If my arithmetic is correct we now have just 32 days remaining until, according to the Mayan calendar, reality is switched off and all of everything just kinda winks out like the final episode of The Sopranos. I’ve always had a fascination with End of the World theories from the panic of 999AD to the 19th century Millerites who, in March of 1844, when The Rapture failed to materialize and they didn’t rise bodily into the sky and go with God, were plunged into what became known as the “Great Disappointment.” In more recent times, we’ve had Nostradamus’ bad boy in the turban in 1999, Y2K in 2000, not to mention the slightly more real Cuba missile crisis, plus the 1962 incident when a bear almost kicked off World War III by triggering the wrong alarm, or the other cluster-fuck in January 1995 when a Norwegian research rocket was mistaken by the Russians for incoming US ICBMs and a vodka-drunk Boris Yeltsin was mnuking the shit out of the United States. And now it’s the turn of the Mayans. Hey, bring it one. We’re even planning a party down here in Brighton – but more of that later.