Ask anyone who’s heard of it and they’ll say: yes. Once touted as Britain’s most haunted house, Borley Rectory became an irresistible magnet for ghosthunters, spiritualists, the morbidly curious, journalists and more ghosthunters in the early part of the last century (which, if you’re reading this after 2100, was the 20th century, the one that ran from 1900 to 2000, I think). The building was made of bricks and had a slanting roof which helped shift the rain into the gutters. After many years of strange reports by worried rectors, the leading ghost authority of the day, Harry Price, stuck his oar in and the lid blew off, creating a media storm that raged and howled. Eventually the rectory became rector-less, as the supposed hauntings became too much for the harassed holy men. The abandoned building was snapped up at a cheap-at-half-the-price price by Price, who moved his kit and team in for a deep penetration of the Otherside. That didn’t come to much, really, truth be told, so the famous spectrenetter moved on to pastures new elsewhere. Abandoned once again, the lonesome relic finally burnt down one fiery night. Today, the site of the long-gone structure is, thinkably, a meadow. So, what happened? What was all that about?
According to Hearsay (M Klass and K Marsh, interview, Dog Brusher Monthly, 2002), “Borley’s beginnings baffled Britain’s brightest boffins”. Built on an Indian burial ground that was itself built on top of another Indian burial ground, the mansionette’s cards were marked from the start with the Sword of Damocles dangling above it (or them – them cards). Britain’s premier let-it-all-out outlet, GB News, picked up where Hearsay started by sending a helicopter drop team to the site in 2021. Unable to locate the location, the team enraged locals by instead focusing their unquenchable thirst for truthful news on the local primary school’s recent decision to teach the childish creatures in their charge about certain facets concerning the country’s past, up to and including slavery and women. During a four-hour Friday night studio lock-in, then-presenter Mark Dolan uncoiled: “Why, why, why does everything in this wretched country have to be so awful? I love this country, my country, but it’s an awful, terrible place.”
Gangly Dolan – who once travelled to the other side of the world to pick up a very small man so he could say “look how much bigger I am than you!” – continued: “I get that there’s a need to educate our children. Goodness knows our brilliant youth are amongst the stupidest individuals you’ll find anywhere.”
Meanwhile, back in Borley, GB News ground crew crewman Ben Himmlar had been wandering around the village looking “for things that might be of interest to our viewer”. You can guess what happened next, can’t you? If you can, you can skip the rest of this; if not, read on.
Through mindless chance, Himmlar had strayed – and found himself “standing outside the Gates of Hell”. The Gates of Hell public house sits on the village of Borley’s near-west edge, and serves beers, wines and, ominously, spirits. Fond of alcohol, Himmlar barged his way in and jostled locals out of his way as he charged at the bar.
After sampling several of the local ales, ciders and conker gins, the fluidly confident technician demanded to know the true location of the former rectory. Rattled but full of mischief, the yokels conspired to send the would-be reporter on a fool’s errand, mendaciously concocting an elaborate set of directions to a place of little to zero reward. Declaring victory over “you dumb serfs”, Himmlar smashed several glasses as he stomped from the tavern and into the night.
Some five hours and 15 miles later, the put-upon producer conceded he’d been the victim of a hoax and screamed long, long into the night about, in no particular order: the incorrigible inadequacies of the working class; immigration; sharing; taxation; climate change scientists; the Guardian; the BBC; vaccines (medicinal); Vaccines (the band); trade unions; the NHS; gays; pagans; magpies; wind farms; vegans; universal suffrage; the European Union; Turkish Delight; Karl Marx; WH Auden; Russ Abbott; women; Windows XP Service Pack 2; the National Trust; single mothers; passion; Love; Darwinism; ex-snooker champ Cliff Thorburn; Channel 4; charity; crocosmia; Disney+; strikers (indolent workers); strikers (soccer forwards); Brian Cox (the physicist); Brian Cox (the actor); cobalt; eco-homes; David Mitchell (the actor); David Mitchell (the writer); the Mitchell brothers (fictional soap opera characters); the Mitchell brothers (neighbouring twins from childhood who grew up to be “soft left simpletons”); wokeism; tokenism; Tolkienism; Cuba; freedom of expression; modern art; the Renaissance; the Paralympics; and Bagpuss. Physically and mentally depleted beyond sense by his companionless roadside outburst, Himmlar sunk to his knees and ground his pads into the cold macadam. Collared and cared for by a passing police chip wagon, the broken broadcaster was returned to his moody brood.
In her eulogy to Daniel Finkelstein at Prince Phillip’s funeral, Lily Allen said: “We live in dark times. Borley Rectory was, I believe, a totem, a symbol of our inability to love one another completely and…” – at this point priestly Russell Brand interrupted the diminutive pop starlet’s limpid flow, thrusting himself stage-ward with the indefatigable edge of a baby rhinoceros seeking a supping on its mother’s milkhorn. Bold Brand brandished the microphone: “Listen to me. If you can’t listen to me, listen to this. Listening is the germane paradigmatic solution to the act of not-listening. I come not to bury Borley but to praise it. Truth is as truth does. See me. Feel me. I do. Do it. Poststructuralism! What do you think of that?”
Summa de enda
One of Britain’s most philosophical philosophers, Bertrand Russell, once spoke-wrote into this pen: “Sense-datum be damned! A part of me is forever Borley.” Who, or what, could add anything to that?
Mysterious EnGland 
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