MIDDLE EAST NEWS

Our time in Doha was drawing to close: there remained only the gala, alcohol-free launch dinner.

The trench humour of the Ras Laffan trip had given way to a listless depression, as we sat right at the back of a massive dining hall and watched the ridiculous video presentation unfold, unfeelingly. We picked at our starters, barely able to summon the energy to comment wittily on the proceedings.

David Frost was the master of ceremonies: the poor boy seems to be suffering from Parkinson’s, or some similar disease. Frost is about to take up a senior position within the al-Jazeera TV news organisation, which is based in Qatar. He dutifully rolled through the script.

In a final cancellation, the Emir himself had wisely decided not to turn up to his own event, sending his prime minister along instead. The prime minister had the honour, therefore, of placing his hand on a tacky glowing sphere and formally launching the new city.


David Frost before his speech

To their credit, the British press officers were still frantically trying to secure an audience with the Qatari oil minister, who had blown us off several times already. Just before the main course arrived, word came – the minister would take questions! We grabbed our pads and Dictaphones and went to wait in the wings.

This was very exciting for all of us, but me in particular. I have always been a desk-bound feature journalist – I’ve never door-stopped anyone, or been part of a media scrum.

(My editor, by contrast, was once a bona fide oil reporter on a major newswire, who has seen firsthand the media scrums that accompany OPEC ministers wherever they go, and has participated in a few herself. She once scooped her rivals by turning up at an OPEC minister’s favourite London hotel at 5am in her jogging clothes, just in time to join him for his morning run. Old school.)

Thick with adrenalin, I rehearsed my questions and fiddled with the voice recorder function on my phone. The minister came over to inspect the model city along with the rest of the royal family. We were yards away. A harried press officer I hadn’t seen before approached him and pointed over to the assembled ranks of the international media, hungry for anything they could bring back to their editors. He looked over, smiled at us, and fucked off.

We shuffled back to our tables, to find that we had missed the main course.