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.