THE TROUBLE WITH MONEY
The diary of a Lottery winner
by
Frank Rawlins
Published by Huck Books at Smashwords
Copyright © 2010 Frank Rawlins
This book is available in print (ISBN 978-0-9556980-1-9)
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∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
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 boy 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).
We deferred the decision on Cory. We did decide that brother and sisters would benefit but they would have to look after their own offspring and assorted relatives; if they wanted to. As for Jules’s mum – she wouldn’t want anything. Except perhaps a new winter coat, as long as it didn’t cost too much.
And what about us? Jack the jobs in immediately? Go on a cruise? Buy a new house?
Jules decided to put in her notice on Friday, and work out her two weeks so she could get in more than one farewell party, and then rip that little shit Kelly apart; I decided to continue with the business while I looked at ways of selling it or winding it down without causing suspicion or a fuss.
Our first holiday would be a long weekend in Venice, as soon as possible. We’d had a day trip there during our Lake Garda holiday, and ever since we had wanted to do it properly – and in style. First class air travel, five-star hotel, a gondola with a singing gondolier, coffee at Florian’s listening to a string quartet; the whole bit. And now we can. We can go to Florian’s and not wince when they ask for a king’s ransom for two coffees. Come to think of it, I probably will wince, and probably won’t go there again, but I can look the condescending waiters in the eye and flash my lira – no, Euros now – and then walk out without leaving a tip. Chuckling and not feeling the slightest bit embarrassed.
As for the house – we don’t need a bigger house, we are both several years past the BIG FIVE OH DEAR, the kids have left home, and we have to think about how we will cope when we are dodderers. But we’ve always wanted somewhere with a decent bit of land. Jules has this idea she can become the next Charlie Dimmock (she’s got no idea about gardening but she can almost match Charlie’s bra-less charlies at 53), and I want to create a putting green lawn. Or maybe even a proper golf hole; two or three tees dotted around for variation.
But if we bought this little estate everybody would know, or could guess – Lottery winners! Could say I got a good price for the business…
And so we talked on and on until it was nearly midnight, and still neither of us was tired. We did decide, however, to try to get some sleep. Without much success. We couldn’t even make love. My brain was whirring with it so much I couldn’t even get a Hard On!
Jules is snoring lightly. I crept out at about two o’clock into the cubby-study-hole and started writing this. My normal 10-15 minutes (much longer when I’m catching up or in literary mode) has stretched an hour and on to four supplementary sheets of A4. Now I’m feeling tired. Shall go back to Jules.
Still no HO.
Thursday, January 10
Dawn broke early. We were up, drinking tea, soon after 5.30am. Actually, it was still dark. A couple of hours later I drove to the office, put a notice on the door saying ‘Closed Until Monday’, and Jules croaked a bogus message on to her boss’s answerphone saying she had developed a bad cold overnight.
Then I drove us carefully to Watford – it would be the ultimate nightmare being maimed or worse in a crash on the eve of a new life. Camelot Dawn was a pleasant, 30-ish woman, attractive in a smart-trouser-suit sort of way, business-like but friendly. She checked the winning ticket and printed out our cheque. It looked like any other sort of cheque – until you read the figures. Wow!
She gave us the whole spiel: they would arrange for a panel of experts if we wanted – lawyer, accountant, financial adviser – or we could use our own, if we preferred. We decided to think about it. She spent quite a while trying to persuade us that publicity wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, and smiled understandingly when I said, ‘Who for – Camelot?’
We had a few sips of Camelot champagne to toast our win, and then sat on our own quietly nursing coffee in a comfy room thoughtfully provided by our hosts, composing ourselves for the drive back to our new life.
There are some advantages to having a small business and knowing your bank manager personally (almost intimately after many sessions together when I set up the company). Anthony – now Wolfman only in name if not in reality – saw us at short notice, and hardly twitched when I passed the cheque over his desk. And I knew – just knew – that our secret would be safe with him. We put the whole lot in a holding account, attracting an interest that was marginally better than the sorry offerings on most accounts in these days of low inflation and near-recession.
Then we drove into Oxford, had lunch at the Randolph Hotel – didn’t see Inspector Morse but did leave a modest tip for a waiter who wasn’t overly supercilious – and then booked our trip to Venice, three weeks hence.
Phoned the kids – to ask them round for Sunday lunch. Then we went to bed and played printers and nurses.
Got up and had some supper, watched TV.
NOTES
3.30am as I finish this.
Friday, January 11
We went into town to do some shopping, stopping en route at BC Parry Engineering, which Jules’s administration skills have apparently held together for the past nine years. I got out, wandered into reception, said hello to a girl I hadn’t seen before, and handed her Jules’s resignation letter addressed to Mervyn Kelly.
Jules sat in the car outside. She wasn’t too worried if anyone saw her. She could just say she was totally pissed off with Kelly and couldn’t take any more, and people would nod their heads knowingly.
And so to the shops. We bought some clothes – nothing too expensive, but good enough to fool a posh hotel in Venice – and had a pub lunch.
An enjoyable day, but we still feel we’re wandering round in a vacuum at the moment. Want to get things going. Sell the business; start our new lives; go on holiday; play lots of golf; and start a novel. At least Jules made a start with her resignation letter. Her only regret was that she wasn’t there to see Kelly’s face when he opened the letter.
NOTES
Otiose = not required, serving no practical purpose; futile.
Nice word, Kenny Williams; must try to squeeze it into the odd conversation.
Saturday, January 12
Medal day. Resisted temptation to buy new set of Pings (what a give-away that would have been) and played like a cripple with one arm and impaired vision. But not just because I was playing with my old Mizunos. There was something preying on my mind: as soon as FR rolled up, with five minutes to spare, as usual, I remembered the Lottery pact we had made in the club bar a couple of years ago – if either of us won the Lottery jackpot we would buy the other a brand-spanking-new set of golf clubs. Top of the range, gold encrusted, laser-guidance attachment.
Talk about Catch 22. I couldn’t renege on it, but FR would know immediately if I suddenly handed him a new set of Callaways and said I’d found them by the side of the road. And being a journalist, of course …
I will have to give it some serious thought; and perhaps tell Jules of our little pact.
Chris played well (net 69); Frank and Dave average.
See from the papers that the £16,000,000 winner has claimed his jackpot. Wonder if he’s bought any clubs yet – like Wentworth.
NOTES
LCFC lost again; looking grim. And Dennis Wise is looking decidedly otiose for a £2million buy: if he’s not injured or suspended, he’s generally getting up people’s noses or raking their shins rather than playing like a former international footballer.
Sunday, January 13
We had it all worked out: we’d have lunch first, so as not to disrupt Jules’s careful timing of the cooking (one slight distraction and we’re half an hour late – with this news we’d be eating about Tuesday), and then, just like Christmas, we’d get out the port and Stilton, and tell them over that.
Sarah ruined all that. She and Mike hadn’t been in the door more than a minute when she said, with a slightly worried smile on her face, ‘We’ve got something to tell you.’
We smiled warily but didn’t have time to say anything.
‘You’re going to be grandparents,’ she added.
Jules gave out a joyous little scream, and rushed to hug the happy couple.
‘Did this happen before you got married?’ I teased, with a solemn face.
‘Wedding night or night after, I reckon, Aitch,’ retorted Mike who had picked up the HH Art of A Gentle Wind-Up with worrying ease.
I hugged them both; obviously only a quick manly hug with Mike. Then Cory arrived, and the teasing innuendoes really started flying. I just got caught up in all the euphoria.
Me and your mum have got something to tell you as well,’ I announced.
Jules looked momentarily annoyed, but almost immediately gave a resigned ‘I understand’ shrug of her shoulders.
‘We’re getting divorced,’ I added.
There was a stunned silence. Even Jules looked stunned.
‘After nearly thir ..?’ said Sarah quietly but then saw my solemn face break into a grin. ‘You bastard!’ she added, not unreasonably.
Then I told them.
None of them was sure whether this was another wind-up.
‘Scout’s honour,’ I said. I reached into my shirt pocket and pulled out our photocopy of the cheque, made by our friendly bank manager.
‘It’s true,’ added Jules.
The squeals and whoops and general joyful mayhem seemed to go on for several minutes. When everybody had eventually calmed down I opened a bottle of expensive champagne. And then Cory, never one to see a bush, let alone beat about it, said, ‘So how much are we getting, Dad?’ In a jokey sort of way.
That’s when things got a bit tricky. I told him, in an only slightly bush-beating sort of way, that I and his mother were worried what a large sum of money might do to him, so if he could come up with a plan, of what he might do with it, we would discuss figures.
‘You want me to do a business plan for you!?’ he asked incredulously.
‘Well, more a sort of life plan,’ I said. And then added, in his own ‘what-bush?’ style, ‘We’re frightened you might blow it all in five years and end up a raddled old sot with no purpose in life. If you can convince us you’re ready to handle, ooh, shall we say, up to half a million, you shall have it.’
That shut him up for a while; but only a short while. He still wasn’t happy that we were apparently ready to write a cheque for £500,000 for his sister without qualms (even though she would now have to share it with a husband and a baby), but he – in his own words – had to beg for every crumb and account for every penny.
The argument – on the whole, amicable – went on for some time, while we all drank more champagne and get ever so slightly merry.
In the end I wrote both Sarah and Cory a cheque for £20,000 each, to be going on with, providing no one breathed a word of our win to anyone, not even close friends, not even family. They agreed.
As I write, it is now just before midnight. Dinner will be served at any moment.
Monday, January 14
Went into work but couldn’t work. Rang up a few old printer mates, and with a few deft, disguised, all-purpose enquiries discovered that I was unlikely to find a buyer for the business in town.
Jules came home beaming like a Cheshire cat that had got the Wensleydale. Kelly had asked her to stay on. He offered her an extra pound an hour! A whole extra pound!
‘I told him to shove it up his arse!’ she said.
We both laughed like drains.
Jules and I are as chuffed with the news of our grandchild as we are with our new riches. Fancy sleeping with a granny!
MLTJ. Like a couple of teenagers. Shame about the aches and pains afterwards.
Don’t know why I keep doing the initials thing; like some teenager. Just in case Jules sees it, I suppose. She’ll do her crust – ‘what if somebody else sees it!?’
Who’s gonna see it, and what the hell does it matter if they do? Yes, I shall continue with my little reminders, to bring me a little smile when I read this in my dotage.
NOTES
What about Prince Harry! On the wacky baccy apparently. Nice to know he’s just your average heavy-drinking, occasional-joint-smoking 17-year-old. Keep it up, boy, and your brain might start working like an average teenager’s – and you might realise one day what a fucking nonsense the monarchy is in the 21st century.
Wednesday, January 16
Still steeling myself to ring siblings. Good job none of them lives close. It would be very tricky if I bumped into one of them in the street.
Jules and I decided not to actually tell them on the phone, but to arrange one of our occasional family get-togethers, so we could tell them face to face – and stress there’d be nothing for nobody, in Arnie’s vernacular, if any of them blabbed. I’ll ring Arnie tomorrow; let him organise the fine details of where and when.
Friday, January 18
Had a chat with the Wolfman. He recommended his own financial adviser – who has no connection whatsoever with the bank! Not a good recommendation for your business, Anthony old boy. But it’s good enough for me. Must ring Camelot and let them know.
Put an ad in trade mag – brief details of press/business, in-region-of price, and box number.
Headline in The Rag: KETTLE BOILED OVER
(It was about a kitchen fire!)
Saturday, January 19
Finally got round to ringing Arnie. Tried to sound casual, nonchalant, as if I always asked the family round on a cold weekend in January. But at least I had a good excuse – my 55th birthday, sort of half a milestone. Arnie sounded a bit surprised. But obviously pleased. Not because he would be seeing his little brother again, but because he’s the world’s biggest freeloader.
He wasn’t too happy when I told him siblings only (shouldn’t use these tricky words, HH!); but he was very happy when I promised him the best meal The George could provide and a room there afterwards – on me – for whoever wanted to drink and stay the night.
God, what a push-over.
Added later: In the event, Maggie volunteered to stay sober and drive back. Good.
NOTES
Creditable 0-0 draw at home to Newcastle – but desperately need a few wins.
Sunday, January 20
Cory rang to say he couldn’t come for lunch. We were both gobsmacked – it was only the second time since he had left us for bedsit land that he had turned down a Sunday roast. Like most 22-year-olds lads his culinary skills revolve around a can opener, a toaster, and a microwave.
He had an important appointment apparently, but if he could he’d pop his head round the door just to say hello.
He signalled his arrival on our short drive soon after 3p.m. with a blast of his car horn – but not a blast I recognised. I went to the door and found out why – he was not in his old Renault but a BMW. Not a new one, but one in immaculate condition.
‘Like it?’ he asked, getting out with a big beam on his face.
My fuse was lit. I was ready to go ballistic.
‘How much did this cost you then?’ I asked.
‘Do you like it?’
‘How much did it cost?’
‘Bargain for its age and mileage.’
‘How much did it cost!?’
‘We could be here all day, Dad, doing this.’
‘Let me put it another way – have you spent all that twenty grand on this?’
‘Not quite.’
Steam came out of my nostrils. I knew from past experience that ‘not quite’ meant he probably had about two quid change.
‘So what happens when it breaks down? Or you prang it? It is insured, is it? Didn’t you save anything for an emergency? Or do you think I’ll bail you out every time?’
‘Fucking hell! I might have known …’
I ignored his profanity (well, he’d probably learned it from me in the first place) and let some steam ease out of my ears. Jules came to the door and saved him from further punishment.
With a pleasant, unsuspecting smile on her face, she asked what was the matter.
‘Dad’s flying off the handle – without letting me explain,’ he explained.
‘Go on then,’ I invited.
‘It’s an investment. I got it for a pittance …’
‘How much?’
‘Nineteen grand.’
‘Oh good. You didn’t spend it all in one go then.’
‘There’s no talking to you, is there?’ he asked, but obviously didn’t want an answer. He pecked Jules on the cheek, offered an apology for such a fleeting visit, and got back into the £19,000 BMW.
I just knew I was right about him. Just knew it.
MLTJ. Not the best.
Monday, January 21
Dermot Stone rang up to query their bill. I told him where to get off. I’m not taking that shit; probably wouldn’t even take it if I were still a penniless printer. Told him they get an extra discount anyway as regular customers. He swore, I swore, we slammed our phones down in unison.
Eric Butler rang me p.m. to apologise; said it was just a misunderstanding at their end. He hoped it wouldn’t jeopardise our relationship. I bit my tongue. Which was painful.
Email from Cory:
Dad, it IS an investment, I promise you. Sorry if I lost my temper.
Heard this one? ‘Last week I met a Dutch girl with inflatable shoes. I phoned her yesterday to ask for a date, but she’d popped her clogs.’
It’s difficult to stay mad with the maddening little bugger.
Wednesday, January 23
Jules took another sickie, and why not, and we drove to Leicester to see my Dad (get this over first) and then to Peterborough to see her mother. We thought we had better tell them first, before sibs. With Dad, we somehow felt it was a moral obligation, even though he wouldn’t understand.
We hadn’t seen him at Christmas, as we normally did, because we couldn’t face it. We had done the last two Crimbos, visiting him at Crazy Corner, and neither time had he really known us. We had sat with him for an hour and tried to talk, while all the time his fellow zombies wandered around in limbo, most not knowing who they were, where they were, and he would only mumble a few words to ask if it was dinner-time or tea-time. Arnie and Maggie had volunteered, with a little coercion from me, to get their arses in gear this time and drive the 10 miles (compared to our 70). They said they did, but who knows?
Strangely, Dad seemed to recognise us, although he couldn’t put names to the faces. We showed him our latest family photos and told him his granddaughter was expecting a child – his first great-grandchild – but none of it seemed to penetrate the Alzheimer’s. So we didn’t mention the Lottery. Instead, we had a quick word with the unit manager, who told us that Dad’s condition was still deteriorating at an unusually slow rate, but it might accelerate at any time. We told him that we were financially secure so if there was anything Dad wanted, please let us know. Then we left that abject place with sorrow in our hearts but relief that we could rejoin what we laughingly refer to as the ‘real world’.
Ruth was a ball of fun in comparison. We had phoned and said we would pop in while we were in the area, and as soon as we walked in she said, ‘So what’s up then!? And don’t tell me nothing, because otherwise it would wait till we come down. And that’s only four days away!’
We insisted on a pot of tea first, and then told her. She was so pleased for us – and our kids (and grandchild!). We asked her not to tell anyone else, not even family; we would do that on Sunday. She’s rarely demonstrative or emotional, let alone jolly, but she used up three months’ smiles in the next two hours.
And when Jules asked her what she would like, she said, ‘A nice winter coat would be nice, Dear. Don’t go spending a fortune, mind. Just something nice and snug.’
‘That’s a tenner you owe me,’ I whispered to Jules as Ruth busied herself with another tea refill.
‘Take it out the housekeeping!’ Jules whispered back.
We both turned our heads away, biting our lips, desperate not to laugh out loud.
BTTTML (all that travelling, don’t you know). And still feeling tinges of sadness.
NOTES
Funny old life. Jim Broadbent won a Golden Globe on Monday for his role in the film Iris, as the husband of Iris Murdoch, who died following Alzheimer’s. FR saw the charity premiere in Oxford, and said it was a real tear-jerker. He advised us to wait till it comes out on video and have a good sob in the privacy of our living room. I think we can manage after coping with the real thing.
LCFC 1 Arsenal 3.If only I’d won the £16,000,000 – could have bought the boys a new striker. These days £3,456,789, or whatever, wouldn’t be enough to buy one of David Beckham’s legs. Both his wife’s perhaps, which might at least cheer up the Leicester lads.
Thursday, January 24
FR popped his pilgarlic round the door at lunch-time; said he was passing, had some time to kill, and did I fancy a pint? Not really, but I went. Trouble with lunch-time boozing is, unless you stick at one, it wipes you out for the afternoon. He had to go to court – reporting – so we stuck at one.
Apparently the £16,000,000 Lottery winner doesn’t come from this neck of the wood – as far as FR can tell – but he’s had a strong tip that the town has spawned one big winner since Christmas. He said he was working on it. A shiver went through me. Almost as if he had trodden on my grave. Very strange.
NOTES
Load of nonsense on evening news about Queen’s Golden Jubilee. Jules agreed there wouldn’t be that much interest, unlike the Silver Jubilee, because other Royals had damaged the Family. I agreed that, yes, the Queen is probably a very nice, hard-working lady in a very difficult job – but so are millions of others and they get paid a pittance. And they have to get their own tea when they get home. If they can afford it. Unfortunately the Queen’s job is about a century out of date. Couldn’t get Jules to agree on that one. Sadly, there are millions of others who won’t either. They see Her Maj as some sort of super-human; deity almost. What a crock of shit.
Friday, January 25
Fiddled around with a few jobs, couldn’t concentrate, went home early. Watched Countdown. Carol’s rat’s tails are definitely growing on me. I could have phrased that better. Actually, I hardly noticed them because her smile was even more scintillating than usual. And her laugh – my God, the dirtiest I’ve ever heard.
Jules came home pretty crapulous from her farewell do with the girls. They went to the new Chinese eamayl (eat-as-much-as-you-like) restaurant in Oxford and turned it into a damayl, with Jules paying for all the drinks. The girls had to buy their own meals – so as not to give the game away. Jules tells me she didn’t crack – but we’ll have to tell somebody soon.
JMLTM. She tried, anyway. She would have been banging away all night if she hadn’t fallen asleep on the job.
Saturday, January 26
Retrieved first box-number replies to my ad. Four letters; only two looked like serious enquiries. One was from Jim Felix!! I still haven’t forgiven the beaky bastard for trying to drop me in it when he discovered I was going for job interviews to get away from The Rag. The twat did at least give me the impetus to strike out on my own.
Seeing his name also reminded me to ask Jules – did she rip that little shit Kelly to pieces before she left yesterday? Sadly, when pinch comes to shove, she’s too nice. If they’d had a row yesterday afternoon she would have done. But she said she’s mellowed since their last spat. I think she has.
Sunday, January 27
Bloody Sunday. What a nightmare. They arrived jammed into Arnie’s People Carrier (‘first in Leicester!’ – and now beginning to look it) fighting mad after a 90-minute journey during which, apparently, Ruth’s blood had almost become the sauce in the sardine can. We were waiting for them in the kitchen – me, Jules, and the kids – and before I could say, ‘What’s everybody drinking?’, Arnie told us the worst. Ruth had ‘accidentally’ let slip after only a handful of miles that she had a secret, something to do with Harry, and spent the rest of the journey dropping coy hints and smiling knowingly but steadfastly refusing to reveal any more – making the other six madder by the mile. Even her two daughters were seething, and I’d never seen Jennifer seethe since leaving university for banking and spinsterhood.
‘Tell us now!’ Arnie insisted, not forgetting to add, ‘Pint of Cooking’ (any old beer going).
‘In a minute,’ I said. ‘But it’s not bad news. Now go and sit down, Arnie, or I’ll send you packing back to Leicester.’
‘No you don’t…’
‘GO!’ I threatened. He went. Cory helped me out by settling everyone in round our big pine table. And all I could think was, Thank God we didn’t meet at The George. The whole bloody town would have known within minutes!
I told them as calmly as I could. They were dumbfounded, for several seconds, and then the questions began. Even Jules’s sisters – both normally quiet and unmoveable – had trouble containing themselves. Jayne wanted to know how long we had known; Jenny wanted to know who we had banked the cheque with. The other member of Ruth’s J squad – John – couldn’t stop laughing and making pathetic puns. Just like the day he had married Jayne – when he annoyed so many people before the ceremony that we were within an ace of twinning it with his funeral.
Sweet Caroline proved she was the nicest sister in the world; her painful divorce from Hugo hasn’t soured her against men in general. Just her older brother. She was the only one to give me a kiss, and tell me to enjoy the money. She gave Arnie a pointed and sarcastic smile.
Our sister-in-law was almost straight-faced; angry, I guessed, because we had won it and she and Arnie hadn’t.
Arnie was the last to speak. He surprised me by saying, ‘Congratulations, Aitch. I knew one of us would win it one day.’ But before I could respond he reeled off a long list of things he would do for the family – us included – if he ever won. Even Cory, who had excelled himself only a fortnight earlier, seemed stunned by this blatant ploy.
I was magnanimous; I said everybody would get a fair share – even if they only wanted a nice winter coat – but first Jules and I had to get our investments sorted out. There was no rush – unless anybody had got an urgent financial problem. I should have known better.
‘Our Ron’s got himself into a jam with his car repayments. Asked me to bail him out – but I can’t afford it at the moment,’ said Arnie.
‘Only the people in this room,’ I said, trying to ignore the mental picture of Cory’s BMW that immediately sprang to mind. ‘If you want to help your kids or other relatives afterwards, that’s up to you.’
‘You tight bastard!’
The fur really flew. My beloved brother and I went at it hammer and tongs, just like when we were warring kids, for several minutes until Jules managed to calm us down. She even extracted a promise from him, and everybody else, that it would be a calm, civilised lunch at The George, and nobody would go blabbing loudly about the Lottery. Or else!
Lunch was very restrained, with no one daring to mention anything to do with money, which made ordering drinks at the bar a tad tricky. Arnie insisted on paying for the first round. I bought lots of wine. John left a meagre tip for our waitress, saying as we walked out towards our cars, ‘I always give waitresses a tip – “don’t expect much from me”.’
We all laughed like drains. It was his best ever.
Can’t write any more. Perhaps do it tomorrow at work.
Monday, January 28
It’s a bastard. You don’t want any work and it comes piling in. Turned down two jobs this morning (‘too busy’), and gave Eric Butler, still sounding chastened after Dermot’s faux pas, a ridiculously high quote for a job. If he accepts it, I’ll eat this diary.
I need this afternoon free to finish what I started writing last night. Must get it down while it’s still reasonably fresh in the old brainbox. I’ll probably enjoy reading it again in a few years’ time. But it might be useful before then – to have a near verbatim account to show Arnie.
To try to ensure it didn’t turn into a free-for-all, Jules and I had come up with what seemed like a fair assessment to start the ball rolling.
First – no doubt, no discussion – we’d buy Ruth’s council flat for her (it was going for a song, anyway) and put enough in the bank to cover her bills. And enough for a nice winter coat, of course. And no bloody arguments, Ruth; you’re having it, like it or lump it. (We think she likes it, although she’ll probably never admit it.)
Then came the tricky bit. We didn’t divulge the basic maths but it went like this: up to half a million each for our kids, leaving about £2.4m (on the premise that the interest would soon cover the modest outlay for Ruth); up to a million for charities and good causes, leaving about £1.4m; and up to £250,000 for the rest of the family, leaving Jules and me as a joint-millionaire-plus-a-bit. Until we spend a tidy sum on a new house, leaving us with enough for a comfortable retirement.
The extra-tricky bit was: did we treat the married couples – Arnie and Maggie, and Jayne and John – the same way we had treated our own kids? Sarah and Mike seemed happy with just one ‘share’ between them, and I’m sure Cory was. Whichever way we decided, we were bound to upset someone. We thought about a compromise – £75,000 for the two married couples and £50,000 for the singletons – but in the end that wasn’t fair on Sarah and Mike. So in the end, we had to follow the ball we had already set rolling.
So that’s what I told them – fifty grand per sibling.
‘How does that sound?’ I asked into a silence broken only by whirring brains.
Arnie spoke first: ‘So Caroline gets £50,000 thanks to having a failed marriage, and me and Mags get £25,000 each for having seen off nearly 30 years of wedded bliss!’
I explained to him about the kids, very neatly, I thought. ‘When Cory gets married, his bride won’t get a share. Then he and Sarah – and Mike and the new bride – will all have had the same treatment. If Caroline remarries…’
‘That’ll be the day,’ she and Arnie said in unison.
‘… or Jennifer finally meets the man of her dreams…’
‘… Don't be daft!’ she and Arnie said in unison.
‘… then their new partners won’t get a share either. It’s all very fair really.’
Arnie wasn’t convinced. Cory – give him his due – had a go at Arnie, explaining how he was very happy with the arrangement. It didn’t exactly placate his uncle.
‘I’m not fucking surprised,’ said Arnie, drawing rebuking gasps from Ruth, Jayne and John. ‘I’d be happy if I was getting a million …’ he guessed, stopping and looking for the slightest hint of confirmation. The only reaction was a sad shake of the head from Cory.
‘Well, whatever. Even if you’re not getting it now, you’ll have it all when the old folks kick the bucket.’
I don’t know who was madder – Cory, Sarah, Mike, or Jules. They all tore into the mercenary bastard. I particularly liked Jules’s ‘This is a gift, Arnie. We don’t have to give you anything. And if you don’t like it, you don’t have to accept it.’
That shut him up. But I could see, as they all gathered themselves to go back home, his brain was whirring desperately, trying to find an answer to the unanswerable.
What a fuck-awful pre-birthday party. We’ve got the best news ever – well, until our grandchild arrives – and my own brother ruins it. I wonder what’s it like for the £16million winner? Bloody relatives are probably tearing his carcass apart as I write.
Tuesday, January 29
Maggie rang me at work. To apologise ‘if Arnie got a bit carried away’. Hmm. ‘He’s so worried about Ron’s financial problems, he wasn’t thinking straight.’ I accepted her apology as gracefully as I could but didn’t add anything to the conversation. I couldn’t decide whether she was making sure I didn’t change my mind and give them nothing, or whether she was trying to prepare the ground for another attempt to up their share.
If they’re not careful, the latter could lead to the former.
NOTES
Meretricious = superficially attractive but without real value; seemingly plausible but actually insincere; originally meaning, of or befitting a prostitute.
A word I had known but forgotten. Now, thanks again to Kenneth Williams, I have rediscovered it. Why does it keep springing to my mind!
Wednesday, January 30
Sorry, Carol (Vord, that is, not Sis) – there is a rival for your affection. Sue Barker looked absolutely stunning on Question Of Sport this evening. A new hairstyle and virtually no make-up (according to Jules). Is this a mid-life crisis, or am I turning into a dirty old man? Do nearly-55s across the country drool after the Vord and Co, even when they’re happily married? Probably. Anyway, showed my mettle by giving Ms V a miss tonight – couldn’t bear to watch Britain’s Brainiest Footballers. Contradiction in terms. Watched Home Front In The Garden instead. Thoroughly enjoyed it! Yeah, definitely a mid-life crisis.
Thursday, January 31
Yessiree, 55 today. And I don’t feel a day over 54. Lovely day. Jules and I went into Oxford, looked in lots of estate agents’ windows, and did some last-minute shopping for Venice. Spent nearly £500 on a necklace for her. She bought me a smart casual black leather ‘blouson’ (nearly £200) for my birthday. We both had qualms – but shit! we’re going to do our bit for the starving. Had a light lunch at Browns, meandered back, watched Countdown, and dressed in all our finery for the evening. Just the five of us for an expensive but lovely dinner at Rigoletto’s. I was going to pay, but Cory and Sarah insisted on splitting the bill between them. Well, they can afford it! Cory gave me a set of cufflinks, expensive looking with £ signs on. Sarah and Mike gave me a Bill Bryson hardback and The Best Of Van Morrison CD. Thank you, thank you!
Glad to see Sarah is taking her parental duties seriously – she’s virtually given up drinking already. She just had one small glass of wine while the rest of us got slowly merry, and then drove us home. I love you, girl. More than you’ll ever know.
MLTJ. Very noisy. Hope Tom and Annie next door had their windows shut.
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
Friday, February 1
Cory arrived 10am to drive us to Heathrow. Not in Renault or BMW – but a smart W-reg Polo. Simple explanation.
‘Sold the BMW for twenty-seven grand! Told you it was a bargain, didn’t I?’
Apparently the bloke he bought it off was desperate. His business was going tits up and he needed some cash urgently. Cory, with little compunction, saw his chance and went for it. Seems I’ve bred a Capitalist.
Realised I’d left my still-unfinished KW Diaries and my Bill Bryson at home so I thought I’d see what all the Harry Potter fuss is about and bought the first volume at the airport. I’d finished several chapters when we landed. Very good, JK.
Arrived at Hotel Tocasta on the central waterfront late afternoon. Only semi-luxury (four star) but we still felt a little awkward with all the uniformed staff flitting around, obviously trying to find out if we were rich or awful nouveau riche who never knew when and how, and how much, to tip. One even tried to explain Euros to us, no doubt to make sure we knew roughly what was acceptable. You’ll soon find out, signor.
We dined in style, lingered over coffee and brandy (I had half a fat cigar, much to Jules’s dismay) and then went for a little walk. Weather okay – light breeze, but a damned sight warmer than UK. Just round St Mark’s, looked at the major landmarks, watched the people to-ing and fro-ing around Florian’s, trying to suss out the usual procedure so we feel comfortable tomorrow. And so to bed, whacked.
Saturday, February 2
No orchestra, no string quartet, just piped music. There were musicians at the restaurant across the Square, but I had set my heart on Florian’s. This morning, however, Florian’s was just an upmarket (i.e. let’s rip off those daft bastards prepared to pay these silly prices) café. We went inside because there was a chill in the air, and found the ambience of the little salons very cosy and somehow comforting; and very good for looking down on all the plebs playing with the pigeons outside. Very good coffee too, pretty good pastries, but stupid bloody bill. It translated to almost twenty quid! Didn’t leave a tip. Sod it! Two loitering waiters gave us a good look as we left; presumably to remember us so they can gob in our coffee if we dare return.
Did the Basilica, the Campanile, strolled round some enchanting by-ways to the Rialto Bridge, and strolled many more on the way back. And so to bed, cream-crackered.
NOTES
Added later – LCFC lost again! Twice in the lead, but Chelsea won 3-2. Shit.
Sunday, February 3
The bells heralded the sun, as if by magic. And when the Sunday clang had faded we joined a surprisingly big crowd (for February) of heathen tourists enjoying the sunshine in the Square while the locals worshipped. About a minute after the priests had finished their morning shift a young string quartet set up outside Florian’s. Jules and I sat outside, to one side, watching them and enjoying their music. The one waiter on outside duty studiously ignored us for all of 10 minutes, until I lit up a big cigar (much to Jules’s annoyance), and then he came scurrying to take our order – coffee only. We sat listening and people-watching for almost half an hour, and then decided we finally had Florian’s out of our system. The bill was less than a tenner! So I left a reasonable (10 per cent) tip! Jules nearly fainted.