Fatboy Slim in Dubai: The mid-life rave

It was smilies all round at the Media City megaparty

I’ve always said Dubai is the best place in the world to see live music – with good weather (almost) guaranteed, a venue right outside my office, and, at this particular amphitheatre, my work carpark – meaning I can make the quickest get-away in the Middle East when it’s all over. 

The fantastic Eminem concert the previous week might not have lived up to these expectations organisation-wise – and I won’t be hurrying back to the Du Arena any time soon – but Party in the Park at the Media City amphitheatre promised to be a hassle-free way to see Fatboy Slim in Dubai, and without that nail-biting, stomach-in-your-mouth drive to Abu Dhabi.

I’m so glad I went! There were numerous performances – from Lighthouse Family and Richard Ashcroft among others – as the lead-up to the headline act, Fatboy Slim. Remember him? He’s the superstar DJ, producer and hit-maker (aka Norman Cook) who’s been persuading people to dance their socks off for decades. 

My ticket for Fatboy Slim in Dubai was for entry after 9pm, which meant by the time I arrived many hard-core concert-goers had been drinking for hours. On my own, with a very vague arrangement to meet a friend of a friend, I was immediately apprehended by Mr Off-his-Head from Ireland.

“Where you from?” he asked. His words were slurred, but the Irish lilt was unmistakable.

“Erm, England,” I replied cautiously. I didn’t want to give him the wrong idea, but I also didn’t want to be rude – and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a tiny bit pleased I was still chat-up-able!

Several minutes of drunken lechery later, I gave up being polite and, after he merrily told me how much he hated the English, I attempted to shake him off. I strode away but he followed, stumbling along as though the ground was the deck of a storm-tossed boat.

“St-st-stop,” he called as he lurched forwards. “Get lost!” I wanted to reply, but again, politeness, won the day. He caught up with me, and when he reached me, the rank odour of his booze breath was even more pungent than before.

“I lurve you,” he spluttered and threw his arms around me like I was the last life jacket on a sinking ship. “No I do, I lurve yoouu!”

“You don’t even know me,” I retorted and fled!

At 10pm (and that little incident forgotten), Fatboy Slim appeared on set to rapturous applause and cheering. “I’m in Dubai,” he roared as fire jets let off perfectly timed, giant flames at the front of the stage. “Eat, Sleep, Rave, Repeat” spurred the crowd on even more and, within no time, 56-year-old Norman had transformed the amphitheatre into a thumping rave.

Still full of energy, Norman pumped his fists, mimed along to the songs, and kept his audience mesmerised. I was loving it – the half carnival, half superclub experience, the stomping beats, the feeling I was at a mid-life rave, the hands-in-the-air moments, the incredible lighting, imagery, video and graphics. Slim, a seasoned performer and the lip-syncing life of the party, was giving us his best and not about to go gently into the night. It was AWESOME, almost like being transported into another realm!

Until the rave reality check happened. 

Son1, aka The Teenager, called my phone. “Mom, WHERE are you?” he demanded. “I need to borrow some money.”

“Mum was on the radio today!”

I’ve always said that, given half a chance, opportunity knocks in Dubai – especially for those who, having given up a career and life in their home country, are forced to reinvent themselves. I’ve known so many friends who have discovered that pursuing their existing career in Dubai isn’t straightforward, and instead have taken up all sorts of new professions, from chocolate taster (after signing a diabetes waiver), mystery shopper and film reviewer on the radio to teaching assistant, maritime law specialist and interior designer. One minute you’re wondering what the hell to do with yourself, the next you’re designing cushions for the Sheikhs. Okay, that might have made it sound a wee bit too simple. There’s also a lot of hard work involved, but if you’re prepared to go for it, there can’t be a better city in the world in which to reinvent your life. Opportunity knocked for me this morning, in the form of a (mildly terrifying) invite to appear on Dubai Eye’s terrific Saturday morning show Talking of Books. I said yes, while thinking, “Me, really??” then consoling myself with the thought that, being radio, at least I wouldn’t have to worry about my hair or what to wear. (How wrong I was! Turns out these things are all live-streamed these days – hence the screenshot above from Facebook!) My boss at work, who frequently appears in the media, was delighted when I told him. It’s easy, he said, bestowing a confident smile on me. “Don’t take notes in – just speak off the top of your head!” I inhaled a sharp intake of breath. Let’s just say I’m glad HE was full of confidence. The thought of going in cold like that sent a panicky shiver through me like the start of panic attack.   And so I prepared beforehand as though I was about to sit an exam. Except it was a whole lot more fun than revising for exams. My task was to review Cecilia Ahern’s new novel Postscript, the long-awaited sequel to her best-selling debut PS I love you, and I loved the book. I also enjoyed swotting up on little nuggets of information about Ahern – such as the fact she was only 21 when she wrote PS I love you, and fresh out of college (How impressive is that?). DH helped with a practice run to the Arabian Radio Network building in Media City, and by the morning of the radio show, I figured I’d done enough prep to get me through.

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!” 

What I saw Wednesday

I’m back at work – which feels good and it pays for the kids’ snacks, sometimes even the loo roll.

The view from the office is rather magnificent – blue sea, sandy beaches and the Palm on one side, and the city’s gleaming skyscrapers on the other side. On a really clear day, when we’re not peering through sand, we can even see as far as the next emirate.

As being back at work means I actually get to have adult conversations, I thought that for my Wednesday meme this week, I could also do ‘What I said’ (not much, as it turned out, but slightly more interesting than telling the kids off all day).

Keep in mind that, being freelance, I’ve just had a fairly long period of work famine, so I’m not normally the office idiot. Here goes…

“Umm, how do I switch this computer on?”

“It’s 111 degrees, really? But it’s only the beginning of May!”

“No, I haven’t been sun bathing, honestly. Just running after the kids outside.”

“Could someone please tell me the password again?”

“I know, I haven’t been in the office for ages. I’ve been, erm…” [tried to not talk about the kids too much, or my burst of housewifely spring cleaning, clearing out cupboards, drawers, etc, and being quite proud of the results!]

“Oh, the company’s got a new name. Top Right Drawer? No, Top Right Group. Wow. And L became the editor – in January. I’m really behind.”

“YES, I’d LOVE to do lunch!”

[Via text to DH]: “Sad I’m missing BB’s school assembly. He never told us it was a play they’ve been rehearsing for weeks. Will he know his lines, d’you think?” [*really* wished I was there. Turned out he was a tree and didn’t have much to say!]

[On my way home, to myself]: “Omg, what have they done to this roundabout! It’s completely changed. Where the hell’s my exit???” [while spinning round the intersection like a Weeble with an inner-ear infection]

[At home, to my 6yo]: “Right, BB, time to do homework. Spellings, reading.” [I’m sure I didn’t have homework until my teens]

And so to bed. Because, as much as I’m delighted to be working again, the thing is you not only have to stay all day, but you have to turn up the next day too.