SO the Gordo came and went, and despite me bearing more than a passing resemblance to El Calvo, the bald British actor who was an iconic figure in the lottery adverts a few years ago, my ticket brought a big fat zilch.
But looking on the bright side, the fact that I didn’t win a life changing amount of money (minus 20% tax to the government; thanks Mr Rajoy) at least means that you are still reading this column. One of the things that really annoys me about lotteries are the people who win several million euro and then tell the Press that it won’t change their lives. They then buy a new Vauxhall (it’s always a Vauxhall) and duly show up for work the next day.
These sort of people really annoy me.
Correct me if I’m wrong – and I have known to be on various rare occasions – but I thought that the whole point of the lottery was that it will change your life. People should be required to sign a form saying that if they do hit the jackpot they’ll be on the next plane to Marbella, buying a huge villa and blowing the rest on unsuitable clothes/cars/ Eastern European girlfriends (delete where applicable. If at all). To do what two cement truck driving brothers from Algerciras did a decade ago, and merely buy new seat covers for their lorry when they scooped several thousand, should bar you from taking part in. Plus you are distorting the odds of people like myself who know what exactly what they would do with their winnings, and would be sending in this column from Monte Carlo, not Monte Frio!
Talking of El Calvo, over the holiday period I popped into my barber to get a beard trim and my pate shaved for the upcoming round of festivities. I’ve tried shaving my head in the privacy of my own bathroom, but the result invariably ends with me hacking out a sizable portion of the back of my scalp off with the misnomered ‘safety’ razor. So to ensure that the ensuite doesn’t resemble an outtake from Saw, once a month I visit my Moroccan barber just off the main street in Marbella. The whole process, complete with discussion about the Premier league, normally takes about 15 minutes and costs less than a tenner.
The best bit, however, is at the the end when, having made me look like Yul Brynner, my barber then massages balm into my scalp. It’s the nearest I get to a spa treatment.
Unfortunately, he was busy on my last visit, so his willing nephew took charge of shaving my dome. All was well and good, and the process was almost over. I sat back in the chair blissfully awaiting the application of soothing lotion.
The nephew, however, did things a little differently.
Rather than balm, he grabbed what I can only assume is North Africa’s best selling men’s cologne – Tuareg Nights or some such – and slapped it on my head. Not only did it make me sit bolt upright with a yelp, but it also turned my bonce bright red. And two days later I still couldn’t get right of the scent, with all of my friends kindly remarking that I smelt like a Tangier brothel. Though I have no idea what one of those smells like, gentle reader…
But at least I know that from this point, 2014 can only get better. Happy New Year!
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