Once again my growing intolerance colours my impression as the place was packed with young drunk idiots, who were not gambling and older, shaven headed Pompey mushes with rolls of fifty pound notes who were. Of those gambling it would fair to say that they had very little idea on how to play, how to act or in most cases how to count. I have visited Casinos a fair bit, not habitually nor with a view to develop a habit, and on the whole have enjoyed the experience; from the laid back island approach of Antigua to the very cheap roughness of Mombassa they all have their own particular charm and character. Not so The Grosvenor. The usual hushed conversation hovering in the background of the sounds of roulette, slots and dice was not in attendance, instead the raucous cackle of orange skinned slappers and the frequent barked profanity of their drunk partners drifted around the packed floor. A snap shot would have given the viewer an impression of a cross between Jeremy Kyle and Hogarths Gin Lane. After losing a hundred quid or so we cashed in our chips, so to speak then chipped in twenty quid each for a final throw of the dice, or as it transpired, spin of the wheel. Red or black? We went Red and the ball landed in, predictably, black!! That was it for me, the other lads returned to the festive throng in Southsea and I boarded the awaiting Gosport ferry.
There are some things that we do well in the UK, casinos are not one of them. I will restrict my future visits to times when I am either abroad or in the company of someone who knows about these things.
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