You have to think fast to win in Vegas, but Ro's going just a little bit too fast for me . . . writes ROSS O'CARROLL-KELLY
SO YOU'RE ALL wondering what happened, aren't you? Did we take the Bellagio for a couple of Ms? Well, basically, this is what happened - the night before Christmas Eve.
Ro spent a couple of hours going through various strategies with me, how to beat the house at various different games, but to be honest it was like being back at school - people just saying words to me with, like, no meaning whatsoever? So eventually, roysh, he gives me what he says is the most basic, idiot-proof gameplan there is for winning at roulette and just to be sure, he writes it out for me in, like, simplified form.
If I understood it properly, it's basically this: you take your chips, say a hundred yoyos worth, and you stick them on red. So you've got, like, a fifty-fifty chance of winning. If black comes up, you stick two hundred on red next time. If black comes up again, you stick four hundred on red the time after that. Eventually, red has to come up, roysh, and because you keep doubling the amount you're lashing on, you have to eventually win. As long as you keep your nerve, of course.
Ro reckoned we should hit a casino other than the Bellagio. I think his exact words were, "Don't shit where you eat," which is how we ended up outside that night, heading for the North Strip, with a gale blowing into our faces.
I was, I must admit, walking a good few steps behind him, reading and rereading his instructions, making sure I understood them. That's when I heard what would have to be described as a humungous crash and I looked up to see Ro lying face-down on the actual road, with a massive advertising hoarding lying fallen beside him. I heard a scream, roysh, which I'm pretty sure was me and the next thing I knew I was down on my knees beside him, cradling his head in my hands and screaming for somebody to basically help us.
He was out for the actual count.
"You want me to call 911?" some random security guard asked me. I automatically froze, roysh, remembering from my J1 how phoning for an ambulance in this country is one of those life-changing decisions, like buying a house. But then I also remembered that Sorcha bought us travel insurance as, like, a going-away present? So I went, "Of course I want you to call 911! Jesus!"
When the ambulance arrived, they told me to step back. They put, like, a collar on him to secure his neck, then slid a board under him and lifted him into the back, still out of the game. I spent the whole twenty-minute drive to the hospital, basically crying my eyes out, blaming myself for what happened, thinking if it hadn't been for my basic greed, we wouldn't have been walking down to the MGM in a pretty much hurricane. We probably wouldn't have even been in Vegas in the first place?
They wheeled Ro into this, like, private ward and told me to wait outside while they did presumably tests. I sat there, roysh, playing with his lucky dice, which he'd asked me to mind for him, rolling them around in my hand, wondering how I'm going to explain this to Tina. It must have been, like, an hour later when the doctor finally came out and told me I could see him. "He still hasn't regained consciousness," he went and I practically ran into the ward, tears still streaming down my face and just, like, threw myself across the bed, going, "Ro! Ro! Ro! Can you ever forgive me?"
That's when I saw one eye suddenly open and I heard him go, "Rosser! Shut the fook up, will you?" which, as you can imagine, rocked me right back on me John Eales. "You're making a tit out of the both of us - it's a fooken claim, Man," then he quickly shut his eyes again, obviously spotting the doctor coming back.
The doctor looked at his chart, turned to me and went, "Your son has no obvious physical injuries. I can only think it must be shock. Please make sure to call a nurse the moment he regains consciousness." Shock? I knew the focking feeling.
When he left, Ro opened his eyes again. "No physical injuries," he went.
"That's gonna knock a few zeros off, that. Here, ring that solicitor mate of your auld lad's, will you? Ask him how much is it for shock?" Of course I was just left shaking my head. "Ro," I went, "why are you doing this?" and he went, "Because we need the moo, Man," like it should have been obvious.
I was like, "No, we don't," and of course then I remembered pretty much blackmailing him into coming to Vegas in the first place, telling him that the credit crunch and the recession and blahdy blahdy blah were going to affect our family along with everyone else's.
It was one of those moments, roysh, where you catch a glimpse of yourself and - good-looking and all as you are - you don't like what you see.
"Well, you told me Sorcha could lose the house," he went. "And that idiot-proof plan of mine, well, I had a feeling you'd find some way to fook it up. So when I saw that advertising hoarding fall a few feet ahead of me, I thought, happy days, me ships's come in.
"I just hit the ground - ah, it's instinct where I come from. Act foorst, call the personal injuries helpline later."
I shook my head. I was like, "Ro, I don't know how you've turned out as well as you have, with an old man like me."
"Well," he went, "I've only known you a couple of years."
I was there, "Come on - out of that bed. If we hit the airport now, we'll be home for Christmas morning."