Lucky Pants and Handbags

Football is a ridiculous game.

Twenty two men chasing a bag of air and trying to kick it into an onion net.

Football is illogical.

The sport generates a nonsensical money for a very small minority while being simultaneously fawned and obsessed over by a herd of vulnerable and gullible fools who spend way too much time investing emotion into it. It creates it’s own irrational superstitions in people. Players and fans alike fall into routines, habits and practices that can take on a life of their own. Obsessive, compulsive and beautiful. What to wear? What not to wear? Quasi-religious devotions and statements of blind faith. It drives people, it owns people. It can define people and become a way of life.

Football is wonderful.

I gave up a season ticket at Brentford FC to take up my opportunity in Saudi Arabia.

It was a big decision for me; giving up my season ticket… 

… 

And moving to Saudi Arabia. 

Brentford had just reached the second tier of the football league structure in the UK for the first time in 21 years. They did it by playing positive, attacking and attractive football. My previous employer had agreed to weight my shift pattern against home fixtures so that I could attend matches. I was looking forward to the 14/15 season. But I managed to gain sight of a bigger picture and took the plunge. A full refund was obtained and a replacement air ticket to Dammam acquired.

But, I still managed to take in a couple of games before I left. I witnessed a draw against a strong looking Charlton on the opening day of the season and I witnessed my beloved’s exit from the League Cup against F*lham. And it was that F*lham game that I was reminded of last Friday evening when I attended my first football match in Saudi Arabia. The evenings had much in common in football terms and a series of apparently unlikely circumstances or coincidences.

Let me explain.

The story starts on a cool August evening where a wind squalled and it felt as if the heavens were about to open at any time. I met with Hel at Ealing Broadway station and travelled to the cathedral of football that is Griffin Park, Brentford.

Hopes were high. There was a real buzz about the club and a local derby in the cup just turned it up a notch. It was Brentford’s first meeting with F*lham for something like fourteen years. Our league form was good, there’s was appalling. They had been relegated, we had achieved the opposite. “Bee’s up, F*lham down” had been a staple terrace chant for months. We were at home. We have always been and always will be a better team. Good times!

On a personal level I really thought that we would win that night. I felt it in my heart. I’d followed my little pre-match routines. No colours (I’ve never seen Brentford win while wearing one of their shirts), The Clash’s London Calling was played en route and I said a quiet prayer to the playing spirit of Bob Booker. Nothing could go wrong.

But something was amiss. I could sense it immediately when I arrived. The vibe on the Ealing Road terrace wasn’t as good as I had imagined or as it should be. As if something in our mutual, shared, superstitious hearts knew that it was all about to go wrong. We were jumpy when we should have been jumping.

Neither team were good that night. We played at F*lham’s level. Inevitably, we conceded a goal and couldn’t pull back. Knocked out the cup by a near neighbour and fierce rival. A truly horrible way to say goodbye to my beloved. And it bothered me. My thoughts have drifted back to the evening on many occasion and I have endlessly tried to figure out what went wrong.

Then, a couple of nights ago, I lay awake in my Khobar bed and everything began to fall into place and I worked out what had happened.

It was about superstition. Something happened at Griffin Park that night that meant that lady luck favoured F*lham not the righteous “Bees”.

In a sleepless stupor, I seemed to recall strange glances, nervous half glances toward the section of the stand where Hel and I were standing. I recalled Harlee Dean, Stuart Dallas and Jake Bidwell all seemed to involuntarily glance up, nervously, into the corner where we stood. I couldn’t sleep, so I got up and trawled the net for videos of the game. I watched the decisive goal over and over. And, then... again, I saw it. David Button’s eyes flitted toward the Ealing Road stand as the shot was taken. He looked confused, preoccupied and nervous.

But why? What would cause such nervousness and involuntary concern?

Well. I think I have pieced it together. And the truth is shocking…

Hel is a “Gooner”. But only as the result of a bet. It’s her story to tell and I can’t recall all the details but I know that she either won or lost a bet leading her to support Arsenal. All I know is that the alternative was not her local club – Leyton Orient – but West Ham United. In truth, if I had the energy or inclination, I would be able to build a stronger case to be a “Gooner” than a “Hammers” fan, so whether she won or lost is irrelevant, she walked away supporting a better side. That said, I can’t help but feel that it was just a bet over two “shitty” sticks.

Despite her North London affiliation, Hel agreed to come along to keep me company. I was happy. I like Hel. She’d been before and we had beaten AFC Wimbledon. She bought no negative superstitious baggage to the game.

But, that night, I recalled that Hel had come along with a two tone, black and white handbag. I liked the bag. I honestly did. It looked good. Hel has a sense of style. Hel has taste. But the bag depicted the colours of F*lham football club. That night, Hel bought actual, physical baggage to the game and I think this is the reason Brentford lost.

It is why the atmosphere was a bit down. It is why Brentford never really got into their stride. The players could sense it. A shadow like presence on Ealing Road which explains the player's nervous, involuntary glances into the stand. It’s what prevented David Button from making a routine save.

Hel’s handbag cost Brentford the match.

Now, I’m not blaming Hel. That would be totally unfair. But every rational person will have to admit that the handbag belonged to her, so - unfortunately - there must be a bit of guilt by association.

But why was I thinking about it last week?

Last Friday, I chose the local Dammam derby as my first Saudi Arabian football match. Al Nahda vs Ettifaq FC. 

Dammam is just up the road from Khobar. Maybe a twenty minute drive. Both teams are in the second tier of the Saudi league system – like Brentford are in England. At the time of the game, Al Nahda were top and Ettifaq were second in the league. Real grudge match territory. Just like Brentford v F*lham, Arsenal v Tottenham, Real Madrid v Barcelona or Harrow Borough v Wealdstone.

I asked an Arab work colleague what football was like and told him about the match. We spoke a few times. I even invited him along. A is a Real Madrid fan. Both times, A would keep saying is;

“Ettifaq. I know them, I know them. <smoker’s chuckle> They play Dammam.”

“Yes. Yes. Big stadium. Good stadium.”

“Yes. Many, many tickets… Too many tickets.”

“But, <adopts serious voice and leans in toward me> Saudi not good football, you know.”

“Not like Chelsea, Manchester United you know.”

“These team. Not top league. Second. <tone becomes dismissive>Very, very bad.”

“You must not go. You have good football on TV, no?”

Little did A know that this was just the confirmation that I needed to tip me over the edge? After his pep talk, it was confirmed. 100% certain. I had to go!

My boss and friend “K” agreed to join me and we set off with slightly differing levels of excitement. K is not a football fan preferring Union as a sport. At one point he requested – instructed, perhaps even pleaded – for me to kick him when he fell asleep and kick even harder if he snored. We both accepted that the quality may not inspire and we harboured fears that we would be alone in a vast football stadium.

We were not to know. There would be no opportunity to sleep.

I chose to support the away team – Ettifaq. Not that they were really the away team as they share the stadium with Al Nahda, but it was a principle. By the power of Google, I had established that although second, they were the “bigger” of the two clubs and most importantly, I liked their kit.

By the Power of Google!

The experience was far different to a UK game. Outside, the stadium map was dominated by a “mosque”. I know that I have had some near religious experiences at Griffin Park but I am rational enough to know that it is hope rather than faith that I rely on when we are a goal down with a minute to go… or a goal up with a minute to go! We were warmed up by images on the score boards from the two holy mosques. Half time was prayer time, so - obviously - the call to prayer was played over the PA. Seriously, I was seeing more religion at football than I had seen since I was at Ibrox or when Walton & Hersham visited Vale Farm in Wembley. But this was actual, real religion rather than a blind bigotry dressed up "religion's" clothing.

Devotion at Prince Mohammed bin Fahd Stadium, Dammam

We were checked twice on the way into the ground by police officers. We had to empty our pockets in front of childlike officers… the second displaying the type of train track braces on his teeth that go out of style in the UK at the age of twelve. We were warmly welcomed by some local fans who thrust free water bottles into our hands. Through broken English it was apparent that they were impressed that Europeans were coming to the game.

A big difference between this experience and other games and stadiums I have visited was that it was free entry. FREE! For what was, arguably, the biggest game of the season to date. But no-one appeared to be able to explain why. I am guessing that it relates to pride. Much of what I have seen in Saudi Arabia does. Last season, Ettifaq were relegated from the top tier of the game, I am guessing that they are encouraging as many supporters as possible into the ground to spur them on to achieve an immediate return to the top flight.

A Car Park Next to a Football Stadium

The ground was only a third full. Ten minutes prior to kick off it had fewer than 500 people present. Myself and K thought it could be a long soulless evening. A bit like winning a ticket to watch QPR. But the club were not content to let it be dull. Huge banners and flags were draped over the seating forcing the (fool) hardy fans who did attend to be packed together. The flags were on both sides of the ground, green red and white at our end and sky blue and navy at the opposite end. The club crest and team names dominated. There were no sponsor’s advertising spoiling the effect. Unity was further enhanced by a small group of fans using megaphones to drive chants and songs with the backup of drums and some kind of traditional reed, wind instrument.

From the moment the teams took to the field, the noise was deafening. The terraces rocked as the crowd drifted from chant to chant cajoled and encouraged by a small group of “faces” who stalked the stand driving everyone to join in. It was impossible not to. Before long, both K and I were wrapped up in the experience. I have no idea what the songs and chants were about but, silently imagined they were about F*lham and QPR losing. Everything remained good humoured. The atmosphere was inclusive and inspiring. This was the first place where I saw Arabs “letting their hair down”. Dressing in coloured thobes (green and red stripes), replica kits, flags, scarves, singing, dancing embracing friendship from others. The country feels so restrained and conservative at times, it was incredible and beautiful to witness the fans in full song and acting so similarly to their English counterparts. It made the World feel a bit smaller.

But, of course, even if Hel had wanted to and had made the long journey to Dammam to join me that night, she wouldn’t have been allowed into the ground. Not because Ettifaq would fear her losing the game for them by an accidental accessory faux pas but because women are not allowed to attend football matches.

Check out the attached:

Female Football Fan Causes Outrage

All the time, the Directors box on the other side of the ground was bathed in a gold light. Dressed in white thobes and red/white checked gutra. The power and influence was obvious. Football in Saudia Arabia is a rich man’s hobby. The ground was segregated in such a way to make it obvious. None of the crowd could miss having a direct view of the owners. Given that it was free, it was almost as if we were there for them to have a “real match atmosphere” as it was for us to enjoy.

Although there were advertising hoardings around the pitch, they were visible only for the TV cameras. None faced the crowd. Neither of the teams wore sponsorship. It was very different to the English and European games where sponsorship of the smallest thing is driven and encouraged. Shirts, players, players shirts… players boot laces FFS are sold to companies and individuals to encourage involvement and deliver revenue. I’m not saying it is wrong and I understand that most football in the UK would cease to exist without it, but it really is not something that I like about the game. It felt refreshing to watch a football match where I did not feel as if I was consumer fodder at every turn.

And all the time the crowd entertained and enthralled. Which is more than can be said for the football. My colleague, A, was right. The quality is far from the best.

Neither team impressed. The game seemed dominated by players trying to exhibit their personal skills rather than deliver a team performance. For every deft touch of the ball, attacks were easily countered and the two teams quickly fell into a cold, bleak stalemate. The only footballing highlights were the referee taking a ball to the gonads on the half hour resulting in a few minutes delay and a penalty scored by Ettifaq. 

GOOOOOOAAAAALLLLLL! A GOAL!!

Although happy, the goal only encouraged a slightly increased noise from the fans. The fans seemed happy just to party. A goal was just a bonus. Both teams played the type of game that gives the sport a bad name. All players were faking foul and injury. I swear that one Al Nahda player covered more distance rolling around the pitch in apparent “agony” after one innocuous challenge than he did playing through the rest of the bloody game…

Another player needs a lie down so orders a taxi.

Check Out the Directors Box

So I continued to find my solace and inspiration in the crowd.

K and I stood out. We were the only outsiders, the only white faces and the only Europeans at the match. We were welcomed with good humour and open arms. I’ve already said that we were greeted at the gates but the warmth continued inside the ground. Football has this ability to break language barriers. I’ve found it the World around. From conversations in Milan taxis, Ukrainian bars and more recently in the aisles of – the love of my life – LuLu in Al Khobar, a football shirt, scarf or badge allows a mutual context to drop your sparse language skills into. In Saudi Arabia, especially over on the eastern coast, it is even easier. The presence of so much American money and past British colonialism close to the region means that most people have a better grip on English. Certainly better than my appalling Arabic. Into the second half K and I ended up chatting to a man close to us who had worked and lived in Leicester. We spoke Chelsea and Manchester United. He had not heard of Brentford. Many fans wanted to pose with us for photos. We duly obliged. We were rewarded with free scarves…

Oh Dear...

K and I agreed that the atmosphere and the spirit of the crowd made it both one of the best but most surreal nights that we have witnessed in the Middle East or beyond. One of those nights that will live on and on in the memory.

But back to the game and back to my memory of Hel’s handbag costing Brentford a League Cup match.

Soon into the second half, I confided in K that I thought that Ettifaq, having taken the lead were doing enough that the only way that they would lose is if they gave the game away.

And they promptly did. A soft penalty and a lack of concentration in the 90^th minute resulted in them losing 2-1 heading deep into the forth minute of injury time… And – as would be the case the World round – the fans started to turn and show frustration and impatience for the first time. The game appeared sown up for Ettifaq but two stupid, unnecessary errors had cost them. It was then that the actual game took precedence. For the final five minutes, Ettifaq threw caution to the wind and really pushed the game. The final kick of the game was a thirty yard pile driver shot that would have hit the net had a butterfly in Thailand or possibly a moth at the stadium, compelled to take flight toward the stark, bright floodlights brushed its wings, creating a reaction of energy that caused the ball to change path mid-air and hit the inside of the post.

Ettifaq had lost. K and I made the twenty minute journey back to Khobar.

Later that evening, as I undressed for bed I realised that I was wearing pants in the colours of Al Nahda’s kit.

Near naked and with a hollow heart, I realised that Ettifaq FCs loss had been inevitable. Worse still, football superstition dictates that it was my fault. All my fault!

A final note…

For the record and before I start getting blunt emails and become the unlucky and deserved recipient of her legendary “I’m not happy eyebrow/frown/pout combo”, if Brentford lost the game as a direct result of Hel bringing her black and white handbag to the game, I forgive her.

I forgive Hel entirely and completely. 

I forgive Hel because I have no doubt that it was unintentional. Hel was unknowing, she didn’t set out to scupper Brentford’s chances in the League Cup. She’s not like that. I know her well. I forgive her because, one day, I want Hel to join me at Brentford’s new Community Stadium to watch a game… maybe one where we beat Tottenham Hotspur, so that she can feel properly involved and really enjoy it.

And I forgive because, I am a forgiving type of guy.

But, mostly, I forgive her because Brentford need to concentrate on their league form this season. After all, it was only a crappy cup competition, anyway.

Silly Season & A Murder

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 17^th 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.*

 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.

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.

Check Out Hoopoe Here!

And here...

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.

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!!

An Unhealthy Obsession With Lulu

Back in London, I used to live a two minute walk from Waitrose.

I mean, there was a decent Sainsbury’s nearby, a Tesco Metro at the bottom of the road and an Asda convenience store close by. Despite its rumoured extravagant pricing policy, the two minute walk was always the deciding factor in where I collected my groceries.

Waitrose it was!

It was all too easy to pop in for anything and everything.

Need a pint of milk? 

No problem. Stroll over to Waitrose. Easy.

But I would always return home with a dozen bags of other items that I hadn’t intended to buy but had decided were also essential while stalking the aisles. A task made all the easier by Waitrose having their own “Essentials” range to guide me to the, well… essential choices. I took the title at face value and stocked up on anything and everything in the range. After all, the items in the range must be essential based upon their vitamin range, high fibre, low sodium, low sugar, and low fat or “good” cholesterol content. Obviously.

I mean, John Lewis wouldn’t put anything “bad” in the range, would they? Come on, they’re too trustworthy, too honourable and too – downright bloody - “British” to do such a bad thing.

So. Following this logic, I would regularly end up eating an entire packet of Waitrose “Essential” Chocolate Malted Milk Biscuits as one of my five portions a day.

Maybe moving to Saudia Arabia would be good for me. Kick my bad habits.

I confess, I knew little about Arabian cuisine before moving here. In my head, I assumed that it would be all grilled meats – mostly lamb - with simple veg, flat breads and hummus. Everywhere out this way eats Hummus don’t they?

I knew or expected little else.

My only other thoughts and ideas about food were influenced by a former colleague – let’s call him Sadat, because that is his name. Upon learning that I was moving here, his eyes glazed over and he appeared to explore all the darkest recessed corners of his mind, reviewing everything he knew about the country, before declaring that “Saudi’s love Biriyani”.

On the flight over from London, I was served a chicken biriyani.

Sadat; I thought of you.

So I arrive and find that everything is kebabed. As I expected. Only it’s mutton not lamb, beef and chickens. Oh, how they like chickens. And it turns out, I had missed the obvious one. Dates. Arabs love dates. Loads of ‘em. With coffee that makes Turkish coffee sound and taste like watery pish.

But the Arab food is nothing when compared to the worldly choice that you can get in the Kingdom. Ignoring the restaurant and take away options, the supermarkets are a revelation. Food from every corner of the globe. America, Britain, Europe, India, China, Thailand, the Philippines, Turkey, Morocco and Japan. Unsurprising, really, because the only thing that Saudi’s appear to love more than food is “shopping”. So the Supermarkets/Hypermarkets allow both hobbies to be pursued in pleasurable unity. And – as a Waitrose veteran – I have been pulled in.

I have fallen in love. I am in love with Lulu.

Lulu is beautiful. Lulu is bountiful. Lulu is everything a person could ever hope for, want or desire.

Lulu is a Hypermarket.

And she is a mere ten minutes stroll from my apartment… and five of those are through her car park!

Aisle upon aisle of choice and opportunity. Fresh food, tinned food, dried food, chilled food, frozen food. Home wares.  More home wares. Even more home wares. Cosmetics. Toiletries upon toiletries. The floor space goes on and on for ever and ever. Far beyond the horizon and possibly half way across the desert to Riyadh. It is possible that she spans time zones. I wouldn’t know, I’ve never reached the end.

And upstairs. Fashion stores. Boutiques. Phone stores. Electronics stores. Everything!

But – in comparison to UK supermarkets – it all feels a bit disjointed. Every aisle is a revelation because it bears no relation to the aisles either side. At first this is a bit disorientating. I’m a man. I shop by walking around and picking up exactly what I know I want and nothing more. I have no need or desire to browse. I want to get in and get out. As quickly as possible. Just like making love to a beautiful woman…

Joke.

Lulu is a wily and cunning woman. The disjointed and haphazard lay out eventually breaks you down.

Lulu woos you with her aisles.

Oh my dear, dear, beautiful Lulu.

I love your deli, your hot food/Indian snack counter and the biggest display of McVities digestives that I have ever seen framed in an impressive model of Tower Bridge.

But I am less keen on the way that you close all the tills and indiscreetly lower the shutters during prayer times making me wait in a queue for twenty minutes.

But I forgive you. For I love you.

Lulu. Khobar. Dressed Up For Another Night On The Town.

I read a piece recently about obesity around the world last week. It was on the BBC News website but I can’t find it when typing this. I have found an article - see the linky thing below - that uses the map that it referred to, though noting that 35+% of Saudi Arabia’s population are obese. And it didn’t surprise. From day one, I have been struck by the number of overweight Arabs that I see…

GLOBAL OBESITY

And Lulu offers an insight into this. It’s a lifestyle thing.

I was stunned at the range of “shit” that is on offer. I'm European and am fully aware of how much shit is pushed onto the population through advertising and their retail conduits. But in Lulu, every other aisle seems to offer a variation on sweets, confectionery and dairy produce that makes my eyes water, arteries harden and teeth ache. Saudi has really bought into “western” treats. Aisle upon aisle of European and American confectionery before you bring multiple sections dedicated to fresh, packet and preserved Indian and Asian sweets.

OK. Khobar is a very American city. Her influence is everywhere. But it would be stupid, churlish, wrong, petty and too easy to try and lay blame solely at their door. The stuff on sale is not just being bought by the Yanks. After all, most Americans won’t make it to Lulu because their communities and compounds have their own American supermarkets which – I imagine – pander far more directly to their buying habits. Lulu is there for all the communities. And it appears to revel in the junk as much as the wonderful fresh fish, fruit and vegetables on offer.

But. For the most part, I am being good.

McVities may offer a taste of home in the absence of Chocolate Malted Milk but I'm letting myself absorb the Indian options on offer with fresh vegetables and pulses. I know I used to live in Alperton, Tooting and South Harrow, but Lulu’s options are so much more exciting and enticing.

But I'm all too aware that she’s local enough that I could get back into my bad, old Waitrose habit. 

Wish me luck.

Things That I Miss #1

Photography

There is always something to see in London. 

I will miss my occasional visits to photography exhibitions, stepping outside of my own world and into the world of others. Seeing the world as others see it.

I saw this link on the BBC News website today:

Edwin Smith @ Royal Institute of British Architects

Edwin Smith's work looks incredible.

Such ordinary subjects. But, such beauty.

I like photography that captures a moment. Photography should not be overly complex. I do not generally like obviously created or faked compositions or effects. 

To me simple composition is all. Take what you see. If you miss it, you miss it!

The slide show attached suggests that this exhibition will have an incredible content. 

It's running until 6th December. I am going to miss it. Please, if anyone reading this visits the exhibition, let me know what you think.

Bahrain - Good Intentions & Bad Habits

Monday morning.

I had arranged to do a favour for two colleagues, one of who is over in the UK, the other stuck in Riyadh.

It involved a hop over to Bahrain.

The two kingdoms are linked by the King Fahd Causeway. Built in the 1980’s, it is currently the only land link to Bahrain, although a new project to build a second bridge has been confirmed that will link Bahrain to Qatar to the south (as you all know, Qatar is the current hub of all construction development know that Dubai has slowed down).

The causeway is sixteen miles long with three lanes in each direction and about half a million check points where you have to pay tolls, have your passport and visa checked, where women have to lift their veil and you have the opportunity to visit the Mosque, McDonalds and Costa Coffee. Many of these stops are compulsory, others are not.

For a time, the causeway was best known for being the longest bridge in the World, but China, Thailand and the USA have topped their construction up with Viagra and it now currently only ranks at number 20. In time, other corporate hard-ons will make it droop, flaccid, lanky and impotent to an even lower place in the standings.

The causeway is now best known for its queues. I’m English, I am conditioned to queue. By default, I like the causeway.

Where I stay, we have built up a good relationship with a fine gentleman named Francis. Francis is a taxi driver with a visa that allows him to travel unmolested outside the kingdom. He is the richest man in Khobar because he spends much of his time hopping over the border at close on 500 SAR a time. Knowing the causeway like a brother, he is always good at anticipating and avoiding the worst queue times.

So we set off at 8am in order to reach Bahrain for 10am. Yes. That’s right. 16 miles (OK – closer to 24 by the time you take the two ends into account) in two hours. It’s like being back in London.

The bridge was clear and we made good time until we reached the Saudi border control on the central island. Here, the road opens up to 10 or 12 lanes and you jostle for position.

Queue. Wait. Queue.

You find yourself having the same dilemma as you do in the supermarket. In your heart, you know that whichever queue you choose will be the wrong one.

By that I mean, that the supermarket will change cashier and put in place the 17 year old trainee who is too nervous to ask for help from a supervisor so cannot serve the customer stocking up on wine for the afternoon. Or you discover that three people ahead of you is the moron who has spent their entire trip selecting items without price labels, splitting multi-packs, then having wads and wads of promotional vouchers painstakingly cut from magazines. Only 75% of the vouchers are actually valid but they will happily argue the toss for six hours and talk management into submission to save an extra 10p off Lenor, before paying in coppers and book tokens. The type of moron who won’t pack any of their product away until they have paid for their goods and examined their receipt in painstaking, line by line detail and raised a minimum of 32 queries to the poor cashier. They bring their own bags too. But no matter how much they shuffle the product around, they never quite have enough space to pack all their items allowing them to explain to the whole world in extreme detail how they make the non-recyclable plastic bag they are now being forced to take lesson it’s carbon footprint by re-using it 102 times for other tasks.

We’ve all been there. We have all dreamt up the most repulsive, degrading, dehumanising and painful punishments to bestow on these people while politely gnashing our teeth and smiling in absolute silence.

On the causeway, it’s similar but the border guards that call the shots. I’ve heard a story that having queued for an hour a non-Saudi was turned away to return to the mainland purely because the guard wasn't processing foreigners that day. You are at the mercy of the guards’ whims and moods. 

Everything moves at their pace. Their pace is set to “terminally slow”.

So. Off we go. Take passports. Shuffle passports. Take fee 50 SAR payment. Count fee payment. Recount fee payment. Look confused. Take pencil to work out change from a 100 SAR note. Look for pad to write it down. Find pad. Can’t find pencil they just had. Look everywhere. Walk away to borrow pencil from colleague. Come back and take pad to colleague as deposit on the pencil loan. Look troubled. Play with phone. Maybe phone a friend. Remembers passports. Looks at passports. Stamps passports. Returns pencil to colleague. Looks at pad. Decides to believe “phone a friend advice” and gives 50 SAR change. Looks nervous and waves you on.

Then you go through Customs.

Park car in bay. Open doors and boot. Guard looks in back of car. Reluctantly says “hello” to occupants. Stares in boot. For ages. Even if the boot is empty. Considers whether there is duty to be paid on stale, hot, stagnant air transported across the border in boot of car. Sends you on your way in a manner suggesting that you have imposed on their time rather than the other way round.

Then you reach the same posts in Bahrain. Thankfully, they have a slightly higher setting of “slow”.

All the while, between the various posts, you lean on the horn, frantically shift lanes and cut up as many fellow drivers as you can in the vain hope that you will find the new, keen guard who hasn’t yet been broken by sitting in a hot box for 10 hours shifts 6 days a week and still has a bit of “pace” and enthusiasm for the job in hand.

Francis planned well and we go through in 40 minutes.

But those 40 minutes drag into hours when you are listening to American hit radio. It’s Monday morning. I don’t want eternally chirpy DJs in my life introducing me to Coldplay. I want coffee.

So I reach Bahrain with ten minutes to spare before my appointment.

Thirty minutes later, my work is done and it is time to go home. Except that I have agreed to collect a friend who popped over to Bahrain last Thursday and needs to return to Saudi Arabia to work. We’re a bit late and he calls to say that he is no longer at his hotel but has gone to an Irish/American diner for breakfast.

The Broken

Before I travelled to the Middle East my mate Alex made the observation that I would invariably bump into and meet British expats who were only over here because they are slightly “broken”. I believed it right away and believed it out of hand. I mean, I can hardly say that I am not “broken’. As previous posts have strongly hinted I have only come here to make a break and a change; to shake myself up and most definitely and specifically not work for my previous employer.

So we arrive at the diner to discover that G has been there since it opened and that breakfast consists of Heineken. It is soon apparent that – excluding a mushroom quiche and a steak and kidney pie from a supermarket opposite the diner - most meals since Thursday have had a similar liquid consistency. G is maudlin. G is aware that alcohol does that after a while. G is keen that – whilst he knows he must return – he ekes out the last of the Eid holiday.

It’s Monday morning. It’s 10:50am. I am drinking Heineken for breakfast.

This is Bahrain.

Francis is dispatched to the hotel to collect his luggage but not before he, too, has a swift pint. The timing of sending Francis away is transparently engineered in to get another pint in and so prolong the departure time a little more. G and I discuss what is like to be part of the ‘broken’ set. We touch on events that have led to us working in Saudi Arabia and result in us sitting in a bar drinking beer at 11:20 in the morning. Not particularly deep but relatively honest.

I note to G that I have things that I want to do in the afternoon so will have to leave soon. I argue that my intention is to return for a couple of nights later in the week and have a proper explore. G cannot join me next weekend, so this information spurs him into action to take me on a tour of the best spots so that I know where to come later on…

It’s Monday. It’s not even midday. I am three pints down and starting a pub crawl.

Oh Jeez. Is this Bahrain?

I follow a musician and fine fellow of a man on Facebook and Twitter by the name of Keith Top of the Pops. 

Here he is, here. In this video... With a guitar and loads of his friends. Look. Here:

Most of his status updates include the word ‘Wetherspoons’. I think he would like Bahrain. All the bars serve cider. So on a Monday, without any intention to do so, I appear to be on a pub crawl. I feel as if I am living in the shadow of Keith Top of the Pops life. Except – that even with my dark glasses - I am, inevitably less cool.

I reason that I've been feeling homesick for a few days; so it’s OK to have a bit of fun.

G takes us to a hotel that houses the most happening bar in the Kingdom. I am assured that it rocks and heaves wall to wall with hot women who are allowed to talk to men. We arrive and it’s dark and empty save the smell of last night’s stale booze and cigarettes. We are the only clientèle. We wait for a while, but there are no bar staff.

We move on.

To the seventh floor of another hotel. We get talking with three American’s in the lift. From Idaho and Texas. I get to quote Rainmakers lyrics to them…

“And everyone from Texas is from someplace else”

They agree. Texas is a whole different country.

Look. It's The Rainmakers... Singing "Snakedance". Like I quoted at the American people. Clever, heh:

We follow the Americans into a sports bar with framed rugby tops and Celtic and Rangers football shirts lining the walls. An Australian rugby match is on the telly. One team have won. They appear happy. It seems understandable. G thinks that it's the team supported by that Australian bloke from Gladiators. 

Me - "Er... Can't remember there names. Shadow? Saracen??" 

G looks confused...

Me - "HUNTER!!" 

G - "No. You know. The movie."

Me - "They made a movie? Of the TV show! No way! Bet it's shit."

G - "No. Gladiator! You know with the Australian! Likes a fight"

I'm left blank.

A friendly Bristolian barkeep happily serves us lager. All seems well with the World. The bar is near empty save us and several other American students that our friends from the lift have joined.

I begin to feel so, very tired.

Sensing a slippery slope, I allow Francis to persuade me to leave and return back to Saudi. G can’t face it though. He books himself back into his hotel and Francis returns his luggage back to the hotel from the car; cue a final pint.

It’s 2:30pm. I leave G sitting at a table on the 7^th Floor. Francis assures him that he will return at 10am on Tuesday to collect him.

And then back to the causeway and through all the checks in reverse. The Bahrain bound carriageway is backed up nose to tail for several miles. Francis says it will take them three hours to cross border control. 

It’s busy on our side, too, but we only take ninety minutes to get through the various checks while sitting in a hot and hot tempered queue. I'm in a pleasant, warm alcohol haze. EMF not Coldplay are on the radio. This time it only feels like 40 minutes. Unbelievable.

Back in Khobar, I quickly drain a litre of water and head off the oncoming hang over by having a snooze on the sea front at dusk, letting the sound of the rippling waves lull me into gentle sleep.

And Russell Crowe is a Kiwi. No wonder I was confused.