British Airways (a lament)

Back from Dubai now and feeling like a British Airways rumble. The “world’s favourite airline” must now be one of the world’s least popular airlines. The poor, whingeing cabin crew staff did their best to disrupt our return plans with their attempted industrial action. Maybe, however, it would have been better if the strike had gone ahead and the company had been brought to their knees. That way we would have been re-routed on another airline on the way back and spared the graceless British Airways cabin service we received when returning from our Christmas break.

Okay so the flight safety video was on the blink (or none of the cabin crew knew how to work it). That meant that the £50,000 plus-a-year head of cabin crew had to read out the safety instructions, but she couldn’t find the script, so there was an embarrassing delay. We eventually got airborne and the drinks trolley appeared. Yes I could have a Bloody Mary if I didn’t mind a miniature of vodka, a slurp of tomato juice from a packet, ice and lemon. “Have you got any worcester sauce?” I pleaded. Of course not.

Now like my slimline son I quite enjoy the mysteries of airline food. There’s usually something reasonably tasty going on somewhere on the lunch tray – even when flying with charter carriers like Monarch. This time absolutely not. My lasagne was simply horrid and the wife’s chicken with rice was revolting to behold and she gave up after half a mouthful of the blackened, glutinous pulp.

Just to finish off I was tempted by an item or two from the duty free trolley. “Yes, sir, it will be coming around in about an hour”. Needless to say it never did. The moving map feature had been disabled to prevent us terrorists knowing when we were over areas of high population – soon, I imagine, they’ll black out the windows.

On landing by the modern and crisply efficient Terminal 5 our plane slowly taxied past a few dozen other British Airways aircraft, lined up at their showpiece terminal in much the same way as the same plane had taxied past a few dozen Emirates planes parked up outside their sparkling new terminal in Dubai seven hours or so earlier. The difference was that the Emirates fleet looked clean, new and efficient. The British Airways fleet looked old and tired – like their cabin crews. Next time I book a flight BA will be the carriers I’ll do my best to avoid. Sad, really...

Boxing Day Blues

It's true. I've just got to shed some weight. When I get castigated by my not-so-slim-himself son about taking sugar in my cafe latte, when my new XXL shirt bursts with the pressure of turkey and christmas pud, when the wife starts telling me to wear my shirt outside my trousers (like a skirt) , then I know it is time for some serious cutbacks.

There are problems ahead however - one more (paid for) massive breakfast in the Dubai hotel; a quiet lunch and supper today munching mince pies and cold turkey, fried up roast potato remains, delicious french baguette and all that. Then tomorrow we fly back to the chilly UK where a second Christmas feast awaits, then the New Year thing and then multiple family birthdays in January. Oh dear! Father Christmas brought me a drum of cheeselets, two tins of salted cashew nuts and a pack of my favourite Roka Cheese Crispies. Even while writing this I have paused for a few minutes to go out to a local supermarket where a very large packet of potato crisps found its way into the trolley. I must google the word 'coronary'.

On the plus side I have managed to have my first-ever Christmas Day swim, as well as my first-ever Boxing Day swim. I must find where I put the pack of Special K when I get home and, in the meantime, have to decide whether or not to buy significant quantities of duty-free gin on the way home. Good sense and prudent housekeeping says "yes", but my waistline says "no".
Decisions, decisions...

Dubai Revisited

It is Christmas Eve and very pleasant, sunny and warm. We follow a hearty hotel breakfast with a brief shopping expedition and then 'A Christmas Carol' - the Jim Carrey, Disney version in vibrant 3-D at a multiplex cinema (complete with two grandchildren and a large pot of popcorn). Gary Oldman's Bob Cratchit was suitably subservient and many in the audience found the snow effect through 3-D glasses rather curious in this desert location.

Dubai continues to puzzle me and to impress me by turns. The extraordinary Burj Dubai officially opens in a few days time. With over 160 floors it is currently the world's tallest building and looks quite amazing from our hotel bedroom window. New roads and buildings are being constructed at a frantic rate despite talk of money troubles and the global economic downturn.

Our fellow hotel guests encompass most of the world's nationalities and one looks in awe at the breakfast buffet as people mix different concoctions on the same plate: hot baked beans accompany figs, fresh fruit and dates; curries mix with camembert cheese; smoked salmon with (dirty) pork sausages and bacon; fresh melon with maple syrup, etc., etc.

I am challenged to games of chess by successive grandchildren which I unkindly win. I then decrease my popularity further by beating the venerable golden retriever at tug-of-war with his favourite toy.

Tonight we have every intention of attending the Church of England service at Holy Trinity Church, and tomorrow (Christmas Day) we intend to swim before munching turkey with all the trimmings. Boxing Day will of course be spent camel-hunting in the desert before returning to the refreshingly cool UK the day after.

Red Light Walloons

I’ve been in the habit these past twelve months of rumbling off to Holland to collect boxes of books for resale in the UK. The normal route is via Calais – Dieppe – skirt round Ostend and Bruges to Ghent – then Antwerp – Eindhoven. Plenty of long, flat motorway; plenty of lorries; and plenty of remorselessly aggressive Belgian drivers.

Last Friday I suffered Antwerp problems. It started with a serious traffic jam some thirty miles from the city. Then I diverted to an alternative motorway and found another traffic snarl up. And finally my normally trustworthy Tom Tom threw a fit and diverted me right through the crowded city centre (rather than the efficient ring road) and out in completely the wrong direction heading for Rotterdam. All the while I was bursting to relieve myself and no sign anywhere of an appropriate facility....

I was therefore pretty pleased that my pre-planned return journey avoided Antwerp and instead took me south via Maastricht to Wallonia – the French-speaking bit of Belgium. Neither Mrs Rumbling Nappa nor I had ever been to this part of Europe, so a little Walloon hunting sounded like a good idea.

Our chosen hotel was a popular four star establishment in the centre of Namur (capital of Wallonia) in a curious conversion of an old tannery. Our third floor room seemed to be on about seven levels and overlooked a narrow cobbled street that led to the scenic River Meuse near its confluence wiver the River Sambre, but it was comfortable and our dinner was excellent.

After our meal we decided to take a short walk through the town, following the narrow cobbled street towards the river. At this level we were rather startled to realise that at the back of the hotel and more or less directly under our room at street level was the town brothel. In the best traditions of the Low Countries a young lady in her underwear sat in the red-lit window (which might once have been a shop window) touting for custom.

“Non” opined Mrs Rumbling Nappa as she gripped my arm and led me away ....

Clever Marketing

Difficult to know what the Canadian doctor, Major John McCrae would have thought of Remembrance Sunday. He’d probably be both proud and surprised that his poem (written at a medical aid station at Essex Farm, near Ypres in 1915) would inspire the use of the poppy as the enduring symbol for servicemen killed in battle.

Since mid-October every newsreader, every politician, every football pundit, every guest on the “One Show” has worn a poppy. Pretentious I thought at first. Why not wait until closer to Remembrance Sunday? But then a bell started to ring in my head. It’s called good marketing, isn’t it? Some bright person within the Royal British Legion marketing department has actually had the good sense to actively encourage people appearing on TV to wear poppies. There are probably “help yourself” trays in every broadcasting studio in the land with the message that by wearing the poppy you help to make remembrance “cool” with the younger generation.

Having over the past couple of years visited many of the important World War I sites (including Essex Farm), I realise how important it is for children and school parties to visit these places and to try and understand the bravery of the troops who fought there. Only by convincing each successive generation both of the futility of war and the extraordinary courage of our soldiers can we be help to avoid repeating bloodshed on that atrocious scale, whilst at the same time continuing to honour those who lost their lives.

I, in turn, must visit the grave of Major McCrae next time I go through Wimereux, near Boulogne (which I frequently do). He died of pneumonia while still commanding No 3 Canadian Military Hospital at Boulogne in 1918, by that time a Lieutenant Colonel. Wikipedia tells how he received full military honours, the procession to the graveside being led by McCrae’s horse “Bonfire”, his master’s riding boots reversed in the stirrups.

Dubai (2)

I've seen camels (real ones) and strayed off-road in the desert. I've seen the underwater world of Atlantis and travelled on a monorail to the edge of the Palm resort enjoying the station-stop at "Trump Tower" (notable in that the "Trump Tower" has yet to be built). I've seen the 7-star Burj Arab hotel and swam in the Gulf itself.

At the Bab Al Shams Desert Resort I sipped lemonade while reading the regional newspaper. Best article on the front page concerned a Sharia Court case in Jeddah where a family has brought an action against a genie. Apparently the evil genie threw the family's possessions around the house in a poltergeist manner and also sent the family (who have had to be rehoused) abusive text messages by mobile phone.

Back on the subject of camels, I was driven around the huge camel pen complex by Nad Al Sheeba racecourse but we are off season and most of the 14,000-odd racing camels were elsewhere. Sheikh Hamdan bin Mohammed bin Rashid al-Maktoum holds the record price so far paid for a camel (2.7 million dollars), and the big change in recent years has been to stop the trade in 'slave' boy jockeys who used to weigh in at about 20 kilos. You now have to be 15 years old, licenced and weigh at least 45 kilos before you can be a camel jockey.

Home now. I'll have to see if I can find a camel to carry my 20 kilo suitcase to the airport.

Dubai

It may well be regarded as an international pleasure ground boasting some of the world's finest hotels, shopping malls and sporting facilities but Dubai is (charmingly) essentially an arab capital city, honouring arab traditions and the Muslim religion. I've only been here for a day and a half, but I've seen the museum, more shopping malls than I've ever encountered in my life, and a few hundred cranes. I've visited the "pork room" in the local supermarket, and been amazed by the range and inventiveness of alcohol-free mocktails on offer in restaurants and cafes. And by the same token I've seen the locals driving their Hummers and quietly wondered what it would be like to have that sort of wealth, to wear a dishdasha robe and to have five burkha-clad wives to myself.

Look more closely at the picture above. It shows the base of the world's tallest building, the Burj Dubai which opens later in the year. It will boast 160 habitable floors and has already been topped out at 818 metres high. The man-made lake in the foreground boasts the world's tallest fountains, and to the right is a tiny part of the 1,200-store Dubai Mall - the world's largest shopping mall.

I laughed when told that local airlines allowed passengers in first class to take their falcons with them in the cabin, but I checked and it is true. Indeed Etihad Airways allows two falcons per passenger in first and business Class, whilst economy passengers are limited to one bird each.

The Muslim "call to prayer" resonates through the loudspeaker system of the shopping complexes, and the Rumbling Nappa very nearly disgraced himself when apparent signs for the gentleman's loo in the Dubai Mall very nearly landed him in the men only prayer room.

It will be interesting to see what adventures "day three" will produce.