Easing myself into an expensive seat on a British Airways overnight flight to Dubai, I notice two empty places to my left. The plane, I was told, was full. Someone must be very late.
At this point, the rogue bookmaker who operates exclusively inside my head, laying odds on life’s little challenges, pipes up: ‘It’s 1-5 you cop a screaming toddler in that spot; 9-2 you don’t.’ My heart sinks. The bookie is shrewd; he knows the form. Sure enough, just as the crew is preparing to lock the doors, a flustered-looking couple rush on board, with their baby banshee already in full cry. Waahaahaah!
As we thunder along the runway, the Caterwauling Kid’s nerve-shredding performance is, literally, drowning out the roar of the jet engines. This is what Sartre meant when he opined on other people: hell. Forget preference check-ins, executive lounges and complimentary champagne, the first carrier to offer child-free flights (no under-fives) on long-haul services will win my business.
I’m met at the airport by an old friend, an Irish journalist who, even by the dissolute standards of Fleet Street’s finest, has lived a bit. He tells me that an Egyptian-controlled bank has just published research indicating that Dubai’s state debt could be as high as $180 billion. This contrasts starkly with the official figure of $80 billion. If the new number is correct, the recent $20 billion bailout from Abu Dhabi will be nowhere near enough. Dubai, it seems, is the Dolly Parton of the United Arab Emirates: to look this cheap costs a lot of money.
The Spectator contributing editor Rod Liddle is a legend in these parts. Not, alas, for his columns in this magazine, but as a result of an epic piece about Dubai written last year for the Sunday Times. With Gladstonian intent, Rod set out to help the emirate’s fallen women by exposing its prostitution industry. He began in the infamous Rattlesnake Bar, where girls from what were once bits of the USSR, ‘the stans’, ply their trade. As our inimitable reporter discovered, all the hookers hate what they do — except one. Iliana, ‘a pretty chemical blonde in her twenties from Uzbekistan’, told Rod: ‘I like f—–– men.’
Within days of Rod’s expose — ‘Sordid reality behind Dubai’s gilded façade’ — appearing online, the Rattlesnake was writhing with hopeful punters wearing T-shirts on which was printed: ‘Are you Iliana?’
At a party hosted by a Royal Lancers major, who’s now in public relations, I’m introduced to the Moscow Mule, a cocktail that kicks my head in. While still sober, however, I learn from Tony Harris, erstwhile British ambassador in the UAE, that more and more UK citizens are falling foul of the law in credit-crunched Dubai. At least 30 are convicted and in jail; 60 are on bail; and another 200 have had their passports removed, following untested allegations by disgruntled locals. The consulate’s in-tray is mounting.
To the Meydan, a brand-new racecourse with a grandstand the size of a cruise ship. The facilities, not all finished, are magnificent. The cost is unimaginable. As with so much of Dubai’s infrastructure, it’s hard to work out how payback will be achieved. Perhaps none is intended. The ruling family are world leaders in egonomics: a combination of financial extravagance and self-aggrandisement. Their business model is full of holes, but they’re having a lot of fun knocking out the readies.
I bump into Amanda Staveley, the Madam Fix-it of Middle East finance. This is the woman who brokered the purchase of Manchester City by Abu Dhabi’s Sheikh Mansour. She has more connections than Etisalat, the UAE phone company, with revenues to match. Amanda’s at the races to cheer on her horse, Fiery Lad. It fails to live up to its name. She invites me for a drink, but adds that her hospitality unit is a booze-free zone. Having just backed consecutive seconds, I need something stronger than strawberry juice, so decline and nip back to the Owners and Trainers Bar, where everyone, bar me, appears to be winning.
Gambling is illegal in Dubai, but for those with credit lines at British turf accountants, which includes almost every expatriate here, all it takes to place a bet is one mobile phone call. I make several, succeeding only in confirming the adage that a little knowledge is dangerous.
By the time race six arrives, my finances resemble Dubai’s Palm Island — sinking. Never mind. Fuelled by an agreeable Pinot Grigio, I decide to dig my way out of trouble. This is a racing euphemism for having a wild plunge in the hope of dragging back losses. The beast burdened with my loot is Aspectoflove, a four-year-old filly, owned by Sheikh Mohammed’s Godolphin empire and ridden by Frankie Dettori. She looks a picture. Well, that’s what I tell myself as I dial up Ladbrokes.
Reviewing the race entirely through a depleted wallet, my assessment is that Dettori rode a stinker. He held up the horse, got boxed in, switched late, and then produced a flying finish, failing to prevail by a whisker. Waiter, more wine.
My novel for the journey home is Ian McEwan’s Atonement, a process I’m keen to embrace after a week away from the path of righteousness. Why is it that in a state which outlaws betting and frowns upon alcohol, there are so many irresistible opportunities to indulge in both? Strange place, Dubai.