The Poisoned Chalice
Someone won the National Lottery on Saturday.
It is the first time there was a jackpot win since last summer and the prize had been capped at over nineteen million.
That is a number that is hard to comprehend. Invest it at a mere 1% and you still end up with more money that the average person could spend in a year. Your capital would still build up leaving you with even more. Assuming you live a normal life without splurging on a massive house or a yacht or whatever it is almost impossible to spend.
I would hate to win it.
It is too much. It is a life changer and frankly unless the winner is an exceptionally level headed person the change is not going to be for the good.
First and foremost it is going to attract scroungers like flies to a shit-pile. You would suddenly find yourself swamped by “relatives” you had never heard of and strangers who all think they have some bona fide reason why they deserve a wodge of cash. You may try to keep your win a secret but that amount is virtually impossible to hide. The winning ticket was bought in Castlebar and I can assure you that anyone suddenly buying a fancy car there will immediately become suspect.
I have pondered this idea in my idle moments. What would I do?
The normal reaction is to spread it out to the family. But that has its problems. Leave the Grandkids too little [in their opinion] and you will be perceived as mean in perpetuity. Leave them too much and they become soft and would probably end up with destroying themselves. Of course I would leave them some but how much? When you think about it, the answer isn’t so simple.
What would I buy for myself? Possibly a new car, but not a pretentious one, just new to make sure I avoid that irritating car test every year. New house? No. I’m very happy where I am. I would probably give the house an overhaul with maybe a small extension but then do I want to have the place filled with builders, painters and decorators? A holiday home? Nah! I’m happy enough renting, though it would broaden my scope of accommodation somewhat. There really isn’t anything I would really fancy. The only thing I could wish for is a return to youthful vigour for myself and Herself, but money can’t buy that.
In all honesty, I think I would sit down and draw out a list of charities. Animal rescue centres would be close to the top and some of the smaller ones looking after the homeless. Any charity which advertises on television would have to be crossed off the list as they obviously have money to splash out [with a couple of local exceptions]. Having drawn out my list I would bang off a million or so to each, anonymously of course.
I’d toss a few grand in the direction of Daughter and maybe set up a trust fund for the Grandkids. One way or another I would probably meet with disapproval. Even scribbling this could be trouble. If Daughter reads it – “wadya mean you’d only leave me ‘a few grand’? Ya miserable old scrote!”
I might add a couple of thousand into my Rainy Day Fund, but that’s it. Anyone who turned up after that would be told that it’s all gone. Tough titty.
I have all I really want already.
The missus and myself also have these discussions from time to time.
Our real problem is that we never buy lottery tickets…
Nor do I now. I used to buy the occasional one but the odds now are beyond stupid. I have a better chance of being abducted by an Alien.
The key thing rich folk have that poor folk don’t is choices. On balance, I’d rather have choices.
Not that I’ll ever be so rich, obviously.
True. But the only choices that would be affected would be in buying a car or booking a holiday. Neither of those bother me now. The rest is unimportant.
Sent me back years to a time when my dad would fill in the old football pools every week.
He was so doing one day when a friend of his called round, saw what he was doing and asked,
“If you ever win, what will you do about all the begging letters?”
Dad thought a moment and replied, “I’ll probably just keep sending them.”
You could have your book published. You could buy your cafe. Fix your entrance. (to your yard.) You could commission extraordinary pipes. Fix that thing on your roof. Have mysterious blonde, all in black, stand in background at your funeral and toss some soil in at end. Become a whiskey/whisky connoisseur – posh piss head. Employ a Teashop double to go about doing shocking things. Buy bits of beautiful coast just to keep the improvers and caravans at bay.
Just be generally mischievous.
As I get older,large denomination notes for balance in coffin lie with open box before cremation.
Brings to mind the funeral where the first nine mourners each threw a £10 note into the grave for the deceased to have a drink on them in heaven. The parsimonious Yorkshireman mourner proceeded to throw in a cheque for £100 and took the nine £10 notes out as his change.
The Yorkshireman was horrified when he opened his bank statement and discovered the cheque had been cashed.
The undertaker was a Yorkshireman
A genuine Laugh Out Loud moment!
Even for me.
The trouble with leaving money to charities is in finding one that has not gone woke
I’d spend half of it on booze and wild parties, half of it on women, then I’d just squander the rest.
The ‘Best’ thing to do…..
Alright , I’ll get my coat….