[John Whitworth]

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

[Brian Allgar]

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

[Rob Stuart]

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

[Carolyn Thomas-Coxhead]

Chizz, that's my idea down the drane.

Originally Posted by Adrian Fry

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.'

[Adrian Fry]

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

[John Whitworth]

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

[Peter Goulding]

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)

[Douglas G. Brown]

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.