You're in my country now

This was told to me by my brother. This happened a few years ago, around 1996.

A German friend of his, who I will call H, working in Saudi Arabia on a temporary contract, was leaving to return home after having completed the project he had been assigned. At immigration, he had just placed his passport on the counter when an extremely loud, obnoxious Saudi man came barging through the queue which was mostly made up of poor labourers. Shouting obcenities all the way along, he approached the desk where he picked up H's passport and flung it off to the side, smugly exclaiming "You are in my country."
The immigration officer, was slightly embarrassed but did not challenge the man's behaviour and stamped his passport through.

Now H, being a generally typical German with little sense of humour, didn't see the funny side of this and started arguing with both idiots. To top it off, he was detained briefly by the airport security for 'making shouting'. Eventually, they did release him, but not before he was within 5 minutes of missing his flight.

Got on the flight in a foul mood - yada yada. I have no details of the flight, safe to say he probably drank a bit, ate a bit and slept a bit. I mean, aeroplanes are the only places where one can do all three things at the same time.

Off the plane, through immigration and was walking across the narrow bridge to the arrivals area. Who does he see, but asshole himself from the airport! Asshole had changed out of his kandora, and looked a bit silly with his clown trainers and ball-crushing tight jeans. H manouevred himself behind Bozo and just as he was about to descend the stairs down to arrivals, gave him an almighty karate kick up his backside. He even made sure he timed it perfectly, so he wasn't holding the railings.

Down he went, head over heels over arse over tits. His briefcase had, in the tumble, burst open and lost all it's contents, which were now airborne. His combover had come loose and was flapping in the breeze. He looked up and instantly recogised H, first going pale, then green. H put one foot on his wobbly man-boob chest and pointing menacingly at his quivering face simply said,

"You are in my country now."

...and picked up his passport and threw it in the gutter.

Why I live in Britain

Why do I live in the UK?

I must admit there are few places where I truly feel liberty. Places where I sense that I have the implicit permission to do as I see fit. However, the whole of Blighty is just such a place.
There is a direct inverse correlation between how many times one thinks about the detrimental effects of the Government or Police in their daily lives, and the freedom one is afforded in that country.

I do not have to carry identification on my person.
I am able to live and associate with whomsoever I see fit.
I can own assets without imposition.
I can set to choose my own moral code.
I have the support of a non-religious and liberal majority.
My daughters (if I have any) will live as equals.
I am taxed reasonably and fairly.
I can watch regular adult orientated programming on television.
I can criticise the Government publicly and vociferously.
I can get free, excellent treatment with the National Health Service.
I can get support if I am sick or unemployed.

and...
I can support the Indian cricket team and still be British.

Bungling Burglars

I was at my cousin's place in London the other day. He's my eldest cousin, my mother's eldest sister's eldest son. You get the picture. He's not elderly, but old enough that I even call his kids my cousins, because I don't really know what official title I should burden them with.

Well anyway, I killed many birds with a single stone because, who was visiting from India and East Africa? None other than my 4th eldest cousin's wife and kid from Delhi, and my eldest massi (look it up) herself from the dark continent.
So I got to spend time with 3 branches of the family on a sticky London summer's day. My hayfever, which I never suffered from in Fujairah, was slightly irritating that day. Luckily, my only symptom was a runny nose. Loratidine took care of it easily enough...

I digress once again. Back to the matter at hand. We were having dinner, and my Delhi nephew (cousin's kid) decided he had had enough of sitting around listening to boring chatter and took his leave from the table. He went off and promptly came running back 5 minutes later, saying "A boy has broken the window, they were playing outside and the ball hit the window and broke it."

"A boy?"
"Yes, a little boy."
"Where is he?"
"He ran away after breaking the window."

At this point we started laughing a little thinking he may have broken the window and decided to blame some Houdini-like boy. But nevertheless, London cousin and I went off, immediately saw that the spray pattern of the glass was inwards and ran straight out of the house. The neighbours were pointing towards the road and someone shouted 'thieves'. I got in my car sped off along the avenue but nothing... LC went the opposite way hoping to cut them off. Nothing.

Later found out they were on bikes. Great.

Did interrogate my Delhi nephew though. "So what did they look like?"
"Small about this high." (Indicates 4 feet.) I checked the window, they must have been at least 5 feet something but because he's only 7 years old the relative difference in heights were not apparent to him.
"What were they doing?"
"Playing with a ball. It was covered in cloth." (Prevent fingerprints.)
"Ha!"
"They hit the window twice by mistake. " I was now laughing so hard, I ended the questioning. Kids are great. "As soon as they saw me they ran away, like I said."

Inquisitive kids, better than dogs anyday.

Changing Jobs

I've been bloody busy so haven't had any time to post anything here. However, I vow to get a few more in before the end of the month. Over the past few weeks, I have been filling in paperwork to do a part-time Masters in Sports and Exercise Medicine (yes I'm a doctor for fuck's sake). I think it will be worth my while with the Olympics coming over in 2012. Who knows, I might even get a job working for one of the sports teams at the games. We'll wait and see.

In other developments, I have decided to switch back to medicine again after a while working as a management consultant (yes that's right a doctor working in the City). I took the career tangent after deciding that I needed a break from medicine, as I was extremely bored. However, I have found my groove again, and I sincerely think I am in it for the long haul now. Well for the next 3 years, because that's about as long haul as it gets for me.

So hopefully, by then I will be in Old Trafford checking our Rooney's broken foot for the 3rd time in successive World Cups. Aim high, I say...

Summer's Here

Summer's here. The sun's shining and the girls are out in their stringy vests and tiny skirts. Very nice. It's also cricket season too, and that is something I relish more than eye candy. This area of the world is particularly nice because I live within a stone's throw of the Beacons National Park. Most people have to drive vast distances to even get a glimpse of countryside, yet it is at my doorstep. I may go there today actually, the temperature outside is a lovely 24 Celsius with a cool breeze blowing. I need to smell the grass, lie down and love the slow life.

I'm off....

Paedo-phallic

Alright, I am substituting this entry for the one I was writing earlier.

I was at the pool, I won't tell you which one because it will give too much away. Anyway, there is a scum-of-the-earth type fellow, who I will call Riff, whom I always manage to bump into. Even when I don't want to.

Anyway today, Riff was accompanied by another of his waster friends, a guy I will call Raff. So Riff and Raff are walking around the pool clutching their trunks, which are just glorified boxers, hmmm...
Yes, they had semis, and the reason was that they had a couple of head-over-heels, giggling schoolgirls with them.

Riff and Raff are from a special place. The branch of the city where most of the drug dealers and dregs of society make their nests. The two girlies, were the types who want much older boyfriends. The ones who, when we were at school, used to get picked up by their "men". Both were obviously under the age of fifteen. It was the constant checking that gave it away. The tendency of youngsters to discuss even the most mundane activities, "I'm going to jump in the pool to cool off, I am - what about you. No? OK, I won't either...."
Riff told me in no uncertain terms that he was getting "his end away" with the girls. Now, knowing this twenty-two year old criminal, wanker - I believe him.

I am sure his parole officer would love to know that he's fucking two underage lolitas.

I wonder who will tell them?

HAHAHAHA.... ;-)

Memories of Choueifat I

Now I hope I've spelt the school name correctly. I studied at the International School of Choueifat, which I am led to believe is some little village in Lebanon, from the age of 4 till the age of 9. I have many memories from my time there, and I am sure if any of you reading were students at the school, you will reminisce with me.
The school was chosen by my parents because in 1984, there was precious little choice in english-medium schools, close to where we lived. We lived in Ajman at the time, a great villa by the beach. I'm sure I've written about it somewhere. Every morning, around 7:30, we would set off and reach the school around 10 minutes later. What bliss, there was NO traffic in those days, just like there were no inhabitants in those days.
My dad remembers those days fondly. The car was a right hand drive white diesel-engined Mercedes 200D. We had two of them and they were both bought in England, when my parents left to return home in 1981, never quite making it all the way and getting stuck in the UAE.
The school was this vast behemoth of sandy brown coloured buildings, spread over a sprawling campus. I must admit, at the time it looked like there was too much space, but it turned out to be just right, considering the growth in student numbers that subsequently took place.
I was in kindergarten, and I remember there were quite a few bilingual students in school at the time. They were from christian Lebanese families, fleeing the civil war back home, and they are half the reason why I am fluent at French today. The other reason being, Choueifat taught us the language of love from such an early age, that the grammar and vocabulary became second nature. I will find such a school, when I have my own children.
One fine day early in the first term, the teacher came running in quite excited - I still recall her face glowing in maniacal delight - virtually dragging a boy behind her. She presented him before me like a head-hunt trophy, proudly exclaiming 'Siddarth, meet Siddarth.' and turning to me, 'I have brought him so you can be friends.' Both of us were just 4 years old, and being friends because of a shared first name seemed like a terrific idea. What a duo, me with my dirty blonde hair and my good friend with the purest black hair you could imagine.
Even now 23 years later, him and I are very good friends and every time I return to visit my parents, in Fujairah, I always pop round his place to catch up.

Happy 27th birthday mate.

Move To Fujairah

The congestion of the west coast, including Dubai, Sharjah, Ajman and the surroundings is definitely starting to affect people's psyche now, so for your mental well-being I advise some of you to move to Fujairah.
Not all of you, just some of you. I think there should be a green card style lottery, with the lucky winners getting the right of abode in the heavenly, mountainous oasis of calm. For a start. getting to work will take you no more than 5 minutes, if you are lucky enough to actually gain employment in Fujairah itself. The west coast may be 1 hour away by car, but most places are now at least an hour away, even if you live in one of the western cities mentioned above.
Just one example to illustrate my point. An old school friend of mine asked if I wanted to go out in Dubai, and I confirmed in the affirmative. Now he, at the time, lived in Sharjah with his parents in a villa near one of those yellow, water tank-towers. You know, the ones located on the roundabouts, going towards the corniche. Anyway, he and I started our journeys at the same time, but I reached the mall on the Dubai-Sharjah road a full 30 minutes before him. Thirty minutes!
I vow never to move to west coast, I can get to anywhere faster than you lot can, anyday.

Shoe Shopping

I hate shopping. I really do. I tend to do it with other like-minded individuals, ones who prefer to run in and buy the item they had planned on purchasing and run back out again. Today, however the sun was out, which is quite rare in Cardiff, where I live at the moment, so I decided an amble to the shops would be quite refreshing. I must admit that, having had my recent haircut I do look more dapper and also I have *almost* got that elusive 6-pack, so the ladies do tend to look at me and smile. I have a girlfriend though, so too bad, ladies.

I bought a great pair of shoes, I have been looking for this pair for a while and eventually managed to locate a couple to an elusive 'Office' outlet. They cost me a grand total of 85 quid, which is not too bad because they are sweet, made of camel leather and have the loveliest grain on them. In short, they are the dogs bollocks.

I don't make many purchases because of my aforementioned shopping allergy. So I guess it makes this event even more noteworthy. Back to those one handed push-ups and crunches then...

Celebrate Good Times... (c'mon?)

A UAE diplomat was being held captive in Iraq by some new Former-Street-Gang-Turned-Terrorist-Outfit. To cut a long story short, he was released and upon his release his local municipal council had the following celebration:

Thrilled with the good news, the Municipality of Dibba Al Hosn watered all streets surrounding the diplomat's house. Meanwhile all the festive decorations were undertaken by the local Theatrical Arts Association. A big spontaneous procession comprising friends, neighbours, and compatriots were also out there in large numbers in anticipation of Naji's much-awaited return.

I mean, it is lovely to see that the council has this spirit of jubilation, but why are they watering the streets?

Answers on the back of £50 notes please.

Housekeeping Monthly

I was sent this by a friend recently. He failed to mention where he came across this tome of housekeeping wizardry.

From Housekeeping Monthly, 13 May, 1955.

* Have dinner ready. Plan ahead, even the night before, to have a delicious meal ready on time for his return. This is a way of letting him know that you have be thinking about him and are concerned about his needs. Most men are hungry when they get home and the prospect of a good meal is part of the warm welcome needed.

* Prepare yourself. Take 15 minutes to rest so you'll be refreshed when he arrives. Touch up your make-up, put a ribbon in your hair and be fresh-looking. He has just been with a lot of work-weary people.

* Be a little gay and a little more interesting for him. His boring day may need a lift and one of your duties is to provide it.

* Clear away the clutter. Make one last trip through the main part of the house just before your husband arrives. Run a dustcloth over the tables.

* During the cooler months of the year you should prepare and light a fire for him to unwind by. Your husband will feel he has reached a haven of rest and order, and it will give you a lift too. After all, catering to his comfort will provide you with immense personal satisfaction.

* Minimize all noise. At the time of his arrival, eliminate all noise of the washer, dryer or vacuum. Encourage the children to be quiet.

* Be happy to see him.

* Greet him with a warm smile and show sincerity in your desire to please him.

* Listen to him. You may have a dozen important things to tell him, but the moment of his arrival is not the time. Let him talk first - remember, his topics of conversation are more important than yours.

* Don't greet him with complaints and problems.

* Don't complain if he's late for dinner or even if he stays out all night. Count this as minor compared to what he might have gone through at work.

* Make him comfortable. Have him lean back in a comfortable chair or lie him down in the bedroom. Have a cool or warm drink ready for him.

* Arrange his pillow and offer to take off his shoes. Speak in a low, soothing and pleasant voice.

* Don't ask him questions about his actions or question his judgment or integrity. Remember, he is the master of the house and as such will always exercise his will with fairness and truthfulness. You have no right to question him.

* A good wife always knows her place.

Hilarious - no?