I’LL let you into a little secret here: I’ve never done the Lottery. No, madam, not once.

I remember when it started. Dignity prevented me joining the queue of greed, shame and pathetic hope in the newsagent of a small, northern town where the chances of keeping a big win to yourself, and not being obliged to share it, were low.

Oddly enough, I’d long supported the concept, having heard of it working in other countries for good causes. So I didn’t have a social problem with it. Just a personal one.

All my parents’ financial planning was based on the Lottery’s predecessor, the pools coupon. Every Saturday, an enforced hush descended on the hoose as Dad donned specs that still failed to make him look sentient and made marks on the peculiar grid that always looked unpromising to me, a shy little boy bewildered by the world (that boy being father to this man).

There was never a win from one year to the next, and so we had to carry on touring the country with our family circus act (basically, Dad putting on a red nose and the rest of us pouring buckets of water on his heid and booting him up the behind).

I remember also from the early days that any kind of winner was news and, one day towards the close of play at work – when I was a proper journalist doing reporting and stuff – I was dispatched with a photographer to get happy words from a lucky Lottery winner in a scuzzy part of Edinburgh (about one-third of the vainglorious capital is comprised of these).

I thought it a nice way to end the day but, to cut a long story short, we were chased by a stone-throwing mob led by a fat woman with arms like a prop-forward’s thighs who shouted about “press harassment” or some such bilge and shrieked that we should leave Jimmy alane.

Luckily, the charmingly monikered Ade Goodchild has no need for such a mob and no reservations about expressing his unabashed delight at winning £71 million.

The Hereford metal worker posed with his outsized cheque and, echoing the words of the late George Best, averred: “I’ll spend my money on wine and women – and waste the rest.” He added that he wouldn’t be returning to work unless he found he’d “left a fiver in my locker”.

The nation was charmed at such unalloyed joy, shorn of all faux-guilt and stuffy bourgeois reserve. In an influential editorial, the Times of London thundered: “Good on yer, Ade. What a refreshing change. This is exactly what the Lottery was designed for. Changing the lives of those who have never known luxury.”

Inspired by Ade, and sick of busking, I’ve started to think about buying my first Lottery ticket. Perhaps karma from all my parents’ failed hopes could be righted by my success.

That said, I doubt if I’d do a total Ade. The old cliche about it not changing me would be, for better or worse, the truth. I certainly wouldn’t waste any more money on women, and I still wouldn’t go abroad, unless chauffeured everywhere in a limousine from which I needn’t interact with the frighteningly peculiar natives.

True, I’d get proper single malts in, instead of McBonko’s Highland Blend, matured in black sacks for three weeks. And I’d probably have mushy peas and a cheeky wee single white pudding to go with my fish supper. Never liked fancy food.

Oh, and I’d get a house on an island miles away from the nearest Earthling (no offence, but I find your species deplorable). As for charity, I wouldn’t give anything to any that paid its director more than £50,000 a year. So, nothing to any of them then, unless the odd, struggling animal shelter. Also, I’d never buy anything else from Ikea or another Volvo. Swedish rubbish.

But I’m getting into the realms of fantasy here. Besides, I’m not convinced that £2 for a Lottery ticket is a solid investment, and will probably put it towards buying another lucrative share in weaponry or pesticides.

Edit: an earlier reference to the Times of London should have read the Daily Star.

READ MORE: Rab McNeil: The invention of the internet has let a million fruit loops expound their conspiracy theories

I’M forever defending Donald Trump against his detractors, because he’s too dense to do it himself.

Thus, I treat cautiously the claim in a forthcoming book that he hit himself on the heid with a golf club then blamed his caddy for doing it.

In Commander-in-Cheat: How Golf Explains Trump, sports writer Rick Reilly says the incident happened after the arguably controversial US president hit a bad shot.

He didn’t exactly bludgeon his own bonce but angrily threw his driver back into his bag, whereupon it bounced back and clocked him on the napper.

According to Mr Reilly, the president then turned round to his caddy and said: “Did you just hit me in the head with my own driver?” And the caddy said: “Sir, Mr Trump, why would I do that? You’re my president!”

As Donald is known for his clever sense of humour, I’m sure he must have been joking and that he said it with a big, gleaming-toothed smile.

Oddly enough, Mr Trump’s enemies say he spends too much time playing golf, when he should be involved in world affairs. But we say he spends too much time on world affairs and should spend more time playing golf.

BRITONS waste £1.6 billion a year getting proper men in to repair botched DIY projects, according to new research. I’m proud to say I’ve done my bit in contributing to that figure.

The study also revealed that the average adult has botched at least four jobs in their homes in the last five years, a figure that I can top.

We’re the BIY – botch it yourself – generation, never the men that our fathers were (insert politically correct qualification here that women are just as bad at botching DIY, unlike their mothers before them).

Painting a room is said to be the most commonly botched job, though I’d hardly have thought that counts as DIY. I’m also intrigued that the research was carried out by Rustlers, a company making burgers. What on earth has it got to do with them? Is it something to do with us all being mince at DIY?

You see a lot of these oddly sourced studies in the news nowadays: “Most Britons expect to survive a worldwide thermo-nuclear war, according to research by the makers of Curly Wurly bars.”

Maybe we should all get involved and take up RIY: research it yourself.

THE annual list of nutty names for bairns has been released by the National Records of Scotland, with Lucifer, Royalty and Adora-Belle among the tasteful monikers manacled to some poor wee souls for life.

It’s my view that, upon reaching the age of 18, everyone should be able to change their name to something they actually like and feel comfortable with.

I can’t begin to tell you how much I’ve been hampered by being a Rab. “So you wish to be considered for the position of top columnist on The Tatler. What is your name?” “Rab.” “Next.”

It’s a bit like turning up at a posh ball and being announced as “Shuggie McBinliner. And his probation officer.”

If my late Mammy saw me bylined as Rab in print she’d skelp me (and the editor). “It’s Robert. As in The Bruce. A proud Scottish name.” “What about Rabbie Burns?” “Never heard of him.”

Other countries have laws against outrageous names but in this, as in everything else, Britland has always been governed by laissez-faire (tr: couldn’t care).

Meanwhile, I’m sure Lucifer will grow up to be a well-adjusted individual, guaranteed to get a safe seat somewhere for the Conservatives.