I may be the only human on the planet who ever prays that they don’t win the national lottery. Good lapsed Catholic that I am, my sit-stand-kneel muscle memory tells me to direct such prayers to the patron saint of lotteries, St Pantaleon. As I write this, the estimated Powerball jackpot is R110m. I don’t want it. That's because if I won it, I'd probably add an extra three x’s to the word obnoxious.

For starters, I would never wipe my own bum ever again. I would never walk again. Everywhere I'd go I’d be carried on a litter, manned by four muscular men. Anti-slavery lobby groups would be so outraged by my repugnant behaviour, I’d end up on every nation’s travel ban list. Hordes of nauseated folks would use rolled up copies of the Sunday Times Lifestyle section to construct effigies of me to burn in front of the burnt parliament...