You've win 700 million from El Salvador! We're celebrating, shrieked Colin above the sound of popping champagne corks at our local watering hole.Weve just won 700 million El Salvador lira in the South American countrys official lottery. A bloke called President Cortez has written and told us.To claim the prize, Colin simply has to give President Cortez his bank details, inform the El Salvador governments representative in Wood End, called Shane, when his house is unattended and where he leaves his car keys. To comply with the countrys rich tradition of embezzlement, he must also write down how much hed pay if a family member is kidnapped, purely as a precaution.Should his mother-in-law be spirited away by hooded, armed terrorists, Colin has pledged the price of a fish and chip supper. For two, if need be. But hed have to be sent a finger first. Its a scam, I told the sozzled merrymakers, stopping the conga chain before it spilt on to the pub car park.It is not, insisted Colin. The letters even got the El Salvador coat of arms on it. You can clearly see Kevin Keegans face in the middle below the gold leaf toilet roll. Ask yourself this, I cautioned the jubilant rustic, have you ever entered the El Salvador lottery?He had not, but once got three John The Baptist heads in a row on a scratch card bought during a vacation in Vatican City. The prize allowed him immunity, in confessionals, over overdue library books.Three Josephs and he wouldve been allowed to spit in the street without owning up to a priest. A line of Marys and he could stage a military coup. Colin believes the Vatican scratchcard may have bought him in to the El Salvador lottery.Listen, I said, shaking my jubilant colleague, its a con. Write back and itll be the last youll see of that s4.60 youve got in your bank account.s4.15, corrected Colin, shuffling uncomfortably, I bought a finger-of-fudge yesterday.And, I added sternly, theyll purchase thousands of pounds of goods on your credit cards without your knowledge. My wifes already done that, mused Colin, suddenly crestfallen.If an offer is too good to be true, I advised, it usually isnt, or is I get mixed up. Unless its that free bucket of chicken nuggets and root beer with every deep fried suckling pig purchased at the fast-food place up the road. Isnt or is what? An offer, true or good? asked Colin, looking baffled. Told him Id speak to Trading Standards and report back.How much is 700 million El Salvador lira, anyway? I asked. Over there, enough to buy a tin mine. And over here?Im not sure, admitted Colin, but the El Salvador economys definitely stabilised. Workers still collect their wages in wheelbarrows, but they dont need two people to push them now. Economists are confident that in five years a rucksack will be sufficient. You cant stand the thought that Ive won something and you havent, chided Colin. Like that time I found that stray animal. I wanted to keep it, but..., be blew out his cheeks,... oh no, you had to tell the authorities. It was a llama, Colin, I pointed out, testily.Just look at it logically, I implored. You didnt pick any numbers, you didnt enter the competition, youve never heard of the country, yet youve won. Doesnt that seem a little bit odd?Stranger things have happened, argued Colin. My dad won spot-the-ball with a nosebleed. At least speak to the authorities before doing anything rash, I counselled my colleague.Colin had the El Salvador authorities, or rather their Wood End representative, Shane. Colin rang at a bad time, though. Shane was wrestling with a bit of a rush on Big Macs. He called me a jammy so-and-so, said hed been doing the El Salvador lottery for five years and had only ever scooped a donkey, stammered Colin excitedly. He promised, though, that my life will change for ever by simply handing him my bank details. Misty-eyed, he gushed: Cars, home, expensive clothes......youll lose the lot, I assured him.Its the second slice of good luck Ive had in recent weeks, my pal boasted, refusing to bow to cold reality. I scooped the prize in the are you the mystery shopper in our photograph? newspaper competition.Someone pretending to be me, spotted me and gave the paper my details. Ive just got to confirm my pin number to claim the prize.Confirm by telling them it. Theyll let him know if it matches the one theyve got. I told Colin that sounded a little bit far-fetched. Far-fetched! he babbled, its downright weird.Dont tell anyone, he added in hushed tones, but I cheated. Ive never even been to Sao Paolo Sainsburys.Each morning, my wife crawls from under the duvet, stares at herself in the big mirror and mouths: You fat cow.Yesterday, I was so concerned I asked: You are aware youre talking to you?I fear she may have spent too long with our delinquent cat, and, like Mifsud, will one day fling herself at her own image. The glass will surely shatter. As an aid to losing weight, the self-abuse is puzzling. She should go to an organised slimming club, where a professional can insult her.Such public displays of self-deprecation have no place at Chateau Lockley. I know. I began criticising myself in front of the mirror at 9am last Saturday and still had two decades to go by 4.30. And who blew that date in 1984 by taking the girl to an Indian restaurant and trying to eat the hot towel? I seethed, my eyes welling with embarrassment.If I hadnt skipped over the job interview where my flies were open and the time I mistakenly walked into the womens changing rooms at the public baths I wouldve missed pub opening time.It was a painful process.Ive told Julie the extra baggage shes now carrying is a sign of contentment. Like him-over-the-road. He was so content after tipping the scale at 18 stone, he had a heart-attack. Just shows...you can be too happy.Each morning my wife locks herself in the bathroom, weighs herself, utters a loud oath, then declares the scales dont work. Shes even accused family members of stealing into the little room and putting their foot on the machinery while shes weighing herself.Nobodys foot is that heavy.Julie says that if I knew how much she now weighed, Id never talk to her again.At least if I knew, Id have an excuse for the silences.Suffice to say, if we had talking scales theyd protest about being trod on or bruised.Yesterday I made the mistake of telling her our scales were spot-on. She called me a heartless pig, raced weeping into the bedroom and again began berating herself in front of the big mirror.Oh no, ONE cake wasnt enough for you, she hissed at her reflection. Julie Lockley, she croaked, youve got absolutely no willpower!And you cant make Yorkshire puddings, I shouted through the door, desperately trying to add a touch of realism to the scene.Shes decided to take up swimming in an attempt to get into shape. I have my doubts. Whales swim. Have you seen their shape?Last week she discovered a diet that allows you to eat as much as you want as long as you run 15 miles immediately afterwards and stick two fingers down your throat. I told her it sounded dangerous.Id just do anything to get into that old bikini, she moaned.Anything? I asked. She nodded, fighting back tears.Well you can start by sifting through the decomposing rubbish at the local landfill site. We threw it out five years ago.Wife's thrown a major wobbly because Number One Son has again failed to put down the lid of the kitchen pedal bin.Im sick of being everybodys personal slave, she bellowed, unnecessarily bringing Yours Truly into the argument. Last week she was sick of being everybodys personal secretary: so sick, she jacked that job to be everybodys personal slave, apparently. Bad career move, I say.Theres a positive to come out of the pedal bin drama. At least Joe managed to push his body, dragged down by the weight of an empty Monster Munch yoghurt pot, to it.His bedrooms knee-deep in sweet wrappers, crisp packets and drink cans. Its only the lack of circling seagulls that stops it being a landfill site. One day I wont be here to pick up after you, warned Julie.Terrible thought, that. Joe would be comatose at his Playstation, a scrawled final note by the lifeless body urging: Can I have a glass of fruit juice, please? Not so much a cry for help, more a cry for waitress service. more More from Mike Lockley column
