I don’t usually bother reading the leaflets that get pushed through my door. Like most people I give them a cursory glance before dropping them straight into the bin. There has to be a lesson in that for all those pizza and burger places out there producing identical leaflets: Naked ladies sell pizza, it’s a fact of life. Much as I like to think that I am a suave, sophisticated and debonair individual, when it comes down to it I’m just an arse-man with reading glasses and a pot belly. I’m not in the least bit attached to stock images of four-cheese pizza and 2-litre bottles of Diet Coke, whereas I’ve been collecting pictures of frolicking lesbians since I was 14. Do the maths, as they say.

A different kind of leaflet dropped through the letterbox today. It was just a small slip of paper with slightly fuzzy black and white print, the sort that usually heralds the arrival of yet another UNBEATABLE CARPET SALE! or an opportunity to make a pitiful amount of money working from home. I picked it up and took it to the bin, which incidentally smells of apples since I started using those scented bin-liners from Poundstretcher. They’re a bit of a con, really. The instructions that came with them say: Line the bottom of bin-liner with fresh apple peel (not included), then use as normal.Anyway, so I was about to toss this leaflet when I gave it the customary inspection. I am now quoting directly from the leaflet, which I have in front of me:

Mr Habarra, African Psychic and Medium, Problem Solver and Blocker of Eyes.

Also, fantastic discounts on room-sized remnants and shagpile roll-ends now in stock!

Hold it, I made that last line up. I’m sorry, I can never resist a diversion . The headline is a true one, though. Trust me, I copied it directly from the leaflet. The text goes on to claim that the mysterious Mr Habarra, in addition to blocking eyes, will also save your marriage, cure infertility, sexual problems, kidney infections, cut fingers and in a somewhat insidious statement, ‘return your loved ones,’ which does vaguely make me want to call them right now, just to be sure they are where they should be. Have you worked this out yet? It took me a few minutes, I have to say. But then it’s not every day you get a leaflet from a witch doctor pushed through your letterbox.

There is a sizeable African population where I live. In Nairobi. Sorry, I digress. This is Harrold I’m talking about. It shouldn’t be a big deal really. After all, I can Drive into Bedford and buy just about any spice and vegetable from every corner of the globe, although the fucking fish and chip shop is only open for about twenty-minutes every other Tuesday. Still…a witch doctor!

So I’m thinking of having my eyes blocked. No, really – I am cursed. A friend of mine also believed his life was cursed. He was a football prodigy in school, (Can’t remember his name now but we used to call him Thrush, on account of him being an irritating little c***). One of those Wayne Rooney types who are destined for fame and fortune from the age of about seven. As soon as he left school he signed for Portsmouth, which is unfortunate but hardly a curse in itself. He played a handful of first-team games before being unceremoniously transferred to Crewe. From there things really went from bad to worse. He played for a succession of inglorious lower-league clubs in the north, including Grimsby, Rotherham, Grumbly town and a brief spell at Strangely Athletic, before vanishing into obscurity, or the Scottish Premier League as it is sometimes known.
 
The football prodigy finally ended his playing career in some godforsaken Danish fishing town, playing right-back for the local third-division side while working as a herring-gutter. It wasn’t quite that bad but that’s about the state of things as far as he was concerned. He still maintains that he was cursed from an early stage of his career, perhaps given the evil eye by a rival for his position at Pompey.
 

It certainly makes you think. My own literary path has pretty much mirrored my friend’s football career, only I never even moved out of Harrold in the last twenty years. It is merely my ambition, my expectations which have slipped down the leagues. If I started off being the literary equivalent of a dynamic new Chelsea striker, I now reside on the subs bench for the local pub side, feeling faintly ridiculous in shorts and a stripy shirt that bulges enormously in the middle. So I think I will pop over to see Mr Habarra, blocker of eyes, and see if there’s anything he can do to lift the curse on my life. I’ll mention the naked-lady-on-the-leaflet thing while I’m over there.