The Angryman Memoirs – Chapter 1

I’m back, and I have not mellowed (wouldn’t want to disappoint you).

There have been a lot of words written of late about the state of affairs in Dubai, few of them have been flattering. There’s the Michelle Palmer ‘Sex in the City, Literally’ saga, the ‘Free the gender confused whale’ debacle and the never-ending tarot card reading that has been soothsaying the collapse of the 7 star bubble for the last decade. If there were any sort of a consumer confidence index done for cities, the Dubai needle would be just slightly under E (which denotes excrement in this case. A lot of which, coincidently is floating around the beaches).

Despite having being born in Dubai and reared, through a mix of comparative GDP statistics and sensationalist media overload, to appreciate what we have here, I have no great affinity for the city. This apathy is second only to my hatred of the monolith media machine.

Did anyone fail to note that the local stock markets have taken a gazillion point parachtuteless dive or that the price of oil (the primary source of federal income) has been digging its way to the South Pole with a nuclear shovel ? Has there been a single water cooler debate on the fact that maybe, just maybe, that there is a large amount of shit heading towards a very large fan?

This brings me to the subject of today’s rant.

Dubai is, on paper, a fantastic place to live. People pour in here from every single global nook to partake of the weather, the purchasing power parity and the ability to strut their professional stuff in a talent pool as deep as a flash shower puddle. Nothing wrong with that, as a matter of fact, it is great.

What people fail to mention is the effect that this has on your psyche and the re-orientation that takes place.

Let me sketch it out.

Meet John, he is a Midwestern (as in U.S.) white collar worker with all the accessories, mortgage, taxes, an average IQ and a phobia of frostbite. He catches the bus to work, lives in a renovated loft apartment (perfect for the upwardly mobile) and dates occasionally (dinner and a movie followed by thinly veiled pleas to consummate). Is the reception clear?

Let’s move John a few thousand miles to the right and a few hundred down. John drives a Range Rover sport, pays no taxes, rent’s a bitch, but who cares. John takes his dates to 5 star restaurants and has forgotten how to order the house red. He now lives in a 2 story villa and claims he does 20 laps in his pool before he hits the office. This is Dubai, where never-never land meets the red light districts.

So, where’s the problem? On the surface there isn’t one, but inside John’s head, things are starting to change… (Insert ominous music here). He is beginning to forget what it was like to face the, now relative, hardships he had to face back home, to take his material possessions for granted, to avoid thoughts and topics that may cause him to worry or to empathise, which is made easier by the strict demarcation of social class in Dubai and its gated communities which ensure that you never have to see anyone sweat unless it’s in a swanky gym. So begins the transformation and allow me to coin the phrase ‘Dubai descent’.

The Descent begins to wreak havoc as our upbringing and our desire to live the high life come into conflict, this paradox forms the basis of the ‘People are so fake’ Monologue I hinted at in my last post. So we work in our ubertowers, party in our megaclubs and drive our supercars, but we just can’t feel good, because we can't see what could be our lot.

A call to sociopathic behaviour if there ever was one (and among the news you never see are the abundant examples of anti-social and downright dangerous behaviour).

“To court the devil is to romance your own mind”. – Me.