Here we are again, then; another Abu Dhabi red carpet spectacular. It’s getting to be a bit of a habit these days, isn’t it?
Time Out Abu Dhabi arrives at the Fairmont Bab Al Bahr Hotel early and picks a prime spot amongst the TV cameras at the end of a moderately busy press enclosure. Nobody’s really sure who’s attending this little shindig.
Officially, it’s the launch party for the Laureus Awards. Unofficially, it’s the ‘soft opening’ of the red carpet; a chance for local bigwigs to hobnob with whichever celeb deigns to show up. Rumours are flying. If this were a betting country, you might say Gwyneth Paltrow was a hot favourite.
After an hour or two spent watching the hotel staff practicing their red carpet etiquette (‘the car will pull up here, the door will open here and their left foot will extend here. What do you mean, “What car?”’), the first vehicles begin to arrive.
Initially, and in time-honoured tradition, the first handful of cars carry people unrecognisable to anyone, probably even their own mothers. There’s some banter amongst the hardened London paparazzi, out here on the promise of a free glass of watermelon juice, until a recognizable face appears and everyone assumes combat stance.
It’s Daley Thompson. Time Out has not seen him in years, but it couldn’t be anyone else. He looks just as fit, the ageing process only belied by the waves of grey streaking through his hair and beard. But what’s this? The man’s dressed in what looks like sweaty gym wear.
If we’re not much mistaken, he’s just arrived from the tennis court. Either this affair is lower key than we thought, or Daley Thompson has developed eccentricities.
Former legends continue to arrive in the shape of Ian ‘Beefy’ Botham and Edwin Moses. Beefy certainly lives up to his nickname these days, but Moses has kept his svelte form. If anything, he looks a little on the underweight side. Time Out barks his name, but he’s more interested in getting inside for the free tucker. It’s only when his wife elbows him in the ribs and insists that he reluctantly ambles over.
‘I’ve been here for quite a few days, so it’s great,’ he tells us. ‘We’re having a good time. The weather is fantastic and we’re looking forward to a fantastic event.’ It’s confirmed then: Edwin Moses rarely goes outside. Eveyone else in the capital has spent the last few days enveloped in the kind of heavy mist usually found in old Hammer Horror flicks.
Next up is Fabio Capello, boss of the England national football team. We’d be lying if we said we weren’t desperate for a word with him, so we flap about and make a lot of noise until he notices us.
‘Fabio!’ we cry. ‘A word, guv! Just one! Please, Fabio!’
He fixes us with a suspicious look and gives us what we’re begging for:
‘No.’
It’s as good as any other word, is it not?
Moments later, Monica Seles walks the red carpet entirely unnoticed by anyone. She seems in a hurry. Could it be because she’s just seen sports pundit Alan Hansen on the prowl? That’s certainly why the rest of the assembled masses have gotten all flash happy (insane, don’t you think, that a 54-year-old, nondescript Scotsman could induce such pandemonium?) He’s affable, though, and he wanders over for a chat.
‘It’s great to be here,’ he smiles. ‘I’ve been to Dubai many times, but this is great. The awards ceremony and the hotel [Emirates Palace, natch] look to be fantastic, and we’re all very excited. Lots of familiar faces, and, err, this tremendous character…’ Hansen indicates a newcomer to the red carpet who might well be the world’s tallest man. ‘I wouldn’t like to pick him up at the back post, that’s for sure!’ The cameramen around me roar with laughter. 1-0 to the nondescript Scotsman.
Up next, a comedy turn. A car pulls up in front of the throng, the boot pops and the driver runs around to help his passenger lift out two heavy suitcases. The passenger looks around at the assembled media and smiles. It takes a few seconds, but it dawns on everyone at precisely the same moment: the dunce behind the wheel has driven up the wrong ramp. This man is only here to check in. The crowd roars with laughter and the Fairmont’s most embarrassed guest bows sheepishly and poses for a few snaps. Unbelievably, this is not the last time this will happen tonight.
It’s getting pretty late now, and we’ve yet to see any real stars. Rumours continue to ebb and flow: Gwyneth and Chris, Clive Owen, Hugh Grant. Time Out decides to add to the confusion and starts whispering random, improbable names. Paul McCartney. Bob Dylan. Elvis. Well, you’ve got to pass the time somehow.
An hour into proceedings, we have our first A-lister. Clive Owen arrives alone looking a bit dishevelled and refuses to speak to anyone. Yelling ‘Time Out’ works for a second (we’re a big London name, after all), and we meet each other’s gaze. He raises an eyebrow in recognition…and then walks on by. He’s a Coventry man anyway. Time Out doesn’t deal with that kind of darkness.
We don’t get a word with Hugh Grant either – nobody does. His car zooms in and the snapping masses catch a very brief glimpse of a horrified Grant telling his driver not to slow down. He’s known as a bit of a grump, so we’re probably missing nothing. We couldn’t help feeling sorry for Kyle MacLachlan, though, apparently not a grump, last seen wheeling away on the backseat of Hugh’s almighty whim.
It’s at this point that the night begins to dwindle. Boris Becker wanders over, but we spoke to him earlier, so we wave him through. We kick our heels up for a bit, but it soon becomes apparent that Kevin Spacey has better things to do. We reckon he’s been on the Time Out Abu Dhabi website and has booked himself a table at Finz.
As we pack up and move off, a rotund fellow with similarly sized authority tells us what we’ve been waiting to hear. Gwyneth has checked in and is getting her beauty sleep. She’ll be ready for the big bash on Wednesday evening.
So will we, Gwyneth. So will we.
