I’ve been in Vegas barely an hour and I’m bowling through the MGM Grand, and who should I bump into? The main man himself: Ricky Hatton.

After a five minute chat, during which Hatton, decked out in Man City tracksuit and a floppy hat pulled over his eyes, exudes impish confidence, former super-middleweight world champion Richie Woodhall turns to me and says: "You can’t put that in your piece, no-one will believe you."

And I say to Richie: "Richie, there’s a cage over there, in the middle of the casino, containing a pride of lions. Oh, and there’s a roller coaster that passes right by my bedroom window. We’re in Vegas, baby, our punters will believe what they like."

First impressions of Vegas were, I have to admit, rather deflating. I had imagined, in a state of semi-sleep high over the Atlantic, that my passport would be stamped by a bikini-clad stunner with a nice sideline in rubber-gloved massages.

But, truth be known, the Dorises down my local Somerfield exude more glamour than the ladies of Nevada Homeland Security. As for the airport itself, it makes Luton look positively modish.

Boxing-wise, all the chat on Monday centred on Floyd Mayweather's cancelled training session, which gave rise to the nasty little rumour that Saturday’s mouth-watering clash might be off.

Mayweather's camp were quick to dismiss the reports as wildly inaccurate, although Hatton's people apparently spent several hours on Monday morning phoning round news agencies in a desperate attempt to uncover the truth.

Hatton himself seemed anxious that 'Pretty Boy', who talks about his fragile paws a lot, might use them as an excuse should he lose the fight, and vowed to have it out with him at Wednesday's news conference.

The fact that Mayweather hasn't scheduled an open workout in the build-up to the bout and that Hatton's odds are narrowing by the hour would suggest something is up. But in a town of smoke and mirrors, no one really knows what's what.

Swooping across the breathtaking, yet rather menacing, Nevada Desert on the way into McCarran Airport, it occurred to me that you couldn't design a more intimidating town for a visiting fighter.

"Welcome to the United States, Ricky, and take a look out of your aeroplane window to see the size of your task."

I was watching an episode of Only Fools and Horses as my plane came into land and it served as a nice metaphor for Hatton's presence in Vegas: salt of the earth, parochial Brit descending upon perhaps the most puffed up city on the planet.

As some of you may know, Hatton loves nothing more than a bit of Fools and Horses, to the extent that he often tootles round Manchester in one of Del Boy's old three-wheeler vans. Mayweather, meanwhile, drives a Bentley.

Right, ladies and gents, this jetlag is killing me, so I'm off to Bedfordshire. It's when, as a boxing journalist, you start quoting from Bridget Jones's Diary, that you know your mind's been done a mischief...

PS. Speaking of minds being bent, a word of warning to anyone planning on coming to Vegas straight from Paris: it might make your head hurt, especially if you haven't slept for 24 hours.

One day you’re strolling through cobbled streets under the gaze of the Eiffel Tower, the next you’re strolling through cobbled streets under the gaze of the Eiffel Tower, except everything’s in miniature and you’re on the other side of the world.

On the plus side, I stumbled upon a Crazy Horse in the MGM Grand. I went to the original Paris version on Saturday night as a birthday treat, and I'm sorely tempted to give it another crack. And before anyone accuses me of being a filthy so and so: GROW UP, IT’S ART FOR GOD’S SAKE!

PPS. There is some early tension between BBC Radio 5 Live's boxing correspondent Mike Costello and his co-commentator Richie Woodhall. Costello wants to go and see the Spice Girls in concert next Sunday night and Woodhall fancies a bit of Tom Jones.
Decisions, decisions. That said, I'll probably just head down Hooters...