The Desert Diaries: Entry One - Sublime Slices, Super Sized Pints, Suite Life and Sleep Deprivation

And some surprisingly understanding sex workers...

Suitably, the decibel levels in the graveyard are kept to a respectful murmur. Even if it is only the neon graveyard and the murmurs are those of tourists, rather than mourners. Well, perhaps there is a sense of mourning. Of what Las Vegas used to be. Before cargo shorts replaced slacks on casino floors. Before yard-long frozen daiquiris usurped martinis. Before dead eyed EDM and modern day MAGA country music banished Sinatra At The Sands to yesteryear.

Granted, even when its stages were being graced by The Rat Pack, Elvis and Barbra Streisand, Vegas was far from a glamour-laden utopia. Losers still stumbled blind-eyed through the neon of the strip and Fremont Street, losing their life savings. Fathers abandoned families to escape from their responsibilities here. Gullible saps were flogged the dream of instantaneous fortune, had their hearts and final few dollars stolen after blurry nights of whoring. Other saps were buried beneath the scorpions and sidewinder snakes in the bleakly beautiful twilight of the Mojave Desert. Unmarked graves hidden under the barren final outpost of the Old West.

But just over 48 hours into my wander through the desert, I am glaring, empty headed, past the colossal structures of Vegas’ past, luminous and discarded on the outskirts of town. I gawp at the beams of evening sunlight, emanating from behind a horizon of billowing clouds, appearing bruised by the absconding sun and onrushing nighttime. For the first time in two days, I am placid. Everyone around me calm and respectful. Not a ‘Blue Lives Matter’ t-shirt in sight. Not a single soul here is attempting to con me into an overpriced comedy ‘charity night’.

Most importantly, none of the patrons of the Neon Museum are fucking blasting fucking “I’m Good” by Bebe fucking Rexha and David fucking Guetta through the static splattered rattle of a ghetto blaster that was past its best in 1993.

I’ve needed this.

Around 48 hours earlier, when I’d touched down at Harry Reid International Airport and been delivered to the Flamingo Hotel, I was all in on Las Vegas. Arriving after sundown meant I was guided in by the clichéd, glowing allure of the most preposterous city on earth. It is impossible not to be instantly enamoured by the experience of driving into Las Vegas for the first time. It’s everything you’ve seen on a hundred TV shows and movies. And it’s a stupid amount of fun to find yourself immersed in.

I opted for the Flamingo because I was chasing the faded glamour of a bygone era. Because I’m a stickler for mafia history and Bugsy Siegel opened the place in 1946. Also I liked the look of the flamingo shaped bedside lamps they appeared to have in every room.

As the wheels of my overstuffed suitcase whirred across the seemingly ceaseless lobby floor, up escalators, past oversized and overpriced gift shops, a Starbucks and a couple of cocktail bars, I checked in for my opening night (I had to make two separate bookings due to an interesting quirk in Thomas Cook’s system where, they informed me, to add an extra night to my existing booking would cost me almost as much as the entire stay. And that was completely normal, apparently. Yet Expedia did me a night for $55) and was passionately informed by the member of staff on reception that my Flamingo King Room had been upgraded to a suite on the 28th floor.

Readers, I was four plane beers deep when I entered the Flamingo. I cannot overstate just how wildly I received this news.

Moments later, with a couple of hastily (and fucking expensively) bought gift shop beers in hand, I was on top of the fucking world.

Twenty eight stories high, in a suite you could probably fit 90% of my house in, illuminated by the faux Roman Empire granduer of Caesar’s Palace across the road. I cracked a can as the Bellagio Fountains erupted into their Lady Gaga scored synchronicity, enthralling the gathered masses and, about a mile above them all, me, tallboy of Modelo in hand, clothes flung across the room, robe adorned, laughing my stupid 36-year-old head off.

The suite wasn’t even glamorous. It was just a good sized, one bedroom flat with an awe inspiring view. The fixtures and furniture were worn, the two bathrooms were compact and basic, one of the Flamingo shaped lamps didn’t work properly. But the absurdity of being there, for what would amount to all of 14 hours, high above the crowds feeling grander than Caesar himself, facing the hotel named in his honour, was enough to have me brainlessly heaving with anticipation for the seven days ahead of me.

Christ almighty.

Then it began. I didn’t realise it at the time. But it had begun.

“Looking for a good time, baby? From out of town, sugar?” came the calls across the casino floor. I had expected this on the strip, but didn’t realise I’d be batting off sex workers while stood next to an enormous, Chinese dragon themed slot machine. But as I turned, there she was - statuesque, African American, adorned in figure hugging Louis Vuitton, heels that propelled her to probably only an inch or two beneath my 6’3 and in possession of an enhanced balcony so big you could recite Shakespeare from it.

I cracked out a nervous laugh. “I’m sound, ta” I spluttered with a stunted uncertainty, caught off guard and feeling very much on display as throngs of gamblers ambled around us. “You’re santa? You got a present for me, santa?” came her reply. Fucking hell, why would I say “sound, ta”? I put my hand up, wedding ring and all, and hoped she would understand I was just looking to spend roughly $20 on a spot of air conditioned gambling and maybe a few dollars more on a drunken pack of Lucky Strikes.

I sturdied myself for an onslaught of abuse. Everything I had been told about Vegas prostitutes was that their attitude will soon turn sour if you have the temerity to not pay them an extortionate amount of money for half a blowjob and 90 seconds of uninterested reverse cowgirl. I just want some cold air and a burger and chips to soak up my lager. Sorry, love. Instead, no monstrous pimp materialised from the shadows to holler profanities at me, telling me to scram or beat it. Instead, “that’s OK, honey, you have yourself a wonderful evening” came her reply. She then shook her way onto another bloke who’s face blemished with the fraught familiarity of someone who had spent the previous evening spending his winnings on the knocking of sensual boots with this lady.

I made my way to Carlos and Charlie’s Mexican bar across the floor of the Flamingo for the final flings of their Happy Hour as the poor lad attempted to escape the clutches of the woman he had dropped a handful of Ulysses S. Grants on last night. Roughly 20 minutes later, as I am polishing off the first of my, frankly gargantuan, Miller High Lifes (Carlos and Charlie’s offered 2-for-1 on draught beers and margaritas, neither of which came in normal sizes, apparently. Margs came only in ‘Big Mama’ or ‘Yards’) the same lad shuffled behind me, extremely fucking sheepishly, towards a table at the abandoned far end of the bar, with a woman who, it would appear, was his girlfriend or wife.

Google Maps informed me that the nearby In-N-Out burger that I was pondering for my 11pm dinner was only a five minute walk round the corner. I made my way through far too many red baseball caps and apparel that was a bit comfortable with the military for my liking and bulldozed head-on onto the Strip.

Syncing up a can of Modelo, icy with condensation, with the beginning of the Bellagio Fountains, this time at street level, was quite a mesmeric experience. I allowed myself to be hypnotised among the relentless crowds of tourists who seemed content with just fucking screaming at each other. The inner workings of my brain were scrambled from 11 hours on a plane and about two hours in Las Vegas, by this point. Too many beers and bright lights were frying my senses, but I was too drunk to care, frankly.

I ducked and weaved and bumped into street performers and showgirls wanting money for a picture with them. I winced at poorly mic’d Mariachi bands who caused pavements to bottleneck. I wondered why there were so many bridges everywhere and why I had to keep queuing for escalators instead of just being able to simply cross a road. I eventually realised that was enough sightseeing and all I wanted was a maiden voyage to In-N-Out.

Double Double, animal style, animal fries. I had my order rehearsed and, miraculously, given how much beer and dry desert heat was in my system, I delivered it note perfectly. Even in a town full of popped up tourists and weirdos, I felt like I stood out a mile. I must have been swaying like a heavyweight journeyman in the twelfth round. I, involuntarily, barked laughing when overhearing a story a bunch of college kids were howling at. Didn’t even hear the subject matter or the punchline. Just laughed my head off. It must have been a moment that sharpened my senses, as they politely edged away and, thankfully, my order was called.

Back on the 28th floor of the Flamingo, I tore open the bag to be greeted by my first ever In-N-Out. I was aware there were an almost innumerable amount of very fine cheeseburgers on offer across Las Vegas, but geographically, an In-N-Out that was almost attached to my hotel was precisely the cheeseburger I needed to put a bow on my first night in Sin City.

Maybe I caught them on an off night. Perhaps my inebriation didn’t allow me to enjoy it as much as I should (although, I pondered, maybe it should have made me enjoy it even more, as is the custom with late night, post-pints banquets?), but everything about the meal just seemed fine. Not bad by any stretch of the imagination. Just, absolutely, not-a-problem-with-it fine. Every element tasted fresh and there did appear to be some genuine consideration given to the presentation of the whole package. As far as a fast food chain experience, it was impressive in those respects.

I have read and watched countless accounts of people earnestly waxing lyrical about the wonders of In-N-Out. I have felt my inner cheeks swell with saliva at the very sight of perfectly captured Double Doubles all over Instagram. They are cartoon cheeseburgers brought to life. A gleaming and not-too-greasy All American Boy of a burger. To look at, everything you would want in a burger. To eat, I found the Double Double satisfying but not memorable.

There was no post-Maccies sludge fogging my fat, which was a relief. There was a distinct step up in quality from Ronald and the King’s best efforts, here. But somehow it all came together to leave me feeling like the extra effort and expense should have been spared on a trip to the Hard Hat Lounge across town on Industrial Road, where I could have sampled the bovine brilliance of Stay Tuned Burgers, instead.

I awoke to my first morning in Sin City with both the fear and the loathing, albeit it not quite to the levels that Raoul Duke or Dr.Gonzo endured.

Showering myself back to my senses, I pondered how to spend my spare hours after finishing off a morning of work (oh yeah, I was out to here to cover WWE WrestleMania 41 for a website that let all their freelance writers go less than a week after I returned. Because they apparently were unsure of how to generate traffic from Instagram accounts with over 60 million accumulated followers. Good, that). With the desert dusk greeting me, I struggled with the WiFi’s insistence on not allowing the website’s Wordpress to work within the confines of the Flamingo and headed out to take in some lunchtime Champions League football.

Within less than a dozen steps out of the Flamingo’s front entrance, I was mobbed by ‘comedians’ trying to entice me into their show that afternoon. The ‘resort wear’ of a flowered, short sleeved Uniqlo effort, white Percival trousers and brown loafers I had opted for meant they mistook me for an American (I thought I looked decent as well, which was quite galling) rather than a journalist from the North West of England. Some quite severe piss taking of my accent and then aggressive “get the fuck outta here” dismissals later, and I was quite keen to get the fuck out of dodge and to some form of reputable sports bar to watch Arsenal’s return leg with Real Madrid in the Champions League quarter-finals.

This is where I realised that the mafia doesn’t own Vegas any more. Uber does. I took in the walk to Tom’s Watch Bar thinking it would take me no more than half an hour to walk in a straight line down the Strip. Yeah it took me an hour and 15 minutes. In the dry heat of the Mojave, my chapped lips, red raw toes and ankles were praying for a resumption of the nuclear tests that were conducted out here in the 1950’s to put an end to my suffering. I inhaled a ginger ale when I finally bellied up to the outdoor bar at Tom’s and gasped with the intensity of a race horse finishing the Grand National. Only one of the horses that is led behind a curtain and disappeared to the sound of a single shotgun blast.

Not wanting to subject anyone around the bar to my sore, sockless trotters, I maintained a lingering sense of discomfort for 60 minutes of Arsenal’s 2-1 victory over the then reigning European Champions before realising I had, instead of consuming breakfast and lunch, failed to do any work (not my fault) and instead had two Lagunitas because the bar staff at Tom’s, delightfully helpful and personable though they were, also refused to allow me more than two minutes without asking if everything was alright. With a sweating platter of nachos and a behemoth buffalo chicken tender selection in 30 degree celsisus heat not sounding like my idea of a good time, I limped my way through the immaculately chilled lobby of the nearby MGM Grand to an Uber, paid a ludicrous $20 for the priviledge and landed back at the Flamingo.

Checking out of the suite and into a more normal (and tastefully furnished) room overlooking a casino roof and the back side of the Sphere, I washed the discomfort of a wasted Wednesday afternoon off me and collapsed onto my bed with SportCenter bellowing out highlights of the previous night’s NBA Playoffs at me. My head and feet throbbed and I contemplated sleep. In the afternoon. In Vegas. Didn’t feel like the wisest move with the majority of my remaining days occupied by grown men and women pretending to fight each other.

Instead, I hoisted myself into black jeans, a bargainous denim Levi’s jacket from Vinted (£20 and it ONLY doesn’t fit properly. A win in anybody’s book) and a ball cap and, once again, lost $20 Ubering a few minutes across town to nearby Fremont Street, and Pizza Rock.

Meeting a fellow wrestling journo there, I was praying this was the move for the evening. Frank Pinello, of Best Pizza in Williamsburg, Brooklyn and seminal Munchies series The Pizza Show, had featured Pizza Rock heavily on his Vegas episode several years ago. I could not decide whether this cavernous cathedral of dough, sauce and toppings was going to indeed be a religious experience or one that would leave me praying for the day to end.

Pizza Rock, founded by the triple threat of San Francisco expats George Karpaty and Trevor Hewitt (of Ruby Skye in SF) alongside 13-time World Pizza Champion Tony Gemignani, boasts a menu featuring every variation of pie your imagination could possibly muster. And then a few more. New York, Napolitana, Romana, Chicago, Detroit, Sicilian, Grandma, Classic American, California, Chicago Cracker Thin, New Haven….

After much musing, we settled on all 16 inches of ‘The New Yorker’ under the New York/New Haven category. The menu informed us that this lightly charred, pepperoni and house made fennel sausage adorned motherfucker was an award winning effort, taking home the crown of ‘Best Traditional Pizza in the World’ at the Las Vegas Pizza Expo. I could feel my eyebrows raising slightly at that title, in the same way a number of the curry and kebab houses back in Prestwich regularly plaster banners across their shopfronts boasting of being named ‘Best Curry/Kebab/Romantic Restaurant (really, that’s gone up before now) in the UK.

I needn’t have been so cynical. This was world class eating. I could never possibly know if it was the best in the world, but fuck it, it was definitely among the finest pies I’ve ever the fortune of funneling down my gullet.

The over exertion of my earlier trek down the strip, combined with the lack of sustenance in my system since In-N-Out the night before, meant I went at every bite and chew of my first slice like a cooped up chicken, released into the sunshine to peck at a trough full of grain. Each element blended together in an idyllic, multi-textured mouthful.

There was the silken crowning of ricotta sliding up to the depth and bite of the flavour packed pepperoni and house fennel sausage, which had cantilevered slightly under the 700 degree heat of the oven. The tomato sauce provided enough sharp sweetness to cut through the savoury depths, while also providing the perfect canvas for the strength of the garlic and romano to not be too overwhelming. Instead they lapped around the luscious mozzarella effortlessly, gliding across the blistered caputo dough, all plump and delicate, releasing crunch and chew in equal measure.

Doubling up on the porcine toppings, with three types of cheese, should have rendered this pizza heavy enough to shift tectonic plates. Instead, there was a levity to each bite. You could encompass each different ingredient every time you chewed through more crust and base and never would you feel slovenly nor will you be laid heavy with grease or a bellyful of bread. Three slices will knock you on your arse harder than Mike Tyson pummelling Frank Bruno at the Vegas Hilton in ‘89, but we’re talking about a 16 inch wonder wheel, here. Two is the perfect number, rather than three, with your third slice probably best served a few hours later or even the morning after.

A stroll down to the iconic Atomic Liquors (and crucially, not back towards the direction of the Fremont Street Experience. Fucking hell) for a pint in a dive brings the curtain down on the first full day’s proceedings. My sleep deprived state has called time on the night for me.

Only for my jet lagged bodyclock to awaken me pre-5am to inform me its time to start another day in the middle of the fucking desert. Oh look, Manchester United are kicking off their vital, finely balanced Europa League quarter-final second-leg against Lyon at midday. That should be a comfortable couple of hours over lunch.

And so, 15 hours later, I stare from the tranquility of the grave sides of Vegas’ past, into the dying embers of the day time. And then back towards the bright lights of the city, all elevated walkways, claustrophobic sidewalks, aggressive sales pitches, terrible music and guilt ridden guys hiding from smooth talking street walkers.

I book another fucking Uber away from the peace and quiet and back towards the chaos and wonder how the fuck I am surviving another five days of this. Oh look, tomorrow’s press junket has been moved up four whole hours to 8.30am and I’m about to meet eager, newly arrived, fresh faced friends for drinks. Good, that.