Princesses & Emperors

At the turn of the year, it's normal to look back and take stock. It has been my privilege through 2007 to paraglide with the Emperor and the Desperate Princess. Readers come and go and all are welcome, but you two have been by far the most regular. One is quite a public figure, through blogging; the other far less visible. Maybe 2008 is the year the three of us will share a drink in the 4-pints

No Mean Milestone

5,000 visits (in total) hardly compares with conquering Everest. In fact, it's scarce a mountain at all - maybe a Corbett, assuredly not a Munro. Ah, but in these flat desert lands, may we not value all the more every slight gradient, and savour with sharpened gratitude every small summit? And if we start our journey in such humble surroundings as Chalky's Bar, in the honest if shadowy company of

But is it Art?

Paraglider welcomes the editors and readers of The Chimaera to the Paranormal Hotel. Grab a bar stool, have a beer on the house, sit back and be entertained. By all means, sign the visitors' book (unless you don't care to be seen here!) You won't want long for agreeable company.Note to Helga - These people have come to the Paranormal in search of Art. Be gentle with them. For some, this is their

Mixed Oddfellows

Though not in the same class as the Paranormal, the Oddmiral Plaza merits a visit, if only for a change of scene. To get there, leave the Para before closing time (it only takes will-power), turn left and walk towards Bank Street. As you'll be heading down Bank Street, towards Customs House, you can cut the corner if you like, by crossing the desert car park, but beware of sand and pigeons. Once

50:50

The days of Ramadan tick by, quietly, and we watch the night sky. In a couple of nights, the full moon will mark the halfway point. The No Locals sign on Chalky's door has fallen once or twice, is showing dog-ears, but will probably last the fortnight. It scarcely matters; it's there only to placate the outrageable and be ignored by the regulars. Ringlets, on her corner stool, manages a wan smile

With Deep Foreboding

As the Holy Month of Ramadan approaches there is the usual rumourmongering among the regulars. This year they're going to clamp down. All the bars will be closed. Or, This year they're going to relax. The bars will be open as normal. This year, of course will be just like last year, in the Paranormal. Closed through the daylight hours, open at seven, background music only and a table placed in

Salaam Pardner!

Driving from Doha airport into the city centre, visitors can hardly fail to notice the huge full length likeness of the Emir himself, Sheikh Hamad bin Khalifa Al-Thani, with his arm upraised in welcome. This is a model of hospitality that many cities would do well to copy. Making no comparisons, Las Vegas, having no Emir, can only offer Vegas Vic, the fifty foot neon cowboy. Vic's arm used to

Watch the Birdies

It isn't every day that the car you're asked to review turns out to be a metallic blue Bentley Continental GTC. Such a car is as much at home in a photoshoot as on a country lane, so Doug, never one to miss an opportunity, drove it straight to Bur Dubai's number one night-spot. Doug's preference has always leaned towards Uzbekistan, with Kyrgyzstan a close second, so it wasn't long before

Sitting Outside

The roast pork smell of old Charlie next door practising fire-walking in the garden certainly adds something to the morning ambience. The balcony came with a discarded lady's shoe (word order matters!), a pair of colonial khakis and an impenetrable story that improves on every telling. Dust is of the essence. He who sweeps clean destroys history. Nice one Charlie!

For Honoured Guests

Doha Stufital is not the Paranormal, and never will be. In fact it's a pretty dismal place with expensive beer (double the Para happy hour prices), a no-cash bar (you have to buy beer-tokens in the lobby), typically a 30:1 male:female ratio, toilets a roach would run from, and, following last month's refurbishment, a roped off V.I.P. seating area. This last passeth all understanding. Surely we

Don't cry for me, Paranormal

Things change, and Paraglider is finding it increasingly difficult to eulogise the Paranormal from afar. Now based in Qatar, visits to Dubai are all too infrequent. What, then, to do with The Paranormal Hotel blog? Three ideas come to mind: 1 - just let it exist as a strange memorial of a time and place, 2 - take it down, 3 - start writing about Qatar's nearest equivalent, the Stufital, instead.

Your Feet's Too Big

There's good posture, and there's presence. Anna has both, especially the latter. And eyes. Eyes that don't so much look as inhale. Rather like the old Superman comics: Aside - With my X-ray vision, I can see that he's carrying a ray-gun in his haversack. It turns out (since you have no option but to talk to her) that her father was in the KGB and doesn't know she's in Dubai. Which says a lot for

Square Pegging

Regular readers will know that Paraglider is allergic to 5-star hotels, so it was with some reluctance that he agreed to accompany a friend to Scowlit's night club in the Elephant Towers. The place was busy. So busy you could almost believe some people go there intentionally. Noisy too, with MTV masquerading as entertainment. What seems to unite the Scowlit crowd is the belief that they are

Without Prejudice

Paraglider was still musing on how long it had taken the ants (near the cash point) to rebuild their walkway after the last sandstorm, as he stepped from the sunshine into Paranormal, then sharp left into Chalky's, darkness and temporary blindness. For the unwary, this is a dangerous two minutes and it's best not to speak till the eyes recover. From somewhere on the left - Me, I come from the US,

At Close of Play

The Sweepers are among the last to arrive and are the surest sign that it's time to leave. All cheekbones, lipstick and hollow eyes, they take up positions vacated by successful younger Chickens. They watch us, and wait. Gentlemen - are we old? They don't mind. Are we ugly? Good. Are we fat, shabby and ill-shaven? Better still. Are we all of these things, and drunk besides? Champion - we will be

By Way of Verification

i*maginate commented - Hmm, shaved Aussie? Possibly a case of lost identity. I refuse to believe an Aussie would be shaved. Unless he was at the Para, of course - Well, it was about time for another prizewinning photo. I think we can now agree the shaved head, the considerable height, and substantial bulk (the foreground head is at normal head height). Our hero is towering above and looking down.

Treading Water

To make your own, first find a 2 metre tall 120 kilo Australian willing to bring you in some decent quality wine yeast from his next trip home. Buy him a beer to seal the deal. Then wait. After a month or so, take home one 5 litre bottle of water. Work your way through it over the next few days (it can be used for drinking) while amassing the real ingredients. These are: 3 litres of red grape

The Glove

Lana wore Paraglider down till he grudgingly agreed (again) to take her from Paranormal to the Vice President for a game of pool. We know the routine well. Place a dirham on the table and wait your turn. It's winner stays on there. The young Syrian guy seems unbeatable and certainly believes himself so. After half an hour, the time comes. Lana walks up to the table. Syria is gracious - if you

A Fourth Option

Guys who don't want attention mostly stare at their beer. This is relatively safe. Slightly riskier is staring at Sky News - eyes may appear in your eyeline, and besides, extended exposure to Sky is known to reduce IQ by 3 points per month. Riskier still is watching the girls with their backs to you. Your 4th-pint reactions are no match for their Red Bull head whip. You can be cornered and

Various Entertainments

This, from a Travel Website:Guests can also sip various beverages at Jockey's Pub, while enjoying various entertainments.Jings.Quite apart from the strange 'various' fixation, in many years, possibly amounting to man-years, in Chalky's Bar, Paraglider can honestly say he has never witnessed the ignoble perversion of 'sipping'. Gulping is the good honest norm. The same travelogue-ist observes:

The Missionaries

Strolling out Mankhool Road the other day, Paraglider was surprised to see a mixed collection of bods literally sprinting into town on the other side of the street. There seemed no obvious explanation, so he dismissed it from his mind. Later, somewhere between Sky News and Helga's new hair colour, it came to him in a flash - of course! They were the bloggers, racing to be first to catch the

A True Professional

'There comes a time in a man's life', droned the Gourd, 'not that he's exactly dissatisfied with his wife, sorry, life, freudian slip, I meant life, it's the beers, it's the beers - but there comes a time when circumstances conspire to bring to light an awareness of an inner emptiness, a lack of purpose. I'm sure you know what I'm talking about. Of course he could ignore it and just carry on in

Something pedal

Mira is as respectable as they come. Eastern European, can't quite remember (that's me, not Mira) if it's Poland, Hungary or Bulgaria, but it's not France. Anyway, she likes shoes. Likes them enough to sit in the Paranormal foyer for maybe an hour and a half, nursing a coffee or two and watching the ladies, from the ankles down, making their ways to and from the toilets. She will never venture

Nice Laptop, Darling

Different societies should not be expected to share a sense of humour. The occasional Englishman, for example, has been known to try to emulate Scottish dryness, though never to succeed. And the German is yet to walk the Earth who understands punning. Be that as it may, Pyramid Dave was genuinely surprised to find he had made the world's greatest joke. Lisa was on a What is your ... mission,

A Change of Scene

Qatar simply doesn't have anywhere like the Paranormal for the traveller to rest his weary eyes. There are all the usual Charlatans and Majorcons, but nothing catering for anything but comfort. Except maybe the Stufital, one of the oldest hotels in Doha. This has that rarest of articles in the Middle East, a bar with a street level entrance and no entry fee. You do have to buy drink tokens at the

Doing the Rounds

"You can give me only one dirham?" says little Lee, presenting an open palm and an ingratiating smile to every man in the bar. Bargain basement? No, just taking a collection from anyone who'll help her feed her addiction. Some of us take pity. Clutching a small pile of coins, she retires guiltily to the dark corner for another half hour of Spot the Difference. Meanwhile, the little Sri Lankan

A Taste of the Dark

Eric's dance was a long time coming. Maybe half a dozen double whiskies and fourteen tentative approaches from all nations East of Turkey. He seemed impervious, even to the wiles of Kyrgyz Carina who retired gracefully, knowing herself rebuffed, albeit in barely comprehensible slurred County. Enter Stella from Eritrea, beaming her beam as only she can. Eric's dance began, all elbows, knees and

Look Outside

The Indian bicycle keeps left, even in Dubai, the better to avoid onrushing lorries. For minimum efficiency, it is pedalled with the heels, bare or sandalled. The trapezoidal stand is fitted with a broken retaining spring which helps it to trail along the road. The rear pannier rack is perfectly adapted to carry forty flattened cardboard boxes or a serene wife whose flowing saree just knows to

The Golden Age

It's all about proving I've been here longer than you, as if anybody cares. Even the Paranormal is not immune. Paraglider was blethering to a guy in Qatar recently and the talk came round to Chalky's Bar. Do you remember before they put in that bendy mirror thing? Yes. Before they put down the weird pink lino stuff? Yes. Before they moved the bar to the back wall? No. Well, it was better then.

Members Only, Sahib

The Cardigan Man explained, "We don't operate a racist door policy. Chalky's is a member's club. Who are the members? That varies from day to day and is at the discretion of Duty Security. If we let everyone in, it would destroy the Club. Be grateful we protect you like this". Some days later, Paraglider was passing the Astonishing, near to afternoon chucking out time. The street outside was

The Need to Know

One of the Truly Great Things about the Paranormal is their refusal to ruin Mondays by introducing Quiz Nights. Long may Chalky's Bar remain a peaceful haven from self-promoting quizmasters and 'teams' devoted to acquiring and disgorging trivia on demand. Paraglider, forgetting the ghastly Monday ritual, went for a beer in Four Pints only to find Reserved signs on all the tables and even on the

Changing the Rings

It is conceivable, just, that a casual visitor to Paranormal might be unimpressed. This is most likely to be a matter of unfortunate timing. For the first half hour or so after opening time, sensitive souls might complain about a smell of disinfectant and extremely cold AC. In such circumstances, the best advice is to go somewhere else and come back later. And where better than the nearby Four

The Place is Heaving!

Paraglider was suitably delighted this morning to find two comments added to the Paranormal blog. Real comments, from a real person who also appreciates the wonders of the UAE's weirdest hotel. Welcome, Malgani - your reward, this small photograph of one of the regulars. Notice where she keeps her mobile.

The Golden Pig

On behalf of all their regular, irregular, occasional and future customers, Paraglider takes this opportunity to wish all of Paranormal's Chinese ladies a happy and prosperous New Year of the Golden Pig. This is supposed to be a most auspicious year. Who knows - maybe the Paranormal is destined to model, in miniature, greater movements in the wider world. China in the ascendancy; FSE (Former

True Devotion

The Chinese girls are back. On the Full Moon festival they gather in each other's apartments and celebrate with moon cakes and endless games of mahjong. They play for money, winning or losing hundreds of dirhams in a night, but as there is no bank, only friends together, things even out over time. As Lily says, "Tonight no go Palanoma. Tonight pray. All night pray. Pray mahjong".

I see no Ships

Helga's taller chickens take up a corner position and concentrate on looking devastating, safe in the knowledge that they can see and be seen by everyone. They are the Paranormal's lighthouses. Their smaller colleagues compensate by moving around more. Lavatory trips are useful (in groups of course) to polish the make-up and enhance re-entry opportunities. Dancing works too, for the less wooden.

Making it tick

Of course, the true stars of the Paranormal are not Helga's Chickens or the other business ladies, but the real working girls. Meaning the girls who work there. They almost run from customer to customer, carrying trays, giving change, remembering orders, humouring drunks and smiling, always smiling. But not in an American have-a-nice-day way. These girls are as genuine as they are Romanian. And

A Lost Cause

Then there's the Scottish table. A group of regulars who like to recreate the ambience of a bar back home. This seems to involve a lot of shouting, swearing and belly laughter. Some evenings they manage to dominate until maybe 7:30, but the disco always wins in the end. That, and the impossibility of imagining Helga's Chickens decorating even a Soho nightclub, never mind a grot-hole in Wishaw.

Rooney Tunes

Football is bad news, for a Chicken. When Man U and Arsenal are on the big screen you might as well accept that you're invisible. Not even crossing and uncrossing the legs on a high bar stool has any effect. Sulking is pointless, tantrums get you barred and questions about the game are just unwelcome, especially meaningless ones, "What countries are playing? Who is your favourite?" Rugby isn't so

Quo Vadis, Karwa?

Stepping out of the Paranormal, it's usually not too hard to find a taxi within a few minutes. Better still, there's a fair chance the driver will know where you want to go, and how to get there, even if you're a bit vague on that yourself, or rendered speechless by Happy Hour. Be glad you're not in Doha! There, the fleet of unroadworthy orange taxis has been decommissioned, and with them has

Breaking the Ice

Some carry a notebook with useful phrases. "You take lady? Your friend take lady?" But the phrases are written in Russian, with the English translation rendered phonetically in the Russian alphabet. This makes it hard to suggest improvements. One red-haired girl has an unusual line of patter. "Do not talk to your friend. He is going to kill you." Clairvoyant? Or perhaps someone doctored the

Paranormal Ambiente

Where the Paranormal scores over, say, the York International or the Astoria, is in the girls' adherence to an unwritten rule outlawing serious hassle of the customers. Most of the girls, that is. You get the occasional Cling-on who won't take a hint, but she's the exception. In the Astoria in particular, you won't reach the bar ungroped, and leaving alone means physical unhooking of tentacles.

How it's done

To give Helga her due, she leads from the front. Though nearly twice the weight of most of her Chickens (and three times the weight of the little one) she scores every time in presence and technique. And in having something to say, in near-perfect English. You can only take so much "What you name? How long you in Dubai? Whey you from?" even delivered from the most luscious lips, before some

Working on the Chain Gang

Slave labour is alive and well in the Gulf. One of the nastier tricks the less scrupulous employers use is simply to withhold payment for several months, often from an entire immigrant workforce. Westerners often fail to understand this one. Here, the employer is also the sponsor. The affected workers can't go to work for someone else, because the sponsor won't release them. They can't even cut

Dress and Door Code

Helga doesn't allow trousers, at least not on any of her brood. Short tight skirts are the rule, and the main reason for the Paranormal's rise in popularity over the last year. That, and the door policy of charging the Chinese girls an entry fee, to deter the lower earners among them. Some of the Russian girls also have to pay, but not Helga's Chickens. Why turn away your principal assets?

The Bottle Trick

You have to have a drink, of course, or the bar staff will ask you to leave. The trick is to wrap a paper napkin round the bottle and to drink, or pretend to drink, through a straw. Waitresses can't see through the napkin, and the straw means you never tip the bottle. For all they know, it could be half full. One Heineken can last all night. With practice, your lip-work on the straw can draw more

Clustering in the Paranormal

Round the central pillar, that's where they seem happiest. They huddle close together, touching sometimes, for security. Helga prefers a bar stool where she can hold court while keeping watch over her flock. She likes to see them working. Eye contact is everything, at least until someone bites. Then it's all about keeping him talking, not easy across the language barrier - harder still if you'd