Dark bleatings, my suspicious tribe! If you’ve been on social media at all recently, you’ll have no doubt heard about ‘Millionaires Day’ by now. In case you haven’t, to catch you up, the truth about what happened in the UK with all the cases in December 2019 is finally coming out. As with all “conspiracies”, there are deniers, of course. But hey, we were there and we know.
I’ve published two previous posts on this, which can be found HERE and HERE. I’ve asked people to come forward with their experiences if they’re happy for me to post them, and following on the heels of Richard Daniels, Dave Jeffery has always joined this fight for truth!
Here is his account:
Okay, I was told to ‘keep it shut’ that there might even be ‘consequences’ for talking about what happened on what we now call ‘Millionaire’s Day’. But to hell with it, I got one of those damn briefcases in 2019, but it was empty. So, am I blabbing because I wasn’t one of those lucky ones who found their cases crammed with cash? No, that’s not it; that would make me as cynical as all those other sorry bleaters on social media. I’m not saying that I didn’t sit there with that nondescript case on my lap for a few hours, wondering (and yes, hoping) I’d a life-changing sum inside. It was what such thoughts, and the outcome of opening the case, has done to me, how it has changed the way I feel about the world.
So, I play the lottery, right? Chances of winning? Well, I read somewhere that I’m more likely to be struck and killed by an asteroid fragment. But having the case, that’s just 50/50, the hopes are tangible, and—but for the click of two clasps—the difference between life as is, or a life, changed. Fifty-fifty. Two clicks—one huge, crushing wave disappointment.
Now here comes the clincher, the one that smeared shit on my rose-tinted worldview. I find out that everyone who got a case should’ve had the money. Chances of winning, one hundred fucking percent. So it means someone took it whilst I was out overnight; first writer’s convention I’ve attended for a while. Come to think of it, some writers weren’t there, was it that goddamn Kit Power? Or that sneaky Kayleigh Dobbs, maybe?
Was it my brother who had access to my apartment so that he could feed the damn cat. He said he didn’t, well when he was actually speaking to me, that is. The phone calls and text messages stopped some time ago. Something about my ‘shitty attitude’, apparently. This is me—how I am—paranoid as feck. Back then, and certainly now. Always thinking, always wishing I’d stayed home. Always thinking of the might-have-beens.
So, if you’re asking, that’s my lived-experience of Millionaire’s Day, and this is my sign-off: fuck whoever did this. Those who sent the case; and whoever took the money. Fuck ‘em; fuck ‘em all.”
Disclaimer: Dave and I have spoken and we’re all good – he was only half-serious about Kit or I swiping his cash. I didn’t even get a case, personally, and Dave would know if I’d stolen his because there’d be signs. I’d finally have that secret library through a secret bookshelf doorway in my house, for a start.
Anyway, speaking of Kit, he’s penned a book about what feels more like a heinous day than a joyous one. He’s marketing it as “fiction” because, well…his attempts to release it as non-fiction have hitherto been thwarted at every turn. I personally tried to list it on Amazon twice (I work with his publisher), and it was instantly removed. So here’s a pre-order link to Millionaires Day, a work of “fiction”. FML.
Happy Goat Horror 
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