HOW ON EARTH: a moment with Nostradamus

One very smug 16th-century prophet weighs in on heartbreak, history, and the World Cup.

Jul 19, 2026

I lit candles. I found a medieval-sounding playlist on Spotify. For some inexplicable reason I put on a kaftan. I made myself a huge mug of peppermint tea and – feeling a tad nervous – sat down, a fresh notebook and my favourite pen in front of me. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and then, telling myself I might possibly be out of my mind, summoned Michel de Nostredame, aka Nostradamus: apothecary, plague doctor, seer, and the man who has been blamed for every earthquake, terrorist attack, election and natural disaster since 1555.

He swaggered in within minutes, wearing a kaftan uncannily similar to mine, and smelling vaguely of moth balls and patchouli.

Francesca: Michel de Nostredame, welcome to How on Earth!

Michel de Nostredame, sitting up very straight: My name is Nostradamus.

Francesca, squirming: Of course. I apologise.

Nostradamus, sniffing, mouth twitching. Silent.

Francesca, clearing throat: Well, then. I’ll jump right in. Thank you so much for joining me. I know you’ve been terribly busy being misquoted on the Internet.

Nostradamus: It is no trouble. I have foreseen this interview several times. I even recall you considering your very first venture into podcast territory for this meeting. I knew that would never happen.

Francesca: miffed: And why is that?

Nostradamus: Your mind is far too busy with imaginary artefacts. There are only so many directions one’s mind can wriggle in at the same time.

Francesca: taken aback: Whatever. Anyway. Tell me about quatrains. Why did you choose to write in quatrains? Why not just write everything down properly?

Nostradamus: Madame, if I’d written that the baker on the corner will burn the bread on Tuesday, people would simply buy bread somewhere else on Tuesday. The obscurity is the point. Only an idiot would write a prophecy that can be fact checked.

Francesca: eyebrows tickling my hairline: You’re either honest, ultra cynical, or…

Nostradamus: giving me the side eye: Full of crap?

Francesca: Ok, so you read my mind, there. Sorry. Some say you predicted Hitler but didn’t get his name quite right.

Nostradamus, bristling: That’s a load of rubbish. I wrote about Hister, which was once the name of the Danube. Come on! I write about a river and four centuries later they’re saying I predicted the rise of the Nazis? The twentieth century’s disastrous level of reading comprehension is not my problem.

Francesca: You’re saying you didn’t predict the second world war?

Nostradamus, pointing a finger at me: I predicted a war. There is always a war. It’s arithmetic, not rocket science.

Francesca: What about your prediction that, seven months into 1999, terror would rain from the sky? You freaked out loads of people, and then… nada, zilch. What was that about?

Nostradamus, stroking his chin, nodding wisely: I presume I was merely rounding.

Francesca, leaning forwards, twirling my pen: Rounding?

Nostradamus: Seven months into 1999 sounds far more mystical than ‘sometime in the early 2000s, give or take a decade’. Besides, astrologically, there was loads going on. Mars was giving Mercury a bollocking. Venus was flirting with Jupiter because she had her eye on a halo, and Uranus had… issues.

Francesca: Right… I also recall Cosmopolitan mentioning that you predicted several celebrity breakups. Brad and Jennifer. Ben and Jennifer. Brad and Angelina.

Nostradamus: May I point out that you are speaking of two distinct Jennifers?

Francesca, snarkily: Really? Who knew!

Nostradamus, sighing wearily, as though exhaling centuries of WTFs: Everyone but you, apparently. Besides, what I said was ‘a golden couple is sundered by a dark shadow from the south.’ Your daily scroll of grievances is ripe with outrageous interpretations. I was most certainly referring to a border dispute.

Francesca, eye rolling: Everyone thought you were referring to Brad and Angelina.

Nostradamus, shrugging: Keep your sentences vague and lofty, and centuries later the fall of a civilization becomes all about a petty divorce. Were I to pen ‘two shall part who once were one’ today and by this time tomorrow simple minds will make it about a pop star.

Francesca, frowning while mentally rolodexing through decades of pop lyrics: I don’t recall those lyrics in a Simple Minds song. Are you sure you’re not thinking of the Spice Girls?

Nostradamus, slapping his cheek, shaking his head and once again exhaling wearily: OMG, as y’all say. Never mind.

Francesca: Basically, what you’re saying is that…nothing you say is ever intentional?

Nostradamus: Absolutely. That is the business model.

Francesca: So…you’re an astrologer with a phenomenal publicist?

Nostradamus: I’m just a very wise man who understood that vagueness is eternal, and that specificities never stand the test of time.

Francesca: Brilliant! Stealing that!

Nostradamus: Steal away, Madame. Stealing my lines is what keeps my legacy alive.

Francesca: Shall we tackle your legacy into the goal posts?

Nostradamus: Ah-ha, you wish to know whether Spain or Argentina will take home the supersized golden chalice?

Francesca, giggling: You predicted my question with such accuracy!

Nostradamus: Serve certainty on a plate and I shall feast.

Francesca: Spit it out.

Nostradamus, puzzled: Huh?

Francesca: Give me your prediction for the…golden chalice.

Nostradamus, steepling his fingers, leaning forwards looking very self-satisfied: I foresee a nation of red and gold, possibly of blue and white, lifting a chalice as a delighted crowd roars in unison.

Francesca, wrinkling my nose, taken aback: You almost sound like you’re paraphrasing Joni Mitchell.

Nostradamus: Precisely. ‘Both Sides Now’ has many interpretations. I also foresee a genius, small in stature, deft of feet, seeking one final glory. He will either achieve it or he will not, and history will hold him close regardless.

Francesca: You’re talking about Messi. But you’re also talking about the concept of football. Why so vague?

Nostradamus, speaking in a deep, gravelly voice: I foresee goals. I foresee men on the ground groaning. I foresee offside. I foresee…possible penalties. I foresee possible extra time.

Francesca: You’re predicting penalties? I love penalties!

Nostradamus: I said possible penalties. Interpret my words as you will.

Francesca: One last question. Any predictions regarding me?

Nostradamus, leaning forwards, studying me at length: I foresee a woman who writes of a golden eyed man and of paperwork disguised as passion. I foresee a manuscript that will not stay finished. I foresee an entire discography of songs that shall remain in people’s heads. And I foresee that you will publish this interview whether or not any of it is true, because this has always been my true gift. I’m all about confidence over prophecy.

Francesca: ‘Fake it ‘til you make it’?

Nostradamus: In a nutshell. I also foresee that you did not fact check anything I just said.

Francesca: Ha! I foresaw the exact same thing!