Luton Calling.

LAS VEGAS DIARY 2 - THIS TIME IT'S PERSONAL

Chapter 1 - The Boy Who Blocked His Own Shot

I woke up feeling a lot fresher, but with enough mucus on my face that you could mistake me for someone who has taken part in the grand finale of a porno.

That's the tone we're going with this year? Alright then.

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I've never been so happy to still be sick. I spent a good amount of time the night before looking up the effects of cabin pressure on blocked sinuses. Would they be opened and I'd be able to breath as much circulated air as I wanted, or would my face explode from the top of my nose down to my chin? I'm thankful I'd never have to find out.

I don't care about flying, I find it horrifically boring. But I am terrified of checking in a bag. I've never done it before, and I will test the hand luggage allowance to absolute breaking point to avoid having to give my belongings to a faceless airport worker who probably wants to set a world record for most suitcases sling with reckless abandon.

ITINERARY -

PACK BAGS
DON'T FORGET PASSPORT
BEDFORD TO BLETCHLEY
BLETCHLEY TO MILTON KEYNES
MILTON KEYNES TO MANCHESTER PICADILLY
MANCHESTER PICADILLY TO MANCHESTER AIRPORT
MANCHESTER AIRPORT TO THE CLAYTON HOTEL

All in all, leaving at 6pm should see me in the hotel by midnight. God I don't make this easy on myself.

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The most stressful thing about travel for me as someone who smokes, is trying to work out how many fags you can smoke before you have to go without for the better part of a day. Military precision is needed. Spreadsheets, stopwatch, the works.

I'd probably do alright in a blitz scenario, given the strict rationing I put myself on. One on the way to Bedford station, two outside the platform, two at MK Station, one in Manchester, two while walking to the hotel. No more, no less. Smoke them down to the filter, taking a lungful of burnt filter is just part of the process. Each spent cig was just another step closer to Duty Free.

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We can safely skip ahead to the train to Manchester, where we meet the titular character of this chapter.

Every now and then you will run into someone who you can safely describe as 'insufferable'. Someone who makes you clench your fists in frustration, not because you necessarily want to punch them, but you want to remind yourself that it is an option available to you.

Now I have a problem with the weirdo on the bus/train/plane. Out of all the empty seats, they will want to sit near me. Maybe for comfort, maybe for security but I think it's because they need to bleed their opinions to someone like a broken radiator.

I can see this guy coming a mile off. About middle age, balding and with half a beard. No luggage with him, just half a bottle of red wine. It wasn't even a screw top, so that's a mystery too.

I see him coming. My bottle of Dr Pepper on my fold down table was vibrating like that scene from Jurassic Park when the T-Rex is on the way. A pissed stumble down the narrow train carriage. No rhythm to his steps. Passing empty seat, after empty seat. Empty four person table after empty four person table. And he walks straight past me.

Instead, he decides to sit opposite the only other person on the carriage. A woman in her early thirties. Instantly he strikes up conversation with her. I could have attempted to save her, but I've been in her position too many times. She is a sacrifice for the greater good.

This pissed idiot spends an hour trying to convince her that he is a classical music composer. Between swigs of £3.99 Cabernet Sauvignon and brags about being the only person in the world to translate an ancient Italian opera to English, he seems to be making some sort of progress. Turns out she is from a family of classically trained musicians and actually knows her stuff. You should never give the 'train man' a way to continue conversation. They will hold onto it and never let go. You're best friends now. He's going to ask you for a quid and to borrow your phone.

This guy eats crisps with his mouth open, but is still holding on to conversation with this woman. She's responding and asking questions back. He's trying to find any sort of common ground to keep her interested.

We get about 15 minutes from Manchester and he has to make his move quickly. They start talking about their family. Her sister is a lesbian apparently.

This guy does not like lesbians. He's quite vocal about it. There's the crazy - Right on cue.

You were one on one with the keeper, and you've just lobbed it back to your centre half.

Hopefully that woman learns her lesson, and never talks to the train man again.

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Have you ever tried to find the Clayton Hotel from Manchester Airport train station? It's lit up in big bright lights, but it's so hard to get to the entrance. You can see it as soon as you get off the train, it's basically in arms reach. But to get to the door you need to walk in the road, through an alley, jump over two barriers, walk over a roundabout and through the car park. I almost gave up and went straight to departures 8 hours early.

I think I got an hour of sleep in the end. The £17.99 burger and chips on the room service menu kept me awake for fear of being robbed.

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The flight leaves at 9am. We are through security at 7:30am. One cig to spare. Running above EV there.

Sat in departures and things look hopeful for a flight that's half empty. Then the stag parties start to filter in, 10 people at a time. Of course - it's a Thomas Cook flight. Darren and his pals have been down the travel agents and stuck a deposit on about 10 months ago haven't they.

Then it's the leathery old women on their 5th holiday this year. Husband has passed on and left them a few quid, and they spend all their time on package holidays to Tenerife, but they fancied something different this time.

I love to create backstories for people I see in passing. It makes the time go quicker.

Two Geordie lads sit behind me. They probably think they're going to go on the pull at the clubs, but don't realise that they won't get in on their own, don't have enough cash to impress and if I can't understand them, the Yanks won't be able to either.

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The seats on the big Thomas Cook plane are quite comfortable. I took a look in the 'premium' cabin, and they didn't look too much different. The sad thing about Thomas Cook is there's no complementary anything. Last year when I flew with American Airways, you could eat and drink what you wanted. This time they wanted £2 for a can of Coke, and the drink trolley comes around twice on an 11 hour flight.

They have in flight entertainment, but you get a couple of films and a couple of TV shows unless you pay £4 to unlock the rest of them.

I pre-booked a window seat, and the girl who sat next to me was quite chatty. She was from Leeds and was going to meet up with a Hen party in Vegas. Usually people sit in stoic silence on flights, but I guess she was quite excited to go to Las Vegas. I brought her a drink off the trolley (Bacardi and Coke, £6. Brilliant). We chat for a bit and then she passes straight out. Totally comatose for the next 7 hours.

I didn't even ask where she was staying. Couldn't have got her a 7-UP?

Round the last defender, one on one with the keeper, off the post.

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We get through customs super easy because I get to use the touchscreen machine instead of waiting in line for the miserable TSA worker to make or break my year.

Step out of the airport, feel the heat dry your lips out to the point you can't smile in case they fall apart. Get a cab. Get to the hotel.

Ready?

Here we go.