Life and life only

That is a line from a song, right? God knows I should know. Things have been vertically eratic since that last solidly negative entry way back in April 10. Mother has not emerged from a hospital ward dedicated to the care of clinically depressed elderly folk; we remain keen to exit and find creative financial solutions to mitigate the relatively short distance til the final exit of this temporal existence; and our work situations are variable. However I have recently been offered a full time teaching post, so that was a boost. Providing I can square it with other work commitments, and the visa sitch can be worked out, I will have fixed full time work from the fall. However it means we will be living apart for the majority of the week, in separate emirates. This blog will therefore become tales from the staid academic side of life in the UAE rather than getting low down and dirty among the south asian working class. Still, there is hope in teaching - the students can be stimulating, and many are appreciative, and usually very polite. It makes a change from the diplomatic finesse of my previous employer. That international charity committed to relieving crises, staffed and advised by ex diplomats, that treated me with less respect than the timber yard that employed me as a cherubic looking grunt at the age of 16. I digress. In short, life is mercurial. This weekend has been a prick of a one, not helped by wife's understandably negative reaction to being dissed herself, in her case by local employers. Not sure where any of this will end, but we increasingly feel the departure back to the sceptic isle will be sooner rather than later.

======================================================
From 2 June 2008: a reposting and re-editing of "Impotent"

Impotent, empty rage against the self
Structureless, devoid of form
Drowning in the delusions that memory creates
Wanting meaning in a barren desert of existence
Wanting to come alive in a lifeless zone
Lusting, longing, lurking
From one stale old poster
To another cover shot of yesteryear
Wondering where the youthful zeal went
When the energies were mostly onanistically dissipated
Then as they are today

Work as means to paying rent is a common experience
Leisure that micturates away the surplus ain’t uncommon either
Middle aged middle class heineken drinker
Passionless except about the weakness of the self
And the fading desire for salvation through earthly love and musical liberation
Everything dead except as snap shot of something visceral
Penge boy cycling from record shop to record shop
Days upon days poring over records he would never hear
In search of the only truth that he still holds dear

The physical sublimation of the passion of the soul
Long since reserved for the sixth form poems he didn’t write
Because he left school at sixteen
Wanting to weep, though the tears won’t come
Empty impotent rage
Against God knows what

Thursday nite shite

It's two cans of Heineken and the washing up as a grey film of indifference forms a grim veneer over Thursday night in Al-Hamriya, Bur Dubai. This is where the weekend ends as work beckons, the prospect of which is made infinitely worse having lingered between modest alcohol intake and the vodka bottle. Better to have not touched a drop or to have drunk the flat dry. This was no time for avoiding the fork in the road. The damned students and their petty complaints about grades hang over me while my apparent analytical edge gets daily blunted by library book cramming to keep a few steps ahead of these kids in the Mid East knowledge stakes. Good Lord Eissa I am only doing this so I can continue to jerk off on the prospect of one day running away to an educational establishment down the Californian coast and leaving the horror of my dead and dying family and the awesome enervation of this local nonsense behind. What the hell am I bothering for..."44 and there's so much more...." Where the fug is that pick up...sure wish I'd swung a left on Sunset Boulevard back in 2005

Conflict resolution

Does life begin at 44, or does the greying, sagging quality of each naked morning deepen as the months drift by? Caught at the existential fork in the road, I am still intent to plough straight down the middle. An uncompromising, devil may care, commitment to fence sitting as I face key career choices immediately ahead of me. As a wise satyr said to me yesterday “at least it’s good to have choices”. The consolation one takes from this aphorism is proportionate to the enthusiasm one feels for anything at all. Sorry, that was a tad overdone…..

Since I last committed text to blog, nearly 3 months have wended their way down the creek and a few key events in the middle aged lexicon of life have predictably come and (almost) gone. The job I came out here for with an internationally renowned conflict resolution charity ended after exactly one year; my ageing and increasingly frail father’s long overdue season ticket finally got cancelled by the mortality police; and I have sought to find a new professional direction whilst still based in the UAE. The latter part nearly lost me (and therefore my wife’s) right to remain here, but that particular chill to the testicular area has thankfully passed (I believe).

The end of my contract to advance conflict resolution in the Gulf had been agreed back in November. The phone call had actually come on the eve of the three day national holiday out here at around 6pm, a bit like getting the sack on the eve of Thanksgiving. “Sorry”, he said, on hearing that the time and emotion involved in getting and trying to make something of the job he proposed had taken something of a personal and family toll. Finances were involved in this parting, and editorial disagreements too. He didn’t like the way I wrote and I thought what he and his deputy were seeking was unrealistic in this particular part of the sand bucket. So good riddance. Since that conversation the work has kept on coming. I am busier than ever, balanced precariously between mostly old research contacts recently reinvigorated, and a new (and possibly permanent) position at a local educational establishment. The fork in the road requires me to depress the accelerator in the freelance consultant type direction, or finally succumb to the academia that I have long had a love-hate relationship with. If only for the third option: that second hand record store in San Louis Obispo, off Route 1, California. But that ain’t gonna happen. I am not 21 and it would of course be such a waste of one’s talents, wouldn’t it?

Christmas in Dubai

Christmas in Dubai was weird. We are broke, so my present to my wife was a shirt that I never wear, and her present to me was nicely presented tin of peanuts and a frosted ear plug. In a nativity-relevant occurrence, a decent dining table (only one wobbly leg) and two chairs suddenly appeared in the stairwell on Christmas Day – we have lots of room in the inn but are desperately in need of furniture, il hum du llilah. We spent the morning people-watching as a slight Christmas buzz could be felt, largely due to the nearby sounds of an early filipino party which veered from contemporary carols to Bob Marley.

Late afternoon, after several aperitifs, we sat down to roast lamb. This was enjoyed to the further accompaniment of liquid gifts from friends who recently passed through customs. We then finished off one of the bottles whilst watching a DVD of The Who Live in Brighton in 2006. This actually gave me hope after entering a deep, post prandial, depression. We would have then polished off the rest of our gifts, but sobered up to Cat on Hot Tin Roof (movie version with Newman and Taylor) followed by a phone call home. A very pleasant walk down by the Creek followed, and we were in bed and sound asleep by 1030pm

Dubai Lime party at the Loft

It was good to see that Dubai Lime have restarted their residency at the Loft and were kicking things off with a party for all Limers and with no charge on the door. The musical fayre was a more mixed bag than on the few occasions that I have checked out Lime music events before. Once again it gave a significant role to the Canadian songstress Jennifer Gove (Buddy can you spare a recording contract?) - I am told that Jennfer, like all Limer performers, has a very regular day job and does no gigs save those that Dubai Lime put on at coffee shops and the Loft ocassionally. Hard to believe, as I told her slightly drunkenly outside afterwards. Less impressive were Midnight Oil (Aussie band in the 80s, no?). Well, the "Kuwaiti-born" new wavey drummer, Ahmed was good. I think he should split from "Sam from London" and find a funkier cooler vehicle for his talents. Sam was sometimes painful in the vocal department, and own songs were decidely bedsit-driven. He tried hard though and a decent cover of Losing My Religion (in Dubai?) went down well, especialy amongst a table of Nigerians near me. REM are so damn international, aren't they? "Iz", from the UK (?), pushed a few emotional buttons..for some...and played well and passionately, performing mainly his own songs. A final word for the compere, Glaswegian-born John McCorrigan (?). He was funny and an all round good bloke. I am sure he has more "Stella Street" type impersonations in his wardrobe that he could amuse us with next time. Frankly I missed the last music act as we had to go due to our finances not being at ease with AED28 for a small bottle of Heiniken. Me thinks the Loft a tad greedy.

Dubai Jazz 2008

Thrilling news that the internationally-acclaimed jazz artiste Mr David Gray will be gracing us with his presence as this year's much lauded Dubai Jazz Festival. The highly influential unplugged tunesmith who has influenced legions of bejeaned, stubbly and oh so emotional singer songwriter clones over the last few years will no doubt raise a chilled white whine at the news. Those interested in jazz, for all its manifold varities, better look elsewhere. Of course this is something of a tradition at Dubai Jazz. Last year Dee Dee Meyers (or someone who sounds like a Clinton staffer.. DD Bridgewater...Who?) was a top feature. She was a bit jazz; less so was Freddy Cole who is jazz as in being black and soulful, which covers an awful lot of talented people who would not dream of labelling themselves jazz. More RnB really, when the term meant rhythm and blues as opposed to, well, black. Strange really, I remember that just a few weeks after the Dubai International Jazz Festival 2007, the genuinely acclaimed Scandinavian jazz pianist Bobo Stenson was a part of the "Gulf Jazz Festival" that was on the road in bohemian fashion between Gulf Arab capitals and played a night at the Deira Raddison SAS. I missed that too, but in his case wished I had not. He has played with some key names at the freer end of the jazz scene since the 60s, including Charlie Haden, and is a virtuoso whose subtleties would be lost on virtually anyone who has ever trod the boards of Dubai Media City's open air auditorium. Speaking of jazz artists, the famous brand of toilet manufacturers also lends its name, appropriately enough, to an AOR band by the naff name of Toto who headlined Dubai Jazz this year. Was it last year that Thelonious Monk's son and heir Roger Hodgson was on the bill? Don't get me wrong, Supertramp's Logical Song and Bloody Well Right were groovy forays into sixth form art rock back in the 70s, but the only thing that was jazz about them was Antony C Helliwell's tenor, and that was played strictly rock-stylee. Jeez. I mean there is a lot of jazz talent out there. And I do not mean soft white female vocalists of the current jazz and rootsy "wave" like Dana Krall or Katie Melluah, nor the excreable Jamie Callum, who substitutes the sensitivities of the gym for the escoterica of the music. This is where the play off between bums on grass and the cost of a ticket to see class acts that people might have heard of from the real jazz scene kicks in. However Dave Holland, Anour Brahem (yes, an Arab), Charlie Haden, Pharoah Saunders, Lyle Mayes, Bobo Stenson... these guys do not cost like those pop artists increasingly drawn to Abu Dhabi do, and, if marketed right, people would come to see them. Anyone interested out there?

Gordon Brown

(Quote: Money Week magazine, 5 Nov 2007) ".......Moreover, Gordon Brown may yet share the fate of another Prime Minister. James Callaghan's place in history turned out to be a footnote to Harold Wilson. He took over as Prime Minister in mid-term and had an opportunity to go to the country early, but chose to cling on to power to the very last minute. The economy deteriorated through the winter of discontent, and he was routed at the polls. Gordon Brown, too, is facing a deteriorating economic outlook. In the past few years economic activity has been underpinned by a booming housing market and financial services sector as well as large increases in public spending. A stimulus from any of these areas is unlikely next year. The outlook for 2009 is more problematic, but by then the Brown government may be a busted flush. It is possible that Gordon Brown's worst nightmare waits - being a footnote to Tony Blair. Politics is interesting once more. ....."

I made this comparison about 18 months ago on the basis of the UK Treasury (Red Book) fiscal and UK economy projections...

The key DIFFERENCE, of course, is that we are unlikely to see again the 1978/79 style meltdown, but the Labour party disaffiliating and/or bolshie UK trade unions have some options. The other key difference is that Jim was popular right up UNTIL the winter of discontent, and bested the silly blonde girl all the time over the dispatch box. Oh, and the other key difference, JC was a likeable if a tad dry (by today's standards) bloke...Gordie ain't no "Sunny Jim"; he has remained a shit ever since he dissed me in a lift back in '95. JC, like all successful politicians (the only one in the 20th century to hold all top FOUR offices of state) knew how to exercise the popular touch. He also had the background to make it seem genuine. Gordon Brown (not to be confused with that much more interesting politician, and companion of JC, the former chancellor George Brown) is a privileged scion of the Manse and Scotland's Oxbridge: Edinburgh University. Combine that with a rarified, puritanical, cold showers and proddy guilt upbringing from a clerical father, and you have the man. As Paul Weller said in 1982 (?), I'm voting Tory..