A begging letter dropped on to the mat the morning following the win. “Dear Eric,” it

read and assumed an air of familiarity that I suppose only a lottery win or an appearance

on ‘Noel's House Party’ can achieve. ‘Dear Eric, I was pleased to hear of your good

fortune on the lottery. Although you don’t know me, I have long admired you as an

upstanding and decent man. You might remember me, I passed you two Thursdays ago in

the park. You were walking your delightful dog and I was on my way to the DSS.We passed

on the footpath. You attempted to say hello, but I pretended to be looking incredibly

interested at a none existent object on the floor at the crucial point of eye contact. I would

have said hello, I wanted to say, “Hello, you are my friend,” we go back a long way, well

not exactly ages but at least the four months I’ve been living in your road. I was disap

pointed you didn’t come to my recent party. No, I never invited you, but I never invited the

man at number eight but he turned up, ate all the chicken, did three laps of the garden in a

solo conga and was sick down the back of the telly. D.E.R are not going to be pleased.

How’s your family? I must say your wife looks particularly good in those Scholls she’s

been wearing to nip to Mr Patel’s in lately. What a fine figure she cuts as she glides across

the road. Now my friend you have it all, a beautiful wife and tremendous wealth. On the

other hand, I your good friend, have nothing,not even a statuesque wife to nip over to Mr

Patel's for an ounce of baccy. Not that you’ll be sending her over for baccy anymore.

You’ll go on the proper ciggies from now on and I suspect you’ll get them delivered by

Benson and Hedges in packs of ten thousand in a black velvet sack. You’ll probably use a

solid gold ashtray that you’ll throw away after every cigarette. You could buy out Mr Patel

ten times over and replace those cakes he has filled with shaving cream for something

decent like pasteurised cream. Speaking of Mr Patel, I’m sure he’s got his own best by date

stamp. He’s had that Tom Allinson small wholegrain on the shelf for at least two weeks and I know it’s the same loaf ’cos there’s a scuff mark where that bit about ‘Nowt Taken Owt’

should be. You could be my friend at the newsagent's, with fresh bread and real cream

doughnuts. Your good lady wife my friend also, could mark up the papers dressed in a

designer overall, you could even I bet, get Mr Jeffery Banks, also my friend, (as I got his

autograph at a Leeds Marks and Spencers) to design some nice new paper bags for the

paperboys and girls. He could even design uniforms like he did for British Airways. Then

instead of snotty-nosed children in sportswear with bright orange bags, we’d have smartly-

dressed youngsters with some pride in their appearance. You, my friend, can achieve all

this, you and your lovely wife.

However, with a heavy heart I must bear my soul to you my good friend. you see, I have a

request, a ransom demand if you like, that’s really the purpose of this letter, apart of course

from cementing our friendship. You see I need eighteen thousand pounds. “Ha,” I hear you

say, “A drop in the ocean to a rich man like me.” but I really do need it, otherwise my

friend, they will come and take away my house and the body of your dead wife in the

cellar. Yes I said ‘dead wife’ ’cos if you don’t make this act of financial friendship, then I’m

afraid I shall have to kill her. Fine friend I am you must be thinking. Well, needs must as

they say my friend. Please don’t bother telling the police, although being a pal like you are,

I’m sure you wouldn’t rat on me to the rozzers.Yours X.

I had no choice but to reply. I took a pen and a pad of paper, surprisingly calmly all things

considered and began to write. ‘Dear X, Thank you for your ransom demand for the safe

return of my wife.’ How terribly English this was. This lunatic had my wife and here was I

thanking him for the note. Still old habits die hard. Back to the letter.

‘I was somewhat surprised by your letter and the news that my‘statuesque’ wife

was imprisoned by your good self... There I go again, ‘Good self ’, Good self! this monster

was holding my nearest and dearest trussed up in some dark cellar and I was calling him

good. ‘As a former small business development officer, I was impressed by your plans

for the newsagent's. If you weren’t a kidnapper I’m sure you’d have a bright future as

an independent newsagent. I particularly liked the part about the image of the paper

boys. It has long been an opinion of mine that our paperboys and girls are poorly

kitted out. Only the other week I mentioned to my wife, (who you have trussed like a

Christmas goose in the cellar), that young people of today dress in shabby sports gear

all of the time. As for the bread, I must say I couldn’t agree with you more. Usually

myself and my now sadly imprisoned wife purchase two wholegrain loaves from the

Asda. However, on two occasions, once when my sister Eunice came unexpectedly and

ate us out of house and home and once when the freezer defrosted late at night and

the economy fish finger juice soaked through a air hole in the defrosting loaf, have I

had to purchase it from Mr Patel. I was disappointed and too hungry to complain so

both myself and my hostaged good lady ate a displeasing supper of stale bread toast.

As for the ‘cream cakes’, well I’ll take the word of a friend on that point. Eighteen thousand

pounds is a lot of money. Not that my other half imprisoned is not worth that. oh no, you

can’t put a price on a life. why you could get that for one of her kidneys on the south

American black market. Not that I’m trying to get you to break her for spare parts like

some old MG, oh no my friend, I’m just pointing out that eighteen thousand pounds is a lot

of money, but not a lot in comparison for what you could fetch by selling her individually.

My lovely wife being not greater in value than the sum of her parts. I think I remember

you. Are you the bloke who wears the second-hand army clothing and the T Shirt of Che

Guevara that looks like a chubby Robert Lindsay? I hope that is you. I mean, it’s good to

have a mental image of the man who has enforced custody your soul mate. Are you feeding

her? She’s very fussy you know, too fussy I say. What ever you do, remember, no added salt.

Her ankles will swell up and you won’t hear the last of it. I myself made the mistake of being

too liberal with the sodium chloride on some young carrots from the allotment. She had her

feet up on a piano stool and a a chair from the kitchen for four days. If looks could kill. She

still blames me for the fact that a nice pair of flat court shoes- ‘the most comfortable pair of

shoes she’s ever owned’, still don’t fit her. Between you and me, the fact that she sits in a

chair and stuffs Fry’s Chocolate cream after Fry’s Chocolate Cream into her mouth, might

have something to do with the fat ankles. As you probably know if you’ve had to carry her

bound body anywhere, it’s not just her ankles that are fat. you’ve probably noticed, shall we

say ‘her broad beam’.It used to be as tight as a drum in years gone by, tight as a drum. you

could bounce a table tennis ball on it. I often did on those summer Pontins weekends when

all those snotty-nosed kids buggered off from the games room. Happy days before The Fry’s

Chocolate Cream lifestyle and the orange peel legs. She may look good to you trussed like a

spring goose in the half-light of the cellar, but believe me, in the cold light of wednesday

morning, she’s no oil painting. oh no, more like a cheap photocopy on a second-hand

machine that’s low on toner. Not that I don’t love her. I didn’t say that, oh no. Just that your

description of her in your very nice letter seemed to play her part up a bit. You gave her

a starring role in my life instead of a walk on part. I’m not unhappy, oh no, happy as a

sandboy. She gets on with her life i.e. her fist in a bag of sweets packing more fat onto those

cow hips of hers and me having my pint and a special relationship with Sandra, who’s the

bingo caller at the club. When I say ‘special’ you know what I mean. It’s not love, no we’re

both too old for that. We both have needs shall we say and luckily enough, the fact that

Sandra's need to be taken’ shall we say, every second wednesday whilst in full stocking and

suspenders rig out ties in quite nicely with my desires on that front. The woman you have

lashed to a central heating pipe in the bowels of your house gave all that up years ago. Oh yes, one evening when I had one too many rum and peppermints I was a bit rough with her,

nothing violent, just more dominant than usual. After we’d finished she calmly said, “that’ll be

it for that sort of thing from now on.” That was it, my sex life was over. I went to the shed and

wept. the next day when I was putting a copy of the Examiner in the bin I saw the nylon

tangled clump of all her suspenders. The fat bitch you justifiably have clamped at your house

was watching from the kitchen window, face like the smell of gas. It’s hardly surprising, is it my

friend that I had to go elsewhere. Saying that, Sandra’s ‘need’ has been on the increase of late.

she even suggested we lay together as man and bingo caller in between the first full line and

the full house link the other evening, although that might have been down to the gin she’d

been swigging from her bag. It always makes her randy. Some drinks are like that aren’t

they? I mean, my brother is as placid as anything, but give him a whisky and he’ll want to

take on the world. That ugly lump of chip lard screwed to the floor of your basement used to

cry when she had gin. It used to sicken me when the fat-gobbed sow would sit balloon-faced,

sipping gin and watching those stupid soap operas. She’d shush me loudly and whine about

how Wayne had found out Charlene was his sister on the eve of their wedding. She’ll not like

it in that cellar of yours, oh no, she’ll be missing the soaps. Serves her right. It’ll do her good

to have her lard arse dragged away from the television. Anyway, back to your request for her

release. You’ve guessed haven’t you, You little tinker? That’s right, you can bloody keep her!

I’m off with Sandra for a week on Southport sands. It’s a nice eight berth caravan left to her by

her former husband. A nice chap by all accounts. A welder. Anyway, yes, keep ‘chunk legs’. As

for the lottery win, your information was indeed correct. I am a winner, but it was only a

bloody pound on a scratchcard.

I’ll send you a postcard ‘my good friend’.