Yes, welcome to the ultra-Conservative Persian Gulf postage stamp Arab state of Dawlat Qatar – base of the mega-rich Al Thani family, part of the Banu Tamim tribal collective, who in pre-oil n LNG wealth days were mere goat-buggering, unwashed peasants – heavily invested in trafficking slaves, camel racing and gold smuggling - but today, ready to host the 2022 World Cup soccer tournament in the luxury of air-con’ opulence – for themselves anyway – while their hapless Asian migrant work force dehydrates in the 50-plus Centigrade 'shade' - and die of heatstroke by the dozen.
Stand agog at the
seafront panorama of Qatar’s Doha Bay ‘crapital’ towering high-rise mega-structures,
as viewed from the Gulf, which from this vantage point the entire Corniche waterfront
promenade takes on the surreal architectural aspect of looking through a Soho sex
shop’s front window – of the rows of erotica: vibrators, dildoes and butt plugs
standing menacingly – or temptingly - (depending on individual concept and taste) -
upright in militaristic rank formation – with Jean Nouvel’s spiffing idea of
a joke - the prestigious Doha Towers – aka the ‘Godemiché’ - standing ‘Viagra erect’
in the Corniche mid-centre line-up.
So, opinion time. Qatar in the 1913 British Protectorate / Trucial States days of post-Victorian colonial land grabbing, when pro-Brit’ Abdullah bin Jassim Al Thani was bestowed with Westminster sponsorship to rule the thumbnail Qatar Peninsula - and the Ottoman despots told, in no uncertain terms, to ‘go and fuck off’ back to Istanbul – or else – under threat of annihilation by Royal Navy gunboats – the scrubland peninsula was then classed as a Third World dump – a veritable shithole – and regardless of the zillions of petrodollars since squandered in a vain – and futile – attempt to bestow the place with an air of 21st Century civilization, it remains a Turd World shithole.
To wit, shall we be venturing to shitty-gritty - and vehemently homophobic - Qatar to watch international soccer players kicking a ball around while sweating their proverbial bollocks off. No thanks, we prefer to catch the action real time ‘live’ – on a whopping big colour TV – down the local pub, real ale in hand, complemented by British November weather fireside comfort.
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