for some, money does buy happiness

From UK Daily Telegraph

'Money can buy happiness' lottery winner reveals

We can't resist predicting post-jackpot doom but we should, says Cassandra Jardine

	Winning the lottery 'makes you nicer and kinder'

Poor Angela Kelly. It's a wonder that she can keep a grin on her face as she waves around the fizz to "celebrate" her £35.4 million record lottery win. Because we all know, don't we, that no good will come of it.

Now she's wallowing in EuroMillions, the 40-year-old single mother from East Kilbride has already decided to junk her £21,000-a-year job as an administrative assistant for the Royal Mail and plans, in the not-too-distant future, to sell her £80,000 two-bedroom flat and move to the country.

Let's hope she gets a good price because, before long, she is bound to find it hard living on the £2 million or so annual interest from her triple rollover jackpot.

What do you mean, "No, she won't"? Of course she will. For now, she may have revised an initial rash remark about moving to Italy by saying that she'd like to stay in Scotland for the sake of her son, John, who is about to start his GCSEs.

At present, she can't think in spending terms beyond splashing out on her first manicure and getting another Seat Ibiza to replace the one she pranged in May. Her plans to treat John don't extend beyond a quad bike, a Wii computer games system and PlayStation. She has also said she'd happily give some of the money to her estranged husband.

But it's only a matter of time. If we're allowed to catch up with her in a year or two, we know what to expect. John, by then 16, will no longer be at the local school. He'll have been teased and bullied so mercilessly that he'll have flunked out of education, the better to indulge his drug habit. That's if he hasn't already killed himself on his quad bike.

Those neighbours who are so thrilled for Angela now, calling her a "down-to-earth" woman with no indulgences beyond the occasional vodka, will have turned on her: even if she is generous with her handouts, there'll always be someone who thinks they deserved more.

The manicure, meanwhile, will have progressed to a double boob-job-cum-face-lift, tummy-tuck and bottom enhancement operation to attract a string of venal toyboys. And the estranged husband will have spent his windfall on lawyers to strip her of the rest.

Attempts to resist such conclusions are useless. From the earliest days of the lottery, the British have always indulged in the opposite of Schadenfreude - Freudeschaden, perhaps - which allows us to feel heart-warming pity for those who strike it super-lucky.

Admittedly, some of the 2,000-plus millionaires created since the lottery started in November 1994 have done their best to help. One committed suicide, several have found themselves in prison, and a sprinkling have gratifyingly followed in the footsteps of Viv "Spend, spend, spend" Nicholson, the 1961 pools winner who ended up bankrupt.

Camelot has tried to correct this picture. At the end of last year, the company commissioned research which showed that, counter to expectations, 97 per cent of winners were glad about their good fortune. But among their number are a few who have confided such horrendous tales of exploitation and family rifts that this conclusion seems a little surprising.

One such "winner" is Mark Gardiner, whose mother got the good cheer off to a fine start by saying that she hoped he would end up driving his new Ferrari into a wall - "and I hope it's tomorrow".

Although it runs contrary to puritan ideas about happiness being a by-product of hard work, the simple shift to being able to pay bills and indulge a few dreams is one for which most of us would swap constant financial anxiety.

We aren't deluding ourselves, according to Hunter Davies, author of Living on the Lottery, for which he followed the fortunes of 27 winners from the game's first year. He's kept in touch with many of them and has come to a shocking conclusion.

"Money does buy happiness," he says. "It makes you nicer and kinder - maybe because you don't get messed around so much.

"Of the 27, only one wasn't happy and he was a depressive. Those who mutter about the awful things in store for winners are simply subscribing to a compensatory myth that makes them feel better."

However, he warns all of us who are rushing to buy tickets not to believe the two most common things that people say when they are in the queue: "You won't see me for dust" and "I'll give most of it away".

Actually, almost all winners stay where they have always lived, simply upgrading their homes two notches, from flat to semi, perhaps. And although they give on average 20 to 30 per cent of their winnings away, it is to family and friends, not good causes - unless of course you are their family or friends.

No doubt Angela Kelly will follow suit. She may heed the advice of Brooke Astor, the recently deceased New York socialite who believed that "Money is like manure, it should be spread around." And if she needs advice, there will be plenty of people clustering, like flies on manure, to help her.

It's not as if it is difficult to spend £35.4 million. When I dream of winning the lottery - as we all do, even if we don't buy tickets - I start by thinking that £200,000 would be perfect. It would pay the school fees, buy a conservatory, and leave change for a few holidays.

But once the money-fantasy wheels start turning, it seems a paltry amount. A million won't get you a decent flat in central London or the wing of a Learjet - though it would probably be enough to modernise our plumbing so that the shower doesn't just dribble.

Even £35.4 million will buy only a single Picasso, a tiny island in the middle of nowhere or Tom Cruise to star in just one home movie - depending on whether he likes the script. But I'd like to think that I'd spend that money on regenerating the dilapidated areas close to where I live for the benefit of my more deprived neighbours.

So if Angela runs out of ideas, she can always shovel some my way. I'm prepared to take a three per cent risk of feeling the worse for it.

Cassandra Jardine is funny. I wonder if she kept a straight face when she wrote that. Now if only it had been about me!

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Thursday. Another day closer to the weekend.