Lorraine Williamson
Spain’s Christmas season is inseparable from its lotteries. From late November onwards, queues wrap around lottery kiosks, neighbours compare décimos, and even people who never gamble at any other time of year find themselves joining an office syndicate. Spain’s festive lotteries — the Christmas draw El Gordo and the New Year follow-up El Niño — have become a cultural heartbeat, combining anticipation, nostalgia and a rare sense of national togetherness.
The Christmas lottery began in 1812 during the turbulent final years of the Napoleonic occupation. Created to raise funds for the Spanish state, it survived regime changes, civil wars, and economic slumps. Despite its age, the format has barely changed, and part of its appeal lies in its familiarity.
A full ticket (billete) still costs €200 and is divided into ten décimos priced at €20 each. By splitting the ticket, the system encourages group play — a custom that has grown into a national ritual. Many families and workplaces have kept the same décimo numbers for decades.
How the winning numbers are announced
The draw on 22 December has become a national performance. Inside Madrid’s Teatro Real, two large wooden drums stand on stage. One contains every number from 00000 to 99999, the other is filled with prize balls.
The children of the San Ildefonso school, who have carried out the task for centuries, draw one ball from each drum and announce them in a melodic, almost hypnotic song. The ceremony lasts several hours, during which the country dips in and out of the broadcast, waiting for that unmistakable rise in excitement when a major prize appears.
The children’s chant is so iconic that many Spaniards say Christmas “officially begins” when they hear the first sung number. Their role symbolises neutrality and tradition; until the 20th century, the San Ildefonso school educated and housed orphans, which strengthened public trust in the fairness of the draw.
Although El Niño on 6 January follows a similar principle, the ceremony is shorter and less theatrical. Yet it still occupies an important place in the festive cycle, offering a moment of renewed hope just as the holiday season draws to a close.
What makes El Gordo different from other lotteries
El Gordo prioritises spreading wealth across the country rather than creating a single billionaire. The top prize awards €400,000 per décimo. But what sets the draw apart is its intricate prize structure, which generates thousands of smaller payouts.
Entire neighbourhoods can erupt in celebration when a local shop has sold a winning number across several series. In 2011, the small town of Grañén in Aragón became world-famous when virtually the whole village won a share of the top prize. The celebrations, filmed live by national media, showcased the communal nature of this tradition.
El Niño, meanwhile, has become known as the “second chance lottery.” Its structure offers better overall odds of winning something. Many players reinvest small El Gordo winnings into this early January draw.
Where people buy their tickets — and why it matters
Buying a décimo is almost as meaningful as the draw itself. Many Spaniards insist on purchasing from the same kiosk every year, convinced that loyalty brings luck. The busiest spots — such as Doña Manolita in Madrid or La Bruixa d’Or in Lleida — attract queues that stretch around city blocks. These long waits have become snapshots of the festive season.
Alongside in-person sales, online purchases have grown significantly. Tickets can be bought through the official Loterías y Apuestas del Estado website or approved digital retailers, which display the series and fraction of each décimo. Authorities warn every year about imitation sites, and people are encouraged to check that a digital seller is authorised.
Groups who share tickets often photograph the décimo with each participant’s name, ensuring no disputes if the number is called.
The myths, patterns and “lucky numbers”
While statisticians insist all numbers have equal probability, Spain has never stopped searching for patterns. Some numbers gain superstition simply through repetition. For example, numbers ending in 5 and 7 are often the first to sell out, driven by a belief that they “sound lucky.”
Certain combinations become iconic after a win. The number 79712, Grañén’s 2011 winning sequence, sold out immediately the following year. Entire regions also cling to numbers tied to memorable dates: Catalonia saw a surge in sales for sequences linked to historic festivities, while Andalucía often chases numbers connected to local saints’ days.
Whether any of this improves the odds is beside the point — the folklore has become as important as the results.
Stories that shaped the lottery’s legend
Spain’s festive lotteries are filled with moments that endure in public memory. In 2015, a modest bar in Lugo sold the top prize, and locals toasted through the night as hundreds of neighbours realised they had won together. In 2018, a nursing home syndicate in Cádiz shared €2.5 million, becoming a symbol of joy in later life. These stories highlight the appeal of a lottery built around community rather than individual fortune.
What happens when you win
Smaller winnings can be collected directly from authorised retailers. Large prizes must be processed through designated banks, where identity verification is required. Since the 20% tax applies only to amounts above €40,000, many décimo holders receive the majority of their winnings untaxed.
Financial advisers often encourage winners to take time before making major decisions — particularly when the prize has been shared among a large group.
Why Spain continues to embrace the lottery
Even as digital ticket sales rise and syndicates move online, the essence of the tradition remains unchanged. Families still gather around the television on 22 December, workplaces still buy décimos together, and strangers still congratulate each other in queue lines outside lottery shops.
When the first San Ildefonso child begins to sing the opening number, Spain listens — not just out of hope for a prize, but because the moment marks a collective pause in the rush of December. It is a reminder that luck, in Spain at least, is often something shared.