1 May 2005

I do love premium bonds. I give a little jump for joy each month when a
white envelope arrives that I can see has come from Glasgow. Oh rapture!
Even if it's just a measly 50 it cheers me for the whole day, the whole
month.

My wife and I - by which I mean me, as she wouldn't know a premium bond if
she met it in her porridge - have had the maximum (20,000 each until 2003,
then 30,000) invested for seven years.

I keep a score card of our winnings, which are: 1998, 1,600 or 4%; 1999,
2,500 or 6.2%; 2000, 1,200 or 3%; 2001, 1,450 or 3.6%; 2002, 1,350 or
3.4%; 2003, 1,050 or 1.7%; 2004, 1,750 or 2.9%.

In our record year, 1999, we had a 1,000 win. Well, my wife did, but I didn
't tell her. That's our biggest single prize so far. But I live in hope.

According to National Savings & Investments, 23m of us have premium bonds
and every month someone wins 1m. Do you believe that? Have you ever seen a
smiling winner in your local paper? Heard rumours of one in your area? Nor
me. Maybe we're all being conned.

I put this to the National Savings press people in London and they said wash
your mouth out, what a slur, of course it's all true. Prove it, I replied.

Okay then, cross your heart, Scout's honour, we can let you talk to the
person who actually gives out the money, as long as you don't reveal her
name. Gosh, almost as exciting as winning 50. She's a woman in her late
thirties, married with two children, codenamed Agent Million. She lives in
Blackpool, the HQ of premium bonds. She's worked for them for 20 years, the
past four as prize draw manager, and has personally given out 50 1m prizes.

When you win the national lottery jackpot, you know long before there's a
knock on the door from Camelot, because the winning number has been made
public. You've probably told the whole street by then. With the top
premium-bond prize, you have absolutely no idea at all, until the call
comes.

Joan, which I'll call her, as Agent Million sounds soppy, insists on going
to see the winner in person to reveal the news. She sets off in the morning
from Blackpool.

If it's a long way away, such as Cornwall or Aberdeen, she'll stay the night
after the meeting.She'll find the person's address - and one of the reasons
she got the job is because she's good at map reading.

Around six o'clock in the evening, she will knock at the door. She has found
this is the prime time to make sure people are in. She might have to come
back an hour or so later, if there's no reply, but 95% of the time, she
meets the winner.

This did surprise me. After all, people can be on holiday, ill, working away
or have moved house. Almost everyone notifies a change of address, she said,
so that's not a problem, but death can be. She has arrived to find one
winner deceased. (The estate got the money, which is allowable up to 12
months after death.) If the winner is John Smith, she'll ask whoever answers
the door if she can speak to John Smith. There then begins a
Pintersque-Pythonish conversation on the doorstep.
"Who wants him?" "I can't tell you," says Joan, "but it's nothing to worry
about."

"Yes, but why do you want him?" "Because I have to speak to him personally."

"About what?" "I can't say."

"John! There's a woman here who won't tell me who she is, but she says she
has to talk to you."

There is usually a short silence, followed by grunts or oaths in the
background, before eventually John Smith appears.

"Can I talk to you in confidence, Mr Smith?" says Joan.

"What about?" "It's nothing to worry about," says Joan.

At this stage, she usually does get invited in. Very often the man will take
her into a private room, excluding his wife. With a female winner, this has
not happened. Women winners always want their man to be present.

She then reveals she is from National Savings, showing proof of her
identity. She asks the winner to prove who he is - by his passport, utility
bill, something with his signature on. She can check the latter against her
own records.

The point of all this subterfuge is to make sure she has the right John
Smith - not his dad, son or someone saying he is John Smith. He alone must
know the news first. If she revealed it to the wrong person, even his wife,
the winner might be furious because the chances are he or she will not want
publicity. So far, no million-pound winner has agreed to publicity.

Very often, winners don't tell their immediate family. They might treat them
or give a hint they've been lucky on the premium bonds, without revealing
how much they've won.

Only one person so far has reacted by saying she didn't want the money.

"She was a woman, not rich, but well off," said Joan. "She said it made her
feel guilty. She'd always enjoyed winning the odd 50, but 1m was too much.
But after an hour or so chatting, she decided to accept it - and give it to
charity."

The normal response is to scream. Then they say "You must be joking!" After
that, it's total confusion. Joan has to repeat everything, over and over, as
people can't take it in.

"When they offer me a drink, I always ask for a cold drink," Joan said. "If
I say a cup of tea, it arrives undrinkable, because they are incapable of
concentrating. I know the press office in London would love to have a winner
who goes public, but I can't see it happening. I don't put any pressure on."

Tell you what, Joan. You've been good enough to speak to me. If and when I
win a million, I promise to come out. All you have to do is have a little
word with Ernie.

But make sure it's one of my bonds, not my wife's. You'll have no chance
with her.

http://business.timesonline.co.uk/article/0,,8209-1592042_2,00.html