Wednesday 28th
Another taxi ride to the airport, this time shared with other hotel guests and organised by reception. Hotel quotes “£6 a head” but by the time I’ve arrived at the airport this has magically risen to £10.

“Terminal Free, innit?” says the taxi driver, by way of explanation day light robbery justification.

I spend an enjoyable second fantasising about setting him on fire and driving him headfirst into the Terminal building, but quickly remember that this plan has already been done and didn’t end well for anyone involved, least of all John “I won a fight against a man who was burning to death, I’m a national treasure” Smeaton.

Instead, I consider calling him a cunt, do so and enter the airport where I’m wandering about the Etihad check-in area, laughing at their female ground staff who all wear hats with big curvey veils over their right ear. When a group of them walk together they look like an armada of dhows. Wearing silly hats.

“Kal!”

And there, my saviour. Sophia, one of the docs from the Desert Challenge is loitering stage left. We catch up and she explains that she’s waiting for Booker and I tell her I’d arranged to meet Tom for breakfast.

Suddenly I’m not so worried. Suddenly I’ve found my mates.

While we wait for our comrades, we spend an enjoyable half an hour trying to spot other members of the medical team. A crowd of passengers arrive, many of them wearing very shiny and clearly new-bought boots and combat trousers. One amongst them is wearing a linen suit the colour of Cornish ice-cream.

Everyone arrives, Tom in classic bleary eyes and Booker in terrifying organisation. We surrender our passports to him - “Here you go, Uncle Booker” and he marches us off, ducks in line behind him, to check in.

We breakfast, slug coffee and I start to fidget in my chair. I am firmly of the “Be at the gate straight away and wait, then you’ll never miss your flight.” school. Sophia has a different way of looking at it.

“It’s fine, why would you want to sit on the plane when you can sit in a cafe? They’ll call you by name if you’re THAT late.”

We compromise and I manage to drag them away from the table. While walking to the gate I hear Booker and Tom both yell “shit!” and start running.

I have no idea why, but when your friends start running, you follow, right?

Panting alongside him, Booker explains.

“Gate’s closing. Go.”

We step up the pace, pushing onto a travellator and running with it.

The gate is around the next corner. We run all out for about 15 yards and arrive with loads of time to spare, the gate staff laughing at our panicked, red faces.

The flight is six hours long, we lose another four by the time difference. It’s a long haul flight. D’you really want details?

Didn’t think so.

Suffice to say the highlight of the whole flight was discovering that Etihad’s complimentary passenger pack includes a sleep mask which doubles as a handy-dandy improvised set of cuffs, some flight socks which form a splendid gag and a toothbrush/paste holder which comes in what can only be described as a tiny black dildo.

Booker and I entertained ourselves by dressing up as Etihad gimps and grinning at Rolf who was sitting in front of us. He gave us one of those looks you tend to deploy at children behind you in the cinema who won’t stop dropping popcorn down your back.

Passport control in the UAE is a civilised affair, the officers in dishdash smile and greet you pleasantly while meticulously leafing through the pages of your passport in case you’ve ever been somewhere…undesirable. At this point in March, Tom realised he had Israeli stamps in his passport, a relic of flying back to the mother country to visit family. Thankfully, this time he had a shiny new one which posed him no problems. I may have threatened to shout “Mazel-tov!” at him when he approached, he may have countered with a threat to out me to the police. Together, we agree that I wouldn’t mention the J word, he wouldn’t mention the G word and we would become a super hero act, J-Man and G-Boy. Marvel, watch out.

I stopped for a pee.

Trust me, this is going somewhere.

The men amongst you will be acutely aware (as all men are) of the perils of eye position when standing at a urinal. One keeps the eyes forward and looks either up, or down. There is no lateral looking, lest you catch a glimpse of your neighbour’s tackle.

In Abu Dhabi airport, the urinals have automatic flushers above them, encased in silver hemispheres. These, while being aesthetically pleasing, have the same effect as those curved mirrors supermarkets have in the ceiling, that not only are you exposed to the reflected view of the winkies of both guys to your left and right, but your own prick grins up at you from the wall. The curvature of the mirror is not flattering, everything is foreshortened and horribly malformed (it’s the mirror, I promise). Think of those fish-eye lenses?

*shudder*

At arrivals we meet a nice lady with a sign saying “F1” and attach ourselves to her. She has a note telling her that she’s expecting 51 medics and marshalls, but apparently no list of who these 51 are. We play an entertaining game of “put your hand up if you’re missing” before piling onto a coach and being bussed to our accommodation.

As the bus rolls and bumps along its route past expanses of not-yet-built-on concrete foundations and stretches of desert, it dawns on us just how far from Abu Dhabi we really are. The coach turns left, then right and we find ourselves rolling along a high chain-link fence with row upon row of Portacabins laid out under white security lighting posts.

“Hah! It’s Belsen!” jokes someone on the bus.

“Pity the poor fucks that are staying there…” say another.

The bus turns into Belsen.

Poor fucks that we are, we pile off the bus and queue at a “reception centre”, even the names of the administrative buildings smack of refugeeism. I’m in “23A” and I’m pleased to find I’m sharing with Tom and a chap neither of us have met. The whole thing is starting to feel a bit like school camp as we tramp off down the road towards “The eighth column of huts, you’re at the bottom on the left”

Inside our cabin, I’m pleasantly surprised. Three bunks, with mattresses and clean sheets, some cheap hotel furniture and a rather sexy glass topped table and brown foam furniture that have clearly come from 1974. It’s reasonably clean, the air conditioning works and there’s an en suite toilet and shower.

Compared to my tent in the desert in March, it’s luxury.

We return to the main area of the camp, where a roofed off area holds tables and chairs and a team of caterers are serving roast chicken, rice, salad, humus and flat bread. There is a rumour through the team that several people are unhappy about their accommodation. Reports of rats and roaches come to the fore and one group of doctors from the UK (including the gentleman in the ice-cream coloured blazer) are standing by the bus with their bags packed. It becomes clear that they’re insisting on a hotel room, rather than staying here and the organisers are providing same.

I can see their argument, many of them are senior medics who clearly don’t *need* to volunteer for a week at the F1 to further their career and are understandably pissed off at being asked to sleep in a portacabin.

Me? I’m a junior van driver, I’ll take a little sub-standard accommodation over the chance to work at a world class event.

We’re issued with ID and F1 tabards (sort of like those vests you used to wear in PE, all white and blue nylon and tied at the hip). There’s a bit of a fuck up when we find that there are two Kals on the team and one of them has had two IDs printed for him but it all gets sorted.

We down a few beers and Sophia, Tom, Booker and I stroll back to our cabins.

“So, you guys heading out to a hotel?”

We laugh together and Booker and Sophia bring their military attitude out to play.

“I can plug in a hairdryer, I don’t have to shit in a long-drop and I’ve got a shower,” begins Sophia, “It’s practically the Hilton.”

“Hell…” starts Booker, “I’ve been here an hour and a half and I haven’t seen a mortar land anywhere. I might be able to sleep.”

And with those thoughts in mind, we snuggle up on our bunks (though admittedly, I pull my mattress off and onto the floor, I’d sooner sleep down there than risk falling off a bunk, thanks).