Driving from Abu Dhabi to Dubai most days is fine when you can listen to I'm Sorry I Haven't A Clue
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Working Hard
Tropic Thunder. What a fantastic, hilarious and outrageous film. It was everything I enjoy in a good comedy. It had a great premise, constant laughs and, best of all, it offended lots of people. But more than this, I think my favourite aspect was the genius of Tom Cruise. Almost unrecognisable in a fat suit and make up, he stole every scene he was in. He showed a whole side to his acting talent that had rarely been seen before.
Now, I have a few friends who didn't go to see Tropic Thunder.
Why?
Becasue they think Tom Cruise has "weird religious ideas".
Ok, so maybe he has some funny ideas about life or whatever, but he is one of the worlds greatest actors and has been for about twenty years. Every film he makes is a sign of quality. Go on, pick a bad Tom Cruise film. I don't mean a Tom Cruise film that you didnt really enjoy, I mean a bad Tom Cruise film. You can't.
But, now people won't go to see him because of something in his private life.
I don't like Britney Spears music, but I really don't give a damn about her private life and I would hapilly listen to any of her music if I liked it. I don't care if England footballer Ashley Cole has fifteen affairs and sells his soul to the devil, aslong as he tackles well and feeds the ball up to Wayne Rooney. I don't care if Kiefer Sutherland parties everynight till dawn, aslong as Jack Bauer is clear headed enough to take down some terrorists tomorrow, dammit.
The problem seems to be that people are confusing private life with jobs. Is their private life squeaky clean and dull? Would the Starbucks manager sack them if they knew they had gained two stone in the last month? Would the accounting department stop their wages if they found out they were in love with their neighbour? Should we stop cab drivers from earning a wage because of their religion?
A job is a job. A private life is supposed to be just that. Magazines are full of photos of stars not doing their job. Unfortunately, alot of todays "stars" are famous for nothing at all. And people lap it up.
Im going to start a new magazine called "People Who Are Actually Good At Something Doing Their Job"
I think I might last one issue...
Saturday, September 27, 2008
The Fourth Lion
I'm English.
I love football.
Therefore, I support the England football team.
It is a cross to bear.
English fans are always put through sheer hell. The newspapers create such unrealistic goals that our failures seem even greater than ever. We may hate the team at times, get pissed off with them alot and have sweaty nervous palms even if we're 5-0 up with 5 minutes to go, but you simply support your country.
Now if you dont have a national team worth a poo (ahem...UAE) then I guess you tend to pick someone else when it comes to World Cups and such.
This annoys me.
When England failed to qualify for the 2008 Euro's, I didnt choose another country. I just watched the tournament and enjoyed the football, all the while desperately trying to ignore the overwhelming pain of not having England involved.
But here, without a national team of your own that's ever going to get to the finals of any competition, there's a huge amount of band wagon jumping.
For the last World Cup, many started wearing Brazil shirts as if they had always supported them. Apart from Pele and 'that one that got fat' I doubt if they could tell you any more than they wear yellow. Now when Brazil were knocked out of the World Cup, the bins around town were suddenly flowing with unwanted Brazil tops and the sports shops had a sudden rush for Italian and French shirts.
My point is, us England fans live through 90 minutes of agony with every game. I can count on two fingers the important games that I actually enjoyed. (Germany 1 England 5, and more recently, Croatia 1 England 4....FYI)
As an England fan, the media always tell us we should be winning competitions but us real fans know that we just dont have what it takes and luck is rarely on our side.
I truly hope I'm wrong and one day before I leave the world, I will get to see us claim a trophy of worth. But whatever happens, I wont be switching countries just to get a bit of glory.
We invented the damn game and it just seems to haunt us.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Fromage Rules
Although many people love to tell others that they are a DJ....it's not something I divulge easily. I'm not sure why, but it feels like its not really a worthwhile profession.
In fact, I know it isn't. But it pays well and it's money for old rope.
After every gig, I get a wad of cash and I always get a tinge of guilt. You really want to give me that much for pressing play and stop all evening?
I'm aware there is a certain skill to picking the right song at the right time. Experience tells you how to turn a crap night into one with a fighting chance of success. And its not everyone that can notice that the little things (lighting, positioning of dance floor, quality of sound, running order) are the things that alter the outcome of the night.
Still, I feel guilt.
Then I see the so-called 'trendy DJ' brigade, and suddenly I feel I should be given more credit.
I deal in cheese. Fun. People get drunk, people smile, laugh and get sweaty as I take them on a journey through as many different music styles as they will allow me.
I play the songs they know, the songs they had forgotten about but loved and maybe slip a few newbies in too.
People sing along, people cheer to the intro of a well-timed classic and everyone goes home happy and singing bizarre versions of Bohemian Rhapsody as they stagger out in search of a taxi.
Now, go to a 'trendy' club.
What do you see? Dour faces. Pristine make up. Lots of staring. Very little in the way of smiling. All this to the soundtrack of the latest RnB, mass-produced-bile.
Yet, these places are packed. How?
It depresses me that people are more than willing to spend a night out seemingly pissed off or bored.
I remember going to a few clubs in my youth. At about midnight, the DJ would start playing a few silly songs. The place would erupt. Everyone suddenly united in having fun and letting loose.
This would last ten minutes before we returned to the latest force-fed garbage from the "charts".
And so, everyone would go back to staring at each other.
Where's the fun people?
Cheesy DJ's often get a lot of stick, but we are the one's that give you the nights you remember. If you're the type who often frequents moody clubs with underdeveloped doormen, extortionate drinks and dull, carbon-copy Rap.........I promise you, there's fun to be had somewhere else. Enjoy cheese while you're still young enough to dance all night!
You'll miss it when you can't cope anymore.....
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
The Chav Has Landed
Exclusivity is a tricky thing. It's nice to be one of a few, but then again you don't want to be the only ones.
As Abu Dhabi becomes more recognised around the world, and it appears more and more in Travel Agents windows in the UK, us 'Dhabians' are starting to consider how our city will feel in the future. Naturally, Dubai is where we look for a pretty good forecast.
And the dread sets in.
I wont dilly-dally, I hate Dubai. Well, hate is a strong word, but I don't spend more time than absolutely necessary there. It's overcrowded, traffic-jammed morning to night, disjointed and worst of all, it has a huge ego. I'm sure when Dubai is finished in 15 to 20 years, it will be a nice place to whizz around and go "oooh" and "ahhh" at the pretty buildings. But if current trends continue, along with the mental architecture will be the worst of infestations....the British Chav.
They started arriving a few years ago. They saw the cheap deals for unfinished, one-bedroom apartments facing someones' living room, and snapped them up.
They are tattooed, binge-drinking, thong wearing animals, whose only wish is to live exactly the life they used to lead in the UK. They disregard the local traditions and way of life and treat the Dubai bars and clubs as if they were on the Costa Del Slut.
Recently, a British Man and Woman were arrested for having sex on a beach in public view. This was after being warned once by the policemen. I don't know what sentence they will get. Just put them on a plane, that will be enough for me.
This is a Muslim country. This is not the UK.
If you want to live like you're on a council estate, go back there and do it.
But, nowadays, the Brits in Dubai are gathering a reputation for being louts, tarts and all-round scumbags.
Abu Dhabi needs to lock it's doors to these people. Anyone seen entering our airport with either union jack shorts, a Westlife CD or a beach towel with Tennant Extra written on it, should be turned away.
Don't let it happen! Dubai is overrun with them, but we can do better.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Mum's The Word
There are many groups and clubs here. All the major sports and activities are covered by one or more expat society. A major one, of course, is the Mums. With hubby earning the bucks by deciding which hotel should be built next, she has the tough task of sitting in her villa (or by her private pool) with her children. Often, she only has ONE maid to help her.
She needs an outlet, so they form groups. They arrange places and times where they can meet and ignore their kids for a few hours and discuss how hard their life is.
Now last week, we decided to take our daughter to one these mornings. We knew the reputation for it being a close knit affair, but we thought our daughter might enjoy the time playing with other kids.
Upon entry I decided to deal with this myth straight away and I went to the main table where a small gaggle was seated and I cheerily said, "Hello"
The response was remarkable. Three of the coven turned their heads, mouths wide open and stared. One barely managed to cough out "Hello," in response, after about ten seconds of silence. There were no smiles, no "come and join us", no "haven't seen you before," Nothing. Zilch. All I could feel was the sense that I was deep in enemy territory and I should retreat.
I said no more and left them to natter about the terrible state of the A/C in their four-wheel drive tank that sat outside. We stayed for an hour or so and my "hello" was the first and last communication we had with this "friendly society for parents to meet each other"
Ahh, the expat life. There are definitely two sides to the coin.
She needs an outlet, so they form groups. They arrange places and times where they can meet and ignore their kids for a few hours and discuss how hard their life is.
Now last week, we decided to take our daughter to one these mornings. We knew the reputation for it being a close knit affair, but we thought our daughter might enjoy the time playing with other kids.
Upon entry I decided to deal with this myth straight away and I went to the main table where a small gaggle was seated and I cheerily said, "Hello"
The response was remarkable. Three of the coven turned their heads, mouths wide open and stared. One barely managed to cough out "Hello," in response, after about ten seconds of silence. There were no smiles, no "come and join us", no "haven't seen you before," Nothing. Zilch. All I could feel was the sense that I was deep in enemy territory and I should retreat.
I said no more and left them to natter about the terrible state of the A/C in their four-wheel drive tank that sat outside. We stayed for an hour or so and my "hello" was the first and last communication we had with this "friendly society for parents to meet each other"
Ahh, the expat life. There are definitely two sides to the coin.
Water, Water Everywhere
There's a gorgeous beach here called Al Bateen. So far it is pretty much untouched, has no views of any cranes or building work and is wonderfully quiet. It's free, not well known and has golden sand stretching for a mile or so.
But it does have a strange inhabitant. As I play in the sea with my family as the sun goes down, four or five cars seem to become very familiar to me. I see them again and again, slowly crawling along the beach road. Their windows are usually blacked out with maybe just a slight opening to allow the cigarette smoke to escape.
It soon dawns on us that they are pervs. They creep up and down this stretch of road as if we cant see them. You know how a child covers their eyes and thinks this makes them invisible? I think these guys work on the same mature theory. Some have their window fully wound down, thereby demonstrating their complete lack of self-awareness. We can see them, and they can see that we can see them, yet they continue their 10km/hr rumble along the road, sunglasses on and fag in mouth. One can only estimate what might be going through their minds as they scan the beach for a glimpse of a bikini.
But, whereas I do get rather miffed and would love to engage these "men" in conversation before ripping out their eyeballs and feeding them to them. More overpowering is my amazement that this is their best way of seeing scantily clad ladies. Have these guys not heard of the internet?One hour of MTV would be sufficient. Rent a DVD of Baywatch, if you must.
But if your culture denies you the freedom to express love and lust, go on holiday somewhere that doesn't or simply live by the rules you have chosen.
Because before long, Al Bateen beach will be a building site and a new, false paradise will be constructed. So let us enjoy this rare, natural delight without the perv-convoy.
But it does have a strange inhabitant. As I play in the sea with my family as the sun goes down, four or five cars seem to become very familiar to me. I see them again and again, slowly crawling along the beach road. Their windows are usually blacked out with maybe just a slight opening to allow the cigarette smoke to escape.
It soon dawns on us that they are pervs. They creep up and down this stretch of road as if we cant see them. You know how a child covers their eyes and thinks this makes them invisible? I think these guys work on the same mature theory. Some have their window fully wound down, thereby demonstrating their complete lack of self-awareness. We can see them, and they can see that we can see them, yet they continue their 10km/hr rumble along the road, sunglasses on and fag in mouth. One can only estimate what might be going through their minds as they scan the beach for a glimpse of a bikini.
But, whereas I do get rather miffed and would love to engage these "men" in conversation before ripping out their eyeballs and feeding them to them. More overpowering is my amazement that this is their best way of seeing scantily clad ladies. Have these guys not heard of the internet?One hour of MTV would be sufficient. Rent a DVD of Baywatch, if you must.
But if your culture denies you the freedom to express love and lust, go on holiday somewhere that doesn't or simply live by the rules you have chosen.
Because before long, Al Bateen beach will be a building site and a new, false paradise will be constructed. So let us enjoy this rare, natural delight without the perv-convoy.
Saturday, July 5, 2008
Cheaper By The Twelve
The particular company I work for has an overall ethos. It is how it distuinguishes itself from its rivals and is the basis of its selling strategy.
The idea? It's all in English.
So far, no problem. Its a good idea to set out its stall like this. It sets them apart from the others out here.
However, the next stage should be ever so simple..but, alas, it's not.
You see with a company that is proud of its all english speaking design, it is curious that only a handful of employees have a full grasp of the language.
Now I dont expect cockney rhyming slang at work. Nor do I anticipate relaxed musings on Eastenders, the cast of Friends or Parkinson. What I would expect, however is some basic knowledge of english.
I can describe my thoughts or plans in pidgeon english, slowly...very........slowly. And although a smile and a "no problem" is offered, it is very rare to find later that any comprehension of what I said was ever there.
Major spelling and grammar faux pars are common place. Mutated forms of well known phrases abound ("Can you do that as quick as a stick?") and an overall strategy of listen and then ignore is usual.
Now, I'm not advocating english here, Im merely highlighting the fact that if your whole business plan is based on We Only Speak English Here, why would you employ those that can't speak or understand it to a minimum standard?
Answer?
It's cheaper this way.
The idea? It's all in English.
So far, no problem. Its a good idea to set out its stall like this. It sets them apart from the others out here.
However, the next stage should be ever so simple..but, alas, it's not.
You see with a company that is proud of its all english speaking design, it is curious that only a handful of employees have a full grasp of the language.
Now I dont expect cockney rhyming slang at work. Nor do I anticipate relaxed musings on Eastenders, the cast of Friends or Parkinson. What I would expect, however is some basic knowledge of english.
I can describe my thoughts or plans in pidgeon english, slowly...very........slowly. And although a smile and a "no problem" is offered, it is very rare to find later that any comprehension of what I said was ever there.
Major spelling and grammar faux pars are common place. Mutated forms of well known phrases abound ("Can you do that as quick as a stick?") and an overall strategy of listen and then ignore is usual.
Now, I'm not advocating english here, Im merely highlighting the fact that if your whole business plan is based on We Only Speak English Here, why would you employ those that can't speak or understand it to a minimum standard?
Answer?
It's cheaper this way.
Monday, June 9, 2008
Blown
A fuse blew in the flat yesterday. Not a little one in a plug, but a proper one. A housey-type one. As you can gather, I'm not Bob the Builder, but I dont mind DIY at all. I quite enjoy it and have discovered how to do many things over the years by trial and huge error.
However, this one stumped me. I knew I had to get the old fuse out and replace it, but when I removed the cover to the fuse box, all i could see was wires and stuff. It was enough to make me reconsider sticking my screwdriver in any further.
As half the flat was now out of action and we were expecting guests within the hour, I knew oustide assistance was required.
I walked up the street for about 2 minutes, to the nearest little electrical stuff-type shop. It's about the size of a toilet and smells simalar too. Inside I gestured and pointed to what I thought would help him understand my predicament. He did understand but I needed to give him more information before he could sell me a new fuse. After a couple of minutes he said, "I come?"
I thought for about two seconds and said, "Yes."
He followed me to our flat with a carrier bag of tools and fuses. He tested the fuse box, tried a fuse, tested all the sockets in one side of the flat, re-wired one, tried the fuse again, replaced the cover and got us up and running again. As he was saying goodbye, I gave him 100 Dirhams (about 12 pounds) and he beamed like a Cheshire Cat and slipped out, into the night. I think I overpaid him, considering what he would usually expect for simalar work.
Only afterwards did I realise that there wasn't any, "This is gonna cost," or "I can get to you a week on tuesday," or "You're gonna need a whole re-wire job here."
He came, he fixed it, he left. Isn't that kind of how it should be? He didn't try to get extra work out of it or try to fleece me for something else while he was here. He didn't wan't me to pre-book him, or sign up to a loyalty scheme or take out an insurance policy. I signed nothing and he didn't even insist on a cup of tea. He had no ego and didn't want to discuss his wife's failings.
And now, when the next electrical crisis occurs, I will be sprinting up the road for him.
He has the best loyalty scheme of them all.
However, this one stumped me. I knew I had to get the old fuse out and replace it, but when I removed the cover to the fuse box, all i could see was wires and stuff. It was enough to make me reconsider sticking my screwdriver in any further.
As half the flat was now out of action and we were expecting guests within the hour, I knew oustide assistance was required.
I walked up the street for about 2 minutes, to the nearest little electrical stuff-type shop. It's about the size of a toilet and smells simalar too. Inside I gestured and pointed to what I thought would help him understand my predicament. He did understand but I needed to give him more information before he could sell me a new fuse. After a couple of minutes he said, "I come?"
I thought for about two seconds and said, "Yes."
He followed me to our flat with a carrier bag of tools and fuses. He tested the fuse box, tried a fuse, tested all the sockets in one side of the flat, re-wired one, tried the fuse again, replaced the cover and got us up and running again. As he was saying goodbye, I gave him 100 Dirhams (about 12 pounds) and he beamed like a Cheshire Cat and slipped out, into the night. I think I overpaid him, considering what he would usually expect for simalar work.
Only afterwards did I realise that there wasn't any, "This is gonna cost," or "I can get to you a week on tuesday," or "You're gonna need a whole re-wire job here."
He came, he fixed it, he left. Isn't that kind of how it should be? He didn't try to get extra work out of it or try to fleece me for something else while he was here. He didn't wan't me to pre-book him, or sign up to a loyalty scheme or take out an insurance policy. I signed nothing and he didn't even insist on a cup of tea. He had no ego and didn't want to discuss his wife's failings.
And now, when the next electrical crisis occurs, I will be sprinting up the road for him.
He has the best loyalty scheme of them all.
When George Met Mariah
It was an amazing time. The toys, the music, the logo, the characters. Who would play Han Solo? Who would be Luke? Who gets stuck as Chewie?
Star Wars defined many a child in the late 70's and early 80's. There had truly never been anything like it before. After the cinema releases, the video would be constantly replayed. At Christmas, it was always the big film. No matter how many times you saw it, you were transported back to that galaxy far, far away...
So, now it seems it was a fluke. And the reason I know this? CGI.
Computer Generated Information seems to have become a curse. Where once it was a means to an end, it's now the be all and end all. When George Lucas made the original Star Wars trilogy, he was working with a new dawn of Special Effects. Some things he could do and some things he couldn't. Unfortunately, as we discovered with the second trilogy of Star Wars, he can now do anything. Where you once had Harrison Ford running around the corridors of the Death Star, you now had computer generated animals running around computer generated planets. Even in Star Wars, you needed a smidgen of physical reality.
But Harrison Ford has now become the focus of CGI's greatest downfall and perhaps the watershed for it's future. Indiana Jones and the Curse of CGI (or Indiana Jones and The Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, as it's officially known) has brought home to me that George Lucas probably hindered the original Star Wars and Indiana Jones films from being even better.
Indiana Jones 4 goes great guns for most of it. Harrison slips back into his Hat and Whip easily, Spielberg conjours up a few nice actions sequences, but then you see the parts where George Lucas turned up. You can imagine the sighs from Ford and Spielberg when he waddled onto the set. Like the rich uncle who is paying for this damn party, so you have to do what he says.
"So, you want him to swing through the trees like Tarzan for no reason?"
"Yep," says George.
"You want an car/boat to defy the laws of gravity three times even though that kind of cartoonish action has never appeared in an Indiana Jones movie before?"
"Yep," says George.
"And you want to have a ten minute, dialogue free, Indiana Jones free sequence at the climax of the film, involving a spaceship?"
"Yep," says George.
"Why?"
"Because I can," says George.
George Lucas, it seems, is the cinematic equivalent of Mariah Carey. Why sing a tune and hold a note when you can fit a hundred different notes into a few seconds and show how clever you are?
Why?
Because you can.
I'm sure David Beckham can do that thing with a ball where they flip it up and catch it on the back of their neck. But he won't be doing it the next time England need a vital goal.
I'm sure Lewis Hamilton could drive the whole of the course backwards. But he won't be doing it when it's a championship race.
I'm sure Gordon Ramsey can make a mean beans on toast. But he wont be putting it on the menu at The Savoy Grill.
So why does Mr Lucas feel the need to exercise his fancy computer and ruin my childhood memories?
Probably the same reason Mariah insists on destroying melodies; they are very rich and can do whatever they like. Reminds me of a city I know...
The Car's The Star
Cars, cars, cars.
They could be judged as the centre of the universe here. The cars are huge, blacked out, fast and in abundance.
When I first lived here, I went without a car for about 2 years. I never did anything or saw anything apart from the two major malls and the pubs. Now, with a car I can go and see both the country's' historic attractions when I want.
Driving here is an art form, despite what you may have heard. It doesn't have the chaos of India, nor the order of Germany. It doesn't have the desperation of Egypt or the cruising of America.
It has a life all of it's own. With so many nationalities on the same roads, there's bound to be problems. But, still nothing prepares you for the scourge of the tarmac - The White Land Cruiser.
There seem to be more of them than people in the country. Drive anywhere and there's always one lurking. Like some secret organisation that co-ordinate their distribution so one is always in vision. If only the UK police had a similar tactic, crime would be shrunk drastically.
But, coupled with their unmistakable image, is their familiar characteristic. That is to say that they are, by far and without any shadow of doubt, the worst drivers on Earth.
Irrational, selfish, misjudged, dangerous, unhelpful and rude.
When an accident is reported, the words "Land Cruiser" invariably follow.
Is it this particular make of car that transforms the driver into a twat? Is there some kind of device built into the drivers seat that changes the brain patterns and ability to judge a situation effectively?
Or is it the drivers themselves? There is a strong connection between the drivers. One which I will not fully identify, but one which I am sure you can fathom.
Their vehicular crimes are too many to try and list but they range from driving at full pelt in the hard shoulder to driving with almost 90 percent tint on their windows, at night. In sunglasses. On the phone.
I don't like these drivers very much.
They could be judged as the centre of the universe here. The cars are huge, blacked out, fast and in abundance.
When I first lived here, I went without a car for about 2 years. I never did anything or saw anything apart from the two major malls and the pubs. Now, with a car I can go and see both the country's' historic attractions when I want.
Driving here is an art form, despite what you may have heard. It doesn't have the chaos of India, nor the order of Germany. It doesn't have the desperation of Egypt or the cruising of America.
It has a life all of it's own. With so many nationalities on the same roads, there's bound to be problems. But, still nothing prepares you for the scourge of the tarmac - The White Land Cruiser.
There seem to be more of them than people in the country. Drive anywhere and there's always one lurking. Like some secret organisation that co-ordinate their distribution so one is always in vision. If only the UK police had a similar tactic, crime would be shrunk drastically.
But, coupled with their unmistakable image, is their familiar characteristic. That is to say that they are, by far and without any shadow of doubt, the worst drivers on Earth.
Irrational, selfish, misjudged, dangerous, unhelpful and rude.
When an accident is reported, the words "Land Cruiser" invariably follow.
Is it this particular make of car that transforms the driver into a twat? Is there some kind of device built into the drivers seat that changes the brain patterns and ability to judge a situation effectively?
Or is it the drivers themselves? There is a strong connection between the drivers. One which I will not fully identify, but one which I am sure you can fathom.
Their vehicular crimes are too many to try and list but they range from driving at full pelt in the hard shoulder to driving with almost 90 percent tint on their windows, at night. In sunglasses. On the phone.
I don't like these drivers very much.
Why, Oh Why, Oh Why....
For as long as I can remember, British TV has had a ten minute, once a week, institution. The BBC's Points Of View, was a chance for viewers to write in and have their grievances and opinions on the previous week's TV output, aired to the nation.
The letters ranged from witty to outraged. Watching it, you often wondered who these people were that felt so emotional about a TV show that they had to write to someone to tell them?
I love a bit of telly, but writing to the makers is something I would fall short of.
Is it that important that you need to chastise the BBC for showing a left breast before midnight? Or that Phil Mitchell's grunting aggression is not suitable for 7.30pm?
The fact is, in the UK, complaining is in the blood. It's in our DNA and we are very good at it. We can adapt a complaint to fit any situation, no matter how trivial.
Trawl through the letters page in any national newspaper in the UK and you will find many inches of moaning, whining and bitching on the most irrational and unimportant matters.
And I love it.
Earlier today, I was having a coffee and reading the (only decent) english language paper here in the UAE. Turning to the letters page is always an out-of-body experience for me here. Almost all the letters are positive. Glowing tributes to the government and leaders. Thank yous from grateful people who seem as though they are having the time of their life. People write to the paper merely to say they like something! No other reason. No sarcasm involved, just sickening niceness.
I suspect there is a lot of fear involved. But, this is hardly a hand-chopping country. In fact, in many ways we are more free here than most nations in the world. (I include Britain in that).
I can only suggest two possibilities: One, they somehow feel scared of criticising the government and leaders and are brown-nosing to hopefully get noticed. Two, they actually don't have anything to complain about.
Now, I ask you - what kind of human is always happy?
The letters ranged from witty to outraged. Watching it, you often wondered who these people were that felt so emotional about a TV show that they had to write to someone to tell them?
I love a bit of telly, but writing to the makers is something I would fall short of.
Is it that important that you need to chastise the BBC for showing a left breast before midnight? Or that Phil Mitchell's grunting aggression is not suitable for 7.30pm?
The fact is, in the UK, complaining is in the blood. It's in our DNA and we are very good at it. We can adapt a complaint to fit any situation, no matter how trivial.
Trawl through the letters page in any national newspaper in the UK and you will find many inches of moaning, whining and bitching on the most irrational and unimportant matters.
And I love it.
Earlier today, I was having a coffee and reading the (only decent) english language paper here in the UAE. Turning to the letters page is always an out-of-body experience for me here. Almost all the letters are positive. Glowing tributes to the government and leaders. Thank yous from grateful people who seem as though they are having the time of their life. People write to the paper merely to say they like something! No other reason. No sarcasm involved, just sickening niceness.
I suspect there is a lot of fear involved. But, this is hardly a hand-chopping country. In fact, in many ways we are more free here than most nations in the world. (I include Britain in that).
I can only suggest two possibilities: One, they somehow feel scared of criticising the government and leaders and are brown-nosing to hopefully get noticed. Two, they actually don't have anything to complain about.
Now, I ask you - what kind of human is always happy?
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Breathing In Soup
"How hot is it out there?"
It's a basic question, I know. You'd think there would be a simple answer. But, I find myself having to extend the answer so that they fully grasp my meaning of "hot."
It's hot out here. It's June and the temperature is usually in the 40's. Often nudging 50. But, that still doesnt explain it to the uninitiated. The heat here bares little relation to the heat on the Costa del Beer. There's a phrase in this part of the world that is commonly used but is never fully understood until experienced;
"It's the humidity that gets you."
It's like breathing in soup. Imagine climbing into a microwave on high. Wrapping your face in an electric blanket. There's is no escape in the shade, either. It makes little difference to the condition of your lungs. In the direct sunlight, you will burn in a matter of seconds, but that really pales into insignificance when you feel like you are currently breathing your last gasp on this planet.
I remember when I first arrived in Abu Dhabi. Fresh off the plane, through the airport terminal with its dramatic ceiling and bustling crowds. I had my passport stamped, collected my luggage and headed through customs. Wide-eyed and eager to see this land, I met the hotel employee that was there to greet me and take me to my new home. We spoke briefly about the fact that the A4 notice he had been holding aloft to identify himself to me, bore little resemblance to the actual spelling of my name.
Then we turned and headed to the glass doors, where his minivan awaited us. The glass door slid open and I took my first gasp. It was midnight. It was August. I nearly cried.
You know that scene at the beginning of Total Recall, where Arnie dreams he is suffocating on Mars after breaking the glass on his helmet?
I quickly jumped into the van, thinking that it must be a freak night in Abu Dhabi. The next morning, I decided to walk the streets, look at my new home and find some exciting places to hang out in the future.
My walk lasted around 35 seconds until I staggered through the nearest shop doorway, clutching my throat, sweat dripping from every pore and trying to work out how quickly I could get back to my room.
How can you spot a Westerner who lives in the Middle East? They are paler than normal. Going outside during the summer just aint what it's cracked up to be.
It's a basic question, I know. You'd think there would be a simple answer. But, I find myself having to extend the answer so that they fully grasp my meaning of "hot."
It's hot out here. It's June and the temperature is usually in the 40's. Often nudging 50. But, that still doesnt explain it to the uninitiated. The heat here bares little relation to the heat on the Costa del Beer. There's a phrase in this part of the world that is commonly used but is never fully understood until experienced;
"It's the humidity that gets you."
It's like breathing in soup. Imagine climbing into a microwave on high. Wrapping your face in an electric blanket. There's is no escape in the shade, either. It makes little difference to the condition of your lungs. In the direct sunlight, you will burn in a matter of seconds, but that really pales into insignificance when you feel like you are currently breathing your last gasp on this planet.
I remember when I first arrived in Abu Dhabi. Fresh off the plane, through the airport terminal with its dramatic ceiling and bustling crowds. I had my passport stamped, collected my luggage and headed through customs. Wide-eyed and eager to see this land, I met the hotel employee that was there to greet me and take me to my new home. We spoke briefly about the fact that the A4 notice he had been holding aloft to identify himself to me, bore little resemblance to the actual spelling of my name.
Then we turned and headed to the glass doors, where his minivan awaited us. The glass door slid open and I took my first gasp. It was midnight. It was August. I nearly cried.
You know that scene at the beginning of Total Recall, where Arnie dreams he is suffocating on Mars after breaking the glass on his helmet?
I quickly jumped into the van, thinking that it must be a freak night in Abu Dhabi. The next morning, I decided to walk the streets, look at my new home and find some exciting places to hang out in the future.
My walk lasted around 35 seconds until I staggered through the nearest shop doorway, clutching my throat, sweat dripping from every pore and trying to work out how quickly I could get back to my room.
How can you spot a Westerner who lives in the Middle East? They are paler than normal. Going outside during the summer just aint what it's cracked up to be.
Number One
Does the first post have to be amusing and deep? Does it have to encompass everything about my mind and soul to attract a loyal following of likeminded readers? Or should it merely be used to "see if this thing works"?
"Why Blog?"
That would be the natural question I would be asking me, if I hadn't already. The answer is two-fold. One, because I live in a thriving, cosmopolitan, rich, diverse and complicated city in the middle of the most unsettled and confused area of the planet. Two, because my mate does it.
The blogs shouldn't follow any coherent pattern, nor should they always strive to be insightful and deep. The blogs should be random thoughts and observations. Many will be gripes, as the authors' personality will shine through. Maybe some of the blogs will be useful to those considering uprooting themselves to this part of the world.
Perhaps, and this is the most likely, I will be read by no-one and this will merely serve as a free outlet for my thoughts and musings.
Oh, and one more thing. What does Blog mean?
"Why Blog?"
That would be the natural question I would be asking me, if I hadn't already. The answer is two-fold. One, because I live in a thriving, cosmopolitan, rich, diverse and complicated city in the middle of the most unsettled and confused area of the planet. Two, because my mate does it.
The blogs shouldn't follow any coherent pattern, nor should they always strive to be insightful and deep. The blogs should be random thoughts and observations. Many will be gripes, as the authors' personality will shine through. Maybe some of the blogs will be useful to those considering uprooting themselves to this part of the world.
Perhaps, and this is the most likely, I will be read by no-one and this will merely serve as a free outlet for my thoughts and musings.
Oh, and one more thing. What does Blog mean?
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