If you can read this, I'm dead.

Or not. I might be alive, sitting in a suburb of North London, giggling quietly at the hordes of people reading this under the presumption that I've died a horrible burning death somewhere over the North Atlantic. But let's assume, for the moment, that my bits are all over the place.

Obviously, the first thing I have to say is that I love my family (Hannah, Oscar, Debbie and Oma) very much. I also love my girlfriend Katie very much, and my friends very much too. It's worth pointing out that these are all very different kinds of love; my friends and my girlfriend didn't wipe my bottom when I was a baby, and neither my friends or my family get the same kind of loving that Katie does. All parties will probably agree that this is just as well.

I lived a good life, and to be honest I have no real complaints. One of my very first memories is jumping up and down on my father's belly, in the park across the street from Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament. Could one ask for a better beginning? All kinds of history, culture and science around me, enriching my soul and making me a better person. Sure, at that point all I really knew was that my favourite meal was sausage, beans and chips, and all I really did was dirty my pants at the slightest provocation, but nonetheless. I thank my parents for bringing me up in a nice place with free thought and beautiful scenery - as opposed to, say, America.

I would also like to thank every English teacher I've ever had. Except for that one at my Church of England primary school, who gave me the sternest telling-off of my whole life for writing about Jesus going on a shooting rampage with a handgun. (I couldn't see what the problem was. Thanks a lot, Mrs Whatever-Your-Name-Was, for stunting my creativity at such a young age.)

Now. If I'm dead, it will have been at the hands of a plane crash. Therefore, there are two causes: a technical fault, or deliberate sabotage. Given that I'm a corpse, I feel I deserve the last word on both of these. If you don't like it, come here and I'll decompose on you.

So, a technical fault at the airline. British Airways - for it is they - have already proven themselves to be a company with very little understanding of customer service or a pleasant consumer experience. They're just not very good, in my opinion. But at the very least, they should be able to keep themselves up in the air; it's kind of in the job description. If nothing else, it's kind of a violation of contract. They deserve to be sued, also because their vegetarian meals are like water torture. An apple and a packet of crisps does not a frequent flyer make.

Which brings me neatly onto terrorism. (Food is important to me.) I'm assuming, if my plane went down at someone's hand, that the attack has already been blamed on Bin Laden, Iraq, or as an outside chance, North Korea. It could also be any other country whose people feel like they are being oppressed by the relentless machine of western civilisation, and I kind of see their point, although I'm a pacifist and I'd prefer if they didn't kill me in their name. I would have happily not killed them in mine. After all, I don't drive an SUV and try to restrict myself to organic food wherever possible.

This aside, I don't blame them for offing me in the name of their cause. Actually, I'd like to place it squarely with the American and British regimes, for willing to risk lives of their citizens in exchange for low oil prices and safety for Israel. Cheers Tone; cheers G. Nice democratic representation you're doing for your people there.

Anyway, so, yeah. Dead and stuff, won't be seeing you again. I'd like to wish everyone I know a very happy January, and indeed a joyous life, full of dancing and smiles. I'd like to wish everyone I don't know pretty much the same, as long as you're nice to everyone around you and don't start wars or anything.

Big hugs. See you around.

Benjamin