Denis Lehane knows the first thing he'd do if he found himself swimming in money
I feel very sorry for the couple who won €130m in the EuroMillions.
As I tried to explain to my missus over the breakfast this morning, “Having too much money is just as bad as having too little.”
It can drive a fellow crazy.
“So how much is enough?” you might ask. Well, the way I see it, if you can put your hand into your pocket of a Monday morning, and find a ball of money, then you have enough. Anything more is merely surplus to requirements and will drive you mad in the long run.
If someone gave me €130m this morning, the first thing I’d do would be to get a new driver’s seat for my jeep.
The one in place right now is coming apart at the seams. And there are times when, I must confess, the discomfort and lack of cushioning have me steering my ship like a jockey at Cheltenham, with my arse up in the air.
It’s no way for a man of my standing to go about his business, and certainly no way for a millionaire. So the seat would be the first to go.
New or second hand, I’m not fussy really. And I suppose, if push came to shove, a set of tyres for the front wouldn’t go astray either.
Although there is still enough tread, I believe, to get me to St Patrick’s Day.
And beyond that, well I reckon I’d give the rest of the money back, for with farming and everything else, I wouldn’t have the time to be dealing with it.
Of course, some might say, wouldn’t you head off to Las Vegas, or someplace, with a blonde, and blow a million on the one-armed bandits?
And of course, I could do that too. But at the end of the day, a fellow has to return home. And I find it hard enough to get back on track here on the farm after a night down in Lissarda, never mind Las Vegas.
So no, beyond the essentials, the money would be wasted on me.
Well, my friend, that is true. But here’s the sting in the tail, about having everything you desire.
I remember once spending a night back in Killarney.
My missus was with me, so ’tis no scandalous story I’m telling.
Anyhow, for breakfast the following morning, we were treated to a buffet. And you don’t treat me to a buffet breakfast and expect me to tread softly.
I made a sprint for the buffet table, the way a champion greyhound leaves the traps in Curraheen Park of a Saturday night. I was in paradise, for what was on offer in Killarney that morning has yet to be surpassed.
Sausages of all descriptions, rashers of every variety, puddings so aromatic that they’d bring a tear to the eye of Paul McCartney himself. I’m telling you, that buffet breakfast would have a diehard vegetarian salivating.
The eggs were sublime, tomatoes to die for. Fried onions and mushrooms by the bucket full.
In fairness to myself, I battled hard for the next hour and a half.
So much so that when the dust settled, I had taken on board so much that I didn’t desire a fry again for at least six months. And even after that period, I was only a nibbler for a good while more.
My point being, having too much of a good thing could leave you in a right perilous state. These days I’m happy to have a boiled egg for breakfast. And you should be too.