Only once have I ever heard of somebody wealthy winning the lottery. It was a top flight city lawyer who lived in a big pile near Bedford and he celebrated by upgrading his Ferrari and installing bigger gates on his drive. This might have been one of those urban myths, like the beheading in the Black Forest or the spiders hatching out of a blokes boil on his neck. Clearly if he did exist publicity was the last thing on his mind. In nearly every other example of lottery success the winners are a soon to be retired, bungalow dwelling, teetotal couple with humdrum jobs, she a cleaner, he putting stuff in boxes on a conveyor belt, who maintain that it won't change them, they'll still go down to the social club and they might splash out on a cruise. To the Isle of Wight.
Despite instantaneous acquisition of unfathomable wealth, catapulting them above Ringo Starr in the Rich List, the absence of big epic blue sky dreams must be crushing to the PR department of Camelot when these meek salt of the earth folk always seem to win the big prize. Their horizons set as far as the privet hedge at the end of their gardens. The only drama beyond the win is the extended family photo with the look of badly concealed malevolence in the eyes of the extended clan who realise that they have to start kowtowing to their parents, instead of the annual visit at Christmas, if they are ever going to get their hands on the Ford Mondeo (whilst Edna and Keith upgrade to a nearly new Ford Mondeo)
Now should I have won the £165 million last week I would have kept very quiet indeed. On day one I would check into the Ritz, hired a troupe of acrobats (for no other reason that I could) and set about planning how I was going to spend the rest of my life amusing myself in the most high tempo fashion. I would very much let the money change me in the most obscene ways imaginable. Indeed my aim would be to end my days in a hollowed out volcano surrounded by a private lycra clad army.
This is just for starters and before the paranoia and OCD kicks in. This would be prior to my obsessive collecting of skulls from every ethnic human subset.
Here's my list of things to do with approximate costings:
I would contact Smelly and Scratcher and bankroll a coup in Equatorial Guinea and rename it Equatorial Griff. [£10 million]
I would get a single to number one which, as we know, is only a question of money. [£200k]
I would buy a Knighthood. [£500k]
I would get Piers Morgan seen to.[£20k]
I would date (rent) Jordan, then dump her very publicly for someone from Hollyoaks (I reckon the cost for both of these has come down quite significantly of late). [£100k each?]
I would open a newspaper called The Hack which would consist solely of excerpts from intercepted phone calls and adverts for all inclusive holidays in Equatorial Griff. [£10 million]
I would get some really expensive Bengal cats. [£5k]
My extravagance would know no bounds, buying razor blades in bulk and using a new one every day. And we're talking the posh ones with 5 blades. [£15 per week]
Corner the Cocoa Market. [£100 million]
This is just for starters and before the paranoia and OCD kicks in. This would be prior to my obsessive collecting of skulls from every ethnic human subset. It's before I have had time to develop a demented cackle and installed a screen the size of a ping pong table on the wall which has a constantly updated map of the worlds operational warheads.
I would be interested to know what my fellow travellers on ST would do with their 165 million. And if you work on a lathe and plan to dedicate your life to works of charity then probably best to leave it.
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