Episode One of Old Holborn’s Travel Guides
The plan was to spend a couple of days on the beach, wander the old Souks (a hobby of mine) and drink myself stupid.
Emirates – A good airline. With the current carnage at BA showing yet again that nobody can fuck it up like the British, it made sense. Dropped the car off at the end of the District line and jumped on a tube to Heathrow. Fuck me, I was the only white man from Uxbridge to Earls court. What the fuck is going on in East London? Why bother flying to an Arab country when a quick ride through Mile End will suffice?
Heathrow – no, I cannot, simply will not let it pass without comment. What an absolute bastards shambles. Every dodgy trader in the land trying to push yet more shite on a weary traveller, queues the size of Brixton dole office trying to get through ONE fucking scanner, stupid, stupid people who wait until it is their turn to be xrayed before they even consider taking their overcoats off, checking for keys, phones etc. It cannot be long before murder is done.
The flight? Wonderful. Decent looking tarts attending to my every whim, 500 plus channels on the telly, gin and tonic flowing, good food and a relaxing atmosphere. Recommended.
Dubai airport is spotless. True, it is the size of bastard Kuwait but once you reach immigration, there are no queues, no screaming kids just efficient courteous staff doing their jobs properly. Bags arrive before you do, duty free on hand, ATM’s instead of Jewish money traders trying to fleece you with “no commission” deals designed to extract all your cash by shitty exchange rates.
Taxis. Oh boy, they’ve got this sorted. Dirt cheap, spotless and if the Indian disadvantaged person driving it tries to rip you off, he is executed on the spot by a grinning policeman.
So what is Dubai like, I hear you say?
A very, very weird place. I like old stuff, a bit of charm and something unusual so I opted to stay in the old town of Deira where all the old markets and lice ridden beggars live. Gives it a touch of atmosphere, however most visitors head for the shiny themed Disneyland hotels that have sprung up further up the beach. One night at the Jumeirah Beach hotel was enough to show me that the Russian Mafia is alive and kicking and the place is full of 28 year old public schoolboy yuppies living the high life and smoking shisha pipes to try and look cool. They don’t. They look like 28 year old public schoolboys trying to be cool and failing.
Anyway, I digress. You won’t see an arab unless you go to the pub. Then, the place is bastard full of rag heads downing as much beer as they can whilst fondling the Filipinos before clambering into BMW X5’s and doing 100 mph through town. Middle aged Brits with nylon Arsenal shirts holding up the bar, their eyes desperately following the slightest hint of skirt, dodgy Armenians doing dodgy deals, badly dressed Russians, Vietnamese skanks, timid Dutch.
But the service is excellent.
“I would like my beer delivered by naked Balinese maidens please”
“no problem” says Sanjay from Cochin, who is happy to spend 51.5 weeks away from his wife and kids in Kerala for £1.50 a week (plus tips)
Food.
For some reason, Iranians seem to be the main vendors of dysentery in Dubai. Every restaurant will serve you char grilled lambs head covered in chilli flakes and washed down with a stiff glass of tap water, grinning all the while whilst you digest what has probably been digested three times before. The Fish Souk (market) has a wonderful frontage, worthy of Billingsgate, but out the back, the rag heads are busy shovelling rotten fish guts mixed with year old ice slush into wheelbarrows to sell to 5 star hotels.
Good Food. 360 Restaurant at the Jumeirah Beach
Bad Food. Everywhere.
Entertainment
There isn’t any… You can watch the Lambos and Ferraris turn up at 5 star restaurants, unload their Russian whores and fat Arabs for a meal of rotten fish guts baked in vomit or you can sit in “swanky” cocktail bars on the 97th floor watching fat European businessmen trying to impress tight faced accountantesses from PWC. Much more fun is to go to the Moscow Hotel and watch their cabaret, which consists of Bolshei trained stunners gyrating to a Casio keyboard and a bloke on guitar who hasn’t even plugged it in (yes, it’s true)
Beaches are cool if you like bathing on a building site prowled by greasy hook nosed Stani’s desperate to shag anything that isn’t from Pakistan. I don’t.
Natives.
There aren’t any. I like Indians, luckily. They are smiley, honest, hardworking and apart from spiting their red gunk in the street, seem to get along. Pakistani’s (of which there are four million) are not. Lazy, shifty, quivering with greed as you approach are to be avoided. You can smell the garlic long before you have to face their bearded, filthy entities. Avoid.
So do I like Dubai?
I like the liberal society. I like the tolerance. I certainly like the weather and the prices. I like the Indians, the choice, the markets, the wailing 5 times a day, the efficiency, the modern, 21st century appeal, the money invested and the comfort and the whatever attitude from the incumbant dictator.
I HATE everything and everybody else. I hate the “nouveau rich”, the flash bling, the Ruskies, the Paki’s and the Yemeni’s. I hate “Disney” attitude to everything. If I want to go skiing, I’ll go to the Alps and insult the French, not Dubai indoor ski centre. I hate the upper middle class English tarts who wallow everywhere as if they own the effing place, I hate Arsenal and most of all, I hate stupid Irish bints who say they will then don’t, even when pissed.
Make your own minds up. Get there before Wayne and Waynetta or skip the whole thing and source polenta ingredients in Tuscany.
Bastards