One hundred million dollars...

It's so ludicrously improbable to get a winning ticket in the European lottery that nobody has won the jackpot for 10 weeks. That hasn't stopped millions of punters from buying tickets, no doubt driven to avaricious distraction by the rollover prize of $250 million.

A staggering amount, that begs the question what on earth would I do with all that money? Well, obviously for the first ten years or so I'd spend my time in oceans of alcohol accompanied by a trusty band of unmarried Philipino ladies, but sooner or later I think I'd want to use my cash for more frivolous pursuits. After all, there's more to life than just champagne and hot asian three-way love.

So what exactly would I do?

Firstly, I'd buy off as many judges as required to gain exclusive legal rights to the 'full stop'. The potentially crippling royalties I could then charge for any published writings would give me the degree of control over the litterati I so badly crave. Ayn Rand, Jane Austen, Margaret Attwood and any other fuckwit who should never have been allowed to put pen to paper are all going down. And L. Ron Hubbard might as well check into the poor house now, quite frankly.

I'd get a helicopter. No particular reason, but I would imagine a helicopter would be worth it's weight in top-notch quim.

I'd buy a controlling percentage in a large construction company (perhaps one specializing in the oil industry) and muscle my way onto the board of directors. I'd then become Vice-President to some insignificant brain-damaged turd, so I could pull all the strings without any having any public accountability. (I know it's not original, but imitation is the highest form of flattery).

I'd follow the advice of John Betjeman, and bomb Slough. Only a person who's never been there would ever need to ask why.

Perhaps surprisingly to some, I would continue my PhD. I haven't worked this hard to pass up the chance of being able to have at hand the hard evidence that I'm educationally superior to almost the entire planet. I would, however, refit my office so that it's much better than any of the faculty. I would employ a secretary through whom all petitions to see me would have to be channelled. Imagine the obsequious toadying of all those funding-starved professors.

On a similar note, I would offer a substantial sum of money to the ever greedy and spineless UCLA mandarins, but on the strict understanding that the administration staff list gets cut by at least 25%. That should sort out a few of the idle, venomous witches that so sour my life.

I would buy a Caribbean island that's even bigger than Richard Branson's, just to piss him off. I would then imprison Jeremy Clarkson on it.

That should do for a start.