There Is No Fool Like A Careless Gambler Who Starts Taking Victory For Granted. – Hunter S. Thompson

Don't Tell the Wife I'm at the Casino

Sure, you often see a lady at the casino.

Even at Great Yarmouth's Grosvenor Casino on the coastline of Nelson's country, that's Norfolk for those without any knowledge of maritime history, geography, or loss of compass. 

In fact, I have seen many beautiful women at the casino. Some arm candy, others ruthless gamblers, and even a few husbands and wives. I have been to the said location on a number of occasions. 

I have been with the most beautiful lady of them all, my amazing Marlene. We stayed at Andover House Hotel, located at Camperdown, in the Attic Room. I do love that place. Unlike many hotels in this neck of the woods, you can guarantee your crib won't be adjacent to a room of nutcases, drug addicts, alcoholics or maniacs who just love to chat all night until they get into an argument at around 3am, and they finally go to sleep. Strangely, these people are the first up, enjoying a quiet, almost serene breakfast, a delight, while you look like you've crawl from a coffin, the two matchsticks holding up your eyelids have snapped and all those pleasantries you should be saying have gone for a burton. 

Never pay for a cheap room because I hate to say it, you will probably be sharing a partitioning wall with people of cheap standards, morals, and intelligence. 

From my understanding of gambling, most men try to keep it quiet. They would tell the vicar but they wouldn't tell the wife. I presume because they have lost so much money that their spouse has put two and two together and by your calculations realised you have lost a couple of grand. 

And she isn't very happy about it. 

(Conversely, they are good at sniffing out winnings, too!).

This may sound a sexist comment, but I associate most women gamblers with bingo. And you know what, she sees you as one of two little ducks (quack, quack) in the sense that you need psychiatric help because only Sigmund Freud and your mother can understand why you keep going back for more punishment. 

Like an episode of Only Fools & Horses, you leave a timeless casino to daylight and your eyes, brain, and pocket adjust to a fleeting moment of loss.

You didn't realise the time but your wife does and she'll never let you forget it. If you aren't being accused (probably, rightly so) of losing the family silver, you've been sniffing around some tart without a heart who has short arms and deep pockets, ample bosom, and guzzles cocktails like a farmer's tractor consumes red diesel. 

So you never, ever, want to let your better half know you are going to the casino because you will pay a much more expensive price than pounds, shillings, and pence. 

You'd ask her to join you, but you know your ''friends'' at the casino are not her type. I mean your wife has evolved beyond the primordial soup and her knuckles don't drag along the floor. 

So you choose the only option left and saying anything but the truth. 

You nip out for a quick beer with the lads (1-hour playing blackjack).  

It's curry night with the boys from work (2-hours sitting next to Dev whose having a great evening playing 3-card poker).

The cherry on the cake is your uncle's birthday which takes place (coincidentally) in Great Yarmouth and it goes on over the whole weekend. 

You know your wife cannot stand to be in the company of ''that man'' so it gives you the perfect alibi to take a quick left and right, via the cash machine and you're welcomed like a long-lost son by the manager to this gambler's haven of joy. 

The things you have to have a ''good'' night out.

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