Monday, 12 May 2008

Dubai World Cup 2008

The Dubai World Cup is the richest horse race in the world and once a year, the rich and famous flock to Dubai to partake in the frock-tacular event where US $15 million is at stake.

The month before we all requested the day off and when rosters were released, most of the cabin crew contingent were waiting with baited breath to see if they were granted the day off. By some miracle Jena, Ash and I all had a delightful red roster day (days off are red) and we set about making plans very excitedly. Dresses to be tailored, hair to be styled, nails to be painted and most of all: TICKETS TO BE PURCHASED!!

We'd heard rumours (cabin crew love facilitating a good rumour) that the races had SOLD OUT, but luckily Jena had booked ours online. The two of us scooted off into the desert to pick them up the week before, as they weren't available for collection on the day at the gate. We were both wondering what kind of retarded set-up would be awaiting us on the day if the monkey-brains putting together this WORLD FAMOUS event couldn't even manage for on-the-day ticket pickups. Well, we needn't have wondered too much, as we weren't disappointed by typical lack of organisational logic on the day. More about that later.

I decided to wear a pink dress (no surprises there!), Ash went with yellow and Jena pulled a gorgeous purple creation from her cupboard that she'd had made the year before but had to shelve as she was on reserve, and was sent to some crap hole for the day.

After a few trips to the tailor, my fairy princess dress was ready for collection and we were good to go. I decided to do my own hair and nails on the day and got up early, curled my hair and pranced off to the florist to find something pretty to put in it. I settled on a gorgeous bunch of white fresias and a pink lily as an alternative and hooned home in the car to style my masterpiece. Half an hour later I was still trying, as I'd mis-judged my massive amount of hair and how many pins I'd need. All under control, tinted moisturiser on our legs, faces all made up and handbags packed full of money and cameras, we were finally ready for pre-drinks at ours!

Mark was my date for the day and he can make a mean daquiri. After downing a bottle of pink Italian bubbly, we ended up just throwing frozen strawberries, ice, rum, vodka and whatever else we could find in the blender and they turned out great! It came time to leave, so we poured the rest of our concoction into plastic glasses, poured ourselves into taxis and headed off in high spirits to the race track.

Once we got there, it became rather apparent that it was a complete balls up. The taxis weren't allowed to drop us off at the venue entrance, but had to stop somewhere far away where we all had to then RUN in our heels for buses that would take us to the gates. Once we managed to claw our way onto a bus, we were jammed in like crew on the way home from flights! Dropped rather unceremoniously at the gates, we then waited for ALMOST TWO HOURS to get in. That's right, the bright sparks from above only had TWO gates in operation for THOUSANDS of people.

Completely sobered up, we finally managed to get inside, where I had my boobs felt up rather harshly by the big fat butch abaya-clad local "security" woman and ordered to put my bag through the scanner. Seriously? Ashleigh had almost passed out from the heat by this time and was struggling to stand up. We pretty much threw her into the seats behind the security station, while I raided their water box for something for her to drink, yelling at them when they questioned what I was doing.

After that, it was off to the Ahlan glamour tent to have our photos taken. Ahlan is one of the local magazines and it's considered the height of cool to grace the best dressed pages. After another wait, during which we were treated to cups of strawberries and cream, we smiled prettily, got snapped and then rushed off to find the nearest tent that served booze.

We proceeded to get pretty pissy, partied the night away and staggered home on severely blistered feet from our fabulous new shoes.

Who said looking fabulous was pain-free?!

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