Free will is a load of squashed bananas, in respect of the fact, if you think you have it, you may as well be mush.

It's not a thing, not really. Chaos rulez, with a big, fat 'z' on the end, and that sucks too. In fact, it sucks squashed bananas through a paper straw, as that's all it deserves. A McDonald's one at that.

You think you're in control, but some of you also thing the Earth is flat, so that doesn't say a lot. I wouldn't necessarily take your opinions seriously, but then, I don't take you lot seriously either. You're a funny species. You put credence in money and power and love, none of which truly matter, and the fact you crumble when they're lost shows just how misguided you are.

Well, at least you entertain me, so you have your uses. And you invented cheesecake, so that's another thing going for you.

I mean, take Mike.

Please, take him.

No, I jest. Mostly. Take Mike in the let's use him as an example way, rather than please remove him way – unless...

So. Mike. He had plans. Big plans. Life-changing ones – at least to him. They wouldn't actually change his life, because nothing you lot do can. He thought he only had to do one thing to make everything he'd been working towards in his entire life worthwhile. He wanted to go to a festival. Not just any one, 'cos he'd been to plenty. No, this one was roughly 5,300 miles away as the crow flies, except that would be one energetic crow. All the ones I know would have given up by the time they'd got to Cleethorpes, but perhaps there's one specific bird that is referenced when people talk about that particular crow. Legendary, it must be.

Coachella, over in California. A bit more than a mere crow's flight from Grimsby, but Mike thought big. For most of his life, it had served him well, or so he thought. Of course, it hadn't, just like nothing the rest of you had done could set your paths in any specific direction.

But Mike saved. He worked hard. He did everything he could to make his dream a reality.

And the day came. A Thursday, as forgetful as any other. Warm, but not too warm. Sunny, but not too sunny. This Thursday was in the Goldilock's zone of days. It was just right. If he'd know beforehand, he would have stayed at home and eaten Mama Bear's porridge instead. Unfortunately, humans know best.

Yeah. Like I said, you entertain me.

The flight was on time. His passport was in date. Visas were gained, and the taxi was well on its way. Everything was going to plan.

His plan. Not mine, and I'm afraid, I actually make the rulez. Yeah, with a big fat 'z', so shove that in your McDonald's straw and suck it up, buttercup.

I'm talking to Chaos there, if you didn't know.

So, Mike, again.

What could go wrong, eh? Traffic was moving freely on the motorway, something that never happens on the lyrical Road to Hell. Not just lyrical, as it happens. Chris Rea might have been making a joke with his song, but if he turned off at Junction 4, went down a bit and took the first right, second left, third exit at the roundabout, he'd actually be at Hell. Go figure.

Anyway. Back to Mike.

Three miles ahead, on the other side of the road, a police car was chasing someone. That someone had only passed their test three weeks before (the best things come in threes, didn't you know?), and was Snapchatting the fact they were driving at 100 miles an hour.

They sneezed. Three times.

On the third sneeze, a particularly violent one, they hit their head on the steering wheel. The car swerved. The car hit another car. Three in fact (that little one was my interaction). The central reservation was smashed through and another two cars – OK, so sometimes it doesn't work – collided with each other. Little Miss 100 continued on, only now realising they weren't on the right side of the road and were driving into oncoming traffic.

Everyone moved out of the way. Everyone except one car. A head on collision at high speed – as Miss 100 hadn't thought she should release the accelerator – isn't a pretty sight. So, into that mess rammed another car.

Mike was in car number three.

Yeah, you guessed it.

I did like Mike. Do, in fact. He's a nice guy. Was, anyway.

In fact, he's here now. Just appeared, looking a touch worse for wear.

"Don't worry, mate."

He's looking confused. You all do.

"Is this Coachella...?"

"No, mate. I'm afraid not.

"What happened?"

"You thought you could dictate your life. Sometimes, I have to show you that's not the case."

"Who the hell are you?"

"No need to be rude, Mike. No need at all. I'm Destiny."

"Destiny? You don't exist!"

"Actually, mate, I think you'll find it's you who don't. Now, anyway."