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
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