I’m not superstitious… It's bad luck.
If you’re like most of us, your life probably ticks along in a fairly predictable way.
You do your routine, whatever that is, go to work, take vacations, hang out with friends, etc., and by and large, there are few surprises. But sometimes, life has a way of knocking you right off the rails, and no sooner have you recovered from one hit than another comes out of left field and floors you.
With me, it was the UK Tour From Hell in 1999.
My agent had arranged for me to perform a dozen university shows throughout England and Wales over a two-week period. I’d be working every night except Sundays, and it promised to be grueling in its intensity, with shows in London, Birmingham, Manchester, and a number of smaller markets too.
But it would also be a blast. I’d be traveling with Paul Giles and Nigel Smith, my two Thames Valley Police minders. They would take care of all the driving and navigation, leaving me to do the hypnosis shows and hang out with students afterward. It was to be my fifth tour of the UK, and I was looking forward to general hilarity and late-night breakfasts while we listened to Red Dragon, the radio station from Cardiff, Wales.
I anticipated hard work, a successful tour, and then a return to Toronto.
But it turned out to be an absolute nightmare.
The signs were there from the very beginning, when my British Airways flight was delayed because of a malfunction that incorrectly indicated an external panel was open. A visual check by the pilot showed everything was fine, but after hours of trying to turn off the false warning, we missed our takeoff window.
Most people don’t know that while jets can glide in silently under cover of night, launching them into the sky requires a roar of thrust - often too loud for sleeping neighborhoods. That’s why many airports ban late-night takeoffs.
It was very late when they bundled us off the 747 and escorted us back into the terminal. The flight was rescheduled, and we were told to try again tomorrow. This wasn’t as bad as it sounds. I always arrived in the UK a day or two early to help adjust to the time zone, so I had a day to spare.
But strangely, there were no baggage handlers available to bring our luggage back inside. It was too late in the evening. So they pushed our bags back out through the check-in area, and after another ninety minutes, we finally got our luggage, and lined up outside to take taxis and limousines home.
The next day, I checked in again without incident. We got airborne, and about an hour into the flight, an elderly man across the aisle stood up, stepped away from his seat, and then collapsed. I managed to catch his wrist, but he slipped through my hand and hit the floor hard.
He’d had a heart attack. The British Airways crew jumped into action immediately, asking if there was a doctor on board. There was - a female urologist -and a medical student.
They took control, and the student began CPR right there in the aisle beside me. I was moved to Business Class to give them room, and I overheard a flight attendant in a heated argument with the doctor. The doctor was demanding access to the emergency medical kit for - drugs like atropine and lidocaine - but the attendant wouldn’t release it without clearance from ground control.
Some bizarre regulation blocked access, even for a licensed physician.
The doctor eventually gained access to the medical supplies, but the poor man passed away. We were rerouted to St. John’s, Newfoundland, after they placed him in a body bag and moved via elevator to the cargo hold so the sight of a corpse wouldn’t freak-out the passengers.
But after a while, the plan changed, and we continued on to London. Once we landed, no one could leave the plane until a medical officer cleared us, which of course, took about another hour.
And that was just the beginning.
Over the next two weeks, bad news kept rolling in from home. My Volvo 940 Turbo had lost coolant, overheated, and cracked the engine block, resulting in a massive repair bill.
My wife had gone to dinner at a friend’s place, and the evening had been awful; bad food, awkward arguments, the works. Combined with the car repair stress, she was not in a good place. From then on, every time I phoned home, something else had gone wrong. Our conversations became more and more unpleasant.
Then at Keele University in Stoke-on-Trent, there was an unusual onstage accident. A man and a woman began fighting over a heavy steel chair during a hypnotic sketch. I used to have volunteers become the world chair-organizing champions. It was usually hilarious, but these two were taking it too seriously. I didn’t want them to get hurt, so I brought them out of trance.
The woman let go of the chair. The man didn’t.
It whipped back over his head and smashed into my face, breaking my nose. Blood poured like a tap.
But the show must go on. I wiped at the blood and finished the performance. My nose was so swollen I could barely breathe, and I knew I needed to see a doctor in the morning.
Paul Giles took me to Royal Berkshire Hospital, where the wait time was listed at 40 minutes. Then it changed to 60, then 120, then 200. A multi-vehicle crash had flooded the hospital with injuries, and the place was scrambling to cope.
So we left and tried Paul’s family doctor. But they wouldn’t see me. The receptionist wouldn’t accept my Blue Cross $2M health insurance. They demanded cash. I offered Thomas Cook travellers' cheques in British pounds.
She didn’t know what they were, so we lost our place in line and left to find a bank machine. Eventually, I saw the doctor, who was very kind. He sent me for an X-ray, confirmed two cracks in my nose, and told me to ice it.
When I eventually arrived back at my bed and breakfast in Tilehurst, I started feeling seriously ill.
I had the flu. High fever, chills, headache—the full package.
If you’ve never had influenza and a broken nose at the same time, I don’t recommend it. But I didn’t miss a single show. My agent insisted I honour every contract, which ground my energy down.
I dragged myself through each performance in a haze of exhaustion. On the final night, during a raging thunderstorm, I returned to the three-story family-run hotel to find that they had forgotten I would be arriving late.
Every light in the building was turned off. You can’t make this stuff up.
Naturally, my room was in a hidden alcove at the top of several winding staircases, tucked into a far corner of the old mansion. I’m used to navigating strange hotels, but this was something else.
Picture thunder booming outside as I wandered through a pitch-black, haunted-looking house filled with strange turns and hard-to-find light switches. It took me nearly half an hour to find my room. I was starving. I’d left a ham and cheese pie on the window ledge to keep cool for a late-night snack.
It had been sitting in rainwater for hours. Totally inedible.
So why am I telling you about the UK Tour From Hell?
Because that soggy, sad little savoury pie marked the end of the bad luck.
After two weeks of death, illness, disasters, and delays, life returned to normal. And to this day, I remember the Sufi maxim: This too shall pass.
Bad luck always ends. All you have to do is be patient and ride out the storm.
Because bad luck doesn’t really exist. Sometimes, a bunch of unpleasant events just cluster together. They aren't connected. There’s no logic to it. But when they pile up, it can feel like the universe is gunning for you.
So if you’re going through a rough patch and it feels like you’re cursed, just breathe and remind yourself:
This too shall pass.
Your life will return to normal.
No matter how awful things seem right now, your bad luck will come to an end.
You WILL smile again.
- Mike Mandel
The Brain Software Syndicate (BSS) is our low-cost private community for smart, motivated people who want self improvement and development (not to become a hypnotist). It includes over $670 in courses and trainings. We drop new videos every week. Learn more or just sign up.