Misssy M has been writing of the trials and tribulations of being a superstar (one that shines on the air waves) film reviewer. It sent me catapulting down memory lane.

Way back when, in my student days in Cairo, going to the cinema was a bit of a treat. A dodgy television that only seemed to receive BBC World was our window on the world outside of the internet cafe. Entertainment was limited to charades, G&T, dancing, G&T, eating, G&T, card games, G&T and G&T. Occasionally there would be a movie playing at the Ramsis (Ramzeeez) Hilton Mall, which is really not as grand as it sounds. Up endless escalators to the top of the mall we’d go, riding sideways, bums against the railings, torsos twisted forever up, denying the band of merry men and teenagers following us our glutei maximi to gawp at.

There were always plenty of banners advertising the films. “Oooh, look, that should be good!” we’d cry trying not to convey the mourning of Edinburgh’s Filmhouse or Cameo we knew we all felt. Off we went to get tickets. Next we’d find that despite having twenty different movie banners advertising twenty different Hollywood ‘greats’ the cinema with two screens was playing two Arabic-language movies.

Back to bums against elevator railings.

On the odd occasion where our bums ended up on seats rather than against railings, we would get our popcorn, relax and sink into chairs and get ready for 90 mins of ‘The West’.

For about a minute. Not longer.

Eyes would start watering, the tickle in the back of the throat would induce coughing and we’d realise that the reason we cou’ldn’t see anything wasn’t because the lights were off, it was that we were in an insufficiently ventilated room with 200 faces sucking cigarettes.

Made of strong stuff, and deep-pockets-short-arms student syndrome, we would stay and tough it out.

It would take roughly thirty seconds after the music stopped, the screen lit up and the curtains opened: dah de dah dah, dah de dah dah, dah de dah dah DAH (Nokia ringtone). Nobody answers. Dah de dah dah, dah de dah dah, dah de dah dah DAH.

“ALLO! ALLO! IZZAYEK INTA? ANA FI SINEMA. FFFIIII SSIIIINNNEEEMMMAA!” (in case you haven’t worked it out: Hello! Hello! How are you? I’m in the cinema. I’m in the cinema!). Dom Jolie and his over sized brick phone and parodied shouting would have been outclassed. “YES, YES, GOOD IDEA. I’LL COME OVER AFTER THE MOVIE AND THEN WE CAN GO FOR DINNER/JUICE/HAVE A CHAT/MEET X. THE MOVIE? OH I CAN’T REMEMBER THE NAME, OH YES, IT’S MISSION IMPOSSIBLE II. WHAT’S THAT? OH YES, IT’S JUST STARTING. TOM CRUISE IS SO GOOD THOUGH. OK THEN, I’LL SEE YOU LATER.”

The ever-so-British “tut’s” and exaggerated sighs were but a mere mouse breathing in a hurricane. The storm being about 15% of the other cinema-goers who were by this time smoking their way through a loud mobile phone conversation and the other 15% with ringing phones that they were looking at and thinking about answering (you can’t answer too quickly, it means you’re not busy…).

Yes, my dear astute readers, that left 70% who were not phone engaged at this time.

Like a well conducted choir, the canon continued all the way to intermission, making sure that most of the 70% got their turn. For some reason, it’s no fun to have a phone call at intermission. Well, I mean, come on, that’s the time to get more popcorn, more drinks and nip to the loo.

Lights down, curtains open and the next 45 mins of second hand smoking commences. This was the part where excersice was brought in. Squats: jumping up and down every two minutes as people meandered back in after getting a second jumbo popcorn, part of which would inevitably end up on whoever they squeezed past. Neck stretches: craning to see past the jack-in-the-boxes/mexian wave in front of you as other late comers squeezed back to their seats.

Dah de dah dah, dah de dah dah, dah de dah dah DAH.

“HELLO AHMAD. YEAH, I’M IN THE MOVIE. YEAH, YEAH, IT’S MISSION IMPOSSIBLE II. WELL SO FAR….[full story]…YOU WANT TO COME AND SEEI IT? YES YOU SHOULD IT’S REALLY GOOD. YOUR MUM’S OK NOW AFTER THE OPERATION? OH GOOD. THAT’S GOOD. YES, WE’LL BE OUT IN AN HOUR. OK MEET YOU THERE.”

The few from the 70% who hadn’t received a call or finished a packet of cigarettes before the intermission, made up for lost time afterwards. Complete with rustling sweet packets, opening cans of coke and searching for lighters.

“Not bad, not bad.” We’d force out of our gritted teeth as our bums were back against the railings on the way out and strands of smoky hair fell in our faces, “Think I want to wash my hair though.”

No, this isn’t some cheap attempt at temporarily upping my viewer stats.

Summer is whacking Cairo now. Usually we wait until mid June, early July for days in the 40C range, but this year the onslaught began early May. One Summer ritual which remains constant though is the influx of Gulfies (Saudis and Emeraties) from their baking countries. Imagine, coming to Cairo mid Summer to escape the heat!

To satisfy the invasion of walking Dinars and Riyals, advertising and entertainment lucratively turns due East. Tastes are a little different to what Egyptian’s deem attractive and are immediately identifiable. Even belly dancing has its own style in the Gulf (lots of Heavy- Metal-type-long-hair circular-head-banging — sans greasy hair!).

I’ll keep sharing as long as I can. (Ooooh, don’t say I don’t spoil you!).

PS Cherry Tart - cos I’m making another as I type.

It took me a couple of days of watching Noor to figure out what was going on, not only in plot but with the actors’ mouths.

Noor is a new TV show in Arabic on one of the free satellite stations originating from Dubai. This particular station, MBC4, usually shows English language programs: Rachel Ray, Oprah and Dr Phil are staples - we’re not exactly talking high brow entertainment!

Nevertheless, and perhaps because of this, I like this show. Of course, it could also be because it is extremely odd to watch Arabic being spoken by so many people with blue, green and light eyes. The Arabic is Lebanese, the people beautiful and the landscapes stunning. After a few days of assuming it was filmed in Lebanon by actors mouthing strange words, I have just figured out it is a Turkish TV series dubbed!

The real reason for my new addiction though? The leading man has one of my favourite, and seldom heard names: Mohanad (yes, that’s an N in the middle) and I’m not sure I could ever get bored of hearing it.

And they speak slowly enough, with enough pauses, for me to actually understand!

NB I have stopped comments to this post. I have absolutely no contact with MBC nor the makers of Noor in Turkish or Arabic. I merely wrote a personal account. Please pass any comments you my have about the programme onto the channel directly.

If you correctly guess what this is I might make you some. If you finish reading this post, you might not want to guess.

Mr S and I have fallen into a bit of a routine when it comes to meals. Generally speaking, I will prepare starters and desserts and he makes French culinary masterpieces for the main. It works well.

Or it worked well. A distinct flaw became evident last night as we (Les Parents et moi) arrived home from our little exploration of the neighbourhood. We had passed a TBK motorcycle delivery man, who, upon seeing me pointing out the bike to Les Parents, did a U-turn and stopped to give us menus. I told him that I had one already and I really liked the burger. He carried on handing us the menus. It wasn’t until he drove off that I realised I’d not been speaking Arabic. Or English. Nope, FRENCH. Why on earth could that not have happened in my French GCSE?!

So, as we took off our shoes and put our bags down, Les Parents looked at the menus we’d been handed. I suddenly heard a voice inside me screaming, “Say you want burgers! Say you want burgers!” as I realised Mr S definitely wouldn’t be here for dinner and the sad truth hit that my starter-and-dessert-making has rendered me incapable of cooking main courses.

They didn’t appear to want burgers (Mr S later told me they are not very keen on them) and seeing as it was their first night here, I felt like I should at least make an effort. Les Parents are extremely kind and polite, and even said they liked the meal. In all honesty, with no false modesty, it was a horrible meal. The pesto tasted more of garlic than pesto, the presentation was, no other word for it, sorry, crap and the bread..well, the oven is Egyptian made. Some Egyptian things are well made, some are not, and our oven falls into the second category. On this occasion, the heat of it melted the timer causing it to fail..and the bread to burn. Gordon, Delia, Nigella, Nigel, Ainslie, or anybody else who can wear a tall white hat (and command respect), I am not.

So, if you get invited to dinner chez insteadi, you might want to gently inquire about who the chef is that evening before accepting.

Last night Mr S and I went to see a jazz concert by The Smithsonian Jazz Masterworks Orchestra. It was pretty superb and a real treat.

The orchestra was truly brilliant. The unfortunate lack of enthusiasm in the audience reflected more the fact that this was the first time a jazz band has played here (at least for the past six years) and a lot of the audience didn’t know the music, than an actual dissatisfaction. When the band played Quincy Jones’ Soul Bossa Nova (Austin Powers theme tune) the applause ratcheted up.

It was quite amazing hearing Ellington’s Caravan while sitting in the Cairo Opera House. It was probably more incredible the previous evening when the concert had been held at the pyramids. Sometimes I find that Western interpretations of Middle Eastern culture, particularly the romanticism of camels and Bedouin, doesn’t sit well in the Middle Eastern context because it is almost stereotyped, but having just been to the desert on Friday, in my opinion Caravan is pretty fantastic.

It was interesting, however, to see the juxtaposition of American and Egyptian culture. In fact, it was more of a mingling, as the event was opened by the US Ambassador..in Arabic, which surprised more than a few audience members.

The band was accompanied at different times by a singer and two dancers. The male dancer was excellent and it turned out the female was too, but only in contemporary/jazz. There was a real discord however, between the female dancer and the audience. It didn’t help that her performance wasn’t up to scratch on most of her numbers, but the root of the problem was her hair: she didn’t have any. Pop her into a culture where women take great pride in their coiffure, whether it’s covered in public or not, spend hours at the salon whenever possible, where it is probably the symbol of womanhood and she lost her femininity. The audience didn’t warm to her at all and the applause for the dancers was rather muted when both of them were together.

The real jewel for me was leader David Baker. Twice during the performance when the singer was out, he wandered back stage right and hung at the side of the orchestra. For all his genius, he walks with a slight awkwardness. He must have been aware that he was on stage, but he seemed lost in the music at these two points and swayed gently from side to side as though he was both enveloped by and oozing the music. One of the best feelings in the world is dancing with someone who the music flows through and I would have given almost anything to get on stage and sway with him.

If you get a chance to see these guys play, jump at it. Their bios give a hint at their greatness.

Image from program cover i.e. it’s not my artwork - obviously!

A man came running past us last night on the busy corniche as we neared the felucca moorings. “Oh look!”, said one of our guests, “He’s wanting to get our trade before the others do!”, which, upon spotting a group of Americans (regulation trainers), including some girls in skirts that would be way, way too short even in Newcastle on a Saturday night, getting out of a convoy of taxis, was quickly followed by, “Oh, it seems he spotted them way before us!”

It was our guests’ last evening and Mr S had some colleagues visiting the office from overseas who he needed to entertain. Given the Nile’s tranquil waters being respite from a busy office and a great setting for the last dip of the sun of someone’s stay, we decided a felucca trip would be the best outing.

The running man must have seriously upset someone, probably before we were anywhere near, because an almighty fight broke out. We slithered past and descended the steps to the river edge, just to make sure it didn’t end up involving us. The work colleagues were arriving separately, so managed not to be there for the start, but had to pick their way through men wielding chairs and belts and screaming unintelligible insults amongst older turbaned men trying, bravely, to brake it up.

Safely on board we breathed a sigh of relief as we left the mooring.

Drinks started flowing, food was brought out, laughter filled the air and the gigantic red ball of sun set behind the palm trees.

Darkness soon fell and the lights of the restaurants and river side clubs sparkled on the water.

Our ‘Kaptaan’ regaled us with stories of his days teaching windsurfing on the Nile to Egypt’s elite and the sail fluttered in the breeze.

Mr S pointed to a section of the bank that was brightly lit and said, nonchalantly, “That’s where they clay pigeon shoot from.”

It was around that moment that all six of us realised that not only were the floodlights on for a reason, but we were at the edge of the light and heading towards them.

“Tell him to move!” Mr S shouted urgently at me. “No! No! Move!” he wildly gesticulated and shouted the the Kaptaan.

“It’s ok!” said the Kaptaan laughing, “it’s the Maadi Club!”

The next moment we heard the crack of a gunshot.

“Please just move away from here, we’re afraid” I said to the Kaptaan.

“Don’t worry,” he replied, as he continued skippering straight towards the shooting range, “They shoot in the air.”

By this time we had all slipped down low in our seats and were leaning sideways in an attempt to duck as the bullets flew somewhere over our heads, sure the shooting would stop, as bathed in about 20 floodlights, nobody could fail to see us heading along the range. I think it was around this time too that Mr S fully realised the difficulty of explaining to the higher powers that staff members had been involved in a shooting incident while visiting the Cairo office.

“Move! Get out the way! Mooooove!” we all yelled as our Kaptaan smiled and took us further into the danger zone.

“That’s it!” shouted Mr S, “NO TIP!”

It was then that a miracle took place: Kaptaan suddenly had full control of the felucca and promptly returned us to safe waters.

One of the free satellite TV channels we can access here is called MBC4. Weekday afternoon staples are Oprah’s finest: her own show, Dr Phil, an updated Jerry Springer, and Rachel Ray, the young, loud Martha Stewart (she can only cook) - Oprah has major stakes in both other shows. True quality TV. Nevertheless, it does get turned on on occasions. Today was once such occasion. Rachel Ray happened to have a Scottish guy on. I’d never heard of him, but he did seem to have the sort of Scottish accent that is hammed up for Hollywood. It has obviously got him places because he’s been presenting CBS’s The Late Late Show since 2005. Good on him. He seemed like quite a likable chap, with a great sense of humour.

Until, that is, host Rachel Ray said she was going to Scotland in the summer. She asked Mr Craig Ferguson to recommend somewhere nice to eat. He paused. Then said,

“Go to England.”

I was about to start my crunches in the gym this morning, when I realised, again, that a fellow class member was surgically enhanced. I’m not against cosmetic procedures: if it really makes people feel better about themselves, they understand the risks and they’re not taking the money out of a starving kids’ hands. But it can be strange to see. Sit-up lady was, well, just a bit too round and pert when she was lying down.

Cosmetic surgery is popular here and with varying standards of surgical skill and aftercare, most price ranges are catered for. In a culture where glamorous women wear inches worth of makeup, cosmetic procedures are not subtle.

I have found a little treat for you. As a bit of an explication about what you will see, it is fashionable to have floor shows at weddings and belly dancers are incredibly popular. Some of them have nicer outfits than others, but it’s their fame that commands their prices. Dina is one of Egypt’s most famous, so this wedding was lavish. So, without further ado, here’s a link to Egypt’s Daily Star and a typical page in its, and every magazine and newspaper’s social pages, as an example of local surgery (and upmarket weddings). Dina (scroll down, you’ll know it when you see it). Enjoy.

Ok, I don’t normally do this, but it’s worth it just this once. This is one of the cutest things I’ve ever seen. It’s 1.5 mins, so not long, there is sound, but you don’t really need it and it’s worth watching all the way through. otters

Music blaring, engines racing, we wove through the traffic. Enclosed in our metal capsule - friendship in a box. Warmth. Hearts and radiator.

It didn’t matter what was in our heads. Circumstances and vacancies drew us closer. We all knew that. Conversations, arguments and jokes. Encapsulated.

Life lived and escaped.