Viva Las Vegas!

The Rat Pack, Caeser’s Palace, Perma-tanned illusionists, one arm bandits, oldies in checked shirts, eat all you want for $1.99 breakfasts, O.T.T glitzy hotels open 24/7,  Barbara Streisand, The Little White Chapel, whisky, Elvis impersonators…these are just some of the images that flash through my mind at the mention of Las Vegas. But now I have another, more comical vision, for today, Stressed Husband and his mates are off on a 5 day jolly for a ‘spot of poker’.

The mates include a fabulously eccentric 71 year old who says F**k in every sentence which is a real juxtaposition because he is such a sweet, kind person, so nobody has the heart to tell him off for his foul language. Joining Mr F**k is his  ‘big sister’ who probably says bol***ks a lot (I don’t know, cos I don’t know her, but I like to think she does.) Then there’s Little Joe, who is about 5ft, looks like a hamster and is a bit of a Walter Mitty who doesn’t realise that everyone knows 95% of what he says is hugely exaggerated (I think he’s going along so if they lose at gambling they have someone to vent their frustrations on.) Next, is Angry Dave – so called because at 6ft 5 with a broken nose and built like Frankenstein – he looks really, really angry. And his quiet, moody air means people assume he is angry. In fact,  he’s quiet because when he opens his mouth he sounds like David Beckham on helium. But he is also a lovely bloke who, as S.H says when describing him, would give you the shirt off his back. He’s also good to take anywhere because you never get any trouble – one look at Angry Dave and even the toughest mugger would think twice…

And what about S.H – how does he fit into this gaggle of gurners? Well, he is the one who makes them laugh the most – the cheeky chappie who binds them all together – The Organiser. So, really, he’s not actually the miserable old git I often paint him to be. I’m secretly praying that all of these months of me being an online poker widow are going to amount to him coming back next week and throwing fistfuls of dollars on the bed for me to roll on excitedly, laughing wildly (sorry…always wanted to do that!) But if that fails, he’d better remember to get me a bottle of perfume at Duty Free – or he’ll have my hand across his poker face!


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