Thieving Las Vegas

Ben Sanderson, the Nick Cage character in “Leaving Las Vegas”, famously drank himself to death in Sin City. However, given the piss-weak frozen marguerites they serve at the Stratosphere, I’ve got no chance of emulating his feat. However, I do run the risk of suffering a hernia or other stress-related ailment if I continue paying the outrageous prices charged here.

While bargains can be had outside the hotel, you must first traverse the rough block between the Stratosphere and the Sahara, where the Strip monorail terminates. This area is swarming with scam artists, dealers, pimps and deranged Elvis look-alikes. It certainly isn’t safe after dark, and is edgy during the daytime too.

However, if you decide to stay indoors the Strat, beware. The in-house Starbucks charges an outrageous dollar for a squirt of vanilla syrup and $3.25 (plus tax) for a stale croissant. A pint of beer in a plastic cup is $7. And it isn’t even a pint. A cup of coffee bought to your “executive” room (which does not possess a coffee machine) will set you back $7.99 plus service fees, gratuity and the ever-present state taxes. A miserly breakfast in the clichéd retro diner sets you back $11.95.

Still, there have been worse places en-route.

I’ve been here over a week now, and the sci-fi tackiness of the Stratosphere is beginning to grate. The loud-mouthed, boorish English blokes with their tattooed, sluttily dressed wives and obnoxious children. The crass, gangster wannabees from the East Coast with their arrogant manner and stinking cigars who think they’re high rollers because they put 40 fucking bucks on a roulette spin. And, of course, the jaded, predatory locals who’ve appraised your financial worth ten seconds after meeting you, and treat you accordingly thereafter.

My Brit accent, shoddy clothes and bad haircut mean that I might as well wear a T-shirt emblazoned with the motto “Mr Cheap”. Free drinks rarely find their way across to me when I’m playing the slots. Canvassers ignore me, and the high-class hookers don’t ask what I’m doing later. They’ve already surmised that I’ll be going home for a pot noodle and a Sam Plank.

The Vegas Strip is like an alternative universe where smoking isn’t bad for you, no one objects if you drink alcohol before lunch, and even the chastest women dress like porn stars. As long as you’ve got money you’re welcome here. If you run out, fuck off and don’t come back until you’ve got some more.

Luckily, some respite from the madness was to be found in the company of the lovely Miss C, a photographer who I’d previously met in Denver’s only British pub. During her brief visit to Sin City we managed a photo tour to the Red Rock Canyon, drinks in the Star’s Tower Bar, a brief visit to Vegas’s seedy downtown and a decent Ruby Murry. As well as exceling behind the lens, Miss C also has an excellent nose for a curry house. The place she found us was probably the best in Vegas.

Unfortunately she flew back to Denver today, leaving me with no alternative that to do another round of the casinos. These include the jaded, desert-themed Sahara, the MGM Grand, with its bored, scruffy looking lions, and medieval castle-themed Excalibur, where, according to the ad blurb, “YOU RULE”. (Actually, you don’t. The house does. The house, in fact, rules everywhere). And New York, New York, with its fake Manhattan skyline and interior mock up of the West Village. Minus the rats, homeless junkies and Starbucks on every second corner.

Nor forgetting Caesar’s Palace. Behind this statue, which adorns the entrance to the Caesar’s Forum mall, the legend “Shoplivius Maximus” is carved into the stone.

But most of my time has been spent at the Strat, the trashy older sister of the more upmarket casinos. While its newer rivals adopt a pseudo-European theme, the Strat sticks to its cheesy seventies semi-pornographic sci-fi marketing strategy. If it were a movie, it would be Barberella. But the strange thing is, I’ve just extended my stay here. It’s starting to seem like the Hotel California. Will I ever get to LA?

Nick Cage, by the way, researched the Ben Sanderson character by going out on the piss for two weeks solid and billing all his bar tabs to the studio – probably his bills from the curry and kebab houses too. He then went on to win an Oscar for his performance. Unlike much of Vegas, that’s class.