The first weekend in December sees the Emirates Airlines Dubai Rugby Sevens, billed as the 'party of the year' by expats and tourist guides. We buy tickets and head to the Exiles Ground[1] for a weekend of watching rugby and drinking beer.
Excellent.
The first day starts poorly, as we miss the first of England's matches due to some poor timing. The queue to collect tickets is huge, slowed by every man who reaches the front and says, 'I don't have my receipt, can you check against this credit card number?'
Once inside, the day fares better. We buy cases of something that someone convinces me is beer, and sit with one of the local teams, drinking beer and occassionally glancing over at the matches below. We watch England win their remaining two games (having won their first match as we queued). We cheer when France and Wales are outclassed. Send out for more beer when our cases run empty.
It rains when the sun sets. It's only a light shower, but high up in the stands it approaches something resembling cold. I refuse to acknowledge this, and the rain stops and we think we have seen the last of it.
We leave quickly, beat the majority of the crowd to the buses, and are dropped off on Sheikh Zayed road. We have a curry and then go clubbing; the appropriately named Rock Bottom's[2]. The curry was great; the club less so. Rock Bottom's is not always a bad night out, although no one can ever deny that it is cheap and nasty. My friend describes it as like a cheap student night at university, and I am inclined to agree. For me it reminds me of the Walkabout in Swindon, except the floor isn't sticky enough. Tonight, the place is full of rugby players.
The following morning we wake to rain. It appears to be only showers, so I assure my guest we should not panic. It is just as well, because neither of us have coats, or umbrellas, or anything approaching cold weather clothing.
The rain stops as we take taxi to the Exiles Ground, but as soon as we leave the taxi it returns a thousand-fold. It rains, rains hard and, most amazingly, does not stop all day. The sand is saturated minutes after we arrive; by mid afternoon the place looks like the world's biggest (and most disappointing[3]) mud-wrestling ring.
'Didn't you read the paper?' asks a friend as we join them on the stand, already soaked to the skin.
'Do I look like I read the paper,' I say, but I am trying to not let the weather dampen my spirits, so I laugh. The next time we walk to the bar, I kick muddy water into the tops of his improvised boots.
The main problem is not the rain -- we English are used to playing and watching rugby in the rain, after all -- but more that the entire rugby club is permeable. The coverings over the stands are designed to provide shade rather than waterproofing, and it feels wetter under the stands than out in the open.
We seek refuge in the beer tent along with about 15,000 other people. At times it works: we watch England's first match directly in front of a big screen, right next to the bar, and with a nice portion of chips to soak up the beer.
When we return later that afternoon we find that drunk expats have gotten bored with the rugby and started having mud fights, flinging the black grime around the tent with wild abandon. I stop when I spy work colleagues. They look as if they have just returned from a hard day down the pit. Their faces and clothes are black. As I talk with one, another sneaks up behind me and puts muddy hand prints on my face and body. My England shirt is trashed; the mud is greasy and stubborn, and five washes later proves to be indestructible.
We brave the stands to watch the culmination of the rugby. England leave the tournament at the hands of the dirty Bokkers, who go on to win.
At the final whistle we run, again, for the buses. There is a moment of panic when the bus in front of us gets stuck in the mud, but we soon get around it. Later we are warm and clean, falling asleep in our pints, and trying to decide where to go for the night.
The following day, the rain has all but stopped, and everyone wonders what all the fuss was about.
It never occured to me that it could rain so much in the desert. I was told they got a few thunder storms, and that was it. But raining all day? If you had told me before I came out here, I would have called you a liar.
It rains the next day, and the next, pretty much daily until I clamber onto the plane that will take me to the U.K. for Christmas. It never again has the intensity of the rain at the Sevens, but it soon becomes tedious.
The English expats are of course in their element now; and the weather is discussed often and at length. It is like being back home.
Dubai Museum occupies the site of Al Fahidi fort; one of the remnants of Dubai before everything was vertical. Shamefully, I am in Dubai for almost three months before I visit. It is the arrival of a friend who prompts the visit; he is in town working for a month and wants to see everything in his guidebook. Having two years ahead of me here, I have adopted a much more laidback attitude to sightseeing, but I am soon dragged along to every bar, night club, and tourist attraction on the list.
In hindsight, it is just as well he visits Dubai; my television still has not been connected.
Back to the museum. It showcases the history of Dubai, beginning in the renovated fort with remnants from colonial days. It then goes underground, taking in the rapid rise of Dubai with a video that even now must be out of date and wholy inaccurate, as well as the dioramas of the traditional trades and pasttimes of the Arabian gulf.
It is interesting and good value for money (entrance fee was about 3 tokens, or 40p). Kids are likely to get bored, however, as there is little keep young minds occupied.
A month passes in which no more furniture is bought. The only noticeable feature in our lounge is the dust. I am the first to admit that I am being lazy, but my housemate is lazier: he is out of work for most of December and aside from golf does not appear to have much else to do.
I fly out to the United Kingdom at the end of the month, hoping that something will have changed by the time I return.
There is something in Dubai called the Friday Brunch; an all-you-can-eat promotion run by many hotels, restaurants, and bars. What sets it apart from your typical all-you-can-eat is the fact that they usually include all-you-can-drink. And the food is usually good quality and value. They run on Friday afternoons, and as nothing much happens on a Friday they are understandably popular with the expats.
The Friday Brunches run the gamut from cheesy to classy. Some of the bars run ridiculously cheap deals that usually have everyone bloated and hammered by four in the afternoon. Some of the hotels have more civilized ambitions, and sometimes achieve them, although I hear the Champagne Brunch[4] starts classy and swiftly descends into decadence. 'Your glass never gets empty!' one girl raves to me. I am yet to check it out.
We discover the Friday Brunch after going to the museum. The J.W. Marriott [5] hotel runs their brunch in the evening, and we arrive at 8. My friend explains how it works: 'You can go in any of the three restaurants with that little dealy.' She points at the fetching music festival-style wristband I now sport. 'Go up as many times as you like.'
A waitress keeps us supplied with beer and wine whilst we explore the buffets. There are seven or eight, ranging from Asian food in one restaurant, to german cuisine in the Hofbrauhaus[6], to a simple grill in the final restaurant. On the way to the grill to investigate how much steak and chicken we can pile on a dinner plate, I discover the seafood bar: a bucket of shrimp each as big as my thumb, crab legs, oysters, and more. I'm definitely coming here again, I tell myself.
I do not realise how soon that will be. The following weekend a different group of friends organise a brunch for a 30th birthday. I discover that the brunch actually starts at lunchtime, effectively doubling the amount of eating and drinking time for the same price that we paid the previous week. I resolve to eat as many of those prawns as I can without making myself sick. Then I discover the buffet that serves nothing but crispy duck pancakes.
I'm definitely coming here again, I tell myself, although maybe not next week.
Christmas in Dubai is strange. You would think, being a muslim country and an arabic state to boot, that Christmas would be downplayed somewhat. It would appear however, that they celebrate Christmas in Dubai almost as much as we do in the U.K. It is the malls where it really goes nuts: every mall has a Christmas tree, Christmas decorations appear overnight to hang from every available surface, and that fucking Slade song is playing in every other shop. The places where expats gather become especially festive, as if to remind them of the Christmasses that are being sanitised back home, and it is surprising.
The contrast to the way it is celebrated in the U.K. is refreshing. The U.K. is increasingly becoming a place where the religious aspect of Christmas is being downplayed through fear of offending someone. People wish each other 'a happy festive season' with straight faces. Schools are being banned from putting up trees in case any non-Christian should be upset. Workers are subject to disciplinary action for sending cards to their colleagues. In Dubai, the celebration is almost encouraged.
Speaking as someone who does not really attach any significance to the religious aspect anymore, it is still nice to think that I am in a place that doesn't spare a thought as to whether it is offending another religion just by practicing their own. Okay, so the country is far from perfect, but in this aspect, I believe it has the right idea.
Our Christmas party is organised rather last minute, but it is a great night. It is another all-you-can-eat, albeit on a Tuesday. The theme for the night is 'British cuisine', words which fill me with dread; are we going to be treated to a night of fish-finger sandwiches, microwave WeightWatcher lasagnes, and marmite flavoured crisps?
As it turns out, 'British cuisine' means a roast dinner. It is good, with chunks of beef you could prop uneven tables with, and turkey legs that each cover more than half a plate. The meat and veg is so good that we overlook the almost-criminal lack of roast potatoes. At least they manage to get the Yorkshire pudds right.
We make another discovery that night, that of the Ladies Night.
Ladies Night is an attempt by a bar or nightclub to attract more women by offering them cheap, or even free, drinks. They never work. Ever. Anywhere you go in the world, you will discover that 'Ladies Night' is actually code for 'Horny Single Guys Night, Ladies Please Stay Home!'
Unfortunately, as we find, most bars and clubs adopt a ladies-or-couples only door policy, which repeatedly prevents me and my friends (typically four or more men, with seldom a woman amongst us) from entering. We despair at the doors. 'There are trollies[7] inside,' we cry, to no avail. 'Please let us in. We'll behave.'
There are a few ladies nights that are open to all, and we think we have struck gold when we discover one that is not busy. Some attractive women in clusters at the tables, a scattering of men at the bar. Then the clock strikes eleven and the place fills up with horny Indians in bad suits. One man in a Del Monte suit struts around in the centre of the bar, thinking he is a god among men even though he is only four feet tall. The peacocks are preening, and as their eyes group grope the women, I begin to feel very bad about my gender.
'Let's go,' I say. 'We're not this desperate.'
Nearing the end of December -- or at least that part of it that I spend in the U.A.E. -- three of us take a lift up to Vu's bar. Vu's is the highest bar in Dubai , sitting as it does on the 51st floor of the Hotel Tower of the Jumeirah Emirates Towers. It is the best of the cocktail bars I have been to.
The view is amazing, taking in a large swathe of night-time Dubai, all the way up to the coast and for many miles to either side. We sit at the bar, taking in the view and talking with the barman who was looking after us. The cocktail menu is the most comprehensive in Dubai, and the barman speaks long about the drinks featured and how he came to get his job. He speaks with a passion that makes his immediately trust him. His drinks suggestions are, one and all, amazing.
The atmosphere is classy, refined, ruined only by the fact that 50 Cent is playing on the stereo and Stella Artois is the beer on tap.
We soon have to leave. Our stomachs begin rumbling, and this bar doesn't serve food. Regretfully, we climb back into the lift, descend.
Scarlett's bar, downstairs, has the best burgers in the world. It is a great way to finish off a great month.
[1] Home of the Dubai Exiles rugby club, amongst overs.
[2] It's the Ronseal of nightclubs: Rock bottom, is exactly what it says above the door.
[3] Mainly because the few women there were wearing raincoats rather than bikinis and none of them seemed inclined to wrestle.
[4] At the Fairmont Hotel.
[5] Located in Deira, near the village of culture.
[6] Awesome German restaurant/bar with proper lager, and thigh-slapping polka music in the evenings.
[7] Air hostesses.
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