Paul Anka on "Sinatra, his molls and me..."

Even before I hit my teens, my fantasies centred on hanging out with Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin and Sammy Davis Jr. In my dreams, I was living in Las Vegas. And then, bang, I was actually there.

I was a middle-class, 19-year-old of Lebanese extraction and less than spectacular looks who’d had an unexpected Number One hit with my song Diana.

The year was 1959, when Vegas was just a few hotels surrounded by sand and sagebrush — and controlled by the Mob. But it truly was a teenager’s fantasies come true: hot chicks, champagne on ice, gold-plated pink Cadillacs, sharkskin suits.

Ruling over this adult magic kingdom was the Rat Pack — little gods in black tie and patent leather shoes. They didn’t talk like anyone else I knew, they didn’t behave like other people and they didn’t play by the rules.

The king of this playground was my idol Frank Sinatra, who’d been a big star since the Forties. He was 25 years older than me, yet he and the rest of the Rat Pack adopted me, calling me Kid and including me in their japes. Full story...

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