From Saints (Santa Barbara) to Sinners (Las Vegas)

[VIEWS EXPRESSED HERE ARE PURELY THOSE OF THE ROBBO AND NOT THOSE OF PERSONS INVOLVED]

Dear Reader,

In the first instance some sincere apologies for the lack of communiqué – it has simply been the case that, as Eminem recalls in his first letter to Stan, “we just been busy”. Indeed, such has the intensity of the last few days been that we have seldom had a moment to take breath and even less an inclination to do so since our hitherto lack of RV AC has rendered the tuppelwear box we call home rather pongy! No matter.

Let me begin by casting my minds-eye back to nearly a week ago. It is Saturday morning and we are embarking on the longest drive so far from Santa Barbara to Vegas. The morning in the usual way with showers, breakfast (which this day featured eggs and chips in a bizarre wrap) and stuffing tissue paper into the ‘early warning gas alert system’ (as we discovered even the merest suggestion of the previous night’s vodka bottle sends it into a high-pitched, highly irritating spasm). Then, for the first time with Magneto onboard, we set the sat nav to party (nb we actually set it to Las Vegas, NV) and embarked on the 8 or so hour drive.

Robbo and The Diggler shared the driving which culminated in a cheek clenching drive up and down The Strip. With the car parked and Robbo’s nerves settled we headed to Caesars Palace were a bloke called Peter (who looked and spoke like a Scientologist recruiter) declared we had been upgraded to a Roman Tower suite! “Crikey Moses!”  exclaimed an excited Magnus, “this is a far cry from the Travelodge us Williams’ usually holiday in” his eyes seem to say. “Welcome to my world” the Robbo’s laissez-fair wink to the saucy concierge girl suggested.

We powdered our noses, saw off some previously purchased booze and hit the tables. As so far as the gambling went, it was a mixed bag: Robbo, ever the gent, donated $100 to kick-start the local economy through a particularly risky (read ‘clueless’) strategy, while Magnus lost $40 and Mr. Digglesworth (against all odds) made an impressive $50 profit.

The next day was spent around the pool soaking in the sun and discussing the various merits of breast enhancement surgery. Although in the end we decided unanimously that it’s what is inside that counts, and that no woman should feel any pressure to conform to the unrealistic body shapes portrayed in glossy magazines, we have to admit that Vegas does boobs like no other city.  

Then came the night – and what a night! It started in a fashion which would make Jim the Rim turn green with envy, with Penn and Teller live at Rio (the fat one and that one who never says anything off of the telly what do magic). Then we gambled (first at Rio and then the MGM) and, with unusual luck on our side, were in a position to take in our second show of the evening.

Originally we had been desperate to see the Nevada Philharmonic performing Strauss’ sixth but unfortunately it was sold out (damned shame) so instead we followed a man called Mike to the next best thing – a club on the outskirts of town called Olympic Garden. Mike, whose “thats whats up” catchphrase reared its head in even the most bizarre moments (e.g. “my brothers in jail for killing his wife, thats whats up”) assured us that this was the best classical music haunt in town.  This claim, as to our shock we later discovered, proved to be nothing short of a brazen lie! Olympic Garden, dear reader, was a strip club! For shame! To be fair our suspicions should have been aroused earlier when, in the limo to the club, a woman claiming to be our ‘host’ mistook our giving her $50 to give to a local charity as an encouragement to remove her clothes.  Needless to say, we had twelve quick drinks and departed as soon as possible. Indeed, such was the tedium of the club that Magnus actually managed to fall asleep whilst a very friendly lady called Jessica performed what we later found out to be a lapdance!

We awoke the next morning feeling fairly ropey and, after having performed several ‘hail marys’ to atone for our previous nights sins, set off to the Grand Canyon. Our stay in Vegas, much like Jessica’s chat after she discovered Magnus’ lack of denaro, was short but sweet. Nevertheless, as we reflected on leaving, we had thrown everything at Vegas and, as ex-King of The Strip Frank Sinatra might say, “regrets, we have a few, but we did it our way...”.

[DISCLAIMER: SOME ELEMENTS AND SITUATIONS HAVE BEEN CREATED AND EMBELLISHED (very slightly) FOR YOUR ENTERTAINMENT. AT NO POINT WERE ACTORS OR STOOGES INVOLVED)

Dear Reader,

A most exciting few first days on which to report. Why don’t we begin in San Francisco where the weather was warm and balmy, and where men pretended to be women. It was perhaps the briefest stay of the trip so far. The Robbo arrived after an 11 hour flight feeling not a little bit discombobulated and taxied straight to the RV collection point where he found the Diggler (a little larger than usual) and met the RV (a little larger than a double decker bus). We immediately set about pootling over to the ‘Golden Gates Trailer Park’ which, as you may have guessed, involved a dimly lit drive across the red bridge. Robbo kept his eyes peeled for ‘jumpers’ but, despite some warm words of encouragement to a bearded man who looked like he might pull the trigger, the crossing passed without so much as a single suicide – hey ho.

Fast forward to Friday and Spence and Josh are cruising highway 1 which follows the windy coastline of Northern California – Cassels et al might have actually followed through if they were to see some of the coastal land formations. Everything was going good (lunch in the redwood forrest by the coast called ‘the big sur’ was particularly good chiefly because John our ‘server’ furnished us with water pistols to prevent birds stealing our food: needless to say we engaged the enemy with a ferocity not seen on American soil since Gettysburg and not a single ‘French fry’ was stolen). Unfortunately all this was to come, quite literally (nb a clever literary device is on its way), to a crashing end as within 10 minutes of leaving lunch Robbo pranged the side of the RV.

To be fair to Robbo it was a particularly tight corner and, given that our motorhome extends an impressive 25 feet, the fact that this has been his only run-in with the curb is nothing short of a minor miracle and speaks to the skill and precision of his driving. Diggler, on the other hand, appears a gluton for punishment (perhaps unsurprising given his internet history). Indeed, no sooner has we arrived in Downtown Santa Barbara than Spence smashed-off the wing mirror of some poor Hispanic man’s parked car - as Jay-Z might say “we had two choices y’all pull over our car or bounce on the metal and put the pedal to the floor”. We chose the later of these two options which proved to be ill advised as within a matter of minutes we spotted flashing lights behind us and were instructed by the police man (who, like all the coppers here, had an M16 on his passenger seat) to pull over.  “Well howdy there y’all. I just wanted to check y’all were going to leave a note on that car you just hit” booms the sturdy looking Sherriff, his hands on his hips, bullet proof shades concealing his eyes, moustache glinting in the last of the evening sun. “Absolutely officer” replied Spence (nervous, nearly teary), “Where’s you warrant?” replied Josh (cool, calm, collected, cool). Either way we wrote the note and sped over town to Isla Vista (or ‘IV’ as locals say) where we found Magneto (dressed like the man from Del Monte) already engaged in deep conversation with Spence’s housemates (including a very nice Austrian man called Clemens...“when are you wisiting las wegas”). Now, dear reader, I need hardly describe what happened next. Suffice to say that, yes, lager beer was involved. Actually that doesn’t quite suffice so let me add that we went to a couple of house parties where we filled-up RED CUPS from the KEG and played a local variant of BEER PONG – ‘man I love college’.  And so to Vegas where we are booked into a suite at Caesars Palace...#howaboutthatridein

Dear Diary,

This is the online portal from which you can read about and share in the exciting adventure that is our roadtrip accross America. The Diggler, The Robbo and Magneto look forward to regailing tales of much daring-doo in each of our many locations - from San Fran to Santa Barbara, from New Orleans to New York.

In a bit or, as we say in America, in a bit.