New Statesman -- lottery novelist -- July 25 deadline
 

No 4285
By Leonora Casement
In the 1950s, we ran a competition in which we asked people to imagine how a well-known novelist would write about their hero or heroine winning the pools. We want you to think about how a novelist writing today would describe a character winning the lottery. Here’s Peter Sheldon’s D H Lawrence: “She watched from behind the lace curtains in Scargill Street as his black figure came shamblingly up the path from the Bottoms . . . Her hands tightened on the little envelope . . . She would not tell him yet, before he had had his supper . . .”
Max 150 words by 25 July comp@newstatesman.co.uk

'a novelist writing today' – some ambiguity there, surely? Lawrence was well dead by 1950, but I imagine that for the new comp. Vicky means 'a living, practising novelist'. Any thoughts?

I suppose she means a living novelist, which very much restricts the field, although I agree that it's ambiguous - it could mean 'how would Dickens describe a lottery winner if he were writing today?'

Do we know anyone who's on sufficiently good terms with Vicky to ask for clarification?

I can't say that I find the example given at all inspiring.

Which novelists writing today would be recognisable? Which novelists writing today does anybody read? Ruth Rendell? That Scots git who writes gloomy stuff set in Edinburgh?

OK, Brian - if your reading of the unpunctuated instructions is allowed - I might try...


George MacDonald Fraser

Hauled from the comforts of the ladies’ section of his retirement home’s Turkish Baths, where that snivelling ninny Blair’s envoy had found him, and thrust apparelled in extremely unbecoming, muddy looking workmen’s overalls, which appeared to be all that contemporary Field Marshals were allowed – no wonder the pathetic buggers couldn’t pull wenches even in Kabul’s most indulgent bazaar – Duke Flashman, VC and bars, squinted over the silk cushions and past the gossamer of this accommodating dusky lady’s yashmak at the screen of his scrambled satellite telephone thingy. '2' pills – still there and functioning, '11' – length of old man, not bad, age considered, '38-27-43' – best ever since Lola Montez – and '54' most in one night with little Narreeman. Good God! They’d come up. His Highness deflated. How much? Squillions of Europoly mazoomahs. Might not look heroic, but why not just buy the Taliban and their opium? Now, there was an idea.

Oh well, I've already done this.

Jane Austen

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a man with a lottery ticket must be in want of a fortune.
‘My dear Mr. Clarke,’ said his lady to him one morning, ‘have you seen your post today?’
Mr. Clarke replied that he had not.
Mrs. Clarke handed him a sheaf of envelopes.
‘There’s one from Mr. Dedicoat at Lottery HQ,’ Mr. Clarke exclaimed. ‘It would appear that our numbers have come up.’
‘Have they indeed?’
‘Five, six, fourteen, twenty, twenty-one and forty-seven. And the bonus ball too. Now there’s a fine thing.’
‘Indeed it is, Mr. Clarke.’
When the first tumult of joy was over, Mr. and Mrs. Clarke turned at once to the matter of how their one hundred pounds might be spent.
‘We could marry Fanny and Susannah,’ said Mrs. Clarke.
‘Yes,’ said her husband. ‘And buy a helicopter.’
‘A what?’

Oh dear, Nigel, I hadn't seen that George MacDonald Fraser had died. The Flashman books were very diverting. Perhaps since it was only a few years ago, you'll get away with your amusing piece.

As for Jane Austen, Rob, I fear she will only make it if interpretation b) is the right one.

Damn the rubric, here's Ivy Compton Burnett

'It appears that I have won the lottery.' Hereward Attwater announced to his family over breakfast.
'I do not like the ambiguity in that sentence.' said Letitia, his wife.
'The enormity and improbability of the eventuality seem to conspire against my believing it.'
'Are we to be rich, Father?' Eve, the youngest of the children, asked.
'We are already that,' admonished Letitia, 'but now we may be richer.'
'Then the change is not absolute, merely a matter of degree.'
'Nevertheless, the degree is not inconsiderable. I have checked my numbers against those listed in the newspaper and found that they correspond exactly.'
'It would be vulgar to wonder how much was the prize.'
'No, Letitia, it would be human to wonder. It would be vulgar to ask. Besides, my sharing news of my good fortune should not be mistaken for an intention to share that fortune.'

Very good, Adrian! It strengthens my intention never to read Ivy Compton-Burnett.

Thanks for the compliment, Brian. I actually rather enjoy Ivy Compton Burnett's novels; I think it is easier to parody or pastiche writers you like, which is probably why I can't think of single one writing today worthy of use in this particular comp.

I sniff a competition. Write 150 words by a novelist you have not read and have no intention of reading.

Would Beckett count for this competition. You say he's dead but how can you tell?

I like it John. Where to start? Jilly Cooper? Will Self?

David Foster Wallace! Surely the most talked about and - uncoincidentally - least read writer of the age. But even he is dead.

Even fewer words.

Irvine Welsh

-Angus, c’moan! Maggie is sayin, tryin tae shake her boyfriend oot ay his skag-induced stupor. -We’ve won the fuckin Lotto!
Angus opens his eyes. Pish holes in the snow.
Maggie gestures awa tae the black an white TV balanced on toap of a deid baby in the corner ay the room. Their numbers are oan the screen. -We’re in the fuckin poppy! D'ye hae the wee ticket?
Angus feels aboot under the sleepin bag.
-Aye, but it’s goat a bit ay shite oan it. An puke. An pish.
-Kin ye still see the numbers?
-Ah cannae see fuck. Yir pimp detached ma retinas last night wi that fuckin crowbar, remember?
Maggie taiks the ticket oaf ay him. -Aye, ye kin.
-Whae d’ye soond sae fuckin miserable aboot it? Angus sais, tryin tae stab a passin rat wi a hypodermic.
-Jus proamise me we won’t let the money change us.

LMFAO, Rob.

I'm very glad to hear it. I hope you managed to get it reattached OK.

Rob, nice one - but the correct local usage for 'the' is 'ra'; 'of' is ' o' '; 'boyfriend' is a strange English musical show; 'sleeping bags', if known at all, are somnolent female 'loaby dossers'; 'numbers' has no 'b'; etc. Bit of a rewrite needed to achieve the real argot, I fear.

Strictly speaking I'm sure you're right, Nigel, but I'm attempting to channel Mr Welsh rather than the real argot, and that's how he spells these words, at least in the stuff I've read. And I think I have to make certain allowances with the vocabulary for the non-Scottish audience or the piece will be incomprehensible!

Aye, Rob, and Vicky willna know tae gie ye the vouchers. (Sorry if this is wrong, Nigel. My Scottish isn't what it used to be. It never was.)

If it's by the man Welsh it will be bloody incomprehensible however you slice it.

Never heard of him, John. You mean Welsh is Scottish? (Faints at the thought of the linguistic consequences)

I thought you lived in Edinburgh, John. Are you not au fait with the local heroin subculture? ;-)

Chizz, that's my idea down the drane.

Keith was fucked. Or he was made. Because that was the thing about the Friday lottery draw; it could go either way. Hitherto, it had always gone one way; the wrong way. So Keith was almost certainly fucked. But not certainly. Not absolutely certainly, surely. And while the candy coloured balls spun and wheeled, you got to imagine that what could happen would happen, before it almost certainly didn’t. Except tonight, when it did. Because Keith’s numbers – number of times he’d raped wife Kath, favourite darts score, number of lagers it took to ‘sort’ him – actually came up. Life changing prize money, natch. Keith whooped and bellowed like an animal; winning hadn’t changed him. Now, he’d buy everything he wanted; a lifestyle instead of a life, outsize tits for the wife, never ending booze cruise with the lads. ‘Finally,’ said Keith, ‘I’m gonna get some respeck.’ Yeah, Keith was fucked.

Martin Amis

That's bloody good, Adrian. Better than Martin. Now write the other 60,000 words.

Why on earth would people waste their time reading about things that never happened? Oh well...

“We’re sorry to barge in on you so late at night, Professor, but we badly need your help,” Langdon repeated.
The old man made no reply but continued to hold the square piece of paper in front of him, eyes twitching.
“We think it must be some sort of sequence,” Sophie added. “Two sets of six numbers, one on top of the other. But I can’t get it.”
“The Stracciatella sequence?” breathed the Professor, sotto voce. “But that hasn’t been used since 1413! Giovanni Stracciatella was an ice-cream vendor in Naples but made a few lira on the side devising arithmetical sequences. But where on earth did you find this.”
But as the annoying music heralding the National Lottery results came on the old television set in the corner, there came the tinkling sound of glass shattering and the Professor fell back, a large crossbow bolt protruding from his forehead.
(Dan Brown)

Stephen King "The Shining"
 

Wendy’s ancient VW stopped at the Mountview Trailer Park. “Remember, Danny, your father’s never been the same since the Overlook Hotel exploded. Sometimes, I think things would be better if he’d died. Anyway, the divorce decree allows him alternate weekends with you.”

Danny sullenly approached the dilapidated trailer on Lot 32. As he entered, Jack Torrance shouted “I’ve won the goddamn lottery! I’m gonna buy a humongous house, a Corvette, and get back with your mom. It’ll be just like old times!” Draining the dregs from a quart of Chivas, Jack collapsed on a pile of papers. Danny noticed that “All play and no work makes Jack a swell dad” was typed hundreds of times on them.

Danny pulled the winning ticket from Jack’s pocket, and dropped it into the smoldering woodstove. “Frig this!” he muttered. Slamming the trailer door, he began the long walk to his mom’s apartment.