It’s been over a month now.
I am finding my feet and beginning to find routine.
Weekends are spent dreaming up excuses to leave the Kingdom
to visit Bahrain and/or making the most of the sunshine and topping up my tan
and vitamin D.
Last weekend, I joined a couple of colleagues from Riyadh
who wanted to visit Bahrain. To be honest, I seem to be heading to Bahrain
nearly every week. Whether to run an errand, collect a colleague from the
airport or just because I bloody well can.
Friday was no different. A colleague had been out in Riyadh
for four weeks and - like a proper Englishman - needed a proper breakfast. So
we ended up in an American/Irish bar getting confused by the Thai staff who
were dressed up to celebrate St Patrick’s Day. It turns out that St Patricks Day
is celebrated each month on the Saturday closest to the 17th of the
month. Given that this appears to be the Companies preferred Bahrain breakfast,
(and lunch and dinner and drinking) venue I have a suspicion that this is
something that I will be getting used to.
Looking back, this marks the first moment in the week where
I began to feel as if all is not well with the World. As if everything is
conspiring to confuse me.
The second time this happened was being directed to an article
in The Independent newspaper by my Twitter feed that reviewed a single that has
been released by Mike Read to promote and raise funds for UKIP back home.
The review noted the horrific nursery rhyme simplicity,
stretched truths and an apparent fake Caribbean accent that has had a few
people raising an eye brow and questioning whether it constituted racism.
As context, when I read it, I had just read a pretty obviously
fake but quite thorough story about Banksy being arrested in Watford.
Was I missing something? Had I missed a decision to celebrate
“April Fools day” twice a year?
I mean, breaking the article down, it all seemed like
something to lift our satirical spirits after surviving March. A few of the
appallingly bad lyrics were quoted. They seemed rushed and crass enough that I
could imagine that they resulted from an editor giving an intern 30 seconds to
write a brief side bar, with the then said sad soul composing it during a hasty
coffee run and bowel evacuation. The Caribbean accent/racist discussion was
just incidental to the story; just an obvious layer to pad it out. Dragging
Mike Read into the scenario added credence to my logic process that this was a
second wind up I had read in a five minute period.
I mean… Mike Read? Come off
it!
When I saw how they described Mike Read, I was utterly
convinced that I was going to be no fool. The article described him as – amongst
other things - a poet, song writer, and impresario.
This was the clincher. Absolute fake. Not falling for that. No
way.
We all know that Mike Read was and is nothing but a great
big cock.
He was hopelessly safe in the 1980’s where he disappointed a
generation who had been getting excited by Swap Shop and Tiswas by making Saturday
mornings less exciting than before. The only saving grace of Saturday
Superstore were Sarah Greene’s legs. Mike Read was on the radio before you went
to school. Not like John Peel who was on the radio when you were supposed to be
going to sleep. Mike Read got “Relax” by Frankie Goes to Hollywood banned.
Richard Skinner, Kid Jenson and Janice Long played Jesus & Mary Chain. Mike
Read appeared on Saturday teatime telly where your mum and dad might see him. John
Peel’s dispassion made TOTP cool. Mike Read was just the establishment muscling
in on the New Wave/Post Punk/Post Ska revolution that had allowed the young and
disenfranchised hope and a voice.*
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| Now, given the fuss about the song, it would be easy to make a crass throwaway remark about the banana in Mike Read's hand. But I won't. He was just holding a banana when the shot was taken. Instead, I will note that, YES... that IS David Icke on the left staring into space on the look out for reptiles and a turquoise shell suit. |
But, seriously, I expected better of a broadsheet than that. I
honestly thought that they would have contrived something more believable and,
well… I dunno… funny.
Which meant that I had a nagging doubt.
So I checked on YouTube.
I was left speechless.
And empty.
Void.
Then, today, I read about Brian Harvey (ex East 17) turning
up at Downing Street and attempting to show his maths homework to David
Cameron.
I’ve only been gone a month. Come on, people. What are you doing to
my country?
You’re all losing the plot. Wake up!
So. Back to Saudi.
It’s sunny out here, so on Saturday, I
fell into my usual habits. A bit of a lie in and a stroll to explore.
The Corniche is the high spot of Al Khobar. Alongside a calm
sea, it stretches for mile upon mile. Landscaped gardens allow shade to relax,
listen to the waves and watch the locals. On a Friday it heaves with families
but Saturdays are a little quieter. It only picks up toward dusk when the
temperature begins to drop off, down to 28 or 30C. But a breeze had cooled the
coast on Saturday so I ended up walking down to the deserted section of the
parade down near Al Khobar harbour.
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| The Corniche |
And this is where I witnessed and – understandably - got
spooked by a murder.
A murder of crows.
Friends will know that I like birds. I do. Always have.
Since I was just a kid and my mum made me join the Young Ornithologists Club
(YOC). As a youth, I learned a great deal and – because I was a sponge – much of
what I learned has stayed with me. I’m not a twitcher per se and I don’t generally
go out to purposely look for birds nowadays, but I do take an interest and keep
my eyes open. Truthfully, I had looked for and noted websites highlighting how
Khobar and Dammam are pretty good sites for passing migrants. I had also noted
that where I was ending up on Saturday afternoon is very close to one of the
spots that they recommend for a quick twitch.
And I saw Hoopoe. Hoopoe are pretty.
And all was good.
Until I disturbed a dozen or more crows.**
Crows are incredibly intelligent and they are incredibly
strong fliers. As a species they regularly demonstrate reasoning and problem
solving. As they did on Saturday.
It took me a few moments to comprehend what was happening. I
was taking in the view, listening to the sea and generally choosing a place to
sit down for a while when I noticed that the birds were using the power of the
wind to climb above me, drop down toward me, matching the speed of the wind to
hover.
At first, I watched in awe. I even had a chance to take a
couple of snaps with my mobile phone. It was incredible, beautiful and fun. But
then I realised that they were getting lower and lower and closer and closer to
me. And they weren’t interested in signing release papers for me to market and
publish my photographs.
They are big birds. Big, bastard birds.
And they were clearly
pissed with me being there and goading one another to take a pot shot at me. As
I turned to face them they would slip off into the wind to get behind me. All
the time seeming to get closer and closer.
A couple passed less than a foot above me. Swooping down. Hanging
in the wind. Very deliberate. It started to get a bit Hitchcock like and for a
few moments, I honestly thought that one of them would come in to make contact
and inevitably draw blood.
Have you seen their wingspan? Or the size of a crow’s beak?
Or their claws? Or noted how their eyes seem to constantly stare at you and
weigh you up?
I have. On Saturday, all too closely.
But the thing that was most un-nerving and disorientating
was that after the initial uproar when I first spooked them into flight, they
fell silent. Ghostly shadows and shapes dancing and taunting me just above and
behind my head, trying not to let me face them down.
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| Murder. |
Just when I thought that it was time to run and make an inglorious
and undignified retreat, it stopped. As quickly as they started, they lifted
into the air and flew away.
I watched on as they moved onto a different, softer target
and started dive bombing a group of Herons at the water’s edge as if to restore
their pride in themselves and dominion over the other bird species.
It lasted no more than 30-40 seconds, but once I had a
chance to think about what might have been, I was damn spooked.
Of course, it could have been worse. Did you know that many
of the large gull species defend their territory by shitting out the entire
contents of their bowels and stomachs on intruders?
Being a bit spooked by crows is far easier to disguise on
the walk back home than a head full of gull shit.
Small mercies.
* Note.
I am well aware that the end of that paragraph come across a little like Rik
out the Young Ones. I never really liked Mike Read and – today – I really quite
loathe him. I guess I got a bit carried away.
** Note. To show a few credentials. I refer
to them as crows, but in reality, I should be calling them “House Crow” or one
of the other variants… “Indian Crow”, Grey Necked Crow”, “Ceylon Crow” or “Colombo
Crow”. This is to differentiate them from Carrion Crows, Hooded Crows, Raven or
Jackdaw or other European, black crows. See! I know my stuff!!
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