The Adventures of Betttie | mediaplayer

Thursday

Bend It Like Bettie


Arriving back in Las Vegas for a well-earned work break, Bettie finds that her first foray into the world of fashion is far from glamorous.

Ah, now this is more like it. Here I am, diary, soaking up the sin in Glitter Gulch; the world’s favorite gambling capital, Las Vegas. And, utterly by accident, I’ve arrived at the start of Mormon Fashion Week, so you can bet dollars to doughnuts it won’t be long before my coordinated ebony one-piece and character turban will be trending faster than a tits-out vacation shot of the Duchess of Cambridge. And before you say, ‘What Happens in Vegas, Stays in Vegas,’ that choice phrase only applied when the way to break gossip was by carrier pigeon. Now if you commit a faux pas in the Flamingo’s poolhouse, the whole world’s been texted before you even have a chance to re-hitch your mesh bandeau and boyshorts.

So, that said, I was on my second-best behaviour as I swung into the lavish Sands Expo and Convention Center for its Haute-Tu-Trot Fashion Fantasy Extravaganza. Barging through the crowds, I stumbled from unaffordable collection to unaffordable collection, eventually taking a well-earned break watching what I thought was the kiddie’s catwalk breakout session. Turned out I’d stumbled into the daycare dungeon, but, still, it was a lot quieter than the main floor and meant at least I got a seat. Unfortunately, my final perch was right next to this cadaverously thin woman, tattooed husband, and their rabble of badly behaved brats causing havoc in the ballpit.

“You really are tres rocking that homeless chic look, no?” the featherweight female squeaked as I sat down.
Not really sure how I was supposed to respond to that, I instead pointed out that she looked positively gaunt.
“Gawd, thank you!” she replied, pleased as punch.

Still, always grateful for someone to chat to, I ignored her permanent pout and started yakking, telling all about me, 39-4-Ever, my current stepmother troubles, me, the embarrassment that is my third husband, me, me, and, well, I might have mentioned myself once or twice. After about twenty minutes of this, the malnourished missus told me I talked too much.

“Only in the company of people with nothing to say,” I said.

Dernier cri!” she shrieked suddenly, realizing she was late for the Kourtney Kardashian Skin Winnowing Workshop, and I was left with her hubby who had his excessively inked hands full, trying to control their daughter and three sons. The resulting barked exchange went something like this:

“So, what do you do for a living?
“Harper!”
“You don’t look like a musician. Perhaps, more of a–”
“Romeo!”
“Well, you’re not really my type. For a start, there’s all those tattoos. Were they done locally?”
“Brooklyn!”
“Ah, a New Yorker. Did you fly here?”
“No, Cruz!”
“To the desert?”

Before I knew it, it was time to leave the fash-pack world far behind and slip effortlessly into my next – if you’ll pardon my French – Les Liaisons dangereuses.

I met Mister Tall, Blond Dalliance in the free drinks queue at some Fontana Lounge bash, while behind us the Bellagio fountains shot water and bland pop classics into the night sky. He asked if I was enjoying the expo, to which I replied that I was mixing with the kinda people who, at the end of the party when they say “Bye”, they’re asking you a question.

“Fancy a quickie?” he next asked, with a wink.
“As opposed to what?” I replied, picking up a vodka with more vodka and heading over for Siegfried and Roy’s new show, ‘Tigers of Passion’.
“Are you leaving already?” he questioned as I decided to cut things short. “I was hoping for dinner and a show.”
“You’re seeing nothing,” I told him over the roar of Celine Dion.

Later, we met again. Same drinks queue. Different venue. By now, I was on to pink gins. He said, “Look, tonight, would it turn you on to tell me when you have your orgasm?”
“OK,” I said, “but before I call, I think my cellphone needs a recharge.”

And so there I was, leaving Las Vegas. Shuffling up the carpeted concourse at McCarran Airport, I’m in line behind Quasimodo’s younger sister who’s enthusing to someone on her phone.

“Oh, it was so magical, I cried,” she simpered. “When I watched the fountains at the Bellagio, they had Whitney Houston singing ‘One Moment In Time’…”

Some people deserve to die. Repeatedly.