The Uri Geller story: Mystic woe

The Uri Geller story

Geller: Not a fraud at all

There are things you shouldn't do in life. Playing British Bulldog in the fast lane of the M1, for example. Or requesting "YMCA" at a British National Party Disco. I'd like to nominate a third category: insulting those with the power of WITCHCRAFT. Especially when this is combined with the awesome power of CELEBRITY, a dread power chronicled in a recent paper published by The New England Journal of Shit I Could Have Told You Myself. I just couldn't help myself, and now I firmly believe there is a shadow over me - a long, dark shadow of an evil hex by a man who, as I am sure you all know, is not a fraudulant publicity whore at all.

I'm not just saying that because he's an former Israeli Army paratrooper who could probably snap my neck and feed me to a starving Paul Daniels with just the merest flick of the wrist. And laugh about it afterwards over a bent-spoon buffet with his best friend Michael "I'm not weird, either" Jackson.

You see, and I really should have engaged brain first before opening mouth: I once told the world's number one mystic Uri Geller to fuck off. To his face. Whilst armed with a selection of cutlery.

There he was, right in my way, blocking a narrow doorway, impressing the mentally retarded with his genuine and not-fake-in-any-way-whatsoever spoon-bending skills and it just sort of slipped out.

"And so," said Uri to the huddled masses, "see how it bends, yes?"

Huddled masses: "Oooooh!"

Me: "Look, just fuck off, will you? And you as well. Fuck off."

He fucked off.

Short, sweet, and another brush with celebrity that had gone horribly, horribly wrong.

He didn't even try to kick me in the melvin or anything. Oh no, he was biding his time, planning to use his ancient DARK POWERS of Not-Fraudulant-at-all-Bollocks against my person.

Either that, or he was the bastard who let the tyres down on my bike.

Not long after that, both my legs fell off in a bizarre spacehopper accident, while my entire family was kidnapped and shipped to Michael Jackson's Neverland Ranch where they eke out a miserable existence in unsufferable luxury. Worse, my house is now bent at a ninety degree angle to the rest of the universe and my boss has somehow got me confused with Kat Slater from EastEnders.

Cursed, I am, cursed!

Coincidence? I think not. It's VOODOO!