Burqalicious

by Becky Wicks

  In the end I told him: ‘I think you should call them.’

  The paper can deal with him now. I had enough of it last year, and quite frankly, I’m scarred.

  15/04

  Going international …

  To me, advertising always sounded like such a glamorous career. And I appear to have blindly walked into a time when there are jobs galore and a burning desire for English copywriters. It’s my current understanding that if you’re living in the Middle East and possess the ability to string a sentence together, you’re more than welcome to apply.

  Let’s keep in mind that I knocked on their doors with no more of a portfolio than a few online articles about Britney from a trash magazine and website. I was incredulous to the point of rude with the girl from the job agency to start with: ‘What? They want to see me?’ But yes. Yes they did. Could I make it in half an hour?

  Now, had I knocked on the door of this particular ad agency in London (or New York), flashing my new white smile, I know for a fact that some bespectacled man in a T-shirt with a crazy logo on it, and perhaps a hat and mismatching shoes, would have looked me up and down with contempt and slammed the door in my face. Even if I’d knocked again, adopting a pleading voice and wielding my stunning portfolio full to the brim with witty phrases, catchy punch lines, award-winning double-page ads and stripy-legged creatures of my own creation as huge and internationally worrying as Ronald McDonald, he still would have told me to email him and then never replied. He probably wouldn’t have even opened it, forgetting my existence as soon as his boss’s son (the lucky unpaid intern) wheeled in on a scooter with his Starbucks skinny latte.

  I’m not selling myself short but neither am I bigging up my copywriting skills. As far as I’m concerned, the first person to walk in claiming knowledge of the alphabet would have qualified, and so it seems that I have quite unwittingly landed myself another full-time job.

  As I may have mentioned before, the money for copywriting here (and probably everywhere else, for that matter) is better than magazines and to be honest I reckon I’m in for a lucky break. I mean, when I was working for Stanley, I was expected to write paragraphs, conduct research and speak to members of the public (during valuable Facebook admin time). On top of all that, I was often subjected to a senior’s cruel slashing of ‘things you just can’t say about Dubai'. With advertising, at least, I’ll be cutting it short. One-liners, maybe a thirty-second radio script here and there, but nothing too draining. No editors, no ridiculous publishing hierarchy or impromptu page cuts after spending hours slaving over, for example, how not to make it seem like Lindsay Lohan’s relationship with a woman was … well … a relationship with a woman.

  As we’ve established, working for a gossip source when you’re not allowed to mention drink, drugs, sex or gay and lesbian exploits is not the easiest of tasks. It takes a certain special creativity to write for a trash site that has no room for trash. It’s a creativity that goes completely unnoticed, because when people want the real story and the real degrading filth, they’ll just go to Borders and buy one of the magazine imports that are still allowed in. Some might say this is quite ridiculous — I mean, why ban these things from your own media circuit if you’re just going to sell them from elsewhere? Well, calm yourself down. Don’t worry. There’s no ‘filth’ slipping through the cracks at all. Not in Dubai.

  Someone, somewhere, goes through every single page and crosses out the rude stuff with a black marker pen before it’s allowed on the shelf. Exposed thighs, thrusting cleavages, naughty winking nipples — they’re all zapped. Rumour has it they get the prisoners to do this, although it’s never been confirmed. It wouldn’t be surprising. It must be a good way to keep them quiet (coupled with a box of Kleenex).

  Anyway, the articles I penned during my full-time publishing work were left somewhat lacking as a result of all these cuts. To mention that Emiratis throw alcohol-fuelled parties in the desert in houses adorned with stuffed giraffes and lions and pens of rhinos in the garden was a no-no, even as part of an informative, innocent local piece about the joy of pets in the household. Something like that might give Dubai a bad reputation.

  After dealing with Stanley for so long, I’d learned not to argue the point that in no way could something so cool make Dubai look bad, let alone how amazing it would be for tourism. I mean, I for one would fly from afar just to see such things — Dubai’s closer to the UK than Africa and way more interesting than a trip to Bedfordshire’s Whipsnade Safari Park.

  People are getting really strict about this lately, by the way. Not only can we not write about animals, sex, or the gay and lesbian affairs of Hollywood, we can’t write anything about the issues Dubai is facing lately either. It’s evident that something’s afoot — including the introduction of sneaky taxes left, right and centre, like road tolls. We’re now expected to pay a fare, or salik, when we cross certain bridges and drive certain routes that we never had to pay for previously. Some aren’t even new — and that’s saying something in these parts.

  When I moaned about this particular issue to M&M, he told me that Abu Dhabi has a lot to do with it. Apparently they’re lending quite a lot of money to Dubai at the moment, and if it wasn’t for them, Dubai would be bust already. Shocking. It’s all hushed up, of course. No one’s supposed to know. But basically, because Abu Dhabi are even more conservative and restrictive, and because they’re investing a lot in fixing up their silly little neighbour’s mistakes, media laws have been introduced to save ‘journos’ like me damaging Dubai’s reputation and economy. To the outside world, Dubai’s a force to be reckoned with — a city of dreams that’s growing stronger by the day. Yet mentioning that no normal citizen can afford to live anywhere other than on a building site, well, that would be in bad taste.

  Anyway, there comes a point where acceptance just makes for a more peaceful life and I’m thinking that if I can’t write the paragraphs I really want for Dubai’s biased magazine and website features, I’ll write one-liners for its biased advertisements instead. Simple. Timesaving. And far less stressful.

  The health and beauty magazine job has given me some great perks, but I’m really looking forward to getting out of the loud, crowded office and sitting quietly on a beanbag all day, twiddling my pencil (that’s what they do, isn’t it?). I’m also looking forward to racking up the freelance I’ll now be able to do on the side without Stanley looking over my shoulder. The gift experiences and entertainments dot com I’ve been working for is still keeping me busy. Lifestyle magazine stuff should keep the perks rolling in and having more money means I might even be able to do some more travelling. I absolutely do think I may be on to a winner this time!

  24/04

  The pirated treasures of Dubai …

  It’s late at night. Ewan and I are lounging on the sofa watching another episode of Will & Grace from the box set Sean kindly lent us. We haven’t yet had our TV connected, having spent all our cash on a 42-inch screen, so since we’ve moved to the building site, our evenings consist mostly of a wholesome meal, courtesy of Wagamama’s home delivery service (once they’ve managed to find us), and three episodes of a DVD series before bedtime.

  Anyway, we’re enjoying one of these luxurious evenings when the doorbell goes. Well, it’s more like a knock on the door because we haven’t had our doorbell fixed yet either. Nothing really works at the new place: the swimming pool is still empty and they’ve just started to expand the road in front of the building so now we can’t even use the front entrance without falling down a hole or over a digger. I digress … we look at each other in confusion, each willing the other to de-wedge from the sofa cushions and make the treacherous voyage over the pouffe, beyond the crumpled IKEA rug and across the pile of sandy shoes, to the door. One of us wins. The other opens the door, and the Dee-Wee-Dee Man steps inside.

  ‘I have Dee-Wee-Dee moo-wees,’ he says, thrusting forth his bag of goods like a proud school kid before his mother. He won’t move beyond the crumpled rug, an
d heaven forbid he bless the pouffe with his pirated treasures. His eyes dart nervously around the room. He sniffs the air for what might linger beneath the scent of chicken udon. He knows he’s doing something naughty, and he knows that we know he’s doing something naughty, and he knows that we know that the authorities might know he’s doing something naughty, but it doesn’t stop him knocking. And it doesn’t stop us looking either.

  Well, we always want what we shouldn’t really have, don’t we? It’s human nature. If someone says no you can’t have something, a little voice screams, Yes, yes, yes I can! and that voice continues in my flat as the Dee-Wee-Dee Man unloads another pack of classics. And before we can say ‘the new Indiana Jones in Russian', the entire crumpled rug is heaving with foreign-subtitled Chinese versions of Indian-Italian-Hollywood-Bollywood classics, all with indistinguishable celebrity photos grinning from behind cheap, vacuum-sealed polythene sleeves. It’s just too much to resist.

  The other day, Dee-Wee-Dee Man even asked Ewan if he wanted ‘special moo-wee'. It didn’t take a language barrier the size of the Burj Dubai to understand what that meant. I was actually quite impressed that he waited till I wasn’t home, before hitting my flatmate with the offer. Perhaps he got a whiff of the fact that I wouldn’t approve (along with the chicken udon). Perhaps he sensed in me a lady who would never permit a stranger to lay before her any filth, on a filthy rug, in her own home (ahem).

  Gladly, Ewan refused and we wound up with a jumpy copy of PoultryGeist instead — a cheap student horror film about bloodthirsty chickens. I kid you not. I guess it beats a Will & Grace repeat, anyway. For a night, at least.

  26/04

  Cabs, cats and little gifts on mats …

  We were so looking forward to having a little friend in the house. The furniture’s all here, we’ve managed to figure out how to get home each night among the ever-changing construction sites constituting our neighbourhood, so we thought it was the perfect time to become pet owners. Kitten people, if you will. Luckily, a mutual friend rescued a pregnant mother-cat after she’d been abandoned a few weeks ago. She took care of her, helped her after the birth and made sure all the kittens got their jabs. It was the perfect adoption scenario — from one loving home to another. We didn’t even have to ask Sean or M&M to help us move her in — she was hand-delivered to our door.

  Yesterday was a bit of a nightmare, though.

  We went to Carrefour to get all the gear, but they were surprisingly low on kitten food. We cabbed it round the corner to the pet shop on the way home, but as we hopped out of the car, leaving all our shopping bags in the boot, the driver refused to wait five minutes while we went inside and proceeded to speed off in anger with all our shopping. After we’d made an automated service call to the police — yes, automated, as in ‘Dial 1 if you’re being raped’ (shocking!) — he zoomed up with a furious screech, dumped our eight bulging carrier bags on the ground and sped off all over again, just for effect. Ewan suggested maybe we had made him miss a prayer. I think he was hungry.

  Preparing for our feline friend’s arrival was traumatic indeed, but never mind, we thought. We’ll brush it off. It would all be worth it once we had our little baby in the nest, chasing cotton, purring lullabies and kissing us both with her tiny wet nose. Pets make everything better. We’ve called her Gizmo because of her large, Gremlin-like ears. Although, I’ve only seen her for a total of ten minutes because she’s currently lost. Yup. On day two of living in our care, Gizmo’s gone AWOL. Ewan just called me. He took the day off work to cat-sit (too early in the job for me to bunk off, too) and apparently, he can hear her, but can’t see her. His last email implied she might have got stuck in a drain, which is slightly worrying.

  I know she was around last night because she kept me awake. She’s only twelve weeks old and yesterday her whole life changed. For the better, of course — she gets to live with two of the most fun, stylish and sassy people in Dubai; people who’ll offer her endless kitty-cat snacks and soft-toy amusement. Ewan even donated his favourite grey cushion for her to use as a throne, and as we placed the carrier on the kitchen floor and peered inside at her tiny, tabby-coated frame, we promised to worship her in return for her total devotion … as long as she stayed cute and didn’t fuck up the sofa.

  But how did she reward us? Well, the ungrateful ball of fluff rewarded us with a strangled symphony of sorrow that lasted all night, as well as some door scratching thrown in for good measure. She also abandoned the litter tray and left a nice, moist shit on my bathroom mat. It made me gag when my alarm went off this morning. And the feather in the cap is that she’s turned into the invisible, shrieking monster.

  I always thought that if I could be any animal on Earth, I’d be a cat. Graceful, proud, intelligent, clean, composed and elegant — just like me. They hold their heads high through every situation, like royalty in the animal kingdom, which is precisely why Ewan and I decided to adopt one. No whinging, sniffling, needy dogs for us, we thought. And besides, I think Arab women are afraid of dogs. I once saw a lady jump and literally run to hide behind a chair when she saw a little terrier walk past in Century Village. I think they’re considered dirty, and anyway, there’s nowhere for anyone to walk a dog in Dubai, really. There’s hardly anywhere for people to walk.

  It’s just a shame that after all our effort, our very own, long-awaited kitty cat appears to be a bigger diva than Mariah Carey. Maybe that’s just what Dubai cats are like, though. She’s a breed called a Desert Mau, which is funny because the mau is exactly what’s coming out of her mouth at impossible volume. I think she’s a bit of a mongrel — large ears, long limbs, long tail. As I type, I’ve just had another email. Ewan has found her, shrunk into the back of the fridge. She hissed when he attempted to pick her up with an oven glove. Bitch.

  04/05

  THE EGO has landed …

  I’ve dealt with egos before. Magazines are full of them. Dubai is full of them; people who think they’re better than they are. But every now and then you come across one that just blows everything else out the window; one major force that reigns supreme. Someone whose name you feel forced to place in capital letters, just to get the point across to those who may not quite understand the power you’re dealing with.

  Stanley wasn’t so much an ego — more a lost soldier at war on a corporate battlefield. He struggled to do the right thing by everyone, even when he didn’t really want to. People like Stanley are different, in that they spend their days fumbling around in the dark, afraid of losing the position they know they probably didn’t really do much to earn in the first place. However, egos genuinely don’t give a toss about doing the right thing by anyone. Their way is the only way and if someone doesn’t agree, well, their own stupidity is bound to catch up with them sooner or later.

  My new boss, EGO The Great, lives in the permanent guise of a ‘creative'. ‘Creatives’ are fascinating people who demand more respect than any other set of employees in any other industry I’ve ever dabbled in. I’ve found others in the agency also calling me a ‘creative'. It’s a label I’m still struggling with, if I’m honest. I’m not entirely sure I like to be summed up in such a way. Seeing as I kind of fell into all this by accident, I’m now, I suppose, a little like Stanley, fumbling about in the dark.

  I certainly didn’t earn this, like many others who’ve knocked on similar doors clutching perfect portfolios and sporting very funky designer glasses. Something about it makes me feel quite uncomfortable, as though a certain brilliance is expected of me that I can’t actually deliver.

  Quite often I’ll be sitting casually on a beanbag, chewing my fake nails while watching the desert try its best to reclaim Dubai outside the window, when all eyes will turn to me, eagerly anticipating a groundbreaking idea to fall out of my arse. They’ll stare, wide-eyed, waiting for the next award-winning stroke of excellence that’ll shoot us all collectively to Cannes, which appears to be the key to unlocking the ultimate door in the world of advertising in general — the me
aning of everyone’s existence.

  They’ll gaze at me until I’m forced to say the first thing that comes to my mind, just to make them happy, just to make them think I’m actually pondering the brief at hand, instead of what I’m going to order in for dinner. Nine times out of ten, of course, what comes out is utter shite. But because I’m a ‘creative', they’ll nod, write it down and look at each other like I might just be a genius. Because I’m a ‘creative', my idea, however crap they secretly think it is, must be digested, discussed and analysed. It holds worth and merit, even though no one really understands why.

  I’m living a lie, basically. And so is everyone else around me. I’m a hundred per cent sure that if my fellow ‘creatives’ really thought about it, really looked beyond my new title, they wouldn’t see why I’m here any more than I do. EGO The Great sees through me, however. It’s his job.

  EGO The Great is a man who eats only apples, bananas and chocolate — in the workplace at least. And the girl who was here before me said that in all of her five years with the company, she’d never seen him eat anything else. He never leaves at lunchtime, never unwraps a sneaky sandwich, never goes down to the canteen for so much as a Diet Coke. That would be deemed as too ‘normal', I assume. On his desk at all times is a bar of organic dark chocolate, the luxury kind from France. If we’re summoned to his room for a discussion he will sit there breaking pieces off, sliding them into his mouth in front of us like a sexual tease from a candy commercial, but will rarely offer any.