My pal has never had a yearning to be rich and famous.All he has ever wanted to be is rich.
He has the cheek to argue that love and not money is the most important thing in his life, but it is hardly coincidence that he loves money.
My pal’s problem is he does not own money; it owns him. But his financial problems have often been not so much cash flow as cash flew. He has never had a problem making it, but keeping it has been a different matter.
I suppose this quest for what he sees as security stemmed from his impoverished upbringing.
His large family did not starve, but they didn’t eat chicken unless they were sick or the chicken was.
In most families the first words spoken by toddlers tend to be something resembling “mama” or “dada”.
My pal’s were: “Do I have to use my own money?” When we had left school
I remember asking him:
“Are you looking for work?” He replied: “Not necessarily, but I’d like a job.”
He had simple needs, just an honest week’s pay for an honest day’s work.
So it was a surprise when he ended up working for himself. The poacher turned gamekeeper.
He says being self-employed is fabulous, you only work half a day. Then you do anything you fancy with the other 12 hours.
All he has to learn now is that successful employers don’t pay good wages because they have a lot of money. No, they have a lot of money because they pay good wages.
Having reached some level of success, my pal is now terrified he won’t live long enough to enjoy it.
He is the eternal pessimist, the guy who feels rotten when he is feeling fine because he’s worried that he will feel worse when he eventually feels better.
The optimist sees the chocolate doughnut, my pal sees the hole.
He lives on his nerves. He says everyone gets butterflies, the trick is getting them to fly in formation. Of course, being married to The Wicked Witch of the East requires nerves of steel, a brass neck, and a solid gold bank balance.
When they were single she welcomed his advances, especially those in cash. On their honeymoon she spent money like there was no tomorrow. Well, it has been tomorrow ever since.
Whoever said money can’t buy happiness should shop with The Wicked Witch.
She owes everything in her vast wardrobe to the Scottish education system.
If she hadn’t learned to sign her name she’d have to strong-arm my pal for cash.
The Wicked Witch is proof bonds are more fun.
She was at the Barras. “How much for that set of antlers?” she asked.
“Ninety-nine quid,” says the dealer.
“That’s affa dear,” says The Wicked Witch.
“Aye, yer dead right missus!” says the dealer.
My pal hasn’t tried money-laundering yet but he was one of the 2,529 folk who last year asked the Bank of England to replace notes that were damaged because they had been “washed”.
And he has applied for some of their dirty money, the 830million notes, worth £11.4billion, destroyed because they were deemed unfit for public use. My pal had a fit reading that.
Just think what all that mullah could buy: a house but not a home; a bed but not sleep; a clock but not time; books but not knowledge; medicine but not health; insurance but not safety; sex but not love.
So there, you might as well get rid of it. And if you have too much, dear reader, send it to my pal c/o his pal. At the usual address.
