I was recently hit with paraskavedekatriaphobia. Well, technically it was more likely to be paraskavedekatriamotum, because I was not struck by fear, so much as bitchslapped my lady fortune herself. Macchiavelli once wrote “fortune is a woman, and if you wish to keep her under it is necessary to beat and ill-use her” but he clearly never knew that the bitch could strike back. I however know the feeling all to well. It’s why I hesitate to say ‘phobia’ as I felt more like someone was actually kicking me down, trying to degrade me like a 15th century woman. I was not paralyzed by fear, I was beaten up like a bitch.

 A few astute people will know right away that paraskavedekatriaphobia is a fear of Friday the 13th. No, not the horror film. Don’t think people are really afraid of these slasher gems anyway. I’m talking about the bona fide experience we all had a couple days ago. That moment when every good horror fan has a F13 marathon, when old ladies lock themselves indoors for fear of who knows what, and when black cats are most likely to meet unnatural deaths, traditionally at the hands of crazies who go out with their shotgun to kill these poor creatures. Imagine, a black cat crossing your path on Friday the 13th, you might as well go out and buy a coffin. (note the latent sarcasm here). And yet for all my previous scepticism on the subject, I’d never actually done anything of note on this fabulous day. I’d watched Jason X a few years back, and I think the last time around I might’ve indulged in some zombie flick. Sitting at home, it was hard to see many opportunities for fate to fuck with me.

 This time around, it was different. This time around, I woke up at 6AM on Friday the 13th, and I went to bed 26 hours later, at midnight on Friday the 13th. Yes, I was awake for 26 hours of Friday the 13th, I had a 32 hour day effectively. I got on a plane in Japan, destined for Copenhagen, where I had to switch planes, and then move on to Manchester. You haven’t known fear until you’re reminded of the fact that the last really famous airplane accident was on FRIDAY the THIRTEENTH of October, 1972. A plane full of people crashed in the Andes, and the people subsequently went on to eat eachother. Famous disaster made into film, and someone told me about this the day before I was to fly on that same day. A day that is famed for being unlucky, and there is a story of people in my very situation, crashing somewhere cold, and eating their fellow passengers. You may not all be avid travellers (I fly between 6-20 times a year) but I can enlighten you a bit. To get from Japan to Copenhagen, you have to fly up over the Andes. Just kidding. For those who didn’t laugh, get a globe. You fly right over Siberia, which is God’s personally freezer. Seriously, Lord-sized beers dug deep into the icy hellhole that is Russia’s Asian end. And that’s where my plane was going. Let me assure you, I got on that plane, having had a few minor problems in the morning (things I’d call unlucky, like leaving my toothbrush and my favourite trousers) looking at each and every one of my co-passengers. I sized them up slowly, often literally sizing them up to see who I could beat over the head with a tray, so that I could secure my first meal in Siberia. Survival instinct kicks in, as you start to look for the weak yet meaty of the herd. My guiltiest moment was when I realized that there was an unusually plump 12 year old. The look I gave him must’ve made him assume me a closet catholic priest, but rest assured, I was merely thinking about how to barbecue his thighs on a pyre of coniferous wood, napkins and jet-fuel. Makes a hell of a barbecue. Serve with a side of honey-roasted peanuts, and you have a meal fit for a king. Well, a king of survivors. I have digressed to the point of this becoming obstreperous beyond control. Let me reel it back from barbecuing kind kids for my own nutrition.

The journey was hell. Absolute hell. For a start, everything that is normally good about that flight, was bad. The entertainment system failed. Hadn’t failed for me in about 100 flights in my lifetime, but on Friday the 13th, the system failed. And that meant all I had to do was read books, listen to music and look out on the wing. And by God, turbulence had new meaning. Any time the fasten seatbelt sign went on, I looked at the wing, half expecting a Gremlin to be sitting on the wing laughing raucously at me, as it had done with Bugs Bunny in my childhood. It does not reassure me that should that happen, I would not have the luxury of noting that the plane was out of gas as it hovered mid-air. No, for me, I could enjoy watching the wing wiggle and the massive multi-ton engine look like it was poised to fall. All not true, mind you, as those engines have to have some flexibility and are about as likely to fall off the wing as I’m likely to parachute out of the plane in desperation, gripped by Paraskavedekatriaphobia. Unlikely. But the day continue to kick me in the balls. Repeatedly. I was forced to take the expensive Sake I’d bought for my father-in-law from my carry-on luggage, exit the airport, check it in as luggage, carry my laptop under my arm for the rest of the day as I sent my backpack to the luggage hold. Had to go back through security, 3 times, as they kept buzzing for what I can only presume was my titanium implant. Copenhagen was on edge on Friday the 13th too, it seems. I finally got home, exhausted from a long journey. Everything small that could go wrong did go wrong. I can’t tell if Friday the 13th took it from me, or my own paranoia about all of this stuff made me behave differently and thus caused my own downfall. But one thing is for sure, I have a newfound respect, and a touch of fear, for Friday the 13th.

So I invite you to continue your marathons, to continue your joke superstition about a day that actually occurs once every 16 months at most, and more often than that, but know that some of us have to go places on that day, and that we are the ones who get hit hardest. Sometimes we get bad in-flight movies, sometimes we get hit by storms and hurricanes, and sometimes we are forced to eat our friends.

To be honest, Friday the 13th is no more unlucky than other days, but you will notice every time something goes wrong. Self-fullfilling prophecy I wager. There was no real profound point to all this, but as horror fans who have so many great stories I thought I’d share my latest one, and invite everyone else to ponder whether they’ve been struck by paraskavedekatriamotum or indeed if you suffer from paraskavedekatriaphobia.

I leave you with a simple thought. When you next get on a plane, start looking for the fat and weak. You just never know when you need an inflight snack.