Psychic Medium on Stage. (An excerpt from the autobiography)

Posted on

……Two days later a letter arrived from the council’s director of amenities. ‘After consultation with the committee members, your application for hire of the theatre is not granted.’

That afternoon I received an interesting phone call from the local press who had heard of my rejection and no doubt smelled the potential of an article slightly more interesting than the local bake sale. They embraced the story for the fiasco it was and honoured it with such headlines as, ‘Clairvoyant Told There is no Future for his Show’ and ‘Spiritualist Barred from Council Theatre.’ I chose to take the attitude that any publicity had to be good. I had moved to an area where I was relatively unknown. At least now people would know I was here.

Fuelled by frustration and the power of stubborn determination I resumed my search. The Aberconwy Centre on Llandudno’s promenade was my next choice, and thankfully the management were more receptive than the council had been. I booked a date a couple of months ahead, placed some adverts in the local paper, had some tickets printed and I was up and running!

I was confident until three days before the big night when my nerves began to jangle. I called into the theatre, only to find they had sold a paltry sixteen tickets! The manager made re-assuring noises, explaining that often people didn’t book in advance but tended to turn up on the night. I hoped and prayed he was right. The theatre seated nine hundred people and sixteen occupied chairs would look rather silly.

My brother Tim travelled down from the West Midlands in a show of support and offered to introduce me onto the stage. I also needed someone to take appointments on the night in case anyone wanted to book a reading. I had met a pretty young lady called Diane on my travels. She agreed to do the job in exchange for free admission. Everything was in place. All we needed now were bums on seats.

I arrived early on the night, walking to the dressing room past the empty rows with my heart in my mouth. This had the potential to be the most embarrassing event of my life! Soft music was piped into the hall, and Tim went to fetch a pint of mild for me from the bar for Dutch courage.

Twenty minutes passed. I could hear murmuring and shuffling, so I took a peep into the auditorium. Thankfully people were arriving in a respectable quantity. As the time for curtain up crept ever closer I suddenly realised that I had not seen Diane to give her my diary.

“Get out there Tim, and find Diane!”

He pointed out that he had no idea what this girl looked like or where to find her.

I was unsympathetic. “Just find her and give her this!”

I thrust the diary into his hands, and shoved him through the curtains. The room began to hush as the crowd noticed a presence on stage. Tim clumsily took the microphone from its stand, causing thumps and whistles to bounce off the walls.

“Good Evening.  Um, is there a Diane in the room?”

A young lady with dark hair raised her hand and the audience began to applaud, slowly at first then more enthusiastically. I realised what was happening and put my head in my hands.

“No, no! I’m not David”, the horror told in Tim’s voice. “It hasn’t started yet!”

I held my breath then burst out laughing as he scuttled red faced back into the dressing room. It was probably the best cure for my nerves I could have wished for. When I walked onto the stage a few minutes later to see an expectant five hundred people all staring at me, I was calm, focused and ready to give this my best shot.

At the back of the theatre, a smart middle aged woman was arriving late, shaking her umbrella and settling into her seat.

“The lady on the back row – in the raincoat.” I began. She looked left and right then nervously back in my direction. “Yes, that’s right” I continued. “I have a red haired lady called Hilda with you, and a man whose name was John but people knew him as Jackie.” No response. “With the lady is a large black Labrador. She is holding a brooch that she left for you, and she says her mother was Ivy.” Nothing. Just a puzzled expression. This was going down well! “Don’t you know any of these people?”

“Oh yes my Love,” she spoke at last, “but they’re all dead!”

Taken from ‘The Other Side: A Psychic’s Story’ by David Drew (available from amazon).

Ricky Tomlinson on The Other Side: A Psychic’s Story by David Drew

Posted on Updated on

 

Foreword

By Ricky Tomlinsonimg-524115919-0001

I first met David Drew Many years ago. I had at that time, a bistro/bar in Liverpool called ‘The Limelight’, which faced the iconic Adelphi Hotel. It had previously been a ‘gentleman’s club’, but had been empty for many years and required quite a lot of renovation. All sorts of people came there, some to perform, others for a drink or a game of pool. We even opened early in the morning during the postman’s strike to serve tea and breakfast to the striking workers.

At first, small things would happen there. Strange noises would be heard at night, but not much notice was taken as the lads would be too busy laughing or playing pool. This was soon to change.

One of our regular customers was known as ‘The Garstang Butterfly’ because of two butterflies tattooed on her ankles. She had been a lady of the night in her younger years, and she fascinated me with tales of her exploits, such as being thrown overboard into the Mersey after being abused by foreign seamen docked in Liverpool. It was because of this lady, who I prefer to call Chloe, that I met David Drew.

One evening in The Limelight, Chloe said, “Rick, I’ve had a really bad night, I need to go home.” Usually I would drive her or ask one of my regulars to take her home in my car, but there was no-one there who could drive her, and I couldn’t leave the bar, so I told her to go upstairs to my flat for a few hours’ sleep and I would run her home after I shut up for the night. She took my keys for the flat and went upstairs. For an hour or two things went on as normal in the bar, lads playing pool or cards and chatting away as usual, but then a scream rang out from the rooms above. I dashed up the stairs to the flat, followed by two or three customers. Chloe had smashed the window and climbed out onto the parapet. We coaxed her in and asked what was wrong. She told us she had woken and moved to come downstairs, when a tall man in a cap and long overcoat wouldn’t let her pass. He said, “I’m waiting for Nelly”, then disappeared just before we arrived. A day or two after the story was printed in the newspaper, David came to the Limelight and had a look around. For three days he trawled through the building. He was living in Llandudno so he stayed in a hotel next to the bar for three days and nights at his own expense. Finally he said to me, “Rick, the place is alive with ghosts.” How right he was proven to be! This was only the first of many experiences in the club.

He went about his work, sometimes not even stopping for a cup of tea. I left it to him until the end of the third day when he said to me, “I have to sort this last one out, then everything should be okay.” I didn’t understand what he meant, but he went into the upstairs bathroom and was there for what seemed like an age. When he finally came out I thought he had been fighting a world champion! He was red in the face and his hair was dishevelled. “It’s all clear now,” he said, “you won’t be bothered again.” I asked him what had happened and he explained that a spirit had shot his mate, then committed suicide, but was refusing to ‘go over’.

David left after three days, but we stayed in touch. Sometimes I even introduced him onto stage. He obviously has a special gift. This may sound like a load of nonsense to people who don’t believe, but since then I have never had a single doubt in the existence of the spirit world. It is not something we should be afraid of. Perhaps this book will let us in on some of David’s secrets, of which there must be many.The Other Side: A psychic’s Story available on Amazon.co.uk from £3.25

My childhood – (excerpt from ‘The Other Side: A Psychic’s Story’)

Posted on Updated on

When I was a small boy, I had no idea that my memories of curling up cosy and cramped in the womb, or indeed of the wonders that came before that, were in any way unusual. I was oblivious to the reality that other people didn’t see spirit on a daily basis the way I did. My family humoured me regarding my ‘imaginary friends’, and it came as a shock to all concerned when we realised that I was the one who had been telling the truth all these years and that their acknowledgements and interactions with these people had just been a kindly pretence for my benefit.

As the long shadow of my childhood fades, I am surprised to feel an ache for those days I had almost forgotten. Although hailing from South Wales, I spent much of my youth among the brick and tile of the West Midlands, where my parents travelled to find work before my father’s early demise. I don’t remember my dad and have never seen him since he passed. I realise now that this is not so strange. It is usual for a medium to see little or nothing for their own benefit.

Mum struggled to feed her brood at the expense of what would today be termed ‘quality time’ with the kids. Life was hard for a single mother with four children in the 1950’s. It was not much easier before my dad died. A large chunk of his wages would find it’s way into the pub or the bookies before reaching the kitchen table, and on the night I was born, my mother staggered, cold and alone, to the telephone box to call the midwife, while dad drank himself into a stupor down the road.

My childhood world was one of cold lino flooring, hand me down clothes and skipping the free school meals for which I was too proud to queue. Mum was a serious, God fearing woman with a strong Welsh accent, tiny in stature but strict as they come. She was not by nature a demonstrative mother. Ladies of her generation often suppressed their emotions, exchanging them for the strength of character they needed to show if they were to survive.

My teenage sisters, Annette and Helen, were like second mothers to both myself and my big brother Tim, just two years my senior. They helped out all they could as our mum struggled to rear her children on thinned down soup and a prayer. They would step in when she was working, or perhaps asleep after a long night shift, changing our nappies or taking us to school.

One bitterly cold morning Helen took me to the shops in my hand-me-down, squeaky blue pushchair. A woman from the neighbouring street stopped us at the kerb and scolded her without reserve for taking me out without any socks on such a freezing day. My stroppy teenage sister told her to mind her own business, but the remark cut her to the core. It hurt all the more because she knew it was true, but she had no choice. I didn’t have any socks. In the weeks that followed Helen saved what pennies she could and one day proudly returned from a trip to Woolworths with a pair of Perlustra socks especially for me – the best in the shop! She was barely more than a child herself, but she doted on her little brothers. When she became a mother many years on, she boasted that babies were nothing new to her. She had done it all before with us.

Although there was no silver spoon for us, no ice creams when the van came around, no bottle of pop to take to the park, when I think back to those days I can appreciate the value of some small acts of kindness from a few big-hearted people.

I could not have been more than three when Helen took me on an errand to pay the coal man who lived a few streets away. Mrs Corkran, his chubby wife, opened the shiny red door, which matched her cheeks perfectly. The terraced house was soot-blackened but the step and doorknocker were immaculate. She and my sister exchanged niceties as I craned my neck to see past her to the bowl of fruit which was displayed on her sideboard, as stately as the crown jewels. I was awestruck. The cut glass sparkled from pride of place on a white lace doily, and the bright colours and simple shapes within it captured my imagination. This lady must be very rich! As Helen said her goodbyes, the generous coal man’s wife noticed my wide eyes and open mouth and asked us to wait. She returned a moment later with an orange so huge that I needed two hands to hold it. I ran my tiny fingers over the little bumps on the waxy skin and held it to my nose to inhale the exotic smell. She smiled down at my happy little face and waited for me to thank her.

“What do you say?” Helen prompted

“I’ve got a brother at home!”

My sister was mortified and apologised through pink cheeks for my bad manners, but Mrs Corkran just laughed and returned to the bowl to fetch another for Tim. I will always remember that walk home, proudly cradling two precious oranges in my jumper.

In my nursery days we had free school milk. A small, tepid bottle with a straw though the cap. For those who had sixpence, there was the added delight of a chocolate covered digestive biscuit in silvery blue foil. The other children would collect their milk and then queue for a biscuit.  I never had sixpence so I became accustomed to sitting alone with my drink, gazing at the other children as they licked their chocolatey fingers. One day after everyone was served, the kind teacher lady shouted me to the front.

“There’s a biscuit left David. Would you like it?”

My eyes lit up! I still recall how I savoured that biscuit and how for that one day I was like the other kids. I was without doubt the luckiest boy alive. Not until I was an adult did I realise that the teacher must have paid the sixpence herself. I can’t remember her name, but God bless her for that. I doubt she realised the little boy would remember her small act of kindness for more than fifty years.

There are some wonderful people in this world. My final Good Samaritan story is about a heroic milkman. It was just before Christmas when Tim and I were still small. My mum was distraught because she had nothing at all to give us. As a single mum, it was hard enough to keep a roof over our heads and food in our bellies. She sat up to the kitchen table and wept. Her boys were excited that Santa was coming, and she was defeated and demoralised. A knock at the door caused her to rise and quickly dry her eyes. It was the milkman to collect his money. He was a down to earth but friendly local chap who spoke with a Birmingham twang. She paid her dues through forced smiles, but as he moved to leave the doorstep the man hesitated. Turning on his heels, he asked her if something was wrong. He must have seen the sadness behind her greeting. She was reluctant and embarrassed to begin with, but after a little pressure she was soon pouring her heart out, relieved for the moment to get her worries out in the open. He was visibly moved by her predicament and encouraged her to dry her tears, explaining it would only upset the family more to see her this way. Having shared her burden, he wished her well and they parted.

Christmas Eve came, and Mum deliberated on what she would say to us in the morning. She went to bed that night with a heavy heart and woke early to light the fire. Opening the front door to lift the milk from the step, she was greeted with a sight that made her cry again, but this time for joy. Next to the pint bottle was a stack of presents wrapped in red Santa paper and addressed to ‘The Boys’. There was a cowboy outfit and a tricycle, chocolate and other treats. We had a wonderful Christmas with no idea about our mystery benefactor. In this world of self and greed, it comforts me to realise there is a hidden seam of goodness running through it.

My first recollection of the ‘supernatural’, although please understand it was nothing if not natural to me, was when I was around five years old.

The night was bitter, and as I huddled under a musty mountain of overcoat blankets, I watched my brother’s misty breath flurry and disappear as he slept. Turning to the window my heavy eyes sought out boats and trees and other such little boy’s fancies in the icy condensation of the hopscotch panes.

Mum was working. She cleaned hospital floors in the night, to creep up on the germs when they least expected it. Helen had put us to bed, and would look in on us soon. I screwed my eyes up tight and hoped for sleep so that she wouldn’t betray me to Mum.

“Boo!”

I caught my breath, startled wide awake as a familiar swish of dark hair in the half-light revealed the identity of my bedtime playmate. I waited, open-eyed now, anticipating the butterflies in my tummy when she did it again. I could hear stifled giggles under the bed.

Wait for it!

“Boo!”

This time, Mary’s shiny, pink face popped up in front of mine. We both laughed, and Tim stirred.

“Shhh!” I hissed, oblivious to the fact it was my laughter that had disturbed him, not hers.

I must have been one of the very few children that looked forward to bedtime. Mary was one of several friends who came to play when I was tucked up and the house was still. She had big brown eyes and lashes like the cows I saw at my granny’s cottage in Wales. Her hair was cut short in a thick bob, and I judged her to be around the same age as myself. It didn’t occur to my childish mind to ask how she got into my room, or where she hid when we were disturbed. I didn’t know that she was dead.  I didn’t know what ‘dead’ was. We were friends and the details were irrelevant.

Taken from ‘The Other Side: A Psychic’s Story’ by David Drew

Autobiography Out Now on Amazon

Posted on Updated on

The Other Side

‘The Other Side’ is the true story of a young boy who sees ghosts.

With foreword by Ricky Tomlinson, this autobiographical work examines the life of a child who interacts with the dead on a daily basis, and how the ability to see them affects his family and ultimately his adult life.

David was born with the gifts most mediums spend a lifetime developing. His story begins in the smog of the West Midlands, with his mother struggling to bring up her four children alone. When her son sees family members who died years before he was born, including the sister he never knew he had, she takes him to a psychiatrist. The boy gives the ashen doctor a message from his dead wife and is promptly discharged.

The teenage David struggles to understand why he is different, and is expelled from school at fifteen. His adult life takes us on a journey encompassing poltergeists, bombs and startling revelations.

img_0053

Freezing your corpse -A view from spirit

Posted on Updated on

img_2327There has been much in the news of late concerning a fourteen year old cancer victim and her wishes that her body be ‘cryo-preserved’ after death, hoping that doctors would one day find a cure and bring her back to life.

I am saddened that people view this life as all there is, and would take such desperate action to cling on to it. There is so much more to come, and in any case, when you understand what happens when you die you will see that this horrific procedure could never work.

The act of dying is as simple as passing between rooms. The spirit leaves the body to begin an exciting new life in another dimension. The spirit, or soul, and the body are joined by a silver cord, rather like a rope of silvery blue light. When we die this cord breaks and our life on earth ends, just as the umbilical cord breaks when it begins. You may have heard of near death experiences, people looking down at their operation from the ceiling perhaps. In these cases the spirit leaves the body but the cord does not break, allowing it’s safe return. Once the cord has been severed, there is no way that soul can return to the body and live on earth.

No matter how well preserved the corpse is, the spirit can never re-enter. And why would we want to?

A LIFE IN THE DAY OF DAVID DREW

Aside Posted on Updated on

It was in this bedroom one freezing November night that I saw what I took to be an angel.  Mum always left the landing light on and the bedroom door open just a crack so that it shone in, but I loved the dark. There is something of the spirit in the still, velvet blackness. Now that I didn’t have to share with my brother I was free to shut the door tight, lie back and just be me. I was beginning to relax, my icy feet thawing beneath the covers when a silent flash bathed the tiny room in a golden light. At the centre of the light, just in front of my wardrobe was a pretty young woman with blonde shoulder length hair and clothes that twinkled silver. I could look right at her without being dazzled. No wings. Maybe not an angel after all? (The ones on the Christmas cards always had wings). Her face was kind and she smiled at me for some time before she spoke.

“I’m your sister.” She paused then added, “Patricia”.

She was a sweet looking lady but she was obviously mistaken. I ventured to correct her.

“I am very sorry but I haven’t got a sister called Patricia. I have got two sisters called Helen and Annette and a brother. My name is David.”

Her knowing smile widened and suddenly the room was dark again.

The next morning I dawdled downstairs following the chatter to find Tim at the breakfast table, already writing his name in golden syrup on his porridge and mum warming my shirt by the oven. I had just begun my own signature when I remembered my night time visitor. Mum stood behind me, busy at the cooker.

“Last night when I was going to sleep I saw a lady who said she was my sister.” I took a mouthful. “She wasn’t like the others. She looked like an angel. Her name was Patricia.”

Tim, who had been disinterested in my story up to now, was suddenly looking over my shoulder at the back of our mother’s head, spoon poised. I turned in my seat. Her shoulders were shaking. Surely she wasn’t crying? Mum was a strong woman. She had to be. Life had not been easy for her. The death of her own mother saw her running the family home, looking after her dad and siblings at age fourteen. My own father had led her a dance, spending more time and money in the pub than on the family. She was rock solid no matter what, but now I had upset her and the foundations were unexpectedly crumbling around us. She took a tea towel from the counter, sank into her chair by the fire and sobbed like her heart would break.

Tears began to well in me too. We finished our breakfast in silence. Tim was wide eyed as he passed my balaclava. We shouted our awkward goodbyes and began the walk to school. My steps were heavy and my mind elsewhere. I didn’t realise how much my seeing people upset Mum. Was she really so worried? Something I said had made her really sad. I couldn’t bear it.

I suppose you would call us latch key kids. When we let ourselves in that night after school Tim took the task of peeling the potatoes while I consulted the note on the table to receive my directions.

‘Peel the potatoes and put them on to boil. Put the sausages in the oven – Gas 5. Will be home around 6.   Mam.’

I lit the oven before collaborating with my big brother. It seemed that he was as confused as I was at our mother’s reaction. I couldn’t help but wonder what kind of reception I would get when she got home. Would she still be sad? Angry? Maybe she had forgotten all about it. We decided to lay the table and hope for the latter.

Just after six she came home looking shattered. Throwing off her head scarf and coat, she checked the cooker before calling us to the kitchen table.

“I need to tell you something Boys.” She spoke slowly without interruption. “Before you were born I had a baby girl. My first born, but she was born dead. They call it ‘still born’. She was beautiful!” Now the tears came, but this time with some control. I guessed she had probably been crying all day.

“I held her for half an hour before they took her away. We had a little ceremony in the hospital.” She looked at me, “We named her Patricia.”

The beautiful lady was my sister after all. She had been telling the truth. Patricia had died as a baby and grown in the spirit world. No wonder she looked so angelic. She never spent a day on earth. Babies who are still born, miscarried or aborted pass over without committing any earthly sin.  When we are born we all begin with a clean slate. In time we are presented with worldly situations that stir emotions in us such as jealousy, greed and anger. Life presents us with test after test, but not for Patricia.

STAIRWAY TO HEAVEN by DAVID DREW IS AVAILABLE

HERE

Reincarnation

Posted on Updated on

The purpose of us living on earth is to learn, develop, understand and experience. This is how we ultimately progress spiritually.

This world is our training ground and your life here is like a day at school. You learn and hopefully try your best and when the bell goes at the end of the day it is good to go home.

Just as you cannot learn all your lessons in one school day, you cannot absorb everything you need to understand in just one lifetime. This is why we have many lives on earth.

Each of us were in the spirit world before we were born where, for most of us we reached a point of realisation that there are lessons  we cannot truly accept without experience. consequently we may elect to have another life in a predetermined set of circumstances that will give us the opportunity to learn the lessons we need in order to progress.

If, for example you were born into a privileged position, you may struggle to realise just what it is like to know poverty. Then you will be born into a situation where you are hungry and struggling to survive. When you look and the wealthy who pass you by without a thought, you will understand how unjust this is, and when you pass over a valuable lesson will have been learned.

Needless to say, in your reincarnations you will always be human, and you may spend hundreds of years in the spirit world between incarnations. Because of this you need not fear that your loved ones who passed on before you will not be there to greet you when the bell goes for you.

STAIRWAY TO HEAVEN by DAVID DREW is available on Kindle

Here

or in paperback

Here

Psychic Development

Posted on Updated on

Image

From an early age it was clear to the people around me that I was different from other children.  For as long as I can remember I have heard and seen things that most others cannot.

People who are psychic are extra sensitive and perceptive to spiritual influences. As a medium I am simply someone whom those in the spirit world communicate with. Please note that they choose to contact me. I am not able to call anyone up.

Psychic gifts include clairvoyance, clairaudience, clairsentinence, spiritual healing, psychometry, trance mediumship and transfiguration. A medium may possess any or all of these abilities.

Clairvoyance is the psychic gift of seeing beyond normal sight. This can be objective (with the eyes) or subjective (a picture in the mind).

Clairaudience is the gift of hearing. This too can be subjective or objective. This can be experienced alone or in conjunction with clairvoyance. Doris Stokes, for example, was a Clairaudient. She heard but very rarely saw spirit.

Some mediums are clairsentinent. That is to say that they cannot see or hear spirit, but they feel their presence.

Spiritual healing is not to be confused with faith healing. Spiritual healing can take place even if the recipient has no faith or is unaware of it. The healing power comes from God and the medium is used as a channel through which the power flows. it can be used hands on or directed to a person absently.

Psychometry is the ability to pick up information by holding an item and trance mediumship is a rarer gift whereby someone in spirit can use my body to speak through whilst I am in a trance state. With transfiguration the psychic energy is used to change my face rather than for the person to speak.

One or more of these psychic gifts lies dormant in everyone. with professional guidance and a true desire to help others you can develop your own psychic awareness.

The correct way to do this is to join a psychic development circle which is run by a competent and experienced medium who is able to recognise any danger signs and take control of events. The circle may be referred to as a seance or sitting. Before embarking on this you should be aware that it must be a real commitment. Psychic development cannot be rushed and can take many years of regular sitting, but it is worth the wait.

Circles can be held at any time of day but best results seem to come from sitting in the evening. This may be because the night brings a certain stillness and tranquillity which is favourable to success. Low lighting and perhaps some quiet, relaxing music are also helpful.

It should be said that psychic development is not the same as spiritual progression, although ideally the two should go hand in hand.

I always open and close all my circle with a prayer, giving thanks, offering service and asking for protection. There is nothing whatsoever to fear.

Your Higher Self

Posted on Updated on

67091_485635221504215_1342887581_n

Most people can grasp the concept that we are made up of a physical body and a spirit.

Just as the body has the brain – a physical organ that will one day be burned or buried with the rest of it – your spirit houses your mind.  The mind is part of your spirit or ‘true self’.

Hence the mind and the brain are not the same. This is a common confusion. Your brain can be ill and it will decay along with the body. Your mind and your spirit are immortal. They have always been and will always be.

Throughout your life, everything you experience is registered in your brain.  Information from the brain is then transferred to your mind via the force which joins your spirit to your body. This is widely referred to as the ‘silver cord’.

The information stored by your mind may be right or may be wrong. You decide for yourself which information to accept as truth and what to reject as untruth.  The rejected information sinks to the depths of your mind as you do not expect this to be useful. The information kept to the forefront of your mind is what you consider to be goodness and truth – things you expect to be useful to yourself and whoever you decide to share this with. To accept or reject the wrong information can be disastrous!

Throughout the existence of our spirit we may inhabit many bodies over many centuries. In each life it is usual to only use a small section of the mind. The whole mind is what I call your ‘higher self’. It contains to total of all our experiences in all the lives on earth and time in spirit in between. The entirety of this personal hard drive is not normally accessible until we pass over to spirit, but it is possible to earn to tap into this knowledge and draw from it.

You may find yourself in a difficult situation that you don’t know how to cope with.  Suddenly you understand and know what to do. The knowledge just comes to you out of the blue. You may have experienced this in a previous life and the information travels down the silver cord to your brain when needed. With practice and patience you can learn to tap into your higher self on demand.