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...”.