Me and a mate and a mate
Back in the mid-nineties I lived with a chap I'd been friends with at school, Kingsley, and we spent much our time with mutual friend Terry. As many of our age did, we spent a few nights each week in the pub playing pool, drinking and talking crap. We'd be in there every night at the weekend and probably one during the week too.

It was around this time that the National Lottery started. If you remember, at the start, the Lottery was quite popular, until the more intelligent members of the population realised it was a tax for people bad at maths. So every Saturday we'd buy a few tickets, then go into the pub, drink and play pool, and at eight o'clock Meta, the adorable Irish landlady, would come downstairs with the lottery numbers so everyone could check their ticket - note Old School pub, so no TV in the bar. The more wise of you may see where this is heading.

One dastardly evening after a few joints, Terry and I decided to set our mate up. We went into town as usual, bought our lottery tickets, and headed to the pub. Our mate was distracted from his wallet and we copied down his numbers, then surreptitiously passed his numbers to the landlady to give us at the usual time.

Eight o'clock was approached, the anticipation building like a match burning to your fingers. Terry and I kept throwing each other knowing glances and smirking across the pub, and Kingsley was happily playing pool and drinking his beer.

Finally, the landlady came downstairs and the scrap of paper containing the magic numbers was passed around the bar. It reached Kingsley and he whipped-out his wallet to check his numbers. He checked, and checked again. He went very pale, like all the blood had drained from his head, and started shaking.

"I've won!" he exclaimed, jumping up and punching the air, "I've fucking won!"

By this point, the entire pub is staring at him, wondering what's going on.

"Wooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!" he shouts, running around the bar like his arse is on fire, "Get yourselves some drinks, I've fucking won!"

We let him live his dream for a couple of minutes. During this time he went through most of the classic phases: disbelief, yearning, anger, depression and acceptance. It was upon his acceptance that we decided to break the news that, unfortunately, he'd been stitched-up by his bastard mates and, unfortunately, he was still a pauper.

It turned out he'd won a tenner.

---

As an epilogue, if you're feeling sorry for the guy, he consequently fucked-off with my girlfriend... then, a few years later, he fucked-off with T's fiance.

On reflection, perhaps that was his sweet revenge.
( Noeli overtheshoulderboulderholderthingstraplatchboobs, Fri 22 Aug 2008, 17:32, Reply)