153. Dubai GDP

The question on everyone’s mind right now is: is Dubai back? What a lovely question. The question is a simple one, and if you were to replace the noun with, say, David, then it would be far easier to answer. David is either here or not. Dubai, on the other hand, never really went away. Its Star Trek skyline has been there all the while, peppered with cranes and heras fencing. Of course, when the Lehman Brothers jumped out of their 100^th floor office window, they left Dubai with a nasty scar, a wound that will never really heal.

But that was in 2008 and in my experience if you just go ahead and pretend that the problem has gone away then, really, nothing can go wrong. It seems that I am not the only one with this idea. Dubai has left the troubles behind them and is now powering into the next decade with its big guns out.

But I have noticed something a little bit worrying. It would seem that over the course of time, Dubai’s prosperity has mirrored that of regional events. Whenever there has been an episode, all of a sudden the coffers start to fill up. Take the first Gulf War, the one when Saddam Hussein invaded Kuwait. Bang, straight away the Dubai spin-doctors were advertising it as a logistics hub for the assisting parties.

Then there was the second Gulf War. Dubai instantly became recognised as the base for Iraq-focussed companies. The same is true of the war in Afghanistan and the daily conflicts that plague Pakistan and Lebanon. And what of the Iranian lot over the water? Dubai, more so than Abu Dhabi, likes to be thought of as the regional go-to-guy, the big kid in the playground who will look after you in exchange for protection money.

After Dubai’s economy went south at the end of 2008, the treasury was all but closed down and the money stayed firmly under lock and key. Growth was slow and at times it looked as if Dubai was dead in the water. Then, in early 2011, a Tunisian market trader set himself on fire and the Arab Spring began.

Civil unrest swept across the Middle East, felling dictators like Hosni Mubarak and Colonel “definitely not mental” Gaddaffi. Forgive me if it sounds crass – as the movement is still in action and tens of thousands have lost their lives – but the instability of the region has allowed Dubai’s growth to accelerate. Business that once was headed for Egypt, for example, is now here.

Egypt has long been the preferred tourist destination in the Arab World, with its tolerance of all things western in the tourism hotspots and such mind-blowing attractions like the pyramids. But the uprisings have all but obliterated one of the world’s most desirable destinations. Airport traffic has increased 16% year on year. Dubai, really, has been one lucky son of a gun.

Trading off the maxim of being the “safe haven of the Middle East”, however, does leave Dubai in a bit of a pickle. How long can it rely on the conflicts elsewhere in the region to effectively bail it out? Had it not made millions from selling use of its ports in the Gulf Wars or lucked into diverted tourism and international commerce from the recent uprisings, where would it be?

Dubai doesn’t have oil; that was all finished years ago. Abu Dhabi takes care of selling the black gold. How will Dubai stand on its own two feet when world peace happens? It is no secret that the Emirate has been looking to diversify from natural resources for some time. Primarily it has looked to develop tourism and international finance. But without a sizable export portfolio that will only get them so far. Beyond petroleum and natural gas, Dubai’s primary exports are fish and dates. Err…we may need to think of a few more.

Thankfully, Dubai has a new ally in the shape of UAE Uncut and today I have come up with an idea. In order to boost export revenue, why not start selling sand? No, really. Sand has many uses and is in more or less infinite supply. Bricks, aquariums, mortar, concrete, paint, kitchen counters, low quality glass; the list is endless. Ultimately the desert is a barren waste land, so scooping up a few bucket loads and selling them to Autoglass is a winner; surely? The infrastructure already exists; the old oil tankers can be used to transport sand to Europe, and there are plenty of diggers and dumpers knocking around.

Now, Mr. Willy Wonka, I want exclusive rights to your sand…

Nature will be on Dubai’s side, too. When the shamal (wind) picks up and half of Saudi Arabia is blown across the UAE then the sand coffers will be replenished and they can continue to sell it on to men in Ford Transits. Think of the fortune they could make. This “deal in the desert” will be far better than the one Blair did…

Well, I’m no trade envoy, but surely my half-cock idea of selling sand to manufacturing industries all over the world is better than relying on international finance, investment and regional unrest. Conversely, if you can put it in a box and sell it, you can trust it; its existence cannot be denied. If you can only see it as a long number on an accountant’s computer then trust it in the same way that you would trust your genitals in the hands of a lunatic with a pair of scissors.

So, is Dubai back? Yes. And watch out.

152. Bieber

One day I want to be a real boy

We all have people we dislike for no obvious reason. We can’t quite put our finger on it, but there is usually a certain quality that just gets under our skin. Some, when pushed though, can dig reasons from the muddiest of pits. Maybe you don’t like a co-worker because they are useless. Maybe there is a man in your local pub who, when he eats bar nuts, does so at such a volume it sounds as if HMS Ark Royal is knocking on the door. Then there are those in the public eye. We hate those who we see as stupid, like a Kardashian, or a Jersey Shore. Sometimes we don’t like these people because of how they behave. Maybe they are violent, a charlatan, a manipulator, or even a poor role model.

I can name many people who at least one of the aforementioned adjectives could be applied. But all four? My God, does such a person exist? Could it be Ming the Merciless? Perhaps, but he is fictional. Goldfinger? Professor James Moriarty? The Joker? No, all fictional. Does a person with these attributes actually exist in the real world? The only person who I can think of that can have violence, fraud, manipulation and poor guidance attached to his name is, alarmingly, Justin Bieber.

Ok, I know what you’re thinking, what does that punk kid from Canada have to do with the UAE? And more so, why do I care? Well, he was here last week and, frankly, made a complete wally of himself, and I found it funny.

Now, I have to be careful here for two reasons; firstly, I heard on the radio today that a Filipina was fined AED 1000 for calling someone “stupid” in the street in Dubai. So I will have to refrain from name calling. Secondly, Bieber has a substantial following, a full-blown religion by all accounts. He has the ear of hundreds of millions world over, whereas I have the ear of 50-60 UAE expats and a German company called “Strudle-big.” By typing further, I am putting my life on the line and risking the vengeance of the Bieberati…

Justin Bieber did not impress me last week. There, take that. The young, greasy haired, pin-up boy performed two “gigs” at the Dubai Sevens stadium last week and thought that it would be a good idea to keep everyone waiting for two hours, at both concerts. Of course we all know that in the music industry it is fashionable to turn up late, but sadly for Bieber his fanbase aren’t in the music industry, they’re in the school industry. And Saturday and Sunday nights are school nights in the UAE.

After his first evening soiree on a rugby pitch, he decided that he would go and take in a few sights in Dubai. Being only a young whippersnapper – 19 – he is two years shy of the legal drinking age, plus he doesn’t have an alcohol license. For reasons I don’t fully understand, he was given special permission to enter a nightclub in Dubai that I have never heard of. He went in looking moody, so tried to order a drink. Amusingly he was declined service and he was next spotted hanging from the roof of a Range Rover in Jumeriah.

During the last of his two shows, Bieber was commissioned by his puppeteers to play the piano and sing a song, at the same time. Clearly, this upset the fans somewhat as a young boy charged on stage to grab the young Canadian, sending the piano tumbling down the stage and landing upside down. Bieber was rushed to the side of the stage as the assailant was – fittingly, given the venue – rugby tackled to the ground. I have seen the videos; did anyone else find it rather odd that through all the brouhaha, the tackling, the piano, the groping, that he continued to play both the piano and sing completely un-phased? Despite the piano lying broken on the floor and he being cuddled by a man in a black suit?

I’m sorry, no. But if I had paid a gazillion Dirhams to see my music idol then I would expect the full show. If I want to listen to a recording I will pop a CD in the car. How would you feel if, on your wedding day, your partner held up a dicta-phone with a pre-recorded “I do” on it? No, you want to hear the real words.

Thankfully, Bieber was able to restrain himself from any physical altercations this time, unlike when he was in London earlier this year. A man with a camera dared to take a photo of the young scamp and Bieber got angry. Ok, the photo man was winding him up, but Bieber should have realised that by the time he was 15 he was going to suffer a life of public interest, drugs, hair and no concept of reality.

He is a temperamental, fraudulent, crowd manipulating, unsavoury spoiled brat. His whole demeanour is wrong. His Twitter account is replete with hollow gratuity towards the fans; “@dubai massive respect. I will always be there for the #fans”. Apart from when you’re 140 minutes late, you little scallywag.

The music industry has a long, rich history of pillaging younglings from their mother’s nests too early; Britney, Christina, Justin, Miley, that weird kid with the face. Bieber is just another Hessian sack with a dollar sign on it. I know as well as you do that he is just a face, a franchise for a lot of men and women in suits to make money, and the worse part? People are still buying into it. Is this what we want the younger generation to look up to?

I like to think of UAE Uncut as a relatively neutral page…sorry I couldn’t finish that sentence without my moral compass spinning out of control. Unlike Bieber, I respect my followers. Make up your own minds on this twerp, but I’ll be damn surprised if you disagree with me.

Or maybe, just maybe, I am wrong. Is Justin Bieber real at all? Is he in actual fact no different to Goldfinger, The Joker, Ming the Merciless or Professor Moriarty? A mere fictional character simply to bring balance to this world of saints?

Nah, the guy’s a tool.

Right, then, Bieberati…bring it on…

151. Sandwiches

A couple of months ago I decided it best that UAE Uncut take on a degree of structure. As opposed to simply thinking of a topic, putting some more coal in the laptop and firing out my views sporadically, I opted to churn out one missive a week. Sadly, however, there is just too much going on and I can afford to miss out no longer.

People often stop me in the street and ask where I get my ideas from, and my response is always the same; I just look around. No, really, inspiration comes from anywhere and everywhere. I notice something, find an absurd metaphor that I twist until it is beyond all recognition, alter history to suit my needs and input a picture gung-ho to suit. My blogs are thrown together with the same delicacy and care as a Taliban-baked wedding cake.

Last night I was out with friends in one of Al Ains’ many social night spots. Conversation meandered through more subjects than the encyclopaedias’ bibliography. We began by talking about working visas and the complications that usually arise. We spoke about our friends and families and the personal foibles that define a close relationship. We discussed, in detail, the UAE demographic and how similar ideologies could be implemented across Europe, and how the European Court of Human Rights could learn a thing or two from the UAE about real justice. And then we talked about sandwiches.

There are three main meals in the day. We begin with breakfast. Breakfast is usually limited to a few options; cereals, fruits and yoghurts, and cooked breakfasts involving eggs and so on. You can’t have pizza for breakfast, nor can you have a mutton vindaloo. Dinner, at days’ end, can be many things. Chicken kiev, pie and mash, pasta, fish, steak and chips; all these things are lovely. But you won’t find anyone having a bowl of Frosties.

The two primary book-end meals are governed by strict EU regulation and rightly so. If people had roast beef and gravy for breakfast and Coco Pops for dinner then we’d end up with a world full of white-face-painted stoners with leather nipple rings and no sense of up or down. But then there is the exception to the trend; lunch. Lunch is the meal in the middle of the day that can literally be anything you like.

Like zoiks! I said NO tomatoes!

I am generally on the go a lot, and the last thing I want to have after lunch is a food coma. This makes me uncomfortable and I usually find myself very fat by the end of the week. What are the options? You go to the mall and sure enough there are plenty of fast food franchises just dying to clog your arteries and get your order wrong. However, a fast-food diet is unsustainable, so we turn to the café’s. But, of course, all the meals are so big that once you have finished your tonne of chips – or the uncouthly-branded “French fries” – the last thing you want to do, let alone can, is stand up and go back to work.

All I want for lunch is a sandwich. I want two slices of bread with some sort of appealing filling within; cheese, turkey, chicken mayonnaise, whatever. Why is this so hard to achieve? Why can’t I just buy a sandwich? No, I don’t want chips, or a Pepsi, or a pointless side salad. And while we’re at it, I want to make it absolutely clear that by simply putting one leaf of lettuce on a plate, it does not make it a “salad.” I have seen sandwiches in supermarkets and at petrol stations but these have the same taste-bud arousing qualities as vomit, and I would sooner eat my own finger nails than put one in my mouth.

No, I am looking for a middle-of-the-road, non-boutique-esque delicatessen that makes normal, edible sandwiches. I’m not asking for Jamie Oliver quality, just something that you can eat on the go to stay alive and that will not cause your tongue to catch fire. Those of you from the West may know the chain “Greggs”, that’s what I am after. They offer a range of simple sandwiches in plastic wrappers that are not stupidly overpriced. Greggs is a good go-to-guy kind of place, it is what it is.

The UAE strives to have everything, it actively promotes itself as having it all and I fully subscribe to that. How many other countries can claim to have five of the last eight Top Gear top super-cars in their police fleet? Dubai has the largest mall (by floor space) and tallest building in the world. The UAE has everything, even rain this year. But the one thing that the UAE lacks – and I will state that the crisis is far more apparent in Abu Dhabi and Al Ain than it is in Dubai – is sandwiches.

Those of an annoying disposition I’m sure will comment below about how I should shut up and simply make my own sandwiches if I’m that fussy about it, and you’re right, I could. But I am a capitalist consumer, just like you. And sometimes my work life means that I literally don’t have the time to sit down and eat, to say nothing about finding the time to go shopping or making my own lunch. No, I need a lightweight snack that won’t turn me into Fatty Arbuckle and that can be collected when I want it; I need a bloody sandwich.

I need variety and flexibility in my sandwiches, like how UAE Uncut used to be in the good old days; sporadic and available at a whim. Please, UAE, heed my call. I enjoy living in this country; it offers me a quality of life that David Cameron couldn’t even pretend to promise me. Please can I have a sandwich?

But not cheese, I’m off dairy. And hold the butter. I want crusty white bread. And I want chicken instead of turkey. No tomatoes. Ok just a little bit of cheese.

Aaahh, welcome back, spontaneous blogging.

150. Petrol Station

This week there have been many shocking revelations in News-o-sphere. Helen Flanagan was voted “Britain’s Sexiest Woman”, another Conservative MP has found himself in hot water and of course the BBC continues to spiral into the scandalous abyss. But that’s Britain; what of the UAE? Well, Justin Bieber got asked for ID in a nightclub, failed to get served a pint, so left on the roof of a car. Property prices in Dubai soared. Then property prices in Dubai dipped. But of all the stories to have caught my eye this week, the revelation pertaining to petrol stations had my arms up the high-most.

From next week there will be ten petrol stations in Dubai that will switch over to self-service between midnight and 6am. In case you require any further elaboration, that means that between midnight and 6am there will be no forecourt attendant; you will have to get out and fill her up yourself.

Stop the presses.

I have just come round after collapsing with shock at this announcement, and I find myself in the uncomfortable situation of having to drag this subject out over 1000 words; but where to begin? Stupidity seems as good a place as any. This has been tried before back in 2008. Dubai and the Northern Emirates trialled 10 or so petrol stations as self-service but the scheme was cut short since – and I quote – “two thirds of the people didn’t like it and couldn’t work out what to do.” Are these the same people who are allowed to drive cars on the road and raise children I wonder?

In the UK, and indeed most of the world, the standard practice when wishing to refuel ones car is to pull up at the pump, turn the engine off, get out, open the filler cap, pick up the nozzle of choice, put it in and squeeze until the dial annoyingly says £10.01. You then go into the kiosk, pick up some Smarties and a Daily Mail, pay the man who speaks Urdu, return to the car and you’re done. This is something that we all do. It is, in essence, an easy process.

Now I want to make it plain that Britain is not the brains of the world, we are the nation that people like Helen Flanagan, Amy Childs, and Alex Reid call home. They too share the Queens’ message in their passports just like I do. These people are just able to fathom which end of a dart to throw and, I presume, are able to successfully use a toilet. But even they are capable of driving themselves to the local BP garage and putting £20.01 of Unleaded into their Citroen C1. Well, without setting themselves alight anyway.

Reading some of the quotes from actual people – people who have been assessed and then given legal permission to control a car that can exceed speeds of 150kph – I find myself alarmed. “What do I do?” said one; “what if there is a fire?” said another. “How do I pay?” was my personal favourite. I am genuinely worried for my own safety, what if I encounter one of these people on the road? If they can’t work out how to use a fuel pump then what will happen if they need to do an emergency stop on Sheikh Zayed Road?

How do you put out a fire? Well, picking up an extinguisher and aiming it and the base would be a good start. Not knowing how to put out a fire is…well…unbelievable. What if your kitchen caught alight and your kids were in there? Panicking won’t help; you could try poking the flames with a broom I guess.

Furthermore, how in the name of the almighty can you not know which fuel your car runs on? What have you been telling the man at the pump? One woman said that she didn’t know which fuel her car ran on so left it up to the man to decide. Wonderful; how the hell can you not know?! Is she allowed to have children? Will she also not know that cutlery shouldn’t be jammed into live plug sockets?

Get. Out. The. Car……Mate.

The UAE is predominantly a service industry nation, and since labour is so cheap people have been afforded convenience on an unprecedented scale. You have a man for this, a man for that, the only thing you need to worry about is getting out of bed and picking your nose, everything else is done for you.

I’ve always thought that having a man wearing blue trousers and a moustache to fill my car is phenomenally lazy. Don’t get me wrong, it is wonderfully convenient, especially when it’s 50 Celsius outside and you can remain in an air-conditioned paradise. But what will we all do when Mad Max happens?

Sometimes I find myself embarrassed to be a human being. Any motorist who does not know how to put petrol into a car should have their driving license revoked and then be chemically castrated. No, really. If you can’t fill your tank then how will you be able to stop your child from electrocuting themselves?

The only positive aspect about being an ignorant, thick, air-heard is that you stand a better chance of making lots of money and being voted “Britain’s Sexiest Unspecified Gender.”

The world really has gone mad. Depressing.

149. Expats

Precisely at some unconfirmed moment last year I wrote a blog about the hypocrisy in the UAE. In order to really get the gist of it you had to read between the lines. There were many reasons for my subterfuge, chiefly related to words like “jail”, “blogger” and “cavity search.” Today, however, there is no such masquerade and the views expressed will be as obvious as Kim Jong-Uns’ feelings towards NATO.

Since moving to the UAE I have learnt to control and align my thoughts, and really, it has been very difficult. I have had to change my views on this world to suit the reality of it, and that has been most inspiring. Let us look at British immigration as a case study. These days it is very easy to be racist. Well, it’s not; a joke can be joke to one man, but an insult to another. But the fact that immigration has run riot over the last decade causes a lot of fist thumping and inspired debate in the Fox & Socialist every Friday evening.

I’ll tell you why you have no idea what you’re talking about…

You see, when Britain first decided that it wanted to rule a quarter of the globe, it was always inevitable that those whom we civilised/conquered – delete as applicable – were going to join our family. Of course the Indian community in the UK is huge, and that is due in part to the Mau Mau Uprisings in Kenya in the late 50’s. I’ll let Jeremy Paxman give you the details, but in essence the British, together with the Indians who were there under the imperial banner, were expelled from Kenya. Since generations of Indians had grown up in the African nation, they were effectively made homeless and where better to move to than the country that had sworn to protect them, and who took them to Africa in the first place? (Historical correction: It was in fact nothing to do with the Mau Mau lot and all to do with some guy call Idi Amin from Uganda, who basically had the bollock-ache and sent everyone packing.)

Of course over time more and more people wanted to move to the UK and that, really, should be taken as a compliment. I despise the Labour Party and most of their policies, but even I find it laughable that “immigration” (in the out-of-control sense) can be attributed to Blair’s Barmy Army between 1997 and 2010. Maggie filled a labour gap, so to did Wilson and Heath. How many times have you been sat in the Fox & Socialist and heard mad Jim the taxi driver talk to equally mad Bob the plumber about “all these foreigners comin’ over ‘ere takin’ all our jobs!”? Plenty, I’d imagine. But to whom are they referring, the British born Indian who has worked hard and led an honest life as a Doctor or the hard working Lithuanian who would happily work seven days a week cleaning up your shit?

I am forever reading about people on benefits who purposely have 28 children just so they don’t have to work. Then there are those of an “I’d rather stay in bed” disposition who enjoy telling everyone on Facebook what they think the government could be doing better. But tell them to go and get a job and the retort is “there isn’t any work.” Nonsense, there is work out there, just not as a TV star. Would Anatolij the plucky ex-solider from Lithuania do that? Or would he be of the mindset of “if I don’t go to work today then I won’t have a bed from which to get out of.”?

Oh don’t get me wrong, there are crazed lunatics from Birmingham with fetching beards and who want to blow people up and there are Romanian gypsies who want to eat your dog, but there are also Mick Philpotts and Jimmy Savilles.

But returning to my point, if there was one, I can’t remember. If I sat here saying that British immigration was out of control (in reference to legal immigration, not the Albanians who cling to the landing gear of EasyJets) then I would be a massive hypocrite. Because here I am, in the heart of the Middle East, living in a foreign country, earning a salary in Dirhams and ordering beef bacon and labneh for breakfast. I am employed by an Emirati company therefore I am an immigrant. I’ve never fully understood the difference between an “immigrant” and an “expatriate.” As far as I can tell, it is a terminology used solely to make me feel more important than those who wear blue jump suits and who are ferried to and fro in un-air-conditioned death traps.

Back home in Surbiton, I can walk up the high street and the last language I will hear will likely be English. If I want to buy an Arabic newspaper from a Romanian in an Indian shop then I’m sorted. What, really, makes the UAE any different? Why is immigration a problem in the UK but not in the UAE? The Emiratis’ only make up 10% of the population; that’s 800,000.

If I go to a petrol station in London and the man behind counter can only speak Urdu then I tut, wag my finger and say “Ah! English!” But the other day I went to a shop in Al Ain to buy some hardware and discovered much to my chagrin that I couldn’t speak Arabic.

The rubbish that some of my fellow expats – or “immigrants” – come out with is nonsensical. They sit there in a hotel bar criticising the UK’s immigration policies when there they are; an immigrant in the UAE who can’t speak Arabic.

Just like me. Damn.

148. Police Car

Plot holes are everywhere; in film, in literature, and of course, in real life. Let us take The Lord of the Rings as a case in point. They have to get from one end of a weird world to another for a reason that eludes me. There is a flying bird-griffin thing that assists the starring cast in a time of crisis by picking them up and flying with them on its back. So as opposed to walking across mountains that eat you, and through Orc-infested pastures, I ask why they didn’t just save time and fly the griffin-bird all the way? Surely that would have made more sense?

Then there was The Empire Strikes Back. Luke Skywalker travelled a great distance to meet a miniature, green, Frank Oz. But it wasn’t until the ghost of Alec Guinness piped up and pointed out that the little green puppet didn’t have much a choice other than to show Luke how to climb trees to save the galaxy. Had Yoda stood by his statement of “I can’t teach this kid, he’s a mug” then the Star Wars franchise would have stopped there and the Empire would have won. Really, what choice did he have?

Then, of course, there is Keeping up with the Kardashians; how does the title family not know that we, the norms of society, think that they are all morons? Surely no one can be that naïve and dim-witted? Although whether there is an actual plot in KUWTK is debatable in the first instance.

Moving away from the fictitious land of nonsensical rubbish, what of the plot holes in real life? The British press have been in the British press a lot over the last couple of years for numerous reasons. I’m sure you’re all familiar with the whole celebrity super-injunction business? No, well, it’s very simple to understand. Manchester United and Welsh national footballer Ryan Giggs was one of the most high-profile examples. He had an affair with an air-head, but to stop the story making the papers he took out a super injunction in court that prevented the media from outing him as a cheating bastard.

As a result of the injunction the press were then legally bound and unable to print or broadcast the story. However, those who use Twitter and who are not licensed paparazzi were exempt from the ruling because they were the general public. We then had this ridiculous situation where the whole world and its dog knew that Ryan Giggs had been attempting to make babies with Imogen Thomas, but The Sun wasn’t allowed to say so. Madness.

Being fond of saddling my high horse and pouring scorn over those who I feel are beneath me, I enjoy looking for fault and folly in everything. My cynicism, my fiancé tells me, will eventually drive me and her to the brink of insanity. But until such a time I shall proceed. The latest plot hole to expose itself actually comes in the shape of a Ferrari. Yes, sorry Italy, but things aren’t going well.

You may have heard that Dubai Police have recently acquired a Ferrari Four; or an FF for the abbreviation lovers. This, I should add, is in addition to the fleets’ former flagship; a Lamborghini Aventador. The Bill can now protect and serve in sleek, Italian style.

I, typically, have some queries about such a purchase. A police car is supposed to be functional, style is as important as a Kardashians’ opinion. That’s why our lot in Blighty are given the next-to-near useless Vauxhall Astra diesel. Oh it goes, but it has the automotive styling characteristics of a dead hedgehog. But, unlike the Ferrari or the Lamborghini, it is not confused by things like road humps. Can you imagine Sheriff John Burnell commentating on Worlds Wildest Police Chases and highlighting the fact that a Nissan Sunny out-foxed a Ferrari squad car because the driver had the foresight to use a back road replete with humps? Embarrassing isn’t the word.

Dammit Hooker! That’s a $300,000 Ferrari! Get off the damn bonnet!

Then we come to the business of arresting perpetrators. Criminals, low-lives and law-breakers should not be granted luxuries. If you were arrested for stealing a loaf of bread then how cool would it be to tell the rest of your friends in the Legion of Doom that you rode in the back of an Italian supercar? But if you were man-handled into the back of an Astra diesel or a Ford Crown Victoria you’d probably want to keep it a secret. Unless TJ Hooker was on the bonnet, shouting.

After all this then there is the inevitable question of insurance and cost. Police cars don’t just appear out of nowhere. Not only are they manufactured just like every other car but they also have to be modified. They need radio equipment, sirens, lights, painting, patronising slogans, and suspension that allows them to launch 80 feet into the air with William Shatner on the bonnet and land without damage. If a police car costs AED 1,200,000 then how can it “pit” rogue car-jackers? How will it chase Burt Reynolds across the confederate rural landscape? How will Mel Gibson pull down a house on stilts? There will be too much pressure to keep the car mint, what will the insurance company say when Riggs and Murtaugh bring it back in a bag?

We all know that status symbols fly over here, and that’s fine. It is a part of the UAE life. But these are austere times and people don’t have the money they once did, with the exception of Fiat and Audi (the owners of Ferrari and Lamborghini respectively). In this rather boring day and age, things need to be functional, appropriate and above all else, cost effective. And there is no better institution to lead the cause and set an example of modesty than the police.

But supercars are supposed to be mad. They are meant to be pointless cars that only the rich and famous can afford. They are a symbol of edginess that suggests to passers-by that the occupants are a bit mad. This is not a becoming look for a policeman.

This is a major plot hole and it begs the question, then, what the hell is the point?

147. Emirates Road II

Whatever road you choose, always wear your seatbelt…

Last year I compared Emirates Road to communism. Both, I said, worked perfectly in theory. No, really. Emirates Road is a 14-lane wonder highway designed to deal with all kinds of vehicles from Kia Rios to articulated leviathans. All the vehicles of the rainbow can travel side by side in perfect harmony. Communism works in the same way; everyone is equal and receives the same treatment as their neighbours. What a picturesque ideology.

Of course, the reality of communism is very different. Firstly, everyone can’t be equal; there must always be a leader. Secondly, it breeds horrific poverty and lots of people are killed. In practice it just doesn’t work; despite what those lot wearing Thatcher masks at Trafalgar square would have you believe. Emirates Road, too, doesn’t work in real life. It’s all very lovely having seven lanes on each side, but if those lanes aren’t used correctly then it all goes askew and the police spend hours picking bits of Toyota Yaris out of Eddie Stobart. It is an undesirable gauntlet.

I suggested last year that we heed the call of Ronald Reagan and tear it all down. Well, in January the UAE did the next best thing and re-branded it. Emirates Road is no more; allow me to introduce Sheikh Mohammed Road. Yes, I know that that is the 246^th road of that name, but I am reliably informed that the name change will usher in a new regime of change. The proverbial wall has been torn down.

No longer will Leyland DAF’s perilously swerve lanes without any indication or warning. Goods lorries with missing wheels and un-serviced brakes will no longer be allowed to jack-knife and roll over. Water trucks built during the Battle of Hastings that leak their entire load will be outlawed. In addition to this, each lane will have a fixed speed limit; the outside lane will be set at 120 kph, the next one in will be 100, then 90, then 80, then 70, then 60 and then finally on the inside lane – for the trucks – will be set at 50kph. Your salary will dictate what lane you can use, so the harder you work (or the more cunning the criminal you are) the faster you are allowed to go. Anyone caught doing the wrong speed in the wrong lane will be arrested and fed to the kraken.

But, naturally, no matter how much legislation you enforce or how many rules you make, you cannot stop the human condition. There are still those of a Toyota Hilux disposition that have an unquenchable thirst for mayhem and carnage and they cannot be forgotten. They liked the idea of lane-speed equality and my guess is that they won’t take too kindly to this new, capitalist regime. The UAE has given this a great deal of thought and as such have renamed the Dubai by-pass road as “Emirates Road.” It can only go well. In case you aren’t aware, the Dubai by-pass road is a road that by-passes Dubai, it mirrors the road formerly known as Emirates Road exactly, by running parallel some 8km further inland. I foresee no confusion…

It is a great metaphor for the UAE, which even after having lived here for five years, I cannot decide whether it is a capitalist or communist state. It seems that you are free to make as much money as you like, but at the same time everything is owned and run by the government and they decide who gets what. It seems that there is no difference between nationalised and privatised enterprise.

People are to be given a choice between left and right. All of those who do not fancy driving in class-structured harmony alongside each other on Sheikh Mohammed Road will be asked to transfer themselves onto the new Emirates Road. This new Emirates Road will be a bit like the old USSR. People will be allowed to do whatever the hell they like to survive despite the tag-line of “fairness”. One litre Yaris’ will be able to speed along in the fast lane in-between all the Ladas and oxen. If they crash, they have no one to blame but themselves. Lorries will be able to use whatever lane they like with however many missing wheels they like, too. Hilux’s can swerve elegantly from lane to lane like massive mechanical butterflies. Everyone will be on the same level.

So there we are: you want to get from one end of Dubai to the other, you have two choices. You can either opt for the free-market Sheikh Mohammed Road with its rules of structure. The elite will be able to use their fast, expensive cars in the outside lane, the middle classes can cruise safely in the middle, and the working classes can trundle along next to the truck lane at 60kph, to save fuel. If this doesn’t take your fancy and you have a particular penchant for coal mines, Arthur Scargill and certain death, then you are free to use the far-left new Emirates Road. It sounds like fun, everyone being on the same level and all, but tell me which road you would rather use to get from Sharjah to Motor City?

It certainly all works in theory…

146. Language

Beef-witted zaftys’

I am deeply fond of the English language. Out of all the languages in the world it is the one I speak, like, the most bestest. The English language has endured for millennia and one principle reason why is that it has evolved with its users. As man has grown and developed, his discourse has shadowed every move.

I studied English language at college and it really is fascinating. Even the most TOWIE of modern society can indentify differences between the 1950′s and today. During the war, when a Dambuster successfully busted a dam with one of his bombs, he would shout “wizard!” in exultation. Today, the same man would shout “f*****g ‘av it!” The dynamic of our language has changed, and that is one reason it is still globally dominant, and why French is not. French is a closed shop and as such in 200 years time may not be spoken at all, like Latin. English grows with each generation.

I like to use archaic words in speech because I find them amusing. A friend and I recently had an entire conversation using a selection of words that have not been used since the Victorian era; lunting, groak, resistentialism, queerplunger. What fabulous words. Then there are contemporary words that I don’t approve of, especially when their context has been misappropriated; bear safe, as in bear safe. Fat, as in it is good or it is bad depending on your levels of telepathy and blood-cannabis ratio. Allow, as in yes, I approve or sorry, I do not agree. I can’t make head nor hide of it.

Then, of course, there are those who use the wrong words at the wrong time. Nothing gets under my skin more than someone who says that something is “well good” when really it should be “very good” or “really good.” Then there are those who don’t understand the meaning of “them” and say “put them ones in that bag” as the word “those” is sent marching with its bindle. “That” and “which” are frequently swapped around and then there is the incessant and un-necessary overuse of the word “like” at seemingly random intervals. “D’ya know what I mean?” no, moron, I really don’t.

I do not approve of poor syntax and I fight it wherever I find it, normally by throwing knives and sachets of polonium. My case is that if you go ahead and speak to someone from the Indian sub-continent by saying “Hiya, when you finished, put them things in that bag you got. Sweet, cheers m’ dears” then they will adopt similar prose before too long. This will cause a great deal of confusion, especially if I speak to them afterwards and invite them for a spot of lunting.

Herein lies the problem, as English is an ever-evolving animal, it makes it well tough for those wishing to learn it. The problem is no more noticeable than here in the UAE. As we come from all over the world, there are many different English dialects circulating and those whose mother tongue is not English must be scratching their heads and wondering who’s in charge.

Things like spelling, punctuation and grammar no longer seem to matter. There are errors all over the place. No, really, how can that be? There are enough English speaking residents in the UAE to assist with the governance of the language. I’m sure there are Arabic errors, too, but every day when I drive past the “English Spaking School” I feel as if I should crash my car into the sign on purpose to protect the masses. People will see it and think that’s it ok, no more so than the children. And that is not fair.

Of course, miscommunication happens everywhere, it is only natural, but somehow it feels as if the UAE suffers more than most. And it can’t all be pinned on racial classification or stereotype, either. No, if I ring my female staff’s landlord then I know straight away that I am going to have to tone it all down. If I called him and spoke properly, as I would to you, then he would most likely catch fire. “Good morning, Mr. Farook. Now, the family of rats that have moved in with the girls are starting to use an awful lot of hot water. The problems I have with this are two-fold; firstly, the disease in which they bring with them is causing my staff to die. Secondly, words cannot express how unhygienic this is, I mean do they have to share the same bathroom?” He would have exploded by the time I had said his name.

What I have to say instead is “Hello, Mr. Farook. Is Mr. Marty, yes, Marty? Ok, there is rats inside this one. You will make gone?” He will understand and execute. So in order to achieve my goal I have to sell out and modify my English to suit his level. Oh it’s not his fault, I could learn Urdu or whatever the hell he speaks, but there’s no time.

But I can’t speak to the CEO of Mubadala like that; I’d be dropped into the shark tank. I would again have to modify my speech to suit the person to whom I am speaking with. It’s a nightmare. You are therefore forced to judge everyone you meet within a nanosecond and resultantly speak to them in a pre-determined style, whether that is like a pigeon or the Queen.

Nothing can halt this phenomena, it is just another stage in the evolution of the English language. And, if I’m honest, I am quite willing to embrace it. I would far rather speak in pigeon English than speak like a pigeon brained TOWIE cast member. Totes? What the hell is that? But, let it be known that despite my willing embrace, I am far happier being a spermologer who’s tyromancy is as Englishable as the snoutfair that I am.

If English isn’t allowed to grow the result would be catastrophic; it’d go the way of Latin, or worse still, French.

145. Tourists

Sorry things have been quiet on the UAE’s favourite website this last week; I have been clinically dead with the sniffles. And a cough. The only energy I have had is the energy to moan about how Panadol is utterly useless and that I should be transferred to an intensive care unit post haste. After a week of standing on the precipice of eternal darkness I am pleased to report that I am now back to full fitness and that life can resume.

Gonna make a supersonic man out of you…

When I was back in London two weeks ago I was, as far as I was concerned, a tourist. So being on holiday I opted to do what most tourists like to do when they’re on a break; get drunk. I do enjoy a good drink and to share a pint with friends and some high brow banter is nothing short of holiday perfection. Preferably, I would have liked to do such a thing on the beach, but since the closest alternative I have is the Thames and that it was -1 Celsius outside I was forced into the centrally heated pubs and clubs about town. No matter, dancing and singing, drink I did and drunk I was; burning through the skies, two hundred degrees, that’s why they call me Mr. Fahrenheit…

Once any given evening came to a natural conclusion I found myself needing sustenance, so to either the Royal Fish Bar or Subway I went. I then proceeded to walk home, stumbling across the pavement and sharing opinions with hedges and lamp posts alike. Then, to my hotel, well, my Dad’s house. After very, very quietly opening the door, slamming it, stepping on the cats’ tail, falling up the stairs, falling back down them again and sshhing the bathroom door I made my way to bed peacefully only to arise the following morning with a desire to do it all over again. It was a great holiday. Of course once back in the UAE I had to put my bowler hat back on, fix my tie, jump in the Merc and head to my business meeting.

You may have noticed that lately there has been a lot of brouhaha in the media about tourists here in the UAE getting into trouble. It is common knowledge the there are vast swathes of British media who, in an uneducated fashion, love to pour scorn over the UAE. The tiniest thing goes wrong for one unlucky Brit over here and The Daily Mail goes mad for it. Forget the fact that a poorly written set of words on a page prevents Great Britain from deporting Abu Qatada, a man who vows to destroy us, and that we can’t stop our own people abusing our own welfare state, no, the UAE gets dragged through the mud whenever some mad TOWIE wannabe says “blast” to a policeman.

Recently, two men tried to intervene in what they thought was an attack. One morning, after a heavy night on the beers, the two men witnessed a man tackling a woman and trying to force her into a car. Put yourself in their position, what would you do? Yep, I’d probably do the same as them; get stuck in and wait for the Victoria Cross. So the two lads took the guy out, sat on him and set the young lady free, hero’s they were. Except there was a problem; as it turned out, the lady was a prostitute and the man was an undercover policeman arresting her, well, that’s what he said anyway.

So the two men now find themselves in trouble. They had alcohol in their systems from the night before (and to clarify, that doesn’t necessarily mean that someone is drunk) and they assaulted a police officer. Good luck, lads, I hope common sense prevails.

Elsewhere, a Dutch woman finds herself in a spot of bother after being robbed. She reported the crime to the police and was not offered any help. She became irate and passed comment on the attending officer. It is also alleged (thanks, Leveson) that she spat on the officer, too. The prognosis was that she was drunk, at midday. So she also faces the cells.

Being a tourist here can be a hazard. I mean, in order to consume alcohol legally you have to have an alcohol license. But in order to get one you have to be a resident with a visa and an Emirates ID card, so how in the name of Sweet Mary is a tourist going to get one? It can’t be done; therefore being a tourist in itself is technically illegal. The police are not public servants in the same way that our lot are. Yes they are paid for by the state, but there is no “my tax pays your wages blah blah blah” cobblers. They don’t care about your back story; if you don’t play by the UAE rules then you’re in trouble and it’s your own fault for not doing the research. Don’t you wish that the British police were like that sometimes?

Sadly reading such stories will put a lot of people off coming to the UAE and there is a stable economic future, built on trade and tourism, to be considered. If people see that you can end up inside for having a slice of sherry trifle for dessert then they may opt to go elsewhere. That doesn’t bode well for the future of the Emirates and the situation will need review. However, if you do fall into the bracket of looking for an alternative holiday destination, then may I make a suggestion? Have you considered a holiday in Kingston-upon-Thames, London?

Sure the UK is full of hate preachers, green party supporters, benefits tourists and high visibility jackets, but I was there the other week and I had one of best times of my life. I got battered, was able to stay warm on the premise that I went nowhere near the outside world, there was no tourism taxation, and the police only threatened to arrest me if I used the wrong bin in the kitchen, not for being drunk.

The downside was that I nearly died of hyperthermia and brought the sniffles back to the UAE with me, which meant I couldn’t have a drink all week. But it was well worth it.

144. Driving age

Tonight I am sitting here in my 128^th floor office at UAE Uncut Towers with the air conditioning on. I have traded the snow and the bitter cold of the UK for the relentless inferno that is the UAE. Yes, I have returneth. Being back in London last week was, in all honesty, a rather large eye-opener for yours truly. Oh sure it was wonderful to catch up with my friends and family, but as I sat there in The Victoria one afternoon listening to a table of elderly men discuss the proportional differences between their wedding vegetables, I was hit by startling revelation: I am an idiot.

No, really, I am as beef-witted as your out-of-the-box Kardashian. I normally come to this little corner of the internet, rant and rave about the UAE and how the UK is this and that, and then go ahead and contradict myself the following day. But as I sat there eavesdropping on unquestionably the most disturbing conversation held since Charles Manson’s initial get-together, I asked myself what the hell did I see in that place? The old men with mismatched genitals, their ailments, the dinosaur attitude towards busty barmaids; Jesus, where was I? The following day I was back in the same pub and wept a tear from my eye about how much I loved it and how brilliant it was.

Last week I sang the praises of London Transport, but since that time I had to ride the District Line during the rush hour. Standing there with my nose in a stranger’s armpit and a copy of The Metro up my bottom I turned on my own sentiments like a flash. And therein lies the problem; I change opinions like I change underpants (which to put your mind at ease, is a daily routine). Seriously, I cannot keep an opinion for more than a minute without swapping it for a shiny new one whenever the mood takes me. How, then, will I ever be taken seriously as a writer? What use would I be coming before you one day saying that George Osbourne is about as effective a Chancellor as a carrot, and then the next day preach his recession-combating magnificence? I’d be jeered, booed, ridiculed and most likely, shot.

So, is this the end of UAE Uncut? Has my unswerving integrity finally been exposed as nothing more than a charade? Am I just another internet thug with brainwashing intent? Probably, but that won’t stop me telling you what I think about the latest idea of lowering the driving age in the UAE.

Here in the UAE you have to be 18 to learn how to drive; in the UK it is 17. I know a few 17 year olds and the thought of getting into a car with any of them makes we want to set myself alight and jump out of a window. My friends and former colleagues will tell you that I go everywhere flat out, and when I was 17 I was what you would describe as a “little shit.” I passed my test when I was 17 years and 4 months old and on my first day waking up a man I offered to drive my sisters to school. A 1992 1.4 litre Vauxhall Astra estate is a beast that great men still struggle to tame to this day, so when I returned home some 15 minutes after setting off, the bonnet, grille and headlights had gone.

An old family photo of me aged 17 in my old Astra.

Yep, I crashed. Into a parked BMW, and drove off. Yikes. By the grace of God my Dad managed to get me off Scott free, but since that time the slow motion replay of me sliding into the back of that navy Beemer forever burns in my mind. Had I not had that crash who knows what may have happened later on, it was, in hindsight, a right of passage. I had discovered the limits early on and that instantly made me a better driver. I was, as a matter of fact, Steve McQueen in my Astra Mustang.

But, and despite next weeks blog that says the total opposite, the driving in the UK is inherently good. We have had 3-4 generations that have dealt with the wheeled beasts and the perils are well-known. Here in the UAE the situation is very different and I doubt very much that people younger than 18 will be of much use. The idea behind the whole thing, apparently, is to relieve the burden from poor old mum and dad. Johnny Teenager would be able to drive a car, with a chaperone, to run errands for his parents. He could do the groceries, pick up the dry cleaning, take little sister to dance practice or cruise around the streets at 3am, sideways, and on fire.

But who would the chaperone be, exactly? Mum or dad? Doesn’t that negate the whole thing in the first place? Will a special man with a moustache have to be employed solely as a watchman? Surely it wouldn’t be Jimmy Land Cruiser from over the road? That lunatic is always getting into pickles.

No matter, each car will be fitted with a speed control device that limits the cars capability. Such technology is very simple. You have a device that cuts the spark to the spark plugs, therefore lowering the speed of the engine. But the pistons keep pumping and fuel keeps pouring into the cylinder, so it carbons up and the engine, before too long, will need an expensive overhaul. The reality though is that Johnny Teenager will simply go and borrow his mates Skyline GTR instead.

Where I think we should cut the youths some slack is on the statistics front. I love it when people don’t think about what they’re publishing, and when it was said that 53% of all road accidents are caused by people aged between 18 and 40, it openly implies that 47% of accidents are caused by people aged 41-70. That seems fairly even to me, 100% of people are attributed to road accidents…

Of course the insurance companies won’t want to know. I had to pay £1600 in 2002 for my first full-years insurance; for a 1.4 litre Vauxhall Astra. What would a UAE premium be for a 15 year old in a Lamborghini Gallardo? Seven trillion dirhams?

Mum and dad, I’m afraid, will have to rely on the servants and personal drivers to continue to carry out the errands for now. Johnny Teenager needs to study and reach puberty before he is given the keys to the Ferrari 430. I can kind of see the idea behind this scheme, but then, I really can’t put it into words, either. Everyone has a crash at some point in their lives, and to get it over and done with early on may not be such a bad thing. I am, however, fairly sure that lowering the age below 18 in the UAE would be a disaster and I think back to when I was 17…

…Thank God I crashed on day one, otherwise who knows how dangerous I could have been?