February 28, 2007

In 1994, one of the biggest cock-ups in the world of public relations occurred with a newly-launched game called, these days, Lotto.

The first week of the National Lottery produced no winner and left the nation in a frenzy. But the following Saturday, the first ever rollover, did.

The lucky man had won £17.9 million and despite how much old hat it may seem now, it was the biggest story in the country on that day.

Except the guy wanted to remain private.

It was a PR nightmare for Camelot, the lottery organisers, and so they issued an innocuous four line statement saying that the "family man", who lived in "Blackburn", read "The People and The Sun" - must keep market leaders News International and Mirror Group happy, remember - , was "very happy" with his win.

And that was it.

And so obviously, within two hours, I was part of a team of six Daily Mirror reporters in Blackburn that, later in the night, would increase to nine. Plus a team of snappers.

Within 40 minutes of getting to Blackburn, I knew the name and address of Mukhtar Mohidin - because everyone he'd ever known wanted a piece of his supposedly-secret good fortune.

After three hours, I was standing barefoot in a mosque asking the Imam if he would accept any of Mukhtar's money, tainted in the eyes of Islam as it had been gained through gambling.

The answer, incidentally, was a very definite "no".

Mukhtar and his family, needless to say, had already fled. And they never went back home.

They changed their names, wracked themselves with guilt over the cash, and eventually settled down south at a place I won't divulge.

But our newsdesks - all of them - were going absolutely fucking beserk about this.

In our hotel alone that night, there were 67 grumbling tabloid hacks getting frantically pissed at the bar, all of them knowing there was nothing to be had but bollockings the next morning.

It was around this time that three things happened to me for the first time:

1) I drank Scotch.

2) I got a shooting, screaming stab of agony in my nether regions that turned out to be my first and hopefully last experience of Nobby Stiles (more of which another time, I feel), and

3) Staggeringly drunk at around 2am, starving (for once), I pleaded with the now shrinking bunch of guys at the bar for the opportunity for something to eat. "What?" said the guy from the News of the World, quite incredulously. "No thanks. You don't get pissed on lumpy stuff."

It's a phrase I've used myself many a time since, as some readers will recognise.

The guy who said it, however, took early retirement a couple of years later and I never heard his name again.

Until an hour ago.

When my final itinerary for this Sardinia press trip came through.

Oh God.

He's on it.

Have mercy on my liver soul.