Ever checked your EuroMillions ticket without it to hand? I think I might have mentioned, previously, that I’m a modern-day version of Dustin Hoffman in Rainman. Numbers – not adding them up, for goodness sake but, rather, remembering them: dates, old phone numbers, birthdays of erstwhile friends, the list goes on. A bit annoying, actually, because I end up feeling I should acknowledge said birthday or anniversary, prompting the erstwhile friend to think I am completely nuts – or desperate! Anyway, just checking the required numbers for last night’s £166 million … two plus a star, I think. So close! Suffice to say, nobody won my money and the amount increases to £182 million on Tuesday. Perfect.
I, actually, planned to commence with a little bit about seagulls and their gut problems … Lovely. A worthy subject, however, in view of the fact that, when returning to The Dodgem on Thursday evening, I found it had been positively bombarded! Parked on The Scores – admittedly, close to my beach – it was one of many cars but, no, The Dodgem was the only target. Why? My question, precisely. Must be a sign, surely? Good luck? Are you kidding me? I had to spend at least fifteen minutes of my life I shall never get back washing it all off when I got home. The truth is not nice things just happen to really nice people and that’s that. Meanwhile, really not nice people with their flash cars (improvising) continue unscathed … As to why seagulls all suffer from diarrhoea? If you spent your days terrorising tourists and stealing their Nandos, I’m sure you’d be in trouble, too!
Meanwhile, back to my upcoming win on EuroMillions … I made the decision, a long while ago, that when I win, after securing my chosen properties in various countries – and emptying my three containers of all my precious furniture and keepsakes – then Becca, Manny and I (plus hangers-on? Possibly …) would head off, probably to Africa, on our quest to see the world and broaden our horizons, all with the intention of giving money to worthy causes. What better way to dispose of one’s millions? Mind you, my delightful ex always said that he would never tell me if he won millions for fear I would just give it all away … Let’s face it, he could have – won, that is – considering his double life but even he would struggle to hide £166 million – and no amount of ‘handmade, organic food’ would put a dent in that sum!
So, definitely travel. It’s a big wide world out there and who wouldn’t want to get out of this country, as it stands? One which sees fit to absolve Nicola Sturgeon of any wrongdoing – no, impossible, she’s guilty of too numerous wrongdoings to mention – criminal offence, then. The fact that her ‘husband’ has been charged with embezzlement and she is supposed to have known nothing? Like the money, it doesn’t add up. Put it this way, though, I’ll bet the afflicted seagulls don’t drop their deposits on that campervan!
Now, aside from giving my millions away, what would I buy? My Wrangler, of course! Perhaps one for Becca and Manny, too … think they might like that! Having said that, I would, of course, give them a few mill to do with what they wish. Does keep me awake at night, though, the complexity of gifting the money. Isn’t it the case that, when it comes to substantial amounts, one has to live more than seven years beyond the gift? As one targeted by seagulls – Becca, too – one can only assume that that would be tempting fate! Maybe I should just buy Becca her dream flat in Monti and Manny? Used to be he talked about staying in Edinburgh but, somehow, I don’t think so anymore. Would I buy a place in London? Wimbledon? Perhaps, but so much has changed over the years; the demise of class in the enforced race to the bottom, all in the name of equality – which will never exist. Why sacrifice so much for, at most, mediocrity? Sad.
Montana. That’s somewhere I would still go. Triple Creek Ranch. It was featured on the holiday programme, a lifetime ago now, and I always vowed that one day I would make it there. All these years on, they continue to, religiously, send me their seasonal emails – the pull of the mountains and vast skies … and the cowboys. Real men who get up, pull on a pair of jeans, a checked shirt, boots and off they go. No mirrors, no preening, no technology and not a man bag in sight, just a hat and a horse! Yes, that could be our first stop, for a few weeks, while we contemplate our next move. Who knows? Might bang into Huey Lewis – he has a ranch in Montana – and never leave! Actually, he is lovely. An avid golfer, he has been coming to The Dunhill forever. Sadly, he now has a problem with his hearing – wouldn’t even have to listen to me. Win, win!
St Wolfgang … Of course, I would buy a place there and fill it with all the beautiful Austrian furniture I covet. The lake, my favourite mountains and all a spit from Salzburg. I could live there; just live there and write. Bliss. Would I continue to write Trish-Trash? Of course. Might even be interesting! Might even stop bemoaning life and a world which has sunk into the abyss? Don’t be ridiculous. There are some things/people money can’t change …
Almost nine hundred words and I haven’t mentioned the daleks yet. I say that because I have a note here, from earlier in the week, which reads: ‘To think we were once scared of the daleks!’ The irony. It’s almost more terrifying, now, to venture over one’s door. Correction, increasingly, it’s becoming more dangerous to voice one’s own opinion in one’s own home. Makes the daleks seem positively cuddly. Time to leave a country in which, as someone said, one would be treated considerably better if one flew to France and took a dingy back! Seriously. A country over-run by illegal immigrants, unchecked, unmonitored yet put up in 4-Star hotels while being lavished with every unnecessary luxury. A UK in which cash is all but obsolete as the digital screws are tightened and one’s every move monitored and logged; a country in which one cannot afford to be ill, with a health service in the gutter; one whose major cities are engulfed in crime as the two-tier police service do nothing, preferring to handcuff a granny rather than apprehend a real criminal … A country now run by a wannabe communist government, funded and controlled by those determined to change everything it once stood for; everything which made it great. Let me just give Ben a ring – as in Fogle – and ask him about off-grid alternatives. A vineyard in Umbria, perhaps? Mars?!
I can hear Neil Diamond in the background … goes without saying that the music was better back in the day … Meanwhile, as I observe the throngs on the pavements of St Andrews, their chosen attire and snippets of conversation, I’m beginning to concede that a white flag is the only option. The population of this country has changed beyond recognition and the ramifications of that fact are nothing if not pervasive. If strength truly does lie in numbers, then pass me a bugle. Dignity at all times! Seems, however, that I’m not alone. Below is a quote from a lovely lady I met earlier. She, too, had a bit to say!
‘You can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear!’
So true. Thus, this morning being sunny, Manny took a stroll down to The Old Course with his camera. In a bid to add to his portfolio, he politely offered to take some photographs of a group of golfers on the Swilcan Bridge. No reply. No acknowledgement. As they proceeded to take individual photographs on their phones, one of their wives appeared – with child – and joined the foursome on the bridge for a group shot. ‘Would you like me to take that for you on my camera?’, asked Manny. Nothing! Not one word from said golfers; the caddie, yes. Be aware that Manny was well-dressed in a pair of navy chinos and a jumper, camera round his neck. One of the homeless? Clearly not. Touting for money? Negative. Rather, a polite, well-spoken young guy. So, any excuse for such rudeness? For such ignorance? I can think of only one. I refer to the quote above … Just another example of a really nice person being treated abominably by a bunch of really not nice people. Welcome to 2025 and the bottom rung!
This is Trish, signing off.
