Go to some bars. Drink. Go to the Ritz. Play pool. Play table football, and lament the American custom of using three men on the goal-keeping rod. Refuse to call it Foosball. Play air hockey, and note with drunken interest that the air hockey world championship is coming up in Vegas soon, and wonder how hard it can be to sneak seven pucks past someone’s hand for 12,000 bones. Think about serving the puck into your oppositions knuckles to get the advantage, and start to imagine spending the prize money on steaks and lobsters in a huge hot tub in the presidential suite at Circus Circus.
Lose at air hockey and trudge with disbelief to Casino El Camino. Order a burger. Tell the inquisitive bar man that yes, you are from England. Nod with interest when he tells you he is a big fan of England, and peer closely at the tattoo he is showing you in the murky red light. Try to make out what it is a tattoo of as he looks at you expectantly. “Um…” and “Errr…” a bit, until he tells you it’s the Doctor Who logo. Make a mental note not to get an illegible tattoo, and then hoot with glee as they put on the title song from Convoy, by C.W. McCall. Let them truckers roll, 10-4.