Glory days…or were they?

British pastiness amid a bevy of American hospitality.

British pastiness amid a bevy of American hospitality.

My last blog got me reminiscing about trips to Las Vegas.

I went there three times before moving to America, twice while stationed at British Army Training Unit Suffield, Canada, and once on post-operational leave after Afghanistan (the loss of a salary courtesy Her Majesty’s government and a nose-dive in achievable income since has made it hard to return there; but one day again, perhaps).

Like most who have ventured to Vegas, there’s a random jumble of memories–of varying bizarreness–that live on…

Smoking fat cigars in a bar at the Bellagio as the illuminated water fountain show blazed away in the background to an invigorating orchestral score.

Fifty-one stories above the city’s neon-soaked streets in the Rio restaurant drinking a Witchdoctor, the biggest cocktail I’ve encountered, basically a large gold-fish bowl set on a comparatively tiny glass stalk with an enormous amount of venomously-coloured alcoholic liquids sloshing around inside it.

Remonstrating with a friend that he didn’t have time to get to know the two prostitutes he’d invited to his hotel room as there was a taxi to catch and more importantly a plane, while the two comely blondes looked at me with daggers in their eyes .

“I’ll catch up with you,” was his eventual reply (he made the flight and returned to Canada to deploy on exercise, with some interesting memories of his own, I presume).