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

by Frank Rawlins

  He was drinking regularly by the time he was 16, a bit of a piss-head by 17, and desperate for sex by 18. One day he had enough Dutch courage to go to a prostitute, but too much to perform. It was a shattering moment. He had had sex since; he wasn’t a virgin. But he hadn’t had really good sex. Loving sex. He had never had a proper girlfriend. Probably because, and he knew it, he was a bit of piss-head who could get seriously off his trolley and do seriously stupid things, like agreeing to lead a conga line. It was a vicious circle, and he soon lost the will and/or inclination to get out of it. But he still had regular contact with his two brothers, he had some good friends, and a reasonable job (making white canes!). It wasn’t all doom and gloom. And then he said something so poignant I almost cried.

  ‘I can still see – when I dream. It’s wonderful. A few pints usually makes me sleep well …’

  NOTES

  John Entwistle has died. ‘Who?’ asked Cory when I mentioned it on the phone. ‘Yes,’ I said.

  Not a good joke.

  Thanks for the music, John. My Generation … shit, my generation is beginning to die off too bloody rapidly. As the bloke said on the telly the other night, life is 100 per cent fatal.

  Saturday, June 29

  There was a pause in the rain so I did a bit of pottering in the garden – gentle tidying – while Jules went to see Elaine W-L for some gentle gossiping, just to check surreptitiously that we won’t inherit any neighbours from hell (following a touch of panic the other night when we realised we hadn’t made any enquiries about them).

  I watched a bit of the third-place play-off, in which Turkey eventually overcame Korea. Turkey, the third best team in the world! I don’t think so.

  NOTES

  A new report says the amount of our money spent by the Royal Family in the past financial year dropped by £3million. The annual bill is now only £35million. A mere nothing, said the Keeper of the Privy Purse. Of course – what would we do with £35million? Twat.

  Sunday, June 30

  Brazil 2 Germany 0. Thank God. To be fair, the Krauts played remarkably well considering the shape they were in before the tournament. Brazil deserved to win, but they were nothing special – the England team that hammered Germany 1-5 would have beaten them.

  If only Gerrard had been fit …

  If only Beckham had been more than half fit …

  If only Seaman had been an inch taller …

  If only Rudyard Kipling had known the importance of the World Cup …

  Oh yes, and the kids came round for a Sunday roast. Jules gave Sarah the low-down on our future neighbours (no problems, unless you count the werewolf at No. 12), while the lads watched the footie. Dreaming of what might have been.

  Monday, July 1

  July already – and the weather is still awful. When’s the bloody summer gonna start?

  Finished my first chapter of ‘Mad Dogs And Roy Keane’. First draft of. Not bloody bad.

  Wednesday, July 3

  Usually when I make an appointment to see the doctor my symptoms/aches/pains/whatever disappear immediately, or, if not then, the moment I set foot in the surgery. My SLF are usually much better by 9am anyway, so I was a bit concerned they would be the picture of pinkies in the pink when I went to see Doc Macca this morning. They were, but she dealt with me seriously and properly.

  She asked lots of questions, answered all my questions without giving away too much (yes, it could be arthritis, it could be just a temporary tendon-type pain, but let’s not jump to any conclusions), did all the basic medical checks (blood pressure, heart, etc), and then took at least an armful of blood for testing. I have to go back in a week.

  Thursday, July 4

  We motored leisurely (shouldn't that be leisurely-ly?) up to Leicester, to The Staghunt, otherwise known as The Hotel We Could Once Only Dream Of; just the two of us, carrying apologies from Cory (too busy with tomorrow’s opening) and Mike and Sarah (too busy to think up a decent excuse). We had a late bar lunch, re-acquainted ourselves with some of the city’s shops, freshened up, and got a taxi out to Arnie’s.

  He and Mags had wanted an early start – and got it – well, for a weekday (they were determined to have it on the actual anniversary, which, being a Thursday, was a tad silly, but there you go). Caroline was already there, helping with the food, several of Maggie’s relatives, whom I knew only vaguely, were already well into the drink, and Jayne and John turned up not long afterwards with Ruth – who had gratefully accepted an offer of a lift – and their two sprogs.

  Jennifer turned up later than expected with a woman friend in tow (Naomi, 50-ish, quiet), which immediately made Arnie’s eyebrows do a quick spring towards his thinning hairline. I could almost hear the cogs whirring (‘God, is she a lesbo?’), but he didn’t say anything. That would no doubt come later.

  Give Arnie and Mags their due: there was plenty of booze (including some champagne from us), the food was good, the atmosphere was happy. It was a good evening. Till about ten o’clock.

  Then Arnie made a brief speech – no, that was all right, too. There were two jokes and a compliment of sorts for Mags. But then the relief poured out of him that his ordeal was over, and the vast quantity of alcohol he had put away kicked in (why does it never work before the speech?) – allowing his mouth to run away with his brain. He trapped me in a quiet corner and asked straight out, no bones about it, for a loan. He had spent seven grand upgrading the People Carrier, and then he had bought the boat, knocking Dan down two grand to £38,000. He had bought it as an investment – use it for a couple of years, do it up, sell it for more than the purchase price. There was a snag, though …

  ‘I took her out for a trial run, had a problem negotiating the weir up by, er, you know – and put a bloody hole in her!’ He laughed hysterically but a tad mirthlessly, while I nodded, waiting to add something worthwhile to the conversation.

  ‘We got ashore okay, before she could sink. Sort of grounded on a shallow bit. Did the engine in, though.’

  ‘And the snag is?’ I asked with only a hint of sarcasm.

  ‘Hadn’t got round to insuring her.’ He laughed uproariously again, but this time the hysterics edged towards despair. ‘Dan would have seen me okay – you know, said he still owned her – but he’d already cancelled his insurance.’

  The room seemed to go deathly quiet the very moment my next words shot, fairly vehemently, from my mouth: ‘You stupid fucker!’

  An inebriated and now affronted Mags waded in at this public humiliation of her husband of thirty years. ‘Who do you think you are!? Just because you got lucky, you – you – you think you're bloody God’s gift. You’ve no right to come up here and … and … well …’

  As she struggled for the right word, any word, suggestions good and bad flew from all directions. It looked like a free-for-all was about to break out – when the door opened and in came late-comers Ronnie and Mia.

  ‘So what the hell’s happening here?’ asked Ronnie, pretty succinctly.

  ‘Um, a little misunderstanding between me and your dad,’ I said quickly. ‘Let’s go out the back, shall we. And sort it out.’

  I ushered Arnie and Mags through the kitchen and into their little utility room. Jules and Ronnie (signalling Mia to stay and get the drinks flowing again) followed.

  I laid it on the line: he could have another £10K, at nought per cent, and that was it, last ever; if he got himself into any more trouble, he could sort it out himself. He was sort of contrite and sort of grateful, without selling his soul to the devil that was HH. Maggie deigned to apologise, blaming too much drink for her outburst. Jules suggested we all go back in and tried to act like nothing had happened; this was Arnie and Maggie’s night, and we should all enjoy what was left of it. Ronnie didn’t say anything; I got the feeling he had his own problems, without taking on those of his parents.

  Jules and I stayed another hour, until the party was back on track, and then called a taxi to take us back to the Hotel Of Our Dreams.

&n
bsp; What a nightmare.

  Friday, July 5

  Another day, another do. Cory told me the strategy of a Friday late-lunch launch: most of the decision-makers who weren’t playing golf still liked to get away early, and if they could have a good feed and drink first, some stress-free chat, and have a first-class excuse for not going back to the office (‘if it runs late I may go straight home’), they would be well disposed towards their hosts.

  I think he’s right. Everyone I spoke to said what a good idea this bright young entrepreneur had come up with, and if his service was as good as the gleaming motors on show he couldn’t fail. Jules and I played our parts, talking up Cory and ECO, and only divulging our relationship when asked (just the once). The proud mum was particularly good. Too good at times.

  I stood back for a while, sipping my champagne and nibbling a nibble so posh even I had to call it a canape, and watched the vignettes being played out all around me. And was sharply reminded what a good-looking woman my wife still is. She had gone to a lot of trouble for her boy. And now some power-suited, power-talking, power-exuding executive was bloody well chatting her up, under the guise of talking business. The smooth bastard. He wouldn’t fool Jules, of course – but she was bloody well enjoying it. Not quite flirting … or was she?

  Bloody hell – is this jealousy, Aitch?

  MLTJ. She was still buzzing. I didn’t say a word.

  NOTES

  Tim Henman wimps out of Wimbledon again. Oh for a street-fighting Brit who wants to play tennis.

  Saturday, July 6

  It’s all go at the moment. Sarah rang this morning – she and Mike have seen a house they like, only two or three streets away from Windolene Heights. They are going to see it again – would we like to come along and give our opinion? We would – if they could ease a few tiny fears we had. They did.

  It was Sarah’s decision apparently. Although Greythorn is only half an hour’s drive away (forty minutes probably from Windolene), it’s far enough for a visit to become a half day, so wouldn’t it be great for a new mum to have her parents nearby so either party could pop in for 10 minutes/20 minutes/a cup of tea/quick chat/parental advice/quick cuddle of grandchild. And Grandma and Gramps (Jules has already decided on the titles, because she doesn’t want to be a ‘Granny’) could see the baby every day; well, within reason. And Grandma and Gramps could babysit without it becoming an expedition; well, within reason (we all agreed the proximity wouldn’t be an excuse to dump sprog on oldies every weekend).

  It’s a nice house, a good-sized family home; detached, three bedrooms with scope for a fourth, good kitchen, separate dining room, fair-sized gardens front and back; good school not far away.

  Tremendous potential, as the estate agents say, which means there is a snag. It needs completely redecorating, possibly replacement windows judging by the state of the wood, new carpets and curtains, and generally refurbishing after years of obvious neglect.

  But that is also a gain of sorts – the neglect puts a desirable property within reach of Mike and Sarah without blowing all their new-found wealth and leaving themselves stretched.

  Of course, the main problem was staring everybody in the face: Sarah’s belly. Could she explain the logic of a stressful move when she was barrage-balloon-pregnant, because there was no way we were doing anything to jeopardise the health of our child and grandchild? She could. They hadn’t asked us yet for their bumper cheque, earmarked to pay off their existing mortgage, so they could use it to buy this house (‘plus a little bit more if needed, please, Dad’), and do it up in their own time. Move in after the birth, when they were good and ready, and, once they’d sold their current place, pay back any extra we had lent them. Provided no one beat them to it; it was after all going for a song.

  I said I’d check our rapidly dwindling bank account; Jules gave me a forearm smash. Well, a bleedin’ sharp elbow in the ribs.

  NOTES

  Missed the Wimbledon women’s final, but saw highlights tonight – namely Serena Williams’s mighty cleavage and amazing arse. When she’s crouching, waiting to receive service, you could park your bike in the former, and stand a pint on the latter. Or vice versa.

  Monday, July 8

  Checked our balance, anyway. Pah! Barely spent a million yet! Although that will change when we write some big ones for charity soon. We still haven’t worked out which charities and how much.

  This morning’s news on the BBC didn’t help. In fact, both Jules and I have spent most of the day trying (separately but along telepathic lines) to justify our wealth. When we have all we need, anyway. Not want; but need.

  After weeks of sport and a fairly quiet news period, the Beeb dumped in our laps the fact that there’s a famine in Angola – and the rest of black Africa isn’t in much better shape either. There were the usual heart-rending pictures of bloated dying babies, mothers with tits like envelope flaps trying in vain to give those babies sustenance and comfort, little children scratching at the earth for a few seeds, harassed doctors unable to prevent the obscenity of death by starvation.

  And then I read in the paper that the World Wildlife Fund reckons the earth will be so barren by 2050 that unless we act very soon we will have to colonise space to survive. And the WWF ain’t the sort of organisation prone to scaremongering. Basically, it seems, a large part of the blame falls on stupid greedy America for failing to sign up to the Kyoto Agreement on pollution (how stupid do you have to be to keep feeding insane materialism until you die?) and for making a culture of obesity (how stupid do you have to be to keep feeding your face until you die?). Apparently it takes 30 acres of land to support one person from the US, whereas a European country needs 15, and Burundi, one of the poorest nations, just over one acre.

  And here we are with £3million in the bank. That ain’t right.

  Okay, it’s a spit in the Atlantic as far as feeding Angola goes. But what sort of an excuse is that?

  Went in but didn’t do much work. Had a lunchtime cigar.

  Wednesday, July 10

  Popped into ECO late morning. Cory has had little feedback from the food he forced down people on Friday, and no new contracts yet (still just the science park one), which we both found a bit depressing, but he has all but sold a nearly-new Jag to one of the suits at the launch. Unable to ascertain whether it was the bloke Jules sweet-talked.

  Jules had a hot flush last night; her first for quite a while. Today came the news that a US study claims that women on HRT are at increased risk of breast cancer. The research team were so worried that they stopped their trial three years early. The pill they are studying is apparently totally different from anything available in the UK, but I wasn’t taking any chances. I ‘accidentally’ left the paper at the office, and then took charge of the TV remote control and switched channels at the first sign of a news bulletin.

  Thursday, July 11

  Went to see Doc Macca for the results of my blood tests – nothing to show any signs of arthritis, neuralgia, diabetes, liver problems, kidney problems, anaemia, etcetera, etcetera; in fact, I was probably the healthiest man on her books!

  I took the liberty of asking her about HRT, the US report, and Jules’s worries. And she took the liberty of telling me that the risk of breast cancer with the UK HRT was minimal, and a slightly more powerful prescription made only a gnat’s cock difference to the odds. (Actually, she might have said gnat’s whisker.)

  Friday, July 12

  I’m not a very good censor; in the end Jules found out in the worst possible way. She was woken at regular intervals last night by hot flushes, and each time had to get out of bed to cool down. She said she felt like a debilitated rag doll by the third so she brewed a reviving Cupasoup and idly switched on the telly as she sipped and sweated and shivered. And found herself reading a Ceefax follow-up story about the US HRT trial.

  We talked about it over breakfast, and I suggested she made another appointment with Doc Macca, which she duly did. Not because of the scare story but becaus
e she was suddenly getting very hot hot flushes again. Then I went into town and bought myself one of the new flatscreen-widescreen iMacs, and a new-fangled router for another internet connection so Jules and I could surf at the same time if need be.

  I have always resisted having a Mac at home before, because I knew I would be tempted to work when I shouldn’t; but this wasn’t work. This was a communication channel. As soon as I had got the web connections working, Jules and I both started researching HRT.

  There’s some worrying stuff out there on the ether; but little of it seems to be backed up by evidence.

  When Jules went off to start cooking a meal, I looked up arthritis and rheumatoid arthritis, and then somehow I got sucked into Raynaud’s Syndrome, Motor Neurone Disease, and other similar horrors. Worrying stuff. Sorry, Jules, but give me a hot flush any day.

  NOTES

  Crikey, cripes, and crumbs! Billy Bunter (Gerald Campion) has died. Hopefully, peacefully and not painfully.

  Sunday, July 14

  We know this truth, of course, but the Beeb has rubbed it in again: there is no end to the number of people, particularly children, in need of help. We taped the marathon telethon Sport Relief so we could just fast-forward through the boring/charity bits, and in lieu of anything else to do this afternoon we decided to give it a whirl. Bad mistake. There were only two decent bits in it – Johnny Vegas being very silly, and the Les Dennis v Bob Mortimer boxing match (shame it wasn’t Les v Neil The Cad Morrisey!) – and then our new-found guilt ensnared us in one of the charity bits.