Corn Exchange, 18th January, 7.30, £18.
The atmosphere in the Corn Exchange last night was like a right wing church in the U.S with an audience of Coronation Street fans. The huge screen was awash with projected stars as we were told by a mystical voice that while nothing in the show had been scientifically proven, nothing had been disproven. As if to qualify the statement the most well respected members of British society – Kim Marsh, Lady Victoria Hervey and Danny Dyer – hand on heart vouched their complete confidence in Sally.
The woman herself is like a patronising Fairy Godmother, morbidly larger than life in character and figure, that you want to grant your wishes and fuck off fast. Her face was so screwed into a look of concern it got stuck that way, occasionally animated by her cackle like laugh or stifled sobs. The notion that anyone with special powers to dish out would ever send some her way is ridiculous enough in itself.
Sally said completely random names and looked around long enough for someone to stand up and say they once knew called that. After guessing at some really sketchy details Sally would say, Darling, *Bob/Anne/Pat/Derek* (Insert ‘generic Caucasian name, popular with parents 30 years ago’ here) loves you, darling, and will be with you to the end of time, darling. Sometimes she blew some kisses to those whose parents had died or whose children had committed suicide and I tried not to chunder.
At least half the time when asked if they knew a Helen or Chris or Donna or whoever the man or woman with a mike would say no bluntly. Medieval archers who missed the target apple on someone’s head were classed as a fail, so why have the stakes to a hit rate of about one in three today? There is no magic in a few highly likely coincidences.
I find it very difficult to put myself in the deluded shoes of someone who believes there is truth in Sally’s pile of wank. For the few seconds I can manage, but I still fail to see how it would be a good night. The format is incredibly repetitive, with no moments of any wonder (obviously) and only a few tears. Instead the sole attraction for the audience is the hope that Sally might have a message for them. Sally and the marketing team around her have realized that death is a lucrative business and there is a big market if your product is comfort for grieving people. It’s a vast money making empire at £18 a seat with a tonne of merchandise on sale.
Is it exploitative? Yes, if she is relying on an over active imagination, which is disgraceful. Otherwise, she believes she chats to ghosts every night and should be locked up.
I can tell you your dead relatives love you and everything will be ok. See, I just did, regardless of whether or not I think it’s true – there is nothing wrong in giving or yearning for some words of comfort. If you want those words to come from a fat Fairy Godmother dressed in a velvet curtain who will call you poppet jump right on Sally Morgan’s band wagon of lies.
'The woman herself is like a patronising Fairy Godmother, morbidly ‘larger than life’ in character and figure, that you want to grant your wishes and fuck off fast. '
Fan-fucking-tastic Lottie!
The review is spot on. I attended that event, the first half anyway. Two video cameras, a control desk, blaring music, that enormous video screen, the hype, made me want to leave before it started, dreading what was to come, but no, it was worse than I could have imagined.
She began by pissing off all the men by declaring that "if you get chosen your face will appear on this big screen, and the men don't like it" in a patronising voice. Then later when a man did make the mistake declaring his name to be Paul, she said in a sickening patronising voice "Paul, I've got your Mummy here". I wanted to vomit.
She correctly identified two suicides, but then went into silly voice mode as if pretending to cry but it had nothing to do with empathy and everything to do with crowd manipulation or would have done if anybody had been fooled by that performance, which I doubt.
It was appalling. If you want to see a real medium go and see Gordon Smith, no lights, no video screen, no blaring music, no patronising attitude, just a calm friendly professional approach and absolutely spot on with his readings.
[...] shameless abuse of my ‘monarchical’ power in this column I am going to take a leaf out Sally Morgan’s ‘A Dummy’s Guide to Exploitation’ and promote my Jailbreak attempts. Do sponsor me [...]
tears streaming down both cheeks (facial ones) reading this very witty stuff, she is a pompous money grabber, maybe she does have a ''gift 2 THE ONLY ONE I SEE IS GIFT OF THE GAB AND OF SPARKLY DESIGNER GLASSES AND SHINY EMBROIDERED TENTS!but its abusing people and that is shameful, using dead princess dianas name pretending she told her she was about to snuff it. crap. now standing in big arenas charging people, a true gifted medium (or XXL in her case) would never advertise and would never take a payment for this comforting of grieving people.what put me off her was the way she is punting 2nd hand clothes at ebay using her name as a marketting tool and then people have found food stains and ripping off the retards there too, and if they are so loaded why the need to sell her size 28 off casts now she is rich and no overheads after the big shows. unlike a rock group in an arena, with hiring hotels, hgvs, tour buses, paying sound men ,stage hands, electricians and so forth on their tour its just diesel and sausage rolls for her and john! had a gastic by-pass looks as though she ate half the effin audience, the fakeness pishes out her every pore
At least she's had a gastric bypass now, funded by her ill gotten gains of course.