Bar

It’s smoky. There’s an old Khaleeji guy in the bar and he’s pissed, throwing back Heineken like the world’s about to end. He’s calling out to people, throwing lines of Arabic-laced Anglo-gibberish to anyone who comes into his orbit. I tell the barman that there’s no way the guy is flying, but he just laughs at me and tells me the chap comes every week and walks straight when he leaves.

The Asian kid next to me is dressed like he owns Facebook: jeans and Kenzo jacket. He’s drinking Corona, smoking a fag and jerking spastically as he plays with his hand-held games console, the smoke forces him to squint as he plays, moving his head to one side but still jerking his hands in response to the fast-moving LCD.

It’s dark, oddly ‘70s, seedy, all browns and beiges: a Bisto ‘aaahhh’ of grey smoke curling through the air.

The call to prayer sounds over the tannoy, but for Prince it’s still 1999. The Khaleeji guy is grinning like a maniac: “Brinze! Brinze! Kuweiss!” he calls out to his reluctant audience of Keralite and Sudani guys.

The South Africans are talking about piling systems.

I love the bar at Bahrain International Airport.