ChocolateTV

2009-01-07T16:16:00.002Z

Dance floor classics

I love my Mum, especially when she's pissed at brunch and feels like dancing.

Enjoy...

2008-12-24T07:40:00.004Z

Rigged TV and other Festive Frustrations

So Lou and I finally got round to watching the X-Factor final, my ultimate guilty pleasure, about three days after the event. Lou had found out the result thanks to her facebook friends and their status updates. None of my mates watch, I guess. That said, it was fairly obvious from the outset that Alexandra Burke was going to win.

"It's rigged!" we shouted as Simon listened intently

Now, although it is clear that Ms Burke is a very good singer, she's not the type of recording artist I would go out and buy. That said, the other two finalists were dire. Eoghan, the hedgehog-haired Hobbit, had rode the Irish vote about two rounds too far for my liking and the group of JLS had but one competent singer among them (not that this has held back many boy-bands in the past). So I was watching as a truly impartial observer.

Two years ago, Simon Cowell discovered the high pitched chanteuse that is Leona Lewis, and did all he could to assist her in winning. The reasoning was that she was the first act from this very British of talent shows he could market in America, the largest music industry in the world.

Leona, who comes from the "why sing one note when you can squeak 23 of them?" school, has no sound of her own, but is an extremely strong mimic of Maria, Whitney, et al. She was pitted in the final against a bright-eyed scouse midget, Ray, who was also a mimic, this time of big-band lounge singers from an era before he was born.

Simon's key weapon that year was the choice of the song the eventual winner would take to the inevitable number one spot. He picked "A Moment Like This" which had already been a recent hit in the US for another talent show winner, Kelly Clarkson. By making Ray sing a vocal so clearly written for a woman's voice, he hamstrung the likeable dwarf and made sure any floating voters picked his new golden goose.

Sure enough, Leona Lewis has made millions of American dollars with her generic diva tones. A recent breast cancer awareness charity single featuring her and a raft of other note riffers, when heard on the radio, illustrates the lack of individual character in the voices (with Natasha Beddingfield a notable exception).

Simon, obviously eager to repeat this success and also clearly aware that a lack of an original sound is not a hindrance, was backing Miss Burke in recent weeks, even above his own act. Would the final be a fair fight?

No. The acts have to perform in order and, due to the short attention span of the average reality TV audience, going last is a massive advantage. We are not privy to the ordering process, but I wasn't exactly shocked to see Alex take the final bow. Despite even the judges themselves admitting the advantage of position, when the acts where whittled down to the final two - Eoghan eventually bit the bullet after a dire repetition of one of his weakest songs - the order remained the same.

During the second round, the acts were all joined on stage by "special guests". First up were Louis Walsh's most famous export, BoyZone, who sang with plucky Eoghan. Far from backing the poor lad, lead singer Ronan Keating refused to be out-sung. It didn't look good for Frodo.

JLS were then apparently slated to sing with Take That, if the tabloids are to be believed. However, this may well have been waffle to excuse the fact that they were actually partnered by Louis Walsh's second greatest creation, Westlife.

Westlife seemed a bit more supportive but with eight, competent at best singers hacking away at the same note, it sounded more like a terrace chant than a rousing anthem. Then it was Alex's turn.

"I wonder which multi-platinum world famous recording star they'll pair up the favourite with," I joked to Lou.

Then out popped Beyonce.

Alexandra spent most of the time crying while Ms Knowles belted out a song from her film "Dream Girls". I was the only one to notice that it put the limit of the North London girl's talents into clear focus. Everyone started to text vote for Beyonce.

So, even without the judges’ comments - including Simon acting startled as he went to introduce his own act and saying, "I'm still trying to get over how good Alex just was!" - the ball was rolling hard in Alexandra's direction.

The song they had chosen to sing for the inevitable Christmas Number one was Leonard Cohen's Old Testament-referencing ballad on the finite nature of life, "Hallelujah". I was depressed to see another beautiful thing (and of course the memory of Jeff Buckley's haunting and definitive version) snatched by the mainstream and raped. The cheery spin both acts put onto a song they clearly had never heard before, let alone considered the content of, depressed me beyond the reach of valium. Yet there it was, Alex Burke doing a predictable "big finish" and crying her eyes out. I doubt it was that she was aware of how many more deeply talented musicians and songwriters she was about to leapfrog over.

The question I have to ask is, why do I enjoy watching this show? Is it for the same reason that I enjoy reading the Daily Mail, or listening to supposed experts warn about "global warming"? That I like to rail against the absurdity? Well, there is a little of that, along with the schadenfreude of watching the delusional auditionees. But at the same time there is genuine talent in the UK. I witnessed in this series some original voices; Laura, Ruth and Diana. They are all probably better off being able to find representation away from Simon Cowell and his formulaic money hunting, as Will Young has done. For me, regardless of what musical genre they perform in, a real talent is one who is identifiable as soon as they start to sing. Mr Young, who won the very first incarnation of the ITV talent show - Pop Idol, has this. So do the huge recording artists of our time, like George Michael, Elton John, and more recently Amy Winehouse.

But that's not where the X Factor lives and so I don't expect any winner's album to be on my Christmas present list any time soon. That said, I am going to buy the music from the best performer on the show all series.

The evergreen Take That.

Well, it's that time of year again and sadly, I find myself having to stay in the less than festive city of Dubai. Worse though is the fact that Lou has gone home to see her family including our new niece, Jinnie. However, I'd like to take this opportunity to with you all a happy Christmas/holidays and a spectacular New Year. Thanks for reading.

Rick

2008-11-17T05:51:00.004Z

Pontoon Eyes*

I have noticed a freaky new phenomenon in the UAE of late. A significant amount of people are wearing coloured contact lenses.

Now, I'm not going to pretend that I'm against changing what nature gives you. Anyone who saw my hair through the "blonde years" will testify to that (especially my sister who wasn't really expecting me to turn up for her wedding as Eminem!). However, I have one specific problem with this new trend...

They scare the bejesus out of me!

You see, as far as I am concerned, the presence of freakishly light irises signifies not that you are some hyper-cool scenester, but that you have been bitten by one of the "mobile deceased". Basically, you look like a zombie.

To prove my point, here are several pictures, some are adverts for the coloured lenses and some are the undead. See if you can tell the difference?

Number one

Number two

Number three

Number four

Number five

Number six

Number seven

Number eight

Number nine

* From the classic northern expression, "He's got Pontoon Eyes, that lad! One sticks while the other one twists!"

2008-10-02T11:53:00.003Z

One night in Bangkok

We just got back from a most excellent trip to Thailand (a country I'll admit to having been avoiding for many years now, but one I'm turned around on) and I will write up a full report real soon.

For now though, here's Lou doing her usual trick of singing with the house band (it's not karaoke night) somewhere on the Kaoh San road, some time after 2am, sort of happy from drinking a lot of bucket cocktails.

Sadly, the most embarassing moment is when your truly, tone deaf at the best of times, decided to join in with the chorus, especially as I'm holding the camera pretty close to my mouth! Enjoy!

2008-10-02T11:45:00.002Z

Video blogging is the future

But don't worry, I'll be keeping it brief. Yes, thanks to my friends at 12seconds, I am now ablt to make video blog entrys to post here. These can be made from my mobile too, so I'll be able to keep updating even when I'm not in. I've loads of historic stuff to update people on, but as I've been pretty lax, I'll probably just aim for a trip report from Thailand and then go with the 12 second clips for a while. Please let me know your thoughts in the feedback section at the bottom of each post. Hey, why not subscribe to 12seconds and video me a reaction?

Introductions on 12seconds.tv

2008-03-06T05:17:00.006Z

It's been too long

So I'm sorry I haven't been very good at posting this year. As the calendar flipped the page to March, I figured it would be a good time to get back to the keyboard, meaning there’s a one in four chance of this being published before April. So what have you missed?

Well, the month of January is what Dubai considers winter. This year, it actually got quite cold too. But temperatures as low as 18degC were nothing compared with the rain.

It rained for about four days on the trot, not particularly heavy rain, but incessant. As the drainage system of Dubai seems to be based on the premise that it never rains, ever, this started to cause a few problems. With street run-offs blocked with sand and dead camels, the road slowly and surely started to flood.

Queuing up to drown

This picture shows how deep it was getting on the way out of my estate onto the main road. Lou was feeling nervous driving through these puddles in her big 4x4, so imagine how I felt in a low slung sports hatchback!

I was relatively lucky, having a short distance to drive each day, but it was strange to see where the deepest of puddles would form. Annoyingly, there were two like something out of a Jules Verne novel at either end of my street so each drive in or out of The Greens was a gauntlet run, always fearful of attack from giant squid.

I hope the door stays watertight

Dubai residents were sent into a wild panic by all of this, cars were being driven with their hazard lights on, which made it more tricky to spot the ones that had become flooded and were stuck. In neighbouring Sharjah, where the utilities infrastructure is even worse than the hotch-potch drains in Dubai, cars floated away, drivers were stunned by mystery plunge pools and residents left there flooded homes in boats.

ARGGHHH!!! TOO DEEP!!!!

And then, as quickly as it had started, the rain stopped, the sun came out and we all expected the flooding to abate in record time. Not so. Huge lakes of dirty water defied the physics of evaporation and it took days for the ponds at the end of the street to drain. Once the flood waters had subsided, we were left with huge dunes of sand on the road. Exciting if you'd pull out to overtake a lorry at 120km/h only to find yourself skidding across a desert.

________

The following week, Dubai was visited by something potentially more devastating than any storm.

George W. Bush.

As part of his tour of the GCC (Gulf Cooperation Countries), he was going to drive into Dubai from Abu Dhabi via cavalcade. Unfortunately, as Mr Bush is not one for sitting in traffic so this would require the closure of Sheik Zayed road, Dubai's main highway. News of the closures spread through word of mouth and facebook and we all started to panic about how long it would take to get in for the morning. Displacing the thousands of cars that use the road each day onto the already crowded smaller, parallel, residential streets would be like pouring glue on the roads. Some were planning on leaving home at around 4.30 am to get in on time.

Then, at the height of the panic, the government had a masterstroke. At 4.30pm on the day before W. was due to effectively disable the transport system, a public holiday was announced.

With what we decided would be christened, "George Bush Day", Dubai decided it would be better for businesses to lose millions of Dirhams in revenue than to hire the war-mongering retard a helicopter instead. So we all stayed home and watched back to back episodes of "Blossom" which is Dubai's alternative to Fern and Phillip.

________

I was concerned about what lay in Dubai's future after January. With Flood and George W. both having visited, we had already seen two Horsemen of the Apocalypse, so I was expecting Famine to be next up.

Fortunately, the month of February brought nothing more than a pleasant warming, long weekends spent at the beach and a return to Karaoke form for Lou.

"Charlie Parrots" is a bar at the Oasis Beach Hotel and after we'd spent the day sunning ourselves at their private beach, we popped in for a few drinks to discover that the karaoke competition was back. Offering the overall winner a holiday for two in Copenhagen, the format involved a series of weekly heats where the two best singers would advance to the final at the end of Feb.

Last year's final was our first introduction to the place. We were just popping in to get a drink before heading for a meal at the restaurant upstairs when Lou got up and sang a song. What we didn't realise was that they had run weeks of heats to reach the final that evening but were also opening the competition up to one "wildcard" entrant. Lou won the vote and suddenly we were there for the rest of the night as she and 10 others sang for a panel of judges.

It was taken very seriously by those who had come through the heats, with changes of clothes and dancers being in evidence.

At the end of the night, Lou had got such a massive reaction from the crowd, I figured she was going to come out and win it. Sadly, they decided this might be a bit unfair on those who had been in for sound-checks (seriously) so they hurriedly created a runners up prize, a voucher to replace out lost dinner (valued high enough for us all to have beans on toast).

Anyway, despite being extremely merry by the end of the night, Lou powered through to the finals a couple of weekends ago.

The future of rock & roll

This time, I decided to have a stab at the "wildcard" simply to then sing quite badly and make Lou look better by comparisson. Sadly, I forgot that I have less the voice of an angel and more the voice of an angler. From Glasgow. So it was all down to Lou to get us that trip to Copenhagen. I joined the friends who had turned out to offer their very vocal backing.

Reduced to a supporter

The competition was of a varied standard. There were some great singers although you got the impression that they had a specific song they liked and had sung a million times before. That meant the perfomances were on the whole, pretty good in round one.

At the same time, there were some cringe-worthy displays. One gentleman (who had been in the previous competition too) sang music hall hits in a mediocre fashion like something from "Hi-de-hi". There was also the baffling site of one girl singing "Whip Crack Away" with a real whip. The real challenge to Lou's chances seemed to be in the form of a Croatian gentleman singing an Aerosmith number with an obvious passion for rock.

The competition

Lou was second to last to sing and her first song was the Dusty Springfield classic, "Son of a Preacher Man" This was delivered with gusto and not a small amount of saucy movements. The crowd, now nicely warmed up, went wild for it, and so did the judges.

This lady rocks

With the first round over, it became clear that certain entrants really were one trick pony's and didn't have a second song in there repertoire to call on. Instead they decided to bank on gimmicks to try and win over the crowd. And so we were "treated" to the odd sight of a couple of strippers (neither of which would make much money at Stringfellow's, especially the big fella).

Lou's main rival came back with Queen's "Bohemian Rhapsody", which is only the most famous rock song in the world. He didn't sing it very well, to be honest with you, but he didn't really need to, as all of the audience were up and singing it for him. Proper karaoke.

Lou's return was total rock out mode. I had been slightly worried that the long wait (and we'd been there three and a half hours by the time she sang her final number) coupled with nerves might have been compensated for by the liberal application of wine to the neck region, and the accompanying degradation of her vocal control. So I insisted, in true Colonel Tom style, that she was to drink no wine that evening. She was allowed to drink Corona until it came out her nose mind.

Lou "working it"

Bon Jovi has never sounded so good and the crowd rose as one to salute Lou as the Queen of Karaoke. But had she done enough to usurp the king.

The judges retired to deliberate and we waited nervously. Eventually the verdict was announced as "the closest decision ever" and having "caused some serious debate between the judges" but, sadly, Lou took second place and Rock Rascal. I think she deserved to win, but it has been suggested that I am biased.

So, we missed out on the trip to Copenhagen but the consolation was 3 nights bed and breakfast in the Oasis Beach Tower hotel apartments with views over the palm and full access to the hotel facilities. We're going to take it as a weekend in April and it'll be like a holiday that we can walk to.

More news soon, I promise!

Let me know what you have been up to in the comments box below. 'Lets make this place a two way street people! ;o)

2007-12-10T17:29:00.001Z

A novel idea

Dear readers, as you have not only put up with my online ramblings, but even made some comments of a positive nature about them, I wanted you to ask you a favour.

You see, as if this wasn't enough of a vanity project, I've also started on a novel. Now, it's not going to be the next Booker Prize winner. Hell, it's not even going to win the Richard and Judy Holiday Reads award, but it's mine and I like it.

But that's the problem, you see? Maybe it's only me who likes it. So, at the risk of being shot down mercilessly, I thought I might publish the first part of it here for you, my dear readers and friends, to evaluate.

So here it is. Please read and then let me know what you think of it in the comments section below.

But be gentle, eh?

Chapter 1 - Bradford

This bib, well... thing does not fit me. I look like a total twat. Like some kind of lanky dinner-lady.
‘Excuse me Sir, sorry to...’
A dirty look, bordering on the threat of violence. At least he didn’t swear at me. Since I made the decision to steer my life in what, to many of my friends, appears to be a full circle, I’ve been forced to take three new jobs. They’re all pretty low-rent but this one, well... this one might just be worth quitting.
‘Excuse me?...’
I’m a wheeling, piss soaked drunk in Bradford City centre. People are so keen to avoid my gaze they’re walking into the geranium red hanging baskets intended to lift this autumnal gloom. I’m getting paid by the hour, so really I shouldn’t give a shit, but I’m starting to think that nothing in this world is more depressing than trying to capture the interest of this cynical general public. That, and having them tell you to ‘Go fuck yourself.’
It’s been over an hour since I managed to get anyone to even stop. How does Shelley, my team mate, remain so frigging upbeat? Do happier people walk on the north side of the road? What have I got to work with? A weak, mousy woman in her early thirties. Bridget Jones without the optimism. She’ll do.
‘Hello Ma’am! Now, I know you get approached by strange men in the street on a daily basis but, bear with me here, I was wondering, what are the odds that you’ll forgo the convention of dismissing me as another besotted suitor and give me two brief minutes of your invaluable time?’ I’m talking fast, taking her arm, gently but effectively steering her out of the human traffic.
‘Thank you so much,’ no pausing, ‘I’m assuming I’ve caught you filling what we laughingly refer to as your “spare time”, and believe it or not, this is what I get up to in mine.’ Her briefest of nods turns sideways as she tries to workout what I‘m going to sell her, and how she can be free of me in the shortest time possible.
I’m on role now though, ‘It seems like there are so many people asking for, not only your time, but also your money now-a-days, it’s easy to be cynical. The most important thing to realise is that it’s not me, Rodger Dawson asking for your time here, or your money, but a bunch of people who used to be just like you, and whom I’m proud to represent today. Now... I’m sorry, I don’t know your name...’ and I’m acting as if this is out of the ordinary.
‘It’s Sarah.’
‘Sarah,’ no time for her to say anything else, I’ve got to get through this horse-shit before she makes her excuses, ‘I’m willing to bet that you’ve heard of “Help The Aged”, that you know it’s a charity for old people and also that you’ve never considered it something directly relating to your life, right?’ I’m not waiting for an answer.
‘You’ve got a trillion and one things going on; men chasing you, a job you excel in, friends and family who fill your every spare moment to the point that, in stopping for a few minutes to listen to some random bloke in the street, you’re jeopardising vital appointments, So, again, thank you for these precious moments.’ I’m a patronising bastard. I really am.
‘But really, dealing with growing old is part of everyone's life. We never notice when we become part of “The elderly” and we would almost always be too proud to ask for any kind of financial assist...’
‘Sorry, but can I stop you for one moment before you go on?’ Sarah has found her voice and it’s fuller than I was expecting, and not tinted with the beige of West Yorkshire. Now it’s her turn to not wait for an answer.
‘I’m one hundred percent in favour of charities like the one you claim to represent and am not at all of the opinion that caring for society is solely the responsibility of our elected government. However, I am against hypocrisy in all forms and, if you are asking me to be suddenly altruistic, I would want to be assured that you yourself were of a similar persuasion.’
She’s lost me.
‘If you’re asking how much I give to charity myself, I don’t want you to be offended by...’
‘No, I’m not asking about how much you donate in a financial sense, but I do wonder, are you being paid to speak to me right now?’
Is my mouth still open? Note to self, book/cover/judge, etc. Say something, you muppet!
‘Research has proven that this is the most effective way for charities to promote awareness of the excellent work they do, to gather new support. So, if paying me a tiny stipend to bring in far, far more in the way of vitally needed and ongoing funds is proven to be more successful at pricking the conscience in today’s insular world than traditional methods, the charities are happy to do so.’
‘But who has performed this research? I would be very surprised if it isn’t the very company that you are working for, the one who doubtless charges the charities you claim to represent a margin above what they pay you, the company that reports profits each year and pays directors from the money they skim from all the “good work” that you’re doing. A company that, put simply, isn’t a charity. But maybe I’m wrong. Do you work for free?’
I’m guessing this closed lip smile will be a good enough answer.
‘Okay then, do you work directly for a charity?’
That sound is pedestrians, Nissans and bass. I’m done smiling.
‘D’you know, most people just tell me to fuck off?’

Chapter 2 - Australia

I know the idea of living the rest of my life in Australia came to me about 3 years ago, but it took me so long to get round to doing something about it, I thought I’d left it too late.
I come from a bottom rung, middle class family in Newcastle for whom having a rockery was more important than international travel. We holidayed in Scotland, in places like Air, Hawick and Girvan. My mother spoke to me about an ambition to travel, to truly indulge in her love affair with all things North American. I encouraged her to bring it up with Dad but the reality was that she couldn’t stand the thought of leaving her precious dogs in kennels, so we went to pet friendly caravan sites instead. All 5 of us.
My eldest sister, Janet, once managed to convince the “Olds” to pay her way on to the school ski trip. Twenty seven hours on a cramped and sweaty coach followed by twenty minutes skiing, five hours in a French emergency room and 6 weeks in plaster. Not my idea of fun. My dad is trying, to this day, to get a refund on her lift pass.
I also didn’t do the whole “year out travelling” thing after limping through my A levels, I was to busy trying to find a University that would take me with the grades I’d managed to scrape. After spending 4 years at Bradford University studying chemical engineering, I was so deep into debt that getting a job and being able to eat seemed a better idea than “finding myself” on a beach in Thailand with three thousand other graduates.
It’s not that I’m one of those insular characters from a small town who can’t see the point in travelling abroad, unable to explain their pronounced xenophobia. I just never really got around to it.
So the first time I went to Australia was as an old fashioned, hotel hopping, excursion taking tourist. I think we did it just to show off to our friends that we could afford to.
I went with Sally, who was the least adventurous woman I’ve ever had the misfortune to date. We travelled through the outback to the soundtrack of her abject terror, including such smash hits as “What was that noise?”, “Look at the size of that bird! I swear, it’s giving me the evil eye!” and the classic, “What if a crocodile finds it’s way into the hotel pool?”
Despite the barrage of negative commentary, I quickly fell in love with the place. I used to wander off on my own in the daytime, while Sally sunned herself by the chlorinated croc trap, and would invariably meet some of the nicest people on earth.
In the UK, if you go into a bar on your own, you’re likely to be labelled an alcoholic, freak, or both. For women, it’s a sure sign they make a living through prostitution. Yet in Sydney, I made more friends in one day, in a bar on my own after a cricket match turned out, than I’d managed in the entire four years of my higher education.
I also discovered a fondness for the Australian woman. They tend to be taller and more robust than their British counterparts and without any of the misplaced sense of self importance. You can talk to these fresh faced hoydens without being tagged as a sex pest. And while you’re talking, you can cover the topics that really matter, such as cricket and meat pies and beer. Sally and I had a little chat when we got back. She still owes me her half of the security deposit.
The biggest problem with returning from Australia wasn’t trying to afford eight hundred pounds a calendar month in rent on my own, or even the fact that I was going to have to repurchase about a third of my music library after it was “liberated”, but returning to work in a culture that refuses to think the best of people before proven otherwise.
Day one back at work and the Waterloo and City line. Hundreds of sweating suits, wandering. Cursing London Underground's decision to furnace blast the heating on a day so cold outside that we were all wearing overcoats. I jostled patiently for a place on the third train to pull in since I had descended into the trench. I was tutted and kicked at by strangers. As the doors closed I wondered which idiot had designed the Tube to have curving ceilings, thus eliminating the possibility of standing without developing a neck complaint.
‘Stop pushing into me, you pervert’ said the plain female office drone wedged tight to my right. I wanted to try and explain spacial dynamics to her but offered a meek smile instead and tried to push myself through the steel door on my left.
‘I know what you’re doing, you pervert.’ She wasn’t done yet. Everyone else in the carriage was now craning against each other in a often forlorn bid to see for themselves what I was “doing”. I was at a loss.
‘I’m sorry, I can’t go any further to the left, I’m afraid. Maybe the people behind you could give a little if you’re feeling crushed?’
‘You’re not sorry. You’re loving this, aren’t you?’ Her tone was one of not only anger and disgust, but laced with a shot of pity.
‘You’ve lost me there, I’m afraid. Being squashed into a bread bin with a thousand other perspiring wage slaves, inhaling the thick fog of the previous night’s curry and previous decade’s cologne is, I can assure you, nothing I could ever “love”. Further more, I’m unable to understand what is is about me, as I stand here in this CIA sanctioned stress position, that has convinced you otherwise.’
‘I’m not talking about the enjoying the ride. You’re one of those “Train Perverts” I’ve read about. You’re using this confinement as an excuse to feel my breasts.’
That got the rest of the carriage to shut up.
‘Sorry, you’re accusing me of fondling you with my right elbow?’ She was wearing a thick two piece and I had a wool overcoat, Hugo Boss suit and Lewin's shirt wrapped around my far from tactile elbow. It could have been touching a hot plate and the first I would have known about it would have been when I inhaled the smoke.
The doors to the carriage slid open and commuters spilled onto the platform. I didn’t have the fingers to count the dirty looks I got. I grinned like a sociopath and screwed the anger and embarrassment into a small knot in my neck.
As I ascended the escalator, still rocking gently with reserved fury, I passed a huge poster depicting the Sydney Harbour Bridge. It was fate, I figured.

At the Australian Embassy they had all been as helpful as I expected, after all, they were natives themselves and in my eyes at this point, could do no wrong. They were very apologetic as they explained the biggest hurdle to my ambition. It’s no longer the case that you can pay ten pounds to get in to the country. If you want to live and work there, you’re going to need points.
The “points system” was created as a reaction to the flood of people looking to emigrate in the last twenty years. Depending on certain factors such as age, profession, relation to existing Australians and ability to surf, your suitability as a new Aussie can easily and less subjectively be decided.
The real sickener about the points system is that, after your thirtieth birthday, it becomes almost mathematically impossible to score enough to get in. I went over all of the available scoring areas in fine detail. I searched my family tree in the vain hope that somewhere, a great aunt had perhaps abandoned Perth for a cosy council house in Newcastle. I even considered having blood tests to confirm my paternity, however, as there were no antipodean salesmen in the North East in the early seventies, I figured that could cause more harm than good.
So what were the alternatives to direct entry?
‘We have a scheme arranged at the moment which could be just what you’re looking for,’ Tamara, the sparky redhead embassy staffer chirped as we sat at her desk in Australia House.
‘We, as a nation, have recently become very concerned about the lack of people living in the traditional Outback areas.
‘You see, as more of today’s youth head for the big cities, or even abroad, Outback towns find themselves with declining and ageing populations. What we’re looking to do is to encourage Brits to go over, especially those of you who are about the right age to be starting a family...’ She raised me one eyebrow. Did I look that old?
‘...and get them to live there for a while. Maybe they'll settle down, maybe they won’t, but you get to claim your citizenship after only four years.’
Wow. Four years sounded like a long time to be living in the Bungle-Bungles. I could imagine the introduction to a one horse, Outback town that a “Pom” might get. Now that really would be something, especially from an ageing, Australian population.
‘Okay, er, what sort of work is there to do over there?’
‘Ah yeah, we help out with all of that to, you know. Probably be something like a mechanic, maybe working in one of the hotels. Hey, we’ve even got a few Poms out there working as hands on a sheep ranch. Fun, huh?’
She seemed about as convinced as I was.
‘And that’s my only option?’
‘Look, I like you Rodger,’ she didn’t even know me, ‘and I’d love to help you out on this one, but we just don’t need any more chemical engineers in Australia. Now, if you’d been a doctor, or a nurse, or a pharmacist or something, we could have been in business, but as it is...’
I interrupted her.
‘Sorry, did you say “pharmacist”?’
‘Err, yeah. We have a list of specifically skilled people who we’re always short of in Aus. Pharmacists make that list every time. You’re not a pharmacist as well, are you?’

The first time I attended university, I wished I’d had a tad more information about what course to do. I know hindsight is always twenty-twenty, but it’s not really until you’re graduating that you get a flavour for what is truly important from a degree. It’s not that it should enable you to do what you’ve always wanted, as this will invariably change at least once before you complete your studies. No the most important thing to look for a degree course when choosing one is it’s potential to provide you with an absolute stack of money straight from graduation.
Getting an extremely well paid job fresh from college allows you all the freedoms you need in your mid-twenties. Money to pay off your gargantuan student debts, whilst still holidaying, driving and living somewhere trendy. Having a job you actually like doing just isn’t that important. It really isn’t. I knew plenty of people who were living their dreams. from working as trainee barristers to being involved with the forestry commission, but who was the happiest of all? The ones who whored themselves out for the most disposable income.
‘If I had my time over,’ I used to moan, ‘I’d have studied “Ophthalmic Science”. Vision Masters, or someone like that, would have given me fifty grand, a car and a flat above the shop in the trendy part of Manchester. I’d have done 35 eye tests a day and drank a shot of tequila for each of them every evening.”
I used to look down on the ophthalmic science students, most of whom seemed to be geeks or imported on scholarships from Greece and the Far East; usually both. All that time, they were laughing at me.
‘Ha ha! How funny! He believes his degree will allow him a starting salary with which he can even afford rent. Oh, my sides.’
One other class of students from ninety-seven’s alumni caught my eye as high earners, mainly as I’d shared so many classes with them. The pupils from Bradford’s School of Pharmacy had a very similar choice to the “eye freaks” upon graduation. They could take a rewarding yet hideously underpaid role working in a hospital or a drug research company, or they could sell their souls to the gods of retail and work as shop pharmacists.
The work of a shop pharmacist is about as boring and monotonous as that of a ticket inspector. That’s because they’re really glorified versions of the same. The spend all day doling out prescriptions and hardly ever using any of the wealth of knowledge accumulated from the days they were sober enough to go to university. Those shared classes I sat through with them on “Organic Chemistry” were a total waste. You don’t need to know a damn thing about carboxylic acids to hand out methadone to local junkies or cream for varicose veins. But you do get paid an inordinate amount of money for someone your age.
Straight from university, people with whom I had spent about a sixth of my higher education, were walking into jobs paying well in excess of forty thousand pounds. They got company cars, for what reason, I never fathomed. They never had to drive them anywhere for their work, and were invariably offered free accommodation above the shops in which they toiled.
Many were so well paid, they chose to turn down the offer of lodgings, instead choosing to fork out rent to live somewhere without the constant nuisance of drug addicts breaking in downstairs.
Pharmacy was number two on my list of “Degrees I wished I did”.
Of course, all of the pharmacist students who I had known were no longer working in shops. The job is just too spirit crushing after a while, but they had all made so much money while they were young that, far from making an annual attempt to alter their payslips in order to qualify for another years deferred student loan repayments, they owned a couple of properties each, drove nice cars and had “investment portfolios”. They could afford to do more rewarding research or hospital work.
Would I be happy working in a shop, handing out drugs to anyone with a green slip that asked for them day after day? If it was in Sydney, I felt sure I could manage.

I finally responded to Tamara’s question.
‘I’m not one yet.’

2007-11-29T12:48:00.000Z

Weather Or Not It’s Winter

Today was the last working day in November. I know this because my boss was at pains to point out the lack of invoices I sent out to during the month. However, nothing else about my life leaves me with the impression of impending winter. I would describe the conditions as Mediterranean, but that would need to be qualified somewhat, as I doubt the south of France is anything like as nice at this present moment.

We did get one little reminder of the changing seasons the other morning though.

Mine's the blue car

I wandered to the lounge on Sunday last and was greeted by a sudden whiteness from the patio doors that I was reminded of the first snowfall of winters back home.

In this instance however, the white was not glare but a soupy yet bright fog cloud, cuddling the apartment block. I looked both ways down the street and could barely see the road two floors below. Unlike the fog I’m used to in London, this haze had a brightness to it which told the story of a hot sun somewhere above busily burning it away. Sure enough, in a couple of hours, it was back to 32C and sunny.

Driving in the fog was an experience I am in no hurry to repeat though. The retards of Dubai, and by this I don’t just mean the usual suspects of truck, bus and shitty Nissan drivers, feel that fog is an emergency and they are required to drive everywhere with hazard warning lights blinking vivid orange.

I actually saw a woman drive past me in a Lexus 4WD, fully equipped with lights, both dipped beams and specialist fog lamps, but with only her indicators pulsing in the haze.

There is a convention in Dubai that, when slowing down suddenly on a main road, drivers fearful of being rear-ended push the hazards in an attempt to warn those behind to be more aggressive with the middle pedal. This I can just about accept, but how these idiots in the fog expect anyone to know when they are turning left or right, or indeed breaking suddenly, is anyone’s guess.

There were some very nasty accidents in Dubai that morning.

So what else has been going on?

SpenglerFox Black and White Army

Today, in an effort to celebrate our impending National Day, the whole office (with the exception of several miseries) arrived in traditional UAE clothing. This meant a Kandura or Dishdasha (the flowing white robe shirt cross) for me, along with a head scarf (with black tie), sandals and even little shorts.

Orl 'wight?

I thought I looked pretty cool and was feeling pretty good about coming to work. It was then pointed out to me that my Dishdasha was about five inches from the floor and that no self respecting Arab would go out with such a short robe. As the laughter was aimed at my ankles, painful memories of quickly outgrown school trousers came flooding back.

It’s got a good 3 inches of hem. I’ll just let it down.

This week I was in Bahrain with work. A nice place that I might write a little travelogue about although most of the report will be taken up by the same sort of things as in the Kuwait trip write up, notably Air Arabia being the flight of choice for users of mobiles at 4,000 feet and taxi drivers ripping off white fellows in suits. Still, a nice place though.

This weekend sees the Dubai Rugby 7s and Lou and I have weekend passes. How much Rugby we'll actually see remains to be seen. I'll report back once the hangover lifts.

Finally, did I mention we had the Dubai Motorshow recently?

Brumm Brumm!

The calibre of vehicle on display were enough to turn even the most mature of us into giggling school boys. And I'm far from mature.

2007-10-30T13:52:00.000Z

Qatar load of that!

Okay, so I spent the better part of a week trying to think of a pun featuring the word "Qatar" to no avail. I'm sure one of you will be kind enough to post something better in the comments section. Who knows, maybe I'll delete your comment and steal your idea.

Anyway, the point of this post is to describe my experiences on yet another Gulf-State-day-trip that work are so fond of offering me.

In Qatar, they have a strict "no bugles" policy

Travelling by plane is surely the most time efficient, liberating and enjoyable experiences available today. Sadly, travelling through airports is maddeningly slow and even more frustrating than having your hands tied behind you as you watch Jessica Alba undress. For a month. So despite only being 45 minutes flying time away and my first appointment of the day being at 10.15 (which is 11.15 in Dubai), I found myself waiting on the kerb outside my apartment at 5.45am.

My manager, Tel, was driving as I wanted to go out in town that evening and an 8pm landing meant I was carrying a change of clothes. I worried slightly when he was late, specifically as both Tel and my other colleague, Lukas, had recently missed a flight to Bahrain after getting to check-in slightly less than an hour before take off. “Hand luggage only” cuts no ice, apparently.

By 6am I was bricking it. Tel showed up a couple of moments later and didn't seem overly concerned. This was probably something to do with his intention to drive the length of Sheik Zayed road at speeds approaching that of re-entry by the space shuttle. The bonnet glowed white hot as we approached the velocity required to reverse time. I wondered, aloud, if the speed cameras could focus on us, but Tel swore that the third lane from the centre was perfectly safe from their view. How safe we were from colliding with the busses we approached as if they had 5 reverse gears and were red-lining the largest of them was another matter.

At the airport, after completing our first five of a dozen or so X-rays, we checked in for both legs of the flight at once. Qatar Airways is the national carrier and seems to offer nothing more than you might expect for a fare half that of the corresponding Emirates flight. As we weren't flying with Dubai's own airline, we were denied a handy gate and got on a bus to the fringes of the airport where our Airbus was inconveniently parked.

The flight was so short that the entertainment was limited to 2 "Tom & Jerry" cartoons, but they still managed to offer me a stale Danish pastry and some orange juice which proudly declared it was “MADE FROM CONCENTRATE”.

Doha is the capital of Qatar, an oil rich (even in the terms of Gulf States) land of sand which protrudes out from the main body of desert that is Saudi and northwards into the Gulf. Qatar has an image problem and Doha have been trying to top-trump Dubai for the last decade. Sadly for them, where Doha announces an intention to do something, Dubai does it first. And they make it bigger and add helicopters, polar bears or whatever else it takes to make Qatar's version look somewhat stale. They also have recently found that, with no governmental intervention, rents are spiralling out of control and are on a par with the most expensive of Dubai’s addresses. Couple that with too few schools for too many ex-pat kids and the place really has lost it’s “make lots of money here tax free” lustre in recent years.

Rush hour traffic in downtown Doha

Doha has only a few bars and there is no where near the proliferation of western mega-chains that Dubai glows above. Hence Tel and I found ourselves in a privately run cafe drinking the worlds sweetest tea. I wonder what it would have tasted like if I'd asked for sugar. I assume it would have become a solid.

We were discussing the first appointment of the day and it was making me a little nervous, although I wasn't prepared to share this with Tel. We had a whole day in Qatar so it was my job to try and fill as much time with client meetings as possible so the flight would be good value. The only snag was that we didn't have any clients in Qatar.

I had blagged an appointment with the CEO of one of the large banks in the country but only because I gave his assistant the impression that he knew me. She had said she would confirm the meeting and I sent her an email suggesting everything would be fine whilst at the same time providing her my contact details. I didn't want to hear back from her as that would undoubtedly be a cancellation, so I certainly wasn't about to call to reconfirm and give her the opportunity to "postpone".

"Hello, I'm Rick Theobald and I have a 10.15 with Mr Pootle."

Dear reader, I hope it's obvious that I've changed the names of some people who I include in this article, but just in case, here's confirmation. He isn't really called Mr Pootle.

"Please, have a seat." so far, so good.

We sat down a short while after ten and I actually saw Mr Pootle head to his office. Then I spotted the nervous conversations from assistants. Our appearance was not expected.

"Err, can I ask when you made this appointment, Sir?" The lady asking was still unsure of whether I was a massive player in the world of Gulf Banking, or just some Geordie chancer. I was ready for this.

"Sure, I made it with Loopy (yes, keep up). Here, I have a copy of the confirmation email I sent her."

She looked far too happy, now she had someone to blame, and scampered off to get Loopy for me. So I could shout at her.

"Err, hello, Rick?" Loopy was pale. Probably she was worried about having brought someone (and, who was this man anyway?) all the way to Qatar from Dubai and having no appointment to offer. "I thought I said I'd confirm this appointment?"

"Ah, but we did. I sent you this ( I waved my copy like Neville Chamberlain) email and asked… wait… let me read for you, 'please let me know if anything should change'"

"But Mr Pootle is not free," she protested.

"I just saw him head into his office. Sorry, are you telling me that you didn't book this with him?" She virtually ran back to the relative calm of reception and grabbed a phone.

Tel was worried that I was now taking things too far, that we should cut our loses while they still felt guilty. Then suddenly, another gentleman wandered out to great us. A very senior member of the bank, he apologised for the confusion and took us to his office.

As it turned out, I'd managed to blag us into a meeting with exactly the right person and there is the very real potential that we'll have a project signed off by the end of the week. As my dear Grandma always told me, "Shy bairns get nowt!"

Mind you, she also said, "I want, never gets!" so go figure.

The afternoon meetings included one gentleman who's birthday it was. His staff had organised a large Indian buffet which we were invited to share before he'd sit down with us. At one point, Tel headed to the toilets and I found myself joining in with candles, singing and pop. Nice cake though and not a bad way to finish the working day.

We had time to burn before the return flight at 6pm so we headed to the Marriot hotel where a licensed bar was open. As it was still a lovely temperature and the sun was slowly scratching taller shadow lines across the bay, we sat outside.

"Yes, sir?" The waiter seemed eager to serve.

"Just a diet coke for me please," Tel was driving. That, and Muslim.

"Of course, and you sir?"

"Can I have a pint of shandy please?"

"But of course!" and off he ran.

It was a good five minutes before his return. He placed Tel's Coke on the table and moved to open the green bottle that accompanied it on his tray.

"Err, I asked for a shandy," I started, "that's San Pelegrino. Mineral water. Not the same thing."

In a moment of pure farce, he looked at the bottle in his hand with a puzzled expression, reading the label as if certain that he would discover it saying "Shandy" and I would be proved a fool.

"Oh, I will get for you. What is the… Shandy?"

"Do you have lager?" I pressed on, “Yes? Okay, so put some of that in a pint glass but not all the way to the top. Fill the rest with lemonade. Okay?"

He nodded and ran off. About seven or eight minutes later a different waiter returned.

"Sir. You ask for the Shandy beer?"

"Well, yes, a lager shandy, ideally."

"We have not this. We have Fosters, Stella and Cobra."

I took a deep breath.

"Okay. Can you please bring me a pint of beer, Stella let's say, with a little bit of lemonade in the top. Does that make any sense?"

He looked baffled for a moment and then... The lights came on, he smiled a knowing smile of recognition.

"Of course, Sir!" We traded knowing looks and I settled back to enjoy the last rays of the burnt orange sunset, wondering what sort of milkshake I'd end up with.

When the waiter strode, triumphant onto the patio once more, Tel burst out laughing. I turned in time to see the slightly hurt look of a man no longer seemed certain that I was going to want the bottle of Corona he'd brought me. With a piece of lemon in the top. Sod it. I was thirsty.

Cheers!

The trip didn't give me much of an idea what Qatar is all about. I'd pitch it squarely between the extremes of Dubai and the charmless magnolia paint of Kuwait. That evening, I was told throughout the day, everyone in Doha was gathering at the corniche to celebrate their official bid for the Olympics in 2018. Looking at the place now, there’s a lot to be done before this has even an outside chance. That said, from living here I'd put nothing past one of these Gulf States.

2007-09-25T12:33:00.000Z

Desert Survival Training

Life in Dubai continues to amuse and anger me in equal measure. As I mentioned in an earlier post, having reached the end of my tether with "public transport", or taxis, I had made the decision to buy a car.

I once described living in Dubai as a lesson in patience and so it continues to prove, but it also offers some interesting counterpoint to attitudes we take for granted in the UK.

No thanks!

The first example I can offer you is the attitude of car sales people. In the UK, you've maybe never bought a car from a dealership, but you can surely relate to the idea of pressure sales from commission hungry salesmen.

In Dubai? Not so much.

I experienced apathy on a grand scale from salesmen ranging from offering to post me a brochure after informing me that, "You clearly have not made up your mind what you want yet", to not bothering to turn up for work on an evening I had booked for a test drive.

One of the sales people, a woman at a large second hand dealership, was the most amusing I have ever met. Initially greeting me as "Sarah", it was clear she did not possess the greatest of English. No matter, we were going to be talking used cars, not sociology.

"Can I get you a drink please, Sir?" She had a bright and cheery disposition which bordered on possessed.

"Err, no thanks, I'll be fine."

”Is it because it's Ramadan, Sir? I will not be offended if you would like some Juice." Smiling broadly.

"No, really. I'm fine. Can we talk about the models you have in stock?"

"Of course! As long as you're certain you would not like something to eat. We have some very nice cake," she continued.

"So what do you have that is a 2006 registration?" I tried to plough on and ignore her need to feed.

"How old are you Sir?" she asked without hesitation or dropping her eyebrows from just below her hairline.

"Sorry?.. Er, I'm 32. Why?" I assumed it had something to do with insurance levels.

"Can I just say, Sir, that you look very young and vibrant and I would never tell any of my friends that you are 32, if this is even true."

What appears to be the case in Dubai is that Salespeople in car dealerships are more like facilitators, simply processing the orders of a never ending supply of customers who made their own minds up about what to buy. Offering yourself up as a floating vote to be won cuts absolutely no ice. They simply haven't the time to convince you to buy a car when they could be doing paperwork with someone who does know what they want.

Once I had decided, with no outside influence, what it was that I actually wanted to buy, I needed to arrange finance. I realised I could buy a new car and get a couple of years free servicing, a warrantee and that unbeatable "new car smell" for about the price of a second hand BMW and, despite what the material side of my brain was offering a rush of endorphins in exchange for, I didn't need a BMW. What I did need, was a small car loan to cover the gap between my deposit, zero dirhams, and the list price.

"Hi, is that Emirates Bank?"

"Yes, Sir. How can I help you today?" This was the cheery sounding lady at the call centre for "ME Drive", part of Emirates Bank's trendy new online and telephone based banking service. The marketing department failed to spot the "ME" brand, far from sounding trendy, actually sounded like a 2 year old struggling with the basic tenets of grammar.

"I heard on your radio advert that you are offering the best car finance rates in the UAE, guaranteed. Is that right?"

"Yes, Sir." She sounded enthused.

"Okay, so if I want to buy a brand new Ford Focus Sport, 3 door hatchback over 3 years, what interest rate can you offer me?"

"5.2%, Sir."

"Hmm. HSBC already offered me 4.5%, can you beat that?"

"Oh, no, Sir." She didn't sound too down-hearted about it.

"But I thought you said you guaranteed to offer the lowest rates?"

"Sir, that is just a marketing... thing. It gets people to take out our loans."

I was a little stunned, "Sorry, so you're telling me that it's just... well, a lie?"

"Yes, sir."

"Can I also ask, are these calls recorded by your company?"

"Yes, Sir. We play them back for training and other things too."

"And you can confirm that there is no way you actually guarantee to offer the lowest rates, despite advertising as such to the UAE as a whole?"

"That's correct, Sir. It is not an accurate statement to make. It is just a marketing... thing."

I thanked her for her time.

Anyway, I do have my car now and whether or not it's truly necessary or not no longer bothers me. Now, at least, I can listen to my own tunes in the traffic jam to work every day.

2007-09-15T09:33:00.000Z

Ramadan-a-ding-dong

So it’s the holy month of Ramadan over here now, and that means fasting for the Muslim populace. The Koran calls for all Muslims to undertake a month of fasting every year and, unlike the forty days and forty nights of Lent in the Christian calendar, these lot seem to take it seriously on the whole.

The rules are, no eating, drinking, smoking or shagging during the hours of daylight. There are no rules though on what you get up to between dusk and dawn and many Arabs take to a nocturnal existence during this time.

What this means for us non Muslims (I’m generally non religious) is a month of not much to do. In the day time virtually all the cafes and restaurants are closed, shops don’t bother to open until late and all the night clubs are closed. Music and dancing are also a no-no during Ramadan, you see?

This being Dubai of course, we’re pretty lucky with the moderate approach taken. At work, the food court is open daily but shrouded from view with dark curtains leading to a spooky dining experience. We are a majority non-Muslim office and so eating and drinking at our desks still goes on, although I’m not offering Iqbal any sweets or being otherwise mean about it.

The bars are also open from about 7pm and indeed a group of my friends managed to get absolutely shit faced on Friday. This isn’t news in itself but the fact that I left after a couple of drinks (Scott Kerins’ wife had just given birth to their first child, a boy, and so I wanted to wish him congratulations), there is the revelation.

Part of me is glad I did leave before the unveiling of the Jaeger-bulls (a fierce and frankly silly drink) as Jim was laid up all of yesterday with a touch of the self destructions, the other part is gutted as it would have saved me from the rest of the night.

No, instead of getting plastered in Apres, the bar which overlooks the ski slope inside the mall (only in Dubai, eh?), I went to Jebel Ali to watch England play rugby.

With a bunch of South Africans.

Don't cry, Darling. We're just rubbish.

I received an email from Rob back in the UK on the morning of the match where he predicted “the worst defeat in World Cup history”. That we had in fact not tasted a single defeat in the World Cup since the final in 1999 against the Springboks counted for nought in Rob’s prophetic assessment of the situation. We were screwed.

And that was how it turned out. Badly. England were a shadow of their former selves for numerous reasons. I can cite the injuries to key players, the suspension of Phil Vickery, the experimental formation with both Farrell and Catt playing number 10, and the relative naivety of players like Matt Tait. However, when Jason Robinson pulled up with what looked like an international career ending hamstring pull, we lost the one player seemingly with any belief in our ability to get a result.

We enjoyed a barbeque of marinated lamb as we watched England torn apart again and again. The parallel was an uncomfortable one. I did smirk at the unrelenting bias from the South African TV channel “Super Sport” and their commentary. I know it’s hard to find truly balanced journalism in major sporting events these days, with Cricket probably remaining the one true exception, but seeing three grown men in a TV studio, not wearing suits but instead squeezing their “out of the game a while” physiques into replica green-Lycra tops was as amusing as they were annoying.

I took the good humoured ribbing of my dinner hosts as well as I could and eventually steered the conversation away from the game of rugby. That said, while I know England are not long for this world cup, I hope South Africa have nothing more to gloat about come October.

Noyce!

I’m currently in the market for a second hand car and hopefully will have one soon. It’s an added expense I have tried to go without since returning my hire car in month two, but the dearth of taxis in the morning or returning home in the evening, even for the short distance I need to go, is adding sometimes an hour and a half to my day. I’ll buy that time back for a couple of thousand Dirham a month. I’ve been looking at sporty models as Lou already has the four-by-four side covered with the Ford Explorer. I like the Focus Sport, a nice Audi A3 2.0 and I’ve seen older BMW Z3s in my price range (although private sales are an arse to sort out).

Of course, with this being Ramadan, I can go and see the cars when the garages open for business, between 8pm and midnight!

The Vegas report is silly long now, by the way. Maybe I’ll post it in bits. If ever. I’m in Portugal and the UK in two weeks time so I had better get a move on I suppose.

I hope everyone is well and let me know what you’re up to in the comments below. Oh, and Ramadan kareem!

2007-07-24T05:35:00.000Z

Bright Light City

So I'm back. It's a hell of a trip from Las Vegas to Dubai if you do it all in one go. As such, I decided to save that for the return leg. On the way out I flew BA (cramped, poor in flight entertainment but good "special" food choice and lots to drink). I had arranged to be picked up at Heathrow by Dave "Disco" King. We were driving over to Richard "Tricky" St.Pierre's Father's place in the wilds near Stansted where the group flying from London's least convenient airport could all meet up, kip and be ready for the LV flight in the morning.

Dear reader, do I need to go into details about the painful process of time theft at airports? No? Good. For it is a frustrating recollection. Suffice to say that after making our way into UK airspace early we did a couple of laps of the marker beacon at Biggin Hill, thus landed late. We also managed to find ourselves between two active runways and were treated to watching several dozen take-offs and landings performed before finally being freed to crawl to the gate. The baggage was so late that BA announced "An Investigation" had been launched. No results were ever published.

After picking up Dave Potts from his cab firm in NWx we found ourselves hideously mired in Friday evening London traffic and attempted more short cuts than the poor sat-nav could cope with. The lady who's charmless, American voice is programmed into Garmin products had to intone "re-calculating route" so many times that at one point I felt she was trying to kill us all by offering stern directions into a duck pond and a milk-weed related death.

Hang on, let me back the truck up here for a moment. Why, where and whosthatwhatnow?

This particular jaunt was planned by 17 members of the "London Poker Meetup" as a group holiday in Las Vegas.

As is often the case with groups, difference of opinion and circumstances saw us plot several alternative routes to our singular villa destination. Some chose to fly with Virgin, direct from Gatwick. One unlucky latecomer (Dave Bland) took a route that changed in Texas in the outbound direction and California on the way back. I, along with the others gathering at Tricky's Dad's house, was one of those who had snagged a bargain 600 pound airfare with MaxJet, a new, all business seating service who fly direct but save costs be departing from "London" Stansted rather than anywhere remotely close to the capital.

After a fun evening playing cards throughout the night in the rather beautiful surrounds of Papa Tricky's, Wetherby, Essex, we took Australian showers due to a lack of heated water, caught a cab to Stansted, and proceeded to check in.

Maxjet... is a good idea. With only 17 rows of 6 seats (two-two-two layout) there was never going to be a queue to board. We checked in immediately and headed to the "Maxjet Lounge" where we were able to drink champagne (9am), eat from a tasteful buffet and fire up about 7 laptops to make use of the free wi-fi (sad bastards).

The plane itself is a nicely appointed 767, meaning slower speeds than a Jumbo 747 but a true long-haul craft. The seats aren't the lie flat beds provided by British Airways and the like but the traditional, Laz-E-Boy business class deep recliners, similar to those of American Airlines middle cabin.

Hmm. That particular analogy requires you to have flown business with American before. Sorry about that. Their business flights are worth a look, by the way. Very reasonable.

Back to the Maxjet Boeing 767. We were welcomed on board with the standard glass of champagne or bucks fizz (another point: Why do Americans refer to a "Buck's Fizz" as a Mimosa? Surely they hate the French?). As I settled into my throne, I spotted a few of my companions already flaked out after a night with no sleep. I knew that to join them meant sacrificing the meal service and what Dave referred to as "the value", but I wanted to try and get closer to the Vegas hours. It was about 5am in LV, bed time. I popped a zopiclone tablet and fell into the sleep of the dead.

When I finally stirred, we were approaching the Idaho/Nevada border and already starting to descend. Apparently I missed stunning views of Greenland, a delicious steak dinner (no one opted for the fish) and the Great Lakes of Canada. Ho hum.

What I did manage to get excited about was flying across the northern canyons of Nevada and Colorado, past Lake Mead (which seems to have lost a lot more depth since I was last in Vegas. Is no one worried about this?), and down towards the "Bright Light City".

The Vegas Virgins on board got rather excited as we taxied toward the terminal in McCarran. I forgot how very close to the Strip the airfield really is. Couple that with the size of places like Mandalay Bay and the MGM Grand and it felt like we were going to taxi to reception.

As I had hoped, MaxJet's lack of passenger numbers saw everyone disembark swiftly. What I hadn't counted on was waltzing through US immigration so easily. We were literally the only people in the terminal and there were plenty of counters open. Stark contrast to most of my recent US visits where the eye and thumb scanning has taken around an hour to filter through.

We had a quick bet on who's bags would be first and last out. I got the booby prize and we wandered into the heat.

The temperatures in Vegas that week were on the high side. Bone melts if left out in those conditions. However, after living in Dubai for the last couple of months where bone evaporates and diamonds dribble from their settings, I actually felt relief. The noticable difference was that there was no humidity to sap you of every ounce of vim. It gets so humid back here some evenings it's like being slapped with a boiled flannel every time you breathe in.

Our villa was a short distance south of the "Strip" and we decided a limo was the only way to arrive. As we tiptoed around ninety degree bends in a car with the turning circle of Moby Dick and windows darker than my sense of humour, nervous giggles of regression filled the cabin. We were finally here.

The villa was huge. It was effectively two villas with the dividing wall knocked through, hence 2 kitchens, 2 living rooms and about a million bedrooms. Dave Potts suddenly claimed what looked to be the nicest room of the few on the East side of the house and I panicked into finding a similarly appointed one for myself and Blandie (who was supposed to kip on the floor) to nab.

My dash eventually took me to a huge room at the opposite end of the villa, the other master bedroom I guess. The bathroom had a huge spa bath which I was destined to never use, a massive double shower with two separately controlled power heads facing each other into a vast cubicle. It also had two basins, spread out along a huge marble top and a cistern loo in a walled off section. It had enough floor space to comfortably play 4 handed twister. With giraffes.

The room itself had a massive wardrobe, two lounger chairs, a big old dresser and set of drawers, and a vast bed, complete with chest at it's foot. Again, the floor space was unnecessary in it's abundance. The furniture, large though it was, seemed pushed against the opposing walls like the different sexes at a primary school dance.

I figured that it wouldn't get better than this and staked my claim.

This turned out to be a bit dumb, for two reasons really.

Firstly, I was at the "wrong end of the house". The link room between the two halves of the villa was actually a bedroom and, to navigate from one kitchen (or from my bedroom for that matter) to the other where the front door was located, meant passing through and potentially disturbing the residents (it was a twin). Worse, if they locked the door, you would have to go out the side entrance (for which we had no key to access from the outside if locked) and walk around. We found various ways around this situation, but it was still annoying.

Secondly, it was at the end of the villa where the air conditioning simply didn't work. Oh yes, there was certainly a lot of air coming from the vents, and the system in the hallway, from beneath it's Perspex tamper-proof box (and I tried to tamper with it), showed 72 deg, but the cooling effect was as effective as an asthmatic poodle breathing on you. The house seemed to have 3 main cooling units, one at each end and a central hub for the main communal areas. The walk from my room along just as far as the half way point must have seen a 10 degree change in temperature. Needless to say I didn't open the blinds.

With my new life in Dubai, I was probably the best person to be in this room, to be honest. A true traitor to my Geordie roots, instead of not feeling the cold, I seem to be happy with the heat.

We didn't have to wait too long for the Virgin group to arrive, and Dave Bland, he of the BA odyssey, followed presently. After warming up on the villa's own poker table, we wanted to get where the gamble was and so, come 8pm, we ordered a few cabs.

Now this was something we should have thought about before.

Vegas has a lot of taxis. There are an estimated 2,000 on the street at any one time, surely enough to find us the three we would require. Unfortunately, they also work mainly on the strip. If they pick someone up at one hotel, it's usually to ferry them to another where the next fare would also be waiting. Likewise with airport runs. However, to come to us would require a short yet empty drive to our villa. Worse, it seems that there is no such thing as "The Knowledge" in Vegas. In fact, "Basic Motor Skills" seem the most that is required to gain your licence. As such, noone seemed to know where we were.

We waited for over 2 hours to finally coerce (and I mean that) taxis into coming for us. We had to send the ones we managed to get back for the others and hope they didn't feel like the easier option of a Tropicana pick up.

Over the course of the week, the only method of escape from the villa (we became adept at directing drivers back to it after an evening out) was to take the personal numbers of those willing to accept our grateful, over zealous tips.

Anyway, we finally did get out and for those who are interested to know how the poker ended up, please feel free to check out my poker website, Chocolate T-Shirts, where I'll be posting (although potentially even later than this one) a separate, in depth review of the gambling.

The tournament started at 11pm, and (I don't think I'm spoiling anything by telling you this here) I was out about halfway through, say 1.30 am. We played a bunch of cash games and, despite having not slept properly for a while, I was still functioning (although now in the red) at about 3am when Jason finished the tournament, having chopped (i.e. split the remaining prize pool with the other remaining players rather than play on). The air in casinos is oxygen rich to keep you up and gambling. This meant a bunch of us were happy to just keep on playing until the dawn. Hell, we weren't even playing poker anymore, we'd moved on to craps, blackjack and even roulette.

Strange as it may seem, I was actually winning on all of these "against the house" games (unlike the poker) and was rather enjoying myself. I was hungry though. I asked one of the dealers if there was a Denny's nearby. There was. Breakfast anyone?

Myself, Mark "Chewie", Jason, Dave Potts and Ian all sat down for the disturbingly American breakfast combination of pancakes with syrup and bacon and sausage on one plate. I was ravenous, as it turned out, so I tore into mine, regardless of whether the item on my fork sat on the sweet or savoury side of the line.

The Orleans Casino held a big festival event on Sunday. I knew from the bright morning sun that singed my hair as we rolled into the parking lot that Sunday was well into it's groove. I really wanted to play this event as it was Omaha Hi/lo, considered (okay, by me) to be my best game. However, it was limit betting and therefore was going to take some time. A noon start meant I was going to have to choose between sleep and playing.

We got in the cab to the Orleans.

The Orleans is a great place. Positioned a good way off the Strip and having seen better days in many senses, it was what I remembered Binions card room to be like on my very first visit to LV. A classic Southern States lady ran the room from an elevated booth. She spoke her country drawl into a less than digital quality PA system, corralling middle aged gamblers and even older cowboys, resplendent with ten gallon hats, to the worn felt tables. This was Vegas.

I sat in on one of the single table satellites they were running for the big game but narrowly lost out. I was feeling tired but not exhausted. Was it going to be worth buying in directly to the game? Paul, Dave Potts, Jim, Kathryn and Tricky were all registered. I stood in the queue as the clock ticked closer to 12pm, still not decided as to whether I would hand over the entry once I was served. Then I decided, this was what I came for. I could sleep whenever.

5 hours into the tournament I was dying. Not in terms of the poker, I was actually doing well on that count. Omaha 8 is a split pot game, however, meaning a lot of the time there is no clear winner at the end of a hand. Couple that with limits on the betting and a long time before the blinds (the minimum bet levels) go up, the game was paced like continental drift. I was struggling to focus on the cards. I considered going to have a power nap on the floor for a while before returning to the table. I even started to drift into a dream like trance, folding my hands without really looking at them.

I got up for a re-focussing stroll and spoke with the remaining fellow LPM players. Tricky was also feeling bushed but wanted to tough it out. Katherine was doing badly but also felt she had a good run coming. I swigged at a can of Red Bull energy drink and tried to ignore the taste of regurgitated bee stings. I needed focus. Or sleep.

I decided to go shit-or-bust. I would play every hand for 3 rotations (not recommended practice) and either I would get lucky and build a big enough stack to allow me to leave the table for two hours (with forced bets posted for me) whilst I had a nap, or I would go out. I was actually close to doing the former with the first hand. Holding the nuts in both directions (i.e. the best hand for both halves of the now monstrous pot) one of only 4 cards in the deck, a deuce, on the river (the last card dealt to the board) counterfeit my low hand and usurped my high one from power. It didn't take long to loose the rest. People at the table looked mildly surprised at my sudden and exaggerated fall. I just wanted my bed.

I slept on top of the covers, spread out like the victim of a sniper. Draw a line around me, I'm done. The course Hessian of the over sheet scratched deep into my facial epidermis but I bore it no mind. I didn't so much drift off as snap out of consciousness. I slept greedily and deep.

BANG, BANG, BANG. "Rick? You in there?"

"Grnhhuhlll?" I wasn't quite with it at that point.

"We're heading down to the Venetian for the big deep-stack game, want to come?" Dave Bland had obviously slept the previous night.

Maybe it was the Red Bull, perhaps it was the furnace-cooled room, but I decided I would be better off in a poker room again. I'd had a good couple of hours shut eye after all.

The Venetian is a glorious, unnecessarily vast casino based on the Italian city of water. There are gondolas punted through the central arcade, complete with false sky and replica renaissance art (hell, this is Vegas, some of it's probably real). But that's for the tourists. Okay, the majority of tourists. We were interested in the much lauded card room. And it didn't disappoint.

A well spaced, beautifully appointed room with a high stakes suite and capacity for hundreds, it housed the 8pm tournament we were intent on entering. More than one picture of Benjamin Franklin bought me in along with 148 others, including a large contingent from the villa. Again, I'll do the full write up on the sister site but (look away if you don't like spoilers) by 3am I had made it to the final table of 9. The money had started back at 18th and Blandie, Chewie and Paul had all cashed and were railing me as we took a short break. I had the 4th largest stack at the table and there were a couple of people really hanging on by their fingers. I just needed to out last them to make a really healthy payday and then I could go for the win without fear.

I sat down with good intentions, got dealt a hand I should be good enough to fold and lost all my chips on the first deal. I got paid but felt like a bit of a tit. And not the good bit. 7 hours of hard work to come so close, deep stack poker is an object lesson in mental stamina.

I still felt pretty good about the evening and the four of us were buzzing away about where to go next. We roamed through the majestic reception area, still sucking hard on the teat of oxygenated air the casino fed us with, and out to the taxi rank. Within about 2 minutes of being outside, we could barely function.

Deprived of my O2 crutch, I barely managed to slur the directions to the villa before we crawled into our normally aspirated beds to dream of chip rolls and shuffling cards.

The rest of the week continued to feature a lot of poker and I'm aware that a lot of you find this about as exciting as the prospect of a root canal from Laurence Olivier, so I'll mention a few of the other things we got up to instead.

The Stratosphere Tower and casino are positioned at the north end of The Strip and dominate the Vegas skyline. Looking like George Jetson's condo, the wholly impractical tower was built with the express purpose of being tall. Myself, Tricky, Disco and Bobby "Brisbane" Bridson took a morning to see what all the fuss was about.

Now, I had already been to top of the Strat, so part of me was there on the promise of breakfast at the International House of Pancakes, or IHOP, but I did remember the last time I was on the thrill ride, "Big Shot", positioned on the 110 storey high spire and was eager to scare myself short of a few years once more.

Breakfast was huge and brought with it not only heartburn but an overwhelming sense of deja-vu. As we strode across the asphalt, already softening in the 10am sun, I remembered why. The last time I did thrill rides in Vegas I also had a massive breakfast. I tasted some of it twice. What a retard!

"You're now travelling up at over 10 metres a second as we climb the 1,150 feet to the observation deck."

I wondered if the lift operator, during the millions of recitations of his informative monologue, had ever been confronted with a confident cry of, "Bollocks!" I decided now was not the time.

We stepped out to the observation deck and strode towards the floor to ceiling windows, all angled outwards to allow views straight down to the river of tarmac below. It was at this point I suddenly became aware of the truth. Disco was shitting it.

"Not good with heights?" It's nice to have your friends there when you're turning white and breathing far too fast."

"Come on, lean on the glass for a better view."

I leant forward and caught myself on one of the metal window frames, holding myself at an angle jutting away from the centre. My hands resting about 5 inches from a red sign imploring me, "DO NOT LEAN ON THE WINDOWS".

Fair play to Disco, we took our photos and wandered around the 360 degree room to take in the differing vistas of dessert sands, mountains and mega casinos, and he strode round and posed with the best of them. Then we headed for the roof.

One of the rides I went on during a previous visit to LV, the roller coaster which ran in a circle from the edge of the tower, had been deemed "not scary enough" by whomever's job it is to ensure all tourists risk heart failure at the north end of The Strip. It had therefore been replaced by a new ride, "X-Scream". This presents initially as a normal rollercoaster but the track extends about 30 foot off the edge of the tower, into space, before stopping. And that's what you do too.

The ride tilts forward allowing the train to fall, seemingly off the edge before being brought to an abrupt stop dangling precipitously over the hotel pool some 90 floors below. Then for added effect, the whole rail drops about another 15 feet. The screams have never sounded so heartfelt and raw.

I decided this would be too much for my cholesterol choked arteries, as would "Insanity", a rotating ride which holds you over the edge again, this time by a flimsy lap belt and the magic of centripetal force.

So that left my old friend, "Big Shot". I'd been on this ride before. It basically is a four sided metal ring positioned on the central mast at the very peek of Stratosphere Tower. The ride requires you to sit facing outwards, held in place by roller coaster style over head restraints, before launching you up the mast, some 160 feet into the air in a mere two and a half seconds. You pull just over 4G during this climb, but if you don't like being crushed into your seat by an giant, invisible hand, not to worry! You then achieve zero gravity on the way back down. That's right, about 100 feet of freefall before the ride mercifully picks up the slack. The mercy is short lived, of course and it soon re-launches you again.

I remember it as being a distilled form of terror and I wasn't wrong. The exposed feeling of sitting on that seat, looking out over miles of desert sands, knowing the launch is as violent as a car crash and wondering what would happen if the ring were to slip off the top of the mast. Will the brakes kick in on the way down? Will the seat hold? Oh God, and you know it's coming too.

Understandably, Disco didn’t come with us. It was enough of a thrill ride for him to get out onto the outside deck. Tricky, Bobby and I all strapped in and rode the lightning while a bunch of "too-cool-for-school" scenester kids after us in the queue moaned about the wait and "how lame" the ride would be. At that age, it's not the done thing to get excited about anything. We deliberately waited until it was their turn to see just how "lame" they would find it. The reassurance of their screams made my dark heart warm again. That and the 50 degree heat.

We headed down to New York, New York afterwards, initially intent on tackling the other thrill ride on The Strip, the corkscrew rollercoaster that winds it's way around the outside and through parts of the casino. However, on arriving, we noticed it was already the afternoon so instead decided to tackle the far more risky challenge of a pint of Guinness in the USA. It's a strange thing, the “Irish” bar in New York, New York. It's about as artificial as you can master, being a copy of a bar (in NY) that is a copy of a type of bar (in Ireland), and yet, despite being in dwarf glasses which probably held about 2/3 of a pint each, the Guinness was really rather nice. The day went well from here.

We didn't spend all of our time playing cards. Indeed, I did a fair amount of time trawling shopping malls for the bargains that simply were not there. I did manage a couple of visits to Cowtown Boots, the best boot store in Vegas, and was able to grab a new pair of dust kickers as well as some lizard skin wonders for my good friend Jon.

However, one of the most exciting trips we took in Vegas was exactly that because of how inherently wrong it was. No, not to the strippers, I mean to the gun range.

Tricky, Bobby and I set out one morning to locate the Las Vegas Gun Range as we knew it was somewhere close to our villa. The advertisement on the internet promised a fully equipped, indoor range and the offer to "hire" guns ranging from simple pistols to AK47 assault rifles.

Anywhere that advertises as having everything "From Practical to Tactical", has to be a bit mental, and so it was to be.

We walked in to see walls adorned with equipment that could only be used for hunting if you had decided to hunt for armoured cars.

We strode to the counter where we were met by a dirty faced gent with a cap that was nothing to do with fashion and a body warmer with live ammunition poking out of the pockets.

"Er, we'd like to fire some guns please." And very manly I sounded too.

"Whass'tha?" he bellowed. He was as deaf as a post.

"Gun." I over simplified as if I was talking to a Frenchman.

"On the wall, take your pick."

There were several packages available. I though the only thing missing was a name. For example, the package featuring three different Smith and Wesson's should surely be the "Dirty Harry", the one I chose, a 9mm Gloc with 50 rounds could be the "So Solid Crew" and the multiple machine gun firing one could be the "Disgruntled Postal Worker".

As he handed me the Gloc and explained how it worked, I could feel my heart race. I'd never handled a gun before and I was amazed at how simple they really are. The Gloc is pretty light too, lots of it is made from plastic yet the barrel is solid and when you pull back on the chamber to arm it, it makes an almost reassuring click. Like a BMW's door closing in your hand.

We were shown how to load the cartridge (Bobby also had a Gloc, Tricky a Beretta). It starts off easy, forcing 9mm cartridges down on the spring mechanism, but any one who manages to get 14 in the clip must have an automatic loader. I managed about 10 before I could force no more. Pressing one live bullet hard against another only for it to slip sideways and catch on the clip left me a little freaked. I decided that was plenty.

When the first shot was fired, it was Bobby and I suddenly realised that I had forgotten my ear defenders. I also realised why our instructor was mutton. Wow! These things are loud! I felt my heart race again as I felt the air displaced by the shear force of the bullet tearing through it. Did I mention it was loud? I know we were in an enclosed space so the sound was amplified, but if you ever see anyone firing a gun next to someone’s ear in a movie, take it from me, that person should by rights be deaf.

Here's a little clip of me being a big kid with something that clearly isn't a toy.

I found a new respect for these weapons. I was, frankly, terrified yet captivated at the same time. I'm thinking of heading out to the gun ranges in Dubai to have another go, especially as Tricky was a dead eye! We each brought back our targets from the conveyor that places it a way down the range and Tricky had been basically firing through the same hole. He put one shot dead in the centre of the head and every other shot was a 10 or 9 on the bull’s-eye.

"Where did you learn to shoot like that?" I assumed he had had lessons.

"Time Crisis 2 on the PlayStation."

Yes, Vegas has been good to me again. I had time to enjoy playing top quality poker with some of the best professionals in the game, along with some of the worst. I made good money, even enough to get Lou not one, but two gifts from Tiffany's at the Bellagio (Okay the 2-1 dollar exchange also helped here). And all I had to deal with from there was the 24 hour flight home and work on no sleep. And I thought I felt tired at the Orleans!

2007-07-03T04:54:00.000Z

Notes on a Dry City

We had a force 5 hurricane head this way a few weeks back. Gonu was the strongest recorded storm in the Arabian Sea since records began (some people will tell you this is a sign of "abrupt climate change" but these people haven't done their homework and just believe every word Bono tells them). Here he is...

That's Oman. Top left. Pooing themselves.

He flooded the hell out of Oman and made a bit of an impact on southern Iran, but Dubai? Dry as a bone. We did see a few wispy clouds, but nothing much else.

Dubai is an excellent place to live right now. Under the rulership (is that a word? Spell check says no.) of HH Sheik Mohammed, we're enjoying a golden age. Property prices should fall with the abundance of new homes released on the market each month (and it's tens of thousands) but don't. Ambitious projects like the Palm Jumeirah would fall foul of over ambitious time scales and greedy corporate lawyers in the UK, eventually leaving the government with massive "millennium dome" egg on face, yet people are living there right now. International businesses are queuing up to open offices here and a day doesn't go by without me hearing about a new bank in the region (I work on the banking sector, remember?).

Mainly, this is due to the fact that when they implement something, they do it right first time. New towers in Dubai have to provide parking spaces for the residents. Sounds simple enough but in Kuwait they have huge problems where they have plonked new towers in central locations and forgot that people living there might have to park 2km from home.

Yes, Dubai is, on the whole, a well run ship. But now we have Salik.

Salik is the new road toll system that has been put in place on the most widely used road in the city, Sheik Zayed road. Dubai is built up in a long line leading down the coast from Dubai Creek and the old town of Deira and Bur Dubai, past Jumeirah beach and pretty much all the way to Jebel Ali.

Sheik Zayed Road. Traffic optional.

The Sheik Zayed (pronounced by most as "shake side") road is one of several which run parallel with the coast and is by far the busiest. When you see the images of people driving through Dubai on a ten lane highway with giant, shining towers on either side, that's Sheik Zayed road.

And it does get busy. In one regard, Dubai reminds me of a place I visited in Kenya. It was a park in a crater and every morning herds, on a biblical scale, of zebra and wildebeest migrated across the park from east to west. As the park was completely enclosed, in the evening they would all turn around and migrate back again. The lions just sort of sat in the middle, seemingly bemused by the Yo!Sushi style buffet.

In Dubai, a lot of those involved in construction work need to get to the Jebel Ali end of the town each day but to live there is expensive. Instead they inhabit Deira and neighbouring Sharjah and commute in scary looking Korean built buses. Every morning they migrate south west, and back again at night. There are only a few bridges over the Dubai Creek (although they are building new ones all the time) and the traffic backs up in the afternoon from Garhoud Bridge (the most popular and conveniently placed crossing) back to the Trade Centre, kilometres away. It's a running joke that I keep booking afternoon meetings in Deira specifically so I can sit in traffic for an hour before hand.

So Dubai decided to do something about this and what they came up with is Salik. It's basically a road toll system but it works in a very simplistic way. There are two "control points" on the road, one just after/before the Garhoud Bridge and another towards Jebel Ali, close to where I live and outside the Mall of the Emirates. The toll is effective 24 hours, which seems strange, and you pay a 4 dirham fee every time you drive under one of the two control points.

The method of collection is via a remote account. Each vehicle needs to be fitted with a small radio frequency tag on it's front windshield which is apparently recognised by the overhead beams and you are debited from a "pay-as-you-go" type account which you can top up by text.

It's 200 dirham to buy the tag, there are minimum deposit levels too, but driving through the point without a valid tag sees you fined 200 dirhams initially and this rises with every subsequent infringement.

It's a pretty flawed system to be honest, for several reasons. Firstly, there's the 24 hour thing. If it's truly in place to reduce traffic congestion, why run it at 2am in the morning when it's only taxis (who are not immune to the toll) ferrying drunk expats home from clubs? Secondly, the simplistic charging system means that people aren't required to avoid using the road, just the two control points. This led to predictable first day chaos.

People heading from Jebel Ali, normally driving against the flow of traffic, pulled off the highway just before the gate, and straight into my estate. Most of these people have never driven through Barsha before and so had no clue as to which way would be best. The road at the top of my estate leads to a set of lights that are busy at the best of times but the excess numbers of drivers meant people driving their 4x4s in the sand in three rows, all desperate to escape the gridlock they had just created.

Free and easy at the toll point

The problem was exacerbated by a small change made to a set of traffic works at the weekend. People who live in the Greens know enough to head back towards Sheik Zayed road and then pull off further down on a road that leads away over a flyover. However, at the weekend, this road had been closed and the diversion led traffic directly back to the road that was now in such a mess.

I sat for 20 minutes in a cab waiting just to turn left across the traffic which was helpfully letting no one out, despite clearly not heading anywhere. I was glad that they don't charge waiting in Dubai.

The evening saw people stuck in the opposite direction. I was able to walk across Al Sufouh road, ordinarily suicide, as it was 4 lanes of static vehicles heading into town and an empty road heading out.

Chris Rea's inspiration

Now, 4 dirhams is about 50p. Compared to the cost of public transport in London, not a lot to ask for the comfort of driving in a big, air conditioned 4x4 with a seat like an armchair and six discs of your favourite tunes in it. So why not pay?

The challenge was getting a hold of the tags in the first place. These were supposedly available at petrol stations and banks but in everyone we visited in the week leading up to Salik, they had all run out. Surely they must know how many people drive this road and would need to register, don't they? I guess not.

Or maybe that was the plan. Local conspiracy theorists are suggesting that, by restricting the flow of tags, pictures of a clear Sheik Zayed road were guaranteed. In the press on the day of launch, sure enough a 50% reduction in traffic on the road itself was hailed as a victory. However, there do still seem to be lots of coverage about the delays elsewhere. Personally, I just think it's been the one poorly organised project that proves the rule.

I would have liked to have seen a true road toll system, like those in France, where you are charged depending on how far along the road you travel, not just for passing a point which leads to people just trying to dodge that point.

Anyway, that's enough of being down on Dubai, here's a few things I'm really enjoying here:

1) Toilets Odd choice, I know, but I like that all toilets here, be they at home or in public, are wet rooms with a drain and a small, trigger release hand shower in them. If you go into one that's a bit of a mess, you can just hose it down. Even if it's at home.

2) Breakfast Paninis Tasty scrambled egg, bacon bits and cheese in a grilled flat bread. Perfect for chasing away last nights wine head. Two pounds to you sir.

3) Snowboarding Despite infrequent lessons, I'm getting rather good at it and hopefully will keep it up. Better than, but just as exhausting as the gym.

4) The pool When it's still in the 30's at night, nothing beats a late night swim. Lou likes to get up at the crack of dawn on the weekend and sit there in the sun. Perhaps I'll give that a go this weekend.

As ever, the comments here are for you lot to let me know what you've been up to. It's now just over a week until my Vegas trip. I'll be splitting the blogging between poker related stuff on Chocolate T Shirts and travel/experience stuff in general here. I can't wait!

2007-05-31T08:56:00.000Z

Ku-wait watchers

When I took my new job, I was aware that the role would be based in Dubai, but covered the whole of the Middle East and Africa. Because of this, and because of the “hands off” agreements we make with our clients that stop us head hunting from their teams for a good year after undertaking an assignment for them, I'm forced to spread myself and my business development across all of the markets open to me. People like to work with people though, and it's a tad difficult to build a really good working relationship with someone you've never met. As such, I'm going to be having lots more days like today. Days where I fly to Kuwait.

I came here quite literally for the day, catching a flight out and back again on the same day. I was accompanied by my Regional Manager, Tel (who I've just decided I may start calling “Terry”) but we left our travel arrangements until the 11th hour. To be fair, it was a good half a day after the 11th hour by the time we looked at booking flights. The upshot of this was, although we both flew out together from Sharjah airport this morning, Tel flew back about an hour ago and I'm still sat here in a McDonald's at the airport at around 8.30 Dubai time, waiting to catch a different airline direct to DBX (Dubai's International airport).

I love getting up early, although by “love”, I actually mean “detest”, so I was looking forward to the 6am alarm. In fact, i was looking forward to it so much, that I worried myself awake at 5am and couldn't really get back to sleep afterwards. Perfect preparation for a day of long meetings.

As I waited for Tel to pick me up and drive us to the airport, I was struck by the fact that The Greens, the estate where I live, has swarms of taxis patrolling it's streets at 6.45am, tooting at any static Geordie in a suit. I mention this as, come 8am when I usually need one to take me to work, the demand from other commuters has stepped up so much that catching one requires the reflexes of a hummingbird and the morals of a queue-jumping war criminal. Seeing them circle before the feeding frenzy begins was like watching Animal Planet.

Sharjah is the next Emirate along to the east of Dubai and like Dubai, is named for it's largest city. Sharjah has a reputation as a less moderate place than it's neighbour. In "The Stoneage Emirate" as we refer to Al-Sharjah, women are arrested for being raped, for example, so I had been avoiding the place since my arrival. Driving up the the airport, I was just struck by the apparent poverty of the place, but with the razzmatazz of Dubai as my yardstick, perhaps this was a little unfair of me. The terminal building is being redeveloped, but is very much in the style of an ageing regional hub, like “Teeside International”. We were told that we were the the anti-penultimate and penultimate passengers to check in and as such, were scattered about the craft. Tel had a seat in row two and I was further back, sandwiched between two Indian gentlemen of questionable personal hygiene.

As we awaited departure, a prayer to Allah was played over the tannoy. With the price of the tickets in my mind, I hoped that this wasn't being used as a substitute for regular and efficient maintenance. An Arab gentleman behind me decided that the warnings about not using mobile phones were more like guidelines and was chatting away in a loud, sandy voice as we taxied onto the runway. Off we tore into the dusty morning sky.

I slept for most all of the flight, but awoke in time to see our descent bring us in over the coast of Kuwait and towards the capital. To say there were a few oil fields and refineries below us would be to say there are a light scattering of hairs on the chest of Burt Reynolds. We landed (thankfully) and taxied towards the gate with Arabs getting out of their seats and opening the overheard lockers with scant regard to the cabin crew's warnings. I stared out at the faded glamour of the airfield. It reminded me of Kenya or other African airports, with gratuitous “welcome” hoardings from the early 1980's.

Inside things looked a little better with some expensive looking concessions and the usual chains of Costa, McDonald's and Starbucks. On arrival, you're required to buy a visit visa and the queues are managed by use of a supermarket numbered ticket roll. I got 901 and wondered how quickly the “Now Serving” ticker could rattle off 45 places. We grabbed breakfast from America's favourite franchise.

“Is this your first time in Kuwait Mr Richard?” It's common over here to refer to me as Mr Richard. I can't tell if this is due to first names being more commonly used in polite greetings across the Gulf, or if “Theobald” just proves too damn hard to pronounce.

“Yes, actually”

“Welcome to Kuwait then.” she seemed genuinely delighted that I had decided to visit. I smiled back and looked at the fellow in the queue next to me. He was a real life “Action Man” character squeezed into a suit. British, he was paying for his visa in US dollars. These ex-forces visitors are commonplace in Kuwait where there is a good living to be made as security advisers to an understandably paranoid and wealthy public. I wondered how you get a shirt for a size 40 neck.

Outside was warm. The wool suit I was wearing laughed heartily as it trapped a layer of superheated air snugly around my legs and arms. It was like being a lagged boiler. I was very eager to find a taxi and point the AC vents at my face. Normally, the entrance to an international airport is swarming with taxis, but we were at a loss to spot a single one. Concerned we might not be at the front of the building after all (it was rather run-down, perhaps it was a service entrance), I asked a porter in my best Arabic, “Taxi?”

He led us to a group of elderly gents, all dressed in traditional dish-dashes but without any of the other trappings of wealth I'm used to seeing in Emiratees. One of the gents ushered us into his car which was clearly over 15 years old, a large, American town car with a front seat like a sofa and a bonnet that stretched to Iran. I grabbed shotgun and fumbled for the seat belt which wasn't there. In my head, I could hear the prayer to Allah from the plane again.

The traffic in Kuwait is comparable to that of any other major city so I got a good chance to look around on our way to our first appointment. Kuwait City was hit pretty badly during the war but which damage was as a result of that period and which was just general dilapidation were hard to seperate.

If you're going to rebuild a city after a major bombing offensive has taken it's toll, Kuwait City, like Coventry before it, should probably be used more as a “what not to do” guide. It's not that they are short of a penny here and I could see signs of growth with the shiny new towers amid the dirty and crumbling tenement blocks, but unlike Dubai (which I continue to use as an unfair yardstick), the job seems half finished. There is no attempt to fill in the gaps and improve the road or increase parking facilities. They plonk a big tower there and move on.

We paid the taxi driver an amount we later realised would have put his children through university, all twelve of them, and went to our first meeting of the day. The schedule we were working to was fairly tight, ensuring we saw four different clients on one day and would still be able to return to Dubai that evening. After our second appointment in offices next to the Kuwaiti stock exchange, we wanted to grab some food but had only half an hour before our third meeting at the National Bank.

“Oh, that building is just there, on the other side of the road,” our client told us. We figured there was time for a coffee and a snack.

As 2pm drew close, we set out to cross the road in what was now the hottest part of the day. The mercury was touching 46 degrees Celsius (or 115 degrees Fahrenheit for those who work in old money) and we were both baking hot in our suits and carrying our bags as we made it into the air conditioned reception of the bank. So efficient is my wool suit at trapping warm air, I had to pat the legs of my trousers to allow it to dissipate.

I asked for the gentleman we were due to meet.

“Oh no, Sir” the cheery security guard informed me. “This is head office building one, you want building two. It is just down the road here, not at these lights but the next set, on the left.”

“Can we walk it?” I was asking myself more than anyone. It was very warm out there and we were now going to be late.

We set off along the road, hugging the edge of shop fronts on our left in an attempt to garner an element of shade from the small awnings above the tawdry looking outlets. I tried to ignore my growing thirst and focus on the lights at the next junction. They were really not that far away, but every step was like dancing to thrash metal in a sauna. I felt like I was wearing a huge wig even though I recently had most of my hair cropped off. Sweat ran freely down my back and into my eyes. I put my head down and dragged myself to the doorway.

The hit of air conditioning as I walked in was like a bucket of ice water in the face. Tel and I tried to look business like as we introduced ourselves but with huge dark stains in my armpits and a strange new cold feeling down my back as the moving icy air started to evaporate the damp patch, I can't imagine I looked too dynamic. I was glad of the offer of a drink.

Our final appointment of the day took us to the Sheraton Hotel. Again, the faded glamour of times past was evident in this concrete tower with a colonial feel to it's lobby. We sat and drank minted tea for our meeting and watched as wealthy locals surrounded by fleets of dark-sunglasses-wearing security were ushered into bulletproof Mercedes. Even the entrance to the hotel had an x-ray machine and metal detector. I assume the obsession with security is a legacy of having had their country annexed in recent memory but I also think it is to do with their links to the USA.

Kuwait is the least liked of the GCC countries by other Arab nations due simply to their long-standing ties with the US. The real shame of it is that the Americans, whilst receiving the warmest of welcomes there, look down on them with an undeserved disdain. They have adopted the American love of long cars and they have all of their tobacco shipped from Virginia rather than nearby Turkey. Perhaps they have also adopted the paranoia that Americans feel constantly. The one that sees them living behind security gates in their private estates, armed to the teeth in case an angry mob suddenly decides to invade suburbia. Perhaps. Or maybe it's that they are a tiny, oil rich country who share a border with Saudi Arabia, Iraq and Iran. Who knows?

I looked forward to my flight home simply as a way to get out of the heat. We got a cab back over and ended up having to pay in UAE Dirham after running out of cash spent on earlier rides. As I mentioned at the start of this electronic missive, by leaving our travel booking far too late, we were only able to get the last seat back to Sharjah for Tel and I was left with a single trip on Jazeera Airways back to Dubai.

Having started this piece in a McCafé at the airport, I was unable to finish before being called to my gate a clear hour before the due time. I assumed this was to do with the pilot and crew wishing to make it back to Dubai as quickly as possible on what was doubtlessly the last flight of the night. Imagine my disappointment to discover it was actually as we were all going to be shipped to a remote stand by bus.

After passing through my 11th metal detector of the evening, I joined the throng on a warm airfield apron and got on the bus. The drive felt like we were going most of the way by land but eventually we boarded the new Airbus A320, and very nice it was too. Jazeera is a new, regional, budget carrier who have equipped all of their planes with decent spec. The leather seats remind you of British Airways short-haul and decent leg room is afforded. I was sat quite close to the front for an early escape at the other end and surrounded by others who were obviously from Dubai.

I had to chuckle at seeing what is referred to as a “Jumeirah Jane” next to me with the whole family. The expression springs from wives of wealthy Europeans who live in villas in Jumeirah and have no contact with the real world anymore. This one had her husband, an immaculately coiffured gentleman with an air of extreme arrogance and floppy hair that is the staple output of the British private school system. She had her sister along too, potentially younger than her but who had undertaken so much elective surgery it would be hard to know for sure. She certainly couldn't make facial expressions any more.

Also on board, and sitting next to “Daddy!” who it's a fair bet they see very little of, were two perfectly behaved children, one of each. And wherever Jane takes the kids, she'll be needing her Filipino house keeper/nanny too! Sure enough, all 6 stone of her was dragging two bags along the aisle after them.

I sat in the window and watched an Emiratee gentleman complain that he wanted to move into the three row of “business” class despite not having paid for the privilege. He couldn't be that wealthy then, figured the cabin crew and declined his requests, much to his obvious consternation and Jane's (who, it was clear, would also have preferred to be a few rows forward) quiet satisfaction.

We took off as the safety video was still playing out, confirming my theory about being in a rush to get home. As we climbed, Jane decided to get up and start routing about in her YSL bags in the bin above. One of the still seated cabin crew politely told her to sit down again and fasten her seatbelt. She reluctantly did but as the climb went on with us gradually rising through stepped levels and the light was still on, she dispatched the maid to stand up and seek whatever it was she was looking for. Again, the cabin crew announced on the PA that she should sit down, “for her own safety.” Caught between a rock and a hard place, Maid decided to play deaf and value job security over personal well-being.

We were flying through quite busy skies and I could see plenty of passing lights as we set out over the Gulf. When climbing in a plane, you don't just go straight up to your cruising altitude but rather move in steps, gaining clearance from air-traffic control to move to the next plateau. I felt us arrive at one such step and almost immediately throttle forward and climb again. I remember thinking to myself, “Wow, he's barely have had time to clear that with ATC.” when the engines were both dramatically closed off and we fell from the sky like a runaway roller-coaster.

Perhaps it's unfair, but in those few seconds where I realised i was going to die in the Arabian Gulf, preferably killed on impact and not left to drown in the wreckage, I thought first about how upset Lou was going to be about it when she found out and then secondly about how Tel had sold me a pup by talking me into taking the later of the two flights.

Fortunately, and before Jane had had a chance to scream properly, we had lost the height deemed necessary to avoid hitting another aircraft and the engines roared back to life, pulling us level once more. The captain came on the intercom to explain what was going on but he was obviously a bit shook up himself as he forgot to offer an English translation.

I joined the rest of the cabin in slowly rocking back and forth and giving myself a comforting hug for the rest of the flight, waiting for my pulse to return from it's 200 beats per minute.

The landing into Dubai was spectacular for a different reason. Flying in over the city and past the airport on the left, I could see from my right hand window the whole of Deira, Bur Dubai and down the Sheik Zayed road as we made a more controlled descent towards my new home. Hell, as I strode through the airport I caught myself thinking, “It's good to be back again.”

I'm very happy with my integration into life in the UAE. That said, I now know at what height mobile phone reception kicks in as the arsey Emiratee who wanted to fly (but not pay for) business class got a text message on the phone he'd never turned off as we made our final approach and decided to return the call sooner rather than later.

Jane, understandably upset by this new style of terrorism and the risk that he would manage to take control of the plane by pressing the hash key before crashing us with menu-star-star, unbuckled once more and strode to the front of the plane to complain. The cabin crew didn't know who to reprimand first.

So, Kuwait? Like a lot of the capital cities around the Gulf, it's playing catch up with Dubai and at least efforts are being made towards improvement, but I could never live there. Not because of the security, the poor cars or even the lack of a single thing to do. No, I couldn't live there as, unlike Dubai, Oman, Bahrain or Qatar, Kuwait, despite all it's links to the US of A is completely alcohol free.

Not one pub.

Imagine that, if you will.

(my own pictures will hopefully be added this weekend, if I can get them out of my phone. As ever, please use comments to let me know what you're all up to.)

2007-05-20T06:16:00.000Z

Back in the (Y)UK

Flying to the UK last Friday, I stumbled across a rather splendid new travel tip. It has long frustrated me, from my regular seat in "coach" that food service starts either from the rear or front of the section, dependent on whichever is furthest from my seat. Far too many times have I been handed a menu promising a Hobson's choice of either "beef Wellington" or "chicken breast in white sauce" only to discover that the beef has long since run out by the time the trolley gets to me.

Hmmm, nondescript!

I know it's petty, but I have always felt a sense of anger towards those who have "special dietary requirements" and are served their meals long before the rest of the cabin. So for this flight, I decided to join them.

A quick scan of the different meal options with Emirates airline reveals a vast range of choices. I decided to look through them and eliminate those with major drawbacks. They are divided into two divisions, religious requirements and dietary requirements. I went through the list;

Asian Vegetarian Meal Well, the big problem here is in the title. No meat. Next.

Hindu Meal Okay, so this one is a potential. It just excludes beef. The only worry here is that it may therefore be the old "Chicken in White Sauce" slop. Worthy of the short-list though. Ahh, there is one slight problem. I don't really look very Hindi. Would they spot me for a ruse? Hmm. Next.

Jain Meal For "STRICT vegetarians" apparently. So what does that tell me about the first meal? Vegetarian for those who occasionally say yes to a rasher of bacon? Is there the occasional random lamb chop in with the mashed potato? Very odd. Next.

Muslim Meal A bit of a red herring this one as apparently "all Emirates Meals are Halal and suitable for Muslims" so you're just getting the normal meal service. Next.

Vegan Meal I don't need to say more, do I? Next.

Vegetarian Lacto-Ovo Meal Apparently this is for Vegans who don't feel bd about eating eggs or dairy. Who are these people with such defined views on what is right and wrong to eat? Fussy bastards.

I was interested to see the last couple of meal choices defined as "religious options" as I wasn't aware of the Vegan Church as a major religious group. New thing everyday, isn't it?

So with the exception of posing as a Hindu, I wasn't that interested in that list. I therefore worked my way quickly through the "dietary" list;

Bland Meal It promises puréed potatoes, soft boiled eggs and boiled meats. No, ta!

Diabetic meal Doesn't contain any kind of sugar. So no dessert. Nah.

Gluten Free Meal This one has no bread roll, which is reason enough to write it off, but it also removes chocolate, pasta, custard (when have you ever had them serve custard on a plane?), cakes and crackers. So, no.

High Fibre Meal Featuring fruit, pulses, vegetables and nuts. look, I'm not on a 7 hour flight to improve my health. Next.

Low Calorie Meal In the UK, there has been a lot of effort recently to improve the flavour and quality of low fat meals. Most of the supermarket chains have their own version of the "Good to yourself" brand and I, for one, have enjoyed eating these. However, I doubt somehow that "low calorie" translates to anything other than "low flavour" in the airline industry.

Low Protein Meal So that's no meat then, isn't it? Again, thanks but no thanks.

Low Purine Meal Who knew these meals existed? Apparently this is good for people with high levels of uric acid. No whole milk or offal, I can deal with but it makes no mention of meat in the "contains" section, just "croissants", so I was cautious.

Non-Lactose Meal Featuring "roughage, rice and fish". Missing "sauces, rolls and chocolate". Not on my short-list.

Peanut Allergy Meal Disco! Now we're talking. I can deal with a flight meal that doesn't have a cashew in it, but then I read on. "If you suffer from peanut allergy, we request you to bring your own meal on board. Our cabin crew would be happy to heat it up for you"! So who pays for this? I rang Emirates and they have no refund policy in place. If it's not bad enough that you suffer the constant game of Russian roulette with food you didn't make yourself, you are deprived a meal on a flight with no allowance for the extra cost. Nut Allergy people are the modern leper, I reckon.

So what was I left with? I was about to get my turban out and plump for the Hindu when I saw this;

Low Sodium Meal Does not contain cured and brined meals, canned food or salty cheese. Okay, suits me!

I selected it in both directions and grabbed a seat near the tail of the plane, where the three deep row by the window reduces to two and you get extra room down the side of the seat in front for legs.

The pay off was grand. No more than 45 minutes into the flight, a pretty stewardess wandered back towards me with a tray. The standard options for the flight had been "Spicy Chicken" or "Beef Stew". I thanked her and accepted her offer of a small bottle of red wine. I lifted the lid on my space food container to discover two pink ribs of mouth-floodingly juicy lamb. Deep, deep joy.

To add salt to the open wounds (okay, sorry!) of those close to me, patiently awaiting their tough slabs of chicken and pepper, a sudden bout of turbulence hit and the meal service was suspended, allowing me to finish my roast dinner in relative (if slightly bumpy) peace.

And did the lack of sodium hamper my enjoyment of this mini feast? Hell no! I simply opened the packet containing the knife, fork, face wipe and... sachet of salt!

More on what actually happened upon landing in the UK soon. Possibly.

2007-05-08T20:12:00.000Z

Board stiff

So Sunday evening saw us hit the slopes at SkiDubai, the worlds largest indoor ski centre.
Lou, Kit and I all signed up for an 8pm beginners Snowboarding lesson and showed up at the Mall in good time.

For those of you who haven't read the earlier posts, Ski Dubai is your typical Dubai idea. Ludicrous in scale, unfeasible anywhere else, with the electricity drain of about 7 square miles of London, it's a majestic piece of engineering. A real snow ski slope, no, 7 ski slopes, in the middle of the desert, tacked onto a shopping centre. Genius!

The lesson seemed pretty popular and they broke us into two, more manageable groups. We were provided with ski trousers, ski jackets, boots and a Snowboard and waited for the off. The only articles they don't provide are hats and gloves. We were then told we would need to buy gloves, even though we were happy to have chilly fingers and I spotted a potential scam as we were pointed to the in house store. One pound eighty later, I took it all back and slipped on my new pair of fleece mitts.

The first decision when Snowboarding is, which are you, regular or "goofy foot"? This refers to the direction you would travel in when heading "forwards" (you tend to change direction a lot in Snowboarding, but the binding alignment is set differently). How does one assess their proclivity for right of left foot forward? The guy at the counter came and gave me a swift shove in the back. As I stuttered forward, the lead foot in finding my balance (my right) was declared the lead foot on my board. That makes me "goofy". No jokes.

Once we'd learnt to put the thinks on, we were taken to the nursery slopes. The thing you notice straight off the bat is how very cold it is. I know I've been out in snow many times before, but after enjoying (if one can enjoy) 38degC heat and 70% humidity, even the jacket didn't prepare me for the temperature drop.

The second thing is the scale of the place. You can't appreciate it from photos. I have seen pictures of football stadiums where they seem somehow larger on "Match of the Day" than when you step out onto the tiers, but this place is the opposite. It's huge and vaunted ceiling tows ski lifts far away from you, around the corner and onwards to space. Even the nursery slope seemed a long way down.

We lined up along the top and were relieved to be told to sit on the boards as an easy way to descend. Sledging. Nice.

Once at the bottom, we strapped in our front foot and pushed around on the flat for a while, like a sideways skateboard. We were getting a feel for how the boards felt and moved.

Next, we hiked all of 15 foot up the shallow bank of snow by jamming the edge of the board in to the powder with one foot and dragging the other in ungainly fashion.

The first true ride on the boards then followed. Held in position with our front foot strapped in, we placed our trailing foot on the back of the board and were released to slither towards the bottom. It felt fast and dangerous but clearly wasn't.

After a few tries, I was feeling pretty confident but that sense was short-lived as we were taken back to the top of the slope and told to strap in our other foot. This was 50 foot of snow now, and steep. I was concerned that it mirrored the learning curve we were being put through.

The next step, apparently, was to descend the full slope on the edge of the board, i.e. with our feet both pointing down the hill. The simple rule was, lift your toes to slow down (as the rear edge will dig into the surface) and lower them to go faster. I struggled to my feet and tentatively edged over the lip. I'm a quick study and after some initial hesitancy, I was happily controlling my descent and felt more and more comfortable with increased speed. At one point, towards the base of the, well, I can't really call it a hill, lets say "incline", I was so confident, I laid my toes right forward for maximum velocity.

As the front edge of the board bit hard into the slope, it's sudden and vice-like grip on the snow pivoted me like a fleshy punch ball, face forward into the surprisingly solid snow. I had bruised my hand in this tumble but pride was the main victim, especially so as I was now unsure of how to right myself.

My legs, still strapped to the board, lay behind me, pointing up the ridge and there was no clear way to place them below me again whilst effectively in the stocks. I had to roll my body over, bending my knees to lift the board and flip it in ungainly fashion to attain a face-up, yet still prone, alignment. I then span on my arse to drop my feet below me and finally give me the chance to get up again for the last 10 feet or so.

It was at this point that I noticed the people watching from the food court. The base of the slope runs down to a hotel and there are 4 levels, including a restaurant and some bedroom balconies, that open onto the snowy vista. I had a cheery, European family pointing at me from the ground floor, safely behind plates of double glazing, laughing and patting each other on the back. They were so engrossed in the "comedy" of my class and our various forms of self harm that they were missing their mouths with their processed noodle buffet. I mouthed something about them enjoying car accidents and ghouls but the message wasn't getting across.

Back to the top we went, several times and I believe I got steadily better (although there were several more falls from all of my 6'3") and we finished the session with a quick sledge race. I have a card which is marked with the skills I have already learnt, but there is still plenty to practice before they let me out on my own. At 20 quid a pop though, I'm looking to take a lesson a week at least and see how I get on. I'll keep you updated.

How's everyone else doing? The comments below are open for you all to use!

2007-05-06T09:54:00.001Z

Sunday Fun

For most of you, Sunday is still a day of quiet reflection. Perhaps you enjoy a picnic at the park, tossing the occasional torn corner of your ham sandwich to the ducks as they dabble noisily in the river. You have a glass of chilled rose wine next to you, and a lingering kiss from your lover sends a riffle of nervous energy down your spine as you lay on the blanket and hear the chorus of the birds far above.

For me? Well, Sunday is a day of work. Even if you skive off, it's a bit too hot for a picnic with the temperature at 37deg and 80% humidity actually constituting to a health threat for those fool-hardy enough to lie out in the full glare of the sun on a blanket. As to where to place that blanket, well forget by the river, there simply aren't any in the desert. That means the ducks are replaced by huge carrion, such as crows and vultures. They'd as soon have your eye as your bread crust. Drinking in public away from an authorised establishment is going to see you dragged to a jail cell where the questioning will be accompanied by the sound of a hose pipe smashing off the back of your bare calf's. Interestingly, if you're over in Sharjah (just next to Dubai but in a different, more stone-aged Emirate) kissing your loved one in public will lead to a similar arrest, so no kisses here, however lingering and soft. Finally, if you do locate a piece of scrub in the desert away from the sun, prying eyes of the police, with your water to drink and your clothes soaked in sweat but never drying, forget the ham sandwich!

Really though, this place remains brilliant. We went out on Thursday night and I introduced Lou to Jim and his mates (the one I work with remember?). We started at a house in the marina with a bunch of trolley-dollys (his missus is one) and then moved to Barasti, the nice beach front bar not far from here. We bumped into a whole load of others we knew there and for some reason a group of us broke away to go to a Karaoke bar down-town. I was slaughtered and tried to sing God knows what. Lou enjoyed one too many beer and the two of us had to hobble off at around 3am (she wanted to stay but couldn't stand up).

Feeling just peachy on Friday morning, we drove to the airport to meet Kit, our friend from the UK who is visiting. She was delighted that the first place we took her in Dubai was Ikea! But it got even better for her on our return as we made her help hang curtains. I bought one of those reclining chairs, built it and sat on it for the afternoon in front of our newly cabled up TV. We get some rubbish shows mind...

Anyway, Friday night was a meal at a Chinese place down at Mina a'Salam hotel right by the water front of the Madinat souk. Food was great, sleep was little.

Workmen were supposed to be finally fixing my leaking bathroom ceiling yesterday morning, but after 4 hours, they had only managed to divert the water to a differing drain pipe... which also leaked. I got really shitty with one of the contractors who lied to me that he couldn't fix it as the person upstairs had gone away ( I know him and called his mobile. Sure enough, he was still in!). They just wanted away and I still have a leak in one bathroom. That said, the rest of the flat is now looking lovely and the more furniture we break our spending limits on, the less echo there is in the place.

Last night, we headed down to the creek and caught a private Abra, a sort of small, open-top ferry (click to see more), for just the three of us to cruise up and down. It was rather atmospheric and despite a small dispute over the price, not bad value in the end.

By then it was so late that we got home, popped into Nando's and got some kip. Today, Kit is doing her own thing as Lou and I are back to work (yes, on a Sunday!) but this evening we're heading to Ski Dubai for my first (and potentially only) snowboarding lesson. More news once I'm out of casualty.

2007-04-24T19:55:00.000Z

No pictures

Yeah, sadly I'm unable to upload any photos to the site at the moment, so my dynamic descriptive prose will have to paint the picture of life in the desert for you, I'm afraid. It's hot and dusty. How's that?

What's that? You need a little more? All right then.

Living and working here is very strange indeed, mainly as it's just like working in London for half of the time, my office being a very similar environment to that in the UK, and like being on holiday in Spain in the evenings. I'll eventually get used to it, I'm sure, but driving home to what is basically a big holiday home in hot weather in a suit is taking a tad of adjustment at the moment.

For those readers who I haven't spoken with since I got here (and my phone bill tells me that's not many of you), allow me to back track a little. I arrived on my birthday, a fact that British Airways failed to notice at check in it seemed. However, I did manage to get a bulkhead seat in a window with an empty seat next to me, so I sharn't complain. I was about a chuffed to see Lou after a month apart as she was to see my furry mug. Our time together was fleeting though as she flew out 36 hours later to Germany, the UK, back to Germany, and doesn't return here until Sunday. Oh, and she was at work on the 16th. You work every Sunday in Dubai, Friday being the Holy Day and Saturday completing the weekend. I believe in other Gulf States they take Thursday/Friday off.

Anyway, Lou had already been through the mill in our month apart. Dubai is a wonderfully relaxing place to live in many senses, you'll never have to fill your car with fuel again, get food from the counter, or even take your dry cleaning in again if you move here. However, the layers of officialdom relating to the simplest acts, such as renting an apartment, gaining a driving licence or even just getting your residency visa are enough to test the patience of Bob Geldof.

So in the month that I'd been away, Lou had had to make about 4 visits to the water/electricity board, 2 to the traffic police, had lost one apartment after having moved in (a long and pain brimming story), lived in 2 hotels and a room in a villa and still had no washing machine, TV, music, warm water (for the first couple of days). I was amazed that she wasn't chewing the walls when I got here.

We worked out what I was going to have to do, learning from her experiences, and made a list. Needless to say, I'm still only about half way through thanks to continual contradictory red tape. Wheee! Oh yeah, and our bathroom ceiling has now been leaking through for about a week, but I'm assured that it'll be fixed tomorrow. Mind you, it was going to have been fixed this morning, or Saturday morning, but, hey, who am I to judge how long these things take to sort out?

Anyway, positive stuff. I simply love the service industry in Dubai. Lou's company have provided her with a monster truck that she has christened "Moby", I assume after the whale. I've been driving around in her for the last week or so which allows me to try and get my head around the complicated and ever changing road network of Dubai whilst in something that people simply don't want to mess with. Anyway, on parking at the "Mall of The Emirates" the other evening, intent on shopping for essentials such as a plasma screen and Wii, I was able to get her hand washed by an eager team of valets for the equivalent of just over a pound.

Our Villa is located not more than 50 yards from a tastefully appointed branch of "Nando's" Portuguese chicken restaurant chain. They offer take out and the other evening I decided to partake of one of their more piquant pitta burgers. As I ordered, the gentleman behind the counter suggested I might like my food delivered. I looked confused simply because I was. Surely as I was here now, it would ba as easy to wait. I was quickly convinced however that my time would be far better employed back two floors upstairs on my sofa. Let them run it up to me as soon as it was ready.

Add to this never having to step out of the car at the petrol station (hell, you can even leave your engine running so the aircon is still live!), people coming to your place of work to collect your dry cleaning or deliver your lunch even though their places of business are a mere 100 yards away and you can start to understand that Dubai was invented for the lazy.

I'm trying to ensure that I don't put on any more weight than I already have done in the past 7 or 8 years and plan to swim regularly in our pool. Did I mention we have a pool? Okay, so it's not technically "our" pool, we do share it with the other 100 or so residents, but they never seem too fussed about it, so I'm annexing it with the cunning placement of towels and planned use of the outdoor BBQ area. There are other communal facilities in the building. Apparently there's a gym but I'm yet to discover were that is located. And yes, one day, I'll actually look for it.

My favourite facility is the "Party Room" on the ground floor. I'm yet to witness anyone indulging themselves in a spontaneous knees-up, but it's not really a surprise when you see the lifeless, bleak cell of a place that the "Party Room" actually is. It's a visual oxymoron that keeps me giggling for hours. And I live on my own at the minute. The neighbours are understandably withdrawn.

I work with a great bunch of people from truly diverse backgrounds. However, as often is the way when one finds them self in a foreign land, I feel most comfortable around something, or in this case, someone familiar.

Not that I had ever met Jim (or James as he tries to get me to call him for the purposes of work) before, but he is from Washington CD (that's County Durham for those who don't know). Sadly, living in the no-mans-land, he fell in with the wrong crowd as a youth and is a Makem (Sunderland supporter) but being friends with Rodger all this time has taught me a sense of kindness for those less fortunate (or scared of European travel).

We went out with a bunch of his mates on Thursday (I guess it's no longer the "New Friday" for me. Does that make Wednesday the "New Thursday"? I wonder) and we started off drinking beer at his apartment, a short walk from here. This in itself is remarkable (the beer, not the walk although things tend to be a taxi ride apart as well) as you need to have a licence to get alcohol in the UAE and even then, you're rationed on how much you can purchase, hilariously based, not on your body mass index, but salary. Jim informed me that he has a little man who comes around and will sell you booze. But of course.

Jim's mates prove to be a sweeping cross section of cultures, diverse enough to seem contrived were this a BBC sit-com. We enjoyed a little "pre-match" karaoke as the stragglers assembled and Jim warned me that my first hangover in Dubai would be a killer. I poo-pooed this notion, tempting fate with a huge stick and an exposed jugular.

We were on the guest list for the night club "Apartment" which is based at the Jumeira Beach Resort, and even though we arrived after the 11pm deadline, managed to blag our way in. There is very much a "who you know" mentality over here. You'll hear "Dubai is a village" to the point of cliché.

The club seemed a little small to me and I know I don't want to calculate the actual price I ended up paying for a round of drinks, but despite this and the poorly mixed music that was more disjointed than eclectic in origin, I was having a great time. Jim's friends started to drift off and I was thinking of making my way back home when I spotted Tel, my boss, at the bar.

Tel isn't any older than me (I know the word "boss" can conjure up the wrong impression and, remember, I have no pictures this week) and he told me he was with a bunch of his mates that he'd introduce me to. As I followed him to the edge of the tiny club, I finally realised that we had been stationed in a tiny ante room of a much larger subterranean club. I met Tel's friends but suddenly realised that I might have hit the wall and it would make sense to return home while getting lost wasn't going to become the likely outcome. I think I made my excuses, but by this point things get a tad hazy.

I do remember getting home and deciding some music was in order. I remember this as, after getting onto the tile floor to adjust the iPod held within a speaker dock but yet to be elevated by some form of furniture, I was wholly and suddenly unable to get back up again. I lay on the cold hard tiles, occasionally gripping them for balance as the apartment swivelled violently to the strains of David Bowie.

When I did make the death-defying traverse to the bedroom, it was getting light and I had no time for undressing, just flopping on the softer pass-out point.

So Jim was right about the hangover then.

By 3pm, I was just about functioning again and it was down to the Mall for supplies in the form of a DVD player. I got one for only 30 pounds equivalent and was so chuffed that I rewarded myself with a strong coffee. It wasn't until I arrived home that I considered that 600 Watts was a lot of output for a DVD player.

It was about that time I realised that I'd actually purchased a microwave oven.

Saturday is the Sunday of Dubai but whereas Friday is a Holy Day and is subject to some restrictions (not that you'd notice in the Westernised hotels and shopping centres), Saturday pulses with energy and I assume many ex-pats allow themselves to be drawn into an exciting yet working-week-crippling day out. I chose to visit with Jamie (who I'm going to try to call Jim), one of Lou's colleagues, and his equally Scottish friend Dave at a Tex-Mex theme restaurant/bar on the beach where all the 3pm/5.30pm, UK time football was being shown.

We watched Liverpool beat some poor whipping boys (not Newcastle for a change) and Manchester United jeopardise their title aspirations with a draw at home to lowly Middlesborough (they of Smogville).

Bizarrely, I promised the Manchester loving manager of "El Paso" that Newcastle would produce an equally remarkable draw the following day. Bizarre as my prediction was realised the following afternoon (whilst I was at work. Galling, simply galling).

This week I'd have enjoyed seeing the Champions League games, but 3 hours time shift over here leads to some very late finishes for what are still work nights (I think, aren't they?). That said, I'm looking forward to another day of incapacity on Friday after Jim has taken me to what he described as "The best 60 quid you'll spend in Dubai! A massive buffet in this dead smart club that's open all night. Oh, and all you can drink champagne!"

On the downside, tomorrow I am getting my residency medical which involves a chest x-ray to check for TB (despite me being immunised as a child) and a blood test, or "drugs test" as I only half jokingly referred to it today. I warned Iqbal, who has booked my appointment, that I will inevitably pass out from the testing process and he laughed uncertainly, as if he was sure I was telling a joke that he didn't quite get. He'll learn. More reports to follow

Watch this space. who knows, maybe I'll have pictures here next time.

Please be sure to tell me what you lot are all up to, either by email or just by sticking a comment to the link below.

2007-03-13T13:41:00.000Z

Dubai-oh-boy!

Well, I made it on my first trip to the city that I'm going to be calling home for the next however many years and what a mental place it is!

Weather is not an issue in my life from here on in

We set off on Sunday afternoon following the predictable mad rush to remove the last of our stuff from Bear House (it's now rented) and got to the airport just in time to fill our faces with seafood and chablis.

I was a tickle nervous about the the massive amount of luggage we had and how much it would cost us, I hung gamely onto one wheel of my gargantuan suitcase as it was weighed. Fortunately, the flight was deserted and we were given leaway to fill the hold.

I'd heard good things about Emirates flights, knowing some of the planes were equiped with the latest state of the art entertainment systems. Fortunately, ours was just such a Boeing and I wondered which of the 100 movies I might watch as the flight slowly filled.

I say filled, it was about as populated as the Austrlian outback. In fact, an hour or so into the ride, I stole across to the central row beside us (we had the window set of three seats to ourselves), flipped up the three armrests and achieved the budget form of "Lie flat bed".

Even though the plane hit a massive pocket of turbulence, the kind they ask the crew to strap in for, over the Black Sea, I was able to just keep kipping. Deep joy.

Another great invention installed on my flight was the on board cameras, on looking forward, one below. By tuning to the correct channel on your seat-back TV, you could watch the take off and landing as well as seeing Frankfurt and other cities as we flew over them. A really good flight then.

Arriving refreshed was one thing, it was still 4am and I had a job interview in about 6 hours time. We needed our transfer to the hotel.

The Novotel World Trade Centre is a fantastic hotel to look at so I was very excited to be heading there. I know it's a great looking hotel as I can see it from my window in the Ibis World Trade Centre where we actually ended up. The Ibis? Well... not so good.

We were expecting a transfer to be waiting for us with a "Novotel/Ibis" board (for they are the same group if not the same stature) but it was not in evidence. Lou was about ready to cry after all the stresses of the previous week and in the knowledge that she was heading in for her first day at work in about 10 hours, so I found my way back to the Tourist Information desk. They helpfully called the Ibis for me who promptly hung up on me. On my second attempt I was able to find out that we didn't have a "transfer" as such, but there was a regular bus that would take us past the hotel. The next one was at 4.30am. We got a cab.

Cabs in Dubai are refreshingly inexpensive. In London, I'm used to £2.40 being charged to open the door, but in Dubai, the most I paid for one journey (about 45 minutes from one end of the city to the next) was 60 Dirham, less than £10.

When we got to the Ibis, it became evident that we were not going to have a "holiday" atmosphere. As practical as any Ibis, Travelodge or "Quality Hotel" over here, it had no pool, gym or for that matter, kettles in the room. Lou was again a tad emotional. I was glad to be there with her.

The next day came along at a frightening pace and I had to head out for my first interview with the red eyes and hallucinations of serious sleep deprivation. My first view of Dubai in the daylight showed me what a massive expansion the city is going through. In 1991, a mere 15 years ago, the area I was in looked like this;

Now, it looks like this;

You can see the same block of flats at the bottom left but also, you can spot that there has been some, well, growth. This isn't actually downtown Dubai, or even the new "Free zones" which also feature massive development but in this second image you can just make out the Ibis in the far bottom left, above the smooth, white edge of the World Trade Centre exhibition hall and opposite those original flats. Also, the building which is Lou's new office is located on the far side of the main road, almost directly opposite the building that resembles a fountain pen.

My first interview was at a building over looking the "Palm" resort. This is the first of 4 massive offshore building projects where huge areas of reclaimed land can be seen from space to form either a Palm shape, or even a map of the world (links require Google Earth)

The interview went okay but I got the impression that they didn't really know what they wanted me to do, so I left that one alone. I then had the rest of the afternoon to myself. I had noticed (and it would be hard not to due to it's size) "The Mall of The Emirates" on the way out so I thought I'd pop back and take a look around.

It's a massive shopping centre, but the first thing I was drawn to was the Ski Dubai ski slope. It's monsterous! Unlike a normal indoor ski slope, it features real snow and what's more, it's built to the scale they like out here, i.e. gargantuan.

As you can see, it's a whopper! The inside is just as impressive with the runs all leading down to a hotel which features a ski lodge restaurant/bar and several floors of rooms with balconies overlooking the slopes.

I pottered around the mall, looking at Harvey Nicholls from the outside only and checking out the price of electronics (not bad). I was very impressed with the Breitling store with their full compliment of "watch porn" but western stores such as Next and Boots gave the impression that I was somewhere in Kent. I decided to catch a cab back.

That evening we spent pretty much close to home (the crappy hotel Ibis) and ate in the restaurant downstairs. The pasta was good and the wine expensive. A lot of products are far cheaper than they are over here, mainly due to the absence of sales tax. However, booze is another matter. Whether it actually costs them as much to import it as the mark up suggests or not is not clear, but £4 for a pint seems to be the norm.

The next day and I was back at the "Free Zones" for another interview, this time at the "Knowledge Village". As you might expect, "village" is another missanoma, size-wise, it's town like.

As I waited to be on time for my interview, I took a wander outside and found myself facing lots of students milling around the "University of Wollongong" who apparently have a campus here. It was rather surreal to see a crusty Australian lecturer having a discussion about a paper with a European looking girl here in the heart of Dubai's free enterprise dream.

That evening I decided I wanted to show Lou some of the reasons to move to Dubai so we dressed up smart and headed to the Burj Al Arab for a drink at their famous Sky-line bar. Sadly, you really do need to book to get into a seven star hotel, even just for a drink. The taxi driver laughed at us for thinking we'd just stroll across the bridge and sit down. So what were our other options? The Jumeirah Beach hotel is right next to the Burj and at 6 stars, we figured it would be good enough.

I was really glad we went too. Up on the 27th floor there is a cocktail lounge with a roof terrace commanding excellent views out over Dubai.

TBC

2007-02-21T14:44:00.000Z

Ironic Words

A quote from Alex Fergusson after Lille players retired to the bench follwing the award of a controversial goal last night:

"I have never seen that before in all my years in football.

"That is a disgrace and Uefa have to do something about that because it was pure intimidation of the referee."

Really? Think back, Sir Alex...

Play "Spot Andy D'Urso"

2007-02-20T14:57:00.000Z

Top Marks!

These pictures were sent to me today and I laughed so hard a little bit of wee came out. I therefore don't feel an ounce of guilt about posting them here also.

They are all pictures scanned from various school and university exam papers.

Enjoy; (click on each image for a larger view)

2006-12-05T17:28:00.000Z

Christmas Cracker

Hello. I know I've not been posting on this site for a while, but I haven't really had a chance to go anywhere in the later part of this year to write about. I hope you agree, the best posts here are the ones where I have a recent trip or holiday to talk about.

Christmas looks like being prime for posting though as I head, once more, "Down Under" to Melbourne to watch the Cricket, catch up with Guy, his family and Probes, and then head on a small "road trip" to Adelaide.

Such a trip, including an early morning cab dash to the airport on Boxing Day, a flight with less than an hour to reach my connection in Singapore, and nowhere to sleep booked beyond the third day, will be the sort of material this "blog" was made for.

I will endeavour to report live from various interweb tea shops along the way, so please bear with me. I just don't have much else to write about at the moment.

"Oh no! Not him!" Michael hears about Rick's impending trip and "support" to the team.

2006-09-03T12:54:00.000Z

The Last Sunny Sunday?

With today looking like possibly being the last sunny Sunday of the year (if weather reports are to be believed), I wanted to put up a few more shots of the gardens (especially the roses out front) to show how they have come on. I'll miss them in the winter. I love coming back to a bright and colourful home.

The Back Garden

The beds have filled out

This big thing had a lot of blooms on it

Also notice the new furniture in Lou's favourite colours

Our standard roses have been flowering repeatedly throughout

(Click on any photo for a larger view)

2006-08-10T13:58:00.000Z

Serious, for one post only

I'm not looking to make to many statements about my own personal politics here, I'd rather just post nonsense about a trip to Chicago any day, but I was upset to see so many people reacting (on the net, at work, in my group of friends) to the planned attacks today on airplanes by blaming Islam and "Terrorist Muslims" in general.

This is nonsense and, despite knowing that my own opinion is a rather contentious one, I wanted to make my feelings on the matter clear.

Organised religion is common to man in isolation, not due to the influence of God, but as a way to provide answers. Religion is found in the remote tribes of Easter Island or the Amazon. Everyone in history has needed an way to understand why it rains, why people die, why crops fail. The first people to come up with answers, to define deities, or a "higher power" at work, found out that this calmed the fearful populace and, as a helpful by-product, gave power.

Those who spoke for the gods were to be feared. Such is the history of [I]all [/I]organised religion. The world today can be explained in clearer and clearer terms every year, and religion is having to adjust. Some are finding this difficult to do and those who's belief systems are so fundamentally routed in the religions they claim to follow are becoming more and more reactionary to the unveiling of the faults of their ancient laws.

So today we have fundamentalists. Be they Christian, Muslim, or which ever religion's old explanations seem to be at odds with the modern world, they are driven to react. Whether they react by attacking abortion clinics or tube trains, Iraq or the US, the religion they purport to represent is no longer the deciding factor. Religion was just the trigger that set them on the path to destruction based on a terribly low sense of self worth. Don't blame the religion, don't blame the rock music, don't blame the LSD.

Now, who wants me to tell them about my weekend in Newcastle?

2006-08-08T22:19:00.000Z

Float on

I heard about floatation tanks years ago. They were brought to my attention by a young woman who is well known for her willingness to try "New Age" therapies although it has never managed to do anything for her yellow skin. Yes, ever since Lisa Simpson took her father, Homer, to float away his troubles, I've considered giving it a whirl myself.

My research was as insightful as ever. After jabbing "floatation surrey" into Google, I found the website at the top of the page was that of Essential Floatation in Dorking.

The idea behind this floating malarky is that, by relaxing in water in a darkened environment, you can truly reduce the stress of day-to-day living, reduce blood pressure, aid sleep and cure God-knows-what else. The claims extend to reducing the likelihood of suffering heart attack and stroke to getting rid of jet lag.

It was invented in the 1950s but really took off when they started dumping 700lbs of Epsom salts into the water to make floating far easier (in fact, it's you're only option).

The pod above is one of four different coloured versions available at Essential and Lou and I took them up on an offer to float at the same time. Lou took the orange and I went with a blue affair.

The process is fairly simple. On arrival, we swapped our shoes and socks for flip flops to protect against the salt. You're supposed to chose your pod on the basis of a "theme" in each one. This is represented by soft music playing as you enter. You close the door to your private room, undress and shower in the cubicle in the corner. You need to pop in ear plugs just to stop the salt water bothering you later on, then you get into the tank.

My first steps into it were like stepping into a silky mud bath. The water is perceptively more dense than normal and has a sort of slippy characteristic. It's heated to body temperature too. This is so that once you're in, you won't be able to feel the water holding you up and the effect really is one of floating.

The pod itself has two buttons inside, one controlling the roof and another for the light. There is also an alarm button and I made a point of remembering which side each was on. Just like me to set of a klaxon while fishing for the light.

The music is played into the water and you can hear it clearly with your head back in the brine. I pushed the lid button and the Star Trek like door "scooshed" down above me. I then flipped off the light and tried to relax. After a short while, my neck started to hurt. I realised I was not properly relaxing my head, probably out of a healthy fear of drowning. I was, after all, lying in a good 8 inches of water.

Once I trusted the dissolved salt to keep my mouth above the watermark, I really started to feel relaxed. A small cut on my forehead got a splash of the water on it and stung like hell. Salt. I fumbled on the right of the pod for the water spray I knew was there. This contained pure water and was there to rinse my eyes with if I got salt in them. My fingers would have only made things worse. It's worth noticing, therefore, the advice not to shave on the day you choose to float.

The music, a swimmy rainforest instrumental in my pod, eventually drifted away and I was left in silence with just my thoughts. I opened my eyes and then closed them again. It was impossible to tell the difference. I could no longer feel the water beneath me and I was gently twisting my body at the hips or moving my arms without any feeling of resistance or friction at all. I guessed this was what being weightless felt like. It was really starting to grow on me.

And then I must have gone to sleep a bit. I was aware at one point of bending down to pick up a fallen deck of cards, only to find that my hand had tried to reach into the depths of the tank and had set my in a gentle motion. This in turn seemed to rock me off to sleep again.

You're in the tank for well over an hour before the music gently starts up again and wakes you. I lay there as it played out it's splashy pan pipes feeling really trippy.

Eventually I stole myself for the shock and flipped the lid. The lighting was still incredibly gentle and I was just able to stumble to the shower where I rinsed off all of the salt.

You're then encouraged to sit in a sort of recovery room and have some water (I assume the brine dehydrates while you lie in it). I met Lou who was equally spacey.

Did I feel relaxed? Did I ever. I felt like I'd crammed the 18 hours of sleep I'd denied myself the previous week into one spectacular power nap. We stumbled out into the bright Sunday afternoon, vowing to return.

I'm not sure what actual health benefits floating has, and I know at Â£60 for the two of us, it's not a cheap way to sleep. That said, I think it will be something I'lldefinitelyy look to trying again.

So what's next on my new age therapies list? Massage. I've got a crick neck and I'm determined to get something done about it.

The only problem is, try typing "Massage" into Google and the most popular searches seem to be offering me a little something else instead...