Friends, welcome to the Daily Inch.

While I'm away researching Murdemile, here's a little treat to keep you entertained over

the next three weeks.

15 little stories which are fun, rambly, informative, but not essential to listen to.

Each story has been written and presented in a tongue-in-cheek way and are not for the

easily offended.

Murdemile returns on Thursday the 24th of August 2023.

But until then, there's this.

The Daily Inch.

Number 17 Ghost Yobbs.

Oh, ghosts, spirits, the undead, apparitions of the Daily departed, who silently drift or pale

skinned, sullen faced and leaving an ominous stench in their wake as from the bowels of

any graveyard park or bench.

They nurse a ghostly can of carling as they wait for the weather spoons pub to open, hanging

outside like dirty stalactites of undiluted bigotry, only to blow their benefits on a

single pint of lukewarm piss and moan for eternity about brown people.

Oh, hang on, wait, that's not ghosts, that's racists, it's an easy mistake to make.

Ghosts are supposedly a manifestation of our eternal souls, but because ghost stories

came to prominence in the Victorian era, when prudishness permeated spiritualism, we're

forced to believe that all ghosts wear clothes.

Even though clothes aren't alive, ergo, they can't die, all become ghosts.

It's all because Victorians, who deep down were right-wanted perverts, would rather see

...