From denial to the Nile

A new year dawns, and with it some big changes for Lola LebCan. After many happy years in Sheikh Zayed Road's prestigious Orifice Towers building, Dubai's PR queen is being forced to pack her bags. Either that, or have thousands of labourers gaze at her naked splendour in the shower every morning as the new Dubai Metro whizzes right past her window.

But like many long-term expats, Dubai has palled for Lola. The once-glittering heights of SZR's skyscrapers are but dusty glass. The glamourous sandlands social whirl is a shallow chore. There is no joy, no inspiration and the city, Lola says, is "soulless". She has even swapped karaoke at Harry Ghatto's for this festive lament:

Deck the malls with discount banners
Fallah-lalala-lala-lala

‘tis the season to sell your hummers
Fallah-lalala-lala-lala

Donning now your old pyjamas
Fallah-lalala-lala-lala

Join the bankrupt Jumeira mamas
Fallah-lalala-lala-lalaaaa*

Two years ago, Lola fled to Egypt for sanctuary. She now plans to seek the healing waters of the Nile once more and work on her Masri twang. Plus there are around 40 million men in Egypt, compared to just 2.5 million in the UAE.

*(c) Lola LebCan 2008


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Model behaviour

Lola LebCan is out and proud. After weeks of mysteriously sneaking around the office at lunchtime and declining dinner invitations, she finally reveals her secret: an exclusive, executive diet service. Thrice a day, exact calorie-counted, size-controlled portions of Cristal and caviar have been arriving at her door in little bento boxes.

"It's perfect, it takes far too long to count out all those tiny eggs yourself," she points out.

As she stands to leave, in all her bikini-clad-Ursula-Andress-ocean-emerging glory, we cast a rather guilty eye over our cheesecake, forks hovering in mid air. But PR queens have different standards to the rest of us. They must dazzle in style and beauty and glamour, or they fail utterly.

Whereas our role is to preserve the sacred traditions of the sandlands, which means endless unlimited buffets, brunches, and putting on plenty of "Dubai padding". The good news is that we will be curvaceous enough to model in Madrid, whereas Lola will hopefully snap in two.

Dubai Hotter 100

The glossip rag known on Dubai radio as "Acklan" (available at all Jumeirah hairdressers now) has yet again chosen 100 bores, has-beens and never-wases in a risibly titled "Hot 100" list. A tricky task indeed: limiting the Roll-Call of Shame to only 100 names - there are tens of thousands of similar dreary, trowel-make-upped wannabes out there.

Time then to present an alternative list. One hundred is boringly long to choose, so here are ten of Dubai's hottest people:

1. Lola LebCan
Lola defines hot. She also defines cool. Which is a paradox, but who cares?

2. Boys in blue
These guys are hot. They're hot because they work all day on building sites, in the hot sun. Very very hot. Possibly the hottest people in the sandlands. And they probably built your villa/apartment/palace.

3. Beach boyz
Who knows who these guys are? They're very probably some of the same boys above, enjoying the beach on their single day off per week. They wanted their photo taken, and they have far hotter, more genuine smiles than any of the frozen botoxed frights and smarmy slicked-backs in Acklan.

4. Dr Al Ka'abi
If only they were all like him. UAE labour minister Dr Al Ka'abi is an outstanding example of a politician committed to rooting out corruption and getting workers paid. They don't come much hotter than this.

5. Ibn Battuta
Love the mall, love the man. Without doubt the hottest-looking man in the UAE. Even being deceased, he's still infernos hotter than any of the dross in Acklan. Absolutely, utterly, smouldering.

6. Sharla Musaibh
Sharla is hot due to the immense warmth of her heart and the courage that burns in her. She has helped improve and even save the lives of countless dispossessed and oppressed sandlanders. Her work roasts the interior design, modelling and general media moronity of the Acklan posse.

7. Michael Faraday + friends
Not technically sandlanders, but certainly deserving of honourary citizenship. We would all be a lot hotter if it wasn't for these boffins and the invention of air conditioning. OBEs (Old Boring Expats) still remember with terror the "good" old days pre-A/C. Hot men with hot ideas.

8. Mohammed Alabbar
Hot-looking (no wonder they want him as a TV presenter), and extra-hot for putting the sandlands on the map with the world's tallest tower. Definitely a contender for the Hottest People list, at least until China builds an even bigger burj.

9. Life Pharmacy staff, DICC
First class customer service: if they don't have what you need, they'll deliver it from one of their other branches at no extra charge, within a couple of hours. All the men and women working at the DICC pharmacy are always polite, friendly, and incredibly nice. So hot, in fact, that they nearly make attending Dubai expos bearable. (But not quite. That would take intravenous morphine for the duration, followed by a six-month all-expenses-paid sabbatical in the Seychelles).

10. Men in RAK
Steamingly hot. No need to explain why.

Queen of the Nile

Friends hoping to see Lola LebCan dripping with gold scarabs and chanting hieroglyphic curses when she arrived back from Egypt at Christmas were sorely disappointed. Rather than see any of the great wonders of Al Masr, the PR princess (now a PR consultant queen) previously barricaded herself upon a leafy island in the Nile, during her extended work sojourn in the land of the Pharoahs.

"You can just about see the pyramids from my apartment window, at least when it's not smoggy. And with a strong telescope," she excused herself at the time.

This time, all has changed. Now best friends with the Sphinx ("the pyramids are amazing!"), Lola has even adopted an Egyptian Arabic twang. Over iced McQahwahs in some ghastly mall cafe, she explains why:

"The problem is that if they hear you speaking in a Lebanese accent, they automatically assume you're a porn star."

Time for thyme

Lola LebCan is tucked away in a corner of Goodies cafe, Wafi, tucking into some fresh zaatar salad. Zaatar, which is literally the Arabic for thyme, is usually used to mean a dry-ish spice mix made of dried thyme, sumac and sesame seeds, which is sprinkled onto olive-oil-brushed flatbread.

Lola's zaatar salad is actually a bowl of fresh thyme, deep green and pungent; olives and tiny slivers of red onion sprinkled with sumac. A very healthy dish, and excellent for digestion.

But that is not why Lola is munching on it. Just before arriving at Goodies, she made the fatal mistake of walking too close past a reeking oud shop. Occasionally lovely in delicate doses, a over-strong waft of the burning agar wood can choke the senses for hours.

"I nearly died of oud," she comments, chewing her bitter herbs to try and rid the aroma.

View to a thrill

Lola LebCan has organised a press event at Gleam Tower, part of the new concrete forest growing on the banks of Jebel Ali. Like every other one of the hundred-odd skyscrapers built up around it, it boasts exclusive "desert and ocean" views. Dust and dredging is more apt.

The show apartment contains the dream Arabian fit-out: opulently vulgar furniture, two bathrooms for every bedroom, a maid's room the size of a hamster cage - but, best of all - a robotic web-enabled camera system installed in every room.

Never again shall the desperate cry be heard through the keyhole: "Quick! Slip some bog-roll under the door - I've run out!" Instead, flatmates and family can enjoy a live feed of all the lavatory action, and anticipate every need.

The usual tough and incisive questioning by members of the media includes a query on whether the bathroom camera lenses feature mist-free glass, lest any steaming-up obscure the soapiest moments. Lola fields the question in her usual expert PR style.

"Have everyone take cold showers only," she suggests. "It keeps things perkier anyway."

True blue

"Habibi - daa fani!" exclaims Lola LebCan in enthusiastic greeting, air-kissing and hugging. "You've lost so much weight - you're nearly skin and bone!"

It's possibly the first time in history that this traditional Beirut greeting has been used truthfully. Unfortunately, the object of Lola's admiration is in fact an adjacent lamp-post. Her eyes are half-closed and streaming, prompting a concerned enquiry about conjunctivitis and/or blindness.

"Blue contact lenses - aren't they beautiful?" she squints. "I just bought them ten minutes ago. I can't really see through them yet, but no matter, I've got beautiful, blue eyes."

Guiding her gently by the arm away from a brick wall and through the actual gate of Lime Tree cafe, we sit down to iced coffees and an in-depth, industrial intelligence session.

Afterwards, despite pleas to accept a lift or get a cab, Lola drives herself home. Even partially-sighted, her driving will probably be no worse than the average cretin on Dubai's roads.

Freeloading fun

Lola LebCan has just celebrated another birthday. Like most Beirut princesses, she appears to be decreasing in age with each year that passes. We meet at yet another five star hotel for yet another press conference for the launch of yet another obscure and uninteresting company announcement: such is the endless toil of the Dubai PR bunny.

Over a strangely-scented cup of herbal tea from the ubiquitous Ronnefeld or Twinings selection box, Lola points out a journalist on the other side of the room, from the Arab-language brigade of the UAE army of shabby hacks.

"I don't get that guy. He turns up for every press conference we hold. He claims to work for some obscure Arab news agency I've never heard of. I've never seen any example of evidence of his work, published or not."

Lola's theory is that he is just along for the ride: free food and free corporate crap. The utter tragedy of such an existence silences us for several moments.

Dishdash dating dilemmas

"The thing is, they're like Martians, just dropped suddenly into the middle of an alien world. Except it's actually their planet, and we're the aliens."

A discussion with Lola LebCan about the dishdash dating scene, and specifically Hamid's romantic crisis. Her view from both the Arab-Muslim and Western-Lapsed perspectives is quite simple:

"The girl is both a bitch and a whore."

The problem for local men is that they are launched, quite suddenly, into the multicultural multisexual metropolis of Dubai, after 21 years of stricty segregated education without even a copy of Loaded to help them on the way. With the gradual realisation is dawning that paleface Western lady does not necessarily equal whore, their confusion is great. It is further complicated by the presence of modern Arab ladies, specifically Beirut Princess/Shakira hos poured into slutty clothes, acting far more like hookers than their demure European counterparts.

What is the average young dishdash to do? Those like Hamid don't want a traditional local girl, but someone "more modern". The problem is that every western woman is the equivalent of Mrs Robinson in comparitive experience, whereas "purer" ladies such as Hamid's money-grubbing cocktease paramour are often spoilt little girls.

Lola is playing a new dating game herself. When asked out, invited somewhere or generally propositioned she rolls a special set of dice: with Yes on every side. The result so far is a trail of married sleazebags and wimpy expats, plus ca change.

Mustang Sally

Following the lead of men d'une certaine age wielding tiny appendages, Lola LebCan (currently unable to access any appendage, large or small) has splashed out on a scarlet sports car. Quite how the dust, heat, pollution and danger of Dubai's roads lend themselves to topless driving - the car, not Lola - not yet anyway - is anyone's guess, but at least cruising for a bruising down Palm Strip in style is now possible.

A sports car is indeed a brave choice, in a country where not even armoured tanks provide significant defence against the appalling driving. Dave, a defensive driving instructor at a major oil multinational, inspires only despair.

"Look past a few glassy buildings - you're in a place that's basically two thousand years behind. The driving here and the police enforcement aren't going to improve in any of our lifetimes. There's no point getting frustrated, you need to look to yourself and saving your own life out there."

There is a wonderful though sadly totally untrue anecdote about Sheikh Mo, cruising down Sheikh Zayed Road in his white Mercedes ice-cream van. He spots someone driving like a moron (spoilt for choice, one would assume) and gets the driver to pull over and get out of his car.

Mo shoots him in the foot, and drives off.

Apocryphal or not, in the very darkest of hours - stuck behind a moustachioed subcon Nissan Sunnyman doing 60kmph in the fast lane, stuffed animals blocking his back window and endless beads and CDs-on-string jangling under his mirror - this is a tale to cling to. Regardless of Dave's greater wisdom, this is a parable for all our times. Mo unleashed: the only hope of salvation.

The Missing

Dubai's brightest and best show up under the stars to pay homage to Lola LebCan on her birthday. Skyscrapers glitter around the poolside setting, in the shadow of the Evil Tower. Dubai is a place where people grow older, and wearier, but never get old.

There are no old people here. The local pensioners hide away in their villas; occasionally you may spot a bronze-masked black-clad old woman scuttle across a quiet side street in Jumeirah. Old men are never seen - not in the shopping centres, in the coffeehouses, or at the shisha pipes - do they exist?

The rare sight of elderly foreigners - generally parents and grandparents visiting their expat offspring - brings a strange pang. For a real world where old ladies push tartan shopping trolleys along a busy pavement, where senior citizens gossip on public buses, and old men take a stroll through the park.

None of that here. This is YouthWorld.

Burn the Witch

There can be no word nor phenomenon more excrutiating in the 20th/21st centuries than that of the "guru". Even those as enlightened as Lola LebCan fawn over these peddlars of snake oil for the soul. Their horrific success over the past few decades leaves one torn between two plots bubbling away in the cauldrons of Guantanamo Cell Block G:

1. Self Help Books Are Shit
Rottweiler a different self-help, "leadership" or new age tome in each chapter, tearing apart their glib bunkum with savage, slavering teeth. Case studies of those following this drivel to the last letter - yet still witnessing their lives descend into a hellish spiral of misery and failure - will enlighten and encourage the reader. Bonfires shall be even more numerous than the Harry Potter Burnings, cremating "Chicken Shit for the Soul", "Seven Steps to Fuckwittedness" and their sorry ilk.

2. The Way of The Djinn
Jump on the bandwagon of bilge, and publish a hocus pocus mishmash of faux Bedouin mysticism and traditional Arab tribal "culture", peppered with trite vignettes of simple robed peasants endlessly drawing plans in the sand. Patience and Peace - let the ancient wisdom of the desert revolutionise your goals, priorities, and life success.

That sinking feeling

A karaoke tragedy for Lola LebCan, whose world record for most microphone time was smashed by a former competitor on Stars In Their Eyes (Harry Connick Jr) ringing it at Harry Ghattos last night. Never before has anyone sung so loudly and so long.

Singing considerably less loudly, a source reveals information set to spread the warm glow of Schadenfreude across the Emirate. Let the glorious song of Tight Fit ring throughout the clubs, bars and karaoke halls:

Fantasy Island - all we ever dreamed of
True love - holdin' us together
Star shine - Fantasy Island
Oh I wish that we didn't have to spend hundreds of millions more dollars raising the sinking island by another two metres

More burqa porn

While others tuck into plum pudding and turkey schwarma, Lola LebCan's festive treat has been a taste of Emirati pornography, via a film called Jawahir Does Jumeira. Set in Dubai, with landmarks such as the Burj Al Arab in the background, most of the action takes place behind the conveniently high walls of a villa in Jumeirah.

A blacked-out window sheikhmobile turns out to be more than a pretty prop - rather a literal prop for some of Jawahir's more gymnastic contortions. "I think the star was actually Moroccan," Lola comments, "because her UAE accent was really dodgy."

Just a couple of emirates away, shock and awe in Ras Al Khaimah with the Invasion of the Pork Scratchings. Not only are these horrors flavoured with artificial pig, they also feature a pint of beer in the logo.

But even more disturbing is imagining the 20-year-old Syrian man who was (a) stupid enough to buy a packet of crisps without checking the flavour, and (b) pathetic enough to run sobbing to his father to get him to sort out the mess. Can there be another country in the world where 20-year-old men have to be described as "youngsters"?

Glorious Golden Sands

A visitor inadvertently mistakes the latest edition of the Ramadan doormat as a newspaper, and brings the execrable rag into Cell Block G. This week's exciting "exclusive" is so exclusive that it was recounted a week previously by Lola LebCan, already eighth hand, to half of Dubai.

The scene: Golden Sands 6, in the very unlovely concrete jungle of Mankhool, Bur Dubai. The players: one angry and embarrassed dishdash, two Russian ladies of the night, and one conerned concierge gently inisting the other three make their party elsewhere. Action: one fatal stabbing of the concierge by the dishdash. This tragedy is not mere theatre, but film - captured entirely on Golden Sands' CCTV cameras.

Very sad, but also strange, as according to Official Expat History (=rumour, obvious untruth and conspiracy theory) the (unofficial) decision to tolerate prostitution a few years back supposely resulted in a 97% drop in all crime.

An acquaintance hack has booked to stay at Golden Sands for next month's Air Show. I will suggest he packs his war zone kit.

Depths of Deira

Dubai is a quieter Emirate this month, with the sudden departure of Lola LebCan for the cooler climes of Montreal. But to liven things up, schoolteacher Margery has packed her carpet bag and arrived for another desperate attempt to nail an oil-rich dishdash.

Sorrows over the tragic and premature death of SHAC2 news were drowned out at Hibiki karoke bar at the Hyatt Regency. Career opportunities are everywhere in Dubai, so it was no surprise to get an "are you Russian?" offer of employment following us back from the bathroom. Margery was upset to discover this particular dishdash was searching for something considerably less committed than marriage.

But where there's life there's hope. If she can't score an oil sheikh, perhaps she'll make do with an oil worker at Jebel Ali Club instead.

A sticky and sweaty night

Tonight was as humid as it has been this year. Leaving SHAC at 10pm, hands dripped with condensation the first second out of the building. Car windows fogged up, making Sheikh Zayed more perilous than ever.

Inside the Guantanamo palace flat, despite dessicating AC, the latest corporate gift - a delightfully shiny rotating polished brass clock/thermometer/humidity gauge - reveals the moistness is above 70 percent.

Sticky sleep lies ahead. And a sticky situation is also being suffered by Lola LebCan, suffering the dark side of beauty and fame, as jealousy lurks green-eyed in the shadows. Yes - the PR princess is suspected of being the Other Woman.

This despite the fact that Lola has been racing round Dubai in recent weeks cradle snatching rather than grandpa-grabbing, having finally decided to ditch quality for quantity and Plug-in to the good times again.

Cold, tired, and horny

Despite many attempts to seriously study Arabic, and at least remember some userful words and phrases, I know only three adjectives to respond to the social nicety "how are you?"

These are "tired", "cold", and "horny."

The first two were learnt at SHAC - the fact that I have never needed any other words there speaks for itself. The latter is from Lola LebCan. I have yet to use it.

The third of June will forever be remembered by the Ant community of Karama-by-the-Sea as The Day of the Howling Suck-Monster. This morning, irked by the small black beasts nipping my shoulders, infesting my bed and stealing my chocolate, it became necessary to commit an act of anticide.

Twelve hours later the lucky survivors continue their linear crawl back and forth across the room, and up to the gap in the window frame. But unbeknown to them, half a tube of Superflex Sealant lies in the tool drawer, a legacy from desperate replumbing cistern attempts in Little Bombay. Yes - I will plug their crawl-hole.

Tomorrow: the Day of the Deadly Alien Gel shall dawn...

Oracle at the Oasis

Suffering a pre-mid life crisis after a rush of dating disasters, Lola LebCan decided to consult an Oracle, in this case the Wise Woman of Lebanon. In fact she invited the Wise Woman round to her palatial boudoir at Oasis Towers.

Appearances are somewhat deceptive, as the WWoL has taken the incarnation of a 23-year-old Emirates-hostess-esque siren. But behind the dazzling and youthful looks lurks a steely brilliance on all matters Arab men, dating and general desperation.

The Wise Woman was consulted on the ways and chances of finding a stable, attractive, marriage-minded Arab muslim man of around thirty, most significantly one whose matrimonial designs weren't exclusively on an eighteen-year-old virgin.

Some hours later, when the tears of laughter had finally dried, the WWoL pointed out to Lola LebCan that she is (a) barely Arab, (b) even less Muslim. The advice: move country, change job, select another race and religion, and join a marriage bureau.

And if all else fails, fly to Cairo for a re-virginisation operation.

The Rules of misery

Times are tragic for Lola LebCan. The dearth of Dubai dating success has led her to invest in that self-help bible of the failed and desperate: "The Rules."

This is in fact some latest edition of the book, "The Rules Revisited." Good news for "mature daters" - anyone over 35 is lumped in this category - they are allowed to phone the man back, because their men are more "old and tired." And presumably more likely to pop their clogs before getting a chance to phone.

What a heartwarming read. "You may be bereaved, have blood pressure issues, your daughter may be going through a divorce, your husband may have left you, you may have had a brush with cancer. Be young, be happy!"

One reviewer on Amazon is more than happy to credit the vile treatise for all his relationship ills:

"This book explains why one of my ex-girlfriends sunk my boat, my ex-wife #1 emptied 200 gallons of heating oil in my basement, rendering my house un-livable for 9 months Ex-wife #2 crashed my car through a 7-11, (who said that women are better drivers) and wife #3 made false claims of spousal abuse and served me with an order of protection on me. It also explains why wife #3 was shocked when I served her divorce papers the same week. It explains why my ex-wife #4 burned my living room with candles. These were all attempts, on the female's part to force me to prove my persistent and genuine LOVE for her."

Or perhaps you were a sexist, abusive pig that drove four wives to display their persistent and genuine DISGUST? Either way, some big-haired man-hunting American lady is sure to soon to pick you up at an art gallery, deliberately never phone you, and secretly start planning wedding #5 while she pretends to be "busy and popular" on weekends.