"Some day my boat will come in, but with my luck I’ll be at the airport" (graffiti, originator unknown)

Bingo!
I just figured out why they want to fire up the country’s nuke power stations again.
It has nothing to do with the rubbish you read in the papers on this subject.
The true reason they want the monsters droning once more is simply to power all the lights on the countless "casinos" around Sofia.

It’s a gamble I know, but for how long can so much neon milk the rickety national grid before it gives up the ghost and catastrophically fuses once and for all?
Better keep schtum on revealing any more about this state secret, however. Someone might put the evil eye on me.
As one chap indeed did when playing roulette some time ago in the Princess Casino.
I can’t blame him.

You see number 13 had just come up for the third time in a row and I didn’t have a large stack of chips riding on it. Not even a tiny one for that matter. Unable to contain my exasperation I let rip.

"Black magic!"
My neighbour at the table eyed me worriedly, took a darts player’s sip of complimentary whiskey and edged his chair away from me. Sharpish.
In synch I put the brakes on my mouth and cringed at my words.

Given that a survey last year showed almost half of Bulgarians believe in horoscopes, fortune-tellers, prophets, clairvoyants and other ghostly stuff, it was a pretty dumb thing to say anywhere in Bulgaria.

Let alone in a casino!
Anyway, with sign language and a hell of a lot of innocent whistling, I managed to lie through my fingers and explain I was really referring to Miss Antigua and nothing more sinister than that.

Happily, a bust-up is avoided with this bonding men-talk and we play on.
But the way my chips were down any kind of magic would actually have been just the ticket to me right then.
Black, red, white or any other colour.

It dawned on me, I was frankly attempting the impossible.
To win.

Sure, in any casino around the world the only way to end up with a small fortune is to start with a large one, but here in Sofia these riches must be positively Onassis-like.
I mean how can one possibly hope to hit the jackpot in a city where all the Christmas lights are still up. Bad luck or what? In England, this is really asking for it.

Patently here, too, if my dwindling fortune that eve was anything to go by. No wins in a clothes-washerful of spins, I was now lighter by a bundle.
Then, out of the blue, one of my numbers came up. Geronimo! There is a God. Even if he was dozing at the time. Because the actual size of my amazing windfall, the whole of 10 euros, was not going to make much of a dent in my evening’s national debt.

But, buzzing at last, I decide to ride the wave.
And hey presto, the next few spin clears me out of my winnings.
So Lucky Luke switches tables.
Bad move.

As 15 minutes later I am down another 50.
I kick myself for playing musical chairs pot-luck and feel like that unfortunate passenger on Aeroflot a while back who, when seeing that the safety belt of the pretty woman sitting next to him is kaput moments before blast-off,  gallantly swaps seats with her in the hope of a hot date on arrival the other end. Seconds later the jet whooshes down the runway and takes off.

But as wheels leave tarmac the young lady shoots back into the lap of the passenger behind in a cacophony of high pitched screams. Her seat is not fastened to the floor; nuts and bolts having been removed to fix the pilot’s second-hand Zil no doubt.

The passenger’s evening was celibate, unsurprisingly.  
Unlike my wallet’s.

So with the budget already in tatters and mission for the night being to stick my head into a few more of the big casinos in town plus one or two of the smaller gambling bucket-shops, it’s time to head for the hills.

I get up to leave nodding thanks for nothing to the pretty croupier. It’s easy to see why they call it the "Princess".
Then out of the corner of my eye I catch the pit-bull of a pit boss scowling at me.
Umm.. err.., perhaps they should rename it Beauty and the Beast come to think of it.

Half an hour later and I am ensconced downtown in the Rila casino.
A little shabby, this lair’s gaming room needs to be spruced up.
And that’s being polite.

Truth be told, it is like the inside of a hubbly-bubbly. Either the A/C must be on the blink or the place is on fire.  
Fingers crossed that the brigade is on its way I walk like a blind man through the smoky haze to a blackjack table, trip over the carpet and stumble up onto a seat. The foxy attendants smirk. Another lamb to the slaughter.

One ancient card shark is playing. No, I lie. She, yes she, is too snookered to be playing. Slumped in her chair, neither gaga baba nor I are quite sure what it is she is up to exactly. More there in spirit (triple measures no less) than body my fellow gambler, an evident old hand at bad hands, is ostensibly relying on some form of tarot system to beat the house edge. Sadly, the only deck she is going to hit successfully tonight, though, will be the floor.

Still, she’s sure having fun even if she hasn’t a clue as to where she actually is or what she is actually doing.
Wondering if the old bird will give me the name of her bank manager I tuck in beside her and swiftly adopt her unique playing strategy for a bit of fun. Blind leading the blind, Grandma Einstein gives me a few top tips to fine-tune my game.

None of which work.
So what! We toast each other’s failure and my new buddy almost falls off her chair.
Then I feel a rude, chunky nudge on my arm. Two wound-up heavies have arrived. Piratical Black Jacks personified, they eyeball the croupier. He is unfazed by the gorilla stares.
Unlike me.

I sense that if someone doesn’t get a lucky break soon someone else will get an unlucky one, courtesy of these wide boys.
Time to bail out. Double quick. Ciao.

Like Frankenstein I wander back through the smoke, find the khazi and go in. Two chaps are having a heated discussion as they take a leak in this inner sanctum. They are Scottish and the splash in the urinals seems to be that they had far better fortune at another place, the Sheraton. That’s the den to make a sting.   
So I vamoosh.

To where else but the ‘honey trap’ at the Sheraton indeed. Viva Sofia!
Arriving on the spot I find a ‘no guns’ sign prominent on the door so I thank God I have left my bazooka at home. No guns?!? I later find out casino heists were the big thing in the metropolis at one time. Dodge City. In more ways than one it appears.

Ushered through a security gate, I am at once frisked by a door man, anxiously searching for that quarter pound of Semtex he just knows I have up my sleeve. All very airport-ish.
So where’s the departure lounge, financially speaking, I ask the girl at "check-in" when I have had my entry visa stamped as it were.
She waves lazily to the left.

As soon as I enter the plush gaming salon everyone immediately stops wagering and all the staff start to sing the Viva song for some reason. Odd. But I sure hope some of the babe croupiers will jump onto the tables next and start stripping provocatively as they warble away.
No chance. Not my night.

Music over, first thing I notice is a medallioned gent splashing chips all over the roulette table he is in solitary confinement at. I go to join him but an arm the size of the wing of a jumbo jet stops me in my tracks. A grimace on this assistant manager’s face tells me not to push my luck. He points to a small sign on the green cloth. Private table.
Wow. A high roller.

I stand back to watch. Pancakes, 500 euro chips, are flying helter skelter across the green beige. In fact at one stage I think all the numbers are covered. He obviously needs to win, this guy. At any price.

But make a profit? Perhaps the lounge lizard was, but how on earth could he possibly know it? There were more chips on the table than in all the fish and chip shops in London or campaign trinkets on the chests of all the Joint Chiefs in Washington.

And by the look of him this particular punter did not have a supercomputer for a brain.
Then it clicks. It is all for show. Croesus doesn’t care if he wins; he purely wants to be seen splashing the cash. Everywhere.  

Stepping forward, I chance it once more and try to push in for a closer glimpse of the action.
Management instantly barks some gibberish at me.

I haven’t a clue what it means.
Probably, "no you can’t stand there; reasons of national security!" or some such nonsense.

The memory reminds me of a gag an American friend told me recently.
Two high-flying ministers, country unknown, are on a state visit to the provinces. Half way through the journey one of them nudges the other and says "see that big house? That’s mine!" His colleague questions "but how did you do that on your salary?" So number one retorts, "well, you see that highway over there?" He points to a single lane mud track. Grins all round. A few minutes later it’s the turn of the second minister to elbow his political buddy. He trills "you see that palace out there? That’s mine!" The first one cries, "on your income? How?" Smirking, the proud owner replies "Well you see that bridge down there?" "Umm bridge, what bridge?!?"

So am I seeing the B657, four new railway carriages or two refurbished hospitals go into the casino takings?
Still with all those lights to pay for...

The night is old by now so I hit the streets once more and make my weary way to a one armed bandit place for a fiscal nightcap.
There is a lovely car outside. Oh joy of joys; will it be mine in a few minutes?
Do pigs fly?

As I push through the swing doors I notice another "No Something!" sign like those in the proper casinos demanding "no guns".
But here the regime is far more relaxed.

For this one merely says "No Ice Creams!"
(Your average Cornetto being a lethal weapon in this neighbourhood, rumour has it). So I lower my guard. If worse comes to worst I’ll defend myself with a Mars Bar or even a pancake or two.

Marching into this lavish bastion of glitz I am swiftly dismayed to discover that the entire decor budget apparently went on the small carpet in the foyer.

The place is a bomb site. Perhaps they even test missiles here.
It is also as noisy as a freight train thanks to the multitude of flashy machines clunking and whirring themselves into a frenzy. No doubt NASA itself would be impressed at so many cash-eating electronic contraptions being fitted into such a tiny room. And, left to right, a Fort Knox-worth of stotinki is being shoved into these slots by a gaggle of pale faced punters.

Little is coming back out the bottom. One or two depressed heads turn to study the new face in the joint as I slowly wander around.
Staring back, I ponder if it would be wise to give it to them straight. Save time and avoid the stress of a one-armed bandit by handing your money immediately on arrival to the two-armed bandit at the door. Both ways you get the same gutted feeling!

But I cancel this notion. Something would be bound to get lost in translation and I’d be for it.   
Anyway, I stay only a short while in the dump. The place and patrons are not to my taste, although I plainly am to the buxom madam sitting at the cash desk. Departing quickly before I become her supper I leave all the poor sods to enjoy the chunk, clunk, phwees of the machines without me.

On my way home I spot a gypsy doing late night junk rounds with his horse and cart. It reminds me of W.C.Fields’ home-truth.
"Horse sense is the thing a horse has that keeps it from betting on people".

I wish I’d seen them earlier.
Because the only thing I’ve gained all evening is a few chips on my shoulder; not in my pocket.