like a pro to sit on top of the castle’s sickeningly high walls. Unfortunately, our deep rooted fear of heights stopped us climbing up after her 😦

In true Calamityville Horror, we got lost. Several times. The first few times was when we went to pick Lizzie up from Swansea uni. We’d never been there before and ended up taking the wrong road and heading in the opposite direction. Ryan’s Sat Nav on his phone saved us, much to our annoyance. We’ll never hear the end of this now. But every time he mentions his phone’s superiority, we’ll remind him his Sat Nav crashes when there’s no phone service. That’ll stop his gums flapping. Then on route to Carew, we took the wrong road at a roundabout, heading left instead of straight ahead. But we’re glad we did, because we ended up going through Laughne, Pendine and Amroth, where we stopped to harass a pirate statue. Turns out, Lizzie is an expert navigator and not only saw us through Swansea safely, but through West Wales too. She’s definitely coming again.

Carew Castle has many ghosts. A Celtic Warrior, Princess Nest and the aforementioned man and ape. Nest was kidnapped twice in her life and had 21 children by 6 fathers, so it’s probable she single handedly populated West Wales. We stood at the bottom on the toilet shaft where her husband and children escaped into the sewers while she was kidnapped by her cousin, Owain. It took her husband, Gerald, 6 years to get her back and another few years to kill Owain. He obviously wasn’t much of an action hero. Bruce Willis never takes that long.

Back to the ape. Some people reported seeing the ghost ape running along the top of the castle walls, like a hairy free runner. We hoped to be able to buy a monkey mask in the gift shop, wait for Ryan to go off doing his artistic shots then leap out, making crazed monkey noises and tackle him while he falls screaming into the dirt. Sadly the gift shop didn’t sell monkey masks. 😦 Sir Roland Rees travelled often and one time returned with a Barbury Ape, Satan. He wasn’t a nice man. In fact, he was a total jerk and would host dinner parties just so he could ridicule and laugh at his guests. Bit like the 1600’s version of Big Brother. The ape would mimic him and also laugh at the guests. Roland’s son was having a relationship with a Flemish tradesman’s daughter and Roland wasn’t happy about this. The tradesman called at the castle to confront Roland and Roland, who was drunk, unchained Satan and set him on the man. The man escaped but put a curse on Sir Roland, saying the ape would kill him. A servant found the injured man and took him back to the servants’ quarters to look after him until the storm passed. Later that night, the staff heard screams. They went to investigate and found Sir Roland dead, with his throat torn out and Satan dead beside him, with not a mark on him. Portraits lay in the middle of the floor, burning. Some reports say the ape was actually the one on fire. According to a nice caretaker we spoke to, there are written records of Sir Roland and his ape. So when there’s a storm, some people claim to have heard the ape’s maniacal laughter echoing through the castle ruins.