I went to a fortune teller and it was an absolute rip-off
She had hair like Gareth Gates
I’ve always been curious about fortune telling. How does it work? Is it all bullshit? Is it actually possible for someone to read into the future?
I decided the perfect time to explore my curiosity and find an answer to these questions was during reading week. So I went on a hunt for a local Psychic.
It wasn’t an easy search but of those I found, prices mainly ranged from £20-£35 per reading.
I managed to secure myself a cheapo, and booked both a Crystal ball and a Tarot card reading all for just 20 bob.
She lives on the outskirts of Liverpool, about 30 minutes on the train. Whilst on my way, I was trying to imagine what she might look like. I saw her as a purple-bandana-wearing, cat woman with massive hoop earrings and long witchy-nails. I imagined tie-dye curtains, dream catchers dangling from the ceiling and some sort of hippy incense to be burning.
But my ignorant pre-conceptions couldn’t have been further from the truth. She was a short, stumpy scouse woman with a painfully high voice and Gareth Gates spikes.
Approaching her house I noticed my phone battery was on 32% and began to worry that I was consciously walking into the house of a murderer. I continued nonetheless.
The weirdness began when I wasn’t allowed to walk through her front door. I had to follow her into her back garden, and into her kitchen.
Disappointingly, there was no tie-dye prints or dream catchers, there wasn’t even incense. In fact, her kitchen was a tip. The walls were a sickly shade of yellow, there were up-side-down cereal boxes balancing between dirty dishes that looked like they’d been sitting there for months. Not to mention the random laundry line hanging wet clothes over the dining table where I was going to get my reading.
Yes, this was the room where I was going to be told my future path. It smelt like damp knickers.
Before my session, the only thing the fortuneteller knew about me was my name. Not even my full name, just “Kat”. This probably explains why the only reading she had to offer was a generic pile of wank.
She said things like, “If you haven’t already started a new project, you are about to soon”, “you have an older figure in your life that you take advice from” and “when familiar scenarios return, don’t make the same mistakes”. I call bullshit.
She held the crystal ball (which in itself was underwhelming) between her hands and sort of balanced it on her chest whilst gazing into it. It was really hard not to laugh at the faces she was pulling. She said that all crystal ball readings were individual and that they’d only make sense to me.
Then she came out with, “Do you know a Victoria?”, to which I mentally replied “No, what the fuck.” But in real life hesitated and said “ermmm… I don’t think so”.
“Not to worry”.
By that point, I realized that it would be less awkward for the both of us if I just went along with what she said. Just smile and nod.
Besides, it was impossible to concentrate on what she was saying without getting distracted by her short chubby legs swinging from the chair. They couldn’t touch the floor, and she just kept bloody swinging them.
Safe to say the crystal ball reading was bollocks. The Tarot card reading wasn’t much better.
Before I chose my cards she explained that I shouldn’t worry if the “Death” card were to appear. Brilliant, I thought. Not only am I stuck in the middle of nowhere with a whining old hag, she’s going to tell me I’ve got days to live. I should have just gone to the Sydney Jones and done my seminar reading like a good student.
She also explained that of the six cards I would choose from the pack, the first two would be representative of my recent past, the next two of my present and the final two of my near future.
As exciting as it all sounded, she merely described what was on each card and said what sounded like a fluky guess. I could do her job. My seven-year-old cousin could also do her job.
HOW DOES THIS WOMAN EVEN HAVE A JOB?
Just before the session finished, her husband stumbled through the back door and into the room with two yappy little dogs. He sheepishly apologized and ran out of the kitchen, into the bit of the house I wasn’t allowed in – she wouldn’t even let me use the loo.
The remainder of the reading consisted of me nodding along to her crap, pretending not to hear her dogs scratching on the kitchen door crying to get in.
To anyone interested or curious about the mysterious world of fortune telling (fortune guessing), please don’t do it. Don’t waste your time, the whole industry is a fraud.
Save your £20 and treat yourself to a branded bottle of vodka instead.