Dream turns sour but number’s up for Spanish Lotto

A sleek Jaguar XKR-S conver-tible, capable of an explosive 0-100km in just 4.4 seconds.

Tick.

A mini home office makeover with an all-singing, all-dancing 12-Core 32GB MacPro and a 13-inch Apple Air MacBook small brother for company.

Tick.

That yearned for luxurious extra floor house extension incorporating a futuristic, wraparound sound home cinema and at least one snooker table.

Keep on ticking.

And in the interests of domestic calm and personal safety, concessions will be made to facilitate a dedicated Christian Louboutin corner in a new walk-in wardrobe. Throw in the annual “Please Dad” VIP Disney Princess cruise and then make allowances for a special guest appearance at a forthcoming 14th birthday party by the cutest one of the Jonas brothers.

Tick, tick, tick.

Well, hey, if you’ve got it, flaunt it. And my shopping list is in no way excessive after clinching the €1,610,550.00 top prize in a Spanish Lotto.

The life-changing letter, which popped through the letterbox on Monday, brought the type of dream start to the week that I had long fantasised about.

Ellen Mary Lpoezm, the vice president of the International Lotto Commission in Madrid, Espana, had the pleasant task of informing me that my six lucky numbers had come up trumps and I was one of 11 entitled to a share of the €8.052m from the Loterias y Apuestas del Estado.

The fact that I am slow to support the National Lottery and never in my life invested in a EuroMillions ticket was entirely irrelevant because, however it happened, my windfall was stashed in a bank vault in Madrid.

With my best interests at heart, Ellen Mary, bless her kindly Spanish soul, advised me to keep the news to myself until the claim had been processed to avoid “unwarranted taking advantage of”.

All that stood between this discreet but internally beaming 40-something Kerry man and life in the fast lane was a phone call to the foreign operations manager Dr Antonio Miguel to process my claim before I filled out and faxed the accompanying data of beneficiary form to the Winterthu Group in Espana. They didn’t need much — just a few token personal details like my home address, bank of choice, account number, sort code, a copy of my personal ID, my signature and a few personal details about my next-of-kin, presumably in the pre-Louboutin phase of her life.

And then, just like the vanishing Anorak Man in the immediate aftermath of the Mahon Tribunal, it all came crashing down.

Trust An Garda Síochána to play spoilsport. Inundated over a period of hours with complaints from “scores of people” who referred their Lotto win letters to the local copshop, the girls and boys in blue sounded an immediate warning to exercise great caution and, under no circumstances, were we to even consider returning the bank forms.

Almost faster than it takes to wipe a tear from the eye, the great millionaire’s dream had quickly evaporated into a pauper’s nightmare.

Ah well, it was good while it lasted and, as always, half the fun’s wishing. Besides, the road tax on the Jag would have been crippling...