Hey Paul.

I’ve just been reading up on the old conspiracy theory that Paul McCartney died in 1966 and was replaced by a lookalike. It pushed me to the edge of the pit. I watched part of a documentary claiming to prove the fact. It was full of supposedly creepy music, unintelligible dialogue, Omen-style imagery, and silly noises that would have been funny in a different context. All that was missing was the Dies Irae. I got closer to the abyss. And then I read about the ‘symbolism’ of the Abbey Road album cover. John is the priest, Ringo the undertaker, George the gravedigger, and Paul the corpse. Well he would be, wouldn’t he? And just to prove that he really was dead, he’s the only one out of step. I don’t suppose it could have anything to do with the fact that he's left handed? No? Maybe not.

So what’s depressing me? The fact that Paul McCartney might be dead? No. What’s depressing me is the fact that people will go to such lengths to convince us of the unprovable. It’s religious fervour under a different name. Who cares whether the real Paul McCartney died in 1966? I don’t.

So now I’m listening to the fourth movement of Berlioz’s Symphonie Fantastique ('Dream of a Witch’s Sabbath' which includes, by an odd coincidence, the Dies Irae) and putting disco dance movements to it to cheer myself up. You’d think I’d learn, wouldn’t you?