Dear Professor Tufflov,
I’m an unmarried, lonely British expat living and working in Ajman. There isn’t much of a social scene here and I work in a tiny office with guys who are all family men. Recently I have found myself lingering around the malls and coffee shops of Dubai in an effort to meet guys my own age (31). Basically I need some friends to hang around with, but I’m a bit shy about randomly approaching strangers. I don’t want to hang around pubs or bars because they tend to be populated by football fans and I loathe sport. I did briefly join a film appreciation society but found their cinematic tastes a little low-brow. Any suggestions? My birthday’s coming up and I really don’t want to spend it alone.
Clayton
The words “linger around the malls and coffee shops” sent a chill down my spine, the likes of which I haven’t experienced since the last time I went to visit my auntie Verushka in Siberia. You’re a 31-year-old man, Clayton! Loitering around places frequented by teenagers is more likely to get you in trouble with the police than land you a set of shiny new acquaintances who share your love of Korean arthouse horror or whatever unwatchable garbage floats your boat.
You say you are British. I see your predicament as part of a wider malaise affecting western men, who are, alas, no longer born leaders. Once upon a time your schools were the envy of the world, producing men of honour and courage. Nowadays most of you are podgy, snivelling mummy’s boys who would rather pick your nose and play computer games than partake in physical activity.
It is through participating in sport (and the rougher the better, in my opinion) that the best, longest lasting friendships are formed. Growing up on the outskirts of Novosibirsk, my friends and I were forced by our teachers to tie rocks to our ankles and wrestle each other semi-naked in the snow. It toughened us up and gave us a healthy respect for one another. We formed solid, life-long bonds over those brutal bouts, and 45 years on
I remain on excellent terms with a chap who, in one particularly frenzied encounter, tore off my left ear lobe with his teeth. Therefore I recommend you join a mixed martial arts club and take up cage-fighting. You’ll make friends, you’ll get supremely fit and, if it doesn’t work out, you’ll at least get that cultural superiority complex beaten out of you by some thick-necked, IQ-deficient savage with hands the size of baseball gloves. Udacha (good luck)!
Dear Professor Tufflov,
Arriving in Dubai little over a year ago, and conscious of my strong accent, I decided to adopt a grand manner of speaking that would make Prince Charles sound like a peasant. As far as work colleagues and friends know, I have always sounded like this. The trouble is, my brother is about to visit me and if he hears me speaking this way he’s going to laugh. I’m going to try to keep him away from my colleagues, but if we should bump into them, what do I do?
Anonymous
This is a sort of sociolinguistic version of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde - and last night I pondered over it for so long that I literally chin-stroked myself to sleep. Can you believe that? Anyway, to your problem. Should you see your work colleagues approaching when you are in the presence of your brother, simply insert a large edible object into your mouth (a cube of sticky toffee should do the trick).
Speak to them as briefly as possible before pointing at your mouth, shrugging your shoulders and quickly moving on. Problem solved!
Dearest Professor Tufflov,
I’ve been invited to my older brother’s wedding in the Maldives, but he expects me to pay for the flight and accommodation. I’d genuinely love to attend but there’s no way I can afford it. How can I let him down gently?
Govinda
Oh, so it’s “Dearest” Professor Tufflov is it? Listen up, Govinda the groveller. If you’re trying to be all nice to me in the hope that I’ll lend you the money to get to the Maldives (nice place - Mrs Tufflov adores it!) you’re barking up the wrong date palm. Presumably you read in the last issue of my acquaintance with one Roman Abramovich and think I too am awash with cash, ready to dole out wads of crisp bank notes to any old chancer with a sob-story. Well, you are mistaken. This magazine pays me in dates, honey and 25 complimentary copies for the inmates of the psychiatric institution I run in Moscow. If you love your brother that much you’ll find a way to reach the Maldives. Swim if you have to! But watch out for those dreadful Somalian pirates.
