12. Gold Top

Friday 16th December 2005

£966,338.

That's how much Lemon Top won. Call it a million, you might as well. It very soon will be. Not huge by some jackpot standards ' but it was mid-week and four winners shared it.

£966,338.

If we believe what the surveys tell us, it's only half what we need to make us feel completely happy and secure. Which just makes me think there must be an awful lot of deeply miserable, anxious people around. I wonder if Lemon feels only half-way there. I doubt it, somehow.

So¦ old Lemon, eh? Fifties, works at the hospital, lives alone in the bedsit above the Pink Pagoda take-away, smells like Fried King Prawn Balls, pint of lager top, telly on without the volume, thin and shivery in his old raincoat, same yellow cardy from one year's end to the next, likes a bit of a flutter¦

A millionaire, but for the loose change.

And good luck to him. I mean it. I just hope he handles it okay. The media spotlight's already picked him out. The local rags were straight in there. The last time they got this excited was about six years ago, when a local UKIP member got done for people-trafficking ' smuggling a lorryload in from the Balkans to work as cheap labour on his own construction sites. To top it off, all the dealing was done in euros. You don't get juicy ones like that too often ' so Lemon's win was a bit of a boost.

And then there he was tonight as well, on the local news. We all sat and watched it on the bar-room telly. This time, though, we had the volume up.

The fellah was hardly recognisable. He'd shaved, scrubbed himself up and combed his hair. He'd left his raincoat at home. He'd even swapped his trademark cardy for a baize-green shirt and salmon tie.

"He'll still need a wardrobe adviser, then, someone said.

The look on his face was a picture ' liked he was toked up on Grade A dope. One thing we did learn was his real name: Walter Bottle. Poor sod. He must have had it rough at school. I thought Clarence Holmes was bad enough.

They asked him the usual questions:

INTERVIEWER: So, Walter¦ How does it feel to be virtually a millionaire?

LEMON: Well, you know¦ it hasn't really¦

INTERVIEWER: What's your immediate plan now? Christmas shopping?

LEMON: Well, erm¦ enjoy me weekend off, I s'pose, really.

INTERVIEWER: You're going to continue in your job, then?

LEMON: Yeah¦ for the time being. I don't want to let them down. I enjoy it, anyway.

INTERVIEWER: And you're a¦?

LEMON: Hospital porter.

INTERVIEWER: Right. So, what about the future? Any thoughts about travel? A new house? An expensive car?

LEMON: I ain't got a house, so that might be nice ' though I like my flat. I ain't really bothered about a car. Might get meself one of them scooters, though.

INTERVIEWER: No big ambitions then? No plans for a spending spree?

LEMON: Not really. I'll take it as it comes. Give a chunk of it to charity. That's alright, ain't it?

INTERVIEWER: Of course. So, tell us¦ what was the first thing you did when you saw those numbers come up?

LEMON: The first thing? Well, I was in the pub. I drank three double scotches straight off, and then I went home.

INTERVIEWER: And what did you do when you got there?

LEMON (grinning): I put me head down the toilet and was as sick as a parrot.

Thankfully, it went out live.

I got another beer in for me and Sherlock.

"So, what would you do if it was you, mate? I asked, as he took the top off.

"Me? He dipped his head towards the bar for a moment, then looked up again. "Firstly, I'd find myself half-a-dozen gorgeous women. Then I'd load them all in a private jet and fly them to a tiny, uninhabited island in the Caribbean or somewhere, complete with its own purpose-built ten-bedroomed mansion. Then I'd build my own private pub and stock it with the best bitters, lagers, cognacs and malt whiskies. I'd also keep a regular order for two kilos of Strawberry Cough and a crate of Norwegian shag, plus a ream of Zig Zags the size of a sheet of typing paper¦

He took another quaff of his beer.

"And I'll leave the rest to you to work out.

We were quiet for a moment.

"Do you think you might consider taking me with you? I said.

He tilted his hat. "Not my type, mate, he said.

We drank. I bought us a cigar each. We sat and smoked them. We drank again.
We dreamed our quiet dreams, while Lemon Top ' somewhere ' set his own in motion.

In the meantime, there was life to get on with.

And work¦

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STORY IDEA: Ordinary bloke with no money wins a fortune and changes his life.
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Another one for the bin, I think. The oldest cliché in the book. Life just ain't like that, is it.

Not really.