New Statesman -- lottery novel winners
No 4285
Set by Leonora Casement
We asked you to imagine how a novelist writing today would describe one of his or her characters winning the Lottery.
This week’s winners
Marvellous. Of those who didn’t quite make it, I particularly liked Brian Allgar’s Stephen King (“Giant otters had invaded the country”) and Michael Birt’s Julian Barnes (“I’ve never bought a ticket in my life and now they tell me I’ve won the big prize”). The five winners get £20 each and the Tesco vouchers go, in addition, to Brian D Allingham.
Will Self
As that penultimate spherical harbinger of fate tumbled with coy lugubriousness into the hopper, John’s carotid pounded with ferment. The final ball fell into its place, resting in the seven-testicled Lotto box. Echt Sieg! At last, he could terminate his peripatetic lifestyle and join the great illusion of middle-classery. With Sisyphean effort, he reached for his callipygian cigarette lighter to give the delicate, damp roll-up clenched between his gnashers some feu.
Alex Harvey
Irvine Welsh
Jesus fucken Christ. Seventy fucken million quid! How much coke would that buy? Whaddayamean buy? I could set up a business and sell the stuff to the junkies in Leith and Gorgie. Hire a few hard men and make a packet.
But that would be work! Why bother? Think straight, man.
Goddit. I can buy Hibs and sign every decent footballer in Scotland and win the Cup. First Cup win in 116 years. Ah wid be a hero. A fucken saint!
Naw. Better still. Buy the Hearts and drive them into the ground. Make them play in pink strips, like a bunch of fucken jessies. Sign all the players that even Rangers won’t sign, so that they lose every week.
Great idea. Now all I’ve gotta do is find the fucken ticket.
Brian D Allingham
Mark Haddon
I finished my maths practice at 12.07pm and walked down to the shop at the end of the road. On my way I saw 5 red cars in a row, making it a Super Good Day, which is why I decided to buy a Lottery ticket. There was a pen on a string; I didn’t like to touch it because it was brown so I used my pen, which is green.
The numbers I chose were 2, 3, 5, 7, 11, 13. These are prime numbers, which I like. I wrote 17 in the bonus box. There are 13,983,816 possible combinations, so the odds are 1 in 2,330,636.
All my numbers came up. The next day a man came to visit me. I had won £41,007,913.
He asked, “How old are you, Christopher?”
“15 years, 3 months and 2 days,” I replied.
And he took the money away. You have to be over 16 to win.
Sylvia Fairley
Dan Brown
“We’re sorry to barge in on you so late at night, professor, but we badly need your help,” Langdon said again.
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. Where on earth did you find this?”
But as the music heralding the National Lottery results started playing on the old television set in the corner, there was the tinkling sound of glass shattering and the professor fell back, a large crossbow bolt protruding from his forehead.
Peter Goulding
Stephen King
Sanford Lamb was annoyed. When the reclusive author hadchecked in at the old Jackson Motel, located on haunted Indian grounds near an abandoned pet cemetery off a lonely logging road, he’d given instructions that he should not be disturbed, yet here was that creepy desk clerk again.
“Mr Laa-aamb,” drawled Symkyns, rapping on the door with his prosthetic hook. “You might want to come out. You’ve surely won our stylish Jackson lottery.”
“What are you talking about?” groaned the exasperated Lamb, as he opened the door. “I never entered any lottery.”
“Excuse me,” grinned Symkyns, gripping Lamb’s wrist with his surprisingly strong good hand. “What I meant was, you’ve won our Shirley Jackson-style lottery – thanks to these good folks.”
As Lamb found himself dragged from his room, he saw a swelling circle of silent townspeople, each of whom held a large, round stone. Then they were upon him.
Frank Osen
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