And spiral I did. It wasn’t just a stumble; it was a full-on nosedive into a chasm of despair. My thoughts turned darker and more irrational with each passing day. Somehow, in my mind, I managed to twist my personal failures into a catastrophic narrative: I hadn’t just let myself down, I hadn’t just let my loved ones down—I had let all of humanity down. Every mistake I’d made, every missed opportunity, every ounce of potential I’d squandered became magnified into a global tragedy, a weight I carried entirely on my own shoulders.

I was completely broke—broke broke, the kind of broke where even the simplest necessities felt like luxuries out of reach. I lived on tinned soup and stale crackers for weeks, too numb to cook. Friends and family? They were absent, or at least it felt that way. Maybe they didn’t know how to help, or maybe I was too proud to let them in. Either way, the isolation only deepened the pit I was sinking into.

Without Russell as a catalyst, I found myself back at square one again—adrift, untethered, and uncertain of where to channel the energy that had consumed me for years. The obsession that had once fuelled me, given me purpose and a sense of destiny, was gone. And in its absence, the reality of what I had lost began to sink in.

My marriage was in ruins, and I couldn’t deny that it was largely my own doing. I’d poured so much of myself into chasing signs, interpreting omens, and building a narrative around a connection that might never materialise, that I had neglected the one person who had been there for me through it all.

Julia was beautiful—inside and out. She had a warmth that could light up a room and a quiet strength that I had leaned on more than I ever admitted. But even the strongest love has its limits, and I had pushed those limits too far.

The news that Derek had stolen my idea was a blow I could never have anticipated. It hit me harder than anything I’d ever faced, and yet, I couldn’t even let myself grieve it properly at the time. Instead, I buried the pain as deep as I could, hiding behind the walls I’d built around myself. I tried to push it away, convince myself that it was just another setback in a life full of them. But deep down, the wound festered.

What made it even worse was that I couldn’t stop looking. Every year, I found myself checking on Derek's project, seeing how it was progressing, how they were building something that felt eerily similar to my own vision. It felt like they were rubbing my face in the reality that they had taken what was mine. And no matter how hard I tried to push it aside, every update, every new milestone they achieved only reminded me of how badly I had been wronged.

Around 2017, something else happened that added another layer of complexity to my growing sense of the extraordinary. I stumbled upon the work of Simon Parkes, a man whose beliefs and teachings resonated deeply with what I had been experiencing. Simon, for those who don’t know, is a fascinating figure—a man who claims to have had contact with extraterrestrial beings, specifically the Mantid beings.

It was an odd pairing—Philip Schofield, the daytime TV presenter who would later fall from grace, hosting a conversation about aliens. It seemed like a setup for ridicule. But Simon came across so calmly, so genuinely, that I couldn’t help but believe him. His words weren’t tinged with the sensationalism that so often accompanies these kinds of stories. He wasn’t trying to sell anything or make himself a profit. It was almost as though he was simply sharing his truth with the world.

It was during one of the most surreal moments of my life that I felt a sense of clarity like never before. Everything seemed perfectly aligned. The universe, in its strange and inexplicable way, felt like it was offering me an undeniable sign that everything was in place, that everything was perfect. I had never felt so elevated, so connected to something bigger than myself.

The feeling was almost intoxicating, and I wanted to share that sense of wonder with the person closest to me—my wife. I had £1000 in my hands, and in a spontaneous burst of elation, I stepped outside, my heart racing with excitement. I called her over, urging her to witness this spectacle, this moment of utter freedom and clarity. Without much thought, I threw the money into the air, watching it flutter down like confetti.

For half a decade, I lived in a holding pattern—watching, hoping, unraveling. I wasn’t expecting a grand proclamation or an earth-shattering revelation, but maybe... an invitation to talk? A chance to share my story with a larger audience? Something. A podcast appearance seemed like the natural step—a way to reach the world with the message I was convinced I carried, without being too overt.

But that call never came.

Looking back, it’s painfully obvious why. Too much of a spark in a world built of dry kindling. My story wasn’t just controversial; it was incendiary. It wasn’t just a narrative; it was a living, breathing challenge to everything people comfortably believed. Russell, for all his spiritual musings and willingness to poke the establishment, clearly knew this was a risk too far.

At times, I found myself questioning the nature of my own identity. The thought crept in—was I Jesus himself? I mean, if you think about it, how would Jesus even know he was Jesus in this life? The "rule of forgetfulness," the cosmic law that erases prior memories as we’re reborn, ensures that no one gets a cheat sheet to their divine destiny. It’s the ultimate paradox.

The more I pondered, the clearer it became: even if someone were to come forward and claim such a thing, they'd instantly be met with furious skepticism and ridicule. There’s a societal mechanism in place—an unwritten rule that prevents anyone from seriously entertaining the idea. After all, you'd have to be unbelievably arrogant to make that claim, wouldn't you?

It wasn’t just the strange LinkedIn moment that had me spiralling. There was something else, something equally bizarre, that made me question whether the universe was trying to communicate with me on a whole other level.

You see, I have two different coloured eyes—a condition called sectoral-heterochromia. It’s rare enough that it’s always been something that made me feel a little… different. I’ve often wondered if it was some kind of marker, a sign that I was meant for something bigger than just living an ordinary life.

So, there I was, deep in my phase of searching for meaning in every corner of my life, scrolling through lyrics, listening for any hidden messages. Music has always felt like a kind of cosmic language to me, a way for the universe to whisper its secrets. It was during this search that something strange happened.

The Last Shadow Puppets, a band I’ve always loved, released a new single. The song played through my speakers, and I was absorbed in the music, as usual, when suddenly—bam!—the chorus hit.

At the time, I had a wife, and to say she wasn't thrilled with all the attention I was giving to Russell Brand would be an understatement. I was beyond obsessed. It wasn't just a passing interest or a fan's admiration; it was as though my whole existence had become intertwined with his every move, every tweet, every video. I had an unhealthy fixation, fuelled by my own curiosity, the bizarre moments we shared, and, dare I say, a sense of a hidden connection that I couldn't shake off.

My wife, on the other hand, wasn’t blind to it. She could see how much mental energy I was pouring into this obsession, how my thoughts and attention were consumed by the idea that Russell and I had this strange, almost mystical bond. And to her, it felt like I was neglecting the reality of our life together.

What followed was something I can only describe as... odd. It’s difficult to explain, but I’ll try my best. After that encounter, I found myself paying closer attention to everything Russell was doing—his public appearances, his tweets, his interviews—anything that might give me a hint as to whether The Moon had made an impact.

And then, one day, I noticed something unusual. Russell, who is famously selective about the accounts he follows on social media, had followed a profile that didn’t quite fit. It featured two mischievous-looking characters as its display image, and the account itself had no clear connection to him. It stood out like a sore thumb in his otherwise curated list of follows.

After my UFO experience, I was buzzing with energy and ideas. I felt like I had stumbled upon something profound—something worth sharing. Fuelled by inspiration, I wrote down the story of my experience in detail. If people had actually read it, they might have seen how deeply it resonated with me and how much thought I had put into it. But the responses, or lack thereof, were disheartening. My story seemed to vanish into the void, met with indifference from those I shared it with.

One particular incident stood out during this time. There was a girl I used to work with named ‘Sarah’. She was incredibly sweet but had a bossy streak that could rub you the wrong way. While I was brainstorming ways to get my story out there, I got the idea to stand out to Capri Anderson. I thought if I could catch her attention, she might remember me and help deliver my story to Russell Brand. It was a bit of a long shot, sure, but I was determined.

Some coincidences are small. This one felt biblical. It totally freaked me out.

We were at work, scrolling through a list of development houses from all over the world, trying to decide which one to use for a project. After some deliberation, we picked one and started working with them. It seemed like a completely random choice—until the next day.

That morning, I opened LinkedIn to check my notifications, and there it was: "Natali [very unique surname] has viewed your profile.” She worked at the development house.

My heart skipped a beat. I stared at the tiny profile picture, trying to catch up with what my brain was racing to process. It looked like her. Was it?

Natali had been an incredibly important figure in my life—someone who had shaped my understanding of love, connection, and perhaps even fate. Her surname wasn’t common, and seeing it there, connected to this seemingly random developer, felt like the universe was pointing a neon sign directly at me.