Episode 90 -The Parish Lotto Power Play…

The Parish Lotto Power Play: Another Classic Bully Move…

You know, it’s funny the things that stick in your mind when you look back over the years. It’s not always the big, dramatic blow-ups. Sometimes it’s the petty little moves, the sneaky, underhanded jabs that tell you more about a person’s character than a lifetime of speeches ever could.

I was chatting to a friend today about our local parish lotto. It took me right back. My mother, God rest her, ran it in our area for years. It mattered to her. Every week, without fail, she’d collect the envelopes, do the rounds, and have the chats. It wasn’t about the money; it was community, connection, tradition. After she passed away, my dad continued to contribute because he knew it was important to her. And us kids? We were all in it, too. I used to drop his money in every week, part of the routine, part of what keeps a family’s name ticking over in a place.

Then along came Bully.

As soon as he got his hands on my dad’s affairs, he declared he was taking it over. No conversation, no “what do you think?”, just a statement. Typical. At the time, I thought fair enough, one less thing to deal with, and let it be. Because I was tired. Tired of the constant power plays and the silent punishments dished out for daring to exist.

Fast forward a few months. I’m walking through town and bump into the lovely woman who’d taken over running the lotto after my mother passed. We were having a grand old chat when I casually said I needed to change my numbers. She looked a bit uncomfortable and said,
“Oh, love, you’re not in it anymore.”

Just like that.

I wasn’t in it anymore.

No phone call. No message. No explanation. Quietly crossed off the list like I was never there at all.

And that’s the kind of thing people like Bully do. It wasn’t about the money. It wasn’t about a potential win. It was about control. About erasing. About quietly chipping away at the threads that keep you connected to your family and your place. It’s those little sneaky acts that no one else sees, but they add up. Death by a thousand petty cuts.

You see, people like that can’t stand to leave even the smallest of things untouched. It’s not enough for them to hold the land, the keys, the so-called ‘family name.’ They have to erase the evidence you were ever part of it.

But here’s the thing, it doesn’t work.

Because you can take my name off a lotto ticket, but you can’t take me out of the story. You can’t unwrite history, no matter how hard you scrub at it. You can’t unlive the love my mother put into every envelope she collected or the way she held that little book like it was sacred. You can’t remove the loyalty that lives in people’s memories, no matter how many lists you quietly cross names off.

And do you know what else? The people who matter see it. That woman knew. Her face said it all before she even spoke.

And for every Bully move made behind closed doors, there’s always someone who remembers who really kept the family name alive when it counted. Not with land deeds or wills or envelopes full of petty cash, but with decency, honesty, and heart.

So no, I might not be in the parish lotto anymore. But I’m still in the bigger one. The one where character counts and karma keeps better books than any Bully ever could.

Granny Frass would’ve said it best:

“Let them have their tickets and their sneaky little wins, love. The real jackpot’s knowing you never turned into one of them.”

And you know what? She was right.

As for Sir Percival?

He’d be sprawled across some sunny windowsill, give a long, lazy stretch, and mutter, “Funny how the ones most desperate to win are always playing the smallest games.”

And with that, tail flicked and head held high, he’d wander off to somewhere warmer, leaving them to their paper tickets and empty victories.