Lucky Johnny

Johnny wasn't listening. He had no idea what the man on the phone was on about.

“... oil calls... good time for... 20% gilts... gold-backed... excellent investment...”

He'd had numerous calls like this since he won the big prize on the lottery and he hated them. He picked up the remote and started flicking through the endless channels of dross on his enormous TV when there was a distinctive triple-knock at the door. His takeaway had arrived.

“Sorry, mate,” he said, “not interested.” He plopped the phone back in its cradle and went to the door.

“Hello, bud,” the delivery man said, “that's £13.50 please.”

Johnny gave him a twenty and took the pizza from him. He shut the door and went into the living room, kicking a path through the wasteland of curry tins, pizza boxes and polystyrene burger boxes that the floor had become.

He sat down and opened the box. Looking at the steaming cheese and hot pepperoni sausage Johnny realised he wasn't remotely hungry. He put it on the coffee table between the pyramid of empty beer cans and the tower of Xbox games he was already bored with.

Since winning the lottery he'd put on three stone, filled his house with every kind of gadget and had begun to wonder what the point of it all was. He missed the lads on the factory line. He missed putting a fiver on the football on Saturdays.

He missed wanting stuff.

The phone rang and he wondered whether to answer it.

“Hello, can I speak to Mr. Ferguson please?” Great, thought Johnny, another suit with a deal.

“Yeah, that's me.”

“Hi, I'm calling about your online lottery account. I've got some great news for you! You've won Saturday's jackpot!”

“Oh, for God's sake,” Johnny groaned, “not again.”