I was a bit hungover today. In fact I was very hungover. A pretty girl selling shots of vodka in the Bedford pub last night had recognised me as a man with too much money and not enough sense and hung around with me and my friend Simon until we had polished off all her vodka. We even paid for her to have some herself. Boy she saw us coming.
I don't think I managed to blow all the money from the flat sale, but let's just say that consequently I am going to have to kiss a couple of thousand penny chews goodbye.
I was in a dark mood because of the hangover (apparently alcohol is a depressent. Nobody warned me of this), and had a strange feeling of unease and paranoia all day. I took this eerie feeling as a premonition that something bad was going to happen to me tonight.
Even though I don't believe in fate and know that the future cannot be preordained (or if it is then every single thing we so must be preordained too and thus we have no control over what we're doing at all and needn't worry about it), I still occassionally get these feelings. In fact I have been confidentally predicting my own death since I was about six years old. One of these days I am going to get it right and then you'll be surprised and slightly spooked by my predictive powers.
Princess Diana possessed similar foresight when she suggested that she would die in a car crash (even though she got the cause of the car crash wrong). The problem with this is we don't know how many other letters she wrote which possibly suggested she would go in a plane crash or through disease or choking on a swan's bone.
I'm guessing that she was more neurotic and paranoid than me and that during her short stay on this earth (she was a candle in the wind) she probably predicted every possible type of death that could have befallen her. Thus she was bound to leave us with an eerie sense of wonder when one of the suggested deaths came out as being true.
Maybe this is why Burrell has taken so long to reveal the letter. He's had to work his way through thousands of the buggers until he's got the one that (almost) got it right.
Anyway, I confidentally predict that I will be killed by X in a freak accident with a harpoon or I will be crushed in some kind of a stampede or be eaten by hamsters. I will posit a few more suggestions over the next few months or years (if I have that long) and make sure that when I'm right you all come back to the correct entry and ignore all the others and then make a sort of thoughtful face and say "Hmmmm. Weird. It's like he could see the future. There are dark forces."
Anyway, it's strange how a negative thought can haunt you through the day and as I walked the streets tonight on the way to a party everything seemed especially threatening. There seemed to be more gangs of loud youths around, and drunk slightly threatning people on the tube. A man stared at me a bit weirdly as I was buying something for supper. And most alarmingly just as I was crossing the road outside Archway tube the Grim Reaper passed me.
I thought for sure my number was up, but his scythe was made of tin foil and he seemed to be laughing and joking around more than I'd expect him to.
Possibly he was just a bloke dressed up on his way to a slightly late Halloween party, or perhaps I cheated death that night by sort of looking at the ground and failing to catch his eye.
This is the only real explanation as I got through the day completely unscathed despite my gut feeling that I was doomed.
Tragically although I would love to live fast and die young and leave a beautiful corpse (possibly a bit late for that now anyway, unless I leave someone else's corpse behind in my place) I will doubtless be unlucky enough to live into a ripe old age.
But not if my predictions that I will be crushed by a gigantic, fifty metre high inflatable penis. It will appear to be a deeply ironic accident, but in fact will have been carefully orchestrated by X (from the We Will Rock You audience).
