NEW York may be the city that never sleeps but Las Vegas is the city that never remembers. Buildings are torn down and rebuilt faster than Elvis could tear into a cheeseburger. The town reinvents itself every five years.

That’s why the idea of returning after almost four decades years doesn’t fill the soul with excitement. Back then there was a still a whiff of the heady, decadent days of Frank, Dino and Sammy in the desert air. Back then it was fun arriving in this gangster-created fun park in a tiny Toyota with four pals. It was a delight to discover the cash-strapped student traveller could eat for free, (casino loss leaders) and hotels didn’t seem to mind when less-than-fresh young men had a full scrub in their lobby toilets.

So why go back? It’s a very different type of boys trip this time. Eight friends from Johnstone out to celebrate Joe’s 60th birthday. But there’s a concern. The last time a group of us holidayed together was 37 years ago. Will the dynamic re-grow in the desert? And part of the trip is set to coincide with the Celtic Supporters Convention; do I really want to travel 5,000 miles to team up with Brother Walfrid’s fan club and go around the various Hoops events? It sounds as much fun as I had going round the Stations of the Cross as a schoolboy.

The trip begins with a reminder we’re all (a little) older. While the uniform of 37 years ago was cut-down denim shorts and T-shirts bearing the name of an Israeli kibbutz, today at Glasgow Airport check-in it’s evident success has gone to my chums' wardrobes; it’s all linen jackets, loafers and leather manbags. And while there was a time one struggled for the price of a Eurotrain ticket, now two are upgraded to first class and one to business. And on arrival at McCarron Airport Big John orders a limo (“Only 10 bucks each!”) to take us to the hotel less than 10 minutes away.

Ah, the hotel. The MGM Grand (located in Paradise, Nevada, and highly Celtic appropriate) has a boxing ring in the foyer. It’s the second largest hotel in the world, covers almost seven acres and is choc-full of restaurants, arenas, hair salons and countless casinos. It has a CSI show and a restaurant that looks and sounds like a jungle, which almost makes you think monkey shooting may not be a bad idea after all.

The layout is entirely confusing (15 minutes walk from lobby to pool) but then you realise it’s probably designed that way. The owners don’t want you to leave so that you’ll spend your hard-earned money there. As a result, you feel like Patrick McGoohan in The Prisoner, but where the Big White Ball appears in the form of unreadable maps.

A donut in the hotel cost $6 (£4) and a small bottle of water the same price. Clearly, the hotels count on people not counting the cost of anything. As for the MGM casinos, one was robbed in the 2001 film Ocean’s Eleven, and it’s almost certain the thieves made off with its sense of irony. The casinos are tacky and loud and full of people you wouldn’t have in your own home. (Reports claim punters pee in their seats, rather than lose a prize to a stranger.)

There are no clocks on the walls, which is appropriate given the city’s smoking laws are from the last millenium. And despite regular air conditioning, the previous night’s Hawaiian shirt smells of cancer.

But when you do make it outside to the Strip, your retinas are blasted with sunlight and surrealism. Across from the MGM is the Excalibur, a hotel that’s designed to be like an Arthurian castle (if the designer were a three year-old Lewis Carroll, given a box of crayons). Close by is a remake of the Empire State Building and just down the road there’s an Egyptian pyramid which calls itself the Luxor. A little further along, there’s a hotel built around the Eiffel Tower. And so it goes on. Buildings are built to look like pirate ships or Venice (complete with gondolas in a mini-lake). One or two even look like buildings.

Breakfast at Denny’s, America’s most successful diner chain, is an experience which confirms how the members of our group have changed. “It stank like a greasy spoon,” says Big Alex some time later.

It is time to walk the Strip, to absorb the culture which consists of endless lines of costumed impersonators, hovering and ready to have their pics taken in exchange for a few dollars. Spider-men, showgirls and Al Pacino’s Scarface look cool. But for every X-Man there are a dozen Mexicans waving business cards containing the hotline number to a young lady’s heart. Or perhaps not her heart. Meanwhile the main road features a motor billboard offering special room service. (Prostitution in Las Vegas is illegal, so perhaps the room service simply involves turning over sheets.)

We go back to the hotel for a rest and check out the pool. It’s lovely, but the music being pumped out is techno. Where’s the Bobby Darin, or the Dean Martin? And you can’t swim because it’s packed full of young people.

That night we take the bus downtown to Fremont Street with its vintage hotels and zip wire and endless showgirls. Big John suggests we take in biker bar Hogs and Heffers but outside a giant bloke with a leather waistcoat, arms the size of a Harley rear wheel and a neck as red as an Aberdeen FC shirt blocks the entrance. “Where’s your ID?” he demands of Liam.

“What do we need ID for?” replies my friend.

“Have you never heard of the Twin Towers?” says the scarlet Hulk, the subtext being international terrorists often turn up in the form of eight fifty-somethings from Renfrewshire wearing linen jackets from Frasers.

“Twin Towers?” counters Liam. “Your country trained the guys who flew into them. And George Bush did a deal with Saudi Arabia to allow Saudis to exit the country. And you want me to prove who I am?”

The bouncer looks stunned at Liam’s argument, then angered, but no doubt realising how many Budweisers are going down the sink he eventually steps aside.

“Oh no, he’s letting us in,” I say to myself, but somehow the words emerge out loud. And inside my worst fears are confirmed. The wall behind the bar is a mass of bras. Each time a female dances, she takes off her top and it is stapled to the wall. This rarely happens in Johnstone.

But there are other drinking options in this once hoodlum-friendly heartland. The Linen Jacket Mob discover the delightful Stage Door, where beers cost just $2 and the hot dogs are the size of sausage dogs (but tastier), just a block away from Gordon Ramsay’s restaurant.

And in Vegas, you can’t not see a show, right? Our group can't agree on which show but thankfully Andy declares he is keen to see the Jersey Boys (I’d never have had him down as a musical theatre fan, but life’s all about learning) and the show is great. And it isn’t cut to the usual Vegas length of 90 minutes, a custom which allows the casinos to maximise gambling time.

Another bonus is the gang realising there is ample greenery at home and the homage to the Hoops is restricted to one afternoon documentary and a performance by The Wolfe Tones (there's only one original member but they're still great fun) at the Irish bar in the Mandalay.

Do we all get on? One hundred per cent. I rediscover the ability to tap my feet and drink Mexican beer and laugh out loud. And the only discordant moment comes about in the Mexican restaurant one night when Alex wants to give the waitress a tip and John points out the 18 per cent service charge is non-discretionary – she was already in line for 85 bucks.

You learn from a trip to Vegas. You learn your friends are all grown up but the town is not really a place for grown-ups, other than those who cause casino chairs to require a splash of Domestos. The city is tacky and trashy, a place for the young on stag dos and hen nights. It’s full of young ladies from Oklahoma wearing plastic tiaras, vacuous expressions and tattoos. It’s a place for pool parties in 107-degree heat soundtracked by techno. Frank is dead and long forgotten. And any class that Vegas ever had has disappeared with him (although the city can laugh at itself, as evidenced by the Gangster Museum).

On the last day, on the Strip, Elvis passes us by. He looks around 70 and wears a thick black wig despite the oven heat. But he’s not walking. He’s in a mobility scooter. And he’s a metaphor for a town that depends on people being attached to chairs, and young people there to get legless.

But if you want to park your brain for a week, and you can afford it, and you can go with a group who are great fun (and very well turned out), then Las Vegas is the place.

Just take an open wallet and an open mind. And don’t expect to come back with more than sunburn.