At 9pm we all met back in the motel lobby ready for the obligatory ride down the Vegas Strip in a limousine. The champagne was flowing, the phrase “Vegas Baby!” was shouted out numerous times and we stopped off at the famous ‘Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas Nevada’ sign to have photos taken by an Elvis impersonator. Standard. No one was shy anymore and everyone had come out of their shells to have a good time. Andrew was given a Birthday Princess tiara to wear on account of just so happening to be celebrating his 30th birthday that day. Not a bad place to celebrate if you’re more used to going out in Swansea instead. Although perhaps Swansea rivals Vegas for a night out, I can’t really comment having never been, to Swansea.
The limo stopped off at Fremont Street, where the casinos used to be before the Strip took hold. Every evening there’s an impressive light and sound show projected up onto the covered walkway. On this particular occasion the theme was Queen (Freddie, Brian, Roger and John, not Elizabeth). After that spot of impressive entertainment it was onwards to the Strip.
We were dropped off at the Bellagio, just in time I think. The copious amounts of champagne drunk during the ride meant that by the end of the tour, all that anyone was thinking about before throwing their money away, was using the first available restroom (I mean toilet, obviously). Urinating on yourself is possibly acceptable at the end of a night in Las Vegas, but you don’t really want to be starting one out like that. After using the Bellagio’s excellent bathroom facilities we walked outside to watch their famous fountains. If you recall the scene in Ocean’s 11 where they stand in a line and watch these tall fountains dance about to music then this is what i’m talking about. The fountains do their thing every half hour to a different song each time. On this occasion it was to some horrific country song entitled ‘God Bless the USA’ which contains the fantastic lyric “But i’m proud to be an American, where at least I know i’m free.”… Crap song, incorrect grammar, but impressive fountain choreography.
Mex was leading us towards the Flamingo where there were some cheap drink offers or something. It was all going well up until this point. There we were, drinking our Newcastle Brown Ales (they love that stuff out here) when along comes a bouncer.
Now up until that point, Gowtham and Jacob had done alright in terms of not having to show IDs. Anyone can walk into a casino and gamble, and as long as you don’t make a scene or win, no-one’s going to bother you. Alcohol it seems, is another matter. The bouncer walks up to Gowtham.
“Excuse me sir, can I see some ID?”
“My ID? Ohh, well I don’t think I have it with me..” he replies.
“Be honest with me sir, are you 21?” Just be honest Gowtham.
“Yeah..” Everyone starts to cringe, “I must’ve left it in my hotel room.” Gowtham, it seems, learned his craft at the Keanu Reeves School of Theatre.
“Please come with us sir” and just like that he is being escorted away, not out of the casino, but into a back room. I was under the impression this sort of thing only happened in films but it seems I was mistaken. Another bouncer advises us that if one of us returns with his ID, showing he’s over 21, he’ll be ‘released’. Now last time I checked my bearings, we were some distance from Somalia and you couldn’t just go around seizing people like that unless you were the police. Mex realised this too and began to kick up a fuss about Gowtham’s captivity. It was a tense stand-off and our group was asked to leave. Thankfully negotiations proved succesful.
“You’re friend has been released. He’s on the sidewalk at the back of the building. He’s not welcome here any more.” Jacob and Mex go off to find our fallen comrade and the group begins to separate in order to explore the rest of the Strip. I find myself wandering about with Vince and the Australians, Elicia and Katherine.
People begin to complain of hunger and we go off in search of food. Some of the best chefs in America call Vegas home, and so with that in mind we umm and ahh and settle for the nearest McDonalds. It did the job, got rid of the hunger and so we were now ready to do some gambling.
“Vegas Baby!” etc etc
Teaching the Australians how to gamble was an eye watering experience for Vince and myself. Katherine put two $5 bills into a machine, pressed two buttons and her $10 magically turned into $0. Elicia took the altogether more tactical approach of rolling her hand across the buttons in no particular order. Her results weren’t much better and a few minutes later they officially announced their retirement from gambling.
Early in the morning and the others retired back to the motel. I decided to go and check out the Mirage and The Venetian down the other end of the Strip. First though, more food was in order, it now being 4am. Now I don’t know about you, but when i’m still awake at 4am the words $6 steak and eggs come to mind.
It was actually a surprisingly good $6 steak and the ice cold glass of coke felt good against my sore throat that had reared its ugly head again.
N.B. Americans fill their drinks with ice so that the content is usually more ice, than coke. It’s pretty amusing to make a drinks order and tack onto the end “only 3 ice cubes please” and watch the bemused expressions that follow..
Anyway, the meal was going well until I finished my coke. Suddenly the sore throat seems to go up a gear, each mouthful of steak and eggs becoming increasingly more painful. I order another coke but it’s not as effective second time around. In some discomfort I have to leave the rest of my meal uneaten, admit defeat and head back to the motel hoping I’ll feel better in the morning.
What follows is the onset of the worst sore throat I’ve ever had and an awful night’s sleep as a result. Every time I swallow I wake up in agonising pain and I resort to lying there awake for most of the night. Luckily most things in Vegas are open 24 hours and I take an early 7am walk to the nearest Walgreens pharmacy. The pharmacist hands me a whole heap of drugs and I wander down the early morning Strip clutching a throat spray, lozenges, ibuprofen and some antihistamines.
Needless to say, none of it worked. Usually with a sore throat, I take a couple of ibuprofens and my troubles are gone, but these weren’t even taking the edge off the pain. I pass the rest of the day sucking on ice cubes, trying to look forward to a comedy show that myself, the Australians and the other two English people, Laura and Noreen, had elected to go see that evening.
Vegas is almost as famous for it’s top class entertainment as it is for it’s gambling. Each casino spends buckets on getting the biggest and best acts to perform on their stage. Cirque du Soleil is present in numerous guises on the Strip and caters for whatever themed circus you happen to have a hankering for that evening. Over the top illusionist David Copperfield has a slot at the MGM Grand, The Lion King is showing at Mandalay Bay, and, for his legions of fans, Barry Manilow performs such hits as Copacabana, Mandy, Could it Be Magic and I assume he does other songs too.
Vince opted for the Lion King, Andrew and Rum chose a Cirque du Soleil show somewhere, the two Swiss twins, Anina and Flavia, and German girl Simone decided to go a bit cultural and watch the Chippendales and the Danes ended up at a strip club, naturally.
The comedy club we were going to belonged to Brad Garrett of ‘Everybody Loves Raymond’ fame and was situated in The Tropicana. My throat, whilst incredibly painful, had been numbed slightly by an ice cream i’d eaten 10 minutes before and so I was looking forward to having a few laughs.
On entering the club we were immediately seated on the front center table, about a foot away from the microphone. The danger of this became quickly apparent. We tried to think what possible come backs we could use when one of the comedians eventually decided to pick on the English guy sat between the too attractive Australian girls right at the front. It was a surefire recipe for disaster and ridicule and all three of us knew it. With the table behind still unoccupied we moved back a row, hopefully a little less conspicuous now.
The show was a hoot with all but one of the comedians being very funny. The group that chose to sit at the table we had previously vacated were getting ripped on left, right and center whilst we escaped the comedian’s gaze. The last guy in particular, Ralph (not Rolph) Harris had a hilarious act and was a terrific end to the proceedings.
Post comedy club and the girls decided that, rather than repeat their gambling failures from the night before, they instead wanted to find a club to dance around in. They chose a club on the ground floor of New York New York called Rok Vegas. They all got in for free on account of having breasts. Sadly i’d left my pair back at the motel and so had to pay $10 to get in. They all got free champagne. I paid $10 for a drink. Joy. It was an alright club, and being Vegas there was a pretty impressive video wall where it was all synced to the music.
Soon they decided to move on to the club upstairs. This place was an altogether dirtier affair with attractive ladies dancing on the bar and free shots for those girls in the audience who got up and joined them. Vince met up with us to watch the spectacle unfold. One particular girl was a bit on the tres grande side. The compere girls on numerous occasions, got her to stand on the bar and “Shake what she got”. She did indeed got a lot to shake.
“Eurgh, zat girl, I do not know why zay let ‘er get on zee bar, she was deezguzting no?” Vince said in his post match analysis. I couldn’t really argue with it to be fair.
Unfortunately at this stage the sore throat situation was deteriorating rapidly and I had resorted to buying glasses of coke at $5 a pop, purely so I could suck on the ice cubes contained within. Despite being fully aware that all that lay ahead was another sleepless night, I resigned myself to the fact that I was unable to party any longer whilst I was in that much pain.
True to form I didn’t get a wink of sleep and it was becoming clear to me that this was not your bog standard sore throat. By the next morning I was able to say with some confidence, that it was the worst pain I had ever experienced and none of the drugs that i’d spent my Vegas money on were doing anything. I would’ve happily traded that throat pain for a broken ankle or pepper spray in the eyes.
Scouring the internet lead to the most likely culprit of my discomfort, good old tonsilitis. With each inevitable swallow filling me with dread and causing me to wince severely in pain I knew I had to cave in and put myself in the hands of the infamously expensive American Healthcare system..
Laurencecastle's Blog 