The Trouble With Money (The diary of a Lottery winner)

by Frank Rawlins

  THE TROUBLE WITH MONEY

  The diary of a Lottery winner

  by

  Frank Rawlins

  Published in 2012 by Huck Books,

  Oxfordshire , England

  This book is available in print (ISBN 978-0-9556980-1-9)

  See details at www.huckbooks.co.uk

  First published in 2008

  Copyright Frank Rawlins

  The author has asserted his moral rights

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

  For Samantha and Christopher

  THE TROUBLE WITH MONEY

  The diary of a Lottery winner

  Prologue

  January 2008

  It always amazes me when big-money Lottery winners opt for publicity. Why would they want every nutter, every ne’er-do-well, every sodding scrounger sending them either begging letters or hate mail? Why the hell would they want their faces all over the newspapers and the local telly so that every time they go out they are the butt of jealousy, venom, and hate? Why the fuck would they want strangers knowing their business, knowing how much they have in their bank account, knowing how much they are spending on a new house?

  Weird doesn’t begin to describe it.

  Gaga is getting there.

  So why am I about to tell the world the story of my big Lottery win?

  Because … none of it matters any more.

  Money is meaningless to me now. Only my story is worth anything now. At least I hope it will be worth something to somebody. As a precautionary tale.

  It looked so different back then …

  2002

  Tuesday, January 1

  Looked in the mirror first thing this morning and didn’t like what I saw: a 5ft-tall penguin wearing sunglasses and a red bikini, smoking a cigar, and toting a machine gun under one stunted wing-flap.

  I turned round and looked at it. Yup, it was definitely there, larger than life and in our bedroom.

  I was ridiculously pleased to note that the cigar was unlit. I'd had three cigars as I welcomed in 2002 and my lungs felt as if they had spent the whole of 2001 wandering through a 1951 London smog.

  Jules says I was as pissed as a fart last night/this morning. But she was crapulent, which must be one stage worse, so how does she know?

  Aaah … a blow-up transvestite penguin in the bedroom is a bit of a give-away. Plus the fact that I was looking in the mirror to see why I couldn’t get my tongue back in my mouth. Had it really metamorphosed into something normally found in a hippo’s gob?

  Hang on, hang on – it might not be a transvestite. It might be a very butch female penguin.

  Definitely last time we go to The Crown for New Year’s Eve. They didn’t let us out till gone 3am and the DJ was a twat pretending to be a shock-jock, which apparently is why FR and I decided to sneak off with his gender-confused prop while he was packing up. In revenge for him taking advantage of a paralytic Blind Hugh by persuading him to ‘volunteer’ to lead the conga line.

  The noise of Blind Hugh bouncing off the bar and the la-la-laaaarrgghhs of those behind will live with me for a long time.

  That smooth git FR was chatting up Jules half the night. He’ll get his bloody come-uppance one day. Still, had a nice snog with his missus after Auld Lang Syne. HO. Naughty boy. And she just looked me in the eye and smiled knowingly. Naughty girl.

  The kids came round for lunch today and helped demolish the last of the cold turkey. We were all partied out and pretty subdued, so we just sort of slumped in front of the box and watched Chitty Chitty Bang Bang all the way through.

  Yeah, must have been pissed last night/this morning.

  Early night. MLTJ.

  NOTES

  A big HH 2002 welcome to Sir Jimmy Young and the Euro! Hard to say which will make the most difference to my life.

  What the fuck are we doing with an anachronism like New Year’s Honours in the 21st century!?

  Wednesday, January 2

  Back to work. Sort of. Sorted mail, finished layout for Price’s, and emailed it over. I couldn’t face talking to him. Last year I got a full PC description of his Queens’ New Year's Night Out; and in particular of Queen Alfred and his Burberry bustier. Lovely feller, Pricey, but I don’t want his sexuality rammed down my throat, as it were.

  Ironic he can’t write the Queen’s English. Yet again I had to turn his fluent gibberish into something approximating sense. Must let FR see final proof; just in case I’ve missed anything.

  Nothing else urgent, and not one phone call, so I caught up on a few things: tidying up Diary 2001 and belatedly launching into 2002; starting a Work Diary 2002; checking Christmas Lottery on internet (not even a tenner – there’s a surprise).

  While on line, I looked up Carol Vorderman. Just out of curiosity – why else!? – to see what this new quiz on the box tonight is all about. Britain’s Brainiest. Oh, yeah?

  Great pics on tribute site. Just turned 40 and still a babe. Well, for anyone over 40. Mind you, some odd Vord sites, too. Disturbed individuals, no doubt …

  NOTES

  Cracking PI email waiting for me from FR:

  Woman driver’s car broke down with a completely ‘dead engine’. She called out the RAC. The patrolman eventually got the engine going again and running smoothly.

  ‘How d’you do that?’ she asked

  ‘You got shit in the carburettor,’ said the RAC man.

  ‘How often I got do that then?’

  Thursday, January 3

  Another new hair style, Ms Vord. Looked good, though; much better than recent rat’s tails on Countdown. And a reasonably grown-up quiz, with some bright contestants (all teachers, and for a change they didn’t disgrace their profession). Half a dozen questions I couldn’t answer.

  Apparently there was one winner of double rollover jackpot – £16,000,000. Lucky bastard. Oxfordshire’s Lord Luck, aka HH, ventured two one pound coins on two Lucky Dips. Proved to be Unlucky Dips – didn’t get one bleedin’ number.

  A mere £1,000,000 would do! Pay off the mortgage, retire, cut golf handicap to single figure, travel, and write my novel. And no more dealing with illiterate businessmen/women. No more worrying about getting enough work in; or waiting for cheques to come in.

  Renewed ad in The Rag, sent out a few flyers, home early.

  Watched Men In Black again on box. Good film.

  JTTTML. Too tired!? When did that ever stop me!?

  Friday, January 4

  Pricey happy with proof, so I needn’t show it to FR, and he gave me an even bigger order for his Spring Sale. Design and print. Should keep the Wolfman from the door for a while.

  Busy most of the day, chasing up work, cheques. Stopped at The Crown for a quickie on the way home, and slipped a rolled-up deflated-blow-up possibly-transvestite penguin out of my briefcase and on to the first shelf behind the bar when no one was looking. FR came in, bubbling over, as he always is when he’s on the track of a good story. Apparently the double-rollover jackpot winner hasn’t claimed his/her prize yet, and Frankie bo
y has got a hot tip that the winner lives locally (well, Oxon, Bucks, or Berks – narrows it down a bit). And if he can track him/her down, FR will make a small fortune of his own flogging the story.

  Bloody journalists! What a stupid way to make a living. Almost as bad as printing retail rubbish. Wasting trees on Spring Sales and Pizza Deliveries …

  How the fuck did I end up with a journalist for a mate? Oh, yeah – I helped get him a trainee reporter’s job on The Rag when he left school.

  And why do so many idiots do the Lottery and then not bother to check their numbers!? God, I’d have Camelot on the doorstep at nine sharp the next morning, if not sooner.

  After one of my Spag Bol Specials we watched Jules’s Christmas present video from Sarah – Bridget Jones’s Diary. All right but, as usual, not a patch on the book.

  MLTJ. No big knickers to negotiate. No tiny knickers even. No knickers at all. Shame really.

  Saturday, January 5

  Had a lie-in and started reading my Christmas present from Sarah – The Kenneth Williams Diaries. The real thing. None of your comic fiction here. Raw and painful, and that’s just the first couple of years.

  What makes someone write a diary? I think I’ve narrowed it down:

  1. He/she is a nerd, anorak, trainspotter, or geek.

  2. He/she is pompous, self-important, and/or a psychopath, believing his/her revelations will one day shake the world.

  3. He/she is an ex-prime minister or statesman hoping to make a pile of money.

  4. He/she is inadequate, or introspective, or incapable of forming proper relationships. Isolated; the ultimate loner.

  And me? Good old level-headed, politician-hating, family-loving, six-friends-is-enough HH is just a frustrated writer. I think. No, I know. I love it; and I hate it. The way I used to love and hate cigarettes.

  1. Why the hell didn’t I apply for that job? Because compositors/printers, even compositors/printers bright enough to start their own one-man business, don’t write. They take the piss out of journalists. Besides, FR was desperate for a job.

  2. How many more fucking novels am I going to start and leave undone after two chapters?

  Did a few jobs that had been piling up – fixed trellis that had been threatening to fall apart, tidied up garage (well, two jobs) – and then read some more. We had a few drinks in the evening with FR and MJ. Crown still heaving from Christmas. I was glad when I’d had enough.

  Fell asleep before Jules could seduce me.

  NOTES

  Leicester through to fourth round of FA Cup; beat Mansfield 2-1, thank God.

  Sunday, January 6

  First round of golf since before the freeze set in. Played moderately well. Hit some great 3-woods from the tee. Chris L chipped in from 50 yards – on a temporary green. Jammy bastard.

  Headline in The Rag: EGGS GOING UP

  That’ll surprise a few hens.

  Monday, January 7

  Back in the old routine. I cranked up my itsy-bitsy little press for the first time since Christmas and rattled off a few thousand flyers for Butler & Stone. Then I cranked up the Mac and started designing some stationery for Bob Eckman. ‘Established 2001.’ I was tempted to add ‘Bankrupt 2002’ at the end. All right, so he’s a good craftsman, but he’s an even worse businessman than me. And I barely pass muster. He’ll pay me on delivery for this lot, no doubt – but when he papered all our ceilings it took me five months to get an invoice from him. What does he live on!? Anaglypta?

  Tuesday, January 8

  Drove over to Abingdon to deliver flyers. Personal touch and all that. Nice bloke, Eric Butler. Shame about his partner in crime (well, estate agency – almost the same thing). Dermot Stone makes Jeffrey Archer look like a good bloke. Fortunately he was on the phone the entire time I was there. I just had to smile at him, and not look queasy afterwards.

  Jules was in a terrible mood tonight. Had horrific day at work apparently. That bastard Kelly – who makes Dermot Stone look like a good bloke – gave her a hard time, just because he’d had a bollocking from the Thin Controller.

  ‘I’m coming to work for you,’ she said.

  ‘Are you fuck!’ I said. Pleasantly. ‘Eggs in one basket,’ I reminded her.

  ‘When I give my notice in …’

  ‘When we can afford it,’ I reminded her.

  ‘When I give my notice in – whenever that might be – I shall rip the little shit to pieces. Verbally.’

  ‘Of course.’

  She was in a grump all night. I can hear her now snoring in bed, as I sit writing this. And I’m in the pub.

  Sorry, Diary, can’t resist the odd comic fiction.

  Wednesday, January 9

  2 16 28 34 41 42

  Oh fuck! Keep beating, heart.

  2 16 28 34 41 42!

  Please don’t stop. I need you now more than ever. It doesn’t bear thinking about: realise an unbelievable dream – and the old ticker conks out.

  2 16 28 34 41 42!!!

  We sat up virtually through the night. Talking, planning, sometimes dreaming, sometimes scarcely daring to dream, occasionally rechecking – via newspaper, TV, laptop. They all said the same thing. We had been millionaires since Saturday night, and didn’t know it. Multi-millionaires, actually.

  £3,456,768, to be precise. If we had claimed straight away and got the cheque in the bank it might even be £3,456,789 by now. What a fabulous, pleasing sequence that would be. But shit, what’s £21 between friends. When we get the cheque – TODAY! (now early hours of Thurs) – and lob it in a new account I might even write a separate cheque for £21 just to see that on the statement.

  What did I say about idiots who do the Lottery and then don’t bother to check their numbers? Just too busy going about our lives, I suppose. Might have been poor for ever, but for Ms Vorderman. Hadn’t got a lot on first thing so I thought I’d have a quick browse of tinternet. Called up History to find the site with Carol’s pictures on and came across national-lottery.co.uk. Which set me thinking. Had we checked Saturday’s numbers? Where was the damned ticket? Still in my wallet.

  And there they were. On the screen AND on our ticket.

  2 16 28 34 41 42.

  My brain didn’t, or couldn’t, take it in the first time. But each time I checked, hardly daring to believe what my eyes saw, I got more and more excited. Panicky even. My breathing was light and laboured; I was beginning to sweat. I checked the next page on the website. Total jackpot for Saturday, 5 January: £6,913,536. Two winners, each receiving £3,456,768.

  I made a big effort to calm myself and rang Jules at work. I casually asked her if she had got anything on at lunchtime – I had seen a nice jacket in town and I needed her advice. She jumped at it, of course; always trying to smarten me up, always saying I haven’t got a clue about clothes. Then I printed out the winning numbers from the website, and checked them every five minutes until lunch.

  I picked her up in the car, so we could talk alone. As soon as she was in the passenger seat I gave her our Lottery ticket and asked her to check the numbers against the print-out. She went through the same unbelieving sequence as I had done. We spent fifty minutes in the car, holding hands, hugging, hardly daring to part. And all the while talking very quietly, whispering almost; afraid we’d shout and yell and bring the neighbourhood rushing to the car.

  What next?

  We were eminently sensible. I went back to work (driving very carefully); Jules decided not to rip that little shit Kelly apart until we had the cheque in the bank.

  I rang Camelot from work. I was breathing so jerkily that three times I had to put the phone down halfway through dialling the number, in case I just fell apart, or my voice came out like Mickey Mouse having an asthma attack. I eventually managed to steel myself enough to finish dialling and talk. They took all my details, verified a jackpot winner from ‘that particular location’, and asked me to go to their Watford headquarters where a nice lady called Dawn would check my ticket, and, all being well, present me with
a cheque. This afternoon, if I got a move on – or tomorrow. I made a feeble joke about the crack of Dawn tomorrow, realised what I’d said, and slapped the phone down as Mickey Mouse had a near-fatal heart attack.

  We didn’t watch the telly. We didn’t go down the pub. We just talked and talked. No, we definitely didn’t want publicity. We didn’t want anyone to know until we had the cheque in the bank. And perhaps not even then. But what about the family? Who did we tell, and when? Obviously the kids would have to know first, and soon. They would be thrilled for us – and themselves! I know I would be in their position.

  Should we ring them tonight? Or leave it till after Dawn had officially broken the news. We settled for the latter. Well, we knew Sarah and Mike would be playing badminton – takes all sorts – and as for Cory, well, telling him over his mobile, when he was no doubt doing his pub Quiz Night, would be tantamount to opting for maximum publicity.

  And how much would we give away? Because we had always said that, in the unlikely event of a major win, we would help the family (we totted up one aged parent, one daughter and son-in-law, one son, three sisters and one brother plus spouses, two nephews and a niece, assorted cousins) and one or two charities. We’re not including my Dad because there’s no point, sadly.

  £3,456,768. Half a million each to the kids? Sarah and Mike could certainly do with it. Still virtually newly-weds, new house, new mortgage, new worries. What about Cory? What would half a million do to him? Not long out of college, doing an office job he doesn’t particularly like until he can find a good use for his geology degree, lover of beer and gambling, possibly dodgy substances too, easily led – it didn’t bear thinking about. Perhaps we would have to sit him down and explain he could have the money when he really needed it – for a car, for a house, for a wedding (oh, how Jules’ eyes lit up; oh, how they faded when I reminded her he was a love-em-and-leave-em lad and probably always would be).