Vegas is full of characters who you’d just never find in London. For example, I saw an Elvis impersonator on a mobility scooter. He definitely wouldn’t be able to get on the Tube here. We’re shit at catering to disabled people on public transport. In Vegas, however, there are no stairs. You can literally be wheeled from spot to spot, from 3000 calorie meal to 6000 calorie meal.
People in Vegas are friendly and often forward. Sometimes it’s because they’re drunk, but more often than not, they’re just super weird. They ask questions – often the most ridiculous ones. Is that Vegas or just North Americans? When people ask ridiculous questions, quite often I give ridiculous answers, just for shits and giggles.
Vegas example: Mr Man Bun and I were regularly asked during our costumed gallavant if we were married. To one another. This is a man who was carrying around a silver handbag and wearing matching floral shorts and t-shirt sets. We were asked so frequently that we pre-prepared joke responses.
Vegas person: Are you two married?
Us in unison: Apparently. We can’t quite recall last night.
It was at the back outside bar of the Flamingo casino where Mr Man Bun and I encountered a short but sociable sarcastic barman who called himself Super Jew, presumably on account of his Israeli heritage and inflated sense of self. The bar at the Flamingo is quite something. Well, the Flamingo in itself is quite amazing because a lot of the signage is pink and it looks like the sort of place where Barbie’s grandma got addicted to gambling.
All the stools in the bar look like women’s legs, and the barmen have a lot of fun with punters. We witnessed quite some scenes, including one middle aged woman eating skooshy cream off another barman’s groin in front of her husband who was pretending to laugh along. All at about 3pm on a Thursday afternoon. Their unsuspecting well-behaved kids were probably sitting in a college lecture theatre at that time of day thinking their newly retired parents were on a golf course.
Super Jew was a Super Twat. He played it well though and it complimented his short man syndrome. Pouring us buy one get one free cocktails, he said that he recognised me and Mr Man Bun and asked if we’d been in the bar before. ‘No,’ we replied. Because we really hadn’t. But he repeatedly asked and said he was so sure he recognised us. Five cocktails in and it was time to tell some lies in Vegas. Mr Man Bun and I were aligned in our improv.
Me to Super Jew:Do you watch much British television?
Mr Man Bun (at the same time) to Super Jew:Do you have a TV?
Super Jew:Some. Why? Are you on TV?
Me:Yeh. That might be where you recognise us from
Mr Ban Bun:Have you seen ‘Animals Do the Funniest Things?’. That’s us.
Total straight faces from me and Mr Man Bun. I was going to go for being a scullery maid in Downton Abbey, but Animals Do the Funniest Things was probably more plausible. Super Jew bought it. Lying in Vegas is Super Fun. I’m also glad to know that should I wish to go into TV presenting with small creature companions I might feasibly be alright at that.