Wednesday, June 25, 2008
I was just in the local Spar having my morning coffee transfusion when a guy in front me decided to buy some Quick picks for tonight’s pretty large Lotto Jackpot. As he got the tickets, he obviously checked them to make sure that the requisite amount of lines, bar-codes etc were all present. They were, from what I could gather. However little Mr. ‘not so Quick’ Pick was not happy. He started pointing to the numbers and telling the shop worker guy that he did not like them. There were far too many similar numbers on it he said. At first I was annoyed with him, but then I realized an opportunity. I’m pretty superstitious about weird things, so I figured if the same happened to me, and I asked them to swap my numbers or something, the original numbers would come up and I’d be forced to kill myself.
It’s a recurring dream of mine. Ever since I began to do the family birthdays as numbers cos my Mother stopped doing it, I’ve been fearful of not doing the Lotto. Anyway, I interjected and offered to buy them from him. He seemed pretty happy with this, but then it began to dawn on him that these numbers have pretty much as much chance of coming up as any do. He was becoming reluctant, and soon the deal was in trouble. I was beginning to panic now, as these numbers became more and more desirable to me. I could picture myself and Derek Mooney, unnecessarily naked, on a tandem, despite the fact that he has nothing to do with the main Lotto, and the fact that I’m not Gay. The ‘not happy with numbers’ bloke was beginning to think, I’m sure he was having similar visions too, of me and Derek laughing as we sped past, sandwiches falling from our basket because we were wastefully rich. The deal was off, but not before a third party joined proceedings.
Enter Mr. ‘Shop Assistant’. As we were negotiating, he had run off another batch of numbers for my friend and was now waving them around in a manner that suggested ‘I don’t understand any of this!! Damn you Ireland’.. Of course, my mind had done a U-Turn now. Derek had fallen from the tandem and disappeared in a puff (I know) of smoke. I was now scrabbling for that sandwich. In the distance, Mr. ‘Those numbers are shit mate’ now held the golden ticket and was entering Derek’s chocolate factory (again, I know) instead of me. My mind was all over the shop (oh, ha ha ha!!). Which ticket will win it. I’ll pick the wrong one. A queue of builders had formed and we needed closure quickly. ‘Actually’ I’ll take both of them he said…
‘Nooooooooooooooooooooooooo’ As Derek Mooney might say