The Dim in Beirut

10 Facts about a Lebanese Mother

1)      Her biggest fear is that you’ll die starving: It doesn’t matter how old you are: a Lebanese mother has not realized that you’re fully aware that you need to eat when your stomach starts marking churning sounds. She truly believes that if she doesn’t ask you every 5 minutes whether you’re hungry, you’ll starve. And be careful. Rejecting your Lebanese mother’s offer of a sandwich does not mean the conversation is over. Do not be surprised if she turns up a few minutes later with said sandwich prepared for you.

2)      Is extremely skeptical of any one of your girlfriends/boyfriends: For one of them to meet a Lebanese mother’s full and honest approval takes years of arduous work, backdoor negotiations and successful passing of tests which may go on long after that person has become your spouse.

3)      Hates the roads: It doesn’t matter if you’re going to Faraya, Hazmieh, Hamra or across the street. Your mother hates the roads: all of them. You’ll be reminded of that fact every time you say goodbye to her. Expect be to told to “drive carefully” and “put your seatbelt on” several times a day.

4)      Is convinced rain is anthrax: You’ll be called at work a few times on the first day it rains in the winter and be told to “to2borni inshallah, be careful”. You’ll be admonished for not taking an umbrella. You’ll have text messages on your phone telling you to dress warmly. You will be looked at with mouth gaping wide eyed astonishment and disappointment should you wear less than 7 layers of clothes before going out.

5)      She’s unique: You’ll be reminded, on a daily basis, that, while you may have friends, a bunch of ex girlfriends, siblings and more cousins than ex classmates, YOU ONLY HAVE ONE MOTHER.

6)      Suffers from Alzheimer disease: Any question regarding your well being will be repeated several times a day. Just because you didn’t want the heater on 180 seconds ago does not mean, to a Lebanese mother, that you don’t want it now.

7)      Loves when you’re sick: As she’s, for the only time of the year, allowed to treat you like a baby without any resistance from you. To2borni Inshallah.  When you’re sick, a Lebanese mother will dote on you and take charge of the crisis with the same eagerness she displayed on the day of your birth. And you’re powerless to put up a fight, which is pure heaven for her.

8)      Still thinks you have no social etiquette:  And reminds you, every time you’re about to be introduced to her friends, to: ‘get up, be nice, shake her hand, be polite and DON’T SIT BACK DOWN until she leaves”. Then smiles at you with pride when her friend leaves while you shake your head in embarrassment.

9)      Is fully aware how ridiculous she is: Every time you admonish her for treating you like a baby. But she then blames it all on the fact that she’s a parent. “You’ll understand when you’ll have kids” we’re told. Great stuff. So, in their eyes, we only finally stop being babies when we have one of our own. Circle of life and that…

10)   Is an absolute queen: She’ll do anything for you. She’ll put her body in front of a moving train to save you. You only need to mention, in passing, that you like something and a Lebanese mother will go and get it for you. Her happiness and success in life will be defined by yours. Her biggest source of contentment is through your well being and the best compliments anyone can give her are in relation to you.

To2borni Inshallah...

The World's most Ridiculous Places Part 2: Paris

 

First, a disclaimer.The City in itself is wonderful. Not as mythical and picturesque as many suggest, but definitely up there with the most beautiful cities of the world.

But it doesn’t matter if it’s heaven on earth. Throw Parisians in there and you might as well be in the mounds of hell.

Filling the city with Parisians is quite evidently a sick practical joke God played on the world. Letting the natives loose in Paris is akin to letting a drunken beer bellied topless Englishman loose in an idyllic Mediterranean village.

Quite frankly, they ruin the aesthetics of the place.

For such a beautiful city, aggression should be hard to find. But on the contrary. It’s on every corner.

Let’s start with the metros. You need to be as flexible as a ballet dancer to avoid tripping on a homeless person or the umpteenth dog coming down the stairs. The stations stink of urine and aggression.  I’ve been on countless metro rides where fights have broken out. There’s no consistency or time or place discrimination in the fights either. Totally random.

You need to be ready to defend yourself and fight for everything in your daily life. Be prepared to pounce and let out your claws at any moment. I was once admonished for holding a few pennies on the metro. “You shouldn’t be showing your wealth off” is what a total stranger snapped at me.

People are curt and defensive whenever you ask them anything. They walk around with an eternal meteorite sized chip on their shoulder, moaning about everything and satisfied at nothing. For a people that insist on calling strangers the polite “vous” instead of “tu”, they sure know how to make it very clear (politely) that your very existence is pissing them off.

The lack of multi culturalism in Paris also bewilders. You never hear any foreign languages that emanate from anyone apart from tourists. For such a supposed international city, the fact it’s so insular is quite ridiculous.

And God help you if you don’t speak French. I’m lucky I do so I never had any problems. But a lot of my fellow students in college were routinely ignored or made to feel like total social lepers for speaking English. The food in restaurants may be good (when it arrives). But try ordering it in English. It’s worth it just to hear the sighs and sneers of the waiter.  

And it’s not like the waiters spare the French from their rudeness. I was once in a restaurant where a perfectly dressed native, who was sick of waiting for his food, told the waitress he was better off eating at home. She told him to go home then. The man huffed and puffed and got up waving his arms in the air.

The manager came out. He asked what the problem was. The man answered “I’ve been waiting for 30m for my food and your waitress told me to go home.” The manager, there to calm the situation, promptly replied “She’s right. Go home”.

No wonder Americans are in utter bewilderment when they visit. Coming from a country where they’re so nice in shops you feel guilty if you aren’t in Greece sized debt when you leave, it must be a huge culture shock for them.

But that’s Paris. A beautiful and historic city ruined by the sheer bad tempered and never ending unpleasantness of the people that inhabit it. Would top a great places on earth list- if it wasn’t for the offspring it’s hoisted on the world.

Ridiculous place.

Lebanon's National Sport: Showing Off

We’re absolutely word class at it.

There are other things we’re great at of course. Despite what Israel says (and don’t forget they claim the land they live on is theirs so they’re not the most credible source), we gave the world Hummus. We’re fantastic at bullshitting. The women are exquisite. We’ve got a never dying spirit and have risen like a phoenix more times than Lazarus.

But there’s nothing we can do better than showing off. There’s not a single pastime we master or excel at as much as that. We’re innovative and meticulous, relentless and shameless.

We’re the only country in the world where having a sexy phone number seriously impresses people (got one by the way). A 4 digit number plate ditto (got one too).  And don’t get me started on our consumer habits… We change our phones and cars regularly, spend fortunes on clothes, food and drink.

As I was once told: Lebanese people buy stuff they don’t need with money they don’t have to impress people they don’t know.

Here’s a list of the more subtle tricks which truly puts us on another showing off pedestal compared to the rest of the world. To all the foreigners coming to Beirut, learn these by heart.

1) The phone trick: I love this one. The trick is to be with a person somewhere and have your phone ring. Press yes on the phone, ignore the caller and CONTINUE the conversation with the person you’re with. Let the caller listen to your conversation for at least 4 seconds until you say hello. This gives the person calling you the impression you’re extremely busy and important. Doesn’t fail to impress and, more importantly, boost your ego (it sucks when the person calling you dialed the wrong number mind).

 2) The “he’s my friend” trick: Whenever there’s a conversation about going out somewhere exclusive, claim you’re friends with the owner and can book a table any time people want. Being friends with the owner can mean anything from: “I’ve met him once” to “I shook his hand a couple of years ago” to even “he’s a friend of my cousin’s girlfriend’s mate”. No need to tell anyone this though. Just state loudly that you can get a table.

 3) The “I’m with friends” trick:  When someone asks you what you’re up to, tell them you’re with friends. Don’t mention any names. Just say friends. Even if they’re mutual friends. Or the cousin of the guy calling you. Or his best friend. Say friends. This gives the impression you have a wide circle of connections and know mysterious people the other person doesn’t. Frustrates your counterpart but greatly boosts your ego.

 4) The “I’m having fun” trick: Wherever you are (beach, club, restaurant, bar, college) and however bored you may be… You must be seen to be having an absolutely fantastic time by every single person in the place. Laugh wildly, gesticulate franticly, high five everyone, take lots of photos and steal evil glances at other tables. Crack jokes with the waiters and call them (loudly) by their first names. Hug and kiss the valet drivers who, preferably, would have parked your car just in front of the place for all to see. Tell everyone the next day of how much of a cool night it was.

 5) The “too cool to drive” trick: Never have more than one hand on the wheel. The other one can be out of the window (preferably while holding a cigarette), on the shift, on your partner’s thigh… But for ultimate effect it should be holding the phone you’re talking into. Even if you have no one to talk to. Pretend you’re talking. But put your phone on silent. I once saw someone’s phone ring while he was speaking to a phantom person. Poor chap.

Takes years of counseling to get over that in Beirut…

Great Moments in Liverpool History Part 6: The Lions of Turin.

2005 Champions League, Quarter Finals 2^nd Leg:  Juventus 0-0 Liverpool

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=np1v40HRldQ&feature=related

When people talk of the great European Cup run of Liverpool Football Club in 2005, the same matches always feature in the conversation.

Olympiakos and the late Gerrard screamer which put us through to the 2^nd round. The Juventus home game where the Italians were terrorized by the Kop and the high tempo, all action first half display of the boys in Red. The Chelsea 2^nd leg and the greatest European night at Anfield since 1977.

And, of course, THAT miracle in Istanbul.

But there’s one game which is almost always ignored. Its heroism and importance always downplayed.

The Juventus 2^nd leg in Turin.

It’s easy to forget now, but no one actually gave us a chance in that game. Sure we ran all over them in the first half at Anfield. But they pulled a goal back in the 2^nd and we were struggling to hold on. That away goal smacked of a platform upon which they would build and smash us at the Delle Alpi.

This was Juventus, don’t forget. They had, along with Real Madrid, defined the Champions League since its inception. They had been to 4 European Cup finals since our last once in 1985. Yes they’d made a habit of losing them, but they were a powerhouse of European football, just as we had been in the 70s and 80s.

Their team looked like a who’s who of majestic football players. Gigi Buffon, Fabio Cannavaro, Gianluca Zambrotta, Lilian Thuram, Pavel Nedved, Zlatan Ibrahimovic, Allesandro Del Piero…

To make matters worse, we were missing our talisman, Steven Gerrard with injury. In his place came Xabi Alonso- his first game for 3 months after breaking his ankle to partner Igor Biscan in midfield. They would be flanked by Antonio Nunez and John Arne Riise…

And, of course, there was the whole specter of Heysel hanging in the air with Italian fans baying for blood and demanding their team embarrass us.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pAVmfUTPLAg

Noone gave us a chance.

But the 90 minutes that followed would see heroics from the Liverpool team that very few people had ever thought possible. The game in Turin is comfortably, in my view, the greatest European away performance in the history of Liverpool Football Club. Better than Munich in 81 because of the difference in class and experience of the 2 Liverpool teams and better than Barcelona in 2007 because of its importance.

You see, more than any other game until then, this was the game which gave us belief that we could actually win the competition. And, more importantly, this was the game which saw the birth of the tactical platform that would push us to our 5^th European Cup.

Up until then, the European campaign had seen some brilliant games and great high pressure, high tempo football. There was little solidity, little defensive brilliance. Reds of my generation had seen the Reds defend for their lives in Rome and Barcelona under Gerard Houllier- but we’d witnessed little of those tactics in Rafa’s first season. If anything, defensive solidity had been our weak point during that season.

Until Turin. Where, during a nerve tingling, fingernails chewing 90 minutes, the Reds held Juventus at bay through defensive brilliance, dogged determination and heroic fighting spirit.

We restricted Juventus to only 3 good chances with Sami Hyypia imperious in defence. We rode our luck as they hit the post, but otherwise we held them at bay. We even missed the chance to snatch it when Baros fluffed a one on one.

As it turned out, we didn’t need any goals. 0-0 sufficed and we were through to meet Chelsea in the semis.

More importantly: we learned we could beat the best teams in Europe and prevent them from scoring against us.

The tactics employed in Turin would be replicated during the 2 legged semi final against a team 37 points ahead of us in the league. We kept it tight for 126 minutes, defended for our lives and kept 2 clean sheets.

They would also be of use in Istanbul where, after those 6 minutes that shook the world, we again reverted to defensive solidity and miraculous last gasp, back to the wall defending.

By then, we all believed it was possible. Turin had provided the platform where the Reds believed they could keep prevent any team from scoring. The 90 minutes of the 2^nd leg of the quarter finals against the mighty Juventus, without our captain, infused the team and fans with belief and confidence that the impossible was possible.

It was the performance from the lions of Turin that allowed miracles to become reality.

The End of Times

 

 

Though it’s unfortunately sunny today, It had been raining hard in Beirut these last couple of days.

Very hard.

There’s been torrential rain and heavy winds, lightning and thunder too. The sky had turned a bit orange. If there was any American Evangelical Christians here, they’d think it was the rapture.

I love it though. The summer, however, I can’t stand. All that heat, sweatiness and never ending sunshine. Sorry people, not for me. Give me the apocalyptical storms over that hell, any day of the week.

But, whatever my views on the never-ending Beirut summer, I have to admit that the winter here brings up some very weird occurrences. Said simply, Lebanon, like a nudist colony, is ridiculously unequipped for this season.

When the winter strikes in Lebanon, you’re reminded of how far behind we are as a country. It’s 2012 out there, but once a bit of rain hits Beirut you become like Marty Mcfly in Back to the Future: transported to an era where everything is terribly backwards.

New to Lebanon? Here is some advice on what to expect during the winter:

1)  The Internet does not exist: Seriously. As soon as there’s a storm, consider yourself dragged back   to the early 1990s. Your connection goes the minute the first thunder storms hit. On the plus side, if there’s a war, don’t fret: you’ll be fine. We’re the only country in human history whose internet connections laugh in the face of Israeli missiles but collapse at the mere sound of wind and rain. Go figure.

2)  Cable TV has not been invented: If being dragged back to the 90s didn’t do it for you, try the 70s. If you want to watch some cable, it’s not any TV guide you need to check but the meteorological reports. Scour them with the same intensity as the Americans scoured caves for WMDs in Iraq. Because, believe me, you can have any hugely expensive system in place, but the moment a storm hits, your TV watching fate is in the hands of the Gods.

3) Forget driving: The roads are filled with water. The sewers inundated.  Traffic screeches to a halt. People are absolutely petrified of the rain to the degree where the roads are so packed it’s like in Independence Day when the aliens invade. Normal driving in the rain is absolutely anathema to Lebanese people. Walk. Because trust me, if you’re driving, by the time you get to where you want to go, it’ll be summer.

 4) Love your house: You’ll be spending a lot of time in it. Going out when it’s raining doesn’t make much sense to us. It gets to the point where you don’t need to ask people what they’re doing. You just look at the weather.  Forget about doing any outdoor sports too. Lebanese people just cannot comprehend that playing football in the rain is not just something that happens in Fifa on the Playstation.

 5)  Don’t be afraid: Of the weird things your electricity is doing: it’s happening to all of us. This is not a horror movie. The fact that your lights are flickering on and off is very normal. No ghost is in your room. We can barely guarantee any electricity in normal times anyways so the orange light emanating from the light bulb in your room is nothing out of the ordinary. Trust me.

People are Strange

My mate Rony hates people.

Not all people mind. Just people that are not like him.

If you are: Lebanese, Christian (preferably maronite), speak French and come from a “good family” then maybe, MAYBE, he’ll like you- and that’s only if you show that you like him. But it’s a big maybe.

Before I go on, let me note one thing: Rony is the poster boy of what an Arab should look like: Dark hair, huge beard, big baggy eyes, hairy legs, arms and back. If he’d ever travel to the States, he’d be held up at customs for hours.

His net worth isn’t anything to shout home about and nor is his dress sense. Basically, he has no reason to feel superior to anyone else- but he does.

There’s no logic in his discrimination. He looks down at people from poor backgrounds but calls rich people snobs. He doesn’t like the middle class either as he considers himself superior to them.

Someone who speaks Arabic but not any other language is a philistine, unworthy of his attention. Those who speak English but not French are arrogant. Anyone who speaks French but nothing else is rejecting his Lebanese identity.

His French isn’t even that great. It’s ok. He rarely speaks it to be honest. But when he does, you can be sure there are people he doesn’t know around him and he wants to impress them. He’d be talking on the phone with me in Arabic and switch to French in a micro second. I’d know instantly that someone has just walked into his office…

Foreigners scare the living daylights out of him. He’s utterly convinced every single one in Lebanon is a CIA agent. And his comments on black people would make a Ku Klux Klan Grand Sorcerer blush.

His ignorance knows no bounds. As far as he’s concerned, anything east of Iraq is part of the United States of Manila. We recently learned that a mutual friend married an extremely well off girl from Bali a few months ago. That left Rony perplexed: “Why in the hell would he marry a Philippina?”

He judges people by what they wear. Any time he spots a dapper guy he looks at me, shakes his head and says “Gay, Gay”. Any time he sees someone dressed extremely casually in a Gemayze bar, his nostrils flare up and he murmurs “If I was the owner, I’d throw him in Hamra where he belongs”.

He hates Hamra by the way. Detests the place. He reckons all the people that go there communists. He can’t stand the fact that, in his words, people go out, have fun drinking only a couple of beers and their bill comes out as $10 per person: “Greedy bastards”.  Concurrently, he hates Skybar. He’s repulsed by people who go out and spend $300 partying: “Fucking show offs”.

I once organized a football game in Dahie. I called Rony and invited him along. He shut up for 5 seconds and then uttered the immortal phrase: “Je ne sais meme pas c’est ou Dahie”.

Once, exasperated listening to one of his interminable tirades on people from other religions, creed, color, sexuality and nationality, I asked him what principles he thought most differentiated him from them.

His answer?

“Tolerance”.

Meet the (Clueless) Parents

I’m technologically impaired.

When I was a kid, my excitement in getting a new console was always tempered by the fact that I knew I’d have to spend hours begging my brother to set it up. All those cables used to give me chills. They made as much sense to me as a Gillette Mach 3 did to Osama Bin Laden.

I mean, you just need to take one look at the design of this blog to know that I have absolutely no clue what I’m doing. Look at the colors! Orange, yellow! It’s like a bad LSD trip. And who’s that man!! What the hell is he holding?

The funny thing is I actually took the time to thoroughly design this blog. I didn’t just stumble on to this design. It took hours. And that’s the best I can do.

(It's a good acid test to find out how well people really know me though. Those that I recently met tell me to fix the design. Others, who have known me for years, say: "Wow. You did that by yourself?"...).

Like many other things wrong with my life, I blame my parents. Because while I may be absolutely God awful technology wise, compared to them I look like one of those Nasa scientists.

In the interest of safeguarding any future inheritance I may be due, let me first assure you that they are 2 extremely bright individuals. They hold their own in every conversation on every subject and, as you surely have noticed, did extremely well in bringing up their children.

But when it comes to technology, they make George W. Bush look like a Harvard graduate (oh, wait…).

You will not believe how disastrously bad they are at anything technological. I’m reminded daily of their sheer ineptness.

Today, for example, I sent a PDF file to my mother. She told me it didn’t open on her laptop as she didn’t have a program called “Adolf”. She of course meant, Adobe. But try explaining that to her without rolling on the floor with laughter.

That still pales in comparison to the time she first saw a computer and realized, after years of thinking the contrary, that the mouse was, in fact, NOT a real mouse. I was in hysterics for weeks afterwards. I still use that story to lighten the mood on first dates.

I change her Facebook profile photo monthly but she still doesn’t know how to do it herself. I’ve taught her how to copy/paste a dozen times, but she still looks at it as a slightly more arduous task than climbing Everest.

And the killer is, apparently, her friends are a lot worse than her and are thoroughly impressed at her level of technological knowledge.

My dad (who, knowing him, is surely laughing at my mother as he’s reading this) is hardly better.

He called Facebook; “Bookface” for 2 years. Every time a celebrity he follows tweets, he thinks they’re sending him a direct message. “Obama told me thanks for my support”. No dad. He didn’t.

My biggest nightmare is when he gets a new gadget. I-pod, blackberry, laptop… The moment he enters the house with one, I take 3 weeks off work. I need to set everything up for him. He depends on me to teach him how to use them. And then blames me a month later when he deletes his entire song library by mistake.

So, everyone, please give me some slack. I’ll fix the design of this blog soon. I won’t do it myself of course, lest it gets any brighter. But until then, please excuse me for my technological backwardness and understand where the fault lies.

It’s the genes.

Great Moments in Liverpool History Part 5: When God Ruled the World

FA Cup Semi Final 1996, Liverpool 3-0 Aston Villa

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hbCDJEGS0cM (go to 4:32)

“You are looking at a goal scoring genius”- Martin Tyler

 From 1991 to 1994, Liverpool looked like a spent force. Yes we won the cup in 92, but in 3 seasons in the league, we finished 6^th twice in a row and 8^th. There was very little optimism around the place. And for me, a kid just reaching puberty, who had, in my short life so far, known nothing but success, it was all a bit depressing. I even went off football for a bit, as I moved to Beirut where there was no way to follow the sport.

Until that kid wearing the number 23 came along and I feel head over heels for the sport again.

Robbie Fowler was, is and I suspect forever will be, the best striker I’ve ever seen wear the Liverpool shirt. I’ve seen Aldridge, Beardsley, Rush, Owen, Torres, Suarez and Carroll (ahem…). Not a single one of them can hold a candle to Fowler in his pomp.

He was devastating to watch. He could score from absolutely anywhere, in any situation. He would lob the keeper, flick the ball over his head and volley it in, shoot from 30 yards, or poach from 3 inches away. He mixed impudence with efficiency, cheekiness with fight and desire.

He was just as comfortable in the area as he was outside of it. He had imagination and creativity in his finishing along with the air of a man who loved playing for his hometown’s premier football club.

For my generation, Robbie Fowler was the symbol of the renaissance of the club and the guardian of all our dreams. For us, he was our Dalglish, Torres, Gerrard all rolled into one.

He made us kids do funny things. I fought (and lost) the war with my parents to dye my hair blonde. I wrote his name everywhere in school. I bought those nose plaster thingys. I copied his shirt turning celebration. I started wishing I was left footed. I memorized his birthday by heart and, even as a 31 year old “adult”, I can still remember it (9^th of April 1975 if you’re interested).

There are so many great Robbie Fowler moments it’s hard to narrow them down: the 5 goals against Fulham, the fastest hat trick in league history against Arsenal, those 2 at Old Trafford, that insanely good goal when he turned Staunton, Birmingham and that volley, Alaves, the backwards lob versus Charlton, the goodbye hat trick against Leicester, the Bergen one which I still haven’t seen anyone else do… You could literally write a book about great Robbie Fowler goals.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oom5t5uSUmk

And that’s not to mention anything about his character. The sniffing the white like celebration, the time he jumped on a steward in the 2001 cup semi final, the “smack head” celebration at Goodison, the 5 times to United fans, the Le Saux jibes, the Dockers support, the Seaman penalty incident… He combined jaw dropping talent with moments of sheer laugh out loud brilliance.

He was still a kid but was scoring world class goals. Every week. His brilliance was deciding games by itself. For a while, it seemed Robbie could take us anywhere we wanted to go, and reach heights very few players would ever reach.

Never was that more apparent that on cup semi final day against Aston Villa in 1996.

We’d won the league cup the season before, but we really wanted this competition. One, because it was obviously more prestigious, but also because it was the only competition Bob Paisley had never won as manager- and he had passed away on Saint Valentine’s Day that year.

After reaching the semis following a replay win against Leeds, we faced Aston Villa. A side we’d beaten twice that season (with Fowler scoring 3 out of the 5 goals) and that had succeeded us as League Cup winners.

But, thanks to 2 wonderful goals from the still only 21 years old Robbie Fowler, we put them away.

The first was magnificent but, due to the sheer wonder of his goal repertoire, barely remembered. He moves past the defender in a flash and sends a diving, sideways header into the bottom corner of the net. There are very few players in the history of football that can score goals like this. Fowler is one of them.

The second is better known and sums Fowler’s talents up more than any other goal. It’s one where he combines his instinctive predatory skills, great movement, impudence and superb finishing technique. It’s a goal that no other striker in England could have scored back then.

As the free kick comes in, Robbie has the instinct to step away from the box in anticipation of a rebound. Low and behold, the ball falls exactly to where he’s moved to. He chests it down and sends a bullet of a half volley past Bosnich. 2-0 with a couple of minutes left. We were in the final.

Mcateer added a 3^rd but it was all about Robbie Fowler. At such a young age, he was already everything to the team. He was the one we thought would write a whole lot of new chapters in the club’s history.

A few days later, he scored 2 more in the classic 4-3 victory over Newcastle. He’d end up with 36 goals that season and 31 the season after. We’d miss out on the cup that season but Robbie would grab 3 more medals in the treble season of 2001. He’d score in the League and Uefa Cup finals, and shoot us into the Champions League.

But his star would never burn as bright as on Cup semi final day at Old Trafford in 1996. In an era where he dominated, that was the day when, more than any other, he seemed to have the whole world at his feet.

That was the day God ruled the world.

The World's most Ridiculous Places Part 1: Dubai

NB: Now, according to Google analytics, the Dim in Beirut is big in Dubai. This has contributed to me mincing my words in the following article. Because, otherwise, trust me, I’d really let rip.  

Nothing against the locals (if they exist- I’ve never met one) but it’s hard to find the words to describe how ridiculous this place is. The outlandish architecture, the heat, the freaky malls, the 12 star hotels on top of a mountain in the middle of the sea which has a ski slope, the fact that I’ve been there 3 times and only ever gone to one street (Sheikh Zayed Road- I think it’s the only one that exists)…

Dubai reminds me of a small child that’s showing you his toys. He’ll start with one and then hurry to another and tell you “Look at this!” then throwing that one and jumping to another toy “and look at what this does!!” before showing you his Playstation games collection. He’ll be so excited, but you’ll be generally bewildered, though you’ll smile at his exuberance.

Ultimately though, you’ll leave shaking your head thinking what a spoiled bastard that child is.

That’s Dubai. You can’t really appreciate anything because there’s way too much of it. You go to a mall without a sky slope and you feel cheated, you go to a hotel without an aquarium as big as Buckingham Palace and you shrug. You don’t blink twice if a building is under 232 floors.

The place just screams “look at me” all the time. It’s like a walking billboard for 21^st century hysteria. A whole lot of huge, shiny new stuff but way too superficial to be anything other than what it truly is: flashy, fake, grossly ostentatious, soulless, too full of itself, blatantly copied from everywhere else, lacking class and history.

In football terms they’ll be Chelsea FC.

You take one look at the place and can’t help but wonder if Sheikh Maktoum is gorging himself in the city’s opulence to hide his inadequacies in other areas.

Talking about the main man, that’s another thing I hate about it: The hypocrisy. It’s a city built for foreigners. Their ads target Westerners, offering them “the closest thing to Europe in the Middle East”. They fill their hotels and bars with prostitutes, get DJs from abroad and generally do everything to bring Westerners over.

But the minute the Westerners start behaving like, you know, Westerners, it all kicks off. An English couple gets intimate on the beach and it’s like the end of the world. Some travelling DJ, who plays music catered to Ecstacy mobbed up people, has some hash on him, and he gets jail time.

Seriously Dubai, make your mind up. You’re either catering to these people or you’re not. Say what you want about Iran and Saudi, but by God you know where you stand with them. Same for the USA. You won’t scream “Allah u Akbar” in JFK airport. You know what the rules of the game are .There’s no double standards.

Dubai, however, is like a stripper in London: A sexy exterior, but ultimately superficial. And the minute you want what you think she’s offering, you get your arms broken.

Ridiculous place.

NB: (Though Dubai readers of the Dim in Beirut are, quite simply, boss. That goes without saying.)

No Country for Gulf Men

The Lebanese love their foreigners.

Having a foreign friend visiting is a similar status boosting event as having a 4 digit license plate number or a sexy phone number. You show them off as much as you’d show off a new Blackberry

I’ve heard the older generation beam with pride as they say they’re bringing “un voyageur” to one of those big high society dinners. I’ve had clients tell me they’ll refuse to rent their flats out to non-westerners.

Yep, the Lebanese love their foreigners. Or rather, certain foreigners.

It depends where they’re from you see. If from the West, you’re definitely buzzing. If from the Gulf, you’re bang out of luck.

I once had colleagues from London visit. They wanted to go clubbing. As covered previously, that’s not really my thing. So I turned to a big party animal friend of mine and asked him to bail me out and take them to Skybar

The conversation went a little something like this:

- “Sure habibi, with pleasure. When are they coming?”

-“The weekend. Thanks a lot habibi eh?”

-“ Walaw bro! Are they all English by the way?”

-“ No. From Yemen, Egypt and I think Iraq”

-“ What?? Weir! Of course not, no chance. Forget it”.

Had they been from the West, you can be sure my pal would have been a little bit more enthusiastic. At the very least, their presence with him would have given the impression that he was a tad multi cultural, well travelled and internationally versatile.

But my colleagues? They wouldn’t really add anything to his status.  There was no chance my mate was having his table at Skybar filled with people he imagined would be dressed like Bedouins and ordering shisha. He could see only long lasting disastrous ramifications to his most prized possession: his image.   

It’s not like my mate is uniquely Arabaphobic. You won’t find a mother excitedly call her friends to tell them her daughter is marrying an Omani for example. American, yes. French, sure. Italian, definitely. Omani? Not a chance (On the unlikely chance any Omani is reading this, let me assure you I’d have no problem marrying my, as of yet, unborn daughter off to you, depending on the size of your bank account).

 It gets worse is in the summer. Friends will comment that the city is awash with tourists; say they spotted a bunch of Canadians (real ones! Not those ones with Lebanese roots who speak that dodgy sounding French!) wandering the streets. They’ll smile and beam with pride at how Beirut is cosmopolitan. How the Geneva of the Levant is back on track.

Concurrently, they’ll tell you with disgust on their faces of how the city is awash with Arabs. How Beirut in general, and ABC in particular, has become little Jeddah. How they have as much style and grace as me on a dance floor.

Maybe it’s not that bad. No country likes its neighboring country after all. The Dutch and the Germans aren’t best friends. The English and French hate each other. And there isn’t a community in the world delighted to find American tourists, with their ridiculously loud chatter, stupid baggy shorts and larger bellies, invading their city.

But surely nowhere else is there such a disparity between how different tourists from different nationalities are viewed. And it may have nothing to do with the poor Gulfies and Arabs.  Perhaps, it’s a just result of the inherent racism that forms the underbelly of our country, the horribly misguided inflated sense of importance the Lebanese place on themselves or the fact that that we’re all jealous of the Gulf’s wealth.

Or maybe it really is simply the fact they dress like Bedouins.