I’ve always said Dubai is the best place in the world to see live music – with good weather (almost) guaranteed, a venue right outside my office, and, at this particular amphitheatre, my work carpark – meaning I can make the quickest get-away in the Middle East when it’s all over. 

The fantastic Eminem concert the previous week might not have lived up to these expectations organisation-wise – and I won’t be hurrying back to the Du Arena any time soon – but Party in the Park at the Media City amphitheatre promised to be a hassle-free way to see Fatboy Slim in Dubai, and without that nail-biting, stomach-in-your-mouth drive to Abu Dhabi.

I’m so glad I went! There were numerous performances – from Lighthouse Family and Richard Ashcroft among others – as the lead-up to the headline act, Fatboy Slim. Remember him? He’s the superstar DJ, producer and hit-maker (aka Norman Cook) who’s been persuading people to dance their socks off for decades. 

My ticket for Fatboy Slim in Dubai was for entry after 9pm, which meant by the time I arrived many hard-core concert-goers had been drinking for hours. On my own, with a very vague arrangement to meet a friend of a friend, I was immediately apprehended by Mr Off-his-Head from Ireland.

“Where you from?” he asked. His words were slurred, but the Irish lilt was unmistakable.

“Erm, England,” I replied cautiously. I didn’t want to give him the wrong idea, but I also didn’t want to be rude – and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a tiny bit pleased I was still chat-up-able!

Several minutes of drunken lechery later, I gave up being polite and, after he merrily told me how much he hated the English, I attempted to shake him off. I strode away but he followed, stumbling along as though the ground was the deck of a storm-tossed boat.

“St-st-stop,” he called as he lurched forwards. “Get lost!” I wanted to reply, but again, politeness, won the day. He caught up with me, and when he reached me, the rank odour of his booze breath was even more pungent than before.

“I lurve you,” he spluttered and threw his arms around me like I was the last life jacket on a sinking ship. “No I do, I lurve yoouu!”

“You don’t even know me,” I retorted and fled!

At 10pm (and that little incident forgotten), Fatboy Slim appeared on set to rapturous applause and cheering. “I’m in Dubai,” he roared as fire jets let off perfectly timed, giant flames at the front of the stage. “Eat, Sleep, Rave, Repeat” spurred the crowd on even more and, within no time, 56-year-old Norman had transformed the amphitheatre into a thumping rave.

Still full of energy, Norman pumped his fists, mimed along to the songs, and kept his audience mesmerised. I was loving it – the half carnival, half superclub experience, the stomping beats, the feeling I was at a mid-life rave, the hands-in-the-air moments, the incredible lighting, imagery, video and graphics. Slim, a seasoned performer and the lip-syncing life of the party, was giving us his best and not about to go gently into the night. It was AWESOME, almost like being transported into another realm!

Until the rave reality check happened. 

Son1, aka The Teenager, called my phone. “Mom, WHERE are you?” he demanded. “I need to borrow some money.”