If we get our Scottish version of Las Vegas

The British government is making something of a meal of awarding a licence for a super casino. Only one such gambling emporium is to be allowed in the sceptred isle, and 27 councils are competing for the right to soak the punters.
This enthusiasm is hardly surprising. Las Vegas, the paradigmatic gaming city, reported a 15% increase last year in revenues from visiting gamblers. Glasgow, West Dunbartonshire and Midlothian are the three Scottish local authorities hustling for the casino licence. They face competition from the likes of Blackpool (a town with much experience in separating mugs from their money), Cardiff, and Havering in London. Havering sounds like an ideal place to fritter away your money, although the neighbouring borough of Barking would also be a candidate.

For some reason, the allocation of Britain’s only mega-casino is in the hands of Tessa Jowell, the English culture secretary. We do not want to be excessively Scottish here, but surely the inalienable right to lose your shirt should be a devolved matter.

I have no real preference as to the Scottish candidates. Bowling in Dunbartonshire and Straiton in Midlothian are in the frame but there would be a delicious irony if the Scottish mecca (so to speak) for games of chance were to be Glasgow’s St Enoch Centre, a mammonistic enterprise funded, if memory serves, by the Church of England property division.

If Scotland is to get into the casino business, we should do it in a big way. Why go for one big casino when we can create a whole new Las Vegas? Like the American version, the Scottish casino industry should be built in a desert. The closest Scotland has got to a desert is that strip of North Lanarkshire and West Lothian on either side of the M8 motorway. It is a region which could certainly benefit from an infusion of betting beneficence.

Play the slots in Shotts, poker in Pumpherston, blackjack in Blackridge, or craps almost anywhere. Circus Circus in West Calder has a certain ring to it, as does Caesar’s Palace in Salsburgh. Who needs New York, New York when you can have Harthill, Harthill?

But Las Vegas is not just about gambling. Some people go there to get married by Elvis Presley in the Wee Kirk O’ The Heather chapel. I can see a thriving wedding business in the Scottish Las Vegas with Sydney Devine in his rhinestone outfit conducting ceremonies at the Wee Kirk O’ Shotts.

On the tourist front, a helicopter trip over the slagheaps of West Lothian may not quite compete with the Grand Canyon experience. One service Nevada offers that Scotland is unlikely to match is the legalised brothel. Our Calvinistic society is not ready for the Chicken Ranch with a roadside neon sign advertising the Best Little Whorehouse In Whitburn.

I find myself unmoved by gambling and cannot understand the attraction it holds for some people. One-armed bandits or puggies or whatever they are now called are far too complicated. With all those flashing lights and decisions to be taken on the holds, the nudges, the winks, it is a science I have been unable to master. I tried bingo once but could not stand the pace, even with just the one card to mark while adjacent old ladies were nonchalantly coping with half-a-dozen.

I find card games too stressful and intimidating. I have never really recovered from losing four and ninepence in a poker school at Strathclyde University union in 1966. I couldn’t get to grips with all that holding and folding and working out the numbers, which was a sad state of affairs for a mathematics student. The saddest bit was parting company with my four and ninepence. That is 24p in new money and doesn’t sound much, but in those days it was equal to two pints of lager.

I used to frequent Glasgow’s casinos but only because they were the only places a late-shift worker could relax after the midnight hour. I was more interested in the steak and chips (very reasonably priced at about 30 bob) than the gaming chips.

In order not to be seen abusing Mr Reo Stakis’s hospitality, we would have a shot at the roulette table. Roulette has to be the most boring game on Earth. Especially if you’re gambling on the red and your pal is on black and as a team you break even.

I spent three days in Las Vegas once and it seemed like a month. It was certainly two days too long. Once you become immune to the excessive architecture of the hotels, it is an ineffably boring city. I did apply myself to a slot machine where you could win a Cadillac for 10 cents. I didn’t win the car but after 10 minutes I had a large bucket full of dimes. Faced with the boredom of playing on to get rid of this mountain of coins, I gave the bucketful to the Mexican bloke who was cleaning the toilets. Shortly after this magnanimous gesture, I spotted the counter where you can change your bucket of coins for folding stuff.

The only good thing about Las Vegas, apart from Gil Grissom in CSI, is that Barry Manilow is permanently in concert at the Hilton. He never appears anywhere else. This means that if you avoid the Las Vegas Hilton, you will never have to hear Barry Manilow sing.

I am sure a similar deal can be done somewhere on the West Lothian strip for the afore-mentioned Sydney Devine. There is a precedent for this. I did see Sydney perform live at La Fabrique nightspot in Bo’ness in 1974. It was unforgettable, no matter how hard I have tried.

ONE of the joys of Barcelona is being able to indulge in a large seafood dinner without having to take out a second mortgage. And just when I thought things could not get better or cheaper, I was directed last week to a restaurant called La Paradeta. This is a place, which makes the finest fish and shellfish affordable by the simple tactic of making the customer do most of the work.

You start by choosing what you want from a counter the size of a stall at the fish market. The woman weighs or counts your choice of items and places them in a box which is passed through to the kitchen with instructions on how you want them cooked. You are given a tray of plates and cutlery for you to set your own table.

At another counter you collect your bread, wine, fizzy water, beer, and various pots of tartare and romesco sauces. Then you pay your bill before setting to the business in hand.

You get your salad and make up your own dressing. When your tea is ready you are summoned to collect it from the kitchen hatch. In our case, it was two lobsters, a dozen large prawns, two calamari, six razor clams, and a hillock of tallarinas, which are small sweet clams.

We would have had the oysters, the monkfish, and some of the other stuff, but there were only three of us and we feared more indulgence might lead to a wafer-thin moment.

Sated and happy, we took the dirty crockery back to the kitchen, the glasses to the bar, and wiped the table ready for the next customers. Our efforts were rewarded with a free digestivo from the bar staff. At £20 a head for the entire shooting match, the DIY dinner is a concept some Scottish restaurants might consider. We might even get to eat some of our own seafood instead of sending it to Barcelona.

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