There's no business like show business!

The first time I went to Las Vegas, it was for work. I had a meeting with a Korean bloke, and he gave me his room number at the Venitian. At the agreed time I turned up at the desk, they called him and told them to send me up. I arrived at his door, knocked, and heard giggling inside. Then a young lady wrapped in a bath towel opened the door.

Now, she might have been a very nice girl, well educated and well read, her head ablaze with creativity and good will. She might have helped old people cross the street, she might have baked bread and sold it, donating the profit to orphans. She might have even set up a hospital in Bangladesh. Did I think any of these things when I saw her? No! I thought one word. Prostitute. Because she was one. The man I had come to see was in the bed. With another one. I said I'd come back later. Like many Asian businessmen, he was shocked that I didn't want to join in.

I was alone in Las Vegas, with time to kill. I'm not really a Casino person. I like betting on horse and dog racing, not where little balls will fall. It was too early to get properly drunk, so I grabbed a beer and wandered aimlessly, trying to work out how to waste my precious time. I chanced upon a lesson, in Craps. I figured it would kill an hour, so I joined in.

I fell in love with Craps. After the lesson, I decided to get some practice, but the $10 minimum bet made learning seem expensive. I headed to the shabby end of the strip and found a table with a $1 minimum. I stayed there all day. The other gamblers were either hotel staff, low-lifes or people who had blown their savings. It was fun. They referred to me as Mister England. I asked questions about what they doing and why they were doing it. A barmaid with a face like a bag of spanners kept bringing me beers. I learned more and more about Craps. At one point I held the dice for around an hour. That made everyone love me. One man gave me his stetson. I still have it today!

After I had held the dice for nearly an hour, one old man explained to me about covering all the Place Numbers without taking Come bets. He covered them all, and then said, 'Now I'm just going to let all those numbers work for me.'

A young lad next to him added, 'Unless he throws a seven'.

Now, I was new at the game, but I understood that wasn't a smart thing to say. I'd seen these people pull bets because the sitck man held the dice too long. I'd seen them curse people who passed the dice. I'd seen two men square up because one thought the other was copying his bets. I'd seen one gambler driven from the table for continually betting Don't Pass and Don't Come. It's a personal thing, and the last utterance you ever make is that someone will lose, or even worse, that the house will win!

The rest of us all thought it, but no one was going to say it. Even the Croupiers took a sharp intake of breath.

I rolled the dice. It was a seven.

Now, this year hasn't been a good one. It started badly, and never really recovered. That has coincided with a lot of work, and with a few people I work with moving on, I have somehow ended up doing a lot of other peoples' work too. I was getting close to blowing a fuse, so I decided I need some pig therapy. The Oxted and Edenbridge Agricultural Show is on every August bank holiday, in the next village to us. I didn't go last year, because I was too busy gardening. This year I decided to go to see the pigs. I like pigs, both alive and cooked.

It was the first time I had been to the event as a gardener, so I visited - for the first time ever - the vegetable tent. As I browsed the exhibits, I started talking to an old man. He was slow paced and walked with a stick, but he still had his wits about him.

We were at the beetroots, and I asked him what they'd do if someone entered yellow beetroot. He laughed and said they wouldn't be too happy; it wasn't traditional. Then we got to the cabbages. They were bloody huge, and very impressive. We talked about manure. Mrs IG was riveted!

We got to the tomatoes. The old man, who I had taken to be another idiot like myself, announced he'd won first prize for the cherry tomatoes, and second prize for the standard tomatoes. I was impressed. I explained that my tomatoes were still green, that they were supposed to be early, that last year Jesus did the blight thing to me.

He looked startled. For a moment I thought he was a born-againer. No; instead he asked, 'Are your tomatoes outside?'

I said they were. He then gave me this piece of advice.

I'll share his advice.

He's a tomato champion.

First prize for cherry tomatoes.

Second prize for standard tomatoes.

He gave me, an idiot, advice.

I'll share it with you.

He said three words.

Just three.

From a tomato champion.

To an idiot.

He spoke thus.

He said...

'Get a greenhouse!'

Twat.

Then he added something.

He said...

'You'll get blight again.'

I wanted to kick his fucking stick away. In that moment, I was back at the craps table in Las Vegas, dice in hand, ready to throw that seven.

The next morning I went out to see if any of my tomatoes had ripened. That's when I spotted that I had blight.

Next year I am entering that show, and I am going to win something, and then I'm going to find that man, and stick my certificate right up his arse.