Dance floor classics

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

Enjoy...

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

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!"

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!

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

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)

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.’

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.