Dubai 7, Britain 0

I am a simple chap who likes a simple life. You know, pipe, slippers, Twiglets, that sort of thing. Mrs G, by contrast, is a restless soul, and has dragged me off to foreign parts again. “Stuff The Isle of Wight,” she said, “take me somewhere exotic. And I don’t mean bloody France either.” This from a Frenchwoman; so I knew she meant business. Either I maxed the plastic, or the monthly conjugals would be withheld indefinitely.

 Off we went then. Asia beckoned. Who to go with? Given that the World’s Favourite Airline now only offers comfortable legroom to infants, midgets, contortionists and amputees, we looked elsewhere. And found: Emirates! Being eco-warriors, we offset our vast carbon footprint by not mowing the lawn for a month, and we booked ‘em. Courtesy of colossal oil subsidies (oh the irony), their planes are fat and new and roomy, and they still offer life’s little luxuries, like flushing toilets, mostly sober aircrew, and fresh sick bags every flight, used or not.

 One drawback though. They all stop in Dubai. Mrs G and I stopped here on a previous re-colonisation of the Antipodes, and thought a three-day layover a good wheeze. Well it wasn’t. Unless you like shopping, a class system that puts Victorian England to shame, shopping, heat, shopping, sand, Chavs on rollercoasters, shopping, hotels you can’t afford, shopping, conferences for people richer than you, and shopping, it’s a vacuous, empty, soulless place. Think strip mall America, plus Disneyland, stuck in the middle of the Sahara. On the bright side, though, shopping is quite good. 

However, credit where it’s due. They sure can build stuff. Forty years ago Dubai was a creek, without a paddle; you couldn’t buy a coffee, let alone today’s haute couture and hauter cuisine at hautest prices. Wind forward to today. Dubai now boasts the world’s tallest pointless building, the only ski-slope in a shopping mall (how's that for carbon footprint?), artificial Islands shaped like palm trees, and a seven-star hotel shaped like a mighty sail. Crikey.

 We did visit the tallest building, the Burj Khalifa. We are lowly folk, so only paid one fortune to get to the 125th floor at midday. (You can upgrade to higher floors and/or sunset with more goodies for more cash, a la Dubai). But 125 is quite high enough, thank you. You’d be just as dead if you fell off. 

As for that palm-shaped island, don’t even think about visiting unless you have booked an overpriced restaurant, theme park, shopping experience, or hotel; otherwise, like us, you will pay for the train to take you out there (several classes of carriage available), disembark, then wander confusedly around a car park before taking the next train back. Oh how we laughed.

And then there’s the airport, where we are now. While Britain’s spineless politicos have argued about a new runway for Heathrow or Gatwick, Dubai has built seven. SEVEN. The international airport is so vast that the maps include the curvature of the earth. Probably. There is a lot of shopping. There is a whole separate business class airport, above the aspiring common folk, but constantly in their face, obviously. If you’ve got it, flaunt it.

 I could go on, but we have to hustle. Our flight leaves in two hours; we are at gate A3, and have to make our way to gate H308, or something. We will try to resist the tempting shopping. And like Hansel and Gretel, we will leave a trail of torn-up receipts and duty-free samples, in case we need to retrace our steps. Wish us luck.