As you enter the bottom of the strip, Kervorkian's phallic magnificence still holds sway, a gauche temple to big hair, spreadeagled and willing you to enter. Last time I was here, I saw Tom Jones play, fucking magnificent. For a welshman.

Across the Strip, an Egyptologist's screaming nightmare - the Luxor Club, it's sloping sides black sides a warped reflection of the sky above. I wait awhile for Jesus to come kick the moneychangers' asses.

Riding the rollercoaster at "New York, New York", I plummet to the ground in a moment of adrenaline rush. Then I remember that sound - the ugly thud of bodies hitting the sidewalk on September 11th - and suddenly, the thrill is gone.

On the chariot in front of Caesar's whorehouse, I pay a salute to the warrior queen Boadacea, crushing the Romans, and most of London, underfoot. The first woman in history to stand tall against men, hold their balls in her hand and and not just squeeze them, but bite the fuckers off. I imagine her chewing each one, with a wild grin on her face. It frightens and excites me.

You have to ask yourself - what kind of dickwad sits in a fake gondola on a fake canal in a fake Venice and thinks it's romantic? I contemplate firebombing the place, then realize that with all the water, it would probably be a lost cause.

From the top of the stratosphere, they tell me you can bungee jump, but I've given that up - since Ecuador, and the chafing infection.

And of course, the fucking Wedding Chapel. I stand before it, thinking of Vanessa, of her fiery hair, her green eyes, her gentle touch, of how close we came. Vanessa - I loved you too much. You bitch.

And then, I leave - in search of the evening's subcontracted pleasures, and temporary amnesia.