I asked Son1 (from here on in known as The Teenager) if he was interested in listening. “Naah, it’s okay Mum,” he said from the sofa, where his PlayStation controller was sat in his lap. Headsets – similar to the pair I was soon to wear in the studio (left) – cupped his ears as though he worked in ground control.
“Really? You could just listen to a few minutes,” I retorted indignantly. He yanked the headphones off and gave me a glazed-eye glare. “You can watch it on Facebook!” I helpfully suggested. The Teenager spends HOURS, and I mean DAYS, glued to YouTube, so why not watch his mum on Facebook. “Maybe you could take a screenshot?” “Facebook? I don’t know how to use Facebook,” he replied, in the manner that 13-year-old kids adopt whenever anyone mentions this particular form of social media. Facebook, The Teenager believes, is for oldies. So much for impressing the kids. When I got home, The Teenager asked what was for lunch, and had I ordered the groceries yet? But he did watch a clip of Talking of Books, in the end, with an agonised, embarrassed smile on his face, the blood rushing to his cheeks at the sight of his mum being live-streamed! And, just a few minutes ago, I heard Son2 pause whatever nonsensical jibberish he was watching on YouTube and tell his friend: “My mum was on the radio today!”Category Archives: Media
Stampylongnose – Son1’s hero
Son1 has one ambition in life – to be a famous Youtuber. I think it all started when he discovered Stampylongnose. Have you heard of him?
He also goes by the name Stampy Cat, but really he should be called the Pied Piper of Youtube. His channel is among the most viewed in the world, more popular than Justin Bieber or One Direction. Son1 and his friends seem to be able to spend hours watching videos that Stampy – real name Joseph Garrett, a 24-year-old from Portsmouth – has uploaded to Youtube of him and his mates playing Minecraft.
Don’t see the appeal? Neither did I – although I don’t mind Stampy. He doesn’t swear; and I’ve seen his mum doing the hoovering in the background and bringing him a cup of tea (he was living at his parents’ house rent-free until the income from his Youtube celebrity status allowed him to give up his post-university bar job). Apparently he’s now testing the waters in Hollywood.
Anyway … Son1 progressed from watching Stampy endlessly to making his own videos, which he (somehow) uploads to Youtube. And so we found ourselves in this brave new digital world where we have discussions about subscribers and views and technical things about which I have no clue. When The Young Animators Competition came along, requiring a 60-second video featuring the entrant and a few Youtube links, I knew I had to enter Son1.
Fast forward a few weeks, and – to his rapturous joy – he was shortlisted, the prize being a 5-day animation workshop in which 18 participants created their own animations at thejamjar, Dubai’s fantastic community arts space.
Now, I’m honestly not bragging here, as it’s highly unlikely his team will win (they were three 10-year-old boys, whose animation involves a space rocket, unicorns, a transformer and an army of malicious cheeseburgers). But at the weekend we get to go to a red-carpet screening of a children’s film I’ve never heard of at the Dubai International Film Festival, for a presentation ceremony.
Son1 is VERY excited. Not just about being one step closer to his dream of becoming a famous Youtuber, but mostly about the gala event (at which, I should imagine, the Young Animators part will be very short, while the audience scoffs popcorn). We talked about it at bedtime tonight. “Mum?” he said. “Will we get to walk on the red carpet?”
“Maybe – I’m not exactly sure. You’ll definitely get a certificate.”
A pause.
It occurred to me he might be getting a bit carried away.
“Mum?” He sat up in bed. “Will we have bodyguards?”
I tried not to laugh but a snort slipped out. Stampy – you have a lot to answer for.
The murder that’s shocked the nation
It’s true that it’s easy to feel like you’re living in a safe little bubble in the UAE. Cars are often left unlocked, maybe even your front door. I never feel worried walking down a dark street, and if my children are out of view, I don’t instantly panic.
We must have made hundreds of trips to the malls here, and I don’t think I’ve ever thought twice about letting my boys wander into a well-kept mall restroom. My only words of warning as the door swings closed and they disappear from sight: “Wash your hands afterwards.”
Crimes like the heinous murder that took place in Abu Dhabi last Monday simply don’t happen here. Except the unthinkable did just occur. I don’t want to dwell on the details, as they’re headlines around the world – except to say that an American kindergarten teacher, by the name of Ibolya Ryan, was brutally murdered in the bathroom of an upscale mall as her 11-year-old twin boys waited for her outside.
Those poor, poor boys had no idea what had happened; they didn’t hear their mother’s cries for help, and eventually took themselves homes (they live nearby). The twins are now being cared for by their father, Ibolya’s ex-husband, who has flown in from Vienna with the former couple’s 13-year-old daughter to face the painful, life-shattering aftermath.
Heartbreaking, heart-rending news – and as you can imagine, it’s sent shockwaves through the country.
There’s a few things that have struck me about this awful crime. First is the speed at which an arrest was made; with CCTV cameras all over the UAE, the video footage of the alleged killer (an Emirati woman of Yemeni descent), clad in an abaya and burqa, was released almost immediately, showing a rather bulky, shrouded figure entering and leaving the mall (as for the chilling music dubbed over the pictures, I honestly don’t know what they were thinking – it’s the stuff of nightmares as it is). From these surveillance pictures, they know the ‘Reem Island Ghost’ waited for more than an hour for a Westerner to enter the bathroom.
An hour later, the killer planted a primitive bomb outside an American doctor’s apartment, having visited terrorist websites to glean bomb-making information. Within 48 hours, she’d been arrested in a dramatic night-time raid on her villa – a sequence of events that can also be viewed online in a highly produced police video.
That both these videos must have been watched hundreds of thousands of times will be good news for the authorities. The message is clear: the UAE prides itself on being a safe haven in the turbulent Middle East; the UAE’s economy, tourism industry, glossy image and investment hubs are built around the country’s safe reputation – as a place free from terrorists. And this is not about to change.
But I can’t be the only person wondering if we’ve all – and I mean the public – have perhaps got a bit complacent. It’s a stark reminder that there are people who will hurt others everywhere. Even in the UAE.
If convicted, the killer will face the death sentence – although national laws allow the family of the victim to issue a pardon. Would you?
The bikini car wash
Here in Dubai, we’re accustomed to things being done slightly differently from what we’re used to at home. Where else in the world can you register to lose weight and win gold if you’re successful? Or see sharks in a mall?
This week, while scanning the local press, I’ve noticed a few more examples of Dubai’s unique streak:
– First, there’s the penchant for supercars among Dubai’s emergency services; the latest additions being Dubai Ambulance’s new Lotus and pair of Ford Mustangs, which will soon be scrambled to meet 999 calls.
– Then today, I awoke to the news that the Dubai government has a question for us: Are you happy? A ‘Happiness Metre’ has been launched that will measure how satisfied the public is with government services. The initiative involves tapping an electronic device that’s connected to a central network, resulting in daily reports being sent to decision makers.
– As part of the above Smart Dubai initiative, Dubai’s parks and beaches are to get free WiFi.
– But perhaps the most surprising story is the bikini car wash being held tomorrow at the hotel next to my office, to raise awareness for breast cancer. Surprising because I can’t believe it hasn’t crossed their minds that this is rather risqué for Dubai.
A quick poll on the blog’s Facebook page came up with several great suggestions for what it might entail: A burkini car wash. The ladies wearing the bikinis over their normal clothes. The men wearing the bikinis. The cars being washed with the bikinis. I can hardly wait!
My day in (cracking) news stories
Working in media, I get to hear all sorts of interesting snippets about new things launching in Dubai. So I wasn’t surprised when I read a fellow journalist’s Facebook update this morning:
“I have just been sent a press release about the launch of a twerk class in Dubai … this is not a joke.”
Even funnier is that it’s my friend’s job to review such things.
Then there are the news stories in the local media that keep us amused in the office, like Lady Gaga arriving in Dubai dressed in a ball gown, ready for her first (tamed down) Middle East concert; and this (perhaps not surprising) nip and tuck story from 7Days:
“UAE has highest ratio of plastic surgeons in the world” – with breast reduction the most requested procedure by men; liposuction or rhinoplasty the treatments of choice for women; and, worryingly, 15 per cent of patients going under the knife under the age of 23.
Twerking little monsters going gaga and plastic surgery aside, my job is, in fact, on a business magazine, with far more serious, industry-related news. But, increasingly, we’re coming across stories that confirm the era of fanciful projects is well and truly back now that Dubai is booming again – such as the news today that the crystal giant Swarovski plans to build ‘Sparkle Towers’ at Dubai Marina.
I did check that it wasn’t April 1st.
For style-sensitive residents, the ultra-luxurious residential project will feature “exquisite crystal-themed innovations” including sparkling lighting solutions and crystal interiors [their words, not mine].
Seriously, you can’t make this stuff up.
And finally, the headline of the day award goes to the Khaleej Times:
What happened to Flight MH370
Don’t expect an answer in this blog post, as the airline community in which we live is just as baffled as the rest of the world. But I’ve been following this mystery closely, and keep coming back to the same question: How, in this day and age of continuous connectivity, can a Boeing 777 simply disappear?
In the two weeks since Malaysian Airlines flight MH370 vanished, a stream of possible, vaguely plausible and downright absurd theories have been given air time. It was travelling to North Korea, suggested one caller to CNN. Shot down/hit by a meteor, claimed Internet users. Hijacked by terrorists (no, air pirates) to carry out a 9/11-style attack. Conspiracy theorists have blamed Obama and comparisons have been drawn to the television series Lost.
The media reporting on the fate of the aircraft has varied widely, from knowledgeable analysis to pure speculation. That’s not to say there hasn’t been a great deal of responsible reporting, but what often happens with aviation incidents is that the people presenting the information don’t have the technical know-how to fully understand it.
Most plane crashes occur due to a chain of events, explained by the Swiss cheese model. This model of accident causation likens defences to a series of slices of randomly holed Swiss cheese. An accident or incident occurs in the extremely unlikely event that the holes in these layers align. In layman’s terms, multiple failures at different levels.
But what took place after the Malaysian pilots made their final communication – a routine “All right, good night” – to make the flight fall into total silence and fly for up to seven hours to an inhospitable part of the vast, empty southern Indian Ocean is such a mystery that it’s hard to decipher what is too far-fetched and what might actually have happened.
SABOTAGE: Two possible scenarios are gaining attention, one of which is the human factor, ie, hijacking, sabotage, or a calculated attempt to redirect the aircraft. The fact that the transponder (which signals the plane’s identity, altitude and speed) was turned off and the plane made a sharp left turn at the boundary between Malaysia and Vietnam makes its disappearance sound like a deliberate act. But by whom? If it was premeditated, any theory, no matter how outlandish, is equally valid, be it involving the pilots, crew or passengers.
MECHANICAL FAILURE: The other scenario is that a mechanical incident happened at this exact point – something severe and swift that led to the incapacitation of both pilots. A depressurisation of the aircraft is the most likely explanation and has happened before. In 2005, an Athens-bound 737 suffered such a fate, resulting in the loss of consciousness of both pilots and the eventual crashing of the aircraft after it ran out of fuel.
If a depressurisation did occur two weeks ago, it might explain why the Malaysian pilots initiated a turn but failed to start a descent before succumbing to hypoxia. Another possibility is that the cockpit was filled with some kind of smoke. (Debate will continue to rage about the role of the flammable lithium-ion batteries known to be on board, and which caused the fire that led a UPS 747 to crash in Dubai in 2010.)
COCKPIT SIEGE: Pilot hi-jacking has also happened before. Most recently, last month. On February 17, the first officer on an Ethiopian Boeing 767, flying from Addis Abeba to Rome, shut his captain out of the cockpit while he was taking a bathroom break and flew the aircraft to Geneva, where he requested political asylum.
Sadder, and unfortunately not without precedent either, is pilot suicide. It’s a horrible, unthinkable scenario, and not conclusive in the previous cases – one of which is the 1999 example of the Egypt Air flight from New York to Cairo that crashed into the Atlantic. American investigators pinned the blame on the co-pilot, saying he was suicidal; the Egyptians, however, fight this verdict tooth and nail.
LONG HAUL: Key to finding out what happened to flight MH370 is the plane’s black box; if this is found, it would take just a few days to get an idea of the circumstances surrounding its disappearance from the sky. But the black box is most likely sitting on the floor of the ocean, and while no expense will be spared in combing the seabed, its recovery could take a long time.
After the Air France crash in 2009, it took two years to locate the black box, which had sunk into an underwater mountainous region of the Atlantic. And the authorities knew where that plane went down. (Could it be that the Malaysian plane will never be found? Those who’ve spent time trying to figure out what happened to Amelia Earhart must be wondering this right now.)
While the search for debris continues, I wait anxiously to find out the facts, so we can learn from this accident, like we have from others in the past. In the meantime, my thoughts and prayers are with those involved and the families dealing with the agonising aftermath. Because behind all the theories being bandied around are the faces of the 227 passengers and 12 crew members who boarded the ill-fated plane.
Silent Sunday: Censorship
While not as draconian as in countries like China or Iran, censorship of certain materials is carried out in the UAE. Try opening the websites for the men’s titles FHM or Maxim here, and you’ll find they’re blocked, even though the magazines themselves are available in the UAE (with some parts of photographs blacked out).
I was reminded of the UAE’s censorship policy this weekend when we went to see the film The Wolf of Wall Street at the cinema.
Reality TV in Dubai
Love it, or hate it, reality TV is coming to Dubai. I can see it now: Jane Jardashian and her diamond-dripping, gin-swilling, double-kissing friends. Their maids, cars, absent oil-exec husbands and tennis coaches – on the small screen, in Dubai’s real-life version of Desperate Housewives.
In fact, it’s surprising it’s taken this long for a Big Rich Texas-type series to be filmed here – anyone who’s spent five minutes in this city will know there’s endless Gucci-clad, high-pitched fodder, living the kind of lifestyle I can only read about in Hello! magazine. Set against a picture-perfect backdrop of sunny skies, skyscrapers and souks, any show about a mansion-lined Bougainvillea Lane is sure to be a hit, right?
Reality TV, though, hasn’t had the best of luck here. Several years ago, I spent a summer befriending a lovely mum, whose TV producer husband was ‘on location’ in the UAE filming Paris Hilton’s Dubai BFF.
“Have you, erm, met her?” I’d ask, hoping to get the low-down on Paris’ handbag shopping. “Has she found a BFF yet?” [checked diary to confirm that, jobless and new in Dubai, I was free nearly every day].
But, in the end, I never even saw the show, as after filming ended, it became embroiled in an $8m legal dispute. A year or so later, it was aired elsewhere in the world, but not by Dubai TV as intended.
More recently, Lord Sugar sent his final 12 Apprentice candidates on a shopping trip to Dubai, briefed to buy eight items (eg, a traditional kandura, an Arabic coffee pot, the UAE flag) at the lowest possible prices. The business hopefuls made some fairly big blunders, however, including mixing up cm and inches and coming away with a flag the size of a napkin.
Kim Kardashian herself has also dropped into Dubai, to, among other things, mix up a banana and strawberry milkshake (read Pleb Celeb: The amazing disappearing Kardashian, from Housewife in Dubai, it’s brilliant). But, again, the curse of reality TV seemed to strike. It was while filming Kim takes Dubai that the cracks in her short-lived marriage started gaping.
I doubt, though, that any of this will put off reality wannabes in Dubai, especially as the gig is paid and the show will ensure exposure in the US and international markets. The producers won’t say what the title is (only that they’re from a well-known American series), but give away plenty of clues in the video clip below as to the nature of the programme: They’re looking, they say, for 8-10 women living a glamorous lifestyle, with fast cars and stunning designer wardrobes, to be the stars.
When they hear I roll in a Ford Explorer and shop in Debenhams, I’m quite sure my phone will ring.
Bouncing back from expat-no-return
You might remember that a few months ago, I was attending job interviews. I’d reached a point of expat-no-return, in which, to be brutally honest, playdates were beginning to bore me senseless and the freelance work I’d been doing for a couple of years had hit a dry patch.
Is this it, I thought? Have I really sacrificed my former career in glossy magazines to spend my days wiping bums, noses and tears, making boiled eggs with soldiers and listening to my boys talk about their willies non-stop.
In a grass-is-greener-on-the-other-side moment, I decided I needed a full-time job. With colleagues, interesting projects and (remember this) a salary. My next lightbulb moment came during one of my interviews, while sitting in what can only be described as the office’s broom cupboard.
“The hours are 9-6, and we work six days a week. Saturday to Thursday,” the Turkish interviewer with a dark floppy fringe told me, looking at me intently as my eyes darted to the floor in search of a trapdoor.
“And it’s all office based.” Which surprised me somewhat as to get to the broom cupboard, we’d practically had to climb over at least a dozen workers crammed into a space no bigger than my kitchen.
Armed with the knowledge that publishing sweat shops packed to the rafters and operating on a six-day week do exist, I gave up the job search.
And decided to go it alone with my own little venture (big plug here).
It was fairly quiet to begin with, but then, just like buses, three jobs came along at once. And, all of a sudden, my little dipping-of-the-toe in the shallow end of the mumpreneur pool turned into a thrashing, front-crawl Channel swim, against the tide.
But, complaining I’m not. The mix of office work, work from home and playdates is suiting me nicely, despite being totally run off my feet at the moment.
The only thing is, during my days working at home, I’ve noticed that the boys have moved on from talking about their willies. And have, instead, started photographing their bum cheeks and front bits with my iPad.
Lord, help me.
The interview fail
It was my first interview in years and I was running late – not seriously late, but time had marched forwards, leaving me with about 30 minutes to get dressed, shovel on some make-up and find my portfolio at the back of the cupboard.
I may have put a little more mascara on than usual, because my pink-rimmed eyes looked like I’d been up all night (which is not surprising, because I had). I’d landed back in Dubai at 6am that morning, slept a little and was heading down to Media City for an interview on a fashion magazine.
It had to be that afternoon; it was the only time they could do. And, while a part of me yelled, ‘You’re a mum now. What do you think you’re doing? You left the high-profile stuff behind years ago,” I was excited – the thought of working once again on a beautiful glossy magazine setting my brain alight with possibilities.
As I waited nervously in the foyer, I marvelled at the rows of magazines on display, the glamorous receptionist, the fake-smile PR girl flicking her blonde hair and the overall swishness of the place.
The editor appeared, looking trim and trendy in a metallic skirt, and led me to the canteen. Decked out in white, my eyes were drawn to the green, grass-like herbs on the formica counters, the ping-pong table and the view outside.
You could even get a massage upstairs (I’m not kidding). It beat my kitchen, where I boil the kettle and battle endlessly to feed my children, hands down.
We seemed to get along; she was nice, interested (and at least didn’t take one look at my hurriedly thrown together outfit and rather dated boots and step back into the elevator).
But there were some stumbling blocks.
“We sometimes have to work at the weekend,” she told me, eyeing me squarely. “I realise you have children, but I need to know you wouldn’t let us down.”
“Umm, that should be okay,” I faltered, “although if my husband and nanny are gone, I’m really stuck,” I blurted.
“I’ll be in touch later,” she said at the end. And sure enough she was – with a writing test she wanted by the next day.
I did the test and sent it at 1.30am, ploughing through severe fatigue, but jet lag at least working in my favour (the position, covering a two-month absence, was to start on Monday, hence the urgency).
And you know what? They haven’t even been in touch. I don’t need to tell you that it’s Tuesday today, and that the deafening silence obviously means I was rejected.
But it would have been nice to have been told [she says, in a depressed little voice].
My DH tells me not to worry, that something else – more family friendly – will come along if a proper, more regular job is what I want, and can’t fully understand why I’m so upset. “I’m a mummy, not an Airbus,” I tell him. “There’s no quick-fix for a mummy who’s conflicted about her career being in tatters.”
And then my mum’s words (of reason) come into my head. “These things, they tend to work out for the best, you know,” she says.
She’s right, isn’t she?
EDITED TO ADD: I finally heard from them – still a big fat ‘no’, but feel so much better to know the reason!