Coming of age

Another year down. Looking back to 31 July 2006, would I change the way things have gone these twelve months for all the shisha in Arabia? Probably not.

This time last year, my minxy friend Christina and I had a combined birthday ripsnorter at the sweatiest, smokiest, commercial-dance-and-R&B-playing basement club we could find in inner London. Why? Because we wanted to flick a hoof. Hard. I had my a rather fit head-hunter (with a six-pack and an Arctic Monkeys hairstyle) on the scene back then. He gave me a card saying “Happy Birthday. I hope you dance your fucking tits off”.

This year, things have taken a far more mature direction. I went to a civilized Italian restaurant with the 12 of the 13 core people comprising the Dubai Expat Unit (High in Dubai of course, was hugely missed). Why? Because they have the most insane breadsticks.

Call me an extremist.

Thankfully, all the maturity was watered down with large quantities of Chilean wine and later, with a healthy helping of smut. I got a card which only Jeanpant could have picked. It says, “What is your favourite type of birthday cake? Angel-food? Chocolate?” On the inside: “BEEF?”. It also has a pull-out poster of a naked torso of a body-builder: “I saved the biggest piece for you”.

This year was also the first birthday since my varisty days where I haven’t been woken up by morning-breathed digsmates singing the Spur birthday song in my ear and dropping cake crumbs on my duvet.

Wild or not, there is something marvelous about birthdays, even though they are undoubtedly “I-Specialist” occasions. The event itself is saturated with disgustingly high doses of attention.

But frankly, we love them.