A spank of jellyfish

I have not entirely given up swimming, but this is not a good time to stage the grand aquatic comeback: it is the dread jellyfish season. They swarm just off the beach, fluorescent blue blobs up to 16” in diameter with short, stubby tentacles.

 

Husband has formulated an effective response to jellyfish attack, which is: throw your wife at them. Apparently, it’s an inverted variation on the ‘Flee! Save yourself!’ method of heroism.

 

We set off one morning and swam about 1000 metres with not a blob in sight when, just beyond the crow’s nest, we hit a spank of jellyfish. Yes, you read that correctly: ‘spank’ is the correct collective noun for Catostylus Mosaicus and shame on you for doubting me. After all, this is what I do for a living.

 

(Write, that is. Not necessarily research.) (And technically I’m not making much of a living out of it right at the moment.)

 

WARNING: artistic licence alert.

 

I was thrashing along when I heard a noise like a submarine generator. It seemed to be coming from all around; the water was thrumming. And then I headbutted one. It was more solid than you might imagine, but I’m happy to report that in this particular battle of wills the jellyfish came off worse than I did.

 

The wounded jellyfish retreated, only to return with reinforcements. Millions of them.

 

I alerted Andrew to the danger by stating clearly:

 

“WARK!”

 

Considering he might have water in his ears, I sketched a little pantomime for him, involving lots of gasping and spitting and splashing around waving my feet in the air.

 

“What? Agh!” said Andrew, getting to know a jellyfish in the Biblical sense.

 

We were surrounded by, on average, one jellyfish per square metre of water. There followed quite a lot of swearing (us, not the jellyfish) which seemed as effective a solution as any under the circumstances. You know, maybe at a specific pitch and resonance the jellyfish would start vibrating and possibly explode.

 

After a while, we realised this tactic was less effective than it might come across above.

 

“Don’t move!” I instructed Andrew.

 

“Right,” said Andrew.

 

I should have known better. Andrew’s response to direct orders is to fulsomely agree before wilfully doing his own thing (which is normally the precise opposite). So I shouldn’t have been at all surprised when he picked me up and fired me at the biggest jellyfish.

 

Then Andrew escaped The Swarm using my body as a human shield, while I tried to extract my foot from the jellyfish’s bowels. You might be interested to note that the consistency of the tentacles was that of hard plastic embedded in slime. Eventually, I managed to give it a good kick up the chuff, freeing myself of the deadly jelly grip.

 

“You are so bloody unchivalrous!” I roared at Andrew as I scrabbled for a foothold in the shallows. “Ow, my foot’s stinging. OW!”

 

“Awww, Baby! Would you like me to wee on you?” he enquired solicitously.

 

“Get AWAY from me!”

 

By the way, you might be interested to learn that applying urine to a jellyfish sting has no basis in scientific fact; you should use vinegar or salt water on the affected area. Also that jellyfish procreate by releasing sperm into the water around hot jellyfemales – so the sea is probably a whole pile of jellyspunk at the moment.

 

Swim, anyone?

Modern Cain and Abel parable

Andrew’s brother, Brett, started as he meant to go on, eating his way through the house like a giant locust (there are no walls left, and only a portion of the roof). His 24 year old metabolism, at the peak of its processing powers, is an awesome thing to behold.

 

Two days after he arrived, Andrew offered to take Brett dirt biking. Cue great excitement and lots of manly flexing of muscles using bungee cords. Since Brett had never been astride a motorbike before, I thought I might tag along for the entertainment.

 

We drove out to the desert and parked at the lip of an oval of hard-packed sand. After unloading the bikes, Andrew commenced the tutorial with a brief demonstration. Clenching his buttocks for effect, he was still strapping on his helmet as he roared off on one wheel in a spray of sand.

 

Andrew is not normally the flashiest of characters, but he turns into something of a showman on a bike. He performed a few aerial somersaults before careering back to us, braking at the last moment so that the front tyre nudged my shin as the bike skidded to a stop. I was only disappointed he didn’t produce two doves from the petrol tank.

 

Then it was Brett’s turn. Andrew’s instruction was – let’s call it spare:

 

“Right, here’s the brake. Here’s the clutch. Anything else? Oh yes. Here’s a push.”

 

Throwing his shoulder into it, he launched Brett over a dune. Brett gave the bike maximum throttle, released the clutch, and careered off in a wild yawing effect. For a couple of seconds I was sure it was all going to end in tears – or, more accurately: spurting blood, broken bones and ruptured spleens – but somehow Brett managed to gain control of the bike. He completed a wobbly circuit of the desert bowl in first gear.

 

“Right,” said Andrew briskly upon his return. By his tone, I could tell he was proud of his protégé’s progress. “To change gear, you tip this lever with your toe. Up to change up. Down to change down. Am I missing anything? Oh yes . . .”

 

*PUSH!*

 

Watching Brett’s erratic takeoff, this time with an inadvertent wheelie thrown in, I thought perhaps Andrew should spend a bit more time on the basics – like stopping, starting, staying upright; stuff like that. I was taking him to task when Brett disappeared behind a sand-dune.

 

“Where’s he gone?” I fretted.

 

“He’s fine.”

 

“That terrain is pretty choppy.”

 

“No worries! Woman.”

 

Off in the far distance, we could hear the bike engine shrieking at maximum rev.

 

“Has he got it out of first yet?” I asked.

 

“No. Oh hang on, yes, he has now.”

 

Suddenly there was a sharp blast of rev and then . . . silence.

 

Andrew and I looked at each other.

 

“Find him!” I squawked, doing a little panic shuffle. This, in case you were wondering, is where I trot back and forth on the spot, bumping into as many proximate objects as possible.

 

Andrew slewed off on the second bike while I prepared my speech to his parents in the event that Brett had broken a leg. I didn’t want to consider what else he might have broken (Andrew always scoffs at the notion that he might break a neck or a cranium. “It’s only sand!” he says whenever I raise the issue, as if hurtling head-first into a dune at 60kph is equivalent to settling gently into a mass of goose-down).

 

Andrew returned ten minutes later without his t-shirt. No doubt he had proffered it to stanch the blood – but from where? Nicked finger? Broken nose?

 

Severed arm?

 

“Is he ok?”

 

“I’m not sure.”

 

We unhitched the bike trailer and drove the Yukon to Brett. Although he looked all right – well, no spurting blood - he was making sound effects like a punctured accordion. I was encouraged when he correctly identified how many fingers I held up – although I’ve never been sure what the purpose of the test is, apart from confirming the subject is roughly sober.

 

We got Brett home and stuffed him full of Brufen. Thereafter there was more moaning than pain (admittedly Brett might not agree with that diagnosis). (In fairness, I was only able to accurately measure the moaning.) (But surely he couldn’t have been in THAT much pain?) Over time, Brett perfected a gorgeous, breathy little gasp which somehow managed to simultaneously convey his stoic agony, his ongoing despair over starving children in the third world, and all the wasted opportunity squandered in his young life.

 

In between complaining about the lack of sympathy and how the hunger was killing him, Brett maintained he had broken his tailbone.

 

“Which is worse: the hunger or the pain?” I’d ask.

 

“That is such an unfair question.”

 

Looking on the bright side, his injury gave him the perfect excuse not to get spanked at squash. He also managed to bravely stuff his broken tailbone into a rubber ring and fire himself up a water chute at Wild Wadi.

 

Apart from the lack of clucking and my ongoing refusal to dress up in a nurses’ uniform, Brett would find it hard to deny the fact that I was an unwavering source of practical support. I sang to him to take his mind off the pain and regularly dosed him with Margharita, which he claimed was more effective than Brufen. And at least I didn’t try to make it worse – UNLIKE SOME.

 

The Tuesday after the biking incident (‘accident’ implies nobody is to blame), Brett being relatively confident that his broken tailbone had limited impact on his ability to pose, he and Andrew were set for a Lad’s Night Out. They swept out the door on an exuberant tsunami of aftershave.

 

Five minutes later Andrew called. He’d had a car crash up the Springs Drive; yes, he and Brett were ok; no, he wasn’t sure what the damage to the Lumina was; no, the other guy’s car was totalled; oh and could I come and collect Brett while he waited for the police? He’d also be grateful if I brought the insurance papers, thanks.

 

When Andrew had slowed for a speed bump, an Aramex car had driven right up the Lumina’s arse. The Aramex driver admitted that he had dropped his electronic orders device on the floor . . . and bent down to pick it up. The bonnet of Aramex Guy’s Toyota was a crumpled mess and his airbags had deployed.

 

From a distance the Lumina looked sound, but the boot wouldn’t close properly, and the frame was shunted in under the back doors. (For the next couple of days, whenever Andrew drove the Lumina, drivers on the Sheikh Zayed road would slow to 120kph in the next lane, knock on the passenger window and shout at him that the back door was open while helpfully pointing at it.)

 

Poor Brett had recommenced moaning with renewed vigour, so I got him installed on the sofa with 600mg of Brufen and a bucket of margharita. I went back to the scene with a cup of coffee for Andrew, but the police had arrived so I drove on and pretended I didn’t know him. Hey, I love the guy, but there is nothing on earth that will induce me to spend time with the UAE Fuzz again.

 

Apparently the Lumina’s chassis is bent. Although it can be repaired, it is expensive and is unlikely to pass its next registration. Therefore, we’re going to have to try and persuade Aramex Guy’s insurance company to write the car off

Finnegan’s rocks

Last night, my friend Emma and I went to Finnegan’s. We usually play squash, but Em had toppled over snowboarding in Ski Dubai and damaged both her wrists (our friendship is anchored by mutual premature midlife crises).

 

Outside of The Cyclone, Finnegan’s is possibly the sleaziest pub in town: viscous fog of cigarette smoke, women of ill-repute, men of worse repute. There is always at least one beer marinated hound slumped on the bar, serenading his pint with a medley of Irish classics and weeping bitter tears for Ireland down his dishdash. Well, it IS an Irish pub. Even though most of the clientele are locals, they really get into the Irish spirit – heck, they don’t limit themselves to just the one.

 

On the plus side, Finnegan’s is just across Interchange 5 and boasts three underused pool tables. The peanuts are an instant boost to the immune system. And there is an entertainingly appalling band, fronted by a singer who wears trousers so tight she has a front bottom (affectionately known as ‘Camel Toe’).

 

Although I blend chameleon-like into Finnegan’s, my friend . . . well, Em looked a little out of place. Em is slender and delicate with flawless skin. Apologies for the clichéd description; normally I would be the first to point out that skin is never ‘flawless’ after the age of nineteen. But trust me when I say that there were times Em materialised out of a cloud of smoke and if the woman had been carrying a harp I would have opened my mind and seriously re-evaluated religion.

 

Although Finnegan’s was bustling, we were the only women in the place apart from Camel Toe and a waitress. Due to a miscommunication with the barman, we had a pint glass full to the top with dirham coins for the pool tables. However, there were none free. We charmed a pair of be-dishdashed men into giving up their pool table by hinting we might be prostitutes.

 

While Em and I played, the group of blokes mentally grasped our bottoms and chatted us up. Every time one of us took our turn, they chorused: “I think YOU’LL win,” and winked lasciviously. One of them winked so slowly, the manoeuvre took a full ten seconds from the initial eyelid twitch through full corneal coverage and back. They really were a winsome couple and we were almost disappointed when their prostitutes turned up.

 

Camel Toe finished flaying ‘Love Me Tender’ and came around brandishing sheets of paper and pencils.

 

“Pub quiz!” she chirped. I don’t know about Em, but I was desperately trying to keep my eyes fixed on her face. I’m sure Camel Toe thought I was very intense.

 

“It’s free,” she said over our polite rebuttals. “I’ll leave these with you just in case,” – her sudden movement as she gave me the paper seriously tested my resolve not to look at her crotch – “there are great prizes.”

 

I assumed that meant a garden hoe without the handle, rather than an all-expenses paid weekend for two in the Bahamas.

 

Two pool games and one tussle over the third prize Finnegan’s T-shirt later, Camel Toe announced: “And the winners are . . . THE BIRDS!”

 

Well, I hadn’t seen that coming. I mean, one of the four categories had been ‘Geography’ – not my strong point as you know. Mind you, even I know what the capital of Spain is (well now I do, although at the time Em and I had to flip a coin between Barcelona and Juventus).

 

“Come up here . . . THE BIRDS!”

 

I gave Em a push in the direction of the stage, but she hauled me up after her. I was mortified.

 

“What’s your name?” asked Camel Toe and stuck a mic in my gob.

 

“Er, Niamh,” I muttered.

 

“Emma!”

 

“You look pretty surprised to be here. How surprised are you, on a scale of 1 to 10?”

 

“Er, twenty.” That was me again. Then all of a sudden it hit me: the microphone, the captive audience (albeit only half of them conscious), the snore of the crowd, the smell of the greasepaint (or it might have been Camel Toe’s deodorant).

 

“So, will we be seeing you back here again?” Camel Toe said, the last words trailing away as I grabbed the mike.

 

“DEFINITELY!” I beamed, waving at the cheering fans. “I think this place is GREAT! I LOVE it here! FINNEGAN’S ROCKS!”

 

Camel Toe tugged the microphone, but I had my teeth embedded in it.

 

“You have won-” she managed, before I got the mike back again.

 

“We’ll DEFINITELY be back here next Tuesday, won’t we Em?”

 

Emma’s reply was lost in the acoustic screech as I grimly wrestled Camel Toe for possession of the microphone.

 

“Get off-” she panted, but my grasping fingers had good purchase.

 

“You can have your microphone back now, PAHAHAHA!” I roared.

 

Camel Toe - with what I felt was unnecessary aggression - snatched the microphone and held it out of my reach. I swiped at it.

 

“Can I?” I pointed, but she shook her head firmly.

 

“Just a-”

 

“No.”

 

We won a bottle of Smirnoff’s vodka and a hair set, blow dry, manicure and pedicure at Juan’s Salon. When we checked our quiz form, it appeared Camel Toe had erased some of our answers and pencilled in the correct ones. Turns out the capital of Spain is Madrid - who’d have known? Hey, she only amended four of our answers – we conclusively outplayed the Arab clientele in the Popular Music section.

 

At the end of the evening, going through the hotel lobby:

 

“Look!”

 

Em pointed. It was Juan’s Salon! A faded poster with curling corners featured pouting models with bubble perms and shoulder pads.

 

Shame our winning voucher was only valid for two days