Las Vegas is a hell of a town - bright, loud and utterly relentless. There is literally nothing that can’t be had, done and charged to your room by a hostess dressed as a latex policewoman.

Last night we partied like rock stars, courtesy of a generous corporate sponsor. Dinner at Nobu then a table at Body English at the Hard Rock. Bottles of Jack Daniels and Premium Vodka went down a treat, only interrupted by a live performance by ‘Fat Man Scoop’ which consisted almost entirely of entreaties to ‘make some motherfucking noise’ (surely the worst kind of noise). We decided it was time to move on to the blackjack tables for Michael to lose his poker winnings from earlier in the day. Blackjack is not his game. The evening finished with the world’s most expensive red bull and cigars at the Eye Candy.

If that all sounds like a recipe for a fantastic life then you obviously haven’t been here.

I defy anyone to spend more than 48 hours in this town and not come out broken - emotionally and physically. My liver has grown to at least four times its original size, I’ve put on about twelve stone in weight and I can’t feel my legs. Thank God I don’t gamble.

I’m sitting in a suite at the Mandalay Bay, overlooking the strip - an upgrade and a half from the Excalibur - and bizarrely still cheaper day by day than my rent in London - eating a Big Mac and watching a ‘celebrity expose’ on Pamela Anderson. Downstairs Michael is taking part in a poker tournament while Michelle and Nikki are in their room, drinking premium vodka to recover from a hard day’s shopping. I have no idea how any of them find the stamina. We’re leaving tomorrow, to start our short road trip to California and it’s not a moment too soon. In Hollywood it’s going to be salads and water all the way - even if half the world is apparently going to be in town. I’ll stick to being the designated driver.

But for one last night, it’s off for a shower before hitting meeting Michael for food and fun. Earlier this afternoon, we suddenly noticed hundreds - HUNDREDS - of women with perfect hair, all wearing black, wandering around the hotel. Naturally curious, we asked them what was going on. Turns out, there’s a convention of ‘hair stylists’ in town - 6000 of them - and tonight they’re having a toga party in our hotel. Just let that rattle around in your head for a moment. We’ve already come up with an elaborate cover story for when we blag our way in - we’re two entrepreneurs setting up a hair ‘studio’ in London’s trendy Soho. It’s called ‘British Hair Ways’. We also have bed sheets and safety pins.

We can’t fail.