Jeff Randall

Abu Dhabi Notebook

With oil trading at more than $100 a barrel, Abu Dhabi holds a jackpot-winning ticket in the lottery of life. The emirate sits on reserves of nearly 100 billion barrels, about 9 per cent of the world’s proven supply. At today’s pumped-up price, its subterranean treasure is worth at least $10 trillion. That’s $10,000,000,000,000.Abu Dhabi finds almost nothing unaffordable. Were Croesus reborn tomorrow, he would discover that the Al Nahyan royal family could match his outlay. In recent years, hospitals, universities, hotels, museums, racetracks, golf courses, marinas, airports and a five-star airline have sprung up ex nihilo. When its naughty neighbour Dubai, which has very little oil, ran out of money, Abu Dhabi sent over $20 billion to fill the hole.

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.

Diary - 18 August 2007

It was the call that never came. For three hours last week, I sat with my hand hovering over the phone. I had been told that Bill Kenwright would be getting in touch between 3 p.m. and 6 p.m. Yes, the Bill Kenwright, theatreland big shot and chairman of Everton FC. This was exciting. Was I about to be hired for a cameo role in his West End production of Cabaret? Better still, perhaps, he fancied my prospects as a burly striker, playing at Goodison alongside Andy Johnson? Sadly not. The reason I had been put on red alert was that Kenwright and his inamorata, Jenny Seagrove, were panellists on the celebrity edition of Who Wants To Be a Millionaire — and Bill was keen that I should be his ‘phone-a-friend’. In the celebrity version, famous people are invited to display how little they know and then give all prize money to charity.

Jeff Randall

The Clunking Fist

Britain doesn’t do Lord High Executioners, but if it did, Gordon Brown would probably be the best in the world. The prospect of the Chancellor in this role occurred to me while listening again to Gilbert & Sullivan’s masterful satire, The Mikado. Ko-Ko makes his entrance with ‘a little list’ of those who are for the chop. Among the joys of W.S. Gilbert’s libretto is its invitation for a contemporary version of victims. Who better to identify them than the Clunking Fist?Ko-Ko, The Lord High Executioner (Gordon Brown):As this year it may happen that more taxes must be found,I’ve got a little list — I am the Clunking FistSo let’s start with fat-cat bosses who can shed some extra poundsAnd which never would be missed, I know that they exist!There’s the pestilential journalists who write the TelegraphThey claim I spend and squander cash — Oh, please don’t make me laugh.

Diary - 14 July 2006

Berlin, 9 July. It wasn’t meant to be like this. High in the Olympiastadion — Block 28, Row 4, Seat 22 — at 7.45 p.m. local time, I shut my eyes and imagine the sights and sounds which I’d hoped to experience. For a few seconds, this magnificent amphitheatre is draped in red and white flags, ‘Rule Britannia’ fills the air and Becks and the boys are about to do their bit for Harry, England and St George. My reverie is broken by the pungent smell of a cheap cheroot. Puffing away, one row in front of me, is an Italian with Tricolore face paint. He’s becoming hysterical with excitement. I speak no Italian, but he seems to be shouting, ‘Balla-boom, balla-boom’. I’ve got nothing against Italians. Some of their wines are surprisingly good.

Diary - 1 January 1970

In 1755 Lisbon was ruined by a massive earthquake, the shock waves from which were felt as far away as Switzerland. When the rumbling stopped, a great fire ensued, followed by a tsunami that washed away coastal villages. As I awoke on Tuesday morning, I had good reason to believe that Portugal’s capital was about to endure a second devastating tremor. On Lisbon’s Avenida de Joao II, the walls of my tiny hotel room seemed to be swaying and I could hear a terrible banging. My hands were sweating, my heart was pounding. Inside my head, the pressure was so intense that I feared that my eyes would pop out like corks from over-fizzed champagne bottles. Semi-conscious, I struggled to make sense of dreadful thoughts. Was this how it feels in the final moments before a catastrophic seismic event? Was I going to die? Er, not quite.

Saturday

Abu Dhabi Notebook

Abu Dhabi Notebook

Saturday

Dubai Notebook

Dubai Notebook

Saturday

Diary - 18 August 2007

Diary - 18 August 2007

Saturday

The Clunking Fist

The Clunking Fist

Friday

Diary - 14 July 2006

Diary - 14 July 2006

Thursday

Diary - 1 January 1970

Diary - 1 January 1970