Wheels, Whiskey, and Wisdom: A Bloke’s Bumbling Odyssey from Heathrow to Dubai (Via a Saudi Layover and One Less Suitcase Wheel)
By a Man Who’s Learning That Travel is 10% Planning, 90% Improvising
Day 1 – 21 Oct 2025: The One Where My Suitcase Goes on a Diet
Picture this: 11:45 a.m., my mate Banky rings from Heathrow Terminal 4 sounding smugger than a cat with cream. “Mate, I’m already here.”
Meanwhile, I’m still in Coulsdon South, wrestling a suitcase that’s clearly plotting mutiny.
Public-transport heroics ensue:
Coulsdon South → Farringdon → Queen Elizabeth Line → Heathrow T4.
En route, I become an impromptu German-tourist whisperer. Bloke jumps on heading to T5, panics, contemplates changing trains. I channel my inner TfL oracle: “Stay put, switch at Terminals 1-2-3.” The lady beside me nods like I’ve just solved world hunger. (She alights at Paddington—Heathrow Express territory. Fancy.)
Moral victory: I almost complimented her gold-studded shoes. Almost. British reserve: 1, Compliments: 0.
Reunite with Banky. Queue. Banter. Opt for emergency-exit seats (B & C)—legroom galore, zero “excuse me, toilet dash” awkwardness.
Downside: suitcase loses a wheel mid-terminal. Now rolling on three like a drunk shopping trolley.
Duty-Free Dilemma
Contemplate booze. Remember stopover in Saudi Arabia. Recall Saudi Arabia’s zero-tolerance booze policy.
Compromise: splash £100 on Oban single malt. Smuggle it like a whisky Bond. Success—it makes it to the hotel.
Evening:
- Crack open Oban.
- Chinwag with Banky about AI in UK law (verdict: it’s coming, whether barristers like it or not).
- Debate universal hotel check-in times (spoiler: they don’t exist).
- Meet Titi (Banky’s “friend”—lovely lass).
- WhatsApp Nicole (Rotimi’s daughter).
- Stockpile lobby snacks: cashews, instant noodles, olives. Survival mode activated.
Things I Now Need to Google (or Learn Via Osmosis):
- Saudi coffee ritual (apparently involves cardamom and tiny cups).
- Special pens for Arabic calligraphy?
- UAE car plates—why so many numbers?!
- Abu Dhabi transport hierarchy: taxi > metro > magic carpet?
Daily Template to Avoid Becoming a Hotel Hermit:
- Scrounge breakfast.
- Invade town for lunch.
- Hotel dinner at civilised hour (read: before midnight).
Shopping Hit-List: cutlery, coffee filters, new suitcase, hibiscus tea, Saudi coffee beans.
Day 2 – Thursday: Honey Tours & Oud Overload
7 a.m.: Gym. Broth for breakfast (living like a monk who lifts).
Mall Raid #1: Ghanaian lady gives me the full Honey Sommelier experience. Exit with black honey (tastes like treacle’s moody cousin) and white honey (cloud fluff in a jar).
Meet David O (Vido)—lock in Friday plans.
Mall Raid #2: Sheikh Something-or-Other Mall/Shoping Centre/Souk/Whatever
- New suitcase (four wheels—luxury)
- Oud oils (smell like a wealthy forest)
- Oud Vaseline (yes, that’s a thing)
- Emporio Armani Mechanico watch (black & white—because subtlety)
Evening: Book desert tour. No confirmation. Cancel. Anxiety levels: moderate.
Nightcap: Oban. Deep chat with Banky—how he markets himself, where he fits in my industry. Bed at 1 a.m. Alarm at 6:50 a.m. Send help.
Day 3 – Friday: Club ATLON & Accidental Wingman Duties
Gym. Wake Banky at 9. Share miso soup like civilised cavemen.
Plan: Keep day free for evening with David.
Reality: Lounge by hotel canal reading The Trial by Kafka. (Irony: I’m on holiday, reading about bureaucracy.)
9:30 p.m.: David scoops us. Destination: ATLON nightclub (Nicole’s recommendation via Rotimi—legend).
Meet the crew:
- Bayo (built like a fridge, vibes like Toks)
- Tunji (birthday boy—decided we’re his party)
Table booked. Bottles ordered.
Club quirk: Every bottle arrives with sparkler parade. Stealth drinking? Impossible. You’re basically announcing, “TABLE 7 IS GETTING MORTAL.”
Drinks: brandy/whiskey. Finger food: yes.
DJ: slaps.
Dance floor: inevitable. I succumb. Shake what my mama gave me.
Random ladies grind (boyfriends too posh/tired to dance). I oblige. No baggage. Home by 2-3 a.m. Ears ringing, soul satisfied.
Day 4 – Saturday: Grand Mosque, Faulty Watch, Security Oops
Mission: Grand Mosque tour + content talk.
Plot twist: Banky’s new watch dies. Return to mall.
Midday prayers echo as we leave. Miss 2 p.m. tour. Next: 5 p.m.
Plan B:
- Cab to mall.
- Swap watch.
- Cab back.
- Register for tour.
Security blooper: Leave phone + sunglasses in X-ray tray. Backtrack to Lost & Found. Staff = discreet legends.
Tour verdict: Mind-blowing. Marble that cools your feet, chandeliers heavier than cars, history + tech flex. 10/10, do it.
Post-tour: Grab bags. 250 AED cab to Dubai. Check into the Premier Inn Barsha Heights.
WhatsApp ping: Uyi posting pics with Chinedu (60th birthday bash in Dubai). Strategic DMs. Breakfast meetup locked for Sunday.
Day 5 – Sunday: The Breakfast Reunion
7 a.m.: Uyi rocks up. We zoom off to find Chinedu, coffee and probably more honey.
(To be continued—my liver needs a minute.)
Mid-Trip Reflections from a Three-Wheeled Philosopher
- Friendship Level-Up: Banky and I are now debating AI law at 1 a.m. If we survive two weeks without a duel, we’re golden.
- Oud is Life: I now smell like a sultan’s armpit (in the best way).
- Dance Floor Diplomacy: Universal language. Boyfriends, you’re welcome.
- Lost & Found Heroes: Shoutout to mosque security—zero judgement, maximum efficiency.
- Next Goals: Master Saudi coffee pour. Buy calligraphy pen. Figure out why every Emirati plate looks like a phone number.
Pro Tip: Never buy duty-free booze with a Saudi layover unless you fancy a £100 paperweight.
Stay tuned—next episode: desert sunsets, more oud, and whether my new suitcase survives Dubai traffic.
Now, who’s got hibiscus tea recommendations?