I’m a glutton for punishment. Every year, without fail, I buy the Sunday Times Rich List. I know I’m not in there – don’t worry, I’m not completely insane – but I’m fascinated and depressed, in nearly equal measure, by just how much some people have hidden under their beds. Thousands of millions, in some cases. Picture a thousand anything – marbles, plates, people,
breasts socks – and it’s a lot. But a thousand million? That’s an awful lot, and damn them for not sharing it. One Thousand Million Pounds. A thousand million. I only want one million; they’d have 999 million left (I think).
Annoyingly while the List contains a seperate entry for Footballers, there isn’t one for sport. On this basis, if you don’t play football you’re relatively skint (which we knew anyway). Wayne Rooney is one of the richest young people, as is the runt who plays Harry Potter in the, er, Harry Potter films. Bastards.
Amusingly, I fumbled in my pocket for some coppers to buy the paper after leaving work, but was 12p short! I found it hilarious (“Ah! The irony of it all! Me, buying the rich list, and I’m 12p short!”). The cashier was totally disinterested. I doubt he even knew what it was I was buying.
As Del Boy’d say, “This time next year…”