Around my neck of the woods, people ask you on a Friday or Saturday night whether you are going to "Vegas" or not. Vegas, in this context, is Ashton-in-Makerfield. It consists of a couple of crap pubs, a couple of really crap pubs and a couple of night-clubs with such wonderfully inspired names as "Mad Jack's" and "Owd Mary's". The better looking bar staff in my local habitually descend there after the local has shut. I would do, but I'm now thirty-something and feel it lacks the dignity that someone of my phenomenal stature exudes.
Well, Vegas has now moved. And it ain't in Blackpool where such tack should be quite rightly installed. It's good old God's Own Manchester.
I picture sexy CSIs roaming Longsight and Moss Side. Jorja Fox in knee length leather boots ambling around Rusholme taking pictures of dead pigeons. Wow. Marge Helgenburg down th'Oddies supping pints of mild with Owd Norm, Wally et al.
Well maybe not. Another regeneration project bootstrapped on the back of banality. It's akin to opening a "Big Brother" house in Salford. I despair. Again. Just what the Northwest needs -- like we haven't got enough betting shops and casinos already. Oh, and debt.
Having witnessed my grandfather's penchant for the horses, I still have the sickly taste of a wasted life in my mouth.
You're lucky if you see me buying a lottery ticket. You will not find me in a casino. Not even if Jorja Fox is in knee length leather boots. I'll stick to harassing Nicky in my local; a much more honorable pass time.