Day One: Java Hut

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Well, it's 5.40am and I have to say I'm a little disappointed. Having decided to test out the 24-hour nature of this place I was expecting to be able to comment on slack-jawed, dead-eyed denizens of the epilepsy sufferer's nightmare of a cavernous, jangling warehouse that makes up the ground floor of this monster of a hotel still stuffing coins with all the zest and vigour of a sullen teenager. In reality, though, most of them have their mouths closed. Otherwise, pretty accurate.

In a city that never sleeps, we did. Becks and I in bed by 9 last night (although I think that makes it 6am our time). We did well, although taking our first walk on the Strip at effectively 4 in the morning was not the best way of eliciting an enthusiastic response in either of us. Journey was fantastic. Smooth sailing (well, flying) all the way through Gatwick. The expected 3 hour interminable, in-terminal wait (I am mentally hugging myself at the moment for that phrase) flew by, even though it did include a trip to Frankie and Benny's for breakfast. Bethany's Frankenstein's monster of a breakfast - in variety, not size or colour - consisted of a croissant, 2 hash browns and a chocolate muffin. Yes Tre, of course we'll eat well - what do you take us for, idiots?

Becks was so much fun in the airport. Having to take her belt off for the scanner (bright neon letters repeating 'Jesus Raves' all along it) and forgetting her shoes and being quietly and good naturedly admonished by the attendant. we'll have a great collection of photos of silly poses that will be completely uninteresting to others (don't say it, the obvious is so beneath you) but will cause us much amusement. I got nearly as much enjoyment from sitting in a chair for 10 hours as I was expecting. While others squirmed and fidgeted I luxuriated in the not-having-to-do-anythingness of it all.

Virtually flew through at McCarran airport, bags there straight away, into a cab without missing a step. The Orleans is what I believe they call over here a doozy. It's enormous. We are in room 1809. I know, right? I can't walk down the corridors without expecting pallid twins to block our path. The room's pretty great, the 18th floor affording us an unrivalled view of what seems to be a business district (is there any business in Las Vegas?). It's comforting to know that, should we require it, there is an emporium nearby (their word, not mine) that will cater for all our exotic dance clothing needs. It's called Strings.

There's a song that refers to the fact that there is an awful lot of coffee in Brazil - you may have heard of it. I'm thinking of replacing it with 'there's an awful lot of whores in Las Vegas'. All I need to do is find a two syllable word for prostitute (hookers doesn't quite work) and I'm away. To what, exactly, I don't know. Anyway there are. And a lot of people willing, keen even, to alert you to this fact. So that's nice.

So, we're in bed by 9pm, and I'm up again now and to be honest, not much has changed since last night. I swear that one bloke was at the same machine 3 hours after we first saw him. I swear, he didn't move all the time I was at the next machine. (No, but seriously folks. Try the fish.) Nothing has changed at going on 6am. The blackjack and poker tables are still full. People are still at the bar. The waitresses still have their arses out. I'm pretty sure I was just propositioned by a hooker. So that's nice.

Tried to buy a beer at the bar yesterday. The barman could not understand a word I said. (Sorry, Tre. I thought it was your scouse accent, but I take it back now.) He also told me Bethany couldn't stand next to me while I bought her a coke. You should have seen her face. We ate, stupefied and somnolent, at a TGI Fridays. I got quite emotional at how good the waitress was. Why can't we do that in England?

Anyway, I have 74 cents left on my tarrif. I am aware I haven't really said anything about Las Vegas. I'll do that when I've experienced it with a modicum of enthusiasm.

Have a GREAT day.

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