Every so often, I see a news story that reflects how I think I’m going to check out. I mean, I’m perfectly suited to die a truly ridiculous death: if it’s in a car crash it’ll be taking a fairground dodgem onto the M25 or something, or if it’s a hunting accident it’ll happen to me the day I thought a hat with antlers was the right thing to wear. I live in mortal terror of one day being listed in ‘The Darwin Awards’; my tombstone will read:
“Here lies Chris Worth. He Died as he Lived – in Utter Confusion.”
But – an exploding fondue set? What the hell’s that all about? Nobody in London’s had a fondue since 1978. They got away with injuries, but they doubtless deserved to die, for disservices to cuisine. And there, but for a fit of retro pique, go I. Shiver.