I’ve won EuroMillions – but where should I spend it?

WINNING more than £45million is going to make things a bit easier for me and the missus but, och, it won’t change me. I have decided not to give up my job.

We might now be on the rich list of Britain’s wealthiest but I still scratch any itch that needs scratching myself.

The wife, though, has refused to do a hand’s turn since she found the ticket in the bin, wiped the lasagne and rotten tomatoes off it and then turned to me and said I was history unless I played my cards right.

I love her dearly and that’s nothing to do with the fact that she bought the ticket.

At 10 past six on Saturday, before we had even phoned Camelot, she took early retirement and started phoning everyone she knows to tell them the news and then adding not to tell anyone as we don’t want begging letters.

By using the same numbers 11, 19, 34, 43 and 45 each week, we knew straight away we had won. Eleven is for the number of idiots in teams chasing pieces of leather round a pitch, 19 is for the Renault 19 that ran me over a few years ago in Glasgow, 34 is for the film Miracle on 34th Street with Maureen O’Hara and the best Christmas film ever, 43 is the number of the squadron known as the Fighting Cocks at RAF Leuchars who once had me dangling upside down over the North Sea in a Phantom jet, and the ’45 is how we remember the Jacobite uprisings which actually went on till about 1746.

Obvious, innit?

She thought it would be fun not to claim straight away as it would send everyone in Britain scrambling into their drawers looking for tickets in case they were the lucky ones.

Unfortunately, we have had to split our winnings. Otherwise, we would have won £91million. That was rotten luck for us, eh? Still, we are trying to keep positive in the face of such adversity.

The new housekeepers have been hired already, of course, but they won’t be starting for a few days. She chose them so they will all be old crones. She will want to look good beside them, I suppose. Meanwhile, I am feasting on bread and crisps.

There are so many things to decide. We need to find a new base but, and this may surprise you, there aren’t that many 20-bedroom properties around. The market is rubbish. You never think about it till you have to start looking. It is not easy but people just don’t understand.

We have been trying to decide which trendy hotspot to go for – Monaco, Monte Carlo, Mangurstadh. Just someplace quiet where nothing happens. That is, until people like us want to show off without anyone asking awkward questions.

However, we have decided that we want to live in the north of Scotland or maybe on one of the islands. I fancy Shetland. It has been on my mind a lot since I saw the shapely young lassies on the latest nudie calendar from up there.

Living on Lewis was at the back of our minds but after leering at those Lerwick lovelies leaping about on a crisp, cold morning in the altogether, I am not so sure now. After all, if the best alternative in the Hebrides is a side view of Jock Murray’s bellybutton and Kenny Mobil’s behind on the Naked Peatcutters’ calendar, could I stand that from January through to December? You have to weigh up all these things.

Then we remembered hearing the other day that hundreds of islanders between the Butt and Barra are getting fresh with people they are not even in the holy state of matrimony with.

One point five per cent of Outer Hebrideans, it said. Hundreds of islanders are apparently signed up to a website for flirty types who are looking for a bit of what they call fun and frolicks and what the Free Church (Continuing) calls fornication. Allegedly.

It must be business types and local politicians; people who go off regularly to the mainland. They are all suspects now. No one else has the time – or the stamina. If it is indeed the esteemed local politicians who are at it, maybe they all made an innocent mistake and just signed up by accident for a type of congress that you don’t actually get at the TUC.

Everyone on Lewis is now busy trying to work out who it could be. Is there any truth in the rumour that gaggles of elders’ wives can already be seen huddled outside the airport in Stornoway trying to figure out which passengers are likely to be getting up to what?

Still, I have nothing to worry about in that department. With up to £1million in my wallet, she has generously decided to keep the other £44million herself, I will not go short of ardent admirers. I heard her say she is worried that lots of money will prove too much for me. She fears it will prove to be an aphrodisiac.

An aphrodisiac indeed. While I am not exactly sure what that means, I think it is must be some sort of condition where your hair goes curly when you have a big wad of high-denomination notes making a bulge in your pocket.

Now, I would like to take the opportunity to thank everyone who has been buying lottery tickets week in, week out with little or no return. It is only through your selfless efforts that we have won all this money. So thank you very much.

Ta also to Camelot for all their help in keeping up our anonymity so we can avoid all these begging letters like the ones we used to send ourselves.

And, finally, for allowing me the chance to tell everyone what we plan to do with their money, I would like to thank Iain Maciver for letting me have his regular space in this newspaper.