‘I looked at the ticket, and I thought, I’m feeling pretty damn lucky.’
‘I always forget her birthday, is it the 5th or the 6th?’
Two different statements, two different people. How did I know, besides being the perspicacious social observer that I am, that they were related? It could only be lotto fever. Australia was gripped with it yesterday and quite frankly I think the authorities should be far more worried about the nation’s propensity to spend their hard-earned on a one in 45 million chance to win $90 million than some pesky barn yard flu.
What piqued my interest, as a marketer, or spawn of satan as we are often touted as, was the application of the theory of the JND or just noticeable difference to the unitiated. I wondered what it was about $90 million, besides being a shitload of money, that inspired every man and his dog to throw jump off the moral highground of anti-gambling and plunge face first into a sea of system 6s, quickpicks and syndicates. The week before’s jackpot was $50 million, which realistically to the average punter would afford them no more or less quality of life than $90 million. But oh well, I have long since stopped concerning myself with the vagaries of human nature.
However I did like to ponder exactly how a cool 90 mill would alter my existence. For one, I’d be famous. Not in a good way at all, more like an ex-Big Brother contestant kind of way – fame via circumstance rather than talent. That wouldn’t sit well. I’d also feel compelled to give to charity – I would want to anyway, but how much is the question? I mean, half? One third? I have no idea and I’m sure whatever amount I did give I would still be hauled over the coals for my avarice. In the same vein, an off the cuff remark from a friend saying he would give me $1 million if he won led me to wonder – how many friends is one supposed to give this, in context, piddling amount to? My entire facebook friends list? I’d be in $256 million debt (not that I’m counting!). But in all seriousness – drawing the line of who gets a $1 million handshake would be even more stressful than making the cut off point of who makes it on the wedding invite list (I imagine). Let’s just say, it could get ugly.
I was forced to conclude after all this pondering, that really, my day to day existence and minimally fluctuating bank balance causes me enough stress and anxiety. I don’t really need $90 million added to that burden. I’m glad I didn’t win, and I always knew that every single derivative of the numbers making up my birthday were unlucky. So there.
