I’m sure there are lots of perfectly happy lottery winners out there so why is it that we only ever hear about the misery guts? As far as I’m concerned, if a lottery win is making you unhappy then the solution is patently obvious – give the money away. There are huge numbers of people struggling to make ends meet, who would be only too glad to receive a donation, not to mention all the worthy charities desperate for funds.
A popular lottery gripe seems to be that the said winner/whiner no longer knows who their friends are. Apparently people expect them to pay for everything and new people coming into their lives could simply be along for the ride, hoping to get their hands on some cash. Well, all I can say is, so what? Frankly, if you’re a millionaire and you don’t pick up the tab on nights out with friends then, you are a charmless, skinflint, who deserves to be friendless. As for new people, surely the only criteria should be whether you find them good company or not. If you are so stupid there is a danger you may bestow your millions on a near stranger then you don’t deserve to have the money in the first place.
Another reason for all that boohooing is that once they have the opportunity to do whatever they want; these morons no longer have the motivation to do anything. That to me makes no sense at all. Were I to win millions, you can bet your bottom dollar I’d have lots of motivation. In fact the only thing standing between me and a life of fun filled adventure is my inherent unlucky streak where money is concerned. I never win anything. I’m pretty certain that, were I to invest in a thousand tickets, I still wouldn’t win anything. I have no luck with any sort of gambling, if I pick a horse the only sure thing is that it will fall at the first fence. I’ve never won a raffle prize in my life and don’t even get me started on competitions.
Ignoring my anti-Midas touch then, let’s pretend for a golden moment that my six numbers have finally come good. The first thing I’d do is give my house away to a homeless charity. Obviously, I’d pay off the mortgage first or it wouldn’t be much of a donation. Come to think of it, they could have all my possessions as well because I wouldn’t be needing them. I’d have booked myself into a very nice hotel.
Once I got myself turned around, I’d embark upon at least a year of travelling. I’d like to travel around the USA which I last did over a quarter of a century ago (Ouch!!!) As I don’t drive, I would like to travel by train. Last time it was courtesy of the Greyhound bus but unless they’ve seriously upgraded the comfort levels – forget it. That’s a mode of transport best suited to the young and the destitute. There are so many places I would like to see in the States, either for the first time, or to see how much the reality lives up to my memory.
Once I’d had my fill of all things Americana, I’d return to Europe and enjoy a luxury version of InterRailing. As money would be no barrier, I’d obviously be checking into the best hotels along the way. There’d be no horrifically communal hostels or acquaintance’s sofas for me, thank you very much. I wouldn’t even have to worry about recklessly or, more probably drunkenly, devouring the contents of the mini bar and maxing out my credit card. Oh no, those days would be gone, my lottery millions would see to that.
Once I’d had my fill of travel, I’d come back to the UK and buy myself a seafront home in Brighton. Forget all those years when I thought I’d hit the big time because I could afford to wave goodbye to shared houses and get my own bedsit. This time I’d have a full house all to myself, preferably with a balcony where I could sit and watch the world go by. There’d be no getting up at 6am, stuffing in toast as I run for the bus, nope, not for me. Instead I’d savour leisurely mornings on my balcony with as many rounds of toast as I wanted.
I quite like the idea of a personal trainer putting me through my paces so maybe, in the style of all those lithe Hollywood starlets, I’d hire myself one. After all, with all that money, I’d feature on the mailing lists of every high end boutique and it would be most unsightly to be bursting at the seams like an overstuffed sausage. I’d never have to scrutinise a label again, fretting about dry cleaning costs, I would just buy whatever caught my fancy with nary a thought for fabric durability.
So you see, winning millions could only enhance my life and maybe that’s the problem with all those lottery whinge-bags. I’m willing to bet they were just as tedious poor as they are rich. Money can’t buy happiness, it’s true, but surely it can’t buy misery either.