Evening Standard (London): Spin city

The government's proposal to relax gambling laws may mean that a Vegas-style capital studded with neon and an army of 'super-casinos' is on its way. What would this mean for London? You don't have to look hard to find out: the capital is already home to some 23 such establishments, each packed with the debauched, the dangerous and, frankly, the downright desperate, whiling away the time with a hand of cards.

I visited four of London's casinos to discover what's on offer. The only thing these establishments had in common was a 24-hour 'cooling off' period, during which the would-be member is supposed to think long and hard about their decision to sign up. The next day, providing you're not in jeans, trainers or a tracksuit quite right, too, for who would want to be a slovenly gambler? you're free to game.

THE RENDEZVOUS, W1

The Rendezvous squats rather inauspiciously above a William Hill betting shop in a quiet corner of Mayfair. It's 10.30pm on a rainy Wednesday night and business is just starting to pick up.

Attention at the mirrored counter decked with chandeliers and strings of lights is not on me. It centres on a middle-aged, middle- height man of Russian appearance. He takes an unlit cigar from his mouth to reluctantly return greetings. 'Long time no see!' The Pat Butcher lookalike behind the counter offers something which 20 years ago might have passed for a saucy look, and bustles out to take his coat. His guests two silent men in suits are signed in and up they go, up the mirrored staircase into the casino.

The Rendezvous, though busy, is silent. People cluster at roulette tables, around card tables, at the bar. Staff cross the floor in navy floor-length dresses, slit to the thigh and studded with diamonds. Yet the club is silent.

Even the click of counters is muffled. Perhaps this has to do with the decor deep-pile shag carpets lap halfway up the walls to the low ceiling.

Labouring beneath a thick pall of smoke, a battalion of expensively dressed grandmothers with set and blow-dried hair Japanese, Saudi, citizens of the United Arab Emirates sit slack- mouthed astride stools at long banks of electronic roulette machines. In the middle of the room people cluster around real tables; roulette, blackjack, stud poker, punto. Punto is what James Bond plays, but there's no sign of him here. These people are old and fat and joyless.

They remind me of the occupants of an airport's club-class lounge in the middle of the night: rich, discontented and bloated.

It's 11.30pm and a fat man, alone at a table in the restaurant, tucks into roast pork for one. The waiter, having carved meticulously, closes the vast silver dome over the joint to stand solicitously beside his customer who eats morosely, eyes on the gaming tables.

With no Pounds 5 blackjack tables, and such an array of co- gamblers the Pounds 10 table is populated with monsters who dwell at the bottom of the sea, pale with trout lips and shapeless bodies I cannot bring myself to try my luck.

A Canadian Cypriot is playing blackjack alone at a table with Pounds 100 minimum. Of indeterminate age he could be anywhere

between 35 and 55 he's losing or winning several thousand pounds on each hand. He runs a hand through a hair transplant which looks like the inside of a sofa and the 80 or so diamonds on his ring flash blueish. He looks like a man who's peered into the abyss: exhausted, broken, desperate.

'Sit down beside me,' he pats the stool and sighs deeply. He's got a queen and a two on the table in front of him and the dealer is showing a king. He likes to play alone, he says, and gestures for another card. It's a jack.

'Too many,' he sighs and the croupier laughs as she scoops up two turrets of chips. Three grand? Four grand? The man shrugs and orders an orange juice: 'What can you do, eh? I've just flown in from Phoenix, Arizona. Been in Vegas.' He pushes three turrets of teetering black chips on to the box in front of him. 'Big win. Very big win. What can you do, eh? I was here on Wednesday. Big loss. Big loss on Wednesday.' 'But today is Wednesday,' laughs the dealer delightedly. The man looks confused. 'I've been in here since three o'clock.' He holds out both his hands to signify no more cards. The croupier turns an ace to make blackjack. The man shakes his head and another six grand disappears.

THE GOLDEN HORSESHOE, W2

It's midnight on Friday. The glitzy lobby of The Golden Horseshoe has an insignificant entrance on Queensway. It is jostling with people eager to get on to the baize: a forty-something man slaps a stack of twenties against the palm of his hand. Two smart women, mid- forties, handbags, big hair. A man who might have stepped off the set of Grease.

Two pale men in their early twenties who look as though they've just come from Lord Frederick Windsor's apartments in Kensington Palace: pastel cashmere jumpers, foppish hair, long scarves, expensive shoes. A Tom Jones double and a Chinese woman in her seventies who looks slightly disorientated.

In short, the membership is mixed.

I get my club loyalty card stamped each time you come here you get a stamp, and the more stamps you have, the better your chance of winning the prize draw and taking home the digital camera or the DVD player and follow Lord Freddie's friends down the stairs, into the basement and on to the gaming floor.

The basement stretches as far as Westbourne Grove to the south and Hyde Park to the north, vast and dim. It's heaving with punters. Tables run back to back: there are ten roulette wheels, ten stud- poker tables, ten three-card poker, ten blackjack, and the obligatory banks of electronic roulette machines whirling black and red. Here the exquisite chandeliers of The Rendezvous club are replaced by cameras between one and three watch every table and the threadbare carpet is littered with cigarette ends and chips (of the potato variety).

Furtive-looking grannies who must have escaped from somewhere play stud poker alongside teenagers who also look as though they shouldn't be here. Old men in overcoats smoke and play and smoke and play. Girls, bored, sit eating on sofas waiting for their boyfriends to finish playing. There is a queue to get on to the Pounds 5 blackjack tables; there's nothing to do but play roulette. Quietly a man wins Pounds 2,000 on 36. He lights another cigarette before beginning the arduous task of depositing Pounds 25 chips all over the baize again: eight, nine, ten and 11. 36 was red so I put Pounds 25 on black. If the probability of red or black is evens then the fact that the last came up red must mean that this time the odds are stacked in black's favour, I decide.

A woman on a mobile phone chatters in Arabic while decorating the table liberally with Pounds 100 chips her birthday, her daughter's birthday, her son's birthday, her husband's birthday. She doesn't watch the wheel spinning but continues her conversation. And even when the ball's stopped and she's won, she continues chatting, leaning over the table to collect, phone still clamped to her ear. A quiet man with an impressive silver Afro lays his silver pipe on the table. He has also done well on red number 18. I have not.

The queues to get on to the blackjack tables are no shorter, and the immediate area is packed with punters jockeying on players' hands. Here at the Horseshoe, the male croupiers wear sidefastening red shirts. Stu from Liverpool is dealing blackjack. One of Lord Freddie's friends has shoehorned himself between a dishevelled man and an escapee granny. Grudgingly they make room. Stu is not friendly. He's chippy, rude and inclined to ruin anyone's night. 'Did you see Leslie?' he asks the table-watcher who sits on an umpire's chair between two tables surveying the activity ignoring the ten or so people in front of him clamouring for play. A stack of twenties lands on the table. He counts them out with obvious disdain and replaces them with Pounds 200 in chips while continuing with his conversation: 'She was chain-smoking and crying and chain-smoking.' He laughs unkindly and feeds the cards into the plastic chute. He breaks off dealing to instruct Lord Freddie's friend: 'Like this for a card,' he taps the table, 'and like this for no card.' He makes a sweeping gesture. He shakes his head. 'Novices,' he murmurs under his breath.

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'What are we going to do with you?' shrieks a smart man in a black rollneck at the far end of the table. Stu looks up mildly. 'Every time you give me a 12!' He stands up to accuse Stu who smirks slightly and exchanges a brief look with the table-watcher before continuing to rake in the chips. The man bangs a hand down on the baize. 'Twelve and twelve and twelve!' He slaps his forehead, turns away from the table, changes his mind, slumps back into the seat and throws a Pounds 50 chip on the table. This is more like it. A casino with a bit of emotion, a faint whiff of danger even if the danger is of not being discovered should you die in one of the dim recesses here.

THE COLONY CLUB, W1

The Colony Club has a grand porticoed entrance on Mayfair's Hertford Street.

It charges a Pounds 150 membership fee, unless you've been nominated and seconded by existing members who are eager for your company here. It's apparent from the door staff uniforms, long coats, matching umbrellas that this club means business. The carpet is cream, the ceiling is cream, the lighting discreet and the walls, covered with artful black and white photographs. The cashpoint dispenses poker chips and the restaurant boasts 13 different types of 'cuisine'. 'Everything,' explains the suited man at reception. 'Thai, Italian, French, Arab.' Roulette tables are petite with a cream leather surround they match the blackjack tables and the poker tables.

Staff are modelesque with plunging necklines and long legs. They stand patiently, like bunny girls, poised in the centre of vast expanses of immaculate whipped cream carpet, holding trays of drinks, clean ashtrays, cigarettes.

The clientele is largely upper-crust British and I am woefully underdressed.

Rich men smoke cigars and drink espresso in armchairs. There are also several of that dying breed of horsey woman in their late sixties, self-bouffed hair, tweed. 'No, no, no, no, no!' exclaims one such sitting at the roulette wheel. 'I said 29.

Not nine! And 17!' She throws two pink chips which roll across the baize in the direction of the croupier and lights another Dunhill. She bangs her cappuccino down sharply on the saucer. 'No more call bets,' responds the blonde invigilator, who looks like she's been drinking vinegar.

The woman shakes her head again. 'Ten,' she says and rolls another chip.

The croupier dutifully fields it.

No one is drinking alcohol just coffee from bone-china cups and bottles of Evian. These people are serious about gambling. A woman a throwback to the Eighties Sloane (she looks like Diana before she married a prince) plays alone at a blackjack table. She's assembled quite a neat stack of chips and has rewarded herself with a glass of pink champagne. I join her for the next hand. She starts tutting and impatiently tapping chips on the table. Her equilibrium is upset.

After three losing hands for which she clearly blames me she signals a staff member who arrives soundlessly. He inclines an ear, straightens and signals his staff. A new dealer materialises and the next-door table is opened exclusively for her. Her chips are ferried and a new glass of pink champagne brought. 'Nothing personal,' she tells me and gathers her quilted Chanel bag in such a way as to demonstrate that it's entirely personal. My dealer shrugs. 'Some people are just like that,' he says.

It's not much fun to play alone just me and the dealer and a diminishing stack of chips. I gather what's left and return to the roulette wheel where a man is sweating and hopping from foot to foot. He looks like someone who needs to make a million tonight or die. He's playing two wheels at once. And then he wins.

He clasps both his hands and shaking them in a parody of victory looks up at the low ceiling.

'Thank you,' he mouths. 'Thank you.'

THE CONNOISSEUR CLUB, W8

At the Connoisseur Club, attached to Kensington's Royal Garden Hotel, a 'car jockey' is on hand to attend to all parking requirements in order that you should maximise your time as a guest of Grosvenor Casinos. With its green and white decor and relaxed atmosphere, the Connoisseur is on the friendlier side of London's clubs. It's clearly a lucky establishment, too: 'In July a member of this casino won Pounds 543,125 on stud poker,' proclaims a cheerful notice. It's

midnight on Saturday, a few people are enjoying a full English breakfast in the restaurant and the barman is inclined to be forthcoming. 'It's quiet in here at the moment,' he says polishing an ashtray, 'because it's Ramadan.

Should pick up soon, though. Eid's coming up [15 November].' It seems strange that a Muslim strict enough to undergo Ramadan should spend time in this club, gambling. 'I couldn't possibly comment,' says the barman with a smile.

Sandra, a large woman from Colchester who made a fortune in nursing homes and decided five years ago that she was going to sell up in order to pursue her first love, gambling, is playing blackjack. She moves up to allow me on to the table. She came here tonight, she says, via The Rendezvous in Southend on Sea, Essex.

'It's just too big there. Just too busy,' she says.

The dealer perks up. 'The Rendezvous, Southend? I trained there!' 'You never!' says Sandra. 'Honest,' says the croupier, nodding and dealing Sandra an ace. 'Six weeks. Taught me roulette, blackjack, poker. Everything.'

Everyone jumps as Sandra bangs her hand down hard on the baize. She smiles apologetically. It's just a habit she has: this banging her hand down whenever she has an ace in an attempt to forge a blackjack. This time it works. She's been remunerated handsomely. Beside her, a furious fiftysomething Greek woman who's been playing two boxes springs to her feet.

She's gone bust with a 24 and a 22 respectively. Clearly, she's not having a good night. 'Why you always do that?' she shrieks at the croupier. Sandra orders another Coke and smiles ruefully.

Next to the Greek is a Muscovite. 'I am on holiday here,' he says. 'I come here often on holiday.' He indicates the Connoisseur Club. 'I stay next door at the Royal Garden. But this is not like Russian casinos. Here there are so many rules,' he rolls his eyes. 'You're doing well,' says Sandra, eyeing my modest turret of chips for once I haven't been wiped out instantly.

As for Sandra, her life of gambling has not proved so lucrative. 'I've spent a lot of money,' she says. 'So I've bought another nursing home.' She reckons she's got a month left of blackjack before she needs to knuckle down. 'It's been great, but it's time to go back to work.' I think Sandra might be right.

From what I've seen of London's casinos, it's a strangely sterile, joyless land, populated with people who would be better off in bed.