Dubai Notebook

Easing myself into an expensive seat on a British Airways overnight flight to Dubai, I notice two empty places to my left. The plane, I was told, was full. Someone must be very late.

At this point, the rogue bookmaker who operates exclusively inside my head, laying odds on life’s little challenges, pipes up: ‘It’s 1-5 you cop a screaming toddler in that spot; 9-2 you don’t.’ My heart sinks. The bookie is shrewd; he knows the form. Sure enough, just as the crew is preparing to lock the doors, a flustered-looking couple rush on board, with their baby banshee already in full cry. Waahaahaah!

As we thunder along the runway, the Caterwauling Kid’s nerve-shredding performance is, literally, drowning out the roar of the jet engines. This is what Sartre meant when he opined on other people: hell. Forget preference check-ins, executive lounges and complimentary champagne, the first carrier to offer child-free flights (no under-fives) on long-haul services will win my business.

I’m met at the airport by an old friend, an Irish journalist who, even by the dissolute standards of Fleet Street’s finest, has lived a bit. He tells me that an Egyptian-controlled bank has just published research indicating that Dubai’s state debt could be as high as $180 billion. This contrasts starkly with the official figure of $80 billion. If the new number is correct, the recent $20 billion bailout from Abu Dhabi will be nowhere near enough. Dubai, it seems, is the Dolly Parton of the United Arab Emirates: to look this cheap costs a lot of money.

The Spectator contributing editor Rod Liddle is a legend in these parts. Not, alas, for his columns in this magazine, but as a result of an epic piece about Dubai written last year for the Sunday Times.